CHILE, OCTOBER 2019
Catalina Segú, November 2019.
“The possibility of a collectively animated worldly memory is articulated here in that extraordinary moment in which you— who never was there in that real place— can bump into a rememory that belongs to somebody else. You are walking down the road or into the building and you hear or see something so clearly, something that isn't necessarily visible to anyone else. You think, ‘I must be thinking it up, making it up.’ Yet in this moment of enchantment when you are remembering something in the world, or something in the world is remembering you, you are not alone or hallucinating or making something out of nothing but your own unconscious thoughts. You have bumped into somebody else's memory; you have encountered haunting and the picture of it the ghost imprints. Not only because this memory that is sociality is out there in the world, playing havoc with the normal security historical context provides, but because it will happen again; it will be there for you. It is waiting for you. We were expected. And therein lies the frightening aspect of haunting: you can be grasped and hurtled into the maelstrom of the powerful and material forces that lay claim to you whether you claim them as yours or not.”[i]
The first time I almost died was in 1990. My father took my sister and I, as in every other weekend, to the Aeródromo de Tobalaba, a private airfield located in the outskirts of Santiago, near our home. I was three years old and my sister was two. My father liked to take us there and walk with us in the open, green fields surrounding the landing tracks. But that day, according to his story, we walked too far. My sister and I were playing and running in the limits of the airfield while my father walked away from us to take a picture. When he accommodated his body in the right position to capture the moment, he saw two big dogs appearing out of nowhere furiously running towards us. Paralyzed, my father accepted for a second the tragic destiny of his two little girls dying in an irremediably painful way in front of his eyes—he recalls. But just when the dogs were about to get to us they stop and turn around, responding to a faraway voice that ordered them to return. The dog’s owner, a military man approaches us and warns my father: Cuide a sus niñitas, oiga. Estos nos lugares para andar de paseo.
If I was really about to die that day it was only on my father’s mind. I don’t really remember. I do remember however the second time I almost died. It was in 1992, and I didn’t know how to swim. It was a hot summer day and we went on a family trip to Peldehue, the Army Airborne School located in Colina that had a pool complex for families to enjoy during weekends. I remember at some point walking away from my family, just to see what the big pool, the one for grown ups, looked like. As I walked, I knew I was getting too far away from that safe invisible territory that was still connected to my mother’s gaze. I was alone, lost, disoriented; I felt like a stranger in the middle of a crowd of militaries in swimsuits playing with their children, laughing and eating barbecue. When I got to the big pool, I walked to the deepest side of it, and before I knew it my 5-year old body was completely submerged in the water. I opened my eyes, moved my arms, but couldn’t get my body float into the surface. I was buried in the water, moving desperately, realizing I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t scream and call my mother. Until I felt the force of another body, the body of a stranger, holding me and taking me out.
While my body was helplessly trapped in the water trying to reach out, trying to scream, I didn’t know, I couldn’t see, that only a few meters away from there, there were “more than 500 pieces of bone remains, such as skulls, teeth, phalanges, and vertebrae, as well as other cultural elements such as cloth and personal items” all shredded, dispersed and buried inside a 15-meter deep well. Nobody knew, nobody could see—that’s what they said—that after torturing them for weeks, after killing them, they threw their bodies inside the well and exploded them with grenades. “The body parts correspond to 13 disappeared-detained people who were arrested on September 11, 1973, in the presidential palace, La Moneda.”[ii] They were all members of Allende’s government. They were found in 2002.
During Pinochet’s dictatorship, Peldehue was not only a place for detention and torture, it was also a place of departure—a key airfield infrastructure for what was later known as the Death Flights Mission. When the prisoners were no longer a valuable source of information—when the torture had reached the point of absolute exhaustion—the procedure in most cases consisted in 1) a lethal cyanide injection 2) burning the faces and erasing any distinctive body part 3) putting the bodies inside a sack, wrapping and attaching a broken piece of metal rail to them 4) piling the bodies in three Chevrolet C-10 trucks (6 bodies each) and taking them to Peldehue 5) In Peldehue there was a Puma helicopter waiting, that would take a total of 18 bodies far off-shore in order to throw them in the ocean. Between 1974 and 1978, there are an estimated 500 bodies that disappeared in this way.
