In the late-90s I stumbled upon a TV documentary with the writer Isabel Allende, niece of Salvador Allende. She was talking fondly about him, describing her pride, love and the sense of complete devastation at what had happened in Chile.
She was crying - and in the background they were showing the footage of the bombardment of the Presidential Palace, La Moneda, the day the coup took place.
I cried too - it was the 1st time I'd seen the footage, and it's hard to put into words the overwhelming feeling of absolute sadness.
I wrote El President that same evening.
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