Detenido Parecido
A ver quienes son los que no tienen tumba?
Los que en helicopteros del ejército los llevaron muertos o medios muertos a dar una vueltita por el mar pacífico frente a las costas de Concón? Algunos Detenidos Desaparecidos... pero también nuestro chacalito, el perro muerto. Está sin tumba, inseguro de donde dejar sus porquerias de cenizas. Su amada esposa está nerviosa, ya perdió parte de la guardia, mucho del sueldo, a punto de perder Los Boldos (donde están las cenizas de perro) y como a otros cuerpos en Chile, lo van a tener que sacar del lugar conocido, para ponerlo en un lugar desconocido para que no lleguen los mismos familiares y jueces a ver que honda. No descances en paz, quédate inquieto como perro pulgoso. Sigue asi, que sufran tus hijos y nietos. Atentanmente, este pechito.
Los que en helicopteros del ejército los llevaron muertos o medios muertos a dar una vueltita por el mar pacífico frente a las costas de Concón? Algunos Detenidos Desaparecidos... pero también nuestro chacalito, el perro muerto. Está sin tumba, inseguro de donde dejar sus porquerias de cenizas. Su amada esposa está nerviosa, ya perdió parte de la guardia, mucho del sueldo, a punto de perder Los Boldos (donde están las cenizas de perro) y como a otros cuerpos en Chile, lo van a tener que sacar del lugar conocido, para ponerlo en un lugar desconocido para que no lleguen los mismos familiares y jueces a ver que honda. No descances en paz, quédate inquieto como perro pulgoso. Sigue asi, que sufran tus hijos y nietos. Atentanmente, este pechito.
posted by miricio @ 10:47 a. m.
3 Comments:
que desaparezca....pero que desaparezca y desaparezcan poh!
We meet at last!
So I’m walking towards a balcony, in a big hall, in the Military Academy, in
Santiago, in Chile. My cameraman is in front of me battling it out with the
rest of them. I’m thinking logistically, how much do we film before I run
out to feed the pictures from the satellite truck? I’m questioning why I’m
carrying this mike and tripod when judging from the surge for front row
balcony seats, we’re clearly not going to be able to use them. I’m wondering
why on earth the cameras have all concentrated on this one alcove when there
is plenty of space all the way round.
So I decide it’s time to see what all the fuss is about.
And Someone Upstairs presses pause. Stop. Freeze, pause, whatever. Stop
everything. Everything stops. Everyone disappears. And we’re left alone. At
last. This is impossible. It’s just you and me, General Augusto Pinochet.
For those blessed with clean linear histories and untouched by the boring,
relentless repetition of the past, I’ll do you a favour and advice you to
stop reading now. This is strictly for the Scratched Record Brigade.
It’s been a long time Augusto - can I call you that? Augusto, I’m standing
in front of you, and I hope you will be pleased to hear that I am definitely
having a bit of a moment. I’m part of the press corps upstairs. All those
photographers clicking away at you, all those cameras trying to get the best
shot. You’re quite the star let me tell you. They’ve done you up very well.
You look just a little bit on the blue side, but that’s to be expected given
the circumstances. They’ve dressed you up in your military uniform and put
flags and military ribbons all over the joint - to give you some oomph -
otherwise let’s face it, you’d look just like any other old dead bloke in a
casket.
And I’d just like to reassure you that we are giving full coverage to this
present event. You should see it outside Augusto, thousands have lined up to
see you. I have been walking in and out of here all day - you could say I’m
the Oliver Twist of this media pack. I have had the pleasure of making a few
acquaintances with these delightful people. You have quite a following and I
kid you not when I say the more fervent are the ladies - you old dog, you.
Just one question though. I don’t quite know if it’s the sun, or the emotion
they are feeling right now, but why are these ladies screaming “You
communist scum” at me? I resent this accusation on two levels. 1. The
delivery: If you want to know what my political leanings are, ask, do not,
for the love of God, shriek. It is unladylike. 2. The aesthetic
misjudgement. What do communists look like in this day and age? Because if
what they are trying to say is that I have no style, they are clearly
missing the subtleties of south London urban chic. And before you even go
there, I would never been seen dead in a Che teeshirt, although if I did
have a Che teeshirt on at the precise moment, I’d be pretty dead.
And I’m not being paranoid, it’s not just me. There is a huge game of
bundles going on outside Augusto. Handsome Argentine journalists, hardcore
Colombian cameramen, pretty Catalan presenters with no links they know of to
Judge Balthazar Garzon, innocent BBC anchors with zero connection to the
House of Lords, they have all become targets of this mass hysteria. It’s
like Lady Di has died all over again. One of your fans even pulled the cable
out on a live transmission. That is quite a good April Fools joke. In
December. Referee!
But you are clearly a man whose fan base is as wide as it is long - its not
just the well groomed ladies you’d usually find drinking coffee as they
discuss hot issues such as world poverty and the like of an afternoon.
