Never a Leaf Moves

Can you define terror? How about angst, love, devastation, or anguish? You can reach for your dictionary or your encyclopaedia, but can you define the emotion? I couldn’t. Not until recently. Now I can. I can define, depict, and manifest each singular sentiment, more than I’d ever want to. More than anyone would ever want to; more than anyone should ever have to.

*****

In school I’d studied history perpetually. Year after year we had scrutinized wars, terrorism, transgression; basic crimes against humanity. It never failed to touch everyone in the class. There were those, the boys amongst the group, who cracked jokes now and then, but it was obvious it was to break the tension. But it wasn’t happening to us, it was past, or half way across the globe. We’d seen the misery and distress the World Wars had brought about, we believed we’d experienced something through learning; we thought we’d felt at least a fraction of what they had undergone. Not through direct encounter, but through understanding, knowledge and compassion. How wrong we had been.

***

I was in the middle of an essay entitled ‘The Suffering Caused by Dictatorships, Fascist Rule and Militarism’, when Papi walked in. My father worked in the centre of Santiago, but we had always lived on the outskirts, in San Bernardo. He was a lean but muscular man in his late forties. He’d always been full of vivacity and spirit that emphasized his naturally caring disposition. Lately, however, Papi was returning from work hassled and worn, like a book that’s been reread one too many times. His eyes didn’t boast their usual delightful lustre; they were dimmed by the burden that weighed down his body and mind. Over the preceding weeks we’d noticed that Papi had become increasingly pensive and weary, but he hadn’t confided in me the concerns that shadowed his brow and brought encumbrance upon his resistant frame. I couldn’t take that strained diluted smile another day, not from the one person whom I was accustomed to seeing radiant and cheerful. I nudged his arm gently as he hesitated to put that day’s Prensa Libre on the corner of the dining room table with the rest of the week’s old newspapers. His eyes glimmered fleetingly, a faint smile edged slowly across his lips creating a momentary half-crescent and then slipped away again in memoriam of his anxious psyche. He blinked heavily and let out a breath, he knew me well.

“Mira, mija. We’re having problems. Don’t look at me like that, I mean the country. We as a nation are gaining fast on the tail of conflict. Allende is losing support; industry is not as economically viable as before.”

I turned to him, puzzlement and shock etched across my face. Salvador Allende had been president for three years now. He had had a lot of support thus far; he was recognized as a good man. My family had widely supported his ventures, being wholly Christian and favourable to lower castes. In his first year, everyone had been happy. There was triumph and success, the Keynesian financial measures had worked – so I had been told enthusiastically by Papi many times. Although there wasn’t surplus finances the government had managed to create jobs, and help industry thrive. I also knew that the pump priming, as it was called, had given more control to the middle and lower classes. The consumer revolution had brought prices plummeting and employment soaring. But after this success, the strong supporters had wanted too much, too fast. They tried to do things at a faster rate than which Allende had been prepared. The economy had shattered, with few shards left to be manipulated. But Allende had tried, he was trying – as most of Chile realized.

Opposition had been mounting recently, but they were all mature foes of the regime – Marxism they called it. It wasn’t though. As devoted Catholics, my extended family had always informed me that Allende was the ‘epifania de cristanismo’ – Christianity itself. What he did was for the good of the people, but even the purest are tried for their troubles. He wanted all workers to see and taste the fruits of their labours, and he saw socialism as a way to achieve this. He didn’t believe in enforcement by decree or financial exploit. As far as I knew, the opposition were making themselves heard more and more now, but Allende’s dependable supporters had remained close. It didn’t seem possible that the loyal populace that had loved and praised him at one moment could turn around and malign him the next. No one would have thought that Allende could lose support; gain opposition yes, but not actually have those who’d believed in him, abandon him in an instant. But the cruel reality, as revealed to me by father, was that they could, and worse, they did.

Papi studied me intently for a moment, his eyes gently squinting, his frown lines unusually prominent, and then his gaze fell. He raised his eyes after a moment’s thought, and continued with the justification of his exhausted, cheerless demeanour.

“Violence, mija, that’s the point we’ve reached. It’s not safe anymore. Not for anyone, especially in the city, especially for us.”

I knew when he said ‘us’ that he meant Allende’s unfaltering supporters – the devoted Christians that saw the way he wanted the country to be run, saw his ideals luminescent in the pitch black void.

