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I Couldn’t Even Imagine
That They Would Kill Us
a n o r a l h i s t o r y o f t h e at ta c k s
a g a i n s t t h e s t u d e n t s o f ay o t z i n a pa
John Gibler
Foreword by Ariel Dorfman
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Foreword Copyright © 2017 by Ariel Dorfman
All Rights Reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-87286-748-2
eISBN: 978-0-87286-749-9
Prologue 17
Maps 21
Afterword 213
Acknowledgments 262
From whom can one demand justice if the same law that
kills is the one that picks up the bodies? Where can one
press charges if all the authorities are drenched in blood?
The same law that takes measurements and conducts the
investigation to discover who the killer is, is the one that
committed the crime.
—Osiris in Alfredo Molano, Desterrados:
Crónicas del desarraigo
d e s a pa r e c e r .
That verb, in Spanish, had always been a passive one when
I was growing up: ¿dónde desapareció mi libro?, where did my
book disappear to?, my mother or my father would wonder,
trying to remember how that object could have been mis-
placed, who might have purloined or hidden it. Desaparecer
was something that objects or people might do (“that cousin
disappeared from our lives”) but not an action perpetrated
on those things, and certainly not something done to human
beings. This simple usage—in Spanish as in other languages
like English—had been customary for hundreds of years.
And then, suddenly, in late 1974, early 1975, there was
a drastic change in the way that verb was implemented. My
wife and I were in exile from Chile, wandering the world
after the bloody coup d’état overthrew our democratically
elected President Salvador Allende. It was in Paris that we
began to hear desaparecer deployed actively: lo desaparecieron,
la desaparecieron, they disappeared him or her or them. To
disappear became a verb that described a crime, an act of
violence committed against someone, something done to a
living human being.
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14 | foreword
CITY LIGHTS
of a dictionary. It was due to the need of ordinary people to
express a terrifying form of repression that was being mas-
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sively exercised by dictatorial governments of the Southern
Cone of Latin America. Agents of the State were kidnap-
ping opponents of the regime and then denying their rel-
atives any knowledge about the men and women who had
been arrested. The use of desaparecer in this new way arose
from the determination to assign blame to those agents and
that State, rather than allowing those violations to be cov-
ered up and obfuscated.
It was a response to a particularly cruel form of terror:
those in power were trying to savagely eliminate anyone
who showed the slightest sign of insubordination, and yet
whitewash themselves of any responsibility for that perse-
cution. The dictatorship wanted to spread fear everywhere
(Will I be next?, Will they take my son, my mother, my wife, my
husband?) and simultaneously claim there had been no abuse
of human rights.
What these governments did not understand was that
the families of the desaparecidos, primarily the mothers, were
not going to let their seres queridos simply vanish into the
darkness. The world witnessed how those relatives stood up
to the authorities, demanding that those who had been de-
tained be returned alive or, if they had been murdered, that
their bodies be released so they might have a proper burial
and commemoration. Anything but the uncertainty of not
knowing the final fate of those missing sons and daughters,
husbands and wives and parents. Emblematic of this resis-
tance were the photos pinned to the dresses of women or
held aloft on placards at rallies or silent marches.
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reproduced, copied or used in any way
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foreword | 15
CITY LIGHTS
the decades we were to see relatives from Afghanistan and
Brazzaville and Myanmar adopt the same tactics; we wit-
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nessed how the missing of Ethiopia and Cyprus and Cam-
bodia were all memorialized in this way.
And now it is Mexico, and the vicious abduction of the
students of Ayotzinapa that has horrified our sad planet.
Now it is the turn of Mexican fathers and mothers, brothers
and friends of survivors, to make the disappeared appear, to
make them visible, to keep them alive.
That struggle for truth has found a vibrant and re-
spectful embodiment—yes, that is the right word—in John
Gibler’s heartrending, brave oral history of this collective
fight against death, injustice, and oblivion.
Like the Mexican families who speak out in this book,
he has refused to remain silent.
Precisely at a time when the United States is misgov-
erned by a belligerent bully who would like to make mil-
lions of Mexicans (not to mention other inhabitants of Latin
American heritage) disappear from his country, precisely at
a moment in history in which he and his followers dream
of a gigantic wall separating these two bordering nations,
this book propels us in another direction, jumping across
those barriers with words that bring to the American public
a tragedy that, if they are not careful, might someday vio-
lently touch their own lives.
Ayotzinapa is closer than you think.
—Ariel Dorfman, May 1, 2017
(Día de los trabajadores)
CITY LIGHTS
protesting a political event that night, when in fact there was
no such protest, nor even a plan to conduct such a protest.
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In reality, the students had no idea that said event was taking
place, and the event concluded without the slightest inter-
ruption long before the students entered Iguala that night.
Only a few days after the attacks, when it became clear that
police had forcibly disappeared the 43 students, and upon
observing the government’s initial response (lies, rumors,
trivializing the attacks, ignoring the parents), it also seemed
clear that the government would do everything in its power
to make it impossible to find the 43 students, and equally
impossible to know what happened that night in Iguala. Al-
most three years later, as I write these words, the 43 families
are still looking for their sons.
On October 3, 2014, I traveled from my room in Mex-
ico City to Guerrero and spent most of the following nine
months accompanying the families and students during
their protests and mobilizations, interviewing survivors and
witnesses of the attacks in Iguala. As the first anniversary of
the attacks approached, I wanted to share the results of my
reporting with the families of the disappeared, murdered,
and wounded, with the many survivors of the attacks, as well
as with those mobilizing alongside them across the country.
I asked myself: How can I write about this? How can I best
share what I have learned? What narrative form will best
convey the stories that the survivors shared with me? And
I thought to myself: This is not the time for me to write.
What needs to be shared, urgently, are both the words and
the storytelling of the people who lived through the attacks.
This book is composed with interviews with survivors
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during
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reproduced, copied or used in any way
without prior written permission.
prologue | 19
CITY LIGHTS
conducted the interviews between October 4, 2014, and
June 19, 2015. The majority of survivors requested that I
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protect their identities with the use of pseudonyms; I have
respected that request.
I have kept a few important words in Spanish. A com-
pañero (or compa) is a companion in struggle and friend. A
paisa (short for paisano) is a person from the same region or
country, though the Ayotzinapa students also use it to refer
to each other regardless of the region of the country they
are from. A campesino is someone who lives in the country-
side and works the land. A zócalo is a central plaza in a town
or city. The students often use the words tío and tía (uncle
and aunt) to refer in a respectful and tender way to adults. I
have kept those words in Spanish when they are used in that
way and translated them into English when the speaker is
talking about an aunt or uncle.
Every year Ayotzinapa students elect a student gov-
erning committee with a secretary general and several
sub-committees tasked with overseeing political organizing,
cleaning, cooking and other activities. In what follows the
students often refer to these various committees and to the
“secretary” meaning the student governing committee’s sec-
retary general.
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historical and political context on the region, the school, and
the students’ particular mode of organizing (including the
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“commandeering” of commercial buses, a practice mostly,
if bitterly, tolerated by the bus companies and drivers), and
discussion of the aftermath of the attacks, particularly the
legal and administrative continuation of the atrocity.
Before the police attacks in Iguala, inspired by the
Zapatista idea of “to lead by obeying” or “mandar obedecien-
do” and reflecting upon years of reporting on social strug-
gles and state violence, I had begun to ask myself questions
like these: What would it mean to write by listening, to escri-
bir escuchando? What form would a writing that listens take?
What would a politics of listening entail? I held these ques-
tions to myself as I began to work. The book you now hold
in your hands is an attempt to write by listening.