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34 autumns without Rodolfo Walsh ...

not lack of ideas ... or at least I think so. Each March 25 I can not remember Rodolfo Walsh. Perhaps because of its chronological proximity to the destination assigned to respect to Strike 76; certainly for their commitment, but also probably by intellectual fascination that once took care of waking up. An admiration that, beyond not being a popular thinker cradle is larger than that occurring to others. Tastes, anyway.

But recently I sat down to write, and after two lines reread what I had published a year ago and rarely ... I must admit that I liked writing. That same man who had been shot in the famous phrase that is under Walsh. No, I got the text. So this time, and only Alguns alterations, choose produce the document.

"... I remember how we got out in droves chess players ... and how, as we neared the Plaza San Martín we were getting serious and were less and less, and finally, when I crossed the plaza, I was just ... "

With his glasses, the pawn and the word (written on March 25, 2010) ...

A year and a day after the institutionalization of violence as state policy in our country, the corner of Entre Rios and San Juan was a witness to the murder of Rodolfo Walsh and the subsequent passing of his body.

If there are a few and few people whose spirit lives beyond their disappearance, Walsh is one, but the most significant of our recent history. Because unlike most mortals, if not just about the survival of their ideas and values \u200b\u200bfrom those that we identify with him, but the memory that brings us together around him is a consequence your most honest and unwavering political commitment and human.

His "Open Letter to the military junta is the symbolization of that commitment. Beyond the historical importance of this document transpires, beyond the harsh and stark denunciation of the political, economic and cultural carrying forward the Board, the Charter is synonymous with a spirit committed to its time, with its history and his people. It is the crystallization of years of struggle, years of political commitment to victims of terror as the months passed, years and decades, was infiltrating all layers of society in Argentina. With his legendary

glasses on, Rodolfo Walsh thought as progressively bring gray solitary at the Queen pawn ... but something stopped his chain of reasoning.

Los sucesos de 1955 llamaban a la puerta del periodista: la Masacre comenzaba a dictarle título al escritor, los tiros, su corrida; el dolor y el terror empezaban a herir al hombre para dar a luz al intelectual. Egoísta sería agradecerle al devenir histórico por tal nacimiento, pero igualmente injusto no valorarlo en su justa medida. Desde ese abandono del peón en el Club de Ajedrez de La Plata, Walsh nunca dejaría de ser una voz estruendosa y clara en las oscuras calles de ese país con el peronismo proscripto y los Dinosaurios rompiendo sus encendidos huevos.

Desde esa brumosa noche, Walsh nunca dejaría de correr...hacia la Verdad, la Justicia, la Palabra. Esa Palabra!! La suya...la que never returned to reserve for himself, one that concealed for years by literary shyness was able to exploit an indomitable force, while the other began to falter.

That Word ... not stopped .. Never Again, which reached its peak in full cry censorship, and that 24 hours later was panting desire for memory and justice in San Juan and Entre Ríos.

Today, it honors the corner is another. In Chile and Peru has held a place that commemorates him. In the mural that rises above the surface of mortals , accompanying his eternal logos:

His glasses that were always required to read accurately, raw and real tempestuously the world he lived in luck. Maybe without them our soil has lost the enjoyment of having two eyes own Olympian.

His typewriter was the complement of excellence for its factory of ideas and their biological need to say. For truly was born to biological ... Say, Say died.

And his Pawn. That he left to start his desperate Truth Marathon. Only if he knew that night fresh from the spring of 1955 conviction was thrown a marathon. Maybe you just thought it would be a block or two. The truth is that the story suggested it, and never his face paled to the challenge, never his fingers were numb to the verbiage of the Saying.

Rodolfo Walsh thought as progressively bring gray solitary Pawn to Queen ... but history suggested him another game. I played with greatness. The pawn was lonely and gray dusting over 22 years of commitment, and its black surface the remainder of gray grime left inscribed on it the word memory.

Today, 34 years after his assassination, the pawn does not stop ever closer to the promiscuous sodomite Queen of oblivion. Today, Thanks for letting us eternal hope and example of surplus someday definitely sentencing Checkmate: yours, ours ... that of All.