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This is old Albert. I wanted to play a little with him, so he bit off my arm.
James Bond - Live and Let Die

I like fig trees and their smell. For a few weeks I have known that in four years a fig tree can grow from a sapling to a two-meter-high plant - even in a clogged gutter if it's in the beautiful town of Moglia in my second home, Italy. Moglia is not far from Mantua, and I visit the place every year. You don't have to know Moglia, it's a small, insignificant country town on the right side of the Po. But I know a few people there, like authors from Berlin, who make their living primarily through public grants and poorly attended readings by state-funded institutions, because their books sell too badly on their own - just like these authors also people in London, Paris and Know Budapest. With whom they laugh, exchange ideas and work on the European idea.

For me it's Moglia. I'm working on what I know as Europe. Once I die and my life passes me by, Moglia will appear in it too. Moglia and an old couple on the sports field. An old, lame man in a wheelchair being pushed through the heat by his wife. Young Berlin authors who are crying now because old nationalists are selfishly blocking this Europe for them, will remember the blue sky and the laughter of their friends on the Vltava, for me it's the sports field, the mercilessly burning sun and the old couple, Nowhere to go

Because Moglia is Zona Rossa. Earthquake area. And when in 2012 the house became uninhabitable and you had no money, you ended up in Moglia on the sports field that had been converted into a campsite. My friends here wore cardboard noses, disposable gloves and clown robes to make the homeless, dirty, traumatized children of poor Italians, Pakistanis, Indians and Africans laugh. That was Europe 2012. Laughing for the children, but for the old couple there wasn't even a hat in the scorching sun. Moglia was uninhabitable.

In Moglia, sand geysers shot up into the basements and garages, and the pressure of the earth rubbed the bricks between the concrete pillars.

In Moglia people lived in the garages and in caravans, while the city administration put notes on the doors stating that no one was allowed to enter here where solidity had just been advertised.

In Moglia, officials did not come out of the town hall with the slips of paper, because the town hall was just as affected and looks like it today.

And the teachers don't go to school today, four years later, because the school is dilapidated.

However, there aren't that many children in Moglia at the moment. This is all that is left of social housing that young families would otherwise inhabit.

This is not an unusual sight for my friends in Moglia. You had to make a decision and often it was the demolition excavator. Today the grass grows in the open areas.

And what is still there is often just as it was four years ago with the wooden scaffolding. I could also take the pictures from last year in Moglia, so little has happened here.

However, the tarpaulin in front of the church hadn't been torn as much last year. The Mowglia's pigeons are now nesting inside again and faecalizing on what is still there of the baroque furnishings.

The community life, however, takes place in a modern hall next to it. On the door are invitations to spend the holidays outside the Zona Rossa in church institutions. You have to understand that - children born in 2010 know nothing but destruction here. Generation Z, Z for Zona Rossa.

And it will stay that way for a long time. They collect vigorously for the church so that the saints can move again. Something is coming together. Slowly.

My friends in Moglia, in the middle of Europe, are brave people and don't just give up. The rubble lies outside, but the saints are dressed for the procession.

They say that when their children are young adults, everything should be the same as it was before damn May 2012, when the sand shot out of the ground and the church walls broke.

Sometimes even a few badly plastered cracks remind of that time in Moglia. Life goes on.

If it's not frozen to its May 2012 level. Because there is no money, because Italy has to save, because it is mandatory in Europe, and people are left to their own devices.

The old can no longer do it. The pension is so low that you can neither handle the damage nor drink a latte in Berlin or Budapest and then whine about how mean the old nationalists are, and that young people should do something when they have written the application for the next scholarship have, they also do an action in front of the Chancellery or an article in the taz.

And so a lot goes to the dogs in Moglia. In the middle of Europe, in these exciting times, when Berlin and Paris have probably long since forgotten what happened there in the Po Valley, and how my friends ran out of their crunchy houses that had been saved over generations at night.

If you go to Germany to work because it is rather difficult here at the moment, you have a contact point north of the Alps with me. The old people don't ask the girls whether they really have a job as a waitress. Or do something else.

This is the case with my friends in Moglia, in the middle of Europe, where there are also priorities in the preservation and promotion of culture. Young female authors with unread books cannot fly to London in two hours with nothing to meet those who realize in appalled cell phone videos that the semesters abroad in Paris, Rome or on the Cote could be more difficult.

Because these are the real dramas in this Europe. That gives you a lot of space in the media, with the complaints about the selfish old people who wreaked havoc. This is a very German debate, where many retirees are doing well. But I don't know such pensioners in Moglia.

A lot comes together in Moglia. And it's not just Moglia, there are many such places between Ferrara, Reggio and Mantua. Moglia got off lightly compared to a few places further south. It is normal in the Zona Rossa in Old Europe.

It may of course be the case that soon in this Europe you will have to show your passport from time to time. It's inconvenient. People live in Moglia who have not been able to enter their home for four years. And it will stay that way forever.

And, of course, in the cultural scene you could also think about whether it is really necessary for young authors to run around in front of courts and the Chancellery holding signs in cameras and spreading hashtags for Europe on their phones while states and foundations pay for them. My Italian acquaintances don't get rid of work when they go through the Brenner Pass, so you could also let our excited, indignant, now somewhat limited cultural carriers work properly in their absolute freedom of travel, then they travel less and bring the money here.

It's all just a question of priorities, as a true sign of European solidarity. That would really benefit Europe. I know from my friends that they feel betrayed and sold here.

You have experienced that at best you can rely on your family. Brussels is also only two hours away from the nearest airport, but for the perception of people on a different planet.

Oh yes, the fig. The fig grows here in Moglia, in contrast to the much-invoked European fraternization and unification, and it grows splendidly. It has taken root in the rain gutter on the church facade and is now growing up, as long as it finds support between the destroyed wall joints.

You can't go up there, the building is still in danger of collapsing, so it just grows while the rainwater runs through the walls. Man builds something, time and nature destroy it. People see places grow and buildings fall, and in the end we are all dead and soon forgotten too.

And today's youngsters will then be the old ones who don't understand the new boys when they suck their cocks and book flights to Madrid and Milan, where old people will hopefully wear tidier shoes. It will seem important to them to be internationally networked and to have acquaintances who are just as mobile and privileged and who would defend themselves vehemently if they were even referred to as lazy maggots in the culture industry's bacon. What a cheek from Nazis! After all, they get involved in front of the Chancellery.

On a working day at 11 a.m. and are a little annoyed that so few people come despite the great mobilization. Almost only others from foundations and sponsoring associations and the scene. Cheap rents are so important. The youth have to fight for their rights and three old rooms with stucco in a trendy district, while outside in the dark boys from Eastern Europe await customers from higher floors of society with crystals in bags.

Moglia is only for getting used to the harsh reality of old Europe and its ancients, who can no longer walk and no longer expect anything. In the blue sky, as blue as it was four years ago when the sand came out of the ground, are the contrails of those that connect the metropolises of the continent, and not far away the German tourist rushes over the motorway to the sandy beaches near Rimini, around the to complete European unity according to his taste.

Old Europe is always a question of perspective. This in the camera's viewfinder is mine.

Keywords: everyday life, old age, old Europe, decency, rearing, elite, ethics, predators, class struggle from above, wealth, religion, tradition
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Dispossess the youth

From Don Alphonso

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