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Spiral of Silence: A Novel
176Overview
Elvira Sánchez-Blake's shattering testimonial novel, Spiral of Silence, breaks thirty-year silences about the traumatizing impact of Colombia's civil war, and centers on the experiences of women who move through hopelessness, loss, and grief during this volatile era in Latin American history.
A multigenerational epic, Spiral of Silence (Espiral de Silencios) opens in the early 1980s, as peace and amnesty agreements spark optimism and hope. We meet Norma, a privileged, upper-class woman who is married to an army general; Maria Teresa (Mariate), a young rebel who loves a guerrilla fighter and navigates commitments to motherhood and revolutionary activism; and Amparo, a woman who comes of age later, and carries the confusion and dislocation of a younger generation. Each contends with the consequences of war and violence on her life; each is empowered through community-building and working for change.
Few authors have considered the role of women in Colombia during this wartime period, and Sánchez-Blake's nuanced exploration of gender and sexism—framed by conflict and social upheaval—distinguishes the novel. Drawing on stories from women who have worked within organizations in Colombia to end state violence, Spiral of Silence celebrates resistance, reinvention, and how women create and protect their families and communities.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780810139169 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Northwestern University Press |
| Publication date: | 01/15/2019 |
| Series: | Curbstone Books 2 Series |
| Pages: | 176 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.60(d) |
About the Author
ELVIRA SÁNCHEZ-BLAKE is an associate professor of Spanish in the Department of Romance and Classical Studies at Michigan State University. She is the author of several books of short stories, poetry, and plays. Among her titles is Latin American Women and the Literature of Madness: Narratives at the Crossroads of Gender, Politics, and the Mind, coauthored with Laura Kanost. Her scholarly interests include Latin American women writers, testimonial literature, gender issues, media, and theater.
LORENA TERANDO is an associate professor of translation and interpreting studies, and chair of the Translation and Interpreting Studies Department at University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee. She is a leading critical translation scholar, focusing on witnessing in translation, trauma studies, and the work of Latin American women novelists. She has translated work by Consuelo Avila, Belén Boville, Esther Cross, María Eugenia Vásquez Perdomo, and Carmen Cecilia Suárez, among others.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Comandante
Amparo
Anyone who knows him says he walks into a room and takes command. He's tall but not towering, striking with his curly hair and muscular build. A man of few words, he is firm but fair. He must have been an army officer at one time, because he is good at balancing authority and compassion. His military training and refined Jesuit schooling were clearly ingrained in him. Comandante is young, but nonetheless his ranks obey him without question. He always has good advice for his subordinates — and his superiors — at the tip of his tongue. He cannot abide disobedience, lack of discipline, or lack of responsibility. He doesn't drink and doesn't seem to have any vices. No one has ever heard him talk about a wife, children, or personal drama. But they do know that Comandante declared all-out war on the guerrilla to avenge his family. The army wouldn't give him what he needed to do away with his enemies, so he joined Carlos Castaño's paramilitary group, and he trained and he trained. He was wholly dedicated to eliminating the guerrilla through "social cleansing."
Comandante and his squad of lieutenants had been hanging around since Monday, according to the village shopkeeper don Eusebio, scoping out the town square and all around it. The village teacher doña Marina said they were stopping the kids and asking questions. And the gossip from Banco Agrario was that on Tuesday, Comandante deposited a hefty chunk of change in the account of some guy named Fidel. The villagers don't trust them. If they happen to cross paths, folks pick up their pace, or hide behind their shawls, or under their hats. Some are even packing their bags to hightail it out before they start threatening people.
Because once the threats start, there's no going back. First, they start pointing fingers at people, then they start pushing them around until, finally, they select their scapegoats. The next step is to kick out the authorities, anyone with any influence, until they've taken over the entire village and become its owners, the señores. Hope is not an option. There is no compassion. Their mission is to exterminate. They call it "counter-insurgency."
It is no secret. The paramilitaries work with narco-traffickers because the narcos fund them; the paras protect the narcos and rake in profits, living rich — and cruel and intimidating. Everyone knows the war has many sides, but in the end, it comes down to a simple fight over the best land for drug crops.
