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  • Some years before 1982, my dad was convinced I should learn English, but I didn't take it for serious as soon as he started to explain: "'H-E' is pronouncede "Ri" (what has a mean about laugh). 'S-H-E' is pronounced "xi", (or "chi", it depends on "x" factor). For a native Portuguese child, "she-she" sounds like "xixi", and it means "pee".

    "So SHE pees while HE laughs"? That was my first espectacular light of compreension of the world.

    Then 1982 came with news of a war close to us, around Argentina with England, She! She!!

    I barely could understand what "hermano" was, because in Latin countries military dictatorship was something which shouldn't be talked about, especially with children in the room. Teachers were at school not to teach, but to watch children and probe information about familiar political ideals, for example. It really was not the best situation to learn about the world around when patriots should be proud of the own ground. And there were the slogan, here "Brazil, love it or leave it". Many people in South America was throwed back and forth trying to save their lives, and many people killed and/or died in those days. All was too delicate to learn about, and in the early 80s, militarism in LA started to take the last deadly breath, starting the fight for Malvinas.

    My father suddenly told us that he could be convoked to fight in support to Argentina, and as Brazilian, he could have to go.

    "But you're a doctor!, and you work at the bank!!, and you have us..." I thought. In my mind, working to feed the family was enough. It should be, as he'd taught us ever. But it was not truth.

    "If the Army calls, i'll have to go. I'm a doctor".

    It means today I that I was too naive maybe even for a child... Doctors to cure people who go to war to be wounded? "And our sick people? Don't they need you enough?"

    "No, they need me more, if I'm called to help"

    "And could it happen to you to be shot? To die there?"

    I left the room disguising a pain to cry in the bedroom. I had too little father to let him fly away in a fight against pee-ople, to defend hermanos who was always appearing on TV beckoning to those Generals in uniforms. Anyway, those were the rules and now it's my intuition for that moment.

    Today I watch the maps. My mental map is still a bit toothless, because maps change much faster than I could wonder. People take places, men change names of territories, Nature tear up mountains and swallow islands with melting icebergs. But Malvinas? Ah, "The Butterfly Islands", I still see when I stare the map.

    An Argentinian widow of Malvina's War - or Falklands - told these days when the disputation on the government of the place rises again with the 30th anniversary of the battle, that the destiny of the island doesn't matter to her. "Blood was shed there, it's not a good place", in Spanish.

    Where, where is the good place on Earth? Where can a butterfly be divided each wing for a country, and people fly freely, pronouncing their laughter?
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