El reconocido escritor Gabriel Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez\u00a0 quien recibiera el premio nobel de literatura en el a\u00f1o 1982, se hizo famoso por sus fabulosos escritos entre los que se puede encontrar la m\u00e1s popular novela que es \u201cCien a\u00f1os de soledad\u201d la cual fue traducida a m\u00e1s de 25 idiomas y gano innumerables premios internacionales. Pero si hablamos de escritos geniales hoy les mostraremos un cuento de navidad llamado Estas Navidades Siniestras escrito y publicado el 24 de diciembre de 1980, en el cual Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez quiso plasmar su sentir acerca de esta fecha tan importante para todos los cristianos pero que en muchas ocasiones se nos olvida lo esencial y la raz\u00f3n por la que se celebra.<\/p>\n
Despu\u00e9s de leer este cuento (Estas Navidades Siniestras) quiz\u00e1s podamos volver a sentir un poco el verdadero valor de la navidad, encontraremos la verdadera noche de paz y amor y podremos compartir de coraz\u00f3n sin creer que todo se trata de regalos y presentes. Un buen cuento para leer en el idioma ingl\u00e9s y en espa\u00f1ol.<\/p>\n
Ya nadie se acuerda de Dios en Navidad. Hay tantos estruendos de cometas y fuegos de artificio, tantas guirnaldas de focos de colores, tantos pavos inocentes degollados y tantas angustias de dinero para quedar bien por encima de nuestros recursos reales que uno se pregunta si a alguien le queda un instante para darse cuenta de que semejante despelote es para celebrar el cumplea\u00f1os de un ni\u00f1o que naci\u00f3 hace 2.000 a\u00f1os en una caballeriza de miseria, a poca distancia de donde hab\u00eda nacido, unos mil a\u00f1os antes, el rey David. 954 millones de cristianos creen que ese ni\u00f1o era Dios encarnado, pero muchos lo celebran como si en realidad no lo creyeran. Lo celebran adem\u00e1s muchos millones que no lo han cre\u00eddo nunca, pero les gusta la parranda, y muchos otros que estar\u00edan dispuestos a voltear el mundo al rev\u00e9s para que nadie lo siguiera creyendo. Ser\u00eda interesante averiguar cu\u00e1ntos de ellos creen tambi\u00e9n en el fondo de su alma que la Navidad de ahora es una fiesta abominable, y no se atreven a decirlo por un prejuicio que ya no es religioso sino social.Lo m\u00e1s grave de todo es el desastre cultural que estas Navidades pervertidas est\u00e1n causando en Am\u00e9rica Latina. Antes, cuando s\u00f3lo ten\u00edamos costumbres heredadas de Espa\u00f1a, los pesebres dom\u00e9sticos eran prodigios de imaginaci\u00f3n familiar. El ni\u00f1o Dios era m\u00e1s grande que el buey, las casitas encaramadas en las colinas eran m\u00e1s grandes que la virgen, y nadie se fijaba en anacronismos: el paisaje de Bel\u00e9n era completado con un tren de cuerda, con un pato de peluche m\u00e1s grande que Un le\u00f3n que nadaba en el espejo de la sala, o con un agente de tr\u00e1nsito que dirig\u00eda un reba\u00f1o de corderos en una esquina de Jerusal\u00e9n. Encima de todo se pon\u00eda una estrella de papel dorado con una bombilla en el centro, y un rayo de seda amarilla que hab\u00eda de indicar a los Reyes Magos el camino de la salvaci\u00f3n. El resultado era m\u00e1s bien feo, pero se parec\u00eda a nosotros, y desde luego era mejor que tantos cuadros primitivos mal copiados del aduanero Rousseau.<\/p>\n
La mistificaci\u00f3n empez\u00f3 con la costumbre de que los juguetes no los trajeran los Reyes Magos -como sucede en Espa\u00f1a con toda raz\u00f3n-, sino el ni\u00f1o Dios. Los ni\u00f1os nos acost\u00e1bamos m\u00e1s temprano para que los regalos llegaran pronto, y \u00e9ramos felices oyendo las mentiras po\u00e9ticas de los adultos. Sin embargo, yo no ten\u00eda m\u00e1s de cinco a\u00f1os cuando alguien en mi casa decidi\u00f3 que ya era tiempo de revelarme la verdad. Fue una desilusi\u00f3n no s\u00f3lo porque yo cre\u00eda de veras que era el ni\u00f1o Dios quien tra\u00eda los juguetes, sino tambi\u00e9n porque hubiera querido seguir crey\u00e9ndolo. Adem\u00e1s, por pura l\u00f3gica de adulto, pens\u00e9 entonces que tambi\u00e9n los otros misterios cat\u00f3licos eran inventados por los padres para entretener a los ni\u00f1os, y me qued\u00e9 en el limbo. Aquel d\u00eda como dec\u00edan los maestros jesuitas en la escuela primaria- perd\u00eda la inocencia, pues descubr\u00ed que tampoco a los ni\u00f1os los tra\u00edan las cig\u00fce\u00f1as de Par\u00eds, que es algo que todav\u00eda me gustar\u00eda seguir creyendo para pensar m\u00e1s en el amor y menos en la p\u00edldora.<\/p>\n
