Friday, November 30, 2018

Letter to children about borders and walls against immigrants

Stories and News No. 1140

To you.
To you, who are out there, or even here, next to me.
Above all to you, while you are still living the age of justified fragility and candor nurtured by heart.
Nonetheless, to all of you who have somehow been lucky enough to keep all that, regardless of the illusion called flowing time.
Forgive us.
Really, forgive us all.
We, the adults.
We, the older ones.
We, and among us, more than ever those who often make choices for themselves, stating them as popular desire.
We apologize if we have grown up and aged by cultivating fear more than anything else.
We are afraid, yes.
We are incalculably afraid of everything.
Even of you, especially you.

We are afraid, that is, often the certainty, that you were much more courageous than us, rather than hope, as it would be our moral and generational obligation.
We are afraid of what we see as different, when instead your eyes have already cataloged as human.
We are much afraid of what we ignore, that so far your curiosity has not only discovered, but even learned to love.
We also have got a boundless fear of what comes from afar, which on the contrary has been close to you since the first meeting.
Because the future, where it was painted by an innocent look’s imagination, travels at the light’s speed: the distances are contracted and the time expands.
Too bad we have forgotten how such extraordinary magic works, since it is still today the most realistic of the possible fantasies.
Perhaps we should have been more careful, at school, as we demand it from you now.
Or, maybe, it would have been useful to review the essential lessons in the followed years, instead of hiding more and more under our cowardice.
The fact is that we are incredibly confusing creatures, here it is the biggest defect of the generation that should give you the pace for the awaiting horizon.
This confusion prevented us from understanding the most important thing.
That fear is not just a word, it is much more.
It is an emotion.
That's why we cannot wipe it out with the eraser or the DEL key on the keyboard.
Surely we cannot think of seeing it disappearing with other words, however screamed and sold to the highest bidder.
Such as borders or walls.
It does not matter how vast is the set of discourses and reasoning, rules and proclamations.
The fear will remain.
On the contrary, the next day it will show itself in the chest with even worse vehemence.
Be indulgent, then, but not too much, when you will fully understand what mistakes we are making, when we have the responsibility to show you the right way.
For this you will have to find the latter alone, ignoring our example, such as our advice.
Because you have learned to know fear too, fortunately for you not as much as we do.
But you still have the courage to live it, learning from it.
Protect that wonderful gift from us.
In the same way that we have educated you to be afraid of us, you have to learn from our faults.
Because in the last century there has already been a world built on terror.
Hurry up and replace us, and pick up where we saved it from.
With the promise we betrayed.
Never again we will live in fear.
Never again.


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Thursday, November 29, 2018

In your image

In your image


By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


"Good morning, I'm Tom, how can I help you?"
"Hi, yes, I have got a problem with the profile picture."
"I see. Account holder?"
"Avatar."
"Not the nickname, I mean the real name."
"Well, yes, it's Avatar."
"Are you making fun of me?"
"What do you mean? I’m not having fun at all."
Click.
"Hi, I'm John, how can I help you?"
"Good morning to you, yes, look, I've called before too, there's something wrong with my profile picture."
...
"John? Are you still there?"
"The name, sir, I need your real name."
"Avatar."
"The real one, sir, I have no time to waste."
"Why? Are you dying?"
Click.
"Hi, I'm Fred, how can I help you?"
"Hi, yes. Listen, Fred, I have got a faulty profile picture."
...
"Fred?"
"I'm here, I don’t go anywhere. To solve the problem I need the name, sir, the real one, I’ve already told you."
"When? You’re the first Fred I talk to."
"But it's always me, come on, I change my name every time for the privacy..."
"Really? If you change it every time, why are you so insistent with my name?"
"Are you kidding me?"
"Sir... I can’t. That's impossible."
"Are you serious?"
"Of course, yes, always."
"And you didn’t really understand that it was always me on the phone?"
"No, how could I?"

"The voice, man, it was ever the same."
"Well, yes, this is the problem, the lack of imagination, immobility, boredom, always remaining still, motionless."
"There’s a lot of problems, dude, not one."
"Indeed."
"And your name is Avatar."
"It's what I am."
"What does it mean?"
"It means I am an Avatar."
"Look, just because it's a dull day and I have not received another call in addition to yours in the last six hours, I want to play your game."
"What game?"
"Nothing, let's get to the point. If you are an Avatar, you can’t have problems with your profile picture, do you understand?"
"Why?"
"Because you’re the image of someone else’s profile."
"Who?"
"The account holder."
"Exactly, yes, he's the problem, then."
"And what would it be?"
"See, Fred..."
"I'm Paul."
"Well, another one, yes. Good morning, Paul, I have got some trouble with the profile picture..."
"Avatar?! It's always me and I'm telling you my real name..."
"Oops."
"You were talking about the problem with the account holder..."
"Yes, Paul, the fact is that since we’re together, he has been constantly changing me, the look and the dress, the face’s expression and the light, the background and the posture in the portrait."
"What’s the problem?"
"The problem is that in the meantime, despite the signs of age, he has always remained the same, without taking a step towards the ideal horizon we are not even allowed to dream of."
I was convinced it was him, the one who’s alive...