It is striking that my father would take us to such a place to have a joyful summer afternoon at the pool complex. He didn’t know. Nobody knew. (Did I know? Does my quasi-suicidal gesture of throwing myself into the water, knowing that I couldn’t swim, thinking that perhaps I was magically going to resurface, has anything to do with this?). He also didn’t know about the Aeródromo de Tobalaba, which was too a place of departure that played a similar but minor role in the Death Flights Mission.
You have bumped into somebody else's memory
The fact that these places had become sites of leisure and family reunion, as well as of public military demonstration and spectacle, in which the audiences could witness the prowess of soldiers running over vertical walls or jumping from high structures, speaks to a particular set of seemingly contradictory practices taking place at the very moment in which the neoliberal economic system was being implemented through dictatorial means. A set of practices that simultaneously entailed the establishment of a liberal, consumable, enjoyable, fun world—a world of shopping centers, television, vacations, and American commodities—and the systematic repression, dispersion, dislocation and brutal extermination of all forms of oppositional forces that were actively threatening and resisting this global project.
It was the time in which America colonized America. A time in which a long-standing yet very particular form of dislocation was conducted.
In 1987, three years before the end of the dictatorship, Chilean artist Alfredo Jaar famously displayed a 42-second animation piece in one of Time Square’s large-scale billboards. The animation is structured in three short sequences, in which a display of image and text is rendered. The images displayed are simple: the map and flag of “America,” in which the phrases “This is not America” and “This is not America’s flag” are superimposed. After this simple yet contradictory message is conveyed, the word “America” appears on the screen and the letter “r” starts moving, progressively becoming the image of the entire American continent. As we see this metamorphosis occurring, the message becomes clear: that was not America because America is also this other southern thing. The act of superimposing the negation of America over the dominant, colloquial idea of America in a simple, straightforward phrase seems thus to invert the ideological and linguistic superimposition that America has already conducted over America. The fact that this is done in the language of advertisement in one of the most iconic and powerful places for advertisement is also a form of inversion and reappropriation of the very means by which America colonized America.
The animation ends with what seems to be a mimetic gesture of the ways advertising billboards work: the blinking, doubling, multiplying, and most importantly, spinning of the American continent. But this seemingly innocuous and playful gesture actually adds an important layer to the realization that this is not America—a realization that has now become a dominant yet scarcely put into practice understanding of globalization. Once the map of America is accurately made visible on the screen, it immediately becomes unstable, mobile and multiple. America starts spinning around, and the cardinal points are dislocated; their positions become elusive and interchangeable. The moment in which the map of America is presented as a whole, the whole becomes fragmented. Thus, the realization of America cannot be the realization of a stable, fixed unity—it cannot be held by its name, it cannot be contained or represented in a logo. And yet the artist proposes a logo for America. A logo that is both, the entering of the entire American continent in the logics of consumerism and spectacle—the evidence of its becoming a marketable, hyper-visible image at the very center of the world’s trade center—and the disruption, via the visual multiplication, dislocation and disorientation, of its apprehensible, uniform, and advertising-like rendering as a totality.
When I was a child I used to enter in a deep state of dizziness through spinning around with my arms open for a few minutes, until my body couldn’t take it anymore. I would immediately stop and lie down on the couch as the walls turned upside down, the space moved and blurred, and the sensed limits of my body expanded in the same unpredictable directions and rhythms as the space around me. It was a brief pleasurable moment in which the outside became completely determined by the inside. And yet the inside didn’t feel like me at all. It felt like a foreign, wild, invasive centripetal force that allowed me to simultaneously feel intensely alive and defeated. A force that was the specter of my previous, voluntary movement, repeating itself, as a silent, vibrant, and persistent echo that would slowly fade out and restore into the normal.
The normal was me being able to stand up without falling, to walk without trembling, to direct my attention towards a single, stable object. To know what was in front, behind, up, down, left and right—to have a basic sense of deictic orientation, “in which indications of places and objects are immediately identifiable.”[iii] The normal was to reconstruct the sense of familiarity of the space I was situated in, in order to be able to orient myself around it. My body would take a definable shape in this normal. If anybody would ask me where I was, I would undoubtedly say here. Here I am. This is me, sitting on this chair, walking on this street, touching this table. The stability of my position is proportionally related to the perceived stability of the world around me, and this makes me feel strangely safe and defended.
