On the occasion of the publication of the Valech Report, many are gargling with the dignity of those who survived the long night of the curved daggers. They are buffoonish characters who fight over the cameras to opine on this and that regarding the Report, reparations, and pain, concluding that the most important thing now is to restore dignity to these poor souls, these victims of the felony of State Agents, whose names we will know in...

HALF A CENTURY! That is what Ricardo Lagos indicated on a national broadcast. He spoke of 50 years. Certainly, this presidential attitude of not publishing the names of these torturers has brought satisfaction and undisguised joy to sectors of the Concertación and, of course, to the Right.

But our buffoons do not stop at the crux of the matter, that is, the half-century of impunity proposed by the Government; instead, they continue with the refrain about the dignity of the offended, and that dignity must be restored to them at all costs, and that the fundamental thing is to restore their dignity, etc., and they paw over and over again at the dignity of the unworthy survivors.

But I want to tell these silly, pomaded characters that the fact that we were subjected to brutal and horrible outrages by the cowardly uniformed hordes, under no circumstances—listen well, perfumed buffoons—under no circumstances have we LOST OUR DIGNITY.

Who do you think you are, you idiots! Or do you perhaps think we are the same as the Nation or the same Court of Miracles! Don't even think about it! If they stole something from us, it certainly wasn't our Dignity; it was other things. Here is one.

Pay attention, you suck-ups of the fertile patronage! They snatched from us the right to develop our PERSONAL, FAMILY, AND COLLECTIVE PROJECT. That is what they took from us. That is what the State stole from us, and that is what the State must repair. I have never felt undignified, Mr. President! And in my long years in prison, I never saw indignity in my comrades.

When I heard your offer of reparation, I don't know why I remembered FACH Lieutenant Juan de Dios Peralta, Commander of the Prisoner Camp at the Estadio Fiscal in Punta Arenas and TORTURER, and also the fearsome Guillermo Guiñez, FACH Non-Commissioned Officer and TORTURER at the same stadium, and along with them, another, the Captain of the Navy's Legal Services, Walter Radic, Prosecutor in several War Councils and TORTURER in Punta Arenas.

Unexpectedly, I knew the reason why I remembered these abject individuals: I associated the concept of $112,000 monthly reparation with the concept of the pension that these three subjects undoubtedly have, and as a result of a brief reflection, I concluded:

a) That I am unaware of the moral principles the State has taken into consideration to continue granting pensions to these criminals, pensions that are far from the reparation offered to the survivors of the Dictatorship. b) That as a result of more than 31 years of impunity, these characters have continued, first, receiving salaries, and then, pensions, and from now on, succulent retirements, if they live... for half a century more! c) That if we look at the Government's stance—that is, to keep the identity of the offenders anonymous and, furthermore, with good incomes—it is obvious that there were pacts and/or agreements regarding the Report.

If the Government refuses to release the list with the names of the executioners that we delivered to the Commission, we will have to do it ourselves, we, the survivors, because we are neither victims nor poor souls; we are the survivors of the Pinochet Dictatorship and the cowardly action of civilians and uniformed personnel, Chileans and foreigners.

We have values, ideals, and dignity. Our moral duty is to unmask the criminals. Not doing so would make us, indeed, undignified, vile, and wretched beings. With our identities, there was no hesitation, and a list with nearly 27,000 full names and their respective RUT numbers was published.

The prescription of confidentiality that is wielded for others did not function here. A personal written communication would have sufficed for me.

I believe that regarding reparation, it must be JUST and TIMELY. Just, because it must repair the brutal damage they have caused us for more than 31 years, and Timely, because we are dying, Mr. President.

The time is approaching when Parliament will have to legislate not only on reparation but will also have to pronounce itself on the impunity that the Government intends by not publishing the names of the guilty. And let us be attentive to the comments of the Judiciary. I hope the Institutions function well.

Finally, a message for Mr. Eyzaguirre: You irritate me with your statements, which you launch without much depth. What is this pain you point out that the Budget Adjustments will have to endure to be able to repair the survivors of the Dictatorship?

As Minister of Public Finance, you believe yourself to be the owner of the effort of all of us who pay taxes. But you only feel like the owner when it comes to spending, to distributing with more social justice.

However, when it is necessary to build 5-star prisons for the golden rabble or finance events of the magnitude of APEC or invest millions in the purchase of state-of-the-art weaponry, we have not heard you say that you do it with pain; it seems that in these cases you do not feel like much of an owner.

I want to emphasize that the only ones who feel pain are the people of our Homeland who have suffered persecution, imprisonment, torture, exile, banishment, relegation, labor and student exoneration, and our relatives and the relatives of the executed and the forcibly disappeared. Let us build our CHELAV report right now with all the names of the criminals!

I attach my blacklist here.

Names of individuals who violated human rights in Magallanes starting September 11, 1973.

Manuel Torres de la Cruz

. Army General, Commander of the Fifth Army Division. Organizer of the terror and maximum person responsible for all the murders, torture, raids, looting, and imprisonments that occurred in the XII region. He personally supervised the construction of the Isla Dawson concentration camp, which became the first public work of the dictatorship.

Walter Rauff . German, inventor of the "death trucks" in Hitler's Nazi Germany. Tortured in Punta Arenas, the Estadio Nacional, and Colonia Dignidad.

Walter Radic . Captain of the Navy's legal services, lawyer, prosecutor in several war councils, torturer. Retired. Currently lives in Viña del Mar.

Mario Zamora Flores

. Army Captain, executioner of the prisoners of Isla Dawson. Retired. Currently lives in San Antonio.

Ernesto Araneda

. Army doctor, torturer. Currently lives in Punta Arenas.

Eduardo Carrasco Moreno

. Marine infantry lieutenant, jailer and torturer on Isla Dawson.

Jaime Weidenlaufen

. Navy reserve sub-lieutenant. Before the coup, head of "Patria y Libertad" in Valparaíso. Jailer and torturer on Isla Dawson.

Mario Tapia . Navy sub-lieutenant. Jailer and torturer on Isla Dawson.

Guillermo Guiñes

. Air Force sergeant, one of the most bloodthirsty, torturer at the Estadio Fiscal in Punta Arenas.

Pedro Ugarte . Air Force corporal. Torturer at the Estadio Fiscal in Punta Arenas.

