Era primero de septiembre de 2019 y tenía que hacer mi primera postulación a una beca. Se estaba venciendo el plazo y mi portafolio estaba en cero. Había varios puntos resueltos, pero faltaba lo principal: la confianza, tenía un miedo inexplicable, una suerte de aviso que sentía todo mi cuerpo.

Todo había comenzado en febrero de 2019. Finalizaba mi participación como violinista en una masterclass en un teatro ubicado en la Patagonia chilena. Como cada vez que me sometía a estas experiencias de exposición, me encontraba exhausta por la vivencia. Mi perfeccionismo y la desconfianza en mi desempeño me hacían sentir la necesidad de estar en todo momento practicando y resolviendo problemas técnicos. Pero esa desconfianza se convirtió en mi motivación principal para encontrar la perseverancia de estudiar y practicar día y noche para las clases públicas y para lo que sería el concierto final. Me sentía incómoda, avergonzada e incluso ridícula al lado de otros músicos en formación que, de toda América, venían a perfeccionarse con profesores del viejo continente.

Había especialmente más extranjeros ese año y, además, el director del teatro era un pianista chileno con trayectoria internacional, radicado en Alemania, que mantenía una cartelera de formación activa, lo que había hecho crecer la temporada.

Llegó mi turno de participación y había escogido el Concierto para violín en la mayor, K. 219 n.º 5 de Mozart. El profesor me llama al escenario:
 — Could we have Mozart’s Fifth, please? — dice, con su inglés perfectamente pronunciado de británico académico.

Comienzo a tocar y él decía: “canta”, “canta”. Había muchas cosas que corregir, pero él quería que yo cantara… y lo logró.

Cuando terminé de tocar me dijo que estaba escuchando por primera vez un Concierto n.º 5 tan desorganizado, pero tan hermoso. Al parecer, le había gustado mi vibrato y algo que decía de mi pasión, que no fui capaz de comprender. Fue más claro al decir que el vibrato era muy apasionado para Mozart; complementó que Mozart había vivido en una época muy anterior y que en ese tiempo se tocaba diferente. Fue muy amable al hacerme saber que mi versión estaba fuera de estilo. Luego fue al punto del orden:
 — “Desarrolla por episodios”, “busca los capítulos y cuéntalos, luego déjalos, después cuenta otro capítulo que tenga que ver con la historia anterior, luego déjalo e inicia uno nuevo”.
 — “Los músicos somos escritores, somos novelistas, contamos historias”.

Tenía una fuerte intención de continuar dándome indicaciones para mi mejora, pero el tiempo se terminó. Después pasó supervisando las salas de estudio personal en la azotea del teatro; entraba a charlar con algunos de los muchachos que se encontraban practicando. Al finalizar la semana de lecciones le compré un libro fotográfico de mi país para que se llevara un buen recuerdo. Me comentó que en Londres había un programa de masterclass que impartía la institución donde él daba clases y que, si yo quería postular, él podía ser mi profesor. Yo creía que era una broma, no lo podía creer, y al notar cómo cambiaba mi expresión con sus palabras me dijo:
 — “Pero vamos paso a paso”, “debemos conseguir las fechas, que todavía no se publican”.

Esa fue nuestra única y última conversación en privado. Al día siguiente era el concierto final y, luego de eso, él se retiró a su país y yo a mi ciudad.

En marzo me escribió señalando las fechas de las clases en Londres. Yo estaba tan entusiasmada con tomar esas lecciones que comencé a buscar la forma de poder acudir.

Un amigo que estudiaba trombón me advirtió sobre las becas del gobierno:
 — “Puedes pedir una beca”, me dijo.
 — “Hay becas de viajes cortos de estudio en la página del Ministerio de las Culturas, no más de seis meses”.

Entonces postulé y gané el financiamiento.

Cuando llegó la hora de viajar, había llegado la pandemia. Yo estaba muy triste porque no tenía certeza de que se pudiera llevar a cabo mi curso de doce lecciones de violín durante cinco meses en Londres.

Entonces inicié una investigación sobre las condiciones en las que se encontraba Inglaterra y el entorno al cual me incorporaría. El investigador me contó que el profesor estaba acudiendo al conservatorio, que daba clases regularmente ahí, que además tenía otros conciertos y que su agenda de ensayos era bastante movida. Vi viable viajar.

En ese entonces me encontraba trabajando como profesora en una ciudad en el sur de mi país, en condiciones muy difíciles para mi acostumbrada vida de ciudad. No había buena conectividad vial; se cortaba frecuentemente el suministro de energía eléctrica y agua. Las calles eran oscuras, las carreteras no existían, todo era rural. Había animales de ganadería por las calles, no había centros comerciales, ni cafés, ni tiendas, ni centros médicos de especialistas, ni hospital. En fin, toda una hazaña vivir en esa ciudad. Pero era el único trabajo que encontré y necesitaba trabajar.

El día del vuelo se acercaba y yo debía regresar a Santiago para preparar todo para mi viaje. Entonces renuncié a mi trabajo un día viernes por la mañana. Me dirigí a la dirección. Ahí estaba el horrible jefe, director de colegios, hablándome de su próstata y alardeando de cómo se sentía con tanta energía pese a la edad que tenía. Interrumpí su conversación para decirle:
 — “Jefe, me devuelvo a Santiago hoy en la tarde porque tengo que salir de Chile. Hay una beca que obtuve para estudiar cinco meses afuera, por lo tanto, renuncio a la escuela. Muchas gracias, que salga todo bien”.

Esas palabras desfiguraron su cara. Yo ya me había dado cuenta de que había quedado viudo hacía dos años, que quería casarse otra vez y que tenía en sus sueños utópicos la intención de casarse conmigo. Cometía actos denigratorios hacia mis funciones solo para menoscabarme y así controlar mi reputación en la escuela, con el fin de hacerme sentir inferior. Todo con el objeto de disminuirme para que me sintiera sola y, como último recurso de compañía, pudiera soportar sus conversaciones acerca de su próstata.

En ese entonces yo tenía 31 años y él tenía 55, y era extremadamente desagradable para mí que se atreviera a coquetearme. Primero que todo, porque yo tenía un novio de mi edad que se encontraba en Alemania. Segundo, porque yo ya tenía un padre y una excelente relación con él, y por lo tanto no quería otro padre. No había forma posible de que yo tuviera alguna motivación amorosa hacia una relación con un hombre 24 años mayor que yo.

