Friday, July 17, 2015

Stories and News of illusions and hopes

Stories and News No. 778

I am somewhat delusional, but I know it.
I am also someone who hopes, but do not think big.
I do not need much, really.
Look at those people who yell and rant against migrants in Quinto di Treviso and Casale San Nicola, in Italy.
They are creatures infinitely more deluded than myself and probably they have no more hopes.
And if you take away the odds-on tomorrow to humans, filling at the same time their head with delirious ravings, it is understandable that then they become convinced of being able to stop a tidal wave with a breath.
Because this is the design of their sad and foolish actions.
I do not speak of the present time, the burnt gifts and the bitter spectacle of a brutal intolerance that repeats itself in history.
In the past as in the future there is the answer: those who struggle to survive, really to survive, sooner or later will always prevail the mad along the way.
I know, I'm a little deluded being sometimes persuaded that words can somehow change things.
In fact, that's because I am one who hopes, but nothing exceptional.
I'll settle for little things, indeed.
These tiny stories thrown there, into the screaming world’s delirium.
To make the picture that I see every day more acceptable to my weary eyes.
Yes, I confess, I need glasses to read since a while.
I'm a little worried.
Because now I am going to take a break.
It always happens, every time.
I need to write, absorbing life and filling blank sheets.
It works as the lenses above.
It helps me to understand and understand myself.
See and see myself.
And the next moment I feel the irrepressible need to share.
Not seconding the latter at all, as when I was a boy.
I hope that the habit of asking myself if what I will throw in the sea is worth people’s time has established.
Time, here is the real wealth.
At the end of the day, I feel only compassion for those who have got even a few hours in their hands and decide to throw it away.
Burning it.
As the unhappy citizens of Quinto di Treviso and Casale San Nicola.
I am somewhat delusional, I know perfectly.
But I'm also someone who hopes, but do not image a paradise.
I would be satisfied with small stuff.
To see with my own eyes just a little fragment of the changes I've always dreamed of.
See you soon.


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Thursday, July 16, 2015

What Merkel told Palestinian child refugee to make her cry: forgive us

Stories and News No. 777

"I understand, you're very nice, but in Palestinian refugee camps in Lebanon there are thousands and thousands of people and we cannot welcome all."
Words and music by Angela Merkel to a young girl, a Palestinian refugee, who a moment before said she does not know if she will remain in Germany, expressing also her own discomfort at seeing her peers living their lives.
Unlike her.
Then the tears arrived and everything froze...

Forgive us.
Forgive us all of you, watching from afar.
Or close, although it makes no difference to us.
It is not a personal matter.
If we can no longer see.
You, us, me.
Them, all.
Yet the words abound and evade without interruption.
As we cannot welcome all.
Or everyone must stay in his country.
Italy to the Italians, Germans to Germans and France to the French.
Europe for the Europeans.
And Africa to Africans...
Well, maybe we should remove the latter, otherwise you would never have had any reason to exist in our delusional nightmares.
Forgive us, since we speak and write as we think: with a blindfolded heart and a chained belly.
Since immemorial time we are no more used to us, you, me.
Them, all.
And every possible conjugation of human existence.
That is a fraud, it is true.
Vulgar words and mixtures of the latter travel profusely in a fair-minded, from the influential news and the prestigious lips to less noble creature on the way, but sooner or later you'll have to learn that these are illusory as inert melodies.
As the ringing of the phone and the creak of the door, the sizzle of the coffee pot on the stove and the trampling of important heels, even hard breathing and a laughter.
It seems human stuff, but it is not sure at all if there is still behind.
Human stuff.
That's why when we meet a face wet by tears, eyes moist by real pain and a voice choked up by the same suffering, the horrid Ferris wheel stops.
We ask your forgiveness.
We always talked so much about you.
But the truth is that we do not have the faintest idea of what it means.
To be you…

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Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Bear hunting Italy: to kill or not to kill

Stories and News No. 776

“Bears are too many and we must capture or kill them.”
This is the solution of the Trentino’s (North Italy region) government to solve the bears problem.
All according to the script...

