Under the Bridge

What the hell is that? You ask as you pass underneath the bridge on paseo colon and the beginning of 9 de Julio. Here at the intersection of two streets, one named for the celebrated bearer of genocidal colonialism and the other for the date of independence when that colonial rule finally ended…it smells like death. Its loud and dirty and chaotic, the highway above feels like it might fall on you and the colectivos (buses) rumble by at way faster than a safe speed. Its ten pm and by the yellow glow of the street you see what looks like an archaeological dig. You squint. You lift your gaze from the deep hole next to the sidewalk to see a collection of papers with something typed out on each. In the center of the space you finally make out the figure of a human, dug out in the dirt and painted on the ground. It’s a symbol you recognize. It’s the figure that represents the disappeared. You realize, here under the bridge, where independence and colonialism meet, you are in a graveyard.