Thursday, February 10, 2011

Lethal Dose Of Alprazolam

The voice of "the one"

These days I've been reading an article on the activities of
World Social Forum held in Dakar . Some of the lurid stories that Mauritanian refugees or Sierra Leone hair stand on end. Murder, rape of girls, slavery (in Mauritania was legally abolished in 1980! But in fact continues to exist) portray an atmosphere of terror ends. To make matters worse, many of these refugees are people who do not exist, no identity, no status one recognized in the host country. They do not belong anywhere. No other rights are concerned, only demand their right to "be." These issues are what should be a priority on the agendas of the powerful. In theory, colonialism disappeared with the twentieth century but we continue to exploit their natural wealth and resources and for hundreds of years until they leave the breast dry. However, lately we have found a new use one of these countries: we have our garbage there.
made me remember the poem
Eduardo Galeano.

Fleas dream of buying a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping poverty, that someday soon it rains good luck, but good luck, it does not rain yesterday, today or tomorrow or never, drizzle falls from the sky good luck, much as hands the call and although they pique the left hand or get up with the right foot, or start the new year getting a broom.
The nobodies: nobody's children, owners of anyone.
The nobodies: the no, the no, running like rabbits, dying through life, screwed rejodidos.
Who are not, although be.
Who do not speak languages, but dialects.
Who do not have religions, but superstitions.
It do not make art, but handicrafts.
Do not have culture, but folklore.
Not only human beings.
Who have no face, but arms.
Do not have names but numbers.
not included in the universal chronicle, but in the crime reports in the local press.
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them.
I leave one of the most beautiful music on earth, the dialogue of guitarist Ali Farka Toure
with Toumani Diabate kora . . I think the bass is the Orlando CachaĆ­to but I'm not sure. In that mix with the blues who practice together, this time joined by aromas of Cuban son.


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