Carlos Roberto Montecinos Urra, married, father of 11 children, councilman for the commune of Coihueco and a Communist Party militant, began to be sought by the local Carabineros from September 11, 1973.

It should be noted that the victim had been threatened with death some time earlier by Carabinero Lieutenant Luis Fernando Romo—after the victim had denounced him in the local newspaper for mistreating workers—and therefore, on September 11, he decided to head to his parents' house in "Minas del Prado" in search of refuge.

Police officers searched intensely for him at his home and in "Minas del Prado" without success. For this mission, they used a BRONCO brand Jeep provided by the Municipality; the vehicle was driven by a civilian, Carlos Sofanor Villanueva Pino, a mechanic who had offered his services at the Carabinero station on September 11.

Some time later, during the judicial process, Second Sergeant of Carabineros Carlos Omar Muñoz Norambuena, who belonged to the police unit, stated: "Montecinos was an activist, and it is my understanding that the order to search for him came from the Sixth Precinct of Chillán."

Faced with the fruitless search, the police officers attempted to pressure the victim by detaining his older children, a situation that induced him to make arrangements to turn himself in. He returned home and contacted Fernando May Colvín, the Mayor of Coihueco, who suggested that it would be best for him to present himself at the Chillán Regiment, offering to accompany him.

The following day, September 27, 1973, Fernando May C. arrived in his car at Carlos Montecinos's house to take him to Chillán. Once the victim was left at the Regiment, the Mayor—who had notified the Coihueco station of the situation that morning—went to the Second Precinct of Chillán to inform them that the victim had been left at the military unit.

Fernando May was followed at all times by the Bronco Jeep in which Carlos Villanueva and Sergeant Fernando Cea were traveling (it appears that at the time, Sergeant Fernando Cea was confused with Sergeant Manuel Sáez, who did indeed belong to the Coihueco station staff when the events occurred).

Furthermore, the Directorate of Carabineros, through Inspector General Félix González A., informed the Court that there was no officer with that name and rank in the institution in Chillán in 1973. At the Regiment, an Army Captain released Carlos Montecinos with the commitment that he would appear periodically to sign in.

Upon leaving the premises to return to his family, a Carabinero with an injured eye detained the victim and handed him over to the occupants of the jeep, which had returned toward the Regiment after following the Mayor. Once in the vehicle, they took him to the Sixth Precinct of Carabineros in Chillán. It was approximately 10:00 PM.

The driver of the jeep, Carlos Villanueva, would later affirm before the Judge of the 3rd Criminal Court that "Montecinos was being sought because he was the ringleader of the activists in the area."

On the morning of September 28, the Carabineros transferred the detainee to the Coihueco station. Later, Lieutenant Luis Romo would tell Fernando May that they had killed him that same day in one of the cells, along with José Lorenzo Cofré Obadilla, a driver from the Montaña Bustamante settlement.

Both bodies were then allegedly thrown into the Niblinto River; for that operation, they reportedly used the jeep, which was again driven by Carlos Villanueva. The former Mayor would testify before the Judge that the officer recounted what happened in "a tone of intimacy and as if boasting, in an office at the station itself."

The fact remains that since his detention, Carlos Montecinos Urra remains forcibly disappeared.

JUDICIAL AND/OR ADMINISTRATIVE ACTIONS

On July 2, 1979, Adelaida Insunza Yáñez filed a writ of amparo (habeas corpus), registered under No. 106.892, on behalf of her husband, Carlos Montecinos Urra, before the Chillán Court of Appeals.

In response to an official letter from the Court, the Military Prosecutor's Office of Ñuble-Chillán stated that it had not ordered the detention of the citizen in question. Similar responses were provided by the Chillán Prison and the 9th "Chillán" Infantry Regiment.

In mid-July, the Court rejected the amparo and ordered the opening of a summary proceeding for alleged disappearance in the corresponding court.

Case No. 11.599 was initiated in the 3rd Criminal Court of Chillán on July 19 of the same year. In order to establish what happened to the victim, the Judge sent official letters to various institutions that might have information on the case; all responses from courts, prosecutor's offices, and prisons were similar. There was no record of the victim's entry as a detainee.

The Central Identification Cabinet informed the Court that they could not send the victim's identification record because they did not have him registered; the official letter is dated August 2, 1979.

On April 8, 1980, the priest Juan Luis Ysern de Arce testified before the Judge, confirming what had been previously stated by Fernando May C. A similar statement was made by the parish priest of Coihueco, Father Benjamín Miranda I.

Called to testify in a confrontation, Fernando May C. and Carabinero Captain Luis F. Romo Morales confirmed their previous statements to the Court; this proceeding took place on April 22, 1980.

The Judge, considering that the commission of a crime had not been established, declared the case temporarily dismissed on April 24, 1980. On May 6, the Court of Appeals confirmed the ruling.

On October 4, 1979, before the Third Criminal Court, Adelaida Insunza filed a criminal complaint against the military officers of the Chillán Regiment. There is no record of the progress of said proceeding.

Source: Vicariate of Solidarity

Lennyn Montecinos never met his grandfather, Carlos Montecinos Urra, a councilman for the commune of Coihueco who voluntarily presented himself at the Chillán Regiment on September 27, 1973. Since then, nothing more was ever heard of him.

