By Rodolfo Varela
On Monday, July 7, the government of President Gabriel Boric made an announcement as historic as it is necessary: the expropriation of 117 hectares of land once occupied by the infamous Colonia Dignidad, with the goal of building a memorial to honor the victims of crimes committed there during Pinochet’s dictatorship.
The act, led by Justice Minister Jaime Gajardo and Housing Minister Carlos Montes, represents a decisive step in addressing the historical debt the Chilean state owes to the victims of this enclave of terror.
But this decision—which should unite the country around the principle of "never again"—has sparked resistance. Why? Because Villa Baviera—today's name for the site—continues to be inhabited by descendants and former settlers connected, directly or indirectly, to a past of slavery, repression, and torture. And, sadly, because there are still sectors in Chile that prefer silence, impunity, and indifference over truth and justice.
Colonia Dignidad: A Wound That Has Not Healed
Founded in 1961 by former Nazi army medic Paul Schäfer, Colonia Dignidad functioned for decades as a closed, authoritarian sect where sexual abuse, forced labor, and indoctrination were rampant. After the 1973 military coup, the compound became a clandestine detention and torture center for political opponents of the regime. According to official records, at least 26 people disappeared within its borders, and many others were brutally tortured, with the full collaboration of the DINA and the military leadership.
Despite its criminal history, the colony survived. It changed its name, rebranded itself as a picturesque German-style tourist attraction, and even welcomed visitors and public officials. In other words: Villa Baviera managed to reintegrate into the social and economic fabric of southern Chile, while many of its victims still searched for truth, justice, and reparations.
The Symbolic Power of Expropriation
What the Chilean state is doing now is not just acquiring land. It is reclaiming a space of memory so that it never again becomes a sanctuary of silence. It is a tangible signal that there can be no tourism, no normalization, where horror and death once reigned. The expropriation won’t erase the past, but it can serve as a powerful gesture of symbolic justice for the future.
Still, the fact that some settlers oppose the measure—even questioning the state’s right to purchase their homes—reveals the fragility of our historical awareness. How is it possible that, in 2025, there are still those who resist turning a former torture site into a memorial?
No Strong Democracy Without Active Memory
The greatest danger would be for this expropriation to remain an isolated act, a government initiative rather than a national policy. Chile must build a lasting institutional memory that does not depend on which president holds office. We need more memorials, more education on human rights, and greater commitment to truth, justice, and full reparation.
The process won’t be easy. It will involve assessments, legal battles, negotiations, and social tensions. But it is absolutely necessary—not just out of respect for the victims of the dictatorship, but because a country that refuses to confront its past is doomed to repeat it.
Let this expropriation be more than a headline. Let it be a turning point. A gesture of justice. A wake-up call for a nation that still struggles to look itself in the mirror.
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