How much humanity exposed to hunger, cold, panic, pain, moral pressure, terror and insanity?

Estadio Chile, a poem by Victor Jara

========================

There are five thousand of us here
in this small part of the city.
We are five thousand.
I wonder how many we are in all
in the cities and in the whole country?

Here alone
are ten thousand hands which plant seeds
and make the factories run.
How much humanity
exposed to hunger, cold, panic, pain,
moral pressure, terror and insanity?

Six of us were lost
as if into starry space.
One dead, another beaten as I could never have believed
a human being could be beaten.
The other four wanted to end their terror
one jumping into nothingness,
another beating his head against a wall,
but all with the fixed stare of death.

What horror the face of fascism creates!
They carry out their plans with knife-like precision.
Nothing matters to them.
To them, blood equals medals,
slaughter is an act of heroism.
Oh God, is this the world that you created,
for this your seven days of wonder and work?
Within these four walls only a number exists
which does not progress,
which slowly will wish more and more for death.

But suddenly my conscience awakes
and I see that this tide has no heartbeat,
only the pulse of machines
and the military showing their midwives’ faces
full of sweetness.
Let Mexico, Cuba and the world
cry out against this atrocity!
We are ten thousand hands
which can produce nothing.

How many of us in the whole country?
The blood of our President, our compañero,
will strike with more strength than bombs and machine guns!
So will our fist strike again!

How hard it is to sing
when I must sing of horror.
Horror which I am living,
horror which I am dying.
To see myself among so much
and so many moments of infinity
in which silence and screams
are the end of my song.
What I see, I have never seen
What I have felt and what I feel
Will give birth to the moment.
Will give birth to the moment.

How hard it is to sing
when I must sing of horror.
How hard it is to sing
How hard it is to sing….

================================================

========================

Victor Jara: the man, the legend. Probably the most recognized figure in the history of Latin American folk music, he was instrumental in the development of people’s culture in Chile in the late 60s and early 70s, writing songs and plays, developing peñas (cultural centers), and advocating on behalf of communist ideas and the Unidad Popular government of Salvador Allende. After the ‘73 coup, he was arrested by the military and tortured at Estadio Chile (now Estadio Victor Jara) in front of thousands of onlookers, and was subsequently shot as he defied the taunting soldiers by singing.

Here is a poem he wrote while being detained, which was somehow smuggled out of the stadium and out of the country, called “Estadio Chile” (Chile Stadium). I’ll even provide a translation for you, because I’m such a nice guy. Thanks to the folks at Mahmag.com for doing the work for me.

SPANISH:

Somos cinco mil en esta pequeña parte de la ciudad. Somos cinco mil ¿ Cuántos seremos en total en las ciudades y en todo el país ? Solo aqui diez mil manos siembran y hacen andar las fabricas.

¡ Cuánta humanidad con hambre, frio, pánico, dolor, presión moral, terror y locura !

Seis de los nuestros se perdieron en el espacio de las estrellas.

Un muerto, un golpeado como jamas creí se podria golpear a un ser humano. Los otros cuatro quisieron quitarse todos los temores uno saltó al vacio, otro golpeandose la cabeza contra el muro, pero todos con la mirada fija de la muerte.

¡ Qué espanto causa el rostro del fascismo ! Llevan a cabo sus planes con precisión artera Sin importarles nada. La sangre para ellos son medallas. La matanza es acto de heroismo ¿ Es este el mundo que creaste, dios mio ? ¿Para esto tus siete dias de asombro y trabajo ? en estas cuatro murallas solo existe un numero que no progresa, que lentamente querrá más muerte.

Pero de pronto me golpea la conciencia y veo esta marea sin latido, pero con el pulso de las máquinas y los militares mostrando su rostro de matrona llena de dulzura. ¿ Y Mexico, Cuba y el mundo ? ¡ Que griten esta ignominia ! Somos diez mil manos menos que no producen.

¿Cuántos somos en toda la Patria? La sangre del companero Presidente golpea más fuerte que bombas y metrallas Asi golpeará nuestro puño nuevamente

¡Canto que mal me sales Cuando tengo que cantar espanto! Espanto como el que vivo como el que muero, espanto. De verme entre tanto y tantos momentos del infinito en que el silencio y el grito son las metas de este canto. Lo que veo nunca vi, lo que he sentido y que siento hara brotar el momento hará brotar el momento.

Ay, canto qué mal me sales cuando tengo que cantar espanto. Ay, canto qué mal me sales Ay, canto qué mal me sales.

ENGLISH:

There are five thousand of us here in this small part of the city. We are five thousand. I wonder how many we are in all in the cities and in the whole country?

Here alone are ten thousand hands which plant seeds and make the factories run. How much humanity exposed to hunger, cold, panic, pain, moral pressure, terror and insanity?

Six of us were lost as if into starry space. One dead, another beaten as I could never have believed a human being could be beaten. The other four wanted to end their terror one jumping into nothingness, another beating his head against a wall, but all with the fixed stare of death.

What horror the face of fascism creates! They carry out their plans with knife-like precision. Nothing matters to them. To them, blood equals medals, slaughter is an act of heroism. Oh God, is this the world that you created, for this your seven days of wonder and work? Within these four walls only a number exists which does not progress, which slowly will wish more and more for death.

But suddenly my conscience awakes and I see that this tide has no heartbeat, only the pulse of machines and the military showing their midwives’ faces full of sweetness. Let Mexico, Cuba and the world cry out against this atrocity! We are ten thousand hands which can produce nothing.

How many of us in the whole country? The blood of our President, our compañero, will strike with more strength than bombs and machine guns! So will our fist strike again!

How hard it is to sing when I must sing of horror. Horror which I am living, horror which I am dying. To see myself among so much and so many moments of infinity in which silence and screams are the end of my song. What I see, I have never seen What I have felt and what I feel Will give birth to the moment. Will give birth to the moment.

How hard it is to sing when I must sing of horror. How hard it is to sing How hard it is to sing….

© 2016 3D Divine Deadbeat Dad---Alleged - 4/19/16


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