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Stories that exist

Have you seen them wake up from a sidewalk?

Photo: Web Archive

Their eyes in the dirt are detached from a nation that is atomized. They walk with their osteoarthritis in the row unworthy of slavery. Her knees hurt a lot, but they do not say it, her moan ends in another wrinkle. The wait; they become three days without eating.

The tragedy of empty speeches is the hunger of a murderous system. They are the screams and expletives that continue to drag lives. Children killed by malnutrition in an unclean hospital, successful young exiles, elderly people who sacrifice themselves in a strict line; ragged, without taking a bath because getting well is a luxury. The Venezuela of chavism, of madurism and militarism, is the Venezuela of the hungry dictatorship, of blood and fear.

What future awaits us? Does he who flees do so out of fashion, or out of cowardice? We insist on saying; “Enough injustice.”

The grandfather flees from that image where the face insists on silence, because he understands that his life is shorter, and insists on lying so that his grandson does not cry. That perseveres, in each tiny step it takes, enduring the hellish pain.

The grandfather has said in many years that “work dignifies”. For that reason, in spite of the opposition of his children, he decides to go to the queue of the bank one night before. Where it waits until sixteen hours to obtain the equivalent of a kilo of potatoes. Sleeping on the sidewalk with cardboard and an old sheet. Grandpa never worked so much, and for less. He never felt worse. Life seems to have taken an inexplicable turn. Little understands what happens. Just as he voted for Carlos Andrés Pérez, he did it for Hugo Chávez, hoping for a government for the most marginalized. In these days of darkness, he has no doubts about the greatest political misfortune that he has ever lived.

Written by Jhon A. Romero.-


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