.
Na guerra não há profissões
Na guerra, não há heróis nem tão pouco profissões.
Ser jornalista é apenas um estado que nos define de vez em quando. O
mais importante naquela altura, onde sentíamos a cada sirene que matar
ou morrer caminhavam ali ao nosso lado, era poder ajudar alguém. E nós,
sem dúvida, ajudámos.
𝖴𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌, 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗈 𝗈 𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗌𝗈𝗌, 𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺𝗌 𝖾 𝗆𝖺̃𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖻𝖾𝖻𝖾́𝗌 𝖺𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗈, 𝗇𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝗈𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗅𝖺́𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗌, 𝗇𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖫𝗏𝗂𝗏. 𝖤𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗆 𝗇𝗈 𝗎́𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗆𝗈 𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝖺𝗈𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗈𝗌, 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗌 𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗑𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗆 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗍𝗋𝖺́𝗌 𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖻𝖺𝗍𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗏𝗂𝗌𝖺̃𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗆 𝗋𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋. 𝖣𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗂, 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝖾𝗎 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖺𝖽𝖺, 𝖺 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾́𝖼𝗂𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖾𝗆 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖺 𝖺 𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗆𝖾𝗎𝗌 𝗈𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗌. 𝖳𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗂 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗆𝖾 𝖾𝗆𝗈𝖼𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗋, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗂 𝗏𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗓𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝗈𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗎𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗂 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖺. 𝖥𝖺𝗓𝗂𝖺 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝗀𝖾́𝗅𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗋𝖼̧𝗈. 𝖲𝖾𝗍𝖾. 𝖬𝖾𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗁𝖺. 𝖤 𝗌𝗂𝗆, 𝖺 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗆, 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈, 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗆𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗎 𝖽𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝖾𝖼̧𝖺. 𝖠𝗍𝖾́ 𝗁𝗈𝗃𝖾. 𝖠 𝗎́𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗎 𝖿𝗈𝗂 𝖽𝖾𝖺𝗆𝖻𝗎𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝖾́ 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗅𝗎𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗋 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖾𝗆 𝖫𝗏𝗂𝗏, 𝗌𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝗈 𝖽𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗂𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗆𝖺̃𝖾 𝗋𝗎𝗆𝗈 𝖺̀ 𝖯𝗈𝗅𝗈́𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗋-𝗌𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗂 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝗀𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖺 𝖪𝗂𝖾𝗏 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗇𝗈 𝖤𝗑𝖾́𝗋𝖼𝗂𝗍𝗈.
𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗏𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝖾𝗆 𝗅𝖺́𝗀𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗇𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖾𝗎 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗎𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗈.
𝖠𝗈 𝗏𝖾̂-𝗅𝖺, 𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗀𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗎.
𝖩𝖺́ 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗁𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈, 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾𝗂 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗎 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅 𝖾 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗂 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂́𝗅𝗂𝖺. 𝖣𝗂𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗂-𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖺́-𝗅𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝗈́𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝖻𝗈𝗅𝗌𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗈 𝗏𝖺𝗀𝗈.
𝖭𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺, 𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗈 𝖺𝗉𝗈́𝗌 𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗍𝗂́𝖽𝗂𝖼𝗈 𝟤𝟦 𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟤, 𝖫𝗏𝗂𝗏 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇𝗈𝗎-𝗌𝖾 𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗅 𝖽𝖺 𝖿𝗎𝗀𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗌.
𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖺 𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖿𝗎𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝖾 𝖪𝗂𝖾𝗏. 𝖠 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂́𝗅𝗂𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖺 𝖾𝗆 𝖨𝗋𝗉𝗂𝗇 𝗃𝖺́ 𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗌.
𝖭𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾, 𝗆𝖾𝗌𝗆𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗌𝖼𝖺𝖽𝗈, 𝗉𝖾𝖽𝗂 𝖺𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈́𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝖺𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗏𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈 𝖺𝗍𝖾́ 𝖺 𝗎𝗆 𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗈. 𝖭𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝖻𝗂́𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗏𝖺. 𝖭𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗅𝖺́ 𝗍𝗂́𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗂𝖽𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗃𝖺́ 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́𝖽𝗂𝗈 𝖽𝖾 𝖫𝗏𝗂𝗏. 𝖤 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗎́𝗇𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝗅𝗎𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂́𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗈 𝖿𝗋𝗂𝗈. 𝖲𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖽𝗈, 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖺𝖼̧𝖺̃𝗈 𝗍𝖾́𝗋𝗆𝗂𝖼𝖺 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝟧 𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗎𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗏𝗈𝗌 𝖾 𝗂𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗂𝗑𝖺𝗋 𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝟤𝟤𝗁 𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾.
