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Just one question brother

Stories and News No. 1277

A question.
Just one, please.
I would like to ask you just one question, brother, that in Melilla you lost your life,  you lost a friend, a real brother, you lost hope in humanity, or what remains of it in each of us, in the present, even before the future, in the fate, in any divinity within reach of compassion... but what am I saying? Within reach of a hand that stretches out in solidarity, magically human towards you, and helps you to rise from a wrong, senseless, cruel and merciless history. Returning the well and the badly taken from you as if they were both a divine right.
I would like to ask you a question once and for all, just one, even if I am convinced that I already know the answer, brother. It will perhaps be caused by my origins, that is what I think sometimes, but it is not the best explanation. I prefer the optimistic version, which leads me to believe that certain things can be evident to anyone, regardless of the differences.
I've been wanting to do it for a long time, maybe because I wanted to ask it to my father when he was still with us, but I probably didn't have the courage, in addition to the right opportunity.
You know, from the first moment it revealed itself in the shelter of my now white head, I couldn't help but think about the country where I was born and the old continent in the middle of which it is bizarrely drawn down. With each passing day, the above question has become more urgent and ringing. And, especially together with his answer, extremely useful for each of us in these lands.
From that very first time, the more I spent time observing the society which I came to light in – thanks to the healthy utopia of my so different parents -, and equally the list of things that I believe don't work or work unfairly gets longer.
Meanwhile, year after year it flown away like the calendar slips in the cartoons of the past, I have skipped a century, and now well beyond the turning point of a life which I am still grateful of, I look around and I can't help but worry.
Because Europe is at war, brother, and long before the invasion of Ukraine.
Because this land has literally been burning for quite a while, although many fully realize it only when the stench concerns something that belongs to them. As if everything else, now in ashes, were the holy spirit stuff.
As if, in other words, regardless of the class, we were not passengers on board the same ship in serious difficulty.
Because this handful of states, divided and increasingly in conflict with the rest of the world, is in turn made up of equally divided nations, which over time have proven themselves capable of building walls instead of bridges on every conceivable topic.
Forgive me if I spent most of my time inventing words, brother. I told myself that the normal ones were no longer enough to show what I see, with the minimum result of hoping for a bit of understanding, even before things really change. Also because words never succeed in that. Only people, and not all of them, can do it.
Nonetheless, when the magic of the page that seems to fill up by itself runs out, I return to the window above and what I observe with the naked eye anguishes me even more than the previous time.
Yet, despite the fact that everyone in the world can now look with the same eyes at the bleak condition of health of this elderly dinosaur in an armchair, inhabited by people afraid of themselves and bounded by wire and idiocy, you insist on going to get here as the mythical Ulysses through every danger that can be narrated.
So, dear brother, allow me to ask you, and please answer loudly and in great detail so that everyone understands the meaning of those horrendous images: how terrible must be in comparison the place and the life where you are escaping from?

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