The classic NS piece on the
1973 Chilean coup.
3 April 2013
Forty years have passed since
the Chilean president Salvador Allende died in La Moneda Palace in Santiago,
attempting to defend himself with an AK-47 he had been given by Fidel Castro.
Here, in a piece from the New Statesman published in March 1974, the Nobel Prize-winning
novelist Gabriel García Márquez explores Allende’s record in Chile, his rivals’
dealings with the United States and the rise of his successor – the army
general Augusto Pinochet.
It was towards the end of 1969
that three generals from the Pentagon dined with five Chilean military officers
in a house in the suburbs of Washington. The host was Lieutenant Colonel
Gerardo López Angulo, assistant air attaché of the Chilean Military Mission to
the United States, and the Chilean guests were his colleagues from the other
branches of service. The dinner was in honour of the new director of the
Chilean Air Force Academy, General Carlos Toro Mazote, who had arrived the day
before on a study mission. The eight officers dined on fruit salad, roast veal
and peas and drank the warm-hearted wines of their distant homeland to the
south, where birds glittered on the beaches while Washington wallowed in snow,
and they talked mostly in English about the only thing that seemed to interest
Chileans in those days: the approaching presidential elections of the following
September. Over dessert, one of the Pentagon generals asked what the Chilean
army would do if the candidate of the left, someone like Salvador Allende, were
elected. General Toro Mazote replied: “We’ll take Moneda Palace in half an
hour, even if we have to burn it down.”
One of the guests was General
Ernesto Baeza, now director of national security in Chile, the one who led the
attack on the presidential palace during the coup last September and gave the
order to burn it. Two of his subordinates in those earlier days were to become
famous in the same operation: General Augusto Pinochet, president of the
military junta, and General Javier Palacios. Also at the table was Air Force
Brigadier General Sergio Figueroa Gutiérrez, now minister of public works and
the intimate friend of another member of the military junta, Air Force General
Gustavo Leigh, who ordered the rocket bombing of the presidential palace. The
last guest was Admiral Arturo Troncoso, now naval governor of Valparaíso, who
carried out the bloody purge of progressive naval officers and was one of those
who launched the military uprising of September 11.
That dinner proved to be a
historic meeting between the Pentagon and high-ranking officers of the Chilean
military services. On other successive meetings, in Washington and Santiago, a
contingency plan was agreed upon, according to which those Chilean military men
who were bound most closely, heart and soul, to US interests would seize power
in the event of Allende’s Popular Unity coalition victory in the elections.
The plan was conceived
cold-bloodedly, as a simple military operation, and was not a consequence of
pressure brought to bear by International Telephone and Telegraph. It was
spawned by much deeper reasons of world politics. On the North American side,
the organisation set in motion was the Defence Intelligence Agency of the
Pentagon but the one in actual charge was the naval intelligence agency, under
the higher political direction of the CIA, and the National Security Council.
It was quite the normal thing to put the navy and not the army in charge of the
project, for the Chilean coup was to coincide with Operation Unitas, which was
the name given to the joint manoeuvres of American and Chilean naval units in
the Pacific. Those manoeuvres were held at the end of each September, the same
month as the elections, and the appearance on land and in the skies of Chile of
all manner of war equipment and men well trained in the arts and sciences of
death was natural.
During that period, Henry
Kissinger had said in private to a group of Chileans: “I am not interested in,
nor do I know anything about, the southern portion of the world from the
Pyrenees on down.” By that time, the contingency plan had been completed to its
smallest details and it is impossible to suppose that Kissinger or President
Nixon himself was not aware of it.
Chile is a narrow country,
some 2,660 miles long and an average of 119 wide, and with ten million
exuberant inhabitants, almost three million of whom live in the metropolitan
area of Santiago, the capital. The country’s greatness is derived not from the
number of virtues it possesses but, rather, from its many singularities. The
only thing it produces with any absolute seriousness is copper ore but that ore
is the best in the world and its volume of production is surpassed only by that
of the United States and the Soviet Union. It also produces wine as good as the
European varieties but not much of it is exported. Its per capita income of
$650 ranks among the highest in Latin America but, traditionally, almost half
the gross national product has been accounted for by fewer than 300,000
people.
In 1932, Chile became the
first socialist republic in the Americas and, with the enthusiastic support of
the workers, the government attempted the nationalisation of copper and coal.