Moved, the young man acknowledged that he would have liked to have known him and that he surely inherited his passion for music from him. He then performed two violin pieces that also moved those who participated in the ceremony.

Source: carlosmontecinos.blogspot.com

During the civil-military dictatorship, at least a hundred people linked to culture, the arts, and heritage were executed or forcibly disappeared.

September 11 marked the beginning of the most painful period we have ever lived, caused by State agents and civilian accomplices. Today we commemorate 48 years of that tragedy that still mourns all of Chile.

More than three thousand people—men, women, children, and young people, including primary, secondary, and university students; pregnant women, the elderly, the blind, and the disabled—were directly affected, and hundreds of thousands became family members and victims of the dictatorship.

Those who survive fight tirelessly for justice, reparation, and the non-repetition of genocidal acts by the State. Men and women whose contribution to society came from their social struggle, their militancy, and also from their trades and occupations as shoemakers, laborers, textile workers, doctors, linotypists, dressmakers, secretaries, union and neighborhood leaders, municipal officials, public employees, railway workers, newspaper vendors, carpenters; peasant laborers, miners, forestry workers, construction workers; and engineers.

Also those who were just passing through, on a mission, studying, or had started a family in Chile, coming from Vietnam, France, Spain, Bolivia, Argentina, Uruguay, England, Ecuador, among other countries.

Some of their murderers and accomplices, who are serving mild sentences in luxury prisons, have deprived us of them, but they have also deprived us of nearly a hundred artists and creators whom we have identified, with the desire to offer a tribute to those who, from the realms of culture, the arts, and heritage, were victims of state terrorism.

We have recognized 82 people whose creativity was expressed in audiovisual media, crafts, theater, architecture, photography, visual arts, literature, and music.

In this note, you will be able to find the names of the people whose information allows them to be associated with an artistic language, according to the available information; however, it is highly possible that many more remain to be identified.

You will also find a link to the information that, among all the people who make the site www.memoriaviva.com possible, is made available to us so that we can contribute to not forgetting until there is justice. For them… No forgiveness, no forgetting!!

Source: prensaopal.cl 8/09/2021

Date: 08-09-2021

Carlos Montecinos Urra and his music.

A popular singer-songwriter, he wrote many songs about his life experiences. Eight of these tracks were recovered, some sung a cappella on a low-quality recorder and on a tape that remained lost for about twenty years.

Former Councilman of Coihueco, forcibly disappeared, died at 44 years of age on September 27, 1973, father of eleven children (9 boys and 2 girls).

A tribute to our father in this Bicentennial and 37 years after his death and disappearance.

"Blessing God" "I come from the mountains" "The son of a pioneer" "The masked one" "The artisan" "The roses bloomed again" "The reporter" "A greeting to my land"

My Father, a Forcibly Disappeared Person.

I write this account so that you, the reader, may truly believe that there is always a solution to your problems and that you can overcome any difficulty that may exist in your life.

In my case, I have always trusted in a higher being who watches over his children who believe and trust in him.

The person writing this was unjustly detained, tortured, imprisoned, spent eight months under physical and psychological torture, was relegated 6 times, and after being released, spent two years signing in every Thursday at a regiment.

He returned to the university where he was persecuted by right-wing professors. Thank God, he managed to finish his degree in Electrical Engineering, but for 6 long years, he could not find work because he was the son of a forcibly disappeared person and a former political prisoner.

When he managed to get a freelance job at a cellulose plant, his direct boss was a former Patria y Libertad member and a fanatical Pinochet supporter. After 7 years of work, this boss found out about the situation and fired him in 1995.

In 1999, this man was transferred to another cellulose plant, and the writer was called back to work until July 2005, the date this man returned to that plant and he was fired again.

For years, all doors were closed; even in democracy, there was always right-wing extremism that did not allow for a stable job opportunity.

What I relate below is part of the life of my father, a forcibly disappeared person, and what my brother and I suffered in the Chillán prison.

"The cold waters of the Niblinto River in a month of September 1973 were witnesses to the cruelty of several evil men from Coihueco; some have died, others still live and will live with a guilty conscience for the rest of their lives."

Carlos Roberto Montecinos Urra was a very good student from a very young age; he completed his primary education at the school in Minas del Prado, Coihueco commune.

Being very young (17 years old), he married Adelaida Inzunza, daughter of the administrator of the La Tercera Hijuela estate. He dedicated several years to working as a sharecropper on two of the four estates that existed near the town (4 years).

Later, he began working as an artisan in bamboo and wicker furniture, models he invented himself (chairs, cribs, dining sets, living room sets, rocking chairs, beds, etc.).

In the town of Minas del Prado during the 60s, 40% of the men were dedicated to agriculture, 20% to livestock (sheep), 10% to rabbit hunting (selling their meat and skins in Chillán), 20% to artisanal mining, and 10% to commerce.

70% of the women were dedicated to textile crafts, buying the same wool produced during sheep shearing. Adelaida learned the craft of an artisan from a very young age; among the crafts she made, one could highlight chamantos, rugs, blankets, quilts, etc.