***

I continued working that night and had a subdued supper with the family, pondering over the festering political position. Allende would fix it. He had to. Soon after my mother and sister had gone to bed and my father had retreated to the recess of his study, and the strong pungency of cigar smoke had seeped beneath the door, I finished my historical account and glanced over the paper that Papi had brought in from work. The front page had a headline along the lines of ‘Allende Discusses Plebiscite to Resolve Impasse between Popular Unity and Opposing Parties Later this Month.’ I knew he would have a solution, he always did. I gave a reassuring nod to the charcoal image of Allende on the page, signalling approval and encouragement, giving myself a restored confidence in the situation. I went to bed that night expecting all to be right again when I woke, or at least in the days that followed.

***

“Numerous officers sympathetic to the President have gone missing from their homes and from their residing garrisons. They are thought to have been purged by opposing parties and supporters in commanding positions in the armed forces...”

Those were the exact words I awoke to on that bitter September morning. It was the curtest announcement and most punctual awakening that I had ever experienced. I hastened to emerge in the dining room of our apartment, where my parents were sitting at adjacent sides of the table, hands clasped together. My mother’s eyes darted to me and instantly away, she stood up, chewing on her bottom lip and briskly wiped a glistening drop from her eye. She took my little sister’s hand quickly, “venga, mijita. Breakfast.” Esperanza was ushered around the corner into the adjoining kitchen, and I heard the hiss of the curtain speed across the rail. Papi stared at the linoleum flooring a little longer, then switched the ‘off’ dial on the radio without removing his gaze. He stroked his forehead, something he’d been doing a lot of lately, and took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes elusively, bringing his thumb and forefinger together on the bridge of his nose. He paused for an instant, his eyes still shut, and took in a deep breath, and then reinstated his glasses.

“I can’t believe it Papi. How could they do it? What will Allende do? They couldn’t have hurt him more if they tried!”

He looked up at me unhurriedly. “Oh, but they have tried. They’ve succeeded too.”

I felt choked and confused. No one would hurt Allende, they couldn’t. He was making an effort – the paper yesterday – there was still hope. I fought back tears, until the pain of the swelling around my eyes had overpowered my control. There had been hope, but not now. Dead – the hopes were as bereft of life as my father’s eyes as he surveyed my countenance.

There had been entire military onslaught that night. Fighter jets had bombed barracks and garrisons near Santiago, but the main target had been the presidential palace. At the time of the bombing, the late Salvador Allende had still been inside. September 11th 1973 had been the blockade for repair, improvement and progress; we’d collided with it at full speed, lost over 3000 lives on impact, and were left to recover the debris.

Until that day, we had been a democratic nation, and civil rights had been of utmost importance. They had suffered, and were buried with the hope and safety that had perished along side Allende. We had a new leader, not president, a leader. General Augusto Pinochet Ugarte. Coincidentally, he had been a powerful commander in chief in the army, openly against the directive of Allende for some time. He was different from Allende in almost every way. The most dramatic changes were the anti-democratic change throughout the country, and the murder of civil rights – or any rights at all for that matter.

***

We no longer studied fascism, dictatorships, and militarism at school. We were not permitted to, but even if we had been, we didn’t have to. We were living it. The people lived in fear, even outside the desolation of Santiago. Citizens experienced severe trepidation at the mere thought of leaving a building, walking down a dark street, being alone, or worse – being in unfamiliar company. They had their spies; they played by their rules and set their own forfeits. You could never be sure of friend or foe, people changed – their lives were in jeopardy.

In San Bernardo we were much closer. We too subsisted in dread, but we were a strong community. We were all faithful Christians, and had lived by each other throughout our lives. We still supported Allende’s principles, even though he was not alive to implement them. Ultimately, we were together against Pinochet. Although this was a treacherous sentiment in itself, we had the stability and security of mutual trust and friendship amongst ourselves.

***

The nation secretly entreated that Pinochet would be overthrown promptly, but it’s near impossible for prey to overpower an eminent predator. Violence was not limited to the streets, if anything the majority was kept out of them. Pinochet had the DINA, his own intelligence service, his secret police – similar to the Nazi SS and SA. Of course, he’d deny it, if anyone ever dared to question his objectives. Everyone knew what DINA did; they could feel it from the sinister cloud of agony that engulfed the population. We witnessed it, the torment crashing down in torrents on unsuspecting families, on good people. We had an unspoken understanding that everyone knew what was going on, but we weren’t supposed to, we weren’t allowed to show it. This was getting progressively more arduous as time slipped by, as thousands of relatives and loved ones just seemed to evaporate when backs were turned.

