Jacobo Regen (1935-2019) — poeta judío-argentino (de Salta en el norte)/Argentine-Jewish poet (from Salta in the north of the country)– “El vendedor de tierra” y otros poemas/”The Dirt Seller” and other poems

Jacobo Regen

Jacobo Regen nació en Quijano, Salta, (1935 – 2019) donde vivió su vida entera. Fue judío de nacimiento, pero no fue practicante. Un judío solitario; permaneció recluido en sus últimos días. En su poesía combinó su herencia judía con su vida en una una provincia remota y llena de ejemplos brutos de la naturaleza. El vendedor de tierra, Poemas reunidos, Antología poética. El poemario El vendedor de tierra recibió el Primer Premio de Poesía del concurso anual para autores editados de su provincia (1984). En 2014, recibió el premio Rosa de Cobre (Biblioteca Nacional Mariano Moreno) (De Umbroso mundo con prólogo de Antonio Requeni, Fondo Editorial Secretaría de Cultura de la Provincia de Salta, Salta, Argentina, 2013).

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Jacobo Regen was born in Quijano, Salta, (1935 – 2019) where he lived his entire life. He was Jewish by birth, but he was not a practitioner. A lonely Jew; He was a recluse in his last days. In his poetry he combined his Jewish heritage with his life in a remote province full of powerful examples of nature. Among his poetry books are: The Seller of Land, Poems reunited: Poetic Anthology. The collection of poems The Seller of Dirt received the First Prize for Poetry in the annual contest for published authors of his province (1984). In 2014 he received the Rosa de Cobre award (Mariano Moreno National Library) (From World of Shade with a prologue by Antonio Requeni, Editorial Fund of the Culture Secretariat of the Province of Salta, Salta, Argentina, 2013.)

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Su obra poética se caracteriza por su estilo personalísimo y medular, hasta llegar a expresar los temas más trascendentales del hombre”. Centro de Cultura de Salta

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“His poetic work is characterized by his very personal and medular style, to express the most transcendental themes.” Salta Cultural Center

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Poemas de Jacobo Regen/Poems by Jacobo Regen

ANUNCIO

Será recompensada la persona

que me devuelva una sonrisa

cuando le diga yo que aún la quiero

y que no me importa si me odia

después de haberme amado

por equivocación.

ANOUNCEMENT

The person will be recompensed

who returns a smile to me

when I tell her that I still love her

and it doesn’t matter if she hates me

after having loved me

by mistake.

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FANTASMAS

Tan sólo mis fantasmas

saben lo que sucede

conmigo. Yo lo ignoro.

GHOSTS

Only my ghosts

know what happens

with me. I don’t have any idea.

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PALABRAS

Sólo te pido que recuerdes

La luz de aquel amanecer

Que hemos amado tanto.

He derrochado contigo

Tantas palabras que creíste

Ciertas,

Que palpitaban,

Que vivían 

Y amé en ti mis palabras.

Cuando dejé de amarlas,

Te perdí.

WORDS

I only ask that you remember

The light of that dawn

That we have loved so much.

I have squandered with you

So many words that you believed

True ones

That throbbed

That lived

And I loved my words in you.

When I stopped loving them,

I lost you.

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EL VENDEDOR DE TIERRA


Vuelve del horizonte

cargando tierra negra en sus espaldas.

Cuando llega lo aplauden los jardines

y se emociona el agua.

Y yo le compro tierra, y algún día

me tendrá que vender toda la carga.

THE LAND SELLER

He returns from over the horizon

loaded down with black earth on his backs.

The gardens applaud him when he arrives

and the water is excited.

and I buy the earth from him, and some day

he will have to sell me the entire load.

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DISTANCIA


No hay distancia más grande

que la que nos separa

del vecino,

del solitario prójimo

que generosamente

nos ayuda.

Su lema siempre fue: “lo mío es mío

y lo tuyo también”.

DISTANCE

There is no greater distance

than that which separates us

from our neighbor,

from the solitary being

who generously

helps us

his motto always was “what’s mine is mine

and yours too.

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PROPOSICIÓN


¿Conoces tú mi paradero?

Si sabes algo, dímelo.

Y cuéntame de aquel muchacho candoroso.

Si alguna vez llegas a verlo

No le ocultes que te has casado,

Que tienes varios hijos.

Y nunca te enternezcan

Su terquedad, sus ruegos.

