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"Butterflies Red, Black Butterfly": word, militancy and memory

At the end of the Book Fair, Silvia Loustau invited me to present his fine book "Butterflies Red, Black Butterfly. Memoirs of a militant Argentina in Chile, 1970-1973. " Transcribe them-words, fewer words, the text of my speech, using the publication to thank who dared to share with me the memory of a past with many similarities, as unforgivable disabilities to join at that time.

How difficult synthesize much love, so much struggle, so militant, so life is a noun and two adjectives. Much talent to write simply Red Butterflies, Mariposas Negras .

This achieves Silvia Loustau, who introduces herself in the novel as "Mariana" or "Laura"-his old name as a militant. Loustau, an outstanding poet and writer. First Prize for Poetry Illustrated in La Plata, with Letter to Pablo Neruda - when she was 18. First Prize for Fiction Center of Latin America Editor (CEDAL) with 19, to the surprise of David Viñas, who confessed, embarrassed to see that almost adolescent receive recognition "that the jury was convinced that the author of the work shared the generation of the evaluators.

introductions do not end with this "alter-ego", but continue with many "poets / partners" Mombrú Mary, his mother a poet, as described, Carmen Soler, the same Margaret Aguirre, among others, you readers will be delighted to discover between the pages. All he conveyed a message that Silvia made flesh: work, work, work on the words.

The book also appears Silvia, the militant. That girl on the front pages are chatting with the grandfather, discovering another way to Sawdust a nursery rhyme, Aserrán ... , otherwise the changed forever, as the mandate of that old anarchist. Thus we see the promise he made several years later, when he left his birthplace: "I will continue writing, I will be an excellent student; military to become the tortilla." Soon after, with 18 years traveling to "build socialism" with Allende, convened by the magic of Traful, the almost mythical great Viking inspiring a picture of the MIR. Silvia appears that touches all UNLP with his poem "Who cares," probably written in Lettera orange, when the slaughter of Trelew, 22 August 1972. Silvia And the eyes filled with tears of deans, professors and fellow students in the university assembly mass in solidarity with Chile after the coup of September 11, 1973.

We see growth as an activist, not only through personal feelings it conveys, but also through the story of what you read in the eyes of his colleagues, on both sides of the mountains.

And it's essential to share his story of how we were, as we dreamed, as we lived the militants of that time looking and different on both sides of the mountains. On one side, with a tradition of militancy names, difference between open houses or operational, false documents, eye trained to locate the lack of a peephole, or an emergency exit. And the other, all militant enthusiasm. Without innocence, with preparation, but with a tradition of years without dictatorships and measures to address them. Silvia

also reminds us, unpretentious professorial-just as living witnesses, some of the discussions about sectarianism, volunteerism, top-down, authoritarian. This is not an idyllic world, yes a deep love for the people in the midst of search and confusion. And a slogan that is repeated throughout the book: "Tightening without losing tenderness." Not all succeeded, not even all they sought. But crossed all of our organizations. Even in these issues Rispa, Butterflies ... showcases the best of the tension. Without hiding anything. Even the little miseries, anticipating ways and means less neutral, more painful and damaging. It is essential that we bring them back to our days, that displays as evidence of life, it is not easy to explain to those not experienced it: that love and fury that commitment and courage.

What else to say the book we present today, with humility, even though he deserved a room and would be among the best-selling if it had a wink, this brutally commoditized industry?

you read it. Should read it. Red and black are so many ways. Land plowed black, the red sky. Mobilizing February 1972 to support Allende as a joy of gratitude, like butterflies red, black butterflies. Torch red, black night, the mobilization in solidarity against the coup in Chile. Red and black graffiti. Neruda's face red, black his cap. The flag of the MIR. As always, the star of the FAR, in the heart of Silvia. And the kiss of Joseph which coincides with one of his butterflies while you sleep. There are many, many more, you will discover while reading. They are in joy and sorrow, in dreams and nightmares. All reinforce the image on our retinas and our hearts.

There is a phrase enlightening prologue, Alfonso Freire, who says exactly "the Chilean" which is "fictionalized memoir" or "memory novel" a story bound and polyphonic: " say that this memory is polyphonic because it preserves not only the life of Silvia, talking to his grandfather her in the backyard, but the life of each of the people who are playing in their travel, giving name and fleshiness to each of the faces that go with it since his trip to La Plata to the smallest companion which is in its tour of the 'Chilean experience. " I say it is polyphonic because each speaker is allowed to say in his own voice, rescues Silvia insignificant gesture that allows the tenderness is revolutionary ".

And a very interesting aspect is that they are Salvador Allende, and Carlos Altamirano, and Miguel Henriquez, Luis Corvalan-icons and the history of those days, those who speak, those who get "name and fleshiness." It is the people, the "collective hero" in the words of Oestherheld. Thus, with these voices, these presences to be becoming intimate, reviewed in the frame of a musical work-First and Second Movement Third Movement-Intemezzo and touches of context in Argentina before the first and second trip the author to Chile's dictatorship Lanusse, Trelew, the first steps of the FAR and then the unit Montoneros, the populist-Marxist debate, Ezeiza, Field #, and the progress of the Three lopezreguismo and A.

