Zine “All-Out War”. #01 The Absolved Applaud

Yes, they applaud unknown motives; living like that comes easy, detached from it all. The grand masterpiece is having turned yourself into judge, jury, and executioner. All without achieving it yourself—a gift from heaven you never asked for, but embraced with pleasure and rage, wielding the accidental privilege of citizenship.

Nobody fights for anything.

The problem with applauding a faceless machine is that you end up advocating for your own guillotine, one that bears no name and is so indifferent that justice itself—as philosophy and theory—is just an ornament, a sort of theoretical framework for the deluded and the junkies.

This isn’t about supporting crime or anything like that; it’s about redirecting the conversation: power exercised by humans against humans. Careful. Because poverty and stupidity spare no one. In either case, you will suffer your own applause.

BEHIND THE APPLAUSE

Inadequate solutions are born from common, enslaved mouths. Oblivion as a premonition and any random voice becomes fuel. A regular guy, a regular woman, regular old folks—they beg for death, for bombs. To bring down a building with all the inmates inside.

“Nothing of value is lost.” “They’re in there for a reason.” “They deserve it.”

Blind trust. Power feeds on its own excitement; it gives you what you want. But for justice, the fact that you applaud without context or proof means one thing: “the ends justify the means.”

Often, just being in the wrong place at the wrong time is enough to land you in prison. Having nothing in your wallet increases the odds. There are thousands of innocent people behind bars in this country. It’s not about being stupid; it’s about understanding how the judicial machine operates. Prosecutors love to lock people up without hesitation; the entire premise of a case is just that: an assumption (in the cases of the innocent).

But how can someone imagine actions and motives so completely that they harden into accusations against the innocent? How does a rich man imagine where a poor man eats, where he shits, and how he sleeps? What does his soul dream of, and what assumption locks him up?

Foucault suggested that a “certain” soul managed to materialize into flesh, and justice is addicted to that kind of soul, to the point of needing to fabricate cases. It is also important to ask where the applauders’ desire for revenge comes from, reaching the madness of not distinguishing the innocent from the guilty.

The history of the evolution of power manages to turn you into the victim; the debt is owed to society—it is owed to you, the decent citizen. Seeing this, a double-edged trap emerges. On one hand, whether you are innocent or guilty, your debt is to everyone, and since society is the victim, it is that infinite mass of people who begin to judge you.

It seems that strangers to both the victim and the perpetrator are the ones who hold the right and privilege of forgiveness. On the other hand, by generalizing, there is the danger of granting an absolution, but beware, this move is calculated.

Since the one who condemns is society (in that risk of judicial self-absolution) and not due process, every assumption, every case, and every investigation feels like a mere stage for and by society—delivering a spectacle to the public. Justice turns into a perverse mechanism that needs to give answers to society, rather than objectively determining guilt.

Go on applauding, dear citizen, but don’t forget that if we gamble with your blood, we won’t find purity. Your only shield against the wrong moments is money. Like a raid on a friend’s house. There are no innocents. Our nature is error.

The way this country functions resembles the Nazi machinery of ethnic persecution. The only difference is that it doesn’t exterminate.

I base this on the fact that the condemned is not the only one who suffers in body and soul; their relatives also bear a heavy burden of social condemnation. Even their friends start wondering if they want to remain part of that circle, if it’s the right thing to do, or if it might bring trouble upon themselves. Of course, every dream and soul disappears.

If every conviction weren’t social, perhaps justice would take more time deciding whether to ruin a life or not, whether it’s deserved or not.

Following this model, which carries shades of Nazi Germany, ordinary people don’t know they can be persecuted for almost anything. A deception, a selfish attitude, taking a small advantage, a childhood punishment, an atrocious crime, crossing exactly where you shouldn’t cross, being someone’s neighbor, saying hello, smiling, congratulating a minor, almost insignificant criminal with a handshake—any of it can turn you into the biggest monster on earth for the prosecutor of the moment.

There is no thin line, not even a thick one. Every investigation lacks the intellect required to achieve impartiality, and being in prison or not depends on a moment, a place, and whether you just happened to be there or not—never forgetting money.

