I don't want to pretend to be an expert in Argentine politics, or any politics at all really. But the gunshot to Nisman's head was like a blow to mine. Argentina's president, Cristina Kirchner, declared it a suicide. But why would someone commit suicide mere hours before testifying evidence of a collusion between the Islamic Republic of Iran and the Cristina Kirchner government? Nisman's report of nuclear connections between Argentina and Iran suggested provisions of uranium and nuclear cooperation during the suicide bombing on the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires in 1992. Evidence, which if revealed in court, would be strong enough to force Cristina to resign.
I met an interesting man the other day in a cafe that played Chet Faker. He was sitting at our table as I was struggling through pluscuamperfecto. He shifted his weight, tilting his head back a bit.
"You know they only use that in Spain." Perfect English. A deep voice. I looked up. My bangs were rustled from the integration of my nails through my scalp like little inchworms, and I quickly saw them sticking up like straw in the mirror by his head.
"I have a test on Monday" I replied, distracted as I tried to bat down the rat-bed disaster.
We started to talk as the pages of my notes stagnated. I'd rather engage in what's in front of my nose rather than have it buried in a book, as fascinating as books can be. Alex is from Israel, lives in LA and works in Buenos Aires. Suffice it to say, he has surfed the best breaks on three continents. I eagerly gave him my phone to type out suggestions all the way from places to go to books to read. He looked down at his list on the screen before giving it back to me.
Surf Wise
Surf Sex and Fun
Forces of Nature
"Well, you got yourself a poem there."
Naturally, we started to brief on politics. We have quite similar views as our passions align. We talked about the march on Wednesday. I listened as he told me his views on Nisman and Cristina and Israel and how passionate he was about his country and the desolation there.
The march on Wednesday. I told him I was there too.
I was plastered against an angry old man on the supte (subway). He sniffed disapprovingly and barked at me to provide him more room (in a less polite and more gesture-filled way then I choose to write). I weaseled out a "sorry" or two as my hands were tied, or more literally, barged between another lady and someone else's armpit and plastic pearl bracelet. But I stood determinedly on my 2-square-inch plot of supte ground as Alex (different Alex) earlier had to yank me inside the closing doors. The suptes here allow as many people as will fit. Some will force themselves in the moment the doors close, with nothing the 500 other protesting people crammed inside can do about it (except wait till the next stop to forcibly push them off again). I looked at Alex and tried to gulp down some of the underground air drizzling through the cracked window as the rails whisked by.
After disembarking that torturous transportation device, we climbed the steps to the street. I noticed what was coming at us. So did the Porteños (Argentine locals). I looked to my right and Alex to her left and watched like wet cats as they simultaneously and expressionlessly popped out their umbrellas. I guess I should have checked the weather that day, but I guess it doesn't matter as I don't have an umbrella anyway. We were doomed to direct exposure to the elements. I wrung out my already sopping hair. Thunder cracked in the distance.
We were there for the silent protest. For the people. We were there for the ladies on the sidewalk with tears disguised as raindrops. We were there for the men in suits and the ones in jeans. We were there for the honor of Argentines unknown to us, and we were there under the same rain and the same zapping thunder. We were there for the chanting of "AR-HEN-TINA" and "JUS-TI-CIA" rumbling up through 400,000 individual throats to collaborate with the contributing thunder. It was beyond powerful. My own throat swelled as I stood there, helpless. I won't pretend that the corruption has effected me in the same way, but I want to give every single step I took and every single step I will take here to that silent march. To the Argentines who's hearts and stories have stolen parts of mine. I want them to know that I am with them, in every possible sense of my understanding. I want to share the in the pain of the corruption that we blanket term as "life."
There's something powerful about that... being connected with Argentina and Israel and the States in one silent march. About how different lives can come together to stand for one thing. For justice. For freedom and honesty and righteousness to solidify in our world again. I can't do much, but I want every footstep I have on this soil to count for something in pursuit of validating what the people want it to stand for; because once you have lived in Argentina, a part of you will stay in the wire-lines of the supte cars and the cracked sidewalks forever.
*photos taken from Google search
