One of stories...

One of stories...

The story is one of the oldest tools of popular literature for the communication and transmission of events. Since people began to communicate with each other until the present day, there have been stories that reflect the customs and customs of each era. They are a source of wisdom in many cultures. Some people even claim that they can be used as a "healing" remedy. In fact, Ayurvedic medicine (Ayurvedic medicine millennial which originates in India) prescribed a story to the patient as part of a compendium of natural remedies. As an example, en 1794, a nine-year-old boy had to have a tumour removed. While the doctors were trying to alleviate his pain, as anaesthetics did not exist at the time, they told him a story. The boy, named Jacob Grimm, wrote 18 years later Snow White, and many more along with her brother. His stories have been read by millions of people all over the world.

In my opinion, stories are a very beautiful way of instilling values in your children and I wanted to share with you a page where you can find different stories for children that talk about values such as respect, generosity, fairness, solidarity, etc.

http://www.guiainfantil.com/1226/cuentos-infantiles-que-hablan-de-valores.html

I am also copying an extract from a story for adults that I really like to reflect on how lucky we are to have been born in a place like this, and how important it is to have free public health care. It was written by Manu Leguineche and published a few years ago by Doctors of the World in a book in which many people collaborated selflessly and where the profits went to two projects in Guatemala. Here it goes:

"A great Espina". Manu Leguineche. 

Extract from Madhu's Story

       

When I met her, Madhu must have been 6 or 7 years old. The girl lived in a squalid village near the unlit house she had rented in the foothills of the Himalayas. 

I was very tired of wars and bloodshed. All I did was walk, rest, sleep, read and think a little. Anyway, one afternoon I was sitting reading at the foot of a mango tree, that aromatic tree with yellowish flowers and soft, fleshy fruit, when I saw Madhu passing by for the first time. 

My house was situated on the outskirts of the village, about 100 metres from the mango tree. A road full of holes led from the village to the field.  

When she reached my height, Madhu stopped for a moment and looked back at me. The next day, she smiled shyly at me and I waved to let her know that I had noticed her. On the third day, as I was leaving the house, Madhu was there again.             

- What is your name? Where do you live?     

- Madhu," the girl replied, "I live in the village with my grandmother.

- How old is your grandmother?      

- It is 100 years old.        

- We'll never get to that age," I said.         

   

Madhu, dark-eyed and with her hair in pigtails, was frail-looking, like a lone flower growing on a rock vulnerable to wind and rain. I later discovered that the 100-year-old was not her grandmother, but a woman with no family who had adopted Madhu after she found her newborn and crying on the riverbank, covered only with fig leaves. Once the ice was broken, Madhu came to visit me every day. Some mornings her laughter was the best alarm clock, announcing the new day.       

From time to time I would give her something, a kite I brought back from Hong Kong with dragons drawn on the frame; a notebook and some coloured pencils, because she loved to draw; or some slippers I bought at the village market. She would present me with a bouquet of marigolds or blue flowers that only grew there.               

A year passed and I thought it was time for Madhu's education. He could neither read nor write, so I hired a village teacher named Narayan, in a loincloth and glass-ass spectacles, to give him an hour's lesson every day in my garden. When I told Madhu about my idea, she clapped her frail hands together with all the strength she could muster. It was, she told me, something new, a fascinating experience.  

Madhu's progress was immediate. At the end of class, he would come to me with enlightened eyes to repeat the day's lessons and besiege me with the most unexpected questions: How big was the universe? Did people live there? How far away was the sun? Where did migratory birds fly to? How old was the water buffalo? Who had built the world?     

The teacher's knowledge was exhausted. I had the feeling, and so did I, that I had taught him everything I knew. Madhu had to continue his studies and further his education. How could he do that? There were no schools or colleges within a long radius. The teacher told me about a school about 500 miles away. There would be no problem in enrolling Madhu. I didn't know what to put in the section on parents' names and place of birth. I didn't even know the name of the 100-year-old woman. I ordered the uniform, the books, the toiletries....         

    

One afternoon I missed Madhu, he had not come to the garden as was his custom. She must have been dawdling in the village on the eve of her departure. Her attitude had changed: she was a happy child at the prospect of going to school.       

The next day, I was informed that Madhu had a high fever, lying in bed with no strength to go out. I hurried to the bamboo and mud hut where she lived with the old woman. It was the first time I had ever been there. Madhu lay on a Carpio, a bed plaited from hemp, in the semi-darkness. The room was modest but clean, with an earthen floor covered with mats.          

  

I approached Madhu, her face was smeared with sandalwood lotion, her eyes were closed, her hand was drooping over the edge of the bed, fainting to the floor, and her beautiful eyes were devoured by fever. There were no chairs. I sat beside the bed on the floor and took her hand which gave me the girl's temperature to the point. Madhu was dying. I looked around but could find no answer to my sudden state of anxiety. What to do? The 100-year-old woman called a healer who made some infusions in the pot. Madhu's fever did not break. I searched in vain for a means of transport, but in an ox cart it would have taken many hours to get back to a doctor.

My despair was complete. I thought of Madhu's fate, of the time we had spent together, of her tenderness and joy that eased my loneliness.  

       

I returned at dawn. He squeezed my hand and asked in a voice without anguish but which grew fainter with each passing hour.                

- When will I be able to go to school?           

- Soon, but first you have to get well.      

I had the impression that he couldn't hear me.    

- Who will read you the books under the tree? Who will look after you?    

- You Madhu, you will take care of me. 

            

The old woman came towards us, took Madhu's hand from mine and slowly placed it on the level of her heart, which had stopped beating. I left the room with my head bowed towards the floor. I sat on Madhu's chair and cried like a child, like a man.

Like the girl in the story, nearly 6 million children die each year before the age of five, and the number of children who die before the age of five is growing.ost die from diseases that can be prevented or cured with low-cost drugs such as pneumonia, diarrhoea, malaria or measles. Cost of these deaths occur in sub-Saharan Africa. 

This was precisely one of the Millennium Goals, to reduce child mortality, and it is being reduced but unfortunately not fast enough as we would like.

What can we do? Learn about the eight Millennium Goals, become aware of the current situation in the world and try to do our bit to achieve them (even if it is not possible to achieve the goals by the target date of 2015).