In Chile live the saga of the "volunteer" for Chilean Youth, Latin American, and many countries around the world, building or renovating schools and health centers, census, teaching, vaccinating or providing first aid, experience with 800 Argentine university I lived with the "Santiago Pampillón Brigades" of the FUA. With guidance from Silvia, walk down Santiago, Pomaire, Rancagua and El Teniente mine, Valparaíso ("A city amphitheater" or "hanging of the hill", describes, exquisite, Silvia), Copiapo, populations and mushrooms, the villas Chilean ... listen to the Mapuche in Temuco and see the literacy campaign with moments of great tenderness and disclosures: a poem by Jacques Prevert, or Homer's Odyssey, provoking the imagination. The painting, story and reference life shows that "children are poets' responses." "Happiness is freedom" is the conclusion of a girl in the Callampa after chat and discuss student Evil of Prevert.

we say, too, about Sylvia's novel, a great love story. A story that helps to understand the way that I could love in those years and desperately intense, "as if it were your last day of our lives" . History Silvia and "Flaco," his "non-marriage" in Isla Negra, with Margaret Aguirre as a witness, along with the bells that greeted Neruda passing ships. Magic and nightmare: that love that tore the dictatorship, leaving indelible scars on the soul and body. It is also another great love story, that of many who are, and no longer are, for our people and all peoples fighting.

But Butterflies ... rescue is also a historical memory.

In a recent paper in Mexico in the 35 th anniversary of the last coup in Argentina Argentine internationalist political scientist Norberto Emmerich tells us we need the historical memory to respond to this emergency. Not because they are all the answers, but in the past is broken promises and, therefore, the past tells us about things that concern the future.

The witness, the militant, know what others forget, and talk because the crime, once committed, exists only when stored in the memory of men. Someone recalls Emmerich, once said that "nobody is dead until they forget." Our dead, which certainly died, somehow they are not dead. Not only because we remember, but because we fought. We fight as

Silvia promised his grandfather. Because Sylvia continued to write, was an excellent student and military to "the tortilla again." Met grandfather, Traful, with the Bolivian Ana, to Guadalupe, with the twins (and Ernesto Lautaro), with the boy of Zeta mushroom, with Michel, the Frenchman, with Thomas, with Peter, and the Lumi. Also Alexander, now prostrate, whom his old friends seem to have forgotten. And of course with Jose, "El Flaco."

And now meet us at these butterflies take flight we caress the soul.

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God does not play dice

continue with our selection of T Sunday res thousand stories of phrases and words that say all the time , Hector Zimmerman, Editorial Aguilar.

Einstein always claimed that the Universe responds to law and that men of science it bears the exciting task of making them. Although not practiced any of the established religions, believed in the existence of a divine principle. The theory of relativity and other important discoveries in physics earned him the well, the Nobel Prize in 1921, the universal respect and admiration to the point of being considered on par with geniuses like Galileo and Newton. Against their convictions, the generation of physicists who followed him said that many phenomena-especially atomic, are largely subject to random chance. That uncertainty outraged Einstein, who lectures in numerous letters and insisted that nothing is accidental in nature. Hence the phrase, often quoted, "God does not play dice." never could admit that the phenomena of the world depended on the whim of something comparable to a cup.

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Oscar postal Blunt Taffetani

a day like today, but 1626-read Ephemeris in Aboriginal North-sold the island of Manhattan by 26 pounds. No mention is naive. Suggests that those "original" had no idea of \u200b\u200bthe value of what they sold. Lies the anniversary. Because for lor originating in America, men are sons of the earth and not vice versa. So the land owners can never have, or price.

The poet Walt Whitman, who was born there (his father's house, built in 1810, is the only historic site district) Mannahatta liked to call (because it was said in the original language) and proposed that the entire city was baptized with that name, New York since was reminiscent of the feudal and monarchical that the yacht Mayflower pilgrims had left behind.

Mannahatta was the original name and the best for the city. Whitman beautiful poems are dedicated to this hamlet and that he knew far from the reconstruction that was Hollywood in the film Gangs of New York . There were many farms. And farmers. And less blood in the streets.

The youth of the 60s wanted to recover some of the old style of New York, which is seen in the historical documentary filmed on the Woodstock Festival in 1969. The festival was held in one of the few farms remaining in Bethel, at that time: that of Max Yasgur. Manhattan

But financial and stock market, one that Whitman managed to identify and condemn (to say nothing of Federico García Lorca, as he passed around) prevailed over the dream of the youth of the '60s.

Soon the East Village and folklore were transformed into commodities, in souvenir for tourists. The financial city, the city center of the world prevailed. Huge

artists as Frank Sinatra and Woody Allen sang and painted in his own way. But they avoided (perhaps, for love, to childhood memories) referring to New York banking and finance, that New York was-and remains-the emblem of capitalism.

reach only a glimpse that humanity lost in New York in times of great crisis and upheaval, as were the black Thursday of Wall Street, in the year 29 (as well reflected in the photos he took Liborio Justo) or was terrible and disastrous 11-S, in 2001 (an act of terrorism where the majority of people who died, and services janitors, firefighters, lifeguards, had nothing to do with the financial power nor the banks) .

to the same Marshall Berman, author of a beautiful essay is solid melts into air , on mutations in the globalized city Bronx, changed his mind after the attacks. In an extensive report that they did in 2002, was no longer incisive critic of capitalism that real, and he looked overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty.

Now, the U.S. president Barack Obama is going to Ground Zero in Manhattan, the hole where once stood the World Trade Center and the Twin Towers, to stir once again these icons and the symbols that move both the public of their country.

But the story at this time interested in power begins September 11, 2001 and come to an end now, in 2011, with the body of multiterrorista Bin Laden in the marquees and television.

Who the hell does it matter, then, that a May 4, 1626 about "Indians" of North Island have been sold for 26 pounds Mannahatta.

Who today can import Uncle Walt, Federico verses, pictures of Liborio, psychedelic dreams of young people in Woodstock, the magical Manhattan of Woody Allen or that mutant Bronx Marshall Berman. All this will be better in the basement of the American dream, a dream of justice and democracy, irreverence toward power, which is not exactly the one that now shows the world.