Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Republic day 2015 celebrations military parade why?

Stories and News No. 756

Why do Italy and many other countries celebrate Republic Day with a parade of their military force?

Once upon a time there was a country of just three people.
At least in appearance.
And, as they say, looks can be deceiving.
Oh, if it does.

In the only three people country there were natural wealth.
Fully available to the inhabitants.
Water, earth and air, to say what I now remind.
Once a year they meet to celebrate these free gifts by nature.
The only ‘public thing’ (res publica) that should be really celebrated.
Over time, as often happens in human lives, the good coexistence between the three began to falter.
For one reason among the most predictable.
Especially scrolling contrariwise the book of History with a capital aitch.
One of the residents awoke one morning feeling to be the giant of his dreams, he took a breath and informed the other two: "Now I will be the guardian of the water and will defend it with knives, pistols and rifles."
Others believed the idea makes sense, given the value of the gift.
Then they approved without debate, especially before the most convincing of the arguments.
Knives, pistols and rifles.
Later the inevitable happened.
Especially reading the story of the so-called human evolution in reverse.
One of the inhabitants, another, stood up one morning not wanting to be less, he took courage and announced: "Now I will be the guardian of the earth, and I will watch its boundaries with arrows, spears and guns."
The others did not have any objection, since the value of the gift.
Therefore they consented without protest, especially in front of the most persuasive argument.
Arrows, spears and guns.
It was not so long, so the script is completed.
More than ever seeing back the show of human miseries.
One of the inhabitants, the third, took off straight at dawn and eager to emulate the other two, he said: "Now I will be the guardian of the air and will protect it with axes, hand grenades and bazookas."
The others did not have anything to say, aware of the importance of the gift.
Therefore they seconded without question, especially hearing the most effective argument.
Axes, hand grenades and bazookas.
Despite these alleged courageous assumption of responsibility, they did not lose the habit of celebrating the important day.
The ‘public thing’ day, the only worthy of such expression.
Water, earth and air.
Nevertheless, in a sort of transitive property of idiocy, they were convinced that what they must celebrate was not the public thing.
But the most convincing, persuasive and effective between the arguments.
Knives, pistols, rifles and everything else.

Once upon a time there was a country of only three people who were celebrating the ‘public thing’ day.
At least in appearance.
Over time they perpetrated this tradition since the three realized that the public thing belonged to many more people.
As they say, looks can be deceiving.
Oh, if they do.
And doing the guardians of the world would be the only way.
To enjoy the feast.
From the higher stage…

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Friday, May 22, 2015

First World War Centenary Italy: of madness and time

Stories and News No. 755

Once upon a time, a hundred years ago, there was a magician.
A wry and clever magician.
“He is the time,” somebody said, “look, he is the time.”
For some time passing is magic.
Good or bad it is, it depends on each occasion by the public.
Because magic stands inside the intent, nothing new, but the deception’s light will always shine in the watching eyes.
On 24 May 1915 the wry and clever magician, which some claimed to be the time, took his wand in one hand and with the other grabbed the first transited word there.
Madness, that was his random choice.
Really, it was a mere accident that such a word was invited on stage.
Because you should be completely crazy to choose it with clear awareness.
Madness.
The man waved his magic weapon of mass distraction and gave a clean blow to the word.
Hitting the letters, of course.
Phonetics and semantics of the term; also synonyms were brought in, from the most common craziness to the least used senselessness, as well as verbs built around it, from maddening to madding, then coming back to the initial word.
Madness.
That is the miracle of the magician and illusionist of this world, professional or not.
Above all, not.
The word was intact.
But from that moment the capacious audience’s eyes and their weak imagination began to read something different.
Pride and heroism, homeland and honor, duty and valor, victory and yes, death.
Because in most cases the best illusions are so cynical to display real crumbs inside the fake cauldron.
Finding the perfect farce in the misleading alliance.
Die as heroes, die for your homeland, die with honor and so on praising.
Until the end of the show.
Again for a single decease.
The death of the magician.
Some say he was the time, surely, some even say that the magician was a masked time.
But if he was the time, well… time really never dies.
A second later, a day after, a month, even a year… look, go ahead and take one hundred years, time back from nowhere and everything starts again.
Like magic.
Of a magician.
There are some convinced that time is a magician, particularly skilled and mocking one.
So cheeky to grasp a repeatedly exposed word over a century for what it is and always will be.
Madness.
And then going on stage, taking the wand and hitting the word with a bang.
In letters and sounds, of course, but also all the horrific stories that follows it like a slave shadow.
So the magic is back.
With a convinced public to see again the same old illusion.
Heroism and pride, honor and homeland, valor and duty, victory even if it was a defeat, and already death, of course.
Provided that the sadistic coupled yet worked.
Winning or not, die with honor, die as heroes, die for your homeland and so on raving.
“That is the real nature of time,” some murmur.
A capable magician making madness not only acceptable.
But even something to celebrate...