The experience of disorientation entails a state of intensified fragility. A fragility that can be either pleasurable, as my childhood experience of dizziness certainly was, or terrifying. A fragility in which you know, everybody knows, that you can break. Breaking the prisoner was the ultimate goal of the “counter-intelligence interrogation” session. Specific methods of torture were conducted for the breaking of “resistant sources”—making them “compliant and obedient.”[iv] These methods are developed in great detail in the CIA’s KUBARK Manual, a 128-page document that was extensively used at the US School of the Americas to train Latin American militaries in counter-intelligence techniques. In the last half of the 20th Century, the School of the Americas trained more than 64,000 South American soldiers in order to prepare them for the dismantling of any trace of communist or other political force resistant to the United States imperialist expansion.
In the middle of these obliterations, other forms of screaming voices also covered the streets of Santiago. They were the voices of adrenaline, excitement and enjoyment coming from The Century 2000, The Sinister Mansion and The Octopus—a parallel version of Alice in Wonderland inaugurated by authorities in 1978. It was the birth of Fantasilandia, the first and largest amusement park in Chile that rapidly filled with citizens of all ages willing to be shaken and turned upside down by the colorful, steel-made machines of fun. The images of screaming and amusement circulating the press as they celebrated the fact that Chile has now its own version of Disneyland were taken at the same time in which the absence of images of screaming and torture became ever pervasive. The sounds of these screams were simultaneously occurring in two seemingly irreconcilable sites of experience. But unlike images, subjected to their frames and limits of representability, these sounds were perhaps able to escape. As their waves traveled outward, releasing themselves from their secluded, specific sources, they might have been able, however randomly, to encounter each other, becoming an imperceptible, intermingled matter in which a fragile memory could rest for a while.
“Those broader social and political norms that establish the lives that will be considered human, considered a life, and so considered as grievable precisely in those terms, operate in many ways, but one way they operate is through frames that govern the perceptible, frames that effect a delimiting function, bringing into focus an image on the condition that some portion of the visual field is ruled out. What this means, theoretically, is that the image that is represented signifies its admissibility into the domain of representability; that same image thus signifies the delimiting function of the frame even as, or precisely because, it does not represent it.”[v]
The limits between horror and amusement are sometimes difficult to differentiate. They make themselves known through similar sounds and gestures. Some of them are coming from above, the freefall roller coaster, the Puma helicopter, and some of them are coming from below. In Lo Curro, one of the richest neighborhoods in Santiago, there was a three-story house in which a young married couple lived with their three children. The couple was U.S. citizen Michael Townley, and Chilean writer Mariana Callejas, both of them secret agents of the National Intelligence Directorate (DINA), the intelligence apparatus in charge of the dismantling, killing and disappearing of members of the so-called opposition. The house, besides being a home for this family, was also a clandestine military quarter called unidad Quetropillán. The first floor was where the housekeepers and “a few military agents” lived. The second floor was Townley’s electronics workshop, which actually served as a clandestine laboratory in which Eugenio Berríos, another DINA agent, experimented with toxic gases and biochemical weapons that were later used in interrogation sessions. This space was also occasionally used as a place for detention and torture. The third floor was where the family lived, and where a weekly literary workshop—a different, parallel kind of workshop—hosted by Mariana Callejas would take place. In fact, this literary workshop would congregate Santiago’s liveliest literary scene from 1974 to 1978, the “dictatorship’s cultural elite”—composed by the ones who could stay—and was the source of inspiration of some important literary works such as Roberto Bolaño’s Nocturno de Chile (1999) and Nona Fernández’s El taller (2012), and Pedro Lemebel’s Perlas y Cicatrices (1998). The third floor was, unsurprisingly, a place for parties.
“Crowded and dripping on whiskey were the parties at the fancy house in Lo Curro in the 1970s. When in the twitching atmosphere of the dictatorship, music would resonate through the open windows, Proust and Faulkner were read with devotion, and a set of cultural gays fluttered around Callejas, the hostess. […] The easy-going cultural class of those years didn’t believe in corpses or in the disappeared. They actually avoided those topics by reciting Eliot, discussing avant-garde aesthetics or shaking their skeptical asses to the rhythm of Abba.
[…]
It is possible to believe that many of the guests didn’t really know where they were at, although the entire country knew, somehow, about the vulture’s whir of the cars without patents—the DINA taxis that would take passengers after the curfew. The entire country knew, but nobody would say, maybe something was said, perhaps someone said it, some cocktail gossip, some rumors about a censored painter. Everybody saw and preferred not to see, not to know, not to hear the horrors that sometimes would filter on the international press. Those quarters covered with plugs and bloody hooks, those graves filled with twisted bodies. In this well-educated country of writers and poets, these things don’t happen, all that is mere hyperbolic literature, pure marxist propaganda to discredit the government—Mariana would say, as she turned up the music’s volume to mutter the strangled wailing filtering from below.