The experiment lasted only for 13 days. Chile has an earth tremor on average
once every two days and a devastating earthquake every presidential term. The
least apocalyptic of geologists think of Chile not as a country of the mainland
but as a cornice of the Andes in a misty sea and believe that the whole of its
national territory is condemned to disappear in some future cataclysm.
Chileans are very much like
their country in a certain way. They are the most pleasant people on the
continent, they like being alive and they know how to live in the best way
possible and even a little more; but they have a dangerous tendency toward
scepticism and intellectual speculation. A Chilean once told me on a Monday,
“No Chilean believes tomorrow is Tuesday,” and he didn’t believe it, either.
Still, even with that deep-seated incredulity – or thanks to it, perhaps – the
Chileans have attained a degree of natural civilisation, a political maturity
and a level of culture, that sets them apart from the rest of the region. Of
the three Nobel Prizes in Literature that Latin America has won, two have gone
to Chileans, one of whom, Pablo Neruda, was the greatest poet of this century.
Kissinger may have known this when he said that he knew nothing about the
southern part of the world. In any case, US intelligence agencies knew a great
deal more. In 1965, without Chile’s permission, the nation became the staging
centre and a recruiting locale for a fantastic social and political espionage
operation: Project Camelot. This was to have been a secret investigation that
would have precise questionnaires put to people of all social levels, all
professions and trades, even in the furthest reaches of a number of Latin
American nations, in order to establish in a scientific way the degree of
political development and the social tendencies of various social groups. The
questionnaire destined for the military contained the same question that the
Chilean officers would hear again at the dinner in Washington: what will their
position be if communism comes to power? It was a wild query.
Chile had long been a favoured
area for research by North American social scientists. The age and strength of
its popular movement, the tenacity and intelligence of its leaders and the
economic and social conditions themselves afforded a glimpse of the country’s
destiny. One didn’t require the findings of a Project Camelot to venture the
belief that Chile was a prime candidate to be the second socialist republic in
Latin America after Cuba. The aim of the United States, therefore, was not
simply to prevent the government of Allende from coming to power in order to
protect American investments. The larger aim was to repeat the most fruitful
operation that imperialism has ever helped bring off in Latin America: Brazil.
On 4 September 1970, as had
been foreseen, the socialist and Freemason physician Allende was elected
president of the republic. The contingency plan was not put into effect,
however. The most widespread explanation is also the most ludicrous: someone
made a mistake in the Pentagon and requested 200 visas for a purported navy
chorus, which, in reality, was to be made up of specialists in government
overthrow; however, there were several admirals among them who couldn’t sing a
single note. That gaffe, it is to be supposed, determined the postponement of
the adventure. The truth is that the project had been evaluated in depth: other
American agencies, particularly the CIA, and the American ambassador to Chile
felt that the contingency plan was too strictly a military operation and did
not take current political and social conditions in Chile into account.
Indeed, the Popular Unity
victory did not bring on the social panic US intelligence had expected. On the
contrary, the new government’s independence in international affairs and its
decisiveness in economic matters immediately created an atmosphere of social
celebration.
During the first year, 47
industrial firms were nationalised, along with most of the banking system.
Agrarian reform saw the expropriation and incorporation into communal property
of six million acres of land formerly held by the large landowners. The
inflationary process was slowed, full employment was attained and wages
received a cash rise of 30 per cent.
All copper nationalised
The previous government,
headed by the Christian Democrat Eduardo Frei, had begun steps towards
nationalising copper, though he called it “Chileanisation”. All the plan did
was to buy up 51 per cent of US-held mining properties and for the mine of El
Teniente alone it paid a sum greater than the total book value of that facility.
Popular Unity, with a single
legal act supported in Congress by all of the nation’s popular parties,
recovered for the nation all copper deposits worked by the subsidiaries of the
American companies Anaconda and Kennecott. Without indemnification: the government
having calculated that the two companies had made a profit in excess of $800m
over 15 years.
The petite bourgeoisie and the
middle class, the two great social forces that might have supported a military
coup at that moment, were beginning to enjoy unforeseen advantages and not at
the expense of the proletariat, as had always been the case, but, rather, at
the expense of the financial oligarchy and foreign capital. The armed forces,
as a social group, have the same origins and ambitions as the middle class, so
they had no motive, not even an alibi, to back the tiny group of coup-minded
officers. Aware of that reality, the Christian Democrats not only did not
support the barracks plot at that time but resolutely opposed it, for they knew
it was unpopular among their own rank and file.
