Hope Came In The Morning. Despair, Weeping And Firing Squads Came With The Sunset.
Estadio Nacional
Half-right ain’t right.
And the psalmist was barely half-right:
Weeping may stay for the night,
but rejoicing comes in the morning.”
Psalm 31:4
Days after the 1973 Chilean coup d’etat sparked a 17-year fascist dictatorship, for political prisoners in the infamous Estadio Nacional hope – for release, freedom and survival – came in the morning and despair and weeping began as we sensed the approach of sunset and feared the sounds of firing squads would again echo through the night.
On Friday, September 21, the Maryknoll Brother arrested with me and I were questioned again: Did we have tickets ready to leave Chile the next day? When we said no, we were returned to the cell – probably a ticket sales booth – we shared with several Americans, priests from Holland and Father Julian from Luxemburg. It was probably here that I sank to the floor next to a priest and asked to go to confession, “because I think I’m going to be killed here.” Later in the day, Fathers Alejandro and Julian were taken for interrogation by the carbineros (police). On their return, Alejandro sat on the floor and sobbed. Simply to exercise cruelty, the carbineros told Alejandro, , that Sacred Heart Father Corelio, the superior of the Sacred Heart priests in Chile, had been mistakenly released and would be executed in minutes and Alejandro and Julian were to be executed because “a radio transmitter had been discovered in their rectory.” A Lie! Alejandro’s tears were for Corelio. Within minutes of their return, Alejandro and Julian were taken away by military officials.
[As in the two previous AuthenticHealers.org posts, unless otherwise indicated, all quotes are from an affidavit completed by the Brother six weeks after our return to the United States.]
Anti-dictatorship protester is seen during a demonstration in Santiago on Oct. 7, 1988.
During more meaningless interrogations the next day (Saturday, September 22), the Maryknoll Brother and I were informed that we “had priority (for deportation) as the United States Consulate was putting on pressure.” Later that afternoon, the two of us were moved to another cell – locker room – with 73 detainees; 43 were Chileans.
As I recall, it was while we were in this cell that the damas finas – “high society” ladies - of the Chilean Red Cross made a “visit” or “inspection” of conditions in the stadium. I remember thinking there could be nothing valid in their report: They never lowered their noses enough to really see the political prisoners, their super-cramped conditions or inadequate nutrition. It was the first time I really understood the meaning of “looking down your nose” and “othering.” They never saw the students, the sick or elderly, the journalists or priests in those cells. They never saw any of the 1,092 “forcibly disappeared” or the “377 victims of political executions” reported by The Guardian (August 20, 2023). They never saw because they did not look. They judged and “othered.”
On Monday September 24, a soldier gave the occupants of the cell a copy of a newspaper announcing the death the day before of Nobel Prize for Literature laureate Pablo Neruda; the editor of the leftist publication Punta Final organized a tribute to the poet and author.
“During this homage to Neruda piercing screams came from the adjacent interrogation room where a man was being tortured. The screa.ms (sic) lasted several hours.
“In the afternoon, we were led out of the cell underneath the cement support directly in front of the cell. The man who had been tortured was spread-eagled against the wall between our cell and the interrogation room. Officials from Investigaciones arrived, each took him by an arm, at which he moaned, and led him back into the interrogation room. Once this was done the officials came out and closed the door. This was the last we saw this man who had been tortured although we later heard he was a Belgian citizen who worked for CORFO [The Chilean Production Development Corporation, founded in 1939 to promote entrepreneurship and industrial growth] and that the interrogators were attempting to get him to say that CORFO had supplied small arms to factories.”
Mothers of persons who disappeared during Chile's military dictatorship demonstrate in downtown Santiago on March 3, 1998.
On Tuesday, September 25, a Chilean woman claiming to be a social worker representing the United States Consulate asked if the Brother and I “would agree to voluntarily leave Chile.” We said No.