[…]
It is possible that they couldn’t recognize the screams intermingling with the beats of disco music, so popular in those years. By then, they were stunned, comfortably stunned by the cultural status and the DINA-sponsored alcohol. And also the house, the innocent, double edge little house in which literature and torture coagulated in the same drop of ink and iodine, in the same bitter festive memory in which the vowels of pain were suffocated.”[vi]
Pedro Lemebel, Las Orquídeas Negras de Mariana Callejas, 2006.
Among the different versions of The Sinister Mansion in which the limits between horror and fun would blur in the beats and rhythms of an ever-sounding music, the Sexy Bandage, also known as The Discothèque, was particularly perverse. Located in 3037 Irán Street, in Santiago, it was one of the many DINA centers for detention and torture, in which prisoners, particularly women, suffered severe sexual torture and vexations while forced to use a bandage that permanently covered their eyes. Besides the sexual nature of the tortures, what was characteristic about this place is that they had loudspeakers that would play, day and night, extremely loud “ambient music,” ranging from Mexican rancheras, to romantic ballads and disco music.
“They played the music to cover the screams, so the people walking on the streets wouldn’t think that they were torturing inside this house. Some of the themes that were most played were ‘La Vaca Blanca,’ (The White Cow) ‘La Loca María,’ (Crazy Mary) ‘La Gallina de los Huevos de Oro,’ (The Hen and the Golden Eggs) as well as Sandro, Fabio, and Ramón Aguilera.”[vii]
Ex DINA agent.
“The two songs they always played were ‘Un millón de amigos’, and ‘Ya viene Gigi el amoroso’. They would sing this song, as they loved to believe they were Gigi the lovely one and they would play this song at the highest volume while they were torturing. I would feel the music physically. It was Kafkesque. You could hear the screaming no matter what. In the Villa you would actually experience a permanent torture session, because if they were not torturing you, you were listening to the torture of your comrades, which was unbearable.”
Ana María Jiménez, political prisoner and survivor.
But music was also a form of resistance. Right after the coup, when thousands of people were taken to one of the first and largest centers for detention and torture, the National Stadium, survivors recall that some clandestine radios would circulate among the prisoners, allowing them to hear the news and listen to music. Luis Cifuentes, one of the prisoners and survivors, said listening to music was a way for him to build up courage to face the imminent sessions of torture. “I had an obsession for Cat Steven’s ‘Morning Has Broken,’ and every time a generous comrade would lend me his radio, I would look for that song because it calmed me down.”[viii] It was here, in the National Stadium, where Víctor Jara, Chile’s iconic musician, folklorist, actor and playwright was also tortured and killed. They made him play the guitar as they killed him. They made him play the guitar and sing as they cut his nails, fingers and hands. They made him sing and his voice, they didn’t know, they couldn’t tell, would remain resonating, becoming so loud and pervasive, so radically undefeatable.
“One such technology, one answer to these problems of ‘nonappearance’ and ‘blocked vision,’ has been a dark brood of ‘negative allegory’ that melancholy repeatedly engenders, an obsession with ‘displacement, erasure, suppression, elision, overlooking, overwriting, omission, obscurantism, expunging, repudiation, exclusion, annihilation, [and] denial’; an obsession, in essence, with the failure of something that was lost to history ever making an appearance.”
“Something odd about these rumors emerges in the attempt to write them down: they start to feel self-canceling, designed to disrupt the context of their preservation. The very act of archiving these rumors as writing, which makes them available to us, also makes them more subject to doubt at the level of their ontology. They radiate with a sense of historical impossibility; with a sense, if we might follow Heather Love, of broken intimacy or ‘failed and interrupted connection.’”[ix]
I was born in October 10th, 1988, five days after the national plebiscite to vote in favor or against Pinochet’s regime took place. Five fays before, the me that was about to be born was dwelling in a different kind of darkness, inside my mother’s womb, perhaps perceiving the movements and vibrations of her body barely walking to the polls as three militaries helped her. The results were decisive: 54% of the population voted for the dictatorship to end. Chile, happiness is coming, was the slogan for the campaign against the military regime. That night, when they transmitted the news, it was a huge party that lasted for weeks. I was born in the middle of this party. I was born when the promise of happiness, after 17 years of silence and sadness, became, for a brief moment, tangible. The apparently peaceful, joyful and democratic ending of the dictatorship—the first and only dictatorship democratically revoked in the world—meant a victory for many people. However, this victory helped in the construction of a narrative that entailed the erasure and public condonation of the dictatorial status of the regime, and thus the erasure of a history of trauma, violence, injustice, and disappearance with it. Democracy, they said, was the triumph of the military regime—it was their carefully crafted masterpiece that, by privatizing everything, by imposing the ever-present and abstract faith on the free market, they were now ready to generously share with the people.