I was the only one who wasn't scared by their being there. I saw them walk over to the juice stand on San Juan plaza that Friday, and I did what I always do when someone new comes to this podunk town. Confident and provocative, I strolled over to take their order.
"What can I get you?" I purred.
His buddies ordered lulo or tamarind juice right away, but Comandante took his time, looking me up and down before he answered.
"Passion fruit, por favor."
I didn't even bat an eye — I knew what I had and wasn't ashamed to flaunt it — and flashed him one of my best smiles. His response was to stare at me, curious. He took off his sunglasses so his eyes could focus. I took advantage to check out the color of his eyes.
"Not bad, not bad at all," I said to myself.
My mom made their drinks and laid down a stern warning: "Be careful with those guys, Amparo. They aren't from around here. Who knows what they have up their sleeves!"
CHAPTER 2A Baby in Prison
Mariate
Miguel's birth was an extraordinary occasion at Medellín's Buen Pastor prison. Inmates and guards alike flooded into the prison's sickbay as the midwives helped me give birth. My friends, the compañeras with the most mamá experience, fought over who was going to coach me in breastfeeding, or teach me how to change his diapers and clean his belly button. Others argued about who was going to lay the aloe leaves on me for the baby's future happiness. They even did a cleansing to purge our jail cells of evil spirits. My compañeras had crocheted little booties and bonnets, rompers and receiving blankets for the baby. It ended up a big fiesta with quite a bit of commotion until Madre Superiora appeared and commanded silence.
"What are you going to name him?" she demanded.
"Miguel Angel," I said.
"Is that the father's name?"
"No, it's for the archangel Miguel, the invincible," was my reply.
But she wasn't paying any attention to me; she was busy with the birth certificate.
When I was finally alone with my little baby boy, I cradled him in my arms.
He was so fragile, it took my breath away. I was barely fifteen, but I knew I was ready to raise him. My family had disowned me the second I landed in jail, and my boyfriend was in jail, too. But I didn't care. I'd get by with the help of my compañeras. I swore I would, again and again.
* * *
Mariate had come to the Buen Pastor of an afternoon six months before, and Nora — a self-assured, all-around good person — was the only one who had welcomed her.
"So, what did you do to land in here, baby girl, sardina?
When Mariate explained why she was there, Nora hugged her and started shouting: "You're one of us, comrade!"
"But I'm not a revolutionary! I didn't do it! It really is all a big misunderstanding."
Mariate told her what had happened. Early one morning an army patrol burst through the door. Bellowing and shouting obscenities, they razed the place and destroyed what little there was. When Mariate saw the weapons they pulled out from the bottom of a trunk, she barely had the time to question Julián with her eyes before he was gone. They dragged him out in cuffs to an army truck, and that was all she knew. She was taken to Buen Pastor. She was surprised by what they were charging her with: subversion, possession of weapons, conspiracy against the state, and a long string of incomprehensible crimes. She had no defense or argument. Nora's reaction to her story surprised Mariate. Nora listened closely; then, as Mariate finished, she looked at her for a bit and told her she should take responsibility for her part in the weapons theft.
"You're a revolutionary. It will be a lot easier for you if you take up the people's cause head-on instead of denying it."
When she saw Mariate's belly she got even more excited. "Plus, just think of the responsibility you have; you will be the mother of a child of the revolution! We are your compañeras, and we'll help you out."
Nora was a true-blue paisa from Antioquia; she was confident, comical, and plucky. She got it into her head to take up a collection among the compañeras in cell block eight, where political prisoners were held, and she led a campaign so they would let Mariate keep her baby in prison. They were all betting on baby names. Some were saying she should call her little one "Libertad," for liberty. No, "Victoria," for victory; or "Esperanza," for hope! But Mariate was emphatic: The baby will be a boy, and he'll be named after an archangel. The money collected allowed her to get a crib, some clothes, diapers, and even a basket full of Johnson & Johnson baby products.
