PalmaOn her way to the rally, she bought a voucher from the blind. The saleswoman was sitting on a chair, in the corner of the square that they had to cross to reach the largest square in the city, which was the meeting point of the two communities. Wherever they were, you could feel the atmosphere of great events, the crowd moving in all directions, quickening their pace, laughing, singing, carrying banners, banners, flags or simple cards with written sentences.

The coupon seller asked her if she wanted a specific number and she said no, whatever she chose would work for her. She gave him one that ended in three, and she liked it, because there were also three of them: her and two friends from college. It occurred to him to divide the coupon into three parts and hand them out: if it was their turn, which it would be because the day of the demonstration was a lucky day, they would have to stay to collect the three mouthfuls and get the prize. , which was an eight-digit double amount. One of his colleagues was upset because he thought that once the coupon was split it was no longer valid, but the saleswoman explained that they should not be sad.

They each took their own piece of coupon, and one of their companions shouted, laughing: “For Tamerla!” The three of them repeated: “For Tamerla!”, and they quickly left towards the place of detention, while each of them kept the voucher in his wallet, or in his pocket. Tamerla was a bit of a joke to them. They named it because yes, like a cry of joy, as the poet says. They knew it was the name of a Mongol warrior, a legendary conqueror like Genghis Khan, who was their ancestor. During the High Middle Ages, Tamerlane expanded his empire across the Transoxiana lands, which correspond to present-day Uzbekistan. Tamerlane was its prince, and he established an empire called the Timurids, because he was also called Timur.

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“It’s not that they also called him Timur,” explained her companion, the big-nosed one, who she liked but always wanted to point out nuances and correct everyone. The young man added: “He named Timur; The name Tamerla is a corruption of the name established in Spanish, Tamerlan, and from Spanish to Catalan. “You mean?” the other friend, the one with the small ears and her head, hesitated, which I found a bit stubborn. “Very safe, very safe,” insisted the Nose.

There were so many people that it was difficult for them to enter the square, but they did not want to stay in the vicinity of the demonstration, but rather wanted to make sure that they got as far into the crowd as possible. They navigated situations by taking advantage of the short open spaces that suddenly closed behind them, using a body language of approaches and smiles, and a verbal language limited mainly to the words “sorry” and “thank you.” They agreed that if they lost each other, they would meet at such a time in such a café on Passeig del Born. They listened to the speeches, helped raise the big banner, sang the songs everyone was singing, and chanted the phrases everyone was saying. There are times in life, few times, when one is certain that one will do what is best for oneself and for others, and what is most just. In this case it was about speaking out in defense of your language, as a way of preserving received cultural heritage, but also (but above all) to enable a present and future to coexist and progress, in the face of rulers. They were unafraid and had no problem putting it all at risk to satisfy their own ambitions and the ambitions of their power groups. One of the most basic forms of freedom is to speak and name things and the world in your own language. When someone wants to prevent a person, or an entire country, from speaking their language freely, protest and rebellion is justice. She was certain that Tamerlane – or Timur, as he should be called – would not have allowed the bad rulers to prevent him from speaking the Mongolian language of his time.

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He lost his long-time comrades when it came time to end the protest. The previous day, while eating lunch at his parents’ house, he had heard a friend of his father say that he was tired of demonstrations, that everything always ended the same, and that when our people were ruling (he said that) there was nothing. No difference. She simply did not understand that bitterness, that intensity, that tightness in her chest. For her, seeing the generation coming together for a cause that was not only just, but also difficult, brought to mind a poem by Cesar Vallejo in which, at the end of battle, many gathered around a fallen fighter to ask him not to do so. death. Finally, the corpse heard the collective prayer, rose again, embraced the first man he found in front of him, and began walking.

Vallejo’s poem was titled – It has a title, and it will always have a title – timeIt was written in light of the poet’s astonishment caused by the events of the Spanish Civil War and the shame of the fascist uprising. I thought audiences don’t always bite. He began to dodge groups of people to leave the square behind him, occasionally greeting one or the other. I would go to the cafeteria and find the guy with the big nose, who must have already drawn conclusions from the demonstration, and the guy with his ears stuck to his head, who might be suspicious of where to take it all. Before they retired, they still had time to toast: they were doing it for the success of the demonstration, for the promise of the coupon I had distributed to the three of them. And for Tamerla, of course.

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