The amazing and authentic story of Marcel Marceau, the best known and admired mime artist, who was a secret hero who saved the lives of many Jewish children during World War II.

Marcel, along with his brother Alain de él, were forced to adopt the surname Marceau in order to hide their Jewish origins. Both brothers would join the French Resistance in Limoges, where they managed to save the lives of numerous Jewish children by preventing them from going to Nazi concentration camps.

Watch on Netflix.

Nino Bravo – Libre


Tiene casi veinte años y ya está
cansado de soñar.
Pero tras la frontera está su hogar,
su mundo, su ciudad.
Piensa que la alambrada sólo es
un trozo de metal.
Algo que nunca puede detener
sus ansias de volar.

como el sol cuando amanece,
yo soy libre como el mar.
como el ave que escapó de su prisión
y puede, al fin, volar.
como el viento que recoge mi lamento
y mi pesar.
Camino sin cesar
detrás de la verdad
y sabré lo que es, al fin, la libertad.

Con su amor por banderas se marchó
cantando una canción.
Marchaba tan feliz que no escuchó
la voz que le llamó.
Y tendido en el suelo se quedó
sonriendo y sin hablar,
sobre su pecho flores carmesí,
brotaban sin cesar.

como el sol cuando amanece,
yo soy libre como el mar.
como el ave que escapó de su prisión
y puede, al fin, volar.
como el viento que recoge mi lamento
y mi pesar.
Camino sin cesar
detrás de la verdad
y sabré lo que es al fin la libertad.

Como el sol cuando amanece,
yo soy libre como el mar.
como el ave que escapó de su prisión
y puede, al fin, volar.
como el viento que recoge mi lamento
y mi pesar.
Camino sin cesar
detrás de la verdad
y sabré lo que es al fin, la libertad.

José Luis Armenteros y Pablo Herrero

As you migrate and travel, how to stay connected to a group via the online Multi

By Laurie Vaquer

Those who know me know that I travel a lot, although I enjoy having a base, a home, here in Buenos Aires.

I travel, I study and I work at the same time, it’s a bit strange but quite feasible. Since April 2017, date of my arrival in Argentina, I’ve built a lifestyle adapted to my wanderlust. In practice, this means that I work on different projects on the Internet and that I can continue to work on these projects wherever I am. In practice, it means that I travel, without it being a vacation! I continue working, while visiting the surroundings in my spare time. This lifestyle is rather trendy in recent years. We are called “digital nomads” or “location independent”. I appreciate the freedom to travel more than when I had a more conventional job.

Having a base point definitely has benefits, like having a routine and friends living in the same city. The MIC, as I mentioned in this article, is part of what links me to Buenos Aires and that I find with great pleasure every time. On the other hand, when I’m not in Buenos Aires, BabelPsi also gives me the opportunity to participate in multifamily meetings over the Internet, in French or in English, and it’s a great way for me to keep this good habit, despite the distance!

I am not the only one enjoying the benefits of the Multi over the Internet. Vincent, for example, was on an internship in Buenos Aires in 2016 and he regularly attended the MIC. On his return to Europe, the online Multi allowed him to keep a continuity on the reflections he had started in Buenos Aires: “After being immersed in the multi in Argentina, it would have been very difficult for me to return to Europe and no longer participate in any multi. At this level, the multi by internet allowed me to keep a link with this part of me that I discovered in Argentina. “

The online Multi is very much like the MIC in the sense that it is a group that connects at the same time to share reflections and life experiences, with respect and without judgment. Participants can participate via webcam and microphone if they wish, or only listen.

When we simply listen to each other, it can remind us of experiences and bring out emotions. Everyone is free to bounce back and share their thoughts.

The online Multi in French was created in 2012 by Graciela Bar, founder of BabelPsi. Today, there is also an online Multi in English; it is hosted by Shirley Matthews, an active member of BabelPsi in Buenos Aires.

