Tag: Juan Villoro

  • ‘I can read’: life and death in Guerrero

    Juan Villoro writes about the recent abductions and murders of students in Mexico, and how they fit a pattern not only of violence but uprising against injustice, as was the case with primary school teacher turned revolutionary Lucio Cabañas in the 1970s.

    Originally published in El País, 30 October 2014. Translated from the Spanish by Sophie Hughes.

    On 17 October, a group gathered outside the interior ministry in Mexico City to hold a vigil over the body of Margarita Santizo Bucareli. They were honouring the last wish of the deceased woman who had searched to no avail for her disappeared son. The scene was an allegory for a country where politics threatens to turn into a series of funeral rites.

    Mexico’s spiral of violence reached new levels on 26 September with the assassination of six young men and women and the kidnapping of 43 students from the Ayotzinapa Teacher Training College in the province of Guerrero. That day, I happened to be in the same province, in the Guerrero Autonomous University to give a conference on the Mexican communist writer, José Revueltas. My host was a professor who, in his youth, had belonged to Lucio Cabañas’ guerilla group. ‘Lucio Cabañas saved my life,’ he said with a strange mixture of admiration and sadness: ‘He ordered me back down the mountain before they killed the people living there: “You don’t look like a campesino (‘peasant’),” he told me. “If they find you here, they’re not going to believe you’re here to grow vegetables; you have to keep up the fight where you’re most useful: in the classroom.”‘

    The guerrilla’s order meant the end of a young man’s dream; at the same time it meant that the life of one social activist was spared.

    The great paradox of the state of Guerrero is that teaching there is a high-risk profession. Cabañas himself became a primary school teacher. He soon learnt that it was impossible to educate a child who did not have food to eat. Together with another teacher, Genaro Vázquez, he headed a movement to improve the lives of his pupils; they came up against official closed-mindedness and so needed to radicalise their line of action.

    The promotion of literary culture has remained a challenge in an area that settles its differences with bullets. In the seventies, two-thirds of Guerrero’s population were illiterate. The Ayotzinapa Teacher Training College was founded with a view to improving this figure, but it wasn’t impervious to the state’s bigger problems: social inequality, the control of the caciques (‘overlords’), governmental corruption at local level, repressive measures as the sole solution to civil unrest, police impunity, and the growing intrusion of drug trafficking. The rest of the country is not immune to these evils. What makes Guerrero stand out is its long history of popular movements that challenge these disgraces.

    In the book México armado – essential reading for anyone attempting to understand this conflict – Laura Castellanos explores this transition from professor to guerilla. Genaro Vázquez founded an Asociación Cívica (‘Civic Association’), which was repudiated by the authorities. Lucio Cabañas set up the Partido de los pobres (Poor People’s Party), but it failed to have any impact on local politics. The government offered its leaders money and political positions (in Guerrero, the two things tend to be synonymous). The leaders rejected this ‘negotiated’ get-out and opted instead for heading up into the mountain.

    The fierce repression of the guerrillas was known as The Dirty War – a redundant euphemism. After Cabañas’ death there were 173 ‘disappearances’. In México armado, Castellanos tells the story of the airbase in Pie de la Cuesta, in Acapulco, where planes would take off to then dump dissidents into the ocean, the same ruthless method that would be used in Chile and Argentina.

    We were talking about José Revueltas and Lucio Cabañas when we heard that six young people had been killed in the town of Iguala. The news was made worse by the knowledge that the horror was not new; on the contrary, and as we had been hearing that day, it had a long history. The violence in Guerrero has been systematically fuelled by military and paramilitary group-organised massacres. Luis Hernández Navarro, author of a crucial book on this problem (Hermanos en armas), points out that every one of the region’s insurrections have occurred after massacres (the one in Iguala in 1962 resulted in the Genaro Vázquez uprising; the one in Atoyac in 1967 was followed by Lucio Cabañas’; and the Aguas Blancas massacre in 1995 preceded the rise of the Popular Revolutionary Army).

