The biographies were not relegated to those inside the conjured borders. There was a narrator whose voice had been obliterated by the politics of oblivion, the anonymous artist whose metaphors had hibernated for thousands of days and a fraction of hours. The companera who travelled incessantly to the island of contradictory landscapes, inhaled the scent of ideals and found herself once again a caricature within the fictitious island. A singer from the narrow land who explained the betrayal of memory. A poem that flaunted a reality distorted by those abhorring shades of red. There was the embodiment of loyalty who reflected us all in slanting calligraphy. In a tiny room surrounded with dilapidated books of history, the renouncement of borders seeped through the crevices in the wall to engrave a testimony that went beyond the failure and limitation of justice.
Monday, February 14, 2011
The singer's voice reverberated, muting the mundane echoes that flourished after his assassination. I grasped the narrow land in my hands, letting the jagged borders tear into my skin. The blood reeked of melancholy, of a history that should have triumphed. In embracing the memory distanced by years and citizenship, the revolutionary song preserved the lonely strings of the guitar. The hues that visited me pertained to the era when a poem written before death paid homage to thousands of hands. Melancholy transformed into resilience; a thousand voices clamouring for their biographies to be scribbled in the sand.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
A link to my latest article, published at Upside Down World