Cuando llegó la hora de salir del lugar donde vivía para tomar el bus que me llevaría a Santiago, el anciano dueño de la casa que arrendaba cerró la puerta de acceso y soltó a sus perros. Sentí un frío helado subir por mi columna. Ese hombre había sido tan amable hasta ese minuto, pero ahora su amabilidad se convertía en tiranía. No respondía mis llamados para ayudarme a salir de mi cabaña; sus perros rondaban afuera. Los mantenía hambrientos para devorar a todo aquel que osara ingresar en su propiedad.

Pasaron varias horas y el anciano no respondía ni colaboraba, por lo que salí con mi maleta y comencé a caminar hacia la salida.
 — “¿Y usted para dónde va?” — gritó desde su ventana — .
 — “¿Cómo va a salir si estamos en toque de queda?”

Respondí:
 — “Tengo un permiso especial para viajar a Santiago”.

Le hablé con gran firmeza para que se alejara.
Él respondió:
 — “No la voy a dejar salir de aquí”, “es de noche y no hay buses a esta hora”.

Le respondí:
 — “Abra esa puerta o llamaré a la policía”.

Entonces sacó su arma y disparó al aire:
 — “Dije que no”, “carajo”, “váyase a su cabaña”, “devuélvase”.

Percibí que cada vez ponía más energía en detenerme, por lo que tomé mi maleta, la tiré hacia afuera por encima de la reja y luego me tiré yo.

El anciano disparaba al viento mientras gritaba:
 — “No tiene ningún derecho a abandonarme”, “es una mujer traicionera”, “traidora”, “las va a pagar bien caro”.

Caminé durante una hora en la oscuridad de la cordillera de Nahuelbuta, con mi maleta de ruedas sobre las piedras del terreno rural que conectaba con la ciudad. Detrás de mí, el anciano me alumbraba con su camioneta, gritando como un loco y dando disparos al aire. Antes de llegar a la ciudad se retiró por temor a ser reconocido en el pueblo como un agresor.

Yo tomé el bus hasta Santiago. Eran las 21:30 cuando el bus salió para siempre de ese aterrador lugar, donde nunca volveré y que representa los peores días de mi vida. Allí comprobé que lo que decían los libros de historia de Chile acerca de las antiguas generaciones de familias agrícolas era cierto: las mujeres eran tratadas como esclavas, incluso secuestradas por hombres campesinos, obligadas a formar una familia con hombres que no conocían y a quienes debían servir por el resto de sus vidas solo porque ellos tenían un arma o recursos económicos que ellas no poseían.

Desde entonces tengo un arma y desde entonces trabajo más arduamente que antes, para nunca volver a enfrentar una realidad tan descomunalmente adversa como vivir siendo la geisha de un don nadie.

Pero esta historia no quedó aquí.

Llegué a mi departamento en Santiago y este hombre anciano había pagado a los conserjes de mi edificio para que le avisaran cuándo yo salía y cuándo yo llegaba; también quién entraba y quién salía del departamento que compartía con mi hermano.

Estuve todo ese tiempo antes de mi viaje sin denunciar, porque en ese momento no tenía cómo demostrar lo que estaba ocurriendo.

Comentaba esto a mis familiares y me hacían sentir que estaba loca. Un día, una mujer del norte de mi país que conocí en una de mis tantas visitas al departamento de policía de investigaciones, me contó que ella había vivido lo mismo, en la misma ciudad que yo y con el mismo hombre, pero que él era un empleado de otros hombres que lo financiaban para que hostigara a otras mujeres, romper sus oportunidades y obligarlas a acatar los planes que ellos tenían para ellas.

La historia se ponía cada vez más difícil de entender y, por consiguiente, de denunciar.

Además, no era el momento: llegaba la hora de mi viaje a Londres y tenía muchas cosas que resolver. También debía practicar unas ocho horas diarias para poder sentirme cómoda con el repertorio que tenía que completar.

Cuando llegó el día de subirme al transfer que conectaba con el aeropuerto, noté que detrás del transfer venía un vehículo muy deteriorado y con las luces desajustadas. Me pregunté cómo era posible que un vehículo circulara por la calle en esas condiciones. Cuando el transfer avanzó, el vehículo encendió su radio a todo volumen con una desagradable música de rancheras mexicanas; entonces, dos hombres en las ventanas comenzaron a tirar balazos al cielo. Esta escena ya la había vivido el día que escapé del sur.

Esta hazaña recién comenzaba; todavía había que presenciar lo peor.

Me preguntaba quién era, quién financiaba esto, de dónde venían estos reclamos, este hostigamiento, esta agresión, estos actos crueles para acabar con mi libertad, para infundir miedo en mí, para estancar mi carrera. ¿Por qué?, ¿qué había hecho yo para merecer eso?

A medio camino, el vehículo escolta se retiró. Al llegar al aeropuerto, todo estaba tranquilo. Pasaron veintidós horas de vuelo y llegué a Londres. Me quedé en un hostel porque era lo más económico que me había recomendado mi profesor de violín. Venían varios meses por delante y tenía que poder llegar hasta el final.

Estudiaba en la habitación cuando no había nadie. También en la iglesia anglicana de la esquina.

Un día, de esos en los que me encontraba preparando mis clases, me escribió un amigo que vivía en NY, avisándome que venía a Londres por dos días. Lo había conocido por Instagram, tenía un apellido italiano y era mánager de varias cuentas de músicos reconocidos de la escena docta de NY. También llevaba la cuenta de su hija, que era cellista y bailarina. Además de ofrecerme tomar un café, me ofrecía probar dos violines que supuestamente eran Stradivarius.

Esa misma mañana, la mujer del aseo del lugar donde dormía tocó mi puerta y me invitó a beber un té con ella. Ella era dominicana y nos entendíamos bien. De pronto llegó uno de sus amigos; lo llamó para presentármelo. Justin se llamaba. Una ingles con mescla de polaco.

En la tarde, escribió mi amigo de NY para organizar la cita para conocernos, preguntando:
 — «¿Te parece que nos reunamos en mi hotel? Hay una cafetería aquí abajo, hoy a las 16 horas».

Como era el Marriott, me pareció interesante asistir, porque es un palacio entre los más antiguos de la ciudad y verlo por dentro era imposible para mí, ya que no era huésped. Entonces nos reunimos esa tarde. Cuando terminamos de hablar, me preguntó si era posible mostrarme los violines y le dije que sí, que me gustaría verlos. Cuando abrió la caja supe que no eran Stradivarius, porque una profesora anterior que me había dado una masterclass en España tenía uno de esos Stradivarius y no se veía como estos. Supe entonces que era una trampa para que yo subiera con él a su habitación.

