Gustavo Petro, progressive candidate in Sunday's Colombian presidential elections, has publicly claimed that there is a conspiracy to stage a coup or cancel the election rather than accept his triumph. He and Afro-Colombian running mate Francia Marquez, who have been the target of attacks in the past, have received death threats and in Colombia’s peculiar democracy they must appear at rallies protected by armored shields in this last week leading up to the elections.
Four leftist or progressive presidential candidates have been assassinated in Colombia since 1980. Not to mention the murder in 1948 of Jorge Eliécer Gaytán, candidate of the Liberal Party, but with definite popular national roots and vocation, which ushered in the period known as La Violencia.
CAUTION: contains references to violence, particularly in the context of, well, La Violencia.
61. Contraste
(nm) contrast
Things turn strange around the time that Mirabel reaches thirteen.
Up until that point, she might not have had, well, a gift, but that was still less of a worry for her because there wasn’t that much difference in how she was treated. She always knew her family loved her, even Isabela (you know, from time to time), and Abuela even managed to remark on her sewing once in a while. That was kind of their thing, the making of clothing, the way they bonded. No hugs—much less ones Abuela instigated—but a touch on the shoulder? Almost as good. A reach across the gap.
And then the whispers start coming in, along with people coming to town with only the clothes on their backs.
By default and by common sense, the people of San Ambrosio do not vote. But then, the major issues of the Conservatives and the Liberals—particularly those relating to land ownership—are practically non-existent within the encanto. Somehow there’s always enough land to farm, and with Tía Pepa bringing the crops all the sun and water they need there’s usually a surplus. Nobody can buy up the land because it’s understood, quite implicitly, that the land is not for sale, even among the San Ambrosianos—nor are essential crops sold outside the valley. Mamá’s meals handle most ailments; the village doctor has been in friendly rivalry with her for decades, but accepts payment in kind like she does. Papá helped organize something or other for money made from the local variety of coffee grown by the whole village, which takes up a decent chunk of his day. Tourism money is up for grabs, calderilla at best, something for a little extra (there are never too many tourists around anyway). But—no big landowners, no mayor, no police.
Not like the outside world, el fuera as they called it. Not like the Colombia where presidential candidates could be murdered brutally, where uprisings caused chaos and destruction, where the backlash led, on Papá’s birthday of all things, to the consolidation of a Conservative-run military dictatorship. Tourists still come to the valley, but so do refugees—the town grows as others burn. Outside the encanto, the world is going mad.
And people say they've managed to escape pursuers at the borders. Others are trying to get in.
The magic is strong, Abuela says at breakfast the next morning (after a late-night conversation trying to reach Abuelo, she will tell Mirabel years later, asking for guidance that she can never quite hear). The magic will hold. The Miracle keeps them safe, and the mountains tall, and the pass only open to those that mean them no harm. The magic is strong.
But she almost always finds a way to avoid Mirabel after that.
62. Redención
(nf) redemption
“Does it work?”
Diego Valderrama gestures to the stumpy hand at the end of his right arm, missing all but the bottom-most joints of his fingers. “It does. It takes time, but it works.”
“It doesn’t look like much.”
“Oh, I don’t know. A couple of years ago there was nothing above the elbow.”
Julián Pérez stares at him with his one good eye. “Don’t play games with me.”
“No games. My prima Julieta works miracles.” Diego grins. “Quite literally, in my case. If anyone can fix your face, it’s her.”
“...it might be a relief. I wouldn’t be ashamed to show my face in public. To my wife and kids.”
“The encanto is for second chances, mi amigo,” says Diego. “Dolores told me about your little...mistake.”
“She what?”
“Calm down. The Madrigals are the reason we aren’t in the middle of whatever Hell is going on outside. In forty-nine years they’ve not done us damage even once. You’re not in trouble.”
“That’s insane! Señor Valderrama, I stole from the families around here. I hoarded the coins. I was going to take the lot if we had to run again. Why am I not being punished?”
