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INTRODUCTION
The poems and paintings of City of Red Horizons are related tothe seven years of dictatorship in Argentina from 1976 until 1983 when 30,000 people, most of them youth who believed in justice, were captured, tortured, and killed by the government.Dismembering or annihilating families was one of the military's goals. My narrative poem and art works tell how the methodology of state terrorism broke down my family, as well as all the thousands of families who endured similar fate.Through these pages I want to raise my voice in order to alert people about what happened in my country, as well as in other Latin American countries, for such atrocities never to happen again.Comments are welcome.On Peace and Solidarity,Raquel Partnoyhtpp://www.raquelpartnoy.net/PINTORAS_ARGENTINAS/
CHAPTER 3 - 1977/1984
"Blindfolded" oil on canvas by Raquel Partnoy
CITY OF RED HORIZONS
a Narrative Poem by Raquel Partnoy
CONTENTS
THE STORM
KNOCK! KNOCK!
BEHIND THE HIGH FACADE
THE VISIT
FRAGMENTS
PREMONITION
NIGHTMARES
CITY OF RED HORIZONS
THE BOXES
Copyright © 2008 Raquel Partnoy. All rights reserved
THE STORM - Summer 1977
"Fragments" oil on canvas by Raquel Partnoy
1
It happened in broad daylight
– on January twelve, 1977,
exactly one year ego.
My husband and I were taking a nap
when we heard the doorbell ring several times.
The frightening news arrived.
Someone came to tell us that
– at noon,
my daughter and her husband
were kidnapped by the military forces.
Where were they taken ? Where . . .
2
what a deep rare impulse made me
that hot summer afternoon drive
for hours my Citroen through empty streets
with a cracked heart like a zombie ?
what I was expecting to see to find
looking to the right to the left
holding the steering wheel tight
blind to what was happening around ?
could my irrational mind for a second understand
the clean, perfect, rational military’s mind ?
would they leave my daughter safe on the streets
take pity on her mother pity on something ?
how could I have mixed feelings anger fear
despair and still have hope to find her alive ?
3
Soon after our daughter was kidnaped, my husband went
to the army barracks searching for information.
He came back heartbroken. At first,
he wouldn’t tell me anything. He didn’t want me to be worried.
They had denied our daughter was there and showed him
a paper allegedly signed by her stating she was released.
Where was she ? How could she disappear ?
Entire families are disappearing.
Could all our family disappear too?
4
Fear became our best friend
He came dressed up as if he were coming to a party
a long heavy silk tunic covered his body
he wore the most expensive death smell perfume
brought a huge baggage of books by his big brother Terror
and installed himself in our house to help
A model of friendship
our real friends were friends of his
our supposed friends also befriended him
he wouldn’t let them come to our house
A paragon of virtues
wherever we went he seized our arms and scolded us
he wouldn’t let us open our mouths
when we searched for our daughter
When we went to talk to military chaplains he spoke for us
when we went to police stations he spoke for us
when we went to the army headquarters he spoke for us
An example of solidarity
if we were awake he would be awake to keep us company
if we were asleep he would inhabit our dreams
He managed to take my brushes and work with me
didn’t let my son study alone for a single minute
accompanied my husband to his classes at the university
He stayed at home for five long months
till my daughter and husband “appeared” and were sent to jail
since then he never has forgotten to visit us
5
The agony of uncertainty is worse
than the agony of death.
It’s the brain’s annihilation.
In a dream I had a vision.
I was dancing with my daughter
and saw her dying in my arms,
her body with no weight,
my soul falling apart.
I woke up in despair,
feeling the uncertainty of not knowing
if my dream was real,
if my reality was a dream,
if she was dead or still alive.
6`
Summer is not supposed to bring affliction. \
It was a contradiction.
Summer is the revival of my garden,
is the plum tree offering its fruits
the plants’ greenness.
It is not the mourning of the roses,
is their splendor’s celebration embellishing the garden.
Summer is feeling safe
under the sky constellation
lightening my backyard, with uncountable stars.
A season to enjoy with no restraint,
with no deceit, with no betrayal.
But Summer of seventy seven brought the storm,
brought distress to my home.
It was the evil’s resolution
to destroy my garden, to darken the shades,
to wrap plants life with dust.
they expected light and got darkness,
vanished trees, vanished plants, a dead garden.
The plum tree’s frustration,
branches broken by the storm.
KNOCK ! KNOCK ! Summer 1978
"Plying to Fly" oil on canvas by Raquel Partnoy
1
One and a half years old
grandchild
you came to our house
carrying a package
bigger than your size
soldiers shouting
breaking doors
the steps of your mom
running away
the shooting and
your own cry
I lift you up in my arms
with love
and put your package aside
next to mine
that day you became
our little girl
2
knock knock
on the kitchen’s door
knock knock
on the closet’s door
knock knock
on the refrigerator’s door
mom are you in there ?
i ran to my room
with knots in my throat
and shut the door
to hide my tears
knock knock
on my door she said
¡ vamos ! ¡ vení a jugar !
come on ! let’s play !
