Cementerio De Los Disidentes
The first year we lived in Chile I lived maybe 5 miles from the ‘Cementerio De Los Disidentes’ (Dissidents’ Cemetery) in Valparaíso. We lived a couple of hills over in Viña Del Mar. Granted, we only lived there a year, and I was only two at the time, but over the ensuing 15 years, I visited ‘Viña’ and ‘Valpo’ many, many times, and had no idea that the place even existed. It was part of standard grade school curriculum to learn of the British influence on the formation of the Chilean navy, (as well as nationhood, since the father of the country was Bernard O’Higgins, the illegitimate son of an Irish father and a creole mother), so we were aware of that, but as a child, the thought never crossed my mind that there would be people who had died in battles and who were buried THERE, and not back in their home country.
That perception, or misperception, as the case may be, changed over the course of the years, but by then I had moved through high school and come back to the States for college, and my opportunities to return and explore the history that I neglected in my youth were few and far between. The times that I DID go back, I mostly concentrated on coming to terms with my own history and relationship with the country that WAS home to me growing up, and which still holds a large stake in my psyche as ‘mi patria querida’ (my beloved country).
So when I announced to my congregation that I would be traveling to Chile to perform my brother’s wedding, and Warren Potter approached me about trying to locate and take pictures of the marker for the crewmen of the first USS Essex, I (hesitantly) agreed, not having any idea of how difficult or easy it might be to locate and photograph the gravesite. Before leaving on the trip, I attempted a couple of internet searches to try to identify where I might find the marker, and came up basically empty-handed. I found references to the event – between the Essex, which engaged two British ships in the bay at Valparaiso and lost 89 of the 255 crewmen on board in a battle in March of 1814, during the War of 1812, but no reference as to where the remains of the sailors who were killed in the battle were buried.
On Palm Sunday, April 9th, 2006, a group of us – some family and some friends who had accompanied us for the wedding, drove over to Viña to try to visit with some friends and – if the opportunity presented itself – to look for the marker. As it turned out, we drove in two vans, and we got separated. By the time we got back together, it was night time, and all we had time to do was visit with a fellow missionary and the son of one of our extended Chilean family, and return to Santiago.
The next day was our next to the last day IN Chile before heading back to the States, and I decided that I would try again to find the marker. I rode the metro down to the bus station, hopped on a bus to Valparaiso, and headed out.
This day was important for a number of reasons, most of which I'll be figuring out over the next few months, if not years. Partially, I had promised one of my church members (Warren Potter) that I would look for the grave, and partially, I needed to go because I needed to prove to myself that I was able to DO that -- on my own, without any help from anyone ... and get there and back ... and it went perfectly well. This shot was from the bus on the way over -- vineyards between Santiago and Valparaiso.
A woman sat down next to me on the bus, just a few minutes before we pulled away from the curb. Being an introvert, most of the trip was spent in silence. I did finally strike up a conversation with her, and found out that she was on her way home – from running an errand for her company in Santiago. In the course of our conversation, I explained why I was going to Valparaiso, and asked if she might have any idea as to where I might find the marker. She thought a minute, and then said, half to herself, that the marker would have to be in one of the older cemeteries, not any of the newer ones. That narrowed it down to a couple of possibilities; Cemetery Number One or Cemetery Number Two, which, to her knowledge, were the only ones around that early in the city’s history. She explained to me how to get to them from the bus station, and helped me buy a map of the city inside, before we left the building. We looked it over, and she showed me what street to walk down and where to turn and what landmarks to look for. We parted and I thanked her and she wished me luck.
The day was bright and sunny in Santiago when I left, but as soon as we crossed the coastal mountain range, the clouds that they were holding back from the interior socked in with damp and cold and blocked the sunshine, but it was still daylight. I walked down into and through downtown (the old town part) of Valparaiso, and found the road that led up to the Cemeteries, and turned up it. The rise was steep, and as I came to the top of the hill, I could tell that there was one cemetery up against the brow of the hill – overlooking the downtown. When I came to a gate with multitudes of graves and markers behind it, I walked through, and noticed that there was a sign that stated that the closing time for the cemetery was 5 PM. It was shortly after 4. As I walked around, I knew there was little chance that I would find the marker on my own, even if I WAS in the right place. I found the caretaker of the cemetery, and explained the situation and my mission to him. He directed me to the other cemetery, the ‘Number Two’ Cemetery, the next one built, which was established about the time of the battle.
