From informa-azione.info Translation act for freedom now/B.pd
We receive and transmit a letter from Giulia, an anarchist prisoner detained in the prison of Rebibbia following operation Ardire of June 13 2012.
There are moments when the sun comes in through the bars, the window and the bottle on your table, it then stretches on the table and warns your ear a little bit.
There are moments when you look at the ceiling in the night, listen to the silence, hear the noise of the void of the corridor, listen to the whistle of a locked door.
There are moments when you sit down and smoke a cigarette in the open air and look at the sky and think that if you believed in God you would thank him for making you enjoy this beauty even from inside here.
There are moments when you walk along the corridors and you think that all this will never get out of your lungs.
There are moments, so many moments, when your body is motionless and your mind is imaging that you are destroying everything that happens to be in your hands.
There are moments when you would give anything away for a good cold beer.
There are moments when the smell of the earth, of leaves, of the autumn comes to you from unknown places and you remember things.
There are moments when the sun of the autumn sky reminds you of the mountains and of your dogs.
There are moments when all empty words finally disappear and all masks fall off.
There are moments when all other people’s words fall off without them knowing.
There are moments when you realize that this place has changed you and other moments when you think you are still the same person, and you discover yourself again and again.
There are moments when you recognize the time of the day by the noise you hear from the corridors and you realize it is becoming normal.
There are moments when you wake up in the night with a start because a light is spying over your sleep.
There are moments when you see a mother crying because she can’t do the most natural thing: to be with her children.
There are moments when you cry because of that mother, of all the hugs she’s being denied of, of her broken relations, and because you think that no one is going to pay for so much pain.
There are moments when you think you could look at the imprisoned comrades’ faces for hours because you know that their eyes have never been scared of this hell.
There are moments when you think of the pain of those visiting you, their faces that eventually go away, shocked, as they say ‘we are leaving her here.’
There are moments when your blood freezes in your veins when you think of freedom because you also think you won’t be able to take the comrades imprisoned here away with you the moment you are free.
There are moments, so many moments, when laughter burst like thunder, like a fall, and spread freshly on your skin, on your face, in your head.
There are moments when you see a comrade smiling again and you think this has made your day.
There are moments when you get news of someone who got out or escaped, and the bars crack, and your smile is mocking.
There are moments, so many moments, constant moments, when you think of rubbles, broken keys, uniforms in flames, and you feel the freshness of bare feet on the grass and your breath is deep.
To write to the comrade:
Via Bartolo Longo 92