Until Tuesday morning, I was debating whether to dedicate this column to the 0-4 at the Bernabéu in dream teen or the global ridicule of Madrid’s tantrum for not going to Paris after finding out that Vinícius was not going to win the Ballon d’Or. There is nothing left. On Tuesday, a huge waterspout drowned the lands of Valencia and the ball ceased to exist. It should be this way as long as there are still bodies buried in the mud or trapped in parking lots converted into flooded mass graves: absolutely all matches this weekend should have been suspended out of respect for the victims of one of the greatest misfortunes in the country’s modern history. . It is not a past disaster, it is a still living tragedy. It is also a family pain. A little over a year ago, I traveled with a makeshift backpack to cover the worst earthquake in Morocco’s history. After the earth crunched, almost 3,000 people died in the blink of an eye in the Atlas Mountains. There, among the stench of the decomposing dead and images of apocalyptic destruction, surrounded by corpses and the living dead who had lost everything, I had a broken feeling, which has returned to my memory watching the images of Valencia. Beyond the ruins and the despair of the disaster, the hopelessness of oblivion transpired. In the Moroccan mountains I visited villages where no aid had reached three or four days after the earthquake. The neighbors of those fallen houses, often humble peasants, begged for support that never came.
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#Mud #balls #Xavier #Aldekoa
