FERNANDO SOBRAL

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É triste não saber ler

Como bons portugueses sabemos que há dois tipos de problemas: os que se resolvem sozinhos e os que não se solucionam de maneira alguma. E o da incultura não tem solução.

𝖭𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗂́𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗈 𝖦𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖽𝖺, 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂́𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗈𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗆, 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝟨𝟣% 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗆 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟢. 𝖮 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺̂𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗅𝗈, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗅𝖽𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗆 𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗂́𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝗈𝖼̧𝗈𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖫𝗂𝗌𝖻𝗈𝖺, 𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗎 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗃𝖾𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗓. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗈 𝖳𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝖺𝗈 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗂 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅, 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗀𝗎𝗇𝖼̧𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝗂 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗋 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈 𝖮𝖤 𝗌𝗈́ 𝗌𝖾𝗃𝖺 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖺𝖽𝗈, 𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝗅𝖺́ 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖩𝗎𝗇𝗁𝗈.

𝖥𝗈𝗂 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖮𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺, 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺 𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗎𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗈, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗋 𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖻-𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗌, 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝖼𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖠𝗆𝖻𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖮𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝖺́𝗀𝗎𝖺 𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗈, 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖺 𝗌𝖾 𝗁𝖺́-𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖯𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝖺́ 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝖺 𝗓𝗈𝗇𝖺 𝗁𝖺́-𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗋.

𝖮 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝖺̂𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗅𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖺́ 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗋. 𝖠𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗈 𝖬𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝖢𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺, 𝗇𝗎𝗆 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗀𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺, 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗎 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖺𝗋 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗂 𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼̧𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗑𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈, 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾, 𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝖿𝗂𝗑𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖺́ 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖯𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗀𝖺𝖽𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺 𝖦𝗋𝖺𝖼̧𝖺 𝖥𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝖼𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗑𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝖾́𝗆 𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼̧𝖺 𝗇𝗈 𝖦𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈.

𝖲𝖾 𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝖠𝗇𝗍𝗈́𝗇𝗂𝗈 𝖢𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈 𝖬𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝖢𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈́𝗑𝗂𝗆𝗈 𝖦𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈, 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝗏𝗂𝗋𝖺́ 𝖽𝖺𝗂́ 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈. 𝖤𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗀𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝖽𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗎́𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 “𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾”, 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺́ 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖤𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖬𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝖢𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺.

𝖮 𝖽𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝟨𝟣% 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗅𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗎 𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖺: 𝟩𝟣% 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺, 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝖺 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈 (𝟩𝟧%) 𝗈𝗎 𝖻𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝖺 (𝟩𝟩%). 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝖾́𝗆 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗅𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝗈𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝗎𝗆 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈 (𝟦𝟦%). 𝖮𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗃𝖺, 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺-𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍𝗌𝖠𝗉𝗉 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝖼̧𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗎 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅.

𝖮𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖺̀ 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗍𝖺, 𝗇𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺. 𝖮𝗅𝗁𝖾-𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝗇𝗎́𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗂́𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗏𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗆, 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗎́𝗅𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝖾𝖻𝗈𝗅. 𝖠 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾́ 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾́ 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗋𝖺. 𝖮 𝖠𝖣𝖭 𝖽𝖺 𝗇𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆, 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖾́𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗌, 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖾𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾 𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗈, 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺. 𝖫𝗂𝖺-𝗌𝖾 “𝖢𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗁𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅” 𝖽𝖾 𝖩𝗈𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖣𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗈́𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗌, 𝖺 𝖻𝗂𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝗈 𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅. 𝖩𝖺́ 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈.

“𝖤́ 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗅𝖾𝗋”, 𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝖾𝗆 𝟣𝟫𝟩𝟨 𝖺 𝖡𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝖢𝖺𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗈. 𝖥𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗅𝖿𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗆𝗈, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈. 𝖳𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗎𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗈: 𝖾𝗆 𝟣𝟫𝟢𝟢 𝗍𝗋𝖾̂𝗌 𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗍𝗋𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗅𝖿𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗌. 𝖮𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖺́𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝖾́𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈 𝖷𝖵𝖨𝖨, 𝖺 “𝖯𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈” 𝖽𝖾 𝖥𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖬𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖯𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝗈́ 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗎𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗆 𝗅𝗂́𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖺, 𝖾𝗇𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗌 𝗅𝗂́𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗌. 𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝖺, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗃𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗌.

𝖲𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝖺̀ 𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗆𝗂𝖺, 𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗂́𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂́𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝖺 𝗀𝗅𝗈𝖻𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈, 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾́𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗈 𝖿𝗈𝗂 𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖺𝗌 (𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗁𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖨́𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗌 𝖺̀𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖺𝗌) 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺́𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝖼𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌. 𝖮 𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗈́𝗅𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗌 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋 𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖺̃𝗈 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗃𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂́𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗈́𝗆𝗂𝖼𝖺. 𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺 𝖺 𝖾𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈, 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝗂𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗂𝗆 𝗈 𝖺𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼̧𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗀𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺.

𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝖻𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗁𝖺́ 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗌: 𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗓𝗂𝗇𝗁𝗈𝗌 𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖺. 𝖤 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾, 𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺, 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈. 𝖯𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗋 𝖾́ 𝗎𝗆 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖻𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗂́𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗎𝗌𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝖺𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈. 𝖤́ 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗅, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖽𝗈𝗌, 𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗂𝗌. 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗌, 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗅𝗎𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗍𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌, 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂́𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗈𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗋𝗈, 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗎 𝗎𝗆 𝖠𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗈 𝖮𝗋𝗍𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺́𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖯𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗅 𝗎𝗌𝖺 𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗈́, 𝖾𝗇𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗆𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾̂𝗌 𝗏𝖺𝗂 𝖿𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝗈.

𝖭𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗈𝗌 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗌 𝗀𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗂𝖺𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝖺𝗋. 𝖠𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗌 𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂́𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗈. 𝖧𝖺́ 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺. 𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝗈́ 𝖾𝗆 𝖯𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗅, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗇𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖡𝗋𝗎𝗑𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗌.

𝖯𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖾𝖽𝗎𝖼𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗏𝗋𝖺 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝖼𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈𝗌, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖾́ 𝗎𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺. 𝖭𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺, 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗋. 𝖯𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖾 𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾́𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗃𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́ 𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗎𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝗈𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗈́𝗏𝖾𝗅. 𝖠 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗌𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝖻𝖺𝗌𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝗇𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗇𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́ 𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈𝗌. 𝖤 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝖽𝗈.

𝖭𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝖾́ 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖺 𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 (𝖻𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝗈𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗈 𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺), “𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈” 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝗅𝖾𝗋, 𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗎́𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗋 𝖺 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗌, 𝖾́ 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾. 𝖵𝖺𝗅𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝖫𝖢𝖣, 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗈́𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗌 𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗉𝗍𝗈𝗆𝗈𝖾𝖽𝖺𝗌. 𝖳𝖺𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋, 𝖽𝖺𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝖺 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌, 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗎́𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗅𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗇𝗈𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗂𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖺 𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈.

𝖠𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗈 𝖱𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈, 𝗇𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖺́𝗏𝖾𝗅 “𝖮 𝖱𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖽𝖺 𝖱𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖺”, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺-𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖽𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗃𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋, 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈, 𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖺, 𝗌𝗈́ 𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾. 𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗌, 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝖻𝗎𝗌𝖼𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗉𝖺𝗌, 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗅. 𝖤́ 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗇𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾. 𝖠𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗈 𝖱𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈, 𝖺𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅, 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝖾𝗆 𝖯𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗅, 𝖺𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖾́𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗉𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖺 𝖾𝗆 𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗎𝗆. 𝖤 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗅𝗎𝗂́𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖺𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌.

𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾́ 𝗎𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗈: 𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗂𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗎́𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗈 𝖺𝗎𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺. 𝖱𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽𝖾-𝗌𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝗎́𝖻𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗈 𝗇𝖺𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗎 𝖾𝗆 𝟣𝟩𝟪𝟫 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗆 𝗈𝖻𝗃𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈: 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗆, 𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝖾𝗌, 𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗆𝖾. 𝖠̀ 𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗍𝗎𝗂𝗋-𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖺 𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈𝖼𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖺: 𝖺 𝖽𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖺. 𝖣𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗋-𝗌𝖾 𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗈 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗈. 𝖤 𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋-𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗋, 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗌, 𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗈𝗋, 𝗈𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖤𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗂́𝖼𝗂𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗁𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋 𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗎.

𝖠 𝖯𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗅 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗀𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗌: 𝖿𝗈𝗂 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝗈 𝗈 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖥𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝗈𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗂́𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗓𝗂𝖺. 𝖤 𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗋𝖺, 𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗓, 𝗏𝖺𝗂-𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖿𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗎𝗆 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗂𝖺.

