Friday, September 30, 2016

Stories of sport: the wrong playgrounds of Bangkok

Stories and News No. 911

A Thai real estate developer had the idea of creating in Khlong Toei, a densely populated area of Bangkok, irregular playgrounds, trying to get the most of limited space. The capital of Thailand is an eight million inhabitants city practically built on a swamp, and, because of the growing overpopulation, is desperately in needs of space, with new shopping centers and residential projects to the detriment of the poorest communities...

Well, the game is about to begin.

It must do it.
It is a matter of life and life.
Because death is not an expected result.
It does not when kids are ready to deal with everything to play.
They say that the important thing is to take part, where the lines are straight and the ball rolls smoothly.
You know, here taking part is not the only important thing.
Everything is.
Even losing.
Because it means that the game was really there.
That someone has taken the field.
And someone else saw and told everything.
Here we are, the referee blows, let us play.
We have got the very first kick.

How nice it is being able to say, even if it is just a game.
We have got the very first kick is the most beautiful phrase in the world after everybody go to shower, because it means that there is water, and everybody can drink, because it means that it is clean.
But the best word is everybody.
Because it means that there is something for everybody.
Then, of course, if you score a goal is a great time, but short.
It is not a matter of snobbery. The unacceptable disregard for a successful stunt is not granted, but in the wrong fields the game must go on, not the show.
Even after an amazing goal you should be careful.
Because if the game has started it does not mean will last forever.
Sooner or later, you know, the game will have an
end.
Sure, I understand what the players of soft meadows will say. The final whistle is in the rules. Match time, plus recoveries, extra time and penalties.
Sorry, but these original athletes have made a small change...
That is, a venial omission for the rest of the world and a valuable oversight for them.
Plus deleted.
Because once the teams are finally free to clash, where the real obstacle will not be the opponent, they will do all to enjoy the moment.
In spite of every sporting manual, they will kick the ball from balconies and cellars, and if mom or dad will lean out just at the climax, with the pride of the house near the enemy line, ready to win and jump for joy, the miracle is accomplished.
Joy for everybody.
And everybody back on the field...


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Thursday, September 29, 2016

Children of Aleppo killed: how we escape

Stories and News No. 910

According to UNICEF since last Friday, only in the eastern Aleppo, Syria, at least 96 children were killed and 223 were injured.
"These children are trapped in a nightmare," said deputy executive director Justin Forsyth. "There are no words to describe the suffering they are experiencing."


Words are over, for us.

Trapped in a nightmare.

Maybe we only escape to reach more or less manipulated images.
Blurt between an alleged beautiful diva and a new super-equipped gasoline drinker.
At worst normalized in the large muffler called world news.

Maybe we even go out in an inspired speech.
In the sense of made by other heart and mind.
Even in a warlike gathering of cheaters dressed as doves.


We could also get out in a prayer, even if said as heaven commands.
A blessed speech, as they say.
Remembered with a clear compassion and then everyone out for a walk, the sun is still there.
With no hard feelings, indeed, light is light everywhere.

It also happens that we come out extremely

dignified in the magical kingdom of His Majesty the Fiction, among movies and songs, committed videos and even short pages like this.
Protagonists of moments of an unpredictable value.
Because, as it has always been and always will be, the public will decide life and death of words and dreams, not a deluded narrator.

For sure we go out in the worst way, marked with numbers between numbers in the bloody lists that will have weight only one day among many to come.
When the look that will measure the inhuman sum will feel innocent enough to do so.

Rarely we do get out for unspeakable luck or unexpected bad one, no middle ground. It depends by those who will welcome us at the end of the journey between water and ground.

Even more rarely we do get out for time frames as
well captives, between a friendly fire and a cruel mine. Fleeting unreal, so short and rarefied windows that really a few recognize them, just before the sky is tinged red again.
The usual, stubborn visionaries, life will always love them.

We go out invading nights and dreams of those who saw us with their own eyes, bringing the nightmare even to them. Well, this is an opportunity to ask forgiveness of the looks that come here with demobilized hearts.

