Gabriela Montero
Pianist
A Counter Cry
In late December,
2008, as I was boarding a flight for New Zealand with my two girls, the phone
rang. An ordinary occurrence but, on this occasion, an extraordinary request. I
had been invited to play John Williams' "Air and Simple Gifts" at the
inauguration of President Obama, with Yo-Yo Ma, Itzhak Perlman and Anthony
McGill. I had many hours to ponder the implications of this request. I, a
Venezuelan, had been handed the opportunity to represent my native land in my
adopted one, on this most historic and conciliatory of occasions. It was an
incalculable honor.
If the
inauguration of President Obama symbolized anything, it was the overdue victory
of human dignity over barbarism, equality over division. Back home in my native
Venezuela, however, human dignity is suffering its most brutal assault in our
nation's history.
In 2011, the
UNODC reports 19,336 Venezuelan citizens
were murdered, establishing Venezuela as the most deadly country in South America, and the third most deadly in the
world behind Honduras and El Salvador. To relativize that figure, a country NOT
at war produced more violent deaths in 2011 than all of the war-mired, Middle
Eastern theaters combined. The death toll was ten times that per capita
of the U.S. in its darkest days of urban violence before zero-tolerance. More
Venezuelans were murdered in 2011 than all Syrians killed in the first 16
months of the current uprising, including government forces, rebel forces and
civilians. Caracas is now the world's most deadly capital city,
with a murder rate in the region of 130 per 100,000. The Corruption Index on
transparency.org has condemned Venezuela to a shameful 1.9 points from a
possible 10. Mugabe's Zimbabwe, widely considered a failed state, manages to
scrape a 2.2.
These figures
are simply unacceptable in any civilized nation state. They represent a nation
at war with itself. Behind them lies a broken system in which 90 percent of
murders pass without an arrest being made, and a vicious class struggle whose
arbitrator is the gun and the thug. They are fueled by the new rhetoric of the
Bolivarian Revolution, in which a place at the table should be secured by any
means, fair or foul. "Secuestro express" is a daily menace, often
deadly, and sometimes carried out by the police themselves to supplement their
poor wages. Armed gangs profile and seize a victim, and wait for thousands of
dollars to be paid in ransom. If a glitch is perceived, the victim is simply
killed and dumped.
Underpinning
this dehumanization and chaos is the central and tragic irony that Venezuela
ought by now to have proudly established itself as the Norway of Latin America.
In the current market, its abundant mineral and oil resources should have
fueled a thriving Venezuelan economy, well able to provide the social services
promised by the current administration. With systemic corruption and violence
of this magnitude, however, comes gross inefficiency and structural decay. Venezuela
refines 30 percent less crude oil than it did twenty
years ago, and inflation peaked at 27 percent earlier this year.
The Venezuelan
who speaks out in opposition to systemic murder and corruption inevitably faces
a chorus of non-sequiturs and the accusation of opposing the broader ideal of
fairness and justice for all Venezuelans. I witnessed this opprobrium first
hand, when I chose to compose "ExPatria" -- a tone poem for piano and
orchestra illustrating extreme violence and corruption. Most Venezuelans
embrace the principle that a nation should benefit uniformly from the fair,
efficient and transparent distribution of its resources. The fact remains,
however, that this Scandinavian social utopia has simply not been delivered. A
violent kleptocracy is the daily reality for the Venezuelan people, and it has
no right to call itself a democracy, simply because a majority was fooled and
cajoled into voting for it.
In glaring
contrast to the optimistic view of Venezuela exported by the success of
"El Sistema," the now celebrated youth orchestra program, it is my
duty as an artist to expose, with what small voice I have, the tragic
predicament of a country under curfew, whose citizens live in a real and
present fear of the next murder, the next kidnapping and the next
expropriation. We are all immensely grateful for the continued existence of
"El Sistema," founded some 37 years ago, and for its contribution to
global musical life, but I am only too painfully aware that these small pockets
of music represent a cultural and human oasis in a wider chaos whose
malevolence is a constant and deadly threat to each and every member of
society. What dangers do these youngsters face when they leave the sanctuary of
the concert hall? To what can they look forward, when the music stops?
I am not a
politician. I am a musician. Far from wishing to stoke the flames of
partisanship, my music is an unsolicited, personally financed, non-affiliated
protest and personal expression of regret. It is my appeal for national
reconciliation and regrowth. It is my attempt to emotionally and metaphorically
inform those around the world who are unaware of, or actively mis-informed as
to, the daily reality of life in a disintegrating, yet abundant and beautiful
Venezuela. It is a counter-cry to those with a far louder voice than mine,
respected members of the artistic community like Sean Penn, whose harmfully
romanticized view of the Bolivarian Revolution bears no resemblance to the
daily insecurity faced by a nation which can afford to do so, so much better.
The Venezuelan people must now insist upon it, and the international community
must keep vigil to ensure a peaceful and democratic presidential election on
October 7th.
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario