Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Aleppo Syria map photos: the story from above

Stories and News No. 936

While forces loyal to Assad regime launched the decisive ground assault, the rebel territory in eastern Aleppo is shrinking...

 
It’s shrinking, yes.
It also does now, stopping here, at the mere narration of things, standing under the judgments from above, that crush us like worthless ants.
Or, at least, this is what the story tells.
From above.
Yet, as the trips we best remember, those where everything goes wrong except the people we met, simply reversing the poles of the heart we could save something. Not all, because at the end of the day it’s not true that we need everything.
Yet it’s shrinking.

I know.
Trump wins and what do the hopes of peace and, above all, for a blessed world, humanitarian pause?
They follow the rule, they shrink, that’s normal.
We open newspapers, we read the news at the top, even those to the side and below, and trust in the future does the same.
It shrinks.
Nevertheless, let’s indulge an unexpected step for once, and as in the middle of the rock concert stolen to school, when we could only think of music and the screams of fellows, let’s try to fall on tomorrow instead of running away as ever from present.
Meanwhile, other tragic verdicts come from the dying arctic.
From the sun and the moon watching us incredulous.

From the air stifled by itself.
And our own eyes start to shrink.
To remember less.
To feel and understand something else.
To sleep, just that.
So we look at the calendar and every day that passes we observe time shrinking.
Not the one we have left.
Not what we will spend with loved ones.
And even what they themselves have got to be with us.
The days, hours and minutes that maybe could change things, are shrinking.
Because the horizon has become like those dots to find in puzzles games.
And wherever we could succeed, we don’t have the strength left to fill it with anything.
However, let’s be patient and let’s try to breathe in reverse.
Let’s revolt cards and finally discover the trick.
Because the day we will stop reading life only from above.
We will see someone who, despite what the Olympus of words might say, don’t want to stay down.
We'll see.
Instead of remaining still, looking closer.
We'll see.
The shrinking lies unlike us.
We’ll do it.
The soul that resists.
I promise we’ll see.
The true sizes of the story...


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Friday, November 25, 2016

Women's roles in fairy tales

Stories and News No. 935

The International Day for the Elimination of Violence against women is an anniversary created by the General Assembly of the United Nations, through Resolution 54/134 of 17 December 1999.
The Assembly chose 25 November as a day of celebration and urged international organizations and governments to promote on that date events and activities aimed at involving the citizens.
The Day for the Elimination.
Of something that even now.
It’s here among us...

The teacher of literature said that.
She’s not miss Nobody, right?
She said that violence against women starts from very young.
It’s taught us while we’re children.


