Day 9

Monday January 12, 2009

I was up and out early this morning, I think that I am beginning to get used to this not sleeping stuff. I decided to walk down to the outdoor café area of the hotel, even if they aren’t open yet, (although you can sure hear them working inside) I can still enjoy the beautiful view of the mountains. When I came out of the cabin, it was just beginning to become daylight, and as I have sat here, I have been able to watch as the Sun peeked over the top of the mountain. It is just about perfect here this morning. Probably around 70 degrees with a light breeze blowing, I would hate to think about the sub zero temperatures that they are getting back home.

Today after breakfast we are going to El Mozote, the site of the massacre that I mentioned last night. I think that if you have been following along, reading my journal, you are beginning to get a sense of the death and destruction and deep wounds that are all still very fresh in this country. One very sad aspect of today’s massacre is that none of these people were thought by the government forces to be guerrilla fighters. These people were killed simply to send a message to the other villages that they should not help the guerrillas, and that no matter what they may think, the guerrilla fighters could not protect them. It didn’t work!

On our way to Periquin yesterday, Cesar pointed out a river to us that we crossed and he told us that during the armed conflict, the government troops didn’t dare cross that river unless they were accompanied by 500-600 men. These mountain passes belonged to the Guerrillas.

We left for El Mozote right after breakfast. (they have wonderful orange juice here as well) The road that we traveled on was very difficult and treacherous, it is a good thing that we have an excellent driver. Think for a moment of the most treacherous mountain roads that you have ever been on, now imaging that it is much more narrow, and rough than you remembered and you are in a bus. That pretty much describes the feeling, except that we were never in a position where we were close to the edge of any drop offs. (thank goodness)

As we entered the town of El Mozote, the first thing that we could see is the plaza in the center of town right next to a beautifully painted church. Your eye is then drawn to a shadow image of a family holding hands, and then to a wall of names. These are the names of those who were killed during the massacre.

The story is told that on December 11th 1981, elite government forces moved into the village, and rounded up all of the people and forced them into the town plaza. For many hours they were forced to lie face down. At one point the leader of the community tried to explain that the people weren’t helping the guerrillas and that they had assurances that they weren’t to be bothered. The answer that he received was a boot in the back of his head pressing his face into the ground.

After a long while the people were allowed to get up and then divided into groups, men, women and children. The children were taken to a building next to the church, the men to another building and the women to yet another. They were told to be quiet and not to stick their noses out or they would be shot. Rufina Amaya, who would be the only survivor fought and pleaded with the soldiers not to take her children, ultimately, the soldiers took her children by force, but not until her fighting placed her at the very end of the line of women. The order then came to kill everyone. When the shooting began, Rufina was able to fall down and slide underneath some brush. As she hid, she listened as the soldiers tortured and then killed the men. She witnessed as women and young girls were raped and then murdered. She listened as the soldiers were ordered to kill the children. She described how one soldier spoke up and said that he couldn’t do this, couldn’t they just take the children to San Salvador? She then heard as the soldier was told that if he didn’t execute his orders immediately, then the next bullet would be his. She listened as the children cried and screamed for their mothers until there was complete silence.

She didn’t know what to do, after several hours it began to get dark and a large group of animals, cows, goats and dogs walked right passed her. She knew that these animals were sent by God, and she lifted up her skirt and lowered her hair and then blended in with the animals, crawling on her hands and knees down the road until she was passed the soldiers. Once a little ways down the road, the animals left her and she decided that because it was dark she would be better off crawling on the side of the road rather than out in the woods, because she would have made too much noise crawling through the woods. At one point she crawled within just a few feet of a soldier and it wasn’t until she was quite a ways away that he thought he heard something and fired a shot in her direction. When another soldier came up and asked what he was shooting at, he answered, It must have been the ghosts of the dead.

Eventually she made it to the house of someone who took her in, fed her and gave her a place to stay. They then sent word to her oldest daughter who was living in a nearby village. Since that day, Rufina has continued to tell her story over and over to anyone who would listen. She has even told her story to the US Congress and the British parliament. To this day, the El Salvadorian Government has not taken responsibility for this tragedy. Many years later, due to the insistence and persistence of Rufina’s eye witness account, independent forensic archaeologists returned and began the work of verifying the reports of the massacre. To date the bodies of 183 people have been found most of which were found near the church, 70% of them were children. In all 1000 people were thought to have been murdered in El Mozote, almost 500 of them children. Rufina, died about a year ago of complications from a stroke. Her body was returned to El Mozote where she could be buried near the people that she had spent her life seeking justice for.

As we visited the site, I was struck by the beautiful mural on the wall of the church. It was a depiction of children playing under a rainbow with lightning bugs all around. It is said that for many years following the massacre that if you came to the village at night, it would be totally deserted and the only thing that you could see would be thousands of lightning bugs which they believed to be the spirits of the children who were slain.

I have to admit that after hearing the stories and then watching as the little children who now lived in the town played around us, it became very difficult, if not totally impossible, for me to bear this emotional burden any longer. The story of the murdered children was told to us by a young girl, possible only 12 years old who came up to us and wanted to share with us the history of what had happened in her village. It now seemed impossible for me to separate myself anymore from the stories of these people and the reality of their plight.

I then looked down at the bottom of the mural and saw the list of names of the children who had been killed; row, after row, after row, literally hundreds of names of children and their ages when they died. I then saw the name Concepcion Sanchez, 3 days old, I could no longer contain my emotions. Up to this point I had been able to maintain the status of independent observer, up to this point I had been able keep in check the overwhelming sadness for these people that had been churning inside of me day after day. But now, I could no longer keep up the façade of strength and composure. In one small child, Concepcion Sanchez, my mind somehow embodied the crushing nature of the atrocities that I had experienced, and I found that I could no longer separate myself from the plight of these innocent victims. Tears flowed from my eyes and my heart was broken for these people. I wept uncontrollably. I now understand why God has sent me on this journey, I now understand that I could never have understood theses things from reading a book. I know now, that my life and ministry will never be the same.

The young girl, who had been telling us the stories, then came up to me and gave me a small, black, string bracelet with the name El Mozote weaved into it. I put it on my wrist and at that moment, vowed to wear it until it fell off as a reminder to me of what I had witnessed and felt in this land, thousands of miles from home. Whenever I look at this bracelet, I will think of the children, I will think of Concepcion Sanchez.