Diego looks a lot like his cousin Agustín, if a few shades darker, an inch or three shorter, and with a much more luxuriant moustache. Unlike Agustín, the look in his eyes is patient and analytical—he stares into Julián’s eye like he can see right down to the soul.
“Hmm. If you had to run, eh?”
“Yes. That’s all our life has been, for months now.”
“Then what could you be if you didn’t have to run, Señor Pérez? What do you want to be?”
“...a teacher. I was a teacher back in Villa Carola. My wife was a nurse.”
“Visit prima Julieta first thing in the morning, then. Both of you. She can always use an extra hand in diagnosing and caring for long-term illnesses, and she can give you an estimate for how long the repair will take.” Diego’s face hardens. “As far as we’re concerned, what’s happening outside? That’s not who we are, not really. We may suffer through it, but how can anyone thrive in such violencia except the brutal and the unscrupulous? No. San Ambrosio won’t punish you for being afraid, Julián. The Madrigals make it so we don’t need to fear. What we will do is assess your character when you have nothing to fear.”
“How can we not be afraid? You don’t know, Diego. What they were going to do to my little girl...”
“I know.” Diego’s face is grim. “How do you think I lost my arm? But not here. Never here. The only trouble in this valley is the trouble you are unable to leave behind. Do you understand?”
No, Julián doesn’t. But he’s trying to.
63. Frontera
(nf) frontier, border, demarcation
"Do you know where the mountains that surround you are?" asks Señor Originario. He's speaking in Quechua, the slight slurring and clicking consonants making him sound like a living rockslide in the hills.
Bruno tries to concentrate, as they watch the jungle in the early morning, and to reply in the same language. "I don't know. I think Mamá said they rose near the Caño Cristales. That's where the…soldados?"
"Soldiers."
"Right, where the soldiers found them, and where mi papá was killed. Mamá doesn't talk about it much."
"I'm not altogether surprised," says the taita. "But somehow I doubt she would be able to find it anyway, if she tried to leave."
The sixteen-year-old scoffs, then flinches in anticipation of being hit. (Señor Originario does that from time to time.) "That…um…how do I say ese no tiene sentido?"
"Why doesn't it make sense?"
"It doesn't make sense, thank you, because people do come and go in the valley. There's that kid, Agustín, the one with really bad luck, he comes and goes every summer. And we get…turistas, too, people from the outside. So it seems to me like you can come and go from San Ambrosio."
"Good use of the inferential suffix," says the taita with a thoughtful nod. He switches to Wayuunaiki, which sounds a lot more fluid to Bruno—like a rushing river. "But you forget—he wants to find the encanto, every year, yes? And every year he and his parents come to visit his aunt Lorenza. But they know where to find her, and she wants them here. They could bring other people with them, yes, but the magic here is strong, very strong. If Agustín did not have family here, do you think he would be able to find it?"
"I…I do not know."
The taita sits back. "The encanto, this place, it is a place of refuge. And I tell you this: that we are no longer next to the Caño Cristales. And yet we are. San Ambrosio does not appear on any government records in the Republic of Colombia, or rather it appears in the records of several different departments. Because the land is removed, do you understand? It is land on its own. A symbol of what this place could be, if left to its own devices beyond the meddling of outside forces. We are in the Andes; we are by the sea. We are deep in the jungle; we are in the grasslands. And if you want to leave, then you can go anywhere. And only those the community wants to return can return." He grins. “That is why I do not leave, Bruno. Few enough people know I am here, and although I am no threat I doubt many see me as a friend. Better to stay high on the borders, where I can see without interfering.”
Bruno understands this. But something is niggling at him. "But…"
"Yes?" Back to Spanish.
"What happens if we leave…can we get back? The Family Madrigal? If Mamá goes back to that place, and I hope she never does, then she can get back in, right? Or Julieta, if she actually does fall in love with that kid and goes to live in, I dunno, Ecuador or something?"
