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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.

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