So we escape, so far this is what they told you.
We do in all these ways, but none of them really happens.
Because this is how you escape your nightmare, when you look and read about us.
And because there is only one place in the world where we all will be, eventually, truly free and at peace.
Only where at free and at peace.
We will be.
All…




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Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Police kill unarmed black: end of story

Stories and News No. 909

In the US, San Diego, for the umpteenth time a police officer has killed an unarmed African-American.
So I find again myself writing something about this grotesque, absurd phrase...


Police kill unarmed black.
Four words.
Take them strong in one hand.
In a page, if you prefer not to burn yourself.
Four words that may break all things in pieces.
That's why the page is good, right?
Because we can write and read them endlessly.
And everything goes on.
And everything is repeated.
Because we believe in the end that so no one really hurts, in a newspaper.
When the newspaper is like a movie.
But let us say it is all true, try to believe it.
Just like in front of a movie.
Look, the spot is here.
No, wait, do not pay attention to it, you are not obliged, in spite of colors and mellow sounds.
Let us back on the main vision and observe the words one by one.
Start from the very first, so no one will be offended.
Say letter by letter and now express all that it resonates inside and out.
No censorship, no consequences.
We are still on the page, remember?
Empty for good, without fear, every thought and regurgitation, feeling and prejudice, opinion and perception that the first fragment arouses you.
Done? Do not you feel better now?
Watch it again, that simple set of characters.
Police.
Only six letters that we ourselves invented.
For our safety and protection.
Well, now let us focus on another protagonist of the damn title.
Once again hold your breath and do the same with every ebb seeking light from the most secret recesses of your belly.
Be brave, or its opposite.
And eject all things, for once lawfully.
Then look at the steaming puddle and return your eyes on what's left.
A color, its negation.
Only an adjective.
Only black.
Only a five-letter word that we all have obtusely fed.
For our safety and protection?
No, quite the opposite.
Done that too? Well, let us go to the last word.
As usual, the most important.
That’s trivial, at the end of the story here is the end of the latter.
Where everything would end in a second.
As the other two, again, with all the impudence which distinguishes you, throw out what the term arouses you, in the shelter of a page that welcomes all and everything preserves.
What remains? An adjective, perhaps?
No, something more.
A natural condition that should remain inviolable.
Eight letters that all of us, everywhere, are underestimating.
Unarmed.
Well, you know what is the true miracle?
The incredibly simple formula which would remove the curse?
A virtuous oversight.
Kill.
A noble misprint.
Kill.
And a saving forgetfulness of the second word in the same sentence.
Kill...
Because what's left in the end would finally be a new beginning.
Police and black unarmed





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Friday, September 23, 2016

Love stories: Fault in Our Stars thanks to life

Stories and News No. 908

Only five days after the death of Dalton Prager, the twenty-five man with cystic fibrosis whose story resembled John Green’s book, which was made into a hit film, wife Katie, 26, passed away because of the same disease.
Fault in Our Stars…


Fault in Our Stars.

Yes, that’s it.
There it is the line where we all walk.
Between an amazing story and the normal, everyday lives.
Between an exciting film and bare ground.
Between a dream or nightmare, both memorable, and subsequent awakening.
One to remember absolutely or discard instantly as a bad selfie, just now required by the loved one.
Nevertheless, we walk, we often run and just as often we fall.
Anyway, on the height of the jump, rather than lying on the ground, a significant portion or even the whole of our bravest pupil points there.
Towards the brightest area of the sky.
Because that is where we would like to see us at that moment.
Because that is where we are, when we cannot do otherwise.
Because they say that outside is not all heaven.
Well, down there it's even worse.
Nevertheless - here is the wonder of wonders, this does not mean that the story is not worthy of the book page, such as the big screen.
The problem is all in the chair, never in the quality of the show.
Think about it, because after all this is what the public for special occasions wants more.
A wide and soft backrest, equally pampered seat and a not too distant vision from the adored scene.
Powerful lights on the latter and perfect resolution are trivial, because once the viewer is really comfortable you are halfway there.
From the privileged position of those who pull the strings of the folktale you can put on everything.
Oscar Wilde’s “Better being talked about than not being talked about”? No, better many to watch, than nobody.
Blame the stars, or all of us for that.
At the same time, however, without having to raise your heads, possibly moving a few centimeters to the right or left, even remaining in the exact spot where you are, you may witness the miracle.
The stories, or the films, which are staged without stories and films.
Reality that does not beat imagination: it doubles the latter with ridiculous ease.
Fault in our stars, if sometimes we miss such extraordinary gifts as negligible gusts.
But for someone they are everything.
As two fragments of the same love they have only five days of autonomy from each other.
Because to them they are something more important than earth, sky, and even stars.
Their fault.
Or better.
Thanks to life…



