The Wish To Live: My Fight to Survive

By Jaime A. A. Espinoza

The book describes in an entertaining way the life of the author from his childhood, with the antics of his age; his connection and stay in the Chilean Navy, the adventures he lived as a sailor on the Quiriquina Island, the naval base of Punta Arenas, and Valparaiso; his detention in the Quinta normal Santiago de Chile, in the jails and concentration camps, the torments he had to endure and the several times he was one step away from death, accused unjustly of sedition and mutiny in the trial of sailors constitutionalists, who opposed the military coup of September 11, 1973, although he rejected the seditious plans of the Navy officially, was not part of the group and his opposition was purely personal.

It is human work that shows openly the horrors committed by some military regime that lived in Chile for 1973 – 1990.

To write this book, the author traveled back to the past in the time he lived what happened; is written using the same language without sparing the original vocabulary of the youth of those years, remembering the moment, without thinking about grammar, presenting the reader the opportunity to live and feel the drama of the situation.

The action, the adventure, and the drama are narrated with feeling, laughter, and tears of a human being.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645848974

Book preview

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The Wish To Live

My Fight to Survive

Jaime A. Espinoza

Copyright © 2019 Jaime A. Espinoza

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc. 2019

ISBN 978-1-64584-898-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64584-897-4 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Objective

Introduction

Chapter 1

My Life in the Chilean Armed Forces

Chapter II

Confined to the Sailors Detentionat Silva Palma in Valparaíso

Chapter III

Detained in the Public Prison of Valparaíso

Chapter IV

Detained at the Risk Island Concentration Camp

Chapter V

The Concentration Camp of Puchuncaví

Chapter VI

Detained in the Public Jail of Valparaíso

Chapter VII

My life in New York, USA

Chilenismos

Alphabetical Index

This is the true story of Jaime A. Espinoza and his life-and-death experience in the concentration camps in Chile from September 11, 1973, to April 1975.

Author

Jaime A. Espinoza

The author and protagonist of this story, born in Chile, was a member of the Chilean Navy from 1971 to 1973. He was detained and incarcerated in the concentration camps from 1973 to 1975. This book will give you a glimpse into his life.

Coauthor

Edgar Van Den Berghe

The coauthor is an industrial economist with a PhD in business administration and has been a college professor in Colombia for thirty-five years. He is the author of seven books and regularly speaks at conferences.

To be able to write this book, the author traveled back in time to piece together his painful past and the events that helped to shape his life. This book was written using the language and vocabulary of young people of those times. The author wants to give the readers the opportunity to feel and live the drama as it unfolded.

This real-life, action-adventure narrative is revealed only with the depth of feeling of a person who has endured these traumatic and life-altering events.

This book encompasses the author’s life from his childhood through his time in the Chilean Army and the adventures he lived as a sailor in the Quiriquina Island Naval Base in Talcahuano, Punta Arenas, and Valparaíso.

It also exposes some of the horrors of his detention in different enclosures such as Quinta Normal in Santiago, Chile, as well as prisons and concentration camps. It follows him as he withstands the sufferings and torments over which he had to prevail. Constitutionals opposed the coup d’état of September 11, 1973, and the author was falsely accused of sedition and rebellion at the Navy trial, which brought him to death’s door.

Thank You

To my friend Edgar Van den Berghe, without his encouragement and support, I would have been unable to finish this book. For the past thirty-five years, I have lived in the United States and have had no need to practice my Spanish, and I only attended school until the ninth grade. My friend Edgar, who is a professor, taught me to believe in myself. From him I learned that big things in life need sacrifice. He told me that nothing is impossible and with dedication and perseverance I would achieve my goals.

For many years on Saturdays and Sundays, we spent most of the day laughing, crying, and working together on this project. He corrected my Spanish orthography of this book. I am forever indebted to my friend Edgar for his unwavering support.

Special thanks to my unfortunate compatriots, especially Ernesto Zuñiga (RIP), killed by the military dictatorship, and Gaston Gomez, to whom we gave moral and psychological support in order to survive the most tragic moments of this terrible experience.

To the former sailors—Julio Gajardo, Jaime Salazar, Nelson Córdoba (RIP), Victor Martinez, Santiago Rojas, Juan Dotte, Sergio Fuentes, Rodolfo Claro, Bernardo Flórez, Pedro Lagos, Carlos Alvarado, Ricardo Tobar, Tomas Alonso, Pedro Blasset, and all the other constitutionalist sailors who were prisoners with me in the concentration camps that are mentioned in this book. In July 2005, I had a reunion at my house in New York with the first six people mentioned in this paragraph after thirty years had passed.

