Protests in the world: the line that binds it

Stories and News No. 920

Today's strike in Italy and many protest, but, lifting our gaze across the border, people have also raised in Ethiopia, where 1500 were arrested, in Congo, where the so-called security forces shot, burned, beaten and killed at least 45 civilians, and also in the Philippines two days ago, where the police used a van to disperse the alleged troublemakers.

There are other worlds besides this.

I like to think that, sometimes, when things get too ugly to be looked at.
I have to do, when I am not even able to imagine.
Of strikes and protests, for example.
Strikes and protests one of them is woven of.
A spherical world, as the best known should be, but much less regular.
Hard stuff to draw, in fact.
Part of that convoluted table of illegal forms, called by the experts of freedom, the geometry of awkward shapes.
It is a strange world to draw, I agree, but if you happen to grasp, even casually, the right end of the rope, you just have to follow the thread up to the light.
Nothing particularly bright, remember. We are still talking about forgotten souls, if you know what I mean.
However, understanding the muffled reasons has a brilliance that is worth even a fast touch sideways.
Are you there? Follow me, then.
Of strikes and protests, I said.
Come along the top of an apparently soft slender and is not a victory to prove it, but a stubborn kind of defeat. One that has brought us to return again, to remain standing when the stick bites and sitting when the pain increases.
It is a thin rope, almost invisible to the naked eye, but it is not accidental and is trivial, I admit. Because to fully see what unites us, never what divides, you need a far disrobed look.
Fill pupils and all the rest with human feelings and live emotions and you will see.
You will see what they do not.
You will see hands clinging to the rope, fingers of every color and size, but tightfitting to that as the body to the most mistreated quality in all the worlds.
Read as well as the stubborn affection for the rights of all.
You will also see the hands that have lost their precious foothold and those who sacrificed one of the two to keep on board the others.
You will see the warmth of those same hands.
And despite the mutation of traditions and words, complexions and stories, this energy feeds from the beginning of time the life that resists to life.
The one which is not of this world nor the others, because since it has abused its very nature, has given up the only true citizenship we share.
Nevertheless it slaughters lives as if it were their absolute master.
Of strikes and protests a world has tied, where the day will come that the tyrant will fall, believe me.
They always do.
And if you will be lucky and patient, sooner or later, you will see that too.

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Humanitarian pause in Aleppo to steal time

Stories and News No. 919

Despite it seems there have already been violations, the humanitarian pause decided by Moscow began in Aleppo, Syria, to grant treatment to the wounded and sick, as well as the opportunity to civilians and combatants to leave the city.

Come, ladies and gentlemen, come in.

Come into the fantastic realm of humanitarian pause.
Where the seconds become minutes, minutes turn into endless dreams and hours freeze to death in the tight fists of timeless creatures.
Call us like that, we like it.
We are homeless too, certainly, but also without doors and windows, no dresser and nightstand.
Without any comfort.
Hopelessness, many.
No escape, too many.
Nevertheless this is not the right page to cry.
The lords of war and peace have rolled the die and the time hands have bowed their head.
They always do, even when they dance, but this moment, only this, it is for a good cause.
What a weird and crazy marriage of words.
Imagine the courtship, the first few days.
Hello, Pause is my name.
Please to meet you, Humanitarian is mine.
Stop the bombs, it is the meaning of my life.
The human being at the center of everything, it is mine.
And if it is love, let love be, that brings joy and good health to the rest of us.
However it remains the perplexity of the original pairs, such as the giant woman and the mouthy dwarf, the kind girl that becomes a beauty and the beast who learns to speak, the dancer without shoes and the spendthrift cobbler, you cannot help but admire them, by asking one question above all: how do they get together?
Pause, your time would be perfect at all instants prior to your arrival, to ward off all the terrible after’s that followed.
Humanitarian, your time instead should be always.
Nevertheless, this is not the suitable tale for complaining.
As absurd as the title and the plot are.
As paradoxical as design and costumes are, hurry, do not hesitate.
You, utopias' musicians, resume your instruments, chords and play along us.
You too, donors of imaginary brackets, open an infinity of them, one inside the other, up to deceive flames, knives and gunpowder.
They should die, rather than us.
And the rest of you, at the lucky side of the glass looking upon the life that takes a breath in the aquarium of death, try it yourself.
To steal murderers’ time…

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Calais Jungle what is it: the story

Stories and News No. 918

According to Calais Migrant Solidarity since 2009 there have been 100 to 5,000 migrants in Calais, come with the hope of arriving in the UK.
People from around the world, such as Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Somalia, Egypt, Syria, Sudan, Palestine, Chad, Eritrea, Iraq, Albania, Senegal, Kurdistan, Libya and Ethiopia.
But why jungle? I read that the name is the translation of a word in Pashto, an Iranian language spoken in Afghanistan and Pakistan, which means forest

