Tuesday, May 16, 2017

The hat of the bato Javier Valdez Cárdenas: José Luis Muñoz

Dear Javier, I will. You murdered the cowards, who always wanted to silence you in that beautiful and beloved Mexico that I know a little and that I do not dare to return and less now that you are no longer in it. The news of your death came to me mid-afternoon by Meli Suárez and Jose Cabolugo, our good friends from Gijón who are like our brothers. I did not see you dead at that moment but alive, smiling, affable and close, sharing cigars with our friends in Gijón, a few years ago. You drank cider like the good Asturian, you took the rite well to go passing the glass and rush in a single swallow its contents. You praised the potato omelette, those excellent spikes that were giving us, so that apple wine did not screw our stomach. We talked about literature, Mexican food, the curse of Moctezuma, the Mexican I saw and the one you lived for, that country that has been bleeding for so many years and there is no way to stop it and stop its wounds. You were a hero, Javier, although, like the real ones, you did not brag about it. You felt compelled to denounce because you should not shut up what you saw happen around you, but in Gijón, in that Black Week, you were calm, you did not have to turn in the chair, nor sit facing the entrance door, you were not in The dangerous Sinaloa where you have lived and died.
Mexico, Javier, is becoming a mass grave for journalists, and I fear for those who remain there and follow your path, denouncing violence, corruption, inept police and accomplice with crime, delinquent politicians in collusion with cartels . Mexico, after Syria, is the country that most journalists charge. Exercising as a journalist in Mexico is like going to the battlefield unarmed.
Sure, although you never said it, that you had already imagined that this, the one you found today, could be your end, that some hitmen would put an end to your life to silence you, that one day or another you were going to meet them, , That you were his whip, you who did not bite your tongue, that you wrote articles and stories about that carcinoma that corrodes Mexico to the entrails and it takes the life of the brave ones. Putos delinquentes and fucking policemen as bad as the criminals who torture and murder with total impunity in a Mexico that has an eternity being a failed state that does not guarantee the lives of its citizens. We do not know who was the wretch who paid those gunmen, I beat, who ordered those bullets that kept you silent and left you lying on the asphalt, in that desolate end of the black losers.
We saw little of the ocean that separated, but we kept a loving correspondence for years and we were, in the distance, pending from each other. I wanted you for the anthology of Stories of the Black Shore, because your voice was essential for that volume among the Mexican authors, next to Fritz Glockner and Augusto Cruz, and you made me arrive All dead that culminates that volume of authors of one and another Side of the Atlantic. "Wonderful, I hit. What a shame that we have achieved this collective delivery and thanks, above all, to you. I hug you very hard. Thanks again for everything, I beat you, "you told me. A little while ago, and I told you and I was glad of the new one, I bought in Malpaso bookstore in Barcelona your book Malayerba, I also have a recently published weed, and here I have it, by hand, although now I dare not read it, you will have Excuse me, give me time, I'll knock. You said to Sanjuana Martinez, another brave journalist, a fighter like you who does not bite your tongue, you felt the gun look on your head, and you did not mistake, I beat, because you lived permanently with the death next door, It was a matter of time before the sentence they had dictated for being brave was fulfilled, and the streets of Culiacan were your death row.
I look at your Facebook. You were active four hours ago. Terrible to erase your mail, your phone, your signs, everything. In 2013 you said to me: "Make friend and accomplice. How much more nostalgia than time, I knock. Thank you very much for your letters and the flares. And of course, I will read your book and enjoy it. Things here are very bad, you should know: impunity, violence, lack of space and budget for culture, repression, disappearances, corrupt governments. And I do not follow. It is impossible life and in those conditions you have to do journalism and fight with the keys. Thanks for everything, pinch Jose Luis. I send you a big hug. J ".
I knew of you by Meli and Jose, who are as desolate this day as I am, not believing yet, looking again and again at that picture of you on which you are lying on the asphalt, with the wide-brimmed hat on, with That hat that death has not been able to snatch you from your head, dear bato, and that will accompany you wherever you go.

Taken from:

Rest in peace, one more journalist, massacred, like many in this territory.

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