Entonces, Justin, el amigo de la mujer del hotel donde dormía, llamó a mi teléfono y le pregunté si me podía ir a buscar al hotel Marriott. Le dije a mi amigo de NY que me tenía que ir y me ofreció vernos nuevamente al día siguiente en uno de los estudios de lutería de uno de los más importantes luthiers de Londres, Federico Leonhel. Le dije que no me interesaba acudir porque me había mentido sobre la procedencia de los violines que me mostró. Además, al día siguiente tendría por fin la primera clase de violín con el profesor que me había llevado hasta esa ciudad.

Llegó el tan esperado día y, apenas fueron las nueve de la mañana, el profesor de violín me canceló la clase, diciendo que no estaría abierto el conservatorio y que me llamaría mañana.

Qué decepción: habían pasado diez días en Londres y yo sin poder recibir una clase. Al día siguiente me llamó y me dijo que tendríamos la clase online porque el recinto continuaba cerrado. Luego llegó la semana siguiente y me preguntó si quería acudir a su departamento para recibir la clase, ya que el recinto continuaba cerrado. Sentí una pena infinita; a ese paso, nunca podría conocer el conservatorio de música. Así fue como me dio las doce clases de violín en su departamento, sin jamás pisar el recinto estudiantil donde originalmente me daría las clases.

Después de la visita de ese amigo desde NY, todo había cambiado: el profesor de violín ya no tenía conversaciones ni gestos de preocupación conmigo; me había dejado completamente a la deriva. Algo había hecho ese hombre de NY, pero no sabía qué. Sin embargo sabia que mi profesor era amigo intimo del dueño de la lutería a la cual me había invitado mi amigo de NY.

Estudiaba todo el día esperando que apareciera el día de la siguiente clase y, en las tardes, siempre me pasaba a buscar Justin para tomar un jugo antes de irme a dormir. Un día me preguntó si podíamos caminar por el río Támesis. Le dije que podíamos, pero temprano, porque había llegado la tan anhelada fecha de mi siguiente clase que era al día siguiente. En esa caminata intentó besarme y me desagradó bastante, porque Justin era bastante más mayor que yo y, además, era novio de una de las meseras del lugar donde yo dormía; se llamaba Rosa y era italiana.

— “Te quiero contar algo” — me dijo Justin, después del forcejeo por arrancar de su beso — , “hay un hombre que te está persiguiendo para asesinarte”.

Me asusté mucho. Pero ya había visto el mal ambiente de Londres, lo desfavorable que era para vivir ahí: las calles sucias, la gente viviendo en las plazas, los hombres drogados durmiendo en las esquinas. Entonces, no me extrañó su comentario.

— “Se trata de Habdul, está muy enojado porque tocas violín” — Ese hombre dormía en la misma habitación que yo en el hostel. Yo me lo imaginaba su molestia, pese a que nunca use mi violín con nadie presente en la habitación. Habdul, encendía la luz a las cuatro de la mañana, estiraba su alfombra en el suelo y comenzaba sus oraciones.
 — “Te detesta porque ese es un instrumento judío” — agregó Justin — . “Él es musulmán, te quiere robar el violín y quemarlo; además, te quiere matar porque no lo acompañaste a caminar nunca. Siempre te invita y siempre le dices que no”.

Se comenzaba a enojar cada vez más a medida que explicaba la situación.
 — “Estamos en Londres, aquí viven personas de todo el mundo; debes ser más respetuosa y más cuidadosa con tus respuestas”.

Luego comenzó su manipulación:
 — “Yo te quiero cada día más y estoy muy preocupado” — comenzó a llorar — . “Quería ofrecerte venirte a vivir con nosotros en mi departamento, puedo rentarte un cuarto en 400 libras”.

Como yo había buscado incansablemente un cuarto sin éxito, comencé a pensar en esa propuesta. Se trataba de Londres y el valor que me daba era económico en exceso, además, para conseguir un cuarto en Londres debías entrar a las mafias de los indios o de los árabes. Yo nunca acepté, porque toda la negociación siempre concluía en tener que aceptar sus ofertas de matrimonio forzado. Por esas razones debí quedarme en ese hostel horroroso durante dos meses. Ahora Justin me estaba ofreciendo rentar en su casa. Le dije que sí, pero que no éramos novios. Yo, en ese tiempo, tenía mi novio en Alemania y estaba esperando por él en Londres.

Cuando mi novio por fin pudo venir a Londres, Justin me sacó de la casa. Me dijo que debía ocupar el cuarto, así es que tenía solo ese día para irme. Le había pagado todo el mes y el idiota me estaba sacando quince días antes. Busqué otro lugar en Londres, pero no encontré. Debí irme a Derbyshire, a dos horas de Londres, donde permanecí por dos meses. Este lugar lo encontré por Booking; era una recomendación insistente y yo la tomé. Derbyshire era más hermoso que Londres; había un lago cerca de donde vivía.

En cuanto avise a mi profesor de violín que me encontraba viviendo en esa ciudad, aparecieron mágicamente las posibilidades de tomar las clases de violín en el conservatorio. Sin embargo, era imposible continuar pagando el tren para ir a las clases presenciales, por lo cual me olvidé completamente de la posibilidad de ir al recinto académico y continuamos trabajando online.

La mujer dueña de la casa de Derbyshire me presentó ese día a Forest, un americano que estaba en el cuarto de al lado. Forest hablaba español; salimos varios días de compras hasta que aprendí el camino.

Comprendí, con ese vínculo, cómo es que tratan algunos americanos a los latinos: como si ellos fueran los jefes, como si tú fueras el sirviente, como si te estuvieran haciendo un favor solo por hablarte. Sin respetar a la persona y su integridad solo por el hecho de ser una persona.

Pero estaba preocupada porque no había encontrado trabajo en Derbyshire. El trabajo que tenía en Londres también había fracasado. Consistía en apoyar a los clientes usuarios en un cibercafé llamado Galápagos Net, porque el dueño llamado Paul, era de origen ecuatoriano. Aquí tenía que lidiar con el manager que era de origen español y se hacía llamar William. Yo atendía a las personas que querían fotocopiar o comprar artículos de la librería, o que necesitaban ayuda básica en sus equipos. El dueño del cibercafé me dijo que me pagaría ochocientas libras mensuales por cinco horas de trabajo diario. Cuando llegó el fin de mes, me dijo que, como yo no había resuelto sacar papeles, no me podía pagar.