These friends completed and provided me with information, some of it highly confidential, that you will find in this book.

To Jaime Salazar (El Mente) for helping me recall some of the events that had occurred while we were in prison.

To Eduardo Espinoza, my father, for keeping the newspapers from those times. He was shocked to see the picture of me in the newspapers and to read that his son had been accused of sedition and mutiny.

To my daughter Zina Espinoza for helping me translate this book to English and finding the right words to describe human emotions

To Luis Cerpa for coming from Canada to help me with part of our history and word accents.

MAPA DE SURAMERICA MAPA DE CHILE

Fuente: The Land and People of Chile by J. David Bowen

Objective

To present to the world through this autobiography the personal experience of the atrocities and tortures suffered by the author from July 1973 to April 1975. A military group speaking Spanish with an accent was responsible for these atrocities and tortures.

Because I had refused to kill my compatriots, which would have led to civil war, I try to impart to the reader the very real and difficult moments I had to face because my thought processes were different.

I present a historical and accurate document for the entire world, especially Chileans who either ignore or do not accept the reality of what had happened in the country. I sincerely hope that these sad events never occur again in our beloved Chile and that our children and grandchildren enjoy a democratic and free country.

This book also serves as a tribute to the Chileans who lost their lives for refusing to torture and kill their fellow compatriots. I also respect those who were not able to rebel because they would have paid the price with their lives.

I want to invite my unfortunate companions, through the lens of this book, to break down our ideological differences and continue living as brothers, just as we did as captives. We all had a common cause, a mutual support we gave each other when we most needed it. And now that time has passed, we think of the many tragedies that we lived through together and those few nice moments that will carry us onward for the rest of our days. Let us continue to unite and acclaim from the deepest point of our hearts, Viva La Armada Chilena! Viva Chile!

Introduction

A aaarrggghhhh! Nooo! Nooo! Noo! Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!

Screaming, I opened my eyes and awoke once more, kicking and flailing my arms while reliving the pain of the torture my body had received. With agitated breaths, cold sweat, and a dry throat, I could hear my partner, Gloria, flicking the lights on, and with a disdainful voice, she bellowed, You are crazy! You need help! I am tired of your kicks and nightmares! I’m going to sleep with my son in his room!

Raising my body, I sat on the edge of the bed, my hair and body drenched in sweat. I was gasping for breath, my heart slamming loudly against my chest while I tried to disentangle myself from this unending nightmare. Sometimes I would awaken and go to the bathroom to wash my face, but at the sight of my pale and anguished reflection in the mirror, I would panic and desperately drink water while I struggled to calm down. Other times, I could not avoid the ceaseless flow of tears as my consciousness traveled back in time into my past, a past that has always weighed heavily on my body and mind. This is how I lived for the first five years after being granted freedom.

It has now been almost forty years, and the pain and scars are still my constant companions. Those torturous and traumatic experiences have consigned me to a life sentence of agonizing memories and unending physical pain.

I could never begin to imagine that the innocent boy who dreamed of one day being a man of the sea, a sailor, would end up living a life of ceaseless agony.

* * *

At this time, I found myself speaking with a girl by the name of Margarita three houses down from where I lived on the road 21 Sur of the Village of José María Caro in Santiago, Chile. Here, the roads were made of dirt where the government had constructed modest houses. The lots were large and divided into two homes with a large wall marking the highest section of the lot where the two roofs crept over on each side. Each house had a total of two rooms. A wall also divided the bathroom, which was separated from the house in the middle of the lot. All the homes in the neighborhood had a front yard surrounded by a fence, precisely where Margarita and I were speaking.

Suddenly, I heard a voice yelling at me, Jaime, go and see your mother. It looks like she is dead.

It was my stepfather. He was holding the hand of my four-year-old brother, Osvaldo. My eyes opened wide, and in a panic I asked, Where is she?

At godmother Matilde’s.

Without listening to the end of his sentence, I leaped to my feet and started running. The house was five or so blocks away. I ran desperately, as fast as my legs could move, as if I had discovered running for the first time. It seemed to me that I would never reach the place my mother was. I prayed to God that He not take my mother from me, because I needed her. I pleaded to let this be nothing serious, and I begged for his help to make her better.

Without slowing down, I entered the house and screamed, Where is she?

Immediately after, I heard She’s in the bedroom.

