From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals: Peasant Catechists in the Salvadoran Revolution 9781978833715

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From Popu­lar to Insurgent Intellectuals

From Popu­lar to Insurgent Intellectuals Peasant Catechists in the Salvadoran Revolution

LEIGH BINFORD

Rutgers University Press New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey, and London

 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Binford, Leigh, 1948– author. Title: From popular to insurgent intellectuals : peasant catechists in the Salvadoran revolution / Leigh Binford. Description: New Brunswick : Rutgers University Press, 2022. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022009354 | ISBN 9781978833685 (paperback) | ISBN 9781978833692 (hardback) | ISBN 9781978833708 (epub) | ISBN 9781978833715 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Catholic Church—El Salvador—History—20th century. | Catholics—Political activity—El Salvador—History—20th century. | Liberation theology—El Salvador. Classification: LCC BX1446.3 .B56 2022 | DDC 277.284—dc23/eng/20220801 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022009354 A British Cataloging-­in-­Publication rec­ord for this book is available from the British Library. Copyright © 2023 by Leigh Binford All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. References to internet websites (URLs) w ­ ere accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor Rutgers University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. www​.­r utgersuniversitypress​.­org Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca

 For Fabio Argueta Amaya (1943–2010) and Jacinto Márquez

Contents List of Abbreviations ix Preface xi Introduction 1 1

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974

2

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán 42

3

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977

60

4

The Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero, 1977–1980

85

5

A Po­liti­cal Activist in the War, 1980–1988

110

6

Departure and Return, 1988–2010

134

Conclusion

23

145

Appendix 1: On Fabio Argueta’s Po­liti­cal Formation 157 Appendix 2: Interviews Cited 163 Notes 167 References 189 Index 199

vii

Abbreviations AA Alcólicos Anónimos (Alcoholics Anonymous) ACNUR Alta Comisión de las Naciones Unidas para Refugiados (United Nations High Commission for Refugees) ANEP Asociación Nacional de Empresa Privada (National Private Enterprise Association) ARENA Alianza Republicana Nacionalista (Nationalist Republican Alliance) BPR Bloque Popu­lar Revolucionario (Popu­lar Revolutionary Bloc) CEB Comunidad Eclesial de Base (Christian Base Community) CEBES Comunidades Eclesiales de Base de El Salvador (Christian Base Communities of El Salvador) CELAM Consejo Episcopal Latinoamericano (Latin American Episcopal Council) COP Comandos Organizadores del Pueblo (­People’s Organ­ izing Command) or Combatientes Organizadores del Pueblo (Combatants Organ­izing P ­ eople). The former refers to an early (pre-­ERP group of armed militants), the latter to a war­time training manual (or course) for ERP organizers and activists. CSM Ciudad Segundo Montes (Segundo Montes City) ERP Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo (­People’s Revolutionary Army) FAES Fuerzas Armadas de El Salvador (Salvadoran Armed Forces) ix

x • Abbreviations

FAPU

Frente de Acción Popu­lar Unificada (United Popu­lar Action Front) FDR Frente Democrático Revolucionario (Revolutionary Demo­cratic Front) FECCAS Federación Cristiana de Campesinos Salvadoreños (Christian Federation of Salvadoran Peasants) FMLN Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front) FPL Fuerzas Populares de Liberación (Popu­lar Forces of Liberation) FTC Federación de Trabajadores del Campo (Rural Workers’ Federation) IPLA Instituto Pastoral Latinoamericano (Latin American Pastoral Institute) LP-28 Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero (28 February Popu­lar Leagues) ONG organización no gobernamental (nongovernmental organ­ization) ORDEN Organización Democrática Nacionalista (Nationalist Demo­cratic Organ­ization) PADECOMSM Patronato de Desarrollo de las Comunidades de Morazán y San Miguel (Community Development Council of Morazán and San Miguel) PCN Partido de Conciliación Nacional (National Conciliation Party) PCS Partido Comunista Salvadoreña (Salvadoran Communist Party) PD Partido Demócrata (Demo­cratic Party) PDC Partido Demócrata Cristiano (Christian Demo­cratic Party) PRAL patrulla de reconocimiento de gran alcance (long-­range reconnaissance patrol) PRS Partido de la Revolución Salvadoreña (Party of the Salvadoran Revolution) PRTC Partido Revolucionario de Trabajadores Centroamericanos (Central American Workers Revolutionary Party) RN Resistencia Nacional (National Re­sis­tance) UES Universidad de El Salvador (University of El Salvador) UTC Unión de Trabajadores del Campo (Union of Rural Workers)

Preface This proj­ect stretched over a quarter c­ entury and three university posts in two countries. Most of the fieldwork took place in the early to mid-1990s, when I worked in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Connecticut. I began to write it up in 1997 in Puebla, Mexico, while teaching in the Social Science and Humanities Research Institute of the Benemérita Universidad Autónoma de Puebla. The book came together in Brooklyn, New York, while I was employed at the College of Staten Island and the Gradu­ate Center of the City University of New York. Final editing took place following my retirement from CUNY and my move to Willimantic, Connecticut, a mere six miles from UConn. This is the second of three books on northern Morazán. The first book (The El Mozote Massacre) focused on a place and event; From Popu­lar to Insur­ gent Intellectuals addresses a group of ­people and their roles before and during the revolutionary war; the final volume, yet to be written, ­will offer an integral ethnography of northern Morazán over the fifty-­year period between 1960 and 2010 and ­will draw on the entire corpus of material I obtained during ten field trips ­there. Dif­f er­ent phases of my fieldwork received financial support from the Fulbright-­Hays Foundation (1994–1995) through grant no. P019A40011 and from the National Science Foundation (2010–2012) through grant no. BCS 0962643. I take full responsibility for the shortcomings of the result, but any merits must be widely shared. In northern Morazán, I chalked up debts with far too many ­people to thank individually, but I do want to recognize the contributions of Abraham Argueta, Fabio Argueta Amaya (“Beniton,” 1943–2010), Andres Barrera (“Felipe”), Roberto Carrillo, Benito (“Sebastian”) and Cristobal (“Manelio”) Chicas, Ismael Romero (“Bracamonte”), Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Cesar”), Francisco López, Jacinto Márquez (“Oscar”), Fr. Rogelio Ponseele, and Fr. Miguel Ventura. Carlos Henríquez Consalvi (“Santiago”), the “Voz de la xi

xii • Preface

Radio Venceremos” during the war and founder of the Museum of the Word and Image ­a fter it, has been a constant source of encouragement. “Santiago” also responded promptly for my requests to publish vari­ous photo­graphs in possession of the museum, two of which he took. Many p­ eople assisted during one or another of my trips to Morazán. They include Ellen Moodie (summers of 2010–2011), Rafael Alarcón Medina (summers of 2010–2012), Shelli McMillan (summer of 1993), and Phyllis Robinson and Roxanna Duntley Matos (1992–1993). Northern Morazanians who worked on the proj­ect in some capacity included Samuel Vidal Guzmán (1992–1993), Jacinto Márquez (1992–1993, 1994–1995, and summers of 2010–2012), and Yaneth Hernández (summers of 2010–2012). I owe a special debt to Rafa Alarcón, who displayed an acute and critical intelligence regarding fieldwork. Rafa developed his own dissertation proj­ect, and I w ­ ill surely draw heavi­ly on it in the sequel to this book, which ­will devote considerable attention to the first two de­cades of the postwar period. At vari­ous points in time, the following persons transcribed taped interviews: Elise Springer and Claudia Santalices in the United States; Marina Muñiz in Puebla, Mexico; and a team of young transcribers led by Sofía Máximo in Mexico City. Julie Ann Cottle provided an initial En­g lish translation of the interviews with Fabio Argueta. Lesley Gill helped prepare many of the photo­ graphs for publication and cartographer Mike Siegal of the Rutgers University Department of Geography put his considerable talents to work in producing the maps. Kimberly Guinta has been a kind and attentive editor at Rutgers University Press, and John Donohue at Westchester Publishing Ser­vices expertly shepherded the manuscript through production. The corrections and suggestions of copy editor Diane Ersepke and of John Donohue made this book much more reader friendly. A number of ­people read portions or the entirety of some version of this manuscript and provided both critical feedback and encouragement. ­These include Jennifer Casolo, Erik Ching, Nancy Churchill, Kate Crehan, Lesley Gill, Ricardo Macip Ríos, Peter Mayo, Gavin Smith, Lena Voigtländer, and two anonymous reviewers. The manuscript sent to Rutgers was influenced by my reading of Augustine Sedgewick’s wonderful Coffeeland. Fi­nally, I cannot thank enough Mary Gallucci, Jerry Phillips, and Nancy Churchill, my partner of more than forty years, for their love and friendship, which was as impor­tant to me in bringing to fruition this proj­ect as it was more than a quarter ­century ­earlier during the research and writing of The El Mozote Massacre. I dedicate this book to the memory of Fabio Argueta Amaya (1943–2010) and to Jacinto Márquez, whose interest in and contributions to historical memory in northern Morazán have and continue to be a source of inspiration.

From Popu­lar to Insurgent Intellectuals

Introduction This book examines the role of Catholic Church lay catechists before and during the Salvadoran revolutionary war, which lasted from 1980 to 1992.1 In El Salvador, catechists often worked alongside Delegates of the Word, the former leading community religious ser­vices in the absence of the priest and the latter devoting themselves to organ­izing Bible study. In northern Morazán—­a rugged area of Morazán department north of the Torola River—­where this proj­ect unfolded, catechists carried out both tasks, as noted by Gould (2020, 34–35n26). ­Here I argue that many northern Morazanian catechists fulfilled the role of, first, popu­lar and, ­later, insurgent intellectuals—­terms discussed below in more detail. In the early to mid-1970s, most catechists participated in the formation of an extensive network of Comunidades Eclesiales de Base (Christian Base Communities, CEBs) through which they disseminated the messages of hope, dignity, and social and economic betterment inscribed in liberation theology. Beginning in 1974 and thus well before the Fuerzas Armadas de El Salvador (Salvadoran Armed Forces, FAES) invaded northern Morazán for the first time in October 1980, many catechists joined the Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo (­People’s Revolutionary Army, ERP), one of five political-­military organ­izations that composed the leftist Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front, FMLN), which fought Salvadoran government forces—­often armed, advised, and trained by the U.S. government—to a standstill over the course of what became a twelve-­year (1980–1992) military conflict. Between 1974 and 1980, the catechists (and ­others) took charge of recruitment, intelligence, and self-­defense operations. When open warfare began, the ERP leadership relocated from the capital city of San Salvador to northern Morazán, took control of the nascent rebel camps, and assigned ERP-­affiliated 1

2 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

catechists to dif­fer­ent roles. I explain the contribution of the catechists’ communicational, orga­nizational, and local knowledges to the ERP’s success in forming its guerrilla army, maintaining discipline, and sustaining morale. As well, many catechists in their roles as po­liti­cal activists functioned as impor­ tant interfaces between ERP comandantes (commanders) and the portion of the civilian population that resisted government pressure to abandon homes and fields, which would have deprived insurgent fighters of the material, logistical, and intelligence support they needed to maintain northern Morazán as a strategic rearguard.

Culture, Consciousness, Liberation Theology, and Armed Strug­gle This book homes in on several aspects of peasant consciousness. First, I discuss what I think of as the “preconditions” that enabled—­but did not determine in any absolute sense—­peasants to rethink their identities and positions in the world. A key feature of this “rethinking” took place in Catholic-­sponsored schools for the training of adult catechists or centros de formación campesina (centers of peasant formation), colloquially known as universidades campesinas (peasant universities).2 However, I ­will also argue that experiences of oppression and exploitation—­and the folkloric critique of the same—­“preconditioned” many adult males to identify with the social critiques and activist proposals embedded in liberation theology. I make clear in this introduction and again in chapter 2 that the exercise of hegemony, a key conceptual term explained in the next section, on the part of dominant over subordinate groups is never totalizing, it never succeeds in saturating consciousness completely. Rather, the transformation of systems of belief always builds on pre-­existing experiences and ideas. I explain that hegemony works ­because in situ ideas are confused, unsystematic, and a mix of accurate and inaccurate conceptions that on the w ­ hole support dominant groups in the sense that they limit re­sis­tance or pose domination as inevitable. However, I also note that catechists informed by liberation theology did not advocate armed strug­gle for several years. They followed priest-­teachers in the peasant universities who promoted self-­help programs that mitigated rural poverty, compensated for the absence of state health ser­vices, and in extreme cases fostered cooperative proj­ects intended to provide alternatives to renting land and selling cheap and purchasing dear from landlords and regional merchant cap­i­ tal­ists. I ­will show that the willingness of northern Morazanian catechists to take up arms by joining the ERP was an active response on their part to growing repression in El Salvador and paramilitary and security force surveillance of meetings with Fr. Miguel Ventura, a young, progressive priest assigned to administer a newly created parish in 1973. The material supporting this position ­will be encountered mainly in chapter 3.

Introduction • 3

Also coursing through the text is the relationship among at least five groups of ­people: northern Morazanian peasants (and workers); peasant catechists, conceived of as popu­lar and ­later insurgent intellectuals; priest-­teachers in peasant universities, as well as parish priests and the bishop in charge of the Diocese of San Miguel; military commanders and combatants of the ERP; and the approximately twenty thousand civilians that remained in northern Morazán once it became a war zone and the ERP’s strategic rearguard. The book focuses on the second of ­these categories (catechists) but interrogates the catechists’ relationships with the other groups. The relationships w ­ ere very much dialectical ones through which consciousness changed all around (or not in the cases of older, conservative priests and bishops). As I note ­later in this introduction, catechists have been washed out of accounts of the war and the years leading to it, most of which have been produced by former ERP (and other) commanders mainly concerned with ensuring their place in history. Joaquín Chavez (2017) sought to recuperate peasant intellectuals in his seminal Poets and Prophets of the Re­sis­ tance, but he focused inordinately on t­ hose persons who achieved high rank in the Fuerzas Populares de Liberación (Popu­lar Forces of Liberation, FPL), which operated in Chalatenango, San Vicente, and elsewhere. He paid ­little attention to ­those catechists (the vast majority) that failed to achieve public renown but whose ­labor underpinned many rebel successes. The aforementioned themes draw heavi­ly on the work of Antonio Gramsci, especially his conceptions of “intellectual,” “hegemony,” “war of position,” and “prefigurative strug­gle,” explicated in the following section.

Gramsci, Catechists, and Their L­ abor Antonio Gramsci’s writings seem particularly useful for an analy­sis of priests, catechists, and the Catholic Church, for which reason I have drawn extensively upon his work and that of selected interpreters of it. Gramsci wrote his famous Prison Notebooks (Gramsci 1971) between the years 1929 and 1935 while jailed by Italian fascist Benito Mussolini. In the Notebooks, he reflected on the conditions that enable revolutionary transformations, ­whether from feudalism to capitalism or from capitalism to socialism. Gramsci argued that in the West, the day-­to-­day po­liti­cal rule of dominant classes depends less on “coercion” (threat and/or use of force and vio­lence) than the cultivation of “consent,” which we might think of as the acknowl­edgment on the part of dominated groups of the right of ­others to rule over them (Kurz 1996). Coercion is centered in “po­liti­cal society,” which consists of government, the military, police, and the judiciary—­ institutions that secure obedience by recourse to force (though po­liti­cal society also promotes consent). By contrast, discourses, narratives, and practices that specialize in consent or hegemony are broadly diffused in myriad voluntary organ­ izations that compose what we commonly think of as civil society: trade u­ nions, churches, cultural clubs, newspapers, po­liti­cal parties, and the like. Adamson

4 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

noted that rather than a neat division, Gramsci made the distinction between po­liti­cal and civil society “on a functional basis relevant to a par­tic­u­lar society at a par­tic­u­lar time” so that “some institutions like the army or bureaucracy might be considered as part of po­liti­cal society in all [nation-]states, but the church or newspapers could be incorporated into or manipulated by po­liti­cal society depending on the circumstances” (1980, 219). What counted as an ele­ment of civil society at one time and in one place might be an ele­ment of po­liti­cal society, justifying the use of force, at another time and/or place.3 Gramsci viewed all manner of educational institutions, formal and informal, as part of the “power­ful system of fortresses and earthworks” of civil society that help reproduce hegemony and shore up dominant rule (Gramsci 1971, 238). However, civil society could also serve as the site of what he called “prefigurative strug­gles” by means of which dominated groups challenge and even displace dominant discourses and practices, establish new forms of consent, and assert the right to rule on their own behalf—­prior to actually taking power. ­These “prefigurative strug­gles” take place before a direct assault or “war of movement” on po­liti­cal society. They develop through a “war of position” in which subaltern groups—­all ­those who are dominated, including peasants and rural workers—­ work to transform existing institutions from within and create and disseminate a new oppositional culture.4 In prewar northern Morazán, the war of position was characterized by a series of shifting encounters in which peasants and rural workers used the l­egal resources at their disposal to undermine the dominant hegemony and develop formulations that better captured their experience and reflected their interests. They did this in par­tic­u­lar through liberation theology, materialized in their participation in CEBs and in their contacts with a young, progressive priest. For Gramsci, the ultimate goal of collective movements had to be to “construct a sociocultural force of their own that is capable of uniting the masses in a common po­liti­cal strug­gle” (Green 2002, 21). To what degree, we might ask, w ­ ere catechists working with CEBs in northern Morazán involved, consciously or unconsciously, in a prefigurative strug­gle to weaken hegemony? As noted ­earlier, another m ­ atter addressed in this book concerns the preconditions that enabled northern Morazanian subaltern figures to begin to oppose local, regional, and national ele­ments of the ruling class. Far too much attention has been paid to middle-­class urban intellectuals who supposedly seduce s­ imple peasants and workers into adopting radical ideas and not enough attention to the l­ imited reach of hegemony itself, which never permeates completely the consciousnesses of dominated populations. The idea that hegemonic ideas do so has found its way into the social scientific analyses of both progressives (e.g., Wood 2003) and conservatives (e.g., Grenier 1999). Chapter 2 provides an extended example of subaltern beliefs in the form of the exploits of Pedro Grimales, a folkloric (and thus apocryphal) character who projected an entrenched criticism of the rich without thereby advocating for collective action on the part of the poor to alter the class structure. I cannot emphasize enough the example of discourses

Introduction • 5

that manifest an awareness of the nefarious exercise of power on the part of dominant groups but fail to offer recommendations for its re­distribution in ­favor of subaltern groups. The importance of intellectuals in ­these pro­cesses (maintenance of and/or challenge to power relations) is a derivative feature of Gramsci’s theory of hegemony, and intellectuals of the peasant variety are the main topic of this book. Peter Mayo argued that Gramsci viewed intellectuals as “cultural or educational workers who are experts in legitimization” (2008, 425–426) and that “Gramsci’s entire po­liti­cal proj­ect is . . . ​an educational proj­ect” (421). By “intellectual,” Gramsci referred to p­ eople who occupy par­tic­u­lar social roles in which they perform intellectual functions rather than a par­tic­u­lar kind of cognitive activity per se. All p­ eople think, according to Gramsci, for which reason “homo faber cannot be excluded from homo sapiens” (Gramsci 1971, 9), but not every­one specializes in activities of the mind (i.e., exercises the social function of an intellectual). Furthermore, ­every social group occupying what Gramsci referred to as “a fundamental role in the pro­cess of production” produces (organic) intellectuals that reflect the group’s interests within the totality of the relationships that configure society. In the Italy of Gramsci’s time, ­these intellectuals ­were, at the highest levels, “the creators of the vari­ous sciences, philosophy, art, ­etc. [and] at the lowest, . . . ​­humble ‘administrators’ and divulgators of pre-­existing, traditional, accumulated intellectual wealth” (13). Apart from the aforementioned vertical dimension (higher/lower), Gramsci discussed what I think of as a horizontal dimension in which some intellectuals fulfilled “traditional” roles and ­others “organic” ones. The traditional/organic distinction is often misunderstood, erroneously thought to designate characteristics of the intellectuals themselves when Gramsci was more attuned to the overall social matrix that gives rise to intellectuals and in which they function. A brief discussion of the distinction between traditional and organic intellectuals, on the one hand, and of common sense as opposed to good sense, on the other, sets up the analy­sis of catechists in this book.

Intellectuals: Organic and Traditional In the dissertation that preceded his seminal Poets and Prophets of the Re­sis­tance, Joaquín Chávez discussed “popu­lar intellectuals” in the Salvadoran revolution, defining them as “university students, teachers, and peasant leaders who played crucial leadership, educational, and orga­nizational roles in the emerging social movements [in El Salvador].” Chávez considered popu­lar intellectuals “the chief articulators of counter-­hegemonic discourses and anti-­oligarchic mobilizations in El Salvador during the 1960s and 1970s” (2010, 7).5 Most catechists in northern Morazán fulfilled the roles of popu­lar intellectuals, according to the conception extended by Chávez.6 W ­ hether Morazanian catechists and other peasant intellectuals might also be characterized as organic intellectuals in the Gramscian sense is questionable.7

6 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

Nor ­were the peasant catechists who advocated for and practiced liberation theology “traditional intellectuals” in Gramsci’s conceptualization. For Gramsci, traditional intellectuals w ­ ere precipitates of ­earlier historical pro­cesses of class formation that established institutions and secured their reproduction. Crehan gives the example of the modern secular university: “Over time,” she writes, “established institutions of learning develop their own bases of power and their own deeply entrenched cultures” (2016, 34). They may seem to occupy autonomous roles, no longer beholden to any con­temporary class and cut off from day-­ to-­day po­liti­cal intrigues, and this may form part of their self-­image, but “such pretensions are illusory; intellectuals who claim to be disinterested seekers of truth, above the hurly-­burly of class strug­gle, are deluding themselves” (34–35). Like other rural areas of El Salvador, northern Morazán produced traditional intellectuals in the form of priests, a few technicians and ser­vice providers, as well as bureaucrats and other agents of the state. Some remained in the region to take up positions in local government, but most relocated to the capital or another large city where t­ here existed more demand for the intellectual skills they had cultivated, often through higher education. Renán Alcides Orellana (2002) and Enrique Castro (2001), from Villa El Rosario and Jocoaitique, respectively, gravitated to the capital city of San Salvador, where they became journalists working for major newspapers. And Walter L. Grijalva (2009), born in Torola, worked as an architect, also in San Salvador.

Intellectuals: Common Sense and Good Sense Gramsci thought that subaltern groups, among which he counted peasants, lacked a consistent, thought-­out, and rational understanding of the world. Much subaltern knowledge takes the form of senso comun, loosely (but inaccurately) translated in En­g lish as “common sense.” Crehan explained that the En­g lish “common sense” can refer to the possession of a faculty, a sixth sense that enables a person to unerringly sort out cause and effect, or it can refer to the knowledge so obtained. But in Crehan’s reading, Gramsci’s senso comun “lacks ­these strong positive connotations, referring rather to beliefs and opinions held in common, or thought to be held in common, by the mass of the population; all through heterogeneous narratives and accepted ‘fact’ that structure so much of what we take to be no more than ­simple real­ity” (Crehan 2016, 44). “Heterogeneous narratives and accepted ‘fact[s]’ ” go a considerable way to shore up hegemony. For instance, common sense usually explains poverty, illness, and other forms of suffering as resulting from fate, God’s ­will, individual failures, bad luck, and so on, some of which gained broad ac­cep­tance as explanations for suffering in northern Morazán. When common sense (occasionally) directs the subject’s attention to the social arrangements of domination, it treats t­ hose arrangements as immutable. As I discuss in chapter 2, ele­ments of “good sense” containing relatively accurate assessments of social relations may be embedded in other­ wise inchoate common sense infused with hegemonic ideology. I propose that

Introduction • 7

Catholic lay catechists (popu­lar intellectuals) worked through common sense to extract and order the good sense contained in it, so as to construct a systematic view of the world that embodied and reflected subaltern experience and that might become the foundation for a new hegemony.8 Gramsci denied that the systemic analy­sis of the relations between rich and poor w ­ ere not simply imposed by middle-­class, urban, leftist intellectuals, as Grenier (1999) maintained, but considered them a dialectical product of the relationships between local organic (or popu­lar in this case) intellectuals, urban intellectuals (­here priests advocating liberation theology), and the local populace. Indeed, though this book focuses on peasant catechists, it also treats their relations with progressive and conservative priests, the Morazanian peasantry, and even the bishop of the San Miguel diocese. Fabio Argueta’s narrative and my commentary on his and other narratives offer examples both of commonsense beliefs prevailing in prewar northern Morazán and of the good sense sometimes embedded in them. I deem it impor­ tant to point out, however, that the systematic worldview that Gramsci held up as an indispensable challenge to dominant class hegemony was not wholly locally produced (i.e., built up by catechists and o­ thers exclusively from fragments of a confused northern Morazanian common sense). Rather, liberation theology was developed by priests and other church officials influenced by the Second Vatican Council, then materialized in official position papers ratified by Latin American bishops in the Consejo Episcopal Latinoamericano (Latin American Episcopal Council, CELAM) meetings in Medellín, Colombia, in 1968 and in Puebla, Mexico, in 1979, as well as a plethora of books, articles, and other publications authored by progressive theologians. Adding progressive bishops and priests to the mix complicates any effort to understand popu­lar, peasant intellectuals—­catechists in this case—­who communicated to ­others many ideas that they did not themselves originate. However, I understand this communication as involving creative acts through which progressive catechists strived to adapt the liberation theology message to the needs of specific groups of northern Morazanian peasants and rural workers. An analogous pro­cess of adaptation must have occurred when Fabio Argueta, Tercisio Velásquez, Samuel Vidal Guzmán, and ­others (see chapters 3–5) joined the ERP and became po­liti­cal organizers (which also involved their transition from popu­lar to insurgent intellectuals). Yet the changeover did not require a radical transformation in their thinking, for training as a catechist disposed them ­toward collective organ­ization and a search for collective solutions to prob­lems.

The Salvadoran Revolutionary War Sedimented c­ auses of the Salvadoran revolution go back to the Spanish colonial period, but the immediate antecedents lie in the rise of the coffee economy in the latter half of the nineteenth ­century and a series of laws passed between 1879

8 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

and 1881 that privatized many corporate (community and church) landholdings and led to the concentration of much fertile land in the hands of a small oligarchy (Lauria-­Santiago 1999).9 The 1881 rebellion, led by Anastasio Aquino, and the more robust rebellion of 1932 associated with Agustín Farabundo Martí involved mostly indigenous peasants and ­were violently repressed. The government hung Aquino, severed his head from his body, and placed it on an iron pike with the label “example for rebels.” The police captured and imprisoned Martí before the peasants rebelled, then quickly tried and executed him and two coconspirators by firing squad. The army put down the mostly indigenous rebels initially, ­a fter which civil guards hired by wealthy landowners carried out the systematic massacre of thousands, in many cases machinegunning suspected insurgents and tossing their bodies into mass graves (Gould and Lauria-­Santiago 2008; Anderson 1971). In the aftermath of the Matanza (slaughter), as the events of 1932 came to be called, the military seized control of government with the blessing of the nation’s oligarchy and ruled El Salvador for the next forty-­seven years. Supported by agribusiness interests, they rejected calls for land reform, prohibited rural ­unions, introduced cantonal patrols, and in 1962 (following the 1959 Cuban Revolution) created the paramilitary Organización Democrática Nacionalista (National Demo­cratic Organ­ization, ORDEN) to identify and stamp out threats and preserve “order” in rural areas (Williams and Walter 1997; McClintock 1985). (ORDEN operated in northern Morazán, as we w ­ ill see in chapter 3.) The addition, expansion, and modernization of cotton production, sugar cane production and pro­cessing, and cattle-­raising in the 1950s and 1960s (alongside the historical coffee production) failed to generate sufficient employment to accommodate the rapidly growing population (Williams 1986). Urban industry grew with the advent of the Mercado Común Centroamericano (Central American Common Market) in 1961 but was outpaced by the legions of rural un-­and underemployed that flocked to the capital seeking work. In any case, the Central American Common Market lost steam following the Hundred Hours War with neighboring Honduras in 1969 when the Honduran government closed its borders and expelled as many as 130,000 Salvadorans living and working in Honduras, aggravating El Salvador’s domestic employment prob­lem (Durham 1979; White 1973, 183–190). Most agro-­export agriculture was situated along the southern chain of extinct volcanos (coffee), the intermontane regions between them (sugarcane), and the hot, flat coastal plains of San Vicente, Usulután, and San Miguel (cotton) (Williams 1986; White 1973).10 Northern Morazán composed the region of Morazán department north of the Torola River and was part of the country’s broken upland of eroded volcanos where most inhabitants dedicated themselves primarily to subsistence agriculture (corn, beans, sorghum) and henequen production and pro­cessing into artisanal goods (lassos, hammocks, rope, metates [carry­ing bags], e­ tc.) in hotter, low-­lying areas or lumbering in higher, colder ones (see map 1 and chapter 2).

MAP 1  ​El Salvador, circa 1980. (Mike Siegal, Rutgers Cartography Laboratory)

10 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

­Earlier in the colonial and postcolonial periods t­ hese areas had grown añil, a smelly weed from which workers painstakingly extracted rich, indigo dye in a messy, disease-­ridden pro­cess. ­Until its market collapsed in the mid-­nineteenth ­century, the dye had been exported in concentrated form to textile industries in Eu­rope and the United States.11 With the end of dye production, northern Morazán became part of what geographer David Browning (1971) referred to as El Salvador’s “tierra olvidada” (forgotten land)—­a refuge for poor peasants and landless workers and a source of seasonal ­labor for cotton, sugarcane, and coffee estates in El Salvador, as well as banana plantations on Honduras’s Ca­rib­bean coast.12 During the 1980–1992 revolutionary war, the same marginalized northern zones would become the strategic rearguards of the ERP, FPL, and other FMLN political-­military organ­izations. ­These regions harbored most of El Salvador’s remaining forests, ­were endowed with year-­round ­water sources, and ­were characterized by rugged landscapes that impeded access to government military units. The 1959 Cuban Revolution and other continental developments (wars in Guatemala, Nicaragua, e­ tc.) freed prospective Latin American revolutionaries from the ideological shackles of Moscow’s insistence that Third World countries had to eliminate semi-­feudalism in the countryside through a demo­cratic bourgeois revolution before moving to socialism. The Cuban Revolution became associated with the “foco” theory of revolution (Debray 1969; Guevara 1961), but Salvadoran rebels found more inspiration in the revolutionary experiences of China, Vietnam, and nearby Nicaragua (Allison and Alvarez 2012, 92–94).13 The mass incorporation of urban and, especially, rural workers and peasants into the revolutionary fold was preceded by the papal encyclicals emitted by Pope John XXIII during the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965), which challenged the Catholic Church’s historic pomp and circumstance formality, Latin mass, and social distance between clergy and congregation. One Vatican II encyclical, Gaudium et Spes (Joy and Hope), declared that the church is in and of the world and encouraged the active participation of laity in church activities. This encyclical had the objective of bringing the Catholic Church down to earth from its otherworldly position—in which redemption was postponed for the hereafter—­ and making it more relevant to the daily lives and concerns of the poor. Latin American theologians debating the significance of Vatican II crafted a “liberation theology” based on the council’s precepts but adapted to continental conditions. Liberation theology’s “preferential option for the poor” entailed a commitment on the part of the church to serve (preferentially) the least advantaged (see Smith 1991). I discuss the development and practice of liberation theology at vari­ous points in this book. Liberation theology stimulated critical contemplation of Salvadoran history and social relations on the part of many urban and rural poor and some members of the ­middle class; in the context of unbridled state and paramilitary vio­lence the liberationist message contributed to the broad appeal of revolutionary movements (see Chávez 2014, 2017). The

Introduction • 11

point to make h ­ ere is that many catechists in northern Morazán acquired a basic knowledge of liberation theology when they attended one or more of the peasant universities established and run by Jesuits and members of other religious ­orders and/or through interactions with progressive priests. Foremost among the training centers for northern Morazanian catechists was Centro Reina de la Paz, colloquially known as El Castaño, located in Chirilagua, San Miguel (see chapter 1). This is not the place to attempt a detailed description and analy­sis of the armed revolutionary movement in El Salvador. ­Needless to say the movement had its birth in the capital among students and, to a lesser degree, trade ­unionists, many of them influenced by the progressive wing of the Catholic Church (Chávez 2017; Álvarez and Cortina Orero 2014; Allison and Álvarez 2012; Álvarez 2010; Berryman 1984; Lernoux 1980). The late 1960s and the entire de­cade of the 1970s ­were years of tension and growing conflict in the country: the rise of the armed Left in the cities (especially the capital), electoral corruption, ­labor strikes, mass demonstrations and protests, and government-­sponsored repression. The FPL formed the first armed group in 1970 following a split in the Partido Comunista Salvadoreña (Salvadoran Communist Party, PCS), which followed the Moscow line mentioned above. The formation of the FPL was followed by that of the ERP in 1972, the Fuerzas Armadas de Resistencia Nacional (Armed Forces of National Re­sis­tance, but best known as the National Re­sis­tance or RN) in 1975, and the Partido Revolucionario de Trabajadores Centroamericanos (Central American Workers Revolutionary Party, PRTC) in 1976.14 The Communist Party’s Fuerzas Armadas de Liberación (Armed Forces of Liberation) arrived last to the revolutionary stage in 1979 on the eve of the war.15 The march ­toward open warfare was a gradual one. For most of the de­cade of the 1970s, the militant Left consisted of small groups of urban guerrillas that accumulated war chests by robbing banks and kidnapping wealthy p­ eople for ransom. Internecine sectarian disputes rooted in theoretical and strategic disagreements sometimes pitted one group or faction of young revolutionaries against another. (A low point occurred when the ERP executed internationally known poet Roque Dalton and Armando Arteaga in 1975, falsely accusing them of being Cuban and/or CIA agents.) The military backed by economic elites resisted land reform, wealth re­distribution, po­liti­cal democ­ratization, and the liberalization of social policy, which might have staved off armed revolution, at least for a time. Growing state repression fanned rather than smothered the flames of re­sis­tance. Two impor­tant events, among many o­ thers, stand out. The first was the 1972 presidential election, won by civilian José Napoleon Duarte of the Partido Demócrata Cristiano (Christian Demo­cratic Party, PDC) but brazenly stolen by the military government, which gave the victory to Col­o­nel Arturo Molina of the Partido de Conciliación Nacional (National Conciliation Party, PCN). The second event with far-­reaching repercussions took place four years ­later in 1976 when President Molina’s effort to enact an extremely modest land reform

12 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

in Usulután was quashed by a well-­organized group of wealthy, regional landowners supported by the Asociación Nacional de Empresa Privada (National Private Enterprise Association, ANEP). In the context of left organ­ization and a growing desire for progressive change, the 1972 electoral theft (repeated in 1977 by the PCN’s General Carlos Humberto Romero), the failure of land reform, and a rise in violent state-­sponsored repression undermined peaceful routes to change and made revolutionary war a real possibility (Williams and Walter 1997). When it became clear that mounting state-­sponsored repression was driving the country to war, young, “progressive” military officers staged a coup and ousted General Romero in October 1979, replacing him with a five-­member civilian-­ military junta. However, conservative, hard-­line, se­nior officers quickly gained control of the junta, intensified the repression of popu­lar organ­izations, and drove many well-­intentioned po­liti­cal liberals into the hands of the insurgents. During 1980, the FAES and security forces (consisting of the National Guard, National Police, and Trea­sury Police), as well as death squads and paramilitaries like ORDEN, killed and dis­appeared over ten thousand p­ eople. Among them can be counted Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero (March), sixteen students during a government assault on the National University (June), and three U.S. nuns and a U.S. Catholic lay worker (December). Many other p­ eople w ­ ere kidnapped, tortured, and murdered or dis­appeared, or died when government forces fired on marches and demonstrators or carried out brutal sweeps in rural areas. The FMLN formed in October 1980 through the alliance of the five political-­ military organ­izations listed above. Most of the top leaders came from San Salvador, and many had roots in the student movement, mainly from the public Universidad de El Salvador (University of San Salvador, UES) (Sprenkels 2018, 32–34; Chávez 2017; Álvarez and Cortina Orero 2014; Álvarez 2010). Rural areas contributed to the revolutionary leadership, though it was highly unusual for ­people of rural origin to reach the higher rungs in the organ­izations. The revolutionary war endured for twelve long years, leaving at least 75,000 dead—­and as many as 80,000–94,000 according to the calculations of Seligson and McElhinny (1996, 224; but see Hoover Green 2018, chap. 5), an estimated 7,000 dis­ appeared, and many thousands more wounded and orphaned (Naciones Unidas 1993). It had an impact on ­every h ­ ouse­hold and extended f­ amily in the country in one way or another, though poor ­people paid by far the heaviest price. Fi­nally, the war ended without a victor when a lengthy negotiation between the government and the FMLN culminated in a peace accord signed in Chapultepec ­Castle in Mexico City on 16 January 1992.

