O mundo sempre foi e sera uma porcaria

 

Sérgio Augusto

Que o mundo sempre foi e será uma porcaria a gente já sabe; desde, pelo menos, 1934, quando se ouviu pela primeira vez o tango Cambalache. Mais que um tango, um catártico desabafo niilista de Enrique Santos Discépolo (1901-1951) contra este merengue de absurdos em que ignorantes e sábios, honestos e canalhas, têm o mesmo peso. Discépolo falava do mundo, mas sobretudo da Argentina e das Américas.

Na quinta estrofe da versão original de Cambalache, aos mencionados Toscanini, Napoleão e o general San Martin juntavam-se o padre salesiano dom Bosco e o lutador Primo Carnera, com o tempo acrescidos de (ou substituídos por) Stravinski, Beethoven, John Lennon e Ringo Starr.

Nesse elenco Rexona, em que sempre cabe mais um, não fariam má figura dois argentinos sobre os quais muito tenho lido nas últimas semanas. Ambos convenientemente bissílabos, para não bagunçar a métrica da letra: Milei e Darré.

Milei, que tomou posse como o Bolsonaro da Argentina, dispensa apresentações. Caberia sem aperto no meio de outras figuras ainda não evocadas por quem gravou o tango depois de Caetano, Raul Seixas e Angela Rô-Rô. E decerto subiria no conceito mundial se descumprisse suas promessas de campanha, se enfim se revelasse um estelionatário eleitoral.

Ainda que Darré corra o risco de ser confundido com (Ricardo) Darín – como Staviski acabou trocado por Stravinsky na insuperável interpretação de Julio Sosa, que nunca ouvira falar no financista de origem russa Alexander Staviski –, insisto em sua inclusão pelo que Richard Walther Oscar Darré representa na história da nazificação da Argentina. Isto mesmo: nazificação. Um novo capítulo dessa história pode estar sendo escrito por Milei.

O milongueiro bufão que os hermanos alçaram à Casa Rosada iniciou sua carreira política à sombra do general Domingos Bussi, com extensa folha de serviços prestados à sanguinária ditadura de Videla (sequestrou um parlamentar, deu sumiço em centenas de sindicalistas, estudantes e professores), que culminaram com sua condenação à prisão perpétua em 2008.

Quanto a Richard Darré, nascido Ricardo e filho de imigrantes alemães atraídos ao “celeiro do mundo” que era a Argentina, aos 9 anos foi estudar agronomia na terra natal dos pais. Seu avassalador sucesso entre os nazistas o impediu de voltar para Buenos Aires, como planejara.

De um livro que publicou em 1930 saiu o slogan nazista Blut und Boden (sangue e solo pátrio) e a ideia de aplicar em seres humanos os mesmos métodos de “aprimoramento genético” da pecuária. O eugenista portenho ajudou Himmler a montar as diretrizes racistas do 3.º Reich, de que foi ministro da Agricultura entre 1933 e 1942. Condenado pelo Tribunal de Nuremberg, morreu em 1953, aos 58 anos, não na forca, de câncer. Como deixar de fora de Cambalache um supremacista branco desse calibre?

ESTADAO

 

ZIAD IN GAZA

 

At the vegetables stand I meet a woman, the owner of an embroidery shop I used to buy products from all the time with my friends. She introduces me to her husband.

“It is confirmed now,” she tells me. “We lost our home and our shop. I am terribly sad, but this is something to deal with after this is all over. My concern now is my only daughter; she refuses to eat and she got sick. We are staying with almost 60 people in a small space.

While walking in the street, I run into a friend of mine, a father of three adorable children. He is with his eldest child, who wore Mickey Mouse pyjamas and yellow Crocs.

My friend told me that he and his parents and brothers’ families fled together. Due to their large group, they divided into two: women and men. The women stayed at a small apartment of a friend of his, and the men stayed at a cafe metres away.

A huge bomb landed nearby. It was very close to the women’s apartment. He says it was the worst night in his whole life. “We couldn’t see anything – it was night and the atmosphere was full of dust. When we reached them, barefoot, all we could hear were the women’s screams.

“I thought someone died. I thought my kids died. But thankfully they were safe. A big door fell over my mother – now she cannot move her left hand. Afterwards I noticed that my wife was repeating one movement at the same rhythm, as if clapping but without her hands touching. I asked her to stop, but she cannot.”

We chat for a while, and he tells me: “I can somehow handle everything we are going through, but the suffering of my children is unbearable. They are always terrified; they are away from their home and they don’t understand why.”

An hour later, I see a young lady I know. She and her mother are visiting relatives who fled to the area we are staying in. We start checking on our mutual friends. When I ask her about someone, she says: “She is having the best days! She and her family fled to the same house that the guy she is in love with fled with his.

“During the period, the families got really closer to each other, and the relationship became official and approved by everyone. Every time I talk to her she shares the struggle and fear they are going through, but a part of her is full of love.”

 

 

 

Graffiti on the sea wall at Nye Beach

  Jeffrey St. Clair

Graffiti on the sea wall at Nye Beach, Oregon. Photo: Jeffrey St. Clair.

