Tales of my husband--a testament to Harry Barnes.

• Author: Barnes, Betsey

The Chilean press was there to greet him when his plane set down in Santiago that morning in 1985. It was the beginning of a long affiliation--I almost want to say camaraderie. In contrast to the Eastern European countries we had known, Chile's press, while operating within the constraints of a totalitarian state, showed a certain amount of independence. And in our years in Santiago they tracked my husband wherever he went, tenaciously, gleefully, curiously, affably and acrimoniously. It was a period in his life when he became an unlikely star attraction in the evening news.

President Pinochet feigned disinterest in his new American envoy. He would certainly have dispatched the DINA, his KGB, to ferret out my husband's entire history, and there wasn't a hell of a lot in it that would have made him happy. He read this appointment correctly: the Reagan White House was doing a "rethink" of its Chile policy, and Pinochet was peeved.

From The Christian Science Monitor: "... the Reagan administration changed course. With the appointment of Harry Barnes as the ambassador to Chile, the U.S. distanced itself from the Pinochet regime, aligned increasingly with the growing democratic opposition in Chile, and pressed for greater respect for human rights and political freedoms."

A new ambassador is required to present credentials and have them accepted by the host government shortly after arrival. This ceremony marks the moment when the new envoy is recognized as representing his or her country, and only then can speak officially on its behalf.

But President Pinochet ignored my husband's presence long enough to make his displeasure demonstratively clear.

Bemused and undeterred, Harry conspicuously used the interim period to get to know the opposition. One vital and generous member of that increasing body of Chileans was Cardinal Juan Francisco Fresno. Fresno was to become a good friend and valued advisor for Harry and for the embassy.

The Roman Catholic Church was powerful enough to defy the junta. In 1976, alarmed by increasing human rights abuses and persuaded that it must not remain passive or neutral, it had founded the Vicariate of Solidarity, an organization that was to become its voice of protest. The Church, as probably the country's most cohesive and publicly untouchable institution, was becoming a major irritant for the government. George, Harry's astute deputy, writes that Fresno could have closed down the Vicariate of Solidarity at any time, and he could have discouraged the embassy from supporting it. He did neither. Fresno was a man of faith, grace, and courage: a hero of his time.

Shortly after Harry's arrival was Human Rights Day, and in recognition, the Vicaria de la Solidaridad had planned a Mass for that evening. Harry not only attended the Mass, but joined in the procession which followed, carrying his own candle through the streets of Santiago. Pinochet was infuriated.

The Los Angeles Times had this to say: "A new U.S. approach to Chile became evident with the arrival of Ambassador Harry Barnes. Energetic and outgoing, Barnes promptly opened the embassy to opponents of Pinochet, making clear by his words and his actions that the United States was looking forward to a post-Pinochet Chile."

When the day arrived and he was received at the Moneda, the presentation of credentials proceeded only within the rigid bounds of protocol. What probably sealed the relationship beyond repair were Harry's remarks upon presenting his credentials:

"In the United States it has been our experience that the pursuit of freedom and search for security are inextricably related. We know that societies cannot be free unless they are secure and they cannot be truly secure unless they are protected by free men and women. Nor can democracies afford ever to be complacent about their freedoms or their independence. In our country we have concluded that the ills of democracy can best be cured by more democracy."

Pinochet's retort: "Since when are some ambassadors arbiters of our internal problems? We are not anyone's colony or slave."

And with that welcoming salvo, our "official" years in Chile began.

Harry was never actually refused admission to the Moneda, but meetings he requested with the president were turned down. The only post in our Foreign Service life where I was nervous much of the time was Santiago, Chile. Pinochet hated my husband, and I was never sure what he and his DINA might be prepared to do about him--this man whose mission, they had decided, was to "destroy Pinochet." I carried with me the memory of Orlando Letelier.

