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Ottavia Massimo © all rights reserved


الحرب War Guerra

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    * English and Italian to follow

الحرب

 سأحاولأنأضعكمفيموقفتشعرونفيهبمشاعرمختلفةكليةعنتلكالمشاعرالتيعادةماأراهاعلىوجوهأولئكالذينيلاحظونويحكمونمنبعيد. فالكتابالصحفيونيكتبونعنالجانبالمرعبوالمروعللصراعاتدونماأدنىإدراكبأنمايقومونبهيزيدمنصعوبةإدراكالناس / القراءلمايحدثفيمنطقةالمعارك. فالموتمعاناة،والفقدانمأساة. لكنليسهذاكلماينتجعنالحرب.

ممالاشكفيهأنالناسيدركونحقيقةالأشياءمنداخلحدودالنظمالاجتماعيةوأنانطباعاتهمتتبلوربصورةتدريجيةنتيجةللديناميكياتالمحددةوغالبًاماتكوننتاجًالمشاعرمتناقضة. فتتأرجحالحربمابينآلياتالرقابةوالحكمالصارموحوادثالاضطراباتالخارجية،وأحيانًاتجمعبينهماسويًا،إلىأنتبلغذروتهابسببشدةوسرعةالأحداث. فصلاًعنأنالحربتعطىصورةًللحقائقالتيقدتبدوبعيدةًعنالسيناريوهاتالاقتصاديةالعالميةلكنهاوثيقةالصلةبها. كماأنالحروبمدعومةبغيابالاهتمامبالشعوبوعدمالاكتراثبهم.

فالحربتخلُفُالفوضى،وهيأمربديهيوغريزيلدىالبشر.

إذإنهاتملأالروحبمشاعرلامتناهيةوتفتحأبوابإدراكالواقععلىمصراعيها.

فالحروبتتحرككالظلفوقرؤوسالشعوب،وكالفيروسالذييضربالشعوببمشاعرمزيجبيناليأسالمطلقالعميق،إلىالمتعةوالسعادةالصافية.

كماتساهمالحروبفيإذكاءالإحساسبالكروبوالتيتصبحغيرمحتملةوتنفجرفيصورةمحاولاتللأخذبالثأروالانتقام.

أضفإلىذلكأنالسخطوالاستياءيؤديانإلىتولُّدالإذلالفينفوسالشعوبوإذكاءالشعوربالظلم،وغيابالعدل.

ونظرًالأنالأماكنتعبرعنفحواهاوعَبَقهاعبرأولئكالذينيعيشونبها،فإنمجردالافتراضبأنقيامأحدمابكتابةتقريرعنالحربمنمكتبهيشبهإلىحدكبيرتخيلأنأيفرديمكنهضمانعودةالروحإلىجسدهمرةأخرىبعدالوفاة. إنمايمكنأنيكونحقيقيًاعنالحربالسوريةهيتلكالتحليلاتالجيوسياسيةالتييطلقهاالخبراءالأجانب؛فضلاًعنالمقاتلينالأجانبالمأجورينللقتلأوالذينتحركهماعتقاداتهمالخاصة؛إضافةإلىانحرافسادةالعالمالماديالراغبينفيممارسةسلطاتالغزولتدميرالبنيةالتحتيةوإعادةبناءهامرةأخرى،تاركينعلامتهمومسمياتهمعلىالأعمالالناتجة.

فالحربتندلعفيفترةزمنيةمعينة،وذلكعندماتتحدمجموعةعناصرداخليةوأخرىخارجيةلإحداثالانفجار. فعمليةتحولالصراعإلىحربتتمبصورةتدريجية. إذإنالحروبلاتندلعفجأةولايجدالإنساننفسهفريسةللحربصدفة.