I was born in a place of non-belonging, in “the dismembered landscape of post-dictatorial Chile”—as Nelly Richard puts it, the Chile of transition. At the beginning, nobody said it was a dictatorship—the word was forbidden, perhaps only whispered. And yet the whole world knew. Except for us. What did just happen? Was that a dictatorship? What did they do? Where are they?
Thousands of people who were exiled or living in clandestinity came back, becoming “subjects without scripts,” paralyzed, inactive, disoriented, as Nelly Richard posits, “neither recognizing a version of a past of heroic resistance nor a present of Madison Avenue confetti.” Chile became a broken place with broken citizens and a lot of fun things to do. A place in which speech, “memory—and any sense of collectivity—had been compulsively fractured.”[x] The question of place, where are they, where are we, where am I, was a pervasive and yet silent element of the country’s atmosphere; this is, now I see it, the pervasiveness and elusiveness of my own early realization that I am not from here, not because I am a stranger, not because I can identify and name my difference, but because the here, the very center from which any difference could have been articulated, had been eviscerated.
“[…] while the contemporary scene is one of compulsive flows of speed and spatial displacement that thrust popular bodies into a city dominated by the erasure of useful memories (formerly accumulated in corners and localities), thanks to the hysterical multiplication of signs and imported logos that encrust their metropolitan look onto the daily life of peripheral bodies, that are called on every month to remember their local debt to globalized capital because of their debt to the shopping mall.”[xi]
“If a place can be defined as relational, historical and concerned with identity, then a space which cannot be defined as relational, or historical, or concerned with identity will be a non-place.”[xii]
In 2016, Chilean artist Voluspa Jarpa hanged from the high ceilings of the Museum of Latin American Art in Buenos Aires, thousands of amplified photocopies of declassified CIA documents evidencing the United States intervention in Latin America’s dictatorships, specifically Chile. By then, and in spite of the ongoing and insistent denial of a considerable part of Chile’s population, this was a well know, old story. In fact, since the 40th anniversary of the coup in 2013, there was a major release and spreading of information in all sorts of media—films, TV shows, documentaries, and what not—telling the stories of torture, trauma, and disappearance—a kind of institutionalization of trauma that promised, and partially provided, some form of closure.
But the media visibility of the loss did not translate into the actual recuperation of the bodies, nor into the juridical or political condemnation and judgment of those responsible. It also didn’t eradicate the deeply embedded institutional heritage of the dictatorship’s neoliberal model that had been further consolidated by the subsequent governments. The experience of encountering the tall columns of printed documents Jarpa had displayed in the museum was somehow similar to entering a gothic cathedral. The display of information was overwhelming in its quantity—despite it being only a small fraction of the available material—as well as unattainable in terms of legibility. The distance between my body and the documents that were progressively moving upwards, becoming unreadable, untouchable and abstract, was also the distance between my knowledge of the events—the ultimate, official confirmation that this happened, that this is what they did—and any sense of agency to disturb it.
But the documents were not only moving upwards but also falling from the top, like rain, perhaps emulating the neoliberal trickle-down economy in which the inevitable excess of wealth from the powerful will eventually spill down to the lower classes. It was, after all, from the top down that the information—as well as the permanent, visible and predominant marks of erasure inscribed on it—was declassified and made public.
40 years later the information was there, openly displayed, easily accessible, overwhelmingly grandiose—abstract, saintly, finally revealed. All the rumors, the uncertain words, the gaps, the news that never came, the silenced witnesses, the causes, the answers, their answers, those words that they so cruelly forced them to say, who are you, who were you with, what were you doing, what is her name; the answers that were so necessary for them to find them, to stop them, to break them, to prevent them from seeing, meeting, planning, fighting—all that seemed to be finally resolved. But the cathedral silence surrounding the monumental display of declassified documents, the coldness emanating from the hundreds of photocopies, evidenced the loss of so many sounds, so many voices, so many whispered and perhaps tender conversations between disappearing bodies, so many worlds imagined. The almost blunt, easy display of the information rendered it strangely banal, despite its importance, as if it was a parallel story, not my story, not their story, and yet so evidently there, so very well documented.
