mourn the death of a daughter, not even knowing how she died. If you really died. The newspapers of static crystallize the hours spent combing the fields, woods, the foundations of a ferruginous damn yard. Dogs sniff pieces of grass, the rain alternating with snow a season cold and wet.
investigations revolve around a Moroccan in his early twenties, first intercepted and arrested later. The prosecution is the most serious murder and concealment of a corpse.
The young gymnast from the physical dry and sincere smile, is now just a corpse to look nell'andro dark of a forest, or in the fresh shoots of a heavy concrete.
The girl who left behind a vacuum, an absence that weighs more edgy as the boulder on the hearts of his parents, has vanished into the pixels of a photo. The
seek and do not find it, seek it too much - too much respect to the blond girl who passed away in the warmth of a family frozen unknown. They had names assonant, someone writes, they were similar in age, now they share the same, sad, doom.
They were not the same person, yet we must necessarily find things in common, to increase the pathos of the audience and drag the line to high mountain peaks and flattering. Which may be flattering
chop in the pain of a family and cough him back stuffed with unnecessary assumptions and conspiracy? What spirit animates commentators, journalists, lawyers, criminologists and experts, sitting comfortably on chairs in leather, ready to take accusations and defenses?
Two girls were killed. One for sure, the other is supposed to but they do not have certainty.
Two mothers and two fathers cry on childhood and adolescence when stored in flower two daughters too young to be broken, too fragile to be destroyed.
we never hear about them. Their young lives are built on television programs, newspaper columns, torchlight and fundraisers. She rubs the intimacy of their thoughts, we publish the contents of their diaries, they fill the streets for their smiling faces.
If the first had been found immediately, he could enjoy the last caress of his mother. If the second is now, perhaps it would be still alive, or maybe not. Sure, she would have that last hug that would allow it to be untied dall'angheria outrage done to her, perhaps would again be a child crying, looking for her mother, who is afraid and no longer wants to sleep in the dark end of some bare land alone in the cold.
It's easy to write about this or that, to take the side of a murderess murderess who perhaps is not, or perhaps of an innocent killed.
Why no one takes the side of victims? Why not be silent, and she feels the need to scream his own reasons, reasons that are not?
You do rankings based on research on the deployment of volunteers, morbidity of the media.
No, they are not the same person. Assonant not have names. They are not interchangeable.
Sono due ragazze strappate alla vita. Altro non si può aggiungere.
La prima ha fatto in modo che la seconda ricevesse maggiore attenzione, che l'ignavia che spesso circonda l'esistenza umana si sciogliesse nel desiderio di non veder più nessuna vita oltraggiata e calpestata.
Piangere ora, però, che la certezza ancora non c'è, che si fanno i conti con un indagato che non confessa, con un corpo che non si trova, è irrispettoso. Perché nessuno di noi conosceva quella ragazza, nessuno di quelli che ora condividono foto e parole su angeli e cieli amava quella ragazza, nessuno di chi scrive - me compresa - ha il diritto di piangerla. Il dolore della sua famiglia non può essere condiviso su una piazza virtual, or on a sheet of canvas daubed with spray from a can.
For once, at least, we try to keep quiet.
Barbara Greggio.
0 comments:
Post a Comment