Gracias a la vida

For most people on the globe, September 11^th is the symbol of a fight (in which we are directly involved only up to a certain extent) against an invisible enemy whose presence is yet patent in our every-day lives. This enemy can either be that terrorism that “bombs” the Western world on a daily basis through the media, or the infamous (neo)imperialism that allows the same Western world to export its brands and habits all over this planet of ours.

For a country in Latin America, however, that same date marks the anniversary of one of the most shocking golpes of the late 20^th century. On the 11^th of September 1973, General Augusto Pinochet overthrew the legally elected government of Salvador Allende to set up a dictatorship that would last for nearly 17 long years. Even in this case, the events in Chile were part of a bigger, bipolar, picture. Allende’s politics were a dangerous challenge in Latin America, Washington’s very own backyard. Luckily, a number of Pinochet’s generals had been trained in the “Escuela de las Americas” and knew everything they needed to know about opposing communism – and resorting to incredible violence and cruelty in the process.

This post will not go on-line on September 11^th, but rather on the 16^th. This is to remember the death of Victor Jara. Most people who grew up in the early 1980s have vague memories of Jara as one of the names that come up in The Clash’s song Washington Bullets. “Remember Allende in the days before, before the army came, Please remember Victor Jara, in the Santiago stadium, Es verdad, those Washington bullets again”. Victor Jara was the leading figure behind the Nueva Canción Cilena. After the golpe, Jara was arrested and taken to the Santiago Stadium. Tortured, the soldiers broke his hands and fingers before yelling at him to play his guitar. They finished him by playing Russian roulette with him. They kept on pulling the trigger until a bullet was fired into Jara’s head.

This is an extract from Jara’s last song, written inside the stadium. The piece reached us because the songwriter hid it in the shoe of one of the other prisoners. Translating it wouldn’t do it justice.

Ay, canto qué mal me sales
Cuando tengo que cantar espanto!
Espanto como el que vivo
Como el que muero espanto.

De verme entre tanto y tantos
Momentos del infinito
En que el silencio y el grito
Son las metas de este canto.

Lo que veo nunca vi,
Lo que he sentido y lo que siento
Hará brotar el momento
Hará brotar el momento.

Ay, canto qué mal me sales
Cuando tento que cantar espanto.