    What will the upshot of the 2014 massacre be? Drug trafficking has gained power in Guerrero thanks to the continual, alternating presence of the cartels La FamiliaNueva Generación, the Beltrán Leyva and Guerreros Unidos. But this isn’t the main reason for the region’s decline. Carnival and apocalypse cohabit this bipolar area. The tourist hotspot that is Acapulco and the riches of the caciques exist in stark relief to the extreme poverty that affects the majority of the population. The shocking inequality accounts for the general sense of disgruntlement and offers one explanation for why many people cannot find a better fate than to farm marijuana or kill for fees.

    In the search for the disappeared teacher trainees, other mass graves have been uncovered, containing more dead. Between 2005 and today, no less than 38 tombs of this kind have appeared.

    For half a century, a poor but politicised population has condemned their authorities’ continued abuses. The Ayotzinapa College is a nerve centre of the dispute. Let’s not forget that in the seventies, one of its activists was a certain Lucio Cabañas.

    On 26 September, there were four separate shootings and one target: the young. With the backing of organised criminals, the local mayor spread terror among the trainee teachers, threatening them as they gathered in peaceful protest to remember the victims of the 1968 Tlatelolco massacre. Once the repressive mechanism was unleashed, they proceeded to open fire against a coach carrying a football team on their way home from a match. Their crime? Being young. Which is to say, potential rebels.

    ‘There is a tension between reading and political action,’ writes the Argentinian philosopher and novelist Ricardo Piglia. Interpreting the world can naturally lead to the desire to transform it. Occasionally, writing, and orthography itself, is a political gesture that defies a barbaric order: ‘To read is to stand up to a hostile life,’ suggests Piglia in The Last Reader.

    Che Guevara spent his last night before being killed in an old, run-down schoolhouse. Already wounded, he sat contemplating a sentence written on the blackboard and said to the teacher: ‘It’s missing the accent.’ The sentence was ‘Yo sé leer’: ‘I can read.’ Knowing he was defeated, the guerrilla leader looked to another means of correcting reality.

    Years ago, a group of teachers railed in by the government decided to take up arms in Guerrero. Lucio Cabañas chose to save one of his men and send him back to the classroom, to teaching – an instrument of war in a lawless country.

    Forty-three future teachers have disappeared.  The size of this tragedy comes down to single phrase, one that opposes impunity, disgrace and injustice: ‘Yo sé leer.’ The Mexico of guns and arms is afraid of those who teach others how to read.

    Mexico is missing the accent. The time will come to correct this.

  • 'I can read': life and death in Guerrero

    Juan Villoro writes about the recent abductions and murders of students in Mexico, and how they fit a pattern not only of violence but uprising against injustice, as was the case with primary school teacher turned revolutionary Lucio Cabañas in the 1970s.

    Originally published in El País, 30 October 2014. Translated from the Spanish by Sophie Hughes.

    On 17 October, a group gathered outside the interior ministry in Mexico City to hold a vigil over the body of Margarita Santizo Bucareli. They were honouring the last wish of the deceased woman who had searched to no avail for her disappeared son. The scene was an allegory for a country where politics threatens to turn into a series of funeral rites.

    Mexico’s spiral of violence reached new levels on 26 September with the assassination of six young men and women and the kidnapping of 43 students from the Ayotzinapa Teacher Training College in the province of Guerrero. That day, I happened to be in the same province, in the Guerrero Autonomous University to give a conference on the Mexican communist writer, José Revueltas. My host was a professor who, in his youth, had belonged to Lucio Cabañas’ guerilla group. ‘Lucio Cabañas saved my life,’ he said with a strange mixture of admiration and sadness: ‘He ordered me back down the mountain before they killed the people living there: “You don’t look like a campesino (‘peasant’),” he told me. “If they find you here, they’re not going to believe you’re here to grow vegetables; you have to keep up the fight where you’re most useful: in the classroom.”‘

    The guerrilla’s order meant the end of a young man’s dream; at the same time it meant that the life of one social activist was spared.

    The great paradox of the state of Guerrero is that teaching there is a high-risk profession. Cabañas himself became a primary school teacher. He soon learnt that it was impossible to educate a child who did not have food to eat. Together with another teacher, Genaro Vázquez, he headed a movement to improve the lives of his pupils; they came up against official closed-mindedness and so needed to radicalise their line of action.

