Tag Archives: Chile

The thin line between irony and auguring.

4297357401_97b14e670fOnly a few years ago, not so long after the death of Augusto José Ramón Pinochet Ugarte, Chile opened its museum of memory and human rights. It’s an important part of a nation seeking justice for past wrongs, of how the truth is unearthed -often literally, reconciliation achieved between former adversaries.

The Museo de la Memoria is an imposing edifice, its geometric single-mindedness proportionate to the enormous task at hand. You can’t miss it. Due to clumsiness on my part -Google was not at hand- I did miss it. As, to my surprise, did most Chilenos and Chilenas I interrogated, I mean asked. A few shrugs here, a false lead there. So much for ‘memoria’. Visitors were a mix of well-to-do nationals and foreigners. In defense of absent masses, it was a weekday and, you know, workers be workin’.

The years, starting on that other September 11th, 1973, were dark indeed. But how tenacious a plant is justice. How much effort has been expended to find out what happened to whom and where. No matter what the regime did to its opponents; kidnap, torture, kill -buried in mass graves or thrown in the Pacific Ocean tied to steel beams, what goes down must come up again. Bodies were exhumed, (rather quickly miss-)identified and years later exhumed again to be properly investigated with all the modern means at the government’s disposal. That task, over 25 years after the reestablishment of democracy, is ongoing.

allende-chile-coup-1973-stadium-200x148Weirdly a lot of people supported the junta. The well-offs did anyway. Law and order. A bit of discipline for the greater good. 12.000 people corralled in a sports stadium cum improvised concentration camp. Summary executions, you name it. Who are these people, I wonder? Today, I mean. Is it the elderly man with the meticulously maintained half-moustache and fine watch -the kind you never really own but merely pass on the next generation- sitting in the metro opposite me? The Audi driver at the crossroads? The lady in the black skirt and expensive sunglasses?

What fickle beast is democracy. How easily disturbed. Ears pricked up to the snapped twig a couple of bosques away. On the run at the first whiff of a predator. In this case, the United States. The museum doesn’t mention their role in the overthrow of the left-leaning Allende government. But ask any Uruguyan, Argentinian, Chilean citizen -I did- and they will tell you: “The Americans fucked us over.”

Bygones I guess. Recent US administrations have been solely guided by the advance of democracy and the universal application of human rights. Ahem.

Belgium went through a similar phase in the seventies and eighties: Left-wing militants and criminal gangs widely believed tied to right-wing security-sector elements cooking up a stew of fear and instability. Every so many years new investigations are announced to fill in the details but efforts, on a par with the relatively mild Belgian brouhaha, languish. And yet, questions remain, and as long as the dead have living relatives, and relatives of relatives, the search goes on. Thus is the way of the human spirit. 2016-01-08 14.57.06As indeed evidenced by the indigenous-inspired murals found all over Uruguay, Argentina, and Chile (probably some of the most de-indigenized Latin-American nations, but the only ones I’ve visited so far… watch this space). The one pictured above sits right across the street from the Museo de la Memoria. Signifying the thin line between irony and auguring, I guess.


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Filed under extreem-rechts, Human Rights, International Affairs, Mensenrechten, Travel, United States, Verenigde Staten


2016-01-05 16.04.51The lady with the big sunglasses steps inside the corner restaurant. The evening sun streaming in from behind lends her an aura of mystique, glamour even. As she gets closer the image frays. Another step and the sun gives way to the eatery’s strip-lit interior. The lady, teetering, makes her way over to the counter to beg for food.

Puerto Montt, Chile, a texture-lover’s dream-come-true. The wooden side-panel houses are nothing if not picturesque. Lime-green jostling with pink and brown, chipped and cragged. Always cragged. Over there, where the road comes rolling down the hillside like an oil leak. Over where the man takes miniature steps, carefully nurturing the small plastic bag with the yellowish liquid under his nose as if his life depended on it. Down below, the giant cruise ship hogs the bay.

The lady stumbles out, hot free lunch in hand. She’s mumbling something, but the Simpsons are playing on the TV, and the announcements in between are so loud I can’t smell my food, which is bountiful. ‘Fox +’ reads ‘Fox más’ in Spanish. I’m learning something every day. The new X-files are premiering at the end of the month. I can’t wait.

The sun’s almost gone now, but there’s enough light so you can see the volcano in the distance. It hasn’t roared in ages, but the houses remind one of what the earth can do. Always cragged, sagging. There’s only so much a thing or a person can take before so much becomes too much. On the opposite side of the busy crossroads the lady lies down on a knoll that should be sidewalk to take her dinner. She laughs, randomly pointing at cars and trucks and busses, and a limping dog.

I left my space-towel in the hostel in Bariloche. The kind of fabric that dries real quickly. You know in space, no one can hear you complain about stuff like that.

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