Stories and News No. 900
Mangar Makur Chuot left Sudan as a child, after his father was killed during the civil war when he was only four years old.
He has spent at least eight in a refugee camp in Kenya.
Then, the turning point, the day when he was granted asylum in Australia.
The country which he will run the next Olympics for...
Here it is, the metaphor.
It is all there.
A race.
Many races.
Every races of each of us, intertwined into one another, with the most varied speeds.
People who whizz, people falling, people who arrive first and exult gracefully or not rejoicing at all, culpably unaware of their own fortune.
People who lose.
Almost all of the rest, the much underrated majority.
Because only the first win, we all know it, but it often happens that the second and even the third and fourth turn on their back, looking at all the others with a pathetic sense of pride.
Nevertheless, following the metaphor, in that immense and confusing tangle of legs that dance, stomping and kicking feet, hands and arms that push, but sometimes caress, each of us can be something in the other's race.
It is not a fortuity.
Believe me, it is not.
A world of stuff is just accidental, of course.
As having the shoes or not at the start, although there are many who actually do the squeamish in the sporting shops.
As being on the front row or not, although there are many who even do the squeamish preparing for the game.
But that something, which is part of the others’ story, depends on you.
Just you.
You were not there on the day that the God of the impossible races put the survivor runner on his track.
You were not there the day before and all the moments that preceded the starter.
You did not see with your own eyes what is the price that the he had to pay just to be there with you.
Yes, I know, I understand everything.
He could win.
He could be him, the lucky one to finish first.
He could become what you have always dreamed of.
But that's how it works, because we are all fragments of other races.
You cannot be what he escaped from to fight for the possible victory, just like you.
You can only be the country which he tried to win for, maybe succeeding.
Or the one who struck down his dream...
Read more stories about life
Buy my latest book The hoax of the migrants
Listen my song Wolves
Storytelling videos with subtitles
Mangar Makur Chuot left Sudan as a child, after his father was killed during the civil war when he was only four years old.
He has spent at least eight in a refugee camp in Kenya.
Then, the turning point, the day when he was granted asylum in Australia.
The country which he will run the next Olympics for...
Here it is, the metaphor.It is all there.
A race.
Many races.
Every races of each of us, intertwined into one another, with the most varied speeds.
People who whizz, people falling, people who arrive first and exult gracefully or not rejoicing at all, culpably unaware of their own fortune.
People who lose.
Almost all of the rest, the much underrated majority.
Because only the first win, we all know it, but it often happens that the second and even the third and fourth turn on their back, looking at all the others with a pathetic sense of pride.
Nevertheless, following the metaphor, in that immense and confusing tangle of legs that dance, stomping and kicking feet, hands and arms that push, but sometimes caress, each of us can be something in the other's race.
It is not a fortuity.
Believe me, it is not.
A world of stuff is just accidental, of course.
As having the shoes or not at the start, although there are many who actually do the squeamish in the sporting shops.
As being on the front row or not, although there are many who even do the squeamish preparing for the game.
But that something, which is part of the others’ story, depends on you.
Just you.
You were not there on the day that the God of the impossible races put the survivor runner on his track.
You were not there the day before and all the moments that preceded the starter.
You did not see with your own eyes what is the price that the he had to pay just to be there with you.
Yes, I know, I understand everything.
He could win.
He could be him, the lucky one to finish first.
He could become what you have always dreamed of.
But that's how it works, because we are all fragments of other races.
You cannot be what he escaped from to fight for the possible victory, just like you.
You can only be the country which he tried to win for, maybe succeeding.
Or the one who struck down his dream...
Read more stories about life
Buy my latest book The hoax of the migrants
Listen my song Wolves
Storytelling videos with subtitles