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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