El Salvador no longer dominates the headlines from Central America. The foreign press corps has dwindled to a handful of reporters. Most cover the entire region and spend the bulk of their time in Managua or the contra camps in Honduras. 'The American public has lost interest in El Sal- vador," their editors tell them. There is no debate in Congress on the issue. Even the recent elections did not draw a crowd. The big story this week is that guer- rilla commander JoaquIn Villalobos, reputed to be the FMLN'S top military strategist, is dead. The head of the Armed Forces Press Office takes out his silver pointer and shows us on a map the area where Villalobos was hit, and the flight path of the helicop- ter that came from Nicaragua to pick up his corpse. Radio communications have been intercepted, he says, re- vealing plans for his funeral. But three days later, a delegation from the United States, headed by former Con- gressman Jim Shannon, meets with Villalobos in the town of PerquIn in Morazan province. A moment of drama has passed. "Low-intensity conflict," the term now in vogue to describe El Sal- vador's war, just does not keep the TV cameras rolling. Both the army and the FMLN claim high casualties on the other side, but the military con- flict has become a slow war of attri- tion, a stalemate that takes a regular quota of lives each week with no end in sight. The army is more sophisti- cated in its methods these days, plac- ing greater emphasis on "psychologi- cal operations" and "civic action." The infamous Treasury Police now distribute toys. Helicopters "rescue" civilians fleeing army ground sweeps and take them to the nearest garrison to watch propaganda films, shower and eat a good meal. From there, the army takes them to already overflow- ing camps for displaced persons-part of the process of emptying the sea to catch the fish. The guerrillas are less visible than they were a year ago, operating in smaller units, ambushing army patrols and inflicting heavy damage on the country's economic infrastructure. On April 9, they made headlines, how- ever, by attacking the village of Santa Cruz Loma, 35 miles southeast of the capital, and killing both armed mem- bers of the local civil defense unit and unarmed civilians, including several children. The archbishop denounced the attack in his Sunday homily. Former U.N. Ambassador Jeane Kirkpatrick visited the battlesite on a one-day trip to El Salvador, assuring ample coverage on the evening news. Even Victors Stunned But the more subtle and complex story in El Salvador today is the politi- cal battle being waged behind the scenes. The results of the recent elec- tions stunned even the victors. Duarte's Christian Democratic Party won 153 of 202 mayoral posts, and 33 of the 60 seats in the National Assem- bly. But real power in El Salvador has never been determined at the ballot box. Napoleon Duane's control of the National Assembly does not translate automatically into the ability-or the political will-to curb human rights abuses, punish those responsible, carry out reforms and pursue peace talks with the Left. The Right is in disarray following its debacle in the March elections, but its resiliency should not be underesti- mated. Already there are signs of re- grouping, with the partial eclipse of Roberto D'Aubuisson and the rise of a "respectable" new right-wing par- ty, Patria Libre (Free Fatherland), headed by former ARENA deputy, Hugo Harrera. Moreover, the Right's tremendous leverage over the economy is a power- ful bargaining chip with Duarte, as is its influence over hard-line sectors of the military. The armed forces, still the ultimate arbiter of political life in El Salvador, hold veto power over any and all initiatives. Unconditional U.S. support for the war effort has made them more confident of winning a military victory, and less inclined to seriously engage in negotiations. During his first 10 months in office, Napoleon Duane dedicated himself to building bridges to the Right, to mak- ing his presidency acceptable to his long-time enemies, the army and the private sector. He did so at the ex- pense of his supporters within the trade union movement and the peas- antry, who, lacking alternatives, nonetheless supported the Christian Democrats in the Assembly elections. Now, however, they expect results. Duarte is no longer blocked by the Right majority in the Assembly. There is concern within Duarte's own party that he will continue to negotiate more with the Right than with the Left. But countervailing pres- sures are mounting, as trade unions, Christian base communities, and other groups of the Left and center begin to cautiously stretch the new political space created by the Assembly elec- tions. Patience is running out among The New and the Old War Soldier In Usuluton MAY/JUNE 1985 9 El Salvador The New and the Old War BY JANET SHENK El Salvador no longer dominates the headlines from Central America. The foreign press corps has dwindled to a handful of reporters. Most cover the entire region and spend the bulk of their time in Managua or the contra camps in Honduras. "The American public has lost interest in El Sal- vador," their editors tell them. There is no debate in Congress on the issue. Even