Now Señor Originario switches to Romani, fast, crackling words like sparks off a fire. "Don't worry, Bruno. Your mother, scary as she may be—don't protest, it was a compliment—is loved and wanted by her family. Nobody thinks of her as a threat to the encanto. If she leaves, she can come back home again quite quickly. Same with your sister. Madrigal or not, it doesn’t matter. All they need is someone willing to call them home."
"I don't understand why you left, but…didn't leave."
"Oh. Well, because, huh, the mountains around the encanto are very tall…"
64. Actuación
(nf) performance, acting (occupation), action (accomplishing a purpose)
Camilo is a shifter, and at heart he’s an actor. And San Ambrosio is a stage, a great big show waiting to happen. Sometimes it feels like he and Mirabel are the only ones who know that—does nobody else hear the songs that she sings, that the world sings with her, that Camilo gets to join inon? Well, Dolores does, but the others? Not so much. But once you know, there’s no limit to what you can do with the audience.
The new arrivals are tired and angry and lost, and sometimes they’re so lost in poverty that they’ll try to swindle others out of what they have to keep alive. Camilo doesn’t judge—Abuela does that, and Padre Flores—but he does like to hang around people his sister has her suspicions about. And if he learns a trick or two, well, that’s between him and Dolores. But mainly he just makes them laugh. Laughing people don’t think as much about hunger, especially if he’s just the debut act before a meal.
To live in the encanto, you need a job. Something. He doesn’t have Mirabel’s skill with settling people in and finding their talent—his prima has always been the best at that—but he can always smooth the way in the meantime. And, well, if things get rough...nobody needs to know he doesn’t have Luisa’s strength. Plus, he has a whole set of figures that are...less than attractive.
(He had to give up the “Tío Bruno foretelling doom if you don’t get your act together” role after Mami found out, though. He hates getting his mother upset. Managed to successfully rehabilitate fourteen people with that act, mind you, so it was worth it. Especially since Nobody Talks About Bruno, so who was going to contradict his interpretation?)
65. Urbano
(adj) urban, urbane
Julieta is the only one of the triplets to have left the encanto before Bruno disappeared. She went back to visit Agustín’s parents when they got married, to get their blessing. And she honestly had never felt more confused in her life.
Bogotá of the 1920s is strange. It’s high on the altiplano, built into the hills like San Ambrosio—maybe not as lush, but then what ever is? And the buildings are enormous, the Colombian National Museum alone is big enough to house her whole village. It’s full of colour and noise of a very different sort than what she’s used to—there’s always the rattle of a tram through the city, the roar of an airplane overhead (more and more popular, Tino tells her, but they’re unlikely to catch on). The food is nice—she tries some ajiaco from a street vendor, tries making some ajiaco with the street vendor, accidentally cures the street vendor’s arthritis—but perhaps a little bit stale compared to the fresh-picked ingredients she has at home. There is a museum dedicated to gold, an actual bullring, literally the oldest library in the New World...the city is so big. And there are so, so many accidents in this city. Cars crashing, collisions of various sorts, objects falling from high buildings, the occasional fire—all of which Tino just stands aside for or shrugs off like it’s nothing. But the oddest thing? In the old neighbourhoods, where Agustín’s parents live, the two-story houses have practically no decoration on the outside. Beautiful balconies, yes, but not much outside the front door. Bogotá is not a night-life city, at least not in the sense that she knows it. It gives more attention to the night than the life, in a lot of ways.
“It’s just...mi amor, you know I have to go back. But I never realized just how different this place is. I can’t make heads or tails of it, and that makes me feel...well, a little stupid.”
Tino hears her voice even if he can’t really see her face. He takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. (Amazingly, he hasn’t had a single accident since they arrived here a week ago.)
“Mi vida, stupid is one thing you could never be. I don’t fit into San Ambrosian life very well yet, does that make me stupid?”
“You’re accident-prone, not stupid. And even then there’s supposed to be that silly curse on your family, right?”
Tino steers them gently away from a lamp-post before it crashes behind them.