Las posibilidades de continuar en el Reino Unido eran cada vez más escasas. Así que tomé unos días para pensar en casa de mi novio en Berlín. Él estaba convencido de que podía quedarme a vivir allá si encontraba una universidad para matricularme. Pero el idioma era imposible para mí y todas las universidades exigían nivel nativo para la matriculación.

El profesor de violín ya no se comunicaba conmigo y todavía había clases pendientes. Entonces barajé la situación y como nos encontrábamos trabajando online desde el inicio, concluí que ya me sentía preparada para salir de ese país para siempre. Me quedé en casa de mi novio en Berlín hasta que llegó el día del vuelo de regreso a mi país.

Sentía que había tenido una primera experiencia de beca bastante desfavorable, pero también sentía que debía salir de Chile porque ahí estaban los problemas que se originaron en el sur de mi país.

Cuando llegué a Chile me dirigí a la policía de investigaciones a pedir orientación por los hechos que había vivido en Londres, uno de los detectives me hizo saber que el lugar donde dormí dos meses en Londres, el Saint Cristobal Inn Hostel, era uno de los lugares más peligrosos de Inglaterra. Me aclaró, que la droga corría día y noche en ese lugar y las habitaciones se usaban para la prostitución. Había registro de más de diez desapariciones de mujeres menores de veinte años en un período de dos años.

Comencé a entender cómo funcionaba la élite chilena, de qué se trataba y cómo era que, de manera totalmente inconsciente, sus miembros luchaban por destruir las oportunidades de aquellos que demostraban poder posesionarse como nuevos talentos emergentes.

Como yo no estaba de acuerdo con pertenecer a ninguna mafia, ni tampoco iba a lamer penes para adjudicarme un puesto de trabajo, decidí dedicarme a lo que más me gustaba hacer con la música: enseñar.

Había escuchado la misma historia de parte de María Belén Astorga, una violinista que ganó una beca para ir a Francia y que, cuando regresó, se convirtió en enfermera.

Todo esto me parecía un complot, una estrategia de “aquellas familias”, pero no tenía pruebas en ese momento, para enfrentar una acusación, por lo que no hablé.

Entonces pensé en mi amiga Marisol, cuya memoria regresaba con insistencia durante esos días, a dos años de su muerte. “Si le ves el aura, ese es el amor de tu vida”, me dijo en el último cumpleaños que compartimos.

El brillo de Tobias era tan intenso que, en un principio, creí que se trataba de un artificio: un efecto de sus fotografías y videos en internet. Su luz era real. Su cabello, semejante a un rayo de sol; su rostro, delicadamente trazado; sus ojos, profundos como el mar Mediterráneo. Todo en él me sobrecogió con una mezcla de asombro y temor.

Sentí el impulso de acercarme a hablarle, pero tras observar algunas de sus reacciones emergió en mí una emoción tan intensa que en ese momento opté por dar media vuelta y marchar. Aun así, continuaba apareciendo en la ciudad, y esa persistencia despertaba en mí un miedo que me empujaba a la distancia. Pensaba que no sería bueno verlo: me generaba una necesidad casi obsesiva de observarlo, de saberlo todo, de hablarle, de conocer qué le gustaba, cómo estaba. Lo sentía extrañamente cercano, como si formara parte de mi entorno inmediato, como si ya lo conociera y compartiéramos un lenguaje previo.

Decidí entonces relegar ese episodio al olvido y continuar con mi vida. Hasta que, en un par de días, volvió a aparecer en mi camino y experimenté un impulso irrefrenable por saber más. Lo observe de más cerca. Corría por la ciudad y se detuvo concentrado en unos árboles que acompañaban el camino.

Comencé a hablarle y mientras lo miraba, atravesada por un dolor profundo: lo sentía inalcanzable y, al mismo tiempo, profundamente anhelado. Los días transcurrieron y febrero se acercaba a su fin. En ese período, solía correr cada mañana en el parque junto a mi casa mientras escuchaba sus creaciones. Me hacía sentir suspendida en el cielo: poseía una suavidad singular, una cualidad única que confería belleza, delicadeza y una suerte de divinidad a cada nota.

Aquella tarde, al regresar a casa, tomé sitio un instante en el parque para concentrarme en mi teléfono y allí estaba otra vez, frente al lago, yo me encontraba lo suficientemente cerca como para escuchar algunas de sus frases: hablaba por teléfono mientras debatía en una conversación acalorada, poco después de finalizar su llamada, me miro como si me hubiese reconocido, se acerco y me pregunto por el clima — Hoy llueve?, tu que crees?

A lo que yo contesté — ¿Eres realmente tú o lo estoy imaginando? ¿O esto es un sueño?

Él respondió con otra pregunta:

— ¿tu acento es diferente, de dónde eres?

— Chile — contesté.

No volvimos a hablar hasta días después. Yo miraba su red social favorita y escuchaba su música durante horas mientras reaccionaba a sus publicaciones. Entonces él que se encontraba en línea, me envió un mensaje sugiriendo:

— ¿Tienes tiempo para que hablemos?

Pero el miedo se apoderó de mí: las palpitaciones aceleradas, el sudor excesivo, el temblor en las manos. Le respondí que no tenía tiempo pronto, pero le dejé mi número. No escribió durante el resto de febrero. Solo cuando el mes cambió, el silencio se rompió

Then I thought of my friend Marisol, whose memory kept resurfacing insistently during those days, two years after her death. “If you see his aura, that’s the love of your life,” she had told me on the last birthday we shared.

Tobias’s glow was so intense that, at first, I thought it was an illusion: an effect from his photos and videos online. But his light was real. His hair, like a ray of sunshine; his face, delicately outlined; his eyes, deep like the Mediterranean Sea. Everything about him overwhelmed me with a mix of awe and fear.

I felt the impulse to approach him and speak to him, but after observing some of his reactions, an intense emotion emerged within me, and in that moment, I chose to turn around and leave. Even so, he kept appearing around the city, and that persistence awakened a fear in me that pushed me away. I thought it wouldn’t be good to see him: he generated in me an almost obsessive need to observe him, to know everything about him, to talk to him, to learn what he liked, how he was. I felt strangely close to him, as if he were part of my immediate environment, as if I already knew him and we shared a previous language.

I then decided to relegate that episode to oblivion and continue with my life. Until, a couple of days later, he appeared again in my path, and I felt an uncontrollable urge to learn more. I watched him more closely. He was running through the city and stopped, concentrating on some trees that lined the path.

