Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Diversity Stories of heroes, victims and terrorists

Stories and News No. 999

I waited, re-read the news and patiently waited, thinking and observing articles, comments, opinions and reactions.
Now, in not very suspicious times - or maybe yes, it always depends on the points of view, I am about to face the facts, which maybe some of you have lost.
Last Friday, Jeremy Joseph Christian killed two men with a knife on a train to Portland, USA, while another was seriously injured.
The three had intervened in defense of two young girls, insulted with anti-Islamic invectives by Christian.
Symbolic last name, don’t you think?
"You call it terrorism," the assassin exclaimed yesterday at the first court hearing. "I call it patriotism."
And how do you call it?


Once upon a time there was a story.
One of those sadly common and bitterly neglected.
An advice for often frustrated authors and dissatisfied and disappointed, hopeful writers.

The synopsis, my friends.
Synopsis is all.
It's the key to the wished contract signature, which promises fantastic, glittering books showcases and quintals of autographs to exhaust wrists and vanity.
Nevertheless, in such anxious and hasty times, even before the precious summary, the title makes a difference.
I am talking about the very first glimpse of possible, true love, the desirable blink of lightning, the faultless imprinting that prefaces the only path to success.
Let's try, then.
Let us try together to win the audience and, above all, the latter’s keeper: “Terrorist Christian Attack on a Portland train.”
So, let’s go with professional fanatics screaming, intolerant tweeting and irrational posts, punctually shared and then erased by his majesty FB.
No, huh?
Not even a joke, right?
Obviously, even the most skilled satire pushers have to sell, correct?
Okay, let's take another road: “The murderer is a 35-year-old White-American member of a CarcinogenicTerrorist Cell.
Well, come one with billions of pictures of the killer everywhere, with multiple arrests of each relative or more or less close friend, to find out how such hail of hate was born, to make it clear to the whole world that we will not be inert before the enemy.
Pure fantasy, is not that right?
Delirious at no cost, yes?
Because otherwise, inside this farsighted, civil society which we all belong to, only a few would remain free.
All right, let's move the camera on the tale’s noble side: “The victims are perfect citizens who courageously sacrificed their life to protect the weaker from racist madness.”
As a result, protest marches everywhere, picture profiles with the heroes images, square concerts to honour the brave men and rebellious patrols on the train against the ‘evil whites’.
Nothing about that, isn’t it?
Otherwise, it would be an everyday, necessary initiative, right? Because we all know that the exceptionality of the news is not yet another offense against uncomfortable religions and diversities, but the heroes.
So, even this time, let’s hide the facts, put them aside, move the spots elsewhere.
Here is the perfect title and the ideal synopsis: “Nothing new. Because nothing remarkable happened…”


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Friday, May 26, 2017

Moral stories: Trump and the bullying people

Stories and News No. 998

The video at the G7 when Trump sharply pushed at side Duško Marković, Montenegro's premier, is already viral around the world.
Well, the movie with a leader who stands out among his international colleagues for embarrassing actions or statements seems no new to me.
In any case, what stands out this time is the peculiarity of the improper gesture.
While the old Mister B. interpreted the role of the clown, in the same days when the Republican Greg Gianforte assaulted a Guardian reporter, the American president acts the bully character, doing the same with those who dare to stand between him and the best shot
.

Ladies and gentlemen, here they are, the bullying people.
They snarl and drool, scream and flush with anger, if they are not there.
On the front row, where the armchairs are more comfortable, where you and only you can put

