Consider the skates, do you recall them?
Come on, like the Rollerblade's. You remember them, now?
I’m not talking about the modern ones, with all the optionals, you know?
I mean old ones, shoes and wheels and let’s go.
Which were fashionable in the nineties.
You weren’t born yet? Okay, listen anyway.
You were? Then you remember, right?
Did you have them? No?
In any case, think how many of them ended up in the trash.
Like Toy Story's toys, whose life seems to end because the lucky child to have them got tired of them.
It “seems” to end, this verb is the meaning of everything.
Of the movie, and within this story.
Because what almost thirty years ago became a used object to get rid of, today in Kenya means fun and staying together...
Running away from the sorrows and difficulties of living...
And being happy with the little things that the real minorities of the world have forgotten...
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It's a war.
It's all a war, when there have been or still is a war around.
It’s a conflict between ally and not ally.
It’s also a feud between those who enter the field to fight even the idea of joining a war.
It’s a bitter, invisible battle among those who aspire to the succulent role of selling weapons to the most needy government and those who demand the chance to facilitate such an unjust negotiation.
It’s a bloody clash between those who face the war on the field and who decides the strategies from the famous red button room.
It’s also a war of numbers.
Of parliamentary votes that will hopefully authorize the horrible show and peace protesters, to be minimized by cutting and manipulating the public information.
It's a war, after all.
It's all a war, before and after.
From Iraq to Yemen, from Darfur to the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
Well, now it’s also a war between NGOs and the UN for the count of the dead...
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Once upon a time there were women.
But you may read daughters as well.
Courageously and affectionately sisters, if this was not enough.
Jyoti, 18 years old, and Neha, 16, did not hesitate, in Uttar Pradesh, India.
Dad is sick, he cannot go to work and get food to put on the table, that was the bitter sentence.
The two girls looked at each other, as if divided by a mirror colored with imagination that tastes revolutionary and daring as only when it is a feminine craft.
Come on, let’s go on stage, then.
They have shortened their respective hair, depriving the face of the usual hair, almost mandatory inside their current society.
Then, they opened little trunk of the costumes available and rummaging among them they have decided to change their identity for the sake of love.
So, they became boys for four years, going every day to cut beards and mustaches to the men of the village.
Now India’s government has given them an honor.
And, I hope, they lived happily ever after.
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There is a world out there that cannot help but lie.
Once upon a time, as in fairy tales.
And there is still now.
You want to know the truth?
There will still be tomorrow and the day after.
People who have to lie to others will ever be around.
Who have a damned need for someone to believe their lies.
To go and see their childish bluffs, who follow them behind the unfortunate alley where they hide, to join their delirium.
They need you to click their stinking link, sharing their rotten post, making the latter strong with a like on their disgusting vision of things.
The targets are always the same.
As a rule, the poor of the world to be exploited, manipulated and sacrificed for their own personal gain.
But also those who are possible threats to reject hate and poison at the bottom of their soul.
It is the case, a woman who can perhaps scare the masculine and racist power in the US even more than Obama could have done.
So, do not be surprised by the false photos on Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, and the anything but compromising video a few days ago.
It will happen again.
What matters is how much, those who have the tools and the time to understand the truth will fight for it.
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Once upon a time a seller.
You may call him a politician.
And you might think about him as your president.
You can see him as a leader.
And you could remember him as a ruler.
You may fear him as a dangerous man.
And you can imagine him as yet another rich guy.
Maybe you considered him a liar.
Or just a crazy human being on the top.
Perhaps you loved him.
Conceivably, you’re doing it right now.
Otherwise, you’re fighting his ideas.
His visions.
And all his intentions about our common future.
However, you will make no mistakes, believing he is just a seller.
Of illusions or death.
Weapons or nightmares.
Slavery or a tragic future.
His job is the same.
He is selling something and if you are with him.
You are not an elector or a supporter.
You're not his friend.
You’re just one who’s buying from him...
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Trevor Noah: Trump endorsed 'the Freddy Krueger of human rights'…
Once upon a time a nightmare on world streets.
Where you must wake up from a real horror movie.
We should all be awake, so.
Endlessly, indeed.
Everywhere we live.
We can’t just sleep, thinking everything’s gonna be alright, then.
Because the world leader, the America great again maker, has a new friend, now.
Because they were made to.
They speak the same language.
They sell the same stuff.
They want the same thing.
Fear…
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In the rhetorical game of roles, USA was the savior and Russia the aggressor, the former the powerful ally and the latter the others friend, and then add also West and East, We and Them, and other semantical tricks to fill eyes and ears, generation after generation, of apparently impotent readers.
The fable was ever told from parents to children, as if it were inevitable, as if it were the world’s story itself, as if the world wrote it on its own.
As if, in short, none of the actors were accountable for the monotonous plot.
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Tom!
What's up now?
What’s this air?
Well... I think it's the window in the kitchen...
It's open?!
Yes, you did it when we finished dinner. For the fried, you said...
Of course I said it, but it was half an hour ago, I told you that night has come!
All right, but could not you do it?
I just turned on the laptop...
Of course, I’ll do it.
Go, close, close for good, and pull the damper down, right to the bottom.
Why?
Because there's a new neighbor, that's why, right in front of us, a guy with a dark beard and a dark face too.
Seriously?
Seriously, close everything.
I run.