Juan de Dios Peralta

. Air Force Lieutenant. Commander of the confinement camp at the Estadio Fiscal in Punta Arenas. Jailer and torturer.

Héctor Barrientos

. Air Force Officer, alias "el chiporro," directed torture operations on Isla Dawson. His operations center functioned in a large house at the Bahía Catalina air base, later demolished. In 2003, he was discovered at the Embassy of Chile in Spain by his own victim. He was serving as a military attaché for the Government of Chile.

Carlos Pfeifer . Air Force Sergeant, announcer for Radio "Presidente Ibáñez" in Punta Arenas. Snitch and torturer. Retired with the rank of sergeant major. Currently works at Radio Agricultura in Santiago.

Carlos Cárdenas Hernández

. Air Force Sergeant. Alias "care palo," torturer. Boxer. Retired as a sergeant major, lives in Limache.

Luis Uribe . Army non-commissioned officer, alias "el pelirrojo," was one of those who commanded the raid on Lanera Austral, resulting in the murder of the company worker José González while he was showering.

At that time, this recognized torturer lived in the Población Fitz Roy, Calle Las Rosas. Currently, retired as a sergeant major, he lives in the Población "Las Naciones" at the corner of Kusma Slavic and Uruguay streets in the same city. He also worked at the Embassy of Chile in Peru.

Sergio Sotomayor

. Air Force non-commissioned officer, alias "el queso," torturer. Retired.

Luis Ortega . Air Force corporal, alias "el palomo," undoubtedly the cruelest torturer in Magallanes. He carried out his work at the Estadio Fiscal in Punta Arenas. He almost always wore civilian clothes and used a long-barreled Colt with which he beat his victims. He mutilated several prisoners, among them Víctor Riesco.

Alberto Valderrama

. Army sergeant major. Torturer at the Fifth Army Division operations center.

Julio Márquez . Army reserve officer, alias "the coachman of death." He was secretary to Senator Alfredo Lorca Valencia. Currently lives in the Población Fitz Roy in Punta Arenas.

Otto Trujillo . Alias "white fang," rapist, snitch, torturer. Extremely cruel. Acted throughout Chile. At the time of the coup, he worked in agricultural services.

Carlos Parra. Navy Captain and commander of the "Cochrane" Marine Infantry Regiment prisoner camp.

Solís . Civilian employee of the Air Force. Torturer. Identified by the red pearl ring he wore.

Lara Army doctor, torturer.

Valenzuela . Army lieutenant, torturer at the non-commissioned officers' casino on Av. Colón, better known as "the palace of smiles."

Alliende . Air Force sub-lieutenant, torturer at the Estadio Fiscal in Punta Arenas.

El mago William . Torturer in Puerto Natales, currently lives in Quilpué.

Samuel Cabezas . FACH Sergeant, basketball referee, torturer at the Estadio Fiscal in Punta Arenas.

Marmaduque Nuñez

. FACH non-commissioned officer, alias "the Sheriff," torturer and third in command at the stadium; it is said he died in a confusing incident involving a gunshot.

by Armando Figueroa

Source: Memoriacolectiva.com, December 25, 2004

The Fateful September 11, 1973

That day, the 11th, I woke up listening on the radio, La Voz del Sur of Punta Arenas, to the call being made by Communist deputy Mireya Baltra; I remember she was denouncing the coup d'état that was already underway and calling on workers to mobilize.

I got up more than quickly, and since no one was prepared for anything, we had to follow events as they came. At home, we were all perplexed (my parents, Flor, and I, plus Jana, who was one year old). I went out with the car to see what was happening in the streets; I passed by Indap and everything was closed, many cars in the streets, and I managed to spot Francisco Alarcón walking down Calle Roca; it seems they arrested him right there.

The radios were playing military songs, Radio Presidente Ibáñez, La Polar, and others; the only one reporting what was happening was La Voz del Sur, connected to Radio Magallanes in Santiago, which was the radio where President Allende's voice came out first, reporting on the planes circling La Moneda, and later with his final statements where he speaks of the great avenues opening where free men will pass.

I returned home; meanwhile, "el flaco" Cádiz, who worked at Indap and studied at UTE, arrived at my house; I gave him my collection of Mapu magazines, "De Frente." Later, Eduardo Leiva stopped by, and later Darío Román, both scared and fearful of what was coming. When it was about to be 11, they came to arrest me at my house, the military in an army truck.

The officer in charge was very polite and told me to bring a towel, toiletries, and that possibly in the afternoon I would be back. I said goodbye to everyone at home; Jana was crying, being a baby—I think more because no one was attending to her—my parents were scared, Flor was perplexed.

They put me in the back of the truck, which came with a gray canvas cover, that is, covered. There were conscript soldiers sitting on both sides with rifles ready, and I was left at the back alone, and therefore I could see everything behind us.

We passed by the Cora and it was closed; the truck passed by the Plaza and I managed to see the tank that was in front of the Intendencia. The spectacle was shocking. The truck continued along José Nogueira, and upon reaching Errázuriz, a tremendous crash was felt; in a second, the bodies of the conscripts came on top of me, and there was tremendous confusion.

The truck had collided with another vehicle (a pickup truck, it seems) and crashed into the González Rojo store, remaining embedded in the door that was on the corner. I didn't feel anything, except for the blow and being crushed against the back of the truck, but I see that there are wounded conscripts, lying down, some with damage to their faces and teeth because the rifles they had were driven into their faces; I remember they were complaining a lot.

I thought in fractions of a second that the counter-repression was beginning; nothing of the sort, as no one was prepared for a coup d'état; we were democrats who were in the government, we didn't even know, nor did we expect, a coup d'état of the magnitude that this would be.

The crash was accidental, and the pickup truck we collided with belonged to Brescovic, who was a gas installer; it had nothing to do with it. (But they tell me later as an anecdote that they asked Brescovic which party he belonged to, and he said, "Communist." The fact is that that night he traveled to Dawson with the detainees, without a parka, only with a jersey.

But they brought him back; he did not disembark on the island. The same thing happened with Mr. Néstor Tadic, who traveled and returned.)

They took me in a private car to the regional hospital, guarded by a soldier. In the hospital, in a room on the second floor, they confirmed that I had a hematoma in the cervical area, more toward the waist; they gave me an anti-inflammatory injection and gave me a prescription.