Adóptalo como criado.

¡Sería tan hermoso para él!

Cuidaría el jardín de tu casa,

Lavaría los pañales de tus pequeños,

Saludaría humildemente a tu marido.

¡Es tan bueno!

Pero que tu indulgencia

no vaya nunca más allá.

PROPOSITION

Do you know my whereabouts?

If you know something, tell me.

And tell me about that naïve boy.

I you ever come to see him

Don’t hide that you have married,

That you have several children.

And they never soften for you

Their stubbornness, their pleas,

Adopt him as a servant.

I would be so beautiful for him!

He would take care of your home’s garden.

He would wash your little one’s diapers.

H would humbly greet your husband,

He is so good!

But that you indulgence

never go any further.

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UMBROSO MUNDO

             Hay jardines que no tienen ya países                        

                       Georges Schehadé

Umbroso mundo,

seguiremos siempre

poblando de fantasmas verdaderos

tus países ausentes.

Así, lejos de todo,

crecerá en el olvido un árbol verde

a cuya sombra vamos a dormirnos

hasta que alguna vez el sueño nos despierte.

 

WORLD OF SHADE

            There are gardens that no longer have countries.

                                    Georges Shehadé

World of shade,

we will always go on

populating with true ghosts

your absent countries,

So, far from everything,

a green tree will grow in oblivion

at whose shadow, we will fall asleep

until whenever the dream awakens us.

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TATUAJES   

Yo creo en las palabras

que son carne y espíritu:

tatuajes repujados

a punta de cuchillo.

TATOOS

I believe in the words

that are flesh and spirit:

embossed tattoos

with a knife point

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CORRECTOR

Yo soy, no más, un corrector de pruebas.

No dije nunca nada de mí mismo

porque desconocía los acentos

que caen en mis vértebras profundas.

PROOFREADER

I am nothing more than a proofreader.

I never said nothing about myself

because I don’t know the accents

that fall in my deep vertebrae.

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VEJEZ

Vino a cobrarlo todo:

las trampas del amor, sus ademanes,

y estos turbios espejos

que se avergüenzan de mirar a nadie.

OLD AGE

It came to collect everything:

the snares of love, its gestures

and these turbulent mirrors

that are ashamed to look to at anyone.

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 ANECDOTAS

¿Dónde se ahogaron nuestras noches

de sueños para siempre irredimibles?

Sólo quedan anécdotas:

pugilatos de torva levadura

y el vino con que ayer amanecía

la confidencia del amor

al fondo

de un bar decapitado.

ANECDOTES

Where were our nights of dreams drowned

so that they be forever beyond repair?

Only anecdotes remain:

boxing matches of fierce yeast

and the wine with which yesterday was dawning

the confidence of love

at the bottom of a decapitated

bar.

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 ALIANZA

Me quedo en cualquier parte

porque no tengo a dónde ir.

Y vuelven mis fantasmas

a inventarme

la luz

entre paredes de agua muerta.

Vuelven

para fundar la última alianza

con el que fui,

con el que nunca ha sido.

Andan ya por mi sangre.

Voy con ellos.

ALLIANCE

I stay anywhere

because i don’t have any place to go.

And my ghosts return to

invent for me

the light

between walls of dead water.

They return

to establish the last alliance

with what I was,

They still walk through my blood.

I go with them.

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HOGUERA

El aire va leyendo

con sus ojos de ausencia

las páginas de un libro

que consume la hoguera.

El humo cadencioso

se despide, se aleja…

Lo saludan cenizas

y mariposas muertas.

BONFIRE

The air goes on reading

with its absent eyes

the pages of a book

that the bonfire consumes.

The rhythmical smoke

says goodbye and moves away…

ashes greet it

and dead butterflies

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OBEDIENCIA

Si alguna vez amó

no fue de paso.

Obediente al recuerdo

cerró todas las puertas

de su sangre.

OBEDIENCE

If I once loved you

it wasn’t transient.

Obedient to the memory

It closed all the doors

of your blood

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SOY UN ÁNGEL

1

Serenamente digo: “Soy un ángel”.

Y me debes creer.

Ningún platillo sube,

o baja,

bajo mi peso.

Incorpóreo, ligero,

desnudo,

como la luz…

Y sin embargo, toda

mi trayectoria es una sombra,

mi corazón es una sombra

una moneda oscura

destruida por el tiempo,

sin tiempo y sin memoria.

