Business and social life go on as usual in autumnal Buenos Aires. The dog walkers pace, the telephones ring, the cafes fill with coffee-fiends and mothers drag children to school in their starched uniforms. However, a very unfamiliar chill swept through the city this week and not only signified the changing of the seasons, but the changing too of the lives of hundreds, perhaps even thousands, as the gavel of justice hit its stand with a loud bang on Tuesday, the 20th of April, 2010. The piercing sound exceeded the walls of the old gymnasium in Buenos Aires where a “makeshift” courtroom had been set up to try the criminals of the “The Dirty War”; a label, used only by foreigners, affirmed ex-militante popular Rolando Lapidus, over a late Argentinean dinner on Monday. “If I go and attack that person on the street”, he commented as he pointed out of the window towards a pedestrian, “it is not war. It is terrorism.” He continued, “What began in Argentina in 1976 was not a war. It was state enforced terrorism.”
On Monday morning at precisely 9am, I trekked back down the long road “Chile” on my way to the subte (or, underground). Recovering from the astonishingly early English lesson I had just delivered in the Montserrat home of one of my students, I walked slowly, looking at the pavement as I walked, trying desperately to wake-up and pull myself together after the anything-but-restful weekend I had just experienced – that weekend which had, unfortunately for myself and all those other Monday-haters out there, abruptly terminated to the obnoxious tone of an alarm clock. As I walked I gazed at the recently washed pavement stones, wondering to myself why people seem to be fond of washing the pavement outside their house or building every morning with washing-up liquid. Suddenly, I woke up as I came to a dramatic halt outside of Chile 850. Three pavement stones had been covered over with heavy scarlet colored plaques. The plaques frowned up at me as I bent over them to read their inscriptions:
Aqui vivió Susana Elena Pedrini
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Jose Daniel Bronzel
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Aqui vivió Cecilia Podolsky
Militante Popular
Detenida Desaparecida
27-7-76
Por el terrorismo de estado
Barrios por Memoria y Justicia
Upon reading, I paused, horrified as I realized the plaques honored three of approximately 30 000 men, women and children abducted, tortured and more often than not killed during the military dictatorship of 1976-1983. Here I stood, outside Chile 850, where 34 years ago, three innocents were snatched and “disappeared” and now live only as memories of Argentina’s macabre past. A past still so fresh, that a certain hesitance in many is still prevalent when asked to discuss and evaluate what happened behind closed doors over three decades ago. After five minutes of staring I was pushed out of the way by a mad dash of brief cases: “Permiso,” “Cuidate eh!” and “Ay, por favor!” were some of the exclamations I heard from busy civilians on their way to work. For many of these busy business men and women, I could only assume that this was a regular route. A route which involves plowing down Chile and stepping over a morose part of their nation’s contemporary history.
I eventually went on my way, however felt somewhat heavier and more down-trodden than I had been upon leaving my student’s hogar, or home. I threw myself into research as soon as I reached my house on Hipolito Yrigogen and my spirits were obviously not lifted as I ploughed through page upon page of “desaparecidos.” Backgrounds and professions separated them, but their abduction, torture and assassination meant that they all shared a common denominator. The desaparecidos were sent to a number of hidden locations and work camps where they all faced their fate as those brave enough to oppose state evoked censorship, violence and terrorism.
I quickly came across the names of those “desaparecidos” who I envision every time I make my way down La Avenida Chile. Jose Daniel Bronzel and his wife Susana Elena Pedrini, both aged twenty-eight, were forced from their home on the thirteenth of July, 1976. Cecilia Podolsky de Bronzel, Jose Daniel’s mother, aged 51, was also abducted on that morbid Tuesday in el Gran Capital. Jose Daniel and Susana were both architects and professors at La Universidad de Buenos Ares. When the three were taken, Susana was one and a half months pregnant. The amount of information on the trio was limited, however the desaparecidos database affirmed that their lives were taken on the twentieth of August, 1976 in “La Masacre de Fatima.” Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia were three of thirty illegally-detained prisoners who were drugged and shot by two Argentine police officers in the Buenos Aires province of Fatima. Those culpable for this massacre were sentenced to life imprisonment on the eleventh of July, 2008.
