Javier Medrano – Periodista/Journalist:
Arce, a defeated politician
The president of Bolivia is a tiny man. Not only because of his banal and superfluous personality, but also because, as a public official, he has no weight. He is not important. He does not move the needle of the scale. He is not a leader. He looks in the mirror and is not charismatic. He brushes his teeth and sees a flat, mousy face, with small and short-sighted eyes, he adjusts his glasses, but even this is not enough to make him look like an intellectual. Although he is a passable one.
He spits in his toilet every day and knows that it’s a small thing. He is not Evo. He is not Lula. He is not Maduro. He is not Chavez. He’s not Castro. He is not. He is not. Even compared to the corrupt and mafia Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, he is tiny. It’s not even that. He is an administrator. It is that and nothing more.
His day is spent fulfilling office hours, but he does not work hard for the country. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t hear. He is sitting alone in his office, with his junk ministers.
He demands efficiency from them. He expects productivity. But he does not speak the language of the deaf. He yells at his ministers to do something and they don’t listen. It is a pandemonium. A tower of Babel. Everyone does what they want. And he has no answer. They don’t respect him. They don’t answer to him. He has no command in his ranks. He is a general without an army. He is a horse lost in the field.
His soldiers are bad. poorly chosen. poorly prepared. They were exposed. He was exposed, naked. Open. Lonely. And, all his acolytes, wildly ask someone superior to give indulgences to his tiny president.
He knows. He suffers. He ponders. He fights with himself. He wonders: What do I do? Do I dismiss them? Do I give the reason to Evo?
He is a trapped mouse.
What does he have left? Brute force. The muscle, the clumsiness. The repression.
He looks at Plaza Murillo from his window and apartment that he did not build. He realizes that he is and always will be a piece of Evismo. That’s all. He gave them the money, when he was a minister in prosperity. He believed it was the management of him. He believed that it was he who moved international prices. That he built a world of well-being. That he was the magician of the economy. He lived a fantasy. A déjà vu.
Now that he has no money, he is lost. He no longer has the resources to even pay for dinner. He never had an economic strategy. They were fireworks of which he was not even the protagonist. His father, Evo, put together the whole show. He only put the money. He was, once again, the efficient official of the boss with someone else’s money.
He was a pawn. And he is still a lost mule. He looks in the mirror and sees nothing. He is disappointed. He adjusts his glasses and once again believes that by his hissing he will captivate someone. He is hurt, distressed. And that is dangerous. Because he will soon be ready to strike. He will be, like a drunken husband, ready to break dishes, hit his wife, assault and blow up the family life. We are facing a potential sociopath and we must all take care of ourselves.
Text by Javier Medrano – Journalist
Arce, un político derrotado
El presidente de Bolivia es un hombre pequeñito. No sólo por su personalidad banal y superflua, sino porque, además, como un funcionario público, no tiene peso. No es importante. No mueve la aguja de la balanza. No es un líder. Se mira al espejo y no es carismático. Se lava los dientes y ve un rostro plano, ratonil, de ojos pequeños y miope, ajusta las gafas, pero ni así le alcanza para parecerse a un intelectual. Aunque sea uno pasable.
Escupe en su lavabo diario y sabe que es poca cosa. No es Evo. No es Lula. No es Maduro. No es Chávez. No es Castro. No es. Él no es. Incluso, comparado con la corrupta y mafiosa Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, es pequeñito. Ni siquiera es eso. Es un administrativo. Es eso y nada más.
Su día transcurre cumpliendo horas de oficina, pero no se moja la camiseta por el país. No mira. No escucha. No oye. Está sentado sólo en su oficina, con sus ministros chécheres.
Les reclama eficiencia. Les espeta productividad. Pero él no habla el idioma de los sordos. Les grita a sus ministros que hagan algo y ellos no lo escuchan. Es un pandemónium. Una torre de Babel. Cada uno hace lo que le canta las ganas. Y, él, no tiene respuesta. No le respetan. No le responden. No tiene mando en sus filas. Es un general sin ejército. Es un caballo perdido en el campo.
Sus soldados son malos. Mal elegidos. Mal preparados. Quedaron en evidencia. El quedó expuesto, desnudo. Abierto. Solitario. Y, todos sus acólitos, piden desaforados a alguien superior que les brinde las indulgencias a su pequeñísimo presidente.
Lo sabe. Sufre. Cabila. Se pelea consigo mismo. Se pregunta: ¿Qué hago? ¿Los destituyo?. ¿Le doy razón a Evo?
Es un ratón atrapado.
¿Qué le queda? La fuerza bruta. El músculo, la torpeza. La represión.
Mira la plaza murillo desde su ventana y piso que no construyó. Se da cuenta que es y siempre será una pieza del evismo. Sólo eso. Él les dio la plata, cuando era ministro en bonanza. Creyó que era su gestión. Creyó que era él quien movió los precios internacionales. Que él construyó un mundo de bienestar. Que él era el mago de la economía. Vivió una fantasía. Un deja vu.
Ahora que no tiene dinero, está perdido. Ya no tiene recursos ni siquiera para pagar la cena. Nunca tuvo una estrategia económica. Fueron fuegos artificiales de los cuales él ni siquiera fue protagonista. Su padre, Evo, armó todo el show. El sólo puso la plata. Fue, una vez más, el funcionario eficiente del jefazo con dinero ajeno.
Fue un peón. Y sigue siendo una mula extraviada. Se mira al espejo y no mira nada. Esta desilusionado. Se ajusta los lentes y una vez más cree que seseando cautivará a alguien. Está dolido, angustiado. Y eso es peligroso. Porque pronto estará dispuesto a golpear. Estará, cuál marido ebrio, listo para romper vajillas, golpear a la esposa, agredir y reventar por los aires la convivencia de la familia. Estamos frente a un sociópata en potencia y del cual todos debemos cuidarnos.
Texto de Javier Medrano – Periodista
political repressor
Bolivian Thoughts 