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    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? –  Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

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    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    The dolls have pronounced it – Poems by Mohamed Kheder

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Three Poems from “The Bastard and the Bishop” – Gerald Fleming

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    God appeared at midnight: Three poems by Bitasta Ghoshal

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    I dream of the tree of silence: Poems by Rafael Romero

    Always another curtain  to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

    Always another curtain to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

  • Fiction
    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    A very different story (Part I) – Nandini Sahu

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    After Breaking News – Mojaffor Hossain

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE THEATER OF MEMORY – Julio Monteiro Martins

    Let the Rivers Speak! – Lucia Cupertino and the Poetry of the Global Souths, by  Pina Piccolo

    Fanta Blackcurrant – Makena Onjerika

    Photographer Sumana Mitra on her street photography and recent explorations of Surrealist techniques

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    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

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    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    Lino-printing fairy tales over Constitutions- The artwork of Mihaela Šuman

    Layers of overlap: theatre, cinema, memory, imagination – Farah Ahamed

    Architectures of Delusion –  Steve Salaita

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  • Interviews & reviews
    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

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    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in Conversation with Santosh Bakaya

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    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    Desperately seeking Marion: A Review of ” Women, Antifascism and Mussolini’s Italy – The Life of Marion Cave Rosselli”, by Isabelle Richet

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    Tim Ingold’s “Correspondences” – Giuseppe Ferrara

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

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    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

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    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? –  Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

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    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The malice of desires feeds the power of my imagination – Poems by Mubeen Kishany

    Alahor in Granata: A Forgotten Opera by Donizetti – Fawzi Karim

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    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

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  • News
    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

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    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

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    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

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    OPEN LETTER BY A GROUP OF BLACK ITALIAN WOMEN

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    Crowdfunding for [DI]SCORDARE project

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Home Non Fiction

THE DAY I LEARNED I WAS NOT POOR – Ilka Oliva Corado

November 28, 2017
in Non Fiction, The dreaming machine n 1
THE DAY I LEARNED I WAS NOT POOR – Ilka Oliva Corado
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Translated  by Marvin Najarro, post Ilka Oliva Corado’s personal blog https://cronicasdeunainquilina.com/2017/08/20/the-day-i-learned-i-was-not-poor/

In the early days of the 1990s, Ciudad Peronia began to fill with shacks and people who came from other poor neighborhoods and from the country’s west to invade the sector now known as El Mirador. It consisted of brushwood, tepetate streets, and an open-air market; a dusty place where vendors threw empty sacks and cardboard boxes to serve as a table to display their products on.

 A bus station with two or three microbuses, and a large esplanade at the dump’s edge of the market’s ravine, which eventually, by the sheer kicking of the ball, became the slum’s football field. Peronia City was the living face of misery and oblivion. It bordered on the villages of La Selva and El Calvario. Further up, at the foot of the green bottle mountains there was a military base, the soldiers mostly from the west of the country barely spoke Spanish; playful children whom we were never afraid of. Children that over the years we would sell ice creams, pupusas de chicharron (pork stuffed corn cakes), atoles and choco bananas (bananas covered with chocolate) which they paid us at the end of the month. 

Around those years we began selling ice cream in the market, in schools, in villages, in the military detachment, everywhere. We barely had enough to eat; tortilla with salt, and bean broth all week, the beans had to be saved because they had to be boiled for the following day.

On lucky days, my dad would arrive with a little extra money, and I together with him went to La Terminal to buy cow entrails; the cow legs broth was a delicacy in those years. But they were oddities, happening from time to time. 

Our house was a cinder block box. With a fabric partition we separated our bedroom from the kitchen. In a metal bed with a hobbling leg, we, the four children of Lila and Guayo, used to sleep. By 3 in the morning when we got up to do the house chores and prepare the goods for sale, we had already been wet -sheets and clothes- by the younger siblings urine. We covered the doors and the windows with cardboard pieces.

The floor was of tepetate where goats, hens, ducks, and dogs, walked back and forth, it was the same ground where the little siblings crawled. A pine table and a three-burner stove were all we had in the kitchen; and two or three dishes. Outside a half-barrel served as a wood stove where my mother made the tortillas and began to teach us how to tortear (shape the tortillas with the palms of one’s hands). When the tortillas came out in caites (sandals) shape, as my Nanoj said, she would take them out of the comal (hot plate) half-baked and put them back in the dough to do them again, until they came out as she wanted. Like tortillas and not like our ugly faces (said my Nanoj).

