#36 -- My Encounter With El arado

This is one of my Cotidianas that was published in July 2005. Because we’re saying goodbye to September, I want to remember Víctor and El arado and the people that go to work every day, without ever complaining about how hard it is. M.

As long as we sing his songs, as long as his courage can inspire us to greater courage, Víctor Jara will never die. – Pete Seeger

In my childhood home, the music was exclusively ranchera. From Lucha Villa to the duo Las Jilguerillas. In these songs women’s eyes were always black, they were proud and pretty and they made men beg. On their part, men found comfort in their tequila, they spoke about their horse, their guns and of that love they couldn’t reach.

In my childhood home, people were the salt of the earth; they are peasants with very little formal instruction. Their culture is hard work; they just do it and like to be noticed by the excellent way in which they execute it. Theirs is an attitude of never complaining and to feel pride about having work, no matter how hard, as long as it’s honest work, and of not having to go to anybody for assistance to satisfy their basic needs.

So, in my home there was music, cheerfulness and a lot of work. Everything was very humble, but nothing essential was amiss. My dad planted tomatoes and hot peppers in his backyard; inside, my mom’s plants blossomed and went green in almost hallucinating splendor. That was everyday life in my childhood.

When I was in high school, I recall a study circle (more like a book club) I attended in the Reforma sector of Guadalajara. Once a week a group of students would get together with the intent of reading and understanding philosophy classics. One day, before the discussion began, a boy, Enrique, took his guitar and started to sing. The song was definitely not ranchera, the ones that were played at my house but neither was it a modern or commercial song from the radio: it was not Julio Iglesias, Emmanuel, Juan Gabriel or Raphael. I had never heard this song. I was transfixed by its lyrics. The words were a revelation to me, I was deeply moved to listen how the song spoke about my people, with such sweetness and profound understanding.

The simple guitar strumming held the words up lofty and airy, those words that I felt were mine alone: I tighten my hold/ to plunge the plow in the soil./ I’ve been here so many years/ how can I not be tired?/ Butterflies fly, crickets sing,/ my skin gets black/ and the sun shines, shines, shines./ Sweat flows in rows/ like the rows I make on the earth/ nonstop.

This was the first Víctor Jara song I heard. Since then, Victor became part of all the icons, symbols and experiences that come together to shape my North: all that guides and defines me.

Víctor was born in Lonquén, Chile (less than 50 miles outside of Santiago) in September 1932 and was assassinated a few days before turning 41 in September 1973 in his country’s capital. Before dying he was tortured for several days; the military broke his hands so he couldn’t play the guitar again and then shot him to death with 44 bullets.

Víctor was a sympathizer of President Salvador Allende and when the coup d’état happened, among all the dead was Víctor.

Víctor lived his poverty with dignity and never forgot it. As a matter of fact, he dedicated his work to celebrate and ennoble the most humble laborers, the most humble people, the people whose sun-worn hands continue to hold our world with their everyday work.