PART I of "Back to Seventeen: Diary of Miguel Enríquez – Biographical & Historical Commentary"
Warnings – Foreword – Preface – Introduction
"The people must prepare to resist, they must prepare to fight, they must prepare to win” *
(Miguel Enríquez’s speech in Teatro Caupolicán, some weeks before Pinochet´s coup d’état of September 11, 1973. He was assasinated by DINA forces (“Pinochet’s Gestapo”) on October 5, 1975)
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[TABLE OF CONTENTS of the whole book (parts I – V) listed at the bottom of this chapter] [The whole book “Back to Seventeen: Diary of Miguel Enríquez – Biographical & Historical Commentary” is available to free download at Libertarian Books Europe, in this link, from Sept 5, 2025]
Important warnings
Important Warnings
First Warning
This task is a compilation of opinions or portraits. Portraits and opinions of Miguel about himself, his women and his friends. Portraits of me about those opinions of Miguel, and etc.
Subjective objectivity
The problem arises ipso facto once we accept that reality is apprehended through what we think about it. That objective reality is apprehended only through the filters inherent in our subjective appraisal. That a person is the characterization of him or her to our liking or disliking, and not what he or she is, based on universally accepted parameters – as for example in the science of logic, or in the philosophy of science.
In science, we ask that there be significance (e.g., “p >0.01”) between the variables compared in research, in order to consider its results a scientific finding – on which new research can be reliably based, etc.
Or in the philosophy of law, whether it is a Kantian modality (do not do to others what you do not accept to you), or Justinian, which in all its modern derivations demands onus probandi. That is, not only that there is proof as to what the accusation is based on, but that the burden of proof is required of the one who imputes the characterization.
As can be seen, the relevant idea, the prevailing rule, is that, if we intend to validate an opinion, it must be based on demonstrable facts.
For 80.49% of my total life (82 years minus 16 = 66), I have dedicated myself to studying the fundamentals of three disciplines: law, philosophy, and medicine.
The common denominator of them is that subjective opinions are useless. Subjective epithets are even less useful than nothing. And when these are the product of anger, helplessness, envy, or the representation of our intimate insecurities, they are not even considered as words to be recorded.
There is only one science superior to these disciplines, and that is Art.
Because in art the truth is told without the possibility of being discussed.
The artist creates a work according to his aesthetic truth. The spectator analyses it according to his sensibility, which is always unique and indivisible. Only he has his monopoly.
Complication:
The complication becomes exponential when opinions, totally at our discretion – the kind we stamp in our life diaries – are made about something or a person close to us; and then we describe what we think (feel) to see in it; and then we suppose that this is the naked truth, and the one that has been undressed by us. And that we have achieved a ‘discovery’. And that others will base our ‘finding’ to build in the future either more praise, or conversely, bring more discredit.
And then comes the supreme illusion (to complete the absurdity): our qualification of the person – usually a woman – as good, not so good, faithful, the opposite, reliable, not so much, a pretty personality or instead with an unfavoured aesthetic of beauty. How ashamed it makes me feel.
This problem that I have described is perhaps easier to identify, or at least exemplify, with what happens in the contemplation of a work of art.
Everyone has read “The Picture of Dorian Gray”. And those who did not skip the Prologue in a hurry, will remember these words of its author Oscar Wilde: “It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors”.
And everyone who has read the novel “Molly Bawn” knows that Wilde may have plagiarized the high philosophical meaning of that phrase from author Margaret Wolfe Hungerford: “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” [1]
There will never be objectivity in characterologically portraying a person, especially if we have had shared experiences with them.
Conclusion:
What Miguel has described about any of his close ones, particularly women, or what I will write here in my comments – or anyone writes anywhere about life diaries of this nature – are only subjective opinions, which may be marked by our own human and deficient objectivity.
Second Warning
As I have outlined in my prologue, Miguel Enríquez’s Diary is not a logbook in which a ship captain notes the crucial events of the sailing day. Nor is it a combat diary, political or military, with an itinerary of military and logistical actions, or detailed descriptions of battles, like the Diary of José Miguel Carrera. Nor is it less like the Diary of Commander Che Guevara, whose objective narration of daily events of and in the guerrilla is nuanced with political and ideological comments about friends and enemies of his fighting enterprise.
Adolescence
It should be noted that most of Miguel’s entries in his Diary refer here to the period of his adolescent youth. From the time we established the MIR (Revolutionary Left Movement)[2] in October 1965—when Miguel was twenty—there is a notable scarcity of diary entries, whether concerning his personal experiences or matters of a political or organisational nature. An exception to this trend is found in several pages he wrote between 1966 and 1967, which centre on his relationship with Alejandra Pizarro. After this period, it appears he ceased writing in his diary altogether. On 28 April 1969, he made a single additional entry, which served solely as a leaving salute to his diary ––as detailed in the chapter “Miguel’s last annotation. His farewell to the Diary”.
