A moment that changed me: Ariel Dorfman on a night in a police cell that gave her hope

It was at the end of February 1973 that I spent my first and only night in prison - and the experience was so surreal that it still speaks to me today, 50 years later .

With a group of leftist friends, I had ventured into our city of Santiago to splatter the walls with slogans in favor of the democratically elected president, Salvador Allende . The midterm elections for Congress were approaching in early March. The right-wing opposition has proclaimed that, if it wins a supermajority, it will depose Allende and end his peaceful revolution, the first attempt in history to create a socialist society without resorting to violence.

The words we enthusiastically daubed on a once white wall near the National Stadium were "A defender la democracia!" (to defend democracy).< em> Because our democracy was in danger because of conservatives conspiring to thwart the will of the people and stage an institutional coup.

We don't never got to finish those words on this wall. The kid who was to be our lookout had fallen asleep and hadn't warned us that a police van was heading our way; a burly sergeant came down, followed by several intimidating policemen.

I was worried. Now 30 years old, during my student years I had fought men like these in street battles, gagged with their tear gas, even managed to escape a van similar to this who had tried to ram me as I fled with my then girlfriend, Angélica, when we protested against the American invasion of the Dominican Republic in 1965. Years later, my friends and I were again at their mercy.

My apprehensions turned out to be unfounded. The sergeant kindly informed us that we were under arrest, charged with vandalism and disturbing public order. He seemed oddly fatherly, as he and his men ushered us into the back of the van that would transport our group to the nearby police station. There, again with the utmost courtesy, we were locked in a large cell already full of other pro-Allende supporters who had been caught that evening.

Some of our fellow inmates had been in this situation before and weren't surprised that instead of being beaten to a pulp, we were being treated in this considerate way. It had been like this since Allende won the presidency in 1970. Gone were the days of the National Police maiming and killing activists.

And so instead to heal the wounds, we spent the night discussing our fledgling nonviolent revolution until we were released in the morning with only one warning: we must not continue to degrade public and private property.

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As for the word we wrote, "democracy", it would remain sad and incomplete - like our democracy itself. Despite the dire economic situation caused by the US blockade of international aid, the Allende coalition won enough votes - 44.23% - to avoid impeachment.

Six months later, on September 11, 1973, the presidential palace was bombed and Allende died. Everyone in that cell that night, and hundreds of thousands more, were fleeing for our lives as the democracy we had wanted to defend gave way to General Augusto Pinochet's 17-year dictatorship. /p>

What had been a utopian space for that strange and bright night, where inmates could discuss the future without fear, soon became yet another center of terror. I have often wondered how many prisoners were crushed to the ground in this police station, how often electricity was applied to the genitals, whether it was a stop on the way to the nearby National Stadium where supporters d'Allende were tortured and executed in the days following the coup.