The possibility of participating in the Multi via the Internet when one is not present in Buenos Aires is a highlight of these meetings and it also allows to accompany migrations, as in the case of Vincent. A second strong advantage of this tool is the ability to invite one or more family members to participate and even friends.

Indeed, inviting someone is a way to share a special moment with a loved one, but also to reflect on the relationship we have with others. For example, we sometimes have different reactions and ways of communicating that vary from person to person. Doing work on yourself can highlight interdependencies with the people around us and the Multi is a privileged space for that.

The online Multi in French are held every Thursday at 15h (Argentinian time). The Multi in English takes place on the first and third Wednesdays of the month at 16h (Argentinian time). For practical information or registration, please contact Graciela (Multi in French) and Shirley (Multi in English).

BabelPsi Multicultural Get-Together: How I (dis)connect once a week with new old friends in Buenos Aires

by Laurie Vaquer

A few months ago, when I moved to Buenos Aires, I didn’t know anyone and it wasn’t the greatest feeling. Although It wasn’t the first time I moved to a new country, it was indeed the first time as an online entrepreneur, meaning I didn’t have colleagues to socialize on a day-to-day basis.

Little by little, I made friends and I really enjoy the city now. I think there’s one thing that helped my integration in Buenos Aires: the MIC. It stands for Multifamily and Intercultural and it’s a weekly meeting held in Palermo where people from different cultures connect with each other and disconnect from their daily life for a couple hours to share life experiences.

Lately, we tend to be hyper-connected, always reachable and with our smartphones close to us just in case we need to check Instagram for the 10th time in the last hour. Therefore, I think the MIC is a great opportunity to disconnect from your digital life and be in the moment.

The Multifamily Psychotherapy was created by Dr Jorje Garcia Badaracco. He believed that all of us are constituted through interdependent relationships and he thought that one can benefit from a group, in a stable and reliable environment. You can read more about the theory of this type of Psychotherapy in this paper presented in Athens in 2016.

Listening with respect and talking true are two basic guidelines that make those meetings fascinating. There is no obligation to share anything if you don’t feel like it, since you can benefit just from listening to those who are sharing something that day. The participants are not the same every week but there are two coordinators who are always present: Dr Alberto Jones and Dr Graciela Bar.

Those weekly reunions started in 2008 and were initially destined to the French Community in Buenos Aires. The main language is Spanish (which is a great way to practice in my opinion!) but it’s also possible to speak in English or French and the coordinators will translate to Spanish so that the other participants understand.

“We’re closer to our inner-selves when we share our experiences in our own mother-tongue.” Graciela Bar.

Graciela Bar and Alberto Jones founded BabelPsi in 1990. It’s an international and interdisciplinary community focusing on intercultural experiences and migrations.

Right now, the MIC is on summer holidays until the 5th of March. Feel free to join whenever you feel like it (first one is free of charge). The meeting starts each Monday (except public holidays) at 8.15pm until 10.30pm. Here’s the address: Güemes 3941 (between Araoz and Scalabrini Ortiz, Palermo) – 1st floor.

I’m available to answer any question you may have about the MIC or BabelPsi, here is my email:

See you soon!

The Unexpected Connection between Cooking, Tango and Therapy…

The Unexpected Connection between Cooking, Tango and Therapy … not necessarily in that order!

Laurie Vaquer

Therapy is a big part of life in Argentina. The country has the highest number of psychologists per capita in the world. I did not know that before I moved here and I was pleased to discover this feature of Argentina since I think mental health is often undervalued. Here in Buenos Aires, going to therapy is a common thing to do…

See more

Movie: “The class”

A film to approach the issue of multicultural society, with lights and shadows and to work on building coexistence and respect.

“The Class” is a French film, directed by Laurent Catnet, based on the novel of Francois Bégaden, “Entre les murs”.