She also said, just the day before, that we might learn more from a simple fairy tale that a perfect lesson by the most intelligent master on earth.
I've learned much from fairy tales, it must be so.
Because I have read a bit and love it all.
Well, you know what?
I wanted so badly to do something, being of the game, in fact.
Since there's one thing I never accepted.
I’m talking about what the stories tell about us.
Take Little Red Riding Hood.
What sane mother decides to send a child alone in the woods, to cross it, quiet path or not, knowing that there is around a hungry wolf?
She says that is for the ailing grandmother, she needs medicines and biscuits.
I go back to the elder, but why don’t you go, Mommy?
Or why not daddy, while we're at?
By the way: where is he?
If grandma is not his mother, but the one-in-law, I could understand the reluctance to do the task, but putting at risk the life of his daughter for a bad relationship with in-laws it seems intolerable to me.
I would have been there, in short, maybe in the role of a cousin, an aunt, or even a neighbor. You would see what reprimand to both parents.
Anyway, let’s go to the granny.
Okay, time passes and the head does not fit like it used to, but I also the blind deer on wheelchair know nowadays that we should not open the door without first looked through the peephole.
Among starving grizzly masked as harmless Winnie the Pooh with a fake jar of honey, the wolf would be only one of the possible dangers lurking.
I would organize a refresher course for the old ladies entitled "Threats of the forest: what immigrants? Be careful of the kleptomaniac squirrels, rather. "
Do we want to talk about Snow White?
And let's do it.
Well, I talk to you, Grimhilde: do we want to stop fighting among us?
You're not the most beautiful in the realm? And who told you that? The mirror.
Mirror, do you understand? Just read the dictionary, my friend. This is a masculine noun... and I said it all. They want us one against the other.
But even if it were so: is Snow White more beautiful than you? All right, she's young, but you really think it be forever? The day when they call her Snow Pale or Wrinkle White will come, listen to me.
Anyway, if we remain on the sidelines, it happens that the credit for everything will go to them and not even with a minimum of fairness, given that the real heroes where the seven dwarves. Then the dude in the blue jumpsuit came and got all with a fast kiss.
There is no justice if you wait for the gift, sister.
I conclude, in fact, with Cinderella, the one that always made me crazy.
A house, an entire house inhabited by us.
And what they do?
Three of them put to torture the fourth.
But you what have you in mind?
Before the situation deteriorates, I see myself going to them as a family counselor, social worker or just manager, all in one, addressing the deluded three: "Girls?" I would scream knocking on the head of the stepmother, doing the same with the stepsisters. "Do you understand what is the fairy tale’s name? CINDERELLA! Not Genevieve or Anastasia. Who do you think will Fairy come to help? "
Another woman, needless to say.
Have you seen yourselves in the mirror? I would also tell them.
You can also the one from Snow White, because I believe the queen gave away it.
Little foot or not, it is already written that Prince will prefer Cinderella, even in rags.
Why not working as a team?
Why do we not stop making war?
Because violence in life, as in stories, is there, everywhere.
It’s written, told and widespread every day.
Even now, at this very moment.
So, let’s be close to one another and let’s write together with the real weak side of the moon.
A different tale...


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Thursday, November 24, 2016

Snow in Tokyo 2016 November in 54 years: Haruki's discover

Stories and News No. 934

Tokyo woke up with the first snowfall in November after more than 50 years.
However, as it often happens, what is a simple recurrence for some for others it is a truly remarkable event…

“It’s snowing,” says the child.
We might call him Haruki.
Because it has a nice sound.

Or, perhaps, because sometimes it happens that imagination dares so much to touch the real.
In other words, that his name is really so.
Then, Haruki looks through the window and thinks: "This is the snow, then."
The snow of fairy tales and photos, movies, and people who desperately need an audience.
The snow in November, to be precise.
As if the miracle was in the month, rather than the wonder itself.
As if time counted more than us.
And as if this instant’s weight enjoyed a greater value than a short meeting.
Between you and me.
However, Haruki is not lost among such semantic tangles.
The amazements in this world are blessed gifts, as the free and open to all shows.
Read as well as the snow in November after fifty years.
To prove that everything can still go back, all can still change the design outside of the window.
And suddenly the whole thing freezes, wearing white.
Where the absence of color, or the presence of all, it is cold and equal.
For everyone.
Haruki doesn’t stop at that and like any star of a miracle, even if underestimated by the most, he wants more.
He wants to know where
the magic comes from.
Where does it go when it touches the ground.
And especially he wants himself to touch it with his hand and tighten the dream between his fingers.
To remember, never forget, forever.
That in the end the others will win.
That they will tell him to give up easy illusions and exciting stories.
Because, they will explain for good, they are the same thing.
But if you will have open eyes and great patience.
One day, you may be lucky enough to be there.
In the galaxy called November, on the planet named Tokyo, riding a dragon shaped as train, admiring yet another grimace to concreteness sellers.
“Hooray,” thinks Haruki, “the snow exists.”
And now I know that, sooner or later, it will come back...


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Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Air Pollution Deaths story: killer identikit

Stories and News No. 933

According to a recent report from the European Environment Agency “air pollution remains the single largest environmental health hazard in Europe, resulting in a lower quality of life due to illnesses and an estimated 467 000 premature deaths per year.”
But, who is killing who?