Once upon there was the “too much”.
A very few notes must be written about the latter on the instructions manual of the modern human beings.
However, there is no answer for the following question: what should we do with the too much?
No one seems having taught our generation how to deal with it.
Sure, not that small bunch of people who has the honor, the privilege and the responsibility, rather than pride, presumption and arrogance to decide for the many.
By the way, we should never forgot that for the vast majority of the world the “too much” is something unreal.
A kind of mirage, to dream in the rare quiet nights.
Maybe you may find it between the desires of the most brave people, those ones with the absurd claim of searching for it.
The too much.
The rest of us, however, have simple and lace answers.
We used to imprison and kill it.
We like to burn and bury it under the carpet.
Made of land or memory, it does not matter.
Often we destroy it or it dies alone for solitude.
Sometimes we wait that it will spoil.
Then nature will do its job.
Read as well as the diabolical ability to turn putrid stuff in gold.
A skill that many have become experts of.
Then someone who has turned his dreams in gold comes.
Even myrrh or frankincense.
Anything is ok, look.
No more just dreams is perfect.
We see also this as “too much”.
Like a bear that looks for what the majority of mankind is still wishing.
Food and water.
Life, survival.
That's why when they are too much we just want them dead.
We used to do this with our fellow humans.
Let alone with the bears...

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Saturday, July 11, 2015

Migrants drown in Mediterranean

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Child with no legs and one arm story

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Racism is a business

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Racist news 2015

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Migrants boat capsized

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Friday, July 10, 2015

Child studying in the lamplight of a restaurant: three rules of happy ending

Stories and News No. 775

The photo taken by a medical student, Joyce Torrefranca, depicting Daniel Cabrera, a 9 year old boy who does his homework in the Philippines under a street lamp, became viral on the web and now, thanks to donations received from all over the world, he will have guaranteed education, including a university scholarship.

You need three of them.
All three, otherwise the magic is not working.
And so the miracle.
As we used to say, it would take a miracle, those phrases that you mutter more for resignation than hope.
They are all fundamental, starting with the very first one.
It takes someone who brings the light.
Indeed, although only one light.
Small too, size does not matter.
We are happy of what will come, they say over there, which is never as far as it looks.
As a lamppost on a street.
The second is just as essential.
You need someone who will take advantage of that light.
With courage and dedication.
Dreaming of reproducing the brightness of dawn with a match.
And standing there, ever standing there.
Until it gets dark.
The third one, I do not want to offend the first two, is the most decisive.
It takes someone who will tell the story.
To as many people as possible.
Because somewhere there is always someone who will see.
The beauty that you saw...

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Thursday, July 9, 2015

Global warming definition: they were so

Stories and News No. 774

That is how we are.
We are those of the effects, never causes.
We are strict to the point, I am not say who made it, but never asking why I did it.
It's hot and we blame the heat.
So, to warm up, if you let me spend this trivial pun.
But then we look around and the first scapegoat near our ranting becomes the one and only accountable enemy.
It's cold and the illusion of finishing the job is served at the table in the same way, albeit upside down.
We are so, let's face it.
We are those who rush to climb on the screamers bandwagon as soon as possible.
Because once we had the winner’s chariot, now the victory is all for the best howler’s blunder in the house.
Then there is the stranger, how can you not see it?
He is not next to you; observing facts with the naked eye is out of fashion.
Once we saw as truth what was being said on TV, preferably by noble anchormen and equally elegant studios of national networks.
Now we actually give the certainty license to a handful of likes bought on the web and as many fake visits.
And so we share the “truth”, until it is disproved.
Possibly by a voice supported by not less likes and subscribers.
But why there is a stranger is a word that never crosses the desk of the now abandoned office in our busy brain: the one where you should ask questions.
We are like that, do not deny it.
We are those who have no time to learn anything.
But we talk about it, aren’t we?
We share a lot of suggestive sentences and ironic pictures.
And if so many do, how can we stay out of the party?
As the rainbow profile.
We hope that anyone would think that we think.
Maybe risking to ask what is behind such great spread of homogeneity.
Driven by stale slogans of the past century.
Like the one that says if you try to change the world, the world will oppose you.
And if the latter is not resisting at all, far from it, what are you really doing to the world?
We are so, come on.
We are those who talk about everything.
All they up there vomit on us.
Never talking about us.
But it's not a problem.
Because it's okay.
There has been good so far.
And so it will go.
Until someone will say.
Not we are.
They were so.

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Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Migrant on Channel Tunnel: where light is

Stories and News No. 773

A man died while traveling on board a freight shuttle in an attempt to reach Great Britain through the Channel Tunnel.