The political reflections contained in Miguel’s diary also predominantly cover the years 1962 to 1964. I have transcribed and commented on this period as fully as possible in my book. It is fair to suggest that these entries, too, reflect a kind of political adolescence—or perhaps the formative years of what would later become the more mature MIR.
It was only from mid-1964, with the founding of the MUI [3] at the University of Concepción, that our political practice began to gain wider recognition. It is therefore understandable that the decline in Miguel’s personal diary writing coincided with the start of his responsibilities as a national political leader. From this time onwards, his contributions took the form of numerous official documents rather than private diary entries.
Finally, it is also possible that Miguel continued to write privately about political, organisational, or personal matters in the years that followed. I myself saw him in 1971, quietly scribbling in a notebook in his characteristic old-fashioned way. However, these later materials have either not been discovered, may be hidden or destroyed, or their existence remains a matter of speculation.
In short
Miguel Enríquez’s Diary offers a deeply introspective account of his adolescent development, focusing on both his personal growth and the evolution of the political groups he formed and led. The narrative traces his journey from the ages of 16 or 17 to 21, a period during which he reached the “age of majority” in Chile. This era culminated in the founding of the MIR in October 1965, marking a significant milestone in his life.
In my opinion, Miguel may best be portrayed in his Diary as an individual in search of his own identity, embarking on his first steps into the social world and navigating the challenges of early youth. These formative years are depicted as being fraught with hidden traps, often disguised by beauty and allure. In this sense, his experiences mirror the mythological journey of Ulysses, who, while sighting the sirens, ultimately reaches his destination. For Miguel, this destination is found in his marriage to Alejandra Pizarro, a woman described as beautiful, sensitive, gentle, and graceful.
Or at least it’s that perspective that most captivated my attention, and for a very simple reason. Because it was the period in which I knew him personally, and in which I shared, or witnessed, closely or at a distance, almost all his personal and political adventures., both. And this is one reason why I expand on many of his passages in my personal comments.
The diary’s exploration of emotional, intellectual, and social apprehensions could resonate with anyone. It could be the diary of any of us. Any of you. The laws of human development ensure that no child or young person can escape the obligatory journey toward finding the crucial key to psychological security, as a man or woman of the future and for the future.
While some readers may be drawn to the personal and introspective aspects of Miguel’s Diary, others—such as history researchers—might prioritise the political and organisational elements. I wish these individuals success in uncovering materials that may result both legible and reproducible, acknowledging the diversity of interests that the Diary may inspire.
Third Warning
It is understandable that some readers might feel uneasy about the disclosure of Miguel Enríquez’s personal circumstances in this book, as these matters pertain to his private life. I shared similar reservations myself, especially during the years when I gradually became acquainted with fragments of his writings.
However, it is important to clarify that I am not the one responsible for making Miguel Enríquez’s Diary of Life, or portions thereof, accessible to the public through this book. The material was in an earlier date (September 2025) entrusted to the National Archive of Chile by Carmen Castillo, who made the decision to share it. The institution subsequently digitised the entire collection [4] for public availability. And I got it from there, after the Diary was made public. My preference, which I expressed to Carmen Castillo since 2023, instead was for all the material to be handed to me first, for editing.
In light of these circumstances, the reality is that the material has already been made public—a fait accompli. My contribution has therefore focused on providing context and explanation for Miguel’s personal situations, which, following Carmen Castillo’s decision, are now available in full detail to the public.
Furthermore, I have consciously refrained from republishing, transcribing, or commenting on those pages of the Diary—although included in the material released by Carmen Castillo—that, in my view, relate not to his character or opinions, but to aspects of his strict privacy.
Fourth Warning
In some sections, I have considered it appropriate to extend a comment on my part, for instance when they refer to political events (now historical) in which a discrepancy is observed between the known historical narrative and the reality described by Miguel in his Diary.
An example:
The established historiographical account suggests that, subsequent to our group’s withdrawal from the Socialist Party during the XX National Congress, which took place in Concepción during the latter half of February 1964, our attention turned towards participating in the Movement of Revolutionary Left (VRM).
However, contrary to the narrative that our involvement with the VRM only began after the Congress, evidence from Miguel Enríquez’s diary reveals that he had already initiated discussions with the VRM leadership in Santiago as early as January of that year (i.e., before the Socialist Party congress), was in talks with the leadership of the VRM in Santiago (the Trotskyist sector led by Dr. Enrique Sepúlveda[5]) about the incorporation there of our fractional group we had in the PS. These discussions led by Miguel –– as evidenced in the Diary entrances, e.g., February 14, 1964. ––occurred well before the events of the congress itself.
It was only upon my return from Cuba at the end of March of that year, I received the version – as did the rest of our group, I presume – that the VRM option became necessary only after our “forced” departure from the PS. This led me to conclude that Miguel’s intentions were not simply to leave the PS or to have us leave with him, but rather to shatter our fraction completely. From its remnants, he intended to select the most easily manipulated and naïve individuals to hand them over to the Trotsky-Stalinists’s VRM.