During my entire stay at the hospital, I was guarded by a soldier, and Dr. Jorge Mihovilovic came to find out what was wrong with me; he was the Director of the hospital and was also from the Mapu. Another who attended to me and we talked was Enso Vidal, also a Mapucista.

The truth is that we were all worried about what would come, which we didn't even know would happen a while later. I was in the hospital for a good while, impossible to calculate how long, but then my captors came to look for me, and the exit was like a movie because they were taking me between two soldiers, and all the hospital staff were fearfully watching the spectacle that it meant to see a political prisoner leaving the hospital guarded by the armed forces and also wounded (or rather, bruised by the blow from the truck).

Outside, we left in a smaller vehicle with the same officer who came to look for me at the house, who turned out to be a dentist and who was totally friendly; he even told me he was worried about a cousin of his who was a MIRista student in Concepción.

Later I learned the last name of this officer (who it seems was a reservist), but I forgot it, and it was my policy not to learn the names or last names of the captors in general, as it wasn't worth it.

The facts are more important. This patrol (let's call it that) went to leave me at the Regimiento Pudeto . At that moment, which I calculate would be 3 or 4 in the afternoon, some detainees had arrived; I saw José Bosic, "Ché" Francisco Márquez, and others.

They kept arriving little by little, and I saw Manuel Chaparro, Patricio Retig, and several others arrive. They took some data and a photo (I would like to have that photo). The treatment was good; it seems to me that the military at the Pudeto were as confused as we were about what was happening and didn't know how to take it.

They gave us a list in which they asked for a mattress, sleeping bag, work clothes, boots, clothes, etc. The funniest thing was that our relatives had to bring it to the regiment as soon as possible.

We gave the phone number to those who had one, and they connected with the relatives. In my case, it arrived in time; I imagine them preparing everything at home and then going out to leave it at the regiment in the Opel car with my father driving.

Good thing I had a sleeping bag, mattress, and boots. Things looked different; it was no longer as the dentist believed, that I would be back home in the afternoon. Good thing my blow to the back didn't bother me much, surely because of the anti-inflammatory they gave me at the hospital, but it still hurt a little.

I don't know what time we left the Pudeto , but we were already like 25 or 30 detainees. Outside, a somewhat old bus was waiting for us, which started to advance along Zenteno to Avenida Independencia and go down it, when I spot the Chilean flags hoisted on the houses of Avenida Independencia on the opposite side, the north side; impressive.

The day that democracy was ending in Chile, it seems many were celebrating, and I wondered what the DC would think of this situation. We continued advancing and arrived at the gates of the Navy workshops on Calle 21 de Mayo . "This is as far as we go, gentlemen," we got off, fine, without pressure or mistreatment.

I think we formed up and they took roll call; by the way, each one was carrying the supplies they had asked for, so some were carrying bags, suitcases, sacks. We were there for a good while, until, surprise, another bus comes with detainees, these by the marines, and the majority were militants of the Communist party; I see Mario Galetovic, Manager of Copeaustral, Américo Fontana, regional director of Conaf, Francisco Alarcón Barrientos, General Secretary of the PC, and a long line of detainees, but these were coming walking; it seems the bus left them about two blocks from where we were, and they were bringing their arms handcuffed and suitcases and bags hanging; it was impressive. It was noticed right away that the treatment of the marines toward these detainees was rough.

All this time, I see some very young navy officers arriving from the Asmar yards, hugging each other and happy; it seems they are from the small navy ships that are adrift and they arrive to look for us. "Long live, we defeated the Marxist Government of the UP," they surely thought.

But this was not all; another minibus or bus was missing with the FACH detainees; they arrived quickly, and when they get closer, they look like the Jews of World War II because they are all shaved to the skin, they are unrecognizable; these are of varied militancies, predominantly MIRistas, socialists, and others; here comes my future great friend Ramón González Ortega, "el Peye" Urrutia, others.

The daylight is already fading, and it gets darker for us. We passed by the anchored ships called pontoons, by one, by two, until we reached the navy ship on which they embarked us, rifle in hand; we arrived at a kind of double lounge in the lower part of the ship with a rifleman watching us from the stairs and pointing at us.

There, some of us began to greet each other, and several theories were woven: that they were taking us to Porvenir, others said to Puerto Williams, more than one feared they would throw us into the water; well, the fact is that we were sailing without knowing where we were going, nor what our destination would be.

All this time, I was sitting in front of Francisco Alarcón, and I remembered the date, and I say to him, " You know, Pancho, today is my birthday, " to which he responds by shaking my hand, " Happy birthday. " The gesture seemed nice to me, and it remained stored in my memory.

Another who greeted me affectionately before (not because of the birthday) was "el Peye" Urrutia, who was shaved to the skin and whom I didn't know, but he knew me. Later we were great friends.

I was in pain after the big crash in the morning, 12 hours later, and at the regional hospital, they gave me an anti-inflammatory prescription for me to acquire and take. Well, as my hematoma was bothering me, I went to tell the guard that I had a prescription for an injury, and they took me to a place on the ship further up, and I realized it was the bridge where a sailor attended to me who brought me the anti-inflammatory that the prescription said, and he charged me for it; good thing I always carry money in my pocket, and I paid for it.

But the most relevant thing was that I was on the bridge—I think that's what it was, because there was a helm—and like two sailors of good appearance, and one of them said, "It's about an hour until we reach Dawson ." When I return to where the detainees are, I comment to them that " we are going to Isla Dawson ." We already knew our destination.

Shortly after, we arrived at the island, whose trip took about 3 hours. We prepared to disembark with our respective luggage. It must have been 10 at night. We didn't know anything about what was happening in Chile or in Punta Arenas; we were alone, disconnected from the world. (Continues.)

We left the lounges we were in with our bundles and moved to the deck of the barge, which slowly began to lower its ramp where two planks were placed for us to go down to land; from the dark shore of Isla Dawson , they began to illuminate us with strong spotlights, and we began to go down.

I walked along the planks with my hematoma on my body, with my sleeping bag (which was a large bundle), and with my bag with clothes, boots, and other things. Outside, already on land on the island, there was an old pickup truck that took some, but I went walking out of pride and because I could; we arrived at our destination, which was about two blocks from the landing place.

