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Nací en La Antigua y aunque crecí en una de sus colonias, muy cerca del centro,
pasados los 14 años me llevaron a vivir a lo que en ese entonces veía como una
jungla, "a las afueras" de la ciudad. Además de acostumbrarme a la vida de
aldea, me acostumbré a los gruñidos del volcán de Fuego, a la forma en que las
puertas y ventanas de la casa temblaban por las noches y a maravillarme con
sus erupciones.
Durante las frías mañanas antes de salir de casa, o en las tardes de lluvia,
contemplando el volcán, mi madre (que raramente compartía mi gusto
musical), usualmente tarareaba conmigo una canción de Tango Feroz: el amor
es más fuerte. Juntas lo observábamos.
Me quedó muy claro que la vida de ninguno volvería a ser la misma. Algo que
amo, acababa de matar a muchísimos, si no es que a todos. Sentí culpa. Es la
única forma en que puedo describirlo. Y sí, observándolo desde casa, sonaba
en mi mente: "Pueden robarte el corazón. Pueden lavarte la cabeza por nada.
La escuela nunca me enseñó, que al mundo lo han partido en dos. Pero el amor
es más fuerte".
Luego, ya bien organizados, por una u otra razón, hemos ido y venido de la
Zona 0. Allí nuestro grupo ha llevado comida a quienes están cuidando el área,
a los rescatistas, a quienes están buscando a sus familiares usando sólo
mascarillas y sus manos para quitar todo lo que se les atraviese en busca de
paz y a grupos de personas que se organizaron para no abandonar sus terrenos
y cuidarlos.
He visto pequeños bultos saliendo del área y he tenido que aguantar las ganas
de llorar cuando se me ha explicado que van montones de huesos y cráneos
(que jamás van a poder identificarse), que se han encontrado dispersos.
Algunos cuerpos han resistido el material de los flujos piroclásticos y se han
conservado. ¿Cuántos hay bajo las cenizas? ¿Cuántos van a seguirse
consumiendo bajo el calor? No soy morbosa, pero no he encontrado más
información en ningún medio y la he buscado.
¿Es que acaso la vida de los más excluidos, olvidados y desiguales no importa,
ni cuentan, ni se buscan, ni siquiera se clasifican?
¿Y qué otra cosa ha hecho este país con sus hijos e hijas? ¿Permitir la tierra
arrasada, dejar impune cualquier clase de crimen y permitir a nuestra niñez
enjaularla como aves del paraíso para ser exhibidos en el museo de la barbarie
humana para proteger sus intereses a través de una política exterior?
Seguir diciendo que son sólo 110 muertos es decirle al mundo que no
necesitamos ayuda porque no hay crisis que solventar más que arreglar una
carretera y reubicar a un montón de gente.
Seguir mintiendo es privar a los miles que siguen vivos y dolidos de una ayuda
digna que, obviamente, el gobierno nunca va a darles. Son cientos, son miles.
Un periodista que hace su labor, que ha estado en la macabra Zona 0 ó en
cualquier albergue puede escuchar historias horribles de todos los que faltan y
"por donde se quedaron".
¿Y las víctimas dónde están? ¿Por qué vamos a permitir que nuestro silencio se
entierre con el dolor de nuestra gente? Somos muchos, mucho más que eso y
debemos levantarnos, de estas nuestras cenizas si es necesario. Aquí los
muertos siguen vivos.
Sofia Letona
sofialetonaqp@gmail.com
+502 5701 3136
Antigua Al Rescate
https://www.facebook.com/rescateantigua/
“But love, love is stronger!”
I was born in La Antigua and although I grew up in one of its suburbs, very
close to the center of town. Around my 14th birthday we moved to what I
thought looked like a jungle, "on the outskirts" of the city. Besides getting used
to the unique lifestyle of a village, I got used to the grunts of the Fuego
volcano, to the way the doors and windows of the house trembled at night and
to its furious eruptions.
During the cold mornings before leaving home for school or on rainy evenings,
it was common for me to watch the volcano with my mother and she, who
rarely shared my musical taste, would hum a song by a group called Tango
Feroz, and I would join her..."love is stronger"...
Together we watched the volcano.