The farmers and ranchers (60%) were dependent, and the injustices that Carlos suffered and saw others suffer made him worry and begin to work for the oppressed and needy. He concerned himself with the economic progress of his town and with fighting against the injustices suffered by field workers.

Once married, he embraced the Christian (Evangelical) religion and for many years was a religious leader in Minas del Prado. With great biblical knowledge, he found comfort and guidance in the word of God, and his favorite quote was James 5:1-6, which says:

"Now listen, you rich people, weep and wail because of the misery that is coming on you. Your wealth has rotted, and moths have eaten your clothes. Your gold and silver are corroded. Their corrosion will testify against you and eat your flesh like fire.

You have hoarded wealth in the last days. Look! The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you. The cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord Almighty."

Carlos's Christian principles allowed his children to grow up with a strict moral education and love for their fellow man.

He also stood out for his ease in writing poems, poetry, and songs, which he also sang. He wrote approximately 30 songs, of which the lyrics and music for about ten are preserved.

When 9 of his eleven children had already been born, he moved with his whole family to Coihueco, since in Minas del Prado there were only primary courses and the children had to study secondary education in Chillán.

After 1970, Carlos was a candidate for councilman for the Communist Party and was elected with the highest majority.

In those years in Coihueco, there was a Carabinero station, and a new lieutenant had arrived, a proud and arrogant man.

In one of the many municipal meetings prior to September 1973, the Coihueco lieutenant attended, and my father told him that he only had the right to speak but not to vote. Upon this observation, the Lieutenant became enraged, and before leaving the room, he threatened him.

My father told him that they could see each other's faces anywhere he wanted, but without the uniform; this further enraged the Lieutenant, who left the place very angry.

In the town of Coihueco, there were no problems of political confrontation, as the councilmen in opposition to the Allende government were five, and there was only one councilman from the left.

There were right-wing groups that on some occasions attacked people on the left without major consequences.

It is important to note that Carlos always told his children that what he did for the dispossessed was enough and that, therefore, they should dedicate themselves to their studies and be good at whatever they did.

September 11, 1973, caught the entire Montecinos Inzunza family in their home. Carlos, the father, felt some fear due to the threats that Lieutenant Romo had made against him some time earlier and decided to go to Minas del Prado to his in-laws' house. Carlos said goodbye to his whole family and left alone.

On that same day, September 11, 1973, around 2:00 PM, Adelaida, the mother, with nine of her eleven children (22, 18, 15, 13, 10, 8, 6, 4, and 2 years old), began a journey to Minas del Prado, a distance of 15 km from Coihueco. The trip was difficult; there were Carabineros and soldiers in the town, and the most appropriate thing was to take the Los Olivos road.

They managed to leave the town, but the distance seemed endless, the heat was unbearable, and even greater was the worry of that wife and mother who suffered for her husband, who had traveled before her, and for two of her children who had decided to stay at home in Coihueco.

Meanwhile, in Coihueco, José (24 years old) and Domingo (20 years old) stayed at home without even suspecting the problems they were going to face. They thought, "He who does nothing, fears nothing," but in this case, there was reason to fear, as things began to get very bad shortly after 2:00 PM.

Soon they found themselves surrounded by very well-armed soldiers who surrounded the house, breaking everything that blocked their path. They were looking for Carlos and any weapons they might have in their house. José and Antonio did not resist and were treated rudely; the soldiers ransacked the whole house looking for weapons that, of course, never existed.

September 12, 13, and 14 were very difficult, as Lieutenant Romo had begun to search for Carlos with an infernal hatred. Carabineros and soldiers passed by on many occasions looking for Carlos and demanding that his children reveal their father's whereabouts.

José and Domingo had always been very calm young men and maintained a very good relationship with people who thought differently than they did. Proof of this is that on the night of the 14th, they invited a friend who was from a right-wing party to join them for the night.

That night, the three young men cooked potatoes with onions and bought a soda; they ate and went to bed without even imagining what would happen at the start of September 15.

At dawn on September 15, at six in the morning, they woke up to loud banging on the front door and windows. Suddenly, a voice shouted: "Come out, you sons of b... and throw your weapons into the street!" Weapons? According to Domingo, they had never held a weapon in their hands, and no one knew of Carlos having any weapon.

As quickly as they could, they got dressed and went to the front door, where there were several Carabineros and a "Bronco" van from the Coihueco Municipality parked in front of the house, driven by a civilian.

The Carabineros were very nervous, as they knew the Montecinos brothers quite well, since they had stood out playing baby football; they were good at it, had a family team, and on some occasions had been champions.

Upon leaving hurriedly, it was not possible for them to put on proper clothing, and Domingo went out in loafers, thin corduroy pants, and a sweater, without a shirt. His brother José put on a slightly thicker jacket.

Despite knowing the young men, the Carabineros treated them quite badly; they pushed them to get into the van.

Once they were inside the van, it wouldn't start, and the Carabineros held their rifles with one hand and pushed with the other. They did this for more than a block and shouted insults at neighbors who peeked out of their windows to see what was happening. The young men managed to convince them to let them push the vehicle; upon doing so, it started immediately.

