Camila Barboza

The scent of fresh bread barely cuts through the chill of winter in Madrid, Spain. I cradle my coffee, its heat seeping into my fingers as I stare at the street outside. It feels surreal to be here—half a world away from Buenos Aires, Argentina, where everything seems to be unraveling. I haven’t been back in six months, and the city I left behind feels like a distant memory.

A year ago, a new leader sweeps into power, promising to slash through the system like a blade. Many believe in the vision of a smaller state, an economy freed from its chains. But now my mother tells me about neighbors who lose everything. My father, always stoic, hesitates when I ask how our savings are holding up. “We’re managing,” he says. That word—managing—carries the weight of uncertainty, of sacrifice.

I am 24, studying political science in Madrid, yet every day my mind drifts back to Argentina. My professors laud the administration’s achievements in reducing inflation, citing reports of economic progress. But those numbers feel hollow. My cousin, Lucía, works two jobs and still struggles to afford groceries. My best friend, Santiago, has given up on his plans to open a small design studio because no one has the money to invest. Consumption collapses, and hope is quickly following.

I miss my family, miss the chaos and warmth of Buenos Aires. But I also dread going back. What future awaits me there? Supporters of the new government argue this is the necessary price of transformation, the dismantling of a broken system to make way for something better. The streets, however, speak a different truth—protests, strikes, and quiet desperation.

Staring into my empty cup, I make a quiet vow: if I stay in Europe, it won’t just be for me. It will be for them. For Lucía, for Santiago, for all the ones who can’t leave. Perhaps the privilege of distance can become the power of return, someday. But not yet.