the recent elections did not draw a crowd. The big story this week is that guer- rilla commander Joaquin Villalobos, reputed to be the FMLN's top military strategist, is dead. The head of the Armed Forces Press Office takes out his silver pointer and shows us on a map the area where Villalobos was hit, and the flight path of the helicop- ter that came from Nicaragua to pick up his corpse. Radio communications have been intercepted, he says, re- vealing plans for his funeral. But three days later, a delegation from the United States, headed by former Con- gressman Jim Shannon, meets with Villalobos in the town of Perquin in Morazin province. A moment of drama has passed. "Low-intensity conflict," the term now in vogue to describe El Sal- vador's war, just does not keep the TV cameras rolling. Both the army and the FMLN claim high casualties on the other side, but the military con- flict has become a slow war of attri- tion, a stalemate that takes a regular quota of lives each week with no end in sight. The army is more sophisti- cated in its methods these days, plac- ing greater emphasis on "psychologi- cal operations" and "civic action." The infamous Treasury Police now distribute toys. Helicopters "rescue" civilians fleeing army ground sweeps and take them to the nearest garrison to watch propaganda films, shower and eat a good meal. From there, the army takes them to already overflow- ing camps for displaced persons-part of the process of emptying the sea to Soldier in Usulutin catch the fish. The guerrillas are less visible than they were a year ago, operating in smaller units, ambushing army patrols and inflicting heavy damage on the country's economic infrastructure. On April 9, they made headlines, how- ever, by attacking the village of Santa Cruz Loma, 35 miles southeast of the capital, and killing both armed mem- bers of the local civil defense unit and unarmed civilians, including several children. The archbishop denounced the attack in his Sunday homily. Former U.N. Ambassador Jeane Kirkpatrick visited the battlesite on a one-day trip to El Salvador, assuring ample coverage on the evening news. Even Victors Stunned But the more subtle and complex story in El Salvador today is the politi- cal battle being waged behind the scenes. The results of the recent elec- tions stunned even the victors. Duarte's Christian Democratic Party won 153 of 202 mayoral posts, and 33 of the 60 seats in the National Assem- bly. But real power in El Salvador has never been determined at the ballot box. Napole6n Duarte's control of the National Assembly does not translate automatically into the ability-or the political will-to curb human rights abuses, punish those responsible, carry out reforms and pursue peace talks with the Left. The Right is in disarray following its debacle in the March elections, but its resiliency should not be underesti- mated. Already there are signs of re- grouping, with the partial eclipse of Roberto D'Aubuisson and the rise of a "respectable" new right-wing par- ty, Patria Libre (Free Fatherland), headed by former ARENA deputy, Hugo Barrera. Moreover, the Right's tremendous leverage over the economy is a power- ful bargaining chip with Duarte, as is its influence over hard-line sectors of the military. The armed forces, still the ultimate arbiter of political life in El Salvador, hold veto power over any and all initiatives. Unconditional U.S. support for the war effort has made them more confident of winning a military victory, and less inclined to seriously engage in negotiations. During his first 10 months in office, Napole6n Duarte dedicated himself to building bridges to the Right, to mak- ing his presidency acceptable to his long-time enemies, the army and the private sector. He did so at the ex- pense of his supporters within the trade union movement and the peas- antry, who, lacking alternatives, nonetheless supported the Christian Democrats in the Assembly elections. Now, however, they expect results. Duarte is no longer blocked by the Right majority in the Assembly. There is concern within Duarte's own party that he will continue to negotiate more with the Right than with the Left. But countervailing pres- sures are mounting, as trade unions, Christian base communities, and other groups of the Left and center begin to cautiously stretch the new political space created by the Assembly elec- tions. Patience is running out among MAY/JUNE 1985 1 I II 9those who have gone to the polls three times in the last three years. Travelling recently to El Salvador's western provinces with a delegation organized by the Commission on U.S-Central American Relations reinforced this sense that a deep frus- tration is building. The country is in transition, and how power will be re- distributed is still to be determined. Resistant to Political Organizing Sonsonate province, home of the majestic Izalco volcano, was once the heart of El Salvador's indigenous Lenca and Pipil culture. It was also the epicenter of the peasant uprising that shook El Salvador in 1932 and ended in the massacre of 30,000 people. Today, the older generation still speaks Nahuatl as well as Spanish, and women in the outlying villages wear the long, wrap-around skirts of cloth hand-woven