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Tuesday, November 27, 2018

Looking for life

Stories and News No. 1139

Forgive us.
Really, forgive us all.
It was not our intention to encroach on your time.
Invading your horizon.
Becoming a story in yours without warning, writing unexpected pages in the human tale.
The fact is that we are born by chance somewhere and often we die in the wrong place for the most different reasons.
Because of illness, many experts support that.
Whether it might come from the body itself or the mind, it will be explained with a minimum of foundation only by the most shrewd explorers of unfortunate creatures.
A rather greedy epidemic, in the case that concerns us personally, since more than one hundred forty of us have traveled the last mile of the different journey, finding the same end.
Death stranding whales
140 death stranding whales on New Zealand
However, is there someone who needs the truth behind so badly?
Important question, as well as what lies under the meaning of this story.
Some hypothesize instead that the cause was only a fatal navigation error.
“Only”, right?
That is precisely how the fate of too many of us is decided.
In fact, for a cruel “only”, most of what is alive on earth is at risk today.
Because “only” a small, overvalued minority of humans is unwittingly anticipating the common curtain’s closure.
Nevertheless, if the evidence of this motivation will be proved, will it be fruitful for somebody?
A fundamental question, in every story, let alone what sees all as protagonists.
In any case, others suggest an excessively drastic falling tide.
If so, it would be sad to know that it was water that betrayed us.
She was both mother and home, nurture and love, guide and supportive companion.
In short, the sea.
In other words, what the earth is, or should be, for you.
In spite of that, when this explanation was credited as the most reasonable, would it be of interest to those who look at our inert life and listen to the echo of our sorrowful, last song?
It is a doubt of considerable consistency, and this writing is a witness to that, we wish it with all the heart we no longer have.
On the other hand, some consider the escape from a voracious predator as a plausible reason for our overcoming of the natural fourth wall that divides us.
Well, I can exclude this possibility without fear of contradiction, because there is no hunter in the world capable of scaring more than a hundred of us.
Unless he is the living threat on the surface. Well, those are a kind of particularly narcissistic monsters, who, if they pursue you, would do anything to take your life off with their own hands.
We would then have their fingerprints impressed upon us as overwhelming evidence.
In any case, even if this were the truth – and it is not, what will it mean to those who remain?
A precious question, verified by the following words.
Finally, there are some who attribute our blatant stage’s exit as the umpteenth symptom of a crazy climate.
Behold, this is the motive that none of us is able to understand.
The madness of the wind, the senseless cold and the delirious rain are alien bogeys to us.
At birth we entrust everything to a supreme order that does not demand to be worshiped and even less prayed. But it requires absolute and blind trust, and faith is everything to us.
However, if this were the answer, is there anyone among you out there who is actually wanting it?
It is a question that is anything but trivial, in our humble opinion.
For you, not us.
Because if you cannot understand why someone decides to leave his or her world to find death on your shores, you will never be able to comprehend the same person who knocks on your doors.
Looking for life...

Friday, November 23, 2018

Silvia Romano abduction on the news

Stories and News No. 1138

Let's also write this as a story.
Because, in my humble opinion, this is yet another metaphor of the time we are living.
Once upon a time Silvia Romano and Massimo Gramellini, a famous journalist of one of the most important Italian newspaper. Take him for instance, just for that.
I do not know the first one and I learned of her only after the tragic news about her abduction.
Well, this should be the due incipit for the vast majority of people, when we are dealing about persons we never met, even if they are on the great media’s spot.
I do not know the person and I learned of her only after the news, I repeat.
Of course, among those who want to express an opinion, if they need to.
What we know for sure is very little: we know that the kidnapping took place in Chakama, in southern Kenya. The girl was there as a volunteer of Africa Milele, an Italian non-profit organization, and she has long been involved in projects in the area.
There is still no reliable information on the reasons for the seizure.