كماأنهناكعدةأشياءأخرىحقيقيةعنالحربالسوريةوهيالمعنىالحقيقيللإذلالالذييصبهعلىالشعبذاكالديكتاتورالذييبلغمنالعمر 40 عامًا،وتلكالحكومةالتيتبذلكلمافيجعبتهاووسعهالإبقاءالشعبالصوريتحتوطأةتلكالحربوالرعبالمُسْتَعِر. كماأنهناكأمرجدحقيقيوهوذاكالاستخدامغيرالمسبوقللقوةالمفرطةمنجانبالسلطاتالحكوميةضدشعبأعزلتماستغلالمواردهفيصنعوتكوينهذهالقوةالعسكريةفيالجيشالنظامي. كماأنهمنالحقيقيأيضًاذلكالتحولالروحيلأولئكالذينيشاهدونمُدُنهموقُرَاهمتملؤهابحورمنالدماءالمُسال،ولاشيءيملكونهسوىالشكريقدمونهلأولئكالذينيقفونبجوارهمللدفاععنهم.                                                    أوتافياماسيمو                                                                                                                                             

WAR

I will try to make you feel emotions quite different from the ones I usually see on the faces of those who observe and judge from afar.  Journalists write about the terrifying side of conflicts without realizing that in so doing they are making it harder for people to grasp what is really going on in in a battle zone. Death is suffering. Loss. Tragedy. But that is not all war is about.

People perceive things from within the boundaries of social systems and their perceptions evolve gradually as a result specific dynamics and of often contradictory feelings. War oscillates between mechanisms of strict control and instances of extreme disorder, sometimes present together, amplified by the intensity and speed of events.  War also mirrors realities that may be physically distant but are closely connected with global economic scenarios. They are sustained by the absence of any perception of individuals as such.

War is essentially chaos. Instinct. Improvisation. It fills the spirit with endless emotions and opens up the gates of perception. It moves like a shadow over populations, like a virus that strikes people with emotions running from the deepest despair to the purest joy.

It brings in its wake a feeling of anguish which soon becomes unbearable and explodes in vendettas. Discontent generates humiliation and a growing sense of injustice.

Just as places express their essence through those that live there, to suppose that one can report on a war from an office desk is like imagining one can guarantee the soul an after-life.  What is true about the Syrian war are the geopolitical analyses provided by foreign experts; the presence of foreign combatants either paid to kill or driven by their own convictions; the perversion of the Masters of the material world bent on conquering in order to destroy and rebuild, and to leave their mark on resulting work.

War breaks out at a specific moment in time, when a number of internal and external factors combine to explode. The process whereby a conflict becomes a war is gradual. Wars don’t happen by chance, nor does one find oneself in one by accident.

Also true about the Syrian war are the real humiliations inflicted on the population by a 40-year-old dictatorship, and all that the Government has done to keep the Syrian people under its heel through raw terror. Very real too is the unconditional use of a government forces   against the people whose resources helped create that army. But also true is the spiritual transformation of those who have seen their towns and villages run with blood and who can only thank whoever comes to their side to defend them.

 GUERRA 

Proverò a suscitare emozioni diverse dalle espressioni che solitamente leggo sui volti di chi osserva e giudica da lontano. I giornalisti raccontano il terrore dei conflitti, non rendendosi conto di allontanare la reale percezione della verità all’interno di una zona di lotta. La morte è dolore. Perdita. Tragedia. Ma non unicamente ciò che identifica una guerra. La percezione umana all’interno del sistema di una società, si muove attraverso dinamiche graduali e sentimenti contrastanti.  Come la guerra oscilla tra meccanismi di controllo e disordine estremi che si manifestano contemporaneamente e in maniera amplificata nella intensità e velocità degli avvenimenti. Un riflesso più o meno speculare di  realtà lontane ma strettamente connesse dai fenomeni economici mondiali.

Nutrite dall’assenza di percezione dell’ Individuo.

