Devaluación continua

Por BERNA GONZÁLEZ HARBOUR

Andreu Navarra, profesor de Lengua y Literatura de Secundaria, retrata la incapacidad de concentrarse de la nueva generación de “ciberproletariado” o la ausencia de debate sobre el futuro al que esta sociedad quiere conducir a sus jóvenes. Navarra no es un teórico, pero sí un torrente de verdades que acaba de publicar Devaluación continua (Tusquets), un latigazo contra la ceguera, una llamada de emergencia ante la degradación del modelo educativo.

“Los profesores queremos crear ciudadanos autónomos y críticos, y en su lugar estamos creando ciberproletariado, una generación sin datos, sin conocimiento, sin léxico. Estamos viendo el triunfo de una religión tecnocrática que evoluciona hacia menos contenidos y alumnos más idiotas. Estamos sirviendo a la tecnología y no la tecnología a nosotros”, afirma Navarra. “El profesor está exhausto, devorado por una burocracia para generar estadísticas, lo que le quita energía mental para dar clase”.

El testimonio de Andreu Navarra (Barcelona, 1981), historiador, tiene el valor de quien ha impartido clase durante seis años en colegios concertados y públicos, en zonas ricas y castigadas, donde encuentra por igual “profesores heroicos” en un sistema educativo estresado por la propia sociedad de la que es espejo: hay padres ausentes porque trabajan demasiado; hay violencia; hay chicos sin comer o desayunar; hay muchos problemas mentales; y hay una generación ausente por su concentración en las redes y su identidad virtual.

“Lo audiovisual está creando una nueva Edad Media de personas dependientes de satisfacer el placer aquí y ahora, cuando la vida es muy diferente. En la vida hay que saber leer contratos, alquilar pisos, cuidar a tus mayores, criar hijos. Pero el ciberproletariado se viene abajo ante cualquier problema. Son personas que no serán capaces de trabajar porque tienen la concentración secuestrada por las redes”, dice. No es que todos los jóvenes encajen en su mirada crítica, pero sí ve el riesgo de exclusión de una cuarta parte de los alumnos en una tormenta perfecta de precariedad y vida virtual.

El libro de Navarra recurre a Ortega y Gasset para apelar a un debate necesario antes de todo lo demás: a dónde vamos. “Si sabes a dónde vas, si abrimos un debate sobre el modelo de futuro al que queremos avanzar, después regularás la tecnología, los horarios o lo que sea, pero antes de aumentar o disminuir las horas tienes que pensar qué quieres hacer con ellas”, sostiene. Y el modelo de sociedad que convierte en héroes carismáticos a Pablo Escobar o Jesús Gil en series de televisión; la falta de ejemplaridad de unos políticos “pillos, de ahora no te hablo, de quién la tiene más larga”; la mentalidad Fraga de “turismo y populismo que prosigue en Salou, en Magaluf, en que destrocen Barcelona” no ayuda. “Falta reflexión sobre la sociedad que queremos, por qué no apostamos por un MIT español, por exportar literatura, ingeniería patentada aquí y no exportar ingenieros”. Pero “el papel de ascensor social de la educación está fracasando y estamos creando bolsas de guetos, de personas sin futuro”.

Menciona también el maquillaje de la ignorancia que practican los colegios para mejorar la estadística. E insiste una y otra vez en la incapacidad de fijar la atención, gran carencia de una nueva generación con fotos en las redes, pero sin memoria. “Hemos conocido varios capitalismos y ahora mismo estamos en el capitalismo de la atención, en una economía de plataformas que mercantilizan tu atención. Si estás viendo unos mensajes, alguien gana dinero y si ves otros, lo gana otro alguien. No podemos repensar la educación si no pensamos cómo devolver la atención a las aulas, y regresamos del mundo virtual. Ahora no podemos ensimismarnos, como defendía Ortega y Gasset, porque todo es ruido, la política es gritos, eslóganes, nadie piensa, nadie escribe, todo es tontería y eslogan y eso ha llegado a las aulas: lo simplista, lo binario, el bien y el mal”. Los Steve Jobs o Zuckerberg, recuerda, recibieron educación analógica. Y los gurúes tecnológicos mandan a sus hijos a colegios analógicos. Es por ello por lo que, concluye, “hasta que arreglemos la sociedad, no podremos arreglar el sistema educativo”. (El País, 15 de septiembre de 2019)