“That old thing? It’s a nuisance. But it’s just part of life. Juli, you gave my grandfather relief from his dementia by helping him make breakfast. He’s talking more clearly than I’ve heard him do in years. And you know what? I don’t even think it was the food this time. It was just you being yourself. The most incredible person I know, with the biggest heart and the biggest brain of anyone in this city. So...is it okay if I—watch out—” a car skids past at about twenty miles above what’s safe for the inner city— “come back with you? Because, well, it’s up to you, but—”
“Tino.”
“Yes?”
“We are literally getting married next month. I think it’s safe to say that I want you to come back with me. Even if it means leaving your home behind. So long as you’re okay with that.”
Agustín holds her hand in both of his, presses it to her heart. “Never again. This is my home. If you’ll have me.”
She’s probably not blushing. Probably.
“I might do.”
“…besides, being honest with you, it’s far too loud in the city.”
“Much too loud. I like the ice cream, though. You don’t get that in the encanto.”
“Not yet, anyway...watch out for the bottle.”
The step over the bottle. It rolls away and nearly trips up a banker.
“How do you know to expect all this stuff?”
“Years and years of practice. Plus, the wildlife in this city has a grudge against everyone, not just me, so it’s spread out a bit more.”
She laughs at that.
66. Desarmar
(v) disarm, disassemble; feminine singular past participle desarmada
Luisa is not a fighter. None of them are, not really. If the valley were to be attacked, she’d have to act from the sidelines, or at a range, throwing things at the people coming to take her home for their own.
She doesn't like to think about that. For all her strength is greater than that of anyone she knows, Luisa can't imagine hurting someone. Not deliberately. That would be…wrong.
Better to hope that the encanto keeps them safe, then.
(But the pressure keeps building up, and building up…and when it finally gets too much, when she finds even the piano she first brought to her parents at five years old too heavy to lift, she despairs all the more. She's weak. She can't help. She can't do what needs to be done. And she never learned how to protect. And now the outside world is closing in and she can't help and they're all going to die and it's all her fault and what is she going to do she's never felt this broken before—)
67. Linaje
(nm) lineage, ancestry
"This is our home, we've got every generation…"
The song has been tickling away at the back of Félix's head all day. But it's got a point, the song does. Every generation in one house.
Los ancestores, parents or grandparents during the exodus from the town of San Cristóbal, now long-lost—that's Abuela Alma. Los migrantes, children or young adults during that exodus—that's Félix, just about, by all of two years but it counts, if only out of the smidgen of showmanship he permits himself—after all, he was old enough to remember the Miracle itself. Los milagranos, children born of or just before the Miracle—that's Julieta, and his Pepa, and Bruno (he's allowed to think about Bruno, he adds with a touch of defiance), and for that matter Agustín as well, now that he's living here full-time. Los campesinos, the children of the first settlers and those raised to help with the farms—that's Isabela, and his Dolores, and even Luisa. Los ayudantes, the "townies", who have never known anything except the well-worn village of San Ambrosio and do their part helping around town—that's his Camilo, and Mirabel. And now the most recent, the generation as yet unnamed, still yet to make their mark—that's his Antonio.
Six generations have lived in San Ambrosio, and six still live in the Casa Madrigal. Three generations, so far, have been granted gifts—four if you count the Miracle itself for Abuela Alma. Safe and secure and one after the other, and that’s how it always will be.
68. Decoración
(nf) decoration
Isabela’s role is to be perfect. She knows this. She knows she doesn’t really have much choice—her gift is to generate flowers out of thin air. What can you do with that besides make the town look beautiful?
But that’s important. As much as it frustrates her, as much as it feels like she could do so much more if only she could think for a minute, she’s the one on call. Isabela Madrigal is the perfect representation of what San Ambrosio can be—peaceful, bright, colourful, alive. She’s worked hard at that. And a part of her does truly enjoy being able to look down from the pedestal she’s grown for herself and show off a bit.