La guerra è essenzialmente kaos. Istinto. Improvvisazione.                                                                 Un’infinità di emozioni che avvolgono l’anima spalancando la percezione.                                   Un’ombra che si allarga a contagiare i popoli attraverso sentimenti che vanno dalla disperazione più profonda alla gioia più pura. Una sensazione di fastidio che diventa insopportabile ed esplode in vendetta. Un malcontento che genera umiliazione e crescente senso di ingiustizia.

Come i luoghi raccontano la propria essenza attraverso chi li vive, pretendere di saper narrare la guerra dalla poltrona di un ufficio, è come supporre di poter garantire all’anima la prossima vita.  Della guerra siriana sono vere le analisi geopolitiche effettuate da analisti esterni. La presenza di combattenti stranieri pagati per uccidere o fomentati da convinzioni  proprie. La perversione dei Signori del mondo materiale, intenzionati a conquistare per distruggere, ricostruire, firmare l’opera finale.

La guerra scatta in un momento epocale preciso, in cui più fattori interni ed esterni si incontrano per esplodere. Al livello per cui un conflitto si definisce guerra,  si arriva gradualmente. Non avviene né ci si trova per caso.

Della guerra siriana sono vere le umiliazioni che la dittatura quarantennale ha inflitto. Gli avvenimenti sporadici attraverso cui il governo ha dominato il popolo infondendo terrore. L’utilizzo incondizionato della forza militare governativa, costruita attraverso le risorse dei  cittadini ed esercitata contro gli stessi. La trasformazione spirituale di chi ha vissuto il sangue del proprio Paese e non può far altro che ringraziare chiunque arrivi a difenderlo.

                                                                                                                                  Ottavia Massimo

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FEAR

Is it worse to live in fear of being hit by a sniper ..or by a cancer?

E’ peggio vivere nella paura di essere colpiti da un cecchino ..o da un cancro?

 

WEB OttaviaMassimo IMG_1149Ottavia Massimo #Syria


Eternal Homes holy Fridays

March 6 – 2012 – Edlib, Syria

The Free Syrian Army was not yet officially FSA. The regime was holding the City through a complete unconditional use of weapons. Helicopters, tanks, snipers. Against some hunting guns without ammunitions.

Edlib

March 6 – 2012 – Edlib, Syria

What’s that Wael?

Nothing. Some graves.

In the playground.

Yes. It’s thursday, tomorrow demonstration. Just getting ready.


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Holy Friday. Bloody Friday

ITALIAN + PHOTOS – http://ottaviamassimo.com/2013/05/31/venerdi-santo-venerdi-sangue/

MAY 2013 – Aleppo, SYRIA

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Friday Aleppo is Bustan al Q’sser. An area of palaces that chases each other, from the bridge over the river,  up to the Old City. In Syria friday is a dangerous day. A day of rest. For Allah. The day when you gather at Shar al Bad’r  to pray,  screaming all together Allah is the greatest. But on Friday, Allah rests. While in Aleppo you die.

Today, I’m afraid. Adel is waiting for me at the border with his miny bus. It is the only appointment that I have, I hope to arrive by 11:30, before the beginning of the prayer. It’s been more than a month that I don’t go to Aleppo. So many things have happened. It was established Sharia Court. Kidnapped a friend. Killed another friend for which, of the murder, were blamed and acquitted my best friends in this part of Syria. Which are not here now, because the guilty of the murder has not yet been decided and the victim’s family is thirsty of revenge. The road has changed. There is no longer the great checkpoint “Industiral City Sheikh Najar”, before you had to make a long detour, now you pull straight up to Aleppo. The streets are crawling with people running and coming back from the market. The traffic is exhausting. As in all Arab cities, as in all the great cities of the world. If I had not already been, I would almost think of being in the noisy normality of a Middle-Eastern Friday. From the Turkish border, Aleppo is reached via a road that runs along cultivated fields and rural villages. Gradually from the countryside, you are immersed among industrial districts and housing. Today it is sunny. I’m used to the roar of the planes that haunts you ears and brain, when it is sunny. How strange, so far only a roar in the distance.