I began Wednesday, September 26 with a major decision – to take off and wash my socks for the first time in eleven days. I was windmill-style twirling and air drying them when, around noon, the Maryknoll Brother and I and six other Americans (including the mysterious woman who appeared at the 1234 house on September 16) were grouped together to meet with “a representative of the United States Consulate.” (As I recall, the officer wrangling us from throughout the stadium told me “Richad Nixon wants to meet with you.” You can guess my response.)
At approximately 4:30 p.m., we were led out of the stadium and presented to
“Mr. Frederick Purdy, the United States Consul in Chile, and Col. Corcoran, an officier (sic) of the United States Air Force, dressed in civilian clothes….
“Mr. Purdy informed us that the condition of our release was that we had to leave the country. He was not sure if we had to be out in 24 or 48 hours, but he knew that it definitely meant within one week after our release. Mr. Purdy informed us that if we could not accept this condition we could go back into the Stadium at which time the United States Consulate would not be responsible for us.
Four of us… [the mysterious American woman, an American Holy Cross priest] Francis Flynn and I stated that we could not accept this condition as we wanted to remain in Chile. I asked Mr. Purdy if there might be another alternative. He stated that in the time we had before having to depart the country we could attempt to have the decision in our regard reversed. In the case of Francis Flynn and myself Mr. Purdy suggested the possibility of requesting the Papal Nunc.{c (sic) in Chile to put pressure on the Junta to have the decision reversed, but that in his opinion the Papal Nuncio had not done as much as he could to help priests and religious that had been taken into custody and detained.”
My memory is that I refused to accept this situation and asked to go back inside the stadium; I was this could not/would not happen and I must go with Mr. Purdy and the colonel.
Families demonstrate outside the presidential palace on 50th anniversary of the military coup. “We are still looking” for the “disappeared” reads the banner.
That night, because of the nationwide curfew, consular officials escorted the Brother and me to the Maryknoll Center House. This wasn’t necessarily our “lucky day.” The House water heater was broken. After eleven days without a shower, we were forced to rely on big pots of water heated on the kitchen stove.
In a call to Superior General Thomas Kirchmyer in New York, I begged to stay in Chile. I’ll paraphrase his response: After multiple conversations, he was so terrified of Mrs. Flynn that he wouldn’t even discuss the issue.
The first available flight to New York departed on Saturday, September 30 – with stops in Lima, Guayaquil, Panama City, and Miami; we returned to Maryknoll on Sunday, October 1.
One morning, as I was driving onto the University of Miami campus, National Public Radio announced the December 6, 2006 death of the Chilean dictator. Pulling into the closest parking spot and pounding my car horn, I shouted for joy and burst into tears, praying for those who had been tortured and murdered under his reign of terror: For Americans Charles Horman and Frank Teruggi; British-Chilean priest Michael Woodward, who is thought to have been killed on the Chilean naval vessel Esmeralda; for Spanish Catholic Action Workers Movement Father Juan Alcina, shot ten times in the back; and for the People of Chile, whom I love..
When I received the affidavit that has been the source of these three Authentic Healers posts, I forwarded it to my brother Michael and sister Colleen. It was their first extended exposure to the story of those days. I am forever grateful for the support of my parents, brothers Barry and Michael and Colleen.
Young people protest dictatorship, September 1985.
After fifty-two years, I’ve come to embrace my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder even though a bordering-on-terror fear of not being able to sleep still controls part of my life and staying in my seat when the aircraft cabin is sealed demands all the energy I can muster. I pray that my PTSD that allows me to empathize with traumatized counseling clients.
While I understand the anger of many Americans toward those who have entered our country without documents and committed serious crimes, I pray for people like undocumented Narcisco Barranco, who has worked as a landscaper in California since the ‘90s and reared three Marine Corps sons. I pray for Paola Clouatre, wife of a Marine Corps veteran and mother of nearly-two-year-old Noah and three-months-old Lyn, who was still being breast fed when her mother was detained by ICE; Paola’s mother brought her to the U.S. when she was a teen and, at the time of her detention, she was attempting to resolve her immigration status.