They were known as ‘Los Desaparecidos’ – The Disappeared. One day you’d be hugging your father goodbye as he sets off to work, the next he’d be gone. Men departed without a trace, women vanished in hordes, and even children were misplaced and never re-found. Nowhere was safe; refuge was a luxury the Chileans needed desperately, but couldn’t afford – it was a rare commodity. The Missing didn’t return home from work or school; they didn’t attend school or jobs from home. They were gone, just like that. No reason, no body, no identity. No dignity was involved, just the Villa Grimaldi. They had a cover for it, as they did for everything, but we knew it served a dark purpose. The Villa Grimaldi was the building whose name – and undisclosed reputation – had the repercussion of an indefinite entity slithering along your spine. The Villa was not one of Chile’s national treasures. On the contrary, it was the torture centre of Santiago.

***

Papi’s nervous form slinked around the minimal gap exposing our private haven to the dank, shadowy corridor. I watched him carefully bolt the door, as he always did now when he returned from work. Three bolts, two locks – we’d had them installed earlier in September, when we realized that Pinochet’s anticipated ‘year-long reign of terror’, was only the prologue.

“It’s happened. They’re going to notice mi amor. They’ll take action.”

My mother strained to see the haze of print on the front of the newspaper in Papi’s outstretched hand. November 1974 marked another step in Pinochet’s scale to demonic supremacy. The unjustifiable castigation of individuals, was no longer restricted to a national pastime of his. It wasn’t just those who caused unrest in the workplace, or those who spoke out against the totalitarian dictatorship in which we lived. The shanty town dwellers who inaudibly demanded enhanced living conditions, were not the only others at risk. ‘They’ had become cosmopolitan in their fatal deliberation of victims. William Beausire had been an apolitical, law abiding British citizen. He’d only made one lethal mistake in his life – he had come to Chile. He never made it onto his flight back. His luck had changed and in a split second, he became one of The Missing.

***

We all struggled to exist in passive rebellion; we all struggled to survive at all. In Colegio de la Unidad, our headmaster had decided to place guards on the gates, and on the buses that ferried children to and fro on weekdays. They wouldn’t have been able to avert an aggressive ambush, it wouldn’t have been worth imperilling themselves to try, but it let the parents of San Bernardo breathe easy. At school, we felt as though we were in a hidden sanctuary, away from the silhouette of trauma and casualty that encircled the city. We were secure with one another; it was the one shelter where we could speak freely about our desolate situation without the apprehension that usually followed.

The school had long been renowned in our area for the artwork that it produced annually. I had never seen a more poignant display than the one exhibited in the reception lobby in 1975. The seniors had always managed to fabricate expressive canvases of vibrant and insipid hues, or blissful panoramic scenes. This year they had outdone all others with their evocative and haunting projects. Marcela Gomez. That was the name beneath the large, black moulded base, spotted with flecks of crimson and dappled with browns. The subject of the piece was a compilation of dusty bones, embedded into the papier mâché background. The composition of each individual bone cried out in terror for salvation and understanding. She had suffered loss. Two weeks preceding the creation of her final piece, a man had been abducted from a car park after dropping his daughter at school. Fernando Gomez had been her uncle.

The subsequent piece bore the name Arturo Maldonado. He too had undergone severe loss; he could no longer reside in his childhood abode. He and his brother Miguel had abruptly been bestowed upon the responsibility of their godparents a week prior to his finals. The texture and array of the oil paints grated excruciatingly on my nerves. The ominous tones portrayed the distinctive corpse of a man. The arms were extended above the flaccid cadaver, suspended from the wall by taut wire, like the frame of the painting itself. Apart from briefs, sweat, blood and grime, the forlorn figure was bare. Blood stained his wrists, his forehead, and abdomen, and trickled down his limbs. The image was imprinted in mind. It was so real, so close. Each minor detail, the carcass’ features, the shadowing, the tints; accurately drew its own illustration of what was happening to us. It described the horror, inhumanity and bestiality of the brutal repression that was drowning us, without the need for words.

***

My father continued to go to into Santiago daily, despite the protests from Esperanza and myself. My mother never said a word. But I knew they argued at night. She told Papi that he should stay home, that she was exasperated by being sick with worry whenever he left the house. The desperation and irritation in her voice was always unambiguous, and she often wept into her pillow at nights. Papi constantly told her that he had to keep working. It gave him a respite. He did it for himself, for Allende, for strength, and for us.

