There are thousands of us on the street. Giant red banners unfurl in the balmy afternoon light. Freshly painted murals adorn the long blocks of our march. Chants and slogans run through the crowd; with upraised fists, with the determination only centuries of struggle and desire can ignite. Over loudspeakers come speeches and songs, muted by the incessant activity of the people, guitars, and street vendors’ cries. In the stepped entrances to old buildings, candles are lit, shrines spontaneously created

Venice, California—January 2005
I am having trouble sleeping and my dreams are full of images. I march through the streets of Santiago along with an enormous crowd toward the presidential palace, just as I did when I was fourteen years old, marching in support of Allende. I wrap my poncho around me against the stiff Andean fog as I sing and shout. At my side march people I have known and loved. My grandmother, Toto, strides next to me, cursing; my father waves a flag and hugs me in a crushing embrace. I ask him where he has been. He looks so well, so alive, his red hair seems to shine. My brothers are there also, moving proudly with friends and faces from the past. There are carts and horses adorned with paper flags, the smell of cilantro and red wine. There is my mother, Isabel, in a skirt, holding a guitar. I hear her singing me to sleep. There is snow on the impossibly high mountains.

It is winter in Los Angeles. In Chile, many former generals and colonels are about to be indicted for crimes committed during the military regime of 1973–1989. A colleague, preparing an article, is asking me to help him make contact with people I know. I have urged him many times to travel to Chile, and now I feel that I must return as well, and witness the events.

 

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