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Thursday, May 21, 2015

Tunis Museum attack: Italy arrest suspect Abdelmajid Touil innocent?

Stories and News No. 754 

According to the italian PM the man arrested in Milan was in Italy on the day of the massacre...

Once upon a time there was the monster.
The monster on the home page, yes, of course.
But not only this.
It would be too easy.
To put things in the right place.
Impossible, where the monster is now everywhere.
Downloaded directly into more or less defenseless hearts of the easy words thirsty people.
With or without the consent of the recipient.
Especially without.
With or without the consent of the monster itself.
Surely not.
It will take several generations to erase the indissoluble marriage between ‘black’ and ‘enemy’, ‘evil’ and ‘dirty’ from the minds of myopic horizons persons.
Imagine what it will take for the link ‘immigrant’ and ‘everything worse you might think of others’.
But if the creature with the grim look and the hissing voice was innocent?
And if the ‘grim’ word meant ‘I’m angry’, ‘you have no idea how angry I am’?
If you knew you would be a different person.
And if the ‘hissing’ word meant ‘I have lost my speech’, and ‘if I had one you would not understand the same’?
On the contrary, you would live in a different world.
If he was innocent: go, come on, correct the article.
Not so much, an adjective there, an adverb later.
But do not pretend that the narrative became unexpected.
Human between letter and letter.
Inhumane in the words themselves.
If he was innocent: courage, hurry up, change the home page.
That is, every pages, or ‘the sadistic reign of copy paste from above’.
In short: the house of the monster.
Who is at home and, let's face it, suitably, even if he is actually present.
Or not.
If he was innocent there would still be a doubt.
Well, how we worship it, the blessed son of our distrust.
A deceptive harlot that, unlike the unfortunate massacred souls for a few euro on legalized orcs couches, does not sell herself, but her only son.
The doubt, yes, yet it, the common doubt that remains as a perennial sentence on the last human begins on this earth.
You need courage to manifest the same suspicions regarding the neat and shining, golden-haired and clear pupils divinities, pardoned by an idiot fate that gives a walkover to the dishonest contender.
It takes love too.
And maybe even a good dose of unconsciousness.
Once upon a time there was the monster on the home page.
Or even the second and the third ones.
It is the same.
Because discovering his innocence.
Many, sadly too many, will not find any difference...

Storytelling with subtitles 


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Friday, May 15, 2015

Moral stories: my father’s job

Stories and News No. 753

Right now, in Colombia, the rescuers are trying to save seventeen miners who were trapped in a flooded gold mine.
It seems to have no more than three days…

Once upon a time there was a school.
A normal school, far from favored.
By fate as the administrator of the so-called public affairs.
In the normal school there was a equally ordinary class.
On the other hand, normal or excellence it is, where there is a class here comes a teacher and them.
The sons.
Of mothers, of course.
Of life in general, every color and profile, able to survive the darkened reins of his majesty the prevailing moral.
Of course, fathers’ sons.
"What job does your dad?" The teacher asked.
"Our father fills the others pot," the children of the waiters boldly answered.
"Our father, however, erects bed and shelter to the lives of others", the children of construction workers declared with enthusiasm.
"Our father is a hunter of possible futures," the excited children of migrants confessed.
"Our father, however, try to win the game, despite the referee had already whistled the end and sealed the defeat", the children of the unemployed proudly stated.
"Our father is coming back, just on daylight will be here," the optimistic children of convicts swore.
"Our father, however, will not come back, we must go back to him", the children of divorced dads authoritatively explained.
"Our father is never coming back no matter what we do, but that does not mean we will remain silent," orphan children boldly exclaimed.
"Our dad is better not coming back at all, wherever he is," the children of harassing fathers clearly murmured.
"Our father is us," the children of immature fathers claimed.
"Our dad is the real Robin Hood of humanity: he steals the nature to feed his own people", the many children of agricultural workers shouted in chorus.
"Our father, however, is the world most invincible Jack Sparrow: he can find treasures in the waves with a fishing net as sword ", the persuaded children of employees of the sea replied.
"And what about you?" the teacher asked to the last group of children. "What does your father?"
One among all stood up.
Back there.
On the last benches.
Usually among the most undisciplined, yet mysterious region.
Where the eye beyond the teaching posts of this world goes only to scold.
Or sometimes, to love.
"Our dad work to die," one of the children of the miners hopefully said, "but maybe not today."
Maybe someone will save him.