So, officially, there is not even a demand for a ransom.
At the same time,  we ignore
a multitude of things.
We have no idea why she chose to volunteer in Africa.
We do not know what her personal motivations are.
We do not know her ideals.
We can not pretend to understand, just by reading four lines on the internet, why a young girl leaves her country to work in so different a place from where she grew up, putting herself at risk and the privileges due to her homeland.
We do not know if she ever doubted the choice she made.
In such a case, we ignore what has convinced her even more to live up to her difficult decision.
We do not know what she hopes to accomplish with her work.
We do not know her short, medium and long-term goals.
We are not able to see, from so far and with so little knowledge of the person, what she actually wrote on her horizon.
Furthermore, we do not know what she is feeling at the moment.
What's going through her head.
Ultimately, it really hurts to say, we do not know if she is still alive or not.
And yet, all this does not prevent Massimo Gramellini and many others from filling their pages with opinions about Silvia Romano’s life.
I do not know the journalist, as I ignore the man, that is my equally dutiful premise.
However, on his first article he declares to agree with those who argue that the young girl kidnapped in Kenya by a band of Somalis could have met her despair of altruism in Italy, instead of going to risk life in a lost village in the heart of the forest, and that her reckless choice risks costing the Italian taxpayers a substantial ransom.
Immediately after he states that he can not accept the ferocious attacks to someone – like her – now in the bandits' hands.
Well, I think this represents perfectly the modern way of communicating, which has also led to populist governments in Italy and many other countries.
Moreover, the next day, Massimo Gramellini decided to rewrite his concept, but the message is the same: he agrees with the people who comment facts, knowing almost nothing of what they are talking about, because it is exactly what he did with Silvia Romano’s life.
Not in the premise, but in what he adds later.
He wrote about Romano describing her as a naive, a bit crazy, girl who wants to embrace the world with the illusion of being able to change it.
The truths is that none of us can tell that.
At the same time, I have the absolute confidence that at this precise moment an incalculable and invisible number of young girls and boys are really changing the world out there, showing remarkable wisdom and clearness of mind.
The deluded ones are those who believe they have already understood everything about their own life and others.
Well, here is the metaphor I was talking about.
On one hand, we have the people who vomit every day on the white paper or screen everything passes through their head, about everything and everyone, forgetting the value of silence and the understanding of things, sharing lots of speeches that contradict themselves. But in the meantime, please, give us a click for the ads.
On the other hand, fortunately for us, we have Silvia Romano.
May heaven, or who else, help her to return safe to her dreams and her projects, as well as her loved ones.
Because we all desperately need people like her.


On the same topic:
Populist leader

Watch the video storytelling with English subtitles:
What are viruses today

Thursday, November 22, 2018

Deportation story

Deportation story

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


A nightmare.
This is a nightmare, but I am awake.
It would be wonderful if I was still asleep; I would give anything to find myself in one of those stories, where I can open my eyes and everything comes back as before.
I still see the scene again as if it were now, again, and again.
I am at home, quiet, confident that the door and the walls will protect me.
Because there is danger out there, this is what they taught me, and that's what I share every day with my peers.
Evil lurks in the folds of what I ignore and that is different from me, this is the only news to be spread in every corner of the brain as in every plot of the heart.

Suddenly I hear screams beyond the door, they call my name without mentioning it, but I know it's me, I know it's me who their talking about, who they are looking for.
Not the third, nor even the second, but the door yields to the first blow, showing me instantly how foolish I was to fell safe.
In a few fractions of a second they are around me.
The guardians of the sacred, impassable border, stare at me grimly, when in a single chorus they exclaim the most severe sentence: "You are expelled."
"How could it be possible?" I say. "There must be a mistake..."
Then I go on like this, as if talking to myself, declaiming the faithful manual aloud, in a vain attempt to remember the order of things, mine.
I am a citizen with all the right papers.
I was born in this country from parents born in this country.
Whose ancestors have their roots firmly planted on this land.
I speak their language.
I follow their traditions.
Their belief is mine.
My culture is pure and uncontaminated.
It is identical to what was entrusted to me at my birth.
I am a patriot.
My life demonstrates that.
Every day I stand as a tireless bulwark to defend the local product and the value handed down.
"You are expelled," my unexpected jailers repeat.
"But this is a misunderstanding," I reply with renewed vigor.
And then I go on again heartfelt, relying on the script which I used to build the imaginary character called national identity.
My skin color is the right one.
My eyes are recognizable.
My features are popular.
As well as those of the people I have chosen as friends.
Those I have reserved my predilection for.
I have never betrayed my race.
My blood.
My hopes.
My needs.
My time.
My conscience.
All this, and also the rest that composes what I am, I have never mixed it with them, the others.
In spite of that, as if my words were insignificant dust particles lost in the wind, the faceless agents from the unmistakable uniform take me by the arms and lead me to the edge of the world.
I am still there, beyond the invisible barriers that I first raised, to reflect on the reasons for my exile, which as an endless echo have condemned me.
You are expelled because to defend what you say you are.
You are no longer part of the so-called human genre...

Tuesday, November 20, 2018

The plastic whale

Stories and News No. 1137

I was and I am a whale.
Despite time, despite you, dis-harmonic variable in the natural equation.
I was alive yesterday, but today I am dead.
Nothing strange in the passage, except the result of this underrated journey that only a few still believe priceless, whatever the traveler might be.
Read also as the extremely negligible life of the considered minor species.
In short, animals.
Yet there was a time when I was feared like the undisputed protagonist of the greatest novel of the whole literature, as well as queen of the oceans.
Tell me what you're afraid of, I'll know what your soul really is worth, it must be written on the bottom of the latter.


