Being Peruvian is not just about having been born in that land.
It is about having grown up with its history, its struggles, its flavor, and its resilience.
And that is why it hurts.

In less than ten years, eight presidents.
Eight faces promising change.
Eight speeches talking about hope.
And the result always seems to end the same: crisis, impeachments, corruption, prison, disappointment.

It is not only political instability.
It is a moral fracture.

My grandfather wrote a book when he was nearly eighty years old.
Eighty years of life.
Eighty years of watching the country move through cycles of hope and disillusionment.
And even so, instead of resigning himself, he chose to write.

Not to become famous.
Not to make money.
But to leave something behind.
To try to awaken awareness.
To remind us that voting should be a responsible, informed act—done with heart and with judgment.

He believed citizens needed to think before handing over the country’s future.

But I grew up hearing something very different:
“You have to vote for the lesser evil.”

At what point did we normalize that?
How can it be that we go to the polls thinking not about who is the most prepared, the most ethical, the most committed… but about who we believe will cause the least harm?

That is not hope.
That is resignation.

And yes, I know it is not only Peru.
It is a crisis repeated in many countries.
But that does not take away the pain.

Because we are talking about something sacred:
the land where we were born,
the people who work every day,
the generations who fought before us.

A country is not a political position.
It is not a personal opportunity.
It is not a ladder for individual ambition.

A country is memory.
It is ancient culture.
It is identity.
It is dignity.

Peru has so much to offer the world:
a cuisine that brings people together,
a history that teaches,
a nature that amazes,
hearts that endure.

And yet, we continue allowing it to be led by people who do not seem to understand the weight of that responsibility.

You do not love a country by using it.
You do not honor a homeland by serving yourself through it.
You are not truly Peruvian when you govern without conscience.

Loving Peru also means demanding more.
It means refusing to normalize the “lesser evil.”
It means remembering that politics should be service, not strategy.

Today I feel sad.
Sometimes ashamed of those who have represented us.
But never ashamed of being Peruvian.

Because the real Peru is not in the Palace.
It is in its people.
In its memory.
In its dignity.

In men like my grandfather, who, at eighty years old, still believed it was worth trying to awaken consciousness.

And as long as people like that exist, there is still hope.