Joan Jara
Joan Jara was a well-known dancer and choreographer from Britain. She is the widow of Víctor Jara and in the following piece she vividly recounts the events that unfolded around her on the day of the coup.
September 11, 1973
I wake early as usual. Víctor is still asleep, so I get out of bed quietly and wake Manuela who has to get to school early… We have breakfast, Manuela and I, and set out for school. It isn’t far by car, but difficult to reach by public transport even if there were any. Luckily we still have some petrol. We are obviously the only people stirring. Everyone else seems to have decided to stay in bed, except of course the maids, who get up early and go to queue for bread at the bakery on the corner. Monica had come back with the news that Allende’s car had already raced down Avenida Colón, accompanied by its usual escort, much earlier than usual. People in the bread queue and in the newspaper kiosk were saying that something was afoot.
Manuel de Salas is full of students. There is no sign of the strike here. Only a tiny percentage of families are not supporters of Popular Unity. On the way home I switch on the car radio and the news comes through that Valparaíso has been sealed off and that unusual troop movements are taking place. The trade unions are calling for all workers to assemble in their places of work, because this is an emergency, a red alert.
I hurry home to tell Víctor. He is already up when I arrive and is fiddling with the transistor radio trying to get Magallanes or one of the other radio stations that support Popular Unity. “This seems to be it,” we say to each other, “it has really started.”
Víctor was due that morning to sing at the Technical University, for the opening of a special exhibition about the horrors of civil war and fascism, where Allende was going to speak. “Well, that won’t happen,” I said. “No, but I think I should go anyway, while you go and fetch Manuela from school—because it’s better that you’re all at home together—I’ll make some phone calls to try to find out what is happening.”
As I drove out of the courtyard again, our neighbors were beginning to gather. They were talking loudly and excitedly, already beginning to celebrate. I passed them without glancing at them, but looking back in the mirror, I saw one of the “ladies” squat down and give the most obscene gesture in Chilean sign language to my receding back.
Back at the school, I found that instructions had been given for the younger students to go home, while the teachers and older students were to stay behind. I collected Manuela and, on the way home, although the reception was bad, we heard Allende on the radio. It was reassuring to hear his voice from the Moneda Palace... but it sounded almost like a speech of farewell.
I found Víctor in the studio listening to the radio and together we heard the confusion as almost all the Popular Unity stations went off the air when their aerials were bombed or they were taken over by the military, and martial music replaced Allende’s voice...
This is the last time I shall be able to speak to you... I shall not resign... I will repay with my life the loyalty of the people... I say to you: I am certain that the seeds we have sown in the conscience of thousands and thousands of Chileans cannot be completely eradicated... neither crime nor force are strong enough to hold back the process of social change. History belongs to us, because it is made by the people...
It was the speech of a heroic man who knew he was about to die, but at that moment we heard it only in snatches. Víctor was called to the phone in the middle... I could hardly bear to listen to it.
Víctor had been waiting for me to come back in order to go out. He had decided that he had to go to his place of work, the Technical University, obeying the instructions of the workers’ confederation (CUT). Silently he poured our last can of petrol, reserved for emergencies like this, into the car and as he did so, I saw one of our neighbors, a pilot of the National Airline, look over the balcony of his house and shout something mocking at Víctor, who replied with a smile.
It was impossible to say goodbye properly. If we had done so I should have held on to him and never let him go, so we were casual. “Mamita, I’ll be back as soon as I can... you know I have to go... just be calm.” “Chao...” and when I looked again, Víctor had gone.
Listening to the radio, between one military march and another, I heard the announcements. “Bando Numero Uno... Bando Numero Dos...” military orders announcing that Allende had been given an ultimatum to surrender by the commanders of the armed forces, led by General Augusto Pinochet... that unless he surrender by midday the Moneda Palace would be bombed...
The girls were playing in the garden, when suddenly there was the thunder and whine of a diving jet plane and then a tremendous explosion. It was like being in the war again... I rushed out to bring the children indoors, closed the wooden shutters and convinced them that it was all a game. But the jets kept on diving and it seemed that the rockets they were firing were falling on the población (shantytown) just above us toward the mountains. I think it was at this moment that any illusions I may have had died in me... if this was what we were up against, what hope could there be?
