The bitter slice

Meanwhile, I taste a tangerine, juicy and delicious, a sense of guilt lurks in my feeling.

“I’m here wrapped in the warmth of my cottage, eating some fruit and, at the same time, there are people who no longer have a home and food out there. People like me, without blame, but born and raised in a less lucky place. I’m thinking about the Ukrainian people, but also of the Somalis, Yemenis, Syrians, Lebanese, and some African populations, who still live in a war regime. People who lose their family, sometimes the same life, while looking for a way to salvation elsewhere. Or I think about those who remain; camped in bunkers, subways, undergrounds waiting for the alarm siren to stop sounding. Darkness, fear, despair, uncertainty, and more fear… accompany those endless hours of the curfew, in which nothing makes sense anymore. The slice of my mandarin is suddenly bitter… bitter like tears of those children, who must separate from their parents called to fight, bitter like the wickedness of those who, for mere personal interests or the nation, call for war. And the sense of guilt I feel consists in believing that there is nothing I can do to stop this sick mechanism, which smells of hate and death. Instead, it is a mistake… I can do one thing: reflect. When another human being is miserably hit, I too… no indeed all of us, we are, indirectly. Then we can do something, in our small way, to make the world we live in a better place. It would be enough not to remain indifferent.”

I swallow this bitter slice of mandarin with difficulty, but I have to do it because the awareness of what is happening is the first step against this umpteenth absurd impiety.