MARGARIDA DAVIM

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Nacionalismo fake

tuga made in China

Circular pelas ruas da Baixa tornou-se uma estafeta. É impossível andar dez passos sem ser interpelada por um empregado de restaurante com uma ementa na mão. Sou abordada em inglês, espanhol, italiano e português

𝓞𝓼 𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓶-𝓼𝓮 𝓷𝓸 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓭𝓪 𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓭𝓮 𝓭𝓮 𝓼𝓪́𝓫𝓪𝓭𝓸. 𝓞𝓼 𝓿𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓭𝓸𝓼 𝓯𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓼, 𝓪𝓼 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪́𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓶𝓮𝓲𝓪𝓼, 𝓸𝓼 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓮́𝓾𝓼 𝓸𝓾 𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓼𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓸 𝓪𝓻 𝓿𝓪𝓰𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓾𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓶-𝓷𝓸𝓼. 𝓢𝓪̃𝓸 𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼. 𝓔́ 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝜾́𝓿𝓮𝓵 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓮𝓫𝓮̂-𝓵𝓸 𝓪̀ 𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪̂𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓪, 𝓸𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓼, 𝓬𝓲𝓻𝓬𝓾𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓪 𝓑𝓪𝓲𝔁𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓛𝓲𝓼𝓫𝓸𝓪 𝓮𝓷𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓪̃𝓸 𝓪𝓬𝓪𝓫𝓪. 𝓟𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓸-𝓶𝓮 𝓼𝓮 𝓼𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓱𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓻𝓪̃𝓸 𝓾𝓷𝓼 𝓪𝓸𝓼 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓼. 𝓢𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓮𝓰𝓾𝓲𝓻𝓪̃𝓸 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓮𝓫𝓮𝓻 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓷𝓪̃𝓸 𝓱𝓪́ 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓪𝓺𝓾𝓲 𝓾𝓶 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓰𝓾𝓮̂𝓼, 𝓮𝓷𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓿𝓪𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓲𝓪𝓶 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓲𝓻𝓼 𝓸𝓾 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓷𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓪 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓾𝓶 𝓒𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓪𝓷𝓸 𝓡𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵𝓭𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓽𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓱𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓵 𝓸𝓼 𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓪̃𝓸𝓼 𝓪̀ 𝓲𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓻𝓰𝓪 𝓮 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓸𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓷𝓪𝓼 𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓼, 𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸-𝓸𝓼 𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓪𝓻 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓽-𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓽 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓷𝓪𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓲𝓼, 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓿𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓲𝓽𝓪 𝓷𝓸 𝓑𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓱 𝓸𝓾 𝓷𝓪 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓪.

𝓞 𝓡𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓸 𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓸𝓾-𝓼𝓮 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮́𝓬𝓲𝓮 𝓭𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓪. 𝓐 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓪 𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓭𝓪 𝓹𝓻𝓪𝓬̧𝓪 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪 𝓽𝓸𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓫𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓪, 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓼𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓶 𝓫𝓾𝓰𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓪́𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓼, 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓾𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓪𝓼 𝓮 𝓫𝓮𝓫𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓫𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓮𝓶 𝓬𝓸𝓹𝓸𝓼 𝓧𝓛 𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓪𝓼𝓮𝓼 𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓬𝓸𝓼. 𝓥𝓮𝓶 𝓭𝓮 𝓵𝓪́ 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓶𝓾́𝓼𝓲𝓬𝓪 𝓹𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓪𝓵, 𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓿𝓮𝔃 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓪𝓻 𝓾𝓶 𝓪𝓻 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓾𝜾́𝓷𝓸 𝓮 𝓷𝓪𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓪̀𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓵𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓵𝓬𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓯𝓮𝓮́𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝔃 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓪𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓻 𝓪𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓮 𝓪 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓷𝓮̂𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓪 𝓭𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓵𝓬̧𝓪𝓭𝓪, 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓱𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓪̀ 𝓼𝓾𝓪 𝓿𝓸𝓵𝓽𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓾𝓶 𝓮𝓯𝓮𝓲𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝓰𝓷𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓻𝓪 𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓸𝓾 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓪𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓸.