Fabio Argueta, Catechists, and Memory Communities Although this historical ethnography draws on the experiences and insights of many p­ eople (see appendix 2 for a list of interviewees), I or­ga­nize the narrative

Introduction • 13

around the life of Fabio Argueta Amaya (1943–2010), a Salvadoran peasant agriculturalist, petty merchant, and catechist (popu­lar intellectual) before the war and then po­liti­cal or­ga­nizer (insurgent intellectual) in the years leading up to and during the war. Fabio explains his upbringing and education and the social and economic conditions in northern Morazán that he encountered first as a youth and ­later as an adult. But he speaks at greater length and with considerable passion about the Catholic Church, his training and work as a catechist, and how state repression drove catechists and members of CEBs in northern Morazán to pursue armed self-­defense by joining the revolutionary Left, and the ERP specifically. In the pro­cess, the self-­confidence, communication skills, and orga­nizational acumen that he and other catechists acquired during month-­long courses in church-­sponsored training centers and in CEBs ­were put to more radical po­liti­cal uses during the twelve-­year revolutionary war. Before the war, Fabio and other catechists disseminated a message about ­human dignity, a God that favored the poor, and the need for the self-­organization of Christian communities, whose members strived to address their prob­lems collectively. Then, during the war, many catechists who joined the guerrillas became po­liti­cal activists, health care workers, supply quartermasters, and even musicians attending to the material and nonmaterial needs of combatants and civilians alike (see chapter 4). For his part, Fabio—­generally known by his war­time pseudonyms “Benito,” “Benitón” (Big Benito), or “El Gordo Benito” (Fat Benito)—­ instructed p­ eople about the poverty and authoritarianism that made armed conflict necessary and taught them about the new society that the FMLN was struggling to create. I found Fabio Argueta Amaya to be perceptive, smart, analytically minded, and an inspired orator—­qualities reflected in his narrative, but I was drawn to Fabio’s story less ­because of his unique individuality than his exemplification of ­those war­time or insurgent intellectuals who put their lives on the line in an effort to craft a more egalitarian and demo­cratic El Salvador. FMLN insurgents and their supporters failed to take power, yet the peace accords that terminated the conflict did lead to substantive changes in Salvadoran society. Readers interested in the international context of the war and its aftermath ­will be disappointed by the seemingly narrow focus of this study, but they have many other excellent sources available for consultation (e.g., Montoya 2018; Sprenkels 2018; Crandall 2016; Silber 2011; Moodie 2010; Byrne 1996; Montgomery 1995; Pearce 1986). But I maintain that catechists like Fabio Argueta offer us win­dows into certain key features of social revolutionary and social movement pro­cesses that have escaped the attention of most researchers in El Salvador and elsewhere. The aspects that I treat ­here concern the production of certain popu­lar rural intellectuals, the knowledges and skills they brought to a revolutionary war, and the ways they developed ­those knowledges and skills further and exercised them in new contexts dif­fer­ent from ­those in which they had been acquired and practiced. ­There exists no detailed analy­sis of catechists’ prewar and war­time ­labor from the

14 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

perspective of the involved parties. Most available materials on FMLN leadership groups in the Salvadoran conflict focus on the lives and work of priests and the archbishop (in the Catholic Church) or rebel commanders. Discussions of prewar catechists tend to be rare; material on the work of catechists who became war­time po­liti­cal activists/organizers (as many did) is almost non­ex­is­tent. The available lit­er­a­ture teaches us ­little about the lives and work of t­ hese “noncommissioned officers” first within the Catholic Church and then in rebel political-­military organ­izations, despite their linchpin roles in a broad social pro­cess. Based on numerous interviews with Fabio Argueta, other catechists, priests, former combatants, and ­others, I argue that the work of mediation exercised by catechists underpinned much of the success of the progressive church before the war and strengthened the ERP’s po­liti­cal and military apparatuses during it. Consider Erik Ching’s impor­tant Stories of Civil War in El Salvador (2016). Ching identifies four “memory communities” that offer competing (though in some instances overlapping) versions of the conflict. He defined ­these communities on the basis of an exhaustive reading of a broad range of postwar writing on the war, such as books, newspaper and magazine articles, and internet items available between 1992 and 2015. “Each [memory] community,” he stated, “is defined by a distinct and coherent narrative that its members employ with remarkable consistency. Among other similarities, the narrators of each group include and exclude the same events, employ a common narrative style and structure, make roughly identical claims, approach Salvadoran history the same way, and offer analogous assessments of certain ­people and organ­izations” (2016, 10). The four memory communities Ching identifies consist of “civilian elites,” “military officers,” “comandantes,” and the “rank-­and-­fi le” (troops fighting for ­either the government or the FMLN). To take a prominent example, former FMLN comandantes have produced a large (and growing) number of memoirs and other documents in which they explicate the ­causes of the conflict and the role they played in it (e.g., Ibarra Chávez 2009; Sánchez Cerén 2009; Mijano 2007; Medrano 2006; Harnecker 1993; Mena Sandoval 1991). However, I am not aware of any document drawn from the perspective of t­ hose whom Joaquín Chávez (2017) called “insurgent intellectuals”—­which is exactly what Fabio Argueta and many other prewar catechists became. Despite the critical roles they played in the FMLN’s prosecution of the war, mid-­ranking insurgent intellectuals do not form a memory community; the perspectives of noncommissioned officers like Fabio Argueta and other catechists have not entered the public domain in a substantive way. Their contributions to the conflict and understandings of their roles in it have not been subject to discussion and debate comparable to ­those of the “­grand strategists”—­the comandantes of the FMLN and the col­o­nels and generals of the FAES. Ching noted in his conclusion that “the members of the four memory communities and ­these few outliers that I have described comprise the sum total of life stories that have appeared in El Salvador since 1992. This fact reveals that vast swaths of the population who lived

Introduction • 15

through the war and potentially played impor­tant roles in it are completely absent from the current conversation” (2016, 255–256). I agree and state only that this book is intended to make Catholic lay catechists part of the conversation. The catechists’ absence is particularly marked when we turn to the lit­er­a­ture on the Salvadoran Catholic Church. Most extant testimonials, academic studies, and memoirs that have appeared are by and/or about priests (parish priests and Jesuits and members of other religious o­ rders), nuns, and, of course, the venerable martyr Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero (e.g., Brett and Brett 2020; Cardenal and Sobrino 2020; Keeley 2020; Sánchez 2014, 2015; Alas 2003; Whitfield 1995; Cáceres Prendes 1989; Anonymous 1988; López Vigil 1987, 1993; Berryman 1984, 1994; Carrigan 1984; Lernoux 1980). When catechists do come in for discussion, they are treated “­whole cloth.” (It is rare to find them mentioned by name.) Yet most p­ eople acquainted with prewar history would prob­ably acknowledge that liberation theology would not have spread as fast or as far as it did without the selfless and often dangerous work of a multitude of lay catechists and Delegates of the Word schooled by parish priests and/or educated in church training centers. Nine “Centers for the Formation of Peasants”—­ colloquially known as “peasant universities”—­trained an estimated fifteen thousand Salvadoran peasants in liberation theology, history and sociology, critical thinking, leadership, agriculture, health, development, and cooperative formation between 1968 and the late 1970s (Chávez 2017, 78; Peterson 1997, 55–58; Montgomery 1995, 87–88; see chapter 1).16 Delegates of the Word and catechists come in for discussion in a general way, but we lack historical and ethnographic detail about how they came to liberation theology and their experiences once they committed to it (but see Cabarrús 1983). I think of the work of catechists in northern Morazán as key aspects of prewar religious and war­time rebel “ground games” through which or­ga­nized groups contested hegemonic discourses that infused the cultures and practices of subaltern subjects. ­These pro­cesses of contestation developed in specific historical conjunctures and w ­ ere inscribed in par­tic­ u­lar ensembles of necessarily contradictory social relations, as ­will be documented in the course of this book.17 Fabio Argueta and other catechists personified grassroots or popu­lar intellectuals who mediated relations between progressive priests and CEBs before the war and then insurgent intellectuals who mediated between military commanders and civilians and combatants during it. I suggest that Antonio Gramsci’s ideas about hegemony, intellectuals, and common sense offer a con­ve­nient frame for approaching northern Morazanian catechists’ intellectual thought and practical activity.

The Archdiocese and Liberation Theology Before the war, the Salvadoran Catholic Church was or­ga­nized into five dioceses: the archdiocese centered in the capital city of San Salvador and four provincial dioceses based (from west to east) in the cities of Santa Ana, San Vicente,

16 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

Santiago de María, and San Miguel (see map 2). The archdiocese was administered by the archbishop, who albeit subordinate to the pope in Rome was the nation’s highest Catholic authority. (The papal nuncio provided a direct conduit to the Vatican.) The archdiocese encompassed all Catholic parishes and prac­ti­tion­ers in the departments of San Salvador, Chalatenango, Cuscatlán, and La Libertad, which contained about 40 ­percent of the country’s population. Among seminaries, educational institutions, and parishes, the archdiocese ­housed an estimated 50 ­percent of El Salvador’s clergy in 1965, as well as a high percentage of the 750 male and 350 female members of religious ­orders, three-­ quarters of foreign extraction and many of whom ­were involved in teaching (Richard and Meléndez 1982, 59).18 Each of the four provincial dioceses encompassed Catholic parishes in one to three departments and was administered by a bishop (addressed as “Monsigñor,” abbreviated Msgr. in this book). For instance, northern Morazán was part of the diocese of San Miguel, which covered the departments of La Unión, San Miguel, and Morazán; Msgr. Eduardo Álvarez served as bishop of San Miguel diocese from 1969 to 1977. Bishops ruled their dioceses like ­little fiefdoms in that they ­were not beholden to the archbishop, as the reader ­will see in the course of this book. Moreover, t­ here existed differences between parish priests and the members of religious o­ rders, such as the Society of Jesus (Jesuits), Franciscans, Passionists, and o­ thers. The members of religious ­orders needed permission from the archbishop or one of the bishops to operate within their territory (diocese or the archdiocese), but the Catholic religious hierarchy exercised no control over their beliefs and/or practices, a point that ­will become clear in the discussion of the peasant universities. Luis Chávez y González, the nation’s archbishop from 1939 u­ ntil he retired in 1977, staunchly supported liberation theology, through which Latin Americans adapted the proclamations of the Second Vatican Council to continental conditions. The bishops charged with the four provincial dioceses did not support it (Montgomery 1995, 85–86; Cardenal 1992, 263). Nowhere was this better illustrated than during the nation’s first “pastoral week” that brought together over two hundred priests and members of religious ­orders between 22 and 26 June 1970 to discuss the implications for the Salvadoran church of the 1968 CELAM meeting in Medellín, Colombia. Not one bishop working outside the archdiocese attended pastoral week, though all received invitations to do so. However, their absence did not deter the bishops from denouncing pastoral week and watering down the final document (Cáceres Prendes 1989). Bishops outside the archdiocese identified strongly with wealthy landowners and their military protectors and manifested ­little concern with the plight of the poor. Msgr. Aparicio (Diocese of San Vicente) owned a large hacienda gifted to him by President (and Coronel) Arturo Molina in the mid-1970s. In 1981, Msgr. Revello (Diocese of Santa Ana) blessed new war planes and Msgr. Álvarez (Diocese of San Miguel) served as the first bishop of El Salvador’s military ordinariate, created on 25 March 1968 but unstaffed u­ ntil Álvarez’s appointment

MAP 2  ​Catholic dioceses in El Salvador, circa 1980. (Mike Siegal, Rutgers Cartography Laboratory)

18 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

on 4 November of the same year. He held the military rank of coronel (Montgomery 1983, 68) from 1969 ­until he resigned the position in 1987, according to a website that tracks the Catholic Church hierarchy.19 José Inocencio Alas wrote that Álvarez “participated in po­liti­cal campaigns dressed in military uniform, and for some time employed a soldier to answer the telephone in his residence and attend to the public that visited the offices” (2003, 7). Logically, then, the best-­known cases of liberation theology practice developed in the archdiocese. I am thinking, in par­tic­u­lar, of the endeavors of Fr. José Inocencio Alas in Suchitoto (Cuscatlán department) and Fr. Rutilio Grande in Aguilares (San Salvador department). Both Alas, a parish priest, and Grande, a member of the Society of Jesus (Jesuits), spent time studying liberation theology at the Instituto Pastoral Latinoamericano (Latin American Pastoral Institute, IPLA) in Quito, Ec­ua­dor, where they came into contact with progressive theologians like Leonidis Proaño, Enrique Dussel, and Juan Luis Segundo (Alas 2003, 11; Anonymous 1988, 23). When Alas, the first Salvadoran to study at IPLA, returned home Archbishop Chávez y González assigned him to Suchitoto parish. In 1969 he or­ga­nized El Salvador’s first CEBs. A few years l­ater, over a nine-­month period between September  1971 and June  1972, Rutilio Grande headed a mission team in nearby Aguilares composed of priests, seminarians, and students from the capital. The team trained some three hundred catechists and Delegates of the Word in urban neighborhoods and rural communities. The introduction and spread of progressive Chris­tian­ity in the archdiocese coincided with strug­gles for land and higher wages in west and central El Salvador, and many catechists and Delegates of the Word participated actively in t­ hose strug­gles. Most progressive priests ­adopted a “pastoral approach” to liberation theology practice in which clergy “could (indeed, w ­ ere obliged to) accompany their ­people, but they could not take a po­liti­cal stance” (Montgomery 1983, 69; see also Gould 2015; Cáceres Prendes 1989; Berryman 1984, 332–333, 337–341).20 Eventually Msgr. Oscar Arnulfo Romero, appointed archbishop in 1977, “became the leading Salvadoran proponent of the ‘pastoral’ variation of liberation theology” (Montgomery 1983, 69; see also Cáceres Prendes 1989, 127–130). In contrast, about a third of the younger priests who attended seminary ­after the Second Vatican Council and the 1968 CELAM meeting identified with a more activist version of liberation theology, “which emphasized the need for the ­people to transform real­ity” (Montgomery 1983, 69; see also Chávez 2017, 88). Priests associated with the pastoral current supported p­ eople’s right to participate actively in organ­izations like the Federación Cristiana de Campesinos Salvadoreños (Christian Federation of Salvadoran Peasants, FECCAS), the Unión de Trabajadores del Campo (Union of Rural Workers, UTC), and the Federación de Trabajadores del Campo (Rural Workers’ Federation, FTC)—­ formed through the merger of the aforementioned groups. ­These organ­izations demanded land, higher wages, access to credit, and the like, but priests did not usually take out formal membership in them.

Introduction • 19

As liberation theology legitimized popu­lar organ­izations and their demands for reform, Alas, Grande, and other priests, nuns, and members of religious o­ rders found themselves at loggerheads with the military government, oligarchy, and conservative bishops and clergy. Many religious progressives paid high prices for their commitment, and some paid the ultimate price. For instance, Alas was kidnapped, tortured, drugged, and left naked next to a precipice on a mountain above San Salvador in 1970. He survived the ordeal, but seven years ­later (February 1977) Grande and two catechists riding with him died when Grande’s jeep was machine-­g unned as they traveled to celebrate mass in El Paisnal (department of San Salvador).21 Following Grande’s murder, Alas left El Salvador and remained outside the country for the duration of the armed conflict. By the time revolutionary war broke out in 1980, some priests toed the traditionalist line, many maintained a low profile, ­others left El Salvador, and a few, such as Fr. Miguel Ventura in northern Morazán, Fr. Rogelio Ponseele (who was assigned to a parish in San Salvador but left the capital for northern Morazán in the wake of the repression), Fr. David Rodríguez in San Vicente, and Fr. Ernesto Barrera Motto in San Salvador e­ ither joined a political-­military organ­ization (Barrera, Rodriguez) or coordinated their pastoral work with one of them (Ventura, Ponseele) (see Sánchez 2015). Fr. Barrera (killed in 1978) and ­Sister Silvia Ariola followed in the footsteps of Camilo Torres of Colombia and became combatants, according to Berryman (1984, 338). Jesuit Fr. Rodolfo Cardenal wrote the following: When the persecution began in 1977, the bishops ­were united against it, but a repressive law for the maintenance of public order brought division. The nuncios failed to reconcile the bishops of the archdiocese with ­those of the rest of the country. Ten priests, beginning with Jesuit Rutilio Grande, a deacon and five nuns ­were assassinated in the first wave of persecution that culminated in Archbishop Romero’s death. Forty priests w ­ ere seriously threatened, tortured or expelled; all the Jesuits ­were threatened with death between 1977 and 1980. Many Christians from the base communities w ­ ere threatened, arrested, harassed, tortured and assassinated for their activities as Christians. Liturgical cele­brations ­were broken up and ­there was a constant stream of attack from the media. Church buildings and Catholic colleges ­were attacked; the archdiocesan radio station was bombed several times and systematically jammed; presbyteries and convents ­were bombed and machine-­g unned, as ­were the homes of their lay collaborators. The army occupied churches, profaning the host and the sacred vessels. (1992, 265)

The repression of church functionaries was nothing compared to that experienced by the laity, especially peasants and workers. Rafael Cabarrús, a Jesuit priest who wrote an impor­tant social analy­sis of Grande’s Aguilares mission, explained that only one of the peasants who provided him with information in

20 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

the early 1970s remained alive: “All the rest,” he stated, “have been violently assassinated by the repression” (1983, 28). In practice, the line between accompaniment of popu­lar organ­izations and membership in them became blurred, and sometimes priests went farther than they perhaps intended in terms of direct participation. Cardenal (1992, 264) stated that peasant organ­izations “used parish structures to spread and consolidate, which means that it became difficult to see where the church ended and the organ­ization[s] began.” Alas went so far as to write that he had proposed the ­union of teachers, workers and peasants, and student organ­izations that in 1974 became the Frente de Acción Popu­lar Unificada (United Popu­lar Action Front, FAPU), the first of vari­ous Salvadoran mass organ­izations (2003, 218–220). (It is generally agreed that he played a key role in the FAPU’s creation; see Cáceres Prendes 1989, 118.) In general, though, priests left orga­nizational, strategic, and tactical m ­ atters to popu­lar (peasant and worker) intellectuals, who exercised appreciable autonomy in crafting strategy and establishing relationships with ­people from urban areas, including priests. Commenting specifically on Chalatenango, Joaquín Chávez found that “peasant leaders played the central roles in the politicization of their own communities and also taught the young university insurgents and Catholic priests about politics, religion, and revolution. The alliances made between the peasant intellectuals, the university students, the diocesan priests, and teachers in the mid-1970s proved to be long lasting. They constituted the basis for the creation of the Bloque Popu­lar Revolucionario (Popu­lar Revolutionary Bloc, BPR), one of the most impor­tant popu­lar co­ali­ tions in the 1970s” (2010, 329–330). As we ­will see, something similar occurred in northern Morazán, even if the dynamic departed somewhat from that in Chalatenango. Far from the capital and its institutions of higher education, which proved to be seedbeds of po­liti­ cal radicalism, the po­liti­cal incorporation of a significant sector of the northern Morazanian peasantry was overwhelmingly inspired by liberation theology and the Salvadoran state’s repressive response to it (chapters 1 and 3). In the pro­cess of po­liti­cal radicalization, some peasants t­ here transitioned from popu­lar intellectuals preaching and practicing liberation theology to insurgent intellectuals working with the FMLN to overthrow the state.

Synopsis The six chapters of this book have been or­ga­nized around the personal and po­liti­ cal life of Fabio Argueta, but they draw on the experiences and observations of forty additional ­people—­many interviewed on multiple occasions—­including former catechists active before and during the revolutionary war; documents published during the war; and analyses then and ­later produced by FMLN comandantes, priests, members of FMLN support units, and academics. Chapter 1 focuses on the first thirty years of Fabio’s life, from his birth in 1943 in

Introduction • 21

El Mozote to his catechism studies at Centro Reina de la Paz, better known as El Castaño, in Chirilagua, San Miguel. The chapter also includes a lengthy discussion of the “peasant universities,” crucial for understanding liberation theology in northern Morazán, particularly among a core of early, influential catechists. Chapter 2 pre­sents a condensed analy­sis of the social and po­liti­cal relations that predominated in northern Morazán during the period before the war. During vari­ous interviews, Fabio Argueta discussed northern Morazanian agriculture, markets, and the class system; education, marriage, and f­ amily relations; and the production, sale, and consumption of alcohol. I take such discussion as evidence of his so­cio­log­i­cal imagination (Mills 1961 [1959]). Chapter 3 picks up the chronological thread once again, covering a short but intense period from 1973 to 1977, during which the ERP arrived in the area and linked up with catechists being harassed by local government security and paramilitary forces. The ERP was preceded by Fr. Miguel Ventura, who brought catechists together and helped them or­ga­nize their work. It includes a description of a shootout at the entrance to Osicala in November 1977 and the subsequent capture and torture of Fr. Miguel and Fabio Argueta. Chapter 4 then focuses on the three-­year period leading up to the 1980–1992 revolutionary war, including the formation of the Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero (28 February Popu­lar Leagues, LP-28), an ERP mass organ­ization that served as a ­legal front group to pressure the government while also providing po­liti­cal cover for ERP militants and functioned as a recruiting ground for the ERP’s military wing. In this chapter I introduce four catechists and discuss the contribution each made to the revolutionary war unleashed by the ERP and other political-­m ilitary organ­izations that composed the FMLN. Though some catechists became combatants, the selected examples highlight how ERP leaders put to use the public-­speaking ability and orga­n izational skills that catechists acquired in church-­sponsored training centers and through prewar religious practice in northern Morazán. Chapter 5 returns to Fabio Argueta and his participation in war­time activities between 1980 and 1988. His discussion of El Mozote, and his experiences in El Barrios (San Miguel), Joateca, and in the area around Perquín, track impor­ tant strategic changes in the conduct of the war and the shifting roles that po­liti­ cal activists like Fabio w ­ ere called upon to play. I could have solicited more information about daily life during the war years, but the 1992 Peace Accord was preceded and followed by a large number of memoirs and other accounts of life in rebel-­controlled and conflictive areas (e.g., Espinoza 2018; Rivera et al. 1995; J. López Vigil 1994; Mena Sandoval 1991; Lievens 1989; M. López Vigil 1987; Perales 1986). Detailed consideration of daily life in the war zone w ­ ill be addressed in a subsequent book. Chapter 6 chronicles Fabio’s exit from northern Morazán early in 1988 b­ ecause of his severe asthma, hernia, and heart condition and his years in Nicaragua and return to El Salvador following the end of the war. It rec­ords his (and ­others’)

22 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

difficulties in adapting to a postwar social and economic landscape in the throes of neoliberalization. The chapter concludes with Fabio’s justification for the war and his hopes for the f­ uture. In the conclusion, I summarize the results of this study and map the limits of liberation theology and its ideological and practical contributions to prefigurative strug­g le (in the Gramscian sense) in postcolonial countries where social “peace” depends on a weak hegemony and strong doses of state-­sponsored coercion. In the pro­cess, the chapter engages Jeffrey Gould’s argument that the real­ ity of a “minor utopia” informed by liberation theology in prewar northern Morazán was relegated to the dustbin of history by the secular metanarratives of the conflict produced by the ERP and other FMLN political-­military organ­izations.

1

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 As noted in the introduction, the experiences of Fabio Argueta anchor this book, even as I draw on the memories and observations of many other peasants (and the occasional artisan) trained as Catholic lay catechists. A dozen taped interviews carried out with Fabio between 1993 and 1995 generated the largest single corpus of information—­over three hundred transcribed pages—­covering many, albeit not all, aspects of his life. Fabio’s route to progressive Chris­tian­ity and his role as a popu­lar—­later insurgent—­intellectual began in his youth, and it is for that reason that I discuss his early life, the dilemmas that he and his ­family confronted, and their efforts to deal with them. Fabio pre­sents a particularly good example of the radicalization that can result when t­ here exists a disconnect between aspirations and the means to achieve them (see, for instance, Bourdieu 1990, 62). In appendix 1, I discuss his educational aspirations, summarize the deleterious effect of alcohol on his ­family, and describe the alternative route to intellectual development represented by Catholic training centers.

Early Life Fabio Argueta Amaya was born in the hamlet of El Mozote in 1943 to Baltazar Argueta and Francisca Amaya. His grandparents on his ­father’s side lived in La Guacamaya, a rural canton of Meanguera municipality located several kilo­meters south of El Mozote.1 But they moved to El Mozote (also in Meanguera) ­because his grand­father Eduardo had purchased a piece of land and built a ­house in the 23

24 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

­ iddle of a narrow plain surrounded by low hills. It was t­ here that Baltazar Argum eta met and married Francisca Amaya in 1942 and gave birth to Fabio the following year. Baltazar raised ­cattle in this temperate area of generally poor soil and uneven land, and he grew corn in a lower, hotter, and flatter area of La Guacamaya called El Maíz, “where the land was better.”2 Fabio was a rare only child in a farming ­house­hold where ­children, as they grew, counted as ­house­hold l­ abor and in adulthood as security for parents in their old age. Fabio hinted that his parents experienced fertility issues: “I grew up without any b­ rothers or ­sisters. That is, my mom and dad only had me. They wanted to have more ­children, they had planned on it, but they never succeeded.” One part of Baltazar’s land derived from inheritance, the other part he purchased before Fabio’s birth. Fabio stated that Baltazar “went on buying land u­ ntil he had something like twenty-­five manzanas,” one manzana consisting of seven thousand square meters or seven-­tenths of a hectare.3 ­Later, his ­father became ill, suffering from a pain in his hip, and had to cut back his agricultural activity. To compensate Baltazar began to purchase twine, fabricated from fiber extracted from henequen, locally referred to as mescal, and transported it by h ­ orse cart or mule train—­there being no bus ser­vice at the time—­for resale in San Francisco Gotera, twenty kilo­meters (12.4 miles) south of the Torola River.4 Fabio described a diversified h ­ ouse­hold economic strategy: “He [Baltazar] had about one hundred twenty animals. We raised some of the animals for food and breeding; ­others ­were grown cows from which we got milk. We curdled the milk to make cheese and we sold what ­wasn’t eaten at home b­ ecause that area is pretty arid, the land is pretty unproductive except for raising c­ attle.”5 Sometime in the early to mid-1950s, Baltazar even attempted to establish a banana plantation and plant coffee, sown in small amounts in select areas around El Mozote. Hard work and wise marshalling of resources enabled him to construct a large ­house, about twenty varas (or seventeen meters) in length, containing four hallways, one of which overlooked the street. The h ­ ouse “was made of mud mixed with straw, called bahareque” and occupied a site near the school complex constructed years l­ ater in the early 1970s. The h ­ ouse­hold’s economic achievements came despite the fact that both parents ­were illiterate, but Baltazar and Francisca w ­ ere determined to provide Fabio more educational opportunities than had been available to them. Fabio recalled how t­ here w ­ ere difficulties at home b­ ecause ­there w ­ ere no schools. The only school that existed was the one in La Guacamaya which was too far to travel to. So, my f­ ather, conversing with Jacinto Márquez, who was his ­brother, my ­father’s only b­ rother, . . . ​talking with Israel Márquez and some other ­people, they attempted to build a school. That is how they came to purchase a terrain between La Guacamaya and El Mozote. They made that school, called El Jícaro, thinking about how we kids would go study t­ here.