I started to speak to him, and as I looked at him, I was pierced by a deep pain: I felt him to be unreachable, and yet, deeply yearned for. The days passed, and February neared its end. During that time, I ran every morning in the park next to my house while listening to his creations. They made me feel suspended in the sky: they had a singular softness, a unique quality that bestowed beauty, delicacy, and a sort of divinity to each note.

That afternoon, as I returned home, I took a moment to sit in the park to focus on my phone, and there he was again, by the lake. I was close enough to hear some of his words: he was on the phone, debating heatedly, and shortly after finishing his call, he looked at me as though he recognized me, approached, and asked about the weather — “Is it raining today? What do you think?”

To which I replied, “Is it really you, or am I imagining this? Or is this a dream?”

He responded with another question:

“Your accent is different, where are you from?”

“Chile,” I answered.

We didn’t speak again until a few days later. I spent hours looking at his favorite social media and listening to his music while reacting to his posts. Then he, online, sent me a message suggesting:

“Do you have time to talk?”

But fear overtook me: my heart raced, I sweated excessively, my hands trembled. I replied that I didn’t have time soon, but I left him my number. He didn’t write for the rest of February. It was only when the month changed that the silence was broken.

This conviction, which today I can formulate with clarity, was not always conscious. It was learned slowly, through experience, absence, observation, and longing.

In my early years, I felt ignored by my parents because they were deeply connected to each other. I could see that they did not connect with me in that way. My sisters, who were fifteen years older than me, also knew how to connect very well; they understood each other perfectly. I wondered what it was that united them, something I interpreted with jealousy, because I wanted it too and did not have it. I always felt excluded from the conversation, as if connection were a language everyone spoke fluently except me.

My mother, without ever giving me a formal lesson on the subject, perceived my frustration and decided to teach me in a much subtler way: through practice, not explanation. She used to say:

“Look me in the eyes when you speak to me, because the eyes also speak, not only the mouth.”

“Stand up straight when you address another person, because your arms, your hands, and the expression on your face are different elements that want to express themselves together, and you must be ready to let them communicate.”

“Bring your mind here when we are talking, because if you are thinking about the walk you are going to take later with your sister, then we will not be able to communicate; we will only be making agreements, which is much more boring than communicating.”

Over time, these indications became embodied knowledge rather than rules. Later on, she began to resume conversations she had started with me and left unfinished, suddenly picking them up again even days later, so that we could create complicity and continuity. By doing so, she wrapped me into that connection with everything, and that was how she taught me to connect with everything. Little by little, I began to feel part of her relationship with my father and my older sisters, no longer as an observer, but as a participant.

However, when I turned eighteen and the time came to go to university, connection became elusive once again. I did not know what to study. It was not easy for me to choose a job, a professional role that I would like and to which I could dedicate myself fully, while at the same time feeling fulfilled. I was seeking to feel connected to a career, and I could not find it. But who really does? You who are reading this: do you truly feel connected to your work?

Because I had parents who had achieved that level of vocational integration, I felt deeply confused when the moment came to choose a path. Until then, I had never known anything that interested me enough to immerse myself in it completely and enjoy it fully. I spent my entire adolescence feeling that I would never find meaning for my life, that I would live an empty life, incapable of falling in love with my work.

My indecision became a serious problem. In an attempt to resolve it, I tried all kinds of workshops: dance, painting, hairdressing, cooking, various sports, sewing. I even volunteered at an animal breeding farm, until I ended up feeling repulsed by horse manure and overwhelmed by my multiple allergies to dust and animal hair, and finally hated the idea of becoming a veterinarian. I went through everything like that: seeing blood made me faint; I liked books and history, but becoming a psychologist, lawyer, anthropologist, sociologist, historian, or philosopher seemed far too boring to me.

However, paradoxically, throughout all those years of vocational crisis, there was one constant in my life. I was always collaborating with the music teacher at the school where I studied. She directed the women’s orchestra and the choir, and she also coordinated biblical reading groups that always included music. At fifteen, I began coordinating the children’s biblical group; later I was assigned the guitar workshop, and afterward I led the Taizé gatherings. Even so, it never occurred to me that I could dedicate myself to this. Although my sister was a teacher, I always felt that there was something more, something that would move me even more deeply.

Then the violin appeared.

Before entering the most intimate dimension of that encounter, it is important to contextualize the environment I entered. When I began studying the violin, I did so without yet being aware of the complex and, in some cases, toxic dynamics that coexist within the world of music.

In the musical world, extremes coexist. There are deeply beautiful, sensitive, evolved people, connected to the subtle and the invisible: souls capable of translating emotions that cannot be expressed in words. But in that same world, narcissistic structures can also develop, sometimes silently and unconsciously, other times in an evident way. The most complex part is that many of the people who embody them are not fully aware of it. They have spent years navigating highly competitive and dehumanized environments, where personal value became tied to performance, external gaze, and applause. In these cases, narcissism is not born from malice, but from unconsciousness.

Here a necessary distinction must be made. The development of narcissism is not inherent to music nor an inevitable consequence of artistic practice. However, the musician who develops narcissistic traits often does so slowly and almost imperceptibly, as a response to certain environmental dynamics and unresolved personal histories. In those cases, the process begins with endless hours of solitary practice. In the midst of repeating scales and solos, not only to master the instrument, but to pursue a promise: to be seen, to be recognized, to be admired. Applause then becomes emotional nourishment. It is no longer just celebration; it becomes validation of existence. In the absence of that external reflection, some come to experience the sensation of fading away.

Constant exposure reinforces this structure: stages, lights, interviews, awards, praise, comparisons, competitions. The musician becomes visible, elevated, applauded again and again, and little by little begins to become confused. They may come to believe that their talent makes them superior, when in reality it has made them dependent. External recognition replaces internal contact. Ovations cover ancient wounds that were never addressed.

In that world, the ego strengthens as a survival mechanism. Narcissism disguises itself as confidence, charisma, or genius, but behind it there is often a deep fragility: fear of not being enough, terror of silence, inability to exist without being reflected in the eyes of others. That is why constant applause becomes necessary: because without it, a void appears that they do not know how to inhabit.

Thus, the same space that can be a channel toward the divine and the subtle can also become a distorted mirror. If the musician does not awaken, they may forget that music was not born to elevate them, nor to elevate the ego, but to serve as a bridge toward connection, to remember connection. And that is where the medium observes: it does not judge, but it sees. It sees that narcissism in music is not an isolated trait, but the symptom of a system that confuses brilliance with light, fame with consciousness, and applause with love.