And then she looks at Mirabel, her sister who didn’t get a gift, who wasn’t pushed into one frame of mind from the start, who can choose to be and do anything that people who aren’t Madrigals can do and still chooses to support and love the family that she’ll never really be part of, and feels just the slightest spark of envy. Mirabel is a reminder of everything the family shouldn’t be just by existing, which means Isabela has to try even harder to keep up the family honour. And she still makes a halfhearted effort to act like a Madrigal and it works; Isabela is admired and adored in town, but her youngest sister is loved. Life would be a lot easier if she just...had a gift. Could be shunted to one side like Isabela was. Or maybe, because she didn't have anything binding her to the valley, she could just leave—
No. There are limits. Something in Isabela knows the world is bigger than their village, from the stories Má and Pá tell at least, but she also knows just how bad it can get out there. All the nightmare tales that Dolores hears from the New Arrivals, which sometimes make her come to Isabela in tears in the middle of the night, and for Dolores she’ll drop the sneer and she’ll listen and soothe because she is the symbol of the perfection of the encanto and she hates it but Dolores needs it—she wouldn’t wish that on her sister. She wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
(But the encanto is more than roses and orchids. Until she realizes that, she’ll never feel at home here, not really. Mirabel could leave but shouldn't; she can't leave but feels like she should. Another reason to feel…frustrated with her sister.)
69. Murmurar
(v) to murmur; 3rd singular present indicative murmura
Dolores' grandmother—her, well, other grandmother—wasn't originally from San Cristóbal itself. Her other grandfather used to travel around a lot, and on one of his trips to the Caribbean coast he picked up a bride from a village there. She spoke her own language, nearly Spanish but mixed together with another, rolling and booming like waves on the shore; sometimes Dolores can still hear her muttering phrases to herself as she wanders about town, and it's actually quite nice. And her Papá used to sing her lullabies in that language, so that's another thing she likes about it.
Still.
Once her room…changes, a little, and allows her to find new sounds as opposed to just blocking out the sounds around her, she asks Abuela's permission for her other grandmother to come by one day. As a birthday present.
"Hmm. Not too long, huh? You have work to do in the town."
Papi is thrilled to see his mamá up at the house, and Mami brightens right up too. Ofelia Castillo is short and a little stout but bright-eyed and grinning—Papi got her smile, and so did baby Antonio. She even gets a laugh out of Camilo, who is going through Adolescence when he’s allowed a moment to breathe (pobre Mirabel has been putting up with that the most).
"How are you, moná mí?" she murmurs—Dolores has tried to explain that she isn't hurt by loud sounds for the most part, but Mamá Ofelia always lowers her voice all the same.
"I'm alright, Mamá Ofelia," Dolores replies with a smile. "I just wanted to give you a special present for your seventy-fifth birthday."
"No need, no need! I'm a year closer to the grave, that's all it is." Mamá Ofelia grins again. "Is it something to do with the uangá?"
She nods, and wonders if she thought this through properly. The Castillos have always been a little wary of the Madrigals' magic.
But her other grandmother doesn't complain, just keeps on smiling.
"Then by all means."
Casita is nice enough to gently slide her up the stairs—even with Tía Julieta's meals (which she doesn't eat very often), Mamá Ofelia is a tad weak in the knees.
Dolores has her doubts about her gift sometimes. But she wants to know about the outside world, no matter what Abuela says, and she’s the only one who can do so safely. And it's worth it to see the tears of sheer disbelief and joy as her grandmother hears the ocean for the first time in fifty-five years.
70. Frío
(adj) cold, cool (temperature/mood)
Sometimes Pepa wonders what it would be like to be a cloud instead of just make them.
“Tell a story!” she demands.
Bruno sighs. “Ah, well. What kind of story?”
“A story about flying!”
“Hmm.” Her seven-year-old baby brother (okay, so she was his age forty-nine minutes ago, but that’s a long time) scratches his chin. “Well, where are we going?”
