The impalpable country

Nous venons d'un monde irréparable

Hélène Dorion

Having been deprived of our country makes us citizens of an impalpable one. Let us dwell on the suffering, for a moment. Let's not avoid it with a hasty and trashy positivism. In dispossession we must sink, we must let its viscosity cross our nostrils and invade, oily and dark, our lungs up to sobbing, which we restrain on a daily basis. Let's drown in these shifting sands where everything that does not move is sinking and what is desperately agitating itself, sinks faster. The dispossession has its own beauty. The country where we were born is now alive  only in that absurd corridor in which we find ourselves lost in time, lost in the chronology of our history, in the momentary oblivion of everything that we could not achieve, of everything that we didn't possess. Perhaps even more alive in the scorching awareness of what we have lost. Denial and indiference are inadmissible. Because that's what's left of life in our country: to continue doing what we do but branded by the death angel that has marked all our doors. That way we give ourselves back the country that we can't touch anymore.

Geraldina Mendez