by on Jun.23, 2012

Dear Montevidayans,

A prophecy from chapter 9 of J. M. Coetzee’s “Diary of a Bad Year,”

“Someone should put together a ballet under the title Guantanamo, Guantanamo! A corps of prisoners, their ankles shackled together, thick felt mittens on their hands, muffs over their ears, black hoods over their heads, do the dances of the persecuted and desperate. Around them, guards in olive-green uniforms prance with demonic energy and glee, cattle prods and billy-clubs at the ready. They touch the prisoners with the prods and the prisoners leap; they wrestle prisoners to the ground and shove the clubs up their anuses and the prisoners go into spasms. In a corner, a man on stilts in a Donald Rumsfeld mask alternately writes at his lectern and dances in ecstatic little jigs.
One day it will be done, though not by me…”

And, for your consideration, the following:

Respectfully submitted,

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