    The promotion of literary culture has remained a challenge in an area that settles its differences with bullets. In the seventies, two-thirds of Guerrero’s population were illiterate. The Ayotzinapa Teacher Training College was founded with a view to improving this figure, but it wasn’t impervious to the state’s bigger problems: social inequality, the control of the caciques (‘overlords’), governmental corruption at local level, repressive measures as the sole solution to civil unrest, police impunity, and the growing intrusion of drug trafficking. The rest of the country is not immune to these evils. What makes Guerrero stand out is its long history of popular movements that challenge these disgraces.

    In the book México armado – essential reading for anyone attempting to understand this conflict – Laura Castellanos explores this transition from professor to guerilla. Genaro Vázquez founded an Asociación Cívica (‘Civic Association’), which was repudiated by the authorities. Lucio Cabañas set up the Partido de los pobres (Poor People’s Party), but it failed to have any impact on local politics. The government offered its leaders money and political positions (in Guerrero, the two things tend to be synonymous). The leaders rejected this ‘negotiated’ get-out and opted instead for heading up into the mountain.

    The fierce repression of the guerrillas was known as The Dirty War – a redundant euphemism. After Cabañas’ death there were 173 ‘disappearances’. In México armado, Castellanos tells the story of the airbase in Pie de la Cuesta, in Acapulco, where planes would take off to then dump dissidents into the ocean, the same ruthless method that would be used in Chile and Argentina.

    We were talking about José Revueltas and Lucio Cabañas when we heard that six young people had been killed in the town of Iguala. The news was made worse by the knowledge that the horror was not new; on the contrary, and as we had been hearing that day, it had a long history. The violence in Guerrero has been systematically fuelled by military and paramilitary group-organised massacres. Luis Hernández Navarro, author of a crucial book on this problem (Hermanos en armas), points out that every one of the region’s insurrections have occurred after massacres (the one in Iguala in 1962 resulted in the Genaro Vázquez uprising; the one in Atoyac in 1967 was followed by Lucio Cabañas’; and the Aguas Blancas massacre in 1995 preceded the rise of the Popular Revolutionary Army).

    What will the upshot of the 2014 massacre be? Drug trafficking has gained power in Guerrero thanks to the continual, alternating presence of the cartels La FamiliaNueva Generación, the Beltrán Leyva and Guerreros Unidos. But this isn’t the main reason for the region’s decline. Carnival and apocalypse cohabit this bipolar area. The tourist hotspot that is Acapulco and the riches of the caciques exist in stark relief to the extreme poverty that affects the majority of the population. The shocking inequality accounts for the general sense of disgruntlement and offers one explanation for why many people cannot find a better fate than to farm marijuana or kill for fees.

    In the search for the disappeared teacher trainees, other mass graves have been uncovered, containing more dead. Between 2005 and today, no less than 38 tombs of this kind have appeared.

    For half a century, a poor but politicised population has condemned their authorities’ continued abuses. The Ayotzinapa College is a nerve centre of the dispute. Let’s not forget that in the seventies, one of its activists was a certain Lucio Cabañas.

    On 26 September, there were four separate shootings and one target: the young. With the backing of organised criminals, the local mayor spread terror among the trainee teachers, threatening them as they gathered in peaceful protest to remember the victims of the 1968 Tlatelolco massacre. Once the repressive mechanism was unleashed, they proceeded to open fire against a coach carrying a football team on their way home from a match. Their crime? Being young. Which is to say, potential rebels.

    ‘There is a tension between reading and political action,’ writes the Argentinian philosopher and novelist Ricardo Piglia. Interpreting the world can naturally lead to the desire to transform it. Occasionally, writing, and orthography itself, is a political gesture that defies a barbaric order: ‘To read is to stand up to a hostile life,’ suggests Piglia in The Last Reader.

    Che Guevara spent his last night before being killed in an old, run-down schoolhouse. Already wounded, he sat contemplating a sentence written on the blackboard and said to the teacher: ‘It’s missing the accent.’ The sentence was ‘Yo sé leer’: ‘I can read.’ Knowing he was defeated, the guerrilla leader looked to another means of correcting reality.

