José Martins Garcia - O Medo

It was the afternoon of a meteorologically clear day, April 25, 1974. Alberto Sintra filmed almost historic immensities and consequently has eyes streaked with revolutionary blood. Aparício da Paz introduced into the cramped newsroom of Democracia some Germans with abundant hair who interviewed him with image and sound – a triumphant moment, each one forward while there is still time!
Europe is with us! The “Sheriff”, like a lightning bolt moved by the great cause, continues preparing to arrive victoriously in Portugal. He will not come alone. Many will come. All will come: preachers, apostles, revolutionaries, saviors, plunderers, scoundrels, angels, poor women, smugglers, skeletons of martyrs and obscene pimps – all anointed by collectivist fury.
While the redeemers travel or intend to travel towards Lisbon, brought from the most varied corners of exile, some resistance fighters from the interior wander around the offices of Democracia, just a stone's throw from the Carmo Barracks, where the Republican Guard is keeping busy for whatever may come; while the troops, with armored vehicles and carnations on their rifles, move to and fro. The resistance fighters from the interior, although apprehensive from time to time, are optimistic enough to already be distributing government portfolios. A burst of gunfire sounds towards Carmo. I can clearly hear it on a radio: "Our Lady help me! There's a terrible fire here! Oh Jesus! I've never seen a fire like this!"

I can't suppress a derogatory thought. Half a dozen shots make a guard whine for Christ and the Virgin Mary. With defenders of this ilk – I think – it's surprising that for forty-odd years no one has taken them down, or attempted a revolution, a coup, or at least a folkloric shootout. Decades of fear and buried heroism, conspiracies, generous, liberating and failed movements… when finally a burst of automatic rifle fire arrives to soil the underwear of a regiment!…