I then opposed joining the VRM. Later, despite my reluctance, I eventually followed Miguel and became involved in the organisation. My participation was not a result of changing my views about the VRM; rather, it stemmed from his reminding of our oath back in 1961 ––at the age of seventeen– and my unwavering loyalty to him, as a friend. I remained devoted, much like the sad dog described by poet Pablo de Rokha howling over Viné’s grave. A loyalty throughout his life. Yet, it took me two years after that oath was extinguished with Miguel’s death, to leave the MIR.
Fifth Warning
On manuscript legibility
The complex legibility of Miguel’s Diary manuscripts stems not only from Miguel’s notoriously challenging handwriting, but also from the considerable physical deterioration evident across many of the pages. Considering this, it is particularly striking to observe a handful of pages within the collection delivered to the National Archives that display exceptionally high readability and sharp visual contrast.
The reason for this disparity is that these particular sheets were most likely specially chosen by so-called “press elves” for digital restoration (the so-called diablos de la prensa (‘press devils’, as journalists ironically call the invisible forces blamed for suspicious typographical or editorial manipulations). Advanced techniques such as filtration, binarisation, and desaturation have presumably been employed to enhance their clarity. There seems to be no other plausible explanation for their unusually pristine condition. What is remarkable, is that those unusually clear manuscript pages refer to some Miguel criticism towards me when we were still adolescents.
It is possible that this process of selection, or rather “discrimination”, was undertaken even before Carmen delivered the entire body of materials for digitisation at the Archive. And there I suspect the hand of Marco Álvarez Vergara ––who had the manuscript under his “custody” for years– and whom behaviour towards me I describe in my book “La Mujer de Walter y Otras Historias”.
In this context, it is important to bear in mind that certain pages from Miguel’s Diary—pages whose existence is confirmed, although the original copies are not in my possession—were not submitted to the National Archives.
(The observation above does not refer to the notebook held by Marco Enríquez-Ominami, to which I have been granted ample and generous access.)
I have also undertaken efforts to make more visible the calligraphy of the handwritten pages I selected for commentary, with results varying from limited to significant success. I did what I could within my means. The technical challenge of rendering more than fourteen hundred pages—damaged by humidity and neglected over time—legible is daunting, bordering on impossible.
Conclusion: The Journey Through Adolescence
Finally: throughout this book, my central aim has been to place Miguel’s “confessions” regarding his social development within the broader context of his adolescent experiences—or, at times, the notable absence of them. Such experiences are arguably fundamental in forming a secure and well-rounded adult personality, one that is socially, intellectually, affectively, and emotionally mature. These are qualities typically evident in those adolescents who undertake sincere self-examination and reflection.
The Meaning of Adolescence. Miguel’s Development and Legacy
Adolescence stands as an unavoidable stage in the developmental process of every individual. It is during this period that the groundwork is laid for the traits and stability that characterise adulthood. Honest introspection during these formative years can help anchor a person’s identity and sense of self as they transition into adulthood.
In Miguel’s case, the outcome was not that of an adult burdened by a troubled or particularly difficult adolescence. Rather, his journey through adolescence was natural, and it culminated not in unresolved issues but in a confident and mature revolutionary stance. This is evident in his powerful speech at the Caupolicán Theater—marked by the resolute declaration, “if they want war, they will have war”—and ultimately in his heroic death on Santa Fe Street, where he met his end as both a man and a hero.
Thank you.
Marcello Vittorio Ferrada de Noli
Bergamo, April 17, 2025.
2. Prologue
My meeting with Miguel
When we start meeting in December 1956, it was often between games and conversations in the campus of the University of Concepción—a natural gathering place given that his father and my mother worked there. The details of that first meeting are described later in a dedicated chapter of this book.
Miguel, then twelve years old, spoke with evident pride about his family. According to Miguel’s brother, Marco Antonio Enríquez, a historian with a doctorate from the University of Paris (Sorbonne), the Enríquez family traces its origins back to the Admirals of Castile. These nobles, appointed by the Spanish crown, led the Castilian navy from the early 1400s to the late 1600s. Notable figures include Fadrique Enríquez, Alfonso Enríquez, Luis Enríquez y Téllez-Girón, and Fernando Enríquez de Velasco. During the colonial period, Juan Enríquez Villalobos, a knight of Calatrava, served as Governor of the Kingdom of Chile from 1670 to 1682. [6]
During the summer months of late 1956 and early 1957, Miguel’s pride extended beyond his father to his two senator uncles, Inés and Humberto Enríquez Frödden, both members of the Radical Party. Over time, Miguel’s father would take on even greater political significance, eventually serving as Minister of Education.[7]
As described in “Rebels For a Cause”, [8] a clear affinity of ideas and preferences between Miguel and myself became apparent from the outset.[1] Neither of us were any longer interested in the literature of our preadolescent years (e.g. Edmund de Amicis, Alexandre Dumas, etc.). Instead, the influence of his radical uncles, along with his father, Dr. Edgardo Enríquez Frödden—delegate of the Serenísimo and highest Freemason authority in Concepción— permeated Miguel’s precocious ideological discourse.