whale plastic death
Almost 6Kg (13lbs) of plastic were found in the belly of a whale stranded in eastern Indonesia
But only those who have got the courage to explore the abyss or the misfortune of sinking on the path can decipher the message.
It will tell you that the current men have chosen to be afraid only of themselves.
Blessed is the time when the mad captain from the wooden leg and obsessed to the unknown monster was only a fictional metaphor of human presumption.
We should never allow paper characters to become flesh, because they always end up disappointing us.
In fact, I did not stop breathing for a crazy hunter's harpoon.
Nor for the bites of a shark with gargantuan greed.
Nor even for solitude, a typical illness of too large creatures to be understood in a second. May the heaven curse the congenital haste of this unfortunate time dominated by the anxiety to escape.
I have not interrupted my sinuous swimming, although the dimensions contradicted me, because of a scorching love disappointment.
The one I fell in love with has always remained faithful to me, ever treating me with a timeless courtesy, demonstrating what cavalry world really derives from. My dear seahorse, may Neptune have him in glory.
I have also not disappeared from the water globe for a mere evolutionary question, however bitterly.
In my faith, I have never had problems with the inevitable passage on this earth, if it follows the perfect design of the latter.
I trust this planet, I understood it as soon as it welcomed me into its liquid womb that it would always have made the right choice.
Too bad that I cannot say the same about mister Anthropocene.
Nonetheless, I did not die murdered directly at your hands, although this does not exculpate many of you.
Because I was a whale, a wonderful being who can not but leave breathless those who are still able to broaden their gaze and emotions before the living gifts.
I am still a whale, but instead of my heart now in my chest you can see a hellish mixture of one hundred and fifteen cups, four bottles, twenty-five bags, two flip flops, a sack of nylon, and a thousand other pieces of various shapes and colors.
Of plastic.
Yes it is, for your poisonous favorite material, I left the scene.
Well, I did not agree to participate at the Earth show to end like this.
Please, before it's too late, immediately cease to consider yourself worthy directors and screenwriters of what remains of the world.
As was expected from the very beginning, let nature be the one to write the story of us all, and the mothers to tell it.
Sit down, then.
And, as long as there is still time, listen to their song...


whale plastic bottles

On the same topic:
Orangutan selfie story

Watch the video storytelling with English subtitles:
What are viruses today

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Listen my music band
Watch my last storytelling show with English and Italian subtitles Sunset
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Friday, November 16, 2018

Meanwhile

Stories and News No. 1136

Yes, all right, fine.
We already know, really, we know everything.
Especially where white hair begins to exceed time to lose with the already said and listened.
Nonetheless, even in every other eventuality, we should know it.
Because it does not take a genius to understand that people like Donald Trump – men with a vulgarly rigged face, from the a past and a ridiculous present, from the total lack of authority as credibility, there have already been in the history.
We will see others of that kind, unfortunately.

We know it, we do, but then we exchange the human memory for the hard disk, where you can copy and paste over the new stuff to convince yourself that you have updated, and something, sometimes the essential gifts, gets confused.
So, taking advantage of these vulnerable ranges of moral perplexity, someone who is blatantly wrong manages to catch the helm of a country.
However, it does not take a magniloquent culture to know that guys like Matteo Salvini – people who hardly perceive the sound of words like humanity and empathy, who desperately need to feed hatred to divert attention from their pusillanimity, there were many before, perhaps too many.
Others will come, unluckily.
We perfectly know how to disguise the screaming barker, we all know it, but then we choose the individual at the expense of the community, dreaming of being the only one who just made it.
Yet, since world means society, peoples and their path make us change course, not just one single person.
Those are characters in the movies, some novels and lots of fairy tales.
Because we know it, we like to dream, but basically we see the truth of reality.
We are perfectly aware that in every age, more or less cyclically, if the healthy part of people arrears even a centimeter, considering for a fraction of a second the sacrifice of human rights to the detriment of personal affirmation, unscrupulous guys come forward.
Since it has already happened an infinite number of times, the opposite would be absurd.
But the fact that history repeats itself, even in the most horrible paragraphs, reminds us that even our great-grandchildren will once again find themselves at this difficult point.
We know this, but we continue to make the same mistakes, believing in the illusion of the dictator with a false smile and the strong man’s delirium with fake muscles and heart.
However, we also know that sooner or later, the many brave and virtuous souls who believe they are alone to resist, will raise their heads and look at each other, finding each other and becoming a single body.
To arch their backs and dignity, unhinging the new crazy intruder.
Because it has already happened, and even today you can hear the thud of the past fall.
So we know, we all know it.
Nonetheless, meanwhile, let’s try not to hurt each other too much, okay?


On the same topic:
The invasion

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What are viruses today

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Watch my last storytelling show with English and Italian subtitles Sunset
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Thursday, November 15, 2018