The interrogation room is a classic.
Anyway, even the most abstruse visions must take advantage of fixed points, otherwise, thin as they are, could fly away like untied balloons.
White and bare walls, gray metal table, as cold chairs and the usual two-way mirror, although it is hard to find these days criminals who don’t know that beyond the reflected image someone is watching them. Someone is reading between the lines. There is someone there. Well, he will not be the highest, but for many it can make a real difference.

On the other hand, this time the accused is not a suspect, but a witness, a very ocular one.
"Please, sit down, Miss Nature", says the detective in charge of the case, Inspector Earth, aided by Air, inseparable deputy.
"Describe the killer," she adds sitting with his colleague across the table.
"What for?"
"Do what I ask. The person behind the mirror will recreate the criminal’s identikit. "
"No", says Nature. "You don’t understand: what for? What does this staging mean?"
"That’s what I said too," grumbles Air.
"Don’t make inappropriate comments," says detective Earth, "or I send you to blacklist rats for wrong parking."
The coworker lowers his head mortified.
"Miss Nature, I’m really surprised. You should be the maximum of the collaboration, the absolute harmony with everyone and everything, the queen of perfect joints, the mother of the living as inanimate, the Goddess..."
"Okay, okay, you don’t need to list all the platitudes’ Decalogue about me..."
"She always does that," stresses the deputy inspector. "Yesterday, speaking of Mr. Sky, she began with the vault beyond everybody, the mantle of light and shadows, ending up with the blanket woven of horizons..."
"Air", cries Earth. "At the next interruption of yours I send you to manage traffic of mosquitoes in Malaysia. Again…"
"Excuse me", he says immediately scared, remembering the bad experience.
"Miss Nature?"
"Inspector, you really want to do this play?"
"Go along."
"All right, then. The killer is the most conceited biped of the universe, a creature affected by a phenomenal, destructive vocation, distinguished over the centuries by a fortune that I would call extraordinary, because against all odds and logic is still here to damage..."
"Describe him, Nature, don’t get lost in useless metaphors and simplistic similes..."
"She says that..."
Earth only looks Air with darting daggers directly from pupils.
"I see, I have to shut up, otherwise you send me to take a census of the flies in a elephantine latrine."
"Go on, Nature, and focuses on the look."
"The look? Are you joking? Even the stones know who we are talking about..."
"I've already told you to assist me."
So, despite the skepticism, shared by Air too, Nature outlines with no surprise a human face.
"That's it," she says at the end of the representation. "As you see, if we want to be precise, we are dealing with a suicide, not homicide. What humanity is doing to herself is all a giant suicide…"
"And we cannot help it," blurts Air.
"You're both wrong, and I will demonstrate," Earth says. "Follow me."
The detective precedes the two at the entrance of the room beyond the mirror.
"Please, don’t disturb him." 

Earth opens the door quietly, showing to Nature and Air a child who is deeply drawing.
All three are crossed by a faint, negligible, but not ignorable breath of hope.
That somewhere someone is really there.
To listen and take note of everything.
Germinating an unusual and stubborn affection for the three at the doorway.
Disguised as a harmless little drawing.
Which might save us from ourselves...


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Friday, November 18, 2016

Cryogenically frozen girl letter

Stories and News No. 932

In the UK, a 14 years old died of cancer girl has won the right to be cryogenically frozen. The court decided to back the mother to get her to hibernate in the United States. Known only as JS, the teenager had written a letter to the court: “I have been asked to explain why I want this unusual thing done. I’m only 14 years old and I don’t want to die, but I know I am going to. I think being cryo‐preserved gives me a chance to be cured and woken up, even in hundreds of years’ time. I don’t want to be buried underground. I want to live and live longer and I think that in the future they might find a cure for my cancer and wake me up. I want to have this chance. This is my wish.”