Characterising the Discourse
Miguel’s discourse at that time could be characterised as secular, liberal, and tinged with social-democratism—reflecting what the Radical Party of his uncles sought to represent. Furthermore, Miguel’s paternal grandfather, lawyer Marco Antonio Enríquez, belonged to the Liberal Party, while his great-grandfather was a landowner of conservative tradition.[9]
Thus, in the times of 1956 Miguel was a recipient and spokesman of liberalism in social matters, and even propagated the proposals of, especially, his uncle Humberto, who could generously be considered a social democrat. This secular and free-thinking attitude formed the basis of our early conversations and served as a colloquial bond from our first meetings.
And this was because I had already embraced staunch liberalism, atheism, and anti-clerical iconoclasm, despite—or perhaps in reaction to—my own family’s pious and conservative nature. My family also supported the clergy, and my grandfather was a monarchist who travelled to Genoa to vote against the monarchy in the June 2, 1946 referendum, which led to the Italian Republic. My experiences in Catholic schools and the perceived absurdity of religious exegesis, often delivered harshly, prompted my shift towards humanist and free-thinking literature, culminating in my encounter with Enrico Malatesta.[10]
It is often said that older brothers influence younger siblings by example, imitation, or –in the best of cases– rational conviction. My own older brother was already involved with the Youth of the Liberal Party, while Miguel’s older brother had begun reading Marxist classics—Lenin and Trotsky—which Miguel himself would soon eagerly explore.
The Formative Years: Friendship, Activism, and the Birth of a Movement. Different paths
The following year we began to share a desk in the “the third year of the old six-year secondary humanities program at the Liceo de Hombres Nº1 of Concepción”. Our class was called “Tercero A de humanidades”.[11]
Our introduction to political life—what we cheerfully referred to as our “premiere in society”—came in April of that year. We joined student and worker demonstrations, protesting against the rise in transportation fares from seven to ten pesos, during the Ibáñez government. [12]
Miguel’s participation in that first protest in 1957, shortly after turning thirteen, became an early indication of the social commitment that would later define much of his life. At the time, he was not even a regular user of the public minibus system; like me, he could comfortably walk from home to the high school, and later to the university. Yet, throughout the years—and later as a physician—he consistently directed his attention toward the poor and socially vulnerable in Chile. His motivations rarely seemed rooted in personal necessity or material interest, but rather in ideals he embraced with unusual intensity.
The later years of our secondary education were distinguished by a shared enthusiasm for reading classic works across literature, utopian socialism, Marxism, and more. Miguel delved into Leninism and explored Trotsky’s criticisms of the Stalinist model, while I immersed myself in anarchist, existentialist, and libertarian philosophies.
In 1959, my parents decided I should leave the high school. Although I moved to a private institution, the bond with Miguel endured. That same year, Bautista van Schouwen—later known as “Bauchi” and to become Miguel’s brother-in-law and close friend—joined the Liceo de Hombres Nº1 in Concepción.
By 1960, after an earthquake damaged my former school, my parents sent me to stay with relatives in the Valparaíso region, enrolling me in another school. My connection with Miguel continued through regular correspondence.
University Years and the Core Group
Upon entering the University of Concepción in 1961, Miguel and Bauchi pursued medicine, while I chose to study philosophy and law. Despite these different academic paths, we remained within a close-knit group: Miguel, his brother Marco Antonio, Bautista van Schouwen, Jorge Gutiérrez Correa [13] —whom Miguel befriended during his first year of medical studies—and myself.
We would meet often in a small apartment that Miguel’s father had built for him in the courtyard of their home at 1674 Roosevelt Avenue. The following account by Ignacio Vidaurrázaga, biographer of Miguel, includes Dr Edgardo Enríquez Frödden’s recollections of that legendary meeting place:
“That room at the back, at the dawn of this story, was familiar to several of the conspirators: Marcello Ferrada de Noli, Bautista van Schouwen, Andrés Pascal, and another comrade in struggle, Bombita Gutiérrez.”
Dr Edgardo Enríquez Frödden, in his testimony to Jorge Gilbert, highlighted the room’s significance:
“I always say it jokingly, that the MIR was formed in my children’s room at the back of our house.”
Dr Enríquez Frödden went on to describe how the organisation, forged partly in that space, grew rapidly:
“It grew quickly and so violently, that very soon it became a majority among the student body of Concepción. It was a party of great honesty, violent, brave, but at the same time made up of extremely intelligent and prepared people.” [14]
In 1961, our group founded the MSI (Socialist Left Movement), followed in 1963 by the MSR (Revolutionary Socialist Movement) faction within the Socialist Youth of Concepción. Ultimately, we established the MIR (Revolutionary Left Movement) in 1965.[15]
Inner dichotomy
I believe that Miguel, like many who commit themselves to revolutionary politics at a young age, lived with a profound inner dichotomy. On one side was the sense of duty—a total commitment to a mission requiring one’s entire being, persistently and with utmost seriousness.