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Thursday, May 14, 2015

Diversity stories: The against nature kingdom

Stories and News No. 752

On May 17 the world celebrated the International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia.


Once upon a time there was a kingdom.

As a kingdom, at the head of the latter there was a king.
A king who had taken being a king very seriously.
Let’s just say a lot.
Infinitely so.
Someday the king who had taken himself very seriously, let's say Infinitely much, decided to finish.
What? You may ask.
Well, the king was tired of all this permissive relativism with the obsession for moral drift and lustful transgression, that’s it.
He was the king and the kingdom belongs to the king, until proved otherwise, this was his thought watching the mirror that morning.
So, he made a proclamation.
Any citizen who was caught in acts against nature would be instantly executed.
The supreme judge of the kingdom, which was a fussy and upright man, promised to enforce the edict in six days.
Literally.
What followed was a true genocide.
The first day all aviators and each paratrooper, hostesses and stewards, pilots of aircraft of all sorts and the astronauts too, delighted people with the hang gliding and even those who preferred hot-air balloons and airships to powered aircraft, all were destroyed.
Because humans are not flying creatures.
And because flying is against nature.
On the second day all the most incredible athletes, who dedicate themselves to any specialty and distinguished with any kind of world records were slaughtered.
Because if a man would arrogate the right to overcome the human boundary, it means he is daring to fight against his own nature.
On the third day all artists, whatever discipline they loved expressing with were killed.
Storytellers and poets, dancers and singers, painters and even graffiti virtuous, each devoted soul to the noble invention was swept away.
Because art is life.
And because create life is not mortals stuff.
So extremely against nature.
The fourth day the daydreamers were murdered, at least those who had survived previous killings.
Because nature wants us to dream with closed eyes, protected by sleep.
Because imagining alternatives to human reality, even changing scenarios, actors and outcome of the story, is dangerous.
You end up wanting to change too much.
With the risk to stop dreaming and think to really change the world.
This is a privilege of the gods.
So, against nature.
The fifth day was the most difficult of all, because the judge was convinced that, following the logic of his own making, would have to kill all the children.
Because each one of them was stained by any previous sin.
Because all children want to fly and run like wind, creating the world that makes them happier with admiring perpetually dreaming eyes.
Children are so against nature.
On the last day, with blood dripping hand after deletion of all the people, the judge went to the king.
"Did you do what I ordered?" The monarch asked.
"Yes, my king, I've almost finished."
"And what did you miss?"
The judge killed the king.
And then he took his own life.
Because he remembered there was a time.
Where both had flown, or only desired to do it, defeated death, or only equally dreamed, changed the world, or the kingdom, but in their case they had done really.
Tormenting and killing humanity.
The only real against nature crime.


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Wednesday, May 13, 2015

Immigrants stories in italy: Illegal immigrant saves woman's life

Stories and News No. 751

Rome, Italy.
Sobuj Khalifa, a 32 years old man, rescued yesterday a 55 years old woman who had jumped into the Tiber River.
He is a Bangladesh citizen.
A foreigner, a stranger, an immigrant.
Moreover without papers.
So an illegal immigrant too.
Police awarded the man with the residence permit...


They said.
Oh, they said a lot.
They said that once there they would have taken away a lot from me.
The name, to say some.
Replaced by a flood of epithets, most often insultingly.
In the intent, if not in the exact sense.
However, like magic, stories are always born in the intentions.

They said, really.
They said so much.
They said that finally arrived they would have taken my rights.
Nothing special, the least human.
What remains.
Which should remain.
Despite you particularly like to steal most of my life.

They said, I remember.
They surely said.
That many would have tried to tarnish my past and, when I had turned to prevent the abuse, they would have pinched the opposite horizon.
Read as well as the most precious of the landings for forced migrants.
In short, the future.
Making me to live in a cell composed of hardened bars by the least scratched among modern metals.
The present.
That for me, just for me, it should have always been the same.
In order my ‘today’ would have feed their ‘ever’, what sadistic caption said.

They said, I know.
They eagerly said, in fact.
They would have done everything to exhausting myself with the worst illusion.
That anyone, even the weakest and most obtuse among the persecutors of this world, would be able to take me.
What cannot be taken.
If you have carried it with you.
Wherever you came from.