Many of us will not be there.
Few of us have already read it.
And maybe less have told it.
It is the story of the migrant on the tunnel.
One for all.
And all for us.
As the musketeers of survival, who with a cardboard sword against cold and indifference, ran with indomitable courage to save the only queen worthy of the name and her valuable jewels.
Read as well as a wife and an unknown number of children.
Left behind, somewhere.
The darkness is impenetrable for greedy eyes and no less thirsty hopes.
Fatigue’s weight is indecipherable.
And the possibilities of a favorable outcome are unreadable, as scarce they are.
But is this not the hero who should receive the best care?
Is not him the man who we should stand up for?
And is not this the case of trying to get to the end?
Of the story, obviously.
Because this tale has an end, and coincides with the death.
Of the tunnel.
Not the main character.
Otherwise, why would you wait for the sequel?
And if they might place someone else on the movie posters is not the same thing, come on.
How to tell a news about someone who dies hidden in a truck just to get to a land that, most likely, will prove even more inhospitable than the truck itself and expecting to convince us that he is a blond guy with blue eyes, gull wing eyebrows and a fashion t-shirt.
No, I will not make so gross mistakes.
This time I will be careful.
The migrant enters the tunnel without even blinking.
He just think, only for a split second, of those who he is risking everything for.
Those who are left behind.
However, their happiness is written ahead, as an indelible tattoo of clouds on a finally right sky.
For all.
The man goes through the tunnel.
Disrespectful of danger and confident of victory.
So he gets to the end.
Many of us will not be there.
Very few of us have already seen it.
And maybe fewer have narrated it.
The day when the migrant will come out of the darkness.
And will be there.
Where light is...

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Saturday, July 4, 2015

The Writer and the Storyteller

I apologize for the brief digression of self-referentiality, but I am very happy for the publication of my short essay on the National Storytelling Network's Magazine:


By Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher

The writer and the storyteller should not be addicted to anyone.
What we create, if we want to share it, is for everyone.
Indeed, for whom among them, even just one person, will accept it.
Who has something to share should not be addicted to people.
I am talking about admiring looks, appreciative comments, Facebook's Likes and Twitter followers, more or less influential quotations, number of website visits.
In brief, popularity.
That is what makes our words weak, and so us.
I know that this cannot diminish our desire to see our things read, watched, listen, and especially loved.
That wish is human.
It should not erase the alive dream of our imagination, enjoying the richness of the best time giving life to the stories we write or tell.
However, the mere need that must move our acting, painting, telling, playing, singing and writing have to be just doing it and nothing else: Art for art's sake.
Sharing outside our own room, via blogs, videos, live shows and storytelling, even sending work to a publisher, is justified if and only if we are completely sure we have pulled out something that deserves to be read, seen or heard.
Looking for ears and eyes at any time, as soon as possible, following praises, applauses and success, is wrong.
We should not look for success at all.
Singers, actors, writers, storytellers, artists in general, do not have to work for the success.
That is the seller.
At the end of the year, he is the one who must check the numbers, counting the sales, receipts and losses, taking care of marketing and the brand.
In my humble opinion, the truth is that who create stories should struggle to listen, not to say.
If we have to tell something, it should come from what we heard, that has invaded us, moving us to share with others in the new form.
Nevertheless, listening needs good silence, careful attention, wide open eyes and ears.
The land of opportunity is here, now, linking words, images and so on, having the time to do it.
The dream is here, today and is working to create a beautiful story, another one, until the breath allows it.
Then, if the story will worth the trip, put it in a bottle and throw it into the sea.
Or the web.
Forgetting all, a moment later we should begin to work on something new.
Because in the land of opportunity there is always someone who might find your story.

Dedicated to Enrique Páez and Beatriz Montero

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Friday, July 3, 2015

Unidentified young girl dead: mystery and dignity

Stories and News No. 772

The mystery girl child found already dead in the United States has not yet been identified.
"She’s a beautiful child, and she deserves dignity here," Suffolk District Attorney Daniel Conley said, spreading the photos of the four years old girl.
The nameless girl…

Once upon a time there were the nameless.
Let’s restrict, a little story of a small page won’t be enough.
Let’s limit ourselves to the children.
Then it would be just as long.
But the characters are small, yet free from vain human complications and, perhaps, they will be happy of this terse but heartfelt hospitality.
There are many of them, just look up.
On the tearjerker photos of NGOs seeking solidarity.
And in the videos of the stars involved in a generous mood.
They are there, in front of churches and crowded stores, in the middle of the notable squares and along the walkways between a seat and the other of metropolitan life.
“Many are thieves,” some mumble, “of money and fake tenderness.”
But still virgin souls.
But still victims.
Of the entire world, wait to turn around, no one is excluded.
Children without a name.
Maybe they will have it as well, but who might claim to know?
They are still there, behind us, already on the next box of the big game.
They were, then.
They were the children of others.
Parents that we considered less worthy of respect and love, yes, let’s exaggerate.
Because wrong characters in the wrong story and annoying actors in a perfect scene.
Where everything must be clear.
White and blond.
Let’s expel the accursed fruit of fathers and mothers deviant from the easy story.
Ah, the easy story, how much we like it.
The simple words, good on one side and evil on the other.
And we watch, sedated by the illusion of being mere spectators.
So saved by every possible outcome.
Then someone comes out from nowhere and drags us in, indeed, he does not even need to do that.
He merely whispers a few centimeters from us.
I'm here.
Next to you.
So it means that you are too.
Children without a name.
They do not know ours.
And they do not care.
When they are asking our attention...