In a breath, I found myself at her feet. Seeing her silent, purple body lying on the bed, I felt that I had taken too long and arrived there too late.

While tears rolled down my face, I knelt beside her, taking her hands in mine and kissing them, whispering, Mother, don’t leave me, I need you.

A few seconds passed, and I jolted up thinking, This is an attack of some sort, she’s choking, and a doctor can save her.

With this idea in my mind, I desperately ran in search of a taxi. In the village where I lived, one needed to go to the main road in order to find transport.

There was no time for rest. I sprinted to the main road and ran around until I found a taxi. I jumped in, gave him the direction to the home, and rushed out as soon as we reached the house, toward the bedroom where my mother was. My uncle Tolin faced her and knelt to pick her up. I shouted and said, No, nobody touch her! I took her in my arms with all the strength given to me in my desperation to save her. She felt light as a feather as I took her to the taxi. Inside, I rested her head on my shoulder, reminiscing about how she used to rest mine on hers when I was younger. Soon we arrived at the clinic.

I left her in the care of a group of male nurses who came to help with a stretcher, one of them exclaiming, This woman looks dead.

Those words were daggers to my heart, but my head refused to accept it as fact. After some time, a doctor approached, offering me his condolences. He told me that my mother had suffered a stroke. I carried myself toward the room where her body was and hugged her fiercely. I wanted to tell her goodbye. It was my final farewell. I cried over her lifeless body and continued to for some time, resting my head on the stretcher the nurses had placed her on.

My stepfather Oscar approached me and coldly said, Okay, that’s enough crying, kid.

Those words surprised and bothered me. I asked myself if this man had truly loved my mother, as this reality was far too difficult for me to accept. The person who gave me life, who gave me my existence, was no longer by my side. With her death, I lost my moral and economic support. It was December 6, 1970, and I was sixteen years old.

After my mother’s death, I decided to continue with plans toward enlisting in the Chilean Navy. My mother and I had spoken about it, and we decided that this was the best chance for me to have a decent future. Our economic situation was not good enough to pay for me to study and have a career. I felt upset that I could not rely on my own father. I had decided to leave my father’s house at the age of fourteen. I could no longer stand the physical abuse. My father thought that I was a very rebellious child. I never received the familial love that a child expects from parents. I might have lived in my father’s house, but it never felt like my home.

With every passing day, I could feel more and more the gaping absence left by my mother. Although I loved my grandmother, I constantly asked myself, Why did my mother die when I was so young? Why has destiny been so cruel to me? My moral and sentimental responsibility for my siblings—Oriana, eight, and Osvaldo, four—weighed heavily on my conscience, as I knew they could not protect themselves. What would their future be? What was my destiny? I researched and analyzed several alternatives to direct my life. I was completely disoriented, more by need than love for the military. I decided to enlist and never imagined that I would grow to love and wear the uniform with pride, a cadet of the Chilean Navy.

Chapter 1

My Life in the Chilean Armed Forces

When I went to deliver the paperwork, I almost turned back. The line of aspiring youngsters was several blocks long, but I knew that I had to finish what I had started, which my mother had always told me. That year, fifteen thousand young people took the selection test. A physical examination was followed by the educational exams that were administered in the Quinta Normal in Santiago. After the tests, only seven hundred hopeful recruits enlisted into the Chilean Navy, and happily, I was one of them. This was the first major achievement of my life, one that served as the starting point to the future challenges that presented themselves to me during my career in the Chilean Navy.

I was assigned to the cadet training facility on the island of Quiriquina in Talcahuano. We were told to present ourselves at the naval base Quinta Normal in Santiago to later be transported to a base in Valparaíso in a bus similar to those used to travel across the country. It was incredibly exciting to see Valparaíso with its great cove and multitude of merchant, fishing, and sailing vessels. Although the view was stunning, the most fascinating sight to me was the image of the powerful warship fleet of the Chilean Navy.

At the base, we were given a large green canvas bag to put our new clothes, shoes, boots, shirts, pants, and even toothbrush in. Everyone received the objects with glee and excitement. The majority of us were happy and smiling broadly, believing that the dream we held for so long had finally come true, the dream to be a part of the Navy. We had plans to travel the world and live a life of true sailors with adventures and women in every port. For now, we stood in the base, learning about its buildings and receiving military instruction, without forgetting the dream of the open ocean. With that optimistic illusion, the young dreamers who think life is always rosy, who dream of adventure and overcoming challenges and expecting a happy ending like those in Hollywood films, could never begin to imagine the reality of what lay ahead for them and what they would have to endure. When young, a person is a dreamer and possesses an optimism that is contagious, but sometimes it is all just an illusion.

