These days I've been following Spanish revolution aka 15M movement. It all started a year ago as protests of "los Indignados" - outraged. Some people kept discussing the situation, possible solutions and people's participation in politics.
I don't claim to know exactly what they did, achieved or haven't. What I see is that some people feel like taking back the power of giving solutions to their problems. And no wonder they feel outraged seeing politicians looking for the solutions for the markets and the finances. The most important question for me is the real participation in decision making.
In my life I voted only once, in the European parliament elections a few years ago. I'm not saying voting is irrelevant but still it has no direct influence on the politics making. There are no guarantees that the party I vote will stick to their program. That's why I'm happy hearing alternatives to this imperfect system of illusory democracy for people who believe they live in freedom.
This weekend 15M movement was celebrating a year of existence on the squares of major cities uprising all sort's of reactions and analysis by intellectuals, specialists and media. So I also want to put my grain of sand.
Some criticise that the movement is going nowhere. Well gathering so many people from different ways of life and ages makes me think that it is a work in progress. The importance doesn't lie in the political achievements but in transforming people's attitudes towards politics. It's just a seed that have been sown and still politicians do seem to fear it. They are trying to limit the right to demonstrate and that's a big deal. By doing so they are criminalizing one of the few ways people have to show their opinion or disagreement.
My own experience of participating in marches and pretests made me reconsider the freedom I had as well as how easy it is for the media and the politicians to manipulate the events. Once marching next to a row of policemen I realized how their presence there made us enemies, just because we were exercising our right. Without being there any violence the menace of violence was in the air. I remember coming back from a protest just to watch on TV how the few people left turned it into a fight. And thus four or five hours of pacific marching where turned by the media into violent wrangle between a group of hippies and the police.The aim of 15M should be more than that to a big enough portion of the society.
Other expect it to turn into an organized political force. Well I don't see it happening, because that would mean to accept the rules of a game so many are tired to play. Which is the reason for the protests in the first place.
The movement is questioning the democracy we have and was sold to us as the best thing ever. Well it probably was at the time but society evolves, evolution makes us want something better. I hope for a better Democracy and a better society. I know, the idealist in me never dies.
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
Friday, April 6, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
"Real change happens from inside out"
It implies to leave behind the person you were in order to become someone else. It's not like changing cars, or houses or countries. It happens inside you and you let go of what made you move forward, your ambitions and priorities. You let go what you felt for others. What was important is not any more. What scared you doesn't anymore.
I realized that my ambitions were not my own. That I pretended to feel what I was supposed to feel for others. When I let go I lift off a huge burden. Just then, when you don't have to pretend you become free.
On the way I had to break some attachments. Let go of an awful amount of anger and hate. I left nothing inside, at the same time nothing is so many things. Love in the wide sense of the word.
It implies to leave behind the person you were in order to become someone else. It's not like changing cars, or houses or countries. It happens inside you and you let go of what made you move forward, your ambitions and priorities. You let go what you felt for others. What was important is not any more. What scared you doesn't anymore.
I realized that my ambitions were not my own. That I pretended to feel what I was supposed to feel for others. When I let go I lift off a huge burden. Just then, when you don't have to pretend you become free.
On the way I had to break some attachments. Let go of an awful amount of anger and hate. I left nothing inside, at the same time nothing is so many things. Love in the wide sense of the word.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
one reading
today, I woke up and in spite of a sunny day, stayed in bed and read a novel, form the beginning to the end, no interruptions.
It didn't seem to me such a good novel as a piece of literature, maybe it's the translator's fault. The thing is that it brought back memories of my first serious novel, by a Polish writer Henry Sienkiewicz, 'Through the Desert and Wilderness'. That one counts the story of a boy and a girl, children of a Polish and a British engineers, kidnapped by Mahdi's followers and taken to Sudan. The novel transpires the colonialist views of Africa.
'Lyrics Alley' by Leila Aboulela, counts the story of a Sudanese merchant family in 1950's depicting the atmosphere of a country at the verge of independence form Britain and form Egypt. I liked the way it portrays the different aspects of Islam, and how it affects the lives of the people; how the women of the family deal with the oppression of the tradition. Maybe I'm imagining but it also talks wise words about living conditions that could affect any of us. Leila's voice is of an insider aware of the rules and intricacies of the life of the country.
