¿Quiénes somos? ¿Adónde Vamos? ¿De dónde venimos? Who are we? Where are we going? Where do we come from?

17 de Enero de 2005   Nuestra crisis de identidad   50 años de la Argentina vistos por un inmigrante   Primer Capitulo: Europa nos admira    Por el año 1950 Europa sufría duramente los resabios de la Gran Guerra en su parte Occidental y en la Europa del Este los vivía tortuosamente sin la ayuda del Tío SAM y su Plan Marshall, pero contaba con la ayuda del Padrecito Stalin.   Yugoslavia era una pequeña Nación (creada en base a varias guerras configurada por varias etnias y distintas religiones, etc.) y,afortunadamente, con nuestro propio Dictador el Mariscal Joseph Tito Broz y su comunismo de Autogestión que implicaba independencia y casi nos cuesta la invasión de los Rusos que al final no se atrevieron por la firmeza de Tito, lo difícil del intento, el comienzo de la guerra fría y las no controlables repercusiones internacionales que se podrían desatar cuando recién el nuevo mundo se había repartido, después del horroroso Tratado de Yalta, entre las potencias de Occidente y Rusia que se había impuesto por largo margen en la gran anexión de territorios y países.   Yugoslavia: Un país que en toda su extensión no supera la Provincia de Buenos Aires, pero que contaba y cuenta con la misma población de toda la Argentina.   Curiosa situación la mía, padres Yugoslavos, madre nacida en Concordia, Entre Ríos hija de Austrohúngaros, hermanos argentinos y sin embargo volver por la propaganda comunista para trabajar en la reconstrucción de la amada Yugoslavia y su emérito líder creador de la economía de autogestión.   Pero bueno, cuando llega mi Padre, encandilado sus ojos, en el camino y en la panza de mi madre se estaba gestando para nacer en la Europa una nueva criatura, en la cuna de las civilizaciones, contradictoriamente palabra pues era bárbaras, en especial por las dos últimas conflagraciones mundiales que más muertos y terror habían causado que en toda su historia.   Curiosa la mente infantil y más inentendible el posterior querer reconstruir un pasado al que tuve acceso pero no desde el conocimiento aplaudiendo las consabidas teorías freudianas al respecto.   Entonces, no se como explicarlo para que se me entienda, todo lo que con posterioridad fui hilando por comentarios de mi madre, padre e inclusive (en mucha menor medida) mis propios hermanos, es como se me cruzan imágenes fantasmales de una realidad que sé que viví, no por mi visión sino por la de los otros, los que la sintieron cuando yo aun no veía ni entendía.   Por ello puedo explicar con gran dosis de seguridad llamativa la tristeza de mi Madre (retornada casi con el engaño e inclusive las amenazas, por mi Padre a Yugoslavia) cuando dejo la Argentina que la tenía segura con sus afectos además de querible y entendible (mi Madre no hablaba Croata) y su futuro de padecimientos rumbo a un país asolado por los restos y destrucciones de la gran guerra.   Bien sabía ella que sólo la esperaba la privacidad, el maltrato y la dureza de un pueblo que tiene como elemento constitutivo una cierta y entendible frialdad de sentimientos y un pasado de sufrimientos y muertes configurando un país que se había hecho respetar en el mundo, pero en especial por los actos de algunos de sus integrantes que marcaron la historia de la humanidad y no mayoritariamente para bien.   El llegar nuestro no parecía el retorno de hijos pródigos, simplemente de refugiados (casi extranjeros), y como tal, se nos trató sin miramientos y ninguna excepción, hasta que luego nos determinaron una propiedad para vivir en mi pueblo.   Allí, a los pocos días de nuestra llegada murió mi hermanito antecedente por imposibilidad de que mi Madre le de la teta, porque no había leche ni comida del racionamiento: falleció por desnutrición.   Ello no amilanó a mi Padre, creo debo agradecerle, así nací yo, el último, el benjamín, de quien iba a depositar (infructuosamente) sus mayores esperanzas, sin más sentido que el de una cultura ancestral de superioridad y obediencia.   Mis tres hermanos (una mujer entre ellos) eran argentinos por tanto (siempre se parecieron a Alemanes o Croatas), yo era el único de sangre aria directa, por ello tanto se esperaba de mi, les diré que fue un muy mal cálculo y fallida esperanza de mi correcto Padre.   