Freedom and hope together are the forces of a people capable of anything for the love of water. We are fighting against toxicity on all fronts, because poison and violence are so alike. A storm that threatens but doesn't arrive, a wind that brings refreshing droplets from the source. From up there, they see how peaceful, colorful, artistic, and joyful our demonstrations are when they don't provoke or infiltrate. A little girl with a sign that says 'I'm not afraid to shine,' and an abusive government that tries to leave us in the dark. I know this place, it's the Zone of Dignity. They rule through fear, censorship, and self-censorship. They extract until they exhaust everything, without mercy or consideration, and once they have dried up the source of life that flowed for you, they leave behind another crater, another wasteland elsewhere. The inevitable objectification because you are no longer a person but a human resource, a final consumer, a cute little thing, a zero after how many better-positioned zeros on the left or right of the comma of insignificance itself. We don't need them. People who behave like fireflies, until they return our light to us. We are much better without mining hanging over us all the time. Because they realized once again that it went wrong for them. Guess what, capitalism and patriarchy are so alike. The community of Uspallata has been suffering this harassment called social pollution for seventeen years. We are not going to swallow poison and anger. Outdoors, in the open air, you can feel the unleashed energy of a people willing to change history once again. That's why we sing the mountains, how beautiful they are... It is crucial to realize that we can live perfectly well without their toxicity, without their poison. Letting the metals stay in the earth is an action for world peace, a hymn to sanity to deny them the supplies to make a world war. Then we see them reappear, Mauri with his drum, Fede hanging flags like kilometers of Protected Area on the inevitable fences. The first two promise what they know they won't fulfill, and then they threaten. The dismissal. 'When I listen to the other, I become the other,' said a very zen-like sign somewhere, that poetry on a banner that crosses demonstrations. But they don't listen, they don't want to listen to you, or to CONICET, or to the Constitution, or to their conscience. Therefore, within this similarity between extractivism and patriarchy, the Protected Natural Area would be the turning point, to say 'hey, I have these landscape beauties, these world-famous cultural and heritage values, and by the way I have to sustain the life of all creatures that depend on the mountain water'. Confident in their power, in their strength, in the joy of reuniting as a whole in the defense of water. Their laws, instead of ink, are made of spiderwebs. They isolate the victim from their support networks, break the social fabric, undermine self-esteem and the land under your feet. Where in 2019 the sky-blue and white and the wiphala flags waved, today it's full of cops. To get rid of them by law, as an inapproachable restriction of proximity. Chronicle of the Ni Una Menos and Desvelada por el Agua march in Mendoza. Collaborative coverage by Huella del Sur, La Mosquitera TV, Assembly of Self-Convoked Neighbors of Uspallata ANRed. 11/25/25. That's what a girl with a guitar was saying, summarizing the two reasons that brought us together in Plaza Independencia. Patriarchy this time took the face of Mario Rili, the plainclothes police officer who illegitimately deprived Liza Rule of her freedom during a protest for water. Today his face is on all the banners, like a strange example of a violent male, who complains about a tiny scratch, a one-centimeter scrape on a finger, and builds on that a false complaint of 'grievous bodily injury'. Instead, we see her, Liza, dancing, improvising on poems that speak of the tear that occurs in humanity, when the machines for drilling human beings in Palestine, with metals torn from mountains like ours, explode in someone's face, in someone's house. Where we live.