The contrast between the two novels is great. The Polish novel is so naive about the way the children escape and find their way home, about the role of the foreigners in the country, and about love that links young Stas and Nell. He, few years older than her, kills the men who kidnapped them and takes care of her in the middle of the wilderness. They were my childhood heroes and that brings a smile and the memories of my own imaginary adventures in the wild.
In Leila's novel, Soraya can't count on her childhood love to rescue her and give her the freedom she desires. She finds her own way through education and marriage leaving behind the one she loves. Nothing is black and white, no one is completely bad or good. They are just people, doing the best they can, bind by their heritage, longing for their dreams. The wise bit comes when those dreams are crushed by Fate and they have to let go of what won't be. They are forced to deal with the blows and in a way those blows bring the best in them.
Curious enough both novels are set in times of political unrest in the area, just like now.
It didn't seem to me such a good novel as a piece of literature, maybe it's the translator's fault. The thing is that it brought back memories of my first serious novel, by a Polish writer Henry Sienkiewicz, 'Through the Desert and Wilderness'. That one counts the story of a boy and a girl, children of a Polish and a British engineers, kidnapped by Mahdi's followers and taken to Sudan. The novel transpires the colonialist views of Africa.
'Lyrics Alley' by Leila Aboulela, counts the story of a Sudanese merchant family in 1950's depicting the atmosphere of a country at the verge of independence form Britain and form Egypt. I liked the way it portrays the different aspects of Islam, and how it affects the lives of the people; how the women of the family deal with the oppression of the tradition. Maybe I'm imagining but it also talks wise words about living conditions that could affect any of us. Leila's voice is of an insider aware of the rules and intricacies of the life of the country.
The contrast between the two novels is great. The Polish novel is so naive about the way the children escape and find their way home, about the role of the foreigners in the country, and about love that links young Stas and Nell. He, few years older than her, kills the men who kidnapped them and takes care of her in the middle of the wilderness. They were my childhood heroes and that brings a smile and the memories of my own imaginary adventures in the wild.
In Leila's novel, Soraya can't count on her childhood love to rescue her and give her the freedom she desires. She finds her own way through education and marriage leaving behind the one she loves. Nothing is black and white, no one is completely bad or good. They are just people, doing the best they can, bind by their heritage, longing for their dreams. The wise bit comes when those dreams are crushed by Fate and they have to let go of what won't be. They are forced to deal with the blows and in a way those blows bring the best in them.
Curious enough both novels are set in times of political unrest in the area, just like now.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
El color del luto
Como hablar... si es un tema tabu. La muerte es mas cercana al mundo de la ficcion, reservada a los thrillers y peliculas de miedo. Pero resulta que es parte de nuestra realidad, una parte que logramos ignorar hasta que nos chocamos de frente con ella. En mi familia tuvimos la suerte de evitarla por muchos anos.
Llego. Una persona amada ya no esta. Ceso de respirar, su corazon se paro. El calor, el amor, la alegria, el dolor abandonaron su cuerpo. Al tocarlo senti el frio, la nada. Su cuerpo lo pusimos en la tierra, vestida de blanco. Y sin embargo en cada rincon de la casa esta su presencia, en el jardin su cara, su risa, su voz. Todo el amor que nos dio esta presente y no me explico que no este. Una parte de mi aun no lo aprehende.
Siempre pense en la muerte sin drama, casi con objetividad. Es el final de la vida.
Creo que cesamos de ser quienes somos. Creo que algo de lo que fuimos permanece, quizas algo sigue viajando hacia adelande, quizas sigue un camino que ascapa a nuestra capacidad de comprender. Fuera de las limitaciones de los vivos. Mas bien no creo en el cielo o el infierno como destinos finales del alma. No se si la persona que muere sufre, me gustaria pensar que no.
Al margen de lo que creo, duele. No le encuentro explicacion al dolor. Duele porque todo lo que ella fue para mi ya no tiene su propia voz, porque no puedo decirle que la quiero, porque no estuve alli. No se porque duele. Quizas por puro egoismo. Porque lo que me entrego es tan precioso...
