The Death of Salvador Allende. 11th of September 1973

For the last time, the president spoke to the people by means of the one radio station not in the hands of the mutinous military. His voice was deliberate and firm, his words so determined that his farewell did not resemble the last breath of a man about to die, but the dignified salute of a man taking his permanent place in history.

Assuredly, Radio Magellanes will be silenced, and the tranquil tone of my voice will no longer reach your ears. It does not matter. you will hear it still. I shall be with you always. As least you will remember me as an honorable man who was loyal to the loyalty of the workers.... Our opponents have the power, they can crush us, but social progress will not be stopped by crime or force. History is ours, it is made by the people.... Workers of my nation, I have faith in Chile and in its destiny. Other men will surmount this gray and bitter moment in which treachery attempts to rule. You must never forget that -- much sooner than later -- the great avenue will open for a liberated people to pass through as they move towards constructing a better society. Viva Chile! Long live the people! Long live the workers!

Bomber planes flew like fatidic birds over the Palacio de La Moneda, dropping their bombs with such precision that they exploded through windows and in less than 10 minutes set ablaze an entire wing of the building, while tanks lobbed tear gas cannisters from the street. At the same time, other airplanes and tanks were attacking the official presidential home in an exclusive residential neighbourhood. Smoke and fire engulfed the first floor of the palace and began to invade the salons on the second floor where Salvador Allende and a few of his followers were still entrenched. There were bodies everywhere, many rapidly bleeding to death. The survivors, choked by smoke and tear gas, could not make themselves heard above the noiseof the shelling, planes, and bombs. The army's assault troops stormed La Moneda throught gaps burned by fire and shell, occupied the still blazing first floor, and with loudspeakers ordered the people above to exit the building by an external stone stairway. Allende realised further resistance would end in a bloodbath and ordered his men to surrender, because they could better serve the people alive than dead. He said his final goodbye with a firm handclasp, looking each man squarely in the eye. Then they emerged Indian file, with their arms above their heads. As they came out, the soldiers kicked them and beat them with the butts of their weapons and, once they were on the ground, continued to beat them until they lay senseless, then dragged them into the street where they lay on the pavement while the voice of a crazed officer threatened to roll over them with the tanks. The president was left standing beside the torn and bloody Chilean flag in the ruined Red Salon, rifle in hand. Soldiers burst in with drawn waepons. The official version is that Allende placed the barrel of the rifle beneath his chin, pulled the trigger, and blew off his head.

I was deeply influenced by this passage from Paula, a book by Isabel Allende, one of the foremost writers in the world and niece to the deceased Chilean president. It was a romantic dream come true. A Communist/Socialist elected to the seat of power via democratic means. The oldest democracy in South America was enlightened and this enlightenment did not earn the approval of Nixon, Kissinger and their CIA. They resolved to put out the candle of hope that burned within all who were wishing for a peaceful means of gaining power and displaying their ideology to the world without resorting to guns.

Similar to the Velvet revolution of Lech Walsea & Solidarity in Warsaw and the Velvet Revolution led by Vaclav Havel in Prague. Salvador Allende is somewhat like his predecessor. There was no Soviet oppression, nor was there any fall of the Berlin wall. He was just the people's voice and he most certainly did have their support. With the support of famous individuals like Victor Jara and most notably, Pablo Neruda, the Nobel laureate of flowing poeticism, Popular Unity and Salvador Allende ascended to the presidency on the shoulders of the masses.

Here was the man who wasn't a Che Guevara. He was a peaceful educated professional who wasn't touting guns or swinging barrels. He merely wanted peace and economic parity and prosperity for his nation. All he wanted was to help and what he got was martyrdom. I wouldn't say that it was a fair exchange but it remains as one of the black marks that blots the stellar record of the CIA. Here was a man, president of a country which barely had any dealings with the USA, who was brutally murdered by his own generals, betrayed by them in the most cruel of ways, incited by the CIA, on ideological purposes. He just wasn't democratic and capitalist enough. So they killed him.

And together with him, Victor Jara and Pablo Neruda soon followed him to the grave. Victor was tortured till death, and Neruda died of a broken heart in his home. Nobody dared to touch the one person who so represented Chile with his inimitable works of art. His verse and his poetry. His lyricism that flowed like the Pacific Ocean that calms the harbour of Valparaiso, blue with no end in sight. Incomparably beautiful, his immense talent makes him the most revered 20th century poet of his age.

Why do i type this post in tribute? This is because they embody the very essence of martyrdom. I like that word. martyrdom. It is to die for what you believe in and not some murderous rampage that has been sullied by those crazed al-qaeda madmen that plague the middle east till today. The essence of martyrdom is death with resistance. Not the aggressive i-want-to-survive type but the my-fate-is-sealed-but-i-still-carry-on. That is what makes martyrdom so noble and worthy. Who wants to be a martyr? I raise my hand in agreement.

Ernesto Guevara De la Serna was one and many many others too were martyrs. They represented the beauty of youth, passion and faith. The belief in one's actions that goes beyond the realm of rational and inspires others to follow. It is this death that brings about the futility of life. Why should we lead a meaningless but prolonged life if we can lead a meaningful and short life. The pain of life itself will be less but the pleasure of living would have been more.

Maybe i just like the idea of dying under a train of bullets instead of having a natural death. Maybe i would rather my name be engraved on the annals of history as compared to an epitaph on a tombstone. Maybe i would rather perish in a hail of an firestom that brings me up to the top with its ascendent fury before consuming my all as compared to sinking into the deepest 6 feet underground pit that renders me ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

I might have been too influenced by the motorcycle diaries or it could just be a clarion call that awakens the fire within. I rather come face to face with danger and live to tell, then read it from accounts and wish that i could get out of my comfort zone to take on such adventure with relish. It is the unbridled passion of youth that changes the world, and the old reminisce about. I wanted to always participate in those missions which really helped people... not the stuff where you go there to build houses and schools but the types where you go into a war zone delivering aid and hope. I want to devote my life to by joining medecine sans frontiers. That is what i learnt french for. Not for anything else. I want to participate in the UN and help the world. It is my ideal dream.

I feel a little sympathy with Che's Guevara. I have great admiration for his spirit of self-sacrifice. Che is singled out from other revolutionaries by many young people in the West because he rejected a comfortable bourgeois background to fight for those who were deprived of political power and economic stability. And when he gained power in Cuba, he gave up all the trappings of privilege and power in Cuba in order to return to the revolutionary battlefield and ultimately, to die. After all, Che once said: In a revolution, one triumphs or dies.

'At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. I am not a liberator Liberators do not exist. The people liberate themselves.'

Che Guevara's last words before his death; he said to his executioner, "I know you are here to kill me. Shoot, coward, you are only going to kill a man." He was shot in the heart.

If only i could be like him.



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