How Mexico Welcomed Chilean Exiles After the 1973 Coup

There are times in history when one wonders if the world is a stage, set for one big, cosmic joke. Take Chile in 1970. A democratically elected socialist president, Salvador Allende, fresh off a victory that sent a jolt through Latin America, decided to step into the ring with the world’s biggest economic heavyweights, ready to square off. With the nationalization of key industries—primarily copper, Chile’s crown jewel—he envisioned a socialist utopia, one where wealth would flow like wine at a wedding.

It all looked good on paper. But in reality? Well, if you’ve ever seen a toddler trying to juggle flaming torches while riding a unicycle, you’ll get the picture.

Allende, bless him, was ambitious, perhaps too much so. Agrarian reform, labor rights, redistributing wealth like Robin Hood in the Andes. But, as one might expect when playing with the lives of capitalists, the rich folk didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of watching their fortunes being siphoned away. They started grumbling, then panicking. Add a smidge of Cold War hysteria, throw in the not-so-secret meddling of Uncle Sam, and soon enough, the whole of Chile was one boiling cauldron of discontent.

Now, when your political opponents hate you, the markets are having a coronary, and Washington is sending you angry letters wrapped in CIA conspiracy, life tends to get a bit uncomfortable. And so it did for Allende, especially on a fateful day in 1973. September 11—yes, it really was September 11, history just loves an ironic twist—Chile’s military decided they’d had enough of this socialist experiment. Led by General Augusto Pinochet, a man whose idea of diplomacy involved disappearing anyone who disagreed with him, the military launched a coup, which didn’t end with friendly handshakes or polite letters of resignation. No, this one came with tanks, bombs, and guns. The kind of "power handover" that’s less democratic transition, more "why is my country on fire?"

Allende, for his part, didn’t flee like some politicians might. You know the type, the ones who are on the next plane out as soon as things go south. Instead, he donned a helmet, walked into La Moneda Palace with the grim resolution of a man who knew his time was up. The bombs rained down, and in his final moments, he gave one last rousing speech, declaring his undying love for Chile, the workers, and the people.

And then, of course, the worst happened. Allende died, democracy crumbled, and Chile descended into a near two-decade nightmare under Pinochet’s military dictatorship. And this, my dear reader, is where our story takes a curious turn.

Because just when you think the tragedy can’t get any more gut-wrenching, enter Mexico. Yes, while Chile was descending into a darkness filled with torture, forced disappearances, and the brutal crushing of dissent, Mexico became a sanctuary for those fleeing the nightmare.

Among them was one Hortensia Bussi Soto, Allende’s widow. Now, it’s not easy to imagine what it must feel like to lose your husband to a coup, watch your country implode, and then be forced into exile, all within the span of a few days. But that’s what happened to Bussi. On September 16, 1973, just five days after her husband’s tragic end, she found herself landing at Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City.

Here’s the thing about Mexico in the early 70s. The country had its own baggage—massacres, guerrilla movements, you name it. The Tlatelolco massacre in 1968, followed by the Halconazo in 1971, were still fresh wounds. Students, intellectuals, and guerrillas had been agitating for political change, and Mexico’s government wasn’t exactly known for its gentle touch. In short, it was a place where dreams of revolution often met with the cold, hard reality of state repression.

So, in this context, the arrival of Chilean exiles could have gone one of two ways: they could have been met with indifference, or worse, hostility. But instead, something quite extraordinary happened. Mexican society, or at least significant parts of it, opened its arms.

As Hortensia Bussi stepped off that plane, Mexican government officials—high-ranking secretaries, directors, the diplomatic elite—were there to greet her. And they didn’t just nod politely and move on. No, they practically rolled out the red carpet. She was ushered into the Official Hall, a diplomatic VIP lounge, where Mexico’s political elite, academia, and even the media gathered to welcome her. The message was clear: "We’ve got your back."

It’s a heartwarming image if ever there was one, and frankly, a bit unexpected. Mexico, a country grappling with its own demons, decided to become a refuge for Chile’s exiles. But it wasn’t just the politicians. Students from UNAM, members of the University Center for Cinematographic Studies, left-wing groups, they all rallied in solidarity. The Chilean tragedy resonated deeply in Mexico, striking a chord with those who had similarly lived through repression, state violence, and the ever-looming specter of authoritarianism.

When Bussi gave her press conference at 2:55 p.m. that afternoon, the gravity of her words was palpable. She expressed her gratitude to the Mexican government, and in particular, to the then-Mexican ambassador to Chile, Gonzalo Martínez Corbalá. This man, an engineer by trade, risked his own neck to rescue Chileans and Mexicans alike during the chaos of the coup. And let’s be honest here, being a diplomat in Chile in 1973 was about as safe as being a matador with a meat allergy.

But Bussi wasn’t just reliving personal tragedy. She was the living embodiment of a nation in exile, of an entire political movement that had been crushed by military boots, but that still clung to hope. In her recounting of Allende’s final hours, she painted a picture of a man who refused to abandon his post, even when doing so might have saved his life. Allende, she said, could have left La Moneda Palace, but he chose to stay, because the office of the presidency, in his mind, wasn’t a job title. It was a commitment to his country, to his people, to his ideals.

In the end, what we’re left with is a stark contrast. On one side, you’ve got the cold, hard brutality of a military dictatorship in Chile. On the other, you’ve got Mexico, flawed and battered as it was, stepping up as a sanctuary. And this, if anything, is one of history’s delicious ironies. Because while Pinochet ruled Chile with an iron fist, crushing all dissent, Mexico—a country with its own issues—offered a lifeline.

Hortensia Bussi’s arrival in Mexico is documented in a file at the AGN (National Archives), and it reads like a small but powerful footnote in the broader narrative of Latin American history. It details not only the diplomatic efforts that facilitated the Chilean exiles’ escape but also the outpouring of support they received from ordinary Mexicans.

So, what can we learn from all this? Maybe it’s that history has a funny way of throwing us into the most absurd of circumstances, where nations and individuals alike are forced to play roles they never quite expected. But if nothing else, it’s a reminder that in the midst of chaos, there are always those who will stand up for what’s right, even if they have to do it from across a border.