Uncertain Citizenship. Megan Ryburn
policy of colonization by Chileans from farther south was established. Physical assaults, rapes, and murders were not uncommon, carried out by Chilean vigilante groups but also by police. Violence increased in the period directly before the vote was due to be held, and thus a free and fair plebiscite was deemed impossible by the US representatives.9
The Tacna-Arica issue was finally resolved in 1929, following arbitration by the United States. Tacna passed back into Peruvian control, and Arica remained in Chilean control, with no plebiscite ever held. Nevertheless, this solution was only partial. Xenophobic antagonism between Chile and Peru had become deeply entrenched during the previous fifty years, and racism toward indigenous peoples had been reinforced. The specter of the War of the Pacific continued to rear its head throughout the rest of the twentieth century and into the twenty-first through repeated displays of this antagonism.10 A similar animosity came to exist between Chile and Bolivia, and its repercussions likewise can still be felt.
Most notably, the issue of Bolivian sea access was, and still is, a serious bone of contention between the two countries, and they have not maintained full diplomatic relations since 1962. Regaining sea access is a matter of national pride in Bolivia, and the country commemorates the Day of the Sea every March 23 with parades, chants, and songs, led by its navy. In 2013 Bolivia brought a case to the International Court of Justice (ICJ) requesting that the court order Chile to negotiate the issue of Bolivian sovereign access to the sea (as opposed to the more limited access it currently has via the ports of Arica and Antofagasta). Much to Chile’s chagrin, the ICJ ruled in 2015 that it would hear the case, and it is likely that a judgment will be issued in 2018 or 2019.
Whatever the conclusions that might be drawn about the causes of the sea access dispute and how it might be resolved, matters have not been helped by the aggressive public acts and comments of certain politicians on both sides. As a recent example, Evo Morales has insisted on playing Bolivia’s “Naval March” in the presence of Chilean delegations to the country. Among other things, the lyrics contain a line indicating that Antofagasta, as well as other Chilean cities, will be returned once again to Bolivia (otra vez a la patria volverá). Bolivian minister of defense Reimy Ferreira has also recently compared former president Michelle Bachelet’s government with that of General Augusto Pinochet. Bachelet was a victim of torture under the Pinochet regime. On another recent occasion, following a spat over a border infringement by Bolivian public officials, former and now again incumbent Chilean president Sebastián Piñera tweeted that President Evo Morales should “shut up stop lying and comply with the 1904 Treaty” (mejor que se calle deje de mentir y cumpla Tratado de 1904).11
At the border crossing at Lago Chungará, the ongoing tensions of the past century and a half can at times make themselves felt. This was revealed to me through the responses to a questionnaire survey that I assisted the Asociación in conducting with forty-six Bolivian truck drivers in the port of Arica. Employed by Bolivian companies, these drivers come largely from the departamentos of Cochabamba, Oruro, and Potosí, crossing into Chile at Lago Chungará to deliver their goods to the port before reloading and making the return journey. The drivers never had a good sense of how long a return journey would take them because there were often delays with the loading and unloading of cargo and at the border crossing, which the drivers attributed to the geopolitical tension between the two countries. Thus the journey could take them anywhere between two weeks and a month, with delays resulting in lost wages because of the high cost of accommodations and food in Arica. A member of staff at the port confirmed that proceedings were sometimes less than efficient and that the underlying cause was at least in part the fraught relations between the two countries.
Moreover, application of the law on the Chilean side of the border as individuals cross over from Bolivia can be arbitrary and discriminatory. Here Bolivians’ right to freedom of movement and to migrate may be questioned, although there is often no basis for such questioning under Chilean law. Under the MERCOSUR visa agreement among Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil, Chile, Paraguay, and Uruguay, since 2009 Bolivians should be able to cross freely with only their identity cards and enter Chile as tourists (see chapter 3).12 The MTRV to allow migrants to work is acquired once in Chile. Other than their identity cards, Bolivians crossing into Chile may be required at the border to show “proof of solvency,” a concept for which I have struggled to find a clear definition. What is notable with regard to this point is that questioning about funds often appears to be arbitrary, and it seems that those crossing the border may be asked about their financial situation—or not—on the basis of their appearance. Those who appear to be indigenous are more likely to be questioned, as well as searched.
On my journey back across the border from La Paz to Arica, the woman in front of me in the customs queue, who was dressed de pollera (wearing Aymara or Quechua indigenous dress), was made to unpack all of the belongings she was carrying in her aguayo (woven cloth used to carry items) and zippered, blue-and-white-striped plastic bag. My equally large backpack passed unremarked. Of course this could have been an anomaly, the whim of the customs officer on that particular day. This seems unlikely, however, given that many participants in my research, particularly those in Arica and especially those who identified as indigenous and had lower levels of education, had experienced discrimination at the border. Sometimes this was relatively low-key—such as being subjected to more searches—but sometimes it resulted in being prohibited entry into Chile. Migrant organizations in the region confirmed that this type of discrimination and arbitrary decision making is a reality at the Chungará border, and at times people become stranded as they try to cross into Chile, sometimes struggling to cope with the altitude and relative lack of services.
Kevin, age forty-eight, an Aymara Bolivian who has lived in Arica for twenty-three years and has Chilean permanent residency, narrated to me a recent experience of crossing the border:
Of the forty-five or so who were on the bus, at least ten to fifteen returned. They said to you, “Well, and where are you going?”
“Arica,” you replied.
“To do what?” It was enough to hesitate about something, turn around, and they made you go back, even if you had money [i.e., could prove financial solvency].
And you know that those who speak Aymara, most of us are from the countryside, and, how can I say this, sometimes they don’t express themselves well. They don’t explain themselves properly…. And well, last week I was crossing and they say, they ask me, “Where are you going?”
“To Arica,” I replied.
“To do what?”
“My family’s there.”
“How long have you lived there?”
They start to ask you things.
The prickly relations between Chile and Bolivia—the product of the old and still unhealed wounds of the War of the Pacific—impact the lives of ordinary people who set out to cross the border at Chungará. Deeply engrained discrimination toward indigenous peoples means that greater barriers to entry may be faced by some than by others. This literal borderland in the upper reaches of the Andes is, then, a place of tensions and exclusions, a place of uncertainty. The places subsequently discussed are in many ways figurative borderlands. They are there and not-there, hidden in plain sight, on the margins; they too are pervaded by tensions and exclusions, which at least in part are the product of histories of discrimination.
THE MIGRANT CITÉ, SANTIAGO
The term cité has more than one meaning in modern Santiago. When it first came into use in the late nineteenth century, it referred to the housing created for the urban working class, generally by the philanthropic arm of a business for its workers or through Catholic Church funding.13 A cité typically consisted of two rows of small, terraced houses facing each other across a narrow passageway, which served as a communal outdoor space for the inhabitants of the houses. Each house had its own toilet, washing, and cooking facilities. This was in contrast to the conventillos, which were simply rooms off an outdoor passageway or courtyard with shared facilities.14
There is now a certain romanticizing of the old cité and the notion of community life that