questions, enjoying the privilege of not answering.
He is trendy, the man from the brain with biceps, the anabolic heart and the pumped soul, until the veins emerge. So you may see the blood and its uncontrollable flow, indifferent to any obstacle on the road, especially if you are sick of good intellect and great imagination. The worst couple for the short-sighted warrior with big hands, the most unavoidable union, the true banned marriage. Because where the propensity to knowledge of things joins, in a virtuous embrace, the art of drawing castles, strictly devoid of gravity, the ancient formula becomes invincible.
You cannot bully what you cannot grasp, in every sense.
You can only kill him, and history tells that, oh it does.
Therefore, it is not enough to remove the annoying presence with violence.
It must be done with clamor, under the chorus of flashes and microphones starving for transgression.
Everyone must see it, everyone must learn, and everyone should remember.
What can be done.
What it must be done.
Otherwise they will be left behind, saying nonsense and making ridiculously laugh, bragging with buddies of the vile actions and sharing hate for the others, those who do not need to bully the weaker, to make room in the world.
Here they are, then.
The people who used to bully and, necessarily, reject.
Because there is no peace in the chest for those who have no other way to stay in the saddle.
The speech is only, and ever, a war one, with different words, but the
lonely man's monologue doesn’t change.
It's the same from the beginning of time.
I am and you all, if you do not obey, are just enemies.
However, the game has its unchanged rules.
Try to raise your head.
And the leader will attack you.
Try to tell your ideas.
The leader will tender furthermore his arms.
Join your cry with all the others, and you will see, as it has already happened, the bully man losing balance and fall...


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Thursday, May 25, 2017

Migrants stories: viral news rules

Stories and News No. 997

More than 30 people have drowned beyond Libya, among them many children. About 200 have fallen from a boat carrying 500 to 700 passengers. Rescue ships are still looking for survivors.
It’s a disgrace that has become a habitual anecdote, confused and confusable in the global, media storytelling, which has its own personal rules.
Perhaps the negligible and neglected victims of this disturbing movie we are witnessing should also benefit from the modern, and especially viral, narrative formula.
Maybe, it will help us understand how much tragedies are connected one other and that the distance we ingenuously build within us, such as the one between heart and mind, is the main reason for our impotence...


Attack.
There was another attack, ladies and gentlemen.
Once again terrorism hit us.
Once again, the good people's enemies have smashed our peace.

There were dead, otherwise we would not be here, now.
Some very young, further reason to be.
To join the pain.
And the right indignation.
No official claims have come, so far.
However, the dynamics seem unmistakable.
So we can say they did it.
The assassin waves.
The extremist cells that, with cruel flushes, interrupt innocent travelers journey.
Whether on the ground, or by sea, the result doesn’t change.
It should not, right?
Delicate souls have got the future erased for the sake of the world’s inhumanity and hate.
Is not that, the bitter subject which gives life to the multifaceted death show?
Don’t be distracted by those who only aim to make the scene more nebulous.
Maybe fantasizing suggestions or, worse, feel-good interpretations, saying that waves were not accountable for the vile lives murder.
They would tell you it was the wind to do it.
They will tell you that someone else is hiding behind it. A sort of malicious blower, from the lungs, and more than ever the belly full of hatred for human peoples.
Or even that, in spite of a mere casualty, particularly hostile to the most vulnerable hopes, there are down there, in the depths of the oceans, disturbing fishermen of grammarian destinies, who simply make their career to eat dead remains.
Kamikaze waves will not win.
Let's say this together, now.
They will not be able to influence our lifestyle.
Because, telling the truth, it was never a matter of style for us.
Only life.
We will continue to travel without fear in the suitcase.
Only in the eyes, sometimes, in front of the unpredictable horizon waiting for us, coloured with asphalt and metallic noises.
Terrorism will not stop us.
Because terrorism, and the answers that really hides, are what forces us to leave...


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Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Stories to think about: robbers and robbed in Africa and the world

Stories and News No. 996

According to yet another international research, the world is robbing Africa's riches of billions of dollars a year. The main factors contributing to this inequality include, above all, the unfair payment of the debts by foreign corporations, which hide their income through tax evasion and corruption. Aisha Dodwell, a Global Justice Now’s activist, said: "There’s such a powerful narrative in western societies that Africa is poor and that it needs our help. This research shows that what African countries really need is for the rest of the world to stop systematically looting them."