At the same time, the influence of one’s social upbringing persisted: the appreciation for life’s beauty, the resonance of classical music, the intoxicating atmosphere of passionate love, intertwined with wine, laughter, and the lingering melancholy that follows joy.
Yet, such cultural indulgences were fleeting, never permitted to linger. Full-time revolutionaries did not allow these emotions to become persistent companions—”stowaways aboard their guns”.
And I think that, in my case, Miguel projected that archetype of survival that he himself did not allow it, nor did he allow it to others so easily – apart from the chapter women.
I mean, Miguel never criticised my own hedonistic, artist’s approach to revolutionary life. My independent way of being a ‘militant’ was often challenged by regular members (as opposed to leaders or founders) of the MIR, but Miguel remained accepting it.
On the contrary, he made a point of acknowledging my individuality in the dedication of a book he gave me for Christmas, 1966—”The Forgotten Language” by Erich Fromm. He wrote:
“So that you remember old Ferrada,
of the guitar, the poems
and women.”
Beyond Revolutionary Stereotypes
Throughout our time together, I often sensed that Miguel perceived in me a way of being that he himself may have wished to embrace more fully, yet regarded as incompatible with his role as a revolutionary leader. While I navigated the political sphere with a spontaneous and artistic temperament—expressing myself through music, dance, poetry, humor, wine, and emotional immediacy—Miguel increasingly adopted a life governed by restraint, seriousness, discipline, and an almost ascetic commitment to his ideals.
In our half-serious typologies of the time, Miguel described me as sanguíneo, identifying himself as fundamentally melancholic, though capable of sudden colérico bursts when action or leadership required it. I would often joke that he was simply an intellectual, while I was merely an artist.
Beneath these playful labels, however, there was a deeper understanding between us. Certain aspects of ordinary human vitality—spontaneity, artistic inclination, hedonism, “worldliness”—which Miguel rarely allowed himself to express, he seemed willing to tolerate and even preserve symbolically through me. While other MIR militants viewed these traits as deviations from the revolutionary austerity expected of members, Miguel never reproached me for them. On the contrary, he often appeared amused and at times protective of my artistic nature.
“My artist”
One episode stands out vividly in my memory. In early 1967, Miguel had to return from Paris to participate in the important Third Congress of the MIR—a milestone in the organization’s history, and the Congress at which he would be elected General Secretary.
He called me from Paris and asked me to travel from Concepción to Santiago in order to pick him up discreetly at the airport and drive him first to the Bellavista apartment where he would meet his fiancée, Alejandra Pizarro. The secrecy was necessary because the Congress had already begun that morning, yet Miguel wished to spend some time with Alejandra before appearing there—something the diligent MIR comrades waiting for him would hardly have approved of.
I returned to the Bellavista apartment shortly after lunch and then drove Miguel to the Congress site in the San Miguel district. He asked me to accompany him for company. But since I was not an elected delegate and had travelled from Concepción only to assist him in this small private detour, the security comrades predictably stopped me at the entrance for lacking the required official delegate identification. Miguel then intervened in a firm and almost imperious tone:
“Let him in. He is my artist.”
That phrase left a lasting impression. Miguel did not refer to me as “my comrade” or “my friend,” but as “my artist.” Looking back, I believe Miguel intuitively understood that the revolutionary life he imposed upon himself risked suppressing human spontaneity and sensibility, qualities he deeply valued. In an indirect way, he allowed me to preserve openly what he what he himself could only permit intermittently, thus maintaining a balance between revolutionary discipline and human vitality within our relationship.
Judgments of Youth – What Remained Unforeseen…
Miguel, even while insisting that I remain “his artist,” did not foresee an academic future for me. In fact, very early in his Diary—at only fifteen years of age—he wondered whether I would ever become “something” in life: “Perhaps he will become something in his life; I do not know. But it will not be much.” (Puede que algo sea en su vida; no lo sé; pero no será mucho).
The remark was probably influenced by the fact that Miguel was then annoyed with me for having questioned the credibility of a romantic story he had recounted over the phone about a girl he had met at the beginning of the 1960 summer holidays. Some weeks later, however, he himself acknowledged in the Diary that significant parts of the episode had been fabricated. [Footnote: The Gloria episode, described later in this book.]
Looking back, I also regret not having understood how emotionally important that episode may have been for Miguel at the time—perhaps his first would-be romantic adventure. The truth is that I was already the more mundano one, and I should have understood better.
In adolescence, however, many of the judgments and predictions we make about one another fail to correspond to later reality. Miguel’s own certainty regarding the imminent triumph of the Cuban-style Revolution in Chile would prove to be another example.
Whether I ultimately became “something in life” is not for me to determine. I can only say that I have found satisfaction in the path I followed and in the life that emerged from it.