    Years ago, a group of teachers railed in by the government decided to take up arms in Guerrero. Lucio Cabañas chose to save one of his men and send him back to the classroom, to teaching – an instrument of war in a lawless country.

    Forty-three future teachers have disappeared.  The size of this tragedy comes down to single phrase, one that opposes impunity, disgrace and injustice: ‘Yo sé leer.’ The Mexico of guns and arms is afraid of those who teach others how to read.

    Mexico is missing the accent. The time will come to correct this.

  • Yo ya no quiero salir en esta película

    La narrativa de la violencia en México 1: el cuento.

    Juan Pablo Villalobos

    Creo ciegamente que los escritores mexicanos estamos condenados a decepcionar a nuestros interlocutores extranjeros. Escribí una novela que ha sido traducida a varios idiomas y cada vez que tengo una entrevista o que participo de una lectura en el extranjero acabo con la sensación de no haber cumplido con la expectativa, frustrado por no poder ser suficientemente auténtico, lo que en el caso de México quiere decir folclórico. Me siento justo como el narrador de “Amigos mexicanos”, el divertidísimo y lúcido cuento de Juan Villoro, en el que un famoso periodista estadounidense, Samuel Katzenberg, contrata a un escritor mexicano para que sea su “contacto hacia lo genuino”, para que le ayude a diferenciar lo que es horrible de lo que es “buñuelesco”, para que le muestre el verdadero México. Al describir el México que Katzenberg quería conocer, Villoro resume a la perfección el abismo que separa a mexicanos y extranjeros al construir la imagen de nuestro país: “Él deseaba una realidad como los óleos de Frida: espantosa pero única”.

    En los últimos años la situación no ha hecho más que empeorar: la llamada “guerra contra el narco” del presidente Calderón ha provocado alrededor de 50.000 muertes violentas en el país. Nuestra realidad se ha vuelto espantosa, a secas, sin que tenga absolutamente nada de “única” o fascinante. De manera paralela a la escalada de violencia, ha surgido una escalada literaria, porque un número importante de escritores ha intuido la necesidad – social, diría yo – de buscar un lenguaje para narrar la violencia. Se escriben por igual novelas, cuentos, obras de teatro, guiones de cine e incluso poemas o performances, que recrean nuestro horror cotidiano. Comenzaré por el cuento.

    Narrar la violencia supone narrar el mundo del crimen organizado, las entrañas del monstruo aficionado a la decapitación. En el genial “Ese modo que colma”, Daniel Sada relata la fiesta de un grupo de narcotraficantes, fiesta que se suspende porque en una hielera de cervezas se realiza el hallazgo de tres cabezas humanas. Las páginas transcurren mientras las viudas pican hielo para evitar que las cabezas se pudran y apesten, los narcotraficantes comienzan a indagar quiénes son los traidores y las mujeres piensan en cómo dar sepultura a las cabezas: ¿en un féretro chiquito?, ¿en una caja de fruta? Sada culmina el cuento con una admonición escalofriante: “eso de las decapitaciones se estaba poniendo de moda”, “una moda que podría durar varios años”.

    ¿Qué nos ha pasado?, ¿cómo llegamos aquí?, son dos preguntas terroríficas que nos agobian. La realidad nos obliga a volver a pensarlo todo, a regresar, incluso, a lo elemental, a la definición de las cosas, para tratar de descubrir dónde nos hemos perdido. Francisco Hinojosa cree necesario, y lo es, citar el significado del verbo descuartizar en “Lo que antes eran calles”, cuento en el que un sicario con dislalia, apodado El Bóiler, termina descuartizando, por calentura, a la novia que lo ha engañado: “Descuartizar. Verbo transitivo que significa cuartear, hacer cuartos, despedazar, hacer pedazos, desmembrar, destrozar. Dividir en cuartos, a modo de castigo, el cuerpo de una persona”. Y sigue.