Voy con ellos.

I AM AN ANGEL

1

Serenely I say: I am an angel”

and you ought to believe me.

No plate rises,

or goes down,

under my weight.

Incorporeal, light weight,

Naked,

Like the light…

Nevertheless, all

my trajectory is a shadow,

my heart is a shadow

an obscure coin

destroyed by time,

without time and without memory.

I go with them.

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Dos libros de Jacobo Regen/Two books by Jacobo Regen

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Jacobo Regen

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Salta, Argentina

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Silvio Fischbein — Artista visual judío y director cinematográfico-argentino/Argentine Jewish Artist and Film Maker — Obras de papel y tejido, de colores fuertes/Works of paper and weaving, in strong colors

Silvio Fischbein

Silvio Fischbein, 1949, artista visual y director de cine, vive y trabaja en Buenos Aires. Recibió los títulos de Arquitecto, año 1974 y Urbanista, año 1980, de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Es Profesor Consultor de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Participó en la creación y dirigió las Escuelas Audiovisuales de ORT, Facultad de Arquitectura, Diseño y Urbanismo de la Universidad de Buenos Aires, Facultad de Arte de la Universidad Nacional del Centro. Como guionista y director, realizó 30 cortometrajes, 5 largometrajes y 2 videoarte. Obtuvo el Premio George Meliès del Gobierno de Francia en 1984. Desde 1965, en las artes visuales, ha realizado 40 exposiciones individuales en el país y en el exterior, y ha participado en salones y exposiciones colectivas. Fue becado en varias ocasiones por los Gobiernos de Canadá y Francia. Entre otras distinciones, obtuvo la Beca Pollock – Krasner Foundation, 2015 y 2018. En 2021 obtuvo el 1er. Premio en la 26 Bienal de Arte Textil, Argentina. Presidió en repetidas ocasiones la Asociación Iberoamericana de Escuelas Audiovisuales y perteneció al comité ejecutivo de la Asociación Internacional de Escuelas de Cine y TV, CILECT. Actualmente preside AAVRA, Asociación de Artistas Visuales de la República Argentina.

Adaptado de su sitio web: http://www.silviofischbein.com

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Silvio Fischbein, 1949, visual artist and film director, lives and works in Buenos Aires. He received the titles of Architect, year 1974 and Urban Planner, year 1980, from the University of Buenos Aires. He is Consulting Professor at the University of Buenos Aires. He participated in the creation and directed the Audiovisual Schools of ORT, Faculty of Architecture, Design and Urbanism of the University of Buenos Aires, Faculty of Art of the National University of the Center. As a screenwriter and director, he made 30 short films, 5 feature films and 2 video art. He obtained the George Meliès Prize from the Government of France in 1984. Since 1965, in the visual arts, he has held 40 individual exhibitions in the country and abroad, and has participated in salons and collective exhibitions. He was awarded scholarships on several occasions by the Governments of Canada and France. Among other distinctions, he obtained the Pollock – Krasner Foundation Scholarship, 2015 and 2018. In 2021 he obtained the 1st. Award at the 26th Biennial of Textile Art, Argentina. He repeatedly presided over the Ibero-American Association of Audiovisual Schools and belonged to the executive committee of the International Association of Film and TV Schools, CILECT. He currently chairs AAVRA, Association of Visual Artists of the Argentine Republic.

Adapted from his website: http://www.silviofischbein.com

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Es arte de Silvio Fischbein/The Art of Silvio Fischbein

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Andriana Armony — Romancista brasileña-judaica/Brazilian Jewish Novelist –“Judite no País do Futuro/”Judith in the Country of the Future” — de história e amor/of history and love

Adriana Armony

Adriana Armony nasceu no Rio de Janeiro. É escritora, professora do Colégio Pedro II e doutora em Literatura Comparada pela UFRJ, com a tese “Nelson Rodrigues, leitor de Dostoiévski”. Publicou, pela Editora Record, os romances Estranhos no aquário (2012), Judite no país do futuro (2008) e A fome de Nelson (2005),  e organizou, com Tatiana Salem Levy, a coletânea Primos (2010), da qual também participou com um conto. O romance Estranhos no aquário foi contemplado com a Bolsa de Criação Literária da Petrobras.

