My mother was left at 27 with two babies and a husband in jail. At the same time, she had the dictator’s brother calling her every day saying “if she went out with him, maybe he would put in a good word for her husband.” So, my mother moved to a very small house near my grandfather’s and rented out our house which was in the country. Living alone in the country was just too dangerous.
My mother took food to the jail every day. It was quite a trip on unpaved roads to get there in the heat in an age before cars had the luxury of air-conditioning. She suffered all kinds of malice and insult at the hands of the guards. She would make sure the food got to him, even though they wouldn’t let her see him by tipping the guards when she could, or bringing them cigarettes. My father couldn’t have visitors for a long time. So she pulled every string she could and achieved visitation rights. There was a time when there was a new Warden at the jail and he made a new rule that the wives had to park very far from the jail. The roads were not paved and when it rained it was almost impossible to get there and if you did you would be covered in mud. My mother had to pull a lot of strings to be able to park near again. Someone in the government who was a friend of her father's helped her. That is one of the moments of kindness she still remembers.
On one occasion, my mother brought my brother and I to see my father. My mother said she took as a few times – I only remember this one time.
My memory starts sitting with my father, my mother and my brother Pico in a courtyard towards the front part of the jail. There were guards with machine guns in every door leading to this place. I was just a little bit over 2 years old and I remember looking at this terrible place and understanding that it was an evil place full of misery and suffering. I had to have understood the situation in order to remember all the details. I remember the colors, the smells, and the tension that everyone felt that day. My brother and I behaved like little angels. Somehow we knew that it was imperative that we did. My father had a white short-sleeved shirt and dark pants. We were meeting in what was supposed to be a courtyard with planters. Planters that had been designed by some very optimistic architect who, for some reason, believed that plants could actually thrive in this forsaken place, Mordor. The reality was that the walls had paint that was peeling off, the planters had nothing but dirt and nothing had managed to survive in this courtyard, located in the purgatory itself. As a friend said to me a long time ago... “I didn’t live in hell, but I could see it from my front porch”.
The thing that has always stuck in my mind is that somewhere in the middle of all this, a little sand burr plant had tried to grow in a corner. Even that plant, which thrives in the most troubled environments, was completely dry, standing there as a testament of the desolation and barrenness of the place. I was too young to know what it was called, but I recorded it anyhow.
I have spoken with my mother recently about this memory. She can’t believe I can remember all that. I guess it was such a traumatic experience that I recorded every detail.
Because of this memory, I was aware when I had my own daughter, that you have to be very careful about what you expose your children to even at a very early age. They might not be able to express themselves as adults, but they are certainly aware of what’s going on and absorb every emotion. I know I did.
My mother has always said that she could take my brother and I anywhere. I can see why. We must have known somehow that our lives were in danger all the time. I remember always hanging on to my mother’s skirt. I was terrified of letting go.
My father was in that jail for 22 months. I was three years old when he was finally released. I always had a difficult time trying to connect with my father. I believe this had something to do with it.