24 de Junio de 2005
  
Nuestra crisis de identidad
   
¿Quiénes somos? ¿Adónde Vamos? ¿De dónde venimos?
   
Décimo tercer Capítulo: La policía, un caso particular...

En el barrio lo mas normal es jugar a la pelota en los picados normales y continuos que se disputaban casi a cada cuadra.
 
Se hacían en la misma calle ( eran tan pocos los autos que pasaban ) que nos pasábamos horas pateando una buena pelota de cuero, no de trapo ni nada por el estilo.
 
No causaba gracia a los vecinos, pero la tolerancia era bastante y muy frecuente. Pero...también había gente que, con razón se hartaba de nuestros gritos y pelotazos y....llamaba a la Policía.
 
Entonces es que aparecían ellos, con su auto característico y su buena onda, y nos decían: muchachos, ya son grandotes ( no lo eramos , mas que algunos ) por favor, váyanse a otro lado a jugar. Eso era todo el reto, muy respetado, especialmente por el muy buen modo en que era solicitado.
 
Peor era el policía de consigna en la cuadra o mejor dicho en la manzana, directamente era nuestro mejor amigo y custodia ( bah, custodia de que, pues era la tranquilidad el barrio ) pero era muy querido, de la pizzería lo invitaban a comer pizza, en las casas lo hacían pasar y en mas de una le daban sandwiches tanto para almuerzo como para cena, no era coima alguna, era por propia voluntad y gusto.
 
Mis únicos sucesos con ellos fueron dos de distinta factura.
 
Una vez iba caminando por el barrio de Villa Urquiza, por la Avenida Triunvirato, y se me ocurrió seguir a una chica que andaba por una de las veredas, chico e inexperto como era yo con las chicas me costaba este atrevimiento y empecé a hablarle, como no obtenía respuesta alguna mas la seguía y gesticulaba con las manos, de golpe me dí cuenta que estábamos cruzando la calle sin respetar al agente de transito que estaba en el medio de la calle.
 
Era un muchacho joven morocho, seguimos de largo ( ella sin dirigirme la palabra ) y yo siguiendo tratando de convencerla para que me conteste con mas y mas movimientos de brazos.
 
Sentí que sonaba un silbato un par de veces, pero no le dí importancia pues no podía ser para mi, no para nada, pero si, era para mí y me dí cuenta porque el policía estaba ya detrás nuestro llamándome, yo no entendía nada.
 
Me dijo que me detuviera y me espetó preguntándome porque me mofaba de él, ¿???? No entendía nada, nada mas lejos de la realidad.
 
Sin embargo el me insistía y me decia si me creía que porque era morocho y bajito era menos que yo?’??????
 
Menos aun había razón de nada coherente, traté de explicarle que simplemente estaba siguiendo a esa chica, que me disculpara si crucé mal la calle con ella, pero que no había intención alguna contraria a su persona para nada.
 
No hubo nada que hacer, sin mas me llevó a la comisaría, donde me trataron re-bien, me dieron un sermón que tuve que escuchar pues no me quisieron oir y lamentablemente llamaron a mis padres para que me vengan a buscar, esa fue la peor parte, mi viejo me queria colgar.
 
La segunda oportunidad ya era mas grande y fue una conversación entre los chicos de barrio, cuando yo ya no era mentiroso, el realto ué por el mismo chico Osvaldo que asi me habia calificado sin miramientos.
 
La diferencia era que a él si le creían y con respeto inclusive se lo escuchaba.
 
El para evitar hacer el servicio militar y que le tocara marina o un destino en el interior, prefirió la opción de elegir hacerlo como agente.
 
Y comentaba como le iba y lo contento que estaba pues veia todo desde ¨adentro¨y nos contaba los casos en general que le tocaba escuchar o intervenir , eso muy pocas veces.
 
Lo que mas me llamó la atención fue su comentario para con el trataminto con los presos en general y los de cierto peligro en especial.
 
El decía que iba directamente a los calabozos ( aunque se entendía claramente que lo mandaban ) que abria la mirilla de la celda y se la pasaba un buen rato insultándolos de arriba abajo.
 