I had my first experience at sea a week later, aboard an oil tanker named The Araucano, which transported us from Valparaíso to the Quiriquina Island in Talcahuano. The trip took twelve monotonous hours, which, because of the waves and the swaying of the ship in the high seas, caused many of us to become nauseous and seasick. We vomited, desperately grabbing on to some portside and starboard vessel cables. After a few hours, we no longer had anything in our stomachs left to vomit. A sour liquid that produced a nauseating odor came up instead. A sergeant with years of experience walked by us and told us, laughing, If you throw up something black and hairy, swallow it back because it’s your asshole! I looked at him in disgust, not seeing the humor or his enjoyment at seeing us in such a terrible state. When we finally arrived at the Quiriquina Island, our faces were pale yellow, with no strength to stand. We felt weak. This was our first trial by fire.

Shouts and military authority welcomed us to the base. The next day, five of my peers had already asked to leave. They were completely demoralized, and their ideals had been shattered. How long did their dream of being sailors last? They felt unable to continue despite the encouragement we gave them. They had realized that the life of a sailor was not the fantasy they had imagined in the beginning.

On arrival there we were assigned litters. In the base, there were huge sheds called divisions, with 130 bunk beds in each. Six of the divisions filled up rapidly, and they began to give us instructions: You must get up at 5:15 a.m. after hearing reveille (‘La Diana’). You must go to sleep at 10:00 p.m. after hearing the horn play a melody call, ‘Silent.’ There should be no sounds made after the horn is played.

The next day was one of instruction and organization. Naturally, we had to have a lovely haircut where the ones who most enjoyed the activity were the barbers.

When a new cadet walked in, they had the humor to ask, How do you want it? What style?

More than one answered Not too short, and the barbers kindly replied, All right.

They’d stamp the buzzer right in the middle of the head until they reached the neck and asked, Is this all right?

Those of us who were already shaved watched through the windows and began laughing. We already knew how that story would end.

The naval academy was located on the shore of the Quiriquina Island. Early in the morning while it was still dark, we would wake abruptly and be startled to hear the sound of the trumpets playing the awakening call La Diana. With authoritative shouts, they ordered us to line up and march out in bathing suits. Soon they’d lead us toward the sand on the beach to stand in a line facing the water. Shouting, they ordered, To the water! We sprinted, leaping into the freezing ocean. When ordered, we retreated from the water, shivering and ready to stand in formation once more. Two sergeants and one corporal inspected us with flashlights, ensuring that we were completely drenched in seawater. Some of my peers decided they’d be clever and only stand by the edge of the ocean and wet their legs. The sergeants took those clever cadets to the docks, and with a kick to the ass, they were thrown into the ocean.

In the Navy there’s no room for cheaters!

Immediately after the ice bath in the ocean, with our bodies shivering from the cold, we jogged in formation, returning toward the divisions to take showers and rid ourselves of the layer of salt the ocean left on our bodies. We made lines to enter completely naked into the showers, which had no doors. The modesty that we brought from home and that our parents had raised us with was completely destroyed. The showers had one entrance and one exit, much like a tunnel. We learned quickly that time was an important factor upon entering—wetting, lathering, and rinsing. We always had to keep moving, never once stopping. Sometimes you’d hear voices saying, Be careful, comrade, I might nail you. Sometimes the warning was too late, and the arguments began. Hey, you motherfucker! What’s wrong with you? Are you that horny? What the fuck, man! Dropping the soap was a serious problem. You had to pick it up as fast as possible and keep your ass against the wall as you did so.

With time, we were able to overcome the challenges we faced and became immune to embarrassment. We were young men, full of vitality and energy. Most of the time we would awaken with our penises erect. Some sailors adopted a tradition of using them as a clothes hanger. I would hang my towel on it as I walked toward the shower. Another sailor felt jealous and put his boots over his, saying, These are heavier! These were some of the changes from civil to military life, the beginning of our new life in the Navy.

We were given breakfast at 6:00 a.m., which consisted of tea and some bread and oats with milk. At 7:00 a.m. the academy’s sailors had to form into seven groups of 135 sailors. After formation, we started immediately with the physical and infantry training, activities that lasted all morning and continued into part of the afternoon.