“Beyond the encanto! Somewhere new!” Pepa is feeling pretty darn happy about this idea.
“How about to Iceland?” suggests Bruno, who tends to pay more attention in geography lessons than she does.
“Iceland? What’s in Iceland?”
“Uhhh...ice. Lots of ice. The whole land is one big, huge, giant hailstone that fell out of the sky hundreds of years ago.”
Pepa nods. That’s practically at the beginning of the universe as far as she’s concerned.
“Why doesn’t it melt?”
“Uhhh...it is melting, but it gets very very cold up in the north, so it freezes again every winter. Anyway, we start out in the capital, Reino de Quique—”
“That’s not what it’s called!”
“It is in this story.”
“Fine. We visit El Reino de Quique, where they only eat fish—”
“Ewwwww,” she giggles. “Imagine getting Juli to make that.”
“Oh, no, that would be terrible,” laughs Bruno. “Anyway, we’re still flying, right?”
“Yes. On a cloud. We get on my bad-mood cloud and I keep getting sad about missing Mamá and Julieta and that keeps it nice and thick so we can travel.”
“...why don’t we try that now?”
“Let’s do it!”
Pepa gets as frustrated as she can about little things, trying to ignore the feeling of excitement. Maybe they can visit Quique’s Kingdom in Iceland after all!
“Here I come!” calls Bruno. And jumps off the roof of the house.
“Bruno!”
Mamá is just in time to catch him as he falls through Pepa’s cloud and nearly hits the ground quite hard.
“What were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed!”
“...sorry, Mamá,” says Bruno, quietly.
“And you, Pepa, what are you doing with that cloud? What’s gotten you so upset?”
Pepa doesn’t know why, but Mamá sounds more and more tired when she has a cloud these days. Like there’s something wrong with Pepa for having a cloud, instead of there being something wrong with Pepa so she has a cloud.
“We just wanted to try to fly to Iceland.”
Mamá blinks, and then says, in a voice that lightly chills Pepa's mind, “The two of you could have gotten yourselves very badly hurt. And what good would it have been then, eh? We are safe here. No more nonsense about Iceland, you two. No more talk of leaving the encanto.”
“But Mamá—”
“None. Now come back inside, it’s nearly time to eat.”
They have their own ways of rebelling. Bruno reads about fish non-stop for ages. ("When I grow up, I want a pet whale.") And Pepa starts practicing making snow.
In a way, Bruno’s story is rather a big part of the tale of how she met Félix.
71. Inocencia
(nf) innocence
By common consensus, they refuse to mention the world Beyond to little Antonio until he's (much) older.
Sometimes humans have an Understanding, take the time to see into the mind of one or two of the more thoughtful among them. The ones who try not to eat one another without making sure they can't Speak first, usually. But Antonio, the Shining Mind, is different—he calls to them, calls to them all, his thoughts lighting up the world around them like a tiny primate sun. So much joy there, when he Hears them. He doesn't just bond with them, he brightens their lives.
No-place-possible-for-discussion, says Parce. The jaguar growls, a little sadly. Forest-of-destruction. Destroyed-lair. Human-cavern-with-pelts. Guardian-Shining-Mind-too-precious. Guardian-Shining-Mind-protected. No-place-with-loss-mentioned. Lair-with-new-family.
When he's older, says Pico. We can ask him for help when he's older. The dashed arsonists aren't going away any time soon, and we have at last found some kind of sanctuary. You can feel it in the framework, you know, if you look hard enough. Shining-Mind will come into his own soon enough. For now, he deserves a little time just to be a chick.
Chispe the capybara looks at them both slowly, and twists his head to the side in a shrug.
Eh.
Eloquently put, says the toucan approvingly. Although your point about child development in humans could use some further elaboration.
Parce, Parce, Parce…you've really got to learn to think under the emergent, let the canopy and the understory into your understanding of the world! It's no good being a beloved companion of the most remarkable human under the sun if you can't let your mind expand a little!