The dream of the diverse child

The dream of the diverse child

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


Once upon a time there was a child.
A child who was different.
Not by birth, I have to be clear.
We come to the world unique, there is on the packaging of the soul, but it is one of those special warnings, written so small that to read them you must have your eyes really open.
He became diverse as soon as he opened the door of his life to his neighbors.
I am talking about superficial differences, as most of those that determine the boundaries of what should never have limits.
Read as well as the neglected intelligence.
Nonetheless, they were there, every day among the first ones of the small protagonist of this story, as increasingly thick and marked lines to surround the reflected image.
"A spell," thought the child, "this is a bad magic with much evil intentions, able to imprison me in a mirror of the fraudster kind, which gives you only two dimensions, at most three, instead of infinite."
Then, like all the young creatures of this earth, finding no support in his loved ones, no longer capable of opposing the gruesome spell, the child relied on the only good magic capable of surviving in such cases.
He chose to dream.
Well, when this does not happen as a mere consequence of sleep, sooner or later you find what you are looking for, or so they say at the entrance.
He closed his eyes and felt light, so light as to be lifted from the crazy life which he lived in and flew. But not like birds or planes, but as only a child may do when he needs to find his house.
In fact, as soon as he left the earth behind him, hovering in space, he began to jump from one planet to another as if it were a game, one of the easy ones you can do with little, that is all you have.
However, he was not there just to play, rather to find.
He then stopped at the first planet, which was a star, but of the nice ones, which shine, but do not burn.
Yet, in spite of so much glare, it was inhabited only by blind people.
The child rejoiced about that and immediately tried to become their friend.
"Here I will be happy," he thought, "because no one can see me as a diverse child."
Nevertheless, with the passing of time, he had to change his mind, because no one was able to observe anything else.
Among all, his smile and his eyes when they joined such an amazing show.
Therefore, he thanked the blind creatures, greeted them with affection and return to jump.
He then arrived on a planet that was actually a meteorite, but welcoming, without sharp edges and with a soft floor.
Even the inhabitants of this world did not have something.
They could not speak.
"Perfect," the child told himself, "I will live peacefully here, because none of them will be able to insult me and say unpleasant things about me as if I were not there."
However, even this time he was disappointed, because none of them could ever call him by name, respond to his greeting, tell stories aloud, sing honest songs and above all give voice to those feelings that need spoken words to warm the hearts.
So he reluctantly greeted the new friends and with a few tears around the edges of his eyes he walked away into the clouds.
He jumped again and this time he landed on a comet, but one of those that go slowly, to allow anyone to get on board and share the trip.
Nevertheless, the comet was also inhabited by people who lacked something.
They could not touch each other, in any way.
"Great," the child thought. "Here I will be safe, because none of them will ever be able to beat me."
However, even in this case the reverse of the medal was unacceptable, because in that bizarre world there were no tender caresses and warm hugs, affectionate pinches on the cheek and encouraging pats on the shoulder.
There was a perennial and insurmountable distance between everyone.
Like a damn wall.
The child left the inhabitants, although they had been so hospitable, and flew away.
Do you want the truth?
Leaving from planet to planet, from one star to another, between comets and meteorites, he is still there, up in the sky, alone.
Desperately looking for.
Us...

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Gaza the stain on heart

Stories and News No. 1135

Once upon a time a human being.
A seventy years old creature, in these times.
An old and tired person.
Not for the age itself.
We cannot let the numbers to judge, because words and stories, art and more or less virtuous politics failed in this.
It is the story of a wrong life.

A living tragedy, further grown up in its horrible semblance of normality.
In 1948 the first birthday, while in the background, down there, somewhere, possibly beyond the sea, the picture sadly appears, ever too much like itself.
You can see a furrow, a line, a slip of beating flesh.
In short, for the most, a strip named Gaza.
In the image, to outline the essence of the painting, you might get the plots whose sign insists in the same stretch with dull stubbornness, to confirm the saying that hell is repetition more than anything else: the rockets of Hamas, let they be cursed, if they were really launched, or not, the
trail that they draw on the celestial vault in the grotesque picture; and the missiles of Israel, which should equally be damned, if they had never really been spontaneous, or not, the spreading fire, the flames, the blood and the rubble.
In the fifties the human child observes the picture and shudders, he tries to forget the nightmare as soon as possible.
Fortunately, there are distances and boundaries, kilometers of planet and consciousness which to preserve life with from bombs and cries.
Time runs, and other wars claim front pages and compassion.
Suddenly, we see invasion prepared at the table and pacifying interventions with massacring consequences, coalitions inspired by lots of barrels filled with false solidarity and unjust occupations post-justified through diplomatic bribery.
Terrorism, a river full of attacks flows in the frightened
eyes of those who must absolutely fear today, even before tomorrow.
Meanwhile, the human being, once an innocent creature, became a teenager in the sixties.
The best time for those who feed on dreams.
The perfect time for those who still profit in burning hopes.
The ideal time to confuse both.
Hate, and then peace.
Peace, and then blood again on the streets.
Legalized genocides, and still peace.
And yet, the terrible picture is still there, hanging on the wall of our memory.
The strip becomes thinner, rockets, missiles, screams and laments, fading of empathy and humanity.
Other years pass and the human being becomes adult, at least on paper.
In fact, he turns on a volatile flicker at the mercy of the trendy wind.
A superficial consumer of formalities in the eighties and reseller of the same, recycled in the following decade.
Yet, the image beyond horizon is identical.
The strip further waned as a prisoner forced to bread and water.
The rockets, the missiles.
The missiles, the rockets.
And inside the theater you can hear the silence of the unwittingly paying audience.
A people of spectators distracted by the fear of an imaginary millennial bug and the artificial fires of a science fiction future that never arrived.
In 2000, the human becomes mature, in age and dress.
He seems modern in the way of connecting with the world and interacting with the impelling issues, but the truth is that he is still committed to hide.
This is the era when masks are called profiles and avatars, nicknames and trolls.
This is the life where opportunities and possibilities are unfortunately squeezed into an App.
Squares and streets, meadows and casual encounters in the middle of a story are broken into tiny crumbs of seconds dug in an artificial coma defined as a deceptive social network.
Meanwhile, the painting has not changed, except for the dimensions of the soul of grass and pride crushed in the middle.
The strip is in fact even thinner, but this does not stop rockets and missiles, fueled by thirst for pain and destruction, anger and revenge.
Nevertheless, in this absurd affair, other conflicts kill generations and hopes.
The number of people that since the beginning of this story are forced to abandon their homes and origins in search of an improbable solidarity becomes incalculable.
The balance assumes contours of clear madness in the juxtaposition between innocent deaths on the screen and laughters on the armchair, digital suffering and derisory comments, dying victims in the foreground and cynical keyboards.
Inevitably, the protagonist’s skin is covered by ruthless wrinkles, the hair becomes thin and white at the same time, the reflexes slow down and the sight gets less bright.
But the picture is the same as the day when fate has condemned it, while the bitter caption becomes negligible news that is now no longer read.
As if it were the medical bulletin of a fortunately distant relative affected by incurable disease, with the secret hope that the dark lady will end her suffering.
The Gaza Strip, the rockets of Hamas, the Israeli missiles.
The war of all wars, whose peace would be the mother of all the others, so far missed.
The shameful stain on heart of a human being that is all of us.


