[Michaela very kindly passed on the following email from Tito, a close friend and colleague in Valparaiso, Chile. The copy that arrived to me was pretty mangled. Just in case you might want a less mangled copy for distribution, I'm resending. Please ditribute widely, and apologies for the repetition.] PINOCHET MUST PAY FOR HIS CRIMES -- IT'S SOMETHING PERSONAL Tito Tricot It hasn't rained for a long time in Chile. The fields are dry and the lakes are running low. But no one is thinking about the country's draught since General Augusto Pinochet was arrested in London this month. Rightwing politicians and the Armed Forces were astonished. The Left and Human Rights activists were sceptical. I was delighted. Yes, because for the first time in 25 years the greatest murderer in Chilean history was about to pay for his crimes. I am happy, yet at the same time sickened by the actions of those who claim that the dictator's rights are being violated. By those who state that the ageing General's rights were violated when the British Police kept him two hours incommunicado. Two hours !!! Is this a sick joke? He kept a country under a permanent state of terror for 17 years, he detained, tortured and killed thousands of Chileans and none of those who today talk about Human Rights did anything for the victims of the repression. For designated senator and former commander in chief of the Navy, Jorge Martinez, this is nothing but "an international conspiracy". For the Chilean government the British action constitutes "a legal aberration". There is certainly a legal and political dimension to the case, but there is also a personal dimension. Something which neither the current Chilean government nor Pinochet supporters care about. But I do, because I cannot forget the horrifying screams for help of Patricia who was repeatedly raped by a gang of "brave" Chilean marines. She was only 15, at the time of the coup. She was arrested, like many of us, simply for being a supporter of the Popular Unity government. I will never forget the night she tried to kill herself by banging her head against the wall. Did any of the rightwing members of Parliament whom today so wholeheartedly defend Pinochet do anything for her? Did any of them defend my legal or political rights when I was brutally tortured at the Naval Academy in Valparaiso? Where were they when I was stripped naked, blindfolded and electricity applied to my genitals? I certainly did not see any of them when I left the hospital in a wheelchair only to be taken to the War Academy and tortured again. Yes, this is a personal problem, for the coup did not only mean the end of a unique social and political process, but also the end of a dream for a whole generation of Chileans. It shattered our dreams and instilled fear in our hearts: fear of the police, of the army, of our neighbours. Fear of being arrested, of being killed, of losing a job, of being expelled from school or university. Fear of living and fear of dying. Terror became our permanent companion, terror made my mother's hair to go grey from one day to the other, because she couldn't find me. She had to go through the Calvary of not knowing where I was being held, whether I was alive or dead. She had to go through the humiliating and agonising journey of knocking at the soldiers' doors asking questions that always remained unanswered. The general's actions were cruel and inhuman, taking great joy in the suffering of my people. Our lives were filled with concentration camps, torture centres, curfews, kidnappings and disappearances, mass rapes and mass graves. Our lives, my life, changed dramatically after the coup, that's why this is so personal. Because my wife was five months pregnant when arrested by a special secret police unit. Where were the now vociferous Pinochet supporters when she was sent to a men's prison and kept in solitary confinement. Did they ever think about the suffering of our baby? He was born with mild brain damage, but of course the rich politicians, businessmen and lawyers who complain about the treatment of Pinochet, never helped him. That's why this is personal. Also because we had to endure many years in exile, because our children were born abroad and then went back to Chile to live their own exile. Ireland was a place of refuge, but it was never home. We lived in England, but it was never home. It was exile, that slow and painful way of withering away from your family, friends, past and present. Above all it was the realisation that you were not part of your country's future. So we came back, but the military had changed the country's trees and lakes, they had moved the mountains and the sea. Nothing was the same. But nothing mattered, because we were home at last. We were happy, until the night the secret police broke into the tranquillity of our home, ransacking the place, stealing the little we had and shattering the peace of the neighbourhood. Nothing had changed. They terrorised my pregnant wife and the little being in her womb. "It is war", they shouted, before ripping away my clothes, tying my hands behind my back and putting a hood over my head. They took turns in beating me up, I could feel their stale breath, their joy when their fists or kicks met the flesh. I stood there, naked, tied up, blindfolded and defenceless, but proud. Yes, proud, because I was better than they were, because I had nothing to be ashamed of. They were the raving animals while I was more humane than ever before, conquering fear in the name of freedom. But what do they know about ideals, ethics or morality, they who have been trained in the "art" of killing. The pain ... my entire body, it got increasingly hot in that room, the torture session went on forever. Was it still nightime, was the sun already coming out, were people living their homes to work, were little children going to school unaware that in a dark basement cell yet another human being was being tortured by a group of cowards? I will never know the answer to these questions, all I know is that at one point I was taken to another room, tied to a chair threatened with being executed before tiny electrodes were fixed to my wrists and genitals. It was electricity. You feel it coming, travelling throughout your body like a million pins pinching your flesh, your bones, your kidneys, and your brain. It is a painful explosion of shiny colours that comes out of your mouth in the form of a scream that you cannot control. It is as if somebody else is screaming in the room; it is not your scream, it is not your body, but it is your pain. You swallow electricity and you vomit electricity. It hurts, and they know it. That's why this is personal. Also, because they broke my back, because I spent four months with a plastercast from my neck to my waist, not in a private clinic, not in a hospital, but in prison. Because ten years went by before I could get a job, because my first wife died without knowing what true democracy is. Because I was separated from my children and it hurt. President Eduardo Frei has called upon the Chilean people to remain calm. But, you know what? I don't want to remain calm, for this is personal, this is between Pinochet and I. I want the whole world to know that he is a murderer, a terrorist, a criminal, an animal. I want the whole world to know that I feel deeply embarrassed by the civilian government's defence of the dictator. It sickens me that two European countries have finally arrested Pinochet, because our own judicial system was unable or unwilling to bring him to justice. I don't care whether he is 80 or a 100 years old. He must pay for his horrendous crimes. We will never rest until him and all those responsible for crimes against our people are brought to justice. It is not only a legal or political problem, it's personal, because I was lucky, because I survived, because it is my duty to pay homage to all my sisters and brothers who fell in the struggle against the dictatorship. Tito Tricot OCTOBER 1998 Tom Kruse / Casilla 5812 / Cochabamba, Bolivia Tel/Fax: (591-4) 248242 Email: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