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 25

The professor only taught first and second grade. But given the parents’ interest and the enthusiasm of some students, the professor, whose name was Pablo Antonio Jara, de­cided to offer third grade. He asked us who wanted to study past second grade and a relative of mine named Leonardo Márquez, myself, and some ­others raised our hands. T ­ here ­were about twelve of us. We told him, “We want to study more, we want you to teach us third grade.” Our parents talked to the professor to see how he could offer us third grade, and even though it h ­ adn’t been approved by the Ministry of Education, the professor said, “I can do it. A ­ fter the time for second grade, they w ­ ill do third grade so t­ here is no prob­lem. If you want it, I ­w ill teach it.”6

Fabio completed three grades over four years between the ages of eight and twelve; yet he insisted that having finished third grade u­ nder his strict professor “was like having finished twelve years of school. . . . ​The rest of the time . . . ​I helped my ­father oversee the fields and care for the animals.” Alas, it turned out that Filipino Argueta, Baltazar’s nephew and Fabio’s godfather (Baltazar’s compadre) lived nearby.7 Filipino lived to drink, and when he did he frequently experienced violent rages that took the form of assaulting Baltazar’s h ­ ouse and swearing that he was g­ oing to kill every­one in the f­ amily. According to Fabio, Filipino was jealous ­because Baltazar raised better animals and crops. Yet ­there may have been more to this, as the following quote suggests: My f­ ather tried to h ­ andle the situation in order to avoid prob­lems. He repaired a fence that separated the fields, but a neighbor told Filipino, “Look, your compadre just took down that fence. Why did you let him do that?” And that envious man tried to come and kill my f­ ather ­because of it. He would go get drunk ­because of the ­things that other p­ eople had told him . . . ​“ ­because of strangers’ words,” as they say. In the after­noon he went at the posts and wires with a sharpened machete. Afterwards he came ­towards the h ­ ouse where my ­father was, wanting to kill him. My f­ ather thought that he would stop and begged him not to fight. “Look,” he said to him, “if you c­ an’t fix the fence, I’ll figure out how to do it.” We fixed it ­really quickly so that he w ­ ouldn’t be angry b­ ecause the ­cattle ­were ­going from our field into his.8

Baltazar’s failure to shore up his fences enabled some animals to escape into and cause damage to Filipino’s fields, though the nephew’s anger may have been stoked by neighbors who weighed in on what should have been a f­ amily affair. Fabio recounted that “another time he [Filipino] arrived at night and called to my ­father, ‘Compadre, wake up.’ When my ­father went and opened the door, he saw Filipino with a machete. Filipino slashed off almost a meter of the door and

26 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

parted the earth. My ­father went and put the lock on the door. The ­house had four pillars and Filipino began to hit them with the machete. He always did that when he had been drinking.” Baltazar sought out César Márquez and Israel Márquez, the latter particularly respected in El Mozote, to mediate the dispute. They appeared to do so, but Fabio thought that Israel Márquez, El Mozote’s founder and purportedly wealthiest person, coveted Baltazar’s land. The Márquez clan already had a lot of land, but they wanted more. So even as Israel urged Filipino to calm down, Fabio thought that Israel was “advising Filipino badly in order to make trou­ble, to create conflicts and prob­lems so he could take advantage.” When he sobered up, Filipino attributed the be­hav­ior to his drunkenness and promised that he would mend his ways. But a few days l­ ater, he would get drunk and act violently again, sometimes more so than previously. Despite his young age at the time, Fabio stated that he, too, got involved ­because “I saw that what Filipino was ­doing was unfair.” ­These experiences stayed with him for the rest of his life, prob­ably playing a role in his ­later radicalization. Baltazar confronted a catch-22. On the one hand, ­unless checked Filipino might kill him, depriving the ­house­hold of its main breadwinner. On the other hand, killing Filipino had its own negative consequences, as Fabio recalled: “Papá would say, ‘One of ­these days we are ­going to kill him. I am capable of killing him. But what w ­ ill happen? I ­will have to sell the land and it ­will end up in the hands of . . . ​the money w ­ ill go to fill the ­lawyers’ pockets. What should we do?’ ” Baltazar de­cided that the only option was to sell his property and leave for Honduras, to which he had traveled in his youth to work on banana plantations located on the Ca­rib­bean coast. Fabio explained that during this period, roughly the mid-­fi fties, “whoever was stronger triumphed over the other and killed him. That is the way that conflicts ­were resolved.” Of course, such internalization of vio­lence played into the hands of dominant groups: local, regional, and national. Baltazar knew that he could not sell within the ­family ­because of the intrafamilial jealousies and conflicts that would follow. Thus Baltazar refused an ­uncle who wanted to buy the land, explaining that ­were that to happen “this trou­ble is ­going to continue.” My f­ ather de­cided that he w ­ asn’t ­going to leave b­ ehind a ­family disaster and that the best t­ hing to do would be to sell to someone outside the f­ amily. And that is how my f­ ather came to offer the land to Israel Márquez, and Israel Márquez bought it. As soon as they had signed the deed, a large number of p­ eople entered the field and spirited away all the wood in order to create a single large field and lure more ­people to the area.9 My f­ ather sold the land and sold his ­cattle too. Only one cow and a ­horse remained. . . . ​We left the area with the idea that we ­were ­going to Honduras to buy land and make our life.

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 27

Move to Meanguera They took the t­ hings they could carry and left for Meanguera. Th ­ ere Baltazar explained to Delfino Guevara, another compadre, that he had sold what they had in El Mozote and ­were heading for Honduras to make a new life. Delfino opposed the move in a conversation Fabio reconstructed as follows: “Look compadre. What’s ­there to do in Honduras? I have been to Honduras. In Honduras the hour is ­going to come for us. ­We’re looked upon badly t­ here and that’s g­ oing to cause us prob­lems.10 Look,” he said, “what are you ­going to do ­there? Why not stay h ­ ere? Why not buy something ­here? Two men came ­here, one from Honduras, the other from Guatemala. They had an inheritance and it’s been years that ­they’ve been gone, now t­ hey’ve returned to sell their ­things.” “And where is the land?” “It’s h ­ ere in the municipality,” he said to my f­ ather, “close to the town.” “Okay, then,” said my ­father. “I had not wanted to remain h ­ ere in El Salvador. The prob­lem ­there is with my compadre.” ­Because at that time my ­father’s prob­lem [with Filipino] had already taken place. It was even moving about in the courts. So, my f­ ather said to him, “And where or how can I find t­ hose men?” “They are living nearby,” Delfino said, “at the home of a ­sister. Let’s go . . . ​ let’s go talk to them.”

They visited the men and learned that they ­were willing to sell but for the prob­lem that Vicente Chicas, a nephew of one of them, had constructed his ­house ­there and refused to leave. Baltazar went to see the land and speak with the nephew. The land itself was “a bit uneven” but good for corn and henequen, prob­ably ­because it was located at a lower, hotter altitude. Vicente admitted the land was not his and said that he would be willing to move if someone paid him for the ­labor he had invested in his ­house and garden. He and Baltazar reached an agreement, and the latter bought land from both men. This must have been 1957 or thereabouts b­ ecause Fabio recalled that he was about fourteen years old at the time. They built a new ­house, making tile for the roof, gathering wood for the structure, and so on; and they planted corn, beans, and sorghum for domestic consumption, as well as fruit trees and a garden. They also purchased some henequen plants with which to seed fields with the intention of selling the fiber extracted from the plants when they matured. Fabio recalled that “the land was fertile for henequen, and at the time henequen fiber was profitable . . . ​it sold well in comparison to other products from the area. Each year we tried to plant more henequen so that within three years’ time we already had the first harvest.”

28 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

But Fabio’s educational aspirations ­were frustrated by the ­family’s lack of money and his increasingly ill ­father’s reliance on him for help in the fields: I had to stop studying and work in the fields. We had to start our lives all over again ­because we bought land that h ­ adn’t been cultivated. . . . ​[Preparing the land for planting] required a large investment of l­ abor and I lost the opportunity to continue studying. My f­ ather got very ill, and working in the fields was too much for him to carry out alone. So, one becomes more involved in agricultural work. . . . ​I wanted to go to mechanic’s school, ­because t­ here w ­ ere other friends who had gone to it in San Salvador and had learned to drive. But ­because of our economic difficulties we had to wait for the henequen to produce. ­A fter five years we could get something out of the work we had done ­those first years. But the money we made then only served to build the h ­ ouse. Money to be able, for example, to go to school we just ­didn’t have. . . . ​I grew up and matured working in the fields.

Fabio was still living with his ­father when the henequen began to produce. Absent machines, which had yet to be introduced into the region, they removed the fiber from the main rib of the leaf by hand using wooden and metal stakes formed into a platform—­difficult, physically taxing work that raised welts on the skin of ­those unaccustomed to it.11 As the henequen fields expanded and the harvests increased, they hired ­people to take over more and more of the harvesting and pro­cessing tasks. Working henequen is something you c­ an’t do alone. When we began to plant more henequen, we tried to find p­ eople who could help us scrape it [i.e., separate the fiber]. As the owner, one would cut the leaves and put the cut pieces out for the workers to remove the fiber. Once removed, they scraped the fiber and dried it. It was hard work and it damages the lungs ­because it is r­ eally strong smelling. We would find a few p­ eople, not too many. L ­ ater, when we had planted more henequen, we looked for workers to cut it and lay it out on the platforms. You needed about fifteen men to help you work in order to have enough plant cut.

Fabio and Baltazar sold the fiber in San Miguel, San Francisco Gotera, or a town near Meanguera, where it was ­either worked up by artisans or transported to a factory in the south where machines transformed it into sacks used in the coffee harvest. By the 1970s Fabio noticed that henequen fiber was being displaced by nylon and losing its market value: “We sowed a large volume of henequen that seemed that it would come to thousands of colones, but the earnings ­were very ­little. . . . ​We ­were losing the opportunity to earn as we had before due to this new product that came from other countries. With nylon they make twine, they make all the ­things you make with henequen fiber. I d­ on’t know if it’s more

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 29

con­ve­nient, cheaper, or more resistant than henequen. So, henequen fiber lost value as did the indigo we used to have in this country. . . . ​It lost its market.” To compensate, Fabio diversified his economic activity from raising animals and selling henequen fiber to include buying and reselling clothing. He bought clothes in San Miguel and resold them in Jocoaitique. But the magnitude of sales failed to adequately compensate him for the time and cost of travel. The ­house­hold was experiencing money trou­bles and Fabio “went around looking for ways to make a living, to do something.” As a teenager in 1961, he sought work in road construction. “I worked,” he explained, “as a laborer and also as a driver’s assistant. That’s how I earned my pennies; at the same time, I was also involved in that henequen fiber buying proj­ect. But that was before I got married.”

Fabio’s Marriage As we have seen, his ­father’s illness, the economic setbacks that followed relocation to an area near Meanguera township, and his status as an only child quashed Fabio’s hopes for a formal education. His f­ ather put the m ­ atter to rest when he advised Fabio that it would be better for him to marry b­ ecause of the absence of other opportunities: “He insisted that it would be better for me to marry, have ­children, make my home, and that I not leave the h ­ ouse to learn something ­else. . . . ​I w ­ asn’t very excited about getting married but [agreed] seeing the void that we had—­there w ­ ere just the three of us—­and their suggestion to me was that it was best for me to marry, so someone would accompany me, so that I would have a ­family, so that I would have my home.” He claimed to have had several girlfriends but fell in love with Catalina Chicas, the ­daughter of a neighbor with the surnames Márquez Chicas.12 He recalled that his ­mother and ­others warned him that ­people in that f­ amily ­were no good, “but when one is falling in love, one never pays attention to the opinions of ­others who know about the ­family.” He married in 1963 at the age of twenty to a young ­woman two years his ju­nior. In northern Morazán at the time, the ­couple’s ages at matrimony w ­ ere within the norm. As was common, the new ­couple moved into the groom’s ­father’s residence u­ ntil such time as Fabio was able to construct his own ­house. Catalina gave birth to her first child three years ­later in 1966, about the same time the new f­ amily left Baltazar’s home. Baltazar’s illness worsened, and he died at the age of fifty-­t wo, by which time Fabio and Catalina had four ­children together. Altogether Catalina had seven c­ hildren with Fabio (elsewhere Fabio claimed eight) before the ­couple split up, of which five remained living at the time of my interviews with Fabio in the early to mid-1990s. All ­those who survived to adulthood completed their studies and embarked on ­careers, such as auto mechanic or police officer in the National Civilian Police force formed ­after the war. ­Until Fabio became involved with the church and attended El Castaño—­ one of the “peasant universities” discussed ­later in this chapter—he worked hard

30 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

to support the ­house­hold. Afterward, though, Fabio dedicated most of his time traveling around to religious (and l­ater po­liti­cal) meetings, leaving Catalina to manage their fourteen manzanas (9.8 hectares, or 24.2 acres) of land and the hired p­ eople who worked it for them.13 Fabio spoke passionately of his desire to study and the economic obstacles to d­ oing so. Yet a broader vision of northern Morazán in the postwar period suggests that his ­family was, at least in its beginnings, better off than the majority. In El Mozote, Baltazar Argueta accumulated twenty-­five manzanas (17.5 hectares or 43.4 acres) of land, divided between the lower and hotter area of La Guacamaya and the higher and cooler area around El Mozote.14 He grew corn in La Guacamaya and henequen in El Mozote, where he also pastured animals and was in the pro­cess of planting a small plantation of bananas and coffee in a clear strategy of economic diversification. Filipino Argueta’s envy of Baltazar’s success resulted in violent, drunken assaults that threatened the small domestic unit, the titular male head of which may at the time have been in the incipient stages of an illness that took his life less than two de­cades l­ ater. Yet contradictions and ambiguities haunt Fabio’s narrative and suggest alternative interpretations. ­There is the ­matter of the damaged fence and Fabio’s admission that Baltazar’s ­cattle had escaped and encroached into Filipino’s fields, cause for conflict among rural agriculturalists and ranchers in most parts of the world. Filipino might have had reason on his side but his reaction went too far, violating cultural norms. It is significant, too, that Baltazar had no one to call upon for assistance, no bevy of grown sons that might have backed him up or responsible authorities interested in heading off the conflict before it culminated in a tragedy. In fact, Fabio suggested that the wealthy and locally esteemed Ismael Márquez wanted to acquire Baltazar’s land—­which he eventually did—­and had ­little interest in seeing the conflict resolved peacefully. Fi­nally, any effort to bring in the authorities would have entailed l­ egal fees and with l­ ittle guarantee of success. All this factored into Baltazar’s decision to sell and move away. Baltazar, Francisca, and Fabio began anew in Soledad, Meanguera, several kilo­meters north and west of El Mozote and located in the tierra caliente, the hot land. ­Here the narrative jumped around somewhat time-­wise, but two points remained clear and merit discussion. With the construction of a bridge over the Torola River in 1953, bus ser­vice soon entered the area, passing near Fabio’s ­family’s ­house. The bus enabled Fabio to pursue commercial interests, purchasing clothing in nearby cities for resale in local markets. Fabio wanted to study, but this simply was not pos­si­ble given the f­ amily’s situation: relatively rich in land but poor in unpaid ­house­hold l­ abor (i.e., ­children) and apparently without sufficient liquidity to substitute hired l­abor for most tasks and still make a substantial profit. The h ­ ouse­hold was in no position to pursue the rural, transgenerational social mobility strategy in which older sons worked the fields so that younger ones might pursue their studies. Fabio had no older

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 31

b­ rother; in fact, he had no siblings at all and had to help his ailing ­father in the fields. When Fabio discussed the appearance of machines to pro­cess henequen, as well as the importation of petroleum-­based nylon fiber from Honduras and its effect on mescal prices, he was almost certainly referring to the early to mid1970s, by which time his ­father had died and Fabio had married, built a ­house, and was helping raise several c­ hildren. When first introduced into northern Morazán, henequen-­processing machinery benefited producers with large mescal fields by enabling cheap, rapid extraction of fiber, even as it reduced the demand for local ­labor and prob­ably contributed to a rise in seasonal migration to agro-­export zones in the south and west (see chapter 2 and Binford 2016, chap. 4). However, this “advantage” dissipated when cheaper and more durable nylon twine and rope undercut the mescal market.15 Despite the import substitution strategy in place at the time, El Salvador could not avoid the consequences of integration on disadvantageous terms into a globalizing market.

El Castaño and “Peasant Universities” in the East By the time he was in his late twenties, Fabio had four or five ­children and managed a “middling” farm of fourteen manzanas on which he grew, among other ­things, corn for ­house­hold consumption and henequen that was pro­ cessed into fiber for market sale. In the late 1960s, he became increasingly involved with the Catholic Church, however, eventually attending courses at Centro San Lucas and Centro Reina de la Paz (El Castaño), two of nine national Centers for Peasant Promotion and Formation, which I refer to as “peasant universities” (universidades campesinas). Jesuits, Franciscans, Passionists, and members of other religious ­orders established the centers in­de­pen­ dently between the late 1960s and early 1970s in dif­fer­ent areas of El Salvador, often in proximity to the Pan-­A merican Highway. Three such centers— El  Castaño (Chirilagua, San Miguel), Centro San Lucas (San Miguel, San Miguel), and Centro Los Naranjos (Jiquilisco, Usulután)—­were located east of the Lempa River and w ­ ere attended mostly by male peasants from the departments of La Unión, Morazán, San Miguel, Usulután, and San Vicente. A fourth eastern center, Centro Guadalupe, was located in the city of San Miguel and attended to females.16 Five additional centers lay in the west and center of the country, but none trained w ­ omen.17 The scant attention given female lay catechists manifested the Catholic Church’s conservative conception of the potential of w ­ omen, who w ­ ere valued mainly as self-­sacrificing wives and m ­ others obedient to priests and acceding to the wishes of f­ athers and husbands. Liberation theology may have offered an abstract challenge to traditional Catholic gender hierarchy in its insistence on the dignity of each person, but it came out of Catholic teaching, the theologians who developed it ­were male, and it did not substantively contest embedded ideas about gender hierarchy,

32 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

even though the spread of liberation theology in northern Morazán was accompanied by “the strong rejection of domestic abuse” (Gould 2020, 40). In and around the archdiocese, Archbishop Chávez y González supported, often financially, a range of programs—­the number and variety varying from one place to another—­through which many p­ eople acquired critical literacy skills, leadership training, and experience in collective organ­ization. Th ­ ese included radio schools, seminars, and the Fundación para la Promoción de Cooperativas (Foundation for the Promotion of Cooperatives), a church-­sponsored cooperative movement (Chávez 2017, chap. 3; see also Cardenal 1992, 263; Richard and Meléndez 1982, 54–55). Also, rural organ­izations like FECCAS in the archdiocese and the UTC in San Vicente defended the rights of peasants and rural workers. But the conservative bishops of provincial dioceses (­those outside the archdiocese) actively discouraged participation in popu­lar organ­izations. Jeffrey Gould noted that when Archbishop Romero “issued a ‘Carta pastoral’ (pastoral letter) that offered critical support to the O.P.s [Popu­lar Organ­izations] . . . ​the conservative bishops denied the right of priests or nuns to have any formal relationship with FECCAS, the UTC or the BPR, citing their Marxist-­Leninist orientation” (2015, 292). Thus none of the aforementioned initiatives extended to the four Salvadoran departments located east of the Lempa River, where peasant universities—­El Castaño, Centro Los Naranjos, Centro San Lucas, and Centro Guadalupe—­served as the main sources of educational and leadership training for poor, rural adult males (and females in the case of Centro Guadalupe). Anna Peterson cites an El Castaño staff member’s 1975 description of the centers’ mission as follows: “To develop leadership qualities in peasants, with knowledge of the value of mutual help and of cooperative work; to train men [and some w ­ omen] for change, ready to form part of parish and diocesan pastoral work, putting themselves at the ser­vice of bishops and priests. Briefly: the integral training of men for liberation” (1997, 57). Though some priest-­teachers w ­ ere relatively conservative, a critical mass of progressive priests and laity taught thousands of catechists about liberation theology, health, and rural development and provided them the tools necessary to establish CEBs and pursue community-­based development proj­ects in­de­pen­dent of the Salvadoran state. In some courses they even learned the rudiments of organ­izing and managing cooperatives. In Priest u­ nder Fire, former Salvadoran priest David Rodríguez, who embraced liberation theology around 1970, explained to Peter Sánchez how he sent peasants from San Carlos Lempa in San Vicente to be trained in the Los Naranjos center that had opened across the Lempa River in Jiquilisco, Usulután ­under Fr. Juan Macho in the early 1970s. The recruitment pro­cess in Los Naranjos described by Sánchez prob­ably differed l­ittle from that in other centers, including El Castaño: The teachers at Centro Naranjos offered courses to lay persons who had been identified by their parish priests as “natu­ral leaders.” The priests who ran the

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 33

center would send letters to vari­ous parishes letting them know that a course was g­ oing to start on a certain day, and then the parish priest would let the center know how many campesinos had the proper qualification to attend that specific course. Once they had enough students, twenty to thirty, the center would enroll them and prepare every­thing to commence the course, which would last up to four weeks. The Passionist order financed most of the cost, meaning that neither the campesinos nor the home parishes had to pay tuition, food, or lodging. (2015, 89)

Msgr. Francisco José Castro y Ramírez in the diocese of Santiago de María “allowed his priests a reasonable amount of leeway” (90) in recruiting for the center and the same could be stated of other conservative bishops, all likely unaware, for a time at least, of the kinds of lessons taught and the didactic techniques employed in the centers. Some of the teachers ­were quite conservative, and many of the courses, particularly ­those focused on health and rural development, ­were of the “self-­help” variety. Nowhere did teachers in the centers voice direct criticism of the Catholic Church, and many of the thousands of lay catechists who attended the centers remained loyal to their parish priest and performed valuable l­ abor in understaffed, rural parishes. Msgr. Álvarez, the conservative (even reactionary) bishop of San Miguel diocese, prob­ably considered the centers—at least at the beginning—as training grounds for lay workers who could ease the burden on priests. In 1966, San Miguel was the only Salvadoran diocese in which parishes outnumbered priests; the ratio of Catholic laity to priests was twice that of other provincial dioceses and four times that of the archdiocese.18 Thus, in northern Morazán, Fr. Andrés Argueta obediently recruited for El Castaño and other centers when ordered to do so by Msgr. Álvarez. Fabio recalled that “­there ­were cele­brations of mass and ­those who wanted to study catechism in El Castaño could do so. Initially Argueta invited one [or two] ­people in each town of each municipality of the parish to attend the centers.” ­These included Abraham Argueta in Joateca, Rodolfo Vásquez in Jocoaitique, Fabio Argueta in Meanguera, Tercisio Velásquez in Villa El Rosario, Juan Antonio Gómez and Samuel Vidal Guzmán in Perquín, and Emilio Hernández and Gregorio Argueta in Torola.19 (A small number of female catechists attended Centro Guadalupe ­a fter it opened in 1972.) Fabio noted that Fr. Argueta sent ­people to El Castaño e­ very three to six months, sometimes basing invitations on the recommendations of ­earlier attendees. Rodolfo Vásquez, like some other early recruits, served Fr. Argueta as a sacristan. In any case, by the time Fr. Miguel Ventura arrived to northern Morazán in April 1973 to assume control of a new parish in Torola (discussed in chapter 3), El Castaño had produced a number of northern Morazanian catechists, sent to the centers by Argueta and to a lesser degree by Irish Franciscans in San Francisco Gotera. ­W hether t­ hose catechists put into practice the new theology

34 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

depended in part on clerical support, which was non­ex­is­tent in northern Morazán before Fr. Miguel’s arrival on the scene. Felipe, a former catechist from Joateca, explained that in Joateca, six catechists who trained in El Castaño formed a tightly knit unit but ­were unable to develop a religious practice ­because “[Fr. Argueta] d­ idn’t agree with it much. We always came with the motto of placing ourselves at his ­orders; what­ever he might say, we would have to do. But he said that what we had brought [from El Castaño] had no place. For that reason, a lot of p­ eople retired. But what we did and what helped us a lot . . . ​was forming the cooperative.”20 Some other catechists, such as Fabio Argueta, Andrés Barrera, Tercisio Vásquez, and ­others working in rural areas largely ignored by Fr. Argueta, did begin to form CEBs and l­ ater formed the core of the pastoral team that Fr. Miguel Ventura “inherited” when he arrived in Torola.21 According to Fabio, “Rodolfo Vásquez was the first catechist that Fr. Argueta sent to El Castaño. He was Fr. Argueta’s sacristan during the first years of work in Jocoaitique. The sacristan’s job is to receive the ­people who are ­going to go through baptism . . . ​confirmations, maintain rec­ords, keep the church in order, [and] collect the offering. He is the one who first receives the ­people and passes them on to the priest. So, he attends to them when the priest is ­going to conduct a marriage, a baptism, anything like that.”22 As I documented in an ­earlier publication, most catechists trained in the centers w ­ ere mature in age (late twenties to early forties), literate, and married or accompanied males with c­ hildren who enjoyed some degree of economic stability, at least compared to most northern Morazanians (Binford 2004, 110–111).23 For ­those who could not read (or could not read sufficiently well), El Castaño and other centers offered literacy classes. Fabio noted that “­those who had serious prob­lems, who ­didn’t know how to read, well they had to learn . . . ​to complete ­those studies. E ­ very day they attended t­ hose short courses, education classes in the morning and after­noon to learn how to read.” The centers paid the students’ round-­trip transportation and supplied them with food, housing, and didactic materials, but they received no monetary payment or other form of support with which to sustain spouses and c­ hildren during the recruits’ absences from home. For economic reasons alone, then, landless rural workers w ­ ere unable to attend the centers u­ nless they had another reliable source of income (tailoring, carpentry) or received assistance from some member or members of the community. Once at the centers, the students ­were u­ nder the control of priest-­teachers for anywhere from a week to a month, the latter being the duration of most courses. Fabio recalled that he got interested in the centers from talking to and studying the Bible with Rodolfo Vásquez and his ­brother Parficio, whom he would see in Jocoaitique. ­A fter a short (week-­long) course at Centro San Lucas, he attended three or four month-­long courses at El Castaño between 1970 and 1972, studying religion, liberation theology, community development, community organ­ization, and other themes.

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 35

In liberation theology ­there was a special topic called, “God wants us to be ­free.” I tried to deepen and enlarge that theme in order to discover the conditions of poverty, misery, and exploitation ­under which we poor ­people lived. El Castaño was the place that helped me the most. El Castaño removed the veil that blocked one’s vision. What I saw was that the teachings from El Castaño ­were closer to what the Bible says than the teachings provided in traditional peasant zones, which ­were farther from what the Bible says. That is, they ­weren’t in the Bible.

Fabio voiced criticism of northern Morazanian traditions like the flower festival, veneration of the saints, cele­bration of the patron saint, the posadas, and festivals of the Jews—­some introduced w ­ hole cloth by the institutionalized Catholic Church, o­ thers of regional origin or at least inflected regionally.24 Some p­ eople believed all t­ hose t­ hings. . . . ​The p­ eople w ­ ere taught by the priests, who talked ­little about the Bible but much about e­ very idol. E ­ very time they celebrated mass they referred to some image, giving more importance to the image than to what the Bible said. . . . ​­Father Argueta spent an hour or two hours talking about Saint Joseph, talking about the Virgin Mary, talking about so many statues, and the p­ eople would meet to worship her and leave money for her, to give her charity. Hence it was a big business. When the catechists arrived, F ­ ather Argueta asked for money from all of us who ­were t­ here.

More insidious, perhaps, was the reigning attitude t­ oward the rich, who ­were generally held in high esteem and thought to have been given their wealth by God. Many p­ eople believed that it was better to be poor than rich, b­ ecause the poor would receive glory in the afterlife for having endured earthly poverty. By contrast, they believed that God condemned the rich to eternal damnation. ­Because wealth and poverty had super­natural origins, which is to say that they could not be affected by h ­ uman activity, ­there was, Fabio thought, no opposition, no conflict or strug­gle between rich and poor (but see chapter 2). P ­ eople attributed infant death to God’s ­will: “­People would say that the Virgin took them away, that the Virgin ­didn’t want them to live, that she wants angels in heaven. It’s that it’s not the ­will of God for the child to live and that is why the child died.”25 Despite their concerns, Fabio and other progressive catechists participated in the posadas and flower festivals. They strived to raise ­people’s consciousness gradually rather than attempting to impose their positions all at once. According to Fabio, the priests in the centers had told them repeatedly that “if you tell ­people what we have told you h ­ ere, they are ­going to tell you to go who knows where.” That was a “­really big challenge” b­ ecause of the deleterious effects on social cohesion. Fabio noted that “in the cele­brations of the Gospel one tried to recognize Christ and seek Christ in ­others, not seek him only by worshipping

36 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

images. Many ­people gave love and affection only to the idols. ­Because of that love for idols, they had s­topped loving and serving one another. P ­ eople had become so devout that love for ­others no longer involved any spirit of ser­vice ­toward ­those who most needed it. Every­one would leave mass and no one would assist another with their needs.” But in El Castaño (and other centers), “we discovered in ourselves another mentality . . . ​[in which] we ­were trying to form ­people with a spirit of brotherhood, of friendship, fraternity, mutual assistance with ­others.” The priests taught them to seek out Christ in love ­toward ­others, and base oneself on the Bible. “One says, truly, ‘if we do not love the person whom we see, how can we love God whom we ­don’t see?’ ‘He who does not love ­others,’ says Christ, ‘does not love me.’ And ­there are thousands of biblical texts that treat love ­towards o­ thers. That was the challenge . . . ​that biblical orientation was to shape a dif­f er­ent, distinct mentality in the new Christian communities that we ­were forming.” Some classes in El Castaño taught peasants and rural workers about speaking in public, pairing lectures with practical exercises designed to overcome personal but socially generated insecurities. In one exercise instructors took a group of catechists-­in-­training to the countryside and assigned one to make a pre­sen­ ta­tion to the rest, a form of practice for working in their communities, “to see if what he was saying was ­going to reach ­people’s conscience.” Other students then evaluated the correctness of the ideas and effectiveness with which they had been expressed. Such exercises helped students “shake off the worry, the fear of talking, the fear of expressing ourselves in front of o­ thers.” We felt that the exercises w ­ ere ­going to remove something from us . . . ​and they ­were ­going to put something in us, yes, but it should be something that motivates the o­ thers to become more aware. That move from one custom to another demanded a lot of tact, a lot of psy­chol­ogy to know the type of person or community that a catechist was g­ oing to visit and how to begin. It was prob­ably not a good idea to uproot their customs, b­ ecause that would make them retreat more. Rather, one would need to be very careful. All t­ hose t­ hings ­were treated in El Castaño.

Many religious practices had become so ingrained, so “normalized” we might say, that some prospective catechists became angered and disturbed by teachings that went against their previous understandings. For instance, ­people had learned that to be allowed to take communion, they had to kneel before the priest and confess their sins. In El Castaño, confession took place outside the church without the presence of a priest. Priest-­teachers t­ here taught that God and not the priest forgave sins, and it was with God and t­ hose whom the sinner had offended that reconciliation had to be sought. Nor was it necessary to fast prior to taking communion in El Castaño as it was in Jocoaitique when Fr. Argueta presided over mass.

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 37

Priest-­teachers in El Castaño also sought to humanize the figure of the priest and in that way diminish his otherworldly status. Prior to attending classes in El Castaño and other centers, peasants and rural workers venerated priests and ­were reticent to approach them without seeking the aid of a socially better-­ positioned intermediary. When Fr. Argueta made occasional visits to towns outside parish headquarters—­often during patron saints days or on other festive occasions—he was met with a pro­cession, sometimes with ­music; he ate apart from other p­ eople at a t­ able with a clean table­cloth and clean glasses and consumed foods prepared especially for him, foods like milk, cheese, and meat that poor ­people ate only occasionally if at all.26 “Before attending El Castaño, p­ eople thought that educated ­people w ­ ere more impor­tant, that ­people with money ­were more impor­tant, that ­people in positions of authority ­were more impor­tant, that poor ­people had nothing, that they knew nothing. They ­weren’t worth anything [and] therefore they had no right to speak, to express themselves, to say what they thought and felt. The instructors attempted to awaken t­ hose values that we all have.” Hence the exercises in public speaking mentioned e­ arlier. How could catechists teach o­ thers that they had the right to speak if unable (or unwilling) to speak themselves? It was impor­tant for them to proj­ect confidence in their own intrinsic value—­their right to have rights—in order to communicate that value to o­ thers. According to Fabio, “when one left [El Castaño and other centers] . . . ​ you left with a ­little less fear of speaking in front of ­others, to tell what was based on biblical texts, to help [people] understand that we are equal before God.” Dignity became the basis for rights—­rights to health, education, housing, and fair treatment, among ­others. As ­people learned about dignity and their right to it, priest-­teachers asked ­whether they had enjoyed the health, education, housing, fair treatment, and other benefits associated with a dignified status in society. The almost universal response, of course, was that their treatment was far from dignified. Some lacked the money required to receive attention in a health center or hospital or studied for only a few years (if at all) ­because of the lack of schools or b­ ecause they had to work in the fields from an early age. Fabio harbored the view that before the war, “we lived in a society where we could not learn enough to have a complete education in order to develop as a person.”

Let’s Get to Know Our Country The foreign and Salvadoran priest-­teachers in El Castaño, Los Naranjos, San Lucas, and other centers trained an estimated fifteen thousand lay leaders nationally according to Montgomery (1982, 71; 1995, 87). By 1974 the training centers had achieved sufficient coordination to develop and share didactic materials, such as Conozcamos nuestra patria (Let’s get to know our country), an eighty-­page mimeographed textbook produced in 1974 by the Centros Rurales de la Iglesia en El Salvador.27 Lengthy sections of the textbook dealt with the history and economic and social development of El Salvador, as well as the nation’s physical

38 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

and ­human geography. The longest chapter (chapter 5) treated medios de produc­ ción (means of production), a term straight out of Marxist po­liti­cal economy, with subsections devoted to land, capital, l­ abor, industry, and commerce. Like other chapters, chapter  5 was followed by a reflexión (reflection) in which readers ­were asked to ponder questions such as, “¿Crees tú que la tenencia de la tierra es justa?” (Do you think that the system of land tenure is just?); “¿Ocasiona el Minifundismo un desempleo rural?” (Does minifundism cause rural unemployment?); and “¿Cuál sería para ti la solución de la injusta tenencia de la tierra?” (What do you see as the solution for the unjust system of land tenure?) (1974, 76).28 Priest-­teachers used social analy­sis “to both explain and deplore ­human suffering” in a manner that, as Paul Farmer observed, “bring[s] into relief not merely the suffering of the wretched of the earth [but] also the forces that promote that suffering” (2004, 287). ­These ideas represented a frontal challenge to the fatalistic explanations that Fabio criticized in this chapter rooted in beliefs in God’s w ­ ill and a promise of recompense in the hereafter for t­ hose enduring earthly suffering. Teachers reinforced classroom lessons by requiring students to engage in real-­ life exercises. In one case, they transported the students to a nearby hacienda to visit a poor colono residing in a decrepit hovel. Colonos worked on plantations in exchange for housing, the use of marginal land, and perhaps a small cash payment. Following a chat with the colono, the students went to see the plush home where the absentee o­ wners stayed when they arrived to inspect the property. The instructor drove them back to El Castaño and asked them to reflect as a group on the meaning of what they had seen and heard.29 David Rodríguez told Peter Sánchez about another exercise, this one employed in Centro Los Naranjos, where Rodríguez sometimes taught classes. Known as “Juror #13,” the exercise used cassette tapes imported from South Amer­i­ca: “The cassettes contained debates on a number of community prob­lems. Dif­fer­ent characters in the program—­the landowner, the mayor, the campesino, the priest—­ would state their opinion concerning the prob­lem u­ nder consideration. ­A fter listening to the entire program, the students in the course would discuss the issue, the vari­ous opinions, and fi­nally decide, as a juror would, whose stance had the greatest merit” (2015, 88).30 In many cases, instructors used meta­phors and analogies to get their ideas across. Sometimes the priests drew on their status and authority to undermine peasants’ conceptions of low self-­worth. Maximino Pérez, sixty-­four years old when I spoke with him in May  1993, recounted that on one occasion in El Castaño, Fr. Dionisio Santamaría placed Maximino, a diminutive man ­under five feet in height, and another short-­statured student on e­ ither side of him and asked the class to judge which among the three was más grande (the biggest).31 The class selected Fr. Santamaría ­because he was grandote (very big) and a priest. But as Maximino recalled, Fr. Santamaría chided the students, explaining that they ­were wrong ­because “all ­people ­were equal, ­whether tall or short, dark-­or

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 39

light-­complexioned, lame or blind.” All ­people, the priest said, had the same capacity. The experience affected Maximino strongly enough that he related it in detail more than twenty years a­ fter the fact.32 Another incident recalled by a former student involved a demonstration in which the instructor, Fr. Juan Bosch in this case, persisted in scooping w ­ ater into a large jug u­ ntil liquid overflowed the rim and spilled onto the floor. The jug, Fr. Juan told the assembled students, represented the pueblo (­people) and the ­water all the indignities and humiliations to which they w ­ ere subjected. The vessel, he said, could only contain so much ­water before it overflowed or broke.