This story take place in one of the slums of Paris, and shows us how, in a typical suburban area the strong immigrants concentration and the difficult economic conditions of the whole neighborhood, that factors impact with great force in the school reality.


Ida De Vincenzo

I have many memories of my childhood and although some images have been erased with the pass of thetime, others were deeply engraved in my soul and that is why I want to transmit them, so that they are not forgotten.

They are small stories, everyday things but not less important, are the things that help to understand the life and character of a family.

Each story is worth every one of them is valuable, many may be alike but never completely the same.

I could say a lot about my dad, he was a simple, sensitive man, he liked nature, the outdoors and, above all, the earth. He worked a little out of necessity but out of love for her. Every seed for him was valuable, he took care of it with great care and dedication. He cultivated from the humble lettuce to the most sophisticated things to collaborate with the family economy. He raised rabbits, little pigs from India, but there came a time when we became so attached to them that we wept and prayed for their lives. We finally refused to eat them and then stopped raising them. Who knows if he did not deprive himself of something he wanted to not see our tears!

He suffered greatly from the consequences of the war, avoided talking about the subject, said that they were very sad things. He always repeated “Better to forget.” However, his attitude changed when he asked about his war wound. I had been wounded in combat, on the elbow, I was proud to have a dad who was a war veteran but at the same time did not understand how he had been able to shoot another person. One day, overcoming my shyness, I encouraged myself and without measuring my words I asked him how he had been able to do it: he looked at me and I could see in his eyes a great resignation. Then, with a lot of conviction and simple words, he told me: “If I did not shoot him he would kill me.” And at that moment I realized that I had no other way out, until today I remember him and I am moved by a truth so cold and absolute

When we first arrived in Argentina he began to work, but a work accident immobilized him for almost a year. When he was retired he got work on the municipal asphalting crews and, when they made jokes about him, he always answered “You do not know what it is to work in the street: in winter the cold that freezes your bones and in summer with the hot pitch under the inclement sun your soul burns you. ”

We also had a store in our house, and he helped us secure ourselves financially and also adapt to the place. Our clientele was varied, sometimes difficult to understand. Many times they did it by means of signs, you can imagine what it cost to talk and sometimes the funniest things happened; I remember a conversation between my mother and a lady of Paraguayan origin who worked in the house of a neighbor: my mother spoke of one thing and the lady answered on another very different, but both followed an imaginary thread of conversation, then I with childish innocence I warned my mom to stop and she looked at me and I said, “Stay calm, do not worry”.

We had in the house a large courtyard full of drawers and bottles where my pope occasionally sat in an empty soda box and there he began to write to his family; he told them how good it was to live here, but at that moment there was a great sadness in his eyes, distant memories came back to him, things about the mountains, ancient customs, legends, he was accustomed to the difficulties of life, but defended of the irremediable idealizing. When she had a few lines to finish it, she would call me “Vieni, Vieni” to write something for the aunts, but at that time I was very young and could not write, so he patiently drew the letters on a piece of paper and I copied them in the letter. It was almost always the same words: “Care Zie.” When he finished writing them his face lit up with a big smile, it was a magical moment, to know that there, far away, passing a great ocean, there were people who loved us and thought of us.

The letters took a long time to arrive, the day he received the news of the death of one of his sisters, when he read it he wanted to speak but could not, his eyes fogged, a quiet but deep cry came from his eyes. At that moment he assumed reality and was certain that despite his longing he would never have the opportunity to return to his mountains, to embrace his loved ones. Then for many weeks the house was dressed in strict mourning.

In the neighborhood was a revolution when he moved to the Line of Collectives 47, made so much noise that sometimes we were not allowed to sleep. My dad always said they did not do it on purpose, they were working. But many nights he had to get up to go to the administration and remind them that he had to get up at 4.30 in the morning to go to work. Despite these small incidents always took them to drink, something warm in winter, and something cool in summer.

