Víctor Jara

Víctor Jara HOME This last poem of Víctor Jara who was murdered on 16 September 1973, was written in the concentration camp; It was memorized and smuggled out by other political prisoners.
Víctor Jara SEPTEMBER 1973 There are five thousand of us here. In this small part of the city. Five thousand. How many of us are there in all In the cities and in all the country? Here we are, ten thousand hands Who plant the seeds and keep the factories running. So much humanity, hungry, cold, panicked, in pain, Under moral duress, terrified out of their minds! Six of ours lost themselves In the space of the stars. One man dead, one man beaten worse than I ever thought It was possible to beat a human being. The other four wanted to free themselves of all their fear. One jumped into the void. Another beat his head against the wall. But all had the fixed look of death in their eyes. What fear is provoked by the face of fascism! They carry out their plans with the utmost precision, not giving a damn about anything. For them, blood is a medal. Killing is an act of heroism. My God, is this the world You created? Is this the product of Your seven days of wonders and labour? In these four walls, there is nothing but a number that does not move forward. That, gradually, will grow to want death. But my conscience suddenly awakens me And I see this tide without a pulse And I see the pulse of the machines And the soldiers, showing their matronly faces, full of tenderness. And Mexico, Cuba, and the world? Let them cry out of this ignominy! We are ten thousand fewer hands that do not produce. How many of us are there throughout our homeland? The blood of our comrade the President pulses with more strength than bombs and machine guns. And so, too, will our fist again beat. Song, how hard it is sing you when I have to sing in fear! Fear like that in which I live, and from which I am dying, fear. Of seeing myself amidst so much, and so many endless moments In which silence and outcry are the targets of this song. What have never seen before, what I have felt and what I feel now Will make the moment break out... What Love means to me Love of my home, my wife and my children. Love for the earth that helps me live. Love for education and of work. Love of others who work for the common good. Love of justice as the instrument that provides equilibrium for human dignity. Love of peace in order to enjoy one's life. Love of freedom, but not the freedom acquired at the expense of others' freedom, but rather the freedom of all Love of freedom to live and exist, for the existence of my children, in my home, in my town, my city, among neighbouring people. Love for freedom in the environment in which we are required to forge our destiny Love of freedom without yokes: nor ours nor foreign.

Víctor Jara HOME

This last poem of Víctor Jara who was murdered on 16 September 1973, was written in the concentration camp; It was memorized and smuggled out by other political prisoners.

Víctor Jara

SEPTEMBER 1973

There are five thousand of us here.
In this small part of the city.
Five thousand.
How many of us are there in all
In the cities and in all the country?
Here we are, ten thousand hands
Who plant the seeds and keep the factories running. So much humanity,
hungry, cold, panicked, in pain,
Under moral duress, terrified out of their minds!
Six of ours lost themselves
In the space of the stars.
One man dead, one man beaten worse than I ever thought
It was possible to beat a human being.
The other four wanted to free themselves of all their fear.
One jumped into the void.
Another beat his head against the wall.
But all had the fixed look of death in their eyes.
What fear is provoked by the face of fascism!
They carry out their plans with the utmost precision,
not giving a damn about anything.
For them, blood is a medal.
Killing is an act of heroism.
My God, is this the world You created?
Is this the product of Your seven days of wonders and labour?
In these four walls, there is nothing but a number that does not move forward.
That, gradually, will grow to want death.
But my conscience suddenly awakens me
And I see this tide without a pulse
And I see the pulse of the machines
And the soldiers, showing their matronly faces, full of tenderness.
And Mexico, Cuba, and the world?
Let them cry out of this ignominy!
We are ten thousand fewer hands that do not produce.
How many of us are there throughout our homeland?
The blood of our comrade the President
pulses with more strength than bombs and machine guns.
And so, too, will our fist again beat.
Song, how hard it is sing you when I have to sing in fear!
Fear like that in which I live, and from which I am dying, fear.
Of seeing myself amidst so much, and so many endless moments
In which silence and outcry are the targets of this song.
What have never seen before, what I have felt and what I feel now
Will make the moment break out...

What Love means to me

Love of my home, my wife and my children.

Love for the earth that helps me live.

Love for education and of work.

Love of others who work for the common good.

Love of justice as the instrument
that provides equilibrium for human dignity.

Love of peace in order to enjoy one's life.

Love of freedom,
but not the freedom acquired at the expense
of others' freedom,
but rather the freedom of all

Love of freedom to live and exist,
for the existence of my children,
in my home, in my town, my city,
among neighbouring people.

Love for freedom in the environment
in which we are required to forge our destiny

Love of freedom without yokes:
nor ours nor foreign.