El otro 11 de septiembre

Today is a weird day downtown, with every new arrival to the office asking, "how is it outside? How is it?" We are not suddenly preternaturally concerned with the weather. Rather, we are asking about the breatheability and be-ability of the air. Today is a red-letter, pacos (cops) everywhere, tear gas kind of day. It's September 11th, Or more appropriately, el 11 de septiembre. Long before the Twin Towers were decimated and the United States was galvanized into its war against terror, September 11th was an important day in Chilean history, in Latin American history, and in human history.

On September 11th, 1973, General Augusto Pinochet headed a military coup that toppled Chile's then-government, headed by the democratically-elected socialist President, Salvador Allende. Pinochet remained in power for almost 17 years, in what is commonly called "the bloodiest dictatorship in Latin America." Wikipedia has lots to say about it. I'm not sure what I should say about it. I think that in large or small ways, it has affected every living, breathing soul in Chile. Those who died, those who lived through it, those who were born during it, even those born afterwards. People who come to visit, those who come to stay. People in neighboring countries and as far away as Cuba, who thought that a democratically-elected socialist government would rule peacefully, and would thereby bring the possibility of a peaceful socialism throughout Latin America. People in other countries, maybe even your own, who plotted the Allende's ouster, his demise. And plan they did. Allende, a movie released in 2004, tells part of the political tale, complete with former U.S. attachés telling their version of the story. And a better-reviewed and very sweet film called Machuca tells a somewhat fictionalized social tale of the days leading up to the dictatorship.

I can't tell you what it's like to be Chilean. And I can't tell you what it's like to have lived through the dictatorship, or to have lost family members to it. I can tell you that every one of my Chilean students knows the word "disappeared," even as other cognates, such as "airport" and "chaos" might leave them stymied. I can tell you (from personal experience) that it is not funny to ask jokingly, what happened to your father? Did he and your mother divorce, did he die? Did he just vanish into thin air? I can tell you that people who are my age, 35, clearly remember the plebiscite in which democracy was voted in in 1989. I can tell you that Chileans are obsessed with '80s music, and I wonder if it's because that's what was on the radio when they first heard what had been happening while they were here, in Pinochet-era Chile.

I can tell you that the children born after 1989 will be taller than their counterparts who are two decades older. Good nutrition does that. I can tell you that people still put flowers on Victor Jara's grave. Victor Jara was a talented and politicized folksinger and professor who was detained, then publicly tortured, and finally exeucted in a stadium that now bears his name. I can tell you that for everyone alive at that time, there is a before, and an after the golpe militar (coup d'état), and a before and after democracy.

I can also tell you that although the tear gas seems to be minimal today, someone threw a molotov cocktail at La Moneda (the main government building) this morning. And in the evening, when I was walking through the plaza that lies in front of that very building, I can tell you that there were people streaming back from the statue of Salvador Allende that stands outside. I can tell you that there were flowers, and wreaths, and his last speech on a placard. And I can tell you that the people were holding letters, cameras, newspapers. And I can tell you with absolute certainty that I haven't the slightest inkling what it feels like to be them.