Today I woke up very thoughtful. I woke up thinking about those who don't have, those who have, those who are not allowed to speak up, those who speak up even if their voices are silent, those who live without a "north", those who are fixed with a single dream, those who are afraid, those who fear no one, those who love unconditionally, those who hate without reason, those who take risks, those who are afraid of daring, those who serve genuinely and those who exploit willingly ....and yet...these parallel, sometimes contradictory, and many times paradoxical situations are part of daily life, of relationships, of experiences and encounters.
How not to loose faith in the midst of violence? How to defend human rights without risking to be perceived as radical? How to advocate for peace in peaceful ways? How to break self-righteousness and biased views and being able to look at the world with an open mind?...
A friend of mine introduced me to El Libro de los Abrazos de Eduardo Galeano, and I found Los Nadies - The Nobodies, a text that speak about those who don't have anything or who have been deprived from the right to have. A text that perhaps shows how we make ourselves "nobodies" and treat others like "nobodies". Beautifully written and very inspiring. Enjoy this video with some parts of the text and the text in Spanish and English below.
Sueñan las pulgas con comprarse un perro y sueñan los nadies con salir de pobres, que algún mágico día llueva de pronto la buena suerte, que llueva a cántaros la buena suerte; pero la buena suerte no llueve ayer, ni hoy, ni mañana, ni nunca, ni en lloviznita cae del cielo la buena suerte, por mucho que los nadies la llamen y aunque les pique la mano izquierda, o se levanten con el pié derecho, o empiecen el año cambiando de escoba.
Los nadies: los hijos de los nadies, los dueños de nada.
Los nadies: los ningunos, los ninguneados, corriendo la liebre, muriendo la vida, jodidos, rejodidos:
Que no son, aunque sean.
Que no hablan idiomas, sino dialectos.
Que no profesan religiones, sino supersticiones.
Que no hacen arte, sino artesanía.
Que no practican cultura, sino folklore.
Que no son seres humanos, sino recursos humanos.
Que no tienen cara, sino brazos.
Que no tienen nombre, sino número.
Que no figuran en la historia universal, sino en la crónica roja de la prensa local.
Los nadies, que cuestan menos que la bala que los mata.
Fleas dream of buying a dog, and the nobodies dream of coming out of poverty, that one magic day good luck will suddenly come raining down, that good luck will rain down by the buckets, but good luck doesn’t rain yesterday, nor today, nor tomorrow, nor never, not even in sprinklings does good luck fall from heaven, no matter how much the nobodies scratch their left hand, or stand up with the right foot, or begin the year by changing brooms.
The nobodies, the sons of nobodies, the owners of nothing.
The nobodies, the no ones, the nobodied, chasing the hare, dying of life, screwed, rescrewed:
That are not, even though they are.
That speak not language, but dialects.
That profess not religions, but superstitions.
That make not art, but crafts.
That practice not culture, but folklore.
That are not human beings, but human resources.
That have no face, but arms.
That have no name, but a number.
That figure not in universal history, but in the red pages of the local press.
The nobodies, that are worth less than the bullet which slays them.