Believe it or not, some of your most die hard mourners weren’t even alive
during your rule. You’re a bit like those Adidas Gazelle trainers that
enjoyed a retro revival after years of being totally and utterly out. Some
have even designed a sort of Pinochet Fan Club uniform - its black and white
and they wear a black band on one arm. They’ve gone as far as to design a
little logo. It looks a bit like cross with its arms bent at right angles.
Nice touch.
That’s the immediate scene outside. There are other gatherings elsewhere in
the city but they are nothing to write home about. There are a few thousand
people standing around outside La Moneda and boy do they know how to repeat
the same question. I mean, how many times do you have to repeat “Donde
Estan?” They’ve been doing it for years. You’d think in the Google age,
they’d have been able to get a few leads at least.
And yes, they are chanting the old favourites “Companero Salvador
Allendeeeeee“ shouts one. “Presente!” Shouts another thousand. Which is not
strictly true, as you know, because President Salvador Allende died in the
presidential palace when you guys were chucking bombs on it all those years
ago. Then there are the lists of names they read out. Thousands of names,
god knows where they get them from.
And the wave of voices comes back again - “Presenteee!”. But again, for fear
of sounding pedantic, this is not entirely accurate, because none of these
people have been seen in the last few decades - and I really don’t think
it’s because they all simultaneously eloped with their neighbours.
Ooh, I’m sorry, I got carried away and I haven’t even introduced myself
properly. I’m a journalist and work for an international news agency. I’m
covering this big event for foreign news. That means all the pictures we are
getting now will be circulating around the world in approximately 15
minutes. Exciting huh? It’s incredible how fast news can get out these days
- just a flick of a switch and you can be live to everyone and his mother.
Not like before. Remember those black and white images of the Moneda Palace
being bombarded to pieces by your jet fighters? Or the army on the streets
of Santiago rounding up long haired, bearded communists. Or the shots of you
with those shades on. (Fashion faux pas or foresight? The debate continues)
And what about those pictures of the National Football Stadium. You know the
ones - where soldiers are executing those Leftie scum bags. They were just
black and white stills taken by one of the prisoners. Some people would do
anything to get their photos published. God only knows how long they took to
get aired - and frankly the quality left a lot to be desired.
Now as we’re on the subject of news coverage, just a friendly word of
advice. You could think a little more globally about covering such a
historic event like a military coup - and indeed an 18 year dictatorship.
You see, there were a lot of gaps. You have to think more comprehensively.
The detention centres, the pregnant women, the rapes, the dogs, the electric
cattle prods. The men, the blindfolds, the midnight family farewells. Now I
don’t know how you would cover fear, it’s a bit abstract really, but there
must be some visual convention to reflect a society petrified of leaving
their homes. One way could be to film the executions of 18 year olds in the
streets maybe. And then interview their mothers and sisters afterwards to
give a rounded feel to the whole thing. And a little more accuracy on the
numbers perhaps, there’s nothing worse than shoddy death tolls. Then there
are the funerals of the dead - families weeping, coffin going into ground,
general human pain kind of stuff. Oh Christ, sorry my mistake. There were
no bodies. They disappeared. They can’t have funerals so there can be no
goodbyes - see what I mean? There were too many gaps. For me, one of the
money shots would definitely be the helicopters chucking bags of corpses out
onto the sea. You could get some embeds for some great aerial views. Now
that is sexy TV. And I don’t know how your budget is looking, but if you
wanted to really push the boat out, you could get the cameras out around the
world for some great sidebars on the exiled community - you know, loss,
alienation, suicide, that kind of thing.
I could help you out on the one. I’m quite well connected to the
aforementioned Scratched Record Brigade. My dad could give you a great
interview if you like, he tends to go on about it frequently. To this day,
his piece of vinyl tends to jump just on the bit when someone rings or
knocks on the door later than usual. For a split second he’s convinced it’s
the military coming to take him away again. He says goodbye to his pregnant
wife - my mother, and their first child - that would be me. The needle
pushes forward to the present, but scratches drag the needle back. He’s not
the only one. There are plenty of other scratched records where he came
from. They don’t half repeat themselves. They live in different times and
different places now. But the scratches persist - pain, fear, torture,
death, exile, loss. Reeewind! Pain, fear, torture, death, exile, loss.
Time has past and I have gone about my business. Like all those who have
known exile, I hover between the here and there. There is no comfort, I
don’t belong in either, just in that space in-between. And now you are here
in front of me, dead but larger than life. Well worn metaphors of scars,
trauma, haunting and ghosts come to mind. I have no idea what to do with
them. Most would not understand these obsessions - but they were advised to
stop reading a long time ago.
Amigo!!!
No jodamos a los perros... El Tirano sólo fue eso... Un Tirano de mierda... la mala versión de cada uno de nosotros sumada. Pero no un perro. Ellos son guapos.
El viejo históricamente escupido, con suerte, parece una tortilla mex mal hecha. Sólo eso.
¿Más honores? ¿Confundirlo con un perro?
No da la nota y nunca la dió el Tirano
Milan
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