Once upon a time there was a robber.
One of the old kind, who are born so and never cease to exist.
By vocation, or just following History’s order.
I’m talking about the great Story with the capital ‘s’, of course, that differently from the modest

initial letter's ones, where it tells lies, always does for a specific reason.
The robber was a robber and acted as such.
Therefore, as an inevitable consequence of his presence, we need space on the page for two more fundamental elements.
That’s really difficult without to understand what is really happening.
I am referring to the stolen goods, and above all, the robbed.
So far, the plot.
The only worthy of this name.
The first, original draft, loyal to what a careful eye and a clean consciousness would reveal a child too.
However, you know how it went and still goes.
The man who writes and tells the most important events, where the purpose is not art or a sincere affection for the listener, is an editor interested in sales before anything else.
Before the manuscript arrives, to be honest.
So the robber became an explorer.
But you can also read as merchant.
The stolen goods just goods.
And the robbed the savage.
There was once, then, a merchant explorer.
One of the old ones, which don’t really arise in such clothes, but once in the track they must dance.
The show has to go on and, above all, get a popular success.
The explorers, or merchants, behaved according to the script.
They left, came and discover, or took, everything they found.
It didn’t matter so much if someone else, long ago and without moving a foot from his own home, was able to stretch out a hand and grab all that.
Here is the real difference between one and the other.
The so-called savage appreciates things for what they are, the explorer, or merchant, for what they will be.
This is how water and nature’s fruits, from free wonders, become goods.
Nevertheless, the words and hand’s trick is now known.
It tore faces from the protagonists and paste them as comfortable masks.
Indeed, there once was a new robber.
A character, to be precise.
One of those of past times, which become so for astute demands from the director, in the form of alleged, popular acclamation.
The robber needed a reason to be believable in the common storytelling.
Thus, for this crucial role, was chosen the savage.
What a better candidate than who has nothing else anymore in his hands?
So, found the robber, other choices are logical for exclusion.
You need only the proper name to place them on the main scene at the right angle and more than ever to be sold everywhere.
Clear what once was the stolen goods, and write jobs and opportunities, futures and lands, homes and rights, benefits and privileges.
In short, what the man, now called a robber, wants back. And instead of the past one, just yesterday called explorer or merchant, you can put citizen and western, civilized and modern, owner and consumer.
But, above all, who in the today farce act as the robbed


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Friday, May 19, 2017

Racism stories for kids 2017: The Bogeyman’s son

Stories and News No. 995

"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Are you bad?"
"No, I'm not, why do you say that?"
"Because at school the teacher read us a story

where bad kids were taken away by the Bogeyman and he is a black man. Why do you get them, Daddy, if you're not bad?"
"I do not get anyone, son, that's just a fairy tale..."
"But you have always told me that there are often more truths in the fables than in reality, right?"
"Yes, sure... you remember everything, huh?"
"I try. Am I bad too?"
"Not even for a dream, son, why do you ask that?"
"Dad, if bad children are taken away by the Bogeyman, the latter must be even worse than them. And if I am his son, that is, yours..."
"Listen to me now carefully. Your teacher has told you a story of one Boogeyman who takes away bad children, not everyone. Are the children all bad?"
"No…"
"Not even all Boogeymen are, here it is."
"I get it. And what about the knight?"
"Who?"
"The black knight, he's always the bad guy, everybody knows that. I’m sorry for his children..."
"You're totally wrong, son, and I’ll prove it to you. You understand I'm not bad, right?"
"Yes, but I knew it already, I just wanted a confirmation..."
"Agree. Assured I'm not bad, if tomorrow the king came to me..."
"There is no longer the king, Dad."
"Let's pretend he is, okay? We're still talking about stories, aren’t we?"
"Okay."
"Then the king comes and makes me a knight. What do I become?"
"What do you become?"
"The Black Knight, that's what."
"And you're not bad, Dad!"
"So, what kind of black knight I will be?"
"A good one!"
"Exactly."
"And I would be the good knight’s son."
"That’s right."
"You know, Daddy?"
"What?"
"There would be more stories where black men and knights are good instead of bad, it would be all righter and fairer."
"I'm trying to do that, my dear son, you have no idea how much I’m working to tell them..."


