Taking care of Baby Jesus | Tomando conta do Menino Jesus

 

Jair Rodrigues — Feio Não É Bonito (1963)

IN MEMORIAM CARLOS LYRA

Feio, não é bonito
O morro existe
Mas pede pra se acabar
Canta, mas canta triste
Porque tristeza
E só o que se tem pra contar
Chora, mas chora rindo
Porque é valente
E nunca se deixa quebrar
Ah, ama, o morro ama
Um amor aflito, um amor bonito
Que pede outra história

(Carlos Lyra - Gianfrancesco Guarnieri)

Tempo de Tela

ADÃO

 

ZIAD IN GAZA

 I remember a conversation that happened outside our room between the hosting family members. There is no wood left to burn to prepare food, and it was not safe to go out and search for it, or even buy it, if that were possible. They decided to take out one of the wooden doors they have in order to cut it up and burn it. I hear their conversation, and argument, about which door should be taken.

Inside the room we are staying in, we have other debates. Another arrangement of “escape bags” and discussion about what to take and what to leave. I go through my certificates and legal documents. I choose the most important ones and put them in the bag. The others I leave in another bag that we will leave behind if something bad happens. Even the weight of paper matters when running for your life.

Another debate, and guilt process, is the amount of food we eat. Every time we want to eat something, we have this feeling of should I eat it all? Should I keep some for later? Should I give my portion to another family member? We are lucky enough to have food left; there are families out there with nothing to eat.

 My throat is dry and my voice is very weak. Yet I choose to hum a Syrian song:

Take me to any country, leave me there, and forget all about me

Throw me in the middle of the sea, don’t look back, I have no other option

I am not leaving for fun, neither for a change of scenery

My house was bombed and destroyed; and the dust of rubble blinded me

Let me try, no matter what, I am a human being

Call it displacement or immigration … just forget about me

 

 

 

Natal em Gaza

ARNALDO BRANCO 

 

 

 

BENETT 

FERNANDES  

 

 

True Believer - Nwando Ebizie

Gypsy Rose Blanchard had her mother killed. Now free, what’s her story?

 

 

"She was in prison after she persuaded her online boyfriend to murder her mother, who had been abusive. Blanchard’s case – which spawned a popular crime drama, a documentary, a book and more – also drew widespread attention to a condition known as Munchausen syndrome by proxy, which her mother, Dee Dee Blanchard is believed to have suffered from."

 

KEEP READING

 Gypsy Rose Blanchard had her mother killed. Now free, what’s her story? | Crime News | Al Jazeera

Maglore - A Vida É Uma Aventura

A gente envelheceu A gente superou Cada momento em que A vida foi mais dura A história se escreveu Em um final que não chegou A vida é uma aventura

Natal do Amorim

AMORIM

 

Natal de Assalto

AROEIRA

 

 

FRAGA

 

 

QUINHO

 

 

11 janelas

 

Gal = Canção Que Morre No Ar (Carlos Lyra- Ronaldo Boscoli)

IN MEMORIAM CARLOS LYRA

Brinca no ar
Um resto de canção
Um rosto tão sereno
Tão quieto de paixão

Morre no ar
O sempre mesmo adeus
Meus olhos são teus olhos

Para nós, vem
Um mundo sempre amor
O pranto que desliza
No seio de uma flor
Terra-luz, anjo só
Mil carícias você traz
Beijo manso, luz e paz

ZIAD IN GAZA

 The members of the second family we fled to, the ones who discovered recently that their house had been destroyed, were able to leave Gaza. As holders of dual-nationality passports, their names were approved over a month ago. Yet, they refused to leave at first and wanted to stay. Then they reached a stage where there was nothing left for them. They had no options, they left.

I think of them and the others who left. I think of their last messages while they were in Gaza. Apologetic ones saying they feel as if they are betraying the rest of Gazans and letting them down by leaving. Despite their misery, they still feel horrible for leaving, for having a chance at being alive. Some of them were crying, some of them were talking in a hurry. I remember telling every single one of them to leave and never look back, to save themselves.

A couple of friends called me from Egypt a day or two after they arrived. They sounded completely different. They sounded like normal people, who had a good night’s sleep, who are not talking while worrying they might be bombed at any minute. They sounded like people who have had a good meal, of their own choice, and maybe they had some dessert, too. Instead of referring to all of us collectively as “we”, they have started referring to us as “you”, and to themselves as “we”.

Right now, everyone is so lacking in hope that they don’t wish the situation to be over, they just wish that they or everyone will be able to leave Gaza.

 

A coalizão dos vampiros