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No Renuncíes… Don’t Give Up…

Don’t Give Up…

Don’t give up… Don’t give up on anything.
Don’t give up loving yourself, if this love is nothing more than someone loving you.
Don’t give up the right to be yourself, nothing is gained if you are not, as you truly are in your soul.
Don’t give up your dreams as there is no one more powerful than he who keeps hope in his soul.
Don’t give up anything… Love, the truth, dignity… Justice, your views…

Nothing that makes you master of your Freedom.

Don't Give UP

Translation by Kalizamar


With love and other revolutions // I didn’t know meant violence (White and Yellow Butterflies)

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The world and its revolutions from the 14th floor 14<brBy Tejedordesuenos Rob Cruzzó 4 Dec 

I didn’t know what violence meant, I’d only read about it occasionally in books by Vargas Llosa and Benedetti, or listening to Víctor Jara. I was one of those who used to sing his songs well after midnight, I wanted to shout rebellion and ask for social changes, just for the sake of it. But there’s no comparison, I can’t believe what I’m seeing now.

I’d already been to loads of demos and the police had even protected us, cordoned off by yellow tape as armored trucks sped past down the practically deserted avenue. I loved shouting slogans of protest and seeing how people felt more liberated every minite that passed as they ran, offering prayers to an inexistent god, or just watching the curious onlookers giving the thumbs up as if to say “Good, these youngsters are going to change the future of my screwed-up country!”

Why didn’t anyone tell me that things weren’t always like that? We start believing we’re revolutionaries when things are going our way, or apparently working out, but the majority soon back-off when death roams along, rubbing his hands and biding his time, with his black lips pursed waiting to kiss someone close by on the forehead.

A group of friends and I arrived at the place where everything was about to happen. The temple of treason and the mafia were formally attired for the occasion: dressed in an enormous iron skirt that covered each and every entrance of its intimacy.

It wasn’t like the other occasions. Now it wasn’t the transient police protecting us but grenadiers, willing to do anything to defend their monthly salary of seven thousand pesos, who watched us from behind their masks and plastic shields, sheathed in those shiny boots that at some moment kicked me in the face more than once, knee protectors, truncheons, bullet proof vests…

I don’t know how it all started. When I realized the danger I was already in the middle of it. Columns of fire came off the ground following the sound of smashed glass bottles. We were separated by curtains of smoke, forced to cover our eyes. I saw Satan swinging from the trees, laughing at us, ordering the police to fire mercilessly again and again, those rubber bullets that hurt like hell, penetrating soul deep…

We carried on rioting, though by now it didn’t matter why we were there, we just threw everything within reach at them in an attempt to get out of there alive.  Rivers smelling of blood ran down the streets and flowed into the subway, which was once witness to another of our historical massacres.

We all tried to getaway. I lost sight of my friends hardly imagining this could be the last time I’d have the chance to speak to them. The streets were jammed with blue caps and green helmets who blocked our way to freedom. Everything was turning upside down, we didn’t want to be there, though a few weeks ago we had actually looked forward to it.

There was no one around, our screams went unheard and our cell phones weren’t much use in describing the terrible things that were happening to us. Nobody cared. We were the forgotten, misfits, the third world filthy bastards in disagreement; the little sons of a bitch who didn’t understand democracy and transparency: the vandals that that nobody wanted in a sovereign state (sovereign?) like ours.

Blood pulsed through our heads, our need to defend ourselves with sticks and stones, feet with a sense of life seeminly guided us by their own will towards a hideaway where the fetid smell of tragedy, death and badly disguised bitterness wouldn’t reach.

The national coat of arms served as a mute witness, cried with us without uttering a word and looked on with little faith at what was occurring beneath its claws. It seemed annoyed, I’m not sure if this was with those who were there fighting because they couldn’t comprehend that utopias don’t exist or with them for not realising that dreams are made to be fulfilled

Nothing was what it should be, the columns of fire appeared like tails of cloud restlessly sweeping from side  to side, the detonations felt closer every time and the tension level kept on rising. I wan’t familiar with anything and for a fleeting second I reproached myself for being there, I should have just kept my head down, like those who had once said to me “we knew that this would happen”, “the change should come from us”,  “screw him for kicking up this fuss”.

