To truly grasp the story of Mercedes Sosa, you must first immerse yourself in her voice. Imagine the powerful, resonant tones of her 1982 live rendition of “Sólo le pido a Dios” (“Only one thing I ask of God”) with León Gieco, a song widely considered an anthem against indifference. Turn up the volume and let the music wash over you before continuing.
In 1979, within the confines of a La Plata auditorium, filled with veterinary students, a woman stood on stage, singing. Mercedes Sosa, though later she would downplay the political nature of the set, performed songs that resonated with the socio-political climate of Argentina. One of these was “When They Have the Land,” an anthem advocating for agrarian reform.
Mid-performance, the scene was disrupted. Armed military personnel stormed into the auditorium. One of them ascended the stage, subjected Sosa to a body search, and proceeded to arrest her along with the two hundred audience members present.
This event, while shocking to some, was not an anomaly in Argentina during this era. For Mercedes Sosa, it was an expected risk. Under the military junta led by Jorge Videla from 1976 to 1983, an estimated 30,000 Argentinian citizens were “disappeared” or murdered. Labeled as communist dissidents, these individuals were targeted for opposing the regime, though the vast majority were not involved in communist movements.
Mercedes Sosa became a vital bridge, connecting the traditional folk music of rural Argentina with a broader audience and contemporary musical trends. She was celebrated as “the voice of the voiceless,” a singer who championed those marginalized by globalization, the peasants dispossessed of their ancestral lands by multinational agricultural corporations, and the victims of state-sponsored violence. Her music became the soundtrack to the struggles of Argentine people seeking self-determination. Her repertoire ranged from uplifting anthems of solidarity to fierce indictments of injustice.
Mercedes Sosa, iconic Argentine folk music singer, in a collage artwork depicting her legacy. 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. Her musical journey began at fifteen when she won a local radio station singing competition. This initial two-month contract blossomed into a remarkable six-decade career. Her artistic expression was inextricably linked to her political consciousness, and both were deeply rooted in the lives of her people. Her debut album in 1961, La Voz de la Zafra, directly translates to “Voice of the Harvest,” zafra being the term for the sugarcane harvest.
Sosa and her family were aligned with the populist Perón government. This populist ideology permeated her music, making her a central figure in the nueva canción movement. This movement was a powerful form of resistance against the military dictatorships that plagued South America in the 1970s and the encroaching influence of international corporations on local economies. Though primarily an interpreter rather than a composer, Sosa’s interpretations of traditional songs and works by contemporaries like Victor Jara and Violeta Parra resonated deeply. Her performances were imbued with raw emotion and profound understanding, bringing these songs to a wider audience.
However, this path was fraught with danger. Victor Jara had been brutally murdered by Augusto Pinochet’s regime in Chile, and Argentina was proving equally perilous. Sosa received death threats and was placed on the military’s blacklist. The junta imposed a ban on her performances. She initially defied this decree, continuing to perform until her arrest in La Plata.
Following her arrest, Sosa endured a harrowing night, uncertain if she would become another statistic in the regime’s grim tally of the “disappeared.” After eighteen hours of detention and the payment of a fine, she was released with a renewed warning to cease singing. Instead of complying, she scheduled more concerts, which were promptly cancelled due to bomb threats. The prohibition from performing left her feeling existentially adrift, as if her very lifeblood was being stifled. Reluctantly, she made the difficult decision to go into exile, first to France and then to Spain.
Exile proved to be a deeply challenging period. She fell into a profound depression and found herself unable 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.” Driven by a need to reconnect with her roots and her voice, she returned to Argentina in 1982, just months before the Falklands War precipitated the downfall of the military regime.
Mercedes Sosa in 1967, early in her career as a prominent figure in Argentine folk music and nueva canción movement. Photograph from the Library of Congress (public domain).
Her comeback concert at the Teatro Opera in Buenos Aires was a resounding success, with tickets completely sold out. In a gesture of solidarity and mentorship, she invited numerous younger Argentine singers to share the stage, symbolically passing the torch to the next generation of Argentine folk musicians. From that moment forward, she performed for massive audiences, and her album sales dwarfed even her concert attendance. Over the ensuing decades, her fame transcended national borders. She graced stages worldwide, from Lincoln Center in New York City to the Sistine Chapel at 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 led to her appointment as a UNICEF ambassador.
Despite the overtly political context of her career, Sosa resisted being pigeonholed as a “protest singer.” She believed the label was limiting, potentially leading to censorship. “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, she collaborated with a diverse array of artists, from Andrea Bocelli and Luciano Pavarotti to Joan Baez, Ray Charles, Sting, and Shakira, traversing genres from rock and opera to traditional Andean folk music. When she passed away at the age of seventy-four in 2009, Argentina declared three days of national mourning, and thousands of mourners lined up to pay their respects.
Her political views were nuanced. She briefly aligned herself with the Communist Party but later distanced herself, rejecting 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 survival, both physically and culturally. “I didn’t choose to sing for people,” she reflected in an interview shortly before her death. “Life chose me to sing.”
Sosa felt that American protest songs sometimes lacked subtlety, being too direct and thus potentially limiting their lasting artistic impact beyond specific political moments. Her own musical style often embraced poetic subtlety, incorporating love songs and narratives of everyday village life. Yet, she was also capable of directness when necessary. “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.” Mercedes Sosa’s legacy endures as the powerful and poignant voice of Argentine folk music, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the enduring power of music in the face of oppression.