Dear JS,
Wake up, do it now, please.
Wake up and wake me too.
We did it, tell me so.
Tell me that cancer was defeated.
And that all tumors that eat flesh and breath in there, hidden, were finally discovered, unearthed in

their enormous and innate horror.
Clusters of dead cells, of course, but also easy loneliness disguised as alleged difficulties with strangers and pure hatred masked as protection of ignored rights, empty visions and mad delusions confused for heartfelt speeches, vulgar gestures in the form of venial oversights and, above all, unpardonable indifference concealed as common sense.
My sweet JS, wake up, come on.
Wake up and wake up all of us, because the future you've always dreamed of is now.
Let’s rejoice together.
Since all frozen fragility and humanity with your tender body have survived.
With them the hope to live quiet, before long.
The desire not to suffer in vain, before the absolute absence of pain.
The right to preserve dignity, even before life itself.
Then let’s show our precious luggage to the defective creatures of imagination and perseverance.
Do you see, now, we were right?
Can you see, now, what we fought for and most often missed?
JS, my friend of present and yesterday, smile.
Because tomorrow is today.
But in spite of what poets and dreamers like me write, don’t wake up at all.
Continue to remain so, in the shelter of the History bite.
Prolong indefinitely your desire for a world led by wise captains toward virtuous horizons.
Where healing all evil is the common walking.
Where your awakening is just one of the many secrets to protect.
Brave JS, please.
Surprise me, do it now, not the day to come.
Show us, like you did before saying goodbye, you were right and we were wrong.
That we are destined.
To preserve life.
And hopes…


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Thursday, November 17, 2016

Migrants boat capsized off Libya: 27 stories

Stories and News No. 931

One hundred people are probably drowned, following the sinking of a boat off the coast of Libya, bringing the death toll to three hundred and forty in the Mediterranean this week.
Doctors Without Borders says that only twenty-seven have survived.
Twenty-seven stories, twenty-seven lives. Like a boat capsizing for twenty-seven times, but the journey continues...

One, the boat capsizes and everyone is still on board, because the wife’s magic glue worked.
Two, the boat capsizes, but also the world did, and then we are all safe, bar none.
Three, the boat capsizes and I wake up, we did not sail at all, because we never needed to do so.
Four, the boat capsizes and nets are full. We were just trying a new way of fishing, what did you think?
Five, the boat capsizes, then I am hiding and you

start counting to ten, twenty, indeed, twenty-seven, but did not find me, please, because it means that this time I really won.
Six, the boat capsizes and I'm not there, because I am one of you, one of those who has find home.
Seven, the boat capsizes and we breathe anyway, gilled, without logic and without oxygen, because we are only characters in a newspaper photo, why not taking advantage?
Eight, the boat capsizes and we are just a little wet, because the sea should not hurt as people, they say.
Nine, the boat capsizes, again, and again, it never stops, because it is a generous carousel, like the future I never had.
Ten, the boat capsizes and we arrived, because this ship does not sail, only slides on an irrepressible hopes’ carpet.
Eleven, the boat capsizes and become a country...
Then, twelve, the boat capsizes and becomes a city...
So thirteen, the boat capsizes and is transformed into a village of houses, but without the need for roads, with roads without sidewalks, of people who travel only by feet, who do not have a name and a flag to be protected, only something which it is worth living for.
Together.
Fourteen, the boat capsizes and flies, because if death is only the beginning, let alone a dip.
Fifteen, the boat capsizes and laughs, because that is the noise the wood makes when survives the storm.
Sixteen, the boat capsizes and anger shouts, because that is the song that soars from the sea when the storm wins.
Seventeen, the boat capsizes and closes over us like a giant, wise oyster, because we are pearls, we all are, but not everybody have enough big eyes in order to welcome the light.
Eighteen, the boat capsizes and I wake up, although it was not a nightmare and not a strange dream, because I stopped at last to remain in the dark.
Nineteen, the boat capsizes, clears his throat, begins to tell a story and we are all more relaxed, because it's just fiction, this.
Twenty, the boat capsizes now the dreadful game starts: who is hidden, forever?
Twenty-one, the boat capsizes and no winner rejoices, when the defeat of the others is always, repeat, always yours.
Twenty-two, the boat capsizes and do not believe it is enough, because we will try again, especially for those who will not be there tomorrow.
Twenty-three, the boat capsizes and I scream, looking for your eyes and stretching out my hands on you, whoever you are, on the surface.
Twenty-four, the boat capsizes and I do not know where I am, if I'm still here, on the road we write between the fickle waves, so that the next time the bad luck will not see us again.
Twenty-five, the boat capsizes and I know exactly where I am, because I'm still here, in the fragments of my last moments etched into dismay eyes of those who will remind me.
Twenty-six, the boat capsizes and full of joy and I hugs the first life near me. Why can’t you do the same? Why do we have to see the world upside down just to feel human?
Twenty-seven, the boat capsizes and everything stops except the sea, except us.
To the promised shore…


