Raised from the Ground

own teachers, and while these words are still hanging in the air, news comes that there has been an attack on the barracks of the third infantry regiment in Beja, now Beja is not in India or Angola or Guinea-Bissau, it’s right next door, it’s on the latifundio, and the dogs are outside barking, though the coup was put down, they will speak of little else over the next weeks and months, so how was it possible for a barracks to be attacked, all it took was a little luck, that’s all it ever takes, perhaps that’s what was lacking the first time around, and no one noticed, that’s our fate, if the horse carrying the messenger bearing orders to commence battle loses a shoe, the whole course of history is turned upside down in favor of our enemies, who will triumph, what bad luck. And in saying this we are not being disrespectful to those who left the peace and safety of their homes and set off to try and pull down the pillars of the latifundio, though Samson and everyone else might die in the attempt, and when the dust had settled and we went and looked, we found that it was Samson who had died and not the pillars, perhaps we should have sat down under this holm oak and taken turns telling each other the thoughts we had in our head and heart, because there is nothing worse than distrust, it was good that they hijacked the Santa Maria, and the attack in Beja was good too, but no one came to ask us latifundio dogs and ants if either the ship or the attack had anything to do with us, We really value what you’re doing, though we don’t know who you are, but since we are just dogs and ants, what will we say tomorrow when we all bark together and you pay as little heed to us as did the owners of this latifundio you want to surround, sink and destroy. It’s time we all barked together and bit deep, captain general, and meanwhile check to see that your horse doesn’t have a shoe missing or that you have only three bullets when you should have four.

THESE MEN AND WOMEN were born to work, like good to average livestock, they leave or are dragged out of their mother’s womb, left to grow up one way or another, it doesn’t really matter, what matters is that they should be strong and good with their hands, even if they can make only one gesture, so what if, within a few years, they become stiff and heavy, they are walking logs who, when they arrive at work, give themselves a shake and produce from their rigid bodies two arms and two legs that move back and forth, you see how kind and competent the Creator was in making such perfect instruments for digging, scything, hoeing and generally making themselves useful.

Since they were born to work, it would be a contradiction in terms for them to have too much rest. The best machine is the one most capable of continuous work, properly lubricated so that it doesn’t jam up, frugally fed and, if possible, given only as much fuel as mere maintenance requires, and, in case of breakdown or old age, it must, above all, be easily replaceable, that’s what those human scrap yards, cemeteries, are for, or else the machine simply sits, rusting and creaking at its front door, watching nothing at all pass by or gazing down at its own sad hands, who would have thought it would come to this. On the latifundio, generally speaking, men and women have short lives, it’s astonishing that any of them ever reach old age, but when we happen to pass some apparently old man, we learn that he is only forty, and that the shrunken woman with the leathery face is not yet thirty, so living in the country doesn’t exactly extend your life, that’s an urban myth, as is that most sensible of sayings, Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise, it would be amusing to see those same urbanites standing with one hand on the handle of their hoe, staring at the horizon, waiting for the sun to come up and, utterly exhausted, longing for a dusk that never comes, because the sun is an awkward so-and-so, always in such a hurry to rise and always so reluctant to set. Just like us.

However, the days of acceptance and resignation are coming to an end. A voice is traveling the roads of the latifundio, it goes into towns and villages, it talks on the hillsides and on cork plantations, a voice that consists of two essential words and many others that serve to explain those two words, eight hours, this may not appear to mean very much, but if we say eight hours of work, then the meaning becomes clearer, there are sure to be those who protest at this scandalous idea, what is it these workers want, if they sleep eight hours and work another eight, what will they do with the remaining eight hours, it’s an invitation to idleness, they clearly don’t want to work, these are modern ideas, it’s all the fault of the war, customs have changed out of all recognition, first they stole India from us, now they want to take Africa away, then there was that ship that sailed the seas causing an international scandal, and the general who rose up against those who gave him his stars, who can one trust, tell me that, and now there’s this disastrous business of the eight-hour day, they should have stuck to the law of God, give or take an hour, twelve hours of daylight and twelve hours of night, depending on when the sun rises and sets, of course, and if that isn’t God’s law, then let’s say it’s