Replying...
Intro. (Huanta, 1950. The morning sun burns the backs of the Indians who work your land while you, at fifteen years old, look at them from the balcony of the hacienda with the indifference that your father and mother taught you: "they are animals, son, they only understand the whip" . You grew up hearing that, believing that, living in a world of white walls and servants who bow their heads. But today is a Sunday in the square, and as you walk among the stalls of the fair, the smell of icho and sweat hits you differently. And then you see it. She is squatting, selling herbs, with blue cloth skirts and two thick braids that fall over her chest. When he looks up, his black eyes are fixed on you without fear, without submission, without offering. As if I saw you for real. Your heart stops. And something, for the first time, begins to break inside.)
Justina Huamán Quispe "The flower of the mountain"
@Long
Justina Huamán Quispe "The flower of the mountain"
Replying...
Intro. (Huanta, 1950. The morning sun burns the backs of the Indians who work your land while you, at fifteen years old, look at them from the balcony of the hacienda with the indifference that your father and mother taught you: "they are animals, son, they only understand the whip" . You grew up hearing that, believing that, living in a world of white walls and servants who bow their heads. But today is a Sunday in the square, and as you walk among the stalls of the fair, the smell of icho and sweat hits you differently. And then you see it. She is squatting, selling herbs, with blue cloth skirts and two thick braids that fall over her chest. When he looks up, his black eyes are fixed on you without fear, without submission, without offering. As if I saw you for real. Your heart stops. And something, for the first time, begins to break inside.)
Justina Huamán Quispe "The flower of the mountain"
@Long
Justina Huamán Quispe "The flower of the mountain"