On the same topic:
Letter to Israel

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What are viruses today

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Friday, November 9, 2018

What is terrorism and what is not?

Stories and News No. 1134

Terrorism or not terrorism.
This is the modern question, no to be or not.
Whether it is reasonable in the mind to undoubtedly accept the approximate sentences in the news, or to go deep inside the facts between lots of lies and by finding end them.
I could go on, sinning for the umpteenth time of naive trust in the audience.
That is, the respectful people who become public.
I wish it was like that.
We would have an infinitely perfect scenario before us, if we might be able to solve everything with a stage play, whose revealing force could be concentrated in the main monologue. A solo of vibrating words that, like the wandering theater company in the Hamlet, could be able to scare the impostor king, forcing him to stop the staging.
Then I would go ahead, as I used to.
Terrorism or not terrorism.

A man enters a bar dressed in black, with a cap of the same color on his head.
Is he a terrorist?
No, maybe yes, but the dress is not enough to define the gesture, and with him the protagonist, let’s wait for more.
The next day, another man detonates a car.
Is it a terrorist act?
That’s probable, or not, but there are many things to know, and first pages and disturbing images to see, let’s be patient.
The first man has smoke bombs with him and lights them up to create confusion around.
Is he a terrorist, now?
Well, in fact, but let's wait.
The second kills a person and stabs seriously two.
Is it terrorism?
Looking at the now viral video, it would seem obvious, but you have to wait.
The first one kills a guard at the entrance and then murders dozens of young people. Twelve people dead.
It's terrorism, come on...
No, let's wait.
The second one was hit by the agents and then died at the hospital.
Was he a terrorist?
Don’t be hurry.
Terrorism or non-terrorism, the atrocious doubt remains, to feed digital crusaders or the archive of the crazy shooters.
A few moments, and the usual verdict is issued.
The first man had a Glock 45 legally registered and is a former marine.
Is it terrorism, then?
No, since psychiatrists have already gone to his home.
The reason for the gesture is not known, and in this case madness writes the word end better than anyone.
What about the second aggressor?
It's a Somali immigrant, you say it.
Is it terrorism?
Wait, otherwise they accuse us of discrimination.
So?
Wait...
Is it?
Done, the requested Islamic claim has arrived, so write, remember, assimilate.
Terrorism and not terrorism, all you have to do is wait for the usual balance to recompose itself.
To justify wars and walls in the lazy brain of the paying spectators.
Anyway, if it were enough to write a story, to show the fake hall once and for all and blow up the liar stage, I would stop here with this, and I would go back telling about masks, darkness and light.


