A few drops of rain on June 1 this year, a girl read the sadness, the groaning, the moaning, the addressing, the defeat, the poison, the worry in the lines they encountered self-sacrifice. The 15-year-old from Kamza, the clouds glorified her holiday, snatched her gift, handcuffed her dream, after the bars they isolated her without guilt, with fabricated accusations and led her to a grotesque trial of provincials. An elderly pedophile and three maniacs saw him as a minor, fragile, defenseless, shot him in silence to fish for defilement, killed his innocence, strangled an embryo, and withered a seedling. The first to cunt him, a 65-year-old monster not only dared to abuse, but the awkwardness of aging did not prevent him from filming the act, blackmailing the minor with the publication of the video, behaving like a tutor and morally financing three boys. to continue her sexual assault. On a scrawled letter like this, individual capitulation must be signed. of life and it hurts me a lot. In every country in transition and beyond, a functioning society would have to investigate the rubble and let out a roaring cry, an echo of justice, a dynamic action and strengthen measures to prevent the non-recycling of waste or the phenomenon, a lightning that breathes. the rapist, the most macabre act, convincingly shakes the victim's psychological relationships, makes him introverted, strains him in judgment, defeats him in suffering, gives him the baton of surrender, loses his passion for the next day, robs him of the desire for life.
In less than a year, hundreds of cases reported on television and reported to the authorities are being calculated, but still no civic awakening, like a sea wave in unison, drowns hope, like a fog, and undermines the transparency of morality. to savagely attack a shooting table, the juvenile we treacherously put on the defendant's desk. De facto, waiting for the reading of the accusations of non-reaction, distancing, citizen denial, violation of rights, impoverished actions, this time it is not political uniforms, but it is me, it is you, it is us, the sleeping Albanian society. Today, we are hopefully proving that the European trajectory continues to be a distant line for us.
Collective ignorance is savagely crushing the girl, her family who today present the chronicles in isolation, today innocence is buried, the murmurs of the ghastly neighborhood mistakenly address the girl as "thrown", an unparalleled provinciality. Under the skin, cold, soggy, the girl lives every word, lives an insurmountable emotional drama for her little shoulders, crouches in the nest of loneliness and waits for her hand to be extended. She expects light from the dark corners, waits a uniform civic response after the case is published by a society that even the alarm of looting does not awaken, expects a missing support, expects a delayed legal procedure, expects the family institution to understand the guilt killed, expects not to be trampled for no reason, he expects to renew his life. This sin is not forgiven in any religion. A summer chirp, I wish him to heal his soul, to restore him to the present moment, to deepen the sunny days and to undress himself, to rise again later on the irreparable cynicism of society, to erase the wrong spraying of opinion, to sail under the boat of confidence, to understand that the master of life is only she. No one else can, nothing else is needed!
