September 11, 1973

On September 11, 1973 is the date of the U.S. backed coup and murder of democratically elected Salvador Allende and the subsequent torture and murder of thousands under Augusto Pinochet in Chile.

As an American, the date September 11th is significant because, in my senior year of high school, that is when the Taliban flew airplanes into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and a field in Pennsylvania. However, in my three years of high school prior to that day in 2001, I was never taught that September 11th was significant to the people of Chile. I wasn't taught that in our quest to bring democracy to the world, we murdered a democratically-elected president because we weren't fans of Socialism. It wasn't until years later, when reading the poetry collection Fire in the Soul, that I came upon the following poem:

Rich Woman, Poor Woman

I am a woman
I am a woman

I am a woman born of a woman, whose man owned a factory.
I am a woman born of a woman, whose man labored in a factory.

I am a woman whose man wore silk suits, who constantly watched his weight.
I am a woman whose man wore tattered clothing, whose heart was constantly strangled by hunger.

I am a woman who watched two babies grow into beautiful children.
I am a woman who watched two babies die because there was no milk.

I am a woman who watched twins grow into popular college students with summers abroad.
I am a woman who watched three children grow, but with bellies stretched from no food.

But then there was a man:
But then there was a man:

And he talked about the peasants getting richer by my family getting poorer.
And he told me of days that would be better, and he made the days better.

We had to eat rice.
We had rice.

We had to eat beans!
We had beans.

My children were no longer given summer visas to Europe.
My children no longer cried themselves to sleep.

And I felt like a peasant.
And I felt like a woman.

A peasant with a dull, hard, unexciting life.

Like a woman with a life that sometimes allowed a song.

And I saw a man.
And I saw a man.

And together we began to plot with the hope of the return to freedom--
I saw his heart begin to beat with hope of freedom, at least …

Someday, the return to freedom.
Someday freedom.

And then,

But then,

One day,
One day,

There were planes overhead and guns firing close by.
There were planes overhead, and guns firing in the distance.

I gathered my children and went home.
I gathered my children and ran.

And the guns moved farther and farther away.
But the guns moved closer and closer.

And then, they announced that freedom had been restored!
And then, they came, young boys really …

They came into my home along with my man.
They came and found my man.

Those men whose money was almost gone--
They found all of the men whose lives were almost their own.

And we all had drinks to celebrate.
And they shot them all.

The most wonderful martinis.
They shot my man.

And then they asked us to dance.
And then they came for us.

Me.
For me, the woman.

And my sisters.
For my sisters.

And then they took us.
Then they took us.

They took us to dinner at a small, private club.
They stripped from us the dignity we had gained.

And they treated us to beef.
And then they raped us.

It was one course after another.
One after the other they came at us.

We nearly burst we were so full.
Lunging, Plunging … sisters bleeding, sisters dying …

It was magnificent to be free again!
It was hardly a relief to have survived.

And then we gathered the children together.
And then, they took our children --

And he gave them some good wine

And they took their scissors --

And then we gave them a party.
And then they took the hands of our children …

The beans have almost disappeared now.
The beans have disappeared.

The rice: I’ve replaced it with chicken or steak.
The rice, I cannot find it.

And the parties continue, night after night to make up for all the time wasted.
And my silent tears are joined once more by the midnight cries of my children.

And I feel like a woman again.
They say, I am a woman.

This poem was written by a working-class Chilean woman in 1973 after the murder of Chile's socialist president, Salvador Allende. It was translated by a US Missionary who brought it back to America when she was forced to leave Chile. The author is unknown.