Falklands 4.0

Falklands 4.0

Falklands 40

The Malvinas War ended this Tuesday. Forty years ago, on June 14, 1982, British commander Jeremy Moore accepted the surrender of Argentine general Mario Benjamín Menéndez. I was 15 and worried that my father would step in and be killed. I thought about the essay I had to write for school called Goodbye, Dad. This made me panic and embarrassed. Show such feelings, cry at a wake. On the first day of the war, the history teacher told us that we would talk about why this was absurd. It had been proclaimed by Lieutenant-General Galtieri, the dictator at the time, and my teacher’s concern was not that which prevailed in the streets, where a patriotic spirit had awakened, causing a crowd to cheer the dictator on the day he landed in the islands . The images of those years plunge me into a raging sadness. I remember an imperceptible mix: the plastic smell of the Argentinian flags that were sold everywhere, the squeaky texture of the Ciudadela brand socks I used to wear to school (we were forbidden to wear jeans), a jingle – Argentinos to win – which were shown on TV, the omnibus fundraising program – 24 hours for Malvinas, 50 rating points – in which celebrities and strangers donated mink coats, a limousine, money and my mother cried when the very old Actress Pierina Dealessi He took off his own mother’s earrings in front of the cameras and said: “This is the last thing I have of her and I will donate it.” The smell of Toblerone chocolate, the songs of Charly García, the newspaper headlines – “We win” – mingle with the faces of the guys I liked, the World Cup in Spain, the reading by Miguel Hernández. Nothing bad happened to me, nor do I have relatives or friends who fell into the conflict. But every time I think about that time, I feel like life, so dead, is the most authentic thing I have, what happens to me the most.

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