Para colmo mis hermanos empezaron a ir a la escuela y aprendían con rapidez (me anticiparé a decir que no sólo mi Padre falló con su pensamiento en mi, sino que además mis hermanos, sin excepción, eran, y son superiores en capacidad e intelectualidad)yo, en cambio, me encontraba en convivencia con mi Madre casi las 24 horas.   Ah... mi Madre no hablaba el yugoslavo y apenas si entendía algo, por lo tanto nuestra primera palabra fue en castellano como los posteriores diálogos.   Mis hermanos venían a casa y además de que ni siquiera me trataban por la diferencia de edad, menos lo hacían pues no les entendía el idioma , peor aun menos se metían conmigo pues mi Padre odiaba esta situación con mi Madre y quería obligarla a que me hable en Yugoslavo, entonces ellos se alejaban para no irritar a mi Padre (lo coherente hubiera sido que se hagan cargo ellos ya que estaban aprendiendo el idioma), yo recibía mis primeras palizas y mi Madre lloraba por los rincones pero sin dejar de aceptar la autoridad de mi Padre que era un diminutivo de Tito.   Así fue transcurriendo mi etapa maternal, a partir de un poco más de un año, comencé entonces a interpretar.   Hablaba muy poco, (no podía hablar demasiado, sólo con mi Madre y a solas un poco de castellano sin que escuchen los demás de la familia) pero veía mucho, (amaba el frío, la nieve y no comprendía porque las calles estaban llenas de cráteres y las casas estaban semidestruidas como si un viento apocalíptico las hubiese dañado, que sabía yo que era una guerra!! ) me encantaba observar, ( miraba mucho a la gente caminar con sus rostros severos y decididos, con plena conciencia que estaban haciendo lo que debían y me encantaba la pulcritud de su ropa harapienta, su miseria denotaba dignidad que se entreveía en sus miradas seguras, el hambre se manifestaba por doquier y sin embargo eran escrupulosos en recibir de la tarjeta de racionamiento lo que les correspondía , en fin era de las facetas de la vida que soportaban estoicamente y solidariamente), me embelesaba escuchar tratando de entender y una de mis primeras palabras que alcancé a descifrar fue AMERICA, ARGENTINA .   Se mencionaba este continente como el de las llanuras y estepas interminables, donde todo se podía sembrar que reverdecía y daba las mejores cosechas, donde el clima era una invitación a la vida y la Argentina un lugar donde se podían desarrollar las personas con la simpleza de su trabajo que allí lo había por doquier, no importaba cual sea, cualquiera estábamos dispuestos a tomar.   Los ojos se les alumbraban a mis con-nacionales, me daba cuenta que América estaba entronizada en Argentina (quizás en buena medida porque Tito vivió varios años aquí y trabajó) y era el país que todo lo simbolizaba, su gente, el no existir hambre, el tener los cuatro climas y vivir feliz, otra forma para nosotros desconocida.   Argentina era para nosotros muchísimo más que EEUU, bueno también contra ellos estaba el Comunismo así que mucha chance no tenía, poco nos importaba.   Para ser claros, Argentina era un país del Primer Mundo Occidental, una potencia a nivel mundial, le daba de comer a la mitad de la población mundial (había escuchado ya la famosa frase del granero del mundo) , era la meta ansiada.   Y paralelamente era el país más europeizado de toda América.   Allí creo, empecé a tener uso de razón (¿la tuve? ¿la tengo hoy?) y mi razón y experiencia no incluía:   1)Conocer la Nochebuena. 2)Saber que existía la Navidad 3)Festejar el Fin de Año. 4)Brindar por el año que entraba. 5)No tener idea de que eran los Reyes Magos. 6)Bueno, una tontería pensar que tenia idea del Carnaval. 7)Una nebulosa el día de cumpleaños.   Allí, desde muy chiquito, apenas entrado a tener uso de mi pobre inteligencia, empecé a tener sueños recurrentes en los que me imaginaba como podía ser Argentina, menos mal que no sabía lo que era un cuento, menos aun de hadas, pero sin embargo, efectivamente, así lo soñaba y lo veía, lo palpaba y allí entonces le pedía a mi Madre que me hablara, que me contara de ese lugar, donde eternamente brilla el sol.   Un día, mi Madre me contó que tenía una hermana en Buenos Aires, que le enviaba cartas siempre y que le decía que nos mandaba valijas de cuero (¿cuero?) gigantes con comida pues sabía que pasábamos hambre. Nunca llegaban.   