    Hay que volver a nombrar las cosas, narrarlas, porque ya no son lo que eran, o porque ya no son lo que parecen, o porque ya no parecen lo que son. En “Ojos que no ven” Iris García relata el reclutamiento de actores para un película entre los borrachos asiduos a una cantina. Su papel en el filme consistirá en declararse miembros del Cártel de Sinaloa culpables de algunos asesinatos. Delante de la cámara, a fuerza de golpes y balazos para dar realismo a la escena, porque no hay presupuesto para maquillaje, acabarán descubriendo que están siendo usados por el Cártel del Golfo para que se culpe al cártel rival de “todo lo que pasa”. Uno de los borrachos reclutados chilla una frase que bien podría decir cualquier mexicano que ve invadida su cotidianeidad por ese tipo de violencia que antes solo veíamos en el cine o la televisión: “Yo ya no quiero salir en esta película”.

    Algunos empezamos a delirar con visiones apocalípticas. Antonio Ortuño imagina en “Historia” que un país extranjero decide invadirnos, debido “al tráfico de drogas, el contrabando de órganos, el secuestro y homicidio de extranjeros, el estado de anarquía que priva y la migración masiva”. El protagonista del cuento intenta huir al tiempo que nos relata el miedo de los varones locales a que sus mujeres se ofrezcan a los soldados invasores para tener hijos rubios. Al final, justo antes de sucumbir al ataque de los tanques enemigos, se salva al encontrar refugio tras una puerta que le abre una mujer “gorda y renegrida”, “el cabello teñido de rubio y los dientes cubiertos por casquillos de oro”.

    Es la patria.

    Posdata: a los extranjeros aterrados con el presente texto, me gustaría transcribirles, para tranquilizarlos, una frase de Burroughs que Villoro repite en el cuento citado: “No te preocupes: los mexicanos solo matan a sus amigos”.

     Sobre el autor

    Juan Pablo Villalobos nació en Guadalajara, México, en 1973. Después de ocho años en Barcelona ahora vive en Brasil. Tiene dos hijos mexicanos-brasileños-catalanesitalianos. Su primera novela, Fiesta en la madriguera, fue publicada en 2010 y está siendo traducida a catorce idiomas. Su segunda novela se publicará en septiembre en español y en inglés durante el primer semestre de 2013. Escribe para diferentes revistas, periódicos y blogs de México, España, Brasil y Colombia.

     Sobre la traductora

    Rosalind Harvey ha vivido en Lima y en Norwich, donde se enamoró del español y de la traducción, respectivamente. Actualmente vive en Londres, donde traduce ficción en español. Su reciente traducción de Fiesta en la madriguera fue nominada al premio de primera novela del diario The Guardian. Es co-traductora, junto con Anne McLean, de El olvido que seremos de Hector Abad y de Dublinesca de Enrique Vila-Matas. El pasado otoño fue una de las primeras traductoras en residencia en el Free Word Centre.

    Información adicional

    Juan Villoro (DF, 1956): “Amigos mexicanos” en Los culpables, Almadía, Oaxaca, 2008.

    Daniel Sada (Mexicali, 1953-2010): “Ese modo que colma” en Ese modo que colma, Anagrama, Barcelona, 2010.

    Francisco Hinojosa (DF, 1954): “Lo que antes eran calles” en El tiempo apremia, Almadía, Oaxaca, 2010.

    Iris García (Acapulco, 1977 ) “Ojos que no ven” en Ojos que no ven, corazón desierto, Tierra Adentro, México, 2009.

    Antonio Ortuño (Guadalajara, 1976) “Historia” en La señora rojo, Páginas de Espuma, Madrid, 2010.

  • I Don’t Want To Be In This Film Any More

    The PEN Atlas series continues with a powerful despatch by Mexican writer Juan Pablo Villalobos.  This piece has been translated from Spanish by Rosalind Harvey.

    The Narrative of Violence in Mexico 1: the short story

    Translated by Rosalind Harvey

    I believe unconditionally that Mexican writers are condemned to disappoint our foreign readers. I wrote a novel that has been translated into several languages and each time I do an interview or take part in a reading abroad I end up with the sensation of not having lived up to people’s expectations, frustrated at not being authentic enough, which in the case of Mexico means ‘colourful’. I feel just like the narrator of ‘Amigos mexicanos’ [Mexican friends], the hilarious and perceptive story by Juan Villoro, in which a famous American journalist, Samuel Katzenberg, hires a Mexican writer to be his ‘contact with the genuine’, to help him distinguish between what is hideous and what is ‘Buñuelesque’, to show him the real México. When he discovers the Mexico that Katzenberg wants to see, Villoro sums up perfectly the gulf separating Mexicans and foreigners when they come to construct an image of our country: ‘He wanted a reality like Frida’s paintings: horrific but unique’.