Chega pra lá, presépio, que eu quero é dormir!!

 

ZIAD IN GAZA

 Ahmad, the middle son of the host family we are staying with, is one of the most helpful people I know. He collected some money from friends and got a big tank of drinking water to take to where displaced families are located. He chooses an area that has two schools full of evacuees. According to Ahmad, water is delivered to the schools, but some of them have more than 10,000 people inside. So no amount of water is enough.

The bottleneck was not getting the money; in fact, the money was the easiest part. For almost a week, he had been trying to reach the water provider but couldn’t. Even though the communication companies are working again, the service is very weak. If you need to call someone, you will have to dial them hundreds of times to have a chance of getting through.

I wonder about the lady chosen to record the message: “The mobile number you have dialled cannot be reached at the moment”. Was she happy to be the voice of the company? Did she know that millions of Gazans cry after hearing her voice for the 50th time; some of them even throw their mobiles aside in despair because they cannot reach their loved ones.

I wish she could say: “I am sorry you cannot reach the person you are dialling. I hope you will be able to get to them soon. You are worried, and I know that.”

Eventually Ahmad went to the house of the water provider and waited, on two consecutive days, to catch him.

I ask Ahmad if I can accompany him and he agrees. We meet the man. He drives a small truck with the water tank on it.

The water provider tells me that at 5 o’clock every morning, he goes to the sanitation station – the one that has drinking water – and waits for three to four hours for his turn. Then he comes back to start delivering the water. He said people think he does not want to help, but he is doing his best.

He tells me he is an excellent dabka dancer and says: “Check TikTok for videos of weddings in the area and you will see me dancing dabka. We love life, but we don’t have the chance to live it.”

---

We reach the street where the schools are. The plan is to park outside in the street so people from the school and nearby homes can come and fill water. I am sitting in the seat next to the window. The situation is miserable.

I see many people holding their water containers and either standing in line to pay for them to be filled or on their way to go to a faraway place to fill them for free. When they see us arrive, they do not expect us to be stopping in their area because usually the tank will be booked for a residential place.

Through the window of the truck I tell people holding the water containers: “We are here to fill your water gallons for free.”

Suddenly, people start running towards the truck. The driver can’t even move. Ahmad has to get out to ask them to give us space to park properly. People are screaming to others inside the schools: “Come out and bring your gallons. There is free drinking water. Quickly!” And everyone runs.

In minutes, a very long line of men, women and children has formed, all with their water containers – names written on them to avoid losing them. If everything I had seen was not another reminder of how privileged I am, this is. Because for me, losing a water container is not a big deal; but for them, that simple item is critical.

But many people bring buckets, empty cleaning detergent containers, shampoo bottles and even plastic jars used for spices. A man helps the water provider organise the line.

Ahmad tells me that he wants to go inside one of the schools to check on his friend and his family that have evacuated there. I go with him. The school is no longer an educational entity; it is literally a camp. Tents are everywhere.

There are “boundaries” using carton, cloths and shop signs. Inside one of the classes, there are several sections, one of them is separated by some clothes used as curtains. A paper sign hangs, saying: “There are women inside. Please give a warning before you move the curtains.”

A man is sleeping on a mattress in what used to be the playground. He is not in a tent or anything. A guy approaches him and tells him about the water truck outside. He asks: “So, how much is water today?” When he learns it is free, he runs barefoot to secure a spot in the line.

A while later, we go outside to check on the progress. A girl, about 15 years old, wearing prayer clothes, gets out of the line after filling the jug she has. She can’t even wait to use something to put the water in. She takes off the lid and drinks the water. She closes her eyes to enjoy it. She puts the lid back and goes back towards the school with a big smile on her face.

 

 

8 janelas

 

Nara Leão - Maria Moita (Carlos Lyra - Vinicius)

in memoriam CARLOS LYRA

Pra por pra trabalhar gente que nunca trabalhou

ZIAD IN GAZA

 Our host family surprises me. Despite all the miserable things, and the daily struggle to secure bread, drinking water and water for toilets and washing; the struggle of dealing with fear, stress and uncertainty, they manage to gather – grandparents, children, the wife of the oldest, and three grandchildren – and for an hour or two at night they talk, laugh and sometimes sing and play games.

They always invite me and my sister to join but we politely refuse. We want to ensure we don’t invade their privacy, especially now that the whole evacuation situation has gone on much longer than we anticipated.

I don’t know how to describe it, but they are people of simple dreams and simple lives. I admire how they manage to tune out all the distraction and fear for a short while to enjoy being a family.

---

Lying on the couch reflecting on my day, I am glad that amid all the misery, there is still a space for acts of kindness, signs of hope and moments of joy.

I believe that hope is an inner feeling; but from time to time, it should be a decision. And tonight, I choose to be hopeful. I close my eyes to try to relax, and I hope for a better tomorrow.