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Thursday, September 22, 2016

Racism stories: a day with bad companions

Stories and News No. 907

Many in Italy criticized an image of the Pro Fertility campaign by the Ministry of Health, where below the supposed good guys symbolizing ‘good habits to be promoted’, separated by a fracture, you may see the ‘bad company to be abandoned’ (together with a girl smoking weed and a drug addict even a black man…)
Here is one day, then.
One day far from the good ones...

It is morning, very early.

Giulia always gets up first, because she loves to breakfast alone.
This is the way she gets the time to wake up calmly, but never completely.
Because something has to keep on dreaming.
Even awake.
Then she prepares milk and cookies for everyone, takes a shower, dresses and goes to work, where she teaches Italian to foreigners.
It often happens that many in classroom are blacks.
Bad companions in the picture painted for the day of fertility.
But this does not prevent the meeting of destinies.
To be even fruitful.
Just as the teacher spreads her national words among people coming from far away, Daniele enters the group assembled in the meeting room in the community.
He goes at the helm of the ship, despite appearing as a regular chair, like the others in the circle, where are the fragile hope souls torn from the dope.
The fascinating, poisonous traitor who should fill emptiness instead it devours all that just grazes.
The bad companions await a sign from him, and gradually open the doors of the common solitude.
No particular excitement, it is clear, but they do.
They do this for the very first time.
Tell me if there's anything more alive than those who resume to be born.
So it's time for lunch and, while Daniele and Giulia also take a break from so much badness, Stefania gets her shirts and start to job.
Actually, no, to dance.
It is a dance, always the same, no music, choreography by survivals in columns with tray in hand, waiting to reach her and the others.
Angels with cap, this is how one of the bad companions sitting in the canteen for the homeless uses to call them.
No, thinks Stefania. Because none of us has wings.
But we all dance to the tune of a perfect melody, between miseries.
The sound of normality, like eating something together.
Federico leaves home just after lunch.
He goes to jail and he is happy. Do you think this is healthy? I do not know, but it is not important, right? Not at all for this piece of stories, am I wrong?
Because he lost the real job, the one with the professionals of the goodness and, above all, always the same habits.
How to get rid with chilling ease of one who does not serve anymore to the cause.
Now he's a psychologist with inmates.
Perhaps, more than ever in this case, you should say with bad companions.
And the bad things he hears are many, no one denies.
But then he comes home and the next day retraces the same route.
Because he knows that, despite everything, the day after he will find something different even in a prison.
Because life can create life everywhere.
Then the sunset came.
For all it inevitably does.
And for once, albeit with different experiences, in the day of fertility, Giulia, Daniele, Stefania and Federico go to bed at the same moment and at the same time close their eyes with the same serenity.
Because, as many who live far from the good guys, they have realized that when the bad companions are abandoned by all, they need someone.
That welcomes them…


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Wednesday, September 21, 2016

International Day of Peace or Pause?

Stories and News No. 906

As many of you know today, 21 September, is the International Day of Peace - I suggest you to watch this video, established in 1981 by the General Assembly of the United Nations.
A day dedicated to peace...
Well, after read some news, I had a discordant, out of tune, out of sync feeling.
Difficult otherwise in a day which, among others, speaks about usual clashes with the police for the murder of yet another black man in USA, more civilian deaths in Syria, other victims for terrorism in the Middle East and Africa, and other misfortunes on the tragic narration titled ‘The story of migrants’.
It seems that everybody is saying: “Okay, today is the Day of Peace, but the show must go on, I have just pulled the trigger, bought a lot weapons, dropped anywhere death and blood is already flowing”.
In a few words, it's ever too late.
That's why, in my humble opinion, to celebrate these occasions with the right attention, we need a suspended time between cruelties.
A sort of break...


