The Professionals Readers of InfoVnzla discovered this 3 chronicles published in english on the website Global Voices. The chronicles of Aglaia Berlutti were translated from the 3 originals published by Medium.
To read the chronicles in spanish...
By Aglaia Berlutti /
1º Chronicle : The Scars of History
A few days ago, one of my lifelong friends told me that after emigrating, he discovered that he hated being Venezuelan. That was the exact phrase he used. I didn’t know what to say, looking at his face on the Skype screen with a vague feeling of concern and bitterness.
“That’s. . . very harsh.”
“It’s true. You just have to leave the country to understand how miserable we are.”
I blinked, with a knot of fear and fury in my throat. My friend seemed to notice…read more
2º chronicle: The Landscape of Everyday Terror
“Are you afraid?”
My five-year-old neighbor asks me this as he waits beside his mother for the elevator. His little face is pale, with violet bags under his eyes. His mother glances at me, worried and tired. I shrug, not knowing how to respond.
“A bit, but I try not to pay too much attention to it,” I say in the end.
“My mom is also afraid,” he says quietly. “Every night, all of us at home get scared from the noises on the street. We don’t know where to run.”
My neighbor sighs, extends her hand and strokes the boy’s cheek. He hugs her, squeezing himself tightly against her waist. I remain paralyzed by a hazy, icy sense of anguish. I want to say the right thing, offer him some kind of… read more
3º chronicle: Scenes to Help You (Try to) Understand Venezuela
I wake up startled, staring into the darkness with eyes wide open. I do not know what awoke me, and the resulting sensation is a paralyzing confusion. The second blast goes off and I leap out of bed, still confused about what is happening. It takes a few minutes before the realization sinks in: the cacophony of clattering pots and pans, screaming neighbors, rising clamor and noise in the street. By then, tear gas has started seeping into my apartment, filling the place, enveloping me in a dense and suffocating cloud. My heart thumps and fear hammers my chest. I am not going to cry, I repeat to myself, exhausted but defiant. I am not going to cry.
I stumble around the dark apartment. Another blast goes off. It’s almost 11pm, the end of an especially strained and difficult day. I’d gone to bed less than an hour earlier, overwhelmed at the news of brutal repression and horrific beatings of civilians by police. Fatigued by the helpless frustration of being held hostage in this country. I make my way carefully now, with outstretched hands, listening to the metallic sound of pots banging, the rhythmic clack of tear gas guns discharging. read more