𝖠 𝗏𝗂𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗍𝖾́ 𝖺𝗈 𝖺𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾. 𝖭𝗈𝗌 𝗏𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝗈𝗌 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼̧𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗆, 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺 𝖺𝗉𝗈́𝗌 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́𝗏𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝖺𝗃𝗎𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂́𝗅𝗂𝖺 𝖺 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́𝖽𝗂𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗋 𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗍𝖾.
𝖠𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗎 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗈, 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖺 𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺̃𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗋𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗆-𝗆𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝖺̃𝗈 𝖾 𝖺𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖽𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗆 𝖺 𝖺𝗃𝗎𝖽𝖺.
𝖭𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗅𝖾̂𝗌 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝗈́𝗌, 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗅𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝗁𝗂𝗉𝗈́𝗍𝖾𝗌𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗈́𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝗂𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗆 𝖺𝗍𝖾́ 𝖫𝗏𝗂𝗏. 𝖮 𝗉𝖺𝗂, 𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖺𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖺, 𝖠𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇 𝖭𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖺, 𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝗓𝗂𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗂𝗋; 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗑𝖺𝗋 𝖺 𝖿𝗂𝗅𝗁𝖺 𝖾 𝖺 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗇𝖼̧𝖺 𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗂𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖪𝗂𝖾𝗏 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗉𝖺́𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖺.
𝖭𝗈 𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖾 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗆, 𝗏𝗂 𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖺̂𝗇𝗂𝗆𝗈 𝖾 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼̧𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗆-𝗌𝖾 𝖾𝗆 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗍𝖺̂𝗇𝖾𝗈. 𝖢𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗌𝖾 𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂́𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝗌𝖾 𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗂́𝗏𝖾𝗅 𝖾𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗆𝖾 𝖽𝖺 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝖾𝗌𝖺 𝖽𝖺 𝗅𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖾 𝖽𝖺 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗀𝗋𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗊𝗎𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾́𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗈𝗌 𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗌𝗈𝗌, 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝗏𝗈 𝗁𝖺𝖻𝗂𝗍𝗎𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖺 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗋.
𝖮 𝗌𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗏𝖾𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗎𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖺 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖺𝖼𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗆 𝗈 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝖺𝗌𝗈𝗋 𝖾́ 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗌𝖺. 𝖤 𝗇𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗆 𝗉𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗂: 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗆, 𝖯𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗇 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾𝗋𝖺́ 𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗇𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝗍𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾 𝖾 𝖽𝗈𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝗈𝗏𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗌𝗎𝖺 𝗏𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖽𝖾.
𝖤𝗋𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗂𝖺-𝗇𝗈𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖾𝗂𝗑𝖺́𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖬𝖺𝗒𝖺 𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝗈 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́𝖽𝗂𝗈. 𝖣𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝖻𝗋𝖺𝖼̧𝖺𝗋𝗆𝗈𝗌, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́𝗏𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗋 𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖺.
𝖢𝖾𝗆 𝗆𝖾𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖺̀ 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖾𝖼̧𝖺́𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝗈 𝗉𝖾𝗌𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖽𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝟤 𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖺𝗌 𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗌. 𝖭𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗆𝖾𝗂𝗋𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝖼𝗄𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼̧𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗂𝖺𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗋𝖺𝗆-𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖺𝗂𝗋 𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈, 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗌, 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝗅𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗋 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺́𝗏𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝗈𝗅𝖺𝗋 𝗈 𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖺𝗍𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗂́𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌.
𝖭𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗌𝖺𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗎 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖺, 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖺 𝗎𝗆 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆𝖺. 𝖭𝖺𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺𝗅𝗂𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾: 𝖬𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖺́𝗏𝗂𝖺.
𝖭𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝖻𝖾𝖼̧𝖺 𝖽𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗌 𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝖼̧𝗈𝗎-𝗌𝖾 𝗂𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗎𝗆 𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗁𝖺𝗏𝗂𝖺 𝗈𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖽𝗈: 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝗂́𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗌𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗈̃𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝖼̧𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝖱𝗎́𝗌𝗌𝗂𝖺.