On Sunday, when tragedy struck, most of us who were a part of the group of
crazy people who usually ran to make photos in Alotenango or the El Rodeo
field when the volcano erupted (especially at night) knew that something
wasn't right. As the hours went by, and as the magnitude of what was
happening hit us, the jokes about the ash ended and the grief arrived and
settled.
It was very clear to me that no one's life would be the same again. Something I
love, had killed many, if not everyone. I felt guilty. It's the only way I can
describe it. And yes, observing the volcano from home, in the back of my mind
I could hear the song again, "They can steal your heart, they can wash your
head for nothing, the school never taught me, the world has been split in two,
but love is stronger".
This was my thought at that time and this is my confession now: I love a giant
that killed everything in its path.
On the day of the tragedy, a group of young people from La Antigua organized
a collection of food, clothing and medicine. I was not one of the first to arrive
(or one of the young ones), in fact, I arrived when I could, and I joined forces.
Being there felt like throwing myself headfirst into the sea and, to this day, I
still have the feeling of swimming in changing waters.
Since that Sunday (and I don't honestly know for how long) we have worked
together, many volunteers, locals and foreigners, staff and business owners
and all those who have wanted to come together to try and fulfil all possible
needs.
Once we got our act together and were better organized, for one reason or
another, we have visited the place known as Zona Cero (Zone Zero). There, our
group has brought food to those who are looking after that area, the rescuers,
those who are looking for their relatives using only masks and their hands to
remove everything that crosses their path in search of peace, and groups of
people who organized themselves and decided to take care of their lands.
I have seen small lumps leaving the area and I have had to supress the urge to
cry when it has been explained to me that there are lots of bones and skulls
(which can never be identified), which have been found scattered. Some
bodies resisted the passing of pyroclastic flows and have been preserved.
I can't help but wonder, how many are there under the ashes? How many are
going to be consumed in the heat? I am not morbid, but I have not found more
information in any media about this and believe me, I have searched for it.
Is it that perhaps the lives of the most excluded, forgotten and unequal do not
matter, do not count, are not sought, not even classified?
And what else has this country done with its sons and daughters? To allow the
earth to be scorched by injustice, to leave unpunished any crime and to allow
our children to be kept in cages as birds of paradise to be exhibited in the
museum of human barbarism to protect their interests through a foreign
policy?
And yes, I have asked for numbers of the deceased and I have found silence. I
have questioned how many people were missing to everyone I could and
nobody, ever, dared to suggest that hundreds were missing, all move their
heads from one side to the other when words fail them. Photographers, local
journalists, rescuers, relatives and those who want to help, we all know that
this is a cemetery that boils over 100 degrees, stripping clothes and meat and
leaving bones and yet nobody says anything.
We cannot revive them, we cannot find them whole, but we can recognize that
they existed, that they were fathers or mothers, brothers, sons and daughters
and that, although there is no exact data or a census to this day to give us an
exact figure, their lives became extinct in a tragedy that has changed
everything. And no, this time I am not talking about a war, nor about a murder,
but about the apathy and complicity of the State to hide the truth, to foment
impunity and institutional negligence.
It is outrageous and sad at the same time to read in notes that are published
abroad that the figure is 110 dead at the time it was decided to suspend search
and rescue efforts. It is much worse to see how they continue to carry bones
and do not keep counting or raising the figures. For anyone who has
recognized their relatives in the morgues, not receiving their relatives' bodies
yet must be hell.
To keep saying that there are only 110 dead is to tell the world that we do not
need help because there is no crisis to solve other than fixing a road and
relocating a lot of people.
To continue lying is to deprive the thousands who are still alive and suffering
from a worthy aid that, obviously, the government is never going to give them.
They are hundreds, they are thousands. A journalist who does his work, who
has been in the macabre Zone Zero or in any shelter can hear horrible stories
of all the people missing and "where they were last seen alive."
And the victims? Where are they? Why are we going to allow our silence to be
buried with the pain of our people? We are many, many more than those
denying the truth and we must rise from these ashes if necessary. Here, within
our hearts, the dead are still alive.
This is just the beginning of a long road and we will not be able to move
forward without help, and with disinformation that help will soon be over.
We are going to move on, we must move forward. Together, as one, we only
have each other, we just need each other, we are together.
Sofia Letona
sofialetonaqp@gmail.com
+502 5701 3136
Antigua Al Rescate
https://www.facebook.com/rescateantigua/