𝓒𝓲𝓻𝓬𝓾𝓵𝓪𝓻 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓼 𝓻𝓾𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓪 𝓑𝓪𝓲𝔁𝓪 𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓸𝓾-𝓼𝓮 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓯𝓮𝓽𝓪. 𝓔́ 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝜾́𝓿𝓮𝓵 𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓻 𝓭𝓮𝔃 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓶 𝓼𝓮𝓻 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓾𝓶 𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓭𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪 𝓷𝓪 𝓶𝓪̃𝓸. 𝓢𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓮𝓶 𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓮̂𝓼, 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓪𝓷𝓱𝓸𝓵, 𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓪𝓷𝓸 𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓰𝓾𝓮̂𝓼. 𝓔 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓮 𝓸𝓾𝓽𝓻𝓪 𝓿𝓮𝔃 𝓿𝓸𝓾 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓳𝓪́ 𝓳𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓲, 𝓮𝓷𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓹𝓸 𝓪̀ 𝓬𝓪𝓬̧𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓶 𝓿𝓮̂ 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓿𝓪𝔃𝓲𝓸𝓼 𝓮 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓪 𝓶𝓮𝓲𝓸 𝓰𝓪́𝓼, 𝓪𝓹𝓮𝓼𝓪𝓻 𝓭𝓸 𝓫𝓸𝓶 𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓸. 𝓗𝓪́ 𝓭𝓲𝓪𝓼, 𝓯𝓪𝓵𝓮𝓲 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓪 𝓭𝓲𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓾𝓶 𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓵 𝓷𝓪 𝓑𝓪𝓲𝔁𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓿𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓸𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓸𝓼 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪̃𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓸𝓼 𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓹𝓪𝓭𝓸𝓼, 𝓶𝓪𝓼 𝓸 𝓭𝓲𝓯𝜾́𝓬𝓲𝓵 𝓮́ 𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓻 𝓬𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮. “𝓒𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓶 𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓼”, 𝓭𝓲𝔃𝓲𝓪, 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓪𝓵

𝓐𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓮-𝓶𝓮 𝓾𝓶 𝓭𝓸𝓬𝓮. 𝓐𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓸 𝓪𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓪, 𝓸𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓪𝓼 𝓪̀ 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪 𝓮 𝓪𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓶 𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓻 𝓮𝓷𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓪𝓻 𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼, 𝓭𝓾𝓪𝓼 𝓸𝓾 𝓽𝓻𝓮̂𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓰𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓭𝓸𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓾𝓶 𝓪𝓻 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓮 𝓹𝓵𝓪́𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓸, 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓬̧𝓪𝜾́ 𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓲𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓻𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓷, 𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓻 𝓪 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓪. 𝓞𝓼 𝓫𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓼 𝓽𝓮̂𝓶 𝓾𝓶 𝓪𝓻 𝓭𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮, 𝓶𝓪𝓼 𝓪 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓱𝓪 𝓰𝓾𝓵𝓪 𝓮́ 𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮. 𝓐𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓬𝓸, 𝓼𝓪𝓫𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓿𝓸𝓾 𝓼𝓸𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓻 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓾𝓼𝓪̃𝓸. 𝓒𝓾𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓪 𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓼𝓮 𝓪𝓹𝓻𝓸𝔁𝓲𝓶𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓲𝓶 𝓮𝓷𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓸𝓵𝓱𝓸 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓪 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓪 𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓬̧𝓸-𝓵𝓱𝓮 𝓾𝓶 𝓫𝓸𝓶-𝓫𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓸. 𝓡𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮-𝓶𝓮 𝓷𝓾𝓶 𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓵𝓮̂𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓽𝓪𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓪́𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓸 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓭𝓸 𝓮 𝓮𝓾 𝓪𝓹𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓸 𝓫𝓸𝓵𝓸 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓰𝓾𝓮̂𝓼, 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓮́ 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓪̃𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓵 𝓭𝓮 𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓪 𝓼𝓮𝓶 𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪 𝓯𝓸𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓭𝓪. 𝓛𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓲𝓻𝓻𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓭𝓪, 𝓪𝓬𝓪𝓫𝓸 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓵𝓮𝓿𝓪𝓻 𝓸 𝓫𝓸𝓵𝓸, 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓬𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓪 𝓽𝓻𝓮̂𝓼 𝓮𝓾𝓻𝓸𝓼 𝓮 𝓷𝓪̃𝓸 𝓼𝓪𝓫𝓮 𝓪 𝓷𝓪𝓭𝓪.