The boys at the check points are happy, They stop us, smile, ask me if I’m a journalist, to show them the documents. I say no. They approach intrigued. I show the bag of medicines and shoes. The smile widens and almost always, from the mouth comes a – Mash’Allah, sent by the Lord.

Begin the first piles of garbage. The trash that before skirted the road to form a wall miles long, seems to be greatly diminished. It ‘a serious problem the garbage. In Syria Leishmaniasis is spreading and Aleppo, in particular, is ravage by typhus.

I get off at Bustan al Q’sser, is full of people, the generators are working, shops are open, offering coffee granite, roast chicken. Traders shout the sale of fruits, vegetables, peanuts, bananas are everywhere. Large, swollen, brand Ciquita. I ask where they come from, a gentleman indicates a point towards the area under the control of the regime.

It ‘almost noon. From the front door of the mosque a line of people waiting, stretches up to the street, between the market stalls and cars. Children chase each other not caring of the sounds of war coming from the Old City at less than two miles away. They play, but the look reveals an unconscious wisdom, that forced and ruthless experience that life imposes. Learn or die. Two years have passed from the beginning of the revolution, but people continue to have children. It’s full of newborn babies. In the houses, on front lines, in hospitals. I think about the growing number of suicides in my country, holder of one of the world records for low birth annually. In Syria, the revolution seems to stand on the energy of children, their smiles, the projection of their future.

The prayer begins. You bend the head, bust, kneel, you kiss the earth. The more we are, the more Allah will be inclined to listen.

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The Qur’an consists of 114 chapters. One hundred and fourteen sura, a fractal of the period of time between Buddha and Mohammed, based on the theory that human civilization is a function of the geology of the Earth. Five hundred and seventy years between Christ and Buddha and five hundred and seventy years between Christ and M’hammed, that add up to a total of one thousand one hundred and forty years, 114 x 10. The Qur’an contains in itself the mathematical formula of four dimensional time based on code 0-19. The discovery is attributed to a scientist of Egyptian origin who graduated in biochemistry at the University of California, who discovered the relationship between the code 0-19 of the Maya and 19 of the Qur’an. The scientist was assassinated on January 31, 1990.

He had in mind to do a translation of the Koran and he would have been the first Arabic to translate the holy book in English. When he began the translation, he realized a mysterious peculiarities. Of the 114 chapters, there were 29 who had a “mystical letter” at the beginning. He subjected the Qur’an to computer analysis. Analyzed each of the 6436 verses, trying to determine the meaning of the mysterious mystic letters and discovered that you will find those letters, every time that the number 19 recurs.

He published his research in the ’80s and scientific journals dedicated to him a lot of attention. In that brief but intense period of fame, he stated that to be Muslim, you need only the Qur’an. This discovery and the upheaval that ensued, led to believe that the historical Islam was falling, because the same had rejected the Qur’an as text, following instead the invented “Hadith” and innovations of the Sunna. The researcher stated that the Hadith and the Sunna are the Koran, as the Catholic Church is the original teaching of Jesus.               In 1984, the government of Saudi Arabia, found and burned many of the books and documents concerning the discovery. The scientist died in the mosque of which he took care, in Tucson, Arizona. Murdered by an Islamic group from Colorado Springs, on the morning of January 31, 1990.

In the Qur’an it is stated that there is no distinction between the messengers. The messengers are sent to all peoples, all cultures, at all times. Over time, all the past messages, include and consume all the previous messages. The Quran contains the secret of the Universal religion, the message of the Law of Time. A message that proves the existence of a mathematics of the fourth dimension and that in fact, in the fourth dimension the number is his real language. At the root of every culture there are numbers 13 and 20. In Sanskrit language, 20 consonants and 13 vowels, in the language of the trees of the druids, 13 moons are named after the trees and an alphabet of 20 letters.