 

ZIAD IN GAZA

 

I am walking with Ahmad when we pass a bombed house. The house has collapsed and looks like a pile of giant Lego pieces. The surprising part is that there is one part of the house that is still perfectly fine – the kitchen and the room next to it on the second floor fell in one piece over the rubble. Even the kitchen sink is perfectly fine.

I stop for a while to look at the scene and think of the owners and how they would feel every time they pass by. I bet there have been a lot of happy moments in that kitchen, cooking meals for family gatherings, and maybe gossiping about what’s happening. The next room could be a playroom for the children or maybe a teenager lying on their bed thinking of their crush. Then it hits me: did the residents of the house make it out alive? Or were they sleeping when it happened?

 

Wilson Simonal - Lobo Bobo (Carlos Lyra - Ronaldo Boscoli)

IN MEMORIAM CARLOS LYRA 

Um chapeuzinho de maiô

Ouviu buzina e não parou

Mas lobo mau insiste

E faz cara de triste

Mas chapeuzinho ouviu

Os conselhos da vovó

Dizer que não pra lobo

Que com lobo não sai só

Autorretrato | Self-portrait

 

Tradução simultanea

AROEIRA

 

 BRUM 

 

  

 

NANDO MOTTA

 

 

 

ZIAD IN GAZA

 A woman I know once wondered about what life would be like if tears were coloured. If there was a specific colour for tears of joy, sadness, anger, despair and helplessness.

We have reached a stage where it is not a surprise to see someone crying in the street. They might have lost someone, they might have lost their home or maybe they have no place to go. The list could go on and on.

I leave early every day to start searching for anything useful. The shops open early to welcome all the lost souls. I call us the lost souls because we don’t know who we are any more. We had jobs, dreams and somewhat normal routines. Then suddenly we had to leave, and found ourselves in places we have never lived in before. Now we are facing the unknown. Our minds and souls are lost.

I see a man bringing a big bag with Saj bread. He starts calling out to let people know that he has something to sell. I run and reach him first. I ask him for some bread and pay him. Just like that. Then many people start running towards him. I take the bread – no, I hug the Saj bread – and pass through the gathering crowd. I have a big smile over my face. For almost half an hour I keep walking, not focusing where I am going. I’m just feeling happy.

A tear falls down my face, it does not need a colour. It is not a tear of sadness. We have reached a stage where getting bread easily is a victory, and it was a tear of gratefulness. I was grateful.

 

 

Carlos Lyra - Influência do Jazz (in memoriam)

Pobre samba meu
Foi se misturando se modernizando, e se perdeu
E o rebolado cadê?, não tem mais
Cadê o tal gingado que mexe com a gente
Coitado do meu samba mudou de repente
Influência do jazz

Wilson Urban Super Sniper

 

JEFFREY ST. CLAIR

 

+ In 2022, there were more than 48,000 firearm-related deaths in the United States – that’s about 132 people dying from a firearm-related injury each day. Guns were the leading cause of death for children and teens (ages 1-19) for the fifth straight year–a total of 4,590 deaths in 2022. In the past decade (2013-2022), the gun death rate among children and teens has increased 87%. In 2022, Black children and teens were 20 times more likely to die by firearm homicide than white kids. There are about 80,000 gun-related injuries in the US every year that require medical treatment, costing well over a billion dollars a year, Medicaid and other public health coverage accounts for more than 60% of the costs for this care.

+ One of the justifications for the gross violations of civil liberties in post-911 America was that “the Constitution is not a suicide pact.” In fact, it is. Last year, 26,993 people died by gun suicide, a 2% increase over the previous year’s all-time record. Since 9/11, there have been more than 430,000 gun-related suicides in the US.

+ Yet, here’s Ted Cruz denying that gun violence is a public health crisis: ”They call it a public health crisis because they want to put supposed experts in charge of disarming you. The Second Amendment and the Bill of Rights is not a public health crisis.”

+ Sen. John Kennedy (R-LA): “Why do you think that Chicago has become America’s largest outdoor shooting range?”

+ Dr. Megan Ranney of the Yale School of Public Health: “Mississippi, Louisiana, and Missouri actually have higher firearm death rates.”

+ Ryan Busse, a former executive at Kimber America, a major gun manufacturer, in an interview with Pro Publica: “Now we have a gun called the Wilson Urban Super Sniper. I mean, what are you supposed to do with that? We now have a gun called the Ultimate Arms Warmonger. What are you supposed to do with that?”

 

 

ZIAD IN GAZA

 

Yesterday, Ahmad and I were out trying to find some long-sleeved undershirts for me to keep warm at night. We did not find any. In one street, he said: “I don’t know why, but I hate this street.” I remained silent. I hate the whole area we are staying in. It is true that they welcomed us, that we are “safer” because we are here, but this area is a reminder of every horrible thing we have been through. But then I wonder, if we survive, won’t everything and everybody around us be a reminder?

 

Dino passa o trator

QUINHO 

 

 FRAGA

  

 

   AROEIRA  

 

The Rolling Stones - Happy (Live at Tokyo Dome 1990)

PARABENS KEITH RICHARDS 80

ELIANE EMBRUN – CONGO