East of Constantinople, West of Shanghai

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The Day of Memory

January the 27th is the Day of Memory in Italy and everywhere else, in which we remember the millions that were murdered in the Nazi concentration camps – many of which were Italians, sent to the camps by our own government. As those that witnessed the horror are passing away, it becomes particularly important for us to keep the memory alive, so that nothing like this can happen, ever again.

And because I believe, like Leonard Cohen did, that the Nazis were also defeated by songs and stories, here is some music…

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The end of the story

It is not often that we get the opportunity of seeing ourselves through the eyes of others.
When it happens, it is usually disappointing, but it’s also an important learning experience.
I caught a comment about yesterday’s post, the one about the Day of Memory. Found it by chance on Facebook, yesterday evening.
It went more or less like this…

Nice post.
But by tomorrow he won’t remember anything, and that’s it.

indexNow this got me thinking.
Because this was a comment by someone that doesn’t know me, does not read this blog, nor my Italian blog. Never met me, never read my books. He chanced on a link to my blog on one of his contacts’ profile, read my post, found it good, and also thought I’m a hypocrite, a liar, an opportunist.
Which I generally try not to be.
And as someone that mostly expresses himself through the written word, the way in which what I write is perceived by the readers – the way in which I am perceived through my writing1 – is really important to me. So I re-read my post, to see if it carried any hint at my flawed character, and found nothing – but would be really happy to learn about anything I missed, so please use the comments.

But maybe the problem is another.
Because you see, that blasé attitude, that schoolyard cynicism is nothing personal2.
It’s not about me, or my post, my family, my story. It’s not about the Day of Memory, or Christmas, or Mardi Gras or the the 24rth night of September.
It’s about the idea that people might be, you know, a little bit better.
Not much, just a little bit.
That’s unacceptable. Because we’ve been sold this weird idea, that thinking the worst, always, makes us look cool, it makes us feel badass.
Badassery is very important on the social networks, you see3.

Which I find interesting because my post, yesterday, talked about what happens when someone arbitrarily decides that some people are wrong just because.

So now I’ll tell you the second part of yesterday’s story, to make a point, to show that my memory does not come and go with fashions, and because a good story pleases everybody, while a fuck you!, no matter how heartfelt, does not.
Here goes… Continue reading