There is a higher and sacred mathematics, based on the 20 and not on 10, a vigesimal system, rather than decimal. The Essence of Time, is not in duration, counted in hours, minutes and mechanics seconds. The essence of time is in perception. The ability to perceive the synchronicity among the twenty fingers and toes and the thirteen major joints, reflecting the thirteen moons.

The old city of Aleppo is a memory that fades as the red of the blood on the rubble that tell it.

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A strong bang, suddenly interrupts the talk, smile, immobilizes steps and thoughts, the fast gestures of the traders, looks to the sky, a thousand hands placed on the forehead to see better, to understand from where, this time, and which building was hit. How many children have died embraced their mothers and how many fathers will run from the market to see who was reached, to shout a pain that they will not forget and will turn into revenge. A cloud of smoke and dust rises huge, imposing, majestic. People start to run away, it is the first explosion and the aircraft usually hit twice in a row, at a distance of three to seven minutes. They are MIG 21. You do not hear them, you do not see them. Until the first cries will start tearing the brain and then a deafening roar will cover them and while you run, you open your eyes wide and you’ll finally see it. A silver reflection threads into the sky disappearing into the hell of your paradise. You seek him, you follow him, you wait for him. But it’s always too late. When you see him, someone is already dead.

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The target was probably a hospital a couple of hundred meters from the bombing. Women scream resignation and anger – Why do not you come to an agreement? Enough war, we have no more children to sacrifice! – If the explosion had hit the target, they would have died about twenty-five boys admitted with gunshot wounds. It was rather hit a house. Three kids died.

Aleppo lives at night. There is a curfew, journalists do not go out because the photographers can not work at night and are charged for the room, not for the fixer. But as in many other war zones, the objectives are surrounded after sunset. The attack is launched after midnight. You hide just before dawn.

I wake up with rockets lighting up the sky over the Old Town. I’m sleeping in a house far away about two and a half kilometers from the objective of the bombing, the fourth floor of a building behind an enemy zone. The rockets leave from there,  the roar of the launch pierces your ears. From the district of the demonstrations, Bustan al Q’sser, some shots of Shilka, the flak. In Libya we were celebrating with cannon shots, the Shilka was used instead of fireworks, because every shot is followed by a red light that cuts the horizon.

In Syria the sky seems to cry flakes of blood. Someone knocks on the door, the owner of the house who lives upstairs, launches into the room with her three children clinging to the skirt. Terrified looks, the children tremble, the mouth open, the hands over the ears, eyes wide open on the window, her mother closes it, I  reopen it saying that the glasses are worse than the sheet metal. We sit, we hug, pray, but the voice does not come out and words are whispers of terror, too big, unbearable, filled with the pain of fear and remembrance of the blood of two years of war. Bang. Whistle. Light. Explosion. Tears. The thin veins of the hands of the children seem to explode at every roar.

They look at me seeking answers, another bombing, I start to scream – Allah akbar Allah akbaaaar! – The mother looks at me curiously, I smile, I look at the kids, I clench my fists, arms in the air – Allah akbar, hada nahne, Allah akbaaaaar! God is great, it’s us bombing, Jesh al Hurr, they are the rebels! God is greaaaaaat! – The children lose the hold of the hands on the skirt, they swallow, smile, shake their fists and scream with me Allah akbaaaar. Now at each explosion, we celebrate. And if they hit us? Images of deaths already lived are hammering the brain – if we will be the next, if I will live, what to say to his father? If only one of the children will survive, he will condemn me for having deceived him – you said that we were winning, that the barrels were our friends, that there was nothing to be afraid of. What will I say when terrified by the silence of the blood of injustice he will ask me – WHY ‘.