When he became ill, all people visited him, he was never alone. He was a very considerate man, his character with the passing of the years was molded, had the simplicity of who sees reality, and knows that whatever he does can not change it.

The day of his death there was a long procession to accompany him to his last home.

“I have a history similar to many Calabrian immigrant women. I was born in Cropalati, Calabria.-Italy, in a village above the mountain, which seems to be drawn from some story, from any place you can see beautiful landscapes. I was born when the Second World War was over, my dad had been fighting and we had suffered the consequences, so we emigrated, I was 2 years old. Although the years passed, in the house of my parents, there was always talk of the same thing: the distant land, the nostalgia, the family and things inherent to the Calabrian family, that is why culture and the Italian language importance in my life, I was always in contact with my roots. After 50 years I was able to return, to know and to receive the affection of my distant family, I was moved by the splendor of the landscapes of a world that I now recognize as my own, I was born again , I was able to unite yesterday and today. It is my second house, as I like to call it, because in my heart this Italy and Argentina alike … Some years ago a casual fact approached the painting, it is linked to the soul and, without looking, it was transformed into a cry that comes from the depths of my interior and is reflected in colors and experiences recovered … “



Ho tanti ricordi della mia infanzia e anche se qualche immagine si é
cancellato col passare del tempo, altre sono rimaste profondamente
incise nella mia anima. Le voglio trasmettere affinché non siano

Sono piccole storie, cose quotidiane, ma non per questo meno
importanti, sono le cose che ci aiutano a comprendere la vita ed il
caratere di una famigia.

Ogni storia ha una grande valore, molte sono simili ma nessuna uguale.

Portrei dire tante cose di mio padre, fu un uomo semplice e sensibile.
Gli piaceva la natura, stare all’aperto e soprattutto la terra. La
lavorava non tanto per necessitá ma per l’amore che lo legava ad essa.
Per lui ogni seme aveva valore. Lo curava con tanto amore e dedizione.
Per contribuire all’economia familiare, coltivava dall’umile lattuga
alle piante piú preziose. Allevava conigli e maialini d’India, e noi
ragazzi ci affezionammo tanto a qauesti animaletti che non volevamo
piú mangiarli. Quindi mio padre smise di allevarli. Chissá se mio
padre si privó di mangiare ció che gli piaceva per non vedere le
nostre lacrime?

Ha sofferto tanto le conseguenze della guerra, evitava l’argomento
dicendo che erano cose tristi. Diceva sempre “maglio dimenticare”.
Tuttavia il suo atteggiamento cambiava quando gli kchiedevano della
sua ferita di guerra. Era stato ferito in combattimento, al gomito. Io
mi sentivo orgogliosa di avere un papá veterano di guerra. Ma allo
stesso tempo non riuscivo a capire come avesse potuto sparare a un
altro uomo. Un giorno, vincendo la mia timidezza, e senza misurare le
parole gli chiesi come avesse potuto fare una cosa del genere. Mi
guardó e vidi nei suoi occhi una grande rassegnazione. Allora con
grande convinzione e parole semplici mi rispose: “se non gli avessi
sparato io mi avrebbe sparato lui”. In quel momento mi resi conto che
non c’era stata alternativa. Ancora oggi lo ricordo e mi commuovo
davanti a questa veritá cosí fredda ed assoluto.

Appena arrivati in Argentina, inizió a lavorare, ma un incidente o
immobilizzó per quasi un anno. Una volta rimesso, ottenne un lavoro al
comune come operaio. Lavorava nella manutenzione delle strade. E
quando lo prtendevano in giro, rispondeva sempre: “voi non sapete che
cosa significhi lavorare all’aperto: in inverno il freddo ti congela
le ossa e d’estate il catrame caldo sotto il sole inclemente ti brucia
finanche l’anima”.

