Democracy and Apathy and Rose-Honey Ice Cream: Una Semana Más

I’ve mentioned before that Chile really enjoys its right to assemble. Protests happen constantly—just before I arrived, a postal service strike prevented mail delivery for weeks, I still haven’t been able to get my student ID because of a strike at the national registry, police have had to use tear gas and water cannons multiple times at protests since I first arrived…it’s just something I’m not used to. It’s especially strange comparing my experience as a student to the radical teens here, who seem to have complete faith that, by continuing to rise up against a government that has given them close to nothing for the past twenty years, they will achieve their dream of a quality, free education for all. This morning, we met with a group of high school students from the Liceo Cervantes, a public school known for its “tomas,” or school takeovers. Essentially, when the students decide that their situation needs to change, immediately, they take a vote and, if the majority agrees, invade the school, placing their list of demands in the windows of classrooms. It’s kind of like when Recess was turned into a movie—no teachers, no classes, no textbooks, just sitting in the school waiting for their needs to be met. And these tomas don’t just last for one or two days. Last year, the students protested from June until August (and are now paying for the missed class time with Saturday classes and one month less of summer vacation). Their demands? Teachers who showed up to class (they didn’t do that) and safe facilities. Apparently, the roof was so old that it was literally falling in on top of students, and yet the administration did nothing—until the students took more drastic measures.

This concept of la toma astounds me. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to not go to school for two months—to instead sleep in a classroom with my peers, play sports in an unsupervised gym, have incredibly mature conversations about equality and respect and autonomy and human rights. I think the most activist thing I did in high school was stand on the corner of Ocean Ave. and Highway 1 holding a sign protesting Prop 8—for all of thirty minutes. I also didn’t have to worry about the roof caving in during AP Lit, but even so, these are things that we just can’t fathom occurring on a fairly regular basis in the United States. So…why? Is it because we’re apathetic? Perhaps. Americans certainly love to live in ignorant, comfortable bliss if they have they opportunity to do so. Protests exist—Moral Mondays, Occupy—just not on this scale.

Or is it because we have faith in the democratic system as a whole, such that we’re willing to wait til the next election to see if things will improve? I personally tend to think this is more accurate. Yes, Americans lack faith in Congress to get anything done anymore (and rightly so—when the nation’s budget is hanging in the balance, we don’t really have time to discuss Green Eggs and Ham). So have we taken over D.C. en masse, picketing Congress until it gets its act together? No. We complain and move on with our lives. I’m sure that some U.S. public schools have leaking roofs and barely legible textbooks. We deal with school segregation and lack of equality in education, and could easily demand a more economically accessible university system, like Chileans do. But we don’t. And I can’t decide if it’s a good thing or not. Yes, our society is a little less chaotic. We learn to be good citizens, creating social change via orderly, governmental channels (and, yes, I’m generalizing a lot right now, but you get my point). We follow the Constitution because we believe that it works—and it does. It’s just that change is slow (as the Founders desired), and so we wait, more or less patiently. It’s just…how long are we going to wait?

I asked the students today why they still have hope that their protests will have success. These student movements have been taking place since 2001, with very little real change. One boy, who I’m sure will someday be a leftist candidate for the Chilean presidency, responded immediately that of course the protests would work, because “we are the future.” “Si la juventud no se mueve, el país no va a crecer.” This is their only method of ensuring change, and so they will use it. I still don’t really understand, but I’m glad that someone has hope.

Last week was las Fiestas de Patrias, which is essentially a week of partying for Chilean Independence Day on September 18^th (they put 4^th of July to shame–hot dogs have nothing on these asados, where you start out with chorizo and end with the biggest rare stake you’ve ever seen). I expected the city to be insane, but it turns out that everyone who can leaves Santiago to go to the beach or the South. Thus, I spent a very calm few days, enjoying asados in San Antonio, personal tours of Pablo Neruda’s home in Bellavista, my first Chilean Starbucks, and the best ice cream in the world (like, really though, voted to be one of the top 25 on Earth, and I was not disappointed). I spent my final day of “rest” climbing into the Andes, scrambling up rocks, past cacti and patches of fresh snow as condors soared overhead, until we finally had panoramic views of the mountains and the entire metropolitan region. I feel like that description was really frilly, but it is so difficult to explain how picturesque it was when we reached the top—not even photos can do it justice.

Kite flying at the beach on Independence Day. 

When I say the best ice cream, though, I mean the best ice cream. 

 Street art in Bellavista. 

