The country that we both loved

So, September has come to a close and I have failed to blog about 18 de Septiembre, or the day Chile celebrates her independence.  And this year boy was it a big one– 200 years!  But… I wasn’t there.

I have, for obvious reasons, missed the celebration on many occations. Usually, I blog about it:

Maybe it is because I was sad I missed it. Maybe it is because Kazakhstan feels so far away and September is an awfully busy time in my line of work. Maybe I hadn’t found the right picture to use. Whatever the reason… I didn’t blog.

But I hate for September to end and not to have mentioned the festivities that I missed.  The other day, I was listening to Violeta Parra.  Seba stopped me to ask how I had heard of her– somehow Chilean folk isn’t the top on every American’s Ipod.  (or Chilean for that matter).  The thing is… I don’t know.  The CD set that I have I bought in high school.  Somewhere, in 1996, I learned about Violeta Parra and started to love her music.  Later, in college, back in Chile, I took a class in linguistics.  The class looked a lot at creativity and language.  We studied use of accent, iambic pentameter, combinations or lack of certain vowel sounds.  We often studied Violeta’s work and her innate understanding of language and sound. Violeta is a piece of Chilean history, the founder of the Nueva Cancion, an amazing artist, and a voice for certain sectors of the population.

I decided I wanted to share her haunting voice with the few of you who still meander into this space.  Here is a song of her longing for Chile and photos of the country that we both love.  Best part is, I can honestly say, I have been to the place where every single one of these was taken.



  1. Does anyone in Kazakhstan know Chile? I´m eating my last september empanada, and I must say, I know almost nothing about Kazakhstan, with the exception of what you write in your blog.

  2. I remember some of the places in the pictures, especially the pod floating over the hill in Santiago — I think I still have the marks on my arm from the clutching fingers pressed into my arms — as though I could save anyone if the wire broke and the pod plummeted to the ground. What faith some people have.

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