This week, the last military president of Argentina’s darkest period was sentenced to twenty-five years in prison. Reynaldo Benito Bignone, aged 82 sat solemnly in court as he and six other former military officials and police officers were tried for the torture and murder of a vast number of innocents. As the trial went on, the audience sat watching, the vast majority of whom held up pictures of their friends and family members who had been disappeared during Bignone’s reign. An eerie silence and strong-willed persistence oozed from the spectator section of the courtroom. Bignone was not present during the sentencing, but those who held pictures of their loved ones cried out as justice rang through the old gymnasium, almost three decades after those closest to them had been taken. I could not help but think of Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia as I watched the dramatic scenes of the trial on the television. For Jose Daniel, Susana and Cecilia who died under the rule of Videla, and for the thousands of families still grieving, I quietly thanked the judge whose gavel, that day brought relief to thousands.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Passion and the Parilla: Replacing Sleep with Meat, Pronunciation and Charlas
My lack of publishing in the last several weeks can be blamed upon long bus rides, an ever-increasing teaching schedule and our continuing quest for the best parilla (or, barbeque restaurant) in Buenos Aires. These factors, amongst other things have kept us as busy as bees ever since we said farewell to CELTA and entered the real world of trabajo (or, work) in the Paris of the South. A slow week of job hunting post-course gave us time to disfrutar (or, enjoy) what we had been missing in that month of teaching preparation. I greeted Castellano with open arms and began throwing myself back into conversations with locals and newly-made porteño friends. A night well-spent preparing empanadas with a wonderful Argentinean friend and her family would set high standards for the rest of our stay here in Buenos Aires. After all, what could possibly be better than an evening overflowing with empanadas de Jamon y Queso, wonderful wine and delightful company in a beautiful family house tucked neatly behind the hustle and bustle of Avenida Rivadavia?
As I write, families rush to and from the fishmongers, the bakery and the fruit and vegetable stand to complete the final touches for a well-deserved Easter weekend. When they first arrived on the shelves in the supermarkets, the mountains of huevos de chocolate (or, chocolate eggs) made me somewhat nostalgic for home and Easter egg hunts held in the garden when I was ten. The build up to this weekend, has been, in very colloquial terms, “a long time coming.” In the past three weeks, I have been exposed to the "real" city of Buenos Aires and have come to know “un monton” (or, a lot) of wonderful individuals. As everyone is unique, each student of mine has different reasons for wanting to learn or study English. Some are starting from scratch or topping up their prior knowledge of the language, whilst others are re-visiting an idiom that was left behind at the school gates almost twenty years ago. An objective which, perhaps was my favorite of the pile, was explained to me over a mate (or, Argentine herbal tea) sitting around the kitchen table in a family home in Parque Chacabuco.
On a regular Tuesday morning, I received a call from my employer informing me that I had a new student, an eleven year old nena (or, girl). “This will be a challenge,” I thought to myself as I duly noted the contact details down with a poor excuse for a ball-point pen. Since packing my bags and heading toward the path of teaching, I had been meeting new students who were only above the age of 20. Therefore, I was excited to see the difference in the approach to learning in this little one. I arrived at the front door and was greeted by a smiling mother and daughter who ushered me in to the dimly-lit kitchen where a man who I could only assume was the father of the family was seated, sipping on a mate, waiting to give me the facts in regards to what he wanted for his daughter out of such lessons. Naturally, the conversation was conducted solely in Castellano and so I grasped in the air for words to present myself as a confident, knowledgeable English teacher. As my new student sat, beaming away, watching my every move, her father delved into his (what I could only assume was a pre-pared) speech about what he needed to see as a result of paying me a monthly fee. We chatted, and I learnt about his biggest pet-peeve “in life,” as he labeled it. “In life, there is nothing worse than an Argentine speaking English,” he stated. I laughed nervously, and asked him to elaborate as I was not sure if I had heard him correctly. “Speaking English is one thing. Speaking English in an Argentinean accent is another.” He proceeded to explain to me that he wanted his daughter to have an accent like mine and so if this goal was not achieved, we would have to come together and discuss matters again. I nodded solemnly and in the corner of my eye saw my little student mirroring my nodding action. An hour later, I took my leave of the family home in Chacabuco and began to rack my brains for ways around the inevitable presence of a thick Argentinean accent in my little student.
7am starts would not deter us from immersing ourselves in Argentine dinner culture (which, I must add never really “takes off” before 11pm). The boyfriend of that same afore mentioned Argentinean friend offered to take us out to what he referred to as “the best Parilla in the city.” As we arranged our feast over the phone he promised us that we would eat early, as after all, our teaching hours did not correspond well with the Buenos Aires nightlife. As 11pm rolled around, we were still sat enjoying charlas with his family in their apartment on Callao. I shamefully let the British in me shine through and requested that we make for the restaurant as time for sleep was gradually ticking away. We waited outside “La Cholita” for a table for three, which was heaving with patrons hungry for a quintessentially Argentinean dining experience. After fifteen minutes we were rushed to our table and before I knew it, we were sipping on Malbec and commencing our meal with a delectable provoletta (or, grilled provolone cheese topped with grilled onions, tomatoes and fresh olives). We doubtfully ordered the “Parilla for 2” from the vast menu and discussed for ten or fifteen minutes the fact that we had probably under-ordered. I therefore prepared myself for a mere sniff of steak as I sat looking at the two hungry boys in their early twenties on the opposite side of the dinner table. I then proceeded to eat my hat when a smorgasbord of meat nearly as long as the table was plopped in the centre by the frantic portena waiting on us and silently scolded myself for thinking that there would not be enough food for us all. An array of asado, bife de chorizo, chorizo, ojo de bife and sweet breads amongst other unidentifiable parts of the cow steamed in front of us as we tucked in to sample what we had been waiting for since our arrival on January 1st. Obviously a platter of meat and papas fritas of such a size takes time to consume, and so at 1am I gave up on the idea of sleep and called for another bottle of Malbec. After all, rushing home on a full stomach without taking the time to reflect upon what we had just devoured would have been very un-Argentinean.