Seré crudo, la tarjeta de racionamiento traía lo indispensable y en cuentagotas, azúcar negra, arroz de pésima calidad y cuando se podía se le agregaba un poco de polenta.   Mi madre cuando conseguía un poco más de azúcar nos hacia caramelos en una olla toda golpeada y cachada (era mínima casi inexistente nuestra batería de cocina) batiendo con una cuchara y haciendo que por la misma se escurra el caramelo y cada uno de los hermanos, a su turno religiosamente y con su tiempo exacto, paladeaba con la lengua un poco de ello.   Una vez pudimos escapar a nuestra rutina de comidas (que, por otra parte, el cuerpo humano se acostumbra y no le influye tanto aun a tan bajas temperaturas como siempre estábamos) y conseguimos con un par de amigos: pan negro, pero pan negro que realmente era carbón, dulce de membrillo que robamos de un árbol frutal y grasa de cerdo en lugar de manteca.   Por DIOS!!! que hermoso fue ese almuerzo el mejor de mi estadía en mi país de origen. Ah!!! Para colmo hasta pudimos con un pequeño excedente de grasa de cerdo hacernos chicharrones.   Pero bueno, todo llega en la vida, no se si por error o que, llego a casa en un invierno especialmente frío (tanto fue el frío que soporté en mi vida que nunca más tuve frío, mi cuerpo se acostumbró a las diferentes temperaturas) la famosa valija de la tía Argentina.   No lo podíamos creer, la valija desbordaba, estaba regorda, cuando la abrimos........................estaba repleta de todo tipo de fiambres pero por cada uno de ellos entero. Una bondiola (¿qué era eso?) un matambre casero (¿cómo se comía eso?) un terrible jamón crudo todo rojizo (nos daba lastima comerlo) un jamón cocido gigante (no entendíamos la diferencia de nombre pero el gusto era evidentemente distinto). Un larguísimo fiambre (que después supimos que era alemán y pensar que lo teníamos tan cerca y venía de tan lejos), una panceta ahumada impresionante, bueno para que contar.   Estaba, empezaba a conocer la realidad de lo que era Argentina, mientras pasábamos hambre, pobreza y frío.   Pero mi Padre era un patriota.   Sin embargo, America, la Argentina, comenzaba a dejar de ser un sueño para ser una meta. 17th January, 2005   50 years of Argentina seen by an immigrant   Chapter one: Europe admires us     By 1950, Europa was experiencing the aftertaste of the Great War in its Western side and the Eastern side was torturely enduring it without Uncle Sam's help and its Marshall Plan, but it counted with the help of daddy Stalin.    Yugoslavia was a small nation (based in numerous wars, configurated by many ethnic groups and different religions, etc) and fortunately it had its own dictator Marshal Joseph Tito Broz and its communism of self-gestion which implied independence and almost costs us the invasion of the Russian who, in the end, did not dare to invade as a result of Tito's determination. Trying to do that was difficult, because it could lead to an uncontrollable repercution. We must take into account that the Cold World was beginning and the new world had just been divided, after the horrible Yalta Treaty which was signed between the big powers of the West and Rusia, who had become a power also thanks to the attachment of territories and countries.   Yugoslavia: A country which does not exceed Buenos Aires Province in extension, but which counted and counts with the same population as Argentina.   Mine was a curious situation, I was the son of yugoslavian parents, my mother had been born in Concordia, Entre Ríos, she was the daughter of austrohungarian people, her brothers were argentinian and, however, they went back to Yugoslavia motivated by the communist propaganda and its celebrated leader who had created the economy of self-gestion.   But, well, when my father arrives to her life, my mother was waiting for a new child who would be born in Europe, the cradle of civilizations, being it a contradictory phrase because they had proved to be barbarian, especially after the last two world conflicts that had brought so much death and terror to its history.   I tried to rebuild my childish mind in order to reconstruct my past, not by means of knowledge but by turning to freudian theories.   