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Showing posts from March, 2018

Human Rights Stories about poor and rich

Let's face it frankly, okay?
Inequality was a state of affairs.
It was persecuted, sought with enthusiasm and commitment, I would say with extreme dedication.
Then, to be defended at all costs, as could be done with civil rights or democracy, in a naive story of romantic visions.
As proof of that, the most portentous claim didn’t concern the real distribution of fortunes, more or less lawfully earned, but the nature of the present and the future which the various citizens chose to commit their time for.

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Human Rights Stories of modern slaves

Once upon a time there was a house as big as the world is.
Like any self-respecting home, worthy of a prime time spot, or a smiling box office movie, it was made up of rooms.
The rooms, despite someone is still claiming for the contrary, were inhabited by occupants of a purely transitory nature, like the clouds that sometimes cover the sky. You can easily see that the drawings are never the same and those who say otherwise are blind, or want to blind others.
In one room, the inhabitants from the terminal
Photo by National Crime Agency
eternity nourished the fruits of the earth, of every form and color, declared taste or temporally fashion, vegetable or animal conception without any solution of continuity.

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Human Rights Stories about Apartheid

Rejoice.
I’m talking to you, my friend, that present time's law murders with deafening ease, and modern chronicle’s silence humiliates to the most obstinate recess of your soul.
Exult, since the unjust hourglass has a heart.
A slow and awkward one, but it beats.
Incredible in its pervading obsession in moving from the most servile side of the balance, the one where unqualified it polishes the golden wheels of the triumphal chariot.
Despite that, it has a logic, from this day.

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Human Rights Stories of poverty and hunger

The World Health Organization and the World Bank declared yesterday that almost one hundred million people in the world are forced every year to daily choose between health and food, education and basic necessities.
For the rest of humanity, a hundred is just a number, as well as a million times as much.
Greatness doesn’t matter, unless it’s one and that one is you.
In this case, I choose, each day, each week.
Monday I ate, yes, I had to, I couldn’t help it.
A little and with joy, with extreme calm and attention to every crumb that could run away.

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Human Rights Stories about women in Saudi Arabia

I.
Yes but…
I can.
Okay, but...
I can drive.
Certainly you can, however...
However, before you take breathe and steal time and page, I start and look for the horizon still to fill.
With one eye on tomorrow, the dreamed oasis, on the shore touched just within my imagination.
At the same time, the other half of my heart rejoices, staring at the missing rest that makes vibrating my chest and rubbing my hair.
Yes I can.

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Human Rights Stories about Nobel Peace Prize

Look at Aung San Suu Kyi, and see how she contradicts herself and every principle that has made her a symbol of the whole world, showing an insensitivity worthy of the worst politician before the sufferings of the Rohingya, an unlucky minority imprisoned inside a brutal majority.
Do you think it's all accidental?
Do you think it's just an amazing paradox?
It would be nice, always paradoxically, obviously, because that’s a well-reputed and repetitive plot in the script of the so-called upper species.
Look, in fact, and see.

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Human Rights Stories about playing kids

Take away and see.
Erase and hope.
Turn it off and wait.
Back and forth, like a dance stealing life or lighting it up.
Right and duty of each soul at the start of the journey.
The magic of a hand that could create and destroy, without any guarantee of eternity.
Take the game away from anyone who would have all the seriousness of the world to appreciate it and respect it, and you will see. You will see someone who will have no consideration for any supposed concreteness of your life, because he could never give it a delicate form in his own mind.

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Human Rights Stories of war and peace

Once upon a time there was the innocent until proven otherwise.
Ignoring the facts, until a disadvantageous phone tapping came out.
Accountable for them, but times were different, isn’t it?
You cannot judge the past, some say, because you cannot change it.
But you can listen to it.
The swish of the yellowed pages that suffocates under the weight of a confused present, seem to rumble, at a very first glance.
It sounds like astride ravings spoken in a dead language, if you relate it to the simultaneous chatter which, within a click, we condemn the fate of whole peoples with.
However, if you can just tilt the digital hourglass, you could follow the accusing finger that accuses the usual, peaceful coexistence’s serial killer.

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Human Rights Stories from Africa

Quickly.
I have to be quick before it's too late.
Before I get used to the thing, and it will decide to stay.
The thing, yes, I don’t have to give it a name, otherwise it gets familiar, close, mine.
I cannot afford it, not now, not me.
And what can I do?
Here it is, I look at it for a moment, with strictly fixed-term feelings and thoughts.
A woman burying an only three years life under a bush.
Done.

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Human Rights Stories of World Hunger

Once upon a time there was a story.
A short one, don’t worry.
Indeed, what do we really have to worry about?
It takes a little, believe me.
Five minutes, six at the most.
This is the time I've used to write it.
Nothing, isn’t it?
And when time is zero, what's the problem?
Yes, seriously, what is it?
Anyway, you’ll need less to read it.
Two minutes, one and a half to be quick, just one for those with fast eye and easy brain. Which may also mean light, but without offense, trust me.

