1985. A war zone.

I'll never forget the women who asked me to sit outside with a Soviet-made rifle and take a turn doing vigilante or night watch, so they could watch soap operas from Argentina on TV. They wanted to laugh and be with their friends and families. Who doesn't?

One night the woman I stayed with said she couldn't sleep because of the "bombas." "Me pongo nerviosa." Her husband had left. He did not like the war and revolution, she told me. I wrote in my notes, "The day came anyway. She cooks and cleans and takes care of her grandchildren. It is quiet now. The sky is blue."