Surprise, it was a wooden barracks surrounded by barbed wire, which would be our golden cage for a time. We entered somewhat surprised and thinking what this would be like. We were checked by a nurse, I think, because he wasn't a doctor; he checked everyone's testicles and asked if we had any illness.

They made us sit at some old desks and gave us coffee and a hallulla. Subsequently, we went further inside, and we had iron bunk beds available to sleep. Well, there we placed our sleeping bags and, of course, we talked about all sorts of things.

A memory for the ages is that Mr. Carlos Vega Letelier, writer and university professor, in good spirits, said, " We cannot deny that tonight they saw our balls ." I think that for me, it was the longest day of my life. Go to sleep, UP politicians, until tomorrow.

Compingin, the next day and following days

: We lay down in bunk beds; we didn't have guards inside; we could talk about whatever we wanted. They warned us that the wake-up call would be at 8 in the morning. I think I slept without problems; besides, I was super tired. The next day they notify us that the wake-up call will be at 9; we had an extra hour of rest.

The barracks was large, and at first, we were in one sector of it. Later they moved us to the other side. We went out to look for firewood to feed a large iron heater. The forest was next door, and we also went out to look for firewood further away, always in the company of a navy guard.

We had a river where we washed ourselves; it was more of a small stream, and I never knew what it was called; I will try to locate it on some map. On the other side of the river was the kitchen, and some of the detainees were sent there to help; I remember Livacic; they called them "rancheros" (because they prepared the "rancho," or meal).

The food was distributed in mess tins in the same barracks, and we had our own utensils, plate, and cutlery. In the large heater, we boiled water to drink coffee. This that I tell happened the first few days. But.

The next day, that is, September 12 in the afternoon, another batch of detainees arrived, among them the Asencio brothers ("Cachencho" was from the Cora); some FACH conscripts arrived, more scared than anything.

One thin one who looked like a TB patient; these were caught being from the UP, and it seems they hit them hard and threw them into the water at Bahía Catalina and sent them to Dawson, along with the politicians.

When this group arrives with many acquaintances, we find out that Allende had died. Of course, no one could know; we were isolated, and the marines were not going to inform us. It surprised us quite a bit, but the most important thing was to know what was going to happen to us.

I ask "Cachencho" about my comrade Francisco Betancurt (because Pancho stayed at his house when he came from Posesión), and he answers that he went to Argentina. Later we found out that Pancho returned to Punta Arenas for his girlfriend, Toña, and we didn't know anything more about him.

I tell you that on the third day, in the courtyard of the barracks, a bonfire was made, and homage was paid to Salvador Allende; the speaker was Carlos Vega Letelier. I think this was the only homage that the detainees made in all of Chile.

It's for history, isn't it? When at that moment the repression in the country was incredible (we found out about that later). By the way, Mr. Carlos was also designated as our delegate of the barracks in Compingin by us. The commander of the base talked outside the barracks with Mr. Carlos, it seems about literature and about how to assume the challenges of the situation.

In this camp, we didn't see the sea, only native forest of lenga and coihue, the stream, and rolling hills. The smell of burning lenga leaves is very pleasant, and we felt it often, either because of the bonfire we made outside the barracks or because of little leaves placed on the lid of the heater.

Slowly we are making friendships, and one who approached me quickly and became a very good friend was Aristóteles España. Once he asked me a very childish question that stayed with me: "Eduardo, would you get back into politics?" "For now, no; time will tell." That was not the moment to ask this type of question.

On one occasion, they took us to do some work with posts (a matter that was normal); yes, we went out every day in a truck, and we went in the bed (in the back); José Bosic kept singing "Where will we end up, if Valderrama dies," which was a song from Argentine folklore and which fit very well for this case.

That day I knew they were going to build a larger concentration camp, and to that place, we went to place some posts. Also, the young Gregorio Brevis from Enap stirred things up in a positive sense. Fulvio Molteni, a teacher, with his gloves to protect his hands.

My friend Antonio Bianchi (who had been an inspector at the Liceo) was also in the group. After 3 or 4 days, they took some away, among them Mr. Arturo Ampuero Navarro, journalist and from the Red Cross.

They took them out at night, and Mario Galetovic (Manager of Copeaustral) was saying to him, "Arturo, Arturo, Arturo..." he wanted to send a message, but it wouldn't come out, only "Arturo." It turned out to be nice.

I will continue this chapter, because I still have much to tell.

The detainees by the FACH arrived with their hair shaved to the skin, except for one who was saved from this cut, this prisoner Carlos Spik, with whom I became friends later. Carlos arrived at Dawson with abundant and long blond hair; he looked like a gringo.

Ramón González Ortega

: They took us to a soccer field to stretch our legs. I remember having talked a lot with Ramón González Ortega, walking along the edge of the field while the rest played, and I recognize that he was very sincere and that he told me many anecdotes of his life and his fears and projections that he had now.

The thing is that he was (or had been) an Interventor designated by the Government in the Copetif Cooperative of Porvenir; besides, he was an official of the Internal Revenue Service. He had had a lot of relationship with State policies and had had problems with General Torrez de la Cruz.

He did not belong to any party of the UP. He told me about his wife, who was a teacher, and that once they let us go, he would go to Argentina. Once, when we ate inside a campaign tent and they served us beans, Ramón González found them so good that he asked for more, a second helping.

On one occasion that we were allowed to make a petition or request letter to the authority, Ramón wrote to General Torrez (who was the big boss in the Region). The other detainees nicknamed him "Luthor" because they found him similar to the character from the Superman comic, especially because of his hair cut to the skin.

One day in the courtyard of the barracks, he told me, very surprised, that he had had a dream where he saw a great white horse over the sea. I listened to his story, half as if it were a fantasy, but I recorded it in my memory.

Subsequently, I think in the second week of detention, the guards went to tell Ramón to get ready because he was leaving. The truth is that we were all happy because we thought he was going home. Great farewell hugs from everyone who had grown fond of him for his way of being.

Epilogue of Ramón González. During October, the death of Ramón González appears in La Prensa Austral, and the news that he was killed along with 3 other detainees in Porvenir for an attempted escape.

Ramón was taken by plane from Dawson to the Regimiento Caupolicán in Porvenir ; he was not going back home as we believed. Years later, talking with his son, Iván González, who was a baby at that time (1973), I told him how much I remembered his father.