Once upon a time there was The Day of Pause.

We do not know who invented it first.
A Russian, they say.
The Russians, I mean.
An American, the Americans say.
A French, the French, and so on.
However the creator of such marvel did not give them any more time to lose in the struggle for this advantageous authorship.
He, or she, seized the magic button and clicked.
The world paused.
All the planet stopped, at the exact moment when the finger flicked the wondrous machine.
All the inhabitants as frozen, wherever they were, defeating the laws of physics and chemistry. More than ever, the stock market and especially the inevitable, wretched fate, where a few win and the others, at best, applaud.
The only option offered was to watch and listen to all the others. Really connected, enough with social networks and apps.
So, by the very first second of the day of the pause, you had a lot of living images to admire.
The head of a child who emerged from mother’s womb, but not a mother and a child in any way related to you, rather all mothers and all children who at that moment entered the scene.
Maybe greeting with joy at the first cry or yearning with pain for the total absence of the latter.
I could say like the audience in a cinema or before TV, but it would be a lie, since in the day of pause what you saw was real.
You know, the truth wants just a moment, only the lies need some time to manifest itself.
Soon after, in many tried a great pleasure to discover that the pause day was not over yet.
So many saw what present time meant to the others.
The moment when a human being jumps on a boat to come and ask for borrowed life to you and not the exact contrary.
The precise second where our wretched governments, once again, bury in the most fragile soil the seed of hatred.
And the precious instant that would allow us to blow even the faintest whiff in the right direction.
Who knows, maybe after midnight all restarted as before.
And no one had clearly learned nothing from anyone.
Nevertheless, at least during the pause.
Everyone lived, without exception, in peace…


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Friday, September 16, 2016

International Peace Day 2016 Video by Storytellers for Peace

Rudyard Kipling’s If was just the beginning. Here we are with the new video by Storytellers for Peace.
As you know, every year the International Day of Peace is celebrated around the world on 21 September.

The United Nations have declared this as a day devoted to strengthening the ideals of peace, both within and among all nations and peoples.

Here is the Day’s theme for 2016: “The Sustainable Development Goals: Building Blocks for Peace.”

So, this is the way we imagine to build blocks for peace.

Sixteen storytellers from fourteen diverse nations, in their first language, tell their own dream of peace for their countries.
The final clip is made of different hopes for a peaceful world, together as a great puzzle, every one important for the best of all.
As Martin Luther King Jr. oce said: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
So, let's build peace, let's do it everywhere.




The storytellers and their words in order of appearance:

Imagine a world with other laws. A world where no evictions. Where people have work. Can you imagine walking through other crosswalks?
Beatriz Montero (Spain)

Imagine no human being goes to bed hungry. Those who are thirsty can drink clean water. Those who are sick can access medical care. Everyone should have an opportunity to work.
Hamid Barole Abdu (Eritrea)

I imagine the kids of Venezuela all playing in freedom, listening to stories beneath a Saman tree, in shade, with their families, because a hug of peace is not a story.
Omira Bellizzio (Venezuela)

Let's distribute love. Let's multiply love. Let's add love. But we let's not deduct love.
D.M.S. Ariyrathne (Sri Lanka)

I would like to see my country more inclusive. A country where we recover the confidence to be calm and peaceful. A country where values reborn. A country where people may truly be happy.
Sandra Burmeister G. (Chile)

I imagine a country where in the very first place there are human rights, in the second one… human rights, and in the third? Yes, human rights. If we’ll still have time for others it will be beautiful, otherwise, I will love it the same.
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher (founder and coordinator, Italy)

I imagine, one day, waking up in the morning, going for a walk in the streets and find every single person, children, youth and elder, smiling from ear to ear, so that they make you smile too.
Raquel Silvetti (Uruguay)

Imagine, there are no extremism, killing and bloodshed in the name of religion in Bangladesh; man and women both are equal; and all human being are honored as a human being.
Mahfuz Jewel (Bangladesh)
As a Filipino, I dream of a peaceful Philippines full of love, unity and cooperation.
Storyteller Pet (Philippines)