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Adriana Armony was born in Rio de Janeiro City. She has three novels published by Editora Record: Strangers in the Aquarium (2012), Judith in the Future Land (2008), and Nelson’s Hunger (2005).  In 2010, she received an award in Creative Writing by Petrobras, a Brazilian Company renowned for their support to the Brazilian arts and culture.  Adriana also co-edited Cousins: stories of Jewish and Arab heritage (2010), a collection of fictional short stories by Brazilian writers about their Jewish and Arab background.  Besides her life as a writer (and passionate reader), Adriana teaches Brazilian Literature at Colégio Pedro II, a prestigious State school in Rio de Janeiro.  She has a PhD in Comparative Literature, and is a member of the Centre for Jewish Studies of Federal University of Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ)

https://adriarmony.wordpress.com/

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Adriana Armony. Judite do país do futuro. Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.

Dois corpos enlaçados, pálios e rígidos. Ele compôs-se solenemente para a morte; calça marrom-escura, camisa marrom-clara, gravata preta. Deitada de lado, envolta num penhoar estampado com ramagens, ela encosta-se no seu ombro, segura carinhosamente as mãos entrelaçadas. Suicídio, não havia dúvida. Mas seria possível?

         No caminho para a casa de Judite, João costumava comprar os jornais vespertinos, que lia enquanto esperava Salomão chegar. Ultimamente longos períodos de silêncio pesavam entre ele e Judite, e o jornal fornecia uma proteção íntima e reconfortante para os dois. João relé as manchetes daquela terça feira, 24 de fevereiro: dois navios nacionais foram bombardeados por submarinos alemães; Stefan Zweig, o escritor de Brasil, país de futuro, matou-se, com sua esposa Lotte, em Petrópolis, onde será sepultado. O nazi-fascismo estava fazendo suas primeiras vítimas no Brasil; mais cedo o mais tarde, a declaração de guerra seria inevitável.

         Apesar de tudo, era difícil entender. Um escritor de sucesso, que conseguira escapar das garras do nazismo, tinha o direito de se matar? Por que ele se suicidara? Por que arrastara a mulher com ele? Era aquilo o verdadeiro amor? “Parece que ele morreu antes dela… foi necessário forçar aquele corpinho para coloca-lo no ataúde… O rosto da mulher estava deformado” –foram as palavras da poeta Gabriela Mistral, que um repórter registrara. E havia detalhes que impressionavam. A mobília era quase indigente: duas camas de solteiro, encostadas uma na outra; dois criados-mudos com abajures baratos, um pão mordiscado, uma caixa de fósforos vazia, uma garrafa de água mineral.

         Uma vez ouvira que é bela a morte voluntária. Que a vida escolhe por nós, más a morte nós somos nós que escolhemos. Em Os irmãos Karamazov, Kirilov se mata para competir com Deus. Lembrou dos versos de Manuel Bandeira: “Muitas palmeiras se suicidaram porque não viviam num píncaro azulado.” João não queria morrer. Ah, se fosse um escritor famoso, si tivesse uma mulher que o amasse… ou se as mulheres o cercassem de mimos, disputassem o seu autógrafo (havia tantas mulheres bonitas), soltassem suas risadinhas excitadas, então seria feliz! Estava sendo fútil, pensou envergonhado, mas não podia evitar que o grito se erguesse dento de ele:  estava vivo! E, para apaziguar sua excitação, forcou-se a pensar nos corpos amarelos e gelados.

         Iria até Petrópolis. Quem sabe se voltaria? Prestaria a última homenagem a Zweig, y depois iria para o Rio. Estava perdendo tempo ali, na barra da saia de uma mulher casada. Coisas graves aconteciam, histórias de amor e morte. Era por acaso um adolescente? Apalpou o bolso, retirou uma folha amarrotada. Há dias levava aquele poema que escrevera pensando em Judite. Escrevera-o como que possuído, depois de ler o Cântico dos Cânticos, e não tinha sequer coragem de relê-lo, quanto mais de mostra-lo a Judite. Como ia partir, já podia fazê-lo. Mas era impossível que ela o lesse na sua presença, de modo que era preciso rabiscar algumas palavras com algumas instruções técnicos para ser cortejada sem se sujar”, pensou, como raiva. Mas também ele não era um cobarde? Temia ou admirava Salomão, o justo? Ou será que era ela dela que tinha.