His son was the main defender of his father's honor and memory, years later in the trial that was held against those who killed him, and the justice system condemned his executioners, at least in a symbolic way.

After the Storm comes the calm

: The following days were all tranquil, that is, after September 18. The bad guys of the movie (those from the SIM) had left. We talked, and possibilities were shuffled that the prisoners they took the two previous nights were on another part of the island; I remember the director of Magallanes, Mr.

Nicolás Neira, who said, pointing his finger down, that they had eliminated them; "Pato" Retig believed he was saying they were buried under our floor. The truth is that we had no idea where they could have taken them.

We had a letter and number to identify ourselves, so I was E-3. The E was for being captured by the army. I suppose some had M and F. One day in September, we found out about the death of the mother of a comrade who was with us, Sergio Cárdenas.

He had to endure the grief alone since there was nothing he could do. Sergio was an announcer for Radio Polar, and I knew his family because they had a business in front of the Instituto Comercial where they sold used comic books, and I used to go to...

when I was a child. The business was called La Casa del Cachureo and they sold all sorts of things, including canaries in their respective cages and philatelic stamps. I understand that Sergio was an only child and his mother must have died due to the distressing situation she must have lived through since her son's detention.

They were from the USOPO, at least his father was. Later I learned that his mother was Domitila Sanhueza Verné, family of a councilman for the P.S. back in the years... and that Sergio, after his detention, worked at Radio Presidente Ibañez and Polar and later went to Santiago where he worked in radio and dubbed voices for television programs until he died a few years ago. He had a family.

We had mail with our families weekly and we sent our clothes home to be washed; the letters were censored by cutting out what they considered suspicious. In the mail, we received groceries, clean clothes, cigarettes, magazines, etc.

Note the expense this meant for the families. One day Mario Galetovic began to hum a song that spoke of "my Punta Arenas, city of dreams and love, when I return to your shores, my heart will be reborn." It was the Tamo Daleco that Yugoslav immigrants sang, remembering their distant lands.

Of course, now the lyrics had been changed into Spanish. At that time, I did not know it would become the official anthem of the prisoners of Dawson. By the way, Popeye Cárdenas was sent a chess set, and Popeye, like a good teacher, began to teach all those interested how to play.

I learned to play chess in Compingin, and since we had time, we organized competitions among ourselves. The FACh conscripts, Juan Ruiz and Sergio Navarro, also learned. The latter turned out to be super good at playing chess.

We called Juan Ruiz "piggy bank head" because since they shaved his hair to the skin, he had a bald spot in the middle like a piggy bank slot; he was from the countryside in Puerto Montt. Once when we were talking, he told me that they had found pocket calendars with the photo of President Allende on them, and that is how they were caught, and this was before the 11th.

He also told me that he was from the Mapu Obrero Campesino and was surprised that I was from the Mapu. It must be explained that the Mapu had split into two factions, one more pro-government (MOC) and another more revolutionary (MAPU); that is why he was surprised, as he thought things were going to be more difficult for the Mapus.

The truth is that it was not like that, and everyone was repressed by the dictatorship.

I slept in a bunk bed, and on the bottom bunk was Sergio Lausic, a professor at the Universidad Técnica del Estado whom I did not know and who later became a good and great friend, to the present day. I had also been a classmate in the first grade of primary school at San José and at the Liceo Vespertino with his brother Chedomir Lausic, who was killed by military intelligence services in Santiago two years later and who also went to study as an Agricultural Technician at the U. de Chile in the North, it seems in Antofagasta.

I did it at the glorious and combative Osorno branch. Little by little, there were fewer of us left in this long picnic of Dawson, and one day they divided the barracks in two, completely isolated, and began to install zinc sheets in the yard, covering half of it; that is how we were left isolated on one side, waiting to see what would happen.

That night, the date of which I do not remember at this moment, we heard in the early hours of the morning that people were arriving at the barracks on the side that remained unoccupied. There was a lot of noise, but we did not know who was arriving.

The next day we were commenting, and some said they had brought the women, others thought they were other political prisoners from elsewhere. We were like that without knowing anything until 6 in the evening when the national anthem was sung (and where it always came out loudest, almost shouting "or the asylum against oppression"), and we heard from the other yard some deep voices that were clearly those of adult people.

We were clear that we had neighbors, without knowing who they were, but we knew they were adult men and with very hoarse singing.

Two or three days passed and we already suspected that they were politicians from other areas of the country. One day when I go to the river, surely to wash myself, I see on the other side, among the bushes, none other than Aniceto Rodríguez, Senator of the Republic.

I tell my friends, I saw Aniceto Rodríguez, there was no longer any doubt, they were great leaders and officials of the Allende government.

Another day when we went to look for firewood in a forest that was near the barracks, among the branches of coigües and ñirres, we ran into those from Santiago, and one approaches to shake our hands, Anibal Palma (the Pibe), and happy to greet us, he asks us where we are from, and we clarify that we are from Punta Arenas, and he also asks about news or developments, and we tell him that we are as uninformed as they are.

On the other hand, one day a priest arrived at the camp and gave consultations to those who wanted to send a greeting or something to their relatives. He attended in a tent and I went (many of us went), in reality, Father Tampe (that was his last name, he did not contribute anything concrete) and I think no one remembers him.

He asked me how I was, I told him I was fine, but that I would like to know when they would let us out of this place. The priest had no idea. The only thing I gave him was the home phone number. Later, when I was released, they told me at home that a priest once called late at night to say that I was fine.

The truth is that we were fine and with high morale, I would say much better than the relatives, in general of all the confined (that is what they called us), because in Punta Arenas all kinds of rumors were circulating, little less than that they were massacring us.

By the way, my friends were Aristóteles España, Ramón González Ortega, and Sergio Barría. And other new ones that I began to meet. There were also some that I did not know and with whom I never spoke. For example, there was a FACh aviator from the school of specialties who studied at night at the UTE and who spoke about the championship; they called him Pato Lukas and he was also in a boarding house with other UTE students.

Well, as the years went by, we found out that this guy was a "sapo" (snitch) sent by the security services to obtain information. And it seems he was not the only one.

