Books on Chile and Guatemala Under U.S.-Backed Dictatorships
Total Page:16
File Type:pdf, Size:1020Kb
Z MAGAZINE, Vol. 1, No. 1 (September 1988), 61-63 Books on Chile and Guatemala under U.S.-Backed Dictatorships By Andrew Reding THE IRAN-CONTRA scandal has focused attention on the effects of covert criminality abroad on democracy, public accountability, and respect for constitutional division of powers at home. Virtually unexplored, though, has been the impact of U.S. covert action on the lives of our hemispheric neighbors. Two new books offer unusual portraits of life in two Latin American countries that were successfully “rescued” from “communism” by CIA-sponsored coups. In both cases — Guatemala in 1954 and Chile in 1973 — vibrant electoral democracies were supplanted by military dictatorships that slaughtered thousands of their fellow citizens, but were perceived as “friendly” in Washington. As director of Chile Films, Miguel Littín was on General Augusto Pinochet’s death list that fateful September day in 1973 when tanks and air force jets shelled and bombed the La Moneda presidential palace, where Salvador Allende made his last stand for constitutional government. Littín, however, was lucky: a sergeant, by pretending not to recognize him, spared him from being taken to Santiago National Stadium for torture and execution. He was able to escape into exile in Mexico and Spain. Twelve years later, Littín shaved off his beard and reentered Chile disguised as an Uruguayan businessman. Over the course of several weeks, sometimes under the noses of the security police, he managed to direct three foreign and two Chilean crews in filming life under the dictatorship. Clandestine in Chile is the first-person narrative of that adventure, as reconstructed by Colombian Nobel laureate Gabriel García Márquez from tape-recorded interviews with the protagonist. LITTIN is an artist, not an ideologue, and one is immediately won over by his honesty: “Contrary to what we had heard in exile, Santiago was a radiant city, its venerable monuments splendidly illuminated, its streets spotlessly clean and orderly. If anything, armed policemen were more in evidence on the streets of Paris or New York than here.” Later, though, came the midnight curfew, and its terrifying silence: “There was not a sound in the entire extinguished city…I had never seen Santiago so lonely, so sad.” Later still, he was to learn that “the apparent absence of repressive force in the streets was for the benefit of visitors. There were shock squads lurking in the main subway stations at all hours, and water-cannon trucks parked on the side streets ready to put down the outbreaks of protest that were almost a daily occurrence. Surveillance is strictest in the Plaza de Arenas, Santiago’s nerve center, where the Vicariate of Solidarity has its offices. Headed by Cardinal Silva Henríquez and supported by all who fight for the return of democracy to Chile, it has a moral influence difficult to counteract.” In its work against the torture, disappearances, and murders earned out by the Chilean secret police, the Vicariate has itself borne the cross of martyrdom. Littín describes how, in February 1985, Vicariate officer José Manuel Parada “was taken into custody in front of his children outside their school, with the traffic blocked off for three blocks and the entire sector patrolled by army helicopters.” Parada’s body was later found alongside those of a teachers’ union leader and a graphic artist on a deserted road near the airport. All three bore signs of torture, and their throats had been slit. “Since then the name of Calle Puente, one of the four streets leading to the Plaza de Armas, was erased by an unknown hand and replaced with that of José Manuel Parada, the name by which it is now known.” THROUGH THE course of the narrative, a vivid series of mental images conveys at once the horror of repression, the breadth of resistance, and the collective will to remember. In Concepción, we are taken to the plaza where a coal miner named Sebastián Acevedo immolated himself in grief and protest after failing to rescue his son and daughter from the torturers. He lived just long enough for the public outcry to force the release of his children; “since that time, the people of Concepción have had a secret name for the place of sacrifice: Plaza Sebastián Acevedo.” We are taken as well to poet and Nobel laureate Pablo Neruda’s seaside home at Isla Negra, sealed by the police in an effort to erase his contribution to the Chilean national consciousness. Despite the presence of a carabinero who officiously announces that “everything is forbidden here,” Littín finds telling inscriptions carved into the fence surrounding Neruda’s house: “Love never dies”; “Allende and Neruda live”; “One minute of darkness will not make us blind.” To Pinochet’s dismay, “the past is kept alive in the name of Salvador