* * *
It was because of my friendship with Nora that I didn't have more problems than I already did. Honestly, I felt very welcomed. It wasn't long before I had become politically engaged and joined the ELN, the Ejército de Liberación Nacional (National Liberation Army). That was how I came to read revolutionary treatises. I learned slogans and began to use sophisticated political terminology. We weren't "friends" anymore; we were "compañeras," "comrades." The "class struggle" would put an end to differences and hierarchies, and the cost of living was called "surplus value." My revolutionary conscience was awakened through secret debates over the legacy of Camilo Torres and the ELN's newsletter NUPALOM, "Ni un paso atrás liberación o muerte," or "Not one step back, freedom or death." In short order, I felt part of the rhetoric that, although it was a bit foreign for me, nonetheless granted me entry into what seemed to be the prison's most respected group. I convinced myself that my boyfriend had done something honorable when he'd stored the ELN's weapons, and that my sentence was justified for the sake of the struggle for and by the people. In the end, I was sentenced to seven years with no trial or appeal. I wasn't even granted early release for pregnancy because I was a political prisoner. But at least they let me keep the baby in prison.
When Miguel was born, I was given a crib to set up in my cell, and my compañeras set up a schedule to help me take care of him. One nun felt sorry for me and taught me to knit. I loved it from the start. Soon my hands were creating itty-bitty sweaters and caps, and tiny, brightly colored ruanas, ponchos that were just adorable on my little man. The first six months went by with me juggling the baby, knitting, and revolutionary slogans. Miguel grew healthy and strong. Little by little he turned into the perfect accomplice for secret meetings, or smuggling love letters in his diapers and bottles. He was the balm for the mamás whose kids weren't with them; he was the longing of young nuns; and the reason for living of disenchanted prostitutes. He was joy in a place where we were all surrounded by hardship and festering, shattered dreams.
CHAPTER 3The Hole
Mariate
Everything fell apart when the M-19, the Movimiento 19 de abril (April 19th Movement), guerrilla commando took over the embassy of the Dominican Republic in Bogotá. They took hostage more than thirty diplomats from the United States, Venezuela, Brazil, Austria, Costa Rica, Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Switzerland, Guatemala, Uruguay, Mexico, Israel, Egypt, and even the Vatican's apostolic nuncio. The operation was called "Democracy and Freedom," and the M-19 compañeros were using it to denounce human rights violations by the military, to draw attention to the penal justice system (aka torture chambers), and to negotiate freedom for the political prisoners packing the country's prisons.
The inmates heard about it at lunch. The TV program was interrupted suddenly by live footage of a barrage of gunfire as the guerrilleros in soccer sweats took over the embassy. Mariate was nursing the baby when Nora and the "Progreso" group started to cheer for the M-19. The magnitude of the event fanned the flames of revolutionary fervor as the rebels called for freedom for all political prisoners. The very thought sent all the political prisoners into a frenzy of excitement. They felt the prison doors swinging open before them, and started banging on tables and chairs, shouting: "Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!" Their joy turned to rage, and things started to get out of control. Common criminals joined in the fray, but on the other side. They hated the proud politicals because they had the advantage of the strength of the revolution, and the spat ballooned into physical confrontations, fistfights, and attacks. Cell block five showed up with knives and started stabbing the compañeras, and then all hell broke loose. Madre Superiora tried in vain to tamp down the riot. She had to call the military police, and a battalion rushed in with tear gas.
We all ended up in the Hole. There was no mercy. The Hole was a dark, somber dungeon for insubordinates. We were there for a week in isolation, broken in body and in spirit, wallowing in the squalor of our own excrement and menstrual blood mingled with scraps of food the nuns tossed at us like wild dogs. Our only comfort was to shout at the top of our lungs and curse our captors. We had no idea what had happened with the takeover or with M-19's plans to negotiate the release of political prisoners. And it was even worse for me. I was completely cut off from my baby that whole time. I cried so much, both my milk and my tears went dry. The guards turned a deaf ear to my pleas. It made them happy to see me so desperate. All I wanted was information about my baby: Who was taking care of him? Where was he? I was petrified they were going to let him starve to death on me. He had been breastfed exclusively till then.
