The militant Diego and the “murderous soldiers”

He left with hardly any noise, in spring, when life is reborn. With the warm awakening of the sweet sap of the trees. Shy, hidden, buzzy. In a quiet, empty, uninhabited time. Looking for a flash, just a flash of his fabled universe, of its bells and its fog, of its light and its shadow, of its anguished, free and imperfect work. Diego “went” many times looking for a place to take refuge, begging life for a reflective pause, a kind wish, a tear. In the end he left in silence. Quiet. As they wanted it. In a faustian pact designed by parasites, daffodils and kept. Treasured by an endemic neurotrophic misery, silence, guilt, alcohol, pills, false signatures and a heart pounded from restlessness. They wanted him quiet. That entelechy of the impossible.

“We returned,” he said from the eternal balcony, returning like a white dove from the mists of time. That apparition gave him access to Parnassus, and over time he found a new crack through which to breathe and make himself heard: “In these moments of crisis we need the help of those of us who have the most,” he expressed in support of the solidarity contribution of the great fortunes. He said it with a rice pudding smile and a pinch of bitter cinnamon destined for Big Capital, and some distracted players chasing resources like fireflies.

We are the size of what we look at, said Pessoa. And Diego always “looked” differently. He inherited that way of looking at the world from the peaceful sleep of the humble, of the vulnerable. “Do you remember that moment with Videla? he told me once in Spain. It’s one of the things that hurts me the most to remember. Those ‘murderous soldiers’ opened the Casa Rosada to ventilate it. They wanted to clean the blood with us ”. He was referring to the festive reception that the military dictatorship designed us as champions of the 1979 World Youth Championship, while the OAS Human Rights Commission investigated the forced disappearance of people in the country.

They were sharp days, of dried blood, of hard, concrete silences, of tombs without names, of white handkerchiefs. Under the umbrella of that stark silence, of an unhealed time, every so often we successful kids meet again. The other kids are still looking for them.

It is difficult for pain to arrive, but it is more difficult to leave. We need to nourish ourselves better from what is intimate, from what is close. Clothe ourselves with minimal stories, of deep life. Of the lights and shadows that we are made of.

He left quietly. As they wanted. Discovering inhospitable places to take refuge.

This celestial country, tiring, of unleashed fury, will always remind you of Diego. If one day you return to the sea of ​​your childhood you must remember that that sea has not forgotten you. You are the child who builds the same sand castles, and sees them fall again and again, without knowing that this is the first lesson of life that justifies the entire existence of the world by itself.