Challenging Authority: Existential Laboratory By 1972, when Fabio Argueta completed the sequence of courses (normally three or four, each lasting about a month), the teachers at El Castaño and other centers had developed a sophisticated approach for breaking down peasants’ reserve and exaggerated re­spect for authority and for building up self-­confidence and encouraging teamwork.33 They sent ten carefully selected catechists, Abraham Argueta from Joateca among them, to the La Providencia center in Santa Ana, located in western El Salvador near the Guatemalan border, to be trained in group dynamics and laboratorio vivencial (existential laboratory). The students learned specific techniques that they incorporated into courses they gave in centers throughout El Salvador to teach catechists-­in-­training to “know themselves” in order to be better able to work together in groups. The group dynamics course culminated in a marathon session in which the instructors sought to provoke the students to collectively rebel against the instructors’ authority, thus teaching them that they (peasants and workers) should and could rely on one another as opposed to seeking approval from authority figures.34 The faculty at El Castaño and other peasant training centers had no illusions that repairing peasants’ self-­esteem would solve fundamental prob­lems, which they viewed as the result of unequal access to property and exploitative relations of production and exchange at national and international levels (Centros Rurales de la Iglesia en El Salvador 1974, 55–75). But the self-­esteem issue had to be met head-on if students w ­ ere to gain the confidence that they could understand rural social relations, then go out and work to change them through collective action. Confronted with “higher” authorities—­agents of the Catholic Church, the government, or the regional petty bourgeoisie—­poor farmers and day workers did tend to act inferior, and prob­ably felt inferior too, at least most of the time. That said, it is probable that much of the success of the training centers was attributable to the fact that they ­were run by priests, whom peasants and rural workers held in high regard, rather than laity. The priests took advantage of their status to impose strenuous training regimens that involved time discipline at odds with the task discipline that predominated in rural farming communities. Even when priests removed their cassocks and played soccer with the students or

40 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

sat down and ate alongside them, they remained “priests,” endowed with sacred authority that owed as much (or more) to the office as to the person. Peasant and worker recruits obeyed when Fr. Dionisio Santamaría and his colleagues replaced their customary flexible daily routines with tightly programmed wake-up calls, prayer ser­vices, classes, recreation, and meals—­prob­ably patterned on the priests’ experiences at seminary.35 Removing peasants from an environment in which they controlled the timing of their activities to one in which they did not may have generated confusion but also opened the students to alternative explanations of poverty, maltreatment, and exclusion. Similar strategies have been used in a variety of (often repressive) total institutions from boot camps to prisons (e.g., Zimbardo 2008; Dyer 2006). As I pointed out elsewhere (Binford 2004), the El Castaño regime entailed a training of body as well as mind through the calculated employment of many of the disciplinary techniques discussed at length by Michel Foucault (1977) in his analy­sis of the modern microphysics of power/knowledge. To varying degrees, priests subjected students to surveillance, normalization procedures, and examination. But instead of Foucauldian “docile subjects” adapted to pre-­existing social conditions, the priests cultivated change agents. The dynamic exercises mentioned above can be interpreted as means to that end. Dropout rates appear to have been low, as Fabio observed, but he was insistent that many who completed courses and returned to northern Morazán proved reticent to confront Fr. Argueta on his home turf (see Binford 2016, 96, 108). Abraham Argueta of Joateca emphasized that El Castaño neither resolved all the prob­lems nor provided answers to all the questions that students might have had; students still had gaps or vacios (voids) in their understanding, “even ­after a month of study ­there.”36 Much depended on the degree of home parish priestly support for the new ideas, which was weak or non­ex­is­tent in the case of Fr. Argueta, who disagreed with the teaching offered in El Castaño and attempted to convince (or order in some cases) catechists who had studied t­ here to conform with his way of thinking. At times he achieved considerable success. But not with Fabio, who sometimes challenged Fr. Argueta’s ideas and practices, as exemplified in his recollection of the following brief exchange: “Look F ­ ather, when you read the Bible and open the page to the gospel of the rich, I see that you focus more on a theme related to the Virgin and that you ­don’t want to talk about the rich. What’s g­ oing on?” He said, “If I start talking about the rich, then Don Pablo Ventura w ­ ill not feed me.” Pablo Ventura was the wealthy person who fed Fr. Andrés Argueta daily without charge. That’s the response he gave me. Fr. Andrés Argueta d­ idn’t touch on subjects related to the injustices committed by the rich against the poor. He tried to avoid them in his sermons so as not to annoy anyone.

Thus, some peasant catechists who trained in El Castaño or another center dropped the practice of liberation theology altogether or, pressured by Fr. Argueta,

From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 • 41

submitted to his demands—­José del Carmen Romero in El Mozote being one example—­while Abraham Argueta and two other El Castaño trainees from Joateca redirected their energies into the bovine cooperative they founded. Fr. Argueta maintained a degree of control over Christian work in northern Morazán ­until Fr. Miguel Ventura, assigned to the region in 1973, or­ga­nized and amplified the work of progressive catechists, a development taken up in chapter 3.

2

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán This chapter draws on information extracted from several interviews with Fabio Argueta. However, rather than a chronological line of unfolding events, it pieces together his analy­sis of social, economic, and po­liti­cal relations in northern Morazán before the revolutionary war. Dif­fer­ent sections address education, marriage, and ­family relations; the production, sale, and consumption of alcohol; agriculture; markets; and the class system. As such, it is a constructed so­cio­log­i­cal analy­sis that informed the practice of this popu­lar (­later insurgent) intellectual. My reading is sympathetic yet critical. I often point out the errors in the historical periodization and the manner in which his broad-­stroke views might have been influenced by personal experiences both in his childhood and afterward. Also, I place Fabio’s narrative in dialogue with the narratives of other Morazanians, as well as Western academics who have written about domination, hegemony, and ideological transformation. Fabio began by outlining the economy of altitudinally distinct zones in which soil and temperature differences s­ haped production decisions. In the low, hot region with a southern boundary along the Torola River, p­ eople produced “mostly mescal, a ­little corn, and raised ­cattle though not in large quantity.” Moving north, a zone of intermediate altitude and higher rainfall enabled a more diversified agriculture. Still farther north, areas around Perquín (especially) as well as San Fernando and Arambala municipalities produced coffee, fruit, and 42

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 43

MAP 3  ​Northern Morazán and environs, circa 1980. Northern Morazán is the area of Morazán north of the Torola River. (Mike Siegal, Rutgers Cartography Laboratory)

timber. The high mountain zone known as La Montaña lay well above a thousand meters and was too cold for coffee, for which reason the sparse population ­there dedicated itself primarily to lumbering. P ­ eople living in La Montaña also grew corn, but the lower temperatures prolonged the growing cycle and l­ imited peasants to a single corn crop annually compared to two annual crops obtained by some producers in low-­lying areas close to the Torola River (see map 3). Economic specialization dictated by climate and altitude s­ haped relationships among inhabitants in the dif­fer­ent zones, as Fabio explained: ­ eople in La Montaña, Perquín, and San Fernando had to sell coffee in order P to purchase the year’s corn.1 That was a way to resolve the prob­lem of the purchase of basic grains. Some other ­people moved temporarily from Perquín

44 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

to work in the area t­ oward Villa El Rosario, in Jocoaitique, or in Torola where they rented agricultural land or borrowed land that belonged to relatives or ­family members and sowed corn and sorghum. ­Others worked in the northern area of the mountains b­ ecause the lands t­ here ­weren’t bad for cultivating corn, even though ­there was but one harvest per year. Up t­ here it rains all the time and is temperate. But in La Montaña the campesinos had more of a prob­lem with wind. The northern winds sometimes damaged the corn at critical times.2

The climatic cum economic differentiation ­shaped regional land and ­labor relations, as some peasant agriculturalists in higher, less fertile zones rented land seasonally in lower, hotter areas, paying money—­“fifty colones per manzana” before the war—or exchanging so many days of work, valued at two or two and a half colones per day for the rental of a seasonal plot. Fabio did not elaborate on land tenure, but he thought that a number of landowners possessed substantial tracts of land, far more than they could cultivate with ­house­hold ­labor. A postwar land inventory carried out by the FMLN indicated that before the war, the dozen landowners with a hundred or more hectares owned an average of 236 hectares (337 manzanas [583 acres]). With exceptions, such large (by regional standards) properties could be found in one of three areas: low-­altitude, high-­temperature zones of corn and maguey production; timber-­producing areas high in La Montaña; and areas of coffee and timber production around Perquín and San Fernando (see FMLN 1993). The large properties of Abilio Aguilar (385 hectares [951 acres] in Jocoaitique and Torola), Daniel Ortiz (252 hectares [623 acres] in Torola), and Amadeo Aguilar (210 hectares [519 acres] in Torola), apt for growing corn, tended to be rented out in part or in full to avoid the risk of crop failure attributable to poor-­quality soil and, especially, periodic drought. By renting land, usually to ­people residing in high-­altitude, corn-­deficient areas, the owner obtained a reliable income and shifted production risks to the lessee. Fabio identified Perquín (prewar population about four hundred) and Jocoaitique (population one thousand)—­each the seat of a municipality by the same name—as the wealthiest towns in northern Morazán. He explained that “­people from Perquín have enjoyed better economic conditions as more than forty, fifty p­ eople t­ here had vehicles—­fine trucks that they had purchased from coffee sales or coffee production,” whereas Jocoaitique became rich through commerce. It was “the commercial center of all Morazán” with a “huge trade in clothing, basic grains, mescal, [and] rope” particularly during the Sunday market.3 “They sold every­thing t­ here ­every Sunday. So, in Jocoaitique t­ here lived a large chain of merchants who had their car[s], their fine store[s], who had their pretty general store[s] where they sold many ­things that the region’s ­people needed. Some ­were landowners; they had nice fields and lands and good vehicles too. Th ­ ose ­were the two most eco­nom­ically impor­tant towns in the region.”

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 45

All municipal seats contained stores, but none rivaled Jocoaitique. Fabio noted that “­people from Villa El Rosario w ­ ere poorer than t­ hose from Jocoaitique and ­those from Meanguera as well,” where ­there ­were “fewer businesses [and] less commerce.” He observed that before the war, “Torola had businesses but no big merchants as in Jocoaitique.” Torola was close to the Honduran border, and store ­owners in Torola and elsewhere bought merchandise in Colomoncagua, Honduras, and transported it to northern Morazán. Overall, though, “Jocoaitique led business and trade.” He went on to mention specific merchants in dif­fer­ent areas of the zone and observed that two main types of merchants existed before the war: t­ hose who bought agricultural commodities from regional producers for resale and ­those who sold basic grains imported from outside the region: Thus “Jocoaitique, Meanguera, and El Mozote contained big ware­houses filled with basic grains for the consumption of ­people who had none. ­Those who did not grow corn went ­there to buy it. ­These merchants w ­ ere the ­people who w ­ ere growing eco­nom­ically. For example, in Jocoaitique lived Antonio Soto, a man who began with a small business [who] quickly accumulated capital b­ ecause he bought basic grain products in San Miguel [for resale in Jocoaitique]. On Sundays, ­there was a lot of business ­there.” Fabio did not mention that prior to the introduction of chemical fertilizers between the mid-1960s and the early 1970s, many peasant agriculturalists grew more maicillo (sorghum) than corn and consumed mainly tortillas de maicillo. Commercial fertilizers, especially sulfates, ­were relatively cheap when first introduced—­possibly by a member of the U.S. Peace Corps—­and affordable by most peasants; thenceforth, p­ eople sowed mainly corn and used what­ ever sorghum they did produce to fatten animals, principally chickens and pigs.4 When asked about class relations, Fabio described a two-­sector (his term) system of wealth predicated on access to land, though clearly t­hings w ­ ere more complicated. Th ­ ere ­were “some p­ eople [who] worked for themselves . . . ​they planted corn, basic grains, and mescal, and ­others raised c­ attle—­small ranchers, not large ones—[while] another part w ­ ere poor and lived as mozos harvesting mescal.” Mozos, he explained, ­were “­those who go to work for a boss, who work as a laborer by the day or by the job.” One portion harvested the boss’s mescal and the other worked spinning it. They made cord for lassos, “lasitos” [­little lassos] they called them. They made hammocks and all that. At that time that was the work of most of the poor ­people. It ­didn’t provide them with much income, but it more or less covered their most elementary needs. . . . ​Since 1940, 1950, a very historic period, p­ eople began to leave for Honduras to work for the banana companies. Many from the eastern zone and several [other] regions of the country journeyed to work for ­those banana companies ­because you earned in dollars, earned more money. The other ­thing is that p­ eople began to leave for Usulután and perhaps the Santa Ana region for periods of the weeding and harvest of cotton and coffee.

46 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

The coffee and cotton harvests take place during the same period—­November, December, January. Cane is cut during the summer. Cane grew in the San Vicente [and] Sonsonate region. So, ­people followed the cane harvest to t­ hose two impor­tant places. They grew a lot of corn and cotton in Usulután, and ­people went t­ here too. Apart from the cotton harvests t­ here the coast also had rice harvests. P ­ eople did travel to the city to look for work but not a lot. Th ­ ere ­isn’t much agricultural work in the cities. So p­ eople, since they ­didn’t know what to do, ­were better off seeking work on the plantations. . . . ​Then ­people came back again to Morazán.5

The money obtained through mi­grant ­labor helped but for most poor ­people did not resolve fundamental economic needs. Fabio described h ­ ouses that w ­ ere practically falling down or had holes in the roof that let in rain if not covered with plastic; he also explained the high prevalence of illness endured by ­those who “had nothing with which to cure themselves . . . ​nor a way of obtaining an appointment at the hospital or clinic.”6 Education might have provided a route to a better life but u­ ntil the last years before open warfare broke out in 1980, schooling in northern Morazán was l­ imited to sixth grade, and that only in the main towns. (Fabio thought that Jocoaitique might have offered classes through ninth grade.) Higher levels of schooling and better instruction could be had in Osicala, just south of the Torola River, or at the Gotera Institute in the departmental capital of San Francisco Gotera, but the distances and rudimentary transport system determined that parents sending their c­ hildren outside the zone would have to board them with relatives or pay to have them boarded with ­others. Some wealthy farmers and merchants owned h ­ ouses in regional cities like San Francisco Gotera and San Miguel as well as the capital city of San Salvador, though they spent most of their time in northern Morazán. Thus they had places to lodge their ­children during the school year, and if not, they had the contacts and money to pay for them to live with ­others. The vast majority of northern Morazanians had neither. Moreover, most parents w ­ ere too poor even to take advantage of the scarce educational offering available locally, for they lacked the monetary resources to buy school supplies and uniforms. Even ­children who lived close to the school group “­didn’t have the time to go to school . . . ​­because they had to work—­help their ­mother, help their ­father in agricultural ­labors in order to sustain the ­family’s livelihood. The small son would do agricultural work in order to support other members of the ­family.” And parents who worked with their hands had l­ ittle re­spect for education. The poor would say, “Look son, you ­can’t eat the alphabet. Work hard son. Learn how to scrape mescal. Learn how to h ­ andle the hoe well so that you might make a living b­ ecause that is how you are ­going to be able to live.” So, the child would say [to himself], “Why bust my head studying if my f­ ather

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 47

says, my ­mother says, that to make a living is to grab hold of a machete.” The parents also told him, “you have to grab on hard to the stakes and make your hands into claws so as to scrape the mescal in order to sell a pound to the merchant and earn the money to purchase rice, beans, and corn.” And to the girls they [the parents] said, “Look, learn to wash. Learn to make tortillas ­because that is what you ­will live from. You have to sustain your husband. You have to take care of your c­ hildren. You have to learn to do t­ hese ­things well—­learn to wash, learn to grind corn, to make tortillas.” That was the ­mother’s biggest concern, that the d­ aughter learn to work in the kitchen. It was very rare to find a ­mother motivating her d­ aughter to study and learn something so as to be useful to society in any other way. Well, t­ here was a lot of conformity.

“Wealthy ­people,” Fabio recalled, “had another mentality [about education], but poor ­people, no.” Fabio detailed a widespread strategy in which regional merchants took advantage of ­people’s needs for cash to purchase forward (before the harvest) agricultural commodities like coffee, mescal, rope, and other products at submarket prices: “The poor person, then, had to sell his harvest at a very low price before he had [even] produced it, possibly for half of what the product was worth. If he had sold that same product in the market during harvest time, he would have received double. ­People also sold mescal eight days, fifteen days, or a month in advance, and always at a price below the product’s value.” With a fictional example, he explained how ­these arrangements developed: “If I was a spinner . . . ​and I d­ idn’t have any way of covering my ­family’s needs, I had to go the merchant and say, ‘Sir, could you give me so much for so many pairs of matates?’7 ‘Why not?’ he would say. ‘I’ll give you so much. Deliver them to me on such and such a day.’ So, one had to sell cheaply what one made in order to resolve the economic prob­lem of subsistence.” Much of the l­ abor value incorporated into the product went to the buyer: The merchant’s product had an assured earning from the moment that he purchased it in advance ­because he bought it at a price below its value.8 For example, the roa of mescal sold in advance was worth fifteen colones, sold right away [­after the harvest and pro­cessing] it was worth twenty. Right ­there existed a profit. The merchant made his five colones per roa, twenty colones per quintal.9 The person who sold that quintal of mescal lost ­those twenty colones. ­Because one man extracted one quintal of mescal by hand, without a machine, in more or less eight days. He extracted twelve pounds each day. . . . ​­there w ­ ere ­others who could extract more. So, the merchant had the better earnings and he ­didn’t sell t­ here [in northern Morazán] but went to Gotera or took it to sell in San Miguel. The merchant purchased ­wholesale and the person who sold all that mescal in advance earned less. . . . ​He [the producer] d­ idn’t earn as much as

48 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

he would have had he sold it at the moment he produced it. Other ­people had to sell corn or beans some time before harvesting them. O ­ thers had to sell twine, thread or rope, hammocks, what they call “la jarcia” [artisan goods], before producing them.10

Wealthy parents (i.e., wealthy in regional terms) educated their c­ hildren to marry ­others “within their class,” as Fabio put it, and the ­children usually conformed to the parents’ wishes. The son of a wealthy man would say something to the effect that “I am g­ oing to marry the d­ aughter of so-­and-so b­ ecause that’s what my ­mother says or that’s what my ­father says.” In this way, wealthy merchants and farmers ensured that their resources (land, ­cattle, money, ­etc.) circulated within a relatively closed circle resistant to penetration on the part of the poor majority. On the other hand, poor workers and peasants did seek out ­people with money to be godfather to their ­children and therefore obligated to pay church fees, purchase clothing for their baptism and other special occasions, and perhaps even assist their compadres with pressing prob­lems (e.g., “I am ­going to ask so-­and-so b­ ecause he has money to pay the church fees and might give me a nice dress for my child. I want my d­ aughter and my son to have a good godfather” or “My compadre is humane, a good person and I am ­going to seek out that compadre b­ ecause when I have a prob­lem, he’s g­ oing to solve it”). However, com­ padrazco (ritual coparenthood) was a double-­edged sword for the eco­nom­ically subordinate partner in that wealthy merchants and farmers could expect their poorer compadres to ­favor them with their business, work for them when asked, and support them if they competed for office in the municipal administration. Fabio insisted that ­because ­people trusted their compadres, they ­were inclined to sell to them. He said that “whoever had money went about like a decent man ­because that’s how p­ eople saw him. P ­ eople h ­ adn’t discovered that the person was exploiting them more than they realized.”11 “What a good person that Don Abilio,” they would say in Jocoaitique, “­because he buys my mescal in advance. He gave me so many colones.” “What a good person that Mr. Fernando Argueta,” b­ ecause he bought cheaply from ­people in La Joya, in Meanguera, to make his profit. And so on, successively. A bunch of businessmen traded that way, buying the product in advance at a low price. So, ­these [poor] p­ eople, instead of opposing it . . . ​­were ­people who thought that the man who gave them money in advance for the work, for their product, was the best person in the community. They ignored that they w ­ ere exploited by him. They saw him as a ­great friend, a good man, the man who helped the poor, the needy. P ­ eople h ­ adn’t realized that it was a way to exploit them. We arrived to raise p­ eople’s awareness through Christian work.

Merchants and large landholders (or merchant/landholders) used their control over land and commodity markets to dominate the region po­liti­cally on behalf of the PCN, formed by the military in 1961. Among the merchants that

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 49

had served as mayors, he ticked off Ernesto Mata (Meanguera), Indalecio Díaz, Gilberto Pérez (also a municipal justice of the peace), Francisco Argueta, Aníbal Sánchez, Pablo Cruz (Jocoaitique), and Antonio Soto. He considered that before the war, “the big merchants . . . ​won over the population when time came for elections,” and “would appoint to the council ­people whom they considered to be po­liti­cal allies or who represented some economic interest.” At one time Fabio himself served on a municipal council and “saw that all of us t­ here shared some economic interests.” However, “as mayor they always selected the gentleman with the most wealth and the greatest friendship with the eco­nom­ically dominant group.” Whereas most ­people [in northern Morazán] belonged to the PCN and “lived in conformity with the [local] leadership,” some po­liti­cal opposition existed in Meanguera and more in Jocoaitique and Villa El Rosario. Fabio’s prewar northern Morazán was a variegated social landscape dominated by two groups: the coffee producer-­merchants in Perquín and the big landholders and merchants (often overlapping) in the Jocoaitique area. Th ­ ese small groups of wealthy p­ eople—­small by any numerical accounting and wealthy by regional standards—­controlled po­liti­cal power in the zone and enjoyed privileged access to education as a result of their owner­ship of ­houses and contacts with ­people in regional towns (Osicala) and cities (San Miguel, San Francisco Gotera) west and south of the Torola River. With a few exceptions, this rural bourgeoisie was a petty one and its wealth derived more from control of trade and land rental than direct exploitation of ­labor power through cap­i­tal­ist relations of production. Fabio devoted ­little attention to the one area in which agrarian capitalism had begun to make clear headway, that being a few coffee plantations in the 50–150 manzana (35–105 hectare [86–259 acre]) range in the area around Perquín. We might attribute the omission to the fact that he neither lived nor worked in that area before the war. The o­ wners of the larger landholdings south of Perquín in the municipalities of Jocoaitique, Torola, and to a lesser extent Meanguera and Villa El Rosario generally rented them out for the production of sorghum or corn and/or grazed small herds of c­ attle on them. Many of ­these same landowners also cultivated henequen for its fibrous leaves and provided part-­time employment to landless and land-­poor farmers during the dry season, with many workers drawn from among tenants who exchanged maguey-­processing ­labor for access to corn land. Hence, owner­ship of 100, 200, 400, or more manzanas of agricultural land prob­ably did play an impor­tant role in economic control since concentrated owner­ship of potential grain-­producing land deprived landless and land-­poor peasants of the opportunity to produce basic food and forced them to migrate seasonally and/or seek dependent relations with regional merchants and landowners. Something similar occurred in the Guatemalan highlands, where land-­starved Mayan peasants found themselves compelled to sell their ­labor cheaply on coffee estates (Smith 1990; Figueroa Ibarra 1980),

50 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

in northeast Brazil (Scheper-­Hughes 1992), Mexico (Macip Ríos 2005), and countless other areas of Latin Amer­i­ca. Fabio noted in par­tic­u ­lar how many ­people from the higher, cooler areas around San Fernando and Perquín, which contained a significant portion of El Salvador’s rapidly shrinking primary forest cover, traveled to lower-­lying areas of Torola and Jocoaitique to rent land and sow corn and sorghum. Reliable rainfall, fewer insects, and slower weed growth reduced ­labor time and the cost of grain production in areas above a thousand meters, but the (relatively) cold climate retarded plant development and extended the growing season (planting to harvest) to eight months or more, twice that of lower-­altitude areas close to the Torola River. However, nowhere ­were grain yields high in northern Morazán, and most farmers had a difficult time producing enough corn (or sorghum u­ ntil the 1970s) to supply their h ­ ouse­holds from one harvest through to the next. Infertile soils, unpredictable rainfall in much of the zone, and small and fragmented landholdings compelled many, and in some seasons a majority of, peasants to seek dry season (November to April) sources of income. ­These might be through ­house­hold production of henequen-­based artisanal products, wage l­abor on regional coffee plantations or henequen fields, or, in the worst-­case scenarios, internal ­labor migration to cotton plantations along the south coast, sugar plantations in the valleys of the central cordillera, or coffee fincas on the volcanic slopes. Indeed, by the 1960s, if not e­ arlier, northern Morazán had become a seasonal ­labor reserve providing temporary workers to export-­oriented, cap­i­tal­ist agriculture in San Miguel, Usulután, San Vicente, San Salvador, Sonsonate, and Santa Ana. Other p­ eople sought work on banana plantations in Honduras, and many ­people from Morazán and elsewhere moved ­there permanently—as Bal­ tazar Argueta thought to do—­until Honduras closed its borders to Salvadorans on the eve of the Hundred Hours War in 1969 (Durham 1979; White 1973, 183– 190; Cable 1969). This goes to say that 50 ­percent or more of the regional population served as a part-­time (seasonal) proletariat in capitalist-­dominated agro-­export zones. ­These mi­grants saved portions of their income or remitted part to nonmigrating members of their h ­ ouse­holds, and some of t­ hose remittances w ­ ere drained off by regional merchants, especially ­those in Jocoaitique, in the high prices they charged for food, clothing, and other consumer goods and the low prices they paid when cash-­short peasants and peasant-­artisans sold goods forward cheaply. In short, merchant strategies of accumulation kept the poor impoverished and undermined endo-­accumulative strategies of ­house­holds endowed with land and unpaid ­house­hold l­ abor to work it (on endofamilial accumulation see Cook and Binford 1991). Yet large landholders generally eschewed productive investment ­because of the poor quality of land and the fickle climate. Fabio does not describe his personal experiences of prewar l­abor migration for the obvious reason that he never had to migrate. By no means wealthy, neither

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 51

was he poor. An only child he worked with his ­father, Baltazar, u­ ntil the latter’s death at the age of fifty-two and then inherited enough land to qualify as a ­middle peasant, one who, according to Eric Wolf, “has secure access to land . . . ​ and cultivates it with ­family l­ abor” (1969, 291).12 That is to say, despite poor soil and the resulting low productivity, Fabio extracted enough from the land to avoid having to sell his ­labor power on a regular basis. As an adult, he never worked picking coffee in Perquín or pro­cessing henequen fiber by the roa in Meanguera or elsewhere, and he certainly never engaged in seasonal l­ abor migration. On the contrary, Fabio employed other ­people during the mescal pro­cessing season. It is also pos­si­ble that he continued some of his adolescent petty mercantile pursuits into adulthood and that he followed his ­father’s lead by buying mescal from local producers and reselling it in San Francisco Gotera and other regional markets where prices w ­ ere higher than in northern Morazán. He even served on Meanguera’s municipal council where, according to him, “all of us ­there shared some economic interests”—­Fabio’s acknowl­edgment of at least some commonalities with the local petty bourgeoisie, perhaps even a vague recognition that he considered himself, in economic terms, a member of the lower rungs of that stratum. But it is clear that Fabio did not feel particularly comfortable in the com­ pany of the local or regional elite, which he came to believe was systematically exploiting the poor majority. Fabio portrays a total system of domination that, if we accept his account, produced docile subjects who acknowledged their status, praised ­those who exploited and governed them (often the same ­people), purged their frustrations through drunkenness and alcohol-­induced machete fights, and attributed their suffering to the ­will of an ontologically distant, and thus unknowable, God who could be approached only with the assistance of a socially distant priest. Albeit cruder and lacking the rhizomic penetration of micropower into e­ very social pore, the discursive and practical effect differs ­little from that of the system of bureaucratic domination described by Michel Foucault in Discipline and Pun­ ish (1977), without of course the weight of subject-­forming state institutions, such as schools and hospitals, scarcely pre­sent in northern Morazán before the war. Admittedly, Fabio’s description disturbed me; I was certain that a level of prerevolutionary subversion existed, even if ­limited to gossip, fence cutting, slacking on the job, crop theft, or other forms of petty re­sis­tances that James Scott (1985, 1990) referred to as “small arms in the class war.” I quizzed Fabio on several occasions as to ­whether t­ here had existed some conflict between merchants and landlords on the one hand and their peasant and worker clients on the other. He denied it each time, recapitulating how peasants praised their patrons as good and humane p­ eople who assisted in times of crisis and did a ser­vice by renting them land and purchasing forward their coffee, henequen fiber, and lassos and other artisanal products, even if at submarket prices. I re­spect Fabio’s position, which coincided with that of more than one social scientist working in El Salvador (Wood 2003; Montes 1987; Cabarrús 1983), but I do not agree with it.13

52 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

For one, other actors, such as “Nasar,” explained that ­people engaged in a lot of negative gossip criticizing employers for low wages, but that before the arrival of Miguel Ventura the critiques did not lead to action.14 For another, any such closed domain of self-­reproducing power challenges us to explain how the cir­cuit ever gets broken or transformed. This, precisely, was Foucault’s Achilles heel: “Since the autonomous subject is, for Foucault, already the product of subjection to power, the aim of po­liti­cal actions cannot be to enhance or expand this autonomy” (Dews 1987, 164). Fabio’s subject is submissive, as opposed to being autonomous, but his prob­lem is similar: Why, if ­people w ­ ere so dominated, would at least some of them opt for the message of liberation theology when it was communicated to them? Foucault was stuck in a Weberian-­style iron cage of determination. By contrast, hegemony as understood by Gramsci is by definition an incomplete pro­cess, ever contradictory and always open to challenge. Th ­ ere is a sense in which hegemony can never obliterate or completely disguise the effects of oppression, which regularly surface and must be dealt with within the hegemony itself (see the introduction).15 One prob­lem anthropologists and other social scientists often confront when seeking candid answers to questions like the one just posed—­especially following a lengthy revolutionary war—­concerns the retrospective nature of the accounts, which are invariably s­ haped by intervening events (Binford 2002; James 2000). To the time f­ actor, we need to add that Fabio’s account was also influenced by his position as an activist attempting to transform social and economic relations in northern Morazán and the re­sis­tance that he encountered in his attempts to do so. He admitted that most catechists took a backward step or two ­after they returned to northern Morazán from El Castaño and other training centers and where their teachers expected them to put the new theology into practice. As noted in chapter 1, a frontal challenge to deeply held beliefs—­a kind of Gramscian war of movement—­risked a knee-­jerk negative rejection on the part of the public. Thus Fabio and other catechists dedicated to “waking p­ eople from their slumber,” as he might have put it, had to tread with care. Despite the success of a surprising number of CEBs, particularly in the areas that formed Torola parish, vari­ous interviewees estimated that no more than a quarter of the rural population identified with liberation theology. Moreover, progressive catechists left many areas untouched. For instance, I am not aware of any prewar progressive catechism work in La Montaña, nor ­were most municipal centers (400 to 1,000 population)—­kept ­under close surveillance by the National Guard, Trea­ sury Police, and paramilitary forces—­the sites of open organ­izing by progressive Christians.16 Given the re­sis­tances that Fabio and ­others confronted, it is understandable that they attributed successes to the message and the manner in which they combined that message with action without necessarily pondering the epistemological implications of their position. ­A fter the war, some catechists even described their own 1970s “conversion” in transcendental terms. For instance, in 1969 Abraham Argueta (no relation to Fr. Andrés Argueta) was

