The Atlantic and Its Enemies

But it was not just the internal blockage that gave Reagan his financial troubles. He had also decided on a course of rearmament, known as the ‘Second Cold War’, and it proved expensive, only really justified by a belief that matters could not be left to drift. The background, as in most matters, lay in Carter’s failures. The experience of detente had not been positive, and part of the Reaganites’ strategy was a challenge to the USSR. This included defiance over weaponry. It also meant a new spirit in the CIA, rather cowed since Vietnam days: why not challenge the Soviet Union directly? Its civilian economy worked, everyone knew, badly. Why was it now building a very large navy, exploiting any advantage on the edges of the Middle East — Ethiopia, then Afghanistan — and probing mineral-rich southern Africa? The spirit in the United States became antagonistic. European misgivings were swept aside; a ‘working breakfast’ between Alexander Haig, the Secretary of State, and Helmut Schmidt, early in 1982, was marked by enraged shouting, over Poland. At the time Caspar Weinberger was preparing a document as to how the offensive should be undertaken. The general idea was to identify which technologies really mattered to the USSR, and to invest ‘in weapon systems that render the accumulative Soviet equipment obsolescent’. William Clark for the National Security Council said that ‘trade and finance should emerge as new priorities in our broader effort to contain and roll back Soviet operations worldwide’. But it was not just trade and finance or even brilliant new weaponry, such as ‘smart bombs’ and laser-beam anti-missile technology. The Americans had looked hard, since the Vietnam disaster, and considered what had gone wrong; and they now had two concrete cases from which to build up arguments.

The twentieth century was to end with a grotesque joker from the seventies crisis pack. In 1999 a very frail 84-year-old Chilean general, long in retirement, was arrested in London, in the watches of the night, in his hospital bed. The general, Augusto Pinochet, had his drip-feed detached, and he was taken off to prison, there to face charges that related to events that had occurred a quarter-century before, half a world away from London. The legal details were also bizarre. A Spanish judge, who had himself served a dictatorship quite faithfully as chief prosecutor, had issued a warrant for the general’s arrest, on human rights charges; it was to Spain, not Chile, that the old man was supposed to be extradited. But, in Spain, even had he been convicted, he could not have been imprisoned: people over seventy-five were let off. The Pinochet case was, in other words, absurd.

But it was very deeply felt, by the general’s enemies. The ‘Pinochet coup’ on 11 September 1973 had acquired worldwide significance, and was viciously remembered by the generation of 1968. The Chilean armed forces had struck, and deposed one of its heroes, Salvador Allende, the Marxist president of Chile. He died when his presidential palace was stormed, and became a martyr. Pinochet was said to have overthrown Chilean democracy and, with sinister American advisers, to have initiated a reign of terror: there were voluble exiles, with tales of ‘disappearances’, of mass executions in football stadiums, of torture in dank basements or freezing, sub-Antarctic camps. When the people of 1968 came to office in Washington, with President Carter in the later 1970s, they wanted to distance themselves from Pinochet. The Americans had been involved in the coup, which was even said to have originated with the CIA, and Carter accused Nixon of destroying ‘elected governments, like in Chile’. In 1977 the US representative at the United Nations Human Rights Commission in Geneva stated his ‘profoundest regrets’ for the ‘despicable… acts of subversion of the democratic institutions of Chile, taken by certain US officials, agencies and private groups’. It was characteristic of the hatred displayed that the New York Times ran sixty-six articles on the Chilean affair and the opposition to it, but only three on Cuba and four on Cambodia.

Allende had died as his presidential palace was stormed in the 1973 military coup — suicide, in all likelihood, though even in 1990 his wife was claiming murder. It was the end of a three-year attempt to turn Chile into a popular, socialist democracy, and much romanticism was attached to Allende by a cohort of foreigners, such as the British Communist Brian Pollitt (who also had experience in Cuba, and whose books, along with the multivolume E. H. Carr history of Soviet Russia, were burned when the military took over) and the Frenchman Regis Debray, one- time supporter of Che Guevara in Bolivia. At this time, in the outcome of 1968, of the Vietnam wars of the intelligentsia, there were romantic films. There was, for instance, Z, in which the veteran Yves Montand played a left-wing Greek politician, done to death by the Colonels who had staged a military coup in Athens in 1967, allegedly with help from the CIA. It was (like the later Midnight Express) a very well-made film which, like so many such, distorted reality.

