Otto Rene Castillo werd
geboren op 25 april 1934 te Quetzaltenango in Guatamala. Hij groeide
op in een middenklasse gezin en was op de middelbare school reeds
actief in de politiek. Hij studeerde enige tijd cinematografie en
kunst aan de Universiteit van Leipzig, alwaar hij onder andere
college kreeg van Joris Ivens. Op zijn achttiende begon hij met het
schrijven van artikelen voor jeugdmagazines.
In 1954 vluchtte Castillo
in exile naar El Salvador na de afzetting van de Guatamalese
president Jacobo Arbenz, alwaar hij afhankelijk werkte als arbeider,
verkoper etc. In El Salvador kwam Castillo echter ook in contact met
de dichter Roque Dalton en diens vriendenkring, die hem aanmoedigde
om meer poëzie te schrijven en te publiceren. Zijn eerste gedichten
verschenen niet veel later in The Daily Latino. Hij ging naar de
universiteit om rechten te studeren en richtte aldaar een literaire
universiteits cirkel op. Waar onder andere veel uit Guatamala
gevluchtte schrijvers zich bij aan zouden sluiten.
Zijn poëzie werd
beinvloed door mensen als Neruda, Vallejo en Hernandez & in 1955
ontving Castillo samen met Dalton de Poëzieprijs voor Centraal
Amerika.
De daaropvolgende jaren
bevond hij zich zowel in El Salvador als daarbuiten. Zo verbleef hij
in Europa, Azie & Afrika en keerde in 1964 kort terug naar
Guatamala, om zich te richten op zowel de ontwikkeling van culturele
activiteiten als het steunen van arbeiderspartij aldaar. Hij werd
gevangengenomen en het land uitgezet, waarop hij weer naar Europa
vertrok alwaar hij het world youth festival oprichtte.
In de jaren zestig
verschenen twee bundels van zijn hand : “Poema Tecun Uman” &
“Vamonos patria a caminar”
In 1966 keerde hij
clandestien terug naar Guatamala, alwaar hij zich aansloot bij de
guerillastrijders . Hij werd echter in maart 1967 gevangengenomen
door overheidstroepen en voor een periode van vier dagen ondervraagd,
gemarteld en naar men beweert uiteindelijk levend in brand gestoken.
Hij overleed op 23 maart 1967. Hij werd 32 jaar oud.
Apolitical
Intellectuals
One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total life.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be mute in your shame.
Satisfaction
The most beautiful thing
for those who have fought a whole life
is to come to the end and say;
we believed in people and life,
and life and the people
never let us down.
Only in this way do men become men,
women become women,
fighting day and night
for people and for life.
And when these lives come to an end
the people open their deepest rivers
and they enter those waters forever.
And so they become, distant fires, living,
creating the heart of example
The most beautiful thing
for those who have fought a whole life
is to come to the end and say;
we believed in people and life,
and life and the people
never let us down.
One day
the apolitical
intellectuals
of my country
will be interrogated
by the simplest
of our people.
They will be asked
what they did
when their nation died out
slowly,
like a sweet fire
small and alone.
No one will ask them
about their dress,
their long siestas
after lunch,
no one will want to know
about their sterile combats
with "the idea
of the nothing"
no one will care about
their higher financial learning.
They won't be questioned
on Greek mythology,
or regarding their self-disgust
when someone within them
begins to die
the coward's death.
They'll be asked nothing
about their absurd
justifications,
born in the shadow
of the total life.
On that day
the simple men will come.
Those who had no place
in the books and poems
of the apolitical intellectuals,
but daily delivered
their bread and milk,
their tortillas and eggs,
those who drove their cars,
who cared for their dogs and gardens
and worked for them,
and they'll ask:
"What did you do when the poor
suffered, when tenderness
and life
burned out of them?"
Apolitical intellectuals
of my sweet country,
you will not be able to answer.
A vulture of silence
will eat your gut.
Your own misery
will pick at your soul.
And you will be mute in your shame.
Satisfaction
The most beautiful thing
for those who have fought a whole life
is to come to the end and say;
we believed in people and life,
and life and the people
never let us down.
Only in this way do men become men,
women become women,
fighting day and night
for people and for life.
And when these lives come to an end
the people open their deepest rivers
and they enter those waters forever.
And so they become, distant fires, living,
creating the heart of example
The most beautiful thing
for those who have fought a whole life
is to come to the end and say;
we believed in people and life,
and life and the people
never let us down.
Before the Scales, Tomorrow:
And when the enthusiastic
story of our time
is told,
who are yet to be born
but announce themselves
with more generous face,
we will come out ahead
--those who have suffered most from it.
And that
being ahead of your time
means much suffering from it.
But it's beautiful to love the world
with eyes
that have not yet
been born.
And splendid
to know yourself victorious
when all around you
it's all still so cold,
so dark.
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