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Homerone is italian for “big Homer”. His father called him this way. I met him when I was twelve. We were both new students in a school. I had changed schools because I wanted a more liberal atmosphere, and he because his parentes had decided to move to Brazil. Homerone soon proved to be a good friend. We played together, I visited his home, I met his sympathetic father.

However, this good mood would change. Twelve year old children are often mean, and so were our peers.They saw in Homerone´s accent and lack of knowledge of the environment an opportunity for bullying him.

I watched it all. And did nothing.

Insofar as my memory doesn´t betray me,I think Homerone was resiliant,I think he survived the experience. But although this might be true, I felt guilty. I feel guilty even today. If I met him, I´d ask for his forgiveness.

But, in spite of the fact that this brought me guilt, something good came together. I promised myself not to go with the flow any more. From then on, I started pondering about what was fair to do, and also, I became sensitive to those who are in adversities.

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