Daily Life in a City of Protest

by Saphrina Berger (New Zealand)

Making a local connection Chile

“This used to be a McDonald’s. All the shops on this part of the street used to be open.” “ALL these shops?” I reply to him. He is a Chilean who has been living in Santiago for a few years now. I met him a couple of days ago. The part of the street we are talking about is Avenida Libertador Bernado O’Higgins close to the Plaza Italia. In October 2019, a wave of protests started as a consequence of subway fare raises and ongoing social injustice. These have calmed down but are yet going on and still very vibrant. During the day this area is usually pretty tranquil except for the daily traffic chaos. But around 5pm, especially on Fridays, protesters give themselves a voice again. And the “pacos”, a nickname for Chile’s police men, try to keep these voices down. My friend is one of these voices. He was one of millions on the streets of Santiago a few months ago. Santiago...a city I never really wanted to go to. But my future travel plans and the fact that I had to sell my car before leaving this beautiful continent has finally led me there. So, here I was trying to make the best out of my stay. And within days the city, with all its history, has earned a spot right in my nature loving heart. I still despise the smog, crowds and all the noise. But when I walk through the streets I feel the walls of the buildings literally screaming at me. They tell me stories of protesters, of people fighting for what they consider to be right. On the outside of the Centro Gabriela Mistral not only pictures but also clothing of so called Detenidos Desaparecidos, the missing detainees, are displayed. This term developed during Pinochet’s dictatorship from 1973 to 1990. It describes people, usually opponents, who “were disappeared” under unexplained circumstances. Up to the present moment there are still new cases discovered. Signs such as “Donde están?”, meaning “Where are they?”, show a desperate cry for help of families left behind. Tonight, on our way to have some beers I suddenly find myself walking towards one of the nightly police-protesters clashes. My friend is guiding a path behind the police. But not without making funny moves behind their backs to show his sympathy for the protesters. A few minutes later I find myself at a table taking the first sip of my beer. I will spend the next hours asking my friend all kinds of questions about the protests. He will show me videos of him being right in the middle of the crowds. How he almost got hit by a fire cracker shot directly at him by a police man. Later, on the way home we pass the Crown Plaza Hotel which is shut down because it was stormed when the protests began. We also pass the university that is one block away from my hostel. It was destroyed and burned down back then. Every Friday it is burned over and over again, also as a sign of protest. When I am taking photographs of it the next day a man comes up to me. The bits of Spanish I know help me to understand that he is actually from a small Chilean village and only here to have an operation. He is overwhelmed by what the city looks like, points at the university and says “muy mal y terrible”. I look at the broken down black left overs of the building. I also think of my friend and everything he told me last night. It is not the language barrier that keeps me speechless in that very moment. So, I just nod and give the man an awkward smile before I go my ways.