I live in a world of uncertainty—and it’s not what I signed up for when my husband and I moved to Córdoba City, Argentina. But this is our reality now.
If you’ve read my previous posts, you know I’m no stranger to theft and vandalism. The most recent incident happened in April.
We were in our living room, watching a movie like we do every night, when we heard a strange noise outside. At first, we assumed it was one of the local miscreants who love kicking empty soda bottles down the street. But the noise grew louder and more aggressive with each passing second.
Realizing the sound was coming from the front of the house, I rushed to the door and shouted “Hey!” as I flung it open. Just in time to catch a glimpse of some guy in a gray hoodie disappearing into the darkness. Our neighbors across the street watched the whole thing—wide-eyed but unmoving.
Moments later, one of them finally approached and said, “I couldn’t believe it! He did it right in front of us and didn’t even care. It was obviously intentional!”
Confused, I asked, “What was intentional?”
That’s when the neighbor bent down and picked something up from the ground. It was a round, metallic object with a lightbulb still inside it.
I was stunned. Then it hit me—it was our porch light. The guy had somehow ripped it right out of the wall.
I muttered something like, “Typical…” and took the broken light from the neighbor. Glass crunched under my feet as I stepped back inside and shut the door.
My hands were trembling as I showed the light fixture to my husband. He was just as shocked. I called the police, but they never came. In fact, they seemed more surprised that I was asking them to respond at all. “What do you expect us to do?” they asked. I replied, “Nothing. Same as always—which is why your country is in the state it’s in.”
Whenever something like this happens, I tend to think I’m being singled out. But reading the local news reminded me this kind of thing is all too common. Honestly, we got off easy. Just weeks later, I read about a woman in another neighborhood whose home was riddled with bullets.
And most recently, one of the properties we own had the electricity meter yanked out of the wall.
I wish I could say I have hope that things will improve, but after 13 years here, all I’ve seen is steady decline. I know I’m starting to sound like a broken record—I've written before about falling victim to crime—but it’s the truth.
Living here means learning to cope with chaos, even when it becomes heartbreakingly routine.
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