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 53

working as a tailor in the municipal center of Joateca when Fr. Argueta invited him to attend El Castaño. In 1995 he recalled his initial reaction to the school this way: [­There] I suffered a sort of m ­ ental transformation b­ ecause before [­going to the center] I ­didn’t relate much to p­ eople. I kept apart, they said that I focused on my own m ­ atters and ­didn’t get involved in other t­ hings. When I went [to El Castaño], I suffered a kind of, I d­ on’t know what . . . ​I awoke but d­ idn’t even know where I was. . . . ​A strange ­thing happened to me, I was seeing every­thing in a dif­fer­ent way. Every­thing felt to me as if I was someone e­ lse and in some other place. It was like a psychological metamorphosis. I felt an awakening to a dif­fer­ent world and it caused me to take in every­thing that was t­ here.17

While Abraham offered unusually dramatic testimony of personal transformation and attributed it to his experience in El Castaño, the same general terms of expression that he employed echoed t­ hose of many other catechists interviewed. They spoke of “being transformed,” “awakening as if from a long sleep,” “feeling like a new man,” or “having a veil removed from the eyes.”18 However, they do not seem to have inquired into the conditions that enabled such responses. Fabio’s so­cio­log­i­cal analy­sis was framed, as are all such accounts (and my commentaries on them), within par­tic­u­lar historical contexts.19 He spoke as a man with an enduring commitment to progressive Chris­tian­ity and a deep practical revolutionary experience that together marked his understanding of pre­sent and past. That being said, evidence exists for the presence of prewar subaltern protest in the form of a series of colorados (racy stories) that turn around the figure of Pedro Grimales, a poor but astute fool who repeatedly outwits the rich (and even the devil) and fleeces them of their wealth and their ­women. In one story, a power­ful g­ iant occupies a room. Whoever can pass the night t­ here without being caught by the g­ iant receives wealth; if he fails, then the g­ iant, who has a huge penis, forces anal sex on him. Many ­people try, but no one succeeds. Pedro Grimales decides to give the ­giant a go: “Let’s see what I can do.” Now Pedro’s penis was even larger than that of the ­giant. Pedro entered the room and the ­giant gave chase, but Pedro turned, whipped out his penis and told the ­g iant that if he (Pedro) lost, the ­giant would have to eat it. The ­giant was intimidated and allowed Pedro to win.20 In another story, the Pope announced that the church would grant wealth and power to any priest who found the enchanted bird, so all the priests went around looking for it. Pedro was a poor man who de­cided to put one over on the priests and get some money. He got a large hat (sombrero) and stationed himself at a point in the road where the priests would almost certainly pass. When a priest drove by, Pedro flopped his arms and shouted, “Enchanted bird, enchanted bird!” The priest passed, s­ topped, turned around, and exited his vehicle. The priest

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pleaded with Pedro to sell the bird, but Pedro refused. ­A fter negotiating for a while, Pedro fi­nally agreed to sell the bird if the priest would give him a carload of wealth and throw in the car to boot. The priest left and ­later returned with the loot, which he turned over to Pedro. Pedro told him that in order to capture the bird he would have to wait two hours, lift the hat, and pounce. Pedro drove off, registered the car in his name and deposited the money in the bank. Of course, ­after the two hours expired, the priest followed Pedro’s instructions but found nothing u­ nder the hat. The story of “Pedro and the Greedy Men” begins with a town full of rich, greedy men who never seemed satisfied with what they had and always sought more. Pedro was poor and de­cided that he would joderlos (screw them over). So, he went and had a hat maker make him a hat with three crowns. Then he obtained (prob­ably borrowed) some fine clothes and a chauffeur-­driven car. Pedro made friends with the rich men and invited them to accompany him on an excursion. First, they went to a ranch, where Pedro greeted the hacendado (owner) and told him that he wanted to buy some c­ attle. He told the greedy men, ten altogether, to choose two head of c­ attle each. Of course, they selected the biggest, fattest steers. Then Pedro asked the owner how much he wanted. “Tanto” (So much), he replied, providing a figure. Pedro turned his hat slightly so that a dif­fer­ent crown faced forward and repeated the question. The owner answered as before: “tanto.” Pedro now turned his hat so that the last crown faced forward and repeated the question for the third time. Now the rancher answered, “cancelado” (canceled). Pedro took the greedy men to a stable, where he allowed each to select two ­horses, and l­ ater to an automobile dealership, where each picked out a luxury automobile. As before Pedro asked the price of the goods three times, turning his hat so that a dif­fer­ent crown faced forward, and the third time the sellers stated that the amount due was “cancelado.” All the greedy men wanted the hat and began a bidding war, eventually won by the wealthiest of all, who offered Pedro an automobile filled with money. Before driving off, Pedro told the hat’s new owner that he would have to wait eight days before trying it out. When the eight days passed and he attempted to put the hat to work the merchant he approached accused him of being crazy.21 ­These stories, repeated among men during social occasions, often while sharing drinks, might be thought of as the rural Salvadoran equivalent of medieval morality plays that made fun of the rich and power­ful even as they reasserted local hegemonies. The rich are facile prey b­ ecause of their greed and desire for easy money. Pedro is poor but astute and turns t­ hese desires to his advantage. He uses wit and intelligence to triumph over dominant groups, whose superior force cannot be confronted head on. Also, the stories carry a subtext of the value of hard work—­avoided by the rich—­and the perils of easy money, even as they legitimize the use of trickery against select social groups. Pedro Grimales is also extremely sexist, and other stories involve tricking ­women into granting him

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 55

sexual ­favors. Fi­nally, against Fabio’s portrayal of northern Morazanians’ religious subservience, the stories highlight the priests’ hy­poc­risy and place them in the same category as the regional petty bourgeoisie: they drive automobiles, have money, and, with the Pope’s blessing, seek quick routes to wealth. Pedro Grimales illustrates James Scott’s observation about the ubiquity of cultural re­sis­tance, but the stories also point to some of that theory’s shortcomings. Scott rejects perspectives—­similar to the one Fabio shared with me—­that have subordinate groups suffused by a dominant ideology that rationalizes social and economic in­equality. He argues that peasants know quite well who the ­enemy is, but that the superior force of local and regional elites, backed up by the state, leads them to make rational decisions to chip away at the margins rather than risk a frontal assault (rebellion), which would have disastrous consequences if it was to fail. However, Scott commits the error of thinking “hegemony”—­ which he conflates with “dominant ideology”—as an all or nothing proposition: ­either peasants are saturated by ideas that secure their active consent or at least passive compliance to the social order, or they use “the weapons of the weak” to negotiate petty advantages ­because history has shown them the futility of frontal challenges. E ­ ither a crude version of orthodox Marxist analy­sis of ideology or rational choice theory. Such a bimodal interpretation fails to do justice to the complexity of rural practices and beliefs. Raymond Williams (1977) argued that hegemony contains residual and embryonic ele­ments that can become the basis for counterhegemonic beliefs and practices. If we follow William Roseberry, hegemony is a means of understanding strug­gle as opposed to consent. In Roseberry’s rendering, which I think is a useful guide to the Pedro Grimales stories, hegemony is “the ways in which the words, images, symbols, forms, organ­izations, institutions, and movements used by subordinate populations to talk about, understand, confront, accommodate themselves to, or resist their domination are ­shaped by the pro­cess of domination itself. What hegemony constructs, then, is not a shared ideology but a common material and meaningful framework for living through, talking about, and acting upon social ­orders characterized by domination” (1994, 360–361).22 In the stories presented above we see Pedro making fun of priests, bilking wealthy ­people seeking a quick buck, and leaving the scene the proud possessor of impor­tant symbols of success ­under modernity—­money and cars—­even as the stories affirm the value of hard work and the perils of uncontrolled accumulation. Pedro also ratifies the importance of potent male sexuality (crudely represented by the size of one’s penis), highly valued by most of the males among whom ­these stories circulated. Hence Pedro is poor, but sexually power­ful and astute, while the wealthy are mentally (and presumably sexually) weak, with a boundless desire that makes them easy marks. On the other hand, Pedro’s successes also suggest in a backhanded way the impossibility for poor p­ eople to improve their situations through hard work; only a clever trick (engaño) or an elaborate hoax

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offers hope. Note that Pedro outwits his adversaries, he never engages in direct confrontations with them. I think of the Pedro Grimales stories as good illustrations of regional Salvadoran folklore. Like folklore elsewhere, they cobbled together ideas from vari­ ous sources with l­ittle effort at producing a consistent view of the world. They contain a core of Gramscian “good sense,” particularly in their repre­sen­ta­tion of the rich as avaricious, priests as (often) corrupt and lazy, and the pitfalls of unbridled desire, but that good sense was part of a tangled narrative that also glorified individual trickery, eschewed collective organ­ization, and reduced ­women to objects of male sexual desire. The Pedro Grimales stories evidence some of the limits of dominant groups’ colonization of subaltern subjectivities, but they also help us understand how a partial colonization is fully compatible with, and indeed is prob­ably the hallmark of, a successful hegemony (Crehan 2016, 60). Men could sit around drinking and exchanging stories about Pedro Grimales, aware of their plight and some of the ­causes of it, without feeling that they could or should do anything practical to alter their situations. As Kate Crehan observed, “Hegemony . . . ​does not require that ­those who are ruled, the subalterns, see their subjugation as justified, only that they see it as a fixed and unchangeable real­ity that it would be futile to oppose” (2016, 51–52). In the case of northern Morazán, El Salvador, we know that re­sis­tance was not restricted to Scott’s small arms, but eventually took the form of a full-­fledged revolutionary war that endured for twelve years. Fi­nally, it is germane to mention one additional source of concern about wealthy p­ eople that Fabio overlooked. H ­ ere I refer to the experiences of the many ­people compelled to migrate annually to harvest cotton, sugarcane, and coffee in agro-­export zones located on the coast, the volcanic cordillera, and intermontane regions between the volcanos. They received low piece wages, ­were often cheated at the scales, w ­ ere poorly fed, and sometimes had to sleep out of doors (e.g., Sedgewick 2020; White 1973, 120–121). Fabio knew about ­these conditions, and even mentioned them as having contributed to the radicalization of Juan Ramón Sánchez (see chapter 3), but he failed to consider how the experience of exploitation of northern Morazanian mi­grants working seasonally in agro-­export zones might contribute to their radicalization. Whereas collective drinking parties might have been relatively safe occasions for the poor to blow off steam and make fun of priests, merchants, and o­ thers, Fabio, as the adolescent target of a drunken cousin and a lifelong teetotaler, expressed concern with alcohol’s deleterious effects on the social and po­liti­cal fabric. Fabio considered alcoholism “a big prob­lem” in northern Morazán and Alcólicos Anónimos (Alcoholics Anonymous, AA) a mainstay in Meanguera, Jocoaitique, and “in all the towns and sometimes in the cantons.” In La Guacamaya, “Nolvo” (José Jesús Romero) and “Felipe” (Andrés Barrera), the latter a former catechist, attended AA meetings at the local school­house. Fabio explained that what AA

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 57

tried to explain was that alcohol was a way to put the poor person’s mind to sleep. When the poor person drinks, he feels rich . . . ​he feels like he has every­thing, knows every­thing, and can do anything. But what’s certain is that he’s a drunk who’s ­going to be disrespectful of his wife, his c­ hildren, his ­mother, his f­ ather . . . ​who’s g­ oing to kill o­ thers, who’s ­going to wind up in jail, who’s ­going to have to pay who knows how many thousands of colones to get out of jail, who ­will have to find a l­ awyer to defend him. And who benefits from this? Is it him or ­others?

Fabio thought that AA “was a way to get the alcoholic to discover that drinking alcohol resulted in the loss of h ­ uman values.” By h ­ uman values he was referring to solidarity with other members of the ­family, concern for ­those worse off than oneself, and so on. Th ­ ose attending AA meetings reflected on their situations and reflected on society as well, discovering how the generalized sale of grain alcohol and alcoholic beverages (available in restaurants, bars, and elsewhere) destabilized society. Instead of creating centers for social education and formation, the ruling class puts “a bar in e­ very town . . . ​and ­here in the capital [where the interviews took place] t­ here is a bar on ­every corner of e­ very neighborhood, on ­every block” leading to impoverishment and more idle ­people who “­don’t work” and “­don’t contribute anything to society, anything good, but are lost” in the sense that they have no jobs and “lost as well in the sense that they become burdens to o­ thers in order to survive.” Consuming alcoholic beverages often led to vio­lence: “­Every man who went to drink carried his machete and he would confront anyone who crossed his path. . . . ​He would fight him so that sometimes even a man who w ­ asn’t drinking had to fight so as not to get struck, or he had to kill him [the assailant] or kill another person.”23 During drinking bouts on Saturday and Sunday ­people lost their hands (their lives in some cases) and “bulls walked around all over the place with cuts on their ­faces. . . . ​Once drunk, ­people fought over a cow, a chicken, and a ton of t­ hings.” Many p­ eople avoided the sites of t­ hese drunken parties (chupaderos) and male ­house­hold heads prohibited their wives and ­daughters from passing nearby.24 Alcohol exacerbated a pre-­existing individualism and contributed to its development. “It was,” he stated, “rare for p­ eople to help one another b­ ecause ­people ­hadn’t promoted ­family love.” A sibling with more money demonstrated no concern for the suffering of other, poorer siblings: “A lot of ­people had a ­family, had a b­ rother who had more money, but he did not concern himself with his ­brother’s or s­ ister’s poverty or the suffering brought on by the illness of another b­ rother or ­sister.” If the person suffering illness or [needing] some necessity d­ idn’t sell some good or property to another person with money, w ­ hether or not they w ­ ere ­family, he ­didn’t solve the prob­lem ­because no one was interested in helping a person in need. In helping, no, in purchasing the product of his l­ abor, yes. Some families

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purchased a person’s cow or a piece of his land when he was sick. That was easy. One b­ rother would buy the property of another as well, “If you want money I’ll buy the cow or I’ll buy that l­ ittle piece of land. Let’s put up the fence over t­ here, and ­here you’ll have your money.” Th ­ ose w ­ ere the ways of helping—­buying the ­little he [the person in need] had. The person who had absolutely nothing received nothing . . . ​he would die more quickly from poverty. Near where we lived I saw ­people from a f­ amily that had land, had ­cattle, had corn, rice, and beans die of pure hunger, malnourished.

Fabio’s assertion of a lack of ­human values in prewar northern Morazán contrasts with the more positive assessments of ERP militant Rafael Arce Zablah (“Amilcar”) and other early ERP visitors to the zone like Juan Ramón Medrano (“Balta”), who, along with Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Cesar”), took over the direction of northern Morazán following Arce’s death in 1975 (see chapter 3). Following Arce’s lead, Medrano compared northern Morazanian peasants positively to t­ hose from Usulután. The latter w ­ ere more “undisciplined . . . ​more affected by alcohol and violent among themselves” while the former “­were better or­ga­nized and structured in Christian communities, w ­ ere ­middle and poor peasants, many of whom had resolved the subsistence prob­lem.” While many lived in misery, “all acted in solidarity with one another and expressed profound Christian values” (Medrano and Raudales 1994, 69). The assessments of Arce and Medrano departed radically from that of Fabio Argueta, and possibly reflect the differences between the experiences of visitors and t­ hose of a permanent inhabitant, as well as the chronological period to which they referred: Arce and Medrano to a period when many catechists had received training in liberation theology and had proceeded to form CEBs; Fabio to an e­ arlier period before the arrival of Fr. Miguel and also before his and o­ thers’ training in the peasant universities. Fabio’s interest in alcoholic beverages—­the forms they took, the economics of production and sale, the corruption of the authorities, and of course their corrosive effects on the fabric of social relationships, particularly through the vio­ lence often associated with drunkenness—­was also likely ­shaped by strong memories of his earliest experiences in El Mozote, when Filipino’s drunken rages led Baltazar Argueta, Fabio’s f­ ather, to sell his land and other property and move with the ­family to an area close to Meanguera township. Fabio acknowledged the potential utility of AA, which operated all over northern Morazán by the 1970s—­and still functioned in the new millennium—­without completely endorsing AA’s “medical model” of alcoholism as disease. (He also argued that ­those who joined CEBs ceased to drink without the need to attend AA meetings, a point also made by Gould’s interviewees).25 Nor did he focus on the moral weakness of alcoholics. Fabio expressed more interest in the multistranded class relations involved in the production, distribution, and consumption of alcohol without, however, using the word “class.” Fermenting chicha (corn beer) and

Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán • 59

distilling the stronger güaro (cane liquor), both un­regu­la­ted and thus illegal, represented a potentially dangerous way to make money fast for ­those lacking other opportunities. He noted the corruption of the police who in exchange for a bribe would break a few pots in a clandestine still without disabling the operation, and he observed the collaboration of officials, representatives of po­liti­cal society, in permitting the sale of alcohol “all over . . . ​i n order to destabilize society.” Throughout, his view was critical: nothing good could come of alcohol, regardless of the kind (chicha, güaro, commercial beer) or social (or asocial) circumstances involved in its production and consumption. He might also have been influenced by his prewar and war­time concern for the potential security breaches that drunkenness could provoke in that “­children and drunks ­don’t lie,” according to a widespread belief recorded by Adrienne Pine in Honduras (2008, 85) but equally applicable to El Salvador. While the danger of security breaches was severe during the early, clandestine organ­ization of military committees, it intensified during the war. Moreover, the possibility of sudden bombing or heli-­transport operations called in by patrullas de reconocimiento de gran alcance (long-­range reconnaissance patrols, PRALs)—­sometimes trained and led by U.S. mercenaries (Venter 2017, 66–74, 88)—­led ERP commanders to require combatants to keep their weapons close and at the ready when they slept, bathed, and even danced at the occasional fiesta. To reduce the likelihood of accidents—­all the more likely was alcohol to mix with youth and semiautomatic weapons—­the ERP prohibited alcohol production, sale, and consumption in its northern Morazanian rear guard (López Vigil 1987, 85–86). ERP combatants occasionally v­ iolated this Ley Seca (Dry Law), as it was called, and if violations came to the attention of the General Command, even high-­ranking cadre could be publicly rebuked and sanctioned (Henríquez Consalvi 2010).

3

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977

I learned about Fr. Miguel Ventura even before I arrived to conduct fieldwork in northern Morazán for the first time in June 1991, about six months before the conclusion of the armed conflict. He was a renowned figure in the region and was among the small number of parish priests in El Salvador who worked in guerrilla-­controlled zones during the war.1 ­People considered him to be muy simpático (friendly, likeable, warm, pleasant), never rough, aggressive, or demanding.2 Miguel was short and swarthy with a large head of wiry black hair that reminded me somewhat of Antonio Gramsci (see figure 3.1). His ability to fit in so easily with rural peasants and workers owed much to his ­family background as one of seven c­ hildren from a Yayantique (La Unión department) ­house­hold that combined agriculture with petty commerce. Both parents w ­ ere literate—­the f­ather had completed seven years of schooling—­and placed a high value on education, though Fr. Miguel mentioned in an interview that several of his older ­brothers eschewed further schooling to help out the ­house­hold enterprise. Fr. Miguel characterized his ­father as a progressive person who gave a g­ reat deal of time to community proj­ects (e.g., school and road construction), often served as president of the local community directive, and was a poet and or­ga­nizer of social activities (animador) who knew how to capture ­people’s interest. But alas, he had a serious drinking prob­lem—­a source of conflict with his wife—­and died before the age of fifty. By way of contrast, Miguel’s ­mother was conservative and highly religious, insisting that her ­children say the rosary each night before retiring. One of her ­brothers was a priest and 60

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977 • 61

FIGURE 3.1  ​A young Fr. Miguel Ventura presiding over mass, prob­ably in Torola before the

war. (Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Word and Image)

played a role in Miguel’s youthful decision to join the priesthood. Ironically, that person was Fr. Andrés Argueta, the same Andrés Argueta who administered Jocoaitique parish in northern Morazán!3 ­A fter four years of local primary school in Yayantique, young Miguel, who had already opted for the priesthood, entered a minor seminary in San Miguel for fifth and sixth grades run by priests of the Marist order; for ju­n ior high (secundaria) and high school (bachillerato) he attended a Jesuit-­ run school in San Salvador.4 Thereafter he entered the major seminary of San José de la Montaña and studied for the priesthood ­u nder Rutilio Grande, Jon Sobrino, Ignacio Ellacuría, Armando López, and other priest-­ teachers—­some quite conservative, ­others progressive, and some of whom ­were murdered by the army or death squads before (Grande) or during (López, Ellacuría) the revolutionary war. Influenced by Vatican II (1961– 1963), the CELAM conference in Medellín, Colombia (1968), and El Salvador’s First Pastoral Week (1970), the Jesuits, mostly Spaniards, introduced Salvadoran real­ity into the classroom and taught about social or structural sin, sins of omission, and historical salvation in this life.5 Encouraged by Rutilio Grande, Miguel and other students spent Saturdays and Sundays in rural parishes outside the city, then returned to the seminary at the beginning of the week to discuss their experiences (see Notimex 1991). In his

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retrospective view, ­those experiences provided him with, as he put it, “ele­ments for evangelization.”6 During vacations, the students ventured farther afield. One Easter week he led an estimated thirty-­five young seminarians to San Fernando in northern Morazán, where they w ­ ere hosted by Mistalia Altimirano, a local schoolteacher, and wound up “sleeping all over the floor” of her ­house.7 However, ­there is no evidence that he met northern Morazanian catechists during that trip, which took place well before the 1968 inauguration of El Castaño and other training centers. Miguel completed seminary in late 1972, but right-­wing Msgr. Eduardo Álvarez, who succeeded Msgr. Lorenzo Michael Graziano as head of the San Miguel diocese on 9 December 1969, held up his ordination for about six months for po­liti­cal reasons, fi­nally giving in to public pressure and ordaining him in early 1973. The newly ordained priest, whose ­father had recently died, asked to be sent to an area near his childhood home in La Unión department but Bishop Álvarez refused the request and instead ordered Fr. Miguel to northern Morazán. In a lengthy 1991 interview with the Mexican news agency Notimex, Fr. Miguel Ventura explained that at the time northern Morazán was the area to which ­people w ­ ere sent who w ­ ere being punished: “If someone from the teaching profession was being punished, he [or she] was sent to work in northern Morazán; if someone from the army was being punished, he was sent to northern Morazán. Northern Morazán was a reference point for punishment, and they sent me to work in northern Morazán” (Notimex 1991). Not only did Bishop Álvarez send Miguel to northern Morazán, but he ordered him to Torola, arguably the most isolated and poorest municipality in the department and one of the poorest (then and now) in the country.8 T ­ here Miguel was to administer a new parish created by the reassignment of four municipalities—­Torola, Villa El Rosario, San Fernando, and Perquín—­away from Fr. Argueta’s Jocoaitique parish. The excision of ­those municipalities reduced the older prelate’s parish to Jocoaitique, Meanguera, Arambala, and Joateca.9 However, according to Fabio, Argueta soon lost control of Meanguera ­a fter being accused of stealing a valuable chalice from the church ­there.10 Argueta’s control eroded further when many catechists in Meanguera and Jocoaitique sought out Fr. Miguel, who had a more humane way of relating to ­people that lay catechists and parishioners alike contrasted with the hierarchical, status-­driven approach of his ­uncle (discussed l­ ater in this chapter). Also, Miguel knew some the catechists trained in El Castaño ­because he had given classes ­there prior to his ordination. ­These catechists had developed a “new vision, a more progressive formation” through their training in the center, and many had acquired two to three years practice by the time he arrived in 1973.11 Yet he stated elsewhere that initially, “they lacked an orientation of the Christian Base Communities and conducted their pastoral activities along traditional

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977 • 63

lines,” suggesting that many remained u­ nder Fr. Argueta’s control or feared flaunting it.12 By his own account, Fr. Miguel embarked on an effort to develop the “anthropological foundation of faith,” by which he meant situating ­human beings in their real­ity. (How did they feel? How ­were they being treated by their employers, in commercial relations, and so on?) In effect p­ eople had “to discover themselves as ­human beings in a dehumanized society.” He also set about organ­ izing pastoral work in Torola parish and in northern Morazán more generally. Rather than send additional persons to the training centers, Fr. Miguel trained new catechists locally, saving participants time, money, and a stressful separation from their families.13 Whereas Fr. Argueta tried to control catechists returning from El Castaño and other centers and discouraged them from putting their newfound knowledge to work, Fr. Miguel sought to unleash their latent potential and develop it further. When Fr. Miguel Ventura visited communities in northern Morazán, he refused special treatment. He comingled with parishioners and catechists, shaking hands with all and eating and playing soccer with them (just as had priest-­teachers with their students in El Castaño). Mercedes Ventura (no relation) stated that he did not charge for his ser­vices, and Heriberto Chicas recalled that Fr. Miguel referred to the congregation and himself as “nosotros” (we) rather than distancing himself from the congregants by designating them “ustedes” (you).14 Fr. Miguel sought to break down the priestly mystique and render priests more h ­ uman and therefore fallible. In order to do so, he drew on his own rural background: “Look, I’m a peasant,” he told them, “so why would you be expected to go where I am rather than me visiting you” (cited in Rubio and Balsebre 2009, 80). Over three de­cades ­later, Ventura concluded that “thus began a pro­cess of drawing closer to one another and of mutual recognition that rapidly generated confidence. I ­didn’t come as a functionary, but as an equal. We drank coffee together, talked, and began to develop the confidence of companions, friends, of b­ rothers” (80). Fr. Miguel and the progressive catechists working with him disseminated a message of the peasants’ right to dignity, to re­spect, and to a decent life on this earth. All this was phrased in terms of “­human values,” understood by Fabio Argueta (and other catechists) to mean “that we are all equal ­under the law, that a rich person i­ sn’t worth more than a poor person, that we are all equally worthy, that we have the same dignity.”15 With this, Fr. Miguel and the catechists working with him challenged the commonsense views of the inevitability of suffering; many ­people began to understand poverty as a m ­ atter of unjust social relations subject to change in their lifetimes if only they ­were willing to strug­g le to overturn them and to side with the “poor-­with-­spirit” (Ellacuría 1991b, 60). In order to develop a sense of community, catechists ­under Fr. Miguel’s direction established “catechism centers” in each hamlet and canton, usually

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in private homes. When the priest visited, ­people put down their work and the community came together for a cele­bration of the Word, discussion of a theme or “problematic,” and catechism. The themes varied according to local needs and ­were prob­ably set by catechists. Fr. Miguel opined that in all cases, they emphasized an anthropology of Christian faith, ­people’s “re-­encounter” (reencuentro) with themselves (as ­human beings and dignified persons), and an analy­sis of current real­ity. They placed strong emphasis on the development of community and liberation theology as an interpretation of salvation, highlighting the importance of being h ­ uman and in community. Fi­nally, he said that he considered to have advanced farther when the members de­cided to carry out proj­ects collectively. He acknowledged the faith that ­people placed in the words of priests yet strived to deflect attention away from himself—­insofar as pos­si­ble—in order to be an or­ga­nizer or director (animador) who “succeeds in getting o­ thers to act.”16 He also divided Torola parish into regions, visiting one region each week. According to Fr. Miguel, the practices paralleled t­ hose in El Castaño and other centers and contributed to a multiplier effect when catechists trained in the centers shared their knowledge with ­others who had not attended them.17 They achieved most success in rural areas—­small hamlets like Santa Anita in Jocoaitique and dispersed populations, such as La Guacamaya in Meanguera—­but had ­little influence in most municipal centers, small towns that contained bases of ­either the National Guard or Trea­sury Police. Fabio Argueta explained that with Miguel’s encouragement and support, “we, the catechists, began to or­ga­nize catechism centers in all the cantons and settlements. Within fifteen days I had two centers in La Soledad canton. . . . ​Within two months t­ here was another center in Meanguera. And then we arrived to La Guacamaya.” Many other catechists ­were ­doing the same ­thing. Like Fabio, they backed up words with actions, organ­izing school and road construction, developing Caritas programs for poor p­ eople with Catholic Church support, and reconstructing ­houses that ­were in danger of falling down.18 Fabio stated, “­People saw that we ­didn’t practice religion based only on talk but that we ­were actually ­doing something.” Somewhere between fifty and sixty-­five catechists from throughout the zone, including many working in municipalities ­under Fr. Argueta’s control, convened each Saturday in Torola to discuss their work with CEBs and set the agenda for the coming month.19 H ­ ere the faith that they had in the word of the priest cannot be overstated. Doubtless, ­these meetings helped many catechists overcome a sense of isolation and see themselves as part of a more inclusive, collective proj­ ect; also, they reinforced the lessons of El Castaño and other centers for t­ hose who had trained in the peasant universities. By 1974–1975, some peasants in El Progreso (Torola), La Laguna (Villa El Rosario), and elsewhere linked to liberation theology and Fr. Miguel or­ga­nized

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977 • 65

CEB participants to produce and pro­cess henequen and other crops collectively, sell the product, and divide the proceeds with the goal of earning enough money through shared work to avoid having to rent and/or sharecrop land; sell ­labor power to regional property o­ wners; or migrate seasonally to coffee, sugar, and cotton estates in distant agro-­export zones (Gould 2020, 37–39; Rubio and Balsebre 2009, 81–83; Notimex 1991). In some cases, they did so on land donated or loaned by larger landowners specifically for that purpose. Historian Jeffrey Gould interprets the foregoing as evidence of the desire to construct a “minor utopia,” dif­f er­ent from the “major utopia” of w ­ holesale change at the societal level. I take up minor and major utopias again in the conclusion to this book. The collective mescal fields lasted but a short time, though, as larger landowners (part of the regional petty bourgeoisie) lamented the lack of available workers and complained to the authorities, which began to closely surveil meetings between the young priest and catechists working with him. Miguel’s message of liberation and his popularity among northern Morazanian catechists and parishioners as well as the activities of the latter also irked his priest-­uncle, who was particularly troubled when Fr. Miguel encroached on his territory at the behest of catechists who felt abandoned by their own parish priest. Fabio recalled Fr. Argueta as stating that “a priest from another parish cannot do that [encroach uninvited on another priest’s territory]. Each catechist has to deal with his own priest.” Fabio recalled that absent Argueta’s support, “the majority—­a ll [sic] the catechists—­went to meet with him [Fr. Miguel].” Fr. Argueta complained about Fr. Miguel to Msgr. Álvarez, who in early 1975 ordered Miguel’s transfer to Osicala parish, perhaps reasoning that from an area south of the Torola River (albeit only by a few kilo­meters), the young, radical priest would be poorly positioned to interfere in Argueta’s ministry. However, some northern Morazanian catechists continued to invite Fr. Miguel to visit them, and when such was not pos­si­ble they went to meet with him in Osicala. By the time Miguel left the zone in late 1977 (discussed l­ ater in the chapter), the catechists associated with him had developed an extensive network of CEBs in northern Morazán, and Ventura had extended his progressive vision to communities on the slopes of the extinct Cacahuatique Volcano south of the river. Apart from setting up CEBs, catechists cultivated individuals who participated actively in the base community groups but had not received catechist training ­either formally in one of the Catholic training centers or informally in northern Morazán u­ nder Fr. Miguel. In Fabio’s case, t­hese included Eleno Castro and Santos Méndez, who identified with liberation theology and ­later came to occupy impor­tant positions in the ERP, Castro as a rare peasant member of the Comandancia (High Command) and Méndez as chief of security for the clandestine Radio Venceremos.20 Other notable figures, like José Jesús Romero (“Nolvo”) and Roberto Carrillo (“Robertón”), who became impor­tant po­liti­cal

66 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

activists and exercised other roles as midlevel commanders (mandos medios) during the war, had also become involved in CEBs.21 It should be clear from this account that progressive priests like Fr. Miguel, who promoted a more anthropological vision of h ­ uman beings and society, depended on the local knowledge, contacts, and orga­nizational acumen of like-­ minded catechists, without whom it would not have been pos­si­ble to develop and maintain a broad network of CEBs. In that context, the new theology filtered downward from theologians to priests (and in some cases bishops) to catechists and parishioners, but it also had to be interpreted and reinterpreted along the line. Class, and in some cases racial-­ethic antagonisms, existed in virtually ­every Latin American country, with implications for p­ eople’s understanding of poverty and suffering, on the one hand, wealth and abundance, on the other. However, class and racial/ethnic antagonisms varied locally, and the variations ­shaped the decisions of the catechists as to what aspect of liberation theology to emphasize at a given time, what theme(s) to address, and how to situate local real­ity in the discussion. No priest could substitute for the local knowledge, skill, and perspicacity of trained catechists, who w ­ ere (at this point in time) popu­lar intellectuals. Peasant organ­ization in the archdiocese, which included four departments, received positive support from the church hierarchy, a point elaborated in chapter 1. But not so in the diocese of San Miguel where, as Fabio pointed out, Bishop Eduardo Álvarez, “held a very reactionary position and opposed the peasants’ pro­gress and welfare. He was a chaplain for the armed forces and protected and defended the armed forces, the government, [institutional] power, and the established system in his sermons.22 He never concerned himself with the peasants, the poor ­people.”23 Fabio recounted a meeting or­ga­nized by Fr. Miguel Ventura and Fr. Miguel Ángel Montesinos with Msgr. Álvarez.24 The progressive priests had invited Dr. Rubén Zamora, a professor at the Jesuit University of Central Amer­i­ca (and two de­cades ­later the 1994 presidential candidate endorsed by the FMLN-­FDR25) to deliver a “motivational speech” to convince the bishop to accept more church work in the east and “to focus more on the task of showing a commitment to poor ­people.” Progressive catechists “who had carried out most of the leadership work in the eastern part of the country” had also been invited. But when Msgr. Álvarez learned that Zamora would speak at the meeting, he objected, stating that had he known such beforehand, he would not have attended. He did attend but accepted nothing of the proposal put to him. Fabio explained the essence of the proposal and Álvarez’s reaction as follows: “The proposal dealt with the church’s history from the Spaniards’ arrival to the pre­sent and referred to the Second Vatican Council—­that the goal of the church on a universal level was to

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977 • 67

promote Christian Base Communities, develop work with the poorest class, the oppressed class, the most exploited class from the city . . . ​to focus on that. The bishop objected and said that without the bishop [i.e., himself], one c­ ouldn’t do anything b­ ecause he was the church’s supreme authority, and all the t­ hings we ­were presenting ­there w ­ ere unimportant.” As Christian work informed by liberation theology developed in El Salvador, repression grew in the center of the country. In 1970, as noted in the introduction, Fr. José Inocencio Alas was kidnapped, tortured, drugged, and left naked next to a precipice on a mountain above San Salvador in the apparent hope that he would roll off and fall to his death. The kidnapping occurred following Alas’s advocacy of land reform at a conference sponsored by the military government of President and General Fidel Sánchez Hernández (Alas 2003, 105–139). Most extant lit­er­a­ture focuses on the repression of Catholic priests and members of religious ­orders, but Fabio and his colleagues concerned themselves with the murder and imprisonment of catechists too. Fabio noted that the PCN, controlled by the military, had created an organ­ization with the acronym ORDEN, standing for the Nationalist Demo­cratic Organ­ization, that consisted of paramilitaries and the Civil Defense whose members “went around watching o­ thers—­what they talked about, what they preached, what they said.”26 Fabio stated that “­every time we spoke about injustice, t­ hose p­ eople informed on us.” The repression intensified around 1974–1975. The police always spied on Fr. Miguel Ventura. Sometimes when we had meetings [in Torola] t­ here would be police on e­ very corner of the place where we ­were gathered, as if we w ­ ere u­ nder arrest. All this generated a lot of concern. We ­were trying to figure out what to do b­ ecause we felt that e­ very day t­ here was g­ oing to be more repression. We would receive bulletins about what was happening in other regions. We listened to the Voz Panamericana radio station about the capture of catechists—­that they assassinated them ­here, that they assassinated them ­there. All of this worrying led us to think about what to do, how to or­ga­nize. That was what pushed the need to try to or­ga­nize ourselves po­liti­cally.