Once again inside the vehicle, they were taken to the station, which was about six blocks from the house. Once there, the first to enter was José, a very calm young man who had rarely participated in politics despite being the eldest of the eleven (11) children who made up the Montecinos-Inzunza family.

He was dressed in cloth pants and a jacket on whose sleeves some insignia or patches were highlighted; his hair was a bit long.

They made him enter the guard room of the Coihueco station, asked for his shoelaces, belts, watches, and any other item of value, and then pushed him toward the patio area where there was a room that served as a cell. They put him in a dark room with a strong smell of decomposed urine.

The turn now fell to Nano, a young man of about 20, a member of a right-wing political party who had accompanied these two brothers at their house that night; he also handed over his belongings and was taken to the cell.

When it was the turn of the last young man, named Domingo, 20 years old, thin, 1.78 meters tall, 62 kilos, light eyes, dressed in thin corduroy pants and a turtleneck sweater without a shirt, after handing over his belongings, he was taken to the cell room where his brother and friend were. The door closed behind him, and they were momentarily in darkness.

The three young men sat on the floor of the room; little by little, their eyes became accustomed to the light. For a few moments, they did not exchange words; the three were getting used to the idea that they were detained.

Antonio was very worried; he could not grasp the extent of that situation. He suffered mainly for his older brother; he also thought of his mother, who had left on September 11 with nine of her eleven children on the way to Minas del Prado, where his parents' house was and where she could supposedly find her beloved husband, Carlos.

Many things went through the minds of these three young men. Suddenly, the door opened, and the sun's rays illuminated the room, and those eyes accustomed to the darkness could not see clearly, but two people were pushed into the cell, and the door was closed again.

It was approximately 8:00 AM when these two people entered the room; the three young men approached them to see who they were.

One of them was Carlitos Marín, a friend of Carlos, of a very humble social status who occasionally helped with propaganda; the other man, surnamed Marquez, worked at the Coihueco post office. Domingo had no knowledge that he had left-wing ideas.

There was no time to talk to them, as the door opened again and two more people were pushed inside the room. The first was a burly man who they later learned was from a party called PIR, which did not support President Allende; the fourth detainee was a man who was accused by his wife of being from the Unidad Popular.

In total, the seven people were in that small room. For brief moments, there was silence; they didn't even imagine what was going to happen to them.

The three young men, without measuring the consequences, began to joke and say: "Carlitos, they are going to execute us all," and Carlitos began to despair and the others to get nervous; then, silence again.

Minutes and hours passed, and the smell in the room was no longer so unbearable; they had become accustomed to smelling decomposed urine. Faint rays of sun entered through small openings in the wooden walls of the room.

They began to worry, and by looking through a slightly larger opening, one could see some civilians (five or six); two or three were carrying machine guns and talking among themselves. To the young men, these civilians were known; they were people from right-wing political parties.

About six hours had passed since the last two people had entered the cell. By that time of day, the worry had turned to despair. What would happen to them? Would they be released? Would they be mistreated? It was an unknown for everyone.

Mr. Marquez was about 60 years old and seemed like a calm man; undoubtedly, his age allowed him to have greater wisdom to overcome bad moments. He didn't speak much, but when he did, it was to provide tranquility and calm to the group.

The young men, who at the beginning only dedicated themselves to joking, were quiet, worried, and desperate; all the jokes they had made to the others at the beginning, they were now believing themselves.

Outside the room, murmurs could be heard from the people who were helping the Carabineros in the search for left-wing supporters. Suddenly, there was a brief silence outside, only to suddenly hear voices—many voices, noises as if many people were receiving and giving orders. It was not possible to hear the voices clearly; this lasted about five minutes, only to suddenly hear a voice that said:

"Open the door!"

The door of the room opened suddenly, and strong rays of sun entered through the opening. The eyes of the seven people, accustomed to the darkness, could not see clearly for a few seconds what was happening outside. One by one, the seven prisoners came out.

Once outside, everyone could see about forty Carabineros, with helmets, shields, and rubber batons, who were formed in two rows, leaving a central corridor through which the prisoners had to pass. The seven people were scared; their faces reflected worry, and even more so when suddenly a loud voice was heard saying, "These two are the sons of the revolutionary Carlos Montecinos," pointing to the young men José and Domingo.

There was a movement of some Carabineros who rushed to grab the older one (José) and carry him toward the guard room. Domingo was at that moment with his right hand in his back pocket, and someone shouted, "What do you think you are, you son of a b..., take your hands out of your pockets," at the same time that he felt a tremendous kick and subsequently a punch to the face given by another policeman.

Then, like his brother, they grabbed him and left him in the guard room; they handed him his shoelaces, belt, and watch.

Antonio's greatest worry was his brother José, since he was not in the guard room. Suddenly, he could see through the window that faced the street his brother, who was on the ground in the street, and Carabineros were...

kicking, Antonio was watching when suddenly a policeman shouted, “What are you looking at, you wretch?” and dealt him a heavy punch to the right side of his ribs, while another held him so he would not fall.

They dragged him out between the two of them and left him next to his brother, who was already standing, held by a policeman, seemingly a bit dazed from the blows. There were quite a few people watching what was happening, but there are no memories of any faces of those who were there, as the young men could not see clearly due to the blows they had received; José could not stay on his feet.