         Ali estava um restaurante que costumava frequentar. Certamente poderia sentar-se por alguns instantes e escrever, enquanto bebericava alguma coisa. Pegou um guardanapo. “Judite, deixo-te este poema como doce lembrança dos nossos dias.” Era ridículo aquele tom nostálgico. Riscou tudo, escreveu: “Por favor, leia, mas não ria de mim.” Aquela ambiguidade era servil demais. Seria melhor fingir um interesse puramente literário: “Espero que goste deste poema.” Numa súbita inspiração, acrescentou, ressentido: “Junto com Zweig, alguma coisa também morreu entre nós.” Meu Deus, nada tinha acontecido entre eles! Certamente, devia a ser tudo uma fantasia… Rabiscou a última frase e escreveu diretamente no verso do envelope onde enfiara o poema: “Sigo hoje para a casa de parentes em Petrópolis e deixo-lhe este poema como lembrança e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.” Nenhuma acusação, uma ambiguidade viril: o tom estava correto. E, embora fosse improvável que Judite fosse procurá-lo, lá estava a indicação do local onde ele poderia ser encontrado. Si ela quisesse, não seria difícil descobrir onde ficava a casa a dos Ramalho, bastante conhecidos na cidade.

              João bate na porta, ele atendo. Percebe imediatamente que houve algo extraordinário. Ele não deixa espaço para dúvidas.

          — Stefan Zweig se matou!

         –O que você está dizendo! –Judite, com a mão diante da boca.

              –Ele e a mulher fizeram um pacto de morte. Ingeriam veneno e morrerem abraçados. Vão ser enterrados amanhã em Petrópolis.

              –Mas por quê?

              “Ele não tinha direito”, Judite está pensado. “Tantos queriam viver e morreram.” E depois: “Só os mortos não morrerão.”        

–Ninguém sabe.

–Todos aqueles homes e mulheres torturados, veraneando solitários naqueles hotéis… Talvez ele fosse assim. Mesmo não sendo pego pelos nazis, mesmo morando aqui no Brasil, continuou sofrendo.

–Lá em Petrópolis ele podia continuar escrevendo, podia esperar a paz…  Mas até aqui em Brasil!

        — Todo aquele mundo abafado… Ele não podia suportar o calor. A gente vê isso nos livros dele.

         –Esqueci de dizer: mais dois navios brasileiros foram torpedeados

         –Ah, meu Deus, a guerra está chegando perto de nós! Será que agora finalmente vai ficar contra os alemães? Salomão precisa saber disso.

          –Já deve saber, as notícias já devem ter chegado ao armazém. – Faz uma pausa, olha sério para Judite, — Escuta—ele nunca tinha falado nesse tom com ela–, você muitas vezes me criticou porque nunca mostrei nada que tinha escrito. Dessa vez eu trouxe um poema, mas, por favor, só você pode ler. –Ele Ile estende um envelope onde se pode ler algo escrito numa letra miúda e vai recuado até a porta. O seu rosto parece emitir uma luz estranha.

         –Não vai esperar Salomão?

         –Não, hoje não. Estou com pressa.

         Quando a porta se fecha, Judite percorre com o olhar o dorso do envelope: “Sigo hoje a casa de parentes em Petrópolis e deixo-Ihe este poema como lembrança a e tributo ao nosso amor pela Literatura.” Rasga o envelope e lê, de pé, aproveitando que Salomão não chegou e as crianças estão com Dorinha. . .

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Adriana Armony. Judite do país do futuro. [judite in the country of the future.] Rio de Janeiro: Record, 2008, 195-200 or 2003.

Two bodies fit together, pallid, and rigid. He was solemnly positioned for death; dark-brown pants, light-brown shirt, black tie. Lying beside him, wrapped in dressing gown printed with boughs and trees, she reclined on his shoulder, lovingly secure, the hands inter-laced. Suicide, the was no doubt. But could it be possible?

            On the way toward Judite’s house, João customarily bought the evening’s newspapers, that he read as waited for Salomão to arrive. Lately, long periods of silence weighted on him and Judite, and the newspaper furnished a and intimate and comforting protection for the two of them. João reread the headlines of that Tuesday, February 24: two Brazilian ships were bombed by German submarines; Stefan Zweig, the author of Brazil, the Country of the Future, killed himself, with his wife Lotte, in Petrópolis, where they would be buried. The Nazi-fascism was taking its first victims in Brazil; but sooner or later, a declaration of war would be inevitable.

