Breathe
By Montserrat Jiménez
The anger was the same as always -that old acquaintance that never tires- when turning on the Congressional Channel. Once again parity, once again sorority, once again the woman president... and, once again, a single man accused of attempted rape coming out of the side, like someone who effortlessly evades.
We, trapped between seats full of hollow applause, shouts of betrayal and looks that are so seen, they are already tiring.
The usual.
This should not continue to happen, but it is insisted upon.
Four days later, the task began with that bitter taste that only comes from being fed up.
Pure desolation, knowing that we are under a rottenness that, although disguised as power, stinks just the same.
Appointment:
11 a.m., March 29.
Glorieta de las Mujeres que Luchan.
Purple paint, tense handkerchiefs in their hands, faces I already knew, others I didn't, but all with the same restrained gesture.
We dream too high, I said to myself.
There is no other way, I answered myself.
Shouldn't it be a dream to defend ourselves? But here it is, and still is.
Brushes held high, fists to the sky.
The thermometer read 28 degrees, but what weighed was something else.
Up there, the clouds - accomplices - robbed us, at times, of the city noise; but no, not even the clouds manage to silence the cry that repeats itself:
We did not reach all of them.
On the podium, many voices, only one demand: DESAFUERO!
Among the flames, a soccer shirt.
Another disappointment.
I remembered those times of goals and celebrations for Mr. Blanco at the Angel, when we believed that a ball could save us.
Today, we fight meters apart and years apart, but closer than ever to the truth:
Thousands of women, betrayed by THEIR party and by so many others, turned their backs on us.
Alberto goes up, one more number, one more story they try to file.
Her daughter, raped.
Her assailant, on the loose, knowing that he will soon be judged by those who have no idea how a trial is processed....
Ana climbs.
It does not climb, it does not climb, it throws itself.
He has only one voice left, but it is the voice of justice.
No flags, no parties.
Only truth.
"This government has abandoned me, just like the others."
"Not me!" I shouted.
"Not us!" we retorted.
And no. Ana is not alone today.
Martha, Karen, Lala, and many more support her.
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