Interestingly, Fabio never discussed the 1972 electoral fraud in which the military government halted the vote count when PDC candidate Napoleón Duarte was winning, only l­ater to announce PCN candidate Col. Arturo Armando Molina the victor. At one time I attributed the oversight as evidence of the PDC’s lack of presence in northern Morazán, but interviews with former FMLN combatants and ­others disabused me of that idea. In fact, the PDC had followers in Torola, Jocoaitique, Meanguera, and prob­ably elsewhere, and ­those adherents ­were disturbed by the brazenness of the fraud, which eroded further their confidence in elections and the state.27

68 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

Enter the ERP As of the mid-1970s, no Morazanian priest or catechist had been killed by the authorities or paramilitary groups acting on their behalf. However, according to Fabio Argueta, the National Guard was already advised of all of the compañeros who had gone to study in El Castaño. . . . ​[We] knew that ORDEN members ­were spying on us in all of the centers where the Word was being celebrated, that they went around checking out all the meetings we held, observing every­thing we said. They [also] passed around flyers that said that catechism was the work of international communism. ­People said that communism was a t­ hing that killed the el­derly, killed ­children, that stole ­things from p­ eople, that ­people ­were left without their belongings, that p­ eople had to wait in line for food, that food was rationed, that t­ here was no freedom of expression. [According to the flyers,] Communism said that the state owned every­thing and the ­people owned nothing. Anyone who spoke out against this was shot. A huge campaign was launched in t­ hose flyers. They distributed the flyers [and] . . . ​they put on them the figure of a catechist—­a Bible in one hand and a pistol in the other.

Many p­ eople ­were frightened b­ ecause in the central region of El Salvador the authorities and death squads had assassinated some catechists and imprisoned ­others. Catechists from the central region who took classes in El Castaño shared what was happening in their communities. Alarmed and shocked at this course of events, Morazanian catechists de­cided that they needed to develop links to a larger organ­ization that could offer a modicum of protection, but they ­didn’t know what kind of organ­ization. “So, we saw the need. We put it to Miguel, and we argued over what to do. I remember that where Miguel lived [in Torola], t­ here was a National Police and Trea­sury Police post.28 They ­were watching us from the surrounding area while we ­were in a meeting. We ­were afraid that at any moment they w ­ ere g­ oing to capture us. And we asked ourselves how we w ­ ere ­going to protect ourselves if we had no po­liti­cal organ­ization, only a religious organ­ization. We asked Miguel about all of that.” According to Fabio, Miguel responded to their request and put them in touch with Rafael Arce Zablah, from 1972 one of the leaders of the ERP. Arce had attended secondary school at the prestigious Catholic Salvadoran Lyceum in San Salvador and had worked in peasant literacy campaigns. He entered the UES as a sociology major, became a member of Acción Católica Universitaria (University Catholic Accion), and participated in student mobilizations. Following government repression of worker and teacher strikes in 1967–1968 and El Salvador’s brief invasion of Honduras in the summer of 1969 (supported by both the PDC and the PCS), Arce rejected electoral politics and joined a handful of like-­ minded o­ thers in forming the Commandos Organizadores del Pueblo (­People’s

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977 • 69

Organ­izing Command, COP), which proposed to combat the military government by force of arms. Soon the COP became folded into the ERP (Álvarez and Cortina Orero 2014; Álvarez 2010, 13).29 Tall, slender, and with thick glasses, Arce did not look the part of a revolutionary when he visited northern Morazán in 1974 at Fr. Miguel’s invitation to get the lay of the land. At this first meeting, Arce Zablah stayed with Fr. Miguel so as to avoid suspicion. He judged the region—­rugged, forested, and with an ample year-­round supply of ­water—­favorable for a guerrilla rear guard and returned ­later to meet with select catechists from around the zone. At least one meeting took place in El Tule (Torola) and another in La Laguna (Villa El Rosario). In retrospect, it is hard to find a surviving early ERP militant who claims not to have met Arce, so it is impossible to know exactly how many meetings Arce Zablah convened before his death (see below). However, the meeting engraved in Fabio’s memory occurred in April 1974 or thereabouts, when the ERP brought p­ eople from dif­fer­ent parts of the country to San Salvador. Northern Morazanians invited and driven to the meeting by Fr. Miguel included Fabio Argueta, Tercisio Velázquez, Emilio Hernández, and a person that Fabio recalled as having the pseudonym “Romeo.” ­After several intermediate stops designed to foil pos­si­ble government surveillance, ERP contacts directed Fr. Miguel and his group to Planes de Renderos, now an impor­tant ecotourist destination, located on the outskirts of the capital. The meeting took place in the ­house of some nuns, with the participants pretending to be on their way to a spiritual retreat. “We arrived with a Bible and we met ­there. About forty ­people gathered. ­There w ­ ere p­ eople from San Miguel, from Morazán, from La Unión . . . ​ ­others from around Chalatenango. Th ­ ere ­were also p­ eople from San Salvador. One could say that the meeting was like a short series of lectures. We spent like four or five days ­there. We talked about the po­liti­cal situation in our country, the economic situation, the repression that was coming.” On arriving, they ­were told that the meeting would last a week and that no one would be permitted to leave the building. During this time, ERP militants mounted a security watch in the street. Directly Rafael Arce announced the armed strug­gle, b­ ecause I remember that in one of his talks he told us, “Okay, this strug­gle is g­ oing to cost us blood. We can be sure about that, that many of us are not g­ oing to get enjoyment out of this, but other generations w ­ ill be the beneficiaries. Let’s start t­ here.” That is, from the beginning they put forward the need for armed strug­gle but proposed, too, the need for a po­liti­cal organ­ization. I remember that t­ hose of us assembled ­there debated and discussed the name we ­were ­going to give it. Among the names that emerged was that of Ligas Campesinas [Peasant Leagues]. That’s what we de­cided to call it.

Ventura did not (apparently) attend the meetings, perhaps to maintain distance between the religious mission of the church and the protagonists of armed

70 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

strug­gle, but he was certainly privy to the results, and in retrospect he testified that he was not the least surprised at the ease with which ­people—­mostly catechists in the early stages—­embraced the tenets of armed strug­gle laid down by Rafael Arce Zablah. In a 1991 interview, Ventura argued that “if ­there is not a po­liti­cal option, ­there is not a true [Christian] base community” (Notimex 1991). Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Cesar”) concurred, stating that p­ eople in the very first meeting (that he attended) in Villa El Rosario, “instead of being frightened by the proposal, we [ERP militants] felt that it rather pleased them, b­ ecause the number of peasants that attended subsequent meetings was each time greater.”30

Clandestine Recruitment Following the meetings with Arce, the goal became clear: “create a clandestine organ­ization.” Fabio and o­ thers knew that in the climate of generalized repression they could not or­ga­nize openly without quickly being identified and prob­ ably killed off. They de­cided that they would have to exercise g­ reat care in recruiting ­people to prevent the leakage of information to the army and security forces. According to Fabio, The method of recruiting ­people was to learn if the person was discrete, if he was our loyal friend. We trusted t­ hose able to keep the secret. We would see if he showed an awareness of the country’s economic situation, the po­liti­cal situation. B ­ ecause a person who lacked awareness, he would denounce us . . . ​or he could do anything. For ­t hose reasons, we had to recognize ­whether the person was truly aware of the need to create an organ­ization. Some religious ­people went no farther than religious life, they took up religion only to preserve it [religion] but not to put their faith into action. Th ­ ere ­were a lot of biblical p­ eople and all, but when you told them that something had to be done for the poor, something had to be done for ­those who suffer, well, they ­didn’t take a step. So, an analy­sis of p­ eople had to be carried out, an investigation r­ eally. From that point one explained the proposal and called upon the person to keep the secret. When we saw that that person kept the secret, we knew that he would be a good compañero. The organ­ization was a clandestine one, not an open one.

When they saw that a potential recruit exhibited fear, they ceased talking and “left him to think, to reflect, but we d­ idn’t continue. We just observed him.” Some ­people ­were taken aback when the conversation broached the need for armed strug­gle, as Fabio noted: To go from a religious organ­ization to a po­liti­cal organ­ization in f­ avor of armed strug­gle implies a basic contradiction with oneself, a strug­gle against one’s conscience. “How is it that, according to the same faith, I have to

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977 • 71

or­ga­nize, take up arms, and fight when the Bible says that when ­others strike you are to turn the other cheek?” This religious aspect is so deeply inserted in the mind that when one proposes the need to fight for the poor, against misery, poverty, and repression, that if one d­ oesn’t take up the armed strug­gle ­people are ­going to live in even worse conditions of poverty, misery, and more repression and that is why ­there is a need to take up arms . . . ​this contradicts one’s own beliefs. To be in a po­liti­cal organ­ization ­isn’t such a big deal u­ ntil the moment arrives, and they say you have to prepare yourself militarily: “We are ­going to give you a gun to assem­ble and disassemble.” “This gun,” one says, “for what am I ­going to use it?” One has the idea that it’s for killing, but also the idea that it is for defense. Th ­ ose two ideas join together into one in the conscience. Several compañeros vacillated ­there. Some even ­stopped attending the meetings.

But even t­ hose who ceased attending refrained from informing the authorities ­because they, too, w ­ ere conscious of poverty and repression. On the other hand, some ­people did warn o­ thers, telling a friend or acquaintance to “be careful around so-­and-so [­because] they are looking for more ­people to get involved in the organ­ization.” Fabio also stated that “with regard to the armed strug­gle, ­there was a lot of ner­vous­ness, and some ­were cowards. Better that they . . . ​do nothing, leave it at that. That was the case of Jaime Romero.31 In El Castaño they explained all t­ hese t­ hings to him. But when it came time to or­ga­nize, he d­ idn’t participate. Candelario Mejía was another coward who [was] filled up with fear and trepidation and wound up collaborating another way. Such cases existed.” From the time they left the meeting with Arce, they divided up the work, recruiting in the area in which they lived and worked. Initially they sought to recruit one or two ­people each. For instance, Tercisio Velázquez recruited Bruno Caballero, Ernesto Amaya, and “Melo,” one being his son-­in-­law, another a neighbor. Fabio began to work around Meanguera and recruited Ramón Sánchez and Eleno Castro. Eleno Castro owned c­ attle, lands, good h ­ ouses, and a tailoring workshop, while Ramón Sánchez was a landless day laborer. Fabio also recruited his brother-­in-­law, Camilo Chicas. L ­ ater Tercisio traveled to San Salvador to serve as a point of contact between Rafael Arce Zablah and the catechists (and o­ thers) in northern Morazán. They created “military committees” (comités militares), formed of ­people engaged in military training and (­later) the use of arms. To grow ­these committees, each member was tasked with recruiting four more ­people from his or her community. They did not, however, take steps to form the po­liti­cal or mass organ­ization named Peasant Leagues in the Planes de Renderos meeting with Arce and other members of the ERP leadership. Unlike the FPL, the RN (formed in 1975 following a split from the ERP), or the PRTC, the ERP ­adopted the po­liti­cal line that the Salvadoran masses ­were subjectively prepared for revolution and only awaited an insurrection to unite with the guerrillas and overthrow the state (Allison and

72 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

Álvarez 2012, 92–94). The ERP did not form a real mass organ­ization ­until 1977, when it created the LP-28 (see chapter 4). At this point we can speak of the transformation of many catechists from popu­lar intellectuals into insurgent intellectuals, subject now to military discipline. (That discipline would become more stringent ­after the formation of guerrilla camps in 1979 and 1980 and the subsequent arrival of ERP heavyweights like Joaquín Villalobos, Jorge Meléndez, and o­ thers from the capital.) An FMLN pamphlet, Revolutionary Military Discipline, disseminated in mimeograph form and archived in Perquín’s Museum of the Salvadoran Revolution, laid out what this discipline involved: Military discipline “is vertical” and e­ very unit has a leader [ jefe]: This means that the leader is in charge of decisions for the entire unit and the rest [of the members of the unit] are charged with executing t­ hese decisions. . . . ​Military discipline derives from the princi­ple that o­ rders are not to be discussed, which ensures that the plans and decisions of the commander are carried out in practice without vacillations, in an energetic and efficient manner, which enables all members of the unit to act as a single body directed by a single head, who is the chief. (FMLN n.d.)

Fewer than eigh­teen months had passed since the meeting at Planes de Renderos when Rafael Arce Zablah died during an ERP armed assault on a National Guard post in Villa del Carmen, La Unión on 26 September 1975 (Medrano and Raudales 1994, 1–6; Medrano 2006, 77–95). By then Miguel Ventura had been reassigned to Osicala, south of the Torola River. Thereafter Juan Ramón Medrano (“Balta”) and Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Luis” or “Chele Cesar”) took charge of linking the leadership in the capital with the embryonic guerrilla movement in northern Morazán. Fabio’s narrative focused on Chele Cesar, who, sponsored by “Pedro” (Tercisio Velázquez), began to arrive in northern Morazán to train the dif­fer­ent military committees. Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Cesar”) was born in Tres Calles, Usulután. As a young man, he entered the National Police with the expectation of continuing his studies, cut short by his f­ amily’s poverty. When his hopes for additional education led nowhere, he became disenchanted with the police and quit, and soon thereafter was radicalized by a ­union or­ga­nizer, who smoothed his entry into the nascent ERP. Many ex-­combatants knew him as a man of ­great valor and intelligence who carried out solitary operations against army patrols. He was one of the very few ex-­combatants I met who entered the war at the beginning and emerged intact without having been touched by a bullet, piece of shrapnel, or mine fragment.32 Tall, large-­framed, and light-­skinned (a chele in Salvadoran Spanish), he sometimes wore a sombrero and carried a lasso when visiting northern Morazán, passing himself off as a c­ attle merchant. Fabio recalled “Chele Cesar” as follows:

Po­liti­cal Incorporation, 1974–1977 • 73

I remember that he would go around the edge of the town of Meanguera with care. A compañero always waited in a certain place to receive him. But that compañero d­ idn’t walk with him but at a distance. He [Chele Cesar] would go ­behind and the other ahead ­because suddenly the National Guard would cross by in the streets. They had to be careful. The ­house where the meetings took place was located in the El Pajarito settlement. That was where “Altagracia” and Santos Méndez lived, and they gave it the name Casa de Pablito [­little Paul’s ­house]. That was the safe ­house to which Chele Cesar arrived and where he slept, ate, and hid during the day so l­ ater at night he could attend to the dif­fer­ent places for which he was responsible.

Fabio judged that Chele Cesar was “the man who r­ eally sweated to prepare all ­those p­ eople from t­ hese l­ ittle collectives.” At that point, prob­ably sometime in 1976 by my estimate, Fabio recalled that it became necessary to separate religious work and po­liti­cal work. P ­ eople like Tercisio, who continued to work openly, specialized in Christian work. Fabio also continued with his religious work, though he had a substitute “who would be in direct contact with military preparation and work.” He explained that “we w ­ ere the military committee organizers, so when a trained person came, we would tell the person responsible for that zone, ‘Look, I have so many ­people in such-­and-­ such a place, so-­and-so and so-­and-so. Go attend to them.’ We d­ idn’t want to leave Christian work to involve ourselves solely in po­liti­cal work.” Fabio’s discussion of early peasant organ­izing in northern Morazán and the transition from religious m ­ atters to more strictly po­liti­cal ones has implications for a long-­standing dispute about the Latin American masses and revolution. A romantic left glorification of the revolutionary potential of Central American peasants in the 1980s gave way in the postwar 1990s to a revisionist history that portrayed them as having been duped by an educated, m ­ iddle class, urban, leftist intelligent­ sia. Testimonial lit­er­a­ture and its evaluation by anthropologists and literary critics came to be wielded as source of support or object of criticism for one of ­these positions and the veracity or truth-­bearing potential of testimonio (testimonial lit­er­a­ ture) was evaluated accordingly (Binford 2012; see Gugleberger 1996).33 ­Here I am thinking particularly of the initial, warm reception of I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian ­Woman in Guatemala (Burgos-­Debray 1984) and the ­later torrent of writing that followed David Stoll’s (1998) effort to discredit both Menchú and the Guatemalan Guerrilla Army of the Poor (Ejército Guerrillero de los Pobres) with which she had affiliated. Based on her experience, Menchú portrayed Mayan Indians as victims of economic exploitation and state repression. Stoll represented both Mayans in general and Menchú in par­tic­u­lar as dupes of urban-­based ladino intellectuals, thus preserving their primitive simplicity. According to Stoll, Mayan Indians joined Guatemala’s Guerrilla Army of the Poor ­either ­because they ­were forced to do so (caught “between two armies”) or ­because they ­were

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overly credulous in believing the urban revolutionaries’ promises of quick victory and a rosy ­future. This is not the place to list the methodological shortcomings of Stoll’s work or the factual errors he committed, which have been amply documented elsewhere (for a sampling, see Grandin 2011, 8–19; Arias 2007, 85–162; Binford 2001; also see the compilation of articles in Arias 2001). Prob­ably the main revisionist work thus far on El Salvador has been Yves Grenier’s The Emergence of Insurgency in El Salvador: Ideology and Po­liti­cal W ­ ill (1999). Grenier’s understanding of Central American revolution converged with Stoll’s in his vision of the revolutionary war as the product of a small core of middle-­class urban revolutionaries with ­limited support in the countryside who benefited from substantial material assistance from Cuba and Nicaragua. Grenier minimized the role of liberation theology in raising consciousness in rural areas and dismissed claims that peasants willingly joined the rebels or that they might have played key leadership roles at the regional level. His urban bias and weak grasp of Salvadoran geography became apparent when he placed El Mozote, the site of the largest single massacre in modern Latin American history, in the northwestern department of Chalatenango rather than the northeastern department of Morazán! Then, in a lengthy chapter on the Catholic Church, he failed even to mention the numerous peasant training centers that educated thousands of rural catechists in the fundamentals of liberation theology, apparently unaware of Anna Peterson’s assessment in which she sustained that the training centers w ­ ere “prob­ably the most impor­tant ele­ment of the popu­lar church in El Salvador” (1997, 55–56; emphasis added).34 As Fabio discusses for northern Morazán, the spread of CEBs outside the archdiocese of San Salvador was a collaborative proj­ect that involved ­those who or­ga­nized and imparted courses in the training centers, parish priests, and peasants (local, popu­lar intellectuals). Grenier displays disdain for the knowledge, analytical skills, and practical decision-­making abilities of rural peasants and workers. He seems to presume that if rural folk and urban folk engage in po­liti­cal relationships oriented ­toward regime change, then middle-­class urban revolutionaries must be pulling the strings, manipulating the former in ways that lead them to undertake actions that they would other­wise have forgone and that may be contrary to their interest.35 Fabio offered an alternative to this simplistic explanation. ­After all, who sought out whom? He stated clearly that growing surveillance of church meetings in northern Morazán in tandem with state repression elsewhere led catechists to “think about what to do, how to or­ga­nize.” He even claimed at one point that they sought out Rafael Arce Zablah “­because we ­were feeling the repression and we had to or­ga­nize to protect ourselves, to defend ourselves. We saw that ­there was no other solution” (emphasis added).36 Something similar took place in the Western Highlands of Guatemala during the same period (Arias 1990; Arias 2007, 107, 119–120). Fabio Argueta and ­others could have put aside their Christian organ­izing, renounced the tenets of liberation theology and its “dignity of the poor” message,

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and returned to Fr. Argueta’s fold, seeking the protection of the traditional church. Many catechists never left that fold, ­others flirted with but did not commit to the new theology and practice, and some left the traditional church only to return l­ ater. But catechists such as Fabio Argueta, Andrés Barrera, Samuel Vidal Guzmán, Tercisio Velázquez, and many o­ thers ­were ­eager for systemic change and wagered that Rafael Arce Zablah was correct in his assessment that blood would be the price of victory. At the time, neither they nor the revolutionary leadership, which did indeed coalesce in urban areas, could have predicted that the war would last as long, cost as many lives, and result in as much destruction as it did. No one believed that the United States would pour six billion dollars into a country roughly the size of Mas­sa­chu­setts in order to prevent an FMLN victory. And no one, at least at the beginning of the war, foresaw that the fighting would last twelve years and terminate in a UN-­brokered peace accord that would leave the distribution of wealth practically untouched (see Binford 2020; Crandall 2016; Grandin 2006).

The Death of Juan Ramón Sánchez In November 1977, Juan Ramón Sánchez became the first northern Morazanian catechist casualty, well ­after the repression had intensified in San Salvador, Chalatenango, San Vicente, and other areas of the center and west of the country. Known as “El Moreno” b­ ecause of his dark skin, Sánchez came from one of the poorest families in Soledad, Meanguera. B ­ ecause he was landless, he worked as a day laborer for o­ thers, including Fabio, whom he assisted in cultivating and pro­cessing mescal.37 In the dry, winter months he traveled to plantations in coastal Usulután, earning money working the cotton harvest. Sometime around 1973 or 1974—­after Miguel Ventura had taken up residence in Torola—­Sánchez attended Los Naranjos Center with Fr. Argueta’s support; it seems that he took courses in El Castaño as well, by which time he was already celebrating the Word. But then he got politicized. Fabio considered that “the only ­thing that caused him to awaken to the poverty and misery that existed in this country was his experience g­oing from plantation to plantation in the cotton, sugar, and coffee harvests. He saw how they cheated ­people, how they fed ­people, how the foremen treated workers. He was very aware of the poverty and was conscientious b­ ecause he was also born to a very poor f­ amily that lived from the ‘ jornal,’ as they said of the day laborer, t­ hose who sell their ­labor during the day and are paid a small salary in the eve­ning.” From Christian organ­izing, Sánchez was recruited early on into the military committees, where he demonstrated “an enormous capacity for work.” Despite his young age (“no more than twenty-­one years old”), he was “an ERP professional” who came to be head of the entire region: “In education, in discipline, in military preparation, none of us was equal to him. Not even Bruno Caballero, the person in charge, had that man’s qualities of honor, honesty, discipline, [and] skill at military preparation.”

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In dramatic fashion Fabio reconstructed the events of Ramón Sánchez’s death on 3 November 1977, based on eyewitness accounts and prob­ably embroidered by his own imagination. (Fabio was not pre­sent.) He explained that commandos from the San Francisco Gotera barracks w ­ ere carry­ing out a military maneuver, one aspect of which involved stopping buses and searching the passengers for arms or incriminating material. Juan Ramón was in a bus headed south for a meeting in the Río Seco region near San Miguel and was carry­ing a 45-­caliber pistol. The commandos ordered all passengers to exit the bus with their hands raised, but Sánchez, doubtless aware of his predicament, remained in his seat. When he ­didn’t get off the bus, a cadet came, slapped him across the face and said [according to Fabio], “You idiot, why d­ on’t you get off the bus?” at which point Sánchez pulled out his weapon, told the cadet that “You ­don’t hit men like that” and shot him dead. . . . ​In the same moment, he shot at the man b­ ehind him—­ because another had circled b­ ehind—­and killed him too. A big shootout began. He also shot and killed one who was entering the front door. That’s three dead while just leaving the bus. Juan Ramón emerged rolling over-­and-­over and continued shooting. He wounded three ­others. Three commandos died including the cadet, and three o­ thers ­were wounded. So, he continued shooting out in the street. He had gone through three clips. He loaded the 45 again and continued shooting. A huge firefight resulted and the civilians w ­ ere terrified. Then one of the commandos climbed up the rail to the top of the bus ­because Juan was retreating by rolling down the street while he continued shooting. Every­one dispersed and t­ here appeared a cloud of haze from the bullets.

Just as Juan was about to cross a fence and escape, the commando on top of the bus shot him in the leg, preventing his continued withdrawal and sealing his fate. That is when they finished him off. B ­ ecause Juan Ramón Sánchez had at one time engaged in Christian work, the authorities proceeded against Miguel Ventura, Fabio, and other catechists. “At that moment,” in Fabio’s judgment, “­there was a rebellion, we could say, in Morazán.”38

Fabio’s Capture and Torture Sánchez died at roughly eleven in the morning on 3 November 1977. The same day the authorities proceeded to capture Fr. Miguel Ventura and confined him in the San Francisco Gotera convent. Fabio learned of Fr. Miguel’s capture when he returned from visiting La Unión, the capital of the department of the same name. On inquiring as to what had occurred, he was told that t­ here had been a firefight at the entrance to Osicala. He said that he went to the convent to see Fr. Miguel and found that he had been left ­there ­after having been threatened, beaten all over, and burned with lit cigarettes. Fabio left the convent about seven in the eve­ning headed to the h ­ ouse of local catechist Napoleón García. While

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passing the army barracks he was confronted by two individuals dressed in white, one of whom had a 45-­caliber pistol wrapped in a towel. That assailant thrust the pistol into his side and told him that he was being captured. They took him to the local National Guard post, tied him up by the hands and feet, and began interrogating him: “They asked me the names of all the p­ eople or­ga­nized in Morazán and what it was we ­were trying to do. They even had tape recordings of us, t­ hose that ORDEN had recorded in the ­earlier meetings.”39 Then came the torture to get the truth out—to see who had joined, who wanted nothing to do with us, who ­were our leaders. Then came the threats. They gave me one beating with a ­rifle butt that still shows h ­ ere. [Fabio lifted his shirt and pointed to an ugly round scar on his abdomen.] ­Here they gave me a hernia with the barrel of a G-3. They hit me many times, but this was the one that hurt me the most. It burst the tissue that covers the stomach, that protects it. I was operated on, but it’s always a prob­lem. The doctor told me that the same torture injured several areas and the hernia popped out again. That is, to resolve the prob­lem would involve a more difficult, a more complicated operation.

The following morning, 4 November, guardsmen transported him to the National Guard barracks in San Miguel. Th ­ ere he was blindfolded and driven to a bridge over the Lempa River (likely the Puente Cuscatlán), and once t­ here told that he would be thrown over if he failed to collaborate. He recollected the conversation as follows: “Do we kill you first or throw you over alive?” “What­ever you prefer,” I said to them. “Look, if you want to kill me, kill me however you want. But I’m not g­ oing to be asking any f­ avors of you and I’m absolutely not ­going to collaborate with you on anything.” Rather than kill Fabio ­there, his captors de­cided to torture him some more. They returned to the barracks, handcuffed him, tied him by the feet, and placed his head in a canvas bag. Then they transported him to the National Guard barracks in San Salvador and laid him on a metal bed frame from which the mattress had been removed, ­after which he was “tied up on ­every side.” Each time he fell asleep, his captors woke him with kicks. For twelve days they denied Fabio food and sleep and provided him with but a small amount of w ­ ater on one occasion. Fabio grew weak and dizzy, his head spun, and he wanted to vomit but could not b­ ecause his stomach was empty. During his imprisonment in San Salvador, his captors attached electric cables to dif­fer­ent parts of his head and feet and subjected him to electric shocks that “caused enormous jolts,” inducing his body to rise up and his arms to pull on the handcuffs. Fabio recalled that the interrogators played the good cop bad cop routine: “Work with us man! Look, if you have security prob­lems w ­ e’ll get you a ­house in Costa Rica. ­We’ll tell your ­family in Morazán so that you can go live peacefully in another country. ­We’ll give you a vehicle. ­We’ll give you money so that you can live a happy life. But stop what

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y­ ou’re ­doing. Collaborate with us in this way.” When Fabio refused the offer, ­others came and applied more torture. At one point, they stuck me with a very sharp knife. They took off my pants, my shirt and they cut me like that . . . ​­here I have some cuts. [He pointed to the areas where he had been cut.] So, they would put the knife on me and say, “Okay, are you ­going to talk, or a­ ren’t you? If you ­don’t talk w ­ e’re g­ oing to behead you.” They would pass the knife along my body and hold a mirror in front so I could see myself. “­Those priests ­aren’t ­going to save you. ­Those guerrillas a­ ren’t g­ oing to save you. T ­ oday ­you’re headed for death. Take a look at yourself,” they would say. Obviously when they make a ­little cut, blood streams down and you fill up with fear. They ­weren’t very big cuts . . . ​they w ­ ere cuts just to make me bleed. I could see myself in the mirror. They caused dread and filled me with apprehension. But we had been prepared in the Christian sense about the strug­gle for the poor. We ­were ­going to die for the poor, but I w ­ asn’t g­ oing to deliver anybody to his death just to please them.

Fabio thought that he was ­going to be killed but was determined not to implicate ­others, believing (and with good reason) that to do so “would have resulted in the deaths of hundreds of compañeros t­ here in Morazán.” Meanwhile, unbeknownst to Fabio, ­people involved in Christian work in San Salvador, La Unión, Morazán, and elsewhere had assembled in Osicala for the first time u­ nder the banner of the ERP’s mass organ­ization (see chapter 4), now called the 28 February Popu­lar Leagues (LP-28), to protest Fr. Miguel Ventura’s capture. At that time the government had not taken responsibility for Fabio’s apprehension, and many p­ eople believed that he had been dis­appeared. However, ­people in San Francisco Gotera who had observed the abduction soon spread the news that he was being held prisoner by commandos from the army base, the Fourth Military Detachment, referred to regionally as the DM-4. Thus the National Guard moved as quickly as pos­si­ble to transport him to the capital “to show p­ eople that nothing had occurred.” Nonetheless, public pressure led the government to f­ ree him on 23 November, nineteen days a­ fter his capture. Through the intervention of Archbishop Romero, Fr. Miguel was released in San Francisco Gotera on 5 November a­ fter “only” one day of physical and one day of psychological torture (Notimex 1991).40 Despite the fact that Fabio eschewed alcohol, the authorities insisted that he had been involved in “drunken scandals.” According to Fabio, “that’s how it ended. But they knocked me around pretty good.”

