few years ago at the invitation of Rafael Molano, then editor of the Leopard, I decided to do a story about the micro- stories of pain in the Colombian conflict. At first the track was too rough. In the title of micro-stories of pain could be anything. Either side could dull the pain and deepest pain, despair more pained by the injustice of arms. So I decided that the news had to be a song of hope. A little serenade of recognition to those people who despite having been direct victims of the conflict even get up every day to build to Colombia with his hands, despite his pain, out of resentment and fear.
Between coming and going I was in the International Poetry Festival of Medellín, and one of poetry that often results in the Prometheus Foundation disadvantaged neighborhoods of the city, found the micro-story that would make the chronicle, that is, by chance I met a woman robust, thick lips, curly and unruly hair colored skin in those days of wages that had been his way of living even before the conflict slapped him life, his name Eloisa. Displaced
Córdoba somewhere whose name I do not feel like to remember, was how they got almost all Colombians with no destination and no future on the slopes of the main cities, ie, as displaced. His work as day laborers did not help in the communities in which refuge did, then a neighbor suggested selling corn arepas Junín. Today
Eloisa still sells arepas. It has almost become accustomed to the endless nights of nightmares in which armed men just over and over again with her family, her husband and children. But this time has decided he wants to see in front of the man who ordered the death of his family. It is not reproach, he says, his voice warm and eyes makes painfully crystalline "... I just want to know why ..." exclaims.
But at the Alpujarra be advised that you must complete a form relating the details to be certified as the victim. Ie, it must return to their grief, remember step by step, lacerate herself while bringing back the darkest moments of memory to put on paper to meet the demands of justice that no man knew how to be when she tries to see now, Salvatore Mancuso, just with his family, his past and future. Your pain does not matter, his micro-history, humble and far from any political gain only serves to turn anger and knead the flour arepas with them again even make a living. And while the murderer
describes calm and without the slightest remorse their "acts of war" as he describes only unpleasant circumstance, it is up to victims to justify their back pain on their history, ie, to justify their interest in this political the country when it has been forced to become part of the past that it is, but not from the side that makes decisions and squeeze triggers, but which puts the pain, blood, tears and the dead.
In honor of this brave Eloisa silence every day without knowing it, without being aware of it, build the country, leaving the rage in the mass of their arepas and not a gun to multiply the anger, the chronicle I wrote then still waits for the violent wind of either side but stop blowing and Heloise and less Mancuso are the heroes of the country.
Between coming and going I was in the International Poetry Festival of Medellín, and one of poetry that often results in the Prometheus Foundation disadvantaged neighborhoods of the city, found the micro-story that would make the chronicle, that is, by chance I met a woman robust, thick lips, curly and unruly hair colored skin in those days of wages that had been his way of living even before the conflict slapped him life, his name Eloisa. Displaced
Córdoba somewhere whose name I do not feel like to remember, was how they got almost all Colombians with no destination and no future on the slopes of the main cities, ie, as displaced. His work as day laborers did not help in the communities in which refuge did, then a neighbor suggested selling corn arepas Junín. Today
Eloisa still sells arepas. It has almost become accustomed to the endless nights of nightmares in which armed men just over and over again with her family, her husband and children. But this time has decided he wants to see in front of the man who ordered the death of his family. It is not reproach, he says, his voice warm and eyes makes painfully crystalline "... I just want to know why ..." exclaims.
But at the Alpujarra be advised that you must complete a form relating the details to be certified as the victim. Ie, it must return to their grief, remember step by step, lacerate herself while bringing back the darkest moments of memory to put on paper to meet the demands of justice that no man knew how to be when she tries to see now, Salvatore Mancuso, just with his family, his past and future. Your pain does not matter, his micro-history, humble and far from any political gain only serves to turn anger and knead the flour arepas with them again even make a living. And while the murderer
describes calm and without the slightest remorse their "acts of war" as he describes only unpleasant circumstance, it is up to victims to justify their back pain on their history, ie, to justify their interest in this political the country when it has been forced to become part of the past that it is, but not from the side that makes decisions and squeeze triggers, but which puts the pain, blood, tears and the dead.
In honor of this brave Eloisa silence every day without knowing it, without being aware of it, build the country, leaving the rage in the mass of their arepas and not a gun to multiply the anger, the chronicle I wrote then still waits for the violent wind of either side but stop blowing and Heloise and less Mancuso are the heroes of the country.
0 comments:
Post a Comment