A heavy rain impounded much of Buenos Aires today. Christina and I have been inside reading for most of the day, taking comfort in the simple pleasures of language and good, strong tea. Moments like these welcome heavy introspection.
When I think back to myself, almost thirty- something years ago, running around the La Opinion newsroom with adrenaline pulsing through my veins, I wonder what I’d make of these fleeting moments of tranquility. It was in those moments that I thought my life would never resume a sense of stasis. And in a sense, my premonition was correct: My life from the beginning of the dictatorship 1976- to the end of the juanta in 1983 was characterized by a sense of constant unrest. When I look back in my journals, like I did today, I’m struck by how selective my memory is. Why did I never mention the trips I’d occasionally make back to Santa Fe to visit my parents? Huddling around the radio eating empanadas. My parents passed a long time ago, shortly following the fall of the junta, but it’s interesting that my most resounding memories of the era don’t necessarily concern them.
The dictatorship, in all it’s senseless brutality, allowed me to find my passion in journalism. Never before had I felt such a strong sense of purpose.
I’ve learned what kind of world I want to live in over these past thirty years. Witnessing the tides of history has made me strong in my convictions. I want to live in world that respects the dignity of each and every human being. I want to live in a world committed to the pursuit of truth and integrity. I want to live in a democratic society, governed by the will of the people. Above all, I want to live fearlessly.
The tea kettle from the adjoining room is making quite a racket. I think it’s time to end this here.
Until next time,