Defining Truth and Cueca-ing in La Victoria

Last week, I finally finished reading The Open Veins of Latin America by Eduardo Galeano. It was written in the early 1970s, before the Pinochet dictatorship even came to power, so I read it with a grain of salt, understanding that what came to pass thirty or forty years ago is not necessarily the case still today. So every time Galeano mentioned the Cuban Revolution in a positive light, I kind of chuckled to myself. “Silly Eduardo,” I thought, “you should see the Cuban economy now.” Because in every single one of my history classes, no teacher or textbook has ever, ever, talked about the Cuban Revolution as though it were a good thing. I learned about loss of freedom, hunger, inability to purchase imported necessities, embargoes placed on Cuba to “teach it a lesson” for its “misbehavior.” I learned about the evil Soviet Empire, the terrors of Communism, the “liberation” that American ideals could provide for struggling leftist governments. Even now, the New York Times reports on how much more successful the Cuban economy is becoming now that it is opening up to world markets. And, as I write this, I realize that I really know almost nothing about Cuba, its past or its present. For all I know, maybe this American textbook perspective is the appropriate way to view the Cuban situation. And yet, even now, Chilean community members continue to talk about Cuba as though it is a positive example for the rest of Latin America—Ché and Fidel allowed Cuba to finally break free of Western imperialism and natural resource exploitation in a way that the rest of the region has been unable to do. In my history classes, we never really connected the ideas of colonialism, imperialism, democracy, world powers, and international law, with the concepts of exploitation, poverty, lack of power, and dependency. Or, even if we did, we talked about it as though all of that had occurred in the past—in terms of the present, though, Western powers were nothing but altruistic and subservient to the needs of the rest of the world. Again, I’m not saying that I know everything about Cuba, or about the West’s role in Latin America. I am saying that we don’t get the whole story in America, and just as I have no right to label the Cuban Revolution as a good thing, I also have no right to label it as inherently bad.

I promise, all of that does have a connection to my study abroad experience. Last week, we had the opportunity to visit La Población La Victoria, a community on the outskirts of Santiago that is considered the first successful “toma,” or “takeover,” in Chilean history. About 50 years ago, a small group of people illegally moved to the area and began building—and it worked. Even though it was unauthorized, the community is now thriving. While clearly still one of the poorer areas of the metropolitan region, it has well-constructed adobe buildings, an incredible public school, community art and murals on almost every edifice, and its own television station. It also has solidarity, because it was built from nothing but unified force against government regulations.

The public elementary school in La Victoria has P.E., music, and computer classes, along with a well-stocked library, despite being in one of the poorest areas in Santiago. 

Cueca performances for las Fiestas de Patrias. 

La Victoria’s television station, Señal 3, is technically broadcast illegally. It is also one of the most leftist organizations I’ve come into contact with during my stay here (and keep in mind that this program has an incredibly leftist bent). The station broadcasts soccer games for free to La Victoria’s citizens, gives its own news reports, and uses amateur footage to show the side of the news that Chileans don’t normally receive. For example, on September 11th of this year, Señal 3 broadcast videos of police shooting at La Victoria citizens as vehicles were set on fire. We did not hear about any of this violence from major news outlets—they simply talked about the various ways we could remember the 40th anniversary, leaving out any negative implications. The owner of Señal 3 reminded us that we need to keep searching for this untold side of every story. And yet, at the same time, we didn’t get the whole story from him, either. Who started the confrontation with the police on September 11th? Who fired the first shot? How does the history of the region tie into the relations between citizenry and the government?

In short, the concept of “truth” is a little more nebulous than it used to be in my mind.

Father Andre Jarlan, a French priest, used his home chapel as a hospital for those hurt in the resistance against Pinochet in the 1980s. During a protest in 1984, a stray bullet killed Jarlan as he sat in his room reading Psalms. His image is posted on almost every home in La Victoria as a reminder of the government’s violent oppression. 

Anyway, for those of you who are more interested in Chilean daily life as opposed to these little historical tidbits that I so happily dole out, here’s a brief list of things that I’ve done the past week and a half. At the school in La Victoria, I had my first chance to play some Chilean soccer, and was hopelessly defeated by an 11-year-old boy who then told me I just needed to concentrate more. I learned how to cueca (the national dance of Chile—or, at least, the one that’s most common in Santiago). I had the opportunity to cheer on Chile, in a Chilean sports bar, while watching a couple of World Cup qualifiers. I hiked to the top of Cerro San Cristobal, the hill overlooking Santiago with a large statue of the Virgin Mary at the top. I touched a llama. I drank “mote con huesillos,” kind of like peach sweet tea with whole peaches and some sort of soft oats at the bottom. I had the unfortunate experience of seeing my host mom in a tight blue shirt that read (in English) “I feel the rainbow” as she got ready to go out for drinks with a friend. I turned 21. I got a cold.