Avevamo anche un alimentari, che ci aiutó tanto economicamene. La
nostra clientela era molto varia e talvolta era difficile comunicare,
spesso ci intendevamo a segni. Succedevano anche cose curiose, ricordo
una conversazione tra mia madre e una signora paraguaiana che lavora
lí vicino. Mia madre parlava di una cosa e la signora rispondeva
un’altra, ma entrambe continuavano questa conversazione come seguendo
un filo immaginario. Io, nella mia innocenza lo feci notare a mia
mamma, ma lei mi rispose: “sta’ tranquilla, non ti preoccupare”.

Avevamo a casa un cortile pieno di casse e bottiglie. Mio padre alle
volte si sedeva su una di quelle casse e si metteva a scrivere alla
famiglia in Italia, e gli raccontava quanto era bello vivere qui. In
certi momenti nei suoi occhi traspariva una grande tristezza, gli
tornavano ricordi lontani: i suoi monti, i costumi secolari, le
leggende; era abituato alle difficoltá della vita, e si difendeva
dall’irremidiabile idealizzandolo. Quando gli mancavano poche righe
alle fine della lettera, mi chiamava: “vieni, vieni”, voleva che
scrivessi anch’io qualcosa alle zie, ma all’epoca io ero troppo
piccola e non sapevo scrivere, allora lui con tanta pazienza disegnava
le lettere su un foglio a parte e io le copiavo. Erano sempre le
stesse parole, “care zie”, quando finivo di scrivere, il suo volto si
illuminava con un grande sorriso, era un momento magico, avvertivo che
oltre l’oceano c’erano persone che ci volevano bene.

Le lettere tardavano tanto ad arrivare, il giorno che ricevette la
notizia della morte di sua sorella, dopo averla letta non riuscí a
parlare. I suoi occhi si sciolsero in un pianto sommesso ma profondo.
in quel momento ebbe la certezza che non sarebbe mai piú ritornato a
rivedere i suoi monti e a riabbracciare le persona amate. Per tante
settimane la casa si vestí di lutto stretto.
Nel quartiere, quando arrivó la linea 47 del pullman, ci fu una
rivoluzion. Facevano tanto rumore che allevolte non si poteva dormire,
mio padre diceva che lo facevano di proposito, e molte notti dovette
alzarsi e andare a protestare , e ricordargli che anche lui lavorava e
che si alzava alle 4:30 del mattino. Ciononostante, spesso portava
loro bevande fresche d’estate e calde d’inverno. Quando si ammaló
tutti venivano a trovarlo, non fu mai solo. Fu un uomo molto
rispettato; il suo carattere aveva la semplicitá di chi vive la
realtá, consapevole che non si puó cambiare. Il giorno della sua morte
un corteo lunghissimo lo accom,pagnó nel suo ultimo viaggio

“Sono una donna la cui storia si assomiglia a quella di tante donne
immigranti calabresi. Nata a Cropalati, in Calabria, Italia, in un
paesino di montagna, proprio da favola, e da dove si possono osservare
bellissimi paesaggi. Sono nata nel dopoguerra ed essendo mio padre
reduce di guerra ne soffrivamo le conseguenze, il che ci ha costretto
ad emigrare quando io avevo due anni. Sebbene gli anni passassero, dai
miei genitori gli argomenti di conversazione erano sempre gli stessi:
la terra lontana, la nostalgia, la famiglia e tutto ciò che riguardava
la famiglia calabrese. Questi sono i motivi per cui la cultura e la
lingua italiana hanno acquistato fondamentale importanza nella mia
vita. Sono sempre stata in contatto diretto con le mie radici. Dopo 50
anni ci sono ritornata, ho potuto conoscere e ricevere l´affetto della
mia famiglia lontana. Sono rimasta commossa dallo splendore dei
paesaggi di un mondo che adesso sento veramente mio. È la mia seconda
casa, come mi piace chiamarla. Finalmente sono riuscita ad allacciare
nel mio cuore l´Italia e l´Argentina.

Ida De Vincenzo