The infantry drills consisted of carrying weapons with belts crossed over our shoulders, wearing pockets filled with ammunitions and a helmet while carrying our bayonetted rifles. In full armament, we were made to run through the mountains. Sweating to death, we had to learn the military drills precisely and without error; they had to be completed to perfection. At noon, we’d receive a break, which consisted of a modest lunch. For us, a group of young men ranging from sixteen to twenty years old, still developing physically and exhausted after completing physical activity for four hours, food seemed scarce. We’d always leave the cafeteria wanting more.

By the afternoon, we’d undergo more infantry drills. In order to train us to be true sailors, the officers took us to the ocean to row, navigate the sea by sail, and become familiar with the ships. We also competed in a tug of war and were made to race each other in obstacle courses and short marathons. The instructors also taught us how to shoot rifles and high-caliber machine guns. It was entertainment. It was fun, although it was difficult and tiring.

Once we were taking turns shooting a 20 mm machine gun. Our target was a floating bag about five hundred meters away from us in the ocean. Everything was going great as I anxiously awaited my turn to shoot. One of the recruits had a nervous breakdown when shooting and started firing out of control. Our sergeant shouted, To the ground! A corporal, an artillery expert, knocked the recruit down. A few days later, the cadet responsible for this dangerous incident was discharged.

Little by little, the group of aspiring sailors shrunk. You needed determination, strength, and heart to remain there. I remember when I read the book La Araucana, written by the Spanish conquistador Alonso de Ercilla who described the Chilean natives as the fiercest, most indomitable men he had ever encountered. I told myself, If I have even one drop of that Araucanian blood running in my veins, I will overcome all these obstacles.

We always discovered something new inside the military academy that prepared us to defend our country from a possible war.

Our sergeant instructor told us on one occasion something incredibly wise that I’ll never forget, It’s our duty to prepare ourselves in time of peace for war, and if someday war arrives, we will be ready. It’s something that would never come to pass but would expand our love for our country and its ideals.

For the first three months, we were completely isolated, without being able to see visitors or leave the base. After that time period, every weekend, we would go to the port, on the naval vessel El Meteoro. At the port, we’d take ourselves to parks or restaurants to look for women we could flirt with. If not, we’d ask some acquaintance in the town to present us to a female friend. At night, we would frequent bars and whorehouses with young prostitutes. There, I learned how to drink beer. Every weekend I’d dance and enjoy my nights of freedom. I’ve always been a fun-loving person. I like to laugh. Little by little, more and more friends would begin disappearing after falling in love for the night. I always made my exit with the excuse that I had promised my girlfriend to not have any sexual relations. Though I would leave a nice tip to the women who spent time with me so that they wouldn’t feel as if their night had been wasted.

A few months later, a friend named Ramon approached me and asked, Tell me the truth, are you gay?

I stared at him, surprised, and exclaimed, "No, hueon! Fuck no! Are you crazy?"

Then how come you never spent the night with La Gata (The Kitty)! She’s hot for you.

La Gata was a young whore with a nice body and incredible green eyes. I sat thinking, took a deep breath, and said, If you promise not to tell anyone and not laugh at me, I’ll tell you.

Ramon stretched his arm out, offering me a hand in a sign of promise and said, Okay, compadre.

We gave each other a firm handshake. This gave me confidence in him, and I told him, Well, the first reason is that my father warned me that someday, if I spent the night with a whore, if my dick didn’t fall off, I was going to have deformed children, and that scares the shit out of me.

I looked at Ramon and noticed a grin, but he stayed silent.

The second reason is that everyone talks about how great fucking is, but the only time I did it, I was fourteen and Adriana, nineteen. She was a maid that my uncles had, and she was a country girl. It hurt so bad. My dick was red like a tomato. The head was swollen, and to avoid hitting my pants, I had to walk around for three days with my hands in my pockets.

Ramon couldn’t hold his laughter any longer and began bursting.

I sat there, looking at him with a serious face, saying, Hey, hueón, you gave me your word that you wouldn’t laugh.

Ramon grabbed his stomach howling with laughter. Eventually he raised his arm and, putting it on my shoulder, said, Yes, compadre, because it was your first time, because you lost your virginity, you lost your top, and now you’re like a convertible.

While he spoke, he couldn’t stop laughing. I felt embarrassed for my lack of experience. I didn’t know what to say. I never had a person to confide in and ask my questions.

Ramon added, I’m going to present you to the friend of my girlfriend, but don’t tarnish my good name. This weekend, you’ll come with me.

I asked him, You think she’ll like me?

Yes. Don’t worry, he answered.

Three long