The chaos had reached a climax, my mind was almost entirely eclipsed, my vision clouded, my hands weary tired, my cheeks red raw, my ideals in shreds, my dreams broken the same as my right leg, which a fragment of broken metal fencing has just sliced through; my ears confused, there wasn’t a harmonious sound, or the sound of claxons, of the wind brushing past the trees, only the sound of thuds, screams of motherfucker, bullets, the clicking of cameras recording our cries, curses, explosions, and above all this the guffaws of the demon with a red tie who wouldn’t stop singing under his breath what appeared to be my national anthem…

I didn’t know what pain really meant until that bullet perforated my skull and everything that I had lived for gently slipped away…My friends, my family, my girlfriend, my career, my grant to study a Masters degree abroad, my memories, my childhood, my first steps, my first time with her in bed, the first time I flew a kite, and my first deception on seeing how the thread slipped from between my fingers as my spirit was now leaving me amid the fluttering wings of preying condors and the wailing of ambulances that couldn’t keep abreast with loading so many bodies, bodies with dulled eyes and no willpower left in the soles of their shoes…

The volume was starting to get lower until everything became silent, I sensed with clarity my last synopsis and saw how the yellow and white butterflies that fluttered inside me were freed, they were released forcefuly all at once from my gullet into my mouth and from my nostrils. I don’t know how, but  all of them managed to draw a frank smile on my lax face… I had done what they had bidden me to do…

(Your forehead shall be girded, oh fatherland, with olive garlands by the divine archangel of peace…  But should a foreign enemy  (Was I the enemy?) Profane your land with his soul… This duet to Satan and myself makes us feel so good…It’s not as bad as they say… Think, beloved fatherland, that heaven gave you a soldier in each son…)

I watched those fantastic creatures fly away until they were lost somewhere between the smoke and the sun at its zenith, before I went to sleep, so I wouldn’t see what would happen in this putrid land so lacking in courage and full of those ambitious for power.

Original post in Spanish by Rob Cruzzó

Published December 2, 2012 by tejedordesuenos

Twitter @Tejedordesuenos

(Translation by Kalizamar)

De amor y otras revoluciones / No sabía significaba violencia (Mariposas blancas y amarillas)


No sabía lo que significaba violencia. Sólo la había leído una que otra vez en los libros de Vargas Llosa, de Benedetti, o en las canciones de Víctor Jara. Yo era de los que solía cantarlas hasta media noche, de los que quería gritar rebeldía y  pedir los cambios simplemente por pedirlos.

Nada se comparaba con lo que mis ojos ahora intentaban ver.

Había ya asistido a muchas manifestaciones en donde incluso la policía nos ponía cintos amarillos para guarecernos de los carros que pasaban a toda velocidad por la avenida casi deshabitada. Me gustaba gritar consignas de protesta y ver como por momentos la gente se sentía libre al correr, al alzar plegarias a un dios inexistente, o simplemente ver a los curiosos que levantaban los pulgares como diciendo “bien, estos jóvenes cambiarán el destino de mi jodido país”.

¿Por qué nadie me informó que así no siempre era la cosa? Uno empieza a creerse revolucionario cuando las cosas van saliendo, o aparentemente van funcionando, pero la mayoría suele echarse pa’tras cuando la muerte anda chupándose los dedos, esperando besar con sus labios negros la frente de alguno de los presentes.

Curiosamente la mañana no se prestaba para salir, una llamada fue la que me despertó después de ignorar mi despertador como cuatro veces. Nada va a pasar si no voy, pensé, el mundo no cambia con o sin mi presencia…

Llegamos un grupo de amigos y yo al sitio donde todo se llevaría a cabo. El templo de la traición y la mafia estaba dignamente vestido para la ocasión: Vestía una enorme falda de acero que cubría todas y cada una de las entradas a su intimidad.

