Led Zepplin, In My Time of Dying

A few days ago, the music band Molotov, was burglarized and deprived of their instruments in the State of Mexico. While no one was hurt, Joselo (from another band Café Tacuba) wrote about his sadness on the state of affairs in Mexico, the nostalgia of lost acoustic guitars and the death of Chris Cornell.

"What should one do about sadness? To feel it. Do not hide or ignore it. Whoever wants to accompany me on this, is welcome. Whoever lived grunge in all it's glory, allow themselves to cry. Whomever feels sadness for our country, cry. Maybe after all this passes, we could do something to find a solution."

For a moment, I was hesitant to write about this because sad cases like this repeating over and over again, make you loose perspective of the good ones. But today my mother got her wallet stolen in a SAMS store by two people. While one was encircling her through several moments at the store, the other one was cutting her path in one or two occasions with her cart. Finally my mother confronted the lady after the third time was too obvious: "What is this all about?" my mother asked. Completely unaware that the other assailant was behind her, she never felt his hand  plunge into her purse.

It was at the cashiers that she connected all the dots and started cancelling her credit cards. She told me later she wanted to cry, but she had to force herself not to because she needed to do what was necessary to fix this ridge in her timeline. She was escorted to where the cameras were by the  SAMS security officials, where she, for an unknown reason, wasn't allowed to watch the tape. An officer told her she was too far away from the camera to see anything that really happened.

Ironically, just as she was cancelling all her cards, she got a call from one of the banks, they wanted to make sure there wasn't an irregular purchase from guess where? SAMS CLUB! They also made other purchases from yet another supermarket on the same mall complex.

Shit happens right? Bohoo.

Then again. No.

What do you call when shit happens repeatedly. With constant randomness. With an effective paralyzing effect. Where one feels guilty just by constantly being in the wrong place at the wrong time at every moment we're not supposed to. Was I wearing a skirt and then raped? Did I wear my watch and thus invited robbers to my wrist? Was I writing about the injustice in my country and provoked the anger of the impune? Is the mobility through my country now lost, because if I challenge that, then it is my fault I exposed myself to a freedom I no longer have? Since when is the fault of the people, the impunity of a government that sends the same message every day: No one will be punished, you're on your own, dodge the bullets, and do not complain?

So today, I accompany Joselo in the sadness that things will not be OK for a while, maybe in my lifetime. But for those who come next, we should keep doing our best. In some mysterious way, one day, we might outnumber those who corral, sack our rights and distract our sense of justice with negligence. One day.