There was no reprieve. Horrendous things kept happening in Santiago, and elsewhere; it had spread. Not only had Pinochet’s wrath touched other nationalities in Latin America, but his supporters had branched out further. In 1976 a Chilean ambassador who had served three years under Allende died. It had been in a car bomb attack in Washington D.C. The perpetrators were thought to be Pinochet’s supporters by Americans– to us, it was undeniable.

***

Work went on as usual for Papi. He still didn’t heed our pleas, regardless of the tears it caused for Esperanza, my mother, and I. He felt an obligation to persist as normal, for a greater good or maybe to remain as rational as possible in these callous times. After a while we realized that it was all that was keeping him sane and content. He felt he was doing justice to our family, doing his best for us; there was nothing else he could do. It helped his pride, his morale; in a family where we relied upon Papi so heavily for optimism and security, we acknowledged that this was essential. Thus, we let him work, no more harassing and questioning. The father I loved so dearly was fading away, an empty carapace in his place. He made an effort to stay upbeat and cheery around my sister and I, but his eyes had lost their twinkle, his body its endurance, his mind its acuteness, and his face its luminescence. It was simple to perceive that in this home of ‘eternal laughter and warmth’ there was a sudden relentless lack of joie de vivre. But that isn’t to say it was painless.

We knew Papi wasn’t his old self, but he still loved us. After all, it was love that compelled his vigour and soul to do what his body and mind were too drained to do alone. It was nearer to us than before. We’d known people, neighbours or friends, who had come in contact with the merciless tyranny that pulverized our chance of freedom and happiness. This time it was more personal. My uncle Ramon hadn’t returned from a conference in the city on Monday. It was Wednesday, and my aunt had received a package in the post. Luckily, her children hadn’t been home when she’d opened it – so she had the opportunity to dispose of it and attempt to alleviate the ache coursing through her heart and veins. The contents of the parcel had been semi-distinguishable, with only a few revealing facets smeared with a port tinted tarnish. Uncle Ramon wouldn’t be coming home on Thursday.

That was it. It was the last straw my mother could tolerate. Ramon had been ‘el pez gordo’ of the family – her eldest brother. She had always cherished and looked up to him, as he had adored and taken care of her throughout her life. He could no longer prolong his favour, and my mother could never repay him. It broke her; she lost her will to endure this misery, as many people had done before her. She couldn’t function; she didn’t encompass the will to do so, not even for us. We knew she still cared about us, but the loss of kin – the brother she was closest to – was unbearable. She didn’t talk anymore, she didn’t argue, she wasn’t scared or anxious, but occasionally I still heard her cry herself to sleep. She cooked and did all the chores, but she was out of touch with smiling and emotion and had forgotten the critical technique of speech. She didn’t even acknowledge our queries and chatter; although she listened, she never asked questions, or nodded, or looked me in the eye.

I had lost two parents, one more so than the other. There used to be a saying in Chile, ‘mientras hay vida, hay esperanza’ – where there’s life, there’s hope. Our forefathers obviously weren’t veterans of an authoritarian state. Papi still made an effort, more so now that my mother had become mute and detached. He was still somnolent and pensive, but he fumbled for a strong grip on the situation, for our sake. Although he barely displayed symptoms of that ailment known as life, he did inadvertently conjure glints of hope. With my mother, there was neither life, nor hope. It seemed ironic at the time, that my parents’ youngest child was Esperanza, yet they no longer bore faith in hope at all.

***

Vitality had taken its place among The Disappeared, several years and a few months back. Ramon’s family had moved out, the memory of their life before the crisis suffocating them in their aged domicile. Many of my friends had gone too. They had retreated to safer places that were further from the corrupt venomous atmosphere we were relentlessly constrained to inhale. My mother still hadn’t revived from her comatose condition, I didn’t think she could. Papi was still grappling with reality and optimism. Veracity finally won.

That Sunday afternoon he came home, his face pallid, his idealism deflated. He told us to bundle a few necessities and our dearest possessions – but mind, we had to be sparing. We didn’t inquire into the proceedings, we trusted Papi’s judgement. Esperanza and I efficiently singled out our most important assets – my photo album of happier times and Esperanza’s toy rabbit, Connie. We gathered a few sets of clothes, underwear, and toiletries we couldn’t do without and I packed them together in blankets and string. I did the same for my mother while she sat unmoving in the kitchen. I picked out some of her favourite dresses, the ones that I remembered her wearing with elation – especially the peach one she’d always worn for Christmas and birthdays. I also packaged a bottle of perfume that I associated with her previously benevolent essence, and her sepia wedding photo that she kept on her nightstand all these years. The young woman in the picture was beautiful, blissful, and serene; traits undetectable in the immobile form wilting in the neighbouring room. Papi had left an ancient, battered valise on the bed, so I carefully organized each package into a quadrant of the case, next to my fathers. I fastened it up for him and hauled it into the lounge, next to the dining table, with Esperanza trailing behind cradling Connie.

