September, 1988, Santiago, Chile. It’s the middle of the night when I arrive in Santiago. I retrieve my checked bag and find the lock has been forced open. A video camera and some papers have been stolen. But I’m here to cover a plebiscite, the first democratic vote in a brutal dictatorship in 18 years, so it’s not wise to make a fuss. Especially since they hated a documentary that I made here for the CBC in 1976.
In the morning I go to get press accreditation. I give the army press officer my new British passport. He takes it to another room and, after a long time, he returns.
“You also have a Canadian passport,” he says. I guess they’ve flagged me for that film.
“What Price Profit?” showed how, on September 11, 1973, General Augusto Pinochet bombed La Moneda and overthrew the democratically elected socialist Salvador Allende.
Canada remained silent when Pinochet’s secret police detained 10,000 in the National Stadium and tortured and killed over 3,000 more. Some were dropped, still alive, into the sea from helicopters and “disappeared” – a new word in the lexicon of terror. And how the Dictator then offered his entire country as a laboratory to controversial economist American Milton Friedman, to test his then untried theories of free market capitalism.
So the social gains of Allende’s Popular Unity Coalition were undone, in order to create “free markets” and feed international transnationals with a steady flow of cheap copper, fruit and fish. A small oligarchy have become extremely rich, but most Chileans are the laboratory rats. Union leaders have been arrested, strikes banned; unemployment has soared, and many have been forced to flee. (I couldn’t know back then that ‘neoliberalism’ would echo down the decades and become the globalised super capitalism of today, as described so brilliantly by Naomi Klein in The Shock Doctrine.)
As I hand the press officer my Canadian passport, I realize they know much more about me than I’d like.
I walk back to my hotel amidst raucous protests. Santiago has transformed overnight, from subjugated silence to an effervescent display of discontent. Pinochet’s minions have persuaded him of his popularity and so he is allowing Chileans to vote ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ to his brutal reign.
Demonstrators march in the streets, or stand on their balconies, beating pots and pans, called cazuelas. It’s humbling to witness the bravery of the ‘No’ side as they peacefully and determinedly face water canons and tear gas showered at them by the notorious carabineros (police.) Many are arrested and taken away. Nobody wants to march but march they do, singing Chile’s famous resistance songs, like “Vencerernos” and “We will win.” It’s by one of their martyrs, Victor Jara. After the coup he was arrested and hauled to the stadium. The soldiers smashed his fingers. In defiance, he sang Vencerernos, so they put forty bullets into his body and dumped it in the street.
Many demonstrators carry black cardboard silhouettes with the names of the killed, and the words “Me Olvidaste?” (“Have you forgotten me?”)
The Dictator labels all those who oppose him “Commie Marxists,” yet I’m walking alongside artists, politicians, and members of the middle class-teachers, electricians, bankers. All they
want is a living wage, a safe place to live, and a return to democracy.
I get back to my hotel exhausted. I double lock the door of my room, and, too tired to turn off the lights, promptly fall asleep. In the middle of the night, I wake up suddenly. Something is dreadfully wrong. I think the door is open and someone is standing there, but I can’t see. I hear a tiny noise and start to sit up. Suddenly all the lights go out. It’s dark, but I can see a darker shape-a shadow. It’s a man. Moving towards me. Holding a gun.
Ifl don’t get out of this room, I’ll be cornered and killed. Instinct takes over as I leap out of bed and move towards the intruder, screaming loudly. Everything is a blur as I rush through the door into the corridor. Then I catch a glimpse of two men, disappearing down the hotel’s service stairs.
The hotel manager apologetically explains that they were indeed the notorious secret police. The hotel has many entrances, so he can’t control their access, and has no power to complain. I already know from leaked intelligence records that Pinochet’s Prussian-trained army and brutal secret police are impressively efficient. He gives me another room. I stack all the furniture against the door. Gallantly, he sits on the roof outside to stop anyone entering through the window.
The next day I contact the British Embassy. It’s their job to look after the safety of Brits here. However, they don’t believe my story. They write me off as a hysterical, delusional woman. It’s not the first time I’ve been treated this way. If I were a male journalist, they would take me seriously.
Another BBC crew checked into this hotel a few nights ago. They tell me that someone in the coffee shop threatened to break their knees. Is the goal to scare the international media away so they don’t come and cover the plebiscite?
I film the amazing power of non-violent protest on the streets. At one demonstration I meet Carmen Quintana. She was just 18 when soldiers beat her and her friend Rodrigo Rojas while they were filming, then doused them with petrol, set them on fire, and dumped them on the outskirts of Santiago. Nearby residents rushed them to hospital where Rodrigo Rojas died. Carmen Quintana is left horrendously disfigured. No soldiers have been charged. Her face has become a symbol of the atrocities and impunity of Pinochet’s dictatorship.
