Long-time readers may remember that a decade ago (argh) I spent a year at the University of Michigan on a sabbatical journalism fellowship, and part of that experience was a week in Argentina. Buenos Aires, specifically.
Relax. I didn’t meet the Pope or anything.
But we did have one seminar, as a group, with the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, the mothers of the men and women who were disappeared during the Dirty War of the 1970s. It was a difficult session, what with the awful personal stories and the long translations; a couple of our group were leaking tears by the end of it. During the question period, I asked whether any of them had gone to the church for help. They sat up. The church was a part of it!, they said. The military leaders considered themselves quite humane and sophisticated, because they offered their victims final absolution before they were taken up in the planes to be pushed out over the River Plate.
So when you tell me the new pope is an Argentine and a septuagenarian, my first question is, what did you do in the Dirty War, father?
As frequently happens, the answer isn’t simple or easy. Well, it’s not my church anymore. And I do wish him well. He sounds like he has a lot going for him.
I’m working on not caring about things I’m not required to care about. This is a start.
Not much bloggage today. Google Reader, adios.
I can’t wait to not see “Spring Breakers.” I hope Kate feels the same way.
Charlie LeDuff in a spot of bother. I predict it will blow over like a 20-minute shower.
This week feels 10 days long already. I hope yours is going swimmingly.