𝓣𝓮𝓷𝓱𝓸 𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓮̂𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓪 𝓮 𝓮́ 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓵𝓪́ 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓿𝓸𝓾. 𝓒𝓱𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓪̀ 𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓪, 𝓽𝓾𝓭𝓸 𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓬𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓷𝓪̃𝓸 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓾 𝓷𝓸 𝓵𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓵 𝓬𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓸. 𝓜𝓪𝓼 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓾. 𝓐 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓯𝓪𝔃-𝓼𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓸 𝓶𝓮𝓲𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓲𝓻𝓼, 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓾𝓶 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓶 𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓪́𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓸, 𝓿𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓭𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓪 𝓭𝓪 𝓢𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓬̧𝓪̃𝓸 𝓝𝓪𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵, 𝓸𝓵𝓱𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓾𝓶 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓯𝓸𝓷𝓮, 𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓾𝓶 𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓸. 𝓟𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓸 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓼 𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓑𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓼, 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪-𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓬̧𝓪, 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓪𝓼 𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓼 𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓶𝓮𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓼, 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓼 𝜾́𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓸𝓻𝜾́𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓸 𝓮𝓶 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝔃𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓳𝓸 𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓵 𝓭𝓮 𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓪. 𝓣𝓸𝓭𝓸 𝓸 𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓪́𝓻𝓲𝓸 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓰𝓾𝓮̂𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓾𝔃𝓲𝓭𝓸 𝓪 𝓾𝓶 𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓭𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓲𝔁𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓮, 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓾𝔃𝓲𝓭𝓸 𝓮𝓶 𝓯𝓪́𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓪́𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓪̃𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓸𝓫𝓻𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓪, 𝓲𝓰𝓾𝓪𝓵 𝓮𝓶 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪𝓼 𝓮 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪𝓼, 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓼𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓶 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪 𝓪 𝓑𝓪𝓲𝔁𝓪 𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓾𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓿𝓮𝔃𝓮𝓼 𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓼 𝓼𝓮 𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓮́ 𝓪 𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓪́𝓰𝓾𝓪 𝓯𝓻𝓲𝓪 𝓮 𝓪 𝓬𝓮𝓻𝓿𝓮𝓳𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓶 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓪 𝓻𝓾𝓪. 𝓓𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓿𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓪̃𝓸 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪𝓼.ᐣ, 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓸-𝓶𝓮, 𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓷𝓪𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓸́𝓶𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓪𝓵𝓲 𝓼𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓮 𝓮𝓶 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓮𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓬̧𝓪̃𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓼𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓶 𝓼𝓸𝓫𝓻𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝓰𝓸́𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓮 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝜾́𝓿𝓮𝓵 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓳𝓪𝓶 𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪́𝓿𝓮𝓲𝓼. 𝓠𝓾𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓼 𝓢𝓮𝓷𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓕𝓪́𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓪 𝓯𝓵𝓾𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓮 𝓽-𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓻𝓽𝓼 “𝓘 𝓵𝓸𝓿𝓮 𝓛𝓲𝓼𝓫𝓸𝓷” 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓪́ 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓼𝓸 𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓼𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓻 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓼.ᐣ

𝓟𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓸 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓪𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓵𝓮 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓫𝓻𝓪𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓹𝓵𝓪́𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓸, 𝓽𝓪̃𝓸 𝓯𝓮𝓮́𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓸 𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮, 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓼𝓪̃𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓲𝓼𝓪𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓽𝓮̂𝓶 𝓪𝓻 𝓭𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝔁𝓸 𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓻. 𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓵𝓱𝓪 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓾𝔃𝓲𝓭𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓼𝓮𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓾𝓵𝓼𝓸 𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓭𝓪. 𝓔 𝓼𝓾𝓫𝓸 𝓪𝓼 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓪, 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓼𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓾𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓪 𝓪̀ 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓪 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬̧𝓸𝓼, 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓪𝔁𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓪́𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓮𝓶 𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓪𝓼, 𝓽𝓪̃𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓵𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓵𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮́𝓭𝓲𝓸 𝓹𝓸𝓶𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓸 𝓮𝓶 𝓪𝓿𝓪𝓷𝓬̧𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓬𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓭𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓶 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓻𝓪́ 𝓪𝓵𝓲 𝓪̀ 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓵𝓪𝔁𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓸 𝓮 𝓶𝓪̃𝓸𝓼 𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓹𝓮̂𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓼.