Had the opportunity to take a private tour of la Casa del Escritor, a literary workspace purchased by Pablo Neruda to inspire artistic discussion. 

And thus, I enter adulthood in a country where I have long been considered an adult.

Remembering September 11th: The 12th Anniversary…And the 40th

On September 11, 1973, democratically elected socialist president Salvador Allende committed suicide as his military bombarded El Palacio de la Moneda with airstrikes. Later that same day, General Augusto Pinochet took full control of the Chilean government, dismantling major news sources, establishing a national curfew (for 14 years), and arresting, torturing, exiling, and assassinating thousands of dissenters. Pinochet’s repressive regime lasted longer than the vast majority of Latin American military dictatorships, finally returning to a democratically elected president in 1990 (although Pinochet remained leader of the military until at least 1997). The kicker? The United States supported the coup. The reasoning? Well, there was the whole Cold War part of it. Nixon didn’t really feel comfortable having his southern hemisphere slowly shift to the left, especially after the disaster that was Cuba. But perhaps even more importantly, Allende was a president for his people–not for US interests. He nationalized key industries, particularly copper, which hurt major US corporations (which, before this reform, had been exploiting Chilean minerals essentially for free. For more information, read “The Open Veins of Latin America” by Galeano). And the results of this economic and political “solution?” 2,279 (acknowledged) killed; 40,018 (acknowledged) arrested and tortured; and thousands missing and exiled.

Perhaps, like me, you already knew all of this. I took a course on democratic development last fall, and wrote my final paper on the fall of the Pinochet regime. After reading hundreds of pages about the dictatorship, I had a pretty solid grasp on the basic statistics of the dictatorship. But you know how, even after you learn all about the Holocaust in AP World History, you don’t really get it until you visit the Holocaust Museum in D.C.? That’s how we felt on our “Jornada de Derechos Humanos” (literally, “day trip of human rights”) this week with SIT. We visited cemeteries and memorials and museums, watched horrific videos, heard personal stories of the era. You don’t really understand the numbers until you see a victim’s guitar hanging in the Museo de la Memoria y los Derechos Humanos, or learn that some of the victims were as young as 8 years old at the memorial in the general cemetery, or hear the president of La Agrupación de Familiares de los Detenidos Desaparecidos explain how her father was assassinated by Pinochet. And you can’t understand the controversy behind the reconciliation until you sit at a family barbecue and hear your host “grandmother” talking about how her brother was the personal chauffeur for Pinochet, and how the coup was a necessity due to problems with the Allende regime. The dictatorship is not necessarily “history” quite yet for Chileans. Most of the population lived through the dictatorship–I asked my host mom what she remembers, and all she told me was that everyone was afraid. And that they’re still afraid. This Wednesday marks the 40th anniversary of the military coup, and, just as we in the United States are fighting what seems like an endless war over our own September 11th, Chileans are continuing to fight for truth and justice over the horrors that occurred during the Pinochet regime. Because Pinochet is still very much a lasting remnant within Chilean governance and policy.

La Agrupación de Familiares de los Detenidos Desaparecidos continues to fight for the family members that remain missing. 

This plot was purchased at the Santiago General Cemetery for those who do not have a body to bury. 

“The museum is a school. The artist learns to communicate; the public learns to make connections.” 

“The forgetting is filled with memory.” The names of those tortured at the VIlla Grimaldi detention center.

On a lighter note, we watched our first “marcha estudiantil” last Wednesday morning. Although it is technically against SIT rules for us to participate in public demonstrations, especially due to the repressive tactics that the Chilean carabineros sometimes like to use against protestors, our director reminded us that we could certainly be “participatory observers.” We took full advantage of this loophole, and relished in the passion that is Chilean youth. (But actually, if the Chilean government is reading this, we didn’t participate, we really just watched.) Those who lived through the Pinochet dictatorship still have a reason to fear the government–but those who never knew Pinochet except for in their history textbooks have no qualms about showing their true feelings about government policies. The graffiti that covers ever edifice in Santiago is not necessarily gang-related–most of it expresses passionate political beliefs (often of an anarchist nature). There is passion here, and passion with a purpose. The purpose last Wednesday was to dismantle the current education system (set up during the Pinochet regime) which views education as an economic market. While competition between schools might sound like a viable option, here, it has turned into a tool for economic stratification, as those with money choose to go to the state-subsidized or completely private schools, as opposed to free public schools. Success comes to those who can afford it–and the youth crave change.