In my case, from a very early age everything I did produced great pleasure and joy, because I had learned to connect with what I was doing. I learned not to do anything in life out of obligation, to disappear from places where I did not feel involved, because I could not connect; and when I could not connect, my performance dropped drastically in any activity undertaken without intention.

I learned from my father and my mother to carry out different tasks with devotion. I lived my parents’ relationship in a way that always made me feel that they were the most important thing in the family, and that if they were well — if they were connected and working as a team — then everything was well. From their emotional stability and their strengthened bond as a couple, they nourished us, sheltered us, and educated us. They endured months of separation: my father traveled abroad for work, and those trips lasted from one to three months. The household needed income. It was the time of the dictatorship; my mother stayed home alone with four children and my grandmother, while outside bullets and bombs coexisted.

I can say that this is one of the reasons why, at forty-one years old, I have been so selective when entering a romantic relationship, finding myself on the path of one and having had only two, each lasting ten years. I know how a couple functions at its best, and that knowledge is so deeply rooted in me that I can clearly recognize who can complement me and who cannot.

In the midst of this prolonged drama of indecision, I pursued a career that prepared me to work in accounting, financial statements, analysis, and balances, thinking that in this way I could help my father, but without a deep personal motivation. I began a career simply so as not to waste time, and along that path the violin appeared.

The first time I heard a violin, I was on my way home. For the first time in my life, I felt an emotional overflow so deep and infinite that it overwhelmed me. I could understand that sound with complete clarity; it captured my entire attention. I was fascinated. It felt familiar, as if I already knew it. It gave me chills like never before. That instrument could sustain such a deep conversation with me that I understood, for the first time in my life, what it meant to have a connection with something other than a living being. As the music was being created, I received images, aromas, textures, colors, heights, ideas.

My ability to connect developed until it became an advanced empathy, until it became easy for me to speak with the soul of things: people, animals, plants, everything. That is why, throughout my life, I have had so many problems with romantic interests that appear unexpectedly and demand a love they believe to be reciprocal, simply because with me they were able to open emotionally at levels they had never experienced with others. Many became trapped there, insisting for more, unable to understand that I live like this: with that level of emotional understanding toward all living beings, not only toward them.

When people are in front of me, every word they say, every movement, every look, and every gesture speaks to me. They feel intoxicated by that immense empathy.

For that reason, it was very easy for me to recognize true love when it appeared, because it was familiar to me. I could read it like everyone else, but multiplied by ten. The great difference was that, for the first time, I also felt read, seen, understood, welcomed, perceived, and analyzed at deep levels, as well as held and protected. With no one else in the world do I feel this union, this connection, and this empathy; I feel that no one understands me as true love does.

The rest of the story of choosing my profession is simple and brief. I spent fifteen years perfecting a discipline until reaching a professional level, and when that happened, the professional environment opposed my integration, using criminal strategies to prevent my entry.

I felt great relief and understanding in my life when, after true love arrived, I understood the reason why I had wanted to belong to that world. Now that this truth was integrated into my existence, I was able to find what I had been seeking to feel fulfilled in a career. Success was not guaranteed, but experience and wisdom would help me achieve it.

For many years I believed that I had chosen poorly: that my path was erratic, that my interests were scattered, that my vocation had arrived late or taken an incorrect form. But only after completing that first profession with absolute dedication, and only after understanding it deeply, did my true vocation appear, along with true love. For a long time I did not understand why I had needed to follow that order, but I needed to deeply develop my connection with music — and more specifically with a particular type of music — because love would arrive through that path.

The answer was not in the profession, but in the awareness of connection. From that point on, I understood that my relationship with the violin would never be sustained over time, because it was not about applause, external validation, or social recognition. I had not come to music to be seen, but to see; not to be celebrated, but to listen. I studied the violin not to belong to a world, but to pass through it with awareness, to sustain a bond between the visible and the invisible, between emotion and meaning, between the other and myself. I understood that my first profession taught me to read the human being, and the second prepared me to nourish and develop them, giving them tools to find that spiritual bond that is so easy to access through music. Both careers were necessary. Neither was a mistake.

Today I know that not all choices are understood at the moment they are made. Some reveal their meaning only when life grants us the exact experience that makes them comprehensible. Connection is not immediate for everyone; it is almost always the result of a long prior process of learning. And sometimes, the true destination of a path is not the place we arrive at, but the consciousness with which we finally inhabit it.

Over time, I understood that without my first career I would not have acquired the necessary tools to connect deeply with true love, and that it arrived only when I was prepared to connect through music. Because true love does not come to complete us, but to reveal us. It does not appear to give us a new destiny, but to show us clearly the one that was always there. Just as with my professional path, true love was not an impulsive choice nor an emotional refuge: it was a confirmation.

When it appeared, it did not take me away from myself, because I had already found myself. It did not demand that I be someone different; it did not ask for applause, sacrifice, or blindness. On the contrary, it returned me to my center. It allowed me to recognize, without noise or urgency, what was connection and what was dependence, what was vocation and what was a search for validation. In its presence, everything fell into place.

Formally entering the degree program at the age of 25 meant entering a highly hierarchical space, built on the idea that only those who begin in childhood are legitimately entitled to belong. My path did not fit that framework. Not only did I lack support networks, but my mere presence introduced an anomaly: I advanced rapidly in a territory where starting time is often confused with merit.

From my experience, a clear conclusion emerges: in the world of classical music, a tacit norm operates that could be summarized as follows — if you did not begin in childhood, you are out of time. However, my case introduced an uncomfortable fissure in that principle, because it demonstrated that an early start does not guarantee excellence, nor does a late start imply mediocrity.

Everything had begun in 2005. I was heading once again to my boyfriend’s house, on a train. It continues to strike me that the decisive moments of my life are linked to that means of transportation. Once, my psychiatrist told me that dreaming of a train moving toward a destination indicates an accelerated movement within the structure of the unconscious: the closing of one stage and the opening of another, with greater understanding.

During that journey, in car number five, a little girl approached me with a flyer offering violin lessons and participation in a student orchestra. As I was still teaching guitar at the school where I had studied as a child, I thought that learning violin might later allow me to teach it.

That same day, also encouraged by my partner’s interest — he was a lawyer who loved the cello — we went to the address indicated. In exchange for a monthly fee, one received a weekly lesson, an instrument, and an ensemble session. The young woman who taught violin and viola was studying at the university that bears the name of my country.

