wrong side of the wall
In the last post by Maria Victoria, in the spanish version at least, she used the term “portador de rostro", literally something like “sporting a face", a tongue-in-cheek phrase insinuating that the police would detain people not for carrying a weapon but because of their skin color — because they look, for some reason, suspect. In the U.S., a friend of mine would use a phrase in the same vein, “driving while black,” to explain why he was always pulled over by cops in the suburbs. Here in Buenos Aires, although I do stick out a bit, being what they consider blonde, with blue-green eyes, I never thought I would be the target of suspicions based on how I look. Does this face look suspicious to you?
Ok. Today marks ten years since a terrorist attack against the headquarters of the Mutual Association Israel/Argentina (AMIA, by its initials in Spanish), which in 1994 was completely destroyed by a car bomb. The investigation, carried out by the corrupt government of then-president Carlos Menem, was incomplete and suspect. Though some have pointed the finger at links with Iranian terrorists, those responsible for the attack have not yet been found. Eighty-five people died in the attack.
Today there was a commemoration in front of the reconstructed AMIA, which the president was set to attend. And since I live only a few blocks from the place, I’d decided to go. I woke up a bit after 9 this morning and left my house, a bit late but since everything starts late in Argentina I thought I’d be ok.
When I passed the first street blocked of by barricades and cops, with a big sign that said, “functionaries and family", a security guy called me over. I thought it was a little strange, me being neither functionary nor family, but I went over. The guy started asking me all these strange questions: “Where are you from? What are you doing here? Why do you want to go to the event?” Finishing the inquisition, the guy tells me I can enter through Corrientes avenue. Fine.
On the path to Corrientes and Pasteur — maybe three blocks — another security guy comes up behind me and again asks me what I’m doing, where I’m going. Strange. I keep walking, I pass Azcuénaca and Corrientes, where I see a whole bunch of police hanging out. I see one talk on his walkie-talkie. I turn on Corrientes and when I arrive at the corner where I’m supposed to be able to enter, an army jeep pulls up beside me, full of big men all Rambo’d out: they’re all in black, with ski-masks, helmets, big black boots, walkie-talkies with earpieces, and big guns of every type imaginable. And I find myself surrounded by the Argentine Army (something that, as an aside, I don’t recommend to anyone), one on either side of me checking my vest and one in front, asking me more questions. “Where do I live, who do I live with, how long have I been in Argentina, what am I doing here, where do I study, how many times have I been around this block.” I answer all of their questions very completely, to try to leave no doubt that I am who I say I am — what else am I going to do? Behind the guy asking me questions I see the surprised faces of a dozen or so spectators.
And of course, I didn’t bring my passport, not even thinking it would be necessary. They offer — insist, really — to accompany me back to my house, now like 7 blocks away, to get my passport. We start to walk, me followed by who knows how many big army dudes. I ask the one who walks alongside me why they chose me, in particular, and why they need to walk with me, since they’ve checked me and I don’t have anything dangerous (I don’t dare use the word “bomb"). The guy says, “No, it’s nothing, it’s just that people are kind of tense, you know what I mean?” And I don’t know why that means that I should be accosted by big men with guns, but I say yes anyway. But after a block they seem to decide that I am not dangerous and let me walk alone back to my house.
But two blocks later I arrive at my street and the truck pulls up again. This time a shorter, less threatening guy jumps out, with no machine gun. “Now you’re going to accompany me,” I say, and after asking a couple more questions he says yes. As we walk, just he and I without the Rambo guys, I ask him again, what exactly it is about me that they’ve decided to target, is it because I don’t have a suit, or what? He answers, smart-alec, that he doesn’t have a suit either. As I say, no, but you have a uniform, I realize that it says, “Special Forces” on his weathered green jacket — in English. I ask him, hey, but your jacket’s in English!, and he tells me that he worked with the U.S. Special Forces. Here in Argentina. Then he tells me that now he works with the Anti-Terrorist Unit.
