For the third time in little more
than two years, the Bolivian mili-
tary has thwarted the will of the
people to democratically elect a
president. Under the command of
Army General Luis Garcia Meza,
the military again thrust its way in-
to power on July 17, thereby can-
celling the June 29 electoral vic-
tory of Popular Democratic Unity
(UDP) candidate, Hernan Siles
Suazo. Claiming that the elections
were rigged by “foreign interven-
tion,” Garcia Meza thi’eatened
that the armed forces would re-
main in power until the “Marxist
cancer is fully removed-be it
five, ten or twenty years.”
Even diplomatic sources, how-
ever, questioned the General’s ra-
tionale for seizing power. Claiming
that the military command is noth-
ing but a “group of thugs,” diplo-
mats have consistently pointed to
its links to the highly lucrative co-
caine trade-and their fear that
Siles Suazo would quash it-as
the primary reason for the coup.
As one U.S. narcotics official put it,
“for the first time ever, the drugs
mafia has evidently bought itself a
government.”
Coke dealing alone, however,
doesn’t tell the whole story. The
coup disrupted the first movement
in many years toward democratic
SeptlOct
General Luis Garcia Meza
rule in a Southern Cone country,
an example which neighboring
Argentina, among others, greatly
feared. For its part, Argentina lent
its solid support to the military reb-
els and was the first country to re-
cognize Garcia Meza’s regime.
Mexican news sources reported
that 50 Argentine army intelli-
gence officers entered the coun-
try in the early weeks of August to
advise the military on rounding up
political opponents. While Brazil
has been more measured in its
support of the coup, the Brazilian
generals are undoubtedly relieved
that their colleagues’ preemptive
strike in Bolivia has prevented the
installation of a popular, progres-
sive government in the heart of the
Southern Cone dictatorships.
The U.S. government has
soundly denounced the coup and
has called for a congressional in-
vestigation of the military’s links to
the international drug trade. But
this cannot change the fact that,
since the mid-1950s, the United
States has been the main supplier,
trainer and supporter of the Boli-
vian military, a role which contin-
ued unabated during nearly 15
years of military dictatorships be-
ginning in 1964.
As of early September, the situ-
ation in Bolivia remained highly un-
stable. Internationally, only a
handful of nations have recog-
nized the regime. An international
consortium of banks headed by
the Bank of America announced
on August 23 that they were post-
poning further discussions on the
renegotiation of Bolivia’s whop-
ping $3.5 billion debt.
Internally, Siles Suazo has es-
tablished a clandestine “govern-
ment in hiding” and the miners, in-
dustrial workers and civil servants
have maintained a strong opposi-
tion to the military. Even former
dictator, General Hugo Banzer-
seeking his own return to power
which he couldn’t find in the elec-
toral process-has been barn-
storming in neighboring countries,
criticizing the “unnecessary” bru-
tality of his colleagues.
Yet, two months after the coup,
little has been reported on how the
process has affected the majority
of Bolivia’s population, the peas-
antry. Their actions are all the
more important since sectors of
the peasantry served as a key so-
cial support of the military govern-
ments of the late 1960s and early
1970s. This sector is particularly
43update *update *update * update
important since the rank and file of
the military is conscripted from the
peasantry and is often itself sub-
ject to the brutal treatment of the
officers.
To provide a first-hand report on
this sector, we are publishing ex-
cerpts of an interview with Antonio
Quispe (a pseudonym), a peasant
who lives with his family of eight in
a traditional Aymara community
between Lake Titicaca and La
Paz. Quispe has been a commun-
ity leader, worked in rural educa-
tion and agrarian reform and was
jailed by the political authorities on
various occasions. His comments
provide an important insight into
the peasants’ difficult position:
they are brutalized by the military
which is itself composed of their
sons and brothers. Quispe was in-
terviewed in Bolivia by David and
Edward Strug one month after the
coup.
0: What happened in your community
after the coup?
A. We suffered in my community.
After the coup we were strongly
threatened here in Waki, Tiwana-
ku and the province of Ingavi. This
was because the peasants barri-
caded the roads after the coup.*
Soon the military began control-
ling the road very strictly, day and
night. Whenever they saw roads,
bridges or railroad tracks blocked,
right away they began to abuse us.
They threatened to burn our
houses and eat our livestock. And
to kill people. We weren’t allowed
to walk around freely-couldn’t
even play soccer or get together
with each other.
*The Bolivian peasantry has often
blocked the roads to prevent the mili-
tary from moving. In the past three
years, the workers’ general slogan in
the face of repression has been “gen-
eral strike and blockade.”
Q: How did they go about controlling the
countryside?
A: As soon as they saw the roads
dug up, barricaded, the first thing
they did was to start searching, ur-
gently. “Who is barricading the
roads?” they wanted to find out.