    In recent years the situation has done nothing but worsen: president Calderón’s so-called ‘drug war’ has caused around 50,000 violent deaths in the country. Our reality has become simply horrific, with nothing ‘unique’ or fascinating about it. The increase in violence has seen a parallel increase in literature, as a significant number of writers has sensed the need – a social need, I would say – to seek out a language for writing about the violence. Novels, short stories, plays, screenplays and even poems and ‘happenings’ are being written in equal measure, recreating our daily horror. I’ll begin with the short story.

    Writing about violence means writing about the world of organised crime, the inner workings of the monster so fond of decapitation. In the brilliant ‘Ese modo que colma’ [Sense of achievement], Daniel Sada describes a party thrown by a group of drug traffickers, a party called off because of the discovery in an ice box of three human heads. The story rolls on while the widows crush ice to stop the heads from decomposing and stinking, the traffickers start to investigate who the traitors are, and the women think about how to bury the heads: in a tiny little coffin? In a fruit crate? Sada ends the story with a chilling warning: ‘this decapitation thing was starting to become fashionable’, ‘a fashion that could last several years.’

    ‘What has happened to us?’ and ‘how did we get here?’ are two terrifying questions that are currently overwhelming us. Reality is forcing us to re-think everything, to go back, even, to basics, to the definition of things, in order to find out where we got lost. Francisco Hinojosa believes it is necessary – and it is – to cite the meaning of the verb descuartizar (to quarter, dismember or chop up) in ‘Lo que antes eran calles’ [What once were streets], a story in which a hitman with a speech impediment nicknamed ‘The Boiler’ ends up dismembering, in a fit, the girlfriend who has cheated on him: ‘Dismember. Transitive verb that means quarter, divide into quarters, disjoint, tear apart, break into pieces, chop up, destroy. To cut into four parts, as a form of punishment, a person’s body.’ And it goes on.

    We have to re-name things, write about them, because they are no longer what they were, or because they are no longer what they seem, or they no longer seem like what they are. In ‘Ojos que no ven’ [What you don’t know can’t hurt you], Iris García writes of actors being recruited for a film from among the regular drunks of a cantina. Their role in the movie is to admit to being members of the Sinaloa Cartel guilty of certain murders. In front of the camera, beaten and shot at, so as to lend the scene some realism since there is no budget for make-up, they discover that they’re being used by the Gulf Cartel so that their rivals in Sinaloa are blamed for ‘everything that happens.’ One of the hired drunks screams out a phrase that could well be uttered by any Mexican who sees his daily existence invaded by this kind of violence, which we used only to see in the cinema or on TV: ‘I don’t what to be in this film any more.’

    Some of us started to hallucinate with apocalyptic visions. In ‘Historia’ [History], Antonio Ortuño imagines that a foreign country decides to invade us, because of ‘drug trafficking, the illegal organ trade, the kidnap and murder of foreigners, the prevailing state of anarchy and mass migration.’ The story’s protagonist attempts to flee while describing the local men’s fear that their wives will offer themselves to the invading soldiers so they will have blond children. At the end, just before he surrenders to the enemy tanks, the man escapes by taking shelter behind a door opened by a ‘fat, blackish’ woman, ‘her hair dyed blonde and her teeth covered in gold caps.’

    She is the motherland.

    Postscript: for foreigners terrified by the present text, I would like to transcribe, so as to reassure them, a phrase of Burroughs’ repeated by Villoro in the above cited short story: ‘Don’t worry: Mexicans only kill their friends.’

    Read the original text in Spanish here: Yo ya no quiero salir en esta película


    About the Author

    Juan Pablo Villalobos was born in Guadalajara, Mexico, in 1973. After eight years in Barcelona he lives now in Brazil. He has two Mexican-Brazilian-Catalan-Italian children. His first novel, Down the Rabbit Hole, was published in Spanish in 2010 and is being translated into fourteen languages. His second novel will be out in Spanish in September and in English in the first quarter of 2013. He writes for different magazines, newspapers and blogs of Mexico, Spain, Brazil and Colombia.

