After Lichi Diego published his report against me (1996), there were many who took a self-critical look at their own conscience but, as always, the most interesting thing was not the phenomenon itself, but the difference in degree between one person and another.
There are those, literally, whose hands are stained with blood, the innocent blood of others; there are those who took up (and aimed and fired) their weapons to defend a cause they then believed deserved the maximum sacrifice; those who put their face, their name, their prestige, who gave everything, their talent, their youth and its golden opportunities, fantasizing a utopian society that they envisioned overflowing with justice.
From this hypnotic state each was awakened at the moment when he was tapped to receive the slap that announced the end of the game. True, there were people who never let themselves (or who were slapped at the outset) but among them were not only the most lucid, but also those who never had an illusion, like my friend Felipe, who always knew that his parents were the Magi [i.e. Santa Claus] and spent his life repeating, “Some are born to fuck and others are born to be fucked.”
One can only repent when he feels guilty about something, never for having been a victim. The only fault of the victim is to have been innocent, the guilt of not having gotten the picture, of not having seen the obvious. Assaulted in a dark alley in the middle of the night, the victim repents his recklessness, but the true fault is the assailant’s.
Let those repent, then, who have reason to; as for the others, let’s protest.