I am deeply shocked to think that these people are the same who celebrated Christmas with their families last
week. They woke up at 5:00 am to go to Church and pray for all the love and hope that Jesus’ birth was supposed to
bring to this planet.
This country is a paradise on earth where the Maya people find justice and unfortunately their self esteem by
hitting harder than they have been hit.
I snap back to reality when I hear two big
choppers circling above the lake and many pickup trucks rushing to the main city road. It is not
the police but the army. They want to quickly
bring an end to the rebellion before the violence
starts to spread. A few long minutes pass and a
heavy white smoke is propagating everywhere in
the street. Under the teargas, Santiago can’t
breathe. I can see the villagers running from the
port to return to their homes. Then silence. A
long silence.
I wait, keeping my attention on the smoke
leaving the city slowly like the white shadow of
guilt. Despite the shame of the day, the sunset
has come. I can’t stay at home any longer and I
decide to stick my nose outside. Slowly and carefully, I open the front door. Like everyday, the villagers are playing
football. The rickshaws are back on the job. With a smile, one of the men looks at me and says “Buenas tardes”. I
blink. Is this real? Has this day happened? I even ask myself if I fell asleep on the blanket? Awkward feeling of being
trapped in a sort of dark trick.
Now, the city is quiet and is coming back to the humdrum of life, like a little paradise where the hills are shaped like
an elephant in a giant snake’s belly or a wide Indian nose you can climb on. A little paradise suspended so high up in
the sky that in the dark wild waters you feel like you are swimming with the clouds, the sleeping volcanoes and the
anger of being powerless.
By Elise Gaiardo
Photo by Teomancimit via Wikimedia Commons
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THE CONE - ISSUE #8 - WINTER 2016