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Human Rights Stories of poor kids

Hildur is five years old.
Souley too.
Hildur is a child.
Also Souley, but life is strange, isn’t it?
Almost like stories, right?
Hildur closes his eyes and dreams of things.
Souley dreams, period.
Hildur looks at his continent from the north, or above.
Souley looks at the world neither from south nor below.
Because his world is all there, before him, made of visions and hopes, however naïve.
Hildur plays.
Souley plays.

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Human Rights Stories of women

Greetings, Mother.
To you, dear, on your last day, and those to come, especially the latter.
Because the thought that truly pleases someone's name and story is made up of unique and special matter.
You will find the vibrating echo of a voice that excites by exclaiming the right words, where a moderate and accurate silence is the most in-demand dress. The reverberation of the light from a careful and curious look, ready to illuminate the ignored traits by our fake dignity, though they are often on the surface. More than anything else, the deep grooves on the common way impressed by those who are willing to risk every step below to give meaning to those same traces.

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Human Rights Stories of children

My name is nobody.
My name is nobody, and as much I might be an ingenious hero, this will not save me from the third millennium Cyclops. ecause the modern one-eyed creature is also deprived of heart and mankind.
My name is nobody and nothing is my job.
That is to say, to go down there, where nobody goes, precisely me, to allow the schizophrenic two-faced monster - psychotic corporation on one hand, indispensable to consume and be consumed from products, on the other one, to continue its perverse path on earth.

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Human rights stories of Sinixt First Nation

The picture is naked.
I hope it is now clear.
Unveiling the mystery, the phenomenon is today under the sunlight, clear in its tender melancholy,
but don’t think we will stop.
We won’t go back either.
Nowadays persevering in our perpetually staring at the horizon it is understandable.
Crossing it with sharp eyes and no more labored, no longer afraid, hungry breath too.
Here and now you know why we wake up first, and never go to sleep.
Present day it is obvious why we enlarge eyes before the normal things.

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Human rights stories of Whanganui River

The day of the river.
We want to call it so.
So we want to remember it.
Today is an historic day, the most important in its story, the very first, the one that gives life to all others.
It took forty years after a hundred more to get it.
The exceptional, unexpected and painful, normalcy.
The River’s Day is our day.
The reasons are many, your honor or dishonor, that is the same.
Since the party has now begun and we are already in the streets to celebrate.
We are children of the river, we are composed of water and hope almost in totality, because the flesh is thin and the bones are brittle, but a raging torrent impels us, in spite of appearances.

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Human rights stories Adama Traoré

There once was a crazy land.
A totally messed up country, twisted in reasonable logic and mere physical facts.
In the mad state lived her, Miss Simple.
A quite girl, but nothing bigoted, believe me.
Only someone with an understandable view of life, with emotions in the right place and a spontaneous propensity for harmony with the world's goods.
Nothing special, it should be remembered, but in the realm of the insane, she served as a litmus test, since we are in the senseless ground.

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Human rights stories of immigration in Italy

Watch this movie, even if you've already seen, I know.
We all have did it, and here we are again.
Maybe we didn’t understand before.
Maybe it would go better with the language subtitles.
That hit where the heart doesn’t hurt, because now no longer beats.
That's right, this is a story that survives death itself.
Because, inside a sort of circle of hell built in a TV network, there is someone who desperately needs to tell it.
And someone else with a perverse habit to listen with locked ears and memory.
Watch the scene, despite being old, but always trendy.
There is the sea, as always.
There's the ship, the travelers and him.

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Human rights stories of euthanasia in Italy

Let me die.
These are three words.
Indeed, they are many things.
It’s the beginning of a story, this one, and might be the conclusion of an existence with a sad outcome, that’s likely, but a dignified one, loved by those who still love and never stop, more than ever accepted by the only people with the right of way.
On the contrary, it’s similar to other eventualities, deprived of dignity, odious and unacceptable.
It’s like writing a novel, yours, good or bad it is, the only one you had to tell and someone else got the privilege to decide the last line.

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Human rights stories: Sudan genocide

Swift action?
Take thinking, fast by definition, and on the white page suspended in your head draw one of the many walls that nowadays are grotesquely back.
If there are already, if you find the time or lost your mind making them for your pleasure, considering them worthy thing, maybe I knocked on the wrong door.
Or maybe not.
Perhaps there is still a chance for you, for us, at best, for them.

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Human rights stories of protests

There are other worlds besides this.
I like to think that, sometimes, when things get too ugly to be looked at.
I have to do, when I am not even able to imagine.
Of strikes and protests, for example.
Strikes and protests one of them is woven of.
A spherical world, as the best known should be, but much less regular.

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Human rights stories: children of Aleppo

Words are over, for us.
Trapped in a nightmare.

Maybe we only escape to reach more or less manipulated images.
Blurt between an alleged beautiful diva and a new super-equipped gasoline drinker.
At worst normalized in the large muffler called world news.

Maybe we even go out in an inspired speech.
In the sense of made by other heart and mind.
Even in a warlike gathering of cheaters dressed as doves.