Takeoffs: Dog Sweaters and Daft Punk

There’s a fat pug in a Christmas sweater outside my window.

Oh, also, the Andes Mountains take up almost the entire view. But the dog is still a highlight.

My room in my casita in Ñuñoa, Santiago.

(dog not shown)

In fact, most of the stray dogs in Santiago have sweaters on—the good Chileans want to keep them warm during the wintertime. Unlike in India, where the many strays have essentially all mated with one another and now look like clones of the same yellow lab mutt, Santiago dogs have character. They are fluffy and fat, or what look like purebred German shepherds, or skinny salchichas (for people like my Dad and Kyle who can’t speak a lick of Spanish despite having lived in states like California and Texas with almost majority Latino populations, that means sausages). And the sweaters. It’s the first time I’ve ever not been annoyed by accessories for animals. (Although that excludes all of Waffles’ fashion statements.)

But I digress. This probably isn’t the most direct way to introduce you all to Santiago, but when I went to India, a professor asked us what was the first difference we noticed when we got off the plane. And this is the first element of Chilean society that I noticed when I stepped off the bus in front of la Casa SIT in el Centro de Santiago. Before actually meeting our homestay families and moving in, we spent two and a half days in Algarrobo, an empty beach town (“Meet me in Montauk”-esque), learning about all the different ways we could get robbed or raped or made fun of or killed during our stay here. (Speaking of, if I die here, it will probably be due to the araña de rincón. This reclusive spider lives in closets—like, in your clothes—and its poisonous, fatal bites leave large craters in your skin. I’m looking at my closet right now and I feel as though one is probably laying eggs in my winter coat as we speak.) Also, we were on a beach, so it was okay. We spent our free time taking short jogs along hidden trails to see the sunrise and sunset, tasting our first pisco sours, and beginning the short descent into obesity by eating empanadas and donuts and jamón y queso. One late afternoon, we visited the beach home of poet Pablo Neruda en la Isla Negra. To put the beauty of this home in perspective, we were essentially in Big Sur on a clear day at sunset. The wooden house, filled with ships in bottles, sea shells, poetry, childhood stuffed animals, and indigenous idols, overlooked gardens of succulents and ice plant and cypress trees, lazily strewn along the seaside cliffs. I wish I had the words to describe this pristine beauty more effectively—especially in Spanish, because “Que lindo” is really all I’ve got—but, if you can’t get all the way to Chile, just head out to Big Sur and you may understand it.

The calm of Algarrobo dissipated as soon as we arrived in Santiago. We were ushered into the living room at la Casa SIT (the headquarters of my study abroad program), where our host mothers greeted us with screams and kisses. (This is one of those countries where people kiss each other on the cheek just to say hello.) After struggling to fit my luggage into my host mother Gloria’s car, we walked from her small home in Ñuñoa to pick her two children, Bruno (8) and Elisa (6), up from school. Gloria separated from her husband about 5 and a half years ago, and now works lengthy hours in an architectural firm about 40 minutes outside of Santiago. In fact, this was the first day all year that Gloria has gone herself to pick up her kids from school—she normally doesn’t get home from work until after 7 pm every day. And her kids. Well, let’s just say that being an only child has not prepared me well for the experience of an 8-year-old boy with ADHD and a little sister who enjoys copying her brother’s behavior. I woke up this morning to quite a few tantrums, and have had trouble deciding whether I need to discipline them or not when they begin to physically attack each other in public. Hopefully I’ll get used to the craziness of this lifestyle soon. If not, I’ve got headphones. Plus, Gloria’s boyfriend of 4 years, Osvaldo, is one of the best cooks I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet, so I can always drown my sorrows in food.

And so my stay in Santiago begins. We started classes today–or, at least, we divided into our skill levels, and I think for the first time ever I was put in the slow kids’ group for Spanish class. I still haven’t started my homework, and I know that soon all of the assignments will start to pile up. For now, though, I’m enjoying learning how to use my Bip! card for the subway, and finding coffee that isn’t Nescafe, and slowly understanding this rapid Chilean Spanish that likes to ignore the letter “s.” I’ve already walked through a protest, talked to a carabinero, been to Walmart (Líder), survived my first temblor and terremoto, and sang karaoke to a group of Chileans.

To many more adventures over the next three and a half months.

P.S. Song that I hate the most right now: “Get Lucky” by Daft Punk. I thought it was cute when my host siblings woke up to it on my first morning. And then they proceeded to play it about twenty times a day.