Two Carabineros held them by the arms, and suddenly someone shouted, “Alright, you wretches, at ten meters, start running.” They let go of José, and he tried to move forward, but he was very beaten. At that moment, Antonio said to him, “Stay still; if they are going to kill us, let them kill us right here.” At that moment, someone shouted, “Those two are going to Chillán, get them on the bus.” Since José was so badly beaten, two policemen took him to a Special Forces bus of the Carabineros that was parked a few meters from the spot.

After putting José on, the two Carabineros pushed Domingo to get him on the bus; they did not get on themselves. Upon finding himself inside the bus, the young man did not see his brother. All the seats were empty.

He sat in the second one on the left side, but then moved to the third row on his right. He had just sat down when a Carabinero got on the bus, treating him rudely; among other things, he said: “What do you think you are, you son of a b..., get up from there.” He grabbed him by the arm and placed him facing the bus aisle, looking toward the back, and gave him a hard shove.

Domingo fell onto a person who was face down on the floor with his head practically tucked under the back seat of the bus; it was his brother José, who was in that position. Suddenly, the young man felt a policeman roughly adjusting them so that Domingo’s head was at the level of José’s waist.

There was no communication between these two brothers; both were lost in their thoughts. Suddenly, Antonio felt a great weight on his legs; he realized they had thrown the PIR councilman on top of them, who was a physically large man.

He could not see what was happening, but all seven detainees were placed in the aisle of the bus. Perpendicular to them, to his left, was a body that did not move at any moment; it appeared to be dead.

Subsequently, all the Carabineros began to board, and to reach their respective seats, they stepped on the bodies without any delicacy. Then began something that I believe will never be forgotten in a lifetime: an order was given that each of the Carabineros had to strike them with rifle butts on their backs, blows with rubber truncheons, insults, etc.

When Antonio received the first blow with the butt of a rifle on his back, he thought he would die, and they happened one after another. They turned the music to a very high volume to drown out the moans of the detainees.

Coihueco was approximately 35 kilometers from Chillán Viejo. Only God knows that they wished to die. They asked them about a "Plan Z," and since they knew nothing, they beat them more. They laughed at everyone.

They began to cut José’s hair with a pocketknife—he no longer had his head under the back seat—then one of the Carabineros said to him, “So you are the captain of the guerrilla,” referring to an insignia José had on the sleeve of his jacket that said (CAPTAIN), which was also cut off with the pocketknife.

When it was Antonio’s turn for the haircut, he felt as if his hair were being ripped out. He could not imagine that such evil existed, how people could transform into beasts. Young men who had been raised with firm Christian principles, who had been instilled with love for their neighbor, were being victims of mistreatment they had never imagined.

The blows from rifle butts and rubber truncheons were too many. On several occasions, the following was heard: “Hit them hard, you wretch, or we will hit you.” Antonio felt pain in his entire body; his legs were numb from the weight of the other detainees.

He could no longer bear the blows; he heard moans, screams, pleas, desperate cries: “Kill me, you wretched cops!” Everyone at that moment was begging to be thrown onto the road; they wished to die rather than continue enduring such beastly punishment.

To top it all off, a voice was heard saying, “The Montecinos brothers, up.” It was impossible to get out; they pulled them by the arms and pushed them until they managed to pull them out of the pile, first José, then Antonio.

Now their bodies were on top of the other prisoners, their heads facing the bus driver. Domingo tried to cover his brother’s back as much as he could because he was on top. They continued to beat them without compassion.

Antonio felt them take off one shoe, then the sock from his right foot; they stepped on his ankle. Since he was on top of other bodies, he did not suffer as much damage. Then he felt quite a bit of pain as they burned the sole of his foot with a cigarette.

Minutes passed, hours—I do not know how many—but thank God the bus stopped. The Carabineros began to get off; they stepped on their backs, their legs, their heads. The bus was left with only eight people inside, seven of them very beaten and one possibly dead.

Antonio was the first one they took off the bus; he could not stand, he had one foot bare. Then it was José’s turn, then one by one the other prisoners. Upon seeing Antonio without his shoe, a policeman said to him, “Get back on and find your shoe, you wretch.” As best he could, the young man approached the bus in search of his shoe and sock; he moved with difficulty, he was very beaten, the sole of his right foot was burned.

He found his shoe with the help of a policeman; with great difficulty, he put on his sock and subsequently his shoe while thinking, “What do I want my shoe for if they are going to kill me?” At that point, there was no doubt that this was his destiny.

Antonio recognized the place; they were in Chillán Viejo, it was the Sixth Police Station, a seemingly new building. All seven prisoners were led inside the station. Inside, there was a person writing, and one by one they were called to the counter to first read and then sign the document.

When it was Domingo’s turn, he was surprised to read the content of the document; it stated that he was an extremist and, having been found guilty, he would be executed by firing squad the next day at 14:00 hours at the Chillán regiment.

Tears welled up in his eyes; he could not understand such injustice. He was 20 years old; he had always tried to lead a life that would be a good testimony to his fellow men. He had never been drunk, had never smoked a cigarette, had never gone to a party, nor had he danced.

