Migrants death in Mediterranean video storytelling

Stories and News No. 743

Once upon a time there was the world.
No, hold on your intolerant bellies.
The hearts lightened by a wise disenchantment.
The accusing fingers of a perpetually sitting jury.
It is the wrong world, which I speak of.
So, you may safely consider the story and also the narrator blatantly out of place.
Decidedly inappropriate.
‘He is smart, but does not study enough’ and ‘he is overly exuberant’, as someone wrote several times on my school stone.
In the wrong world there was the sea.
Yes, like ours, but in the wrong version.
Only two kind of people lived in the distorted world.
Travelers and guests.
Without any other category.
Classes.
And, if you really want, you may say races too.
In the wrong world using such words would be just fine.
Wrong, I mean.
The guests were all living on an island.
Then in our world should be a limited portion of land completely surrounded by water.
But since in the wrong world it was the only mainland, was called the land and nothing more.
‘Nothing more’ is not just in the sense of a trivial ‘nothing else’, but: ‘what else you want?’
More than a land?
The inhabitants were called guests in the wrong way, I understand the surprise.
They were guests because they were so.
Literally.
Guests of the land that hosted them.
Never lords and masters, ramparts to defend the home soil and obsessed with the sacred boundary.
Forgive.
Forgive the mistake of the confusing human beings in the wrong world.
The other half of the sky was occupied, as mentioned above, by the travelers.
They were so-called taking the word literally.
They traveled since birth.
To death.
Nevertheless, they did not come to light as the rest of us.
I do not the word, try to understand, I have never been there, but I know it should be the exact opposite of ‘sinking’ and ‘subsequent disappearing of the ship’.
Well, in the wrong world things worked in reverse, while travelers came into the scene.
The water was boiling, the foam was dense and murky, and suddenly you saw.
The bow first and then everything else.
The all boat, the ship, even the usual flimsy raft, any plausible fantasies somehow able to overcome harmless waves, broke the latter and appeared.
Full of life.
Full of them.
The travelers.
Always traveling, consistent with the name as much as the personal reasons of existence.
And because in the wrong world sea for travelers was like the land for guests.
It is not your stuff.
You are only one that leaves the trail behind.
Perhaps with the hope that it will never completely disappear and nothing more.
This time it means really ‘nothing else’.
Some of you will ask: what happened when the guests met the travelers?
Easy answer, in all worlds, I think, wrong or not.
If anyone knew to be guest of the land were facing those who come from the sea, grateful to the latter not having claimed the greatest sacrifice in return, would be eager to tell.
And listen.
But, above all, they would not be able to see the difference.
Because each of the two would instantly understand they were always the same.
Guests and travelers.
In the life of the others.

Read other stories about racism.



Storytelling with subtitles



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