Allende. In one house where there was an image of the Carmelite Virgin we asked its owner whether she had been an allendista. ‘Not had been, am,’ she responded quickly. She removed the image of the Virgin, revealing a photograph of Allende behind it.” Little wonder that the Chilean Interior Ministry seized and burned 15,000 copies of the Spanish edition of Clandestine in Chile in November 1986. WHERE Littín penetrated one dictatorship in disguise and with a false identity, Jonathan Evan Maslow penetrated another by going bird watching, and then some. In Bird of Life, Bird of Death, he recounts his pursuit of the elusive quetzal, the brilliant red and green long-tailed trogon that is the national bird of Guatemala. To the ladino oligarchy that dominates the country, the quetzal is most familiar as the unit of currency it wrings out of the labor of frightfully underpaid field hands, industrial workers, and servants, and exchanges for dollars in foreign bank accounts; to the exploited Mayan majority, on the other hand, the quetzal is a vital symbol of its spiritual identity. In Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent, human conscience is seen as taking wing to heaven like a quetzal, even as the body remains firmly wedded to the earth like a snake; not unlike the Christian incarnation, but with more of the attachment to nature characteristic of natives of a rich tropical environment, as against inhabitants of the arid, forbidding Middle East. Exploring the relationship between a bird and its symbolic meanings; between the quetzal, its natural habitat, and human activities; and between the attitudes and treatment afforded human beings and nature, Maslow sketches “a political ornithology of Central America.” The Guatemalan quetzal is in decline; not just the currency, but its namesake as well. Maslow had to scour the Guatemalan hinterland to finally sight one. The black vulture, on the other hand, has become ubiquitous, feasting on the cast-offs of a carnivorous dominant culture that slaughters human and other beings with equal indifference. In the town of Salama, where an Israeli- advised military garrison keeps watch over the central plaza, we are taken inside an old adobe church whose walls are adorned with murals depicting the baptisms of Jesus and of the first Mayan Christians, but also with “hundreds of snapshots of disappeared persons, mostly internal passport identification photos. They were pinned or taped to the wall, and relatives had scrawled messages on scraps of paper — a name, the date and place of their relative’s disappearance, or a prayer to the Virgin for their safe return. They were mainly photos of teenagers, Indian boys and girls, poor kids with rotten teeth, scared looks, flashbulb lights in their eyes.” The parallels between social and ecological violence are everywhere. Maslow is halted by soldiers brandishing submachine guns; his Toyota jeep is fumigated with DDT. Every twenty kilometers along the highway, he passes military installations, “where several acres had been leveled by bulldozer, turned into a minefield, and surrounded by high, barbed-wire electric fences. Then for the next five kilometers there’d be wooden guard towers…with machine-gun muzzles sticking out of sandbag nests pointed down at the road. The army was dug in like an occupying force, their main work consisting of keeping the roadsides clear of vegetation so that no one could get close enough to fire a shot…I saw how the army was going about its job of suppressing the jungle — with bulldozers and flamethrowers; pressing ragged Indians into road gangs to chop the vegetation down with machetes; spraying herbicides from backpacks and helicopters.” All this to protect the population from the threat of communism; yet Maslow encounters a little boy who spends most of his time in the cemetery, confiding that “it’s nicer here than where I live…The dead get to live in better houses than the living.” Maslow’s patience and persistence are at last rewarded as he sights some of the rare quetzals in one of their few remaining refuges. It is a tract of cloud forest high in the mountains of Verapaz that is being maintained as a sanctuary by the University of San Carlos, one of the few institutions that maintain any degree of autonomy in Guatemala. The biotopo del quetzal, as it is called, was established at the initiative of the university’s president, Mario Dary, a conservationist who argued that the quetzal is not only a mythopaeic symbol, but a sensitive indicator of socio-ecological health as well. The quetzal’s forest habitat is essential to protecting watersheds, preventing floods and soil erosion, and averting desertification, and thus safeguarding the sources of food, water, housing, and energy for the people. Such logic is alien, however, to the purposes of the elite that governs Guatemala, and is evidently considered subversive.