My dad tells the stories, from time to time in calm retrospective. Chile 1973. I watch his eyes stare straight forward, right through, to the point where only he can see and I can only imagine. Set up in a temporary prison camp at the national stadium of Santiago they used to wake the prisoners in the middle of the night and have them stand in file. Cigarettes nervously touching their lips while the soldiers would walk up and down their line of rigid bodies. Until the tip of a rifle would hit the back of a random man. The soldier would say “run for your life” and many times that would be the last thing that man would hear as he decided to go for it. Before the bullet took him to the ground. His lifeless body warm until he was thrown into the ocean by helicopters. Mass water graves.And so it went. That my father in his 20’s would run through dark alleys with his friends. Guns in hand. Keeping out of sight from the tanks as they rolled by at curfew. That he watched them die, their wives burned alive and life altering decisions made in split seconds. I can’t deny that there is darkness inside the most important man in my life. It lays behind his humour, his intelligence, his naturally warm disposition. It is something I’ve spent my whole lifetime wondering about. His survival. My brother and I are Argentinean by birth. Hope in a world of juntas, coups and dictatorships. The start of a migration that would leave our family and loved ones split and strewn apart across the globe. September 11th, a date of significance our entire lives. A personal connection with hundreds of thousands of others, who share similar stories. Who relate to that darkness. There is no relief at the end, no exhale. They fought for accountability and ownership of what happened but their political stance was used against them to veto their memories. At best, some receive a miserable reparation in the mail every month. But life continues on so I’ve learned first hand, from the example of my father, my family and so many other amazing Chilenos I have had the priviledge of knowing. El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido *Fotos Marcelo Montecino

My dad tells the stories, from time to time in calm retrospective. Chile 1973. I watch his eyes stare straight forward, right through, to the point where only he can see and I can only imagine. Set up in a temporary prison camp at the national stadium of Santiago they used to wake the prisoners in the middle of the night and have them stand in file. Cigarettes nervously touching their lips while the soldiers would walk up and down their line of rigid bodies. Until the tip of a rifle would hit the back of a random man. The soldier would say “run for your life” and many times that would be the last thing that man would hear as he decided to go for it. Before the bullet took him to the ground. His lifeless body warm until he was thrown into the ocean by helicopters. Mass water graves.

And so it went. That my father in his 20’s would run through dark alleys with his friends. Guns in hand. Keeping out of sight from the tanks as they rolled by at curfew. That he watched them die, their wives burned alive and life altering decisions made in split seconds. I can’t deny that there is darkness inside the most important man in my life. It lays behind his humour, his intelligence, his naturally warm disposition. It is something I’ve spent my whole lifetime wondering about. His survival.

My brother and I are Argentinean by birth. Hope in a world of juntas, coups and dictatorships. The start of a migration that would leave our family and loved ones split and strewn apart across the globe. September 11th, a date of significance our entire lives. A personal connection with hundreds of thousands of others, who share similar stories. Who relate to that darkness.

There is no relief at the end, no exhale. They fought for accountability and ownership of what happened but their political stance was used against them to veto their memories. At best, some receive a miserable reparation in the mail every month.

But life continues on so I’ve learned first hand, from the example of my father, my family and so many other amazing Chilenos I have had the priviledge of knowing.

El pueblo unido, jamás será vencido

*Fotos Marcelo Montecino

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