Staffrider Vol.6 No.2 1985 - DISA

'You have two minutes.' The silencedragged. I noticed for the first time thatI could hear the dim sound of trafficfrom the highway below. My toes wereitchy but I could not scratch thembecause my arms were linked. And thenall I could hear was the dog's panting,the sounds of their rough tonguesrubbing against their teeth. I shivered,the tingling feeling flowing along myupper arms and up the back of my head.'You have one minute. Get ready,men.'Time longer than rope, the thoughtrepeated itself over and over in mymind, seeming to speed up as theseconds passed. Hazily I heard, 'Clearthese steps.' As if in slow motion Isaw the first line move forward, roughlythrowing the brave band of three behindthem. 'John was right,' I thought. Thenslow motion speeded up accompaniedby the most terrible sounds, viciousbarking, screams, the dull thuds ofwood on flesh, tearing flesh. Everythingin front of me looked like fast actioncaptured on slow speed film, a blur ofmovement, hands feet dogs clubs. Theyprogressed up the stairs. People in frontof us tried to get up and run backwards,falling like dominoes, adding to thecrush. I bowed my head freeing myarms to protect my body as best Icould. It was like a fight in a turkeycoop with feathers flying everywhere.The line of police was drawing closerand closer. Slow but steady progressup the steps. Madness seemed to haveovertaken our world.Suddenly I was aware amidst thechaos, of strange movements from John.He sat up straight and then his bodystarted shaking, like a witchdoctor intrance. His face contorted uncontrollably.I tried to shake him, his eyesrolled back and I realised what washappening. He was having a fit. Wordsechoed in my mind, 'The most importantthing is to ensure that the person havinga fit is not in any physical danger.' Thepolice were upon us. I screamed, 'He'shaving an epileptic fit, for Christ sakegive him room!' I felt the blow of abaton on my back. The pain. I struggleddesperately to protect John with mybody. I was ripped off and thrownbackwards. He lay convulsing on theground with batons and dogs all overhim. I seemed to be the only personwho knew what was happening. Hismovements seemed to incense the dogsand the batons flew into his body withrepeated thuds. I tried desperately toget to him, no longer feeling my ownpain. As I was flung backwards again Isaw that the people on the roof of thelibrary were standing up now, handsraised over the scene below, dead still,in a Hitler salute. #With EndlessLoveto Victor JaraThough his songsare strong and powerfuland bitter and determinedand angry and violentand revolutionary and uncompromising,they have at their very base,at their very foundationa certain happiness.A happinesswhich is like a star to a child:though it appears little and close by,it is in fact large, very large,large enough for all to see,to feel,to experience,(for some to embrace — heroic and visionary,for others to fear — irritating and defiant)a happiness which stubbornly rejoicesat a victory certain to be won.But yet so deep,so deep within him,so farthat no bullet could ever reach it.Victor Jara is dead.His hands were brokenhis body was smashed.But the defiant happinesswhich they seeked to killwas not only in Victor,not only in the stadium,not only in the songs,or Santiago, or Chile, or Latin America . . .but embedded in the bosomsof the rising oppressedSo must we remainWe, who rise before the sunand rest only after it has gone.We, even though we harden ourselves like steelto fight,even though our armouryincludes the bitterest of bitterthe angriest of angerthe most violent of violence,we must nurture and cherishwithin ourselves,within our furthermost recessthat which makes us human.For otherwisewe will bethemFarouk StemmetFarouk Stemmet28 STAFFRIDER, VOL. 6 NO. 2, 1985