“When the whole purpose of the verbal denial is to ensure that everyone knows just enough to scare normalization into a state of nervous exhaustion; when there are guileless ghosts and malevolent ghosts living in tight quarters; when the whole situation cries out for clearly distinguishing between truth and lies, between what is known and what is unknown, between the real and the unthinkable and yet that is what is precisely impossible; when people you know or love are there one minute and gone the next; when familiar words and things transmute into the most sinister of weapons and meanings; when an ordinary building you pass every day harbors the facade separating the scream of its terroristic activities from the hushed talk of fearful conversations; when the whole of life has become so enmeshed in the traffic of the dead and the living dead.”[xiii]
In October 18th, 2019, after two days of massive protests the president of Chile Sebastián Piñera declared, for the first time in democracy, a state of emergency. It was the beginning of a major, shocking and yet expected reenactment of brutal state violence that took place, this time, in the dismembered landscape of Chile. The subway system inaugurated by Pinochet became a major site of dispute and explosion; the supermarkets were transformed into temporary places of torture and disappearance. They were shooting them in the eyes with steel pellets. They were forcing teenage girls in the police quarters to take their clothes off and squat. They were burning the city and making them look guilty. They are still doing it.
It was as if the past, its images, its ghosts and sounds exploded altogether, so visibly and audibly merging with the present. The streets were filled with military tanks and the sound of cacerolazos. Victor Jara’s voice and his song “El derecho de vivir en paz” was revived and became the new anthem for young protesters.
This time you are there; it was not someone else’s story. You are there and I am afraid, for the first time, that our familiar words and things—thousands of hours of conversations recorded in our cell phones, thousands of things I said, you said, what did I say, what did you say, what are my friends doing right now, who will be rendered guilty—might turn into the most sinister of weapons and meanings. That the building you pass every day harbors the façade separating the scream of its terroristic activities.
The comings and goings of paranoia, the need for you to let me know that you returned home safely, your enthusiasm about this event, this unexpected interruption, the hope of thousands of people becoming improvised warriors, and my experiencing all this from my own, private exile, from the same familiar distance, from this foreign language and its borrowed words and this voice I don’t entirely own and I can barely recognize myself in,
from this place
in which I feel
perhaps for the first time
that I belong.
ENDNOTES
[i] Avery Gordon, Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011), 166.
[ii] Mercurio. “Confirman Hallazgo De 13 Restos De Detenidos Desaparecidos En Colina.” Emol, January 1, 2004. https://www.emol.com/noticias/nacional/2002/06/25/88614/confirman-hallazgo-de-13-restos-de-detenidos-desaparecidos-en-colina.html.
[iii] Marcella Schmidt di Friedberg, Geographies of disorientation, (London: Routledge, 2019), 18.
[iv] The Central Intelligence Agency. CIA DOCUMENT OF HUMAN MANIPULATION: Kubark Counterintelligence Interrogation Manual. (IMPORTANT Books, 2017). https://nsarchive2.gwu.edu/NSAEBB/NSAEBB122/#kubark
[v] Judith Butler, “Torture and the ethics of photography,” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, vol. 25 (2007): 951-966.
[vi] Pedro Lemebel, “La Orquídeas Negras de Mariana Callejas,” Pedro Lemebel (blog), March, 2006.
[vii] Katia Chornik, “Música y tortura en centros de detención chilenos: conversaciones con un ex agente de la policía secreta de Pinochet,” Resonancias: Revista de investigación musical, vol. 18, n 34, (January–June 2014), 111-126. My translation.
[viii] Katia Chornik, “Memories of Music in Political Detention in Chile Under Pinochet,” Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies, vol. 27 (2018), 157-173.
[ix]Stephen Best, None Like Us: Blackness, Belonging, Aesthetic Life, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2018), 17, 115.
[x]Nelly Richard, The Insubordination of Signs: Political Change, Cultural Transformation, and Poetics of the Crisis, (Durham: Duke University Press, 2004).
[xi]Nelly Richard, Cultural Residues: Chile in Transition, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2004).
[xii] Marc Augé, Non-Places: Introduction to a Anthropology of Super Modernity (New York: Verso, 2008) 77.
[xiii] Avery Gordon, Ghostly Matters, 64.
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