Who is on the ship?

Stories and News No. 1118

Once upon a time... no, it’s wrong.
There is, now, here.
A story? Yes, maybe, but also something else.
It's a farce, yes it is.
A nightmare.
A deception, or worse, a trap.
A maze of lies and ignorance that brings you back to the same spot every day.
The one where, in turn, however incredulous, you feel the irrepressible need to bring them back to the center of the village, the sea and our understanding of things.
The people.
In this story, but also something else, there is a guy, him, that I’ve not yet understood who or what it is, what right he has to speak and even vomit madness in the name of the most.
Since the majority, thanks to the sacrosanct voice of numbers, they haven’t given him any credit.
Then, there are the microphones’ sellers, but the ones with powerful, trendy lungs. Long time ago they used to share the what and the how, sometimes the why too, and now it remains only the mere object: inanimate tools, just like that, soulless, like a microphone in the hands of the best screamer on air.
In between, there is the ship.

The ship acts like a ship, as all do.
It sets sail, plows the seas and, if good luck and wind allow, it reaches the shore.
It has ever happened, it’s still a miracle today, if you think about it, and yet, from the very first moment, the most cumbersome biped of the planet crosses the waters from shore to shore, although there is nothing natural in all of that. But immensely human... even if this is a completely different story and - what a bad luck, it’s not ours.
So, the ship finally arrives at the port.
Punctual like a fart that awkwardly escapes from the sick entrails of a professional garbage devourer, that guy mentioned above, as soon as he learns of the landing he activates his own delusional antivirus: "These are not ships in difficulty, this is obviously human trafficking. I will do everything possible for the Moroccans not to disembark. Closed ports!"
"Excuse me, your northerly", says a voice in the vicinity, because there is always one of them next to the screaming guy, also responsible for the social diffusion of the ministerial flatulence. "The truth is they are not Moroccans, but Eritreans..."
"Then, write this: somebody told me that the migrants are Eritreans, but apart from that, I confirm: closed ports!"
"Excuse me, your purity, it seems that those migrants are not even Eritreans, but Tunisians..."
"Fuc..."
"Fuc... and then?"
"Idiot, how many times have I told you to wait for me to say write?"
"Sorry."
"So, write: they just warned me that, given the weather conditions and bad radio reception, the information is inaccurate. In any case, Tunisian migrants, I repeat, Tunisians, will not set foot on the ground. Closed ports! "
"... closed ports!"
"Closed ports."
"Twice... okay."
"What?"
"The ports."
"What do you mean?"
"Hem... in the sense of properly closed, double-handed, right?"
"Idiot, twice idiot."
"Sorry."
...
"Excuse me…"
"I see, but I don’t need you to be sorry all the time."
"No, I said that it seems that those migrants are not Tunisians..."
"Somalis?"
"No…"
"Algerians, maybe?"
"No…"
"Africans, right? Write Africans, or illegal immigrants, done with that. "
"No…"
"No what?"
"Your borders, the problem is that we don’t know who is actually on the ship."
"Why?"
At that moment, the deus ex machina of this tattered story is revealed.
The invisible, servile and accomplice voice becomes free flesh, finds an unexpected sense of decency in the rubble of his heart and a survival lucidity after a deadly bombardment of instrumental lies: "Because since there is a sea, an earth, a sky and humanity himself, where the latter crosses the world, is something unknown to the one who accepts it, as the inverse. Who, without knowing anything, literally nothing of the newcomers will mark them as hostile, it means that he cannot distinguish the friend from the enemy. May the fate protect him, when he will choose who to entrust his life and his loved ones..."


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