If it were for creativity and display of art, the sense of aesthetics and above all of opportunity and spectacle, this fiftieth anniversary of the cowardly and treacherous riot that demolished La Moneda and murdered thousands, the matter would be resolved.
But nothing will remain of this past but nothingness itself.
It is hard to see that this anniversary did not serve much purpose. The most high-profile and glittering activities were confined to a couple of blocks from the city center.
The efforts to commemorate such a bitter anniversary have only served to highlight intellectuals, writers, publishers, filmmakers, sculptors, painters and artistic producers who were waiting for the opportunity.
And the town?
In some places something was done, a little thing that no one knew about.
It has also been a propitious date for the relatives of the disappeared detainees, that painful yaga of ours, to have the opportunity to say again: we are still searching.
And not much more, even if it hurts. And hurts.
Because from where things could change, that is, from the left that did not give up, that did not give in for positions and show off, from the Allende people who still wait in their dark and centuries-old silence, from the people who suffer even without namely, a horribly inhumane culture, this September 11th happened like nothing and nothing.
There was no action, film, book, exhibition, exhibition or parade that left a shred of hope. Nostalgia, the pain of the past, by itself, only affects the center of the chest and one person at a time. And nostalgia without hate is useless.
It hurts that Allende has been transformed into a statue made to affirm floral decorations of those that cotton consciences. And that it is no longer what it is: an example that should be in the discourse of a left that not only seeks the pose of the day or accommodation after retirement.
But let him play it.
The thoughts of Salvador Allende and Popular Unity are still as much or more relevant today than they were fifty-three years ago. The essence of the Popular Unity program today is of overwhelming necessity.
When a battle is lost, it is necessary to go back and entrench yourself in principles. When the war is lost, another must be started, if it is fair.
Faced with the criminal advance of genocidal capitalism, the thought that inaugurated a people that for the first time in history took the reins of its destiny, gains even more its full vigor. That’s Salvador Allende. That is the Popular Unity. That is the Popular Government.
But much of the cowed left does not say those words. Or he mutters it under his breath. It is frowned upon. They can be used against you.
It happens that available men and women are needed to get rid of egomania, the comfort of a good stipend, the fear and absurd modesty of a past that is still available to collect its quota for the future.
The right won the cultural war, it imposed its way of thinking on us, it inoculated us with a fear that we did not know and many who did not hesitate when facing the tyrant’s minions, today tremble at the possibility of not paying the dividend or the car license plate.
This September 11 seals a historic defeat. Nothing has been left. Just the sadness of defeat in all its dramatic splendor.
A people darkened with grief and embittered by debts and violence, a cowed and purposeless left, a non-existent social movement, worker organizations assimilated to the culture of the little and former student leaders who ended up on their knees, repentant and surrendered. Not much more.
The winners of this event were the sellers of floral arrangements, flags and handkerchiefs.
And, by the way, the extreme right, which much sooner rather than later, will take all the power, all the fears, to unleash the nightmare of persecution, murder, prison and exile.
Even tougher times are coming for screwed people.
It will be when the civic friendship that the reds, pinks and yellows talk about will be nothing more than another twist in the history of infamy and betrayal.
No.
From this fiftieth anniversary all that remains is the withered smell of abused flowers and the pain and shame of having done nothing but parade with flags, flowers, candles or handkerchiefs, displaying a suicidal innocence.
From no act, film, performance, parade or vigil, can we expect anything but immeasurable punishment: from now on we will become extinct and the story will once again be told by criminals.
For the people, and for a long time, every day will continue to be a cloudy Tuesday the 11th, now with cell phones and debts. And with a crepe where hope lived.
By Ricardo Candia Cares