Anybody they saw on the road they
took away. Even some people who
were grazing their animals near
the roadside were threatened.
Children, women, men. I saw that
happen.
Afterwards, I went to the city [La
Paz] for awhile. I saw how even
pregnant women were being
picked up by the soldiers. Women
who were carrying their babies on
their backs, young people who
were walking along the street after
9 pm were stopped, arrested or
shot, I think. I saw wounded peo-
ple, too. Sometimes people were
shot dead, never seen again.
Nobody knew where they were.
Their relatives went looking for
them, tears streaming down their
faces. Yes, I saw that.
And when I was on the way to La
Paz we had to get off the bus nine
times to pass through check
points. The soldiers wanted to take
in anybody who didn’t have an
identity card-their own brothers
and sisters; we peasants who just
had to travel from one town to ano-
ther. They didn’t tell us what they
were looking for, they just asked
for identity cards. But they must
have been searching for political
officials, union leaders in particu-
lar. And, besides, they were taking
money. They were taking money
from their own people, and that
hurt. I know those soldiers didn’t
have enough food to eat. I know
they were taking the money for
themselves. Still, it was too much.
Q. Tell us. what happened when you
went yesterday to look for your son at
the Waki army base,
A. These last few days there’s been
the annual draft, the induction of
conscripts. Our children, our
young sons from 18-22 are being
drafted.
I went to see my son, to see how
he was being treated. Some of
those officers were talking to the
conscripts’ parents. I listened, too.
Some officer said: “Forty cadets
are coming here. New instructors.
It’s going to be different.” He said
military service in the barracks is
going to be very different from
other years when soldiers were
beaten brutally. Our sons were
suffering, but they said that it is go-
ing to be changed.
After a little while some other
major started talking. And, well,
you know, with something like this
I have a right to find out, to see,
listen, see things with my own
eyes. That’s always important.
And the major said: “You sup-
ported Siles Suazo. Siles Suazo
paid you all 50 pesos. For 50 pesos
you had to vote.” That’s what the
major said. “You backed Juan
Lechin Oquendo, too.* You’re
communists. The majority voted
for Siles because they were paid,”
he said. But it’s a lie, isn’t it? But
there was no way to argue about it,
was there? Because they were in
power, and I was just listening.
He spoke to us about many
more things. About development,
about the peasants. He said that
the peasant doesn’t have any right
to go to the university. The peasant
doesn’t have the right to go to mili-
tary technical schools. “You, you
peasants get mixed up in politics.
You’re the ones who accept any
politician who comes along-but
*Juan Lechin has been one of Boli-
via’s most important labor leaders
since the late 1940s.
NACLA Reportupdate * update * update * update
it’s not going to be that way any
more. Why don’t you drive the for-
eigners out of the country?” they
told us.
“But look, sir,” I said to him.
“Look at how the peasants live in
poverty. Their houses need im-
provement. The roofs are made.
out of straw. The walls are made
out of dirt. They don’t have any
safe water to drink; they have no
toilets. The peasants still don’t
have any farm machinery; they
don’t have the right training for ag-
riculture; they can’t increase their
livestock.” I brought all those
things up. I had answered back a
little. “The road that goes from La
Paz to the Peruvian border is just
terrible; it’s pure dust, pure mud.
There isn’t any electric light; there
are no telephones; there’s no
transportation.”
Then the major answered.
“Well, yes, we need roads,
schools, we need universities,” he
said. He talked to us about the
Agrarian Technical University that
they’re planning to establish.
They’re going to stay in govern-
ment for 10 years, more or
The summer of 1980 was a bit-
ter season for human rights in
Latin America, kicked off by a mili-
tary coup in Bolivia and capped by
a phony plebiscite in Chile. Bodies
of Argentine dissidents turned up
in Lima and Madrid. Amnesty In-
ternational reported a dramatic in-
crease in “political arrests and
systematic torture” in Chile. And
SeptlOct
less-he said that, too. “But those
workers’ and peasant union of-
ficials had better start worrying,”
he said.
As for me, in particular, I think
those high-ranking officers ought
to come and visit, province by
province, to find out for
themselves how the peasants are
living. See how the peasants suf-
fer. And stop talking for the sake of
talking.
It was very sad that afternoon
when the peasants didn’t know
where their sons were going to be
sent. They found out at five
o’clock; they didn’t know before.
The conscripts, all of them, went
off just wearing light jackets. And
at 6:30 or 7:00 pm, they’re sending
them to Potosi [high in the frigid
Andes] in open trucks. It’s sad.
Without taking their blankets. How
they treat our sons!
-Edward Strug teaches Spanish
at Queens College in New York
and David Strug is an anthro-
pologist at Rutgers. They have
known Antonio Quispe since
1975.
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