Then came the helicopters, low over the treetops of the garden. From the balcony of our bedroom I saw them, hovering like sinister insects, raking Allende’s house with machine gun fire. High above, toward the cordillera, another plane circled. We could hear the high whine of its engine for hours on end—the control plane, perhaps?
Soon after, the telephone rings. I rush to answer it and hear Víctor’s voice, “Mamita, how are you? I couldn’t get to the phone before... I’m here in the Technical University... You know what’s happening, don’t you?” I tell him about the dive bombers, but that we are all well. “When are you coming home?” “I’ll ring you later on... the phone is needed now... chao.”
Then there is nothing to do but listen to the radio, to the military pronouncements between one march and another. The neighbors are outside in the patio, talking excitedly, some are standing on their balconies to get a better view of the attack on Allende’s house... they are bringing out the drinks... one house has even put out a flag.
We listen to the news of the Moneda Palace being bombed and set on fire... we wonder if Allende has survived... there is no announcement about it. A curfew is being imposed. Quena rings to know how we are and I tell her that Víctor isn’t here, that he has gone to the university. “Oh, my God!” she exclaims, and rings off.
We have to assume now that all the telephones are tapped, but Víctor rings about 4:30 p.m. “I have to stay here... it will be difficult to get back because of the curfew. I’ll come home, first thing in the morning when the curfew is lifted... Mamita, I love you.”
“I love you too,” but I choke as I say it and he has already hung up.
I did go to bed that night, but of course I couldn’t sleep.
All around the neighborhood in the darkness you could hear sudden bursts of gunfire. I waited for morning wondering if Víctor was cold, if he could sleep, wherever he was, wishing that he had taken at least a jacket with him, wondering if, as the curfew had been suddenly postponed until later in the evening, perhaps he had left the university and gone to someone’s house nearby.
It was late next morning before the curfew was lifted and the maids trooped out to buy bread at the corner shop. But today the queue was controlled by soldiers who butted people with their guns and threatened them. I longed for Víctor to come home, to hear the hum of the car as it drew up under the wisteria. I calculated how long it ought to take him to make the journey from the university... As I waited, I realized that there was no money in the house, so I set out to walk the couple of blocks to the little shop belonging to Alberto who might be able to change a check for me. On my way, two trucks zoomed past me. They were packed with civilians armed with rifles and machine guns. I realized that they were our local fascists coming out of their holes into the light of day.
Alberto was very scared, and with reason. In the preceding weeks a couple of bombs had already exploded outside his shop. But he was good enough to change a check for me and asked after Víctor. I hurried home, and on my way, bumped into a friend, the wife of one of the members of Inti-Illimani [Chilean folk-music group] who lived nearby. She was in a state of shock too, and all alone, because Inti was in Europe. By mutual consent she came home with me and didn’t leave until several days later. She had been ill the previous day and had not gone to the government department where she worked. Now she was in agony, thinking about what might have happened there and how her colleagues had fared.
Together now we waited, but Víctor didn’t come. Glued to the television, although near to vomiting with what I saw, seeing the faces of the generals talking about “eradicating the cancer of Marxism” from the country; hearing the official announcement that Allende was dead; seeing the film of the ruins of the Moneda Palace and of Allende’s home, endlessly repeated, with shots of his bedroom, his bathroom—or what remained of them—with an “arsenal of weapons” that seemed pathetically small considering his detectives had to protect him against terrorist attacks. It was only late in the afternoon that I heard that the Technical University had been reducida (captured)—that tanks had entered the university precincts in the morning and that a large number of “extremists” had been arrested.
My lifeline, although a dubious one because it had ears, was the telephone. I knew that Quena was trying to find out what had happened to Víctor. She, better than I, could try to find out discreetly.
I was afraid to act, afraid of identifying Víctor before the military authorities. I didn’t want to draw attention to him... perhaps anyway he had managed to get out of the university before it was attacked... that was my hope.
