Here in Latin America this heavy date, etched permanently in the mind of the world, is mourned for a tragedy other than the attacks on the world trade centre. This date signifies the day that Chile's socialist democracy was brought crashing down under the weight of a military coup funded by the CIA in the height of the Cold War, 1973. For me, this day in Santiago feels loaded with a sadness that I cannot quite identify - the loss of a great politician, the loss of a country's democratic rights for western commercial interests, the loss of thousands of socialists, students, journalists and intellectuals who were subsequently arrested, tortured or executed under the 20 year military regime that followed the coup and the realisation of a truth that makes me shudder: that the right to life holds less value than the access to cheap minerals mined in nations whose military institutions are easily bought with blood money from the pockets of the wealthy.
Marking the history of this day I walked through the named avenues of Santiago's Cementerio General, a cemetery that is more like a city of the dead with immense streets of old and crumbling concrete tombs of wealthy Chilean families and politicians - a haunted sort of place that makes me wish never to be laid in a grave with a concrete stone to be left to crack and grow moss with the passing of the years. In the midst of this still and silent place lies Salvador Allende - moved from his previously unmarked grave after the fall of the military regime in 1990 to a place of memorial and honour, red roses strewn over the white marble monument and the word's of his final speech carved onto a granite slab sitting above the tomb where he and his family lie. At the front of the cemetery is another memorial - this one to the thousands of "desaparecidos", the disappeared, people who were arrested in secret by the military regime, whose bodies have never been discovered and whose families have never been able to fully mourn their losses. It is something that winds you to see it - thousands of names, and dates of births, in long lists across a granite slab that reaches for metres - each one representing somebody's son or daughter, mother or father, somebody's lover or best friend, somebody's brother, somebody's sister. Each one a person who had dreams, who had fears, who believed in a better world and used their life to speak out for it - and with their life, paid for it . Some families had placed photographs of their lost ones underneath the stone - young bright faces looking out, their last days filled with such fear and uncertainty. What an immense injustice.
Isabel Allende, the famous Chilean writer and Salvador Allende's cousin, has recorded her memories of this period and I think that she so eloquently captures the emotion of it that I shouldn't even attempt to define it for myself and rather will copy her words here in memorial to all that was lost that fateful September morning. May we never forget.
"On September 11, 1973, at dawn, the navy rebelled, followed almost immediately by the army, the air corps, and finally the corps of carabineros, the Chilean police. Salvador Allende was instantly notified; he hurriedly dressed, said goodbye to his wife, and went to his office, prepared to live out his oath: "They will not take me alive from La Moneda". His daughters Isabel and a pregnant Tati rushed along with their father. The bad news spread like lightning, and ministers, secretaries, staff, trusted doctors, some newspapermen, and friends all came to the Palacio de la Moneda, a small multitude wandering through the rooms without knowing what to do, shaping battle plans and barricading doors with furniture according to confusing instructions from the president's bodyguards. Urgent voices suggested that the hour had come to call out the people in a huge manifestation in support of the government, but Allende realised that such a summons would result in thousands of deaths. In the meantime, he tried to dissuade the rebels through messengers and telephone calls, because none of their generals dared confront him in person. Then Allende's bodyguards received orders from their superiors to withdraw, because the police had joined in the coup; the president let them go but demanded they surrender their weapons. Now the Palacio was unguarded and the great wood doors with wrought iron studs were closed from the inside. Shortly after 9am, Allende became aware that all his political skill would not be sufficient to change the tragic course of the day; the fact was that the band of loyalists locked inside the venerable colonial building were alone: no one would come to their rescue, the people were unarmed and without leaders. Allende ordered the women to leave, and his guards distributed weapons among the men, but very few knew how to use them. The news had reached Tio Ramon in the embassy in Buenos Aires and he managed to speak by telephone with the president. Allende bid his old friend farewell:
"I shall not resign, I shall leave La Moneda only when my term is ended, as president, or when the people demand it - or dead". As they spoke, military units throughout the nation were falling one by one into the hands of the instigators of the coup, and in those same barracks the purge was begun against any who remained faithful to the constitution: the first people shot that day were wearing uniforms. El Palacio was surrounded by soldiers and tanks; isolated shots were heard, and then a heavy shelling that penetrated the thick, centuries old walls and set fire to furniture and drapes on the first floor. A helmeted Allende went out onto the balcony with a gun and fired off a couple of shots, but someone convinced him that exposing himself in that way was madness and forced him to come back inside. A brief truce was arranged to remove the women, and at that time the president asked everyone to leave him and surrender, but few did so; the majority dug in on the second floor, as he embraced the six women still by his side and told them goodbye. His daughters did not want to leave him, but by then the outcome was clear and by their father's orders were forcibly taken from the building. In all the confusion, they walked down the street without being stopped until an automobile picked them up and drove them to a safe haven. Tati never recovered from the pain of that separation and the death of her father, the man she loved most in life, and three years later, in exile in Cuba, she left her children in a friend's care and, without telling anyone goodbye, shot herself. The generals, who had not foreseen any resistance, did not know what to do; they did not want to make Allende a hero, so they offered him a plane and safe transport for him and his family. "You have misjudged me, traitors", was his reply. They then announced an aerial bombardment. Time was short. For the last time, the president spoke to the people by the means of the one radio station not in the hands of the mutinous military. His voice was deliberate and firm, his words so determined that his farewell did not resemble the last breath of a man about to die, but the dignified salute of a man taking his permanent place in history:
"...Our opponents have the power, they can crush us, but social progress will not be stopped with crime or with force. History is ours, it is made by the people... Workers of my nation, I have faith in Chile and in its destiny. Other men will surmount this grey and bitter moment in which treachery attempts to rule. You must never forget that - much sooner than later - the great avenues will open for a liberated people to pass through as they move toward constructing a better society. Viva Chile! Long live the people! Long live the workers!"Bomber planes flew like fanatic birds over the Palacio de la Moneda, dropping their bombs with such precision that they exploded through windows and in less than ten minutes set ablaze an entire wing of the building, while tanks lobbed tear gas canisters from the street. At the same time, other airplanes and tanks were attacking the official presidential home in an exclusive residential neighbourhood. Smoke and fire engulfed the first floor of the palace and began to invade the salons of the second floor where Salvador Allende and a few of his followers were still entrenched. There were bodies everywhere, many rapidly bleeding to death. The survivors, choked by smoke and tear gas, could not make themselves heard above the noise of the shelling, planes and bombs. The army's assault troops stormed La Moneda through gaps burned by fire and shell, occupied the still blazing first floor, and with loudspeakers ordered the people to exit the building by an external stone stairway. Allende realised that further resistance would end in a bloodbath and ordered his men to surrender, because they could better serve the people alive than dead. He said his final goodbyes with a firm handclasp, looking each man squarely in the eye. Then they emerged Indian file, with their arms above their heads. As they came out, the soldiers kicked them and beat them with the butts of their weapons, and once they were on the ground, continued to beat them until they were senseless, then dragged them into the street where they lay on the pavement while the voice of a crazed officer threatened to roll over them with the tanks. The president was left standing beside the torn and bloody Chilean flag in the ruined Red Salon, rifle in hand. Soldiers burst in with drawn weapons. The official version is that Allende placed the barrel of the rifle beneath his chin, pulled the trigger, and blew off his head." (Isabel Allende, "Paula", 1994)
Viva Allende. And let all of us, who take our freedoms so much for granted, never forget how precious they are, or those who have lost them.
How easy it is to return – just step on that plane, plug in the earphones, chew the plastic tasting food shapes provided for your mid air nourishment and pass the hours over the Pacific Ocean… then the plane lands, you smile at the immigration official, collect your bags and walk through the gates – your family stands there, bleary eyed at 4am but with their arms open and takeaway coffees at hand. You step into the car and the machine moves over the smooth roads leading to a house that contains all those familiar smells and tastes and sounds… this is the place you call home. The air is clean and you can breathe it deep into your lungs, the water is clear from the taps and you can drink it without regard for cost or plastic waste. It takes awhile to be absorbed and then you realise that the past two and a half years of foreign environments are over. It’s strangely liberating.
