My take on social justice and politics, and my expertise on Terrorism and The Russian Conflicts in Chechnya plus using International Relations theory to look at world events.

Fleas dream of buying themselves a dog, and nobodies dream of escaping 
poverty: 
that, one magical day, good luck will suddenly rain down on them – will rain down in buckets. 
But good luck doesn’t rain down, yesterday, today, tomorrow or ever. 
Good luck doesn’t even fall in a fine drizzle, 
no matter how hard the nobodies summon it, 
even if their left hand is tickling, 
or if they begin the new day on their right foot,
 or start the new year with a change of brooms. 
The nobodies: nobody’s children, owners of nothing. 
The nobodies: the no-ones, the nobodied, running like rabbits, 
dying through 
life, screwed every which way. 
Who are not, but could be. 
Who don’t speak languages, but dialects. 
Who don’t have religions, but superstitions. 
Who don’t create art, but handicrafts. 
Who don’t have culture, but folklore. 
Who are not human beings, but human resources. 
Who do not have faces, but arms. 
Who do not have names, but numbers. 
Who do not appear in the history of the world, 
but in the crime reports of the local paper. 
The nobodies, who are not worth the bullet that kills them

Eduardo Galeano

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