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PHOTOS: http://ottaviamassimo.com/2013/05/31/venerdi-santo-venerdi-sangue/


Void # Vuoto

When you’re afraid of the void, the body turns to look at memories, the mind runs after conflicting desires, the instinct of the soul casts a glow in to tomorrow, but it’s dark and her footsteps are far. When you’re afraid of the void, you pray. For the road not to be a return, for the fate not to be a call for help. That void it’s fear of being forgotten. Intense and ferocious as the terror on a frontline contested by snipers. Close your eyes and smile. Someone somewhere knows the hour of your death. You do not. You can just breathe, motionless. Raise the bar and jump.

IMG_0767 2Samaritan – Holy Land

IMG_2205 2Laxman Jhula – India

IMG_2719Pushkar – India

img_7610-e1313819877776Zawia – Libya

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Quando hai paura del vuoto, il corpo si volta a guardare i ricordi, la mente rincorre desideri contrastanti, l’istinto dell’anima proietta un bagliore nel domani, ma è buio e le sue orme lontane. Quando hai paura del vuoto, preghi. Ché la strada non sia un ritorno, la fortuna non una richiesta d’aiuto. Quel vuoto è paura di essere dimenticati. Intensa e feroce quanto il terrore su un fronte conteso dai cecchini. Chiudi gli occhi, sorridi. Qualcuno da qualche parte conosce l’ora della tua morte. Tu no. Puoi solo respirare, immobile. Alzare il tiro e saltare.


What is normality to you?#Cos’è per te la normalità?

Aleppo – SYRIA

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Bizarre how the spirit can adjust and get used to anything. Disgusting the deep lack of perception of who is addicted to adrenaline, success, money and nothing else. According to the majority of journalists that were covering frontlines in Halep: “there is nothing interesting anymore, life is normal”.

You can walk around in the market without fearing to get shot by a sniper, it’s true. You’ll probably feel safe even if warplanes are flying around. They will not target the market, they will not bomb one of the business run by the government on the enemy’s side. You’ll maybe get shot if you’ll try to clean the garbage on the streets. The sky at night it’s a battle of lights and explosions, but journalists sleep at that time. “I can’t take pictures anyways at night, who cares”.

It’a shame, because who has the opportunity and responsability to inform the world, seems to have no interest about real lives behind frontlines. Not everyone, but the majority of who is building the appearence of this war. Few of them are incredible Beings hambdullah.

..people are just going completely nuts, here.
But there is nothing interesting anymore in Halep, life is normal.

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Incredibile osservare i livelli di adattamento dello spirito. Disgustosa la mancanza di percezione di chi gode unicamente della tipologia di dipendenza che l’adrenalina, il successo e i soldi provocano. Secondo la maggior parte dei giornalisti presenti sui fronti ad Aleppo: “non c’è più nulla di interessante ad Aleppo, la vita è normale”.

Puoi camminare tra le vie del mercato senza più provare quell’atroce terrore di essere colpito da un cecchino, è vero. Ti sentirai probabilmente al sicuro anche se gli aerei da guerra  ti volano intorno. Non prenderanno di mira il mercato, non verrà loro ordinato di bombardare uno dei business che il governo esercita sul fronte nemico. Forse ti spareranno se proverai ad aiutare a pulire l’immondizia sulle strade. La notte il cielo è una battaglia di luci ed esplosioni, ma i giornalisti dormono a quell’ora. “Non posso fotografare di notte, comunque, chissene frega”.

E’ un peccato, perchè chi ha l’opportunità e la responsabilità di informare il mondo, sembra non avere interesse per la vita che scorre dietro ai fronti. Non tutti, ma la maggioranza di chi sta costruendo lo scenario di questa guerra. Alcuni di loro sono Esseri incredibili, grazie a Dio.

..la gente sta soltanto uscendo pazza, qui.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  Ma non c’è più niente di interessante ad Aleppo, la vita è normale.


Good morning kids of the world!

April 14/2013 – Syria                                                                                                                                                                                                       As soon as you open your eyes, don’t forget to smile at the child that lives in your soul.

Good morning Aleppo..

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