When I walked the few hundred yards over to it, and stood at the gated entrance, (this was the one I had actually seen from below. As I was climbing the hill) I again knew I’d need to find someone who might be familiar with the layout and where graves and markers were in order to find the one I was looking for. I stepped into the Cemetery, and off to the right saw two men conversing, one sitting inside a guardhouse, and the other standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. I approached, and introduced myself and again went through the explanation of why I was there and what I was looking for. The man immediately said ‘they would be in the ‘Dissidents’ Cemetery’, right across the way. I looked back through the gate I’d walked in, and across the street/alley separating the two was another cemetery. I had mistakenly assumed it was the back entrance to the first cemetery I’d gone into, but it was not. Chile, having been a Catholic Country for most of it’s history, has designated, consecrated plots of land for burial of those who have died in good standing with the Catholic Church (Tierra Santa – Holy Ground) – for those who have died whose status with the Church was understood to have been … at odds, or contrary, or unknown, provisions had to be made. Those provisions were in the form of ‘Dissident’ Cemeteries, where protestant or otherwise non-Catholic decedents could be laid to rest.
As I wandered around the Cemetery, I was amazed at the variety of names British, German, American, French, Swiss, South African, Russian; from countries all over the globe, whose inscriptions bore legends that told of family histories that linked as profoundly with Chile’s as my own family’s, if not more so, and spanned two full centuries of time. I realized that this was a memorial not only to THEIR mark on Chile, but perhaps more so, a memorial to Chile’s mark on THEM – on US. These were people who had chosen to live out their lives in Chile, to become Chilean, inasmuch as possible, and when it came their turn to loose the bonds of earth, they asked or chose to leave their remains in a land that welcomed them and gave them a home.
There were literally hundreds, if not thousands of markers to wander through, and I was running out of time. It was nearly five o’clock. I saw the caretaker walking down one walkway, and approached him. Again, I went through the explanation of whom and what I was looking for. He gestured over to the right side of the entrance, and said ‘that’s where some of the military markers are, it might be over there.” So I concentrated along that side for a few minutes. As I walked up and down the aisles, I grew more anxious at the fact that I seemed to be so close, and yet hadn’t been able to find the marker. As I walked past the front gate, the caretaker from the number two cemetery, who had directed me to the dissident cemetery, walked up to the gate from the outside. I stepped through the gate, preparing to head back down the hill, and looked at him and shrugged my shoulders, communicating that I had tried, but hadn’t had any luck finding the marker. He put his arm through the gate and pointed. There, literally less than twenty feet from the entrance, (it would make sense, being one of the earlier markers and gravesites to be dug in the cemetery) was the marker for the crewmen of the Essex. I couldn’t believe it. I walked over and put my hand on the stone. There was a bronze plaque at the foot of the marker, commemorating an anniversary of some sort – or an effort on behalf of the organization of veterans who’d served on the Essex through the years, to place the plaque – it was nearly impossible to read – it had faded and deteriorated so much – but the engraving on the stone of the marker itself was still clear. After asking permission from the caretaker (there were signs posted advising that pictures were not allowed) I took several pictures from all sides and several angles, to get not only the details of the text, but also to get a sense of the location – where in relation to the gate and the nearest edge of the cemetery that afforded a view of the bay in which the battle took place – of the marker.
Only SLIGHTLY awkward ... you don't really want to put your arm around a grave marker ... fortunately, there wasn't anyone around, so I just set the shot, and the timer, and walked back over to the marker and stood ... :-)
As I left the cemetery, I walked to the corner that was formed by the road that surrounded it, across which you could look out over the bay, and took some more pictures of the surroundings. I walked a little down the way, and came to a space between two buildings that had a stairway that went down between them – they are commonplace, since that is the only way to get up and down the hills of Valparaiso, unless you are in a car or on a trolley that rides up and down the incredibly steep tracks that go straight up and down the hills. I followed the steps all the way down. There was a closed door at the bottom. A couple of landings before I got down to the ground level, I passed a woman who was doing some cleaning on ‘her’ landing – and asked if the door was locked. She explained to me that I was on a private stairway and that she didn’t think it was locked, but that if it was, I could come back up and let her know and she would unlock it for me. I apologized for the intrusion, explained that I didn’t realize that was the case (there was no sign at the top of the stairs where I began the climb down). She smiled and said “it’s no problem.” I thanked her and walked the few dozen feet to the bottom of the stairs and opened the door and walked out onto the street I’d passed on my way up.
As I walked back towards the bus station, I realized that, although I had studied both, there is a lot of Chile’s history, and the history of the United States, that I have yet to familiarize myself with. I left with a spark of renewed interest in exploring both.
It made me realize that there are things worth fighting – and dying – for. I’ve lived a sheltered life in that respect. I’ve never had to make that choice, never had to face the reality of friends or family members going in harm’s way to secure a ‘right’ I take for granted. I wondered about the number of stories carried on each of the five ships named Essex, how many families; mothers, fathers, children, brothers and sisters awaited word of a crewmember’s whereabouts, of whether he or she was alive or dead, and when they arrived home, how many stories were shared around kitchen tables, and while the words flowed, the eyes gazed on the face of the loved one, occasionally brimming with tears, occasionally hardening at news of a particularly difficult moment, but always came back to simply gaze with love, and thanksgiving at their safe return.
Kenny Park
Warsaw, VA
June 25, 2006
