This
is a story told to me by a remarkable student , She attends my
Philosophy classes and the classes I teach with Jenni Jenkins.
Gabriella is very Latin, the native blood of south America flows in
her veins. She is passionate , intense, exceptionally kind and has a
wicked sense of humour . She contributes so much to the classes and
still laughs in the midst of a life full of losses and tragedies and
yet in Kahil Gibrans words she makes of her heart a chalice through
which she feasts on the elixir of life.. She has been twice a
refugee, confronted several times fascism in all its totalitarian
horror. Yet she understands how we effete progressives of Wales have
never feared the knock on the door in the night, never really
understood what it is to be watched, what it is to wait outside a
prison for her loved ones. She mostly excuses those who claim that
the solution to totalitarianism and fascism is to grant to the
fascists the same rights we would give to the standard political
parties of the west. At those times in the class I think of the
thoughts of Trotsky and his comments about a paving stone and a
fascist. But I am the first person who would run a mile from a
violent encounter and so I stay quiet. This remarkable student is
called Gabriela Gatica Leyton. I have known Gabriella
and her husband Umberto for over 12 years now. Umberto has presence,
he fills a room with both presence and gravitas Here are there
stories
In
1973, General Augusto Pinochet imposed a military dictatorship in
Chile. Gabriela was 23 and had only been married to Umberto for a few
days when he was seized by government officials for "gathering
in a public place" (more than three people together was seen as
an act of treason).
Umberto
was put in prison and tortured. Many of his fellow inmates just
disappeared.ll the prisoners were kept underground, in a cellar,"
says Gabriela. "Over 100 people crammed in a room only big
enough for 10."When Umberto was released, he and Gabriela knew
they had to get out. They left their families behind and were
smuggled by plane into Argentina where they spent a year in a refugee
camp.
It
was freezing, and they weren't allowed to work legally. They got
black market jobs, mending door locks or working in bars - and they
spent hours just sat in a backstreet bookshop trying to keep warm.
Then
their luck changed dramatically - the couple were offered
scholarships to study at Swansea University, under a scheme to help
refugees from Chile in 1976 they moved to Swansea and they're still
there. Gabriella told me a story about an experience she had
recently. She was in Wales and a woman kept asking her where she was
from. Gabriella told her that she was from Mount Pleasant in Swansea.
The woman kept insisting and asking where she was from.In the
intolerant society, this brexit-Ukip poisoned Wales and this Trump polluted world.. Like myself
Gabriela believes that those of us who live in Wales are Welsh.
"We
could cook real food for ourselves," remembers Gabriela. "I
even started physically shaking when I saw four different sorts of
cheese in the supermarket."I always call Wales my adopted mum.
My adopted mum brought me up, gave me opportunities and nurtured me.
One day, my bones will be buried here."
Umberto
and Gabriella fled Chile in the 1970s after Umberto was detained and
tortured under General Pinochet brutal regime. They live in Wales.
Umberto has just retired from 30 years in the department of
Photography at Swansea Metropolitan University, and Gabriella from 25
years as a social worker. Both of their children work in the
NHS.
It’s an incredibly difficult story to tell. Twice exiled. A story of fear, detention, of suspicion and of loss.. Umberto continues
It’s an incredibly difficult story to tell. Twice exiled. A story of fear, detention, of suspicion and of loss.. Umberto continues
We
are Chilean am an artist. In the Chile of the early 1970s I worked in
the Culture Section of a Community Development program, with rural
communities making works of theatre, photography, journalism and
film. This was a community who had never had the chance to see a film
or play before – through artistic expression the doors for social
development could be opened.
But
the community never got to see their first film.
The
military coup of the 11th of
September 1973 by General Augusto Pinochet put Chile under brutal
restrictions and terror.
So
many strange things happened then. I’m still unsure what lead to my
imprisonment, but I think I have some idea.
I
had married my wife, Gabriella, in July 1973. We were young and had
very little money, so after we married I rented a room while she
lived with her mother. We had been married only six weeks when the
military took power.
They
enforced a curfew on Friday nights which stayed in place until the
following Monday. Over the weekends, I stayed with my new wife at her
mother’s home.
After
three or four days I guess my neighbours began to notice I was
‘missing’. Someone reported my absence to the authorities. I
suppose they thought I was a guerrilla member. Two days later I was
detained, interrogated and tortured. No matter the extremes of my
torture, I was unable to give the authorities the information they
wanted. I wasn’t a member of any party. I did not know of the
activities of the guerrilla fighters or where they kept the guns. I
was an artist, a husband. I simply knew nothing. So the torture
continued.
I
was put on a chair, blind-folded so that I didn’t know where the
next punch or kick would come from. In a way I was very lucky – I
wasn’t shocked with electricity the way many others were. A common
method was to tell me – “If you don’t know anything, I’m sure
your wife does.” My young wife and her mother were frequently
harassed by the authorities, their house turned upside down. But of
course neither they, nor I, had any information to offer up.
