Song From South Park Episode Nambla

La Cantuta, BACK IN THE MOUTH OF THE DEVIL




Yesterday the newspaper "The Republic" came with a CD titled "La Cantuta. At the mouth of the devil", a documentary by Amanda Gonzales in which the journalist Edmundo Cruz through all the vicissitudes that had to do for the La Cantuta massacre perpetrated by the "Colina Group" be aired. However, for those years researching this case the matter does not begin and end well. The
key witnesses and promoters, who risked their lives to uncover this crime against humanity, were the recycler Just Arizapana (who witnessed how members crouched buried the remains of the army massacred the students), his friend William Catacora (who made the map paper kite so you can find the complaint), radio journalist Juan Jara Berrospi (Arizapana and Catacora friend, and who wanted to ensure that the complaint was not muted) and the driver and evangelical Juan Mallea (who moved to Jara for help ); them the true heroes of this discovery that rocked the alleged "democracy" Fujimori, were tortured (a Mallea, could not lie because of their religious ideas, broke his rib bones and teeth knocked out), were presented as terrorists pinstripe suits and purged up to 12 years imprisonment on charges of collaboration and advocacy of terrorism. While others took the credit, and civil damages were awarded to: Ricardo Uceda was awarded the Hero of Freedom of Press International Press Institute, also of Columbia University gave him the prize Maria Moors Cobot. The families of the bereaved families of La Cantuta received 100 thousand dollars for each shot and are still waiting for other compensation. Guillermo Catacora received at the hands of Gisella Ortiz, sister one of the victim, the sum of 700 or 800 dollars (she does not remember exactly). Catacora shared donation with Just Arizapana (who never saw the faces of relatives, much less the State allegedly resarcidor and repair of their crimes, not even a "thank you") and the two are still living hand to mouth, thinking that the military murderers who saw that night in April 1993 to come for them.
Finally, all this atrocity and shame we must add that a student of La Cantuta, a survivor of the massacre, he was sentenced to 12 years in prison to get their hands a book of Marx, a book that contained in the syllabus of a courses. The State cleared him justifying the twelve years of confinement, therefore owe nothing, only a judge gave an apology - as those that occur when one encounters someone - gave him a pat on the shoulder and sent him to the street.

This is justice in our country: a meat grinder, a report shit, cruel and blind.

The full documentary that lasts more than two hours you can see here:

http://enlabocadeldiablo.com/


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YBARRARIO: I hear the singing of ANAMELBA




Anamelba was a fat woman acute and powerful voice who lived a few blocks from my house. I remember like it was yesterday because it sold paving stones of fruit and "Sun" colored with which financed his career as an artist and that I got sick to avoid going to school (which always seemed cattle farms, places of punishment, only learning spaces and learning the neck down and obey and never to command or direct: "schools of the subjects" remembered my teacher sentenced Heads-of which I have spoken before in another Ybarrario -). Every time I went to look for Anamelba tell me "how the child is cute" - a compliment that was repeating old to all children - and stroked my hair and I looked through the eyes of slaughtered lamb or eyes a student with the Oedipus complex refracted at his teacher.
ever, in this strange and icy complicity, I sang a song a capella because I asked her. It was an April morning, the summer was beginning to subside and I with my new uniform, my dress white, my dark gray pants and my black shoes shined "the duco" walked plump for those streets of my old neighborhood. There in the living room of his house and chewing ice completita heard her sing a song about the heartbreak, but in that time I did not understand anything I just worried that I pitched sounds such intemperate teeth. I guess now that it was the disaffection he felt by Julio Jaramillo, Ecuadorian singer corridors, with which had a torrid affair with a tandem who recorded some songs that even the radios go on the memory, those that are too far right or far to the left of the dial. Though I never liked the boleros, every time I walk by an old street and hear a little song I feel old again I am standing outside the iron gate of Anamelba, in the third block of Jiron Lucanas, or chasing with my 11 years Vicky Jimenez's daughter, "the queen of bolero"-at that time Anamelba direct competition, "who lived a few blocks from my house, she always presumed that was responsible for getting on self-esteem by saying that I was not anyone and that his mother was an artist, known singer and, therefore, could not be my friend, and while saying this, he was showing me all the gifts her mother ("the doll of the bolero" and had named a famous television presenter) had brought back from his travels in Europe, and I was looking at me falling in love to the marrow of the bones to the bone marrow reconcho, to the depths of the soul, yes, always yes ... but myself. Those boleros
not returned to hear more. As a teenager I devoted myself to listen to rock, jazz, frejazz, new age, gender and other so-called "cults", more "evolved" more "technical", more "progressive", etc.., etc. But one time I walked away from all this, I stopped listening, stopped writing. I took a trip abroad and so I walked a lot of time traveling back and forth with backpackers and craftsmen with whom I was accompanying a trail and then follow the path set until one day I became sedentary. And when someone, for some odd reason, I wondered boleros I denied in all possible languages \u200b\u200bthat know anything about this, now, marginal genre.
been more than 30 years and I clearly remember that song he sang a capella Anamelba one morning in late of the seventies was this: "I will accept." With regard to the girl conceited, daughter of Vicky Jiménez, I forgot even his name, just remember his broken sentences and "you're not anyone." And now with that "accept" tragic background I can say that I keep wondering the same thing in effect girl of my worst dreams, I'm nobody, I'm only witness to a vanished time in my hands, a past that sometimes returns as a boomerang and gives us a blow to the chest, but, after all, I'm just witnessed myself.

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