Papi appeared from the kitchen, a Hessian sack brimming with tortillas, frijoles, tomatoes, potatoes, and diligently wrapped slabs of cheese and meat under one arm, and my mother on the other. Papi hustled her forward slightly, but she didn’t need cajoling, she needed direction. The family was indicated to take a seat, and we did so. Papi switched off all the lights, apart from the dim lamp in his study. He parked himself on his chair again, “Now, we wait.”

***

It had the grain and graze of an eternity, but in actuality was a minimal fraction of it. Outside the wind howled, an ominous banshee willing us to stay in our asylum. The lightening streaked the sky, punishing the clouds for their tears, thunder roared from above for fellowship. We waited on the curb, against the hushed wall out of the illumination of the dreary street lamp. A little past midnight I heard a wheezing and whirring approaching in the dark. It came to a slow halt while still in the gloom of the buildings, narrowly avoiding the soft glowing patches dotted here and there.

The driver of the mustard-seed Volkswagen jumped down and came into the light. Señor Hernandez looked more sombre than he ever had done when he’d taught Civics and Social Studies at Colegio de la Unidad. He nodded to Papi and took our suitcase. Papi held Esperanza tightly by the shoulders and looked on whilst Señor Hernandez added our case to the mass in the confined space. “Vamos Alvaro. Tenemos que ir,” he stood aside for us to pile in, and secured the door behind us. There were a couple of other families also crowded into the van, wrapped in blankets, some of them sleeping. I recognised some of the children from school, though weakness distorted their commonly jovial features. I thought of getting some sleep, as I didn’t know where we were headed or how long it would take. We were on our way to liberation and peace, I didn’t mind the duration of this long-awaited passage. As my eyes closed and I was being lulled to sleep by the patter of rain and gentle rolling of the wheels beneath me, I heard the woman next to me comforting her child – “tomorrow mi amour, we’ll be safe. La Paz isn’t that far.”

***

La Paz wasn’t too far away, and it was safer than travelling to Buenos Aires. But that didn’t make a difference; the journey was both far and treacherous enough. I woke to screaming and crackling. There had been several other mini vans that had joined our convoy at some time during the night when I had stretched into another position to cuddle up against Papi. Now, as I strained to see out the window, I saw the origin of the crackling, and the fading wailing. My eyes reflected the blazing wreckage of the vehicle that had been in front of us, my face reflected the panic of those who had been charred alive alongside their anticipation and belongings. People were waking up, the van flooded with fear and cries. We heard the driver’s door bash open, heard the begging of Señor Hernandez, gruff and desperate. Then scrambling, shouting, several shots and a lingering thud. The back doors ruptured open, several men in balaclavas with AK 47s barked at us to get out. The youngest children were sobbing and bawling. I held onto Esperanza, her petite body was trembling violently. My mother’s emotions had been tapped into, the heat of hatred and aggression had warmed her blood and revitalized her. She stood defensively with my father in front of my sister and I.

“Los hombres alli, ya! Apúrate!” They segregated the men from the mothers and children. Some men refused to leave their family. Consequently, their wives were shot first, in front of their children. The children were shot next, leaving the despairing widow alone with no more family to protect. They viciously beat him to death last, as a warning to other men who considered not heeding their captors’ demands. I looked away as his body became limp, but instead of avoiding the sight of a brutally mangled fellow being, I saw Señor Hernandez’s outline covered in blood, slumped over several other bodies, presumably those of the other drivers who’d refused to cooperate. I recognised most of them as professors from school. The man on the bottom was the headmaster, the ammo ridden bulk above him, was that of Father Jose-Miguel.

***

Esperanza was in fits of hysteria as Papi was led away. My mother tried to keep us quiet and tightened her grip, her sturdy maternal instincts thawing her out of her elongated depression and grief. The men were all loaded into one of the vacant vans and the doors were locked. I wanted Papi freed, but I felt relief that he wasn’t shot – a few moments later, I wished he had been. Pinochet’s guerrillas had covered the vehicle in gasoline and created a small trail leading a distance off. Once all men were secured inside, they had lit the trail. My heart stopped, and my mouth dried up, my eyes stung. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but I’d shrieked the moment I saw the advancing flames burst into their full potential. I wish I hadn’t.