To Clandestinity From that day, ­people in the organ­ization expressed concern that ­there could be an in­for­mant in their midst, but it was l­ ater determined that in Fabio’s case no one had given information to the authorities. ­After he gained his freedom, Fabio returned to

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northern Morazán, and former catechist Ernesto Amaya asked him how he felt. Fabio responded that he was “more indignant than before ­because of all the torture I received; the mistreatment I received is proof of how criminal and murderous ­these Gotera commandos and [National] Guards are.” When asked by Ernesto how he proposed to show his indignation, Fabio responded that he wanted to tell the public every­thing he had suffered. They or­ga­nized a public event for a Sunday (­either 27 November or 4 December 1977) in the Jocoaitique plaza.41 From the date of that meeting, Fabio devoted himself to organ­izing work, “though now a bit clandestinely.” Many other catechists went under­ground as well, if they did not flee northern Morazán for major cities or leave the country. For his part, Miguel Ventura departed El Salvador in December 1977 on the advice of Archbishop Romero. Progressive religious activity in northern Morazán stagnated as the war took pre­ce­ dence, despite the arrival from the capital of Fr. Rogelio Ponseele in 1981. Religious work began a recovery following Ventura’s clandestine return in mid-­April 1982.42 Holding an antigovernment po­liti­cal meeting in public in the Jocoaitique plaza constituted a bold and extremely dangerous move on the part of the nascent political-­ military movement in northern Morazán. Jocoaitique contained a National Guard post commanded by the notorious Sergeant Gabino Mata, described by Fabio as “one of the most repressive and murderous sergeants in the eastern zone” (see figure 3.2).43 National Guard troops ­were nearby when the meeting took place, but even so, Fabio recalled that he “let loose with a discourse that filled the plaza with p­ eople,” hitting the p­ eople “with every­thing I could remember. . . . ​More than anything, we let them know about the informers, the p­ eople who had been controlling all the meetings we held and had supplied the authorities with information.” Fabio explained that at the time he was captured, the ERP in Morazán was attempting to or­ga­nize regional commissions. They did not expect such heavy repression and thought that “they [the government] would give us time to make ourselves known to the public, to incorporate the majority of the p­ eople.” According to Fabio, we always knew we w ­ ere g­ oing to suffer repression but we thought that it was ­going to occur at another time a­ fter we had achieved sufficient organ­ization and more consolidation of the ­people. It was g­ oing to allow for greater development ­because we w ­ ere g­ oing to extend Christian and po­liti­cal work more rapidly. We perceived the huge possibilities that Christian work provided us for building a large po­liti­cal mass organ­ization. Our idea was to incorporate ­people from the city of Gotera and draw near to San Miguel. We already had military and po­liti­cal work, it was just a m ­ atter of extending it.

The “accident”—­though he also referred to the event as a “­mistake” and “a security failure”—in Osicala with the shootout between Gotera commandos and Juan Ramón Sánchez disrupted this pro­cess. Without defining it as such, the religious and po­liti­cal work that Fabio and ­others undertook bore many similarities to Gramsci’s conception of prefigurative strug­gle pursued via a war of position.

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FIGURE 3.2  ​Postwar exhumation in Jocoaitique of the remains of p ­ eople likely killed by

National Guard troops u­ nder the command of Sergeant Gabino Mata. Sergeant Mata commanded troops stationed both in Perquín and Jocoaitique. (Photo by the author)

Without using the same language as Fabio, we might state that Fabio’s hope was that progressive Chris­tian­ity might spread sufficiently to undermine the weak hegemony exercised through the church and other institutions, both in Morazán and other areas of the East. I take up the m ­ atter again in the conclusion. Fabio explained how ­people such as Dora Amaya (Sergeant Mata’s spouse) and select commandos in the Gotera barracks identified with the aims of catechists and revolutionaries in their call for p­ eople to “join together to change the government and the murderous army so they would re­spect h ­ uman rights and the

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civilian population.” Also, he recalled how ­children from rural areas studying in Gotera and who ate and slept in Mata’s ­house when school was in session informed Fabio—­who continued po­liti­cal organ­izing but avoided his h ­ ouse in Meanguera—­about Mata’s plans to set ambushes to kill or capture him. He [Mata] would set them [ambushes] up in the ravines, the paths, and the roads near the ­house where I lived. And I would know from t­ hose who ­were studying and who lived in Dorita’s h ­ ouse. P ­ eople also informed me about where the [National] Guard was moving, where they ­were, where they saw them. That allowed me to protect myself and not get killed, b­ ecause Sergeant Gabino Mata would say, “What we are g­ oing to do is kill him [Fabio] secretly. ­We’ll do it quietly in some place t­ here in the bushes when he goes among the hardwood trees.” In the community of Segundo Montes ­there is a place called Los Amatones full of large trees. The Guard kept watch t­ here for a long time, setting ambushes to kill me ­because they knew that I passed by, but I never fell.

Dora Amaya sympathized with the revolutionaries and eventually joined the movement—­without her husband’s knowledge of course—­putting her nursing skills to work treating ERP militants injured accidently when fabricating or transporting contact bombs. Sergeant Mata suspected that she sympathized with the revolutionary movement, and the National Guard killed both Dora and her ­father around 1979 or 1980.44 Fabio quit sleeping in his ­house and avoided capture, assisted by information supplied by his network of in­for­mants. On one occasion he arrived home just as the sun was rising. Catalina had made him a plate of food and some of the ­children ­were eating breakfast. A wire fence surrounded the h ­ ouse, and as one of the wires began to squeak, his eldest child cried out, “Papá, the commandos!” The soldiers had arrived early hoping to catch Fabio with his guard down. I only had a contact bomb . . . ​a l­ ittle ball the size of this lime. [Fabio pointed to a lime on the kitchen ­table.] I had it to at least surprise them so they would get confused and I would be able to flee. Then I saw the i­ diots surrounding the ­house. They started firing at me with a machine gun. The ­house had a high dirt lift [levante de tierra alto] in front of the corridor and I threw the contact bomb at a commando. Down below t­ here ­were some carob trees and t­ here was machine-­g un fire over h ­ ere, machine-­g un fire over t­ here. . . . ​­There was a white foundation u­ nder the h ­ ouse and I remember that the shots lifted up bits of earth and dust. They c­ ouldn’t reach me. I went down a clearing. Then I took a ravine up and went up the hill. They thought that I had followed the clearing below, but I was up t­ here calmly watching them u­ ntil they left. Then I went back to the h ­ ouse to eat my plate of food.

Before the commandos left, they threatened to kill Fabio’s wife and ­children. They told them that he ­wasn’t ­really poor ­because he had ­cattle and a ­house, and

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that they would understand better what he was ­doing if he had been living in a small, straw h ­ ouse. They asked his wife how she could have gotten involved in all this. “To defend herself, my wife had to say, ‘­Those are his concerns. I d­ on’t tell him what to do . . . ​that’s what he wants.’ So, my wife had to figure out a way to protect herself so that they w ­ ouldn’t kill her. They told her that she should make me reflect, yell at me, and tell me that I ­wasn’t poor like other poor ­people, and that next time they ­were ­going to turn every­one in the ­house into dust.” He estimated that they machine-­g unned the ­house three times, but nothing happened to him or his ­family. But he had to give up pastoral work completely. Fr. Miguel had left the region (and the country) following his release ­because he no longer had Bishop Álvarez’s support. And Fabio also realized that in practicing openly the catechists would be easy prey for the ORDEN paramilitary, which had grown stronger in Morazán: “­Those who worked with ORDEN spent all their time spying on the Alcoholics Anonymous centers, the priests’ masses, religious cele­brations that we held, our meetings, what ­people in the population ­were saying. All that information got concentrated in the Gotera barracks in the hands of Col­o­nel Benavides. If we continued to work publicly they ­were g­ oing to kill us.” When Fabio began to discuss his torture, the timbre of his voice changed; he spoke with conviction, as though giving testimony for the first time, as though I, too, had to be as convinced as he was about what he had experienced. He pulled up his shirt and pointed to his scars, particularly the large circular one on his abdomen where a guardsman had struck him with a r­ ifle, and the incision made by the doctor who tried, unsuccessfully it turns out, to repair the resulting hernia. The electric shocks left no enduring physical traces, nor did the knife pricks from which flowed small rivulets of blood, which a beaten and starved Fabio, held erect by his captors, was forced to observe in a mirror. Torture was not novel in twentieth-­century El Salvador. In a classic work of po­liti­cal testimony, Miguel Marmol described how during the first de­cades of the c­ entury, National Guard troops delighted in beating confessions out of ­people unjustly accused of crimes. Marmol recollected that a Col­o­nel Flores explained to him that “life was like that, that sometimes honest, decent ­people paid for the sins of evil p­ eople, and that it was all a m ­ atter of ­orders from above and following normal procedures” (Dalton 1987, 70). To hear Marmol tell it, though, po­liti­cal prisoners, of whom ­there ­were plenty in El Salvador, even at that early stage of the strug­g le, w ­ ere treated with much more re­spect than thieves and drunks. This ended with the 1932 peasant rebellion, when the military u­ nder theosophist General Maximiliano Hernández Martínez and rural guards or­ga­nized by plantation o­ wners responded to a hundred deaths inflicted by angry but poorly armed (and worse fed), mostly indigenous peasants by killing over ten thousand ­people (Gould and Lauria-­Santiago 2008).

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From that point onward, the government tightened the screws. It banned rural organ­izing and set up a rural police force composed of local conscripts u­ nder the command of low-­ranking military officials posted in most municipal (county) seats, the so-­called cantonal patrols in which all former soldiers w ­ ere required to participate following their obligatory ser­vice. ­A fter the Second World War and the growing East-­West schism, the Salvadoran army mandated that all fourth-­year students in its General Barrios School receive a field course at the U.S. government’s School of the Amer­i­cas in the Panama Canal Zone. It is quite likely that some students learned about interrogation techniques following what Timothy Wickham-­Crowley (1992) called the “first wave” of Latin American revolutions (1956–1970) that took place in Cuba, Bolivia, and Guatemala. Fabio was fortunate to have survived and to have been released. Jorge Cáceres Prendes wrote that “February 1977 closed the curtain on an entire period in Salvadoran po­liti­cal history as it became clear that ‘­legal’ po­liti­cal channels had been precluded by fraud and by the indiscriminate escalation of repression” (1989, 121). On 28 February of that year, the Salvadoran National Guard opened fire on peaceful demonstrators who had occupied the capital city’s Plaza Libertad to protest electoral corruption in the presidential contest presumably won by General Carlos Humberto Romero of the PCN. The death toll has been estimated at 100, with another 200 wounded and 500 arrested (Berryman 1984, 121–122). Less than two weeks ­later (12 March 1977), unknown assassins murdered Fr. Rutilio Grande and two passengers in his jeep en route to El Paisnal in the department of San Salvador. Arguably, Grande’s death contributed to the “radicalization” of Oscar Arnulfo Romero, who had replaced Luis Chavez y González as archbishop a few weeks ­earlier and who would himself be shot to death while saying mass on 24 March 1980. Following Grande’s murder, government forces and right-­wing death squads linked to them engaged in tit-­for-­tat vio­lence with groups of urban leftists that eventually formed the FMLN in October of the same year. In April, the FPL kidnapped Foreign Minister Mauricio Borgonovo and offered to exchange him for the release of thirty-­seven po­liti­cal prisoners. The government refused to negotiate, and the revolutionaries killed Borgonovo, whose body was found on 10 May 1980. The next day four men entered a parish ­house in the capital city’s Miramonte neighborhood and shot to death Fr. Alfonso Navarro and a small boy. In mid-­May, a government sweep of the Aguilares area over which Grande had presided resulted in somewhere between seven and fifty dead, hundreds arrested, and countless o­ thers dis­ appeared. Limiting his tally to priests, Philip Berryman wrote, “In the five months prior to General Carlos Humberto Romero’s inauguration as president on July 1, 1977, two priests had been killed, two tortured, one beaten, two jailed, four threatened with death, eight expelled, and seven refused reentry to the country” (1984, 128). By the end of the war, sixteen priests, a deacon, five nuns, one lay missionary, and countless catechists had been murdered by the army, police forces, paramilitaries, and death squads.45

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Had Fabio been captured in 1979 or, worse still, in 1980 or 1981, he surely would have been dis­appeared (i.e., killed in secret). Despite the presence of a serious threat to the Somoza dictatorship in nearby Nicaragua and ongoing, albeit low-­level, conflict in neighboring Guatemala, as of 1977 rebels in El Salvador w ­ ere small in number, mostly urban-­based, and engaged mainly in building up revolutionary war chests via bank robberies and ransoms paid by wealthy families for the return of kidnapped loved ones. They ­limited face-­to-­face confrontations with the army, National Police, Trea­sury Police, and National Guard. Fabio’s survival chances might also have been enhanced by the fact that he was grabbed in a public place subject to the gaze of onlookers. A few years l­ ater, the site and circumstances of abduction would become irrelevant despite the government’s concern with its image before international ­human rights watchdogs and, more importantly, the U.S. administration of the liberal Demo­crat and h ­ uman rights advocate, President Jimmy Car­ter. I find Fabio’s post-­torture reaction particularly in­ter­est­ing. He stated on two occasions that he had been “indignant,” and had wanted to testify publicly about his brutalization. Few p­ eople captured, tortured, and released opted to denounce the authorities publicly. But d­ oing so must have gone a considerable way to convince his rebel colleagues that he had not revealed the names of confederates or shared other sensitive information while in custody. By the early 1980s, if not before, ­those who returned to their units following capture, torture, and imprisonment lived u­ nder a cloud of suspicion that they had been “turned” by the ­enemy. (Sometimes they had been.) Their superiors often assigned them to routine and mundane tasks that did not threaten security and put them u­ nder close surveillance for any sign of collusion with the FAES. By late 1980, urban repression had become so strong that public marches and demonstrations became impossible, something Fabio notes ­later. By then the rebels had all but left the cities, and the war, now in full swing, shifted to the countryside. It is notable that Fabio narrated himself in the “heroic” mode. By his account, he displayed enormous personal fortitude while in the clutches of ­those in power, as well as wile and cunning following his liberation and entrance into clandestine life. Fabio explained how his Christian faith helped steel him against revealing party secrets while ­under torture and enabled him to reject offers of money and ­family relocation in exchange for collaborating with the ­enemy. He always expected to die for his beliefs, a very Catholic (in El Salvador) martyrdom that connects sacred history with current history and defines death as the price of social change (see Peterson 1997 for extended discussion). But Fabio also acknowledged his dependence on o­ thers. He credited public pressure for his liberation, and noted how l­ ater, as he entered clandestine life, information about ­enemy plans and movements passed along by a number of courageous p­ eople enabled him to avoid e­ nemy traps and ambushes. He “shared” the heroism, too, with Juan Ramón Sánchez, Dora Amaya, and o­ thers whose bad luck or miscalculations ended in death.

4

The Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero, 1977–1980

As war approached and neutrality became ever more difficult, conflicts within families intensified and often led to break-­ups. This chapter first addresses conflicts in Fabio’s h ­ ouse­hold then turns to a discussion of the LP-28; it concludes with a description of catechists’ roles as insurgent intellectuals in the revolutionary war and the ERP’s approach to maintaining discipline in northern Morazán. Around the time that Fabio became involved in po­liti­cal work on behalf of the ERP, an “internal prob­lem,” as he put it, emerged within his f­ amily. His ­father, in chronically poor health from Fabio’s youth, died in the early to mid1970s, and Francisca Amaya, his m ­ other, remarried. However, the relationship lasted but a short time before Fabio’s pedrasto (stepfather) left and became romantically involved with the ­sister of Catalina, Fabio’s spouse, a ­woman doubtless much younger than Francisca. According to Fabio, his in-­laws directed venomous critiques against his ­mother in an apparent effort to create friction between Fabio and Catalina. He recounted that “one of the worst ­things the ­woman said about my ­mother was ‘that w ­ oman is an old witch, who cast a spell on my ­daughter so that she would marry Fabio.’ And she said it to my ­children too.” He approached his mother-­in-­law and asked her ­whether she was aware that she was putting ideas in the heads of his c­ hildren to turn them against him and Francisca (the ­children’s grand­mother). “She got so angry,” he said, “that she told me to kill her, since I had weapons.” He became depressed and recalled saying, apparently to himself, “ ‘so many years that I have been giving sermons, and ­these 85

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p­ eople have been investigating me and my ­mother, not trusting the relationship I established ­here. What is this?’ This truly surprised me. I had lived a long time and never realized that the ­woman [the mother-­in-­law] had been carry­ing out a series of investigations . . . ​and me ignoring it all.” Fabio judged that “they alone w ­ ere to blame for the prob­lem.” When asked, his mother-­in-­law admitted that she approved of the relationship between her ­daughter and his (Fabio’s) stepfather. Then he went to talk to Catalina, “Look, what is the prob­lem? We have lived [together] such a long time, and I never realized what was ­going on.” He said that, “She got angry at me, as if something had come unhinged. And I said to her, ‘Geez! Your f­ amily is filling my c­ hildren’s heads with false ideas and that’s not right. The prob­lem is that they are talking bad about my m ­ other. I have a responsibility to my m ­ other first. Moreover, that man is now with your s­ ister, true, but it’s tearing us apart as well.’ ” From that point ­things began to deteriorate farther within the f­ amily. I no longer felt good about my wife b­ ecause she believed that my m ­ other had injured her ­family. . . . ​Despite every­thing, I thought about my kids. . . . ​I thought about the f­ amily. And I had the burden of all the obligations I mentioned e­ arlier. I no longer felt, well, much love t­ owards my wife upon seeing, for example, what she expressed regarding the relationship she had built up with me. I said [to myself], “Geez, it came out that they said they d­ idn’t want me to marry into that f­ amily.” All this tran­spired in 1978, ’79 . . . ​in ­those years.

By that time Fabio had survived capture and torture at the hands of government military and security forces and had embarked on a life of clandestinity. By his own account he arrived at his ­house in canton Sociedad, Meanguera, only once or twice a month, though he acknowledged that the entire f­ amily, including Catalina, was involved in orga­nizational work on behalf of the ERP. Yet Catalina, preoccupied with the lives of her husband and ­children, wanted to leave El Salvador for another country. Fabio said that he “thought seriously about leaving town, but the idea was very painful for me . . . ​for me to do so would be like betraying the princi­ples with which I had been working for many years. Also, I never let myself be led by what my wife said. With every­thing that had happened, I ­didn’t think it would be a good idea.” ­ ere Fabio provides insight into the stress that clandestine participation in polH itics placed on ­family life. When the guerrilla camps formed in 1980, Catalina and the c­ hildren left northern Morazán for a refugee camp in Colomoncagua, Honduras, where they lived u­ ntil the camp dissolved in 1989 and camp residents returned to El Salvador. (In chapter 6, Fabio narrates how he, too, arrived to Colomoncagua in 1988.) U ­ ntil then Fabio remained in northern Morazán, where the ERP leadership assigned him and some other catechists to work po­liti­cally with combatants and civilians. His retrospective assessment made it clear that

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the marriage was in trou­ble before Catalina’s departure, but the prolonged separation finalized the ­family breakup. War and spousal separation—­not to speak of battlefield deaths—­resulted in the termination of many marriages and partnerships. Death and long-­term separation, and the needs that male and female combatants—­who might die from one moment or day to the next—­had for companionship, sealed the fate of many relationships. In one, perhaps extreme, case, Olga was in the Colomoncagua camp when she was erroneously told that her husband Rufino, an ERP po­liti­cal activist, had died fighting. She took up with another man with whom she had several ­children before the relationship disintegrated. Only a­ fter the war ended did Olga discover that Rufino had survived. This par­tic­u­lar episode ended happily though, as the ­couple re­united, Rufino welcomed the c­ hildren, and they renewed their wedding vows in an Easter Day ceremony (that I attended) presided over by Fr. Miguel Ventura and Fr. Rogelio Ponseele in April 1994.1 Fabio’s case was obviously dif­fer­ent. He volunteered ­little information about Catalina, his first spouse. Allow me to expand on the rec­ord. Catalina Chicas Guevara, born in 1944, was sixty-­eight years old when I visited her small but tidy home a short distance from the Youth Center in Quebrachos, Jocoaitique, on 29 June 2012 (see figure 4.1). Catalina explained that she had been eigh­teen and Fabio twenty when they married, and that they had spent the years between 1962 and 1966 living with his parents before he established his in­de­pen­dence from them, which is to say constructed a h ­ ouse for the ­couple. U ­ ntil Fabio went to El Castaño, he worked hard to support the ­house­hold. Afterward, though, he dedicated most of his time to traveling around to religious (and ­later po­liti­cal) meetings, leaving Catalina to manage their 14 manzanas (9.8 hectares [24.2 acres]) of land and the hired p­ eople who worked it on their behalf. ­Whether out of spousal dedication, her own growing po­liti­cal consciousness, or—­and this seems the most likely explanation—­a combination of the two, she did all she could to support him in his activities: managing the farm, producing revolutionary propaganda, and even hiding contact bombs in the ­house. When the National Guard showed up looking for Fabio, Catalina told them that she had not seen him and that this or that child was the result of a liaison with a soldier. Following his capture in 1977, on which he discoursed at length in chapter 3, Catalina traveled around the country, demanding to know why he was being held, stating that he had done nothing more than “eat pupusas” (a colloquial profession of innocence, equivalent to “mind his own business”), and that ­there was nothing wrong with that. Fi­nally, she negotiated with a judge in order to reduce the fine (or, more likely, bribe) that she had to pay in order to ­free him. Fabio failed to mention ­these actions when he spoke of her.2 Catalina gave birth to seven c­ hildren with Fabio, two of whom died in the war, fighting on the side of the FMLN. And yet, while Fabio expressed pride in the accomplishments of the c­ hildren he had with her, he hardly acknowledged their m ­ other. It is as though with the war, f­ amily conflict, Catalina’s (and the

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FIGURE 4.1  ​Catalina Chicas Guevara seated in her home in Quebrachos, 2012. She had seven

or eight ­children with Fabio Argueta. (Photo by the author)

c­ hildren’s) move to the refugee camp, and his relationship with the much younger Rosa (see below), Fabio closed the book on his marriage.3

From the LP-28 to Open Warfare In 1978, Fabio began to work with the LP-28, the mass organ­ization created by the ERP to provide an or­ga­nized medium through which Salvadorans not

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committed to armed strug­gle might protest government actions. Mass organ­ izations ­were above­ground front groups for the militarized Left that ­people joined for a broad range of moral, religious, and po­liti­cal reasons. The ERP had created one ­earlier—­the 30 April Peasant Leagues (Ligas Campesinas 30 de Abril)—­but the organ­ization seems never to have gotten off the ground, likely ­because of a lack of sustained support on the part of the rebel leadership.4 As Fabio noted, “the majority of the p­ eople in the Ligas Populares believed that the Ligas’s work was related more with Chris­tian­ity and was not so much a military question pertaining to the ERP.” Initially, however, the ERP preferred to focus on the clandestine organ­ization of military committees; the leadership executed a volte-­face when clandestinity posed obstacles to rapid growth. The LP-28, often referred to as “the Ligas,” enlarged the pool of potential recruits and provided a protest outlet for t­ hose disinclined to take up arms against the regime.5 However, participation in marches, demonstrations, and church, factory, and government office occupations in San Miguel, San Salvador, and other cities and towns revealed to rural peasants and workers in northern Morazán and elsewhere the widespread nature of dissatisfaction, which often led protesters to commit to armed strug­gle when they experienced the heavy hand of government repression (for examples, see Gould 2020, 47).6 Following his capture and torture in November  1977 and his eventual release, Fabio focused on under­ground po­liti­cal organ­izing. Once the LP-28 had been created (sometime in late 1977), he threw himself full bore into strengthening the organ­ization. Fabio and other organizers extended the work to Joateca on the eastern edge of northern Morazán and to Corinto, east of Joateca and south of the Torola River (see map 3 in chapter 2). As the repression grew stronger, many LP-28 participants joined the military wing of the ERP, swelling the size of the embryonic guerrilla army. Then Fabio’s (and ­others’) attention shifted to training ­people militarily: “train them [and] prepare them for the guerrilla camps, which w ­ ere or­ga­nized between 1979 and 1980.” On the other hand, Fabio considered that the LP-28 also “provided po­liti­cal cover for the military troops. If the authorities captured a person, for example, he might claim membership in the Ligas Populares . . . ​that served as cover for him. The authorities suspected that The Ligas ­really was a mass front but [they] w ­ ere not sure. But within that front, [some] ­people w ­ ere receiving military preparation clandestinely.” Fabio gave the example of the capture of Facundo Méndez, b­ rother of Leonarda Méndez (“Altagracia”), an impor­tant member of the ERP who, like his ­sister, had fought with the San­di­nis­tas against the Somoza dictatorship in Nicaragua in the late 1970s. Following Facundo’s capture by Salvadoran authorities, the LP-28 occupied the San Miguel cathedral to demand his release: The army held him prisoner and subjected that boy to a lot of torture . . . ​ they released him [only] to kill him [­later]. It’s true that he was a member

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of a military committee, but he ­d idn’t go around talking to p­ eople about the committees but about the Ligas Populares. . . . ​[T]he authorities cut off the w ­ ater and electricity [to the cathedral], and the military surrounded us. They machine-­g unned us e­ very night and launched tear gas bombs and gunfire from e­ very side. At times, we had to protect ourselves by lying on the ground next to the walls or even b­ ehind pillars b­ ecause of the many bullets that struck the area around us. We remained t­ here several days.7

In each zone defined by the leadership, “one person was in charge of po­liti­cal work and another in charge of military work,” with the work divided up and coordinated between the two. Then t­ here was a regional jefe (chief): Bruno Caballero (“Quincho”) ­until the end of 1980 and the beginning of 1981 when Jorge Meléndez (“Jonás”), a member of the ERP/PRS Central Committee,8 arrived from the capital to take charge.9 As the repression intensified, Fabio and other coordinators de­cided that the military committees ­were not developing fast enough and strived to incorporate a greater number of p­ eople. With more p­ eople engaged in military preparation, training became less clandestine, “a bit more open than before,” with p­ eople sometimes meeting in h ­ ouses to learn how to disassemble and reassemble weapons rather than training in “the most clandestine spot in the woods.” The LP-28’s initial activity, through which it introduced itself to a larger public, took place in San Salvador and was coordinated by Marisol Galindo, who, despite her pregnancy, went into the street with a megaphone. According to Fabio, San Salvador was so militarized. . . . ​­There was no place to hold a protest. All the p­ eople from the Ligas Populares came from dif­fer­ent parts of the country, but mostly from the eastern region. They [­people in San Salvador] said to us, “Look, the repression is brutal ­here. ­Every block, ­every corner is militarized but we have to do something. We have to get every­body to know about LP-28.” The public ­didn’t know about LP-28 yet. Th ­ ere had been some publicity but it ­hadn’t been [widely] distributed. Nobody even knew who we w ­ ere or what we did. So, we prepared with megaphones, signs, and written flyers announcing who we ­were, and we held a few mini-­protests. We separated into groups of twenty-­five—­t wenty-­five h ­ ere, twenty-­five ­there, thirty somewhere e­ lse. That’s how we carried out events in San Salvador.

The first event involved a “moving protest” that gave the authorities no fixed targets on which to focus. Once the event ended, protesters retreated to Ciudad Delgado to wait out the cordon that the army had put in place around the city. They spent the night in a church and left the following day, by which time the cordon had been lifted. This took place in 1978 and was similar to many other LP-28 protests (see figure 4.2 for an example).

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FIGURE 4.2  ​A late-1970s activity of LP-28, the ERP’s mass organ­ization. Place unknown.

(Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Word and Image)

The year 1979 was replete with national-­level po­liti­cal activities. Fabio recalled that the LP-28 occupied the San Miguel Cathedral on two or three occasions, took over the Ministry of ­Labor in San Salvador, and occupied the San Vicente Cathedral. All that activity took place during the government of General Carlos Humberto Romero, who entered office on 1 July 1977 following another fraudulent election and governed ­until ousted on 15 October 1979 by a civilian-­ military junta led by young officers. Romero was a brute—­there is no other way to say it—­repressing all forms of protest, but the vio­lence continued ­after he left. In May 1980 (if not earlier), the ERP began to or­ga­nize guerrilla camps in northern Morazán and summarily execute spies—­“­people who knew our movements well and provided information to the authorities.”10 He explained that “the National Guard ­couldn’t do anything without information. Since the spies provided the armed forces with information, they w ­ ere responsible for the consequences. Some spies spent their time persecuting us, investigating us without earning even five cents. ­These ­people had all the ­free time in the world. Some ­people took plea­sure in following us, spying, controlling what we did. They [even] paid for their [own] transportation.” For example, Chepe [i.e., José] Argueta, originally from Cerro Pando in Meanguera, coordinated the work of a number of spies from other towns. Eight days a­ fter the funeral of Abilio Caballero, killed by the authorities with Chepe’s assistance, ERP military forces captured him in the Jocoaitique plaza and “put

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him to justice,” which is to say executed him. Following the deaths of the Caballero ­brothers, Abilio and Juan, and the capture and torture of Fabio Argueta and Fr. Miguel Ventura, ­people had begun to complain, saying, according to Fabio, “ ‘Geez, nothing happens to t­ hose spies. So many t­ hings have happened, they have done so much, and ­those ­people calmly continue on ­here and ­there.’ In response to what they w ­ ere d­ oing, then, the case proceeded against Chepe Argueta. René Guevara in Meanguera, who was a head of ORDEN, was another. He, too, was tried.” With all that was ­going on, the radicalized peasants had to invent strategies to defend themselves. Fabio explained that they began to set periféricas (sentry posts) at high points—­San Luis and Cerro Pando in Meanguera, and Volcancillo Hill in Jocoaitique being prominent examples. One or two or­ga­nized peasants equipped with contact bombs manned the outlooks while o­ thers worked the fields below; the sentries threw the small bombs as far as they could and left the area when they saw cars entering with government troops or when troops left the cars and took to the paths or streets. The explosions served as a signal to ­those below to take cover. ­Later they set up ambushes using contact bombs. Some p­ eople, members of military committees, would seek out a point overlooking the street and throw contact bombs at troop-­laden military trucks as they passed. Fabio recalled that “at times five or eight comrades threw contact bombs at a truck, filling it with bombs. They even recovered weapons that way, just with contact bombs, ­because they ­were the most effective. A contact bomb—­a midsized one was like this. [Fabio illustrated the size.] The big ones ­were more like a pound. A one-­pound bomb would rip the clothes off a person and tear him up, leaving him hurt all over. It ­wouldn’t kill him, but he’s injured all over. So, when a lot of contact bombs landed on a truck, no one had a chance to shoot.” “Naser,” a war­time po­liti­cal operative, explained that the bombs had psychological as well as physical effects; even ­people not struck by shrapnel might be temporarily blinded by the explosion.11 ­Later still, the militant peasants shot at the soldiers in trucks with a G-3 or FAL r­ ifle if they had one or set homemade mines where trucks w ­ ere certain to pass, destroying the truck and killing and/or injuring the commandos in it.12 ­Those mines ­were called “abanicos” (fans), and as I learned in 1992, they w ­ ere the homemade version of the deadly claymore.13 According to Fabio, “Not only would that [the explosion of the mine] result in injuries to the commandos, but the car and every­thing would overturn. It was another way of setting up an ambush b­ ecause troops w ­ ere constantly entering our territory.”

Catechists in the Revolutionary War The earliest guerrilla camps formed between late 1979 and May 1980, and in October 1980 the Salvadoran army invaded the zone in force for the first time. First ERP commanders or­ga­nized guerrilla fighters into platoons; as the numbers

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increased, several platoons composed a column. Further growth led to the formation of battalions. In October  1980, several hundred rebels armed with a mere forty guns but thousands of contact bombs held off an estimated five thousand FAES troops for more than a week. Thousands of civilians left northern Morazán, displaced internally in El Salvador or seeking refuge in other countries. Following Fr. Miguel’s departure in December 1977 and the increasingly violent repression exercised by forces ­under the command of Sergeant Gabino Mata in Perquín and Jocoaitique, Nicolás Argueta in San Fernando, and Nicolás Sorto in Joateca (discussed in chapter 5), the CEBs ­were forced to disband, and liberation theology went under­ground. Some catechists died violently; o­ thers, like Fabio Argueta, survived and became active members of the nascent guerrilla forces; yet ­others fled to displaced persons camps in San Francisco Gotera or elsewhere. By the end of 1980 another group of men, w ­ omen, and ­children—­among them some catechists too old to fight—­had sought refugee status in Honduras, Nicaragua, or Costa Rica. Samuel Vidal Guzmán explained that few progressive catechists ­were killed during this phase ­because they refused to heed the authorities’ ­orders to pre­sent themselves at the local National Guard or Trea­sury Police post. Not so for conservative catechists who remained loyal to Fr. Argueta, had more trust in the authorities, and presented themselves when requested to do so.14 When the war came, the ERP leadership kept Fabio and some other catechists out of combat proper and assigned them dif­fer­ent roles—­often as po­liti­cal organizers—to exploit the ­people skills they had acquired through prior training and experience. Fabio explained t­ hose skills in the following terms: The question is that the catechist cultivates a practice of talking with p­ eople. Through training they learn to stop being afraid to talk, to learn to offer opinions, to know how to listen to o­ thers and respond to o­ thers. They also learn how to treat p­ eople, how to discuss prob­lems with p­ eople; they give ­people priority and make them aware of what they are looking for, what they want. That practice takes time to develop. So, when the war came, the catechists w ­ ere better equipped to or­ga­nize, to relate to the population, to approach combatants to talk with them about their prob­lems, to guide them, and so on. That’s what I did. . . . ​I d­ idn’t just go and give military ­orders but made the compañeros aware of how they had to do ­things, how to act around the population, how to treat their comrades. That called for discussion, and that’s where catechists had practice.

