Doubt is deep, viscous. There are so many things that are not explained. Why a subsidy is bad to alleviate hunger and good to protect American cotton. Why are the countries that grow coca bad, and the way of life of the countries that consume it by the ton good? Why Macri gave us a “good” debt, when the world and the IMF knew it was very bad. One gets lost between so much “good” and so much “bad”. Why a large part of public opinion demands life imprisonment for rugby players accused of murder, and part of that same public opinion not only does not condemn the assassination attempt on Cristina Kirchner, but also questions it. Eternal mists of good and evil. In modernity, with Nietzsche’s rhetorical death about God, we accept that evil can be exercised voluntarily. We have normalized the exacerbations of the disease because we accept them as part of the human species. Certain aspects of our relationships with evil have become institutionalized and normalized.
The murder of Fernando Báez Sosa is disproportionately brutal. The forensic report reveals “multiple head injuries, congested lungs, hemothorax, liver laceration, multiple abrasions and ecchymosis in the maxillary region and trauma to the right side of the jaw.” “A criminal plan.” “A voracious carnage,” declared defense attorney Burlando. “There were no roles: everyone did everything,” said the Prosecutor’s Office. “The eight defendants are “co-perpetrators” of the homicide because they had “co-control of the act, the possibility of starting, continuing and stopping the causal course of the crime.”
Violence kills, poverty too. Debt is poverty, also violence. A “good” violence, integrated. How many “kicks in the head” we received from that group of unleashed rugby players from the International Monetary Fund. That imprint on the face of “neo”, murderous debt, of 45,000 million dollars that the government of Mauricio Macri injected into our veins. A debt that came to inhabit our sadness. That bites and doesn’t let go. Debt is not talked about. We have already told each other everything, or almost everything. They talk about rugby players, their “bad”, wild, irrational violence.
As Pygmalion, who carved his wishes in marble, knew, molding some humans is impossible. Thus we find ourselves with a certain citizen sensitivity, of a patriotic nature, with a flag and a bugle, which, like a seed of Kafkaesque eccentricity, firmly maintain that Santiago Maldonado drowned, Milagro Sala is a “common” prisoner, and Nisman was murdered by a Venezuelan meteorite. Circus and tambourine of denialists of the indeterminate. This feeling of estrangement from reality could serve to inaugurate new ways of rethinking our place in the world. Think critically about these new forms of the visible.
How much social violence is hidden in that beggar who will sleep tonight inside an ATM overflowing with money. It is not necessary to go behind the backs of the world to verify the violence of extreme poverty. In the corner of your neighborhood there is a man kneeling on a cross claiming the part of the world that corresponds to him. They are souls that have already left life. There is no more pain than remembering the unhappy time of misfortune. That horror that is born from the dehumanization of the other.
Everything the market whispers in your ear is to sleep with you. Wild, neoliberal capitalism has gotten into your bed. Rest on your cell phone, the one you leave under your pillow every night.