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Thursday, July 2, 2015

Nicholas Winton Story Today

Stories and News No. 771

Once upon a time there was the story of Nicholas Winton.
Once upon a time there was the British Schindler.
And once upon a time there was the man who, between 1938 and 1939, saved 699 Jewish children from the concentration camps in Czechoslovakia.
As a kind of wonderful letters full of future he had the idea to send them by train in Great Britain to families found by himself.
Sir Nicholas died yesterday, the first of July, but his extraordinary act of heroism was discovered only in 1988, when his wife Greta found evidences in an old photo album.
And the meaning of the story is...
That the real heroes do not boast of their acts?
Perhaps, indeed, yes, it is likely.
But there are also other points of view, the story is rich and complex, and so is the protagonist.
That for this reason too studying the past history is important, because you can always find commendable examples of humanity and the spirit of brotherhood?
Sure, there is no doubt, we do not know everything.
However, stopping at this would be reductive, the matter requires further study.
That even in an incredibly horrible parenthesis of history as the Second World War there were pages of real life that illuminate the mankind’s path?
Yes, that's right, it's always good to remember this.
Nevertheless, if we had not insist in finding other ways we could be disrespectful towards the hero as the heroism.
That each one of us can make heroic acts, because super powers and a lot of money are not indispensable?
Yes, very true and acceptable, especially among young people.
Nonetheless, we might overlook something valuable if we had to close here.
That no one can save the world alone, as he could not succeed in his noble effort without the help of the families who welcomed the children?
That’s natural, it must be said, at all.
However, we would be hasty at this point if we had to put an end.
Maybe the problem is just behind this urgent need we have to see it on the screen as on the printed page, the last one.
The end.
Let’s try to ignore it and let’s see what happens.
There once was Nicholas Winton.
Once upon a time there was Nicholas Winton.
Once upon a time there was the British Schindler.
And once upon a time there was the person who saved almost 700 Jewish kids from the concentration camps.
But if the story is not over yet...
Here it is the other fundamental meaning, the missing one.
That somewhere out there, there are other Schindler’s who, in the silence of the world, save hundreds of lives, young or not, from certain death.
Heroes who we know nothing of.
And anyone of us could make the difference.
Just like the families who adopted the children of Nicholas...

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Wednesday, July 1, 2015

How racism is taught story

Stories and News No. 770

The alleged perpetrator of an abuse on a sixteen years old girl was arrested in Rome, Italy. He is a thirty-one man from the province of Cosenza, Calabria, a soldier of Defense Ministry, Navy.

If we were in a racist country.

If we were in a racist country, this equation would echo in the minds of many: the men from Calabria are all rapists.
Especially those from the province of Cosenza.
And automatically, in the same superficial cervical, should take the same association if a guy arrived on the public square stating: my name is Giuseppe, a name at random, and I am from Calabria.
What town? The citizens with the weak skull would ask.
The province of Cosenza, the man could answer.
And so here are the suspense, suspicious looks, easy convictions and isolation of the potential brute.
With all the suffering for him.

If we were in a racist country, as powerful the following conclusion should rebound: the soldiers are all rapists.
Especially those of the ministry of defense, Navy.
And therefore, in the same malleable head, equal consideration should be evident, when an ordinary person declared under the audience’s eyes: my name is Francesco, another fictitious name, and I am soldier.
What kind? The humans with crumbly intellect would ask.
Navy, he might respond.
And so here are the tension, the suspicious mutterings, the silent accusations and the safe removal of the criminal.
With all the unjust suffering for the innocent guy.

If we were in a racist country, as a sort of inevitable effect of cause this reasoning should spread: all those of the same nationality or job of the alleged aggressor are used to abuse women.

No... I made a mistake.
What careless, sorry.
So it would be if we were in a coherent country.
In a racist country all this occurs only with certain nationalities.
And skin colors

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