They said, and had almost convinced me.
That I had nothing left.
Luckily we survived.
Me.
My humanity.
My courage and love for my fellow creatures.

Luckily for me.
And, look at the case, a woman in the river.


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Friday, May 8, 2015

Migrants stories: The child hidden in the trolley

Stories and News No. 750

I read that an eight years old Ivorian child named Abou was stopped in Spain at the border town of Ceuta.
He was hidden in a suitcase.
A trolley...


Once upon a time there was a trolley.
A magic trolley.
Making things disappear.
And so the magic works trust is necessary.
Because when all returns.
The world must necessarily be more beautiful than before.
In the magic trolley there was a hidden child.
So far, dismay in eyes and heart.
At least in the trace of remained humanity.
But I am here to tell you that the hidden child in the trolley there was unseen another child.
A girl, to be precise.
Smaller, undoubtedly.
But with no less authoritative aspirations.
Among the many one only in the guise of the most improbable dream.
To be the older child, the greater.
Secreted in the trolley.
Nevertheless, the story is not satiated of confidences and here I find myself adding the unusual.
The girl child who dreamed of being the hidden one in the trolley had concealed two other children.
Even smaller, to satisfy listening size-obsessed audience.
Twins, actually.
But not like the common ones.
That are never really alike.
They were identical, literally and that word was never more apt.
Because if you needed an irrefutable proof of their equality you would have find in their words.
In particular, all those that had to do with the only mirror which the young lives love to look in.
Every future, especially next ones.
All plausible tomorrows, but maybe not.
Following week and afterward month.
The year that we will live.
You and me, brother.
Me and you, sister.
How wonderful it might be if the same words were enough to feel close.
Nevertheless, the narrative is still hungry for pages and I am confessing that another life was hidden inside the two kids.
It is useless to say which of the two, since both are equal.
In fact, you know what?
I will not say even what kind of life it is.
Female, male, or whatever.
Western, or rained from each of the infinite cardinal points. Yes, infinite, not four, because in the stories destinations are innumerable.
Black, but maybe not. And you may fill that ‘no’ with all colors will make you easier to watch.
Human, a word for everything.
The creature who lives in one of the two children, but it does not matter which one.
Hidden in the girl child who dreams.
To be the first one.
It is enough to say that somewhere there is life.
Even in a trolley...



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Thursday, May 7, 2015

Violence against women in India: suicide tree fruit story

Stories and News No. 749

It seems that in India four fifteen years old girls, after a note accusing their coach of harassment, have attempted to suicide.
By eating the fruit of the tree of suicides…

Once upon a time there was the tree of
Suicides? The young girl with frayed heart and torn soul asked.
Yes, the tree of...
Perfect, you are what it does for me, she said.
Or, she murmured with the remnants of breath still in his chest.
Give me the fruit, she added in a tone just as faint, and make me put an end to everything.
Of course, as you wish, the tree said.
In order to get it, you have to climb on top because I take the deadliest gifts high on the most inaccessible peaks of the crown.
Why?
Because, you know, the poisonous narratives are the lightest, the fastest running in from belly to belly, and are all trendy, so they are commodity cheap.
They are placed there, in the noble window.
The young girl rallied the atrophied shadow of vital energy, survived the destruction of the coward monster, and began to climb.
Halfway she stopped, breathing pleading compassion.
Am I far?
No, the tree said, but in the meantime you can rest in the hollow just above your head.
She raised the latter as the small force allowed and saw the promised couch.
The refuge of rugged wood and loving words lined.
She slept.
And dreamed.
It was pleasant, certainly pleasant.
She recalled that the dark also tells different stories.
From the usual nightmares.
After indefinite time she opened her eyes.
She stretched.
And emerged from the unexpected hole, to continue the journey.
The last one.
After a while she saw the first branches and leaves.
And as climbing she found herself increasingly confused between them.
She climbed, her fatigue screamed, yet she shrouded in plant waves.
Caressing cheeks.
Skimming hair and fragments of the face they spared.
More often hugging.
At best, a tender yet meaningful touch.
It was also lovely.
Remembering that the encounter with the living surface sometimes keeps the promise.
To leave you alive.
And even more.
The girl went up again and finally reached the long-awaited summit.
So she saw them.
Mortals medicines in pulp and peel.
Can I? she asked fearfully.
Please, the tree replied.
The young girl took the fruit and gave only a small bite.
There is little of me, she thought, just as for extinguish.
A few moments and the young girl felt the effect of the conquered gift.
Light.
As the sun comes on, for how many stars will fall.
As love steals, as hatred you’ll avoid.
As dark rain on defenseless nudity.
Your light will wait.
To be loved by yourself.
I'm alive, she whispered, not yet dead.
But are you or not the tree of suicides? she asked puzzled.
Of course I am, he said, but if you really want to get to the end.
You have to listen the whole story and give time to the words.
So said, the tree of...
...missed suicides.