Esto no era como en otras ocasiones. Ahora no eran policías de tránsito protegiéndonos sino granaderos dispuestos a todo por defender su salario mensual de siete mil pesos los que nos veían a través de sus caretas  y escudos de plástico, forrados por esas botas brillosas que en algún momento patearon más de una vez mi cara, rodilleras, las macanas, los chalecos antibalas…

No sé cómo comenzó todo. Cuando advertí el peligro ya estaba inmerso en él.  Columnas de fuego se desprendían del suelo después del sonido de las botellas de vidrio desquebrajándose. Las cortinas de humo nos obligaban a dispersarnos, a cubrirnos los ojos. Yo veía a satanás columpiándose entre los árboles, riéndose de nosotros, ordenándole a los policías disparar una y otra vez sin piedad esas balas de salva que dolían hasta su puta madre, hasta el alma…

Seguíamos la revuelta, ya no importaba el por qué estábamos ahí, sólo valía darles con todo para intentar salir vivos. Ríos con olor a sangre bajaban entre las calles y desembocaban en las vías del metro que era testigo de otra de las masacres de nuestra historia.

Todos intentábamos escapar. Perdí de vista a mis amigos sin imaginar tal vez que sería la última ocasión en que cruzaríamos palabras. Las calles estaban atestadas de gorros azules y cascos verdes que impedían el paso hacia la libertad. Todo estaba alrevesado, buscábamos no estar, siendo que semanas antes era el momento que más anhelábamos.

Nadie pasaba por ahí, nuestros gritos eran sordos y nuestros celulares muy apenas nos ayudaban a documentar las calamidades y penurias que se vivían. A nadie le importaba. Éramos los olvidados, los hijos de puta inadaptados tercermundistas de mierda que estábamos en desacuerdo; los cabroncitos que no entendíamos de democracia y transparencia: los vándalos que nadie quería en una nación soberana (¿soberana?) como la nuestra.

La sangre la teníamos en la cabeza, las ganas en los palos y piedras que encontrábamos para defendernos, el sentido de la vida en los pies que autónomos que parecían guiarnos hacia algún recoveco donde no llegaran los fétidos olores a desgracia, muerte y rencor mal enlatado.

El escudo nacional servía de testigo mudo, lloraba con nosotros sin decir nada y miraba con poco temple lo que acontecía bajo sus garras. Parecía molesta, no sé si con quienes ahí luchaban por no entender que las utopías no existen o con ellos por no comprender que los sueños sirven para ser realizados.

Nada era lo que debía, las columnas de fuego parecían rabos de nube inquieta arrastrándose de un lado al otro, las detonaciones cada vez se sentían más cerca y las tensiones fueron subiendo de nivel. Nada me era familiar y me reprochaba en fracciones de segundo el haber estado ahí, el no haber simplemente agachado la cabeza como tantos que en algún momento me dijeron “ya sabíamos que esto iba a pasar” “el cambio debe venir de nosotros” “sólo nos queda chingarle y ni pedo”.

El caos había llegado al clímax, mi mente estaba eclipsada casi en tu totalidad, mi vista nublada, mis manos cansadas, mis mejillas encarnecidas, mis ideales destrozados, mis sueños rotos como mi pierna derecha, a la cual acaban de trozar con uno de los fragmentos de una valla rota; mis oídos confundidos, no había un sonido armonioso, ni sonidos de claxon, ni el viento rozando los árboles, sólo el de golpeteos, mentadas de madre, balazos, clics de cámaras que retrataban llantos, maldiciones, detonaciones, y por  encima de todo eso carcajadas de ese demonio con corbata roja que no paraba de canturrear algo parecido al himno de mi país…

Yo no sabía lo que significaba realmente el dolor hasta que esa bala perforó mi cráneo y todo lo que viví se me escapó tiernamente… Mis amigos, mi familia, mi novia, mi carrera, mi beca para estudiar la maestría fuera del país, mis recuerdos, mi infancia, mis primeros pasos, mi primera vez con ella en la cama, mi primer papalote echado al vuelo y mi primera decepción viendo como el hilo se me escapaba de los dedos como ahora se me iba el espíritu entre aleteos de cóndores rapaces y chirridos de ambulancias que no se daban abasto para cargar cuerpos y cuerpos sin brillo en los ojos ni voluntad en las suelas de los zapatos…