Boca Juniors: The Agony and the Ecstasy

By JAMIE LAFFERTY
n Magazine by Norwegian, December 2018

On a cool, clear evening in Buenos Aires, San Martín de San Juan, a small football team from western Argentina, arrives to face the music at La Bombonera. Home of Boca Juniors, the largest and most successful team in the country, the stadium is the beating blue-and-gold heart of the colourful, chaotic La Boca neighbourhood. 

Indeed, it’s known as much for the noisy enthusiasm of its fans as for the skill of its players, who’ve counted Maradona among their number. Officially the Estadio Alberto J Armando, it’s known to everyone as “The Chocolate Box”, thanks to its unusual shape. But in reality, it’s more meat grinder than confectionery container – certainly for visiting teams who enjoy little success here. This is partly owing to a police ban on any travelling supporters, put in place in 2013, that ensures a wholly partisan atmosphere permeates. 

The result is an intimidating frenzy reminiscent of the Two Minutes Hate in George Orwell’s 1984. “An ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness... [flowed] through the whole group like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic.” A game at La Bombonera is like that, only 45 times longer.

And yet, strange as it might sound to the nonfootball fan, this fury holds a certain appeal. In a sport where growing corporatisation has led to an increasingly bland and sanitised experience, Boca’s wild terraces are a throwback to a different era. For fans from around the world, this intensity is something to be sought out. Tickets are hard to come by, and it’s not an experience tourists can just wander into, but local tour company Tangol has begun to offer tickets to select foreigners who are accompanied by seasonticket-holding guides. As soon as I heard this was possible, I wanted to experience it. I’m from Glasgow, a city with a notorious footballing reputation of its own, but, even so, visiting La Bombonera seemed like it could be something above and beyond anything I had encountered at home. 

A couple of hours before kick-off, I’m duly picked up by diehard Boca fan and Tangol guide Santiago Puerta. Inside the minibus, there’s an eclectic mix of tourists: two stern-looking Finns, a cheery American family and a lone Iranian backpacker. “You’re coming to my house now – it’s a privilege,” says Puerta to all of us as we board, and he makes sure no one is wearing any red or white clothing (the colours of middle-class rivals River Plate) before reassuring us that we’ll be in a section of the 49,000-seat stadium away from flares and trouble. 

As the minibus moves through the city, it passes buses of hardcore Boca fans who have been touring the city for hours, shouting and singing out of the windows to let everyone know it’s game day. As we get closer to the stadium, Puerta gives us a potted history of the club, which was founded in 1905 by Italian immigrants for La Boca’s vociferous working class. Now the most popular team in the country, their jerseys are found across Argentina, but the reason for their famous colour scheme is surprisingly arbitrary. “The founders couldn’t agree on which colours to have, so because La Boca is close to the port, they decided to go down there and take them from the next ship that came in,” explains Puerta. “It was Swedish, thank God, because these colours are really pretty. This is what we have: blue and gold for life.” 

As we climb high into La Bombonera for the start of the game, those same hues are on the back of every fan and draped from all four stands. The sun is setting so even the sky seems to pay tribute to the team, shifting from a powdery blue to a burnished gold. Puerta settles his guests before taking a seat on the stairs, making it easier for him to jump up and roar when Carlos Tévez gives his team the lead after just nine minutes. The collective roar sounds like an explosion. The atmosphere at La Bombonera is intensified in part because of the steepness and semi-circular shape of the terraces, which boost the acoustics.

