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Moral stories: Not in my name from Rome to Paris

Stories and News No. 816

Tomorrow there will be a demonstration in Rome.
I read that "the goal is to strongly condemn the recent massacre in Paris, expressing the deepest feeling of closeness to the French people."

Not in my name.
If today I were a believer, I would think that.
Perhaps I would whisper it.
Maybe I would even say.
Certainly I will exclaim so if I believed in any faith, before those who use the latter to spread distrust, their god to see him biting the others, his own symbol to crucify the presumed opponent.

Not in my name.
I would shout out loud that listening to those who, like vultures with beaks always pointed to the most defenseless people on earth, do not fail to tear the formidable monster designed by the lords of the news.
And never satisfied, they are ready to snap any prey that might in some way be dragged in.
In the pot.

Not in my name.
I might even record it on my forehead and all those who regularly are assimilated into the soothing mask of the enemy that we are making every day more and more large.
Then the next day I will regret it, because it would test even my failure, as if the force of fear resided as much in the foolishness of the vile as the weakness of the persecuted.

Not in my name.
I would write it on the entrance of my conscience, illuminated by the memory of every time the dance called war goes on stage.
The war that did not yet touch you personally and the one that will do it tomorrow, which will continue to affect you, while you do not distinguish the blast’s wind from the usual morning breeze.
The war that led to the war and the one that should have stopped it.
Wars, all wars, which are in no hurry and with feral calm slowly build, in the heart of those who remain, the illusory fuse that will never pay off the debt.
The worse war.
The habit of war.

Not in my name.
I should think, whisper and with all the breath available.
In front of the incalculable number of violence yesterday, now and tomorrow, that we insist on confining inside the box of shame.
Where all the names are written except ours.

Not in my name.
Always and in every case.
If I were a human being...

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