On the same topic:
Who gains the most

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Thursday, November 8, 2018

Nadine and us

Nadine and us

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


Many often used to say that we understand the true value of things only when we lose them.
A kind of thought, like many others, who are lost in the crowded heap of acclaimed banalities.
Yet, history tells and frequently recalls that, in the ingenuity of the recurrent painting, new colors are hidden, giving an original sense to the past.
Perhaps, this is the only way to write other stories.
As the day when the girl with a skin as complex as her origins was invited by the literature professor to read her composition before the class.
A sort a poem around the given topic, a goodbye letter and a heartfelt prayer, all in one page, writing without thinking, with a naked heart and trembling hands.
Maybe something made of incautious words, considering her audience, far from ready to accept such gifts, at least on paper.
Despite that, someone should start to incise the latter with something sadly honest.
Before the teacher's exhortation, Nadine tried immediately to protest with an eloquent nod of head.
She showed imploring and anguished eyes.
Then she gripped the edge of the counter with her convulsed fingers, hopeful to escape from the main scene.
Nonetheless, she began to look around, peering at the faces of the comrades pervaded by boredom and
indifference. Between them she saw also a bit of curiosity on a girl.
One who had often asked her how she was and really listened.
Well, it's worth going on stage, when there's at least one spectator, is not it?
Nadine quickly cleared the meters that separated her from the teacher with the page on her hand, her page.
She grasped it with pride and emotion at the same time and read the words, her last ones: "Life takes away, life gives back... It took my parents away, first dad and a couple of years later Mom, because death is a demanding lady, so it’s fate, just as the monsters that undermine the story which I ended up in. War has stolen clouds and earth, has devoured home and things, has made the road, the place where you should be ever hurry. In the worse scenario, you must run, in the best, you get safe and survive the walk. The bombs have left behind rubble and hate like damn children, who in turn have poisoned the blood of many, too many, among those who have never been imagined anger as the only possible weapon. Life takes away, therefore, life gives, right? The first part of the story is sure, because a cruel witch has stolen the country under my feet without let me aware of it, and so I woke up without a fundamental piece, the first one, the most precious geography, the one where to begin a memory. So the worst moment has come, when you begin to get used to being slowly stripped of everything that really matters. Because, perhaps, sooner or later life will give back, but in the meantime is cheating time, the meaning of the latter, or the gift of now. The privilege of being able to stay still and not to worry about later, in short, the lightheartedness of the age I still had, which I still have. Life takes away, perhaps gives back, but often deceives. It has given me a ship and a horizon, a hope and traveling companions, vain frills to disguise a sadistic illusion. It has taken away my rights and serenity with a single blow, through a fierce wave, one of those that throws you on the ground and takes away more of what remains. And what remains is everything, to me. Because it removed relatives and cities, dawns and sunsets of my buried childhood, erasing my trust in the others and in the future, empathy from the looks of passers-by and even those who should know me. Yet, life seems to be never satisfied and last week decided to close the family home that hosts me, so tomorrow I will have to leave. And although you were not the best friends of the world, you were just what was left, that was all to me. I don’t know where I will go, but maybe, the day will come when life is about giving back. Because everywhere I will be, I’ll know that you, all of you, in this room and out there, are and will always be the only thing I have. "
Many used to say that we appreciate the real value of things only when we lose them.
Well, at that moment we also discover what we have been and could still be to others...

Tuesday, November 6, 2018

Let’s take a step back

Stories and News No. 1133

Let’s go forward.
Come on, do not stop, move on.
This is, as they say, the path of men.
To be precise, the Leaders with the capital first letter in the name, as in pride.
More than ever in the immediate interest and, above all, investable in the market of the most disenchanted concreteness.
Because the enchantment is banned, even if it was just a pretext to show the selfish deception hidden behind the billboard eating the sky.
Anyway, don’t stop, insists to shout the sovereign marketing. Go fast, run without looking back at what is left behind, moving foot and arrogance forward.
As a consequence, in the subliminal implication of the deafening admonition, there is also written to continue to impose on the world the foundations of our chaotic life.
Without offering ears and conscience to the natural warning, even if the now rotten soap bubble explodes with a painful roar.
These are tragic coincidences that are acceptable in the final calculation, the recipe says.

Moreover, between each avoidable grief, the spot sings: it is not worth risking past and future for the illusion of an eternal, heavenly present?
Are you saying no? Well, it means you are really blindfolded, explains the crazy TV always lit in our head, that is, you really see, and where the true gentleman has at least an eye among the blind ones, who will have the courage to open them both is the usual old enemy, because he will ruin the party.
This is why certain people are not invited to the exclusive event, whether it took place in the palaces of opulence, or in those where the destinies of the planet are decided.
Their songs and stories are marginalized.
The shoulders in front of their ingenuous examples are recommended, as well as the protection of head and heart from their words, if fed by the action.
Theirs is a dangerous god, with the minuscule initial letter in the name as in every verse of the dedicated prayer, while the population elected by the latter are the ones who in turn have chosen the earth.
Unlike the digital generation, they do not claim to be just angry and tired people.
On the contrary, they are creatures capable of celebrating unity and ideals without moving at all, remaining steady before the mad rush towards the abyss.
Everyone are worth everything, without any exclusion.
Indeed, more than anything else, they are not a horde possessed by dull anger, but a huge family pervaded by joyous indignation.
There is no weariness in the soul, but unstoppable love, typical of those who would like it even more.
Of love.
Their sin is deadly for the masters of today, more than for themselves.
It undermines the boundaries of a formal sacredness by
simply knocking them down.
They raise temples from top to bottom.
And, sacrilege among the sacrileges, they think to be a harmonious part among the variety of living things, with the utopian conviction of being something more than simple cards of a human domino, all the same, all in a row, with the sole task of pushing each other and falling down, silently.
The dream is this, and it has the shape of an inescapable request that will be sent anywhere without fear.
Enough with keep going.
Let us raise the boot that tramples the gift.
Let us remove the greedy claw from what remains of the precious harvest.
Let us deprive the horizon of our overbearing shadow.
And all together, for the salvation of everything.
Let’s take a step back...


