At this hour in the morning in Spain, here it is very early and very late UkraineAnd Hectorabad FaciolenceAnd A Colombian writer was about to be assassinated last Tuesday night in KramatorskUkraine, send a photo via wasap and this short comment: “Crossing the border on foot. All the best & rdquor ;.
In the picture, you can see a quiet row of people who seem to be waiting to enter through a door, at that moment, with the already known background, it could turn into the same door of heaven.
Although what the camera reflects at that moment is the silent grouping of a fleeing crowd, surrounded by civilian barbed wire-like walls, the echo of the news can be heard from afar, unforgiving, forced to be part of the distraught chronicle
Hector Abad is there with his partner Sergio Jaramillohis countryman, returning to a bomb-free land, is about to cross the border that will take him to a region without war, because even a while ago, or even now, they were crossing, they, his friend Catalina Gomez AngelUkrainian journalist and writer Victoria AmelinaWhich is very dangerous, the greatest danger to their lives, the moment that makes a sound even when the air carries the news of death.
It is a definite group of people, except for those we have mentioned, those who are in this shapeless line of pedestrians who are looking for the frontier. They are unknown people: they are fleeing. Like those who fled the Spanish Civil War, or those who went to concentration camps, crestfallen, those who knew guns and rifles weren’t there just because they were, but to kill them, those who left Ukraine, like Hector, like their friends, they’ve already heard the roar Death, smoke, death, and here they are, photographed with the first light of day, and now they are part of that wasap which is friendly news to those who have asked a Spanish dawn: “Hector, how are you?”
in response, “Crossing the border on foot. All the best.” There are centuries of history of others, who have crossed similar places, aerial barbed wire, in search of a place where the word sanctuary is a definite place where at least the memory, the fear and the noise that This was followed by a sharp, sharp jab, which a few hours earlier had made clear the exact scale of the stupor.Speaking of something else, life itself, this writer who now offers this two-line letter, in his book on the heart of a Colombian priest friend of his, says something similar from the title: Except for my heart, everything is fine. Fernando Arrabal said that future works will be in the form of coups. And there the past covers this picture of the future with danger and blood, the people fleeing the war in the picture that just crossed the air to settle in a faraway house where news of Hector and his friends was expected. They’re on the border, leaving, “It’s all right.
In the first pictures yesterday afternoon Hector and his friend Sergio are tainted by the scourge of war and its aftermath. In the case of the latter, a former peace commissioner, a Colombian like himself, accustomed like Hector to the word of war and the harsh news of shrapnel, was seen dangling by a leg which had been wounded by a fallen shrapnel. Shell, above the restaurant they just sat at. In this case, in Sergio’s case, his face was reduced to pain, which was as strong as a battle injury. Hector’s back is full, looking into the camera, rose Hold on to Ukraine It sticks to his coat and all his clothes are stitched with black spots like blood. But it was not blood, but the trace of all the fragments that joined the calamity that his eyes denounced. I never saw Hector Abad Fasciolence show that amazement on his face, as if he were seeing the darkest past of his life again.
—Jose Manuel Acevedo (@JoseMAcevedo) June 27, 2023
He and Victoria Amelina and Sergio were laughing at the anecdotes that usually happen at the end of the afternoon, there’s no real beer, you have to drink without alcohol, we finally sit down, they laugh, and in the climax of that laughter I detonated the bomb and also detonated future clues that seemed crossed out, It is part of those spots which unite with the face of Hector Abad Fasciolence. If you stop to look at your clothes, which are badly stained, or your partner’s sore feet, and look into his eyes, the eyes of a writer looking into the camera, you can see there, in its incredibly subtle proportions, the exact scale of awesomeness.
It is impossible, at the end of that look, to be like a verse written by someone fleeing death, not to imagine it suddenly. What happened in the life of this man, who was a boy at the time, when his father saw Dr. Hector Gómez bloody dead in the street. It was in the city of Medellín, Colombia, in the midst of that huge array of awesomeness like murders, on August 27, 1987. He’s a boy as skinny as he appears in the movie, oblivion that we will be, By Fernando Trueba, in his book of poetry of the same title, he is now a vivid part of the distraughtness of yet another war he went into with others to announce Wait Ukraine.
Weeks ago, in Madrid Book FairHe wrote down other people’s life circumstances and laughed at the events that happened in the library booth without platform where he was signing. This was the boy from August 1987 in his lunch clothes, and this was the man from 2023 who was counting down the remaining hours or days to move to Ukraine in search of what he always was, before that noise that broke his adolescence, his human passion.. From the Author: Tell Life, Deny death.
He took notes, and always made notes of everything he heard; With his pen in small letters, with his glasses to see very close, his heart repaired a while ago, perhaps with the same guayabera with which he traveled to the Ukraine, he would have moved to the epicenter of the disaster and found himself, that’s what he says now on the radio in Colombia, on the radio in Spain, speaking with Carles Francino In La Sir, everywhere they call from.
Chance and death, together, do their delicate work against the lives of men, The terrible brutality of the Russian army collapsing against the peaceful laughter of those in Ukraine proclaiming life against death. “We sat, there was no beer, we laughed, the bomb is designed to hurt & rdquor ;.
Everything happened in slow motion, and suddenly, after the noise, he noticed Victoria, her friend, straight, in her chair, clean, unresponsive & mldr; There will be serious news about her later.And what remained in his memory in the memory of Hector in that face shown in the pictures is, as he said, “horror, horror.
This morning, in a long line of smugglers, as if to call that book again about other people’s hearts, and about his own, he wrote this telegram to a Spanish friend who was hooking it on that line of hope and drama. who managed to leave them: “Crossing the border on foot. All the best & rdquor;”. The distraught syntax, the finger that drops on the keyboard to relieve the anxiety of those who, far from this line of flight, walk beyond fear and death.