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Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Children's hospital bombed in Syria: before the story is over

Stories and News No. 930

A children's hospital in Aleppo, Syria, has been hit in recent air strikes.
A driver of ambulance and at least two children died after a night of shelling.


Immediately before the story is real...

“Come on, kids,” says the man with the strangely white coat. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Asks the first child, the less wary one.
“I'm sorry. I meant let’s back.”
“Where?” Repeated the other one, the more thoughtful child.
“In the only place left.”

“Which?” Says the first, the most talkative among them.
“Forgive me. I meant what could have been.”
“Which?” Inquires the other, the only apparently devoid of originality between the two.
“The kingdom of ungrammatical conditionals, in the land at the side of possibilities, beyond the boundaries of disillusioned illusions, in the sea on the painting without canvas.”
“Now?” Asks the usual child, the more hopeful one.
“Oops, what careless... I did not say when? Now and in all forgotten priors, at any short or long days instant, more than ever in each fundamental parentheses preceding the obtuse endings.
“Now?” Inevitable echoes the other, with slower imagination, but no less eager to believe.
“Why, otherwise, would I have prepared the vessel, my little friend? Why would the sails be ready to fly? Why? Have we any alternative to a already canceled present, even before it was written?”
“Here I am”, exclaims the first following the unlikely captain.
“Did you say Captain? Well, here we all are, because the retroactive imagination has no owners. The game has no winners. And the important thing is not to participate, but to survive.”
“Here I am”, screams the other joining to the crew.
Fragile as the illusion that you can really change the most cruel tales just rewriting them.
“But it's only an ambulance…” Says the first looking at the latter, over the debris that slowly try arrogantly to bring everything back to normal fierce.
“But it's only an ambulance…” Observes the other, now that he had become convinced of being awake.
“I am humbly sorry for that,” murmurs the fading afterglow of a mistreated martyr even in death.
“Come anyway on board of the naive page, and close together let’s flee away from the large fire burning only small lives. If not real, before this story is over…”


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Friday, November 11, 2016

Moral stories: the strange case of the penguins in New Zealand

Stories and News No. 929

I read that a city in New Zealand has decided to build an underpass to facilitate the march of the penguins. The private gallery is designed to help these migrant creatures, allowing them to pass unmolested.

Wow.