There was once a jungle.
Which in our language is a land covered with dense vegetation dominated by trees, and the nearest corresponding scientific term is maybe seasonal tropical forest.
Well, then we might as well say there was once a forest.
But it does not work, right?
Because if someone tells you a story of forests, then you think of woods, talking animals, fairies and

fairy tales.
No, there is no place for such things, here.
Because, despite the fact, the jungle is not or should not be kids’ stuff.
So, once upon a time there was a jungle.
But not like those of Emilio Salgari’s novels.
Where the good ones are the alleged wild people and the bad guys are the real invaders, safe
beyond the sea.
Here things were different.
Because, since the stories exist, who tells them decide the rules.
Then, there was once a different jungle.
Yes, different, because whereas in adventure novels is difficult to enter, and you need great courage and recklessness
to cross the intricate trees, here it was exactly the opposite.
Indeed, despite all the courage and recklessness of the world, you could spend there the whole of a life time.
Then seeing history repeating itself.
And yet again.
Therefore, there was once a different jungle where it was difficult to get out.
And where it was easy to stay endlessly.
Moreover, to deny any connection with the previous narratives, here there were no striking exotic plants and fascinating views to distract from the infamy of life.
Nor ferocious felines and impressive elephants to freeze a blood already frozen.
There were no robust lianas to rise from a never satisfied pittance.
And not even secret passages in ancient ruins to escape somewhere.
There was once a different jungle, for short.
Where you remained forever, once entered.
Read as living perpetually dissatisfied, searching in vain for a way out.
You know what is the most ridiculous story? That the previous sentence seems the caption of one of the many privileged creatures north of the world.
Maybe this is the reason why understanding what this jungle was and why people went there, for many, it is even more difficult to get out of it…

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Stateless peoples against States without people

Stories and News No. 917

Last June, while Euro 2016 was beginning, another soccer tournament took place in Abkhazia. I refer to the World Cup for Rebels, championship for unrecognized nations.
Among them Kurdistan, stateless nation among the most topical today, fragmented in Turkey, Iraq, Iran, Armenia and Syria, with all the wars and civil conflicts with the participation of the rest of the world. The compact one, where the tanned, bearded and supposed enemy is always in plain view on top of pages and screens.

There were once stateless peoples.

You know?
Come on, I am talking about rebels, as I said at the very beginning.
However, you can call them in many other ways, because that is how they told you.
And once the story goes viral, you cannot easily change it.
Do you see them? They are the people who resist and young students who oppose, old men who stay behind but then they arrive too, civil society not only by words and women, a sea of women who had already started the fight.
Just to be clear, the stateless people most of the time they die for the State they have not. Dreaming the missing flag, they just disappear. For a land that now is just that, bare, barren and dried up as their own skin, they give everything.
Like life, past and present.
The future is a victory in the name of those who underlies the last page, the son of such a father.
The people without, in short.
However, when everything is said, ‘who claims what’ and ‘who denies it’, here come the others.
Secretly, whispering under desk at official dinners, but also boasting during the most shining parades.
They ever come, as it always has been and so will be.
Punctual heroes with normal super powers, the no season Santas and their precious gifts of death.
Only two choices on table: Take my arms, my dear new friend, or, whether you like it or not, I will use it in your behalf. Remember that for you and only for you I made it, thinking of you.
So the West’s dream becomes the East’s nightmare.
After narrow, formal shaking hands and hugs devoid of any emotion.
From that moment the war is no longer just a private matter.
Not their business anymore, so to speak.
Now, there was once the State without peoples.
Indeed, there were once the latter.
Come on, now it is easy.
I am talking about many, near you.

People formed by other people, made up of still other people, who are nothing but a bunch of lives confused with each other, like many bowed heads chatting on the crowded train of a subway at rush hour.
The question that follows is just as expected.
What happens when a State without people, in the sense of ignoring their opinions, decided to be part of the Stateless people’s war?
Nothing, absolutely nothing.
Silence, head down to the apps and let’s go to the next stop.
Zero, where over there all happens.
Where stateless people rise.
Against the States.
Without us...

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Japanese woman forced to use husband's name

Stories and News No. 916

I read that in Japan the Court has forced a teacher to use her married name at work on the basis of a rule from the nineteenth century.
The woman has sued her employer, the Nihon University, which has refused to allow her to use her maiden name in professional interactions with pupils and parents.
The newspapers did not report the name of the woman.
So I sent her my words.

No, I'm not you.

But I would like to know.
What it means to live with a mask inevitable ordered, pleasant at the very best.
Alleged missing rib of a Knight with a not so shining armor, hidden in it everywhere and most of the time.
War or peace.
There is always someone who fights a battle that comes from far away, where injuries are always and only for her.
Only when she wins, she lives.
And even when she does not lose, she can die anyway.
No, I do not speak for you.
But, to you.
I would like the same to understand.
What does it mean, every morning, afternoon and evening, to have face a mirror with bare hands, literally, before plunging into a sea that is longing to overwhelm you with a wave of looks never really driven by the desired wind.
A sincere curiosity.
Silent patience.
And all the time allowed.
To see, really, see.
No, I am not boasting myself saying to be ahead of the others.
I'm here for that too.
But I would like to find out the same.
What does it mean having to prove every single day of your life to the most fragile part of your heart what you have always known.
That there was nothing to show that it was not already under the worthy eyes.
Your and those who have had the good sense to wait.
No, I'm not giving anything for granted.
Quite the opposite.
But I would still improve myself.
The design of an adventurous and fascinating story with a protagonist that to be so, up there, must stop to really be.
Because the tale of traditions and faiths has its own rules.
Well, it is then that my eyes open wide, my dear friend.
When you stand up and make the liar design into shreds.
No, I said it and I repeat it.
I am not you.
But I would really like to know.
What is your name…

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