𝖣𝖺𝗅𝗂 𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝗈 𝖺𝗍𝗋𝖺́𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺́𝗋𝗂𝗈. 𝖥𝗈𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗈𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝖺𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗀𝖺𝗋 𝖿𝗈𝗍𝗈𝗀𝗋𝖺𝖿𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝗈𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝖾𝗆𝗈́𝗏𝖾𝗂𝗌 𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗋 𝗎𝗇𝗌 𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝗂 𝗉𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖺 𝖽𝗈 𝖠𝖽𝗋𝗂𝖺𝗇. 𝖤𝗅𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗆𝖻𝖾́𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗎. 𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝖼𝗁𝖾𝗀𝖺́𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗍𝖾𝗅, 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗅𝗂́𝗏𝗂𝖽𝗈. 𝖤𝗎 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗅𝖾𝗌𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗏𝗂𝖺𝖽𝖺. 𝖤𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗏𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗋𝗈. 𝖤 𝗇𝗈́𝗌 𝗍𝗂́𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖿𝖾𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗎𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗁𝗎𝗆𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗌.
𝖭𝖺 𝗀𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗋𝖺, 𝗇𝖺̃𝗈 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗈́𝗂𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝖺̃𝗈 𝗉𝗈𝗎𝖼𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗈̃𝖾𝗌. 𝖲𝖾𝗋 𝗃𝗈𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺 𝖾́ 𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗇𝖺𝗌 𝗎𝗆 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗓 𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈. 𝖮 𝗆𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝗂𝗆𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗇𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗅𝖺 𝖺𝗅𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖺, 𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂́𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝖺 𝖼𝖺𝖽𝖺 𝗌𝗂𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗈𝗎 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝗋𝖾𝗋 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺𝗏𝖺𝗆 𝖺𝗅𝗂 𝖺𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗌𝗌𝗈 𝗅𝖺𝖽𝗈, 𝖾𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗃𝗎𝖽𝖺𝗋 𝖺𝗅𝗀𝗎𝖾́𝗆. 𝖤 𝗇𝗈́𝗌, 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗎́𝗏𝗂𝖽𝖺, 𝖺𝗃𝗎𝖽𝖺́𝗆𝗈𝗌.
𝖰𝗎𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝖺̀𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗋𝗍𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗌, 𝖿𝗂𝗓𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌 𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝖽𝗂́𝖺𝗆𝗈𝗌, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗃𝖾 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗁𝗈 𝖺 𝖼𝖾𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗓𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗆 𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝖽𝗈 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗋𝖺𝗀𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗎 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾. 𝖵𝖾𝗃𝗈, 𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗆𝗎𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝗈𝗋𝗀𝗎𝗅𝗁𝗈, 𝖼𝗈𝗅𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗌 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝗈 𝖲𝖾́𝗋𝗀𝗂𝗈 𝖥𝗎𝗋𝗍𝖺𝖽𝗈 𝖽𝖺 𝖳𝖵𝖨 𝗇𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝖽𝖺 𝖻𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗁𝖺 𝖺 𝗋𝖾𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗎 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗏𝗂 𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗆 𝗈𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖺𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖧𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗈́𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗍𝖺𝖽𝖺. 𝖮 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝗌𝖺 𝖽𝖾 𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗏𝗂𝗋 𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾. 𝖤 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗁𝖺́ 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝖼𝖺𝗉𝖺𝗓𝖾𝗌 𝖽𝖾 𝖾𝗇𝖿𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖺𝗋 𝗈 𝗆𝖾𝖽𝗈 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗋.
𝖠 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾̂𝗇𝖼𝗂𝖺 𝗇𝖺 𝖴𝖼𝗋𝖺̂𝗇𝗂𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝗂𝗎-𝗆𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝖺 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖼𝖾𝖻𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗅𝗁𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝖼̧𝖺 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗁𝖺́ 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗈𝗌 𝗁𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗌 𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝗅𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗌𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗆 𝖽𝖾 𝗎𝗆𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖺 𝖺𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈, 𝗆𝖺𝗌 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗌 – 𝗇𝖺 𝗁𝗈𝗋𝖺 𝖽𝖺 𝗏𝖾𝗋𝖽𝖺𝖽𝖾 – 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗏𝖺𝗆 𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗌𝖺̃𝗈 𝗈𝗎 𝗈 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝗇𝗎𝗇𝖼𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖾𝗀𝗎𝗂𝗋𝖺̃𝗈 𝗌𝖾𝗋. 𝖧𝗈𝗃𝖾, 𝖽𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗃𝗈 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖿𝗎𝗇𝖽𝖺𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾 𝗊𝗎𝖾 𝖾𝗌𝗍𝖾 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗈 𝖺𝖼𝖺𝖻𝖾. 𝖠 𝖻𝖾𝗆 𝖽𝗈 𝗆𝗎𝗇𝖽𝗈 𝗍𝖺𝗅 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗈 𝖺𝗂𝗇𝖽𝖺 𝗈 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗁𝖾𝖼𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗌.
* Jornalista
IN "iN"- 01/03/23
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