After learning the basics, I quickly understood that in order to progress I needed to strengthen my music reading. I then began taking lessons with an Italian professor who taught finance at the institute where I was studying business administration, but who played the piano at a professional level. Thanks to her, I made remarkable progress both technically and theoretically.

At the beginning, I could not read music. I wrote the exercises into a composition application and recorded them, listening to them repeatedly until I memorized them. In this way, I first incorporated the basic technique of the instrument, and only later music reading. I advanced because I had discipline, method, and a clear motivation: to reach the beauty of sound.

At that academy there was a girl who also studied at the same university. When I listened to her play, the violin seemed to me an almost unapproachable instrument. However, far from becoming frustrated, that difficulty reinforced my commitment. I studied up to five hours a day, while finishing my university degree, working with my father, and teaching a guitar workshop.

The following year, having already acquired basic notions of harmony, I enrolled in the evening courses of the music department at the same university where my first violin teacher studied. From there, I began a formal and systematic path. Within a few years I mastered all written positions, from first to seventh, as well as the repertoire required to advance through the first seven years of the basic cycle curriculum.

I was 25 years old when I entered the formal violin performance degree. My greatest difficulty was not technical, but performative: I had not grown up playing in front of audiences. To resolve this, I began playing in the street. This significantly improved my performance in exams and evaluations.

I completed in four years the seven-year basic program and then moved on to the advanced stage. It was there that the structural conflict became evident. I shared the same level with students who had begun studying violin at the age of four or five and who had consolidated support networks. I had reached that same level in approximately six years.

It would be dishonest to deny that the sound of someone who begins in childhood is different. I knew this and worked tirelessly to shorten that distance. The Alexander Technique was key to achieving it. The problem was not my awareness of limitations, but rather that my progress made another reality visible: not everyone who starts early achieves a level of performance consistent with the time invested.

My presence was uncomfortable. What was known about me was simple and disturbing for the system: I had begun at the age of 21 and, nonetheless, I was seated in the student orchestra, sharing a stand with those who had been trained since childhood. That contradiction was not celebrated; it was resisted.

Adaptation conflicts multiplied. Irrelevant aspects — such as the fact that I arrived at rehearsals in my own car — were questioned as if they were symbolic transgressions. The concertmaster of the student orchestra was a young man considerably younger than I was, with greater symbolic capital in the musical field, though with fewer material resources. The difference in age, trajectory, and autonomy seemed intolerable.

In order to survive within the system, I chose silence. I reduced my interactions, practiced humility to an extreme degree, and concentrated all my energy on improving technically. I folded my wings for years so as not to threaten an order that felt fragile.

Upon graduating, after multiple formal complaints for aggression and harassment, I had no allies or networks. But I had the degree. And that mattered in a country where many musicians leave university once they reach a technical level sufficient to join a professional orchestra.

After the age of 35, I began applying for international scholarships and obtained them systematically. My training as a business administrator allowed me to formulate solid and competitive projects. Thanks to this, I traveled to Spain, England, Mexico, Portugal, and Germany, where I was able to refine my skills and expand my academic and artistic trajectory.

That same success reinforced the rejection. My case demonstrated that the meritocratic narrative of early beginnings did not sustain itself on its own. Professors who had begun in childhood, but whose performance never reached excellence, saw in me a symbolic threat: my trajectory called their authority into question.

The consequence was a sustained blockage, not always explicit but effective: harassment, defamation, network sabotage, and professional isolation. It was not a technical or artistic limitation, but a defensive response by the system to an anomaly that exposed it.

There was one professor in particular — Rodolfo — and members of his violin class, such as Guillermo and José Manuel, whose presence has extended to this day in the digital space I inhabit, along with my former partner Elías, who currently continues to be a professor at the same university. Since my graduation in 2019, I have had to face a series of episodes that I experienced as persistent harassment: unauthorized access to my accounts, surveillance of my professional movements, and constant attention to my personal life, with particular intrusion into my romantic life. These individuals were aware of my current romantic relationship from its beginnings and expressed explicit opposition to it, especially because it involved a relationship with an internationally renowned professional musician.

His interference was such that when my partner traveled to America to give a master class, he sent students from his academic circle to take lessons with him, in what I interpreted as an attempt to discredit me and damage that relationship. To this day, he continues to promote negative versions of me before administrators of the institutions where I work, forcing me to repeatedly defend myself against accusations I consider unfounded.

This behavior can only be understood within a framework of power: his belonging to a consolidated elite, sustained by family inheritance and symbolic capital, seems unable to tolerate that a mestiza woman, with a non-normative trajectory, is pursuing a doctorate in Germany. His personal motivations — whether resentment, spite, or a poorly resolved identification — do not interest me. I have learned to set boundaries and block harassment. The obstacles that arise gratuitously from this hatred have not weakened me; on the contrary, they have strengthened my character.

I did not stop being a violinist because I could not develop a career, but because that career was halted. My late start and accelerated achievement broke a silent pact: one that protects mediocrity when it disguises itself as tradition.

Today I understand that my story is not an individual one. It is the symptom of a system that does not forgive those who demonstrate that excellence does not depend on having begun at the age of four, but on the capacity to work, understand, and transform one’s own limits.

I write this letter not only as a teacher, but as a voice representing hundreds — perhaps thousands — of teachers in Chile who have shared the same experience throughout our professional careers: the systematic difficulty of obtaining a permanent contract.

For years, we are required to further our education, to study more, to earn master’s degrees, specializations, and in many cases, training abroad. We are repeatedly told that education improves when teachers are better prepared. However, when that effort finally materializes, something rarely spoken aloud occurs: we begin to make others uncomfortable.

In many educational institutions, particularly private and subsidized schools, highly qualified teachers come to be seen as a “problem.” Not because we teach poorly, but because a teacher with advanced studies, experience, and critical thinking can become a threat to rigid, hierarchical, and opaque leadership structures.

This situation becomes even more evident in the context of the transition toward the SLEP system (Local Public Education Services), whose stated aim is to professionalize management, improve quality, and bring order to the educational system. This reform entails a profound restructuring of power, positions, and teaching careers: the traditional fixed hierarchy is dismantled, leadership positions are no longer permanent, and continuous competitions, evaluations, and filters are introduced. In this new framework, a principal may return to the classroom, a classroom teacher may apply for leadership roles, and seniority alone no longer guarantees permanence. The criteria become academic qualifications, postgraduate degrees, experience, evaluations, and leadership profiles.

