En mi ciudad hay una calle
llamada Yaganes
y ahí nomás,
caminas dos cuadras
y está la Perito Moreno.
Parece a propósito a veces
cómo ordenan las cosas
para incomodar el alma.
Yaganes: plural de yagan,
castellanizado
Pueblo Originario de Tierra del Fuego.
Pueblo del joven Maish Kensis.
Perito Moreno: explorador,
coleccionista, científico
y político argentino.
Director del Museo de la Plata.
Verdugo de Maish Kensis, de Tafá,
de la gente de Inakayal, de Foyel
de Damiana Kryygi.
de cientxs de kuifikecheyem
recluidos en el Museo
junto con Na:k.
Se siente como un alarde
de impunidad histórica.
Todas las semanas las veo
Cuando voy a laburar
un puñadito de horas
a la escuela.
Y tengo que pasarlas.
Y una fuerza me impulsa los pasos
y la sangre en la cabeza
para meterle ganas.
Y algo sale.
Me saluda "Mari Mari" un estudiante
ya es Chachay.
Le regalé un trarilonko
de lana de oveja negra y guanaco.
Su bisabuelo hablaba,
me cuenta.
Y en cada aula salen
memorias de un abuelo
una tía, una infancia.
Y el alma se pone contenta.
Y al volver miro la calle
y pienso "no pudiste
acá estamos, estudiando
y se van a enterar de tu prontuario."
Camino unos pasos
no pienso nada.
Hay cosas que no se piensan
se sienten nomás,
y es suficiente.
Porque ellos podían entender ese sentir:
"Mamihlapinatapai"
Ahí está la prueba.
Algún dia el sentir,
será una ola inmensa
y nadie podrá pararla.
Fey ta ñi zuam.
In my city there is a street
called Yaganes
and right there,
you walk two blocks
and you find Perito Moreno street.
Sometimes it seems intentional
how things are arranged
to disturb the soul.
Yaganes: plural of Yagan,
Hispanicised
Native People of Tierra del Fuego.
People of the young Maish Kensis.
Perito Moreno: explorer,
collector, scientist,
and politician.
Director of the La Plata Museum.
Executioner of Maish Kensis, of Tafá,
of the people of Inakayal, of Foyel,
of Damiana Kryygi,
of hundreds of kuifikecheyem
imprisoned in the museum
along with Na:k.
It feels like a display
of historical impunity.
Every week I see them
when I go to work
for a few hours
at the school.
And I have to cross them.
And a force drives my steps
and the blood in my head
to find the strength it
And something happens.
“Mari Mari” greets me, a student
who is now Chachay.
I gave him a trarilonko
made of black sheep and guanaco wool.
His great-grandfather spokeMapuzudugn,
he tells me.
And in each classroom,
memories of a grandfather,
an aunt, a childhood emerge.
And my soul rejoices.
And on my way back, I look at the street
and think, "You couldn't do it,
here we are, studying,
and they're going to find out about your criminal record."
I walk a few steps
and think nothing.
There are things you don't think about,
you just feel them,
and that's enough.
Because they could understand that feeling:
“Mamihlapinatapai.”
There's the proof.
Someday that feeling
will be a huge wave
and no one will be able to stop it.
Fey ta ñi zuam.