Their objective was something
else again: to use any means possible to impair the good health of the
government so as to win two-thirds of the seats in Congress in the March 1973
elections. With such a majority, they could vote for the constitutional removal
of the president of the republic.
The Christian Democrats make
up a huge organisation cutting across class lines, with an authentic popular
base among the mod-ern industrial proletariat, the small and middle-sized
rural landowners and the petite bourgeoisie and middle class of the cities.
Popular Unity, while also inter-class in its make-up, was the expression of
workers of the less-favoured proletariat – the agricultural proletariat – and
the lower middle class of the cities.
The Christian Democrats,
allied with the extreme right-wing National Party, controlled the Congress and
the courts; Popular Unity controlled the executive. The polarisation of these
two parties was to be, in effect, the polarisation of the country. Curiously,
the Catholic Frei, who doesn’t believe in Marxism, was the one who took the
best advantage of the class struggle, the one who stimulated it and brought it
to a head, with an aim to unhinge the government and plunge the country into
the abyss of demoralisation and economic disaster.
The economic blockade by the
United States, because of expropriation without indemnification, did the rest.
All kinds of goods are manufactured in Chile, from automobiles to toothpaste,
but this industrial base has a false identity: in the 160 most important firms,
60 per cent of the capital was foreign and 80 per cent of the basic materials
came from abroad. In addition, the country needed $300m a year in order to
import consumer goods and another $450m to pay the interest on its foreign
debt.
But Chile’s urgent needs were
extraordinary and went much deeper. The jolly ladies of the bourgeoisie, under
the pretext of protesting rationing, galloping inflation and the demands made
by the poor, took to the streets, beating their empty pots and pans. It wasn’t
by chance, quite the contrary; it was very significant that that street
spectacle of silver foxes and flowered hats took place on the same afternoon
that Fidel Castro was ending a 30-day visit that had brought an earthquake of
social mobilisation of government supporters.
Seed of destruction
President Allende understood
then – and he said so – that the people held the government but they did not
hold the power. The phrase was more bitter than it seemed and also more
alarming, for inside himself Allende carried a legalist germ that held the seed
of his own destruction: a man who fought to the death in defence of legality,
he would have been capable of walking out of La Moneda Palace with his head
held high if the Congress had removed him from office within the bounds of the
constitution.
The Italian journalist and
politician Rossana Rossanda, who visited Allende during that period, found him
aged, tense and full of gloomy premonitions as he talked to her from the yellow
cretonne couch where, seven months later, his riddled body was to lie, the face
crushed in by a rifle butt. Then, on the eve of the March 1973 elections, in
which his destiny was at stake, he would have been content with 36 per cent of
the vote for Popular Unity. And yet, in spite of runaway inflation, stern
rationing and the pot-and-pan concert of the merry wives of the upper-class
districts, he received 44 per cent. It was such a spectacular and decisive
victory that when Allende was alone in his office with his friend and
confidant, the journalist Augusto Olivares, he closed the door and danced a
cueca all by himself.
For the Christian Democrats,
it was proof that the process of social justice set in motion by the Popular
Unity coalition could not be turned back by legal means but they lacked the
vision to measure the consequences of the actions they then undertook. For the
United States, the election was a much more serious warning and went beyond the
simple interests of expropriated firms. It was an inadmissible precedent for
peaceful progress and social change for the peoples of the world, particularly
those in France and Italy, where present conditions make an attempt at an
experiment along the lines of Chile possible. All forces of internal and
external reaction came together to form a compact bloc.
CIA financed final blow
The truck owners’ strike was
the final blow. Because of the wild geography of the country, the Chilean
economy is at the mercy of its transport. To paralyse trucking is to paralyse
the country. It was easy for the opposition to co-ordinate the strike, for the
truckers’ guild was one of the groups most affected by the scarcity of
replacement parts and, in addition, it found itself threatened by the
government’s small pilot programme for providing adequate state trucking
services in the extreme south of the nation. The stoppage lasted until the very
end without a single moment of relief because it was financed with cash from
outside. “The CIA flooded the country with dollars to support the strike by the
bosses and . . . foreign capital found its way down into the formation of a
black market,” Pablo Neruda wrote to a friend in Europe. One week before the
coup, oil, milk and bread had run out.