As I write, families rush to and from the fishmongers, the bakery and the fruit and vegetable stand to complete the final touches for a well-deserved Easter weekend. When they first arrived on the shelves in the supermarkets, the mountains of huevos de chocolate (or, chocolate eggs) made me somewhat nostalgic for home and Easter egg hunts held in the garden when I was ten. The build up to this weekend, has been, in very colloquial terms, “a long time coming.” In the past three weeks, I have been exposed to the "real" city of Buenos Aires and have come to know “un monton” (or, a lot) of wonderful individuals. As everyone is unique, each student of mine has different reasons for wanting to learn or study English. Some are starting from scratch or topping up their prior knowledge of the language, whilst others are re-visiting an idiom that was left behind at the school gates almost twenty years ago. An objective which, perhaps was my favorite of the pile, was explained to me over a mate (or, Argentine herbal tea) sitting around the kitchen table in a family home in Parque Chacabuco.
On a regular Tuesday morning, I received a call from my employer informing me that I had a new student, an eleven year old nena (or, girl). “This will be a challenge,” I thought to myself as I duly noted the contact details down with a poor excuse for a ball-point pen. Since packing my bags and heading toward the path of teaching, I had been meeting new students who were only above the age of 20. Therefore, I was excited to see the difference in the approach to learning in this little one. I arrived at the front door and was greeted by a smiling mother and daughter who ushered me in to the dimly-lit kitchen where a man who I could only assume was the father of the family was seated, sipping on a mate, waiting to give me the facts in regards to what he wanted for his daughter out of such lessons. Naturally, the conversation was conducted solely in Castellano and so I grasped in the air for words to present myself as a confident, knowledgeable English teacher. As my new student sat, beaming away, watching my every move, her father delved into his (what I could only assume was a pre-pared) speech about what he needed to see as a result of paying me a monthly fee. We chatted, and I learnt about his biggest pet-peeve “in life,” as he labeled it. “In life, there is nothing worse than an Argentine speaking English,” he stated. I laughed nervously, and asked him to elaborate as I was not sure if I had heard him correctly. “Speaking English is one thing. Speaking English in an Argentinean accent is another.” He proceeded to explain to me that he wanted his daughter to have an accent like mine and so if this goal was not achieved, we would have to come together and discuss matters again. I nodded solemnly and in the corner of my eye saw my little student mirroring my nodding action. An hour later, I took my leave of the family home in Chacabuco and began to rack my brains for ways around the inevitable presence of a thick Argentinean accent in my little student.
7am starts would not deter us from immersing ourselves in Argentine dinner culture (which, I must add never really “takes off” before 11pm). The boyfriend of that same afore mentioned Argentinean friend offered to take us out to what he referred to as “the best Parilla in the city.” As we arranged our feast over the phone he promised us that we would eat early, as after all, our teaching hours did not correspond well with the Buenos Aires nightlife. As 11pm rolled around, we were still sat enjoying charlas with his family in their apartment on Callao. I shamefully let the British in me shine through and requested that we make for the restaurant as time for sleep was gradually ticking away. We waited outside “La Cholita” for a table for three, which was heaving with patrons hungry for a quintessentially Argentinean dining experience. After fifteen minutes we were rushed to our table and before I knew it, we were sipping on Malbec and commencing our meal with a delectable provoletta (or, grilled provolone cheese topped with grilled onions, tomatoes and fresh olives). We doubtfully ordered the “Parilla for 2” from the vast menu and discussed for ten or fifteen minutes the fact that we had probably under-ordered. I therefore prepared myself for a mere sniff of steak as I sat looking at the two hungry boys in their early twenties on the opposite side of the dinner table. I then proceeded to eat my hat when a smorgasbord of meat nearly as long as the table was plopped in the centre by the frantic portena waiting on us and silently scolded myself for thinking that there would not be enough food for us all. An array of asado, bife de chorizo, chorizo, ojo de bife and sweet breads amongst other unidentifiable parts of the cow steamed in front of us as we tucked in to sample what we had been waiting for since our arrival on January 1st. Obviously a platter of meat and papas fritas of such a size takes time to consume, and so at 1am I gave up on the idea of sleep and called for another bottle of Malbec. After all, rushing home on a full stomach without taking the time to reflect upon what we had just devoured would have been very un-Argentinean.
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