Double wow.
Indeed, only a half, and nothing exceptional.
Don’t spread the news that I exaggerate.
I, Mahuta Atairangikaahu, and all my family, we are well known for stubborn containment of measures.
Just for the record, it’s enough to say that the day my cruel and authoritarian grandmother was hit by her last infarction, just before she declared “it was just a tremor due to the changing weather”. Soon after, my brother-in-law, as well the unpleasant and severe elder’s son in law, to explain his sudden attack of a convulsive laughter used very similar words: “Excuse me, just a tremor, due to the changing weather.” And go on with other guffaws.
Wow, you know, we Atairangikaahu are like that, we minimize by vocation: it’s nothing, don’t worry, ignore it and so on. We love to decrease all as little stuff, something of short importance.
It is easy to guess the content of the exchange I had with my wife.
Did I say wife? Oh, nothing relevant, only the woman whom I live with, nothing more.
"Honey, I finally found a job."
"Great!"
"Did I say job?"
"Yes, darling…"
"Wow, I am sorry, it's just a simple way to use time, one thing to do during the day in order to put food on our plates."
"Yeah, you're right, nothing that matters."
"What do you mean, honey?"
"I am talking about the job, not to the plates..."
"Oh… okay.”
You know, we Atairangikaahu minimize everything, except the food, remember that. Anyway, just look at that poor balance.
Did I say balance? Well, nothing extraordinary, something to calculate the weight, don’t imagine anything special.
So, the next morning, I mean the following day, just the one after yesterday, I went to my new office.
Did I use the word office?
Wow, this time I’m really wrong.
Yes, because the place where I would have done my job was open, at the entrance to a sort of tunnel, variously named by users.
The corridor of hope and The highway to the future are the ones that I like best.
My boss, I just mean the guy who signed my paycheck, he explained that my task was to safeguard the penguins’ march through the above preferential way.
Now, I said it and I repeat it.
The Atairangikaahu are famous for a strong tendency to reduce everything to a minimum.
But, wow, I did not know that in New Zealand there were so many penguins…
Above all speaking, with cardboard suitcases and dressed in rags.
Did I tell you many? I’m wrong again.
Because as soon as the rumor that finally in the world there was a city where, instead of rejecting and mistreating migrant lives, there was concern to build a road for them, at the entrance of this wonderful street appeared a so long and dense row of hopeful souls that you could not see the end.
Did I say the end?
Wow, yes, this time it is perfectly true.
The End.


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Thursday, November 10, 2016

Trump not my president and other shouts

Stories and News No. 928

Thousands demonstrated in the United States against the election of Republican Donald Trump in at least 18 cities on Wednesday night.
The largest protests took place in New York and Los Angeles, shouting "Trump not my President".

Trump is not my president.

So far, it should be granted, given that I am not American, but it is not so simple, in fact.
Because it is hard to say that about ours.
And if we cannot say of them, let alone those of others.
Above all this one.
However, if we stopped here, if everything were reduced to a simple cry, it would be important, would be the beginning, would be something fundamental, but not all.
Probably not so much.
Certainly not as much as it would be enough to exclaim the opposite message.
Meanwhile, we shout.
We yell and recite in a loud voice urgent needs of the heart and soul, only apparently different.
As the male is not our gender, where it is represented by people like Trump, which are much closer than we think, many more than what we hope, that just are, simply exist, and that itself should lead us to dissociate ourselves soon.
So, while we're at, let's say that this is not our continent, for the insane cruelty we treat migrants, when they come here, after all the insane cruelties that made in the past and still makes when we go there.
So, since there is still space on the page, also add that this is not our time, given that we use to send into the future parts after parts of ourselves, every time we are disgusted before stupidity worthy of stone age.
Of course, we cannot miss this generation is not ours, counting on the fingers the now irreversible judgments on the planet we live, as how many years of water we have left and how many oxygen we wasted, how many animals still bear us and how many plants hate us with every drop of chlorophyll from the vegetable paradise.
Up to synthesize the colorful chorus of squeals in one, suffered cry this species, human only by name, it is not ours, if only we look at the atrocities which we condemn millions of innocent creatures that we put in the world.
Sure, it would be nice.
It would be nice to fix everything so, with a mighty outburst of voice and indignation, and then go home, victorious on the bad villain, erased from history by our protest song.
However, as it has been and always will be, the truth is more often drawn with a left-handed pencil over our dreams.
Then know that Trump, or everyone else, depending on where you live, is our president, and probably will be for a long time. Whether we like it or not, the male is our gender, with all the aberrations which this type is lived around us with. Europe - Americas, Asia or wherever you come from, is our continent. Maybe the problem is that it is not enough. This time is more than ever ours, because we will not have another. This is our generation, because as far as we are ashamed of, whatever infamy has made, it has exactly happened before our eyes. And about the human species, it is ours because, unlike any others on earth, when things in the world seem horrendous we can take to the streets, stat to shout and, above all, do not stop there...