Parce-sane. Others-otherwise, the jaguar says pointedly. Parce-mind-open, Parce-mind-practical.
Meh.
Not the soundest argument made by beast nor man, old bean, but reasonable under the circumstances.
"Are you guys okay?"
Never better, dear boy, says Pico warmly. Did I mention your cousin nearly got herself thrown off a ledge but survived? I was really rather impressed by how she got down. Humans really do have remarkable survival instincts.
"She did what?"
72. Renacimiento
(nm) rebirth, revival
You took my husband from me, thinks Alma at the river. We had a good life. It was getting so much better. And because of the stupidity and greed and anger rumbling on the horizon like a flood, my Pedro died holding back the tide. Now the tide has broken and the dam has fallen, fifty years later but it has fallen. We are back in danger, and I failed us all.
And yet…here we stand in the sunlight. And Pedro is singing to us.
The river is calm and cool, and where once she fled across here under cover of night she comes back now at daybreak. She crossed without her husband. Now she crosses again, part of the way, to reach her granddaughter. Her Mirabel.
Alma is not well-versed in magic. She tried to be, tried to pretend to be, but she doesn't have the Knack, the aptitud, that her children and grandchildren do. She can't hear the song of the clouds like Pepa, feel the energy filling and fuelling her family like Julieta, see down the tunnel of years like Bruno. She is normal. And "normal" to Alma has for forty-five years meant "powerless".
And what she sees now is her granddaughter, no powers, no gift from the fallen house—but a gift nonetheless, in and of herself.
"He sent me you."
How close they have come to extinction. How quickly the tide could turn. And yet—how easy it is, to stand here in the river and hear Pedro's voice one last time.
The family is not safe, not yet. Alma wonders if they ever truly were. But the family is together. Nearly. And they can still stand together and work as they will, because they are greater than the powers that protected them. And she remembers that now.
It would probably be a little too much to ask if you know where Bruno is, mi media naranja?
And then her long-lost son charges out of the bushes on a horse and a mission and she can almost hear Pedro laughing in the waters.
La época de la Violencia fue uno de los periodos más oscuros y sangrientos dentro de la historia colombiana. Sin amparo legal alguno, el Arte fue un medio importante de denuncia tanto para víctimas como para escritores, pintores y fotógrafos, principalmente. De esta suerte tan esquiva y adversa nacería lo que varios críticos literarios llaman el primer movimiento propio del país, la primera narrativa que huele a café y sabe a sangre nacional: La Literatura de la Violencia.
📸(Ig) 333333svank, 2020.
«Árboles, polvo, piedras, calor. El camino de su vida. Bien lo conoce Diomedes. Podría recorrerlo con los ojos cerrados. Y llegar, como llega ahora, a las primeras casas del pueblo. Por Dios, que ha ido muy lentamente en esta última etapa. (...) Ha olvidado todo, todo, para recordar únicamente a papá que está en la cárcel. Por eso corre, vuela como un endemoniado, para llevar el regalo de los seis bollos blancos y del trozo de cerdo. Nadie podría detenerlo. ¿Nadie? El brazo del guardia ha caído como una viga sobre su espalda.» (Téllez 40).
Téllez, Hernando. «El regalo». En Cenizas para el viento. Bogotá: Editorial Norma, 2003.
📸(Ig) vanessa_p_uribe, 2018.
Uno de los grandes exponentes de esta Literatura de la Violencia es, sin duda alguna, el escritor y crítico literario Hernando Téllez. No solo se sumó al movimiento cuando este recién estaba naciendo sino que, además, fue el primero en optar por un formato diferente a la novela, tan popular en los círculos literarios e intelectuales de la época. Hizo su apuesta literaria, social y política con la contundente forma de los cuentos. Y, sin duda, lo logró con su colección de cuentos «Cenizas para el viento».
I'm tired of hearing gunshots, tired of feeling unsafe. And that's me, who lives far from the place where the action takes. I can only imagine how much worst it is to live there and hear this on a regular basis.
