The Myth of Empathy

Would you be okay coming into this world as an orphan?

If there was a way to translate a question into emotions already lived in the future, I would not be alive.The next statement will never be understood by anyone who had parents; being an orphan is a different sort of pain; a pain that never subsides, it envelop us, I have to accept, until the day we die.

Those thoughts, like pretty much any other thought I have these days, flourish from the surreal crimes the creatures name israelis are committing in Palestine. They have now, single handily, created NINETEEN THOUSAND ORPHANS in the world in only three months.

 When future generations learn about israel and israeli"s crimes, they will be missing a major part of the events we are witnessing live: empathy for israelis and israel. Fleeting. Faint. Almost non existent empathy, except in very brief moments when their new inventive cruel ways make us doubtful. 

In the future, israel's legacy will be the fleeting empathy we had with israel and israelis while we watched them commit crime after crime. Acts of violence that were so heinous that it lit up our empathy and gave them, for a brief second, the benefit of being a human being. And yet, time and time again we came to find out that they went beyond what we had already thought as evil:

like invading a hospital dressed as doctors and nurses and then killing patients and children:

like preventing food and water to be distributed to the starving population, but leaving behind little canister marked as military food so that children could find it and open, and die ,when, in fact, their hope for sustenance ended up being a grenade;

like the shooting of their own israeli citizens in cold blood when they were shouting in Hebrew, partially undressed and waving a white flag:

like an israeli sniper shooting two christian women in a catholic church and killing them as they made their way to the bathroom.

like the little Palestinian boy and his brother who were chased by the IDF and ran into his house, and before the soldiers had a chance to get him he died of a hear attack. A little boy died of a heart attack caused by fear.

like forcing doctors and nurses out of a hospital AT GUN POINT and condemning to death the days old infants that had no one to feed them. Babies that starved to death alone. 

These moments, upon hearing this, our empathy were with the IDF soldiers, with israelis, with israel. " It can't be true." we briefly thought until the video evidence once again surprised us. Many of these videos proudly shot by the israelis themselves.

like the artist and filmmaker, Steven Spielberg who once said in an interview that "Empathy is the most important sentiment in cinema." and then directed the masterpiece Schindler's List. 

And now, there will not be a single honest human being in this world, who sees that film, and won't be divided by the end of it: 

ONE the atrocity committed against Jews is something so horrific that the entire world need to make sure it never happens to anyone else.

TWO the Jewish man who made this movie knows about Gaza, about the concentration camp in the backyard of israel, about the daily murder of Palestinians and yet, he said nothing about it to anyone. And when, in a plot point so absurd no writer would ever write it, the people of israel began killing children for over ONE HUNDRED DAYS, destroying HOSPITALS, UNIVERSITIES, CHURCHES, MOSQUES, HOMES and displacing over ONE MILLION PEOPLE. 

When all of these event took place LIVE ON THE INTERNET FOR THE ENTIRE WORLD TO SEE.

Mr. Spielberg and his fellow ZIONISTS in Hollywood went to work threatening every single person and assuring their silent complicity in the Genocidal taking place in the land of Jesus of Nazareth. 

It seems to me, as an atheist, that if there is a God, he has indeed chosen the jewish people of israel to unite us all. Their cruelty lit up our humanity.

It is a well known fact now that israel are masters of propaganda and perennial liars. So just like the moguls in Hollywood, they changed the narrative and made themselves the heroes. Never missing a single opportunity to tell everyone that God has chosen them as the " pupil of His eyes" and that " we are the good ones. Fighting the evil Arabs for all of you."

Problem is, our internet is working.

My ❤️ and SOUL Belongs to Palestinians

This is a crime against our own humanity; each Palestinian life taken dims our collective light a bit more.

I'm grateful for the food they are about to eat. Praise Allah 🙏

2 Babies Under a Building

Watch a little child climbing from under a building in Gaza. 

INHUMANE 

doesn't begin to describe this madness.

Une Recette Pour Une Belle Vie

   

     Sometimes, the memories of my grandmother overwhelms me and I have to go searching for pieces of my history online; the history that formed me as a human being was written in Afonso Arinos, a small village located on the borderline of the states of Rio de Janeiro and Minas Gerais. Minas Gerais, undoubtedly, one of the most beautiful places in the world. 

     Just type the name of a few of its cities in your image search box and you can begin to plan your next vacation: Diamantina, Tiradentes,  Congonhas, Sao Joäo del Rey, Mariana, and the second most beautiful city in the world for me: Ouro Preto. New York City being forever my favorite city, followed by Paris, which lost the second place in my heart when I visited Ouro Preto em 2015.