In the camp, there was a very old non-commissioned officer who was pure affection with the prisoners; we gave him the nickname "Peguitas Cortas" (Short Little Jobs) because he was always looking for someone and would say: I need you for a "peguita corta." On the contrary, there was a stupid sergeant who, once we went out with him, started talking about unions and got completely tangled up, and we realized that the guy was ignorant and a jerk; they called this one "Mala Cueva" (Bad Luck) because they say that a bridge collapsed in a formation where he was last, and he got the worst of it.

Unfortunately, this one is praised in Littin's film, and this happens because they do not consult the real protagonists of this reality. Since we had no information, no radio, only our own comments or conclusions, the days went by in Compingin. Later I learned that we were only 6 km from Puerto Harris.

By the way, they took Ramón González away by plane, whom I have already referred to extensively, and we said goodbye to him with big hugs, thinking he was going back home. And little by little, there are fewer of us left.

Until one day, which seems to have been more or less the second week of October '73, they call me, prepare the bags, and I am going to leave. Together with Rene Cárdenas Eugenín (Teacher, PC), Sergio Zurita (Public official, Mapu OC), and Francisco Mariangel (hospital official, PC). We were leaving Dawson. What would our destination be? We were going home.

The night the bunk beds trembled: Without knowing our future, the days went by, we went out to look for firewood to feed the heater, and the usual routine: eat, talk, and at 6 in the evening sing the national anthem with the raising of the flag.

A few days after the arrival, a marine infantryman appears with the newspaper La Prensa Austral, which said something like this: "For every uniformed man killed, 10 political prisoners will be executed." For this infantryman, when communicating that to us, I had the impression that he assumed a sacred duty to the fatherland, and of course, these subjects believed all the lies that the dictatorship spewed at the beginning.

One day they took us to naval facilities that were on the other side of the river and showed us on an Antú television a mean old man who was angry, speaking to the country. That was Pinochet, the first time I saw him, no idea about this guy.

I knew of General Prats, who was loyal to Allende; of Bachelet, who was from the FACh and a collaborator of the government; of Schneider, who was killed by a right-wing commando and who was a constitutionalist.

In any case, this was for a little while, and then they never showed him again. Another day when we were eating in a tent and with a television that was showing the singer Rafael from Spain, the boy. On that occasion, we were eating beans and talking with Ramón González Ortega, and he found them very tasty and had seconds.

By the way, on September 17, everything changes when we see the arrival of some guys dressed in civilian clothes with long hair who looked like hippies. They were the ones from the SIM, and they stared at us like strange bugs, and we at them.

That day we did our usual routine, going out to look for firewood in the vicinity, and when we returned, we saw the strange atmosphere; it was perceived that something was going to happen. That night when we went to bed, and around 12 at night when everything was in darkness, they kicked the door open and entered shouting FRANCISCO ALARCÓN, and they took him out abruptly, and we heard screams and shots outside.

He was the first of those who were going to leave in that way that night. Later they came to look for Américo Fontana (Regional Director of CONAF, PC) in the same way, and others, there were about 5 prisoners; later a conscript soldier would arrive to look for the bags of those who had left and would always say "poor little dead man." The next day it was just the talk among us, and we continued with our routine.

The second night the same show happened, and they started taking out prisoners, and one thing one wanted most was not to be the chosen one. Whenever they took them out, screams, shots, and running could be heard.

Between one who left and another, about half an hour would pass, so we could not sleep peacefully. Well, suddenly I hear a rattling of iron inside the barracks, and it was that many were trembling, and this melody and title came out: "the night the bunk beds trembled." Among others I remember who left those nights were Abramor Pancho Gonzalez (teacher at the Industrial school) and a relative of mine, Williams Bedwel Carrasco (President of the UTE students), Américo Fontana (Regional Director of CONAF); of the others, I do not remember the names, but someone will help me.

There were about 10 who were taken out.

Dawson Again and Campamento Chico

When we arrived at the Río Chico camp, we realized that it is not a camp, it is a concentration camp like the Nazi one in Hitler's Germany, with wooden barracks and bunk beds like the movie Life is Beautiful by the actor [Roberto Benigni], double barbed wire in case they want to escape, and guard booths on the North and South hills.

I was assigned along with my friends to Barracks Alpha, which was the first one, and there we met up with Lausic, with Peye Urrutia, Ruiz, brother of the black Ruiz, and they had a fire lit in the heater that was located in the middle of the barracks, which was like a large round bucket where you could put a kettle or pot to heat water to drink coffee.

There was another one to heat the water for the showers that were located at the end of the barracks. The most important thing was to meet up with friends and comrades who we had no idea where they were, and to meet a bunch of new people that I had no idea about. I was Alpha 66.

From the Palace of Smiles to Bahía Catalina:

I estimate it was 11 in the morning when we left the Palace of Smiles for Bahía Catalina, again lying on our stomachs in the small bus and with my captors, I suppose one driving and the other next to him.

In this facility, physical torture begins again with beatings and kicks. But curiously, it seems that the human body overprotects itself, since reaching a point of saturation, the blows do not hurt, nor are they felt.

One of the thug torturers stepped on my right foot, and I did feel that. I do not remember well what they were asking, and the weapons issue was recurrent, if where they were hidden. They also asked for names of other UP leaders.

In any case, these guys seemed taken from the Inquisition and not that they were officials of the Armed Forces. As a surprising episode of García Márquez, suddenly they say everything stops because lunch is coming; the torturers go out to hide because they take the black blindfold off one of them, and one of them says, "I don't care if he sees me." And I see him, he is a very tall, black guy with a face of few friends, and later I know that his name is Marmaduque Nuñez and that he plays basketball for the FACh.

This wretch was the one who stepped on the big toe of my right foot and left it a little crooked forever. I learned that this basketball-playing torturer died a few years later in Santiago, run over by a vehicle.

They brought me a plate of noodles, as if I were hungry in those conditions, how ridiculous the captors are. I do not know what happened later, I only know that they returned me to the Cochrane Regiment in the evening, already dark, around 8:30, and I arrived in deplorable conditions, that even Sergeant Miranda exclaimed "poor thing" in the conditions they bring him.

Upon arriving at my bunk, the one who helped me was Roberto Lara, father, and his son was a prisoner in the FACh. I will always remember. This happened between October 19 and 21, '73.