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Thursday, May 18, 2017

Stories to think about: when a journalist is killed

Stories and News No. 994

Javier Valdez was murdered Monday at noon, near the Ríodoce (Twelfth River) headquarters, the newspaper he co-founded in 2003. Valdez has been hit 12 times, in what his colleagues believe is a premeditated aggression because of their common and courageous commitment against drug cartels.
A few weeks ago, he had been terrifying premonitory of his fate, when, after the murder of yet another journalist, Miroslava Breach, he had said: "Let them kill us all, if that is the death sentence for reporting this hell. No to silence."
According to an organization for the press freedom, Article 19, at least 104 journalists have been assassinated in Mexico since 2000 to date.


When a journalist is killed.
When a journalist is killed, with him, some words die.
The ingenuous ones and those who focus on the target.

But the sound of each single letter moves apart from the end of the speech and rises even higher when the wind feeds on the bravery of listeners.
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, the virtuously drawn empty spaces are immediately filled again by horizons usurpers.
The traditional ones, that’s clear, and even the imaginative ones, which for the most part of the world are vital rafts to have at least one more day.
But the noble gesture is ineradicable, and it is sufficient for a proud, or even unconscious, imitator to shake back in favor of the sacrificed creature: "It was worth it, dear friend of us all."
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, the latter win twice, grimly observing the won face of two, distinct types of victims.
The one of the fierce fellows, from the closed eyes that only a virulent coward would be able to blind, and the one of the easy silence profiteers.
But the solitude of this story is like the story of a solitude, as long as time runs, no one is able to predict the final.
When a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, and you know there were many others before, it means that for every death brutality has become more human.
That illusory set of features that should make us the chosen species on the planet, though at this point of the path we should perhaps ask ourselves who or what really made that questionable choice.
But this same bitter count can be enumerated in the opposite direction, feeding admiration and astonishment before those who, with clear evidence of danger, have nevertheless chosen the way for the same martyrdom.
When a journalist is killed, yes.
When a journalist is killed, with him, some dreams die.
Those naive, of course, but among them the possible miracle as well.
Anyway, it remains somewhere, you just have to know where to look.
Because when a journalist is killed, while he was still scrabbling lies away from the story imposed by force or deceit, though he was left alone to face the monsters, and you know there were many others before, it means that someone was right.
And somebody else, no matter how cruel he is, still today, is trembling with fear.
Of what a journalist will write…


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Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Diversity Stories: Day Against Homophobia’s Composition

Stories and News No. 993

Composition: Describe your feelings and your thoughts on the International Day Against Homophobia.

Dear professor, well…
I don’t want to seem disrespectful, that's clear, especially not from the first lines, you know.

The fact is you put me in trouble, with this homework, since the subject itself.
I mean how it is written, you know.
I am aware that you will say that I use too many “you know’s”, pointing them in red...
You are right, but why don’t we remain on the spot, for once?
Let's leave the simple form and concentrate on the contents, the real meaning of things, it’s okay for you?
So let's start with homophobia.
According to Oxford Dictionary, it means dislike of or prejudice against homosexual people.
Well, now things change, right?
I would not disregard you, Professor, but in the light of the above explanations, we should start again.

Describe your feelings and your thoughts on the International Day against dislike of or prejudice versus homosexual people.

My dear Professor, you know… please, forgive yet another appearance of the words-that-not-must-be-repeated, but I have not yet completely overcome my problems.
Yes, because I still feel that we are on the surface, stuck to the common appearance of things.
I'm not the one who must remind you about it, my great teacher, but here we are talking about an international day, not a normal country party.
All right, I confess, great teacher is a clumsy attempt to earn your benevolence during the final exams, but I am human, professor, and therefore fallacious.
You’re not, that's clear, such a torch that illuminates the cave of my ignorance.
Okay, this time I've been a bit fussier than before, but follow me in reasoning and let out the useless details, the both of us.
Let’s focus our attention, for example, on the word that has led us on this sheet.
Homosexuals.
From Oxford Dictionary, it is said for who is
sexually attracted to people of one's own sex.
Sorry, professor, but we should update.

Describe your feelings and your thoughts on the International Day against dislike of or prejudice versus who is
sexually attracted to people of one's own sex.