Today I pray for the men and women who are suddenly “disappeared” into overcrowded prisons by American Immigrations and Customs Enforcement (ICE) and Homeland Security agents. I pray for families – like my own – who greet the dawn with hopes of good news and sink into despair as the sun sets. I pray for those being threatened with deportations to the inhumane conditions of a prison in El Salvador or the dictatorships of Cuba and Nicaragua, to the on-going horrors of Haiti or the violence of South Sudan, a country, culture and language even more strange to them than the America in which they’ve sought to build new lives for themselves and those they love.
I pray for those who, like me, must learn to live with their PTSD for the rest of their lives.
Chilean naval training ship Esmeralda. It is believed British-Chilean Father Michael Woodward was killed aboard the ship. At this posting, his body has not yet been found.
I’m grateful for the support I received from the Maryknoll community, especially seminary rector Father Lawrence Schanberger, who eased my return to the States and seminary, and my friend of fifty-seven years Father Scott Harris, who has always understood. I pray in gratitude for Greg Mueller, who sat with me and let me speak when others couldn’t or were afraid to “say the wrong thing.”
I remain grateful to the late psychiatrist Tom Stauffer, M.D., who, three days after my return to New York and despite “a full schedule,” made time for me to begin nine months of counseling.
Thank you, Father Tobin for insisting “Write about it.”
Fifty-two years after the Estadio, I remain profoundly grateful for one special moment:
As I recall, most days in the stadium and expecting my (promised) immediate execution, we received a hard roll and cup of coffee for breakfast (perfect for someone who’s never had a sip of coffee in his life) and another hard roll and a cup of beans/stew in the late afternoon.
At “meal times” (I’m being sarcastic.), prisoners were directed out of the locker room and onto the dirt under the bleachers; a concrete path separated the entrance to the locker room and the dirt.
One morning, we heard an officer berating our guards: “These (prisoners) are extremely dangerous foreign extremists who have come to Chile to kill Chilenos!” Wow!
That afternoon, I was too sick to stand in the dirt to eat – a combination of claustrophobia, dehydration, malnutrition, and living in such a confined space with so many sick and coughing prisoners. I grabbed my hard roll and cup of “stew” and sank down against the wall immediately next to the entrance.
Many of the prisoners were younger than me - college and high school kids; some twice my age and others somewhere in between. Many had been held days longer - rounded-up in the first hours after the coup a week earlier. Many were smokers going through nicotine withdrawal.
In Santiago, Pope John Paul II passes anti-dictatorship protesters, April 3, 1987.
A young soldier paced back and forth on the walkway between the prisoners and the entrance to the locker room. Maybe 20, 21 at the most. Well under six feet, his sun- and wind-burned complexion on high cheek bones made it obvious he was Mapuche, from one of the Indigenous communities of southern Chile. It was more than probable that one day a military convoy arrived in his village and announced, “You’re in the army now.”
Rifle slung over his shoulder, he paced. Twenty steps one way. Turn. Twenty steps back. Turn.
Twenty paces. Turn. Twenty paces. Turn.
Suddenly, from among the prisoners came a plea for a cigarette. Another voice joined in and another and another.
The soldier paced. Twenty steps. Turn. Twenty steps. Turn.
He reached inside his tunic, pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and threw it away at the feet of pleading prisoners, who grabbed it and passed it one to another.
Twenty steps. Turn. Pull out a cigarette. Light it. Throw it away. Turn.
Twenty steps. Turn. Pull out a cigarette. Light it. Throw it away. Turn.
Finally, the order came for the prisoners to return to the locker room cell.
He reached into his tunic, pulled out all his cigarettes and threw them to the feet of the prisoners.
In that young Mapuche soldier I saw the face of the Living Christ.
I’m sorry. Even as I write this I am overwhelmed.
Yet, I am so grateful. I have seen the Living Christ in a courageous act of simple kindness.
And I understand “Behold, I am with you always…” (Matthew 28:20)