In the barracks, everything remained the same, the madmen who guarded us were behind, and the bunch of political prisoners crowded together, waiting to know their fate. They brought us food in pots, and each one had their plates, cutlery, and mug. There was a peasant from Oazi Harbour named Marito who sang Mexican ranchera songs and who performed often.

I, all messed up, lying down, receive a letter from my father informing me that a baby girl had been born and that Flor was fine. The next day one of the pathetic guards who watched us asked me how I was, and I told him fine, and that a little girl had been born at the house on O'Higgins.

This guard made me get up on a small bench and announced it to all the detainees, and they applauded. I think that in general they did not give it importance, since each one had their own headaches waiting for what would happen to them.

The fact is that between letter and letter with Flor, I asked her for her to be named Patricia, and that is what they put in the Civil Registry: Patricia Antonia Ojeda Mayorga. Paty turned out to be more of an activist, a defender of Human Rights in later years.

There were still about two months left until Christmas, and many hoped that there would be a massive release of political prisoners for that date. Vain illusions. It continued with the prisoners taken out and transferred by the "Cochero de la Muerte" (Coachman of Death) to the Palace of Smiles, for interrogations with torture methods and without any hope of defense, of course, if they wanted to set up the show of the war councils and thus justify the Coup d'État and go about eliminating the people of the Unidad Popular, either with more prison or by throwing them out of the country.

That was their purpose: the War Council of the JJ CC, the one of the Hospital, the one of the socialists, the one of the port, etc.

We became better friends with Chulengo, with Cristie, with Benjamín Cárdenas, and a bunch more.

It was at that time that it was published in the Prensa Austral that three extremists had escaped from the Caupolicán Regiment of Porvenir and they had killed them. A false version, a crude lie; they took them out of the container where they had them as prisoners and took them to the Canelo, 60 km away, where they made them run and killed them with rifles and bullets, the brave soldiers of the Caupolicán Regiment.

Hey, if in Compingin (the first Dawson prisoner camp) we became great friends with Ramón González Ortega, one of those they killed; he was an Internal Revenue official and an intervenor at the Copetif Company of Porvenir, without political militancy, married to Genoveva Toro, an English teacher, and with 3 children.

The others were Baigorri, a very well-known teacher in Porvenir, and Cárcamo, a young socialist. It was the Caravan of Death that passed by phone or fax, and the regiment commander took the bait and committed the assassination of the century. The culprits were sanctioned and condemned years later by justice.

We were already tired of waiting for our fate, and already near Christmas, they inform us that we are going to leave for Dawson again, and we go by boat again with a sunny day and on the deck; we were talking and singing towards our unknown destination again with Chulengo, Cristie, Oscar Briceño, and someone else. Others were more worried since they suspected the worst.

The Adventure Does Not End. Arriving at the Cochrane Regiment The four of us traveled on a Navy ship and in a small cabin, and after three hours of travel from Dawson to Punta Arenas, we arrived at the Arturo Prat pier; this happened in the first fortnight of October, I don't know the exact day.

At the pier, a vehicle like a pickup truck was waiting for us, and they placed us in the back, lying on our stomachs. Obviously, we had an armed guard, in case we thought of escaping. We headed to the Cochrane Marine Infantry Regiment, which is about 4 km south of Punta Arenas; we entered with the truck through the gate and went up a small hill where there was a giant iron shed.

First, they checked us in a guardhouse or small office that was next to the shed. Before entering the shed, I spot a tent next to the shed and a prisoner who was like a zombie; it was Mr. Quijada, Regional Head of Social Security, a communist militant.

What is he doing alone in that place, I ask myself. The doors of the giant shed open, and the four of us who came from Dawson begin to enter. We found ourselves with a Dantesque spectacle, bunk beds everywhere, and more than four hundred political prisoners who were looking at us. And we who thought we were going free. The thing was getting difficult and dangerous.

They placed us in the corresponding bunk beds, and there we left our bags. We remained as if separated from the rest, and one of the prisoners approached Popeye Cárdenas and said "kid," I imagined they knew each other, and he left without further comment.

That was the skinny Manuel Parada, whom I did not know; he was from the UTE (Universidad Técnica del Estado) and a communist, and later we all knew each other. At the entrance of the shed, on the right hand, was Francisco Alarcón Barrientos; he was in a small pen with wire and totally isolated, he did not look well, he also looked like another zombie.

But the picture became clear to us when we verified that those they took out of Dawson during the Fiestas Patrias were there. Among them Américo Fontana, Regional Director of CONAF; Williams Bedwel, President of the UTE Student Federation and who worked at the same UTE; the Francisco Alarcón I have already referred to; and most of those they took out, not all, because we quickly found out that another Detention Center was operating in Pudeto and another in the FACh.

Someone commented that the women were kept in the Ojo Bueno Regiment.

In this place, the guards made a kind of party with us, especially a guard who spent his time shouting and giving orders, surely as they did with those of the contingent doing their military service. This guy was a drummer in the band.

But it gave the impression that these subjects, the guards, were crazier than one could suppose. At least at night, they respected the sleep of the prisoners. There was another pair of marine infantry guards, and these were truly crazy.

I remember they made a tremendous scandal because one of the detainees told them that he had lost a knife, and they kept us formed and scolded for more than an hour until the unhappy detainee's knife appeared.

Since all the detainees were well-known people and respectable neighbors, it never occurred to this incredulous character that they were going to make such a scandal over his knife. It seems they were encouraged by other commanders to be harsh and ruthless with the prisoners.

For me, it was a surprise to find Luis Hernández Tapia in the barracks; he was a well-known regionalist and right-wing politician. He was even a candidate for Senator on the National Party list, getting a very good vote in Magallanes, but diminishing a lot in Chiloé and Aisén.

He called himself "the Magallanic," and I remember that before he was a candidate for deputy, getting a good vote as well, but not winning; I remember my parents supported him in that election. Why was Lucho Hernández Tapia imprisoned, just like the people of the Unidad Popular?

The reason was simple: revenge for not supporting the merchants' strikes against the Unidad Popular; he was a democrat, not a fascist.

We are full of surprises because in the morning we would go out to jog while singing, or rather repeating what the infantryman who was leading was humming. Something like "HOW BEAUTIFUL THE MORNING," and the whole group of politicians would repeat "HOW BEAUTIFUL THE MORNING," and so the jog-song continued.