I imagine peace through tolerance - not just tolerance of people who are different from us, but a tolerance of ambiguity and uncertainty, because there is so much we do not and cannot know - about the universe, science, nature, God, spirit, change, the future, and the inner lives of those around us. When we can accept ambiguity and uncertainty, there can be empathy… and peace.
Barry Stewart Mann (USA)

I imagine a country where all decisions and laws are always made suitable for children. That is the only way we could be certain that peace would reign forever.
Cecilia Moreschi (Italy)

Imagine a world where we could imagine, in which we could dream, drink, play dress, sing, draw, write, love. A world where we could daydream.
Enrique Páez (Spain)

Imagine there is no violence in the world, neither physical, nor psychological, nor sexual violence. Those who raise their hands in violence will turn to stone.
Imagine all arms are banned, as well as all arms manufacturers. They grow organic vegetables instead.
Imagine all children are going to school to learn in peace and freedom. Those who hold them back, who puts them in a box, who grades them will turn to guano which will be spread on the school lawn.
Imagine there is a war, but no one shows up.
Katharina Ritter (Germany)

Imagine Portugal. Imagine the waves of Portuguese sea, vibrating as music notes that always play for peace.
Jozé Sabugo (Portugal)

Imagine a world where children are children and have time, time to play, that is the best one. That time they have loose, free and not caged inside a clock. And imagine a world of stories, cartoons and novels but not working with a button. I would like a grandmother in her nightgown telling and reading me that.
Lisi Amondarain (Argentine)

I imagine Australia to embrace diverse cultures. I imagine Australia to welcome and care for refugees. I imagine Australia to better understand Aboriginal cultures.
Suzanne Sandow (Australia)

Please, subscribe, like, share the clip and mostly our hope for a better world.


Alessandro

Thursday, September 15, 2016

Nuclear power plant in united kingdom: the ant's reply

Stories and News No. 905

The British Conservative government led by Theresa May announced the green light for the construction of the new nuclear power station, in collaboration with France and China, at the Hinkley Point site.
A £18 billion project, about 21 billion euro, a sharp contrast to the rest of Europe.
A sharp contrast with even more...


I talk to the animals.

That’s it, now I said it.
It is always the best to start a post with a good confession, strong stuff, that leaves you breathless and forces the reader to continue, I think I read somewhere.
I talk with the animals, but not all, though.
Only those who inspire me.
But do not misunderstand, please.
There is nothing holy in my inclination, so we avoid irreverent comparisons with the best known among the fauna chatter, which I do not name here in order to not be accused of hagiographic blasphemy.
Continuing on the path of honesty, the main reason is that it's just me that I speak, usually they do not respond.
Sometimes they recall the look, rarely emit noises or verses difficult to transcribe here on the page, but most of the times they ignore me.
Now I know where some of you will end up.
If you talk alone, with animals too, it means you are out of your mind.
Well, you are completely far from the truth, my friend.
I speak with animals and then I imagine the answers with such detail to be able to convince you of the answer’s coherence.
We could then say that you may sure place me in that shaky position, which to look at the things from, where are those very far from being saints, but doing everything to not seem crazy.
You want proof?
Here I am, ladies and gentlemen, I'm here for that.
Take this thing of the new nuclear power plant in England.
In contrast with the rest of Europe.
And in contrast with much more... like, for example, animals.
Get the ant whom I spoke to just now.
"Dude... do you know that the British have decided to build a new nuclear power station?"
The creature stopped for a moment, moved towards me antennae and eyes, which is always good not to look too closely, they do a bad impression.
It arched his left eyebrow, as if to say you really just called me dude? Then it moved its head left and right and continued its journey as if nothing had happened.
As if nothing had happened.
As if even animals do not surprise anymore with human idiocy.
As if now they had understood perfectly that we follow two opposite horizons.
Tell me if there is more coherent answer than that…


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Wednesday, September 14, 2016

Mining waste at sea: Norway and Turkey different and equal

Stories and News No. 904

Last week, in a major summit in Hawaii, only two countries were the ones among 53 to vote against the international ban on the dumping of mining waste into the sea.
Turkey and Norway...


We talked about.