    About the Translator

    Rosalind Harvey has lived in Lima and Norwich, where she fell in love with Spanish and translation, respectively. She now lives in London, where she translates Hispanic fiction. Her recent translation of Down the Rabbit Hole was shortlisted for the Guardian First Book award, and she is the co-translator with Anne McLean of Hector Abad’s prize-winning memoir Oblivion, and Dublinesque by Enrique Vila-Matas. Last autumn she was one of Free Word Centre’s first ever translators-in-residence.

    Additional Information

    Juan Villoro (Mexico city, 1956): “Amigos mexicanos” in Los culpables, Almadía, Oaxaca, 2008.

    Daniel Sada (Mexicali, 1953-2010): “Ese modo que colma” in Ese modo que colma, Anagrama, Barcelona, 2010. Almost Never his last novel is published by Graywolf in the US.  He began his career as a poet and was one of Mexico’s most admired novelists and story writers.

    Antonio Ortuño (Guadalajara, 1976) “Historia” in La señora rojo, Páginas de Espuma, Madrid, 2010. His writing has been translated into many languages. ‘Small Mouth, Thin Lips’ is a new story and can be read in Granta magazine 113.

    Francisco Hinojosa (Mexico city, 1954): “Lo que antes eran calles” in El tiempo apremia, Almadía, Oaxaca, 2010.

    Iris García (Acapulco, 1977 ) “Ojos que no ven” in Ojos que no ven, corazón desierto, Tierra Adentro, México, 2009.

  • I Don't Want To Be In This Film Any More

    The PEN Atlas series continues with a powerful despatch by Mexican writer Juan Pablo Villalobos.  This piece has been translated from Spanish by Rosalind Harvey.

    The Narrative of Violence in Mexico 1: the short story

    Translated by Rosalind Harvey

    I believe unconditionally that Mexican writers are condemned to disappoint our foreign readers. I wrote a novel that has been translated into several languages and each time I do an interview or take part in a reading abroad I end up with the sensation of not having lived up to people’s expectations, frustrated at not being authentic enough, which in the case of Mexico means ‘colourful’. I feel just like the narrator of ‘Amigos mexicanos’ [Mexican friends], the hilarious and perceptive story by Juan Villoro, in which a famous American journalist, Samuel Katzenberg, hires a Mexican writer to be his ‘contact with the genuine’, to help him distinguish between what is hideous and what is ‘Buñuelesque’, to show him the real México. When he discovers the Mexico that Katzenberg wants to see, Villoro sums up perfectly the gulf separating Mexicans and foreigners when they come to construct an image of our country: ‘He wanted a reality like Frida’s paintings: horrific but unique’.

    In recent years the situation has done nothing but worsen: president Calderón’s so-called ‘drug war’ has caused around 50,000 violent deaths in the country. Our reality has become simply horrific, with nothing ‘unique’ or fascinating about it. The increase in violence has seen a parallel increase in literature, as a significant number of writers has sensed the need – a social need, I would say – to seek out a language for writing about the violence. Novels, short stories, plays, screenplays and even poems and ‘happenings’ are being written in equal measure, recreating our daily horror. I’ll begin with the short story.

    Writing about violence means writing about the world of organised crime, the inner workings of the monster so fond of decapitation. In the brilliant ‘Ese modo que colma’ [Sense of achievement], Daniel Sada describes a party thrown by a group of drug traffickers, a party called off because of the discovery in an ice box of three human heads. The story rolls on while the widows crush ice to stop the heads from decomposing and stinking, the traffickers start to investigate who the traitors are, and the women think about how to bury the heads: in a tiny little coffin? In a fruit crate? Sada ends the story with a chilling warning: ‘this decapitation thing was starting to become fashionable’, ‘a fashion that could last several years.’