in Pan- chimalco. But the legacy of 1932 has made people more resistant to politi- cal organizing, more determined to avoid involvement in any cause. The mass organizations that galvanized El Salvador's popular movement in the 1970s made little headway in the west. The guerrillas have never established a significant presence there. Peasants wanted to be left alone. Often, they collaborated with the army. But even in the west, the effects of El Salvador's civil war are being felt. An already desperate economic situation has been aggravated by the influx of migrants from war zones in the east. There is not enough work on the sugar and coffee plantations. Co- operatives established since 1980 un- der the agrarian reform are going bankrupt for lack of credit and techni- cal assistance. Over the last year, there has been an increase in guerrilla activity, particularly to the north of Sonsonate in Santa Ana province. But the aerial bombardments that have be- come a daily routine in the east, the massive army sweeps in search of guerrilla camps, are still unknown in the west. And for that, at least, people are grateful. The peasants and Indians of Sonso- nate are becoming part of a "left flank" with which President Duarte will have to contend. Disconnected from the guerrilla movement and sus- picious of it, they are nonetheless frustrated by the lack of justice, con- tinuing repression and the war that en- croaches more each day. In Sonso- nate, the overwhelming support for the Christian Democrats in the As- sembly elections was a vote for peace, for a national dialogue they say must include not just the government and the guerrillas, but also those caught in between. Still No Justice Adrian Esquino, a short, round man with a fierce pride in preserving his Indian heritage, is a leading spokes- person for what the U.S. Embassy likes to refer to as El Salvador's ''democratic center.'' He is president of the National Association of Sal- vadorean Indians (ANIS), represent- ing 15,000 members nationwide, and a member of the executive committee of El Salvador's largest labor coalition, The Popular Democratic Union (UPD). A new wing is being added to the ANJS headquarters in the provin- cial capital of Sonsonate, with monies donated by the AFL-CIO, and the new jeep parked outside is on loan from the American Institute for Free Labor Development (AIFLD). Despite his "centrist" credentials, Adrian Esquino has become a thorn in the side of the government his mem- bers helped to elect. (Not coinciden- tally, he has also fallen out of favor with AIFLD; the jeep was repossessed a few days later.) "We worked tirelessly to elect Napoleon Duarte,'' he says. "We risked our lives to do it, and when he was elected [in May 19841, people thought everything would change. But we are still waiting for justice.'' Justice, for the Indians of Sonso- nate, is defined as punishment of those responsible for the 1983 mas- sacre at Las Hojas, a small farming cooperative run by ANIS. At day- break on February 22, three truckloads of soldiers from the Sonso- nate garrison arrived in Las Hojas, accompanied by 10 masked men- members of the local civil defense patrol-who proceeded to identify people whose names were on a list of alleged "subversives." By the end of the day, 74 bodies were scattered at various sites around Las Hojas, most of them shot in the head, others hacked to pieces with machetes. "Maybe we were too successful, too independent," says FermIn Guar- dado, whose 20-year-old son was among the dead. ANIS had purchased the abandoned hacienda in 1978. "The neighboring landowners used to graze their cattle on that land. Everytime we put up fences, they tore them down. They wanted to build a road through the land and we refused. But we never expected trouble. We'd always made it a point to be on good terms with the army." The day of the massacre, a delega- tion from ANIS went to see the com- mander of the local garrison, Colonel Elmer Gonzalez Araujo, with no re- sult. They travelled to San Salvador to meet with then President Magana, who promised an immediate investi- gation, but no report was ever made public. Campaigning for the presi- dency a year later, Napoleon Duarte pledged he would make the Las Hojas case a priority. Several months after taking office, Duarte created a special commission to investigate the mas- sacre and four other "symbolic" cases that he said would serve as a lit- mus test of his presidency. Reshuffling the Deck To date, three members of the civil defense patrol have been detained in the Las Hojas case. No charges or dis- ciplinary actions have been brought against the officers who led the unit or the soldiers who carried out the execu- tions. But, as always in El Salvador, the deck has been reshuffled. Colonel Gonzalez Araujo was transferred to the Ministry of Defense; the captain who led the unit was given a desk job in charge of intelligence; and 10 U.S. advisers stationed in Sonsonate were quietly withdrawn. Today, there is little hope in Las Hojas that justice will be served. The widows sitting on the porch of a wooden shack exude a bitterness that is exceedingly rare in El Salvador, even among those who have experi- enced unspeakable suffering. An el- derly woman, whose 75-year-old hus- band was killed in the massacre, an- to REPORT ON THE AMERICAS those who have gone to the polls three times in the last three years. Travelling recently to El Salvador's western provinces with a delegation organized by the Commission on U.S.