3
It seems this young almond tree liked this sandy soil to grow.
It is always the first to blossom – even before winter ends,
and see how strong its rugged branches are,
they can hold my grandchild’s weight !
I like listening to her little voice, her laughter around the house,
and my son looks so happy playing with her !
4
with a piece of wood & two ropes your uncle made a swing for you
swing swing
swing swing
curly with
hair your
our smart
sweet eyes
girl with
under your
the not
almond easy
tree smile
swing swing
little girl
girl under
don’t this
be scary
afraid cloud
you brought brightness to this house
5
Will this anger give me strength ?
Put in motion my selves ?
The one who loves ?
The one who hates ?
The one who cares for her family ?
The one who detests this Dictator & Co.?
How dare these murders to invade
Our children’s home and make them disappear ?
To leave their child with a neighbor
To steal everything
To place a sign at their house’s street door which reads:
“Closed by the Army” ?
Are they expecting mothers and grandmothers to remain still ?
Our girl began crying.
I ran to her bedroom that hot summer night
– questions still squeezing my brain like snakes,
sat beside her bed and put my hand
in her little trembling hand.
She stopped crying with a deep breath.
I found a reason to smile.
BEHIND THE HIGH FACADE - Fall 1979
"Wings Oppressed" oil on canvas by Raquel Partnoy
1
After we were informed that our daughter and her husband
had been transferred to a prison, we had to wait five weeks
until they allowed us to visit them.
Our children did need time to recover from undernourishment,
physical and psychological torture. The army didn’t want us to see
what they had done to them in the concentration camp.
Even though, when we saw their faces, we could hardly
recognize them. They had become shadows of themselves !
Not only due to what they had endured
but because all their friends, including the ones who used
to come to our house, had been assassinated.
2
At 1 p.m.
Thieves to the right ! Subversives to the left !
We – subversives, comfortably line up
on the sidewalk along the high cement facade
washed by the falling rain.
The guard at the prison’s gate, after
such a friendly welcome,
gesticulates to emphasize the necessity
of putting order in that exemplary place
while letting the line on the right side in,
which seems to have come in time.
At 3 p.m.
We gently are invited to enter the building
and are sent to the inspection rooms.
Woman warden, with delicate fingers, touch us
everywhere to check if we brought dangerous items.
That’s a very important thing to do.
My three year old granddaughter
could have forgotten to leave at home the razor
blades and little knives she usually plays with
and bring them beneath her underwear
or maybe hidden in her body.
At 4 p.m.
Sure the line on the right side is in time
They are sent directly to visit the prisoners.
Our line is sent to the prison’s chapel, to wait,
and enjoy the place for hours.
When we tell the guard who passes by
we are thirsty he, with a big smile
and very friendly answers:
Go and ask God for water !
At 6 p.m.
Two guards come and ask us to follow them.
While walking through open gates
we smell the fresh meat aroma– a cook is carrying
in a cart, to prepare the prisoners’ dinner.
I look around to see if a bathroom is available.
When I ask the guards about that . . .they say that we just
arrived at the visiting room. He let us go in first
and shuts the door from outside, with a pad-lock.
3
estamos en el locutorio al fin ! our
daughters’ bright smiles welcome us
they look so nice ! prison provides
political prisoners the best brand
make-up we see them through
the glass windows at the long narrow
place with no air we are so happy
who needs breathing now ?
no kisses no hugs we mothers can
understand that we are subversives
no matter common prisoners can
embrace and have mate con facturas
with their guests we are allowed to
talk for one long hour through
a nice microphone isn’t that enough ?
mothers who come from around
the country do not need more time
–guards are so right they forbid us
to go outside it is a waste of time !
we tell our daughters we are fine
and smile our houses ? clean
with no shadows there is no need to
ask them how they are treated we can
see it with our eyes: a model place !
no need to ask what happened at
the concentration camp it is all
an invention of our creative minds
4
Last day of Fall.
I go through the house
opening windows wide,
letting the wind come in
to change the air
to clean up the shadows.
Withered leaves land
over my son’s desk
where he spends hours,
his mind absent,
his books one over the other
forgotten, with dust.
Flying sheets of drawings –
our girl is sending her mother,
swirl around the room;
on the closet’s handle hangs the bag
– her mother made in prison for her,
with the nightgown on it.
All around the house
the wind is moving memories
I say to the wind:
leave my memories with me.
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