Mauricio Morales, 11 later, insurrectionists dont forget you

For those of us who knew you and for those of us who knew you after your death, it has been 11 years of having you around, 11 years of continuing to propagate, breaking in, bothering, laughing loudly or in whispers, stubbornly propagating the Black Death.

How much has happened in these years, there is no rational measure that can quantify it. There are those who will say that we have lost, others that we have gained a lot, what is really important is that we continue... and that anarchy, as a concrete practice against any form of domination, as a permanent exercise, continues unrestrained. And that is why our dead people enjoy excellent health and continue to laugh, today already in other laughs.

How much you would have enjoyed the streets in these months, we smile when we imagine the answer, but you were, Mauri, in memorable days, in the chaos and its sweet deliriums. You were there, because there are those who insist on going out with you to the chaos.

This is how comradeship, iconoclastic memory and solidarity have been nourished, against any border, repression and death... as they wrote from a prison in Switzerland some years ago.

After the action of May 22, 2009, where you found death by attacking the jailers, there was no communication that made your position clear...but there was your life, your writings, your poems, songs, your stories, your experiences plagued by stumbles, mistakes, rages, laughter and successes, your constant persistence in trying, by any means necessary, to light up the night and ruin the party for the jailers of the world.

Those writings have flown from heart to heart, looking for active hands where Anarchy prevails. In your letters of black ink the skein of your ideas, feelings and convictions is unraveled, it emerges clearly who you decided to be and the paths you took even at the risk of everything... without expecting applause from the gallery, without seeking consensus, mass satisfaction, or votes of popularity.

In your writings, those who didn't know you, have been finding you and forging their own ties of complicity, that is the power of black memory, which opens furrows and paths right there where police, journalistic or citizen insults are intended to be imposed... so vital is that clash of companions, experiences and generations, that in an attempt to cut those ties, 11 years after your death, murmurs are heard that echo journalistic inventions. It is a pleasure that you are not yet popular... but you are present among those who are ours, those who do not allow themselves to be tamed and those who choose not to tame their bitter spirits and so the echoes of your mocking laughter still spread through the streets, lighting fires even in the saddest and coldest night.

There is no day where your absence does not hurt, but here we continue...You will live in our lives Mauri.

Beyond any circumstances and any pandemic...

by Anarchy and against all authority, we will remain the worst black plague!!

With infinite love...

For all the comrades who have gone…

For all those who continue to raise the pulse of conflict…

For prisoners of war…

Our memory is black, our heart too…

Eternal contempt for the jailer!