No se como llevar el luto porque el negro no expresa ni por asomo todo lo que pasa por mi mente. El negro de tranquilidad, elegancia y glamour me parece el menos adecuado para la ocasion. A mi me duele como una puesta de sol de estas impresionantes que uno mira ambriento consciente de que es unica e irrepetible. Como la vida de una persona. Su olor sus particularidades que aprendi a comprender, sus sacrificios, sus errores, sus juicios.
El color de luto es pura belleza, belleza crudamente vivida. Tan sobrecogedora que deja mi alma abierta de un corte largo en el centro de mi misma. Vulnerable, huerfana.
Como hablar... como explicar que la persona que mas me quiso del mundo ya no esta.
Ya no me reprendera por cortarme el pelo o por llevar un tatuaje. No preguntara porque no me haya casado. No sera bisabuela. Duele porque la quiero y no esta a mi alcance darle ese amor.
Ojala ella sintiera su vida llena de amor que nos ha dado.
Ojala este libre del dolor y pena y de las limitaciones humanas.
Ojala este libre... Ojala eso ser signifique libertad.
Ojala haya paz infinita en el no ser.
Ojala nosotros sepamos honrar la memoria.
Llego. Una persona amada ya no esta. Ceso de respirar, su corazon se paro. El calor, el amor, la alegria, el dolor abandonaron su cuerpo. Al tocarlo senti el frio, la nada. Su cuerpo lo pusimos en la tierra, vestida de blanco. Y sin embargo en cada rincon de la casa esta su presencia, en el jardin su cara, su risa, su voz. Todo el amor que nos dio esta presente y no me explico que no este. Una parte de mi aun no lo aprehende.
Siempre pense en la muerte sin drama, casi con objetividad. Es el final de la vida.
Creo que cesamos de ser quienes somos. Creo que algo de lo que fuimos permanece, quizas algo sigue viajando hacia adelande, quizas sigue un camino que ascapa a nuestra capacidad de comprender. Fuera de las limitaciones de los vivos. Mas bien no creo en el cielo o el infierno como destinos finales del alma. No se si la persona que muere sufre, me gustaria pensar que no.
Al margen de lo que creo, duele. No le encuentro explicacion al dolor. Duele porque todo lo que ella fue para mi ya no tiene su propia voz, porque no puedo decirle que la quiero, porque no estuve alli. No se porque duele. Quizas por puro egoismo. Porque lo que me entrego es tan precioso...
No se como llevar el luto porque el negro no expresa ni por asomo todo lo que pasa por mi mente. El negro de tranquilidad, elegancia y glamour me parece el menos adecuado para la ocasion. A mi me duele como una puesta de sol de estas impresionantes que uno mira ambriento consciente de que es unica e irrepetible. Como la vida de una persona. Su olor sus particularidades que aprendi a comprender, sus sacrificios, sus errores, sus juicios.
El color de luto es pura belleza, belleza crudamente vivida. Tan sobrecogedora que deja mi alma abierta de un corte largo en el centro de mi misma. Vulnerable, huerfana.
Como hablar... como explicar que la persona que mas me quiso del mundo ya no esta.
Ya no me reprendera por cortarme el pelo o por llevar un tatuaje. No preguntara porque no me haya casado. No sera bisabuela. Duele porque la quiero y no esta a mi alcance darle ese amor.
Ojala ella sintiera su vida llena de amor que nos ha dado.
Ojala este libre del dolor y pena y de las limitaciones humanas.
Ojala este libre... Ojala eso ser signifique libertad.
Ojala haya paz infinita en el no ser.
Ojala nosotros sepamos honrar la memoria.
Laundry time Compassion
Some time ago I set a goal for myself: to dig down there and do the laundry. So I did. Past present and future that make each individual needed a good reevaluating and reframing. The wounds that didn't heal needed attention so needed the expectations I had for the future. The present was like an untidy room, I couldn't use anymore. It's been around a year since I started laundering, I'm not done yet.
I can't even start telling what have happened during this time, a long time and a fruitful one. It turned out that I started hearing mySelf. I could explained it through different spiritual dialects, but here I have a commitment to find my own words. Getting to know oneSelf was difficult. I was my own obstacle on the way. I wanted to be this or that. I wanted to fulfill certain criteria. I wanted to achieve... Instead, I just needed to Be.
