1973, 2001

(Apologies--pictures aren't uploading to blogspot, so they are listed as links...I will try to fix this before my next entry!)

I came to Chile with a very limited knowledge of Chilean history--all gathered from two days in Spanish class last fall semester, where we briefly discussed Pinochet and the Chilean coup of 1973 (if you're not familiar with this event, as I really wasn't until about two weeks ago, I suggest reading the Wikipedia article--it's horrible, fascinating, and incredibly recent.) I remember learning that the coup--here called the golpe militar, took place on September 11th of that year, and thought it was strange that two history-changing events with so many parallels--most notably, thousands of civilian deaths--occurred on the same day, twenty-eight years apart.

I was never too effected by our September 11th. I was lucky enough not to know anyone who worked in or around the World Trade Center, and I lived far enough from the City not to see the smoke. My science test that was scheduled for that day was rescheduled indefinitely--I still don't know the difference between mitosis and meiosis--but other than that, and a canceled trip to London, my life remained pretty much the same.

But there's something about this September 11th, I'm not sure what, that's effecting me greatly. Maybe it's because the Chilean government did this to its own people. Maybe it's because September 11th, 1973 was only the beginning, and the human rights violations didn't end until March 11th, 1990. Maybe it's just because of the torture.

On Friday, which was the 36th anniversary of the golpe militar, our class visited the Cemetario General in Santiago, as well as La Villa Grimaldi, which was a site used to torture socialists and communists at the beginning of Pinochet's regime. Both were disturbing, and I have felt a bit on edge since. However, the cemetery was beautiful--there's something so ironic about thousands of unidentified bodies thrown underground, with a backdrop of the Andes Mountains.

I'm mostly disturbed because I'm thinking about this memorial which lists all the names of the Desaparecidos ("missing" persons who were kidnapped by the government and never found) and the Ejecutados Politicales (victims of political executions.) But it can't list all of the names of people whose lives were ruined, all of the families destroyed; it can't express all the pain felt by both those listed and those left behind. (Gonzalez Lorca Nestor Artemio, 37 15.10.73 is Ivan, Mercedes' husband. I had a hard time finding his name, because I didn't realize that Ivan was a nickname. I feel more peaceful now that I know that his name is, in fact, listed among the others.)

I spent this weekend with Mercedes, her daughter Caty, and her grandsons Nestor and Camilo (both six years old) in San Antonio, and will blog about that adventure soon. It was fun, beautiful, and full of miscommunications. I'll leave you with these pictures, which are more uplifting than the rest of this entry...and will try to post happier things tomorrow.