make it last I wish I could explain
I wish I could explain, but I do not know if I can.
I receive many letters and comments from you, the citizens of Asterix arrived here in their own way, for reasons of the heart that I do not know, through the streets of pixels.
I ask the boys, the Italian law, how to treat them, how we treat them, what they do, how they are, if they suffer, what they have. I thank you for these questions, of these thoughts. Even the wrong ones.
I realize that just like me, the day I met them on the bus, you do not know anything. Many imagine that there are schools organized for them, psychologists, Italian lessons outside, someone who pays their books, a center to play or be heard, that there is something.
There is not much, and what there is is a bit 'ragged and scoundrel, thief and sometimes, as we are.
why - there's nothing wrong with not knowing anything - I wish I could explain, but I do not know if I can. It 'too much stuff all at once: I should explain why we welcome them, and when we let them drown in boats.
I should explain to their documents, what is written, and how we give them to him, and things that would right to have and have not. I should explain
of shelters, how they made those for children and those for adolescents, as some seem to be a prison, and those for adults where you have to leave at eight o'clock in the morning and return at six, even if you do not know where to go and where to eat lunch. Out. I should explain that they are called by number. Should I having to explain the difference in words, what does an immigrant, what refugee unaccompanied minor thing, what does an asylum seeker, but these are not words, are labels. I want to explain to you that are labels.
All these things are just too many, long, endless, do not know how to explain: imagine instead a small thing that you take for granted, a stupid, I know the bus tickets or socks to be washed or snack here, for them is a problem. The bus ticket, washing machine, snack.
then at least I would be able to explain what it means to be just like them, what it means not knowing anyone in town, never meet anyone who comes to your life, but only strangers more or less friendly, more or less distracted. Not a bar where you know, not a small school where you go, not a garden where you keep the memory of something beautiful, not a single person who buzz around the continent.
And what it means to have no home to go back and find your own thing, our junk in their place, the faces, the smell of home, the bread, the sounds of all time. I wish I could explain what it means to look around every morning, every day, and not at home. What does it mean when you emigrate is just a flock of kids alone, confused and tough
All these things I now know I have learned from them. Them to him in the eye can see, if you look good: sad eyes sometimes dubious eyes, eyes that do their all. I admire the guys, because we put it all. It's not easy their lives with us. Us, so distracted, so unable to imagine their lives.
Here is the sentence that I had lost by Gino Strada: "To build 12 hospitals serving 250 million dollars, what they cost us 8 hours of the war in Iraq ... you take a day off! " - And it is precisely the fact that 8 hours of the war spin all these money making tremendous easy to make war, and make it last. 