Debía hacerlo de la manera mas fiera posible y con total desprecio por ellos.
 
Uno lo escuchaba y se veía como él se sentía orgulloso de tal actitud y adoptaba la voz que ponía cuando hacia tal cometido.
 
Sin querer estaba asistiendo al inicio de los primeros vestigios de lo que seria el caldo de cultivo, años mas tarde, de la represión ilegal que ya se estaba adoctrinando.
 
 Marijan Pirsic 

Our Identity Crisis  
 
Who are we? Where are we going? Where did we come from?  
  
Thirteenth Chapter: The police, a particular case ...
 
The most ordinary thing in a neighborhood is to play continuous football matches in every block.
 
We played in the streets (so few were the cars that were around) and we spent hours kicking a good leather ball, not one made of cloth or something of that sort.
 
The neighbors weren't very happy, but tolerance was aboundant and very frequent. But... there were also people who were rightly tired of our shouting and kicking and... they called the Police.
 
So they appeared in their characteristic car and with their characteristic simpathy and they said to us: guys, you're grown ups already (we weren't, only some of us were), please, go somewhere else to play. That was all the preaching, very respectfully listened to, especially because of the good way in which it was expressed.
 
The policeman that watched our block was even worse, he was directly our best friend and guardian (well, we didn't really need one since the neighbourhood was always so quiet) but everybody loved him, the owners of the pizza restaurant invited him to eat some pizza, the people let him in in the houses and they usually gave him sandwiches for lunch and for dinner, it wasn't a bribe, it was just a sincere demonstration.
 
I only remember two episodes, apart from those, that have to do with the police.
 
Once I was walking in Villa Urquiza neighbourhood, on Triunvirato Avenue, and I came across the idea of chasing a girl who was walking on one of the sidewalks. As I was young and inexperienced, I started to talk to her and as I obtained no response I went on chasing her and gesticulating with the hands and all of a sudden I realized that we were crossing the street without observing the traffic agent that was in the middle of the street.
 
He was a young dark-haired guy, we went on walking (she didn't say a word to me) and I went on trying to convince her to say something to me with more and more arm shaking.
 
I heard the sound of a whistle a couple of times but I did not give importance to that because it couldn't be directed to me, but actually it was and I realized because the policeman was behind us calling me, and I didn't understand a thing.
 
He told me to stop and he asked me why I was making fun of him, ¿???? I didn't understand anything, nothing was further from the truth.
 
However he insisted on that and he asked me if I believed that, as he was dark-haired and short, he was worth less than I. ???????????
 
Everything was so incoherent, I tried to explain to him that I was simply chasing that girl, I apologized for having crossed the street in an incorrect way as I followed her, but I had no intentions against him.
 
I couldn't do anything, he just took me to the police station where they treated me overly well and they gave me a lecture that I couldn't help listening to because they didn't want to listen to me and unfortunately they called my parents to take me home, and that was the worst part, my father wanted to hang me.
 
The next time I was in contact with the police I was older. I was talking with the guys of my neighbourhood -when I had already stopped being a liar- and the issue stemmed from the same guy who had once disqualified me, Osvaldo.
 
The others did believe him always and respected him, they even listened to him.
 
In order to avoid the military service or going to the navy or ending somewhere in the provinces, he preferred to do it as an agent.
 
He told us how he was going and how happy he was because he could see everything from the inside and he told us about the cases that he had to hear or get involved in (the latter rarely happened).
  
The most surprising thing for me was his comment about the way that they treated the people in jail in general, and those who were dangerous in particular.
 
He said that he went directly to the cells (though it was clear that they ordered him to go there) and he opened the peephole of the doors and spent a good time insulting them.
 
He had to do it in the wildest possible manner and with total scorn towards them.
 
You listened to him and could feel how he was proud of such a behaviour and he even imitated the voice he emulated when he was carrying out the task.
 
I didn't realize that I was attending the beginning of what would be culture medium of what would some years later turn into the illegal repression.
 
 Marijan Pirsic