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Life and death of Raja

Stories and News No. 1175
Life, death and miracles.
We would all like to tell you about that.
About ourselves, possibly a distant day, at the end of our overrated existence.
More than ever about our children, but in real time of their maximum splendor.
When everything is still possible.
Too bad that miracles are so rare for the most unfortunate around the world, guilty only of being on the right place at the worst time.
That is why this brief story can only evoke life and death

of Raja, since her miracle would have been ‘surviving the bomb’.
Anyway, we could talk about life and death. So, let’s tell them both as if they were two distinct creatures.
Let's start with the most painful, so we immediately get rid of it.
Raja's death was born in 1997 in the United States, specifically in an ammunition plant in Milan, Tennessee.
The death of Raja has a complicated and difficult name to remember, like all the uncomfortable fragments of the past, from which, precisely because of our distraction, we do not learn anything.
In fact, Raja's death is called CBU-52 B/B. But behind the anonymous and apparently innocuous acronym, like the most dangerous pitfalls for the helpless souls of this planet, lies a horrible beast: cluster munition.
Nevertheless, if we seriously wish to reflect on the evil genealogical tree of this unacceptable story, we cannot avoid recalling that the aforementioned device has equally repugnant parents.
I am referring to the Nazi Germany.
We could go on by going back, ancestor after ancestor, on such an obtusely bloodline, however, but maybe I could spare you the unpleasant journey.
Raja's death has distant origins, where the most insane nature of the human being has fallen in love with its most cynical ambition for power. Affection corresponded as misrepresented in the most clamorous way, since what was between them was everything except love. And among the aberrations of that we can also include what happened on March 23, 2018, when a young girl was sheltered by a tree a few meters from home, trying to enjoy the well-deserved refreshment with her mother.
This is the day on which the aforementioned death came into the world, striking an entire family’s heart, after having fallen on the most tender and fragile fruit of the latter.
Raja's disappearance is what unreasonably remains, is what we brought to light and nurtured as if it were our daughter, instead of the real one.
At the same time, here is her brief existence.
Raja's life began on a Yemen farm in 2004 and lasted only fourteen years.
Raja's life is made up of every single happy instant she spent with Amira, her mother, and her father, who today is forced to share their bitter mourning with the world.
To tell the truth, with the due hindsight, all the other moments spent together, although less pleasant, are worthy of regret.
Because they have been lived with the innocent confidence of having so much time on the way.
Because Raja’s life is a unique flower deprived of its petals.
It is a butterfly with the gift of the present but with its wings cut off.
It is a beautiful fairy tale without a final and even less a moral.
It is a song written to never be sung and a tight embrace with wind and dust, with tight eyes and ancient tears to act as witnesses.
Here we are at the end, then.
This is the life of Raja and also her death.
But, perhaps, a miracle is still possible, although fueled by a very weak and remote hope.
That this latest, neglected and bitter, human story instilled once and for all the definitive doubt in most of you about who the monsters and the victims of the world really are.

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