He had not participated in politics either; his life had been to study and serve God. Now he had to sign a document that said he would be executed by firing squad; he only had about 15 hours of life left, and there was a policeman demanding he sign that paper quickly.

Domingo’s eyes were clouded when he signed the document; his strength had run out. He did not notice the reaction of the other detainees, nor of his brother; he shut himself off in his thoughts. He asked himself: “What did I do wrong?”, “Why so much suffering?”, “What would become of his father, his mother, his ten siblings?” He was led to an adjoining room where a policeman cut his hair very short, too short.

On the bus, they had cut it with a pocketknife; with a machine, it was less painful, but what does pain matter now? There are few hours of life left. It may have been a stupid question, but Domingo, between sobs, asked the policeman who was cutting his hair, “Sir, I am a university student.

Do you think I can continue studying afterward?” to which the policeman replied, “I don’t know, you wretch.” That answer gave Domingo hope. He had signed a paper that said he would be executed the next day, and the Carabinero now told him, “I don’t know, you wretch.” There was a possibility of being saved; only God knew.

Once they cut his hair, Domingo had to remain in the room while they cut the others’ hair, and he was able to look at all the policemen who still remained in the place, and his gaze stopped on one of them.

That face was known. He dried his tears well and could see clearly that a few meters from him was his friend, the cyclist Carabinero, "Brother Dumbo." He had been one of those who had beaten him in the bus aisle, but how was it possible?

His doubt turned into certainty when their eyes met. Brother Dumbo had recognized him; he became sad, lowered his face, and began to leave the station. Domingo saw him for the last time. After giving statements, two of the seven were released: Nano, the friend of the Montecinos brothers, and the man who had been denounced by his wife.

The five detainees were to be executed by firing squad the next day at 14:00 hours at the Chillán regiment. They were subsequently taken to a room at the end of a hallway. The cell had a surface area of no more than 12 m2; its floor was ceramic or colored earth.

It had no seats; in a corner, there was a bit of sawdust that was a place to urinate. The five detainees sat on the floor of the cell; it was cold, hard, and everyone was very mistreated. They settled in as best they could, one next to the other: Carlitos Marín, Mr.

Marquez, José, Domingo, and the PIR councilman. Domingo could only sit on his right side; everything else was beaten. His body had already cooled, and he was feeling the pain of the blows with greater intensity.

Everyone was silent; the two brothers only exchanged a few words. Suddenly, the cell door opened, and a new detainee arrived, a boy named Manuel, about 13 years old, detained for theft. They accused him of having stolen a radio, and he was to be transferred to the Chillán jail.

It was about 20:00 hours, and they had not eaten all day; apparently, they had not thought about it. The most important thing was time: the hours, the minutes, the seconds. Around 20:30 hours, the cell was opened again, and a Carabinero handed the young boy a pot of food that his family had sent him.

Since all the other detainees were very hungry, the young man gave each one a spoonful of beans with noodles; two of the detainees vomited a few hours later. The hours passed, and it began to get dark.

Everyone felt the cold of the tiles and the humidity of the urine, which by that point was no longer absorbed by the sawdust and was running, wetting the detainees’ clothes. The six of them, including the young boy, were sitting together; they needed to warm each other.

The order was as follows: The young boy, Carlitos Marín, Mr. Marquez, José, Domingo, and the PIR councilman. Around 21:00, a form of psychological torture began. The door opened, and a Carabinero entered and approached the group.

He came with a submachine gun and suddenly placed the barrel against the forehead of the PIR councilman who was next to Domingo. “How many bullets do I have in my weapon, you wretch?” “I... don’t... know...

Corporal...” the councilman replied in a choked voice. “What do you mean 'Corporal,' you wretch? Don’t you realize my rank?” to which the councilman exclaimed, “My Sergeant, I am a father, I have children, and besides, I am not an Allendista...” The Carabinero, very agitated, said to him: “How is it that you are not from the left?

What is your political party?” “The PIR, my Sergeant, the PIR.” “What does PIR mean?” “Radical Left Party, my Sergeant.” “You see that you are a liar, you wretch, because all those on the left are Allendistas, and for being a liar, I will put all the bullets from my weapon into your head.” Domingo was next to the PIR councilman, and out of the corner of his eye, he could observe how the sweat ran down that man’s face, how he suffered.

The visit of this Carabinero with his submachine gun was repeated three or four times, and every time it was the councilman who suffered from his punishments. Around three in the morning, everyone was very numb and completely soaked by the urine that was running from the sawdust.

Suddenly, a face appeared at the door grate. All the detainees were frightened, thinking it was the man with the submachine gun again, but this time they were all wrong. It was another policeman who, without saying a word, passed three sacks through the grate, which were placed on the damp floor.

He also handed over two loaves of bread, which were distributed among the six detainees. That was the only gesture of kindness that the Carabinero personnel had shown in those 14 hours that the detainees had been in that place.

It began to get light, and the hour of our death was approaching rapidly. They took the five prisoners out of the cell one by one, blindfolded them, and around 13:00 hours, they put them on a truck, lying subsequently on sawdust.