In any case, when I completed my doctorate in medicine at the Karolinska Institute in Stockholm, I dedicated my doctoral thesis to Miguel:
“I dedicate this work to the memory of my best friend, from school to university and from children’s games to the armed struggle, and who was best man at my wedding: Miguel Enríquez. Miguel was a brilliant medical student and later a promising neurosurgeon. He died heroically in active combat after a siege by fascist forces, during the armed resistance against the past military government in Chile.
The Cuban government, paying homage to the memory of the revolutionary leader, named the modern Havana Hospital “Dr. Miguel Enriquez Hospital.” In the tribute speech, the Cuban Minister of Education, Armando Hart, ended his words by saying: “Long live those who wanted to take the moon by storm!’... ...
In addition, I dedicate this work to all my friends who remained in the prison camps of Quiriquina Island, the stadium and the prison of Concepción. They all fought and departed with honour. Particularly Dr. Bautista van Schouwen...”
Last meeting
Our last personal meeting was in 1971, and occurred in 1971, when he travelled to Concepción for the funeral of Alejandra Pizarro, his ex-wife. Both Miguel and Alejandra had previously been witnesses at my wedding in Concepción in 1968. This poignant last reunion took place at the home of Don Edgardo Enríquez Frödden, the rector of the University of Concepción, who was the official occupant.
During this gathering, Miguel was overwhelmed by sadness; I had never seen him so full of sorrow. Further details about this occasion are included in a personal note on page 224 of this book.[16]
For legitimate reasons, the atmosphere of that last meeting with Miguel stood in stark contrast to our encounter only months earlier in the same house. That previous meeting was filled with laughter and memories. Miguel, arriving with his Austin Mini and accompanied by Andrés Pascal, proudly demonstrated that he had learned to drive. On that day, he requested a ride –as a passenger– on my motorcycle, incognito, through the central square of Concepción and back along the diagonal overlooking the Barrio Universitario – a nostalgic gesture to greet the old days. During that time, Miguel was again the joyful, smiling, and daring adolescent I remembered.
After Alejandra’s passing, Miguel wrote a heartfelt letter to Irene, Alejandra’s mother, stating, “Despite having separated, in fact he is the person I have loved the most”[17]
Miguel had moved permanently to Santiago in 1968, following his election as secretary general of the MIR in 1967. There, he completed his medical studies and lived clandestinely with Alejandra in a second-floor apartment on Bellavista Street, rented from the year before. I visited them frequently, and we even celebrated my birthday in 1969, a surprise organized by Miguel while in hiding after calling me from Concepción. I had expected a routine assignment but instead found a gathering full of joyful memories and dreams, chasing the fleeting moonlight together.
At that time (July 1969), Miguel and I were among thirteen MIR leaders declared “fugitives from justice” by the Christian Democratic government of Eduardo Frei, with Minister of the Interior Pérez Zuchovic, as the MIR was outlawed. A few weeks later, on August 2, 1969, I was apprehended at a Carabineros roadblock and handed over to detectives from the political police – the henchmen of that time – who days later took me “strictly incommunicado” to the prison of Concepción. There they placed me “strictly incommunicado” in the prison of Concepción, where I endured further beatings.[18] Miguel, however, was never arrested.
Even in the middle of those years 1968-1971 I continued to meet him on numerous occasions, both in Santiago and in Concepción. For my part, I never wanted to leave Concepción and that is one reason why the Political Commission entrusted me instead with the direction of the university brigade of the MIR, which later progressed in the direction of the group of teachers of the MUI and other tasks linked to the university.[19]
Ideological Differences and a Book Dedication
During this period, our differences in interpreting the social world and our roles in changing it became increasingly apparent. Miguel adhered to his Leninist convictions and the philosophy of “What to Be Done,” while I remained committed to a libertarian and humanist perspective shaped by Voltaire and Malatesta since childhood.
Miguel often criticized me as an “anarchist,” and later expressed disappointment in my readings of Marcuse and Fromm, lamenting my “ideological conciliation” and “premature senility.”
He made his opinions clear in a book dedication—his gift for my birthday in 1966, when I was twenty-three years old:
“As a first step in your ideological conciliation, in accordance with your premature senility...”
The Nature of Our Friendship
Although Miguel and I were markedly different in character, intellectual interests, and both ideological and political beliefs, our friendship remained profoundly intense throughout the years. There were periods when our paths diverged significantly, such as when I chose not to participate in the VRM project. Similarly, our relationship experienced distance during the drafting of the first political-military thesis in 1965, when on strategy approaches. Yet such moments, though challenging, were part of the evolving nature of our relationship. And despite occasional distance and disagreement, the bond between us endured.
The last comment – to my knowledge – that I have about Miguel about me is from when I was captured in the middle of the resistance activities in Concepción in 1973. According to a colleague who at the time worked closely with Miguel within the Political Commission of the MIR, when he learned through the newspapers of my capture during the resistance activities in Concepción in 1973, [20] he “became sad” (se puso triste, in her words) and spoke of me in deeply fraternal terms. [21]
Miguel’s Diary offers, at various moments, both warm and at times ruthless judgments on those closest to him—his girlfriends, romantic interests, close friends, and family members. I am no exception to these candid observations.
