Where I live, at this time of year, it’s not easy to hang white clothes on the line. From the sky falls a cigarette butt, a black dust: you touch it and it crumbles, an ash that stains everything.
I write this from a place of “privilege”: I live in the capital, a bit farther from the sugarcane fields. The burnings happen in the inland districts, but the smoke reaches us all the same.
I thought about drawing lines, but I chose to blur them.
To build an optical trap.
A deception meant to lure the foreign gaze, the one that observes without becoming involved.
Because it is obscene that this practice still persists.
Today, Tucumán remains one of the provinces with the most polluted air in Argentina, according to the World Health Organization.
There is nothing more to add.