from refractario, translated by waronsociety:

Note from WOS: Our translation of this piece is dedicated to all the rebels flying high or laying low, and especially to Kerry and Steve.

Note from Refractario: This text came to us from prison and we published it in Refractario #5 (here in Spanish). In light of Hans’ arrest we decided to publish it again for its diffusion to encourage all those who assume and assumed the difficult path of clandestinity. To the compañeros who are currently imprisoned after being arrested following their unknown steps, or who can happily be with their loved ones after long periods of escape, but also to those who still travel the anonymous paths imposed by the still-pending order for their capture.

* * *

When qualifying terms are disqualified, a proper name ceases to be so…

We fly for freedom…

He went underground like someone going into a cascade of water.

One fine day he had woken up with a name and a story–an identity, they call it. The problem was the future.

Prison would be his next dwelling. By the end of that same day, none of those things were his.

He had pulled together a bag and a piece of information he carried outside the borders of his skin, it came with him like a shadow. A deep rift had formed between him and his anticipated future.

The first days went quickly. The adrenaline allowed no entry to boredom or nostalgia. Again and again he went over the already-worn little piece of paper that had the basic facts of his new I. There were easy things: the names and the profession were things he knew, closely related to his own life, to the immediacy of reality. But some were more difficult–numbers had always eluded him. He reminded himself of the correctness of his decision: the human thing to do was to run. His RUT* had a million numbers, in an impossible order!

It was going to be long. He expected the rift would separate him from his sunless future, from the prison and its dampness, its perennial cold, its deadened sounds. They would remain far on the other side of the abyss into which he would try to hurl his deepest fears. In this way he could defeat defeat.

These thoughts made him laugh nervously, the half-moon of a smile appearing his mouth, letting his white little teeth be seen. He would have to contain it; he was not going to reveal his freedom to the City’s dismal beings.

Some days passed, and the time was not time. Now laughter was not so easy, it had less joy and more reasoning to it. The shadow of his identity followed, stuck to his feet. He thought about the children in Peter Pan who looked for his shadow. What if he lost it? The idea upset him. Even the dark future the shadow brought with it seemed to be part of himself.

But hey, brush off your coat and let go of your nostalgia. The children are going to grow up fine. Your partner is strong and caring. She had given him a strong and sensitive never-ending kiss filled with emotion; he returned endlessly to these images. They comforted him, and they also caused him to feel his loneliness great and raw.

Better to return to the feeling of victory–the defeat of defeat… it is nourishment. Fill the lungs. He was a happy man, nobody could argue with him. Life, alive, appeared on the horizon. Were there time, he would have left every decision of power over his body right on the ground.

The laughter would return, and he wasn’t alone–he knew of the laughs of those close to him, of his companions and of the others, knew that he walked hand-in-hand with the worst intentioned, and with the most creative tumults of people living and dead.

Observing himself, traveling, flowing, changing, developing these other abilities, knowing himself a little more. Loving himself greatly, and a little more still. The shield of fear, the idea in the palm of his hands, fly and fly for freedom…

Warm, close greetings to the women and men composed of love who take off on their own wings.

-Libertad Estrella.-

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* Short for Rol Único Tributario, the RUT number is the national identification number in Chile – translator’s note

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Escrito desde la prisión:Ficción de clandestinidad desde alguna de las prisiones de esta sociedad carcelaria

Nota de Refractario: Este escrito nos llego desde la prisión y lo publicamos en el numero 5 de Refractario  . Ante la reciente detención de Hans, decidimos volver a publicarlo para su difusión animando a todos quienes asumen y asumieron el difícil camino de la clandestinidad. A los compañeros que actualmente se encuentran en prisión tras ser detenido luego de sus desconocidos pasos o quienes felizmente pueden estar con sus seres queridos luego de largos periodos escapando. Pero también a aquellos que aun transitan los anónimos senderos impuestos por una orden de captura aun pendiente.

“Cuando los adjetivos calificativos descalifican el nombre propio deja de serlo

Volamos para la libertad….”

Entro en la clandestinidad como quien entra en una cascada de agua.

Un buen día había despertado con un nombre y una historia -identidad le llaman-, el problema era el futuro.

Era la cárcel su próxima morada. Cuando se termino ese mismo día nada de eso le era propio.

Lo que le había constituido era un equipaje, una información que portaba fuera de las fronteras de su piel, iba con el como una sombra. Se había extendido una grieta profunda entre él y su futuro previsto.

Los primeros días se hicieron cortos. La adrenalina no le daba entrada al aburrimiento o la nostalgia, repasaba una y otra vez el pequeño trozo de papel , ya ajado, que tenia los datos básicos del nuevo yo. Si habían cosas fáciles, los nombres, el oficio eran cosas conocidas con estrecha relación a su vida propia; a la inmediatez de la realidad. Pero habían algunas muy difíciles; los números siempre le habían sido esquivos, recordó lo acertado de su decisión: La carrera era la humanista. EL rut tenía ¡Una multitud de números! ¡En un orden irreproducible!

Iba a ser largo; esperaba que la grieta que le separaba del futuro oscuro, de la cárcel y su humedad, su frio perenne, sus ruidos sordos. Quedaran lejos al otro lado del abismo donde pretendía arrojar sus temores profundos. Podía así derrotar la derrota.

Esos pensamientos le provocaban una risa nerviosa, se dibujaba en la boca la medialuna de su sonrisa, que dejaban ver sus dientes blanquitos. Debía contenerla; no vaya a traslucir su libertad a los seres oscuros de la Ciudad.

Pasaron algunos días, y el tiempo no era tiempo; la carcajada ya no era tan fácil, había menos éxtasis y más raciocinio, la sombra de su identidad seguía pegada a sus pies pensaba en los niños de Peter pan, que buscaban su sombra ¿Y si la perdiera? Le angustiaba la idea. Aun ese futuro oscuro que era parte de esa sombra le parecía parte de si mismo.

Pero bueno, sacudir la chaqueta y desembarazarse de la nostalgia. Los hijos van a crecer bien. La compa es fuerte y cariñosa. Le había regalado un beso sempiterno, fuerte y sentido; con toda la piel, volvía permanentemente sobre esa imágenes. Le reconfortaban y también le hacían sentir su grande y cruda soledad.

Mas vale volver al sentimiento de victoria; la derrota de la derrota…es un alimento. Llena los pulmones, era un hombre feliz, nadie podía discutirlo. La vida viva se presentaba en el horizonte. Habría tiempo, cada decisión del poder sobre su cuerpo había dado de plano en el suelo.

Volvían las risas- y no era soledad; sabia de las risas de sus cercanos, de sus compañeros y de los otros, sabia que iba de la mano de las peores intenciones, y de los mas creativos tumultos de gente viva y muerte.

Observarse, viajar, fluir, cambiar, desarrollar esas otras habilidades, conocerse un poco mas. Amarse mucho, y todavía un poco más. EL miedo de escudo, la idea en la palma de las manos, volar y volar para la libertad…

Saludos estrechos y calurosos a las mujeres y hombres que compuestos de amor, alzan vuelo con alas propias.

-Libertad Estrella.-