Professor, I must confess that my perplexity has increased as we make it clear.
In short, with this homework you are asking me what I feel or think about those who, in the end, almost hate the whole human population, apart from the narrowest and not all, to be honest. And such an insane feeling has a definite name, it seems to me.
How could we really understand other people attraction? There is no scientific census of sexual attractions, which change constantly, let's say.
Until yesterday I detested the spinach, but you should know that I love it, right now. Have you ever tasted them with Parmesan cream on it? Sorry, I’m digressing too much.
Speaking of those who use to sleep with people of the same sex, here, the list is endless too.
I am aware we live in the era of modern espionage and the danger of being listened or watched at any time by computers and cell phones, but liking to observe the intimate interests of strangers has a name too, Prof, you should know better than me.
Not for age or personal reasons, let’s be clear!
I mean your immense culture, my Plato. And here the repairing currying was right, you should recognize that.
In conclusion, let’s rearrange for the last time, in this case by saying things as they are.

Describe your feelings and your thoughts on the International Day of voyeurs misanthropes.

Dear Professor, listen: why don’t we stop talking about homosexuals and let’s take care of the above mentioned once and for all, starting with the day dedicated to them?


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Friday, May 12, 2017

Women's stories: Miriam's last Mother’s Day

Stories and News No. 992

Miriam Rodriguez, activist and mother searching of missing persons in the state of Tamaulipas, Mexico, was murdered last Wednesday.
On the mexican Mother's Day celebration (
Día de la Madre).
This is the story of her last and all the others...


Greetings, Mother.
To you, dear, on your last day, and those to come, especially the latter.

Because the thought that truly pleases someone's name and story is made up of unique and special matter.
You will find the vibrating echo of a voice that excites by exclaiming the right words, where a moderate and accurate silence is the most in-demand dress. The reverberation of the light from a careful and curious look, ready to illuminate the ignored traits by our fake dignity, though they are often on the surface. More than anything else, the deep grooves on the common way impressed by those who are willing to risk every step below to give meaning to those same traces.
After all, what else is life if you do not leave a mark worth the trip?
Hello, mother of natural children and those who are deleted by the horrid human screenplay.
Your hug was a gift that does not need to be discarded.
Because those who embrace the truth, and let the latter be free, brightly dance as pure souls in a theater without doors.
There have been times when courage and honesty were under our eyes, and in one of them you were the company diva, my friend.
If only the titles on the billboard were less inaccurate.
If only there was more attention to the characters with the bushiest and stingiest performance, maybe you would still be here.
Anyway, let's celebrate your day together, Miriam.
The last, possible one for a crippled maternity creature, noble aspect of women who are willing to do whatever to adopt the excluded sons.
It's so, right?
This is how the stranger becomes your flesh, and that the distant brother turns out to be the same, life outside the door enters directly from yours, and the victim from the still bleeding wounds the first on an endless list to protect and avenge.
Seamless, because to protect is to avenge, at its best.

That is only the typical taking advantage of the work of moms.
Mother, happy day, then.
If it was the last, let it be forever, with all the music and decorations, without the need to touch anything the next day.
Because tomorrow will be the day of all your many children, legitimate or not.
With the obligation to continue the fight for you too...


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Thursday, May 11, 2017

Environmental stories: We do not want to be right

Stories and News No. 991

The $ 3.8 billion Dakota Access Pipeline, that has sparked worldwide protests last year, is not yet fully operational and has already suffered a leak.
Exactly what was particularly feared by Standing Rock’s Sioux, among the first to report the risk of contaminating and thus devastating the environment.
Now, the usual, bitter and frustrated litany could come on stage, titled "I told you".
However, I like to think that the people of earth, proud to belong to the latter more than anything else, do not live in bitterness and frustration, waiting to enjoy the futile privilege of being able to boast some prophecy.
On the contrary, I imagine a strenuous, noble, dignified struggle till the end that nobody should want...


We do not want to be right.
We do not want to be able to say, tomorrow, that we were on the right side.

