Peace on Earth Never Again


Dancing our hooves off with Shaun the sheep.

A few days ago, I read an article describing the wish for world peace as a deluded, inexcusable passiveness. According to the author, the only current solution to mankind’s problems is a frantic combativeness, without which we would all be grazing sheep, condemned to give up our identities.

As the moment passed by, and my powerful words can no longer guide the fate of the world, neither kill anyone — thank goodness — I’m ready to make a confession. As incorrigible as I can be, and I admit it, I still allow myself to be fooled by a friendly face and good intentions, yes, sir; I “voted” for Herzog in the last Israeli elections.

If Alan could read me, he’d probably kill me (I can hardly wait, considering I now have a translator to interpret my words), certainly throwing his clairvoyant darts against me, with all his acute insolence:

“I warned you.”

Now I’ve got another confession to make, much more depressing still. I no longer hate Sean Hannity as before; I’ve even promised myself to stop repeating my infamous and childish pun, “Heinity” — better explain it once and for all: Heinity equals “Hannity + heinous”, as in detestable, hateful. Alan grew tired of alerting me, with his typical impatience, that I’m incapable of joking in his graceful idiom and that my American punning doesn’t work at all, how can I live in this country being unable to demolish daily routine in order to survive?

Ah, Hannity. Right. Terrifying. I even started to believe the horrible things he affirms live, to his viewer’s delight. Go figure.

Very much at ease, Alan goes on knocking down some of my idols, while butchering others in half. According to my beloved husband, my reckless writing and I are despicably responsible for the plague that has been devastating the United States, due to my heartfelt 2008 campaign in favor of Obama, seven good years ago, during which, let’s face it, I haven’t learned a thing. Deep inside, I bluntly insist on my intercontinental political blindness.

I can hardly believe my eyes and ears. Obama is doing whatever he can in order to become the absolute ruler of a third-world democracy; one example is his latest proposal for a mandatory vote, following my home country’s model: in Brazil, as you all know, the old routine of buying votes is still in practice in remote locations. The American counterpart will be conveniently adapted to a wilder capitalism, as the inept leader of the free world announced his intention to impose a US$ 20 fine to every faulting voter, compared to much more reasonable R$ 5 in Brazil — oh well, currently US$1.56, due to the re-implementation of an obsolete, deplorable inflation programme, now recrudescent.

Moreover, Obama stands firm in his foreign policy — ops, “diplomacy” — of aligning himself with the worst tyrants still walking on Earth, in nations such as Iran, for example, notwithstanding its good cinema, one of the most dangerous countries on the planet; don’t get me wrong, these are not freedom lovers.

After the stunning victory of his archenemy last week — or, even worse, after the insolent Bibi, picture that, looked down on the “big boss” in his own living room — “our” president has been openly threatening to put an end to US secular support to a nation which is a symbol of democracy and modernity.

Who’s the bad guy in this clumsy, not to say biased agreement?

The truth seems obvious, but, incorrigible, I refuse to accept it. Deep inside, I fathom, there must be something wrong; I can’t accept that the sweet, charming, charismatic, well-dressed, and nobelized Obama is another person entirely, the perfect opposite of what he has been advertising to his supporters. What a scam!

I should have known better, when Obama, with all his new-agey well-behaved righteousness, confessed during his campaign that he actually smoked. Ouch. “Legal” cigarettes, of course, but the way things are going, and considering the neo-powerful marijuana lobby, he will probably extend the habit to new and outstanding adventures, as a means of support to the new economic power in the kingdom.

Ok. My usual readers, faithful practitioners of umbilical regionalism, couldn’t care less about my subjects today, as they pay little or no attention to the world’s miseries; their own is enough. But considering my most intimate situation, and my circumstantial marriage, my daily routine does include all these concerns, from white kitchens in Brazil, where I grew up, to the bellicose backyard in the Middle East, where I was born. How could I not.

The whole world is upside down, my friends. And I don’t mean the absurdities we’ve been forced to witness in Brazil, although we must admit, we have a lot in common with the global misery largely exposed by the big media, as they invest in the “education” of our opinions. O Globo and the NY Times plead full exemption as they grant space to the worst current voices, who, provided their “first-class” support, succeed in their noble goal of influencing thousands, self-advocating and captivating followers.

It gives me the willies; pardon my French.

Nevertheless, we must agree that even the most evolved voices, those I still read open-mindedly, showing my respect, have been stumbling upon paradoxical concepts, and once the thought artillery is shot, the bullet will never return. This week, for example, in which winter ended in the world that counts, Thomas Friedman apologized in his NY Times column for his naiveté, celebrating too soon that other crucial spring. Four years later, contrary to what he stated, Arab countries ended up not with freedom of speech, but with endless conflict. The “beast” has been released, not the poor, the committed, well-meaning citizen, always neglected.

I understand my words in this essay may sound twisted, disguised and blurred. There’s no reason for concern, though; I haven’t been smoking the wrong kind of weed. It’s actually about my own pain as I swallow hard my mistaken predictions, good-intentioned misinterpretations that don’t explain anything. Shame on me. This world has been backbreaking… and comprehending it, too strenuous.

All we can do is “to dance our hooves off” with Shaun, the sheep. Have a great Sunday, folks.

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