We arrive at my apartment building, we go inside, he asks what floor I live on, I tell him the sixth, he waits for me downstairs as I go get my passport and a receipt from my university to prove I’m here studying. He takes my information (in such poor handwriting I’m not sure he’ll be able to read it later), thanks me, says of course I understand that people are a little edgy, I say yes, he says goodbye and walks quickly around the corner. I yell to ask him if I’ll have any problems getting in, he says, no, just take your… ID. And he says the letters “ID” in English.
I walk again to Corrientes and Pasteur, this time without being detained. But as I arrive at the corner I see all the people coming out. The event was over.
I go back again the way I came the first time, and I try to take a photo of all the people leaving the event I couldn’t attend. And again, a security guy comes up to me. The first one who I’d talked to. He says I can’t take photos — even though we’re like three blocks away now — for reasons of security. After talking with him for a minute or two (me, very polite, apologizing to him, I don’t want to be a bother…) he gets tired of me and says ok, I can take a photo as long as he isn’t in it.
So here’s the only photo I could take. The people leaving an event to commemorate an attack on the Israeli community in Buenos Aires: to ask for justice. An attack, the same as 9/11, against humanity, full of intolerance and prejudice. The reaction to all these attacks has been to put up walls, to move further from any kind of reconciliation. Today I found myself on the wrong side of the wall.
Ok. Today marks ten years since a terrorist attack against the headquarters of the Mutual Association Israel/Argentina (AMIA, by its initials in Spanish), which in 1994 was completely destroyed by a car bomb. The investigation, carried out by the corrupt government of then-president Carlos Menem, was incomplete and suspect. Though some have pointed the finger at links with Iranian terrorists, those responsible for the attack have not yet been found. Eighty-five people died in the attack.
Today there was a commemoration in front of the reconstructed AMIA, which the president was set to attend. And since I live only a few blocks from the place, I’d decided to go. I woke up a bit after 9 this morning and left my house, a bit late but since everything starts late in Argentina I thought I’d be ok.
When I passed the first street blocked of by barricades and cops, with a big sign that said, “functionaries and family", a security guy called me over. I thought it was a little strange, me being neither functionary nor family, but I went over. The guy started asking me all these strange questions: “Where are you from? What are you doing here? Why do you want to go to the event?” Finishing the inquisition, the guy tells me I can enter through Corrientes avenue. Fine.
On the path to Corrientes and Pasteur — maybe three blocks — another security guy comes up behind me and again asks me what I’m doing, where I’m going. Strange. I keep walking, I pass Azcuénaca and Corrientes, where I see a whole bunch of police hanging out. I see one talk on his walkie-talkie. I turn on Corrientes and when I arrive at the corner where I’m supposed to be able to enter, an army jeep pulls up beside me, full of big men all Rambo’d out: they’re all in black, with ski-masks, helmets, big black boots, walkie-talkies with earpieces, and big guns of every type imaginable. And I find myself surrounded by the Argentine Army (something that, as an aside, I don’t recommend to anyone), one on either side of me checking my vest and one in front, asking me more questions. “Where do I live, who do I live with, how long have I been in Argentina, what am I doing here, where do I study, how many times have I been around this block.” I answer all of their questions very completely, to try to leave no doubt that I am who I say I am — what else am I going to do? Behind the guy asking me questions I see the surprised faces of a dozen or so spectators.
And of course, I didn’t bring my passport, not even thinking it would be necessary. They offer — insist, really — to accompany me back to my house, now like 7 blocks away, to get my passport. We start to walk, me followed by who knows how many big army dudes. I ask the one who walks alongside me why they chose me, in particular, and why they need to walk with me, since they’ve checked me and I don’t have anything dangerous (I don’t dare use the word “bomb"). The guy says, “No, it’s nothing, it’s just that people are kind of tense, you know what I mean?” And I don’t know why that means that I should be accosted by big men with guns, but I say yes anyway. But after a block they seem to decide that I am not dangerous and let me walk alone back to my house.