    ‘What has happened to us?’ and ‘how did we get here?’ are two terrifying questions that are currently overwhelming us. Reality is forcing us to re-think everything, to go back, even, to basics, to the definition of things, in order to find out where we got lost. Francisco Hinojosa believes it is necessary – and it is – to cite the meaning of the verb descuartizar (to quarter, dismember or chop up) in ‘Lo que antes eran calles’ [What once were streets], a story in which a hitman with a speech impediment nicknamed ‘The Boiler’ ends up dismembering, in a fit, the girlfriend who has cheated on him: ‘Dismember. Transitive verb that means quarter, divide into quarters, disjoint, tear apart, break into pieces, chop up, destroy. To cut into four parts, as a form of punishment, a person’s body.’ And it goes on.

    We have to re-name things, write about them, because they are no longer what they were, or because they are no longer what they seem, or they no longer seem like what they are. In ‘Ojos que no ven’ [What you don’t know can’t hurt you], Iris García writes of actors being recruited for a film from among the regular drunks of a cantina. Their role in the movie is to admit to being members of the Sinaloa Cartel guilty of certain murders. In front of the camera, beaten and shot at, so as to lend the scene some realism since there is no budget for make-up, they discover that they’re being used by the Gulf Cartel so that their rivals in Sinaloa are blamed for ‘everything that happens.’ One of the hired drunks screams out a phrase that could well be uttered by any Mexican who sees his daily existence invaded by this kind of violence, which we used only to see in the cinema or on TV: ‘I don’t what to be in this film any more.’

    Some of us started to hallucinate with apocalyptic visions. In ‘Historia’ [History], Antonio Ortuño imagines that a foreign country decides to invade us, because of ‘drug trafficking, the illegal organ trade, the kidnap and murder of foreigners, the prevailing state of anarchy and mass migration.’ The story’s protagonist attempts to flee while describing the local men’s fear that their wives will offer themselves to the invading soldiers so they will have blond children. At the end, just before he surrenders to the enemy tanks, the man escapes by taking shelter behind a door opened by a ‘fat, blackish’ woman, ‘her hair dyed blonde and her teeth covered in gold caps.’

    She is the motherland.

    Postscript: for foreigners terrified by the present text, I would like to transcribe, so as to reassure them, a phrase of Burroughs’ repeated by Villoro in the above cited short story: ‘Don’t worry: Mexicans only kill their friends.’

    Read the original text in Spanish here: Yo ya no quiero salir en esta película


    About the Author

    Juan Pablo Villalobos was born in Guadalajara, Mexico, in 1973. After eight years in Barcelona he lives now in Brazil. He has two Mexican-Brazilian-Catalan-Italian children. His first novel, Down the Rabbit Hole, was published in Spanish in 2010 and is being translated into fourteen languages. His second novel will be out in Spanish in September and in English in the first quarter of 2013. He writes for different magazines, newspapers and blogs of Mexico, Spain, Brazil and Colombia.

    About the Translator

    Rosalind Harvey has lived in Lima and Norwich, where she fell in love with Spanish and translation, respectively. She now lives in London, where she translates Hispanic fiction. Her recent translation of Down the Rabbit Hole was shortlisted for the Guardian First Book award, and she is the co-translator with Anne McLean of Hector Abad’s prize-winning memoir Oblivion, and Dublinesque by Enrique Vila-Matas. Last autumn she was one of Free Word Centre’s first ever translators-in-residence.

    Additional Information

    Juan Villoro (Mexico city, 1956): “Amigos mexicanos” in Los culpables, Almadía, Oaxaca, 2008.

    Daniel Sada (Mexicali, 1953-2010): “Ese modo que colma” in Ese modo que colma, Anagrama, Barcelona, 2010. Almost Never his last novel is published by Graywolf in the US.  He began his career as a poet and was one of Mexico’s most admired novelists and story writers.

    Antonio Ortuño (Guadalajara, 1976) “Historia” in La señora rojo, Páginas de Espuma, Madrid, 2010. His writing has been translated into many languages. ‘Small Mouth, Thin Lips’ is a new story and can be read in Granta magazine 113.

    Francisco Hinojosa (Mexico city, 1954): “Lo que antes eran calles” in El tiempo apremia, Almadía, Oaxaca, 2010.

    Iris García (Acapulco, 1977 ) “Ojos que no ven” in Ojos que no ven, corazón desierto, Tierra Adentro, México, 2009.