Culture, Politics, and Collective Memory

As we began our courses on language and populism/neopopulism, one theme immediately stood out: the depth and complexity of Argentine identity. Argentina is a country that defies easy categorization, shaped by a rich cultural heritage, turbulent political history, and a deep connection to broader Latin American narratives. From the very first classes, it became clear that understanding Argentina today requires more than just learning about its current political climate or cultural norms—it requires peeling back the layers of its history, its myths, and its stories.

A central thread running through both our language and populism classes is the inextricable link between past and present. Argentine politics is not merely about parties or ideologies—it's about memory, about the role of history in the formation of national identity, and about who gets to tell the story. The shadow of Peronism, for instance, still looms large. Even those who oppose it are defined in relation to it. Populism in Argentina isn't an isolated phenomenon—it is woven into the nation's cultural and political DNA, deeply informed by cycles of hope, disappointment, resistance, and reinvention.

In trying to make sense of these complexities, the work of Eduardo Galeano has been a powerful guide. Though not Argentine himself, Galeano’s writings on Latin America particularly The Open Veins of Latin America—offer a profound lens through which to understand Argentina's place within the continent's broader history of colonialism, exploitation, and resilience. Galeano doesn’t simply recount history; he interrogates it, offering a poetic yet piercing critique of power, inequality, and the lasting impacts of imperialism.

Reading Galeano is like learning to see with new eyes. He shows us how the past bleeds into the present, how the colonial extraction of wealth and labor created not only economic disparities, but also psychological and cultural wounds that persist. When he writes about the silenced voices of Latin America, he’s also pointing toward the stories that Argentina has, at times, tried to forget or suppress: the genocide of Indigenous peoples, the marginalization of Afro-Argentine communities, the horrors of the Dirty War, the lingering trauma of the disappeared.

In this sense, Galeano’s work becomes essential in our attempt to understand Argentine identity, because it asks us to reckon with uncomfortable truths. It’s easy to focus on Buenos Aires' beauty, its European-inspired architecture, its vibrant tango culture — but harder, and more necessary, to question why those European influences were so dominant and what that meant for others who were erased or pushed aside in the national narrative.

At the same time, Galeano also celebrates resistance—the power of memory, of art, of storytelling as acts of survival and defiance. This is where language becomes so vital. In our language classes, we’re not just learning Spanish as a means of communication; we’re uncovering how language itself carries history. Every word, every phrase, is shaped by context. The way Argentines speak—the cadence, the slang, the gestures tells its own story. Language becomes a tool not just for speaking, but for remembering, resisting, and reshaping identity.

One particularly striking realization is how much Argentine political discourse is shaped by emotion, symbolism, and performance. Populist leaders whether Perón, Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, or even contemporary figures often speak in ways that evoke shared pain, shared pride, and a sense of belonging. The language of populism is not purely rational; it's poetic, visceral, and often theatrical. Understanding this requires a sensitivity to cultural codes, historical references, and national myths that go beyond policy analysis.

What’s been most thought-provoking in these early weeks is the recognition that Argentina like much of Latin America is a land of contradictions. It is a country that is both deeply wounded and fiercely proud, European and Indigenous, progressive and conservative, cosmopolitan and intensely local. These contradictions are not signs of confusion or failure; they are signs of a nation continually negotiating its identity in response to internal and external pressures.

In both the classroom and everyday life, it’s evident that to study Argentina is to study the interplay between memory and identity, between the stories a nation tells about itself and those it tries to forget. As Galeano writes, "History never really says goodbye. History says, 'see you later.'" That line captures the essence of what we are beginning to understand that the past is not behind us, but beside us, shaping how we speak, how we vote, how we remember, and how we dream.

Ultimately, these first weeks have reminded me that political and cultural analysis must always be grounded in empathy, in listening, and in a willingness to question the surface of things. It is not enough to categorize leaders as populist or neoliberal, or to memorize dates and events. We must also ask: Whose voices are heard? Whose stories are told? What emotions lie beneath the political slogans? What silences speak louder than words?

Argentina offers no simple answers only a mosaic of truths, each fragment illuminating a different aspect of its identity. And perhaps that, in itself, is the lesson: to understand a place, we must learn to live with its complexities, to hold contradiction without needing resolution, and to listen always—for the stories beneath the surface.