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In one five people died and there were at least forty injured.
In the other there are thirty-three deaths, no one survived.
In the first one it seems that the bomber is one.
In the second, they are many more, although it seems that the finger on the damn button was only one.
One have already got the usual claim, with all the usual guesswork out.
In the other it is not necessary, because the culprit is clearly visible under the sun.
Maybe too much.
The first one is a horrible thing and it is natural to grieve, right to get angry and required to investigate the facts in the shadows.
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"I don’t remember the rest, sorry, blame the age."
"What age? You are just one year older than me. "
"Well, you are no longer a youngster too. In fact, is that molar on the lawn one of yours? "
"No, it's yours."
"Oops... anyway, we’ll do our best as always and if the river will be stronger, we’ll work harder, giving everything."
"Because the rivers don’t stop alone."
"And because we cannot much alone, but together..."
"Because it's easy to go over everything and everyone."
"And because it’s difficult to understand everything and everyone."
"Because, at the same time, it’s impossible to remain indifferent to everyone and everything."
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Once upon a time there was a starving country.
Made so by war and poverty which are always everybody’s fault.
Unless the people of that country don’t aspire to become everybody’s people.
You know what I mean, right?
In the country that you already know for sure, there was a house.
Also hungry by war and poverty, that are really everybody’s accountability.
However just saying things it’s not enough to see righted wrongs and celebrated truth.
Otherwise words would be seriously magical.
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Me against the fire.
Alone, covered with rags, standing still.
Fighting the fire.
I might look ridiculous to you, strictly behind me.
So that I could listen your voice.
But not seeing your eyes.
Above all, avoiding you could see mine.
Me alone against fire, with one bucket of water, which in a few seconds will become one of the many empty containers in my difficult existence.
As the wallet, closet and drawers, as an imaginary bank account and the missing pages in my farewell to the global storytelling.
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We are in the future, ladies and gentlemen.
Here, now, on this page.
Well, I remember that in other times we used to
begin a story in very different ways: once upon a time, for example, a long time ago and even in a far, far away kingdom, and so on.
We people of tomorrow start saying... we are in the future, ladies and gentlemen.
We do this to remind us that, luckily, we are no longer in the past.
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When you saw polls growing in favor of Trump and at the same time, rigorously at the same time, intense spreading of likes on pages and profiles, sites and anything else in his support, don’t tell me that you have not joined the web’s dots.
Come on, let's be completely truthful.
How could such a guy become president of the most powerful country in the world, having against the opposing coalition and a consistency portion of his own party?
Thanks to the people?
Really?
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We look at them with affection and understanding.
We are sorry for them but at the same time we
rejoice in their breath, the embrace with the saviors, the return home, to us.
We're somewhere and we look and read about them.
Thinking of those who didn’t make it and we count.
We do with those left behind, the weight of the pain, the vacuum filled by the avalanche, yes.
But on the other side of fate there are them.
The survivors.
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It’s just a story of expectation and fear.
Yes, it's a classic among the most anxious preludes.
Snow is this too.
A dream to hold in your hands, to create other snowy dreams.
At the same time, at worst, it’s death sleeping for the homeless.
If you think about it, it’s a banal paradox among the most common ones.
What is paradise for some, probably few, it’s the inverse for all the others. The two halves of a wrong world, but only if you look it from the true side.
And if you try to put things right, here you find yourself marching in the wrong direction.
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In a dystopian present, where being reflected in an extremely accelerated time...
"What I write, boss?" Asked the young man on the
keyboard.
"Well", says the editor in chief, "let me think… ok, let's go: the Civil War began and the rebel forces were organized in the capital to oppose the dictator... oops, stop for a minute, there is a statement of… I have breaking news… WTF! I have the results of the elections... he won ... no! Him? No... come on..."
"Boss?"
"Yup?"
"What do I write?"
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Perhaps there is still a chance for you, for us, at best, for them.
Clear… indeed, just move. You see? As for a dream, the problem is not the wall itself, but rather the place where you wanted to make it happen, the reasons that convinced you to believe it possible and the emotions that are causing you to make it grow.
As lightning remedy, even before the required lines of force, in the form of a peace wall, a plastic one, demountable an instant later, as the famous ones which you play with and now you watch as well in movies.
A swift, reliable action.
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It’s Trump’s Time, of course it is.
Nevertheless, time - with a small letter, is not only a magazine to read, wrapping each disillusioned hope the next day.
Time is not today picture on the cover, nor
yesterday and the day before viral images.
What images, you ask? That’s exactly what I mean.
The definition of time is no small matter, and I don’t want to face the universal question, right now.
For sure, it's not Donald Trump’s, as it was not Obama’s for eight years.
It was not even Hitler’s and Gandhi’s.
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Wow.
Double wow.
Indeed, only a half, and nothing exceptional.
Don’t spread the news that I exaggerate.
I, Mahuta Atairangikaahu, and all my family, we are well known for stubborn containment of measures.
Just for the record, it’s enough to say that the day my cruel and authoritarian grandmother was hit by her last infarction, just before she declared “it was just a tremor due to the changing weather”. Soon after, my brother-in-law, as well the unpleasant and severe elder’s son in law, to explain his sudden attack of a convulsive laughter used very similar words: “Excuse me, just a tremor, due to the changing weather.” And go on with other guffaws.
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