Wednesday night passed, another cold night, bitterly cold for September. The bed was large and empty and there was an agonising vacuum at my side. I slept fitfully and dreamt Víctor’s touch, his warm limbs entwined with mine. I woke to empty darkness and in an agony of fear for him... I remembered his nightmares.
Next morning, still no news. I tried to phone different people who might know what had happened in the Technical University. Nobody was sure about anything... then Quena again—she had found out that the detainees from the university had been taken to Estadio Chile, the big boxing stadium where Víctor had sung so often and where the Song Festivals had taken place. She wasn’t sure if Víctor had been among them; the women—most of them had been released and had given her the news... only they weren’t absolutely sure that Víctor had been arrested with the rest because they had been separated from the men.
In the afternoon the phone rang. Heart jumping, I ran to answer it. An unknown voice, very nervous, asked for compañera Joan... “Yes, yes,” then there was a message for me: “Compañera, you don’t know me, but I have a message for you from you husband. I’ve just been released from the Estadio Chile... Víctor is there... he asked me to tell you that you should be calm and stay in the house with the children... that he left the car outside the Technical University in the car park, if maybe, someone can fetch it for you... he doesn’t think that he will be released from the stadium.”
“Compañero, thank you for ringing me, but what did he mean by that?”
“That is what he told me to tell you. Good luck, compañera!” and he hung up.
When Quena rang a few minutes later, I gave her the news. She began to do everything she could to find out more, to find out what would be the best way of trying to get Víctor out. She even went to see Cardinal Silva Henriquez, asking him to intervene. What immobilised me was the fear of identifying Víctor, if they had not already done so; his own instructions to me, which I assumed were for the best and my blind faith in the power and organization of the Communist Party which would, I thought, know the best way of saving people like Víctor.
Even now, at this stage, I had no real idea of the horrors that were taking place. We were deprived of news and information, although rumors were rife. A responsible political leader phoned me to tell me that General Prats (Popular Unity) was advancing from the north with an army... this must be the beginning of the civil war about which we had been warned. (Only later did we learn that General Prats had been imprisoned and that, during the night of September 10, even before the coup really began, there had been a purge of all officers suspected of supporting Allende’s government.)
During the short time the curfew was lifted on Friday, I decided to make the journey across Santiago to fetch the car. I thought we ought to have it in case it was necessary to leave home in a hurry. It was my first excursion outside our neighborhood and in the midday sun everything looked unnaturally normal: the buses were running again, there was food in the shops. The only abnormality was the number of soldiers in the streets, at every corner, but there were plenty of people about, walking hurriedly, their faces emptied of expression. As the bus made its slow way along the Alameda, we passed the Moneda Palace—or rather the shell of it, roped off from the square. Many people were passing up and down in front of it, I suppose with curiosity to see the results of the bombing and the fire, but no one showed any feelings at all, either of rage and sadness or of satisfaction.
Central Station and the stalls outside were as busy as ever. I got off the bus and hesitated on the corner of the side road leading to the Estadio Chile. I stood looking at the crowd of people outside, the guards with their machine guns at the ready. It was impossible to get near it, but anyway, what could I do? I walked the few blocks to the Technical University... the campus and the new modern building were strangely deserted...
And then I realize that the great plate-glass windows and doors are all broken, the façade of the building damaged and bullet scarred. The car park in front, usually full to overflowing, is empty except for our little car looking solitary in the middle of it. There must be military guards about, but I don’t notice them. I see only an old man sitting on a wall some distance away. I put one foot in front of the other until I reach the car, fumbling for my keys, and I find that I am stepping in a pool of blood which is seeping from under the car... that where there should be a window there is nothing... the car is full of broken glass. I think, “This can’t be ours” and begin to try the keys to see if they fit. Then I see that the old man is walking toward me. “Who are you?” he shouts at me. “This is my car,” I stutter at him. “This is my husband’s car. He left it here.” “That’s all right then,” the old man says. “I was looking after it for Don Víctor. Look, I found his identity card on the ground. You’d better have it,” and he passes it to me.
“But where did all the blood come from, whose blood is it?” I ask.