         Despite everything, it was difficult to understand. A successful author, who had been able to escape the claws of Nazism, had the right to kill himself? Why did he commit suicide? Why did he drag his wife with him? Was that true love? “It appears that he died before she did… It was necessary to force that bodice to fit it into the casket… The face of the woman was deformed,”were the words of the poet Gabriela Mistral, that a reporter noted. And there were details that were touching. The furniture was almost indigent: two single beds, set one next to the other; two night tables with cheap lamps, bread that had been partially eaten, an empty box of matches, a bottle of mineral water.

          Once, he had heard that a voluntary death is beautiful. That life chooses for us, but for our death we are the ones who choose. In The Brothers Karamazov, Kirlov kills himself to compete with God. He remembered the verses of Manuel Bandeira: “Many palm trees commit suicide because they don’t live on a sunny hill.” João didn’t want to die. Ah, he would become a famous writer, if he had a woman who loved him… or if the women would surround him with delight, fight over his autograph (there were so many pretty women), let out excited laughter, then he would be happy! He was being shallow, he thought, embarrassed, but he couldn’t keep back a shout that was rising inside of him: he was alive. And to quiet his excitement, he forced himself to think about yellow and frozen bodies.

            All those tortured men and women spending the summer alone in those hotels… Perhaps he was like that. Just like not being caught by the Nazis, just like dying here in Brazil, he continued suffering.

         “There in Petrópolis he could continue writing, he could wait for the peace… But until it is here in Brazil!

         “All that sweltering world…He couldn’t tolerate the heat. People see this in his books.

         “I forgot to say that two Brazilian ships were torpedoed.”

         “Oh, my God, the war is coming close to us! Will it be that here finally they are going to concentrate on the Nazis? Salomao needed to know of this.

He would go to Petrópolis. Who knows if he would return? He would make his last respects to Zweig, and then her would go toward Rio. He was wasting time here, tied to the skirts of a married woman. Serious things happen, stories of life and death. Was he by any chance an adolescent. For days he had been perfecting that poem that he was writing for Judite. He wrote like someone possessed, after reading the Song of Songs, and he hadn’t had the courage to reread it, much less show it to Judite. As he was leaving, he could still do it.

t would be impossible to do so. But it was impossible that she read it in his presence, so that he must scribble some words with some technical instructions that would court her without embarrassing himself, he thought angrily. But wasn’t he a coward as well?  Did he fear or admire Solomão, the just? Or would it be that she was the one who was afraid?

João knocked on the door, he waited. He

  Immediately perceived that something extraordinary was going on. That was without a doubt.

          “Stefan Zweig killed himself!”

          “Oh, what are you saying?”, reacted Judite, with her hand in front of her mouth.

           He and his wife made a death pact. They ingested poison, and they died, embracing each other. They will be buried tomorrow in Petrópolis.

             “But, why?”

             ” He had no right to do it.” Judite was thinking. “So many want to live, and they die. And later: “Only the dead don’t die.”

              “Nobody knows.”

         -You should now, then news ought to have arrived in the mailbox. He pauses, he looked intensely for Judite, Listen. He had never spoken in that tone with hers. Many times, you have criticized me because I never showed anything I had written. This time I found a poem. But, please, only you can read it.” He reached out to her an envelope where someone could read something written in a child’s script, and he walked backwards toward the door. His face seemed to emit a strange light.

         “No, not today. I’m in a hurry.”

       When the door closed, Judite looked the back of the envelope: “I’m leaving today for my relatives house in Petrlis, and I leave you this poem as a memory and tribute to our love of literature.”  She opened the letter and read, standing, taking advantage of the fact that Salomão hadn’t arrived, and the kids were with Dorina…

Translated by Stephen A. Sadow

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Livros da Adriana Armony/Books by Adriana Armony

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“Buena Tierra” — Bolivia como un refugio judío del Holocausto — Bolivia as Jewish Refuge from the Holocaust– 1935-1945

“Buena Tierra” — La experiencia judía en Bolivia 1935-1945 — en La Paz y en la colonia “Buena Tierra”

“Buena Tierra”– The Jewish Experience in Bolivia 1935-1945 — in La Paz y in the farm “Tierra Buena”

