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El Chicho Marumaar My elders told me that by the time, this song was in the air: "y la lluvia caerá aaaaaa… luegovéndráel serenoooo …. …. El mundo es-tá cambiando … Y cambiarámás …." [1] They told me that the streets at Santiago, the universities, the Instituto Pedagógico in particular, were in ebullition. The landscape was composed of lennons, miniskirts, meetings and "compañero, El Mercurio miente" [2]. And in fact, much more than a rain fell. And the world changed in all imaginable ways. There was morning dew, a twenty-year-lasting dew. It was the time of loosing almost everything. There were the ones that lost themselves, many people lost their life and their dead bodies too. But most of the people lost every sign of life, every feature of being alive. They lost desire in the first place, then movement, then they lost their voices. They lost even the hidden secrets after that. And finally, they already lost the most important thing: they lost the awareness of the situation, the feeling of what was happening to them. A lot of people lost their sanity. Even Talkien would envy the real tale of how darkness and paralysis can enchant all activity at the superficial level; "la résistance" would envy the underworld below that perfectly calmed surface, that just like a beetles army, keeped working silently, day after day of those twenty years, preserving under the ground a cosmovision to bring back to the life some day... Almost everybody lost hope and faith. Thousands of them lost what we call "our home", they were teared off, teared out and far away, carrying with them pieces of broken roots, in their way to the exile. Afterward, a time of resurrection came. Some people could still recognize themselves at this new reality, perhaps because they had something to recover, something to get back, something to un-hide now. But there were so many people that with the new reality, decided to lost memories also, they chose to bury altogether. They went to a different exile, a self-imposed one, their soul and their memories decided to think about all what had happend like if it were just a fictional story, one of the kind "once upon a time, at a far away country, it is told that had happened...". But there were a few who picked yet different choices. They were the silliest among all them, because they chose to remain believing. They didn't allowed themselves passion nor blood, nor revenge, no more fighting. They childly just prefered keeping on believing, staying calmed for all those years, with the mistical self-sureness of humble surviving. They kept quietly their soul surviving. Maybe some of these names sound familiar to us nowadays. But, don't ever forget, that they were just beetles all the way lasting the uncertainty through an unknown future, longing one, but without possible knowing if they could make it. Maybe you know now,


who is or who was any of them. If you feel curious, you can lookup the biographies of Clara Czaranski, the General Bachelet, or his daughter, or even of Ricardo Lagos Escobar. There was a woman who sang that song i've mentioned above, from the very inside of her heart. She was fullfilled with her personal believes, she had no doubt regarding to defend her president. She absolutely sang, she confidently believed and she hopefully smiled. I was born by the time of that kind of Hope. What exactly is to lose our mind? Perhaps it is nothing more than losing the balance between personal reality and unreality. Maybe it is just proving ourself the actual dimensions of our limitations, our shared orphanhood against some kinds of catastrophes. One day that woman was singing, and the next she lived the implosion of all what lived at her soul. Some time after that, i think she took the ruins and she created with them a personal and religious new world, just for her, where everything would forever fit right. With no memories nor roots and no pain. Today she lived happy in his subjective reality, nothing and no one could ever scare her now, she reinvented new confidences and a personal God. The nature of human beings is tricky when it comes to survive. The blurred memories, the muted voices, the erased events pass through and pass across individual psiquis, and ended aleatory materialized on some work of art. By this magic, if some deeply shared feelings are orphan inside a dying single heart, they can become some verses on a street, on a wall, they may turn into a painting. Those lost images and silented screams still embrace the human expression, and due that fact, they can live almost by themselves. Thirty years after the time of darkness and exile, that same but totally changed woman, walked through the totally changed streets, to a totally changed Plaza de Armas, in a totally changed Santiago. For a complete but unbelievable short moment, like it was a fireball in the middle of the day, it seems that the woman recovered everything, and extended her arms, maybe she wanted to hold what she had willingly lost for so many years, very deeply inside. For that brief lapse, she walked towards the big piece of stone in front of her eyes, and she said smiling: "ยกDรกmaso! ยกDรกmaso! ยกEl Chicho!". I think in that instant, maybe my mother had felt that sculpture as it was the only and unique reality, as if she could touch her own past, just like she trust she can touch her God. Her singular and ignored petrified past, as an everlasting forgotten memory. Just as that sculptured Chicho [3].


Photograph from familiar files. [1] Song: “Es la lluvia que cae”, by “Los iracundos” uruguayan musical group. "and the rain will fall then it comes the morning dew ... The world is changing And would change much more". [2] "Brother, El mercurio lies". El Mercurio is the official newspaper. [3] "El Chicho" era el nombre familiar para el presidente y médico de vocación Salvador Allende. This tale is the translation by the author, from its original: El Chicho, and it's first version was written in September 2005. Copyright Marumaar 2007 - All rights reserved

El Chicho  

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