Dear Professors Marcos and Luiz Paulo,
I confess that the last time I was at this university, I muttered on the way home: "Never again, never again... the university 'expels' whenever and whoever it wants..." What caused my disenchantment was a group of Christians being called idiots by a professor at an academic event. During a lecture, he was shouting at the Jesuits' pedagogical project. I think it doesn't matter who, which group, which religion, which sect... how can one insult someone or a group in educational settings? Wouldn't this professor's lack of decorum be as regrettable, for example, as some offensive jokes? Then we are surprised by the intolerance that spreads in public life. If we sow prejudice, we will reap its fruits.
Six years have passed, and here I am back again… I confess that, on the first day, I thought, what am I doing in this room? Who is this Cleso mentioned so many times? Is there still a photocopy room? At PUCC there was Silas with the photocopies, handsome, sometimes there wasn't even a text to copy, but we'd go there just to see him… But no… impossible to have a room like that here with a guy named Cleso. The following week, I laughed a lot when I discovered that they called it Classroom.
As a student, relieved to be excused from writing my final paper, but still mulling over some thoughts, I can say that the most important thing was respect for Christian thought. I was surprised when you, in awe of Saint Augustine's speculations, invited us to consider the beauty of his ideas. And it wasn't just once that you revealed this to the young people in the room. I agree with Professor Marcos when he states that the writing of a recent convert is dangerous; yes, a danger because of their freedom in trusting surrender to Love. Ultimately, I believe the most important thing was to renew the belief that academia can read and question Christian philosophy and theology, but respect them, as they constituted some of the foundations of the idea of a university.
The lesson that touched me most was about Camões and the Christian lyrical self. Perhaps it was because of my memories of my maternal grandfather, who owned a book by this poet. My grandfather only completed elementary school and carried this book around with him from time to time. He had the most beautiful toothless smile I've ever seen. He wasn't religious. I didn't have time to talk to him about these things. I was 12 years old when I found him in his final slumber... he died in his sleep. I don't know if he possessed Camões's strong hope and accepted the offer of the mysteries of the "World Machine," surrendering himself to the Light.
At this point in my life, I've been accompanying my 92-year-old mother. Often, as she lies down, sharing the same room, she usually murmurs softly: “My father was Sebastião, my mother Julieta, I was born in Rio Claro, then I went to Pirassununga. There I went to school by train…”. The words aren't always audible or intelligible. Lately, I fall asleep with these stories. I started reading the novel “Sôbolos rios que vão” by Antonio Lobo Antunes. What perfect timing for this book to arrive for me! Narrative as a memory of the permanence of being… I realize that my mother, to continue being who she is, recalls her life, before sleeping, through her voice… like Lobo Antunes' character: “speaking… she had the certainty of being… in case I fall silent I do not exist…” I also remembered Saint Augustine's Confessions : “memory is the stomach of the soul.”
My experience observing elderly people in nursing homes has deeply affected me. I help bring communion (my brother is a Eucharistic minister) and I believe that the finiteness of life is the same for everyone. Financial conditions certainly offer more comfort, a more upscale nursing home, and faster treatment through health insurance plans, but the perception of finitude, the degradation of the body, the certainty that we are physically corruptible… ah, that is the same for everyone… for everyone, despite the different life paths of each individual. What were they? What did they fight for or what did they ignore? What hopes were dashed? What is still worth hoping for? “What rivers do they flow over?” have they thought, cried, and sighed? How is this “loneliness of the end and the loss of the meager treasures they held” for each elderly person? How many “ Eli, Eli lama sabachthani !” have they groaned in their moments of anguish and doubt?
I don't know, teachers. I only know that I have my strong hope and I must follow it. And so I follow the message that a boldo tree shows me here in the backyard: with such bitter leaves, it welcomes the hummingbird in its small flowers, proving to me that there is a certain sweetness even in the bitter.
Thank you
Marta
(Marta de Almeida Oliveira was a student in the course “Topics in Literature and Philosophy”, taught by professors Marcos Lopes and Luiz Paulo Rouanet (Unicamp/UFSJ) in the first semester of 2025, in the Literary Theory and History Program at IEL)
This text does not necessarily reflect the opinion of Unicamp.
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