Who owns Plaza Baquedano?
Destructive placemaking in places of anger
Santiago is a city plush with beautiful, warm and inviting spaces. From the Californian vibrancy of Parque Metropolitano, to the Parisian class of the Plaza de Armas; from the Caribbean rhythm of Bellavista, to the truly Chilean exotism of the city’s mountainous backdrop. Santiago offers a happy place for every taste.
However, there is a location in the city that is not so happy, and deliberately so: Plaza Baquedano.
A space of anger, protest, outrage and criticism, Plaza Baquedano has recently been occupied by the voices of dissent. Protestors gather here every day, angry messages and urgent demands are painted on every surface, and the plaza’s monuments are routinely vandalised and defaced.
It is a reminder that not every ‘sense of place’ provides positivity; some places are uncomfortable, challenging and disruptive – and for that very reason, they are important. Plaza Baquedano is a vital part of Santiago’s social fabric, and to understand why, we must go back in time.
A brief history of the square
This city-centre plaza was originally conceived in 1875, designed primarily to act as a large, decorative roundabout of sorts. Geographically, it was and still is an important focal point in the city: positioned at a meeting place of several comunas (or neighbourhoods); of several main roads; and at the edge of Santiago’s economic centre.
While originally named ‘Plaza La Serena’, in 1928 the square took on new meaning when it was inaugurated as ‘Plaza Baquedano’ – re-named for one of Chile’s most prominent military generals and heroes of the nineteenth century. Adorned with a new name and decorated with new monuments to Chile’s national heroes, the intention with Plaza Baquedano was to create a place of national and city pride.
However, crucially, these decisions were made by the authoritarian government of Carlos Ibáñez del Campo, who had rigged his way to power in 1927. The plaza’s identity change was a top-down decision, in which the public were never consulted.
This context became critical in the late twentieth century, when Chile underwent a period of irreparable suppression and trauma.
The rule of Pinochet
Following the coup d’état of 1973, which saw Marxist President Salvador Almande removed and killed, Chile was governed by the repressive dictatorship of General Augusto Pinochet. Books, art, and any items of culture were systematically destroyed; 27,000 people were incarcerated; and 3,000 people are known to have been killed under the regime.
It was during this time that Plaza Baquedano began to take on a new role.
Geographically and spatially, the plaza offered a strong strategic location for brave protesters to voice their dissent. The large, open space meant that it could accommodate plenty of people, and allow for good visibility both ways: to be seen, and also to keep watch. It also took on an important symbolic significance – this was a plaza created by the very same authoritarian principles that the protesters were fighting.
Throughout the 1980s, Plaza Baquedano became a place of placards, chants, and terrible bloodshed.
The rule of Pinochet lasted nearly 20 years, only ending after an internationally-enforced plebiscite in the late 1980s. Ever since, Chile has enjoyed a peaceful democracy in which progressive and liberal governments are often favoured.
But what does this mean for the identity of Plaza Baquedano today?
Plaza Baquedano today
Although Chile is now lauded as one of the most peaceful, democratic and liberal nations in Latin America, the government still has its critics.
In fact, since 2019, a series of violent protests have broken out across the country. Anger has been directed against the rising cost of living, increasing public transport fares, low minimum wages, social inequality, increasing governmental corruption, and – at the borders – rising numbers of Venezuelan immigrants entering the country.
The protests have shaken the nation. 36 have died during rioting, with hundreds more injured and arrested. The disruption has looked disturbingly similar to that which the country endured during Pinochet’s dictatorship – including seeing Plaza Baquedano occupied once again by anger and violence.
While Chile’s new, young president, Gabriel Boric, has for now appeased the unrest, the evidence of anger in Plaza Baquedano is still clear to see. Protestors still peacefully wave their placards in the square. The streets, trees and monuments are still emblazoned with messages of dissent: ‘the revolution is possible’, ‘this is the cruel work of capitalism’, ‘do not let go of the dignity of the people’. And the towering statue of General Baquedano is still missing from its plinth – removed after many concerted attempts by vandals to destroy it.
In these actions of dissent, there are several demands at stake. First, it is clear that protestors seek political and social change. As well as this, however, there is the question of the identity of Plaza Baquedano itself. It is no accident that protestors continue to use and vandalise this particular space whenever they have a grievance: it is because, as long as it is known as ‘Plaza Baquedano’, the square remains an emblem of old corruption and authoritarianism. The name was assigned by a corrupt government, and was never ratified by the people.
Today, Plaza Baquedano has become both a symbol and a vehicle of angry demands, and the people are taking are taking it back. They are changing its aesthetic appearance; they are changing the way it is used; they are changing the way they refer to it – informally naming it ‘Plaza de la Dignidad’ (or Dignity Square). It may be uncomfortable, but this is a loud expression of ownership and belonging over the space, and it is giving the plaza a powerful sense of place.
Destructive placemaking
Of course, Plaza Baquedano is not alone in this experience of ownership-by-vandalism. In recent years – particularly as a result of the Black Lives Matter moement – many cities around the world have witnessed the vandalism of public statues and monuments during protests. All are cases in which groups of people have felt their views and principles are not reflected in public spaces. It is destructive, but it is a form of placemaking nevertheless.
After all, if Plaza Baquedano teaches us anything, it is that a place means nothing without the sanction of the people who spend time there. It is very possible that this new trend in negative place engagement will set a long-lasting precedent in how future public spaces are made.
