Stories and News

Stories and News No. 1212 Once upon a time there was the desk. Like the school one, on wheels or not, old and new, as long as you can imagine the classroom that hosts it, the whole school and everything you can remember for sure. Because you have been there, you have lived part of your life there, or because perhaps the fruit of mutual love – or mere passion – he or she is in turn living this particular, delicate and fundamental phase in their personal journey. Do you see the desk? Can you touch it with your fantasy’s fingers, hopefully surviving the digital dream suckers and horizons burners called social networks? Well, I presume you will easily agree with me that, like the chairs, the blackboards of the past and their erasers, or a cold IWB and the ever-present teaching post, is just a piece of furniture, a fragment of a special show’s schenography, where the brave protagonists, called students and professors, minimizing their value somewhat, are the meaning of everything. To ...

Stories and News No. 1166   Once upon a time a school. To be precise, when I say school , I mean the building, but also inside. At least in this short story the students and their precious teachers were one with the foundations, the supporting structure, the windows and the ceiling, as well as the walls. Walls which – it should always be remarked – are not only allowed to divide, but also to support and protect the weakest ones, not just the opposite. Well, the previous night someone left testimony of his thought, or delirium, on the walls next to the entrance gate. Italians first , this is the writing that children and parents saw the next morning. It would have been impossible not to see it, as it was very large. Some of the adults commented briefly on that, some complained about the usual carelessness by the education ministry, but most tried to ignore the aggressive message. It was certainly not a new phrase in their eyes and their ears; and it's well known. When...

Nadine and us By Alessandro Ghebreigziabiher Many often used to say that we understand the true value of things only when we lose them. A kind of thought, like many others, who are lost in the crowded heap of acclaimed banalities. Yet, history tells and frequently recalls that, in the ingenuity of the recurrent painting, new colors are hidden, giving an original sense to the past. Perhaps, this is the only way to write other stories. As the day when the girl with a skin as complex as her origins was invited by the literature professor to read her composition before the class. A sort a poem around the given topic, a goodbye letter and a heartfelt prayer, all in one page, writing without thinking, with a naked heart and trembling hands. Maybe something made of incautious words, considering her audience, far from ready to accept such gifts, at least on paper. Despite that, someone should start to incise the latter with something sadly honest. Before the teacher's exh...

Stories and News No. 1115   "The rise to power of far-right politics is not just about the United States, but it’s part of a global phenomenon with a common enemy." Spike Lee My name is Laura and I'm sixteen years old. That's okay. I know very well that for many the brief premise is sufficient to change the road and navigate further. A little more than a dozen years means many things, like ingenuity and consequent ease to delude themselves, among them. I can’t deny it, but more than ever in this moment of my life I'm starting to wonder: are we sure that these prerogatives are uniquely typical of us, so-called teenagers? I don’t know, right? I throw it out, and whoever wants to take it, can do it. I'm here to share and perhaps we all are, even when we don’t realize it. Anyway, I said, I'm Laura and I turned sixteen in August. All right, okay, that's it. No birthday with friends all on vacation, but no problem anyway. Over time you make ...