EVERYTHING STARTED…

...one morning in Arica, Chile. Our goal was to get to Antofagasta, home of one of my best friends, Álvaro. We were traveling from Puno, in Peru, but the stretch was too long, so we decided to take a break in Arica. Arica was in the middle between Puno and Antofagasta, so it made sense.

Álvaro insisted that we should stop at his grandmother's house, in Arica. Grandma Maria will be delighted to see you, he said. We would arrive there in the morning and the plan was to leave that night to Antofagasta. We were planning on sleep in the bus, eight hours, more or less. Thirteen years ago, I had already visited that house and I had beautiful memories from there. Everyone was always smiling, they made us feel as if we had been born there. The decision was easy, we had to stop. I did not expect anything, the usual maybe, a smile, a toast, love, but in the long run it was much more than that, Grandma Maria had me gone through a transformative experience. 

I lay in bed as soon as we arrived from Puno, it was eight in the morning and we were exhausted. At about ten o'clock I took a shower and Grandma Maria invited us to breakfast. We all sat down at the table and the conversation began. At first, we got involved in trivial things that I don’t remember anymore. However, as soon the children started to leave the table one by one, to watch TV by the living room, she and I started to feel more and more comfortable with each other.

Unwittingly, she began a feast of memories, she was eager to communicate, and I became a devoted listener. I don’t know how we became involved so much, but her soft hands of translucent veins rest on top of my hands, warming them up. Suddenly, the stories were more and more personal to the point that her pupils became watery. My eyes, unable to resist the feeling expressed in the windows of her face, went down the same watery road. She told me about his grandson, that great human being that I have the privilege to call my friend. She told me about her childhood and particularly about her father, about how much he worked to battle the years of deprivation. She also told me about her husband, who died some time ago and whom I had the pleasure of meeting thirteen years ago. We talked about what she wanted to say. I was lucky to be there, listening, delighted by her humble gaze, admiring her face stroked by time, her gray and blueish hair, and her quiet voice appeasing my senses.

Then, this was born…this desire to collect memories. Those stubborn clauses of time that the heart refuses to forget. Grandma Maria wanted to be heard and we should listen. Listening to her and to other many women, who, at the height of their lives, carry the reckless voice of time, the untold events of our history. The history that is seldomly shown in books or encyclopedias. The voice of a woman who did not write a poem, who did nothing that our patriarchal society considers reasonable of commemorations. These are the chapters that I want to resurrect. The voice of a woman who one day said a word, the one who cooked diner, the one who ironed a shirt, who was there when her kid came back home.

Men have already said a lot, especially well accommodated and accomplished white men, those with fantastically well-known last names. But we know almost nothing about women from older generations. What did they think? How did they live? How did they walk in the shadow of the unfolding world? So quietly, so forgotten. This is their space, and their time to talk, it’s time for the rest to listen…