     Tonight, for whatever reason, I typed Rio das Flores into my search box and discovered the beautiful Fazenda do Paraizo, owned by the beautiful couple, Paulo Roberto Botelho and his wife, Simone Botelho. There's so much I could say about the property but my words will fall short to describe the beauty of this place. You can see it for yourself.

     The second Fazenda was a nice surprise since I know the family who owns it; we all grew up in Afonso Arinos; merely 10 minutes away from where  Fazenda Santa Justa is located. An added layer of nostalgia is the fact that Vanessa Cardäo, the young woman describing the place is related to the girl I loved when I was 9 years old. 

     Then it came to me why I had a hard time talking about the beauty of both places; certain experiences have to be lived, not described. And in living it, day to day, a human being can begin to form a receipt pour une belle vie. 

     Here's how the exquisite Vanessa Cardäo describes Fazenda Santa Justa::

 "Essa fazenda pra mim tem gosto de memória, de lembrança, de felicidade, de valores, de família e de Deus também." Clarissa Cardäo. 

 "For me this farm "tastes" like memory, remembrance, happiness, values, family, and God too." Clarissa Cardäo. 

     Words to live by. What else is there to say? 

                                                    

Undying Love

My connection with Yemen can't be explained; I have never been there. But if reincarnation exists, Yemen is the birthplace of my soul. 

Today, the United States of America is bombing Yemen, and it's attacking something deep in my core, I don't quite understand.

An essay I wrote back in 2020 about my love for Yemen. And 8 years old Karla Maria.

By the year 2025, the world opened up to us like a cell. Without politics and religion dividing us, we took to traveling everywhere, meeting new people, eating their food and listening to their music, participating in religious ceremonies of others and praying to their Gods; as well as ours. It is estimated that 4.5 billion people were outside of their native country every single day in a single calendar year. Our new mantra became GO OUT & SOCIALIZE.

     The first country I visited was Yemen, a land that has fascinated me from the time I saw the first picture of their mountains. Shaharah, with its geometric shapes carved right off the mountains, and its spectacular 17th century footbridge that joins villages and spans across mountains defying gravity, held together only by the grace of mathematics. The Bridge of Sighs, how is known, stood before me like a reminder: that I’m alive, that life is short, that I ought to be listening to a song. Stairway to Heaven immediately came to mind, but before I knew, Smokey Robinson was singing My Girl. I stood there thinking: “I've got all the riches baby one man can claim/oh yes I do.”

     I visited Shibam, with its anil-colored skies met by green at the horizon and land carried to the forefront of our minds by its beige pastel tones. Buildings made of mud and earthy tone were turned orange by a sleepy sun. You can see its colors in the painting “Three Reds” by Brennie Brackett, another place I travel to in meditation.

 Unbeknownst to the painter, I lifted the vase and replaced the white cloth with one of my grandmother's embroidered work. I can still see her sitting there, mid-afternoon, quietly embroidering. My grandmother was peace itself. 

Shibam, under the light of a retrieving sun, is an unforgettable site. The Yemeni women heading to pray and giving thanks to a new life, dressed by their own choice in my favorite color, 

black 

like arrows that 

fell from the sky; 

their voices like songs 

in flight 

forever kept in my heart

And mind. 

Henry, my goodfellow, forever standing by my side. Come, let us visit the Sufi monasteries and sit down for some coffee, while we make our way to Mecca, Cairo, Istanbul, Egypt - the coffee trail.

     After religion and politics were put aside, we had to figure out a way to come to terms with our differences, and we did; we simply agreed that we believed in different things. Yes, I disregarded the complexity of the human condition, it was prejudicial to a solution. Imagine a world where we can be free of the voices in our head, the tantalizing voices telling us that all the problems are derived from other people. If other people behave the way we want, all will be fine, “I have the right way. I am certain it would be best for everyone,”  thinks each single person. 

Once it infects someone, a virus has a single program: it invades the cell, changes it, and multiplies itself. Unless it is killed or it kills the host, it will continue with its course of action without deviations.

     I know that we are not viruses, but I am sure that sometimes we behave as one without knowing, think of a kid | Part 3 | falling in love with someone and walking away from that person not knowing why for almost 35 years. So we might as well commit to one single action everyone would follow. Each religion and every religion is right, if God wants someone killed, he knows how to do it himself. Our agreement is that, for the 100 years we each spend on this earth, we will not hurt each other. If God decides to punish all of us when we die, so be it. God will judge us all in the end. 

