words that burn

I am afraid that if a bold journalist manages to enter those camps where tens of thousands of Ukrainian refugees are sorted, refugees – more or less voluntarily – in Russia, these reports will be read in Italy for three days, then that’s it. And if that journalist writes directly about the fate of twenty thousand Donbass children taken from their families and taken to Russia for adoption – this is the complaint of the United Nations that our Odessa correspondent Nilo Scavo wrote on Sunday – well, I don’t know, whether in the West we would like to read about him or not. no. And not just because a lot of pain hurts. Deportations, forced re-education, rape, mass graves full of civilians and children as booty – a living branch torn apart and planted in enemy territory – is the distinction between war, which is always ugly, and scientific evil and a scheme for destruction. People. It’s called genocide, a word that shouldn’t be uttered lightly.
But we probably don’t want to know much. Some records are burning. Like Etty Hilsum, a Jew, from the Dutch concentration camp, at Westerbork, at 42-43. Brilliant, bright, often awful pages. But it was published many years later, and it almost became a whisper. When we can say: “It’s all over now. How did no one interfere? If it were us, we would have cried, we would have responded …”

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