Written by Giuseppe Campisi
a year later by another article titled First March in Palermo : The first sweep written by the same author at the 1st March 2010
Thursday, March 10, 2011 18:29
A year later, looking with a certain air of defeat its own article, their thoughts, their own emotion, it fills the mind and heart of a sense of defeat that is difficult to describe. Retrace the lines written on the enthusiasm, the joy of the moment, it's tiring. This is terrible. But you try, not for excitement, but for the record - it says so, I think.
a year later by another article titled First March in Palermo : The first sweep written by the same author at the 1st March 2010
Thursday, March 10, 2011 18:29
A year later, looking with a certain air of defeat its own article, their thoughts, their own emotion, it fills the mind and heart of a sense of defeat that is difficult to describe. Retrace the lines written on the enthusiasm, the joy of the moment, it's tiring. This is terrible. But you try, not for excitement, but for the record - it says so, I think.
March 1, 2011, it rains. About ten degrees lower than last year, it's cold. Families with children are at home for it, and few small smiles that fill the procession of what to me appears more like the shining light of a future peaceful, happy, free of hatred. Without injustice and parades without claiming justice. Without banners bearing photographs of young men forced to death by the abuses of other men, for no reason and no soul, no history, no future in the eye. There is always strength in the speaker's voice from microphone, always the same desire for revenge, the anger, that sense of liberation and the desire to regain the dignity that you breathe fully wound even in the rain, cold, among 'indifference of people doing shopping, the puffs of motorists stuck in traffic and the ambulatory disinterested police about twenty meters from the head of the parade. First there was the will this March, has not abandoned the face of those who work to see something change, because that s'incazza not change anything, that does not surrender and that is committed stronger than before, under the thrust of the emotion, despair at times. The will was there, like a year ago '. And like last year '"was tall, white, sturdy, old, innocent, experienced, young, lean, low, black. It was native, but it was the immigrant. " And, once again, will you expressed in many different events that have filled the days of waiting for the event 1, as well as the hours immediately following it.
The amassing of 17 at Porta Felice a few minutes late, but complete, is all ready to go. It is that part of the march from the sea of \u200b\u200bhumanity suppressed by the puppet-laws, agricultural exploitation, the violence of the strongest, the incitement to suicide, fraud by the State, from ad hoc terror orchestrated by the media. The sea is the starting point of the struggle for the rights denied to those who discover their own hell in paradise sought beyond the war, hunger, of the disease, which reached Eden weeping and praying in the anger of the waves, piled with others in barcacce of cards that none of the countries of the West has ventured to save and collect the sound of the killer storms of the Mare Nostrum, the Paradise at last touched by the cries of pain of children who become men on the road, breaking the bones in hidden funds of trucks from Greece and the Balkans, drinking his own urine to survive the vacuum that suck air into the wind, lying and numbness in an area 30 cm high, to avoid arousing suspicion of customs controls. From the sea also the terrible cry of those who have never passed the crossing, of those who saw sinking to their hope, and with it his life, who was sent back by the headlights of intimidating guard, who stopped the race against the bullets fired by the Italian boats of the North African dictators so dear to Mother Europe or blacks in the holes of the gulag than Libya and world leaders have considered worthy of the presidency of the UN Commission on Human Rights.
Thus, from the sea, we go. In the van head of Ubuntu, which spreads in the open air of a sleepy Palermo items imprinted into a microphone just too small to contain the life energy from them freed. Behind, a Moroccan flag ahead the sight of passers-face for some time that tells the shame of all of Palermo, the institutions always absent, the police do not rare to abuse of the media deaf and dumb, every citizen of this city. Even my shame, which blocks the words on the fingertips and I'm not writing. It is the face of Nourredine Adnane, a boy of 27 years, my, I'd say one of our fellow citizen, who was killed by the city, its government, its administration, by its own people. Killed by his State, from what I had chosen to be his state, the country where you can see with eyes the future - the future is to Nourredine Khadija, has two years and lives in Morocco - and carry on their shoulders the weight of its charming history. This in a country without history and without any future. In the wake of the death of emotional Nourredine, his body burned, to keep the banner of the Anti-Racism Forum - with the photo of the young - there are his fellow North Africans, who coughed their anger on the buildings of a historical center that has already forgot disturbance searched for a suicide, showing the bread, the real reason why the bread that is life, that is dignity. Behind them the people of the struggles, the people who still see the road when you claim a right, it calls for justice, freedom, respect. "A parade is not a social party, a parade is not never too much or too little people. At a rally there is always someone there must be, "wrote one year ago. I'm still not convinced. Convinced, yes, but puzzled. Confused because I still do not understand what it takes for people to wake up to realize that this is indeed led to a situation of no return, that democracy in this country is a mirage, that we continue to allow the most "legally" - because in a system based on a rational-legal legitimacy thinks so - the weak are crushed continually, because we allow ourselves to be crushed, we are ready to assert our strength, our hatred to download the latest, responding as automata agl'input authority. An exodus of biblical proportions, 300 thousand refugees, 10 thousand a day, send them to Europe, invade us, they want to steal our jobs, they stay at home, Qaddafi assured us immigration, long live Gaddafi, Gaddafi alive! These messages - almost imperceptibly - through the boot, the terror of this other than that spreads day by day, pushing the migrants themselves not to strike, to go to work fearing repercussions from the bosses, fearing the arrival of people willing to be exploited for half the money for which you are exploiting themselves.
Nourredine è la torcia umana di Palermo, come Jan Palach a Praga, come Mohammed al-Bouazizi a Tunisi. Tocca a noi adesso fare in modo che rassomigli all’uno o all’altro, tocca a noi cercare la strada da seguire per cambiare. Tocca a noi trovare la nostra thaura, la nostra rivoluzione. Altrimenti toccherà sempre a noi – e ne avremo la responsabilità – scegliere di aspettare e sopportare, attendere anche un tempo infinito, sacrificando anime, corpi, vite alla crudeltà di chi ci comanda, e un giorno – quasi senza rendercene conto – qualcosa cambierà. Un giorno.
إن شاء الله
Source: The Carrettino Ideas
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