The newborn siblings looked like white-feathered chicks. At four o’clock in the morning we used to go to the village to buy a liter of freshly milked cow’s milk, just for the babies, it was not enough for anyone else. 

One afternoon a bus arrived with people who said they were coming on behalf of the government, and that we had to go to a house on Usumacinta Street to check us in so we could get some food -products of the basket of goods. Without telling my Nanoj, both my sister and I went to the place and signed up, we told them how many members we were in the family and what was my dad’s job, the food was handed out in rations depending on the family members, and whether both parents worked or only one.

That afternoon we arrived at the house excited, with a yellow corn bag, a ham can, one of yellow cheese, and a powdered milk bag, when my mother saw us with our eleven sheep, she asked us where we had gotten all this, we explained her excitedly, and my mother became so enraged that, in the typical style of Jutiapa, she grabbed the broomstick and shouted to us: daughters of the great whore, you are not poor, you have no need, you work, there are people who really need it! Return that food immediately if you don’t want me to beat the hell out of you!

Without hesitation we rushed back, and in a heartbeat we were in the place returning the food. That ration was to be given to us once a month, but right there we got them to erase us from the list. There were lines and lines of people, recent invaders, waiting to be given food.

That afternoon, I realized that the privation we lived in was not poverty, it was just shortage, that there were people living in misery, people really in need of those food bags.

And I learned it as a child; my Nanoj taught it to me wielding a broom stick. He taught me to look around me. I’ve never forgot it. 

If you share this text in another website and/or social media, please cite the original source and URL: https://cronicasdeunainquilina.com/2017/08/20/the-day-i-learned-i-was-not-poor/

Ilka Oliva Corado @ilkaolivacorado contacto@cronicasdeunainquilina.com


The following biographical information is excerpted from Mariela Castañón interview in cronicasdeunainquilina, translated by Marvin Najarro. Find the full interview here,

[…] On November it will be 15 years since I’ve been living here. I emigrated because of a professional disappointment, I was a football soccer referee in Guatemala and I was preparing to become an international referee, that was my dream, I wanted to represent Guatemala in women’s refereeing, I bet on my country, I fought with all the forces of my being for that dream, but in the Football Soccer Referee Committee they wanted to get me into bed in exchange for the international referee’s badge. I was so disappointed that without thinking it twice I decided to put some distance between me and Guatemala, the only option available for me at that time was to leave without documents, crossing Mexico.

[…] I have published 12 books, Historia de una indocumentada, travesía en el 

Sonora-Arizona (History of an Undocumented: Crossing the Arizona Sonoran Desert) which has already been translated into Italian, Swedish, Portuguese and French and is being translated into English. Post Frontera (Post Border), collection of poems Luz de faro (Beacon Light), En la melodía de un fonema (In the Melody of a Phoneme), Niña de arrabal (Slum Girl), Destierro (Exile), Nostalgia (Nostalgia), “Agosto” (August), Ocre (Ochre) and Desarraigo (Estrangement). Relatos (Stories), Crónicas de una inquilina (Chronicles of a Tenant) and “Transgredidas” (Transgressed), published on Amazon.com. They are all my offsprings, but the book that defines me is the last collection of poems, Strangement, which encompasses my complete life. They are 19 unpublished poems that I wrote to Comapa, Jutiapa, the town where I was born, and Ciudad Peronia, the slum where I grew up; my great loves.

[…]I have a personal blog called Chronicles of a Tenant where I frequently write opinion articles, stories, poetry, and my opinion articles are published in more than 150 alternative media sites around the world. They are translated into English, Italian and Portuguese. I can mention to you, for example, Telesur in Venezuela, Cubadebate in Cuba, South AmericaPress in Sweden, Latice Magazine in Sweden. Pagina Popular en Argentina, Rebelión in Spain, Nostramerica in Italy, Diário Liberdade and Revista Diálogos do Sul in Brazil. Clarín in Chile, Noticias Énfasis and Somos Más in Mexico. I also have a radio column that is broadcasted in more than 25 countries. And I am the publisher of a cultural website called Latin America Exuberante that I created myself for all Latin Americans outside of the Patria Grande (Great Homeland).

 

Featured image: Photo by Simbala Désilles.

Tags: Central AmericaCiudad Peroniaempathyfamilygovernment aidGuatemalaIlka Oliva Coradoneedpovertyprideprivation

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