El volumen de todo se fue haciendo pequeño hasta volverse silente, sentí la nitidez de mis últimas sinapsis y vi liberadas las mariposas amarillas y blancas que volaban dentro de mí, saliendo a presión y de un solo golpe todas desde mi esófago hasta la boca y las fosas nasales. No sé cómo, pero todas dibujaron una franca sonrisa en mi rostro yacido… Había hecho lo que ellas me dictaron…

(Ciña ¡oh patria! Tus sienes de oliva, de la paz, de ese diablo divino… Mas si osare un extraño enemigo… (¿Fui yo el enemigo?) Profanar con sus plantas tu suelo… Qué bien nos sienta este dueto a Satanás y a mí… No es tan malo como dicen… Piensa, patria querida, que el cielo un soldado en cada hijo te dio…)

Vi volar a esos fantásticos seres que se perdieron entre el humo y el sol en su cenit, antes de dormir, para no ver qué sucedería en esta tierra putrefacta y falta de coraje y llena de ambiciosos por el poder.

Rob Cruzzó

De amor y otras revoluciones/ No sabía significaba violencia (Mariposas blancas y amarillas)

GAZA “Are people afraid or don’t they care?”

Written by Farah B. Baker

Ok. I’m Farah, I’m 14 years aged, I’m Palestinian and I live in Gaza.

I care about human rights and I see that we ‘Palestinians’ have no rights and nobody asks about them because we used to live in this horrible siege, we cannot travel or visit our relatives and friends who live in Jerusalem and the West bank and the other cities in Palestine.  And this is unfair. But this isn’t my aim right now.

I want to speak about what is happening these days in Gaza. We cannot leave our houses because it’s dangerous outside, for example yesterday evening Israel bombed on a man who was coming back home from the supermarket and killed him.
It’s not even safe in our houses, for example everyday after midnight gunships shoot on the citizens houses and kill tens.
Israel even bombs on the military sites which locates between citizens houses and raises fear in everywhere.

Al_Yarmouk playground , it was bombed by 3 rockets

I live on the opposite of al_Shifa hospital, so yesterday evening I went on the rooftop to see what was happening there, so I could see the morgue of the hospital. On it’s door there was a woman shouting, screaming and slugging, after a while a doctor arrived and with him was a died body which was covering by a white cloth. Then a huge explosion happened so I ran to the house.

Israel kills citizens but they deny that. An example: Yesterday, F16 threw 3 rockets on al_Dalu family’s house and they’re citizens. They killed 10 people, 4 children, 2 women, an old man and the father, and injured 15 people too. Israel said that that happened by mistake, but of course nobody believed this huge lie.

Child of Al_Dalu family

Thousands of crimes and nobody says anything! Are the people afraid or they don’t care?

We won’t leave our homeland, we’ll stay here in Palestine till the last breath. Israelis will die sooner or later and god will help us.

Originally posted at 16.05 on Monday 19 November, 21012, on Facebook by Farah B Baker

Farah on Twitter @Farah_Gazan

Ok. I’m Palestinian Gazan. I ADORE dabkah, and I’d kill myself if I saw a beautiful blouse didn’t get it. Well, using my pencil I’m trying to free Palestine 🙂

The Israeli aggression on the Gaza Strip lasted eight days  (November 2012) to claim the lives of approximately 164 Palestinians, including 43 children and 15 women. The aggression left more than 1,200 Palestinians injured, mostly women and men.

963 families in #Gaza are now homeless.

Unemployment rate in #Gaza is 28% – and stands at 58% among young people aged between 20 and 24.

39% of people live below the poverty line in Gaza

Blogs & Twitter from Gaza

Blog: / @ShahdAbusalama

Blog: / @Omar_Gaza

Blog: / @RanaGaza

(En Español)

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