The other day.
Come on, the other day, remember?
We talked about of people.
Without generalizing, of course, but people are so.
Do you see, right?
Of course.
People are so, they are all different, but also equal for other things, that’s clear.
No easy clichés, you cannot merge everybody, come on.
Get the Turks.
Those Turks, that some aspire to see part of the old, civil Europe.
The Turks, without being accused of indifference, are Turks, just that.
I would not speak, once again, about religion, don’t worry.
About State machismo, that we, I repeat, we have eradicated long ago and you know it.
Or the lack of democracy, which – and you know that too, is for us a showpiece to be proud of anywhere.
However, take a typical Turkish and tell me.
Don’t be shy and tell me.
Tell me that you too are imagining a dark, short guy, heavy-browed, equally bushy and extremely prickly bearded, no less lush hair, all synthesized by a single adjective.
Dark.
Now pose the Turkish and consider, for example, a Norwegian.
Wow, I will not be here, without any originality, to tell you that
it is always raining in his country.
Gosh, I will not repeat that the hotels and restaurants are expensive as hell.
And, trust me, I will not dwell on the coldness and the closure of the inhabitants.
Think about the classic Norwegian, though, and I challenge you to deny.
Come on, I dare you.
I dare you to deny that you have figured a blond, tall guy, heavy-browed, equally bushy and extremely prickly bearded, no less lush hair, all synthesized by a single adjective.
Blond.
Because we talked about, you know?
Just the other day.
Come on, that day, you were not there too?
We talked of people.
Without generalizing, I agree, but people are these.
True, isn’t it?
Of course.
People are these, they are all different, but also equal for other things, it is fair enough.
For example, different for useless futilities that so much weigh on our judgments, like the color of the hair.
And the equal, unexpectedly equal, ruining the world we live in…



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Friday, September 9, 2016

Hunger in Nigeria story: when we won

Stories and News No. 903 

"These are children who, after all, have been hungry for their entire lives, and some will die here in the next twenty-four hours," said Jean Stowell, head of Doctor Without Borders center in Maiduguri, Nigeria, where the hunger is causing the death of hundreds of children a day.

In the few seconds that remained, there, only at that

time, we won.
Hooray! The wicked hunger was defeated.
A miracle? A magic? Divine intervention, maybe?
Or perhaps the fateful good ones’ arrival?
No, nothing like that.
It took us a while, maybe too much, but in the end, only there, we get it.
How to overcome hunger.
We opened our eyes once and for all, observing with mature realism the world’s remains all around.
So we started to eat what was there.
We ate the ground, all, all that could get in a hand and, after grabbing all, the treasure was lonely there, what ‘migrants on the contrary’ steal us, as if it had never been ours. As if we ourselves do not ever existed and that's it.
We ate the air, all, all that could come between a frail, little body and another, and blowing away and squeezing, the vacuum was there, what the censored history has given us as a house, as if we had never lived there.
As if we had never lived and nothing more.
We also ate dreams and nightmares, not getting the difference.
We did the same with smiles and tears.
Pleasant days and bad ones, enjoyable sensations and those hateful.
It must be an inevitable mechanism. On the soft shore of the great sea they rise boundaries and walls everywhere, while we start to merge everything.
Maybe this is the reason why, at the end of the story, everything can be eaten.
Meanwhile the last few seconds ran, but that did not put us off.
Indeed, far from it.
That's what we really have in common.
When at last we begin to find food we cannot stop.
So we ate the past and even with the latter we have not made any selection.
Only looking at one day in particular we all hesitated.
Because that one, the very first, was the land of promises and hopes.
Of everything was still possible.
Wonderful, fleeting ignorance, right?
When you had no idea that the end of the story had already been written time ago.
Nevertheless, even in the most influential books in the world there are blank spaces, among paragraphs, before the preface and after the prologue.
That's where we tell and read about us.
In the seconds that remain.
And only in the last of them.
We have stopped to lose.
Dear sky, enlighten us, now.
Because now that we have learned to eat our own lives, no one can take it away anymore...


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Thursday, September 8, 2016

Racism stories: Danish school ethnic quota classes

Stories and News No. 902 

While the King of Norway becomes viral thanks to a truly commendable speech on diversity, in a school in Aarhus, Denmark, the principal has decided to divide students between ‘indigenous Danish’ and immigrants.