We would, rather, wish that you and us, together, could say it today and forever.
We do not want to be right about the absurdity of any choice that can somehow neglect the survival of the lives to come.
Because those who in the past fought, sometimes defeated, but often lost have already proven that.
Part of what we have comes for our ancestors.
What's not still been returned to us, it regards yours.
We do not want to be right about the evidence.
On the war that the father is doing to their own children.
To the children of them and every descent to come.
Since the hand violates the free living, flowing and breathing gift, that draws the boundaries of the wonders we dance on, the condemnation has already been written.
There, beyond the clouds of time, you may hear the warning from the same, future victims, involuntary judges of the father's wrongdoings.
We do not want to be right, because it would be like accepting the fate.
We could become complicit of the blind, crazy beauty’s devourer.
That's why we went to war.
That's why we unpacked the ax.
And that's why, although we are like ghosts who fled from an old black and white movie, where bad guys dressed up as good and everyone else has been tricked by bad guys, we're still in the battlefield.
Because now, even today, the only thing we have is at stake.
Life.
Earth.
Maybe this is what the white man cannot quite understand.
Life and earth.
They are and will be forever.
The same thing…


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Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Racism against Roma people story in Italy

Stories and News No. 990

Fire killed three sisters, respectively 4, 8 and 20, in a parked caravan on the outskirts of Rome. After discovered residual flammable liquid, Italy prosecutors are investigating with the accusation of voluntary homicide.
Up till now, many reactions from those who learn this horrible news may be relatively identical or very similar, unless we specify that we are talking about Roma people

Once upon a time there was a substance.
A liquid, but do not figure anything light or transparent comparable to its perfection the water.

Imagine an abnormal amount of such a mixture, a smelly mud, as a sea.
Indeed, an ocean.
Or, if you might visualize a greater and uglier mass, choose it, paint it in your mind.
In order that you fear it as what it is, so that you start to worry and work since the final word of this nasty story.
As an unspoken mass, ocean, sea, it also feeds on his cursed, more or less conscious, branches.
Damned rivers, which continuously flow, even now, everywhere, to the sick quest of joining others in this orgy of celebrated inhumanity.
Yes, because in the third millennium shame is a value and a value, if it is true, something to be ashamed of.
The sin is liquid, ladies and gentlemen, but it's not just some drop on the asphalt.
Let’s at least give the honour of frankness to three poor dead and all the other lives erased from the egoistic, common tale.
The terrible mixture is much wider.
It is fed with the bloody pens of people’s murderers, firing with ceaseless, criminal generalizations and discrimination, in the form of comfortable masks, which you can call politicians, journalists, reporters, editors, and more.
It swells through the phenomenal cowardice of creatures of infinitesimal stature, condemned by their ingenious ignorance to the illusion of getting away from their misery even for a second’s fraction, throwing the worst they have in the chest on the most fragile target on the screen.
Even at this precise moment, if you carefully listen, you will hear the frenetic typing on the keyboards of both categories, at the same pace as the heart beat that cannot stop being afraid of himself.
It is polluted by the silence, the stunning silence of the Sunday’s gooders and the paladins of the already-won causes, the tourists of the day-to-day awareness campaign and the protesters only if we’ll be many on the streets.
Let's face it, ok? Let's just say it once and for all: there are unlucky creatures kind, on this world, that you will only lose putting yourself on the line of fire. And only when you do such uncomfortable choice you can understand who is really with you, who seriously was before, and who will be there later, when the smell of the dead will be just a reminder.
There was once a liquid, then.
A flammable one, of course.
It seems to disappear when it catches fire.
But there is so much around us.
That we are literally swimming in...


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Friday, May 5, 2017

Moral stories: Legitimate defense

Stories and News No. 989

From July 1 in Georgia, US, it seems that students will be able to enter the Campus with guns, as long as they hide them.
At the same time, in Italy, politicians are debating these days about possible amendments to the norm that legitimizes defense.
By synthesizing, the most important clash is between who want to extend the right to shoot at any alleged aggressor in conditions of justified fear or night, and who instead desire to further facilitate the firing against their nightmares up to the absolute freedom, typical wish of the screaming right-wing hordes.
Once again what we do not see, or must not see, dictate the route, see producers and sellers of weapons, the real directors and authors of this farce called security.
Maybe we should really start defending us...