One of the men wrenched himself away from the sight of annihilation and stench of stewing blood, and grilling flesh. “Quién ha grito?” He turned to our family of three. “Was it you, nena?” He glared at Esperanza, the barrel of the shotgun nudged against her chest. My mother’s passion had been accumulating for a long time, as she’d been unfeeling for an epoch. A semi-automatic weapon pressed against the frail body of her eleven year old daughter was not a passable sight. Nor was it tolerable to her eldest daughter, I loved my little sister. My mother yelled, “al carajo contigo bandido!” as she held Esperanza tightly against her. Telling a heavily armed irrational guerrilla that he was a beast and should go to hell, wasn’t the sharpest move of my mother’s life. But I had gone a step further and kicked the menacing figure in his shins. He buckled slightly, then snatched the gun away from my sister and pointed it at me. “Maldita seas! You’ll pay, ahora eres una nina condenada!” He was right – I was a condemned girl from that point on.

He suddenly flipped the gun around and smashed the butt across my face. I felt my cheek bone splinter and a throbbing ache pulsating behind my eyes and into my brain. I felt a tepid fluid choking me, and gagged. Instead of phlegm or vomit, a vast pool of viscous cranberry cascaded around me. Esperanza was wailing, as my mother struggled to help me off my newly bruised knees. “Vete al cuerno coche!” The second time telling an irate slaughterer that he is both a pig and deserves to go to hell is always the worst. The back of his hand smacked my mother’s jaw like a whip. It threw her head and shoulders to the side, and she stumbled. When she looked up, I noticed a small stream of blood ran from her nose, and corner of her lip.

“Escoge una! Go on, pick!” He motioned to my sister and I with his head. “Pick, damn it!” My mother was seized with terror and shock. Neither Esperanza or I comprehended what he meant. She fleetingly looked us both up and down. “C’mon! The little one or the big one, pick one or they both die! Which one do you want to live?” He bellowed at her. Again, I felt the temporary pain of cardiac arrest surge through my body. I stopped breathing, and looked at Esperanza. Her eyes welled up, and she shook. Then I heard the words that I had known were coming, but that didn’t impede the ache it caused. I sealed my eyes and prayed – my final prayer, forgiving my mother. I heard the click just before the bullets exploded into action. My numb body felt nothing. No blood streamed down my limbs, or erupted from wounds to my skin. I opened my eyes. Esperanza’s mutilated corpse lay sprawled on the dry ground at my feet. Fragments of fluff and cotton from Connie fell around the dismal spot like fiery snow. My mother was hunched over her, rocking back and forth with Esperanza’s head on her lap. She smoothed her blood-matted hair as she prayed, tears gushing from her eyes like the crimson torrent from the mess she held. As she looked up she caught my eye. She saw my involuntary resentment, and I her unintentional betrayal. That was the moment before the second round reverberated through the sky.

***

I watched them stack my mother’s and my sibling’s bodies on the rest of the remnants of our group. Then I watched as the carnage was incinerated – and they too became The Missing, never to be found. The flood of tears didn’t stop, even when I had no more tears to cry, I wept inside – a part of me always will. I was living; the rest of my family had been ruthlessly massacred. My father had always wanted the best, and when he’d heeded our pleas, it had led to obliteration. My little sister had been murdered despite her naïve innocence and fragility. My mother had abandoned me – the final words I ever heard her say were ‘the little one’ – she’d wanted me dead. I understood, but it hurt more than anything, it was more than I could endure, physically or otherwise. But I was alive, I had to live with the fact my mother would have preferred to see me dead. I knew she hadn’t meant it, but I couldn’t do anything but take it personally. That’s what those sadists had wanted. They wanted me to be the chosen victim, and have to cope with the harsh candour for the rest of my pitiful days.

*****

That is how I learnt the meaning of terror, love, angst, and betrayal. Now in the bleak towers of Villa Grimaldi, I’ve learnt more. I don’t want to make them happy, I want to keep fighting; for Allende, for family, for The Missing, for faith. I’ve discovered the connotation and power of forgiveness and the muscle of conviction. He will be made to answer for these crimes, for all those he is yet to commit. He can’t escape the natural justice for inhumanity. The buzzing secrets that render the thick air alive, will be heard – they will solve the enigma. No matter how long I am kept here, bludgeoned daily, abused, kept filthy and starved, I, a member of Los Desaparecidos, am resilient. Mientras hay vida, hay esperanza – I will be that life, let me be that Hope.