Todo aquello cambi\u00f3 en los \u00faltimos treinta a\u00f1os, mediante una operaci\u00f3n comercial de proporciones mundiales que es al mismo tiempo una devastadora agresi\u00f3n cultural. El ni\u00f1o Dios fue destronado por el Santa Claus de los\u00a0gringos<\/em>\u00a0y los ingleses, que es el mismo Papa No\u00e9l de los franceses, y a quienes todos conocemos demasiado. Nos lleg\u00f3 con todo: el trineo tirado por un alce, y el abeto cargado de juguetes bajo una fant\u00e1stica tempestad de nieve. En realidad, este usurpador con nariz de cervecero no es otro que el buen san Nicol\u00e1s, un santo al que yo quiero mucho porque es el de mi abuelo el coronel, pero que\u00a0no<\/em>\u00a0tiene nada que ver con la Navidad, y mucho menos con la Nochebuena tropical de la Am\u00e9rica Latina. Seg\u00fan la leyenda n\u00f3rdica, san Nicol\u00e1s reconstruy\u00f3 y revivi\u00f3 a varios escolares que un oso hab\u00eda descuartizado en la nieve, y por eso le proclamaron el patr\u00f3n de los ni\u00f1os. Pero su fiesta se celebra el 6 de diciembre y no el 25. La leyenda se volvi\u00f3 institucional en las provincias germ\u00e1nicas del Norte a fines del siglo XVIII, junto con el \u00e1rbol de los juguetes. y hace poco m\u00e1s de cien a\u00f1os pas\u00f3 a Gran Breta\u00f1a y Francia. Luego pas\u00f3 a Estados Unidos, y \u00e9stos nos lo mandaron para Am\u00e9rica Latina, con toda una cultura de contrabando: la nieve artificial, las candilejas de colores, el pavo relleno, y estos quince d\u00edas de consumismo fren\u00e9tico al que muy pocos nos atrevemos a escapar. Con todo, tal vez lo m\u00e1s siniestro de estas Navidades de consumo sea la est\u00e9tica miserable que trajeron consigo: esas tarjetas postales indigentes, esas ristras de foquitos de colores, esas campanitas de vidrio, esas coronas de mu\u00e9rdago colgadas en el umbral, esas canciones de retrasados mentales que son los villancicos traducidos del ingl\u00e9s; y tantas otras estupideces gloriosas para las cuales ni siquiera val\u00eda la pena de haber inventado la electricidad.<\/p>\n Todo eso, en torno a la fiesta m\u00e1s espantosa del a\u00f1o. Una noche infernal en que los ni\u00f1os no pueden dormir con la casa llena de borrachos que se equivocan de puerta buscando d\u00f3nde desaguar, o persiguiendo a la esposa de otro que acaso tuvo la buena suerte de quedarse dormido en la sala. Mentira: no es una noche de paz y de amor, sino todo lo contrario. Es la ocasi\u00f3n solemne de la gente que no se quiere. La oportunidad providencial de salir por fin de los compromisos aplazados por indeseables: la invitaci\u00f3n al pobre ciego que nadie invita, a la prima Isabel que se qued\u00f3 viuda hace quince a\u00f1os, a la abuela paral\u00edtica que nadie se atreve a mostrar. Es la alegr\u00eda por decreto, el cari\u00f1o por l\u00e1stima, el momento de regalar porque nos regalan, o para que nos regalen, y de llorar en p\u00fablico sin dar explicaciones. Es la hora feliz de que los invitados se beban todo lo que sobr\u00f3 de la Navidad anterior: la crema de menta, el licor de chocolate, el vino de pl\u00e1tano. No es raro, como sucede a menudo, que la fiesta termine a tiros. Ni es raro tampoco que los ni\u00f1os -viendo tantas cosas atroces- terminen por creer de veras que el ni\u00f1o Jes\u00fas no naci\u00f3 en Bel\u00e9n, sino en Estados Unidos.<\/p>\n This sinister Christmas (Ingl\u00e9s)<\/strong><\/p>\n Nobody remembers God at Christmas anymore. There are so many roars of comets and fireworks, so many garlands of colored lights, so many innocent turkeys slaughtered and so many anguish of money to be well above our real resources that one wonders if someone has a moment to realize that such a mess is to celebrate the birthday of a child who was born 2,000 years ago in a stable of misery, a short distance from where he had been born, a thousand years before, King David. 954 million Christians believe that this child was God incarnate, but many celebrate it as if they did not believe it. It is also celebrated by many millions who have never believed it, but they like to party, and many others who would be willing to turn the world upside down so that no one would continue to believe it. It would be interesting to find out how many of them also believe in the depths of their souls that Christmas is now an abominable holiday, and they dare not say it because of a prejudice that is no longer religious but social. The most serious of all is the cultural disaster that these perverted Christmases are causing in Latin America. Before, when we only had customs inherited from Spain, domestic mangers were prodigies of family imagination. The child God was bigger than the ox, the little houses perched on the hills were bigger than the virgin, and nobody noticed anachronisms: the landscape of Bethlehem was completed with a rope train, with a bigger stuffed duck than A lion swimming in the living room mirror, or with a transit agent who led a flock of lambs in a corner of Jerusalem. Above all, there was a golden paper star with a light bulb in the center, and a yellow silk ray that was to indicate to the Magi the way to salvation. The result was rather ugly, but it looked like us, and it was certainly better than so many primitive pictures badly copied from the customs officer Rousseau.<\/p>\n The mystification began with the custom that toys were not brought by the Magi – as happens in Spain with all reason – but the child God. The children went to bed earlier so that the gifts would arrive soon, and we were happy hearing the poetic lies of the adults. However, I was not more than five years old when someone in my house decided that it was time to reveal the truth to me. It was a disappointment not only because I really believed that it was the child God who brought the toys, but also because I wanted to continue believing. In addition, by pure logic of adult, I thought then that also the other Catholic mysteries were invented by the parents to entertain the children, and I stayed in limbo. That day, as the Jesuit teachers said in elementary school, I lost my innocence, because I discovered that the children were not brought by the storks of Paris, which is something that I would still like to continue believing to think more about love and less about the pill. .