“There are thousands more who are suffering,” she tells me. “The dictatorship’s aim is clear: ensure that anyone who dares to challenge them will pay a hefty price.”
I decide to go “underground” and I’ve been given an apartment to hide in while I continue filming. I’m alone when, late one night, the phone rings.
A distorted voice says “Si continuas haciendo lo que estas hacienda, seras rojo sangre, como la sangre de Jesus Christo,” (“If you continue doing what you are doing, you’ll be blood red, the colour of the blood of Christ.”) It seems Pinochet’s secret police know exactly where I am.
I try to shake off fear and to gather a couple of my wits. Then intuition takes over. I reply calmly “I’m very sorry but I don’t speak Spanish. I’m English. Please could you speak a little slower?”
I’m speaking in Spanish.
The deep voice repeats the death threat, this time, a little slower-
“I still don’t understand. Speak more slowly,” says a part of me which seems to have taken over, again in Spanish.
He repeats the threat in Spanish, and I say, again in Spanish, that I can’t understand, and he should speak more slowly. He does. It goes back and forth like this for quite a while, as he continues to utter the threats about Christ’s red blood.
Magic realism kicks in. What is it like to be this guy? What if the recipient (me) doesn’t understand the death threat? Will he still get paid? If so, how much? Is this death threat business a 40-hour per week gig? Does he get overtime pay for these late- night calls? Do they advertise these jobs? Who’s his boss? When he was a little boy what did he dream he would do when he grew up? Does he have a wife and family?
He keeps telling me about Christ’s red blood, and I keep saying in Spanish that I don’t understand. Finally, I say, again in Spanish, “I’m terribly sorry that I’m English. If you can phone back tomorrow, I’ll make sure there’s someone here who can speak Spanish.” To my surprise, he agrees and hangs up. Fear kicks in. Somebody in a position of power ordered this death threat, and knows exactly where I am. And that I am totally alone here tonight. And determined to continue filming.
The women I’m filming in La Victoria, a poor shanty town on the outskirts of Santiago, know all about fear. And how to conquer it. They tell me that, one night the army stormed in.rounded up all the men and took them away. Some were killed, others were ‘disappeared.’ The women determined they would not become victims and set about caring for each other. They are forging a new, cooperative way of life. There is a soup kitchen and a vibrant culture. The shacks of La Victoria are decorated with colourful murals depicting resistance.
“We know Pinochet calls us communists and extremists, but that is what he calls anyone who organizes to solve their problems of hunger and misery,” says Elizabeth, who is head of the committee of La Victoria, “We won’t get anywhere if we sit at home. We must keep at it until he has had enough.”
October 5 ,1988. The day of the referendum
No one goes to work and no one knows what is going to happen. Seven million Chileans quietly make their way through eerily quiet streets to the voting stations. I’m filming in La Victoria as the votes are counted. Its neck and neck. It only becomes clear late in the evening that “NO” has won – with just 56 per cent of the vote. Is General Pinochet’s tyrannical reign finally ending?
The jubilant people of La Victoria head out to join a night of raucous jubilation. But the army and the carabineros are out in force. There’s tear gas and water canons everywhere.
Predictably, foreign journalists are targeted. There are broken cameras, legs and noses, and several land up in hospital.
General Augusto Pinochet is furious. He summons the leaders of his military government. “I will do whatever is necessary to stay in power,” he told them. He demands that the results be overturned and orders the military onto the streets. However, Air Force Commander General Fernando Matthei refuses. Pinochet turns to his other generals. Amazingly, one by one, they also refuse
Now the Dictator has no one to turn to.
Note: I was arrested again when I returned to Chile in 1993 – even though the country was now a democracy. At the airport two passports were once again demanded, and I was told of an order for my arrest. My crime was ”smuggling film out of Chile” which I had done. I had to go before a judge. Luckily he had worse crimes to deal with, and he annulled the charge. I was given a piece of paper that said I was not “wanted” in Chile.
www.Judyfilms.com
Support rabble today!
We’re so glad you stopped by! Thanks for consuming rabble content this year.
rabble.ca is 100% reader and donor funded, so as an avid reader of our content, we hope you will consider gifting rabble with a donation during our summer fundraiser today.
Whether it be a one-time donation or a small monthly contribution, your support is critical to keep rabble writers producing the work you’ve come to rely on as a part of a healthy media diet.
Become a rabble rouser — donate to rabble.ca today.
Nick Seebruch, editor
