Io sono morto / I’m Dead
Il titolo non è provocatorio. E’ quello che Youssef ha detto a Manuela Cigliutti quando si sono conosciuti alla Stazione Centrale di Milano.
La storia (che vedrete qui sotto) è semplice nella sua drammaticità: si arriva in Italia con la speranza di una vita migliore, lasciandosi dietro la famiglia, la casa, tutto. La vita, poi, quella con tutte le lettere minuscole, ci mette del suo e qualcosa va storto.
Si entra allora in un loop di disperazione nel quale si abbandona la speranza di risollevarsi. E ci si considera morto. “Io sono morto”, ripete Youssef, “ditelo a mio figlio in Marocco”.
E’ una storia, purtroppo, come tante, troppe. Se siete a Milano, andatelo a trovare. Sarà ancora lì forse… Ditegli che non è morto. Aiutamolo a ritornare dal figlio o, almeno, a parlargli.
In ogni caso, impariamo a guardare l’invisibilità e a non ignorarla. E tutto lì. Non ignoriamoli.
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I’M DEAD(foto and text: Manuela Cigliutti, video: Antonio Amendola, music: Walter Mazzaccaro) I won’t add much to the images and the text of the conversation between S4C Manuela Cigliutti and Youssef, a Morocco homeless sleeping in Milan Central Station. It’s about a lost bet for a better life, it’s about dramatic spins of Life that puts you in a loop from where it’s difficult to escape, it’s about the loss of hope and it’s about invisibilty. And it’s about us not being able anymore to see what surrounds us. “Y: What do you want, what you want from me, give me a cigarette, don’t you see where I am?
M: yes, I can see you, do you sleep here tonight? Y: yes, the tents that gave us to stay are stinking inside and turn the blades. I am from Morocco, are you familiar with Morocco? have you ever been with your money in Morocco? M: No, I never seen Morocco. What’s your name? Y: Youssef. I went to Brescia (Italy) and I was a bricklayer my resident permit was ok. I lived with my wife, she was a domestic worker…..and a son, 6 year old, he was….6 year, now 11. But, don’t you see how I am now? I’m dead, I’m a dead man. There was a house and work, and a resident permit, I’m not Illegal and not even my wife…. After, my wife was sick, a cancer. We stay 15 days into the hospital , 15 days, and after, she died, immediately, immediately…………so I brought my son in Morocco, to my parents, to make him feel good because I had to work in Italy. When I’m back in Italy, my work was not for me, I was unemployed….I sent all my money in Morocco to my son, I was poor, jobless, and soon a Homeless. Friends told me that in Milano was a lot of jobs, but I’m not interesting to the drugs, I don’t want drugs. So I never found a job, in Milano and now, I’m here….I’m a dead man. When I had money I phoned in Morocco to my son every month, and he told me “Dad, when you come home? ” . Now I’ve finished my money to phone in Morocco. M: How long you don’t call to Morocco? Y: From two year I don’t phone to my son. Now, you, with your money phone to my son and tell him his father is dead! M: But I don’t speck french or arabic, and I Cant’ do it, because is not true, you are not dead. Y: I can’t go in Morocco, dont’ you see me? Look where I live, I’m dirty, I’m poor, I’m unemployed. I cant’ go in Morocco, it’s a shame for me….if my father see me in this condition…it’s a shame. Tell to my son that I’m dead M: But if I take a picture of you, and you write a letter to your son and I promise you to send the letter and the picture to your son in Morocco? Have you the address? Y: Yessss, Yesssss!! Send the letter from me, take picture, and on the letter you must write: W Milan, the favorite soccer club of my son . The “Milan” is a great football team, it’s a champion! And after you must write: W the Peace!….Peace for my son……..no, no…..I cant’ …..it’s better if I am a dead man
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Anche io abito a Milano e lavoro a poche centinaia di metri dalla Stazione Centrale.
Splendido lavoro, Manuela.
Mi piacerebbe stringerti la mano per poterti fare i complimenti.