We have betrayed the earth, becoming its degenerate parents. We have forgotten the mystery of death and the respect for life. And now our hearts are a minefield
The other day I made the first sowing of the season, the moon was favorable, and so was the weather: a bright day capable of unleashing all the strength of spring. Once I didn’t sow so early but, from year to year, I had to anticipate in the hope that the great enemies of any sower, the ants, would still be slowed down by the low temperatures. The day before, in fact, the snow had fallen and this gave me hope for their drowsiness; the peach trees, the apricots, the cherry trees had blossomed and that snow, that April ice meant only one thing: no fruit this summer. This was also the case last year. Sowing and reaping are not two mathematically consequent actions. Admiring the blossoming of a peach tree does not give us the certainty of delighting ourselves with its fruits in a few months. In the anesthetized world of different electronics: I press a button and the order of my will is carried out, but nature does not know submission to our will and perhaps, too often, we forget that we need it to nourish us. It is said that she is a mother, but more often than not I find myself thinking that she is rather a daughter because, just like a daughter, we should nurture her, love her, respect her, accepting her whims in adolescence as well as the fact that sometimes , decide to do his own thing. Yes, we should be parents of the earth, but what foolish parents we have become, we have projected onto it a mechanistic vision: if we do so, it will react with, but it is a false perception; we are in fact convinced that the game is in our hands and that it is up to us to disassemble and reassemble it according to the dictates of science. Life, of course, a continuous war, even coming into the world is; prior to medical advances, it was common for the child or the mother to die, or both, at the time of delivery. The prolonged and privileged well-being, thanks also to the progress of science, has given us the illusion that life is nothing more than a walk in a city park, but it is not so. Fragility is the figure of the living, and perhaps it would be important to question ourselves about this fragility.
Since the war in Ukraine, I have avoided all the means of communication that I normally use. I was born in Trieste in the fifties of the last century, genetically and historically the war belongs to me; I was able to touch the scars of my grandfather, who miraculously survived four years in the trenches; I grew up with war wounds in my parents’ minds; I have collected cyclamen on the sinkholes; I saw the fugitives of Communism arrive on mattresses; the military patrols and the barking of dogs were the sinister background of every childhood walk on the Karst, as well as the vision of the shacks and fences that surrounded the fields where refugees from Istria had found refuge. What changes, I said to myself, if I see the images of the war? I know them all, and unfortunately they are always the same: my mother’s beloved little dog Bibi, transformed into a torch under a bombing, illuminates all my nights with an inextinguishable restlessness, as does the fragility of my family whose identity is memories were wiped out within seconds by an explosion. And the air warnings? Although I haven’t experienced them, they are all still in my ears, as is the anguish of the days and nights my parents spent in the air-raid shelters.
Epigenetics has now revealed to us that the great traumas of previous generations affect, and not a little, on subsequent ones. All my books are actually full of war because in each of them the unavoidable question always arises, that of the origin of evil. The war does not end when peace is stipulated but lasts for tens, for hundreds of years in the memory of the peoples, and that inner wound is nothing but gunpowder, ready to explode at the slightest spark. Tanks, mortars, bombings are basically tragically the most superficial part of the speech because what is devastated forever by a conflict is the soul of a people, its ability to recreate a world in which conflict is absent.
A few days ago, unfortunately, I failed in my vow of abstinence from information: I was looking for an article that had been reported to me and I came across some photos from the war. They were abominable images, and it was abominable that they had been published. What can one feel in front of those people surprised by a sudden and cruel death in the places where they had always lived? Horror, of course, dismay, and also an inevitable hatred for those who could have done that mess. Information provokes our indignation, forgetting that, in the shadow of indignation, a much less noble feeling lurks, that of revenge: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, they slumber inside each of us and, to awaken them. , even the smallest noise is enough. Before the mortars, silently, our hearts are armed. l the real minefield, There is a need to move cautiously so as not to blow everything up and on this step, so necessary to become truly aware of our actions, there is too often a guilty silence. In principle we behave civilly only until the tragic events of history push us to act in the opposite way but, as soon as things change, the explosive reality hidden in our hearts catches fire and often pushes us to do things that never. , in well-being and peace, we would have thought we could do. The great tragedies of the twentieth century tell us just about this.
So just as we treated the earth not as a daughter but as a slave to be exploited to the full, then trying to revive it without having changed our master attitude in the least, so we treat our brothers who have lost their lives as objects to be exhibited, depriving them of the fear and trembling that up to a time not far the human being felt in front of the mystery of death. By erasing the sacredness of the earth we have also annulled the sacredness of man, the mystery through which all destiny is fulfilled, and this annulment unfortunately lies at the basis of the mad rush we are making towards transhumanism. In fact, what is repeated to us in all possible ways? That we are only commodities and that no ethics belongs to us, except that of trade. Virtues no longer exist, courage no longer exists, greatness of soul no longer exists, that uniquely human capacity to confront destiny and face it no longer exists. the chaos that rattles us here and there, and the only ncora of salvation that is offered to us is that of technology.
The heart, as I wrote in my most famous book, is like the earth: half in light, half in shadow. Denying this reality places, and will always place, the enemy outside of us, transforming us into beings who run hungry for the earth in search of ever new scapegoats on which to discharge the responsibility of evil. this race that makes us blind and deaf to the mild Light of the Lamb who sacrificed himself for us, giving the world the only Wisdom truly capable of overcoming every shadow.
April 12, 2022 (change April 12, 2022 | 20:59)
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