From high in the main stand, we have a great view of the pitch, but also of La Doce (The Twelfth Man): the relentless fans behind the goal who move from one chant to the next, with just a quick breather at half time. 

While there’s no doubting the commitment of any fans here – even we newcomers quickly lose our inhibitions when a goal is scored – La Doce sets the rhythm for the stadium, and perhaps the entire country. Season tickets at La Bombonera are generational and there are rarely vacancies in their manic stand. The section does have seats, but they’re only used as springboards, allowing fans to jump all the higher when shouting their heroes’ names. Even before scoring, Tévez was the most popular man in the stadium. A short, stocky striker, he first made his name here with Boca Juniors before making his fortune in the UK. Despite never learning English, he made a huge impression there, almost single-handedly saving West Ham from relegation, then winning titles with Manchester United, and their old rivals Man City. 

Like many South American players, Tévez eventually opted to play out the final days of his career in his homeland, back with the team that gave him his break. He’s now the highest-paid player in the league, even though his wages are a fraction of what they were in England, Italy and during an ill-judged spell in China. 

For Boca fans, the money is not important, though – what really matters is one of their most beloved sons choosing to return home. He grew up 20km from the stadium, in desperate poverty in the notorious Fuerte Apache barrio. While many footballers cover their bodies in patchworks of tattoos, Tévez came into the game scarred: as an infant he accidentally pulled a pan of boiling water off a table and onto himself. Despite his millions, he’s never had any surgery to diminish the scars that run down his neck and chest. At the end of games, he often removes his jersey, as though to remind everyone what it means for him to be here. 

He still plays the game like that too, as if getting the ball is his only way to get out of Fuerte Apache. As he smashes through defences, a neutral fan might feel sorry for his opponents but that’s not the Boca way. “He’s really one of us,” says Puerta, nodding with approval as a San Martín defender lies prone on the pitch. “Of course, people talk about Maradona, but he was already finished when he came back here.” 

If anything, Maradona is more beloved for what he achieved with the Argentinian national side than his single 1981/82 league title with Boca Juniors. In the Museo de la Pasión Boquense – the club museum in the bowels of La Bombonera – it’s clear that players such as Martín Palermo (236 goals and 13 trophies for Boca) or Juan Román Riquelme (11 trophies over two stints with the club) are held in higher regard than “El Diego”. 

However, during the 90 minutes of the match, history seems irrelevant – all that matters is what’s happening on the pitch and the irresistible rhythm of the drums, the crowd’s communal heartbeat. As they chant, fans throw their arms out as though trying to shake something sticky from their hands. When they synchronise a sort of tomahawk chop, thousands of arms slicing through the air, the collective result is hypnotic and infectious. Around the stadium, the blue and gold shimmer as Boca take a 2-0 lead, and during every goal in their 4-2 victory.

Coming to see Boca Juniors feels like travelling back to see football as it might have been in the good old days. The tribalism is very real, the atmosphere supercharged. At half time, Santiago Puerta comes over to me, keen to talk more football, listing every Argentinian player who ever played for Rangers or Celtic in Glasgow. Puerta keeps an eye on that old Scottish war, just as I like to know who wins each Boca Juniors-River Plate match, the infamous Superclásico. The battle lines in Glasgow are religious, so what about here? Why the major rivalry between La Boca and River Plate? “It’s class,” replies Puerta quickly. “Those guys, you know,” he pushes his nose back, seeming to indicate snobbery, “but this year they’re so bad it’s almost no fun to beat them... Almost.” I start to tell him that in the Europe’s top leagues, much has been lost as money has flooded the game. Season tickets are extraordinarily expensive and not enough fans support their home sides; the players are richer, but the sport is arguably impoverished. I think he’s listening, but then La Doce restarts the drums, his eyes seem to go just a little vacant and a moment later, my guide is leaning over the safety barrier, howling with 50,000 others: “When I die, I don’t want flowers/ I want a coffin that has these colours.”