The
night became darker that precise moment when the
room exploded into a thousand sparks that burnt
your flesh, making your bones and your fragile
certainties shudder. For being there, naked and
blindfolded, at their mercy, there were neither
smiles nor turquoise oceans, nor carnations or
pink sunsets. All of a sudden life had become
only a frail instant suspended in a thick and
desperate breath of air, mercilessly pierced by
electricity. The world was painfully reduced to
that tiny space between our eyes and that filthy
blindfold, a permanent reminder that our world
was shattered early one cloudy morning when the
Chilean military took over power and did what
the military do: kill.
And
kill they did, but also arrest and torture myriads
of men and women whose only crime was to think
differently. Thinking became dangerous to this
modern age inquisition that allowed no criticisms
and declared the obsolescence of happiness. But
brave and stubborn people decided to think and
smile and even try to be happy amidst all the
horror around them. We were convinced that life
could conquer death. Besides, many of us could
not really believe what we heard from friends
or what was being talked about in the streets,
for, how could human beings commit such atrocities?
How was it possible that something like this was
happening in Chile? Where did the snowcapped mountains
go, the beautiful rainforests, our kindness and
solidarity?
We
just did not want to believe that Chileans would
do that to other Chileans, to their friends, neighbors,
relatives. But they did and now, standing naked
and tied up in the middle of my hometown marines’
garrison, the full scope of the military coup
struck me. As did the electric shocks applied
to different parts of my body, making me shake
and scream with such force that your veins seemed
to explode amidst the pain. You can’t tame
electricity, it tames you; you can’t fight
electricity, it dominates you. You can’t
ignore electricity, it takes over every corner
of your body. It burns your flesh, your heart
and your soul. Above all, it makes you scream
so loud that butterflies and pelicans stop their
flight to look over their shoulders raffled by
the disturbing yelling. It’s like someone
else shouting, a guttural sound that comes out
of your mouth, but it’s not your mouth. A
metallic blow that takes you by surprise every
time, because no matter how prepared you think
you are, the fulminating lashing reminds you that
you are not in control.
And
they know it, the torturers know it is them who
are in control and they rejoice at their newly
found power. Then the lashing comes again to make
one shiver with the freezing coldness of death
whilst they laugh at your suffering and bewilderment.
As they probably laugh when they take their children
to the local square to play or when they kiss
their girlfriends after making love. It’s
the horrifying reality that torturers are ordinary
men and women who lead ordinary lives by day,
but become monsters at night, because they have
power. And they used it to kick and punch you,
to shout at you, to frighten you. They had been
deprived of all their humanity and tried to deprive
us of all our humanity. However, in the overwhelming
loneliness and darkness of our cells, we could
still smile and cry, remember our loved ones and
dream of freedom. We refused to be dehumanized,
for no one had the right to think for us, to breath
for us, to transform us into mere ghosts. This,
we could not allow to happen, so, whenever we
could, we would force a smile or stand up and
walk even if our entire body ached. It was our
own revenge in the face of the military’s
brutality.
The
military were waging a war against an unarmed
people, but we were waging our own war: the war
for survival. It wasn’t courage or heroism,
but simply the basic instinct to live. For that
we needed to smile, to believe that there was
a future after hell. They could take away our
clothes, but never our dignity; they could take
away all of our belongings, but never our capacity
to dream. We had to convince ourselves that one
day this madness would be over, that sooner rather
than later our country would recover its sanity.
It was the only way to bear the permanent shouting,
the constant crying, the pain and the anguishing
tears of those defenseless women raped by naval
officers. I could only whisper a word of support
and solidarity for them, although, I knew that
nothing would save them from their horrifying
ordeal. I wish I could’ve done something
else, but I couldn’t; I wish I hadn’t
been there, but I was. I wish the military had
never overthrown a democratically elected government
and installed a dictatorship for seventeen years,
but they did. I wish I had never been tortured,
but I was. I wish torturers had been brought to
trial to pay for their crimes, but they weren’t.
So,
thirty years later, I walk my hometown streets
fearing that one day, around any corner I may
run into one of them. And this, too, is another
form of torture.
Tito
Tricot, a former political prisoner, is currently
a sociologist and Director of the Center for Intercultural
Studies, Ilwen, Chile.