𝖤𝗆 “𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖯𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖣𝗈𝗀” (𝖭𝖾𝗍𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗑) 𝖽𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗎𝗆 𝖾𝗉𝗂𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈: 𝗈 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺́𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝖡𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗍 𝖢𝗎𝗆𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖻𝖺𝗍𝖼𝗁, 𝗎𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗋 𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾. 𝖬𝖾𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝗈𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖺́𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖯𝗁𝗂𝗅, 𝗎𝗆 𝖻𝗋𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖾 𝖺́𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗈 “𝖼𝗈𝗐𝖻𝗈𝗒” 𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗌𝖾 𝗅𝖺𝗏𝖺. “𝖤𝗎 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗅 𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈”, 𝖽𝗂𝗓 𝖾𝗅𝖾, 𝖺 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺.

𝖠𝖽𝖺𝗉𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖳𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖲𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗀𝖾, 𝖺 𝖺𝖼𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺-𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗆 𝟣𝟫𝟤𝟧, 𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝖯𝗁𝗂𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝗂𝗋𝗆𝖺̃𝗈 𝖦𝖾𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾 (𝖩𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖯𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗌). 𝖯𝗁𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́ 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝖦𝖾𝗈𝗋𝗀𝖾 𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖱𝗈𝗌𝖾 (𝖪𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝖣𝗎𝗇𝗌𝗍), 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗎́𝗏𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗋𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗂 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗉𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆𝖺. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼𝗁𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖱𝗈𝗌𝖾, 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺̃𝗈 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖺-𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺́𝗏𝖾𝗅.

𝖮 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾́ 𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗈 𝗇𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗆𝖾 𝖾́ 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖾, 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗂́𝖼𝗂𝗈, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈 “𝗐𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇”, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈 𝗏𝖺𝗂-𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗎𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌. 𝖳𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝖩𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖾𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗓 𝗀𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗌, 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝖻𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌, 𝖿𝖾𝗓 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂́𝗈𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝗂𝗇𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺́𝖿𝗂𝖼𝗈 𝗇𝖾𝗈𝗓𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾̂𝗌, 𝗏𝗂𝗌𝗂́𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗆 “𝖮 𝖯𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗈” 𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝖾𝗆 “𝖡𝗋𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖻𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖬𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇”. 𝖢𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖺-𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾 𝖺𝗈𝗌 “𝗐𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗇𝗌” 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗌: 𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖺̃𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖽𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗂𝗌, 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗆-𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗉𝖺𝗋.

𝖤́ 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖯𝗁𝗂𝗅 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝖾 𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝗏𝗈𝖼𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗅𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝖾́ 𝖻𝖺́𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾: 𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺. 𝖱𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖺 𝗎́𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝗈𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝗂𝗅𝗎𝖽𝖾-𝗇𝗈𝗌: 𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌, 𝖺𝖿𝗈𝗀𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗆 𝗆𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝖺́𝗅𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗅. 𝖯𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗋, 𝗈 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗁𝗈, 𝖾́ 𝗎𝗆 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗋; 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖾́ 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝖾́𝗆 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗎𝖾𝗅.

𝖠𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗆𝖾 𝖾́ 𝗆𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌𝗈 𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗆 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗅. 𝖳𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗌𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗂𝗍𝗈 “𝖼𝗈𝗐𝖻𝗈𝗒𝗌” 𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗆 𝗈 𝗉𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖱𝗈𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗋 𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗌𝗌, 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖯𝗁𝗂𝗅 𝖾́ 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗓 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝖻𝖺𝗇𝗃𝗈, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾́ 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝖾́𝗆 𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝖻𝖺́𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾. 𝖳𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗅𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗋-𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖽𝗂𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖩𝖺𝗇𝖾 𝖢𝖺𝗆𝗉𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝗎𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝖺𝗓 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖺𝗌.

𝖮 𝗌𝗈𝗆 𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗈

𝖵𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗇𝗎𝗆 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗂́𝖽𝗈𝗌. 𝖣𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗌𝗂𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗏𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗓. 𝖮𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗍𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗆𝖺. 𝖤 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼̧𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗈. 𝖤́ 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝖺 𝖯𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗈 𝖽’𝖮𝗋𝗌 𝖾𝗆 “𝖡𝗂𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖿𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝖲𝗂𝗅𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗈” (𝗎𝗆 𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗓 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗋, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗍𝗂́𝗍𝗎𝗅𝗈). 𝖯𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗈 𝖽’𝖮𝗋𝗌 𝖾́ 𝗉𝖺𝖽𝗋𝖾, 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗈́𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗈, 𝗍𝖾𝗈́𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗈 𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋 𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝖼𝖾𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺̃𝗈, 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗈, 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾, “𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝖺̀ 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌.