La finca de Buena Tierra/The Buena Tierra Farm

La experiencia de los refugiados judíos en Bolivia estuvo indeleblemente influenciada por Maurice Hochschild, un acaudalado judío alemán propietario de una mina en Bolivia que tenía una buena relación con el presidente boliviano. Cuando el gobierno boliviano alentó la inmigración a mediados de la década de 1930 para impulsar la economía, Hochschild facilitó visas para que refugiados judíos alemanes y austriacos llegaran a Bolivia. También fundó la Sociedad de Protección a los Inmigrantes Israelitas (SOPRO), o La Sociedad para la Protección de los Migrantes Israelitas. La mayoría de los judíos se establecieron en La Paz, la capital, y JDC* apoyó los hogares infantiles de SOPRO y otras instituciones comunales en La Paz.

En 1940, para contrarrestar la creciente propaganda antisemita de que los inmigrantes judíos no contribuían al bienestar del estado y para asegurar que Bolivia no cerraría sus puertas a la futura inmigración judía, Hochschild se asoció con la Sociedad Colonizadora de Bolivia (SOCOBO) para desarrollar proyectos agrícolas en áreas rurales para demostrar la autosuficiencia de estos refugiados judíos.

Hochschild se puso en contacto con JDC y Agro-Joint para obtener fondos para reubicar a los judíos como campesinos y capacitarlos para cultivar los campos. De 1939 a 1942, JDC, junto con SOCOBO y Hochschild, contribuyeron $160,000 para sostener los asentamientos agrícolas.

Desafortunadamente, los nuevos agricultores enfrentaron una serie de desafíos en sus empresas agrícolas: la topografía montañosa, lo que significaba que no podían usar tractores; la muerte de los caminos a los mercados apropiados para los cultivos como la piña, el café y el cacao; y el clima subtropical. Ninguna de las granjas llega a ser completamente autosuficiente; todos fueron subvencionados por SOCOBO y Hochschild.

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The Jewish refugee experience in Bolivia was indelibly influenced by Maurice Hochschild, a wealthy German Jewish mine owner in Bolivia who had a good relationship with the Bolivian president. When the Bolivian government encouraged immigration in the mid-1930s to spur the economy, Hochschild facilitated visas for German and Austrian Jewish refugees to arrive in Bolivia. He also founded the Sociedad de Proteccion a los Immigrantes Israelitas (SOPRO), or The Society for Protection of Jewish Migrants. The majority of Jews settled in La Paz, the capital, and JDC* supported SOPRO Children Homes and other communal institutions in La Paz.

In 1940, to counter rising anti-Semitic propaganda that Jewish immigrants were not contributing to the welfare of the state and to ensure that Bolivia would not close its doors to future Jewish immigration, Hochschild partnered with the Sociedad Colonizadora de Bolivia (SOCOBO) to develop agricultural projects in rural areas to demonstrate these Jewish refugees self-sufficiency.

Hochschild contacted JDC and Agro-Joint for funds to relocate Jews as peasant farmers and train them to cultivate the fields. From 1939-1942, JDC, along with SOCOBO and Hochschild, contributed $160,000 to sustain the agricultural settlements.

Unfortunately, the new farmers encountered a host of challenges in their agricultural enterprises: the mountainous topography, which meant that they could not use tractors; the dearth of roads to appropriate markets for the crops such as pineapple coffee, and cacao; and the sub-tropical climate. None of the farms ever become entirely self-sufficient; they were all subsidized by SOCOBO and Hochschild.

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La organización judía The Joint Distribution Committee (JDC or “The Joint”) ayudaba en la salvación de muchos miles de personas antes, durante y después del Holocaust y luego los refugiados/The Jewish organization The Joint Distribution Committee (JDC or “The Joint”) helped save many thousands people before, during and after the Holocaust

Refugiados transformados en granjeros/Refugees transformed into farmers

Hombres descascarando el maíz/Men shucking corn

Taller de carpintería/Woodworking shop

Una muchacha sobre un burro en Buena Tierra/A girl on a burro en Bella Tierra

Tomando el té/Drinking tea

Competiciones de deportes/Sports competitions local people

Um asilo de JDC para la gente mayor en La Paz/A JDC Home for the Aged in La Paz

Shofar de Rosch HaShona/Shofar for Rosh HaShonah

El museo de Buena Tierra en La Paz/BuenaTierra Museum in La Paz

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