January the 5th. The night before was dominated by German detectives and therefore lasted until dawn. The unnoticed passage of the morning is due to the dark clouds and the aqueous spray around the hill on which we live. After a night of naked busty ladies who offer their chat abilities through commercials that last as long as the episodes of 'Lasko, the Fists of God', in which a German monk, with the skills of Bruce Lee, solves many kidnappings, robbery's and murders, the compensation for the sleepless night lasts until 11 am. The awakening is accompanied by a message on the radio. Three days of national mourning. Who died, what happened? Is the president killed? Was Lisbon again destroyed by an earthquake? Did Portugal get Bankrupt? The Portuguese reporter speaks at a pace which makes it impossible for a half-awake brain to translate synchronously, let alone understand.
We do what we usually do, if the curiosity wins from indifference. Coffee, cigarette and behind the laptop to figure out, what's going on. It's okay. It appears to be all about a footballer that died. No, not a Portuguese but one Eusebio da Silva Ferreira from Mozambique. It seems that The Portuguese incorporated this man, product of their colonial past, as a national folk hero. Television, internet sites, Twitter and Facebook are overflowing with fabulous facts about this soccer player. He scored 733 times in 745 games. The Portuguese football connoisseurs state that he was just as good, or perhaps better than Cruyff, Maradona and Pele, in whatever important thing they changed the world with. For his club Benfica he scored from 1960 to 1975 more than once per game: 317 times in 301 games, and that seems to have changed the world for the better.
Yesterday, the bells of the basilica rang through the valley. A villager had the courage, to give up living after 85 years. A simple piece of paper with an announcement of the funeral was nailed to the door of his little house. At the cafe his old mates gathered to toast on the life of their friend with a zip of aquadente. His descendants are informed and hopefully be on time in their hometown to attend the funeral. It's 2014 and it's hard to imagine that the deceased has never known the luxury of an indoor toilet or bathroom with hot water. Yet that is how he lived his life. A single light-bulb above the table, no TV or fridge, no heating. Only a wood burning stove, which also served as a source of heat and hot water, a bit of nostalgia that nowadays can't be missed in the cooking experience of a modern kitchen, and therefore stands unused as a show off next to the induction hob. No, not three days of communal mourning for him, in fact it seems to be a relief, a liberation and an imminent solution to existing problems. You must die before you really are in need of care, especially in a country where homes for elderly are a rarity and for the underprivileged priceless anyway. Caring for your parents seem a vanishing tradition. Not because the kids don't want to wear accountability but simply because of the lack of financial resources. Surviving in today's economy only works if both partners have three jobs between them.
Lonely elderly people are literally dying of starvation, the poorest families get their parents at home to strengthen their income with the little pension. Occasionally, a demented elderly is set free from a locked back room where they should stay as long as the children are out to their underpaid job. Degrading situations.
We do what we usually do, if the curiosity wins from indifference. Coffee, cigarette and behind the laptop to figure out, what's going on. It's okay. It appears to be all about a footballer that died. No, not a Portuguese but one Eusebio da Silva Ferreira from Mozambique. It seems that The Portuguese incorporated this man, product of their colonial past, as a national folk hero. Television, internet sites, Twitter and Facebook are overflowing with fabulous facts about this soccer player. He scored 733 times in 745 games. The Portuguese football connoisseurs state that he was just as good, or perhaps better than Cruyff, Maradona and Pele, in whatever important thing they changed the world with. For his club Benfica he scored from 1960 to 1975 more than once per game: 317 times in 301 games, and that seems to have changed the world for the better.
Yesterday, the bells of the basilica rang through the valley. A villager had the courage, to give up living after 85 years. A simple piece of paper with an announcement of the funeral was nailed to the door of his little house. At the cafe his old mates gathered to toast on the life of their friend with a zip of aquadente. His descendants are informed and hopefully be on time in their hometown to attend the funeral. It's 2014 and it's hard to imagine that the deceased has never known the luxury of an indoor toilet or bathroom with hot water. Yet that is how he lived his life. A single light-bulb above the table, no TV or fridge, no heating. Only a wood burning stove, which also served as a source of heat and hot water, a bit of nostalgia that nowadays can't be missed in the cooking experience of a modern kitchen, and therefore stands unused as a show off next to the induction hob. No, not three days of communal mourning for him, in fact it seems to be a relief, a liberation and an imminent solution to existing problems. You must die before you really are in need of care, especially in a country where homes for elderly are a rarity and for the underprivileged priceless anyway. Caring for your parents seem a vanishing tradition. Not because the kids don't want to wear accountability but simply because of the lack of financial resources. Surviving in today's economy only works if both partners have three jobs between them.
Lonely elderly people are literally dying of starvation, the poorest families get their parents at home to strengthen their income with the little pension. Occasionally, a demented elderly is set free from a locked back room where they should stay as long as the children are out to their underpaid job. Degrading situations.
Portugal has declared three days of national mourning. Not for all those affected by the desperate situation caused by criminal bankers. Not for that old man who died alone in his cold house. Not for those children who go to school with an empty stomach. Not for those families who put off their electricity bill is because they have to choose between food and heating. No, three days of national mourning for a footballer from the former colony of Mozambique, who by chance was blessed with a talent and became a hero in the Stadium of Light. That it's a loss for the 'as aguias' may be so, but national mourning? Portugal is doing well, the budget deficit is going in the right direction, Europe is satisfied. But what if the European banking union becomes a reality? Suddenly the Portuguese society also stands for the savior of other banks in Europe. How many days of National Mourning will be proclaimed when a Dutch or French bank gets saved by the Portuguese taxpayer?
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