     Out of all the people in the world, if the religious people are right, there will be no forgiveness for the people with no faith, the atheists. I am willing to take this chance if everyone just puts their guns on the ground; break some bread and coffee. I will even drink tea if that's what it takes.

     It took me a long time to post this. I read it over and over again, and the only note the key on my piano played loudly and repeatedly was: 

the human condition, the human condition, the human condition

     I thought about asking God, except that I don’t believe He exists; so I went to see a girl I love when I was 9 years old. I sat there for the longest time. She caught me staring: “ Eyes on the blackboard, mister,” she gestured to me and I did what she told me to do. I always listened to every word she said. Tia Zelia was enumerating the responses available to us; she wrote the number 2 on the blackboard, corresponding to the second answer. Karla Maria got my attention again. The light coming from the window, bouncing off her hair was mesmerizing. The number 2. Light. Particles. Traveling. A 9-year-old child. Love.

God, how does all of this fit together?

the human condition, the human condition, the human condition

It is ludicrous to think of a simple agreement that would allow us to share this world in peace and cooperation, 

the human condition, the human condition, the human condition

It is naive to think of a simple agreement that would allow us to share this world in peace and cooperation, 

the human condition, the human condition, the human condition

     I looked at Karla again, smiling at something, and everything slowed down to flow. I thought about Newton and the time he forgot to listen to his inner child and mistook love with an ether; until a little boy came along following a beam of light, possessing only a child's imagination and a few numbers and letters. E=mc ²

The pundits looked at his clothes, his social status, and his Jewish heritage, looking for a way to dismiss the imaginative simplicity of his idea. Mathematics is not dissuaded by politics, religion, or the human condition; it sustains its truths and holds our material universe in place, unimpressed by the egoic monuments we create to ourselves.

     I thought of Esperanto, the most beautiful and simple idea of a universal language, and yet no one has accepted it. I know precisely why. We like ourselves the way we are: we want our heritage, our culture, and the way our name sounds when it's called by someone who loves and accepts us. We like our music, bread and butter, coffee, and tea. We like what we like; the only way this works is by accepting and sharing.

     Our name is the first note we hear from our mothers and fathers, and that becomes our music—the soundtrack that codes our life programming.

     The experiences we have make us unique, and they represent the particular place we come from. You wouldn't think of building a house in California with the same materials they use in Niterói. You wouldn’t think of never hearing the Italian idiom again, or French, or never again seeing the majestic Arabic script on white paper; how could we ever replace any of that with Esperanto? 

     We are different. We like different things. We believe in other Gods. Or no Gods at all. Let us agree to that and share our beliefs in communion.

     While you read this, millions of doctors around the world are out there risking their lives to save our loved ones. They don’t see color, creed, or death itself. They are risking the only lives they have because their piano key plays one simple note over and over and over…

 the hippocratic oath the hippocratic oath the hippocratic oath

     Three words—one simple idea—one agreement—enough to make doctors, nurses, and staff risk their only existence for us, worldwide, as my beloved Renee did.

This is the complete series of essays.

" I am the bread of life..." Jesus Christ

Another Palestinian the Zionist killed

The happiness, the simple joy of empathy. A simple loaf of bread.

The Unappreciated Natural Resources Called HUMAN BEINGS

And for this post we will focus on the Arabs, a rich, exquisite culture being eradicated year after year for the natural resources of their land. Their land.

Countless poets and artists and simple human beings who were lucky to be alive and whose lives have been made into hell for the natural resources of their land. Their land. 

Yemen, once one of the most beautiful places in the world, made by God himself if you believe in such things, now virtually destroyed for the natural resources of their land. Their land.

Afghanistan. Iran. Turkey. Egypt. Syria. and on and on. Every single one of these places attacked and vilified for the natural resources of their land. Their land.

From the ashes of centuries upon centuries of its history, that includes being the place God chose to allow his only son coming into this world. Jesus Christ, born and raised and killed in the the same land we now watch the white christians of this world bomb, again and again, for the natural resources of their land. Their land.

Still they rise. Still they live behind their protest: poems, cries, chants, and unrelenting courage even before the white christians of this world unimaginable cruelty and sadism for the natural resources of their land. Their land.

Here's one who lived long ago and left behind his impression of this world. Long after these evil white men have perished, it will echo to future generations and attest to all this cruelty.

                                                           when I die

poem of the butterflies

don't sleep