The stray bullet that hit 12-year-old Angelina in the back of the head in Villa Sarmiento is the one that hurts all of Argentina.
It’s a Russian roulette killer’s dirty, criminal arrow that knocks the dealer and anyone who falls to the ground.
It is the projectile that shakes the celebrations with blood, that tears apart childhood, that blocks the future.
It is the bullet, the same bullet from other hands, fired by those who steal motorcycles, by those who guard drug traffickers, by those who protect stolen treasure from traps.
It is the bloody ammunition of the mafia.
It is the Paco and the cocaine that reach the open fields of the ball owners.
It is the one that confuses the doctrine that has sickened so many with slogans and nonsense.
It is the lead that infuses knowledge into cumbias who carry weapons in their illiterate letters.
It is the bullet that lurks and that so often hits the target of a society that gets on buses and trains in the morning, that despite everything insists on going to school, that wants peace and that even walks with its children at a party through the streets that can be murderous streets.
It is a bomb of evil released to harm, and it harms.
This burns for Angelina, her family and everyone else.
It’s everything that lights the fire.
It is the fire of careless death that targets children.
It is the ammunition that penetrates Angelina’s intelligence and innocence in that bullet that wounded her neck when it was all party.
It is our daily attack.
It is the key to hospitals and cemeteries.
It is the unspeakable sadness of parents and those who love them.
It’s the waterfall of tears.
Not only is it another accident, but at the same time it is just another accident.because there are mass shootings here and people are injured and killed every day.
Who pulled the trigger?
Who is the one transmitting the horror?
There are two Argentinians. The one with the bullets and the one with the notebooks. That of death as a project and that of life climbing the steep summit of commitment.
Violent Argentina and peaceful Argentina.
That of marginality, concelebrated by the Murga of the brainless, and that of Argentina that seeks its destiny in the effort and longed-for happiness of those who love each other.
Sometimes these poles overlap in confusing ways. And the Murgueros of death seem to dance with the cultists of life.
Like an orgiastic party where nothing matters. But it doesn’t matter. That is learning. A shot is not the same as a few children waiting for Santa Claus. They didn’t even manage to open the long-awaited gifts in Angelina’s house. She and her family went out to watch the street festival. And the ball was already flying away at the speed of nothingness. The poison was already crusting his throat, killing all joy.
It wasn’t an accident. It is the will of a murderer.
Murderous Argentina versus the country of saving doctors.
The hidden murderer who kills in the shadows and in his anonymity. And kill everyone.
Angelina’s personal sky was colored black.
In The beautiful bonesIn the great book by the North American Alice Sebold, in which a girl is brutally demolished, it says – and it is true -: “Murderers are not monsters, they are people.” And that’s the most terrible thing.
There’s nothing supernatural about the explosive bug lodged in Angelina’s neck. He shot a person who was also an independent terrorist.
Moral idiocy is terror.
He is the author of real nightmares from which no one wakes up.
It is a symbol, a symbol of those who kill us.
A new year is just around the corner.
We play “All or Nothing”.
Or the open air killer.
Or the doctors who save.
Or those who study. Or those who steal and kill.
Or those who think and try to distinguish good from evil.
Or those who define not thinking and shooting.
Or those who defend and save.
These are exclusive disjunctions.
Angelina had gone to a bridge with her family to see the lights opening in the sky for the party.
He couldn’t see her. “It burned me,” he said as he collapsed.
The Argentine bridge has two corners. Two antagonistic outcomes.
It is a bridge that shakes, that vibrates.
It really is a balancing act and we go to one side or the other.
At some point the destroyers, the villains, those lost in the night of violence live.
And in the other, those who want to contemplate light and life.
It is not possible to bet on both.
Neutrality is not possible.
The resignation of the righteous is the wind that drives the innocent into nothingness.
Either we fight peacefully for survival or they burn us.
But be careful with simulators. The scammers. Those who claim to be benevolent.
Those who disguise themselves with demagogic friendliness.
They can trap you in every inch of your life.
And it’s like this every day and every night.
On every street. Everywhere.
Because hell is always lurking, lurking, cowardly and stupid.