On other occasions, he offers broad assessments of individuals who have played significant roles in his life. These generalisations are not limited to those with whom he currently shares close bonds, but also extend to people who, with time, have grown apart from his circle of friends.
In concluding this brief review of our friendship, I believe it is fitting to let Miguel speak for himself.
Contrary to what might be supposed, Miguel’s Diary is not an itinerary of his political, organic or military work. It is not in the style of José Miguel Carrera’s Diary. What has survived of Miguel’s Diary are entries that are in significant part centred on his love life in adolescence and early youth, and his candid, honest confessions about his complex development into manhood.
To properly interpret the thoughts and emotions that spring from the hyper-personal lines of the adolescent Miguel, the reader would need the same delicate and transparent spirit that animated the spirit of the author of the Diary. It would require that the reader himself be able to “go back to seventeen after living a century” – which means, in Violeta Parra’s profound formulation, to “decipher signs without being a competent sage”.[22] Therefore I ask that you understand me: my reflections on the passages of Miguel’s Diary that I transcribe here are not definitive. They are written with affection to an unforgettable friend, and with profound respect for a legendary figure in the history of our continent.
A Friendship That Saved Me
To conclude this chapter, I wish to recount an episode linked to my friendship with Miguel during my imprisonment on Quiriquina Island in October 1973.
Although Isla Quiriquina was part of the Talcahuano naval base, the prisoners were brought there from multiple locations in the region. Therefore, the interrogations of the prisoners were carried out by a military intelligence team made up of officers and non-commissioned officers of the Army and Carabineros of Concepción, one or another detective of the political police, plus personnel of the Navy. At that time the DINA did not yet exist.
The second time I am called for interrogation, I am entered into a room in which, behind a table that serves as a desk, there are three interrogators. Other armed sailors, standing and behind the desk. Sitting in the middle is a naval officer with distinctly European features (probably his name is Ary Acuña Figueroa – in charge of the Intelligence Department Anchor Two – since the physical type I refer to corresponds to descriptions that have been given to me by other ex-prisoners of that time and that identify him as such).
On his right side is a detective from Concepción who has a large book open, like a large registry book resembling a secondary-school class register used in high school. I recognized this detective, of short stature, as one of the torturers during my detention in the Prefecture of Investigations of Concepción in August 1969. [23]
The detective shows the open book to the Navy officer and comments:
– “This is the one from the team of Miristas since they started at the university, a very good friend of Miguel Enríquez.”
The Navy officer stares at me and immediately rebukes me:
– “Where is Miguel Enríquez! Where is he hiding!”
Before I can answer I receive an anonymous slap in the right ear from behind.
This was my answer:
– “I don’t know where Miguel Enríquez is. I don’t think anyone knows, except him. Nobody knows, because naturally they are all clandestine in Santiago. You understand. And I have always been in Concepción, as the detective knows.”
The Lieutenant (in a different tone):
– “Yes, but if you are such a friend of Miguel Enríquez you should know where he is”
I answer:
– I don’t know where Miguel Enríquez is. It’s impossible. And if I knew where he is, I wouldn’t say it either. If you were in a similar situation, I am sure you would not either. Because would you say where your best friend would be hiding?
Looking at the guard behind me, the officer raises his hand in a “stop” gesture, and after a few seconds in silence, orders:
– “Now, just take him back to the gym.”
There was no torture on that occasion. The obvious loyalty of my friendship with Miguel saved me, I would say. I say this, in the context of the Navy officer’s alleged loyalty to a close friend of his.
In other words, did that naval officer face a personal ethical dilemma?
I have often thought so, as I have never found another explanation for what happened.
That officer – if it was really Captain Acuña Figueroa –[24] was later accused, after the Pinochet era, of being allegedly responsible for the torture and execution of prisoners detained on Quriquina Island. He denied those allegations but was convicted by a court of law.
(P.S. The first interrogation had been considerably harsher and almost grotesquely elaborate. I had been insistently asked about the whereabouts of the MIR’s weapons... weapons that, in reality, barely existed. Those of us who confronted the coup plotters in self-defence in the centre of Concepción in the hours or day after September 11, did so with private weapons. [25]
Miguel Enríquez Espinosa (1944–1974)[26]
REFERENCES
[1] Wilde’s work is from 1891, Wolfe Hungerford Hamilton’s from 1878.
[2] Movimiento de Izquierda Revolucionara (MIR). It was founded in 1965 as “a revolutionary vanguard” organization. From 1973 to 1987 developed military resistance to the Pinochet dictatorship, constituting the main target for the Intelligence and counterinsurgent military operations by the Pinochet regime. After that in 1987 a MIR’s guerrilla operating in the mountainous area of Los Ríos Region (Neltume) was complete defeated by government forces, the organisation suffered intern divisions and finally dissolved. From 1990 and onwards militants of MIR began to participate in the democratic left parties –a few of them becoming parliament members, ambassadors or ministers.