Once upon a time there was the legitimate defense.
A sacred law, where danger requires it.
In the form of a comprehensible reaction.
Proportional to the offense.

But what if the latter becomes normal?
What happens to people when the offense itself is sanctioned by law?
From silence and ignorance?
From individuality and indifference?
From an unbridled passion for bad taste, cultivated since childhood?
And from a State miseducation to the simplest form of empathy?
It happens that you are scared.
You're scared and you do not know what is truly scaring you.
You just need someone to arrive and reassure you or pretend to do it.
Telling yourself what you must be afraid of.
Then, where unprofitable questions hide somewhere help requests, responses are weapons.
They shoot you when you listen to them.
You was not to aim and choose the target.
That's what advertising is about, it's the deception of the brochure, the clerk's makeup at the counter.
Because since you get the spitfire in your hands you're already dead and buried.
You're no longer a goal.
You are just another notch on the ring, another victim of hopeless hunters.
There was once, then, the true legitimate defense.
The forgone right, where the danger is not recognized.
In the form of a rare reaction.
Proportional to legalized offenses.
In order that, when it happens, you are surprised.
When a woman faces alone the shattering, peace’s chewing barbarians from the uninhabited skull.
When one of the survivors of the long-pressed buttons wars comes to get your attention.
When you decide, once and for all, to say things like they are, even at a cost that nobody will listen.
When there we finally courage to defend from ourselves.
From our ancestral cowardice disguised as civilized and moderate behavior.
From our habit to inhumanity.
From our addiction to the worst that is yet to happen, so rooted, to even commit ourselves to make it reaching us as soon as possible, so we may stop thinking about it.
We do not need guns and rifles to defend us.
Because, perhaps, we must first look into our face with honesty and intelligence.
And then tell us once and for all.
Who or what the enemy is...


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Thursday, May 4, 2017

Immigrants stories: worlds and borders

Stories and News No. 988

When Paradzai Nkomo applied for asylum in Britain, she was refused. And when she asked to go home, in Zimbabwe, her application was rejected.
This absurd story goes on for fifteen years.
Or maybe it’s a lot more…


Once upon a time, at the beginning of everything, a world.
The world was like a sphere.
The spheres roll, change position and orientation, swing and rebounds.

Especially if they are alive .
In that case they dance and vibrate, grow and sooner or later they die.
However, the evocative and continuous movement that makes the world something breathing and dreaming, like all living things, told stories and made it live as much.
It defines horizons and causes encounters.
More than anything, it generates travels, from one cardinal point to another.
Most of them are inevitable, like the snow of the glass ball, which cannot help but fall, if Her Majesty the Gravity demands it.
So, it often happened that the inhabitants of one part of the world rushed into the other and vice versa.
The waltz continued more or less serenely, with peaks of unprecedented cruelty and rare nuances of moderate empathy.
As long as someone has invented the greatest illusion that a mindless and small heart creature can imagine.
Read it as yet another attempt to catch a wave with the fishing net.
In short, the border.
Henceforth the story is well known.
The world divides into two, so three, the three changed to four, the latter add a fifth, and so on.
So many worlds, many borders and as many worldless inhabitants, perennially traveling.
Meanwhile, the original world, or the sphere, continued to spin along the paths given by the star map.
Then the unexpected happened.
The worldless inhabitants, tired of being rejected by all, began to accept the only possible alternative to death and began to live on the borders of other worlds.
Even just to have a name and a home like everybody.
Surprising consequence, borders became worlds as everyone else.
And those who lived in, the borders inhabitants.
But since, over time, people are more likely to learn the bad habits than the contrary, they also decided to cultivate illusions.
They took the ever-fertile, as blind pencil and drew their sacred border too, so that the worlds called borders had as many.
As a result, the original world was fractioned in a large number of other worlds. The latter were separated by borders, which in turn became as many worlds, divided by further boundaries.
However, even the bordersless people felt excluded and, over the years, they understood to have no other place to survive than the boundaries of the same borders made by the worldless inhabitants.
Not before having predictably scolded the latter: "Shame on you! You should understand our need better than everybody..."
Nevertheless, that is well-known too. As learning
easily the bad habits, with the same ease, people forget the bad memories.
Now, I think it's obvious what happened next.
Over time, things got damned complicated.
Because even the bordersless inhabitants were conquered by the perfect illusion and decided to mark the indestructible outlines of their land as all their predecessors.
As a result, the world from where it all began was divided into many worlds, each separated by a border, which in turn was a world distinct from the others by a frontier, or another world, which was limited by a boundary, that someone else called his world, and so on, to the point that each world was the border of another and vice versa.
If you saw them from above, everything would be clearer, now, as when we come to the end of a story.
Billions of dots, crashing on each other, victims of the illusion of being something better than only a bright sphere in the great darkness of the universe.
Once upon a time there were and, despite everything, still are.
Those we call the human beings