During the last days of
Popular Unity, with the economy unhinged and the country on the verge of civil
war, the manoeuvring of the government and the opposition centred on the hope
of changing the balance of power in the armed forces in favour of one or the
other. The final move was hallucinatory in its perfection: 48 hours before the
coup, the opposition managed to disqualify all high-ranking officers supporting
Allende and to promote in their places, one by one, in a series of
inconceivable gambits, all of the officers who had been present at the dinner
in Washington.
At that moment, however, the
political chess game had got out of the control of its players. Dragged along
by an irreversible dialectic, they themselves ended up as pawns in a much larger
game of chess, one much more complex and politically more important than any
mere scheme hatched in conjunction by imperialism and the reaction against the
government of the people. It was a terrifying class confrontation that was
slipping out of the hands of the very people who had provoked it, a cruel and
fierce scramble by counterpoised interests, and the final outcome had to be a
social cataclysm without precedent in the history of the Americas.
A military coup under those
conditions would not be bloodless. Allende knew it. The Chilean armed forces,
contrary to what we have been led to believe, have intervened in politics every
time that their class interests have seemed threatened and they have done so
with an inordinately repressive ferocity. The two constitutions that the
country has had in the past 100 years were imposed by force of arms and the
recent military coup has been the sixth uprising in a period of 50 years.
The bloodlust of the Chilean
army is part of its birthright, coming from that terrible school of
hand-to-hand combat against the Araucanian Indians, a struggle that lasted 300
years. One of its forerunners boasted in 1620 of having killed more than 2,000
people with his own hands in a single action. Joaquín Edwards Bello relates in
his chronicles that during an epidemic of exanthematic typhus the army dragged
sick people out of their houses and killed them in a poison bath in order to
put an end to the plague. During a seven-month civil war in 1891, 10,000 died
in a series of gory encounters. The Peruvians assert that during the occupation
of Lima in the war of the Pacific, Chilean soldiers sacked the library of Don
Ricardo Palma, taking the books not for reading but for wiping their backsides.
History of brutality
Popular movements have been
suppressed with the same brutality. After the Valparaíso earthquake of 1906,
naval forces wiped out the longshoremen’s organisation of 8,000 workers. In
Iquique, at the beginning of the century, demonstrating strikers tried to take
refuge from the troops and were machine-gunned: within ten minutes, there were
2,000 dead. On 2 April 1957, the army broke up a civil disturbance in the
commercial area of Santiago and the number of victims was never established
because the government sneaked the bodies away. During a strike at the El
Salvador mine during the government of Eduardo Frei, a military patrol opened
fire on a demonstration to break it up and killed six people, among them some
children and a pregnant woman. The post commander was an obscure 52-year-old
general, the father of five children, a geography teacher and the author of
several books on military subjects: Augusto Pinochet.
The myth of the legalism and
the gentleness of that brutal army was invented by the Chilean bourgeoisie in
their own interest. Popular Unity kept it alive with the hope of changing the
class make-up of the higher cadres in its favour. But Allende felt more secure
among the Carabineros, an armed force that was popular and peasant in its
origins and that was under the direct command of the president of the republic.
Indeed, the junta had to go six places down the seniority list of the force
before it found a senior officer who would support the coup. The younger
officers dug themselves in at the junior officers’ school in Santiago and held
out for four days until they were wiped out.
That was the best-known battle
of the secret war that broke out inside military posts on the eve of the coup.
Officers who refused to support the coup and those who failed to carry out the
orders for repression were murdered without pity by the instigators. Entire
regiments mutinied, both in Santiago and in the provinces, and they were
suppressed without mercy, with their leaders massacred as a lesson for the
troops.
The commandant of the armoured
units in Viña del Mar, Colonel Cantuarias, was machine-gunned by his
subordinates. A long time will pass before the number of victims of that
internal butchery will ever be known, for the bodies were removed from military
posts in garbage trucks and buried secretly. All in all, only some 50 senior
officers could be trusted to head troops that had been purged beforehand.
