*
By Juan Bosch
H o is Mother's Day . We celebrated the last Sunday of May and we should do the first day of spring, when the earth enters a new fertility stage, when the world we live gives of his heart all the hidden forces that God has placed in him so he can offer to man the best fruits, flowers more beautiful, more rich honey and the most harmonious songs birds.
In the Catholic religion of our people, the mother is Mary, the Virgin of the Seven Sorrows. And it is rightly so because unless the time saw the birth of the child and hear his first cry, when the joy of having brought the world a new life as a glass of intoxicating liquor divine mother always suffers, suffers pain birth and suffers physical life moral pain of fear, fear that their child is sick or not the good man she expects or is not as smart as you wish, and suffers every hour anticipating the death of her child. With the seven daggers of pain in his heart fixed, the mother of Jesus is the symbol of the Christian mother, and is therefore the symbol of a Dominican mother.
Who has suffered more than this Dominican mother?
suffered when he was Indian and English conquistadors arrived and threw wild dogs into the bush to hunt the Indian child, and when he saw English and son go to war to save the country from pirates, suffered when he was not India or English, but mixed with the arrival of slaves masters who were driving with whips, he found that his subject races and was one of them, and suffered as a slave mother and saw the birth of the child condemned to slavery, or when it was free and had black son of English and knew that child would not be well liked because he would never be pure breed father.
Dominican mother suffered when they went inland buccaneers firing their muskets and imprisoning the people, suffered when the king of Spain ordered to leave depopulated the cities of West and North and she had to walk along the son, the long roads to the capital, suffered when their children had to go to war to reconquer Tortoise and the French take to the sea and suffered more when the day came social wars in Haiti, where Haitians entered the English and spent a knife entire populations in Santiago, Moca, and Cotuí South routes.
When men fighting in Palo Hincado, when famine killed at the siege of the capital, when he struggled, finally, to return to the English colony that had fallen into the hands of France, was her mother's Dominican which saw the children leave for the battles and waste away to death in the besieged city.
To make the country, between 1844 and 1855, who gave children if not she? Who was troubled with the heart when men went to fight in Azua or Santiago? Where had left those who fell at the Races and Beller if it was the Dominican mother's womb? And why the tears rolled down in streams when the town far away, the stray field, came the news of the death of a fighter, if not dry the cheeks of the mother?
Dominican mother took over his soul the burden of the war when the English brought back into the country by Santana and the people revolted in Capotillo and began that bloody struggle against those who had been carriers of Christian civilization to plant in our soil and in that time were new foreign occupiers of a republic over eleven years he had fought in the valleys and hills of the border and the sea for their children to be masters of their homeland. While the men were killed in Guanuma, Puerto Plata, on the Canal de Paya, in the sands of the northwest, the Dominican mother waited in the hut or house of palm fronds of the town that came the news that the son had fallen in battle. Mother
sore as ours, no, broken hearted mother in anguish as our people, no. Then came the time when the English flag was moving away offshore, but Dominican, used to kill to defend their republic, continued killing each other, and they killed day after day, month to month, year to year, until the strong arm of Ulysses Heureaux imposed peace, only peace was the work of crime and the fear of crime came to sit on the threshold of all the doors and then the mother suffered from fear and every step that echoed in the night I expected to see come to those who were in search of the child to shoot in the intersection of two roads or to imprison for life in a stinking prison or to take her by force to serve in the military. Dominican Mother
tree of suffering, who would say that the body of tyrant, dropped dead in Moca, were about to leave the hell of civil war? But they came out, and seventeen years of terror saw your son go to the fighting and thousands of times did not see and never knew what was lost to scrub your body with a broken vein where the blood that you gave was out jets taking the life you created for it to be useful and beautiful. Mother
sore, this Republic lies at the very core of your heart is nourished by your pain, suffer pain when U.S. Marines took over this land and your son was pushed to not protested the abuse they had done the homeland is your pain nurtured by centuries, which is hardly a distant light the memory of the peace some days lost among the many days of suffering.
After a few such days of peace, when the flag of the cross was floated into the sky where the floated the Stars and Stripes, fell over you terror, dropped like a stone bird whose eyes gleamed crime he fell and landed on the Republic and covered the coast to the mountains, the sea to the river, sand the tree, the street to the nest. Where did Rafael Leonidas Trujillo, dark flame burning fire without light, lord of evil? Why murdered your child in the woods, why he was tortured in La Cuarenta, why threw his remains into the sea, why you threw him into exile? What explains, Dominican mother, that your soul could endure much torment and not explode? Who can tell us why did not dry your belly because you kept giving children what a miracle that the crushing tyranny? Today
remember with horror the days when your child took food and you shrug you wondering if the soul had not fallen into the hands of the bailiffs, the evenings when your house haunted by unfamiliar faces and that night the son who was out walking with friends did not return at the usual time and you could not sleep crazy suffering, and tremble at every sound expecting the worst news.
Dominican Mother, how could you resist thirty-two years of crime? Thirty-two years is too long to suffer with a spear in the heart. In these thirty-two years, every night were in fear, and if you did you suffer them is because the strength of your soul is infinite.
Some ancient peoples built their houses on the body of a child. The foundations of the Dominican nation are made on the mother's pain. There have been those who have fallen in battle or tortured in prison or those shot at night or the driven into exile those who have suffered, has been her mother, who always has an inexhaustible breast tenderness and sore both a love that never closes.
This Mother's Day we should devote an hour to her, the mother of all, each day that passes by our side without knowing his name which is already dead and still living. Do not think only in ours, where we took in her womb and we took shelter with his love. That is always the most beautiful but their features are coarse, the youngest but has eighty years and gray, the more healthy even when sick in bed, the most joyful though the suffering be deformed; the always alive even if he dies. But the other, that of all Dominican suffering mother, the mother who gave children to make home and gave to the civil wars and gave them to restore the Republic and gave again to the leaders to send them death, the Dominican mother who gave birth to tyranny victims ... that is the root of this town, the source of life and perhaps the only explanation for their existence. Sea
our veneration for her ... But our concern should be for the poor mother, the ranches in the cities and in the huts of the countryside, in the light of the jumiadora or lamp, has been with the bed or next to the barbecue the sick child, watching with eyes hardened by late nights and praying to God on high, with words crossed by the pain, the salvation of the sick child.
Our thoughts are today, Mother's Day, for that he got up troubled, searching eyes without feeling in the corners of the house something to make food for their children, the hungry children she brought into the world with both love as the haughty lady, but unfortunately without the comfort of the haughty lady. Dominican Mother
poor source of suffering, flower of tears: your children to sleep without sheets, raise your kids spend the day naked and naked or dressed in rags; maybe your kids will not eat on this Mother's Day. But rest assured that thousands and thousands of Dominicans to pray and struggle in this land that I will one day dawn due both justice sitting on the highest hill in the most humble hut, with both hands full of bread that you you won with your pain in all the years of our history.
May the Lord bless you this day, mother
Dominican .-
* Published in the newspaper El Caribe, Santo Domingo, DR, May 26, 1963
(digits photocopy PSR, 07/02/2005, for streaks)
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