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Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Indian child actor Sunny Pawar movie of fear

Stories and News No. 927

Sunny Pawar, young Indian actor in the upcoming film Lion, with Dev Patel, Nicole Kidman and Rooney Mara, has been denied a visa by the United States to attend the movie's premiere in New York.
We believe it is the effect of immigration paranoia, production company executives have declared
.

Come on, let's sit down, soon.

Yes, there is fine, hurry up, the movie is going to begin.
No advertising, this time, because the product was already bought.
Simple plot, indeed.
Trivial, I dare say, but very effective for this reason, necessarily minimizing and fairly superficial.
So that everyone can see just enough to believe that everything is there.
The story in brief: They were afraid, the opening words. They were afraid of what they did not understand, in detail.
End?
A long time ago I would say yes, it would work, but every age needs the right tricks and special effects seriously capable to impress the eyes.
Well, let’s add: They were afraid of what is not explained. Then the wise old men came speaking with the sun and the moon, and they learned to fear even more.
The end? Years ago, of course, but you cannot expect to always tell it the same way.
So, again: They were afraid of what they did not know. Then the elderly shamans appeared with answers from the stars. They found themselves furthermore afraid, but never as much when they discovered that the shamans were mortal, just like them.
Ending theme? In the past, maybe yes, but the audience is changing and so do the magic words.
Therefore, behold: They experienced fear before the unknown. Then the seniors spokesmen of the absolute light arrived and they rushed to dread even more. But never as much as the time when the elders were stripped. Just like them, now terrorized, with a desperate need that fear was somehow tangible.
Fade and closing credits? In the last century, it could be, but then TV, computers, internet came and magic words have appeared in hundreds.
Here we are, in fact: They were dying of fear of unknown universe. One day the hoary decipherers of the mysterious horizon came, and their horror grew further. Although never as much as the day when the alleged saviors turned out false. Just like everyone, prisoners of panic and with the utmost need that their anxiety was not elusive, but something to reject and mistreat, discriminate and torture, sacrifice and, at best, kill.
Finished?
Yes, except the fear…


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Friday, November 4, 2016

Stories of immigrants: Gambia goalkeeper last match

Stories and News No. 926

Fatim Jawara, the young goalkeeper of the women's national football team of the Gambia, who dies in the Mediterranean trying to reach Italy, had told her family she wanted to "follow her destiny" and play for a big European club "whatever the risks".

The stadium is full, tonight.

It always happens, in the valuable games.
But today it is a wonderful exception.
Because we usually count less than less.
However, we are many, now.
Because these particular viewers are made of the same volatile substance of the players.
Negligible for most and all that is, for those who have never had otherwise.
So, enough with the waves, of living bodies rather than insensible oceans.
Listen and watch, the team that goes into the sea.
Number one, her.
The lady goalkeeper.
Fatim with ambitious and generous hands at the same time.
Protecting the only door that connects us, here.
The one of the left behind house.
The girl with the blind determination and the fatal wish.
Go ahead, friends defenders.
Rest without fear, inhabitants of the midfield.
And you, mighty goal seekers, stay well out of the game.
Because every opportunity will be grasped by her.
Since the net is large and the plots so narrow that you do well in respecting the adversary.
Yes, it's true.
The indomitable athlete, with the only misfortune to have got the wrong field, will miss nothing.
Because tonight Fatim will parry for all of us.
No life will cross the line in vain.
All hope, even of just one more day away from war and misery, will be preserved.
All dreams ever dreamed because of that damned hole in the selfish heart of the world, everything, really everything, will be grabbed from her hands.
Fatim.
The sea goalkeeper.
Tonight we are going to win, I feel it.
Tonight, just tonight.
We are stronger than everything…