“Oh, I expect someone knifed a thief who was trying to steal it. A lot of blood has been spilt around here lately. You’d better go as quickly as you can. It’s not safe.” And he helps me clean the broken glass from the car seat so that I can drive it and sees me on my way.
That was Friday. I don’t know how I got through Saturday.
People phoned me. I phoned people. Marta came to see me. Angel had been arrested and taken to the National Stadium. Bad news of other friends came to me. The Popular Unity leaders were all detained or in hiding, being hunted like criminals. Other friends had disappeared.
As I lay down on the bed on Saturday night—I can’t say to sleep—staring at the ceiling through the long hours of the night, a different sort of cold hopelessness began to seep over me. Suddenly, with my heart thudding, I sat up abruptly. Víctor wasn’t there.
As soon as it was light I went to the wardrobe and began to get out clothes which I had not used for ages... respectable, Marks & Spencer clothes, which would make me look like a foreigner.
I put my hair up, put dark glasses on and tried to steel myself to go to the British Embassy to ask them to help Víctor. It was too early, of course. I had to wait for the curfew to end. As it was Sunday, I had to find the ambassador’s residence, rather than go to the embassy itself in the center. It was one of those large mansions of the barrio alto with high wrought-iron gates and railings, closed and with a police guard outside. No sign of life. I rang the bell and waited until one of the servants came out. “I am a British subject. I need help.”
I thought that he would open the gate, but no. He told me to wait. I waited. The police outside were looking me over. I wondered if I looked British enough. Then the main door of the mansion opened and a very obviously British young man approached the gates. “Oh, sorry about all this cloak and dagger stuff. Orders from above, you know. What can I do for you?”
I told him in incoherent and stuttering English, which wouldn’t come out properly, that my husband was in the Estadio Chile, that I feared desperately for his safety and could they help me. Peering at me through the firmly locked gates, he said, “Oh, but is he a British subject? You know we can’t do anything if he is not British.” “No, he’s Chilean, but I fear that he may be in special danger, because he is a well-known person. Please see if you can do anything to get him out... if they know that the British Embassy is concerned about him, perhaps it will be better.”
“Well, I don’t think that there is very much we can do, but under the circumstances, perhaps the most appropriate thing would be for our naval attaché to make enquiries about him with the military authorities. I’ll see what we can do... I can’t promise anything. I’ll ring you if I have any news.”
So I came home, wondering if I had done the right thing, hoping that I hadn’t betrayed Víctor. If he had thrown away his identity card it was because he hoped he wouldn’t be recognized. Unless he was already dead.
Monday is a blank. I suppose I went through the motions of being alive. By military decree we must put the flags out tomorrow, to celebrate Chile’s Independence Day, Fiestas Patrias.
Tuesday, September 18
About an hour after the curfew is lifted, I hear the noise of the gate being rattled, as though someone is trying to get in. It is still locked... I look out of the bathroom window and see a young man standing outside. He looks harmless, so I go down. He says to me very quietly. “I am looking for the compañera of Víctor Jara. Is this the house? Please trust me—I am a friend,” and he brings out his identity card to show me. “May I come in for a minute? I need to talk to you.” He looks nervous and worried. He whispers, “I am a member of the Communist Youth.”
I open the gate to let him in and we sit down in the living room opposite each other. “I’m sorry, I had to come and find you... I’m afraid I have to tell you that Víctor is dead... his body has been found in the morgue. He was recognized by one of the compañeros working there. Please, be brave, you must come with me to see if it is him... was he wearing dark-blue underpants? You must come, because his body has already been there almost 48 hours and unless it is claimed they will take him away and bury him in a common grave.”
Half an hour later, I found myself driving like a zombie through the streets of Santiago, this unknown young man at my side. Hector, as he was called, had been working in the city morgue for the last week, trying to identify some of the anonymous bodies that were being brought in every day. He was a kind, sensitive young man and he was risking a great deal in coming to find me. As an employee, he had a special identity card and showing it, he ushered me into a small side entrance of the morgue, an unprepossessing building just a few yards from the gates of the General Cemetery.
Even in a state of shock, my body continues to function. Perhaps from outside I look very normal and controlled... my eyes continue to see, my nose to smell, my legs to walk...