Let’s play a game.

A story, a promise.
A dance and a challenge.
On the same page.
Class, world.
In the same heart, if you like.
Classes for immigrants and classes for ‘true’ Danish?
Well, you can do more, you know?
Classes for those who look too profoundly in your eyes and classes for those who just pretend to give up the fight, classes for those who will never arrive first, but they have accepted and classes for those who will never give up.
And they are right too.
Classes for the ugly inside and classes for those from the ugly past, classes for those who have a beautiful future, but only if they have luck and those from the horrible past, not yet deleted.
Classes for those who always forget most futile things and classes for those who are doing everything to remember them.
Classes for Jews and for slaves, for Native Americans and for conscientious objectors, why not try again?
Classes for women who just claim to be women and classes for everyone, whoever they are, claiming to exist and nothing more.
Classes for those who cannot remain silent and classes for those who only silently will really say something.
Classes for those will never do anything good in life, but these will be incredibly funny, bad things.
And classes for those who will only do good things in the future, but the others will pay for that.
Classes for people who easily forget, classes for boys that you will miss and classes for girls that you will regret not having loved.
Classes for unjustly rejected, but all say that, as the innocents in prison.
Classes for deservedly promoted with honors, but many say this lie, among politicians.
Classes for those who just born lucky, and classes for who just born and that's fine, read as well as the true, lucky people who smile for nothing.
Classes for whites who wanted to be blacks and classes for blacks who want to be anywhere but elsewhere.
Classes for whites who are ashamed of being blacks inside and blacks for who are not aware of the contrary.
Classes of naked souls, so vulnerable, and empty classes.
Yes, classes of desks and chairs, bare and meaningless rooms.
As a society that burning young hopes raises huge bonfires to obscure the horizon of everybody.
A poem, a confidence.
A journey, a song and a delusion.
A pastime.
All on the same sheet.
School, universe.
At this very moment.
Do you like to divide classes between immigrants and Danes?
As you can see, there are billions of ways to separate people.
But if they seem a lot to you, my friend, it means that you have not the faintest idea of how many there are to unite them…


Read more stories about racism
Buy my latest book The hoax of the migrants
Listen my song Wolves
Storytelling videos with subtitles

Wednesday, September 7, 2016

Paralympics stories of courage: the parallel silent victories

Stories and News No. 901

Today in Brazil the 15th edition of the Summer Paralympic Games is going to start.
Paralympics, the parallel Olympics.
As if, right side of the supposed high road, another one is really flowing.
Somehow lacking something...


The most important thing is to take part, everyone remind often.
For many that means to win, for others absolutely not to lose, because a tie never really hurt anyone.
Perhaps the main thing is not any of those.
Let’s think about that.
Really, let’s ask ourselves the question, then.
Why have we come here?
Why did we go out of our lives to come and see the other run and fight, facing the limitations of his own nature?
Why, at the end of the story, do we rise up and launch our palms against each other, with growing fervor?
Why, in some way, do we feel to have won with her?
Why do we suffer for his victory?
Why do we feel what they have tried?
Why, to be completely honest, did we forget that this was the real reason to admire the miraculous gesture and its author?
On the other hand, the exploit happens every day, not only on the occasion of the annual celebration on the tracks.
The kingdom of mutilated souls, only in appearance, it is here now.
But also before and after the stadium lights take credit for everything.
Countless records are beaten every minute and approved instantly, despite helped by pure courage.
An untold number of elusive relay races run around us, although the baton is only composed of the substance which the promises are made of. Read as well as I swear I'll be there when you need.
With a patience that tastes divine, an incalculable sequence of obstacles are skipped, even though they are purely man-made.
Defying gravities, magnified by great quantities of inappropriate looks, everyday athletes dive from the higher trampoline, although only a few are seeing it.
Taking part is what matters, all say frequently.
For many it is just finish first, for others it is absolutely not last, otherwise it is better to stay at home.
Maybe what it is essential lies elsewhere.
Indeed, no ‘maybe’.
Because elsewhere, where parallel lives walk, run and jump, to get over yourself means to live...

Read more stories about diversity
Buy my latest book The hoax of the migrants 
Listen my song Wolves
Storytelling videos with subtitles