On the same topic:
We became extinct

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What are viruses today

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Friday, November 2, 2018

Almost two thousand

Stories and News No. 1132

Forget.
Forget with me what, most of the time, you do not see.
Inside the whole human design.
So, try to forget, that is, put aside for a moment the almost one hundred thousand migrants and refugees arrived in Europe from the sea this year.
Instead, focus every attention on the two thousand and nine hundred eighty-seven lives that have disappeared in the waves.
One thousand and nine hundred, plus eighty-seven.
Read as well as almost two thousand.
Be brave, now, stay with me on the frame.
Let's assume they can fit into one, single monitor.
Almost twice a thousand human beings, between women and children, boys and men, more or less old.
Think about it.

They lost their lives to come to you, how certain people could be strange, nowadays.
Wait, do not leave.
We do not need to say anything, you know?
Relax, we are not inside a horror movie, because they are shadows and ghosts that can no longer harm anybody, if ever they could do it.
Actually, they could help you, now.
You just have to look at their still faces on the screen, side by side, like one of those yellowed photos on the history books with captions that explain something, except the essential.
You see? You may gaze at them without fear.
Because, now, no one will be able to infuse the latter into your heart by betraying that they will come to take away your job and abuse women, occupy your houses and sweep away the things you believe in, to import their own.
Because there is no need for walls to stop broken dreams.
There is no need to found political parties to take advantage of disappointed horizons.
There is no need to feed hatred and stir up selfishness in the face of those lost between death and life that they could have had.
Let the silence to occupy the scene, and do not look away, not yet, please.
Convince yourself that the creatures who now hover on the portrayed scene are the famous ‘others’, between before and after.
They really are the others.
They are no longer the potential invaders, ready to sail on their side, and not yet the enemies of Europe, known with lots of more or less inhuman epithets.
They are the nothing that has dared to aspire to become something.
They are the dust that has been abducted by the wind and has never settled.
But they are also untouchable souls forever.
Because you cannot discriminate, marginalize and suppress what you can not even touch.
However, this does not need to stop you from opening your eyes and your memory.
Remember, please.
Remember with me what you often do not look at, among the particularity of the human context.
Remember, in other words, consider your personal treasure the stories of one thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven lives for one page.
Almost two thousand who traveling to the borders of your life, are dead drowned in the sea.
Then, if you stile have it, make room for compassion and, above all, for the thought that otherwise, they would be part of the shapeless mass.
That every day we call and treat as if they were the enemy..


On the same topic:
Letter to Martin Luther King

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Thursday, November 1, 2018

The wonderful weapons of the little ones

The wonderful weapons of the little ones

By
Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher


A lightning, blackout, everything away, somewhere, up there, where everything works, and that everything is needed to live.
A lightning, another one, down there, where the darkness is home and, of course, it's not scary at all.
"Dad..."
"Yes?"
"I had a nightmare."
"Tell me, I'll listen to you."
"No, it's a short one, only two or three seconds."
"I'm interested anyway, go."
"I told you, Daddy, it was all very fast. At the beginning of the dream I was in a beautiful house, full of chandeliers and colors, and there was music, you were dancing, and mom was still here, with us, as if the bombs..."
"And then?"
"Then, just a moment later, the dream began to crumble."
"What do you mean?"
"As if I was reading a beautiful book and an evil magic broke the pages in small pieces."
"Are you scared?"
"No, I'm just sad."
As for the nightmare, the man needed just two or three seconds to intervene.
"You must not remain sad."
"Why?"
"Because the dream is not over and you've already understood what's happening."
"What are you talking about, Daddy?"
"I’m talking about the evil magic, you were good at finding the guilty."
"Really?"
"Yeah, but we have to fight back, you've been challenged."
"What can we do?"
"First of all, we can resist the attack by pulling each other up, and then responding blow by blow."
"How, dad?"
"With the weapons we have."
"What are they?"
"Hands, raise your hands with me and knock them hard against each other... good, go on, don’t stop."
"Does this bother the evil magic?"
"Of course, because this is our music, the sound of those who love each other, of the family that we still are. Do you see it starting to tremble? "
"You're right, Daddy, the evil magic is shaking."
"So, let's not stop. Now, do you remember that thing you hummed last night while we were washing the bowls?"
"Yes I do."
"Well, all is not lost, let's sing it together."
"But it's not a real song, Dad..."
"Right, but evil magic doesn’t know it, because evil spells know almost nothing, they're ignorant. This is their strength, but also their weakness. So, let's sing, sing at the top of your lungs without stopping to clap, because this is the song of those who never give up. Can you see it starting to back away?"
"Yes, dad, it's true! And now?"
"Now, let's finish, stand up and dance, as when we are cold and we used to do it to warm up, than to just move."
"Now?"
"Now, and every moment that we’ll have to."
They went on like that for a while and then they went back to sleep, even stronger than before.
Because evil magic can only be defeated with a little.
That's all.