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Wednesday, May 3, 2017

Human rights stories: ignorance’s weight

Stories and News No. 987

The exact amount of unregistered children worldwide is unknown but corresponds to millions, which are not considered in the statistics or, in general, the most concrete reasoning and analysis, those based on numbers.
So, that means less true facts in the war against pre and post-lies.
Now, through the All Children Count campaign, more than 250 NGOs have invited the UN to include forgotten infants in their statistical map.
They are the alien series children, the offspring of the excluded from the table, the unwanted world’s progeny, who is daily assimilated into the informal and convenient target by the sitting home caretaker with the quick as light finger...


My name is nobody.
My name is nobody, and as much I might be an ingenious hero, this will not save me from the third millennium Cyclops.
A Dhaka City Corporation
sewer cleaner at work.
Photos: Zakir Chowdhury/
Barcroft Images
 Because the modern one-eyed creature is also deprived of heart and mankind.
My name is nobody and nothing is my job.
That is to say, to go down there, where nobody goes, precisely me, to allow the schizophrenic two-faced monster - psychotic corporation on one hand, indispensable to consume and be consumed from products, on the other one, to continue its perverse path on earth.
Nobody is my name, then, but today is my lucky day.
Because in the darkness of my fate I never stopped trusting in my hands, even where the only purpose was to break the mud from the veins of a monster.
And in the end I found a magic.
One and only it’s enough to me.
Even for a moment.
My name was and is nobody, but for a few seconds it has become someone.
Thanks to a dream, since locking your eyebrows and imagining a different present until believing, with the mud to the neck, is matter of crazies, stubborn jugglers or naïve storytellers.
Well, for a fleeting time, the miracle was accomplished, because in the same piece of inhumane instant I was all three.
I had power, indeed.
Power that nobody has, for once in someone's hands.
To change the weight of things.
Until they are overturned, if the will is so much.
You know, here we have as much will for the whole universe.
Then, the trick is done.
Look with me those fingers.
Watch closely those fingertips that, since the day they were given a keyboard and time to throw, they used to jump on letters like panic-mouthed gangs freaked out of a mocking fly disguised as a hungry spider.
Now imagine that, instead of being facilitated by the hasty levity and the absolute ignorance, they were exactly in the opposite state.
In order that each of the ten fingers, which usually made the hands of professional delusions givers, suddenly find themselves all with the cumbersome weight of knowledge.
Awareness of the things they’re ever talking and strapping about.
Knowing literally what it means to be a clandestine immigrant and a war survivor, a persecuted civilian and a refugee for political reasons, a hunger-torn creature, or just a destiny without destiny.
Do it with me.
And on the perpetually crowded pages and posts you will see what I know best. A dignified nothing and a respectful silence.


Read more stories about human rights
Buy my English edition books Stories of diversity (Paperback and Ebook) and Multicultural stories for kids.
Listen my song Wolves
Watch my last storytelling show with English subtitles It's amazing what a little light can do
Storytelling videos with subtitles