𝓢𝓾𝓫𝓸 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓼 𝓾𝓶 𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓻. 𝓒𝓱𝓮𝓰𝓸 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓯𝓲𝓶 𝓪̀ 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓮 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓵𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓶 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪̃𝓸 𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓬̧𝓪𝓭𝓸𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓳𝓸. “𝓝𝓪̃𝓸 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓶𝓸𝓼 𝓽𝓸𝓭𝓸𝓼.ᐣ”, 𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓬𝓸, 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓲𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓪 𝓪́𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓪, 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓿𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓵𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓷𝓪𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓵𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓬̧𝓪̃𝓸. 𝓝𝓸 𝓫𝓪𝓻, 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪̃𝓸 𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓭𝓸𝓼 𝓽𝓻𝓮̂𝓼 𝓸𝓾 𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓽𝓻𝓸 𝓲𝓭𝓸𝓼𝓸𝓼, 𝓭𝓮 𝓸𝓵𝓱𝓸𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓼 𝓷𝓸 𝓮𝓬𝓻𝓪̃ 𝓰𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓭𝓮 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓽𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓪̃𝓸 𝓵𝓮𝓭 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪, 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓸, 𝓶𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓵𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮 – 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓸 𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓼, 𝓪 𝓳𝓾𝓵𝓰𝓪𝓻 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓸 𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓾𝓼𝓲𝓪𝓼𝓶𝓸 𝓭𝓸 𝓻𝓮𝓹𝓸́𝓻𝓽𝓮𝓻 – 𝓾𝓶 𝓪𝓾𝓽𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓻𝓸, 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓬𝓮𝓫𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓿𝓪𝓲 𝓪 𝓢𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓬̧𝓪̃𝓸 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓯𝓾𝓽𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓵. 𝓝𝓮𝓶 𝓿𝓪𝓵𝓮 𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓪 𝓭𝓲𝔃𝓮𝓻 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓮́ 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓵𝓲𝓷𝓪, 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓼𝓸́ 𝓼𝓮 𝓭𝓲𝔃 𝓸 𝓰𝓮́𝓷𝓮𝓻𝓸 𝓼𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓯𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓪, 𝓬𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓸.

𝓞 𝓬𝓱𝓪̃𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓪 𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓰𝓮. 𝓝𝓪 𝓼𝓪𝓵𝓪 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓻𝓪́ 𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓮̂𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓪 𝓱𝓪́ 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓪 𝓸𝓬𝓾𝓹𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓬𝓮𝓷𝓪 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓼 𝓿𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓫𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓬̧𝓪𝓶 𝓷𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓮 𝓼𝓮𝓻 𝓾𝓶 𝓫𝓸𝓼𝓺𝓾𝓮. 𝓝𝓪𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓮𝓼 𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓲𝓼, 𝓱𝓪́ 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓪𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓪́𝓻𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓰𝓪𝓼. 𝓔 𝓵𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓷𝓸 𝓽𝓮𝓽𝓸, 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓶 𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓳𝓪́ 𝓪𝓵𝓲 𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓭𝓸 𝓪 𝓶𝓾𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓯𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼, 𝓫𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓸𝓼 𝓮 𝓽𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓻𝓸𝓼, 𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓸𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓲𝓼 𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓻𝓪 𝓸𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓶𝓸𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓶𝓮𝓭𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓷𝓸𝓼 𝓬𝓪𝓲𝓪𝓶 𝓮𝓶 𝓬𝓲𝓶𝓪 𝓭𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓫𝓮𝓬̧𝓪.

