Vincente Aguilar

The first time I brought my son to Chacabuco, he was seventeen. I had waited years to decide whether I should take him. He had grown up in England, spoke Spanish with a London accent, and thought of Chile as a warm place where his father sometimes got quiet at dinner. I never told him much about the camp before that trip. He knew I had been a prisoner, but not the details—not how my ribs still ache in the cold, not how the smell of rusted metal can make my stomach turn.

The road from Calama was dry and wind-whipped that morning. We brought sandwiches and water and didn’t speak much on the drive. My wife sat in the back, watching the desert pass like a movie. She had never seen the place either, though she’d asked about it over the years. I always answered vaguely—“It’s just ruins now,” or “There’s nothing left to see.” But of course, that wasn’t true.

The last time I was there, I was 23. Now I’m 65. This visit felt different—I wasn’t afraid anymore. Maybe it was my age, or maybe it was the way my son looked at the place.

We walked slowly through what used to be the dormitories. I could almost hear the echo of boots on gravel, the shouting, the silence that followed worse things. My son didn’t ask questions at first. He just took it in, touched a wall, looked at the names scratched into the cement. Then he turned to me and said, “Did you know any of them?”

I nodded. I knew many. Some I still dream about.

Later, we sat under the broken frame of a roof, sharing the sandwiches. The wind cut through the open spaces, but I felt lighter. I told them stories—not all, but enough. Enough to show them why silence isn’t always strength. My son cried quietly. My wife held my hand.

I still go back sometimes. Not often. Just enough. Enough to remember, and enough to remind myself that I’m still here.