You can’t truly grasp the depth of Mercedes Sosa’s impact without hearing her sing. Before reading on, take a moment to listen to her powerful 1982 live rendition of “Sólo le pido a Dios” (“Only one thing I ask of God”) with León Gieco. This song stands as a timeless anthem against indifference, and Sosa’s voice elevates it to another level. Turn up the volume and let her music set the stage for her remarkable story.
In 1979, within the confines of a La Plata auditorium filled with veterinary students, Mercedes Sosa stood on stage, her voice resonating through the room. She maintained that her songs weren’t overtly political that evening, though one, “When They Have the Land,” passionately advocated for agrarian reform.
Suddenly, armed military personnel stormed into the auditorium, disrupting the performance. One officer approached Sosa on stage, subjected her to a body search, and arrested her along with all two hundred attendees.
Such events were tragically commonplace in Argentina during this era, and for Mercedes Sosa, this was not an isolated incident. Under the oppressive military regime of Jorge Videla and his successors (1976–1983), an estimated 30,000 Argentinian citizens who dared to oppose the government were “disappeared” or brutally murdered, often branded as dangerous communist subversives. While a small fraction may have been politically active, the vast majority were simply ordinary citizens.
Mercedes Sosa, the singer, became a vital bridge, bringing the heart and soul of Argentine folk music to a global audience and weaving it into conversations with diverse musical styles. She was more than just a performer; she was “the voice of the voiceless,” using her powerful vocals to champion those marginalized by globalization, those dispossessed of their ancestral lands by powerful agricultural corporations, and those brutalized and killed by the dictatorial regime. Her music became the soundtrack to the struggles of the common people for self-determination, a blend of joyful anthems and fierce challenges against injustice.
Gonzalo Rielo, Mercedes Sosa, collage, 2016 Used by permission.
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. At fifteen, a local radio station’s singing competition became her launching pad, awarding her a two-month contract that blossomed into an extraordinary six-decade career as a celebrated singer. Her music was inseparable from her social consciousness, and her politics were deeply rooted in the experiences of her people. Her debut album in 1961, La Voz de la Zafra – “Voice of the Sugarcane Harvest” – poignantly reflected this.
Sosa and her family were ardent supporters of the populist Perón government. This populism infused her music, making her a central figure in the nueva canción movement. This movement fearlessly criticized the military dictatorships that plagued South America in the 1970s and the encroaching influence of international corporations on local economies. Although primarily an interpreter rather than a songwriter, Mercedes Sosa, the iconic singer, masterfully conveyed traditional songs and compositions by artists like Victor Jara and Violeta Parra, enriching them with profound emotion and depth, captivating wider audiences.
However, her calling was fraught with danger. Victor Jara had already been tortured and murdered by Augusto Pinochet’s forces in Chile, and Argentina was proving to be equally perilous. Sosa received constant death threats and was placed on the military’s blacklist. The junta explicitly forbade her from performing. Defiant, she continued to sing until her arrest in La Plata.
The night of her arrest was filled with uncertainty, as Sosa faced the terrifying possibility of becoming one of the “disappeared.” After eighteen agonizing hours and the payment of a fine, she was released with a stern warning to cease singing. Instead, she boldly scheduled more concerts, which were subsequently canceled due to bomb threats. Banned from performing, Sosa felt her very existence threatened; “If I could not sing, I could not live.” Reluctantly, she went into exile, first in France and then in Spain.
Exile proved to be deeply challenging. Sosa fell into a profound depression, losing her ability to sing. “It wasn’t my throat, or anything physical,” she explained, “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.” In 1982, sensing a shift in the political climate and longing for home, she returned to Argentina, just months before the Falklands crisis ultimately led to the downfall of the regime.
Mercedes Sosa, 1967 Photograph from the Library of Congress (public domain)
Her comeback concert at the Teatro Opera in Buenos Aires was a resounding success, completely sold out. In a symbolic gesture of unity and continuity, she invited numerous younger Argentine singers to share the stage, representing the enduring voice of the people welcoming a new generation. From that moment on, Mercedes Sosa, the celebrated singer, performed for massive crowds, and her album sales dwarfed ticket sales. Her fame continued to soar over the following decades, with many of her recordings achieving bestseller status. She graced stages worldwide, from New York City’s Lincoln Center to the Vatican’s Sistine Chapel. In 2002, she achieved the remarkable feat of selling out both the Colosseum in Rome and Carnegie Hall in New York. Her global impact led to her appointment as a UNICEF ambassador.
Despite her powerful political resonance, Sosa resisted being labeled a “protest singer.” “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 power to connect with audiences was undeniable. Throughout her career, Mercedes Sosa collaborated with a diverse array of artists, from Andrea Bocelli and Luciano Pavarotti to Joan Baez, Ray Charles, Sting, and Shakira, spanning genres from rock and opera to Andean folk music. When she passed away at seventy-four in 2009, Argentina declared three days of national mourning, and thousands of mourners lined up to pay their respects to their beloved singer.
Her political views were nuanced. She briefly joined the Communist Party but later renounced her membership due to her rejection of political violence. “All of us,” she once 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 a government for the people, particularly for the Argentine peasants and workers striving for physical and cultural survival. “I didn’t choose to sing for people,” she said in an interview shortly before her death. “Life chose me to sing.”
Sosa felt that some American protest singers were overly direct, limiting their poetic impact to specific political moments. Her own lyrics and music often embraced subtlety and poetry, encompassing love songs and songs depicting village life. Yet, she could also be unflinchingly 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 resilience and unwavering commitment to her people’s voice cemented Mercedes Sosa’s legacy as more than just a singer; she was a symbol of hope, resistance, and the enduring power of music.
