Violence is the weapon of cowardice of the weak

IA -The possible future in a glimpse

 I was a little girl when I read 3 lives of M. Gorky, B. Michal, The Trial of Nurnberg, by D. Lapierre, Oh Jerusalem, War and Peace by L. Tolstoy, by V. Hugo, The Last Days of a Convict, by E. Zola, The Germinal, in short, I have the titles of my father's library still dancing in my eyes. I remember my mother coming to make sure we were lying down, sleeping or getting ready for it, the lights off. Sometimes I resorted to candles, but this alternative turned out to be a disaster for my dark clothes and there was a snort between us, my maid, Lourdes, who complained about every piece I burned. And there went the favors and praises. Most of the time I resorted to the small lamp that I placed next to the bed on the floor, with a cloth diaper of my younger brother. There were many, if any of them got burned by my carelessness, there was always a way not to give "tent". And around the age of 11 I learned how to negotiate with Lourdes, after having discovered her weak point. Neca, a firefighter she liked to go to date, around 11 a.m. and then around 6 p.m. Neca was also very useful to me for books. When she dared to threaten me to chirp my readings late into the night, or the blunders out into the day, I made her think better by bringing up Neca. My mother would never agree to her escape from flirting during the week, knowing that her three cubs were at her own mercy. 

Poor mother who had no idea how many times this happened. Then, around the age of thirteen, I got tired of this weight that literature had. The world of adults told in these books of my father's were ugly, unseductive, they brought a lot of suffering and the handwriting was very small, I think today, that my eyes were spent on those nights. He didn't rest until he finished them. As I said, at the age of thirteen, along with the discovery of nipples and menstruation, with the secrets of teenage girls hidden in the bathroom and ruffled dresses, I dared to go to the girls' reading. The Corin Tellados, the Sabrinas, and I don't remember the rest of the collections. My aunt Joaquina had a lot of these scenes. The only thing that stood out in this literature was the tugid limb that appeared in the name of love. And it always went well. Kurt, after all, was not married and had been bitter at his house in Funn because of the heartbreak that Vanessa Soraia had caused him with that hug given to John who, after all, after all, was her brother. Nothing hurt. But that's how I discovered the romantic love that they insisted on hiding. And it was also at this time, more or less, that came to my hands, on a weekend at Aunt Rosalina's house, the book Yargo (The Stars scream, original title), by Jacqueline Susann, which left me free in the fantasy and in the scenarios...

Too many, I deduce. A humanity that sees itself rediscovered by other worlds, a tear analyzed under a magnifying glass, a perfection far from paradise. With 40 years already done and a path without straight lines at all levels, I think that cruelty is a particularity of the basic human, of those who have not followed the race, of those who do not know how to put themselves in the place of the other, of those who do not nurture empathy for their neighbor. Of course I know that cruelty exists in everyday life, in the house next door, on the street parallel to mine, in the villages and in the cities, in the hills and in the jungles. The husband who beats his wife when he comes home drunk, the mother who loses her temper and beats her child, the children who beat each other in a school playground, the person who sees his rights to work, health and food violated, the person who is the victim of insults and humiliation, of harassment and persecution, the animals that are skinned alive so that our societies can futilely consume accessories, such as belts, coats and handcraft work wallets, to feel more beautiful, more in, more alive!! Pink has never been my favorite color. 

I've always preferred the greens and sometimes the greys and browns. Today, February 26th of this year, 2009, a day like any other, with the particularity of being different because it is sunny, Carmen, my dear aunt, sent me a tremendous video about the cruelty committed against women in Islam. Yesterday he sent me the Zeitgeist, the Dem (chip sis) and today this. There are days when, like somnambulists, we seem to accept everything that is bad, without realizing that it is much of what still exists among us. But there are other days when we don't know what to do with this disgusted conscience, with this pain in the chest or with this lump in the throat. To be human, after all, is to accept that culture can hurt in other latitudes?

Stoning a woman in the street, beating her with kicks and mockery, until she bleeds, until she dies, for having greeted a man who is not a family member, is culturally acceptable??? Removing the clitoris or having surgery on the penis should not be quite the same thing. Do we have the "right" to remain silent?

As Obama said in his inaugural address, on the subject of religion or religions, of religious tolerance by the majority, if God asked Abraham today to sacrifice his son, he would be arrested, the child would be taken away from him. The world has evolved, but not the basic, instinctive feelings called hatred, contempt, envy, anger, cruelty.

We're sorry to feel this kind of thing, but that's what we're still made of...

I no longer read Corin Tellados or L. Tolstoy or E. Zola but I can tell you that I still feel the weight of all the books written, of all the perspectives received in the name of culture and none of this is important to improve this concept of humanity. In fact, that is what weighs on me. Darwin, far from the Origin of Species, in "The Descent of Man" prophesies what we now know to be true: "Man still bears in his physical structure the indelible mark of his primitive origin."

Everything else is change. Be angry or stick your head in the sand like the ostrich. To see if the men of Islam care!!