-Central American Relations reinforced this sense that a deep frus- tration is building. The country is in transition, and how power will be re- distributed is still to be determined. Resistant to Political Organizing Sonsonate province, home of the majestic Izalco volcano, was once the heart of El Salvador's indigenous Lenca and Pipil culture. It was also the epicenter of the peasant uprising that shook El Salvador in 1932 and ended in the massacre of 30,000 people. Today, the older generation still speaks Ndhuatl as well as Spanish, and women in the outlying villages wear the long, wrap-around skirts of cloth hand-woven in Pan- chimalco. But the legacy of 1932 has made people more resistant to politi- cal organizing, more determined to avoid involvement in any cause. The mass organizations that galvanized El Salvador's popular movement in the 1970s made little headway in the west. The guerrillas have never established a significant presence there. Peasants wanted to be left alone. Often, they collaborated with the army. But even in the west, the effects of El Salvador's civil war are being felt. An already desperate economic situation has been aggravated by the influx of migrants from war zones in the east. There is not enough work on the sugar and coffee plantations. Co- operatives established since 1980 un- der the agrarian reform are going bankrupt for lack of credit and techni- cal assistance. Over the last year, there has been an increase in guerrilla activity, particularly to the north of Sonsonate in Santa Ana province. But the aerial bombardments that have be- come a daily routine in the east, the massive army sweeps in search of guerrilla camps, are still unknown in the west. And for that, at least, people are grateful. The peasants and Indians of Sonso- nate are becoming part of a "left flank" with which President Duarte will have to contend. Disconnected from the guerrilla movement and sus- picious of it, they are nonetheless frustrated by the lack of justice, con- tinuing repression and the war that en- croaches more each day. In Sonso- nate, the overwhelming support for the Christian Democrats in the As- sembly elections was a vote for peace, for a national dialogue they say must include not just the government and the guerrillas, but also those caught in between. Still No Justice Adrian Esquino, a short, round man with a fierce pride in preserving his Indian heritage, is a leading spokes- person for what the U.S. Embassy likes to refer to as El Salvador's "democratic center." He is president of the National Association of Sal- vadorean Indians (ANIS), represent- ing 15,000 members nationwide, and a member of the executive committee of El Salvador's largest labor coalition, The Popular Democratic Union (UPD). A new wing is being added to the ANIS headquarters in the provin- cial capital of Sonsonate, with monies donated by the AFL-CIO, and the new jeep parked outside is on loan from the American Institute for Free Labor Development (AIFLD). Despite his "centrist" credentials, Adrian Esquino has become a thorn in the side of the government his mem- bers helped to elect. (Not coinciden- tally, he has also fallen out of favor with AIFLD; the jeep was repossessed a few days later.) "We worked tirelessly to elect Napole6n Duarte," he says. "We risked our lives to do it, and when he was elected [in May 1984], people thought everything would change. But we are still waiting for justice." Justice, for the Indians of Sonso- nate, is defined as punishment of those responsible for the 1983 mas- sacre at Las Hojas, a small farming cooperative run by ANIS. At day- break on February 22, three truckloads of soldiers from the Sonso- nate garrison arrived in Las Hojas, accompanied by 10 masked men- members of the local civil defense patrol-who proceeded to identify people whose names were on a list of alleged "subversives." By the end of the day, 74 bodies were scattered at various sites around Las Hojas, most of them shot in the head, others hacked to pieces with machetes. "Maybe we were too successful, too independent," says Fermin Guar- dado, whose 20-year-old son was among the dead. ANIS had purchased the abandoned hacienda in 1978. "The neighboring landowners used to graze their cattle on that land. Everytime we put up fences, they tore them down. They wanted to build a road through the land and we refused. But we never expected trouble. We'd always made it a point to be on good terms with the army." The day of the massacre, a delega- tion from ANIS went to see the com- mander of the local garrison, Colonel Elmer Gonzalez Araujo, with no re- sult. They travelled to San Salvador to meet with then President Magafia, who promised an immediate investi- gation, but no report was ever made public. Campaigning for the presi- dency a year later, Napole6n Duarte pledged he would make the Las Hojas case a priority. Several months after taking office, Duarte created a special commission to investigate the mas- sacre