When I was a child, political victories were celebrated as if the Champions League were at stake. People went out into the street and it was always until dawn. Now not even the football matches are postponed, Benfica plays at the same time that the televisions offer us projections.
When I finish writing I will go out to celebrate what unites us. Circumstances transformed the landslide victory of the new President of the Republic into a greater achievement than a simple election. It represented an act of resistance and hope for a decent future for our children and grandchildren.
It’s likely that soon I won’t find anyone on the street to hug, but I’ll go out anyway. I will celebrate the hope of each unborn baby, of each birth attended by Joana Gomes, a nurse from Setúbal who photographs babies and their mothers in homage to the miracle of us being here. Every photograph of you, every desired pregnancy and every child born, is a call for us to be the best we can be. An appeal and the desire that that small set of particles to be unraveled be good and respect the differences in the world. I will leave home and celebrate the victory of decency with absolute conviction. I will do this for each of my children, for Joana, the photographer of hope, and even for those who voted for the candidate who carries the nausea of resentment. I would like you, deep within yourself, to think about your unborn children, how good it would be if they were people who didn’t sow weeds in your soul under construction.
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