"Hello," says the so-called immigrant to the alleged guardian of the denominated border, "we would like to enter your country."
"What right do you have to do that?"
"The right of asylum, you know, in my country my family and I are in perpetual danger because of the violence from drug traffickers and gangs."
"The right to asylum no longer exists, it has been abolished."
"I see, what about the right to survival?"
"I'm sorry, it was canceled by presidential decree just last week."
"The right not to die murdered?"
"Never heard, it must be a Fake News."
"And what about the right of my children to not be killed with bullets?"
"There was, look, if you had come an hour ago, you were still in time, but the latest update of the operating system has cut it."
"Oops, Dolores," the immigrant tells his wife, "I told you to be faster..."
The woman, carrying two newly weaned children and another attached to her skirt, does not reply and shows a distraught expression.
"Wait, I found it: the right to be treated as human beings?"
"That's still here, of course, it's obvious."
"So we can get in, right?"
"Not at all."
"Why?"
"Because just as human beings you cannot. If by pure example you were birds you would have flown freely over the wall, the same for flies, butterflies and beetles."
"Well, if we were dogs, sheep, even snakes, we would have entered without problems, but as humans..."
"As humans, nothing to do."
"It was better to be born animals, then?"
"Exactly."
The family is about to leave when the man returns to the border one last time.
"Excuse me, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"You and your friends, how did you get in the very first time?"
"Simple: we have exterminated the natives, occupied the land and gave it a new name, which is how you gain the most important right."
"Which is?"
"To decide who enters and who does not."
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Once upon a time there was a country.
A built one, or better, governed by words and lies.
A nation where the movement of Italian citizens from the south to the north in the last year has increased again.
Read also how the regular face of so-called economic migrants rob jobs and the future: the Italian immigrants...
It means, less young people in the south, less hope and optimism, and more votes to political parties who create phobias and fuel depression.
Once upon a time, there was also a land where, in the past year, foreign immigration was in sharp decline, even before the advent of the defending borders leaders.
A country, to be precise, that the rate of foreign immigration for every 1,000 residents places in the 22nd place in European ranking.
Once upon a time, therefore, the State where Italian and immigrant inhabitants were both diminished.
Once upon a time there were facts, that is, numbers*.
In short, reality.
At the same time, we have got a country where immigration is the problem.
That’s today Italy for real...
*Data from Istat (Italian National Institute of Statistics)
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Go home, shouts the man at the border, disguised as president.
Go home, seems to be the meaning of the border itself, rather than an imaginary line to give shape to the crowd’s delirium, in addition to atlases and globes.
Go home, yours or not, as long as it is not ours, they seem to sing as a choir, the disgraced mice who are following the false Piped Piper with orange hairpiece.
Go back where you came from, it could be the complete translation, further extending hatred and inhumanity of the used ink.
Only two words, he says, the elected bulwark to protect fears and pusillanimity among the low instincts of his people.
That is the manifesto of an old cry, already shouted out by the greatest rascals of past history.
Two words.
Well, while the soul suffering from chronic romance whispered I love, the creature left alone exclaimed I exist, the truly human being – before the question about who will not turn away from others, needed just one, me, that’s how we may summarize the vocabulary of the scarecrow made of straw and misery: go home.
You know what?
With impassive gait of their own path, the marching peoples obey the order received.
They will not stop.
Because the earth, all.
It is their home...
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If you think about it, since world is light, it’s never the colour what you’ll remember, but the precious warmth, the variegated shapes and more than ever the beauty it has illuminated.
Similarly, Shakespeare was not a colour, but billions, as many as may melt in the same tale, in one page, in a single magic verse, who sees words, just oceans of words, when all are looking at something else.
You might call them writers...
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Let’s go back to the history, to note the variant Pig Shithole, introduced in China by the Han Dynasty, which allowed to fulfill the pigs’ nourishment with the above-mentioned, valuable gross domestic product.
In the post-classical era, from 200-600 to 1200-1500, we started to use the shitholes so-called "garderobes", a kind of wooden or stone floors outside the house, and obviously far from the rooms and near kitchens and fireplaces.
Because doing it in the cold is not pleasant since immemorial time.
So let’s jump to the modern era, to the well-known copper and porcelain shitholes, more or less decorated, according to taste...
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