[3] Movimiento Universitario de Izquierda
[4] It should be noted that the complete notebook containing Miguel’s Diary from 1961 is missing from the collection. I was able to obtain it thanks to the courtesy of his son, Marco Enríquez-Ominami.
[5] Miguel does not specifically name Dr. Enrique Sepúlveda, but “the political secretariat” of the VRM. But at the meeting of our group (MSR) in April of that year held in Concepción, the one who represented the leadership of the VRM was Dr. Enrique Sepúlveda.
[6] There are other versions about the genealogy of the Enríquez, possibly supported by research by Fernando Silva Vargas published in the Boletín de la Academia Chilena de la Historia (Year LXXIII - No 116). These suggest that the Enríquez Frödden would be descendants of Juan Henríquez (oidor in 1599 of the Audiencia of Nueva Granada, prosecutor of the Audiencia of Lima in 1616, and from 1636 oidor of the Council of the Indies – his son Luis Henríquez de Villalobos being knight of Santiago and first count of Montenuevo.
In my opinion, confusion arises from the lineage of Marco Enríquez, the lawyer and father of the Enríquez Frödden. His mother was Leonor Henríquez and Plaza de los Reyes, making the full name of Miguel’s paternal grandfather Marco Enríquez Henríquez.
[7] After being rector of the University of Concepción, Don Edgardo Enríquez Frödden was Minister of Education in the government of Salvador Allende.
[8] M. Ferrada de Noli, Rebeldes con Causa. Mi vida con Miguel Enríquez, el MIR y los derechos humanos. Parte 1. Libertarian Books Europe, 2020. ISBN 978-91-981615-2-6 pp. 271-282. DOI 10.5281/zenodo.18736396
[9] Miguel’s paternal great-grandparents were Clotildo Enríquez and Leonor Plaza de los Reyes, owners of estates and born at the end of the seventeenth century.
[10] M. Ferrada de Noli, “Return to Malatesta. A left liberal path to classical humanist values”. Libertarian Books Europe, Bergamo 2024. ISBN 978-91-981615-4-0
[11] At the time, the Liceo de Hombres Nº1 in Concepción maintained several parallel classes within each academic year—from A to F—and, informally but perceptibly, students were distributed according to the social and professional status of their families.
[12] See M. Ferrada de Noli (2026) Estallidos Sociales. Filosofía Política de la Privación Material y Humana. 2.4. Chapter Estallido social del abril 1957. La “Batalla de Santiago”. Pages 34–43. ISBN 978-91-88747-98-3.
[13] He left our group in 1965.
[14] Ignacio Vidaurrázaga, La infancia y la adolescencia de Miguel Enríquez en Concepción. Interference, October 5, 2022.
[15] M Ferrada de Noli. The Origins of the Revolutionary Left Movement, with a commentary on the theses of Prof. Eugenia Palieraki and Luis Vitale. Libertarian Books Europe. Stockholm 2016, Bergamo 2021. ISBN 978-91-88747-19-8
[16] See chapter Miguel y su grupo de amigos íntimos.
[17] Waldo Díaz and Pilar Palma, The Eventful History Behind Enríquez’s Sister, La Tercera, Santiago, August 7, 2009.
[18] “Incommunicado Ferrada”. Article with that name in the newspaper “Noticias de La Tarde”, Concepción, August 5, 1969.
[19] At Miguel’s suggestion, the Political Commission of the MIR nominated me as a candidate for rector of the University of Concepción in 1973. It was presented by Nelson Gutiérrez, but refuted by the regional secretary Manuel Vergara (expelled from the MIR in September 1973).
[20] La Tercera, Santiago, October 5, 1973; Diarios de Concepción El Sur, Crónica and Diario Color, October 1973.
[21] Comment delivered in Malmö, Sweden, by a colleague who had been a MIR’s Political Commission secretary in Santiago. She was later (1976) a member of the “GAM” groups in Malmö, Sweden, and belonfing to a cell I visited in organic tasks on behalf of the MIR leadership in Stockholm (Juancho). She is the wife of a former member of the Central Committee of the MIR, Álvaro Rodas.
[22] “To return to seventeen / After living a century / It’s like deciphering signs / Without being competent sage” – Violeta Parra (1962). “The Last Compositions”, 1966.
[23] Rebels with a Cause, op. cit. pp. 71–76.
[24] I never knew his name at the time of the events. But, as I have pointed out, his physical description, which I later shared with other former prisoners held at the Talcahuano naval base near Quiriquina Island, would correspond to an officer with that name.
[25] One of the skirmishes of September 12, 1973, “took place in Colo Colo and San Martín Streets, immediately next to Hotel Alonso de Ercilla” (exactly the location of our family residence in Concepción downtown), as reported in “Francotiradores en el Centro de Concepción” (Snipers in downtown Concepción). El Sur, Concepción, September 13, 1973.
