The following notes have been edited to correct errors and to add explanations and updates. Parenthetical notes and remarks from the original are enclosed in parentheses. Present day [2022] updates are italicized and enclosed in square brackets.
4 October 1990: The Feast of St. Francis - Chalatenango
We leave soon after 7:00 AM for Chalatenango, a trip which should take only about three hours driving time, but on which we anticipate delays at military roadblocks. The first is at a bridge about an hour outside of the city, where we are held for a half hour and depart with instructions to stop at the military installation up the road. Ignoring this order would be both futile and dangerous, for the troops at the roadblock are obviously in radio communication with their headquarters.
At the gate we are stopped and required to surrender all cameras, which are collected and taken into the guard house. We then proceed up an inclined driveway to the parking area outside of what appears to be the main building of the installation. Chris tells us all to stay on the bus, while he goes into the building to negotiate permission for us to continue. Though our salvos are in order, any one of these regional commanders could decide not to honor them. While we are waiting, soldiers are working in the area of the bus on various projects. One group displays a speed and efficiency which leads us to believe that they had been trained by PennDOT. [Pennsylvania Department of Transportation, which is definitely NOT known for its speed and efficiency.] We also observe a white car with polarized windows drive up, from which emerges a gringo in military uniform (presumably U.S.) Later Chris tells us that he had had a rather lengthy talk with a U.S. "advisor" inside the headquarters while he was waiting for our papers to be reviewed.
Finally after an hour of sitting in an increasingly hot bus, we are cheered to see Chris emerge from the building with an expression of success on his face. At the gate we are handed back our cameras and are relieved to note that no film had been removed from any of them. From there we proceed into the city of Chalatenango, where we are stopped by the local police, who want to check the driver's papers. Chris explains that this is fairly routine and has nothing to do with our earlier stop. Probably the driver will have to pay a fee (bribe?) and we will be able to be on our way.
Even routine stops take time, however, and we have by this time been on the bus for about four hours without a rest stop. Restless mutterings crescendo to an ultimatum: either Chris finds some facilities NOW, or he will be mopping up puddles in the back of the bus. Calling all of his resourcefulness and negotiating skills into play. Chris goes shopping in the furniture store outside of which we are parked, softening up the owner by purchasing a steam iron, and then asking her if we could all use her bathroom. By the time we have all made the trek from the bus to the rear of the store and back again, our drivers have returned and we can once again get on the road.
Our joy at being under way again is short-lived, however, for no more than two miles outside of town we encounter another roadblock. The leader there insists that we return to Chalate (the local name for the city of Chalatenango, to distinguish it from the department of the same name) to get our papers stamped. Chris says that this is something new; when he was here six weeks ago with another delegation it wasn't necessary. Back we go to the center of town and park nearly in the same spot where we had stopped earlier. Then back to the roadblock, where we are still held another hour while a semi-literate soldier copies down volumes of information from our passports. While we are waiting, several of the soldiers decide to search the suitcases of material aid that we have with us. I, and I am sure others, are terribly concerned that we will lose all the medicines and school supplies that we are carrying, if not the entire lot of things. But they seem to be looking more for arms and uniforms. One soldier lingers a long time over a drab olive green shirt that is in a case of clothing, but at last they close all of the suitcases and allow Chris and the drivers to load them back on the bus.
Finally they decide to let us through, and we proceed north into an increasingly rugged mountainous and breathtakingly beautiful area. We pass the cemetery where Ita Ford and Maura Clark are buried, but we don't stop because we are running so late and because there are considerable military in the area. About 2:30 PM we reach our goal, the community of Ellacuria, previously Corral de Piedro, having been on the road seven and a half hours.
The community leaders greet us and almost immediately take us to the ruins of the house which was the site of the massacre on 11 February 1990. They explain that the community was organized on 29 October 1989 as part of the repopulation movement. "The people who now live here fled the oppression between 1978 and 1982, when the government launched the scorched earth attacks in Chalatenango. We lived in refugee camps in Honduras, some for eight years, some for six, some for five. But in Mesa Grande we had no plans, and nothing to do. We couldn't cultivate the land, just had tiny bits of vegetable gardens, so we had to depend on assistance to survive. We grieved at not being able to do what was natural for us, tilling the land. In the camp 11,500 people lived on about 80 acres.
"Finally we began to organize ourselves and take the initiative to come back to our places of origin. We had originally come from three different places, but because we had been living together in the camp and had formed a community there, we decided to stay together as one repopulated community. The Salvadoran government did not want to give us entrance back into the country. Up until the very last day there was a block between the government and the people. But we kept saying, "We are Salvadoran. We have a right to our land." And finally we got permission to return. So with a lot of sacrifice we are here. The journey from Mesa Grande, which should have taken two days, took us twelve.
- "From the time we arrived there was military occupation around us. We were attacked from helicopters twice between November 1989 and January 1990. Then on 11 February 1990 a great offensive was launched against us. At that time we had only plastic sheets for housing. When the machine gunning started, four families living in the area ran to the only brick house for shelter, to feel more secure. But the attack was deliberate.
"There were a C47, five helicopters, and seven other airplanes. They began around 7:00 AM with rocketing and dropping 200 pound bombs. This kept up for one to two hours. One rocket made a direct hit on the house. Some tried to run, but troops came on the ground, also. Four children and one adult were killed, and fifteen were injured. Three houses were destroyed and forty-five houses were damaged.
"For us it has been very sad. We believe that we are a community that deserves respect as human beings. On 28 July, just two days after the accords were signed, they launched three mortars against us. We have had threats against the community, all done by military troops. But in spite of the repression we have a great desire to live in our homes here. As you can see, we have projects here. We have water, we have built latrines, we have cows. There are a clinic and a school. The women have a sewing cooperative and an embroidery cooperative. We have been able to do all this because of international solidarity."
The difference between Ellacuria and the village which we visited in San Miguel is striking. Indeed, they have all of the projects which they have mentioned, and plans for more. They take us to their church building and show us the cross they have made, with pictures of the six murdered Jesuits and photographs of their own martyred children. The cross is brought out of the church and propped against an outside wall in the sunlight so that we can see it clearly and get good pictures. It is emotionally difficult to take pictures here and in the house where the children were killed, but we are encouraged to do so. The people here seem to understand that it is international attention focused on them which gives them the space to remain in their community, despite the repression.
The decision to stay the night or to return to the city is a wrenching one, made with great difficulty. By the time it is made, it is already later than Chris had said would be the latest safe time to depart. It will be dark long before we get back to San Salvador. It has been raining off and on all afternoon, and the dirt road we traveled coming in is now deeply rutted mud. At one spot the bus gets stuck in a wash-out. Wheels spin uselessly, finding no traction. Then while four of us sit in the seats directly over the back wheels, the rest pile out of the bus and push, and with the sure hand of J. at the wheel, we bump and fishtail our way through the wash-out onto firmer ground again.
The military at the roadblocks show no interest in us now that we are headed back to the capital, and the journey which should have taken three hours this morning is, in fact, accomplished in three hours on the way home. We are "treated" to the Salvadoran equivalent of Kentucky Fried Chicken - Pollo Campero - for supper once we are back within the city limits. And so back to the guest house for the night.
Copyright © 2022 Marian L. Shatto
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