Have you heard of Yakirí Rubí?

24 Dec

Fast post incoming!

It is no mystery that life can be a bitch sometimes. Actually, it being a bitch is an inherent feature and essential for human life. It’s hard to acknowledge it, I know, but it contains some dose of truth. It can show how resistant you are and shows the real faces of your surroundings. In the hardest situation, it is where you can meet the real face of people, be it with a great human quality, or a low quality of humanity.

I will tell you a tale, O Readers, and I beg to you to role play as the protagonist. Pretend you’re walking on the street, minding your own business, until suddenly a pair of rapists pop out from a van, kidnap you and sexually assault you. Naturally, you defend yourselves and don’t let them touch you. You beat them up, scratch them, and kick them, until the situation itself becomes so grim that it becomes clear that somebody won’t come out alive from here. The rapist got a knife on his hand and it’s raping you at the same time. The law of the jungle demands a life of one of you so the opponent can live and see a new sunrise. Wouldn’t you defend against this? I bet you would.

As expected, you defend yourself, use the knife against the aggressor and, in the act, kills him. You flee from the hotel to where they took you to—in where they, apparently, were familiar faces—and run to the closest policeman to denounce the crime. Minutes later, the brother of the fallen man appears and denounces you for killing his brother. You believe that, because everything was in self-defense and they had the guts to attack you first, they will jail the brother, right?

Oh, of course not, this is Mexico! It will be you the one paying for it. Why? Because life is a bitch.

Manifestación frente a las oficinas de la PGJDF,  a favor de la joven Yakiri quien de víctima pasó a victimaria, pues mató al sujeto que la quiso violar. FOTO: LUIS CARBAYO /CUARTOSCURO.COM

I just resumed the case of Yakirí Rubí, which is causing uproar in the social networks and it’s becoming a debate topic in many humanitarian groups which questions this: is it really a homicide case, and graver than her rape case, or is it actually a clear sign of a machismo case in Mexico?

I think you all know the answer. With the irregularities in the process against her, of course we know what’s going on. We, the Mexicans, are condemned to know the answer until there’s a real mental change in here.

I’ve been hearing of this case for a good while, and until now I decided to post it in response to a campaign to send letters to Yakirí as support. I sent her a poem, which I will post as well to reflect my indignation as a woman towards this sexist case, which is, sadly, an expected case in this country. To add salt to the injury, the media and culture rarely pay attention to the women’s violence situation. They make it think they’re in favour of them with their melodramas with female protagonists suffering in the hands of men, but it is actually a culture that foments this sexist lifestyle with their images of beaten women, with showing them as sex objects and selling an unrealistic image of the women life.

Liberen a mujer que defendió su vida durante una violación   #JUSTICIAPARAYAKI

If you would like to help Yakirí, please click on this image to redirect to a Change.org page to sign a petition, pleading justice for her.

Hits can be less severe than the depraved social acts towards the feminine sex…

Now, onto the poem:

The one in the well

Should the soil forget me,

don’t take away from me the wind.

Yet, should I feel the sky

run far away from me,

don’t steal the beautiful lights,

given to me by the shining stars.

 

If I forgot how to walk in peace,

don’t abandon me just like this.

Should you see my heart

beat as hard as ivory,

don’t forsake me in solitude,

and remind me the crimson

blood which should be

running fast inside of me.

 

Look how the fawn drinks.

Look at him follow his mother.

It’s not the perfumes or the roses

those elixirs that open

the love towards her fur

or the fact that he comes from her flesh.

Look at him, in love.

Look at him, lovingly.

Look at him, charmed at her trot

and her non blood drinking habits.

Such a good forest son,

following his good forest mother.

 

Should they throw me to a well,

not due to thirst of sweet water,

not needing to feel pleasure,

grow for me a long rose

and save me from this pit,

in where the salty waters

freeze my rosy veins.

 

With the stem, save me sweetingly.

Just don’t throw me thorns.

Call my name, don’t be afraid,

yet don’t cut from me my life

with the thorns of the stem

which should bring me to the day,

waiting behind the cherry tree,

up above the mounts,

my most glorious return.

If you’re surrounded

by thousands of fragrant roses,

is it not to give life?

The pit in here is awful.

Don’t open me more wounds.

I know how to scream, don’t torture me

as I am a child too,

your sister and cousin as well,

from the brown beloved eagle.

 

Cry. Cry. Cry. Drink.

Salt doesn’t taste like your wheat.

You want to drown me with salt,

from the very salt I’ve fallen to.

They wanted to give me salt,

which I never asked for or wanted,

Drink from the well with me.

No fawn ever drinks in here,

as this is pit is actually a gate

of an inferred hell.

No fawn should be down here,

neither grandchild or proper seed.

They threw me in scared,

they confounded with salt the wheat.

 

You, my brother, my pal,

don’t forsake me any longer.

My lips are dry,

they wouldn’t tolerate the drops

of water or blood that I’ve drunk,

according to the gossipy gulls.

 

I’m stepping over cold stone,

surrounded by muddy water.

My mouth doesn’t accept this liquid,

but the one leaking

from my tired eyes,

allergic to the thorns.

 

You speak with this spleen.

This shame, so null.

A fawn looks for a father.

And yet only finds himself with mules.

 

You don’t drink from this reflection,

offered to you by the swift current.

That’s why you don’t drink this sweet

water. You just eat thorns.

A salty storm

longed to throw me to the emptiness.

A storm I tamed,

I did not let it tame my verve.

I saw a spiral on my way to the well,

and now for a life rose I ask for

to walk outside and become a child

and sister of the fawn.

Just because you smelled my fragrance

from my torn dress,

confounding faraway salt

with the wheat and olive,

you think of me as an any stone,

lacking thousands of whispers.

 

Should the soil forget me,

don’t take away from me the wind.

Yet, should I feel the sky

run far away from me,

don’t steal the beautiful lights,

given to me by the shining stars.

Let me scream for help.

Let me fiercely roar.

Should you move the soil…

Should you steal the air…

Should you not give me my reflection

in the mountain rivers…

You, heed to me, it is not my rose bloom

an edible one to chew.

It is no perfume to men.

It is no essence of the beasts.

The well has frozen my hands,

yet not my powerful head.

I shall break the storms,

I shall return to the heavens,

with such might I shall do,

that I won’t lose their sight again.

 

Thanks a bunch for reading!

VERSIÓN EN ESPAÑOL AQUÍ.

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One Response to “Have you heard of Yakirí Rubí?”

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. ¿Has oído de Yakirí Rubí? | Los Segundos Milenarios - December 24, 2013

    […] ENGLISH VERSION IN HERE. […]

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