Human rights stories: Justice for Adama Traoré and others

Stories and News No. 959

I read that Adama Traoré’s death in the custody of French police has become one of the most discussed cases in Europe on the alleged or proven brutality of the agents. It becomes every day more topical everywhere.
People rightly ask for justice and these days the manifestations in Paris are very crowded.
However, in my humble opinion, the paradoxical aberration that lets who should protect and serve citizens to deprive them of life, offers a simple request of normalcy...


There once was a crazy land.
A totally messed up country, twisted in reasonable logic and mere physical facts.
Adama's sister Assa during a manifestation
In the mad state lived her, Miss Simple.
A quite girl, but nothing bigoted, believe me.
Only someone with an understandable view of life, with emotions in the right place and a spontaneous propensity for harmony with the world's goods.
Nothing special, it should be remembered, but in the realm of the insane, she served as a litmus test, since we are in the senseless ground.
Read as well as the human exception to the wrong rule.
The young lady didn’t understand and so far it was only obvious reaction to events.
However, Miss Simple was far from that and then didn’t just respond.
She wanted answers in turn, struggling with every means against the faults disguised as essential tips and lines.
As a sort of wrong Don Quixote, with no Sancho in support, alone and proud she threw the spear against the dragons with empty eyes and foaming at the mouth.
And she said no to any accepted abnormalities, reciting aloud the distortions tolerated by her peers.
A scarf should protect your throat from cold currents, never strangling you, she said.
An umbrella should save you from the rain, let alone get lightning in profusion.
The lifeline at sea is there to avoid your drowning, because there is air inside, no heavy, murderous stones as dull hatred.
Traffic lights is the last bulwark between the driver and his fellows, one of the rare cases in which the colors are really essential in our common journey, it should then change policy, and not as a mere coincidence.
As if the lives at stake did not matter at all.
As if everything was just a game.
Of lives.
Similarly, the parachute should be the most exciting way to get courageously back to the temporarily hailed earth, not the fastest way to do it. Maybe refusing what is written, opening on command and guiding the healthy traveler safely home.
These and many others, too, were the contradictory cracks that Miss Simple saw and rejected in her country.
She never stopped doing so.
Because she knew that screaming the simple normalcy, from her own point of view, was her right.
And maybe her duty too.


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