To Be is a difficult task: to be hear and now, to be who you are not who you are supposed to be. It takes time to accept the imperfection of oneself. To Be is a daily exercise. I find myself in the middle of a spinning world and I stop for a minute "hey, here I Am". I'm still the one who wants the world to be in a certain way and the things to work in an order but I stop myself to Be at least sometimes. I've discovered Compassion. I don't even fully understand what it is but IT is, an understanding: to understand and to be understanding?
Now it is turn to understand the other Selves. Those people around who do crazy things, sometimes hurtful and disrespectful. Some of them don't even know themSelves. But there they are, a part of this world, all walking universes that collide with mine more or less gracefully. The fact that we are part of the same Thing doesn't make it any easier to accept their differences and their impact on me.
Com - pa - ssion
I can't even start telling what have happened during this time, a long time and a fruitful one. It turned out that I started hearing mySelf. I could explained it through different spiritual dialects, but here I have a commitment to find my own words. Getting to know oneSelf was difficult. I was my own obstacle on the way. I wanted to be this or that. I wanted to fulfill certain criteria. I wanted to achieve... Instead, I just needed to Be.
To Be is a difficult task: to be hear and now, to be who you are not who you are supposed to be. It takes time to accept the imperfection of oneself. To Be is a daily exercise. I find myself in the middle of a spinning world and I stop for a minute "hey, here I Am". I'm still the one who wants the world to be in a certain way and the things to work in an order but I stop myself to Be at least sometimes. I've discovered Compassion. I don't even fully understand what it is but IT is, an understanding: to understand and to be understanding?
Now it is turn to understand the other Selves. Those people around who do crazy things, sometimes hurtful and disrespectful. Some of them don't even know themSelves. But there they are, a part of this world, all walking universes that collide with mine more or less gracefully. The fact that we are part of the same Thing doesn't make it any easier to accept their differences and their impact on me.
Com - pa - ssion
Monday, February 7, 2011
No place called home
These days I feel like there is no place called home. How did it happen?
Once, I dreamt of being a traveler who would discover the world out there. Out there was anywhere away from the place that I remember like in a dream. The perfect playground to enjoy the elements, to feel the wind throwing rain in my face. Wind playing in the mighty trees, murmuring the news from far away. I just listened to that call and when I had the opportunity I left. I didn’t know what it meant to leave behind the place called home and I didn’t know that I would be a foreigner. But it didn’t matter to me because I felt a stranger anyway.
I did discover the world, love, disappointment, trust. I became that stranger who walks the streets of anywhere as if they were my home town’s streets. I look inside those people, strangers who know where they belong and I see the same fears and dreams I have.
I never belonged to anywhere and I don’t feel I've lost the places I left behind.
I've been discovering the world but I am just starting to discover myself. I am proud of where I got and of the human being I became. I couldn't say if the travel changed me or if it allowed me to become myself. I got here and I wouldn’t go back. There are closed chapters. For good or for bad. I know there is a way in front of me and it’s just waiting to materialize.
Right now my fight is to be myself, and to give what I have to offer to people. Maybe then I can find a place I belong to.
Once, I dreamt of being a traveler who would discover the world out there. Out there was anywhere away from the place that I remember like in a dream. The perfect playground to enjoy the elements, to feel the wind throwing rain in my face. Wind playing in the mighty trees, murmuring the news from far away. I just listened to that call and when I had the opportunity I left. I didn’t know what it meant to leave behind the place called home and I didn’t know that I would be a foreigner. But it didn’t matter to me because I felt a stranger anyway.
I did discover the world, love, disappointment, trust. I became that stranger who walks the streets of anywhere as if they were my home town’s streets. I look inside those people, strangers who know where they belong and I see the same fears and dreams I have.
I never belonged to anywhere and I don’t feel I've lost the places I left behind.
I've been discovering the world but I am just starting to discover myself. I am proud of where I got and of the human being I became. I couldn't say if the travel changed me or if it allowed me to become myself. I got here and I wouldn’t go back. There are closed chapters. For good or for bad. I know there is a way in front of me and it’s just waiting to materialize.
Right now my fight is to be myself, and to give what I have to offer to people. Maybe then I can find a place I belong to.
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