Foreign agents’ role
The story of the intrigue has
to be pasted together from many sources, some reliable, some not. Any number of
foreign agents seem to have taken part in the coup. Clandestine sources in
Chile tell us that the bombing of La Moneda Palace – the technical precision of
which startled the experts – was actually carried out by a team of American
aerial acrobats who had entered the country under the screen of Operation
Unitas to perform in a flying circus on the coming 18 September, Chile’s
national independence day. There is also evidence that numerous members of
secret police forces from neighbouring countries were infiltrated across the
Bolivian border and remained in hiding until the day of the coup, when they
unleashed their bloody persecution of political refugees from other countries
of Latin America.
Brazil, the homeland of the
head gorillas, had taken charge of those services. Two years earlier, she had
brought off the reactionary coup in Bolivia, which meant the loss of
substantial support for Chile and facilitated the infiltration of all manner
and means of subversion. Part of the loans made to Brazil by the United States
was secretly transferred to Bolivia to finance subversion in Chile. In 1972, a
US military advisory group made a trip to La Paz, the aim of which has not been
revealed. Perhaps it was only coincidental, however, that a short time after
that visit, movements of troops and equipment took place on the frontier with
Chile, giving the Chilean military yet another opportunity to bolster their
internal position and carry out transfer of personnel and promotions in the
chain of command that were favourable to the imminent coup.
Finally, on September 11,
while Operation Unitas was going forward, the original plan drawn up at the
dinner in Washington was carried out, three years behind schedule but precisely
as it had been conceived: not as a conventional barracks coup but as a
devastating operation of war.
It had to be that way, for it
was not simply a matter of overthrowing a regime but one of implanting the
Hell-dark seeds brought from Brazil, until in Chile there would be no trace of
the political and social structure that had made Popular Unity possible. The
harshest phase, unfortunately, had only just begun.
In that final battle, with the
country at the mercy of uncontrolled and unforeseen forces of subversion,
Allende was still bound by legality. The most dramatic contradiction of his
life was being at the same time the congenital foe of violence and a passionate
revolutionary. He believed that he had resolved the contradiction with the
hypothesis that conditions in Chile would permit a peaceful evolution toward socialism
under bourgeois legality. Experience taught him too late that a system cannot
be changed by a government without power.
That belated disillusionment
must have been the force that impelled him to resist to the death, defending
the flaming ruins of a house that was not his own, a sombre mansion that an
Italian architect had built to be a mint and that ended up as a refuge for
presidents without power. He resisted for six hours with a sub-machine gun that
Castro had given him and was the first weapon that Allende had ever fired.
Around four o’clock in the
afternoon, Major General Javier Palacios managed to reach the second floor with
his adjutant, Captain Gallardo, and a group of officers. There, in the midst of
the fake Louis XV chairs, the Chinese dragon vases and the Rugendas paintings
in the red parlour, Allende was waiting for them. He was in shirtsleeves,
wearing a miner’s helmet and no tie, his clothing stained with blood. He was
holding the sub-machine gun but he had run low on ammunition.
Allende knew General Palacios
well. A few days before, he had told Augusto Olivares that this was a dangerous
man with close connections to the American embassy. As soon as he saw him
appear on the stairs, Allende shouted at him: “Traitor!” and shot him in the hand.
Fought to the end
According to the story of a
witness who asked me not to give his name, the president died in an exchange of
shots with that gang. Then all the other officers, in a caste-bound ritual,
fired on the body. Finally, a non-commissioned officer smashed in his face with
the butt of his rifle.
A photograph exists: Juan
Enrique Lira, a photographer for the newspaper El Mercurio took it. He was the
only one allowed to photograph the body. It was so disfigured that when they
showed the body in its coffin to Señora Hortensia Allende, his wife, they would
not let her uncover the face.
He would have been 64 years
old next July. His greatest virtue was following through but fate could grant
him only that rare and tragic greatness of dying in armed defence of an
anachronistic booby of bourgeois law, defending a Supreme Court of Justice that
had repudiated him but would legitimise his murderers, defending a miserable
Congress that had declared him illegitimate but which was to bend complacently
before the will of the usurpers, defending the freedom of opposition parties
that had sold their souls to fascism, defending the whole moth-eaten paraphernalia
of a shitty system that he had proposed abolishing but without a shot being
fired.
The drama took place in Chile,
to the greater woe of the Chileans, but it will pass into history as something
that has happened to us all, children of this age, and it will remain in our
lives for ever.
Gabriel García Márquez worked
as a journalist in Colombia before his debut novella, “Leaf Storm”, was
published in 1955.
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