To truly grasp the impact of Mercedes Sosa, one must first listen to her sing. Before continuing, immerse yourself in her powerful 1982 live rendition of “Sólo le pido a Dios” (“Only one thing I ask of God”) with its composer, León Gieco. This is more than a song; it’s an anthem against indifference, a call to humanity. Turn up the volume and let Sosa’s voice resonate as you delve into her story.
In 1979, within the walls of a La Plata auditorium, filled with veterinary students, a woman stood singing. Mercedes Sosa, though later she would downplay it as apolitical on that particular occasion, was performing songs deeply connected to the lives of ordinary people. One of them, “When They Have the Land,” resonated with calls for agrarian reform, a sensitive topic in Argentina.
Suddenly, armed military personnel stormed into the auditorium, disrupting the music and the lives within it. A soldier ascended the stage, subjected Mercedes Sosa to a body search, and arrested her along with the two hundred audience members. This event, shocking as it sounds, was a stark reality in Argentina during that era, and for Mercedes Sosa, not entirely unexpected. The iron fist of Jorge Videla’s military junta and its successors, ruling from 1976 to 1983, was responsible for the “disappearance” or outright murder of up to 30,000 citizens. These individuals, often labeled as dangerous communist partisans, were targeted for opposing the regime. While a few might have held communist affiliations, the vast majority were simply dissenting voices.
Mercedes Sosa, often hailed as “the voice of the voiceless,” became a pivotal figure in Latin American music by bringing the soulful folk traditions of the Argentine peasantry to a global stage. Her music transcended mere entertainment; it was a powerful commentary, a bridge connecting rural struggles with wider social and political dialogues. She gave voice to those marginalized by globalization, to those dispossessed of their ancestral lands by expanding agricultural conglomerates, and to the countless victims of the brutal military regime. Sosa’s songs became the soundtrack of the people’s fight for self-determination, ranging from anthems of joy and resilience to fierce indictments of injustice.
Gonzalo Rielo, Mercedes Sosa, collage, 2016 Used by permission. Alt text: A vibrant collage portrait of Mercedes Sosa, Argentine folk music icon, against a textured background, showcasing her expressive face and cultural significance.
Mercedes Sosa’s profound connection to the people stemmed from her own roots. Born to parents of mixed French, Spanish, and Indigenous Diaguita heritage, her father worked as a sugarcane cutter in the Tucumán province of Argentina. This humble background deeply influenced her artistic and political sensibilities. At the young age of fifteen, a local radio station’s singing contest became her launching pad, offering a two-month contract that blossomed into an extraordinary six-decade career. For Mercedes Sosa, music and politics were inseparable, both deeply anchored in the lives and struggles of her people. Her debut album in 1961, La Voz de la Zafra – “Voice of the Harvest,” directly referenced the sugarcane harvest (zafra), a testament to her commitment to representing the working class from the outset.
Sosa and her family were fervent supporters of the populist Perón government, and this political leaning permeated her artistic journey. She became a central figure in the nueva canción movement, a genre that emerged as a powerful form of resistance against military dictatorships across South America in the 1970s. This movement also critiqued the growing influence of international corporations on local economies. Interestingly, Mercedes Sosa considered herself primarily a singer, not a songwriter. Her genius lay in her interpretation and delivery. She masterfully brought traditional songs and the compositions of fellow artists like Victor Jara and Violeta Parra to broader audiences, imbuing them with raw emotion and profound depth. Her collaborations and interpretations became iconic, cementing her place in music history.
However, this path of musical activism was fraught with danger. The brutal torture and murder of Victor Jara by Augusto Pinochet’s regime in Chile served as a chilling reminder of the risks involved. Argentina under Videla was proving to be equally perilous. Mercedes Sosa received constant death threats and found herself on the military’s blacklist. The junta issued a ban on her performances, but Sosa defiantly continued to sing until the night of her arrest in La Plata.
The night following her arrest was filled with uncertainty and fear. Mercedes Sosa, like so many others, faced the terrifying prospect of becoming one of the “disappeared.” After eighteen agonizing hours and the payment of a fine, she was released, only to be explicitly ordered to cease performing. Unwilling to be silenced, Sosa responded by scheduling even more concerts, but these were met with bomb threats, effectively shutting them down. For Mercedes Sosa, singing was not merely a profession; it was the essence of her being. Being prohibited from singing felt like a denial of life itself. Reluctantly, she made the difficult decision to go into exile, first to France and then to Spain.
