TWENTY FIVE days ago, a semi-conscious young man was found in the park where I rollerblade most Tuesdays in Santiago, Chile.
He had been tortured, mutilated, scarred, and broken. He was in a coma for three weeks, and his prognosis was never good. Discussions about whether or not he was actually brain dead filled the newspapers. He finally died, and I feel a wave of relief for his parents, coupled with great sadness for anyone who is gay or knows anyone gay. That is to say, all of us.