I lived in Argentina from 1983 to 1985 when singer and political activist Mercedes Sosa was in her prime. She was affectionately called La Negra, the black one. I’m thinking of her now because she used to sing a song about cicadas and, well, there’s a mass exodus of Brood X cicadas emerging this week in Eastern North America. It’s a synchronized emergence, much like our nearly synchronized emergence from our homes during lockdowns since many of us, gratefully, have been vaccinated during the pandemic.
Mercedes Sosa’s song, “Como a Cigarra,” along with her other popular songs, was often played on speakers in the downtown streets I walked and walked and walked south of Buenos Aires as a Christian missionary. Cities like Longchamps, Temperley, and Olavarría. The politically-charged song is an analogy of living underground like the cicada—finally emerging triumphant and singing. All of us, the world at large, are also emerging en masse after the pandemic, except our eyes aren’t quite so red.
I arrived in Argentina as a Christian missionary for the Church of Jesus Christ at the end of The Dirty War (la Guerra Sucia), so my missionary companions and I talked with people in their homes about about Christ’s gospel and hope, despite the fact that few were interested in our particular message.
We met one family whose uncle had disappeared. He’d been taken by members of the military junta in the middle of the night because they suspected he’d made a comment about social justice. His family didn’t know if he died by torture, or had been thrown from a flying airplane into the sea far off the coast along with 30,000 others: Los Desaparecidos.
“Voice of the voiceless ones” is what they called Mercedes Sosa, because she articulated camaraderie to millions through her music, and the politically charged lyrics of her folksongs. She sang about the hope they needed as a nation since they were unable express their feelings publicly, if they wanted to remain safe. Sosa began receiving death threats and was exiled for singing, so she fled to Paris and Madrid.
Finding it difficult to be away from her homeland, she returned to Argentina in 1982, the year before I arrived. She and her fellow Argentinians suffered terribly. The horrific crimes against humanity during the oppressive and brutal military junta of Jorge Videla were unfolding. This one woman—through her enduring voice and actions—exposed the truths of her nation through music: she sang.
I found it difficult to sing during the first year of the pandemic, not even around the house, so I admire that she could sing during such a difficult hour in history. I live with my husband on the far edge of a rural town in Utah, population one thousand, and because of this we hardly saw any people in over one year, occasionally a few at the local post office.
When we finally ventured out—a road trip to San Diego after getting vaccinated—I got the bends in a way, like a deep sea diver who rises up from the deep too quickly. I was in Parakeet Café in La Jolla when the overwhelm hit me. I backed up to plaster myself against the parakeet wallpaper, and one of the servers walked past me in the café. When he saw tears above my mask he simply said, “I know. It’s overwhelming.”
For some of us it may take a while to emerge and wander farther and farther from our pandemic-induced isolation. It won’t take us seventeen years like this particular cicada Brood X, any yet we’re reviving. Maybe we can try singing in the shower, or if that isn’t our thing, we can think of a favorite song and smile.
Panning wider, is there more we can sing about as social creatives, through music, art, or poetry to enact social and humanitarian changes locally or further abroad? It’s something to think about. You may want to look toward social creatives like Pádraig Ó Tuama, Ilya Kaminky, or Joy Harjo for inspiration on how to become more active in this area.
Most certainly, we can play Mercedes Sosa on our speakers at home. Just don’t play it as loudly as cicadas sing, the decibel level is nearly that of a lawnmower. About 100 decibels. Sustained exposure to a cicada’s song can cause hearing loss.
I’ve translated the lyrics to “Como la Cigarra.” They were written by the Argentinian poet, María Elena Walsh:
They’ve killed me many times
I’ve died so many times,
yet, here I am reviving.
I thank misfortune. I thank
the hand with the dagger
that killed me -
and still, I sing.
I sing in the sun like the Cicada
after a year under the earth,
like a survivor returning from war.
So many times I was erased -
so many times I disappeared.
I went to my own funeral
alone and crying, and I tied a knot
in my handkerchief forgetting
it wasn’t the only time,
and still, I sing.
I sing in the sun like the Cicada
after a year under the earth,
like a survivor returning from war.
You’ve been killed many times
and many times you’ll revive.
How many nights will you spend
despairing? At the moment
of your shipwreck and darkness
someone will rescue you
so you can go on singing.
Sing in the sun like the Cicada
after a year under the earth,
like a survivor returning from war.
A lovely piece of work. Thank you.
Love, love, love this, Gwen. Your written voice, like your singing voice, is beautiful.