coldhearted scientist وداد

When J. M. Bordaberry was president of Uruguay, I was a foreign exchange student in Scandinavia. Soon after I arrived there, Pinochet took over in Chile. There were Chilean students on my program. Their parents spoke to them by telephone–in that era, when international long distance calls were far from common–to say, do not come home. Go to the government in the country where you now reside, and apply for asylum immediately. Do not put yourselves in the position of having to return here. It is dangerous.

There was also an Uruguayan student on the program, a long-haired, bookish type. Like the rest of us, he whiled away the Scandinavian school year, eating open faced sandwiches and speaking a language which resembled Old English, and then went home.

Years passed. One day I received a letter from the Uruguayan student’s Scandinavian host family. We know you speak Spanish. We have written and written, and we have not heard from him. We are afraid he has been disappeared. We may file a report. But before we get too excited, could you write him in Spanish? He may feel uncomfortable with us for some reason. He may have forgotten our language. Perhaps this is why he does not write. A letter in his own language, from a peer, might do the trick.

I wrote, and I received a reply. It is nice to hear from you. I am fine, married now with two children, and my career is going well. I remember fondly our days in Scandinavia. Please tell everyone not to worry. Best regards, Major General X.X. This letter gave me chills. I sent it on to his Scandinavian host family with a translation.

Axé.