Hombrearmonica’s Weblog

Ristori’s home, dinner was over. Thanks to yielding to every request of regime1, the family did not passed badly, while remaining enrolled between the Low People. Unless the perennial fear for the child, soldier in Iran.

While the American soldiers could communicate with family members when they wanted through satellite phones and e-mail, often made available by their army, being berlüscaland people was the most unfortunate condition between all askari coalition that fought in Iran. Poor of materials, protections and even uniforms, often ragamuffins, they were under strict control of communications with their relatives by Politician Commissioners of the regime. It was granted one letter per week, on paper and heavily censored, with the justification to prevent the inadvertent transmission of strategic information. So were also considered anger and sadness, and even the news on their state of health.

Ristori knew, from Vigevano other families having children to the front, letters arrive with wide black strips drawn with special pens. Needless to try reading under the lists in mourning. To them, thanks to an intelligent found of the son before leaving, always arrived immaculate letters, although apparently insulse up ad nauseam. The boy had found three simple algorithms to extract characters from the text. A frieze apparently random somewhere in the text notified the code in use.

The young Ristori, not surprisingly graduating from the local high school science, wrote the true letter succinctly as possible. He spaced characters according to one of three codes, and finally filled the gaps to incorporate in the banalities more idiot than possible. The trick, known to cryptographers of the seventeenth century, but obviously not to stupid censors of Blue Age, had not yet been discovered. The slow pace of communications imposed by the regime, made possible an accurate manual labour. The important thing for the boy was not to be surprised during the operation, and destroy the originals because not falling into the hands of snoops.

All works, of course, even in the opposite direction. For both terminals, it was needed to keep confidential the exchanged information, giving no rise to suspicions, and perhaps the discovery of the method, negating the possibility.

The real problem of Ristori remained days without the precious letters, certifying that, at least to date, was alive their little child, as the mother said. When they delayed for a day or two, the family entered into a paroxysm of tension.
Because the news, come clandestine from son, were bad, terrible. They talked of deaths and injuries, sometimes with irreversible damage, things that were not in newspapers or televisions. Sometimes, with limited words which revealed suffering, the boy spoke of massacres of civilians in small villages, which he had attended, or perhaps participated, and the reticence was a spy of his pain.

The boy, very intelligent, had never made a single reproach to the parents for having yielded to the demands of the system, having understood as they hadn’t choice in the grip of the regime. Although young, he was able to trace the true responsible for his situation and theirs, as well as the misery of so many: the regime.

Under the dual pressure of their misadventures and letters of a child, the parents had realized that being subjects of berlüscaland was the worst misfortune that could happen to an European person, and even in different places in Africa life was a less humiliating experience for simple people like them. The whole family Ristori, in short, had gained consciousness by opposition, even if had no idea whom connecting, aware of being weak alone in front of the excessive power of the regime.

That evening, like all others in which the precious letter was arrived, they extracted characters of the true message. After some mistakes, inevitable for the laborious manual operation, and the emotion at the sight of the first words, it was in view the full text.

The boy spoke of a companion killed in a guerrilla ambush. While ensuring parents he would have done everything possible to return home alive and intact – he knew mates of arms that had lost a leg on a mine – he had words of sympathy for the Iranian people resisting to invasion.

The aim is only to steal their oil, with nothing in return, not even democracy, that we haven’t in berlüscaland. How give them wrong? I want to go home alive and not maimed to do something returning to be an Italian, from miserable berlüscalandic.

«Fortunately no little at the end of his round.» – the mother said.
«Provided they permit he returns home.»
«But what d’you say? They must!»
«They? They do what they fuck want, having a cock care rules! Our son is right. We need to break down this infamous regime. But how? With whom? It was so easy to remain free on April 9, 2006. It was enough not to give right to lies, to enter into the secret of a booth and vote against these fucks. Now, to go back being free, it’s an adventure that you don’t know even where to begin.»
«Be careful how you speak around, there is a lot of spies.»

The man nodded, shaking his head.
«This is their strength. Alone I cannot do anything. But if you speak to someone, he could be a spy. A dead-end street.»
«Don’t ask me. Meanwhile also this week my child is alive. The important thing he come back at home, then we’ll see. Perhaps the world has been overthrown and will be the children to explain to parents how to redeem the infamous country that we have left them.»