The balcony of that house on the corner looked out over Vicente León Park. And there we were. Tense, excited, anxious. It was 1968 and we were about to see the passing of Camilo Ponce, a conservative candidate supported by Dad, who sometimes visited and treated him at his La Calera farm. From the house next door, a witty megaphone insulted the candidate and called for rebellion. People gathered on the street, and we gathered on the balcony, where relatives and acquaintances came. Cries for and against, raised fists, applause and gaffes contributed to the emotion of the moment. We saw raised hands waving from the truck and suddenly a fight ruined the mood of the party. Tear gas fell on the balcony and everything turned into suffocation. “Bus!” someone shouted and covered my face with a white, wet, life-saving handkerchief. I cried from the agony of gas, I cried from unknown fear, I cried, I see it today, as a premonition of shattered illusions.

And when I think that many of us believed that we could change the world with songs. And to think that we dream of possible justice. “The life to come will be better”, we sang. And we talked about truth, about freedom, about people, about togetherness. And we felt unstoppable, dreams overflowing over us, solidarity and pain for others too. We had a mission: to do good.

We read poetry, we sang and believed in that God who was born in Palacagüina, but another one imposed itself: “Look how they tell us about paradise when sorrows fall on us like hail.” We believed in a future of peace; We believed that people have a voice and that “united people will never be defeated”.

And here we are, almost sixty years later, seeing the remnants of illusions, picking up pieces of dreams that are no longer worth a damn, looking among the ruins for a piece of hope to cling to.

As all leaders have betrayed us and continue to betray us. How they work for themselves and deceive us with promises that we no longer believe. How the people we wanted to educate, teach and feed changed: “My father was an agricultural worker, and I was a revolutionary, my children opened a store, and my grandson is a civil servant.”

And it’s all over. And corruption covered us. And we were overcome by indifference. Even today, we try to survive, groping between hopelessness and the agony of defeat; between disgust and sadness.

And we no longer “raise our voices as one memory”, we no longer sing. I feel like we’ve already been through, that we’ve played and lost. The music wasn’t enough, maybe it got quieter or drowned us out. I feel part of a failed generation that was unable to build a wall.

“—Tuna, tuna!

-Who is that?

— Rose and carnation…

— Open the wall!

— Tuna, tuna!

-Who is that?

— The colonel’s saber…

“Close the wall!”

Now they direct the country, the continent, the world with a new hatred because apparently history does not exist, environmental pollution does not exist, poverty is an option and the memory must be buried together with the old meaning that the word Freedom had. Apparently, neither music, nor poetry, nor illusion have reached us. (OR)