The cry of the Lagmien

Beginning of October. Thursday. I get up early. I check my cell phone to see the news of the day. There is a message from my daughter’s school, advising that there is no water due to a prolonged power outage and it is not possible to hold classes in those conditions. I also record an audio file of a teacher. I hope you download because I’m curious. In the woods, my signal is weak and this can take a while, so I turn on the fire on the Russian stove and put the kettle on the stove. The thermometer in the dining room reads 16.6°. It’s not bad at all… mornings are cool in El Bolsón and my house has a warmth that comforts.

I fill the thermos with hot water and put on my headphones. I hear a female voice that greets and exposes the situation of some women detained during an eviction in Mapuche territory. Among them there are two moms with their little babies and a pregnant one. There isn’t much information about it. Everything is uncertain. I managed to find out that they were arrested in an operation of disproportionate deployments by security forces in Villa Mascardi, they are held incommunicado and the charges against them are ignored.

The organizations that are part of the defense have no answers from justice. I also found out that they are going to be transferred to the Ezeiza prison and that the young woman who is forty weeks pregnant was hospitalized as a preventive measure. The mate cools and something inside me stirs. The embarrassment clouds my thoughts and smudges them with ashes and sadness.

They are seven, deprived of their liberty and are on a hunger strike. I only have vague information about the Mapuche customs, but I was able to decipher that childbirth is a sacred moment that is experienced with deep spirituality where the Lagmien (sister) assists the arrival of new life. One of them will not be able to enjoy this ceremony. For me, motherhood is a transcendental, intimate and holy event. It is the most sublime moment of human creation and it is heartbreaking not to allow a mother to live it according to her beliefs.

For centuries the original communities have been persecuted and subjugated. We know of massacres, humiliations, harassment and dispossession. There are those who say that this particular native group is not even Argentine, when in reality it pre-existed the formation of the State. In Patagonia, conflicts over land recovery are recurrent. The news often contains biased or false data and a picture is provided that does not fit the truth. I don’t fully understand the problem. I get scraps of stories, stories of “princesses” locked up in museums to be studied as rare specimens or businessmen who are granted logging permits for ridiculous prices and under conditions that are never met.

My essence dictates the flag that I must embrace, recognizing my values ​​and feelings strongly rooted in nature and in the roots of blood. I don’t understand the meaning of words like Machi, Peñi, Lamgen, Rewe or Ñuke, but I do believe in respect for the human, territorial and cultural rights of peoples and in the struggle of women against violence and injustice. Unease gnaws at my stomach. I cannot be indifferent to the clamor of these compañeras. My heart would not forgive me for the cowardice of not assuming the commitment to “take sides until you get dirty” as the Spanish poet used to say.

Outside, the sun manifests irreverent splendors. The trees are losing their flowers and the dawn of the fruit is perceived. Among the ferns I find the first morels of the season and I am grateful for the blessings of nature. My little girl leans on my body to gather some mushrooms hidden under some dry leaves. Like me, she is learning to feel the ancestral call of the seed, seeking the wisdom that emerges from the atavistic, opening the soul to see better. And I think today, that’s what’s important.