Only one hour remained; it was not possible to communicate among the detainees. Domingo thought of his brother, his mother, his father, his siblings. It was the moment to ask God for forgiveness for some sin committed, for something he might have done wrong.

He wished he could communicate with his brother, tell him he loved him, but he did not know if he was nearby, and there was no time. When the truck started and began to move, everyone began to suffer. The distance between Chillán Viejo and the Chillán Regiment was about 10 km, and the estimated time could not be more than 20 minutes. 20 minutes from the execution of five people whose only fault was thinking differently.

Suddenly, the vehicle stopped, and the order was given to get off the truck. Since the prisoners were blindfolded, they were helped off the truck. September 16, 1973, being approximately 14:00 hours, all the prisoners had been lined up and were asked: “How do you want to be executed, with or without blindfolds?” There was no answer.

A policeman shouted, “Take off their blindfolds so they can see who will kill them.” One by one, they removed the blindfolds from their eyes. A person began to untie the knot of the cloth covering Domingo’s eyes, and soon he saw what was in front of him.

It was not what he expected to see, and a sigh of relief escaped him, and hope returned; they were in front of the Chillán Jail and not in front of a firing squad. All the detainees were handed over to the guards, and upon entering the access steps, one of the prisoners asked a guard: “Sir, do they execute people here?” “We don’t execute here, but here the common prisoners are going to 'do' you.” That meant they would be raped by the other inmates.

Faced with this statement, the five of them agreed to defend themselves to the death if necessary. They were taken to a fairly large cell; it had a grate about ten meters long in front and a room without a grate and with a small window.

In front of the grate and at the other end of the cell, there were three or four latrines without bowls that only had the location of the feet marked. There was no one in the cell, and these five detainees positioned themselves in a corner in front of a pillar; it was from that moment their place where they would defend their physical integrity.

Suddenly, the cell door opened, and many people began to enter. They were kind and approached the group to ask them things, and they only then realized that they were all political prisoners, each with their own suffering on their shoulders, their stories.

If a complete description could be made of what was seen in that place, there would be no words to describe the evil of those who mistreated them. One of them could barely move; he had swollen testicles from having been beaten so much.

Another young man of about twenty years old had two circular marks on his face; the barrel of a rifle had been heated to red-hot and had been placed on his face. Another had had a fingernail pulled out.

Another had a piece of his ear cut off. Another person, who was a peasant, wore a poncho that had several bullet holes and on his neck a large cut because his hair had been cut with machete blows, and one of them made a cut on his neck.

Others had their hair cut in different shapes; on some, they had ingeniously written "UP." It would be long to describe what each one went through, but what was clear was that everyone was suffering, each in their own way.

The arrival of these people gave our five friends courage, and it was like having been reborn; each one worried about the other. Some had some creams, which were used to treat wounds. Soon the cell and the adjoining room became small; there were more than two hundred people in that place, and the bathrooms were clogged, and the smell of human excrement was unbearable.

Everyone slept as best they could on the dirty floor of the cell; there were no showers, very little water. They spent another day without eating; they were informed that all those who had plates could receive food and tea.

They approached the grates of the cell where two guards and two civilians were with a pot of food. Upon uncovering the pot, Domingo could observe that it shone with alum stone, and upon stirring the content, it could be seen that it was fish with cabbage, but inside the pot, there were also fish heads.

Since they had just arrived, they had nothing to receive food in and only received one loaf of bread. Some days passed, and permanently they made calls for people to the third grate; those people left and did not return.

When asking the guards about these people, they said that some of them were executed, especially those who were taken out at night. The days passed, and there was terror among the prisoners; no one wanted to hear their name.

They took out an average of 10 people a day, and they did not return, but at the same time, more and more arrived; there was no longer physical space for so many prisoners. One day, September 27 or 28, the two brothers heard a person with the surname Montecinos named.

Upon paying attention when the call was repeated, they realized they were calling their Father, but how was it possible if their father was supposed to be in the countryside? What had happened? Carlos Montecinos, the father of José and Domingo, had tried to cross the mountain range because Carabineros and civilians were looking for him with rage.

This man who had lived to help his neighbor, father of 11 children, had been born in a small village surrounded by forests and mountains in the foothills of Ñuble in the Eighth Region. Minas del Prado in the commune of Coihueco.

A very beautiful place full of ravines where the hazel trees are adorned with our national copihue, accompanied by two rivers born in the Andes Mountains, the Cato River to the north and the Niblinto to the south.

This last river will be the mute witness to the answers that will be sought when this story ends, in its ravines full of quilas and coligues where the loud cry of the chucao breaks the silence and the foxes come down to the village in search of new lambs or some chicken.

There, in a wooden ranch of this mountain town, on a spring night, Carlos Alberto was born, son of a miner and a chamantera mother. Thus, this boy grew up with his siblings learning the tasks that the environment offered him according to his possibilities: learning to make charcoal, cultivation tasks, taking care of lambs and goats in grazing, without leaving aside his studies, for which he was very good and concerned.

Always very happy to live in this village, his family very united in the Evangelical religion, Carlos liked to sing from a very young age, and he did so when he worked and also in the service of his church. Montecinos was his surname from his father’s side and Urra from his mother’s side.