𝓠𝓾𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓼𝓪𝓲𝓸 𝓭𝓪𝓵𝓲, 𝓪𝓸 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓭𝓪 𝓷𝓸𝓲𝓽𝓮, 𝓪𝓼 𝓻𝓾𝓪𝓼 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪̃𝓸 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓼 𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓿𝓪𝔃𝓲𝓪𝓼. 𝓓𝓲𝓰𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓼𝓮, 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓪 𝓶𝓮 𝓬𝓻𝓾𝔃𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓰𝓻𝓾𝓹𝓸𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓼 𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓪́𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓸𝓼, 𝓭𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓼 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓼, 𝓮𝓷𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓾𝓵𝓱𝓸 𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓼𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓪 𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓸 𝓹𝓪𝜾́𝓼 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓿𝓲𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓻 𝓮 𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓿𝓮𝔃 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓼 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓸𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓪 𝓪 𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓼. 𝓓𝓸𝓾 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓲𝓶 𝓪 𝓹𝓮𝓷𝓼𝓪𝓻 𝓷𝓪 𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓪́𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓪𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓵𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓮́𝓭𝓲𝓸 𝓪̀𝓼 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓼, 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓪 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓪 𝓷𝓪𝓬𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓵 𝓷𝓸 𝓻𝓮́𝓼 𝓭𝓸 𝓬𝓱𝓪̃𝓸, 𝓪 𝓼𝓾𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓲𝓽𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓼𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓪 𝓷𝓸 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓸 𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓻 𝓮 𝓪 𝓮𝓷𝓿𝓮𝓵𝓱𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓪 𝓮 𝓱𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓸́𝓻𝓲𝓬𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓪𝓬̧𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓾𝓵𝓼𝓪̃𝓸 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓪 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓾𝓵𝓪𝓬̧𝓪̃𝓸 𝓲𝓶𝓸𝓫𝓲𝓵𝓲𝓪́𝓻𝓲𝓪 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓬𝓲𝓶𝓪. 𝓛𝓲𝓼𝓫𝓸𝓪 𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓸𝓾-𝓼𝓮 𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮 𝓫𝓸𝓵𝓸 𝓪̀𝓼 𝓬𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓼, 𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓲𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓲𝓼. 𝓞 𝓶𝓮𝓼𝓶𝓸 𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓶𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓾𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓼 𝓬𝓪𝓼𝓪𝓼 𝓮𝓶 𝓻𝓾𝜾́𝓷𝓪𝓼 𝓮́ 𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓻𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓸́𝓲 𝓪 𝓪𝓵𝓶𝓪 𝓭𝓪 𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓸 𝓾𝓶 𝓪𝓽𝓪𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓭𝓮 𝓽𝓮́𝓻𝓶𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓼. 𝓔𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓶𝓸𝓼 𝓪 𝓼𝓮𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓲𝓭𝓸𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓻 𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓻𝓸 𝓮 𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓼𝓸𝓫𝓻𝓪 𝓮́ 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓼𝓬𝓪, 𝓿𝓪𝔃𝓲𝓪, 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓪 𝓪 𝓼𝓮𝓻 𝓬𝓾𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓭𝓪 𝓪̀ 𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓪 𝓬𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓮.

𝓠𝓾𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓬̧𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓪 𝓹𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓻-𝓼𝓮 𝓯𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓮 𝓪 𝓪𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓻 𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓶𝓸𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓸𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓬𝓪𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓼 𝓽𝓪𝓼𝓬𝓪𝓼, 𝓯𝓸𝓲 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓸 𝓼𝓮 𝓛𝓲𝓼𝓫𝓸𝓪 𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓮𝓫𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓮 𝓾𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓸 𝓯𝓸̂𝓵𝓮𝓰𝓸 𝓮 𝓼𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓮. 𝓟𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝔃 𝓪𝓷𝓸𝓼 𝓮 𝓪 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓭𝓪 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓬𝓾𝓵𝓪𝓬̧𝓪̃𝓸, 𝓪 𝓼𝓸𝓯𝓻𝓮𝓰𝓾𝓲𝓭𝓪̃𝓸 𝓭𝓸 𝓵𝓾𝓬𝓻𝓸 𝓮 𝓪 𝓪𝓾𝓼𝓮̂𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓻𝓮𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓼 𝓮 𝓮𝓼𝓬𝓻𝓾́𝓹𝓾𝓵𝓸𝓼, 𝓹𝓻𝓸́𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓪 𝓭𝓸𝓼 𝓰𝓸𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓹𝓸𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓿𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓶 𝓭𝓮 𝓶𝓪̃𝓸𝓼 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓪𝓼, 𝓯𝓲𝔃𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓸𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓾𝓼 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓰𝓸𝓼. 𝓞 𝓬𝓪𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓶𝓸 𝓮́ 𝓾𝓶 𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓵 𝓮𝓼𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓭𝓸. 𝓐 𝓫𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓲𝔁𝓸𝓾-𝓷𝓸𝓼 𝓸𝓼 𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸𝓼. 𝓝𝓪̃𝓸 𝓮́ 𝓼𝓸́ 𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓫𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓭𝓪 𝓭𝓮 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽𝓾𝓰𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓼, 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓳𝓪́ 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓶 𝓪 𝓑𝓪𝓲𝔁𝓪 𝓮 𝓸 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓪𝓭𝓸. 𝓔́ 𝓶𝓮𝓼𝓶𝓸 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓽𝓪́𝓬𝓾𝓵𝓸 𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮, 𝓭𝓮 𝓬𝓸𝓲𝓼𝓪 𝓪𝓻𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓵, 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓪 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓪́ 𝓸𝓼 𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼. 𝓔 𝓭𝓮𝓹𝓸𝓲𝓼.ᐣ 𝓞 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓪́ 𝓭𝓮𝓹𝓸𝓲𝓼 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪 𝓹𝓵𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓯𝓲𝓬𝓪𝓬̧𝓪̃𝓸 𝓭𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓾𝓶 𝓭𝓲𝓪 𝓯𝓸𝓲 𝓪 𝔃𝓸𝓷𝓪 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓼 𝓷𝓸𝓫𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓹𝓲𝓽𝓪𝓵.ᐣ

