Stories and News No. 921
Pretending to be one of 'them': “Rejoice, dear patriots. In Gorino, a pleasant village in the province of Ferrara, Italy, the industrious and brave inhabitants, assisted by the equally bold countrymen of Goro, they promptly lifted up a barricade to prevent the invasion of twelve, monstrous alien creatures. In short, migrants, and also women. After a strong resistance by our heroes, the unwanted were rejected. Be happy, people who still feel pure ardor for your land. The honor is fine and the future of the good and heroic population is safe...”
Once upon a time there was a town.
The town where a sacred right was defended at the cost of life: the right to hate.
The entire community had built itself on this base.
Every citizen has the right to hate, said an invisible item of a particular constitution, written somewhere in the body, certainly not in the heart. This feeling can be directed to anything or anyone, for any reason. And, whatever the form which it occurs in, only one answer will be granted: ‘these people are exasperated’. As a result, ‘these people should be understood’.
The town where the right to hate was sacrosanct and protected at the cost of life was, perhaps not coincidentally, bounded by a wall which defined insurmountable would be quite an understatement.
The architect who had designed it, known by the nickname of The bulwark, was a true delight of the city, which the latter was very proud of.
Now, as they say, there's always a first time for everything.
In fact, the time came that all alarms started to sound.
The siren screamed angrily at night, causing a lot of anxiety and fear in the villagers.
"What happens?" Many cried out going on the street.
"It was just a bad contact?" Some wished looking out the window.
"It may be a joke of the village's idiot?" Others hypothesized.
"No," replied him directly from the cemetery, "since I died the day before yesterday. Too bad, though, I should have made it before... "
Nothing to do, the reality judgment was tragically indisputable.
Someone had passed over.
Something had gone beyond the wall.
The intruder was among them.
All provided security protocols were immediately applied.
Angry patrols swarmed everywhere, streets and alleys were brightly lit by blinding flashlights, sturdy batons and sharp teeth vibrated at the same time, wide eyes searched every corner of the town.
They asked The bulwark himself to recheck the wall and all alarms.
They also took the black box, made it into pieces and listen hundreds of times the same, terrible siren, with the unsuccessful hope that they have been victims of a blatant, collective hallucination.
In vain, terribly vain.
Once upon a time there was a town, in conclusion.
A town where hate was an inviolable right, defended with life.
However, an old African proverb says - this is a lie, but let’s pretend it was true, sooner or later the night comes when a crack appears in the wall.
Well, something always passes. Believe me, like it or not, the time comes when it does.
A story, not a person, a handful of words, not what you have always feared.
Then, in the morning, you wake up and realize that you gave your life to defend the right to hate.
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