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Wednesday, May 6, 2015

Italian immigrants in Australia exploited story

Stories and News No. 748

It seems that in Australia at least fifteen thousand young Italian immigrants work eleven hours a night, undergoing blackmail, abuse and even violence.
'Migrants' and 'immigrants', the same old story.
It always depends where you start to read on...

Once upon a time there the land of migrants.
The land of migrants was so-called not by chance.
The inhabitants lived always with the classic foot on the threshold.
Ready to go.
To escape.
A whistle was enough.
Come on, it’s time, let’s go!
Or even a way that was just it.
A more or less easily passing that would lead somewhere.
Possibly there.
It was the day when the migrants departed.
Some of you might ask: if the inhabitants migrated, who remained in the land of migrants?
Easy to say: the land.
And all those who dreaming of a better tomorrow had left the present behind.
Let alone the past.
So migrants without the old land arrived to the new one.
"Hello", the inhabitants of the latter said, "what do you want?"
"A job", they answered, "what else? You know, we are ‘migrants from the old land’."
"Oh no", the others promptly corrected, " you are now ‘immigrants in the new land’."
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the world, another land of migrants was about to become a crippled one.
Stolen of indomitable hope and blind courage.
It so happened that the migrants of the other old land arrived in the new land.
That was nothing but the old land of those who had become immigrants in the other new land.
"Hello", the natives said, "who are you?"
"We are looking for a job, as emigrants of the old land," they answered.
'Well, that is not accurate. Ours is the old land. And although we have neglected the present, let alone the past, we still remember our migrants. They are not you, you don’t look like them, ours are different, a completely dissimilar thing. In addition, at this time they are in the new land."
"Really?" the migrants of the old land or whatever it was said. "So they came back here to you?"
"What do you mean by that?"
The inhabitants of the old land of the other migrants who now had become the new land's immigrants became confused.
"Simple: because we are the ‘migrants of the new land’, that is yours."
"Then," the others exclaimed the people puffing, "if you really want to act like teachers with us, to be precise from now you are our ‘immigrants of the new land’, that is the old one."
The world seemed to find the right balance between dreams and needs, where the inhabitants of another land saw its migrants leaving.
Well, look how fate is mocking, they landed on the shores of the new land of the old migrants from the first old land.
"Hello", the inhabitants said, "who are you?"
"Let us work, because we are the ‘migrants from the old land’."
"Unbelievable," the others screamed. "Never seen so many lies in one sentence."
"Why?"
"First, because we know the ‘migrants of the old land’ and they are not you, they are quite different, just a unrelated world. And, moreover, they are already here. "
"And who are they?"
"They are the ‘immigrants in the new land’, ours. So, if you are not them, you are not here to work, but to bring crime and drugs. "
"But no, really, it is not so..."
"Maybe, then it means you're here to steal jobs from the immigrants of the new land, which in turn take it off us. And what do we do? We emigrate? "
"Good idea," the new ‘migrants of the old land’ thought.
So they left again, to come right on the very first land.
"Hello", the inhabitants said. "Who are you?"
"Look, we are the migrants from the old land, but also ‘immigrants in the new one’, as you prefer. Indeed, you can call us what you like, the words cannot do anything worse than what the fate writes since ever in our personal diaries. We also know to not look like your ‘migrants from your old land’. Another thing, as suits you, they are much more beautiful and cool than us, okay? Oops, you know that now they are ‘immigrants of the new land’? Either way, take our word, we are not here to bring crime and drugs. Not even to steal jobs from the other ‘migrants from the new land’, now ‘immigrants of your old land’, that they are stealing from you. You know what? We do not want a job.
"We just want to survive..."
The sentence was cut off before the end.
As the journey and the story.
Without they realized it.
Because they were only dreaming of the speech they would do once arrived at the destination.
Before disappearing beneath the sea waves.
Maybe, if we will be there, in the exact meeting, we should think very carefully about what is really worth saying.
As ‘Hello’ and more than all: ‘we know exactly who you are’.
You are ‘us’.

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