So, I do not know how to explain it so that I make myself understood: everything that I knitted afterwards I was able to do it thanks to the comments made by my parents and my own siblings in less measure, and I formed ghostly images of a reality that I lived, not through my own vision but through the eyes of the other ones, those who felt it even when I could not even see it or understand it.   That is why I can explain with certainty my mother's sadness (she went back to Yugoslavia because she was lied and even threatened by my father) when she left Argentina, where she had her loved ones and she was lovable and understandable (my mother did not speak croatian). A future full of suffering was waiting for her in a country devastated by the leftovers and destructions of the great war.   She knew well that everything that was waiting for her in that country was privacy, mistreatment and the harshness of a nation whose constitutive element is an understandable lack of feelings and a past full of suffering and death. It was a country very well known around the world, especially thanks to the actions of some of its members who had marked the history of humanity in quite a bad way.   Our arrival did not resemble the return of prodigal children, we were treated as refugees (almost foreigners) and we were not taken care of and they did not make any exceptions, until they decided to give us a property where we could reside, in my village.   Some days after our arrival my little brother died because my mother was unable to feed him, for there was neither milk nor rationed food there. He died as a result of malnutrition.   My father did not let that episode unnerve him and I think I must be thankful because thanks to that I was born, the youngest child, who would (fruitlessly) bore their biggest hopes, which had no more sense than the one given by an ancestral culture of superiority and obedience.   My three siblings (among whom there was a woman) were argentinian and, as a consequence (they always looked like germans or croatians) I was the only one who had direct aryan blood and that was why so much was expected from me, and I must tell you that it was a very bad calculus and a frustrated expectation from my correct father.   To top it all, my siblings started to go to school and they learned rapidly (I must anticipate you that not only my father overestimated me but, also, my siblings, without exception, were and are superior than me both in capacity and intellectually), and I, however, was almost all day at home with my mother.   Oh... my mother did not speak Yugoslavian and I only understood a little and, as a result, our first word was in Castilian as well as the following dialogues.   My siblings came home and not only they did not speak with me because of the difference of age but also, because I could not understand them. To make matters worse, they were angry with me because my father hated that situation with my mother and he wanted to oblige her to talk to me in Yugoslavian and they did not come close to me in order not to irritate my father (it would have been coherent from them to teach me the language since they were learning it) and I received my first beatings and my mother was crying all the time and in the meantime she accepted my father's authority, who was a small Tito.   That is how I passed my maternal stage and some time after I turned one year old, I started to interpret.   I spoke very little (I could not speak much, only with my mother and when we were alone we spoke some Castilian without having our family listen) but I observed a lot (I loved cold and snow and I did not understand why the streets were full of craters and the houses were semidestroyed as if an apocaliptical wind had damaged them, how could I know what a war was?). I loved to observe (I looked at people walking with their severe and decided faces, fully conscious that they were doing what they ought to and I loved the tidiness of their ragged clothes, its misery was a sign of dignity which could be seen in their secure eyes; hunger made itself seen everywhere and, however, they were scrupulous in receiving the rationing card and getting what corresponded to them; they endured life stoicily and solidarily), I was delighted when I tried to understand and one of the first words that I was able to decifer were AMERICA, ARGENTINA.   