𝖭𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈”. 𝖬𝖺𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈, 𝗈 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈 𝖾́ 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝗈, 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺́𝖼𝗂𝗅, 𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗈 𝖺 𝗎𝗆 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗍𝖾: “𝖠 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 – 𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 ‘𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾’ – 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗈𝗎-𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗋 𝗈 𝗏𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖺𝗋, 𝗈 𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋. 𝖵𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖺 𝖾́𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝖽𝖺 𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝗎𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝗈”.

𝖤𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗌𝖺-𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗎𝗆 𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝗍𝗎𝗋𝗈. 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈 𝖾́ 𝖺𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖺 𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗅 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗃𝖺𝗇𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖺 𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖺. 𝖮𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝗃𝖺, 𝖽’𝖮𝗋𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖽𝗎𝖺𝗂𝗌 (𝖾, 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗂́, 𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗂𝗌) 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾 𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈. 𝖯𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖺, 𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗌, 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺-𝗇𝗈𝗌, 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗏𝖾-𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖺 𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺-𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗋.

𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗑𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 (𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗆, 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗈, 𝗏𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗈𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗌) 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝖿𝗅𝖾𝗑𝗈 𝖾𝗑𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖺-𝖺-𝖽𝗂𝖺. 𝖯𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗆 𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝖽𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗈, 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝖺 𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́ 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗌𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝖺 𝖾𝗆 𝗏𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈. 𝖧𝖺́ 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗂𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́ 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝗂 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖾́ 𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗃𝖾: 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗈𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗌, 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾́ 𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾 “𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋”. 𝖰𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈 “𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋” 𝗉𝗎𝗋𝗈 𝗈𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗋 𝖾𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝖼𝖺, 𝗌𝖾𝗃𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈 𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝗅𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝖺. 𝖠𝗅𝗀𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌: 𝖿𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋 𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖿𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗋.

𝖳𝗋𝖺𝗍𝖺-𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗃𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂́𝖼𝗂𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗈. 𝖠𝗍𝖾́ 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗅𝗀𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖾 𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖺 𝗇𝗈́𝗌. 𝖤𝗌𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗅𝖾: “𝖭𝗈́𝗌, 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌, 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖺𝗆𝗈-𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗃𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗎𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗌, 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝗂𝖺𝗌, 𝗉𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗈𝖺𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖺́𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗌. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗋. 𝖠 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈, 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝗈, 𝖾𝗇𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝖺𝖽𝖺, 𝗌𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗈𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗇𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗋”.

𝖯𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖽’𝖮𝗋𝗌 𝗈 𝗌𝗂𝗅𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗈 𝖾́ 𝗎𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖺 𝗈𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗌. 𝖯𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼̧𝖺 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖺 𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗓 𝖾́ 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗏𝖺𝗀𝖺𝖻𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗈: 𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗆, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗈́ 𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝖻𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝖺𝗂. 𝖳𝖾𝗆 𝗎𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾, 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈. 𝖤 𝖾́ 𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗇𝗈 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈, 𝖽𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗂́𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗋.

𝖯𝖺𝖻𝗅𝗈 𝖽’𝖮𝗋𝗌, “𝖡𝗂𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖿𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝖲𝗂𝗅𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝗈”, 𝖰𝗎𝖾𝗍𝗓𝖺𝗅, 𝟣𝟥𝟤 𝗉𝖺́𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗌, 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟤

𝖧𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗈

𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾 “𝖳𝗁𝖾 𝖧𝗂𝗀𝗁𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖫𝖺𝗇𝖽” (𝖢𝖣 𝖳𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗍𝖾/𝖨𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗀𝗈 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟤) 𝖿𝗈𝗂 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖯𝖺𝗍 𝖥𝗂𝗌𝗁, 𝖺 𝗅𝗎𝗓 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗈𝗎 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗌 𝖩𝖺𝗓𝗓 𝖡𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋, 𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝖻𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺𝗋 𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗅 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗈́𝖽𝗂𝖼𝖺. 𝖢𝗈𝗇𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂́𝗈𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝗈́𝗌 “𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗂𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗉”, 𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗎 𝖺𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺. 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖺́𝗅𝖻𝗎𝗆 𝖿𝗈𝗂 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌, 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗑𝖺𝖽𝖺, 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝖼̧𝖺 𝖽𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗁𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗈, 𝖬𝖺𝗑 𝖤𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗂́𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗑𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖺𝖼̧𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗓 𝖽𝖾 𝖥𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝗈 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋.

𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖻𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝗈 𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈 (𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝖡𝗋𝖾𝗑𝗂𝗍 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖼𝗂𝖾𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺̂𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺, 𝖺𝖿𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈-𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈), 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾. 𝖡𝖺𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗊𝗎𝗂 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖻𝖺𝗅𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝗀𝗋𝗎𝗉𝗈 (“𝖭𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖦𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖴𝗉”) 𝗈𝗎 𝖺 𝖺𝖼𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 “𝖦𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗋 𝖲𝗐𝖾𝖾𝗍𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍” 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌.

𝖤́ 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗅𝗁𝗈 𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝖾𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖬𝖾𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗎𝗍𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 “𝖳𝗂𝗆𝖾” (𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝗎𝖻-𝗋𝗈𝖼𝗄 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗋) 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾-𝗌𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾, 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝗆 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗍𝗈, 𝖥𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗎 𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝗈𝗋 (“𝖥𝗂𝗌𝗁𝗒 𝗀𝗈 𝗍𝗈 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗇, 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀, 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀”). 𝖠𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗉𝗈 𝖺𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗍𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗂́𝗍𝗂𝗈 𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗓𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗂𝖺𝗌. 𝖤𝗌𝗉𝗂́𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗂́𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾́ 𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝖩𝖺𝗓𝗓 𝖡𝗎𝗍𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝟪𝟢 𝖾 𝟫𝟢 𝖽𝗈 𝗌𝖾́𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗈 𝖷𝖷 𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗎𝗂́𝖺𝗆 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗉𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗂𝗌.

𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺: 𝖥𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗎́𝗌𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝖲𝗈𝗎𝗅, 𝖽𝖾 𝖩𝗈𝗁𝗇 𝖢𝖺𝗅𝖾, 𝖽𝖾 𝖡𝗈𝖻 𝖣𝗒𝗅𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗎 𝖲𝗒𝖽 𝖡𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍. 𝖣𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗂́𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗌𝖾́𝗋𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖼̧𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗎𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗀𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖥𝗂𝗌𝗁 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗃𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖺𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗌. 𝖭𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗂 𝖿𝖺́𝖼𝗂𝗅 𝖾𝗍𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗍𝖺́-𝗅𝗈. 𝖤 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝖼𝗈 𝖾́ 𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈́𝗇𝗂𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗍𝗈𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗌.

𝖣𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺

𝖤𝗆 𝟣𝟪 𝖽𝖾 𝖠𝗀𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝟣𝟪𝟦𝟪 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖽𝗈, 𝖠𝗇𝗍𝗈́𝗇𝗂𝗈 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖯𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺, 𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗎 𝗎𝗆 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗅𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗇𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈𝗌 (𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺), 𝗇𝗈 º 𝟣𝟪𝟪 𝖽𝖺 𝖱𝗎𝖺 𝖠𝗎𝗀𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖺, 𝖾𝗆 𝖫𝗂𝗌𝖻𝗈𝖺. 𝖤𝗏𝗈𝗅𝗎𝗂𝗎, 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌, 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖺, 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗎 𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝖢𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗈, 𝖢𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗅𝗁𝗈, 𝖤𝖼̧𝖺, 𝖮𝗅𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗋𝖺 𝖬𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗌, 𝖱𝖺𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗁𝗈 𝖮𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗀𝖺̃𝗈, 𝖯𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈 𝖢𝗁𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗌 𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝗎𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗌𝖺, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗌. 𝖠 𝗌𝗎𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖾́ 𝖾𝗇𝗋𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝖼𝖾𝖽𝗈𝗋𝖺. 𝖤 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖼𝖺 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂́𝗈𝖽𝗈 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝗋 𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗅𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗎𝗆 𝖾𝗑𝖾𝗋𝖼𝗂́𝖼𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝖻𝖾𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖺.

* Jornalista, colunista

IN "O JORNAL ECONÓMICO" - 26/02/22 .