my son the doctor

In the country of my son the doctor, young middle-class people despise, attack or endorse those who attack health personnel. They may have erased it from their stories or their memory, but despite it, they are nothing more than the result of that process of upward social mobility that was the founding promise of this nation.

They despise and mistreat health personnel, nurses, doctors, infectologists. That may also have been the route of the dreams of their immigrant ancestors, who were not counts or aristocrats, neither refined nor educated: they were the poorest thing that could be found in Europe, many were illiterate, and when they burned the ships they looked forward. They compensated for the lacerating pain of being uprooted with a dream projected into the future, which was their children and grandchildren.

I say that nurses, doctors, infectologists is a route, in addition to three necessary links in the management of the pandemic. Those ragged Europeans would have justified their sacrifice of having a sick son or daughter. A decent, useful, stable, qualified job. Evita said it loudly and acted accordingly. The right wing never liked the nurses for that reason: because it was a jump.

Then comes the doctor. My son the doctor. That title contains the key to why and how millions of great-grandparents survived their melancholy: their eyes were on their children, and the Argentine soil was the one that would allow them to do better than them, that this land would give them everything connotes a doctor: someone respectable, someone educated, someone who does good. If that route had continued in a specialty such as infectology or any other, that pride would simply have inflated more, and that idea, that of finally being proud of what they had done with their lives, was the predominant feeling in the middle classes from immigration. The welfare of the children justified the longing.

And now it turns out that their descendants despise them. Something in the Argentine imaginary was broken. And it was broken by the neoliberal culture, which has made its own conception of the State, egotistical, camouflaged, anti-democratic, today the dominant conception in the audiences. All those who whore doctors watch television.

“I pay you your salary,” they shouted at a doctor in Mar del Plata. That distortion becomes flesh in the voice of a blonde with reflections and a barrabrava voice. She and those around her kicking the wrong ones — these people’s anger is diverted, that’s basically the strategy of the extreme right — they believe that their taxes make them “bosses” of state employees. In that deep place in terms of the conception of the State, the common sense that the hate media machine spreads without scruples came to permeate.

The success of the extreme right is due in part to the fact that any mediocre person, any faint-hearted person, has someone to yell at that he pays their salary, enjoying a politically perverse way of being the master and having a slave. But that in a pandemic of these proportions and consequences the extreme right manages to get its commandos to infiltrate a published and digested opinion so as to fold to the defense of criminal attitudes, borders, deniers and facades, and how it has done it in Argentina, leaves no doubt about his plans.

It is no coincidence that the word Gestapo appeared while another word sounded, disappear. These are the continuators of a historical line, but that is hardly the understanding of its origin. They are worse than their parents and much worse than their grandparents. They have long ago abdicated the values ​​that even the Argentine rights reserved. These are the ones who have set out to destroy even what the previous ruling generations did. They are exponents of a power drugged by its own volume. Sooner or later, they will explode.

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