These words of love and war go to Jhonny Cariqueo and his fireproof father.
I never met you in person Jhonny, I knew you were a compañero, an inhabitant of Pudahuel who like many young people went out at night to commemorate another year of the Day of the Young Combatant back there in 2008.
Minions can’t bear the insolence to challenge them, not even with words nor with homemade weapons, and they throw themselves to the wild charge entrusted in them by the state. They take you after an act in a square in your commune. I imagine those moments, screams, weapons to the head, immobility, looks of hatred between both sides. You were transferred with other brave ones to the dungeons of the sadistic 26th Police Station, beaten and humiliated by those that are only courageous for abuse but not for combat. They beat you, your heart clenches, you communicate it to your captors, they in their cruelty just ignore you and mock you. My spirit burns with rage at imagining this. They release you. I imagine you coming to your house, with yours worries, tiredness, the desire to sleep, your father’s love.
Spend the night and imagine that you felt bad, your chest clenches, without you wanting it, the dead woman’s hand takes you on the shoulder. You pass away cause of the beating at the police station and the lack of attention where your great heart stopped working. Compañero, the police MURDERED you and that will walk with us for the rest of life.
I attended your funeral, hugs between compas, faces of anger and pain, We made a basket and bought a flower crown. A diagonal red-black flag of Anarchy was designed, like your scream, like your rap, like your ideas.
Your father’s words were the sweetest and most painful thing I heard that day. I don’t remember them well, but his pride for his child was clouded by the pain of your absence. I remember being impressed in the narrow corridors of the cemetery. The crowd listened to every word, from your father, by Doña Luisa and Don Manuel. Grief gave way to rage.
We know that the path we choose as revolutionaries is full of misfortunes, to oppose this world of miseries in any way has high costs. That every death and prisoner is one more thorn in our spirit. That life weighs and hurts for the exploited, but as that is true, it is also love and solidarity, the eyes and the complicit smiles, the ability to organize without masters or slaves, the enjoyment of life, the children, the loves and the compas, the inextinguishable fire of freedom making way despite everything.
One of these treasured moments was the day I passed your father in Plaza Dignidad, he always knew and embraced your indomitable spirit since your murder, has always faced your murderers, the disgusting police and their bosses. That day your father did not see me, there were only eyes, but under the mask my face was smiling newen [Mapuche word for “strength”] and happiness. Every day I struggle with you, with our dead in my heart, my mind and my hands.
Because neither you nor the rest of the fallen compas are dead. They live in attacks, in the barricades, in the confrontations, in the assemblies.
They are fuel for the flame that will end this authoritarian world to the sound of anarchy and freedom.
With the Young Combatant.
Fanning the Permanent Insurrection.
Facing the advent of fascism and control. The State and the rich only think of keeping us as slaves. Let’s discard the institutionality by the illegal and anti-authoritarian organization.
Compañerxs Rafael and Eduardo, Norma, Paulina, Jhonny, Claudia, Maury, Angry, Pablo, Aracely, Chaka and all the fallen ones fighting for liberation.
One Thousand Times Present!
Hugs of fire for Doña Luisa and Don Manuel, who have been parents of many. I know that they see their children reflected in the eyes of the young combatants.
Long live anarchy
-Anarchist Political Prisoner
March 29, 2020
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