That continent was regarded as the one which had endless plains and steppes, where everything that was cultivated became green and gave the best harvests, where the climate was an invitation to life and Argentina was talked of as a place where people could develop themselves by means of the simpleness of their work, which was abundant there.    A light covered the eyes of my connationals and I realized that America was enthronized by Argentina (it probably had to do with the fact that Tito spent and worked here for many years) and it was the country which symbolized it all, its people, the fact that hunger did not exist, the fact that it had the four climates and the fact that living happily was possible there, somthing that remained unknown to us.   Argentina was for us much more than the United States because communism was against them and it had little chance, but we did not care about that.   Let's be clear: Argentina was a country of the First Western World, a world power, it fed half the world's population (I had already heard the famous phrase: 'the world's granary'), it was the desired goal.   And, paralelly, it was the most european country in America.   That was where I started to make use of my faculty of reason (did I ever have it? do I?) and my reason and experience did not include:   1) Spending Christmas Eve. 2) Knowing that Christmas existed. 3) Celebrating New Year. 4) Making a toast at New Year. 5) Having an idea of what the Wise Men were. 6) Well, it was foolish to think that I had any notion as to what Carnivals were. 7) Birthdays.   As soon as I could make use of my poor intelligence, I started to have frequent dreams in which I imagined how Argentina could be. I did not know what a fairy tale was but, however, I effectively dreamt of it and saw it as something of that kind, I could feel it and so I asked my mother to talk to me and tell me about that place where the sun shines eternally.   One day, my mother told me that she had a sister in Buenos Aires who sent her letters all the time and who told her that she was sending us gigantic leather bags (leather??) full of food because she knew that we were starving. They never arrived.   I am going to be raw: the rationing card brought the indispensable and in very small portions. It included black sugar, rice of the worst quality and they added some corn flour when it was possible.   When my mother was able to get some more sugar she made caramel for us in a punched saucepan (our kitchen pans were unexistant), whipping with a spoon and giving some caramel to each of the siblings in its turn, religiously. Each of us tasted a bit of it with our tongues, but we had an exact amount of seconds to do it.   One time we could escape from our food routine (the human being gets used to it and it does not bother him so much at so low temperatures like the ones we had there) and, with a couple of friends, we were able to get some black bread, but a type of black bread that was actually coal, quince jelly that we stole from a fruit tree and pork fat to use as butter.   My GOD, how beautiful it was to have such lunch, it was the best one I had in my country of origin. Ah! And to top it all, we could even make some chicharrones (fried fat) with some leftovers of pork fat.    But, well, everything arrives in life and, I do not know if it was a mistake, but one specially cold winter (it was so much cold that I had to endure that I was never cold again in my entire life, my body got used to different temperatures) the famous bag of our argentinian aunt arrived.   We could not believe it, the bag was full, when we opened it we saw it was plenty of all types of cold meat. There was bondiola (what was that??), home-made matambre (how was that eaten?), a terrible raw ham that was all red (eating it made us feel pity), a gigantic boiled ham (we did not understand the nominal difference between raw and boiled ham but the taste was evidently different). A very long piece of cold meat (then we learned that it was german -it was so close from us and it came from so far), an impressive piece of bacon and, well, what is the point in retelling this?   I was starting to know the reality of what Argentina was while we starved and had to endure poverty and cold.   But my father was a patriot.   However, America, Argentina, ceased to be a dream and started to became a goal.   *Matambre is a traditional Argentine dish prepared from meat, vegetables, spices, and eggs.