Allende became the absent hero of a film, Missing, by the maker of Z, Costa Gavras, and he stood, in a vague way, for ‘liberation’. There was a revealing little scene when he was overthrown. A left-wing young girl, in jeans, was told by a policeman that, once order had been restored, she would be wearing a less provocative set of clothes. In the Latin, Catholic world at the time, modesty was still required, clothing was political, and divorce was forbidden. Women had had the vote in chile since 1949, but there were separate polling booths for men and women, even in 1973, and although the country’s problems were obviously owed in large measure to demographic pressure, clinics for contraception were not opened. There was an element of cultural war in the Chilean affair, and Allende was recognizably a liberation figure, promising equality, liberty and fraternity, or at any rate socialism. In reality, Chile would be remembered, not for the Allende experiment, but for the ‘Pinochet solution’ — a period of authoritarian rule, during which economic reforms could be carried out, without political disruption. This happened, and Chile, on the whole, prospered. Democratic ways were restored; Pinochet did indeed organize a free election, and when it went against him, he retired without fuss, only with a proviso that he and others should be given immunity from prosecution. In 1975, after General Franco died in Spain, forty years after launching a brutal civil war and then a full-scale Fascist dictatorship, his successors agreed that the slate would be wiped clean: no prosecutions, of either side. But Pinochet’s enemies were in no mood to wipe slates.

There was another military coup, seven years almost to the day after Pinochet’s, on 12 September 1980, in Turkey. Military coups do not generally turn out at all well, and in Latin America they had been both frequent and ridiculous — men in preposterous uniforms, with epaulettes like fruit tarts, seizing power and then appointing their cronies and relatives to state posts, as in Peru. Argentina, once a very prosperous and advanced country, had been wrecked in a pattern of demagogues and attitudinizing generals (in 1980 a ‘junta’ of senior armed forces commanders). In the case of both Chilean and Turkish coups, the matter was far from simple, and the similarities are striking. If there is such a thing as a good coup, both succeeded in their aims: order was indeed restored; new economic rules — monetarism, of a sort, and worked out under IMF supervision — were brought in; after a bad patch, prosperity grew; democratic elections then happened. The costs in terms of bloodshed were also limited — in Chile, far less than with similar coups in Brazil or Argentina, which had not received attention from film-makers or The New York Times. The Left in both countries was, however, comprehensively defeated, and remained very bitter for decades afterwards.

Since universities had been at the centre of the trouble in both countries — in Turkey there had even been policemen standing in the corner of lecture rooms — there was much voluble complaint. A work that was very frequently read at this time was Karl Marx’s The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Napoleon. It is the great-great-grandfather of Z. There had been revolutions all over Europe in the spring of, 1848, but the one that got the greatest attention of the world was French: would it repeat the experiences of 1789, Rights of Man, abolition of kings, aristocrats and, this time round, bankers? There was a Republic; in the June Days of 1848 part of the city was taken over by enraged, unemployed building workers (the first political photograph taken was of a barricade, from a rooftop). The middle-class National Guard, with troops and an assortment of rowdies from what Marx called the Lumpenproletariat, meaning in effect ‘underclass’, dealt bloodily with this, and 15,000 men and women were summarily executed or exiled. To Marx, this was the class war, and so it was for any observer of it; there were some very clever ones, not least Alexis de Tocqueville, who had written about democracy in the United States. He called the June Days a ‘servile war’, comparing them with the slave rebellion, under Spartacus, that had rocked ancient Rome. The liberals who were really behind the revolution of 1848 were nonplussed. Finally, there was the army: ‘the uniform was the peasant’s national costume’ and the army ‘the dregs of the peasant Lumpenproletariat ’. So: bankers, seedy journalists, a huge bureaucracy, isomorphous magnitudes of peasants, an army of bravos led by opera-mustachioed generals in corsets, and the clergy, but all of it likely in the end to fail. All of this, read in a university in Santiago in 1973 or in Istanbul in 1980, meant a great deal more than the long-ago historical events that were involved. The opposition to these military coups felt strongly that it had had history on its side, that it had been cheated. To this day it is vindictive.

Allende had been a veteran figure of Chilean politics — a Marxist, claiming that he wanted ‘a Chilean road to