We go down a dark passageway and emerge into a large hall. My new friend puts his hand on my elbow to steady me as I look at rows and rows of naked bodies covering the floor, stacked up into heaps in the corners, most with gaping wounds, some with their hands still tied behind their backs... they are young and old... there are hundreds of bodies... most of them look like working people... hundreds of bodies, being sorted out, being dragged by the feet and put into one pile or another, by the people who work in the morgue, strange silent figures with masks across their faces to protect them from the smell of decay. I stand in the center of the room, looking and not wanting to look for Víctor, and a great wave of rage assaults me. I know that incoherent noises of protest come from my mouth, but immediately Hector reacts. “Ssh! You mustn’t make any sign... otherwise we shall get into trouble... just stay quiet for a moment. I’ll go and ask where we should go. I don’t think that this is the right place.”
We are directed upstairs. The morgue is so full that the bodies overflow to every part of the building, including the administrative offices. A long passage, rows of doors, and on the floor a long line of bodies, these with clothes, some of them look more like students, 10, 20, 30, 40, 50... and there in the middle of the line I find Víctor.
It was Víctor, although he looked thin and gaunt... What have they done to you to make you waste away like that in one week? His eyes were open and they seemed still to look ahead with intensity and defiance, in spite of a wound on his head and terrible bruises on his cheek. His clothes were torn, trousers round his ankles, sweater tucked up under his armpits, his blue underpants hanging in tatters round his hips as though cut by a knife or bayonet... his chest riddled with holes and a gaping wound in his abdomen. His hands seemed to be hanging from his arms at a strange angle as though his wrists were broken... but it was Víctor, my husband, my lover.
Part of me died at that moment too. I felt a whole part of me die as I stood there. Immobile and silent, unable to move, speak.
He should have disappeared. It was only because his face was recognized among hundreds of anonymous bodies that he was not buried in a common grave and I should never have known what had happened to him. I was grateful to the worker who drew attention to him, to young Hector—he was only 19—who decided to take the risk of coming to find me, who had searched for and found my name and address in the records of Identificaciones, asking cooperation of other people in the Identity Bureau. Everyone had helped.
Now it was necessary to claim Víctor’s body legally. The only way was to take him immediately from the morgue to the cemetery and to bury him... those were the regulations. They made me go home and fetch my marriage certificate. So once more, this time alone, I had to drive across Santiago, now decked with flags for the celebration of Independence Day. I could say nothing to my children yet... the morgue was no place for them, but my friends had been calling, students, wanting to know how we were. One insisted on accompanying me, a good friend... By strange coincidence his name was also Hector.
The paper work, complying with all the regulations, took hours. At 3:00 in the afternoon I was still waiting in the courtyard leading to the basement of the morgue where I was told that Víctor’s body would be released. Other women were here now, scanning the useless lists that were posted outside, that gave just a number, sex, “no name,” found in such and such an area. And as I waited, every few minutes, through the gate from the street came a closed military vehicle with a red cross painted on its side, driving down into the basement, obviously to unload another batch of corpses, and out again to search for more.
At last everything was ready. With the coffin on a trolley we were ready to cross the road to the cemetery. As we came to the gate we met a military vehicle coming in with more corpses. Someone would have to give way. The driver hooted and made furious gestures at us but we stood there silently until he backed out and let Víctor’s coffin pass.
It must have taken 20 minutes or half an hour to make the long walk to the very end of the cemetery where Víctor was to be buried. The trolley squeaked and rattled over the uneven ground. We went on and on, Hector, my new friend, on one side, Hector, my old friend, on the other. Only when Víctor’s coffin disappeared into the niche that had been allotted to us did I almost collapse. But I was without feeling or sensation. Only the thought of Manuela and Amanda at home, wondering what was happening, wondering where I was, kept me alive.
The next day, the newspaper La Segunda published a tiny paragraph which announced Víctor’s death as though he had passed away peacefully in his bed: “The funeral was private, only relatives were present.” Then the order came through to the media not to mention Víctor again. But on the television, someone risked their life to insert a few bars of “La plegaria” over the sound track of a US film.