𝓞 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓭𝓸 𝓪 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓬𝓱𝓮𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓪 𝓑𝓪𝓲𝔁𝓪 𝓮 𝓸 𝓒𝓱𝓲𝓪𝓭𝓸, 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓸 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓸 𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓼 𝓵𝓸𝓳𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓼𝓾𝓼𝓹𝓲𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓹𝓮𝓵𝓸𝓼 𝓶𝓮𝓼𝓶𝓸𝓼 𝓬𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼, 𝓶𝓪𝓲𝓼 𝓮𝔁𝓲𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓮 𝓪𝓫𝓸𝓷𝓪𝓭𝓸𝓼, 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓾𝓵𝓼𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓶 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓸𝓼 𝓼𝓮𝓾𝓼 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬̧𝓸𝓼 𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓸𝓼𝓼𝜾́𝓿𝓮𝓲𝓼 𝓮 𝓪 𝓼𝓾𝓪 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓲𝓪 𝓫𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓽𝓪, 𝓮́ 𝓷𝓸 𝓯𝓾𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓾𝓶𝓪 𝓶𝓮𝓽𝓪́𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓪 𝓽𝓻𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓮 𝓭𝓮 𝓾𝓶 𝓹𝓪𝜾́𝓼 𝓻𝓮𝓭𝓾𝔃𝓲𝓭𝓸 𝓪̀ 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓾𝓬̧𝓪̃𝓸 𝓭𝓮 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓳𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓲𝓻𝓸𝓼. 𝓤𝓶 𝓹𝓪𝜾́𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓲𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓾 𝓭𝓮 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓾𝔃𝓲𝓻 𝓮 𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓿𝓪𝓻, 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓮𝓶𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓪́𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓼 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓿𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓶 𝓪̀ 𝓮𝓼𝓹𝓮𝓻𝓪 𝓭𝓪 𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓪 𝓮 𝓭𝓸 𝓼𝓾𝓫𝓼𝜾́𝓭𝓲𝓸, 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓵𝓸𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓸𝓼 𝓽𝓻𝓪𝓫𝓪𝓵𝓱𝓪𝓭𝓸𝓻𝓮𝓼 𝓮 𝓮𝓷𝓰𝓪𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓸 𝓸𝓼 𝓬𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼. 𝓔́ 𝓹𝓻𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓼𝓸 𝓺𝓾𝓮 𝓸 𝓷𝓸𝓼𝓼𝓸 𝓯𝓾𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓸 𝓷𝓪̃𝓸 𝓼𝓮 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓮𝓬̧𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓶 𝓲𝓼𝓼𝓸. 𝓤𝓶 𝓯𝓾𝓽𝓾𝓻𝓸 𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓲𝓶 𝓽𝓻𝓮𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪 𝓪 𝓹𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓭𝓸.

* Jornalista de assuntos políticos/sociais

IN "VISÃO" -10/07/26