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Thursday, November 3, 2016

Diversity stories: story of a kiss

Stories and News No. 925

The Moroccan authorities have arrested two teenage girls, the sixteen year old Sanaa and Hajar, a year older, caught kissing on the roof of a house.
This is forbidden by the article 489 of the Penal Code, or "licentious or unnatural acts with an individual of the same sex", punishable according to the Moroccan Association of Human Rights with imprisonment from six months to three years
.

Prudence, we need prudence, murmurs Hajar.

It will change, sooner or later it will and time will make its part.
It’s happened before.
What yesterday was unclean, it is now obvious. It mingles in the whole picture, such as usual colors and minor shapes.
Just like what it should now be obvious and rather it sounds as unclean.
You're right, says Sanaa albeit reluctantly.
We must not be hasty.
Let us be satisfied with the minimum.
Because minimum is just a word, before the embrace of looks, the plot of smiles, only apparently identical, a just mentioned touching, perfectly drawn in the shelter of a healthy imagination, but licentious and unnatural.
Good, approves Hajar, after looking around, searching for cruel eyes and battered souls, truly licentious and unnatural.
I'm glad we agree.
This is our strength.
The banned road that separates love from law, made the bridge that binds your heart to mine.
We’ll wait, we’ll do it together.
Now and forever, exclaims Sanaa instantly, regretting a second after she had raised her voice.
Every missed loving gesture.
All impossible affections.
The alleged abnormalities that are experiencing purity and perfection only in the folds of the unsaid.
Everything will be ours.
Wherever we are.
And one day we will.
You'll see, promises Hajar.
You'll see that calm will come.
The earth cannot shake forever.
Just as the waves eventually found land.
The coveted island, the house where you just arrive, never born.
Your home, whispers Sanaa.
Ours, corrects Hajar.
Prudence, both say, things are going to change. It has already happened, and so it will be again, because this is the story of all of us, wonderful combinations of words and dreams, mistaken for unacceptable typos, because it appeared too early on the page.
But then everything becomes right and beautiful.
That every speech shatters.
Each rule goes down the drain.
And life, the only one we have now, it takes over futile.
Because it is worth risking every second we have left.
For a kiss.
Just a kiss...


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Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Afghan girl photo story now and then

Stories and News No. 924

A Pakistani court today rejected the bail for Sharbat Gula, detained on charges of living in the country illegally.
Sharbat is better known as the "Afghan girl," the young green-eyed portrayed in a famous photograph by Steve McCurry dating back to 1984, published the following year on the cover of National Geographic Magazine.


The story in a photo.

That is, the whole life.
Frozen adolescence and all the lost time.
Read as well as she would have lived happily ever after.
As the eye that looks and moves.
Which celebrates the exceptional contrast or pines for the absurdity of the moment.

Life in a photo.
In the sense of the whole story.
Just like those who read it in a second and then returns to support the death and indifference building that wants crush us.
Sooner or later it will do it to everyone of us and it would take very little to make it harmless.

The illusion in a photo.
That is, a life of deceptions for the eye as for the heart.
Like the idea that everything is still and inevitable.
That the poor will die, they would have been killed anyway.
And we cannot help it.
That the viewers cannot help but watch, cheering at the very best.

The story of a photo.
Because all pictures make the entire life.
All those you can imagine between the first and the last one.
All those who were there, somewhere.
Away from the important covers, of course, but as well taken and published in magazines that hardly become arguments in the best salons.
As in message boards.

The lives behind the little story.
Neglected fragments of the great one, that ignores lives in silence.
And then, after thirty years you open your eyes.
You remember and understand.
Than in the photos, stories and lives that you thought away.
Passed off souls, or even safe, in any case, confined forever in the property framework.
There was a lot more than what you had seen...



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