Exile, however, proved to be a profound personal and artistic struggle. Mercedes Sosa fell into a deep depression, and found herself unable to sing. “It wasn’t my throat, or anything physical,” she explained, highlighting the psychological toll of exile. “When you are in exile, you take your suitcase, but there are things that don’t fit. There are things in your mind, like colors and smells and childhood attitudes, and there is also the pain and the death you saw. You shouldn’t deny those things, because to do so can make you ill.” This poignant reflection reveals the deep connection she had to her homeland and its people, a connection that exile threatened to sever. In 1982, driven by an unyielding need to reconnect with her roots, she returned to Argentina, just months before the Falklands crisis signaled the downfall of the military regime.
Mercedes Sosa, 1967 Photograph from the Library of Congress (public domain). Alt text: Black and white portrait of Mercedes Sosa in 1967, a young Argentine folk singer with a thoughtful gaze, embodying the spirit of nueva canción.
Her comeback concert at the Teatro Opera in Buenos Aires was a resounding triumph, completely sold out and charged with emotion. In a symbolic gesture of unity and continuity, she invited numerous younger Argentine singers to share the stage, a powerful embrace of the next generation of artists and voices. From that moment onward, Mercedes Sosa’s audience expanded exponentially. She performed for tens of thousands, and her album sales soared, surpassing ticket sales by a significant margin. Over the subsequent decades, her fame reached global proportions. She graced stages from New York City’s prestigious Lincoln Center to the sacred Sistine Chapel in the Vatican. In 2002, she achieved the remarkable feat of selling out both the Colosseum in Rome and Carnegie Hall in New York. Her global influence and dedication to social justice led to her appointment as a UNICEF ambassador, further amplifying her voice on the world stage.
Despite her powerful and often overtly political music, Mercedes Sosa resisted being labeled a “protest singer.” She believed the term was limiting, potentially leading to censorship and misunderstanding of her artistic intent. “It is like an invitation for someone to put a stamp on the songs that says ‘prohibited’ or ‘interdicted.’ The intelligence of the artist needs to be broader in the face of such possible barriers. Besides, artists are not political leaders. The only power they have is to draw people into the theater.” Her focus was on connecting with people, on creating a space for shared experience and reflection. And she possessed this power in abundance. Throughout her illustrious career, Mercedes Sosa collaborated with an astonishingly diverse range of artists, from opera luminaries like Andrea Bocelli and Luciano Pavarotti to pop and rock icons such as Joan Baez, Ray Charles, Sting, and Shakira, traversing genres from rock to opera to traditional Andean folk music. Her versatility and collaborative spirit underscored her commitment to music as a universal language. When Mercedes Sosa passed away at the age of seventy-four in 2009, Argentina mourned the loss of a national icon. The president declared three days of national mourning, and thousands of people lined up to pay their respects, a testament to the profound impact she had on her nation and the world.
Mercedes Sosa’s political views were nuanced and complex. She briefly aligned herself with the Communist Party but later distanced herself, rejecting political violence. Her core belief was in collaboration and democratic principles. “All of us,” she stated, “whether we are artists or military, must collaborate if we are to keep democracy on its feet and walking.” For Sosa, democracy was fundamentally about government for the people, especially for the Argentine peasants and workers striving for survival, both physical and cultural. In a poignant interview shortly before her death, she reflected on her life’s calling: “I didn’t choose to sing for people,” she said. “Life chose me to sing.” This statement encapsulates her deep sense of purpose and her unwavering commitment to being the voice of her people.
Mercedes Sosa felt that some American protest singers could be too direct, too literal in their message, potentially limiting their artistic reach and longevity. Her own approach was often more poetic, more nuanced. She sang of love, of everyday village life, alongside songs of protest and resistance. Yet, when necessary, she could be unequivocally direct. “I was killed a thousand times. I disappeared a thousand times, and here I am, risen from the dead. … Here I am, out of the ruins the dictatorship left behind. We’re still singing.” This powerful declaration encapsulates the spirit of Mercedes Sosa: resilient, unwavering, and forever the voice of a people determined to be heard.