Selfishness, cheating, cowardice, and love are our currencies. And I am sure that if any prosecutor had access to the everyday life and privacy of each person, 95% of human civilization would eventually see the inside of a cell over the slightest detail.

Zine “All-Out War”. #06 The Raid

June 19, 2025. It was 7:07 PM. I saw a circle of intense white light through the window. I heard shouts: “Police! On the ground! On the ground! Police raid!”

Those shouts weren’t in my room yet. I lived—and still live (January 2026)—on a plot of land with six crude shacks, in a neighborhood that could be considered the edge of a shantytown, or what people here call a villa.

Going back to the shouts: I first thought they were coming from the lot next door. But no, the circle of powerful light was coming from our yard.

I was sitting in my electronics lab, repairing cell phones. Of course, I understood instantly what was happening. I dropped what I was doing and turned to my mother, who was on the phone.

“Stay calm,” I said. “It’s a raid.”

“No!” she barely got out.

A second later, an officer in tactical gear violently kicked the door open, repeating the shouts.

“Hands, hands, put your hands up!” he yelled at me, pointing a submachine gun at my head. After I raised my arms, he continued: “Kneel.” I did. “Lie face down, do it!” I lay on the floor. I felt him plant his foot on my back, pressing his weapon against the side of my head. Then another officer came in, pointed his gun at my mother’s head, and did the exact same thing.

That day I was handcuffed for the first time, but I will never forget the submachine gun pointing at my mother. Why? We were calm because we knew beforehand that all this circus and show of force wasn’t for us. But… Is this the investigative power of the federal forces?

That night, they kept me handcuffed until 3 AM, and then took me to the precinct until 5 AM.

In the midst of it all, they took a neighbor who lived on the same plot of land where I rent. This neighbor was sentenced to 4 years in prison in a plea bargain for possession of 800g of marijuana. I won’t speak more of him for now, as I am writing another text specifically about his life and what leads a man to prison.

What I never expected was that, simply for living in a marginal neighborhood, in a rudimentary room, they would take away all my effort. “Just in case,” they confiscated my entire workshop and all the equipment they found. Guilty by association, to the justice system, I was a criminal.

They stripped me of absolutely everything I worked with and left me with a massive debt, as I had to replace brand-new equipment for countless clients. From one day to the next, I found myself with nothing: no purpose, no tools, in debt, and under criminal investigation. Just for living on the same plot of land.

I remember the chat with the officer at the precinct:”You do coke?””No.””Smoke weed?””No.””So tell me, Peralta [calling me by the wrong name]… what the hell are you doing there?””My name is Diego Fernández. I don’t know who you are confusing me with.”

I gave a faint smirk and said nothing else. The silence dragged on as the guy typed on his computer.

“Get out of here, kid.”

As a frequent reader, one understands that these things happen. You know about police and judicial impunity, about the violence with which kids, families, and children are treated (yes, because several children were trampled when the officers stormed the yard). But living it up close, in your own flesh, awakens nothing but revenge, hatred, and violence.

At least, initially.

THE DEPRESSION

Before that happened, I used to think I was occasionally depressed. But that was when I truly discovered depression. Not showering for two months, not being able to go out to the yard, not thinking, barely eating, sleeping and sleeping. Losing my dreams, goals, and the tools to achieve them—even my own phone to communicate with clients, losing hundreds of contacts built over a year and a half of work.

I remember that during one of the hearings for my neighbor, the prosecutor included my entire workshop, and all my clients’ devices, as “payment for drugs,” stating that the sheer amount of electronics irrefutably showed criminal activity.

I was dumbfounded. Not only were they never going to return absolutely anything, but they were using it as incriminating evidence against my neighbor. Argentine justice.

What could I do? I was broke from paying for all the cell phones, notebooks, video cards, and power supplies of my clients.

Any attempt at a new physical venture ran, and still runs, the exact same risk: confiscation “just in case.”

I thought: “Whatever I do, it has to be mental, intellectual, something they can never take away from me.”

The conclusion: keep writing, find my voice again, and create not just art, but fire.