When I first arrived, the person Harry especially wanted me to know was Monica Jimenez de la Jara. Monica was working on development and poverty-alleviation projects. She had returned from a Fulbright in Washington D.C., and her English cut the time we would have spent getting to know each other. I had my first taste of her that morning en route to one of her projects. She drove leisurely, questioning me, interested--really interested: yes, my mother was failing and I would need to make repeated trips to the States. But after more questions I turned the conversation around. Harry had given me something of her background, and she had already impressed me.

With her five children mostly grown, Monica's heart, her soul and the better part of her life was now immersed in Chile's return to democracy. She seemed so gentle, so reasoned, belying what I knew about her passion for human rights and the innumerable ways she was fighting to bring some sanity back to her country. The list of involvements in which her role was crucial, both with the church and with the political opposition, was a story I wouldn't learn from her. But even as she pointed out various landmarks and navigated the cluttered morning streets, radiating through that calm I sensed a burning energy. I suspected the work that so consumed her might be a vent for her anger. I knew she was a member of the National Commission for Truth and Reconciliation as well, and that with them she was looking into those deaths and disappearances. This morning she was driving us to one of Santiago's poblaciones (slums) where she had "good friends" she wanted us to meet. These were people working with her to "resolve some of the country's problems." It occurred to me that she undoubtedly had families and friends "working with her" in the hundreds of poblaciones throughout Santiago. And over time I came to know that Monica and her husband, Juan, had friends throughout the country.

Back in 1980 Pinochet had "made a gift to the people of Chile" in the form of a new constitution, a replacement for Chile's 1925 constitution. Among other things, this new creation gave him the power to imprison or to exile any citizen with no recourse. The country was given the chance to approve this "gift" in a plebiscite. The regime came out of it, if not smelling like a rose, buttressed at least by what appeared to be a decisive vote of approval. Pinochet had solidified his place as President of the Republic for an additional eight years, with one obligation: a second plebiscite would be held in the eighth year. At that time voters would decide with a simple SI or NO whether Pinochet's presidency would extend for still another eight years.

Dictators do not allow themselves to be voted out of office, and it was no secret that Pinochet was a poor loser and determined at all costs to remain where he was. Eight years must have seemed a comfortable eternity.

Since 1983, the opposition had been actively gathering momentum, bringing together a broad alliance of eleven different groups, ranging from center-right to socialists. They met over breakfasts, as Monica says, with "extraordinary carefulness" to work on compromise, to resolve their differences, to recognize that power would come only when they could speak with a single voice.

She tells about this. "With growing surprise, the participants discovered how many agreements had been reached." They welcomed this rapprochement, and agreed on a mutual statement, which came to be called the National Accord for the Transition to Full Democracy.

The document demanded a plebiscite, and with their newly achieved harmony, hopes were high that this would end the nightmare of the Pinochet years.

When the Accord was taken to Pinochet, his reply came without hesitation. "You are nuts. This is not relevant. This has nothing to do with the needs of the country."

And thus ended that conversation.

Monica writes, "Until 1985, the diplomats of the European Community had felt pretty much alone. With the arrival of Barnes, who gathered them together for a cocktail party on November 14, the situation changed. Harry Barnes met with the signatories of the agreement and with the ambassadors of the European Community. This upset the Pinochet government.

"The formal rejection by the government of the National Accord stimulated the idea of an intensive social mobilization to force the regime to change its position. In this context, Harry began meeting with all the people that were on his list of key people. He was interested in everything."

Three of those key people with whom he became good friends would have historic significance in the country's future--a future that seemed improbable in 1985 and 1986: Patricio Aylwin, Eduardo Frei, and Ricardo Lagos, the first three presidents of a democratic Chile.

Gabriel Valdes had been the leader of the opposition: Genaro Arriagada was to become the principal man of the NO campaign: Maximo Pacheco was the president of the Commission for Human Rights: Jose Miguel Barros Franco, along with Sergio Molina, was on the Committee for Free Elections: Sergio Valech headed the Vicaria de la Solidaridad. The list goes on.

But a crucial piece of work now lay ahead, for the opposition, for the diplomatic corps, and especially for the Americans, now so fiercely engaged.

The plebiscite would be...