Weeks
after detention and interrogation I was moved to a sport centre, used
as a detention camp. After a while I was moved to the city
jail, to a political prisoners corridor.
Gabriella
was totally lost, she went into autopilot. Everything you have, the
ordinary things like a salary, a family, to speak, to laugh – were
suddenly all gone. It was like an alternative reality. She couldn’t
visit me and didn’t even know if I was alive or dead.
Once,
after I was moved to the sports centre, she was allowed to send me
some new clothes. She wrote me a letter on very thin rice paper which
she pushed into a minute tube and sewed into the hem of a shirt. I
don’t know how I knew it was there or managed to find it, but I
did. She simply told me she was alive and thinking of me – she told
me to keep faith. Maybe this is what kept me going.
I
was kept in a centre with hundreds of other men. There was no space
to sleep – we took it in shifts to lie down. It was as you see in
American films – men in dark glasses guarded us with machine guns.
Within
the group we were erratically and frequently called for
interrogation. Many men from the group were taken and never returned.
Many disappeared during the night.
In
a climate of such fear and stress we eventually we took to holding
lectures and classes among ourselves – something to provide focus,
give structure and meaning back to our wasted days. The prison was
full of political prisoners of all ages and backgrounds –
university students and professors, journalists, chess masters,
scientists, farmers – teaching and learning maths, music, reading
and writing. I was in charge of the library and in turn studied
creative writing, chess and guitar. There was a theatre group run by
some of Chile’s most famous actors, who were detained alongside the
others.
Eventually,
after 9 months of arbitrary imprisonment, the authorities realised
they were wasting their time with me. I was released without charges.
The
very next day my wife and I visited the Chilean Catholic Church, who
created a body to help political prisoners and the relatives of the
disappeared, taking their cases and offering legal aid.
The
lady lawyer in charge of our case advised us to leave the country,
even though there was not a policy within the organization to
persuade people to go into exile – we couldn’t be sure when
we would be targeted again.
The
very next day, when I went to collect our passports, I was taken in
and questioned by the authorities.
“How
could I possibly have done something in the last 24 hours, since my
release?” I retorted.
Thankfully,
I was quickly let go. The next day, Gabriella and I fled to
neighbouring Argentina to seek asylum.
We
fell in love with the country and with the people. Everywhere people
helped us. There was a true sense of solidarity with Chilean refugees
and we were welcomed like one of their own.
But
it wouldn’t last.
One
year later – in October 1975, a military coup saw the streets fill
with soldiers and their fierce dogs. They were nasty. Foreigners were
intimidated, detained and disappeared. We tried to be invisible.
Suspicions rose. No one knew who could be an informer.
Eventually
we were advised, once again, to leave the country. At the time,
governments around the world offered their support to Chilean
refugees – they knew our lives were seriously at risk if we
remained in Argentina. We left Argentina with a grant from the World
University Service for my wife, the help of the UN Refugee Agency and
a visa extended by the British Consulate in Buenos Aires.
We
arrived in Swansea, Wales and I started working in a Community Centre
in Neath, running photography workshops for young, unemployed people.
I went on to work in the department of Photography of Swansea
Metropolitan University for 30 years.
After
working hard to re qualify and earn a Masters, my wife continued her
vocation as a social worker in Wales. She worked with schools cross
the area with children at risk of physical, sexual or emotional abuse
for 25 years.
When
we first arrived in Wales we expected to only stay for a year or so
until the situation in Chile improved. We didn’t even buy any
furniture, but we kept active working, learning English and
campaigning to raise funds and awareness of what was happening back
home in Chile.
With
the support of the churches, universities and unions in Wales, we
organised huge fundraisers for political prisoners in Chile – the
Welsh absolutely loved the Latin music – the salsa, rumba, cumbia –
and loved the saucepans full of Gabriella’s rice, empanadas and my
chilli con carne.
Gabriella
will always remember the opportunities she has been offered in Wales
and fondly remembers her gratitude after being offered her first job.
She was always treated with respect and on merit – never treated
differently for having an accent, or being a foreigner, being a
refugee. Wales gave her a chance. And she gave so much back to the
community.
This
is our home now, this is our country. Both of my children work for
the NHS. My son qualified as a Biomedical Scientist at Cardiff and
now works as a biologist, testing organs before transplants take
place. My daughter is a mental health nurse.
When
I see people fleeing across the Mediterranean, my heart breaks. We
spent just one year in a refugee camp, these people have spent so
many. The support we were offered from the international community
saved our lives. My wife, children and I are now a valuable part of
our adopted community. I know, first hand, the danger of countries
turning a blind eye to the kind of humanitarian crisis we are
currently witnessing.
You
know, those of us who leave our homes in the morning and expect to
find them there when we go back - it's hard for us to understand what
the experience of a refugee might be like. Naomi Shihab Nye
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