<\/p>\n All that changed in the last thirty years, through a commercial operation of global proportions that is at the same time a devastating cultural aggression. The child God was dethroned by the Santa Claus of the gringos and the English, who is the same Pope Noel of the French, and who we all know too much. We arrived with everything: the sleigh pulled by a moose, and the fir-tree loaded with toys under a fantastic snowstorm. In reality, this usurper with the nose of a brewer is none other than the good Saint Nicholas, a saint whom I love very much because he is my grandfather the Colonel, but who has nothing to do with Christmas, and much less with the Tropical Christmas Eve of Latin America. According to the Nordic legend, Saint Nicholas rebuilt and revived several schoolchildren that a bear had dismembered in the snow, and for that reason they proclaimed him the patron saint of children. But his party is celebrated on December 6 and not 25. The legend became institutional in the North Germanic provinces at the end of the eighteenth century, along with the tree of toys. and a little over a hundred years ago it passed to Great Britain and France. Then he went to the United States, and they sent it to us for Latin America, with a whole culture of contraband: artificial snow, colored lamps, stuffed turkey, and these fifteen days of frantic consumerism that very few dare to escape . However, perhaps the most sinister of these Christmases of consumption is the miserable aesthetic that they brought with them: those indigent postcards, those strings of colorful little lights, those little glass bells, those mistletoe crowns hanging on the threshold, those songs of mentally retarded people who are translated Christmas carols from English; and so many other glorious stupidities for which it was not even worth having invented electricity.<\/p>\n All that changed in the last thirty years, through a commercial operation of global proportions that is at the same time a devastating cultural aggression. The child God was dethroned by the Santa Claus of the gringos and the English, who is the same Pope Noel of the French, and who we all know too much. We arrived with everything: the sleigh pulled by a moose, and the fir-tree loaded with toys under a fantastic snowstorm. In reality, this usurper with the nose of a brewer is none other than the good Saint Nicholas, a saint whom I love very much because he is my grandfather the Colonel, but who has nothing to do with Christmas, and much less with the Tropical Christmas Eve of Latin America. According to the Nordic legend, Saint Nicholas rebuilt and revived several schoolchildren that a bear had dismembered in the snow, and for that reason they proclaimed him the patron saint of children. But his party is celebrated on December 6 and not 25. The legend became institutional in the North Germanic provinces at the end of the eighteenth century, along with the tree of toys. and a little over a hundred years ago it passed to Great Britain and France. Then he went to the United States, and they sent it to us for Latin America, with a whole culture of contraband: artificial snow, colored lamps, stuffed turkey, and these fifteen days of frantic consumerism that very few dare to escape . However, perhaps the most sinister of these Christmases of consumption is the miserable aesthetic that they brought with them: those indigent postcards, those strings of colorful little lights, those little glass bells, those mistletoe crowns hanging on the threshold, those songs of mentally retarded people who are translated Christmas carols from English; and so many other glorious stupidities for which it was not even worth having invented electricity.<\/p>\n All that, around the most frightening party of the year. A hellish night in which the children can not sleep with the house full of drunks who make a mistake in looking for a place to drain, or chasing the wife of another who perhaps had the good fortune to fall asleep in the living room. Lie: it is not a night of peace and love, but quite the opposite. It is the solemn occasion of people who do not love each other. The providential opportunity to finally leave the commitments postponed as undesirable: the invitation to the poor blind man that nobody invites, to the cousin Isabel who remained a widow fifteen years ago, to the paralytic grandmother that nobody dares to show. It is joy by decree, affection for pity, the moment to give away because they give us, or to give us, and to mourn in public without giving explanations. It is the happy hour that the guests drink everything that was left over from the previous Christmas: the mint cream, the chocolate liqueur, the banana wine. It is not uncommon, as often happens, for the party to end up being shot. Nor is it strange that children-seeing so many atrocious things-end up believing that the baby Jesus was not born in Bethlehem, but in the United States.<\/p>\n