Like the death of the Roldós on May 24, August 9 became another terrible moment, which most Ecuadorians could not forget. But for those who loved him, especially his children, it is an indelible injustice that will mark their fate. Héctor Abad F. begins a beautiful book in memory of his brutally murdered father, talking about that primordial love, which, from the smell to the feeling of security, transmits the father’s presence to his children.

Beginning with the heinous attack on Villavicencio’s home on Christmas Day 2013, the image of his young son crying over an absurd act of violence should have marked us as a nation. These children grow up with their father’s love translated into songs and poetry to hide their fear, try to make them happy despite the constant threat: their father is in danger. The police entered under the strong orders of those who feared them. He did it in an unnecessarily brutal way and with cameras so that he could later show the pictures in some creepy propaganda show that the state paid to invent his story: to reject the version of the man who scared so many cowards with his investigations.

How many times have the police failed Villavicencio and his family in these decades? The monstrously executed operation of his conundrum was successful not only because of the security lapses that afternoon, but also because of the inability to prevent the attack despite the fact that there was a 97% risk of it happening. Once again, the state owes it to family members, relatives and followers to find the perpetrators and financiers of the murder; but also to study the failures of the state system for the protection of vulnerable persons. A few weeks earlier, Mayor Intriago was assassinated even though he was in state custody. If ineffective police officers are not analyzed, investigated and punished, blood may continue to be our daily horror.

Héctor Abad Gómez was a loving health worker and teacher who dared to practice his profession by lighting the roads to improve his Medellín. He encountered political cowards who, like Villavicencio, did not spare insults and threats to incite fools and criminals to attack.

The monstrous operation to free him from the bullets succeeded not only because of security lapses that afternoon…

Fernando loved poetry, his daughters are already imitating him, seeking solace in the beauty of music and lyrics. Martín will probably, like the writer Abad Faciolince, discover in his memory and in his father’s pockets of nostalgia songs that direct him in life to be a good man. The writer accidentally came across his father’s handwriting in this poem, which later turned out to be the author of JL Borges himself:

Here. Today/ We are already forgetting what we will be./ Elemental dust that ignores us/ and that Adam was red and it is now/ all people, and that we will not see.

We are already in the grave of two dates / start and deadline. Box,/ obscene corruption and shroud,/ triumphs of death, and/ lamentations.

I am not a fool who clings/ to the magical sound of his name./ I think with hope of that man/ who will not know that I have been on earth./ Under the indifferent blue of the sky,/ this meditation is a consolation. (OR)