After a week, they let us out. My legs could hardly hold me up, I was so weak. It took me a while to adjust to the light again, and I'd had so little food that waves of dizziness would overtake me. We soon found out that the embassy takeover was not over and no end was in sight. The M-19 and the hostages seemed to have found a rhythm amid the negotiations between the guerrillas' delegate Chiqui and a government commission. Reporters had set up a camp called Villa Chiva near the Dominican embassy, and their reports made it look like the M-19 was having a grand old time over there with their hostages, while we almost died in here for supporting them.
I was taken straight to Madre Superiora. I was unsteady on my feet, pretty dizzy, and she was stern ... Right then and there, she informed me that my baby had been placed with a foster family for the duration of my sentence.
"What? You can't do that!" I shouted as my world came crashing down around me.
"We have been breaking prison rules by letting the minor stay here as long as he did. Military authorities find it highly undesirable for a child to be raised under these conditions. They punished me for having allowed it, and I had to make a drastic decision. This is no place to raise a child, and he will be much better off with a family."
I pleaded and begged, but it did no good. The nun was stoic. She had a heart of stone. She said I might be able to see him on visiting days and assured me that of course I would get my baby back as soon as my sentence was up.
"I'm in for seven years! When I get out my son won't even recognize me," I countered.
"That is not my problem. You are not in a position to take care of him, and I cannot take care of an infant in a penitentiary. Didn't you see what happened? If you are incapable of maintaining good behavior and following prison regulations, you can't be responsible for your son, either. If it makes you feel any better, I can assure you that the boy is being raised in better conditions than you could hope to offer him. The family taking care of him treats him very, very well. As if he were their equal."
As if he were their equal? This was even worse than the Hole. I could not hold back the nausea, and I retched and retched until what little there was in my stomach was emptied. I screamed, I begged, I swore. None of it made a bit of difference.
The nun was disgusted and sent me from her office, threatening me with another week in the Hole if I didn't stop hounding her.
On the way back to my cell, I ran into Nora and collapsed into her arms.
"Nora, let's get out of here. The M-19 is going to get us out, right? I have to get my son back." She was my only hope; she always had a solution for everything. Except now. My paisa friend was firm and pulled my feet straight back down to earth.
"Sardina,come down out of the clouds. Political prisoners are not going to be let out. The military will never let that happen."
Then Nora told me what I didn't yet know. She related the details of how she was ambushed with an ELN commando and subsequently captured by the military. She had survived three months of horrendous torture in the Caballerizas, the army stables, before she was transferred to Buen Pastor.
After an M-19 commando stole over five thousand weapons from the army's Northern Canton Battalion in Bogotá, the military had been gripped by a relentless need to punish any and all who had even the slightest connection to revolutionaries. This was when the big guns from M-19 and quite a few other groups all fell. The government gave the army carte blanche to carry out counter-revolutionary operations, with no regard for details like human rights. It was Defense Minister Camacho Leyva's term, complete with torture chambers. No one was spared the techniques they refined there. Repression had shot up, which explained why prisons were bursting at the seams with political prisoners, and why so many innocent people who had nothing to do with it had been caught up in it all.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Spiral of Silence"
by .
Copyright © 2009 Elvira Sánchez-Blake.
Excerpted by permission of Northwestern University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Foreword by Marjorie Agosin (or Mary Berg)
Translator's Introduction
Spiral of Silence
Part I Comandante A Baby in Prison The Hole A Prisoner's Baby The San Juan Fiesta The Letter Amnesty Undecided Freedom Patria Potestad The Threat Light and Shadow The MAS Persecution The Second Angel Like Father... At the Little Cabin Fleeting Vision Don Eusebio The House of Serenity The Visit Confusion The Siege
Part II Miguel's Whereabouts The Co-op Into the Lion's Den The Secret The Tapestry Victim of Her Own Design Sons of War The Checkpoint At their Posts No Choice Mediator The Refuge The Battle A Drink in the Nick of Time Face to Face No More War! No More Hate! No More Blood! Angels of Fire Epilogue
Author's Postscript
Customer Reviews