We could also get out in a prayer, even if said as heaven commands.

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Human rights stories: hunger in Nigeria

In the few seconds that remained, there, only at that
time, we won.
Hooray! The wicked hunger was defeated.
A miracle? A magic? Divine intervention, maybe?
Or perhaps the fateful good ones’ arrival?
No, nothing like that.
It took us a while, maybe too much, but in the end, only there, we get it.
How to overcome hunger.
We opened our eyes once and for all, observing with mature realism the world’s remains all around.
So we started to eat what was there.

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Human rights stories about death penalty

"It’s when we turn off a life that has canceled another from the earth," he says measuring his words with detachment, as if it were not personally related to himself.
The mother is surprised too, she would not speak and did not want to be her, the most suitable woman to respond. But the occasion is that, the only one, and nothing can be ignored for the sake of those who will walk in sliced groove.
"It’s when we turn off a life that has canceled another from the earth."
Same words and same apparent nonchalance, as she is not personally touched.
The girl child thinks about it, a moment later, far away, with dissimilar reasons.
Well the young boy does the same, in another place, for different reasons.
So both, separated by heart, space and especially destinies pronounce the same magic little word.
"Why?"

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Human rights stories about war

There was an explosion, I told you.
And, what interests you most, there are also the dead.
The injured.
And the missing ones.
All the usual story, or the book that comes out when the writer is called death and the publishers, well... the publishers are us. Even if we used to think of being just impotent readers.
I also have photos, if you wish. And I know that you want it, because the common eye seeks peace from the flowing red necessarily far and from reassuring shapes of black that must be bad for sure. It is an indispensable cliché, calming our fears with the misfortunes of others and diluting consciences with purifying solutions, screaming at the evil character in the monitor.

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Human rights stories about war in Libya

No more war.

Because we are already doing the last one, who are we kidding? We still have to finish that, how can we start another?

Because we are already doing others. And what do we do, then? We behave as usual? We pretend that we are not doing the others, showing the only one we're interested in at the moment?

Because we already know what war is.

Because right now also the children know what the stories of soldiers and bombs really are. Like the rest of us, they know that the heroes tale is a lie. That the good guys movie is a fraud. That friendly fire is just fire, a huge blaze where all burn except for those who use the flames to warm their insatiable bellies, before grilling the spoils.

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Human rights stories: Oldest death row inmate dies

Let’s assume you had in your hands the same key and with it time and desire to see better that rest.
We have to dig through the forgotten dust and read tiny stories.
Of a soul who was abused at home, for example.
Another story in a few words, other meanings, other keys.
Then be brave, let’s advance, door by door, and let’s find a young man with mental illness.
Yes, I know, that is a prelude to rhetorical scenarios, not original repertoire and all debased to conquer the soft areas of the jury.
But what we do if all this was true?
Then let’s proceed until there is more light in the dark, or perhaps the opposite. And we see a thirty-six year old man, exactly how many separate him from the last paragraph of his life, entering a mini market to steal.

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Human rights stories: war crime in Syria

My name is Ali, I was born at the beginning of the third millennium and I am, was, sixteen years old.
Forever.
Equally, for every day to come, I will be Ali who won.
I started to defeat enemies that would dwarf adults everywhere, even with voice amplified by "keyboard cockiness" and "couch arrogance", since I was just eleven.
The war erupted, at that time, as usual.
Synthesized and shredded on newspaper good for fish and chip without even waiting for the next day, crumbled and reassembled in images and videos whose only special effect is the convenient likelihood.

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Human rights stories of humans at risk

Once upon a time there was the Calendar of humans at risk.
For January here are the ‘stubborn dreamers’.
Difficult category, this one, I challenge you to deny it.
They are people who are not only suffering from chronic obsession with castles strictly suspended over the void, but also with the irrepressible belief of being able to fill it, that emptiness. With all that may be, anything but fragile and overvalued bricks. Among the solidest, I quote improbable words spoken necessarily in the silence of many and forbidden feelings fanned with a shamelessness that you will fall in love with. First the will irritate you, all right, but then you will space to the heart, admit it.

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Human rights stories of diamonds and modern slaves

Dear girl,
Thank your dad.
Please do it, honor the generous parent.
The value of the gift does not count, as even the banal thought.
The gesture matters.
Not just to donate.
The real magic is in the movement of the hand that brings the present, the frozen head, because eyes are incredibly focused on you, his soul reaching out for yours, the one and only reason for such affection.

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Human rights stories of Gender Theory

The Gender Theory Conspiracy exists.
Just as there are the Evil Aliens Invasion.
And it is scary, my friends.
The best science fiction’s storytellers were nothing but extraordinary clairvoyants disguised as lies pushers.
The extraterrestrials exist and are scary because they are pervaded by an unspeakable and immeasurable cruelty.
If only compared with a peaceful and tolerant species like us.
The monsters come from the Gender planet, so far nothing new, and they are called Genderians or just Genders.

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