But two blocks later I arrive at my street and the truck pulls up again. This time a shorter, less threatening guy jumps out, with no machine gun. “Now you’re going to accompany me,” I say, and after asking a couple more questions he says yes. As we walk, just he and I without the Rambo guys, I ask him again, what exactly it is about me that they’ve decided to target, is it because I don’t have a suit, or what? He answers, smart-alec, that he doesn’t have a suit either. As I say, no, but you have a uniform, I realize that it says, “Special Forces” on his weathered green jacket — in English. I ask him, hey, but your jacket’s in English!, and he tells me that he worked with the U.S. Special Forces. Here in Argentina. Then he tells me that now he works with the Anti-Terrorist Unit.
We arrive at my apartment building, we go inside, he asks what floor I live on, I tell him the sixth, he waits for me downstairs as I go get my passport and a receipt from my university to prove I’m here studying. He takes my information (in such poor handwriting I’m not sure he’ll be able to read it later), thanks me, says of course I understand that people are a little edgy, I say yes, he says goodbye and walks quickly around the corner. I yell to ask him if I’ll have any problems getting in, he says, no, just take your… ID. And he says the letters “ID” in English.
I walk again to Corrientes and Pasteur, this time without being detained. But as I arrive at the corner I see all the people coming out. The event was over.
I go back again the way I came the first time, and I try to take a photo of all the people leaving the event I couldn’t attend. And again, a security guy comes up to me. The first one who I’d talked to. He says I can’t take photos — even though we’re like three blocks away now — for reasons of security. After talking with him for a minute or two (me, very polite, apologizing to him, I don’t want to be a bother…) he gets tired of me and says ok, I can take a photo as long as he isn’t in it.
So here’s the only photo I could take. The people leaving an event to commemorate an attack on the Israeli community in Buenos Aires: to ask for justice. An attack, the same as 9/11, against humanity, full of intolerance and prejudice. The reaction to all these attacks has been to put up walls, to move further from any kind of reconciliation. Today I found myself on the wrong side of the wall.
previously there was "Unjust Criticism"
afterwards you have Cambridge Barhopping
bueno teniamos que decirte pero no nos animamos...
tenes cara de ser un tipo peligroso para las fuerzas armadas.
si si, uno de esos que... que...
piensan?? [submitted on 18 Jul 04]
looking at the argentine newspapers' accounts, there is something else that strikes me as weird. the topic of “anti-semitism” seems to be entirely absent. Instead, the papers conceive the event as being about the battle against impunity, and terrorism in argentina. [submitted on 18 Jul 04]
Pero mucho más ridículo es cuando el discriminado se tarnsforma en discriminador. Una nacion que se precia y enorgullece de haber sufrido discriminación a lo largo de la historia y haberla sobrevivido, y toma la lucha contra la discriminación como un estandarte, y que luego de hechos dolorosos hace el ejercicio de la memoria a traves de actos multitudinarios recordando los atentados y transformando la busqueda de justicia en una verdadera causa nacional que es observada por el mundo entero no puede actuar de manera tan liviana excluyendo a un asistente solo porque luce sospechoso, solo porque es extranjero, como si en Buenos Aires (que es una ciudad cosmopolita) no pudieran haber personas de otros países que asistan a actos tan importantes e interesantes.
Es curioso ver como el discriminado puede transformarse en un horrendo discriminador.
La metáfora del muro que David pone al final es el más figurativo ejemplo de los extremos de la intolerancia, de hecho andan haciendo un muro por allá por Israel, no???. [submitted on 20 Jul 04]
By the way, great weblog! [submitted on 12 Aug 04]
¿TE OBLIGARON A VENIR PARA ARRUINARNOS LA VIDA A NOSOTROS LOS MARGINADOS?
JAJAJAJA
BESOS
17 AÑOS (ARG.POR SOBRE TODO)
INDIA
PERGAMINO 19/11/04 [submitted on 19 Nov 04]