Of course, they didn't do this every day. They tell me that a vehicle with security personnel arrives every day to take prisoners to interrogate them with torture methods, and that this vehicle is driven by a man they called "The Coachman of Death." Bosic, very worried, looked through a crack that remained in the iron sheets of the shed to see what time this horrible torture machine arrived.

When would it be my turn? Some of the prisoners who arrived at the Cochrane had been beaten and tortured upon arrival, making them pass through the calafate bushes in the sector, and many were still pulling out the thorns they had buried in their bodies.

I find out that the torture place is called "The Palace of Smiles" and that it operates in a Navy building on Avenida Colón that had previously been a naval hospital.

There was already a group that they were accusing of being port security, and I remember the kid Avilés, who was taken continuously for interrogations and returned very badly. They were preparing to be judged.

The person in charge of the shed was an old captain named Parra; this individual was a being who showed signs of mental disturbance, he was a staunch anti-communist and was cruel to the detainees as if they were criminals.

On one occasion, he told us that the communist party would not resurface even in fifty years. The man was wrong. All the parties worked from the eleventh itself in the underground. Happily, songs were played as part of the shows the prisoners put on, and Lanfranco sang "Te recuerdo Amanda" by Victor Jara; since the guards had no idea that this was one of our songs, it was allowed.

Suddenly the guards are from the marine band; there was a giant one who was more frightening because of his height, like Frankenstein; I also spot Romeo Garcés, whom I knew for being the brother of Estrella Garcés, who was a friend of Uba, my sister.

But these ones from the band were there because they were ordered to, and they didn't get involved in anything with the prisoners. Another guard who arrived was super calm, and the sergeant taught us some terms they used as an alternative language; I remember "chaqui-chaqui," which was the jacket or parka.

There was also a Christian Democrat who was released before Christmas; I don't remember his last name, only that he was a skinny one. Another was a Venezuelan student at the UTE who was scared to death.

One Sunday they arrived jogging, and Mansilla and Coronado arrived to stay. Also in those days, Rubio from the UTE arrived, and they made him climb to the ceiling of the shed. The days passed waiting to be called by the torturers.

We read the press, and suddenly the information comes out about the death of four prisoners in Porvenir to whom they applied the "Ley de Fuga" (Escape Law), among them my friend Ramón González Ortega; we just found out that he hadn't gone free.

Little by little they were also releasing people. I met Dr. Nelson Rodríguez from ENAP, a communist militant, who told me he was very worried about the fate of his two sons who were MIR members in Concepción. I never saw this Dr. again. We sent our clothes to be washed at home, and we continuously received packages from our relatives. We wrote letters that were censored.

By the way, one day my time came; the executioners of the dictatorship came to look for me. It was not the Coachman of Death who took me, but two young civilians in a small bus; these were from the FACh, and one was named Luis Vidal.

They blindfolded me and made me go on my stomach in the aisle of the bus. I could follow the whole route by my sense of direction; that's how we left the Cochrane and advanced along 21 de Mayo, continued along Magallanes, and turned along Colón, passing Bories and entering through an entrance to a courtyard of the sinister Palace of Smiles (today the House of Human Rights), where they had their torture headquarters.

Upon getting off, they make me go to a room on the first floor that was at the back of the horrible house. Apparently, I was alone, blindfolded with black cloth, with my brave captors who wanted to ask me some questions.

They were kind and told me to take off my clothes, remaining only in my blue briefs. They made me sit on a small bench and began to ask me questions related to the Mapu and political events until one shouted "he is lying," and I feel a terrible blow to the right side of my head, right in my ear, and I fall to the floor, almost unconscious.

I learned later that that blow was called "the telephone," and my right ear suffered years later, losing the hearing in that ear. There began the interrogation based on pure blows and kicks to a defenseless prisoner with his eyes blindfolded and almost naked.

Among other things, I remember that I mentioned the phrase "Coup d'État," and they corrected me right away, saying "Military Pronouncement." In addition, they communicated by phone with what seemed to be the central Command and reported on how the interrogation was going.

What they asked most was "where were the weapons." I was alone with what seemed to be two torturers, but it seems there was also a doctor who took a look at me to see if they could continue. One of the torturers said "sorry, I don't have an ashtray" and put out his cigarette on my chest, since I was lying on a table.

Suddenly they finish, and I get dressed, and they take me in the vehicle, blindfolded and thrown on the floor, to the Bahía Catalina FACh facility, where I knew they had prisoners. And they took me with a blindfold and again thrown on my stomach on the floor of the bus, and I realized the route again through my experience of knowing the city and driving a lot in it.

What will happen in that FACh facility, I ask myself.

by Eduardo Antonio Ojeda Alvarez

Source: laisladeloscaiquenes.blogspot.com, November 26, 2018

Case File C-22561-2018: ROBINSON DANIEL AGÜERO ARAVENA case

2. Operation of the Bahía Catalina concentration camp. The daily operation of the concentration camp was in charge of Lieutenant Eduardo Alliende, who was seconded by non-commissioned officers Sergio Sotomayor, Stoward, and Marmaduque Núñez.

In addition, it had a section of 8 to 10 guards, mostly soldiers with the rank of corporal, belonging to the elite group of air commandos called "grupo tigre" (tiger group). There were also guard corporals, with Luís Ortega, nicknamed "el palomo" (the pigeon), being the one who executed the most brutal duress and punishments against the prisoners.

The daily regime began at 6:30 in the morning; they turned on the only light bulb available in the container, with the shouts of the aviators on guard. From 7:00 to 7:30, personal hygiene when permitted, in the bathroom of the main house, which had a toilet and a sink.

At 7:55, one had to be formed for the raising of the flag, singing the national anthem. After the act, the prisoners were locked up again or forced to do hard gymnastics sessions or beatings. Between 1:00 PM and 2:00 PM, lunch arrived, which consisted of the leftovers from the aviators' food.

In the afternoon, the prisoners were locked up until 5:45 PM, when they were formed to lower the flag, perform songs, execute marches, turns, and military-style positions. Activities that, if not done well, meant punishments for the prisoners.

The daily regime was always sustained by threats, intimidation, punishments, beatings, insults, forced eating; not even the act of defecating was exempt from minimum respect. At 8:00 PM, the last meal was provided. At 10:00 PM, they turned off the only light that existed in the containers.

Source: Judiciary, May 12, 2020