and four other "symbolic" cases that he said would serve as a lit- mus test of his presidency. Reshuffling the Deck To date, three members of the civil defense patrol have been detained in the Las Hojas case. No charges or dis- ciplinary actions have been brought against the officers who led the unit or the soldiers who carried out the execu- tions. But, as always in El Salvador, the deck has been reshuffled. Colonel Gonzalez Araujo was transferred to the Ministry of Defense; the captain who led the unit was given a desk job in charge of intelligence; and 10 U.S. advisers stationed in Sonsonate were quietly withdrawn. Today, there is little hope in Las Hojas that justice will be served. The widows sitting on the porch of a wooden shack exude a bitterness that is exceedingly rare in El Salvador, even among those who have experi- enced unspeakable suffering. An el- derly woman, whose 75-year-old hus- band was killed in the massacre, an- REPORT ON THE AMERICAS 10swers our questions in monosyllables. Esquino tries to prod her into talk- ing. hut she says she's told the story 100 times-to reporters, to con- gressmen and senators, and visiting delegations like our own. "It doesn't do any good. There's still no justice, no help for the widows and orphans." "You must tell it a hundred times a day if need be," says Esquino, "and never lose hope." Another woman begins: "They killed my two sons and my husband died of sadness. It was an act of hate; seven people in my family died for no reason, just hate. President Magana promised 100,000 co/ones (about $25,000) for the families, but we've never seen a penny of it. All the money goes for weapons." A younger woman tells us that two months ago, her two sons were picked up on their way home from school and taken to the army garrison for train- ing. "My husband is dead, Now they've taken my sons. Who will work the land now? And who will protect us? The civil patrols come every night now; they yell threats and throw stones and steal our wood. They know we are women left alone." Las Hojas: No hope for justice The stories of continual harassment do not end at Las Hojas. We stop at another village where the men gather at the roadside to tell us of last week's events. The community was meeting to discuss the water problem: fetching water now means walking three kilometers each way, up and down steep, dusty paths. But the meeting was broken up by soldiers, who said they'd been informed that "subver- sives" were stirring up trouble. Back in the city of Sonsonate, two members of ANtS are waiting for Es- quino outside his office. Soldiers had come to their village that morning and taken two young men away. Could Adrian please call around to the garri- sons to see what has become of them? The next day, at our U.S. Embassy briefing, they gently scold us for visit- ing Las Hojas, for journeying into what they consider El Salvador's past. "It's terrible what happened-but that was two years ago!" they say. "Americans have to stop dwelling on the sins of this country's past. This is Day One in El Salvador, a new begin- ning." MAY/JUNE 1985 II GUATEMALA . swers our questions in monosyllables. Esquino tries to prod her into talk- ing, but she says she's told the story 100 times-to reporters, to con- gressmen and senators, and visiting delegations like our own. "It doesn't do any good. There's still no justice, no help for the widows and orphans." "You must tell it a hundred times a day if need be," says Esquino, "and never lose hope." Another woman begins: "They killed my two sons and my husband died of sadness. It was an act of hate; seven people in my family died for no reason, just hate. President Magafia promised 100,000 colones (about $25,000) for the families, but we've never seen a penny of it. All the money goes for weapons." A younger woman tells us that two months ago, her two sons were picked up on their way home from school and taken to the army garrison for train- ing. "My husband is dead. Now they've taken my sons. Who will work the land now? And who will protect us? The civil patrols come every night now; they yell threats and throw stones and steal our wood. They know we are women left alone." Las Hojas: No hope for justice The stories of continual harassment do not end at Las Hojas. We stop at another village where the men gather at the roadside to tell us of last week's events. The community was meeting to discuss the water problem: fetching water now means walking three kilometers each way, up and down steep, dusty paths. But the meeting was broken up by soldiers, who said they'd been informed that "subver- sives" were stirring up trouble. Back in the city of Sonsonate, two members of ANIS are waiting for Es- quino outside his office. Soldiers had come to their village that morning and taken two young men away. Could Adrian please call around to the garri- sons to see what has become of them? The next day, at our U.S. Embassy briefing, they gently scold us for visit- ing Las Hojas, for journeying into what they consider El Salvador's past. "It's terrible what happened--but that was two years ago!" they say. "Americans have to stop dwelling on the sins of this country's past. This is Day One in El Salvador, a new begin- ning."
