At 18.10 on Friday, January 17, 2020, fourteen days before the beginning of the United Kingdom-European Union disconnection, the BBC World Service in London launched a message that stood still on the screen while universal reality was on course . Without flickering, there was a line of fire that looked like this: “Brexit. There will be no automatic deportation of EU citizens. ”
Without flight in the verse, briefly, two words that Europe and the world digest with the difficulty that fear imposes on the throat that stores the screams of history stood out in that writing without veins on the screen: deportation and automatic. Detonating both fringes of the same bomb creates, in the soulless space of the news, the feeling that the whole group has only the word No. A citizen whom I told the headline told me: “To me, frankly, I worry more automatically than deportation. ”
There are round and beaming words, said Angel Ganivet, a sad diplomat who drowned deliberately on the ice of Finland. That set of words that joined the BBC, including the word No, are compost of one of the key words in the conversation of recent years, the word uncertainty. They are weepy words, which enter your vein and are already part of your blood, that is, from fear itself, and there is no diplomat to take you out of the impression that you already have a fever like pneumonia. Brexit does not welcome round words, always chose the sharp.
The word uncertainty, as a synonym or substance of fear, rises like a snake among those who smile at the eventual effect that tries to instill the diplomacy of the facts to the EU citizen who knows that the whole mountain is no longer oregano. There is a set of rules of the bureaucracy that ensures that nothing happens, that for months the ground will be being prepared, in addition, so that nothing happens … but what has to happen. On Sunday morning Hispanic citizens came to talk about what is happening to them, feeling that nothing happened to them. Until, amazed by the similarities of their uncertainties, they felt that the same thing happened to everyone: that they didn’t know what would happen to them.
That diplomacy that sends messages of tranquility is climbing the most difficult wall of the Brexit season on the backs of news that seem to be breaking, as manufactured so that the BBC World Service keep them a long time on the screen of the urgent. Yesterday, a good news appeared in the press that seems to calm down that fierce uncertainty that is not called fear. He said very prominently Times that the United Kingdom is studying gold visas for those world talents who want to attend in the future the rebirth of science (of mathematical science in particular) made in Britain.
It was, without a doubt, a feint in favor of the propaganda work that every entity in the process of making drastic decisions arises to fall sympathetically to those who fear them more than to a cloudy one. But it was, in short, for those who do not feel talents, or do not know who will evaluate their wits, a warning to walkers, another way to launch a further examination of citizenship at certain risk of deportation, although this is not be automatic It opened, with a front page ad, one more way to defoliate the margarita: they love me, they don’t love me? That Spanish citizen who saw the headline with me told me: “And who tells you that those who have talent will choose to stay with them?”
The daisy is a dangerous flower, it affects the doubt and the disaster of all bets. It’s like a bugle of fear: what if they don’t choose me? What if I don’t measure up on the math test? In the seventies of the century in which the United Kingdom went to embrace without fervor the Europe that now leaves there was an ultrapatriot, Enoch Powell, more intelligent than human, who encouraged the hosts of the Do not against the emigrants with the threats of “rivers of blood” in the meek streets. And a nobleman who helped Margaret Thatcher to be who she was, Sir Keith Joseph, had the occurrence of counting up to half a dozen social classes living together, and dodging, in a country that had to be careful with the barbarian invasions.
The clarines of fear were always ready to listen to heroic music. There are two days left until that music is the general rehearsal of a farewell in which it has been cast, without blush and without love, and perhaps without guilt, the word deportation. Clavaite in the heart.