Paradoxically, instead of being recognized, many teachers who meet these standards are marginalized, pressured to resign, or simply not renewed just before reaching the job stability guaranteed by law.

As a result, the permanent contract — which should be a basic labor right — becomes an almost unattainable goal. Year after year, teachers are kept in precarious conditions through fixed-term contracts, disguised freelance arrangements, or strategically interrupted renewals, not due to a lack of merit, but to avoid future discomfort, questioning, or the potential displacement of certain leadership positions.

Educational institutions also have tools that can be used to orchestrate these dismissals. Among them are complaints filed under the Karin Law or school coexistence investigations, sometimes supported by false or weak evidence, which can lead to a teacher’s removal from their position. These practices not only violate fundamental labor rights but also deeply damage the educational system itself.

What message does this send to young teachers? That further study is a risk? That critical thinking can cost one’s job? That stability depends more on silence than on merit?

To speak of educational quality without addressing the working conditions of those who teach is an unsustainable contradiction. As long as this reality remains normalized and silenced, education in Chile will continue to rest on fear and instability rather than on professional respect. It is time to make this practice visible, to open public debate, and to demand that job stability cease to be a punishment and become the fair recognition of a life dedicated to education.

Sincerely,

Maryangel Riveros
Music Teacher, Primary Education
Trigales del Maipo School — Chile

However, the national historical and political context in 1985 included the Degollados Case. Three union leaders opposing the dictatorship were murdered and decapitated by the political police (CNI). This case became a symbol of the regime’s brutal repression of the opposition.

In 1984, there were several protests and marches against the dictatorship, especially by students and unions, which were violently suppressed, including mass arrests and beatings.

Exile was forced. The dictatorship compelled thousands of people to leave the country, particularly union leaders, politicians, and artists. In 1985, the mechanisms of exile continued as a strategy of political control.

The regime also exercised psychological violence and censorship: it used propaganda, threats, and a constant climate of fear with informants and surveillance to silence dissent. False news was spread, and the opposition was criminalized to justify arrests and persecution.

By mid-1988, the constant persecution of political opponents continued. The political police (CNI, formerly DINA) still monitored, detained, and tortured militants of left-wing parties and social movements. Many arrests were illegal, without trial or family notification.

In 1989, Chile was transitioning to democracy after the 1988 plebiscite, but repressive activity by the armed forces and Carabineros continued, especially in peripheral neighborhoods and communities with leftist political organization or social movements.

My parents always hid it from me. They made me believe that the tanks were spraying water because it was very hot, and that the people they carried away in the trucks, with their hands tied behind their backs, were being taken to bigger houses with more gardens. They told me that the noises of gunfire and bombs at nine at night, meant to eliminate those who didn’t reach home before the midnight curfew, were fireworks that our neighbors were setting off because they were very good at throwing parties. They explained that the smoke from tear gas that sometimes came under our door was magical dust from little angels passing by to help us sleep, but that sometimes we had to cry a little so our dreams would be more beautiful, and that was why our eyes would sting.

One day, the men in uniform came to our house. I was four years old. I approached the door, and my mother screamed with her heart in her throat, with a scream that threw me to the floor, telling me to stay away from the door. She called my sister so we could lock ourselves in the bedroom and opened the door just as they were about to break it down.

The man at the house said:
 — Dad isn’t here.
 — He’s working in Argenin, traveling constantly with his drivers; he’s never home.
 — Who does he work for?
 — He’s an independent businessman; he works in meat transportation.
 — Who does he work for? Damn it! — he shouted.

My mother replied, kneeling on the floor:
 — Swift Argentina S.A., part of the American group Swift & Company.

They closed the door and never bothered us again.

We were lucky; our neighbor was taken and forced to stand for twelve hours in the neighborhood soccer field, under the blazing sun, without water or a bathroom. Those who couldn’t stand and fell to the ground were kicked until they got up. After twelve hours, they were allowed to return to their homes.

I was tired of a rigid, vertical academic structure, sustained by unquestionable traditions and by an order that benefits only a few. A system that does not adapt to you, that does not let you in unless you submit, that punishes those who refuse to stay silent.

The year was 2019. I had a date marked on the calendar: I had to perform my final recital, obtain my degree, and with it escape a country that, for those of us trying to build a life in music, could become a living hell. That’s why I took four classes with this professor.

During the fourth class, something shifted. He kept urging me to drink alcohol. I asked for water. He insisted over and over until I agreed to a glass of wine. It took me a while to realize that something was wrong. I lost strength, clarity, control. What came next was a sexual assault, carried out while I was in a state of complete vulnerability.

When I was able to recover at least minimally, I left.
The violence didn’t end there.
In previous classes, this professor had tried to sell me a very expensive instrument that belonged to one of his colleagues. He insisted that I try it at my home “without obligation,” and the instrument stayed with me. After the assault, I had to return to his building to give it back. He didn’t respond. I left it with the concierge. Later, he spread word in my country’s music community that I had stolen the instrument.

A few days later, I had to make an impossible decision: report him immediately or graduate first. I knew that reporting him would mean academic retaliation and put my graduation at risk. I chose to survive. I chose to finish. I stayed silent while carrying a pain that cannot be described.

After I graduated, I reported him. By then, it was already too late. In my country, rape cases require evidence that is impossible to obtain for people like me, who need time before we can speak.

From the moment his name was recorded at a police station, another type of violence began: professional, emotional, and social boycotts; surveillance, slander, isolation. In every project, in every job, a shadow appeared that damaged my reputation. I lost opportunities. I lost relationships. I lost stability.

Life, however, had more attacks in store for me: professors from the academy began acting against me once I graduated. This first blow was especially difficult to face and forced me to change careers. But the harassment did not stop.

Still, I did not break. Life also gave me something invaluable: character, conviction, strength, resilience, and perseverance. I rebuilt myself again and again. I overcame obstacles. And through hard work, I found happiness and purpose in my professional life once more.

When love appeared, it too was attacked. The interference reached emails, friendships, neighbors, and family ties. The goal was clear: to isolate me, impoverish me, erase me. So that I would not be seen. Because being seen would put their reputation at risk.

This is how I have lived for years: seeking justice, strengthening my spirit, resisting. Grateful for the support of my family, which has allowed me to continue enjoying life even amidst everything.

I have not lost hope. I hold onto it with all my being. I wait for the day when I can face justice without fear. Because I am a witness. Because I am not the only one. Because this system must change. And because future generations deserve a life that is fairer, freer, and happier than the one many of us had to live.

_____________________________