Mercedes Sosa, often simply known as “La Negra,” remains an iconic figure in Latin American music and a powerful symbol of social justice. My own encounters with Mercedes Sosa were deeply memorable, leaving me humbled by her profound humanity and artistry. I recall a particularly poignant moment backstage at a UCLA concert where I witnessed her embrace a dying Argentine journalist, a man she knew from the turbulent 1970s in Argentina, a period marred by state terrorism known as the “dirty war.” His raw emotion as he cried “Mama!” in her arms, and her tender response, was a testament to her deeply compassionate nature. This encounter solidified my understanding of her as a true pacha mama, an Incan term for earth mother, a woman of immense strength and nurturing spirit, far removed from the stereotypical image of a diva.
Mercedes Sosa’s journey began in Tucuman, Argentina, a province affectionately called “The Garden of the Republic.” She remembered Tucuman as an almost mythical landscape from her childhood, reminiscent of a Borges story, filled with seemingly endless fields of sugar cane, vibrant flowers, and fruit trees perpetually in bloom. This Andean oasis provided a stark contrast to the political turmoil that would soon engulf her nation. It was in this idyllic northwestern Argentina that a young, initially hesitant Mercedes Sosa was encouraged by her family and friends to share her burgeoning vocal talent.
Her name became intrinsically linked with the nueva cancion movement, or “new song,” which gained prominence in the late 1960s and continues to resonate today. Nueva Cancion served as a vital force in revitalizing Latin American music by emphasizing native culture and universal human values. Emerging in politically volatile times, it fearlessly championed human rights while confronting government brutality. This was music born of protest and empathy, and Mercedes Sosa became an unwilling yet undeniably central heroine of this movement. Her commitment to singing, however, placed her at constant risk, eventually leading to her exile in 1979 when she was forced to seek refuge in Spain.
My initial introduction to Mercedes Sosa’s captivating voice was through her rendition of Violetta Parra’s timeless song “Gracias a la Vida.” Even without fully grasping the Spanish lyrics at the time, the sheer beauty and honesty of her voice resonated deeply. It was soft yet powerful, profound and utterly compelling. Listening to a recording of her return to Argentina in February 1982, as democracy was on the horizon, the roar of thirty thousand people erupting in applause spoke volumes. The emotional release was palpable; the dictatorship’s grip was loosening, and her voice was a beacon of hope.
Years later, I had the privilege of interviewing Mercedes Sosa in a radio studio. Looking across the control board at this humble, stout woman, now a grandmother residing in Madrid, I contemplated the unimaginable experiences she had endured. I considered the sheer terror she must have felt when arrested by Argentine paramilitary police in La Plata in 1975 while performing “Cuando Tenga La Tierra,” facing death threats simply for singing a song of hope. I reflected on the pain of her exile, compounded by the grief of losing her husband in 1978.
It struck me then that this was the same young woman who had never aspired to be a singer, let alone become celebrated as “the voice of the voiceless” across Latin America. Yet, her voice became a powerful conduit for the hopes and dreams of millions. Mercedes Sosa, this unassuming and gentle woman who initially resisted the spotlight, had transformed into an extraordinary diva, not of glamour and excess, but of the dispossessed, her voice forever echoing their struggles and aspirations. Her legacy as Mercedes Sosa, the voice of Latin America, continues to inspire generations.