Source: coihuecomicomuna.blogspot.com 20/09/2010

Date: 20-09-2010

Supreme Court sentences former Carabinero for disappearances in Coihueco

The Penal Chamber of the Supreme Court confirmed a new conviction for human rights violations against a retired Carabinero officer for two cases of forcibly disappeared persons in September 1973 in the city of Chillán, in the Eighth Region.

In a unanimous decision, the ministers Alberto Chaigeneau, Nibaldo Segura, Jaime Rodríguez, Rubén Ballesteros, and Hugo Dolmestch dismissed the cassation appeal filed by the defense of Luis Fernando Romo Morales.

In this way, they ratified the sentence of five years and one day of imprisonment against the former officer, who is held responsible for the kidnapping of the peasants Carlos Roberto Montecinos Urra and José Lorenzo Cofré Obadilla, detained on September 27 and 28, respectively, in Coihueco.

In addition, Romo Morales must pay compensation for moral damages of $10 million in favor of three daughters of the second of the victims of the police repression, which occurred in the rural area of the Bío-Bío Region.

The Court of Appeals of Chillán, in December 2006, had reduced the initial sentence of the city’s Court of Letters, which had sentenced Romo Morales to ten years and one day of imprisonment, also acquitting the former mayor and councilman of Coihueco, Luis Manuel Quintana González, who was initially sentenced to five years and one day of imprisonment.

At the time of the events, Montecinos Urra was a councilman for Coihueco representing the Communist Party, while Obadilla was a union leader of the tractor drivers of the "Montaña Bustamante" Settlement.

Both were fathers of eleven and three children, respectively, and presented themselves voluntarily to the Coihueco Carabinero station after being called in the decrees of the time. Judicial records ensure that Luis Fernando Romo Morales was in charge of the barracks and allegedly participated directly in the execution of the two leaders from the rural world.

Source: May 27, 2007 - El Mostrador

Date: 27-05-2007

Former mayor of Coihueco sentenced to five years

The former mayor and councilman of Coihueco, José Manuel Quintana González, was sentenced in the first instance to five years and one day in prison for the disappearance of the agricultural worker José Lorenzo Cofré Obadilla, which occurred on September 28, 1973.

The ruling was decreed by the judge of the First Civil Court of Chillán, Gonzalo Garay Burnas, who sentenced the former official “in his capacity as author of the crimes of qualified kidnapping,” applying a penalty of five years and one day of major imprisonment in its minimum degree, in addition to the perpetual disqualification from holding public offices and positions, as well as disqualification from practicing “titled professions” for the duration of the sentence.

The judge also sentenced the former Carabinero Luis Fernando Romo to ten years and one day of major imprisonment in its medium degree for the disappearance of Cofré Obadilla, as well as the communist councilman of Coihueco, Carlos Roberto Montecinos Urra.

In parallel, the ruling sentences the two defendants to pay ten million pesos as compensation for moral damages in favor of the daughters of José Cofré, while Luis Romo is also sentenced to pay the same amount to the family of Carlos Montecinos.

Satisfaction of the plaintiffs. The conviction by the Chillán tribunal caused satisfaction among the plaintiff parties, who described the ruling as “historic.” “It is the first conviction for human rights violations handed down in Chillán, and it is the first to accept the thesis of qualified kidnapping,” explained Juan Pablo Lagos, the plaintiff lawyer representing the Montecinos Inzunza and Cofré Carrasco families.

Defense will appeal. As transpired in judicial circles, the defense for both convicted men will appeal the resolution to the Chillán Court of Appeals.

Source: June 3, 2005 - La Discusión

Date: 03-06-2005

Artists forcibly disappeared and executed by the civil-military dictatorship

During the civil-military dictatorship, at least a hundred people linked to culture, the arts, and heritage were executed and forcibly disappeared. September 11 began the most painful stage we have ever lived, caused by State agents and complicit civilians.

Today we commemorate 48 years of that tragedy that still mourns all of Chile. More than three thousand people—men, women, children, and young people such as primary, secondary, and university students; pregnant women, the elderly, the visually impaired, and the disabled—were directly affected, and hundreds of thousands passed into the category of relatives and victims of the dictatorship.

Those who survive fight tirelessly for justice, reparation, and non-repetition of genocidal acts by the State. Men and women whose contribution to society was through their social struggle, as militants, and also through their trades and occupations as shoemakers, laborers, artisans, textile employees, doctors, linotypists, dressmakers, secretaries, union and neighborhood leaders, municipal officials, public employees, railway employees, newspaper vendors, carpenters; peasant laborers, miners, forestry workers, construction workers; engineers.

Also those who were passing through, on a mission, studying, or had formed a family in Chile, coming from Vietnam, France, Spain, Bolivia, Argentina, Uruguay, England, Ecuador, among other countries. Some of their murderers and accomplices who are serving lukewarm sentences in luxury prisons have deprived us of them, but they have also deprived us of nearly a hundred artists and creators whom we have identified, with the desire to offer a tribute to those who, from culture, the arts, and heritage, were victims of state terrorism.

Source: prensaopal.cl 8/09/2021