Many of the fifty-­seven catechists about whom I collected some information served as po­liti­cal activists in northern Morazán and/or the Colomoncagua refugee camp in Honduras, indicative of their superiors’ recognition of the skills they brought to the strug­gle. I explore the activity of po­liti­cal activists over the course of the war in chapter 5, drawing on Fabio Argueta’s experience as he recalled (and interpreted) it. But catechists also served in the areas of logistics

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and cultural production. They served in refugee camps, and ­later in the war some engaged in religious practice. ­Here I document ­these contributions by focusing on specific examples: Rosario Ramírez (“Mauricio”) in the case of logistics or, what was the same ­thing, supply; Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”) with re­spect to cultural production; Abraham Argueta, who, as a refugee, or­ga­nized and managed a clothing cooperative in Estelí, Nicaragua; and Jacinto Márquez, a young catechist who worked with communities in Joateca and elsewhere. Catechists also drew on their training in Centro San Lucas to contribute to the health sector, and where and when pos­si­ble (refugee camps outside El Salvador or communities in northern Morazán ­after 1984) promoted the message of liberation theology.15 As the zone stabilized ­a fter 1984, Fr. Miguel and Fr. Rogelio convinced the ERP High Command (Comandancia) to reassign select combatants to religious work as part of the pastoral team of the Comunidades Eclesiales de Base de El Salvador (Christian Base Communities of El Salvador, CEBES).

Rosario Ramírez (Quartermaster) The role of quartermaster (logístico) has received scant attention in the lit­er­a­ture on the Salvadoran revolutionary war. According to Fabio, Rosario Ramírez (“Mauricio”) worked to procure supplies of corn, beans, vegetables, sugar, meat, milk, and cheese for both ERP combatants and the civilians that remained in the zone. A dif­fer­ent group of “administrators” was charged with procuring arms and munitions. At the beginning of the war, Rosario or­ga­nized production locally and regionally in the area around Joateca. One of his principal tasks, beginning in 1981, involved overseeing the production and distribution of crude sugar (panela) for some five guerrilla camps, each housing a “column” of roughly seventy combatants along with support units.16 To or­ga­nize production meant organ­izing ­people, as Fabio noted: As a catechist “Mauricio” [Rosario] had orga­nizational training. He was experienced in knowing what was needed: How much corn? How much rice and beans? How many ­people are ­going to be needed for such and such a job? How many oxen w ­ ill we need? How are we ­going to care for the oxen? All t­ hese administrative questions call for experience. How many p­ eople are we ­going to put to work ­today? How are we ­going to care for every­body? That’s how it was. He worked with the civilian population, the noncombatants. One group would come to work in the trapiches [artisanal sugar mills] for two or three days and then leave. But then another group would show up, and he would instruct them about what they w ­ ere g­ oing to do.

Rosario recalled that he was assigned to coordinate food-­producing collectives around Guachipilín, Ondable, and Calavera, areas near his prewar residence, whereas, as Fabio noted, “­others developed work on the [the south] side of Arambala and Cañaverales, where t­ here ­were sugar mills.”17 Around

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FIGURE 4.3  ​A trapiche (sugar mill) in operation in 1994 in Masala, Joateca. Albeit postwar,

this trapiche used the same technology as t­ hose operating during the conflict. (Photo by the author)

1984, the Comandancia assigned Rosario to carry out po­liti­cal work in the Corinto area south of the Torola River. During the last five years of the war (1986–1991) he focused on procuring and then overseeing the distribution of corn, shoes, and salt, among other necessities, eventually moving large quantities of goods by mule train at night so as to avoid detection by airplanes.18 However, Rosario became especially well known for sugar production. As Fabio Argueta noted, sugar was especially impor­tant during strategic retreats, called guindas, to evade or outmaneuver government soldiers during large-­ scale invasions: “Since ­there w ­ asn’t any powdered sugar to add to coffee, we needed some sweetener. Also, atados de dulce (bundled hard sugar) w ­ ere useful for when we moved from one place to another. We would take off on an operation, each person carry­ing a block of sugar in the knapsack. When they ­were very hungry, they would break it, eat sugar, drink ­water and that gave them a lot of strength” (for examples of sugar production and distribution, see figures 4.3 and 4.4).19 Rosario was one of the small number of p­ eople in the region—­and one of the very few who joined the ERP—­who “knew the precise moment when the syrup had to be removed [from the fire] to become blocks of brown sugar.” In southern Oaxaca, Mexico, where I worked in the 1980s, he would have been known as a maestro panalero (panela [brown sugar] master), but according to Fabio, northern

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FIGURE 4.4  ​ Atados de dulce (bundled hard sugar) on the way to market in Perquín, 1991, six

months before the end of the war. Hard sugar played an impor­tant role in providing both civilians and ERP combatants with a source of energy during guindas (strategic retreats) that could last days or weeks in some cases. (Photo by the author)

Morazanians designated him and ­others with similar knowledge “El Templo de Miel” (The Honey T ­ emple).20 Fabio evaluated Rosario’s work as follows: He accomplished impor­tant work by putting sugar mills everywhere. I know ­because I was in charge of that region at the time. He administered the area in the high part of what ­people called El Aguacate. E ­ very Saturday Mauricio arrived with lots of beasts of burden loaded down with sugar, leaving it in the center of the region so that it could be distributed throughout northern Morazán. Several sugar mills existed in El Mozote; o­ thers could be found around Cumaro near Arambala, and t­ here was another in La Guacamaya and another close to Guaruma between San Fernando and Perquín.

The army became aware of the importance of trapiches to the FMLN and did its best to locate and destroy them. For their part, the guerrillas learned to dismantle and bury the mills and pans used to express and boil the juice and to hide the oxen. The army burned sugarcane when and where they encountered it and destroyed the oven complexes, which t­ hose charged with sugar production rebuilt once the military operation ended and government soldiers left the zone. The increased use of air power during the 1984–1985 period made it impossible to produce sugar in northern Morazán, so production was shifted to areas south of

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the Torola River, where “the population . . . ​­hadn’t moved at all [and] had a bit of cover.”

Andrés Barrera (Musician) Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”) grew up in a poor f­ amily in La Guacamaya that cultivated corn and sold its ­labor power for the extraction and pro­cessing of henequen fiber. Neither Andrés nor his siblings owned shoes, a radio, or a watch.21 The oldest of six ­children, his economic duties increased when his ­father died unexpectedly when Andrés was but seven years old. One of his few forms of entertainment came from playing mostly borrowed musical instruments and singing. Andrés became involved with the church and eventually with the CEB movement, attracted by the message of equality and love of the poor. Around 1973 Fabio Argueta introduced him to Fr. Miguel, and Felipe began to make the trek to Torola to attend weekly meetings. The same year, Fr. Miguel recommended him for classes in San Lucas and El Castaño, where he passed a number of levels. He developed CEBs in La Guacamaya and disseminated the new Catholic theology elsewhere in Meanguera, including El Mozote. He became integrated into the nascent military committees while also serving as a member, then sergeant, and eventually commander of La Guacamaya’s cantonal patrol, reporting weekly to an active duty soldier in Meanguera township. For years Andrés walked a fine tightrope, collaborating with the ERP while pretending to work with the army and security forces, which used the patrols to gather intelligence on any and all activities that the government defined as subversive. Eventually, the authorities suspected him of being involved with the guerrillas, and during the first military invasion of the zone in October 1980, ele­ments of the army murdered his spouse and six ­children. With this Andrés, like Fabio before him, entered clandestine life and dedicated himself full time to the strug­gle to overthrow the government. He participated in demonstrations, ambushes, and the elimination of informers from the area. In January 1981 he led a squad in San Francisco Gotera during the first nationwide guerrilla offensive. But soon his musical contributions took pre­ce­dence over battlefield exploits. In 1981 Andrés (now known by his pseudonym “Felipe”) performed “Casas Quemadas” (Burned Houses), a song that he had written, on the ERP’s clandestine Radio Venceremos, and this attracted the attention of the ERP High Command, which asked him to form a musical group to lift the morale of rebel soldiers and civilians (see figure 4.5).22 Among o­ thers, Andrés recruited b­ rothers Benito (“Sebastian”) and Cristobal (“Manelio”) Chicas, two campesinos from Joateca to whom Andrés had given musical lessons and who joined the strug­gle in 1979 following their ­mother’s assassination at the hands of government agents (see figure 4.6). Cristobal Chicas reported in 2012 that, despite their youth at the time, both had been trained as catechists, though it is not certain that they had attended one of the peasant universities.23 Andrés and the Chicas ­brothers recruited other persons with an aptitude for ­music to join the peasant chan­ chona band that Radio Venceremos broadcaster Carlos Henríquez Consalvi

FIGURE 4.5  ​Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”) and his accordion during the war. (Photo courtesy of

the Museum of the Word and Image)

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FIGURE 4.6  ​Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”), ­brothers Benito (“Sebastian”) and Cristobal (“Manelio”)

Chicas (all in white shirts), and other members of Los Torogoces crossing a field early in the war. The role of the Torogoces, named a­ fter a bird that nested in h ­ ouses, in maintaining morale and providing entertainment to combatants and civilians alike cannot be overestimated. (Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Word and Image)

(“Santiago”) christened “Los Torogoces de Morazán.” Band members played mainly stringed instruments (guitar, violin, bass) and wrote new lyr­ics to existing cumbia and canción ranchera melodies (González 1994, 90–104).24 Andrés wrote the lyr­ics to many of the early revolutionary songs, which praised the clandestine Radio Venceremos (“Radio Venceremos”), eulogized victories (“La Batalla Comandante Gonzalo”), made fun of the rich (“La Vieja Oligarquía”), memorialized fallen combatants (“Roxana” and “Pequeña Guerrillera”), and raised morale (“Todo Nuestro Pueblo” and “Llegó la Hora”). Benito Chicas (“Sebastian Torogoz”), the lead singer and the group’s front man, displayed a showman’s ability to engage audiences. The group’s importance to the strug­gle cannot be overstated. They played regularly on Radio Venceremos, reaching listeners throughout El Salvador and beyond; accompanied masses, funerals, and other ceremonies presided over by Fr. Rogelio and Fr. Miguel; sent troops off on missions and welcomed them home; and entertained civilians at fiestas, puppet shows, and plays (see González 1994). One member of the radio collective told Ignacio López Vigil that “if we d­ idn’t play Los Torogoces, who are like the Beatles for this war, I think the combatants would lynch us—­the peasants too, even the students [listening in]” (1991, 218).25 The band members carried weapons and four died in b­ attle, but the comandantes generally kept them away from the front lines, doubtless ­because of the

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difficulty if not impossibility of replacing them. The group traveled with the Radio Venceremos Collective accompanied by a security detail. Andrés formed the group and was doubtless the most accomplished musician but was a generation older than the other members. As his ability to withstand long marches and life in the open declined, he left the zone for the Colomoncagua refugee camp in 1987, returning with the refugees in late 1989 or early 1990.

Abraham Argueta (Refugee in Nicaragua) Abraham worked out of his home in Joateca township as a skilled tailor. A devout Catholic, he faithfully served Fr. Argueta when the priest visited the Joateca church to preside over mass or mass baptisms. As discussed e­ arlier, Abraham became introduced to liberation theology when Fr. Argueta sent him to El Castaño in 1969, where he passed all the levels and was selected to take courses in existential laboratory. His religious practice in Joateca suffered from the community’s location on the far eastern edge of northern Morazán distant from areas visited by Fr. Miguel Ventura and firmly ­under the control of Fr. Argueta, whom Abraham never challenged directly (see map 3). Instead, he and two other progressive catechists formed the successful bovine cooperative discussed in chapter 1 that eventually attracted the attention of local paramilitary forces. Abraham Argueta visited Nicaragua in 1977 as part of a team evaluating the Sandinista strug­gle against the Somoza regime. He returned to Joateca to continue his tailoring business and strengthen the cooperative. In April 1980 he went again to Nicaragua, now with the San­di­nis­tas in power, and when he came back to Joateca discovered that an “operation” had been designed to assassinate him. Too old to fight—he was born in 1936 and lacked the physical strength and stamina of a campesino—he traveled to La Union and took a ferry to Nicaragua across the Gulf of Fonseca in August 1980, uniting with his ­family, which was already t­ here. Abraham eventually settled in the interior in Estelí, which became an impor­ tant target of Nicaraguan contra forces, supported by the U.S. government during the Sandinista–­Contra War. Th ­ ere he founded a textile cooperative that employed Nicaraguans and obtained raw materials from socialist countries with the help of the Nicaraguan Ministry of Industry and Commerce. He avoided the early waves of Salvadoran refugees who, in his view, lacked po­liti­cal consciousness and “lived comfortably from the foreign aid they received.” The Salvadorans formed many collectives—­“one ­here, another ­there”—­but none ­were very productive. Th ­ ose collectives did send some money to rebel forces in El Salvador, but Abraham insisted that “it amounted to a portion of the assistance they received, part of the foreign aid. . . . ​I kept away from them ­until [other] ­people arrived that I knew and that had strug­gled h ­ ere [in El Salvador], and with them I developed po­liti­cal relations.”26 His ­children went to school in Nicaragua, several completing their studies at a regional campus in Esteli; they also joined the popu­lar militias that defended the city from contra attacks.27

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FIGURE 4.7  ​Abraham Argueta, his spouse, and one of his d ­ aughters in his garden in Joateca,

2011. Argueta was the only catechist I interviewed who had been chosen for courses in group dynamics and existential laboratory. (Photo by the author)

It is clear that Abraham put to work in Nicaragua the knowledge of cooperative organ­ization he gained studying in church centers and practicing in Joateca and that he did so in the ser­vice of a strug­gle against conservative forces, supported by the U.S. government. Abraham returned with his ­family to Joateca ­after the war, resurrected the cooperative, participated in a support committee for local schools, became involved in the local Communal Development Association, and served as municipal representative of the FMLN (see figure 4.7). When asked about t­ hese multiple forms of community participation, Abraham stated that he had become convinced that active participation in the life of the community “is an effective form of helping ­others [and] that for me life makes no sense if one is not concerned for ­others and their living conditions.”28

Jacinto Márquez (War­time Catechist) I met Jacinto while seeking interviews among demobilized and demobilizing combatants in 1992. He was twenty-­six at the time, born into a poor, peasant ­house­hold in Joateca municipality. At fifteen years old when the war broke out in 1980, Jacinto was far too young to have attended El Castaño or another of the peasant training centers, which w ­ ere forced to close in the late 1970s. As a pious Catholic and follower of Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero, Jacinto was shocked by the archbishop’s assassination on 24 March 1980. He explained that

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FIGURE 4.8  ​Jacinto Márquez and son at home, 2011. Jacinto’s interest in historical memory

served the author as a constant inspiration. The son pictured h ­ ere died tragically in the postwar at the hands of local gang members. (Photo by the author)

in his teens he began to conduct Bible study sessions, though without formal training. Also, he started hanging around guerrilla encampments, sometimes carry­ing messages for the compas (the compañeros or guerrilla fighters and support personnel). Eventually he joined the guerrillas and was given training, a weapon, and a uniform. But he also sought out Fr. Miguel Ventura and Fr. Rogelio Ponseele, from whom he received more formal training in liberation theology and the development of CEBs. This took place following the 1984 election of Christian Demo­crat José Napoleón Duarte to the presidency and with the exception of air force bombing and strafing became the advent of a period more amenable to community organ­izing in FMLN-­controlled zones like northern Morazán. In this way Jacinto became part of the bevy of catechists—­some civilian, o­ thers released from combat by the ERP—­that worked to reignite the flame of left Chris­tian­ity in the zone. (The contextual change is discussed in detail in chapter 5.)29 Following the war, Jacinto demobilized and strug­gled to support his f­ amily by growing corn and beans and selling patent medicines (see figure 4.8). I  recruited him in 1992 to assist with interviews with catechists, and he

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participated in my proj­ects in 1994–1995 and 2010–2012. In the interim, Jacinto became intrigued by historical memory, attending a museum course in Oaxaca, Mexico. Also, he began to collect artifacts pertaining to the return of Salvadorans from Colomoncagua to Meanguera, Morazán, where they established Ciudad Segundo Montes (Segundo Montes City, CSM), a sprawling intentional community named for one of the Jesuit priests murdered by the Atlacatl Battalion in San Salvador in November 1989. He also purchased land with the idea of constructing a small museum in which to display the collection, but to my knowledge never accumulated the resources with which to erect a structure.

Po­liti­cal Work, Religious Work, and Internal Discipline Fabio explained that daily he worked at organ­izing more ­people to join the ERP (as combatants or collaborators) but that he also involved himself in the guerrilla camps and military training schools. “The schools,” Fabio said, “created some space for po­liti­cal activists to try and raise the consciousness of the combatants so that they would understand the ­causes of our strug­gle.” Such was necessary ­because of the generally low levels of literacy and the fact that many p­ eople joined the ERP out of fear of becoming victims of military or paramilitary vio­lence, whereas ­others saw the ERP as an ave­nue through which they might seek revenge for the murder of friends, relatives, and ­family members (see Cáceres Prendes 1989).30 Religious beliefs and practices remained impor­tant throughout the revolutionary war, but the ERP made a concerted effort to separate religion from politics. This meant that Fabio (and other former catechists turned war­time po­liti­cal activists like Samuel Vidal Guzmán) had to refrain from allowing religious ideas to intrude into their organ­izing work. At the beginning of the war, priests like Fr. Rogelio Ponseele ser­viced the religious needs of combatants and noncombatants alike. According to Fabio, We tried not to mix religious m ­ atters into po­liti­cal formation, to not touch on any religious aspect. We believed that it w ­ asn’t constructive and that it was not part of po­liti­cal formation to be involving p­ eople in something that ­didn’t make [po­liti­cal] sense. The [ERP] politicians supported the dif­fer­ent religious teachings that w ­ ere offered. We never said that ­those w ­ ere ridicu­lous or dumb. It’s not worth it. No . . . ​it’s necessary to listen. We always left the combatants ­free to participate in mass, ­because mass was celebrated in the guerrilla camps. Many p­ eople carry­ing loaded weapons and wearing packs received communion. The ­g reat majority of p­ eople participated in religious activities.31

Mass was always celebrated in the guerrilla camps, though “more attention was paid to attending to the civilian population . . . ​that remained in dif­f er­ent regions.” ­Later, when Fr. Miguel returned from the United States in mid-­April 1982 and

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FIGURE 4.9  ​Fr. Rogelio Ponseele accompanied by his security detail during the war. The Right

argued repeatedly a­ fter the revolutionary war that Fr. Rogelio bore arms during the conflict, but I found no evidence to sustain the accusation. (Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Word and Image)

joined Fr. Rogelio, the priests began to train new catechists to work with t­ hose trained before the war. Guerrilla catechists carried weapons, a knapsack, a Bible, and a gun for security in case of a surprise ­enemy attack. ­These catechists worked exclusively with the civilian population and restricted themselves to religious ­matters only. They ­were not combatants (see chapter 5). The priests attended both to combatants and civilians. They went unarmed but ­were accompanied by armed security details everywhere they went (see figure 4.9). Fabio said that most of the ERP General (or High) Command w ­ ere not themselves religious, though they did not impede religious work and avoided conflicts with religious leaders. That is in­ter­est­ing given that many high-­ranking leaders like Joaquín Villalobos, Rafael Arce Zablah, and ­others participated in the Christian Demo­cratic Party and/or the Social Christian movement prior to their radicalization, often at the public UES (Álvarez and Cortina Orero 2014). Conflicts did emerge at lower levels in that some platoon leaders, unit leaders, section leaders, and line combatants “­didn’t perceive the religious question to be impor­tant” and viewed it as “a trick to put our minds to sleep.” Some ­people even argued that God ­didn’t exist, a viewpoint that Fabio criticized as “idiotic.” The comandantes, he said, never opposed religious activities as evidenced

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by their support for the arrival of Fr. Rogelio Ponseele from the capital at the beginning of the war. Some comandantes even participated in masses alongside combatants.32 Fabio summarized the work of po­liti­cal organizers by noting that they had two or three jobs. One involved “supplying the troops” with food and other goods, as exemplified by Rosario Ramírez (discussed above). Another job involved po­liti­cal work carried out in meetings with civilians. Fi­nally, the activists accompanied the military commander during po­liti­cal discussions with combatants and sought to raise p­ eople’s consciousness through education and instilling discipline so that they would understand how to behave with the civilian population. That might seem unproblematic, given that most rebel fighters had been civilians before they joined the ERP guerrillas, but some lacked re­spect for the civilian population and “particularly its material goods. . . . ​For example, guerrilla combatants might ransack a ­house, become involved romantically with some girl b­ ecause she was t­ here or even attempt to rape her, or threaten someone with a weapon, speak in a hostile manner to someone, or mistreat someone ­because they suspected without evidence that they worked for the ­enemy or what­ever.” The prob­lems w ­ ere more acute with re­spect to t­ hose (the majority) who joined the FMLN once open warfare broke out; early recruits, many of whom participated in CEBs, tended to be better informed and more conscious about the reasons they ­were fighting and the FMLN’s goals. He explained that apart from other reasons, a lot of p­ eople joined the FMLN ­because they saw o­ thers join but ­were unaware of why the FMLN was fighting. While they knew that poverty and repression existed, they remained unaware of the ­causes of suffering. It was necessary to talk with them and explain the reasons for poverty and misery, class divisions between rich and poor, the role of government in this, how the Salvadoran government defended the rich and not the poor, and so on (see figure 4.10). Fabio recalled that we had to prepare ­people with a clearer understanding regarding the objectives of our strug­g le. We had to initiate discussions with them and also educate and discipline them, teach them how they should behave with civilians. Many ­people thought that we w ­ ere preparing a group of delinquents to assault and rob, to take o­ thers’ t­ hings. It was necessary to educate combatants in this area so they knew how to treat the population’s goods. If we are g­ oing to form a new army, how should we behave t­ owards the population? ­There ­were p­ eople who upon receiving military preparation and learning how to h ­ andle a weapon believed they w ­ ere superior to the rest of the population and could do what­ever they wanted. The person in charge of politics constantly had to pay attention to the combatants so they ­wouldn’t make ­mistakes.

He gave the example of a group of new recruits who falsely solicited money in the name of the organ­ization from civilians in settlements near Poza Honda

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FIGURE 4.10 ​Fabio Argueta speaking to the troops in Agua Blanca, 1981. (Photo by Carlos

Henríquez Consalvi, founder of the Museum of the Word and Image, and used with permission)

and Cerro Pando in Meanguera. He learned of the fraud from one of the victims, obtained the names of the guilty parties, and confronted them, but they denied the accusation. But we began to check and investigate. And it turned out that they had the money. They ­hadn’t spent it but had hidden it u­ nder the ground. We made them

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get the money out and we went with them from h ­ ouse to ­house to give back what they had taken. We took them back all tied up so ­people would trust what we ­were d­ oing. It served as a good example. That time we w ­ ere in the first camp that had been set up in that part of La Guacamaya. We took the boys out and said to them, “Look, you are not g­ oing to belong to this school’s forces any longer.”

In Fabio’s view, such events helped ­people draw a clear distinction between the two armies: that of the government and that of the FMLN. However, prob­ lems of one sort or another continued b­ ecause ­there was always someone who “­didn’t get it.” Fabio thought that some member of the civilian population, even though frightened or intimidated, always informed the FMLN when someone had assaulted them or stolen something from them. It was, he stated, the responsibility of the person in charge of po­liti­cal affairs to keep abreast of prob­lems that occurred and to dialogue with civilians, combatants, military leaders, and trainers. Po­liti­cal activists like Fabio engaged constantly in ideological formation, which was referred to as “political-­ideological attention”; during much of the war, they drew on a document known by its abbreviations as “COP,” which seems to have been a kind of training manual for po­liti­cal organizers/activists working with the ERP.33 COP defined three violations as particularly egregious b­ ecause they put the entire organ­ization at risk: robbery, rape, and treason (i.e., assisting the e­ nemy to infiltrate the ranks). He noted that all the government forces of the past—­the National Guard, the army, and o­ thers—­had been rapists, and that “if we appeared to be ­doing the same, we would not be constructing anything new that the p­ eople could trust.” Likewise, “we thought that threatening ­others or stealing from them by force would be a big step backwards.” A ­whole debate took place, a group discussion. We even did skits about t­ hese ­things so p­ eople would understand. They w ­ eren’t g­ oing to betray the organ­ ization or rape or steal goods from the population or their comrades. I think this helped our education a lot. But where serious violations occurred, where a combatant raped a ­woman, some girl or minor, when a case like that was proven, the person who committed the crime was sentenced [to death]. This was a serious t­ hing, a very delicate m ­ atter. The leaders made the decision [to execute the accused] and the regional military chief, no one ­else, had to give the order for proceedings like that. He disseminated the order and that’s what had to be done. But rumors circulated, and t­ here existed concern that the accused might be innocent. The team [i.e., firing squad] that carried out the sentence experienced a certain trauma in that they could not be sure that the accusations ­were true. So, it [executing a compa] was a very delicate m ­ atter.34

Other p­ eople might be expelled from the ranks of the organ­ization. H ­ ere Fabio gave the example of several female comrades who, according to him, “tried

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to prostitute themselves.” ­There had been cases “in which one comrade killed another out of jealousy and ­others in which a w ­ oman wanted to live with all of the men in a camp.” The ERP commanders w ­ ere concerned that such libertarianism would be looked down on by civilians and diminish the incorporation of ­women into the ERP ranks. The ­matter was usually dealt with by expelling the ­women from the ranks of the organ­ization. “Cases w ­ ere rare,” he opined, “but they did occur.” Each of the five political-­military organ­izations that made up the FMLN created a l­ egal, mass organ­ization composed of some combination of peasant organ­ izations, u­ nions, student groups, educators, ­etc. The peasant organ­izations engaged in marches, demonstrations, and other forms of public protests, even as they served as recruiting grounds and provided cover for the armed wings. The FAPU formed first in 1974 and was tied to the RN; 1975 saw the arrival of the BPR, affiliated with the FPL. At the beginning, the more militant ERP had ­little use for ­legal mass organ­izations u­ ntil it reversed course with the formation of the LP-28 several years l­ ater. The LP-28 commemorated the 28 February 1977 massacre of several hundred persons in the Plaza Libertad (central San Salvador) peacefully protesting the corrupt elections that gave the presidency to General Carlos Humberto Romero over General Ernesto Claremont. The role of mass organ­izations in politicizing rural dwellers by exposing them to urban collective protest and its brutal repression by the authorities is often underestimated. Hundreds of peasants and rural workers from Morazán and other areas of ERP influence gathered in San Salvador, San Miguel, and elsewhere to march and demonstrate in opposition to the government or par­tic­u­lar government actions. Many ­people gained a clearer understanding of the depth and breadth of discontent with the authorities and the risks that other p­ eople, rural and urban alike, ­were willing to take to force a change in government or government policy (for an example, see Vigil Vásquez n.d.). The most po­liti­cally conscious ­were invited to take up arms with the ERP. Fabio discussed in some detail the war­time activities of catechists and members of CEBs, who, in words I cited e­ arlier, “learned how to treat p­ eople, how to discuss prob­lems with p­ eople, they gave p­ eople priority and made them aware of what they are looking for, what they want.” Fabio went on to note that such an ability “took time to develop,” and that “when the war came, the catechists ­were better equipped to or­ga­nize, to relate to the population, to approach combatants to talk with them about their prob­lems, to guide them, and so on.” His discussions of health care, sugar production, and working with civilians and combatants made clear that many catechists had developed a variety of skills that ERP officials valued and put to work at the ser­vice of the revolution. In the conclusion, I compare and contrast prewar horizontal with war­time vertical or hierarchical relationships, but h ­ ere I stress the im­mense importance of the guerrilla supply train: feeding, clothing, and arming the rebel army. Fabio’s detailed

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discussion of sugar production—­trapiches ­here and ­there around the zone or, from 1984 to 1985 in inhabited areas outside northern Morazán, may seem excessive, but it would be hard to overemphasize the importance of the dense cones or cylinders of hard, dark brown sugar that ­were often the only nourishment available during days or even weeks of guindas. Fi­nally, this chapter has offered a brief treatise on discipline and punishment, in which Fabio emphasized the high moral standards demanded of combatants in their interaction with civilians and the severe punishments—­ which could include the execution of ­those judged guilty of serious breaches. He mentioned that some combatants, “­weren’t very advanced” and “joined the FMLN ­because they saw ­others join up, but . . . ​­didn’t know why we ­were fighting . . . ​­didn’t know the c­ auses of poverty, misery, and repression.” But Fabio’s account of this is too black and white. None of the commanders come in for criticism despite the well-­known fact that some notorious male comandantes abused their authority so as to exact sexual ­favors from younger female combatants: gifting them lacy underclothing or sending their boyfriends or partners on dangerous missions from which they ­were unlikely to return. O ­ thers appropriated for themselves new shoes, uniforms, and weapons (especially the AK-47, a status symbol among commanders), which lower-­ranking combatants could have put to better use. That said, evidence exists that despite its militaristic orientation early in the war, the ERP provided more troops with more po­liti­cal education than did the FPL, the other main FMLN guerrilla force (Hoover Green 2018, 117– 119), and that the FMLN “committed roughly twice as many killings and disappearances in the central region, including Chalatenango, Cabañas, and San Vicente [zones of FPL control] as in the eastern region of Morazán, San Miguel, and La Unión [where the ERP predominated]” (156). In short, Hoover Green’s investigation of what she refers to as “The Commander’s Dilemma”—­that commanders need to “increase combatants’ predispositions to vio­lence” but to “avoid vio­lence that appears likely to threaten the group’s, or the commander’s survival, including some unordered vio­lence against civilians” (26)—­demonstrates the role of po­liti­cal education in resolving or at least minimizing the prob­lem. Her interview and survey material indicate that such education was more profound and widespread among the ERP than the FPL during the early years of armed conflict.35 By the war’s ­middle years, “political-­education materials in the two factions had been unified” (118). Although meriting more investigation, I think that Fabio Argueta and other catechists turned po­liti­cal activists made impor­tant contributions to po­liti­cal education and the minimization of vio­ lence against civilians in northern Morazán and perhaps elsewhere.

5

A Po­liti­cal Activist in the War, 1980–1988

In chapter 4, I presented brief examples of war­time catechists as quartermaster (Rosario Ramírez), musician (Andrés Barrera), refugee (Abraham Argueta), and war­time catechist (Jacinto Márquez). While I discussed some ele­ments of the work of po­liti­cal activists, particularly the po­liti­cal orientation of rebel troops, I did not expand on catechists’ mediation between the ERP High Command and civilians living in northern Morazán (and elsewhere). This chapter fills that gap via a somewhat detailed examination of Fabio Argueta’s work in El Barrios, in Joateca, and in the area around Perquín. But prompted by me, he began by talking about the El Mozote massacre, about which I have written in some detail (Moodie and Binford 2019; Alarcón and Binford 2015; Binford 1996, 2016). Between 11 and 13 December 1981, the army’s elite Atlacatl Battalion massacred more than a thousand ­people in a half dozen rural hamlets with El Mozote the epicenter. Fabio (and ­others) helped me understand the social and historical specificity of El Mozote. Though he was in the Río Seco (Dry River) region just north of the city of San Miguel and thus far away from El Mozote when the massacre took place, Fabio knew the hamlet and the surrounding area well and could provide an insider’s account of why so many ­people remained in place despite the imminent threat.

El Mozote Fabio began by explaining the difficulties the ERP had in recruiting in El Mozote and noted that only two or three young p­ eople from nearby hamlets joined the 110

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rebels, even as wealthy merchants in El Mozote sold shoes, batteries, and other ­things to them. Most of the p­ eople, as poor as they w ­ ere, claimed po­liti­cal neutrality and believed that the Salvadoran army would re­spect ­those claims. Fabio explained, “they w ­ eren’t against the organ­ization but they ­were afraid to or­ga­ nize on a po­liti­cal level or militarily as soldiers.” By contrast, ­people in nearby La Guacamaya, where the ERP had its first camps, “got totally involved” and joined the nascent guerrilla army en masse, unlike the ­people in El Mozote, who “­were waiting for what­ever might come.” ­People from El Mozote had a dif­fer­ent way of thinking, and rural class divisions w ­ ere sharper ­there than elsewhere. The poor “worked as servants spinning thread for their bosses” while the “rich”—­with land, ­cattle, and stores in some cases—­“thought about growing and developing themselves financially as individuals and had the idea of forming a municipality that might gain recognition.” Neither La Guacamaya nor El Mozote contained a government health post, but El Mozote had commerce, a church, a cemetery, an agricultural cooperative, and a brick school­house, and it celebrated a vibrant festival ­every 6 January (Three Kings Day) that attracted p­ eople from vari­ous parts of Meanguera, Arambala, Jocoaitique, Joateca, and perhaps elsewhere (Binford 2016, chap. 4).1 He attributed much of the po­liti­cal conservatism to the local catechist, José del Carmen Romero, who maintained close relations with Fr. Argueta in nearby Jocoaitique. As noted ­earlier, Romero had attended El Castaño, but the lessons imparted ­there failed to make enough of an impression for him to confront the priest on his return. Fabio said that “he [José del Carmen Romero] followed all of Fr. Argueta’s instructions, teaching exactly what Fr. Argueta wanted him to teach [for which reason] ­people from El Mozote had a more conformist mentality.” Efforts of Fabio and other progressive catechists to conduct consciousness-­ raising activities in El Mozote generally failed. Fabio noted that “­those in El Mozote refused our security mea­sures and never became anything more than collaborators. . . . ​They thought that if they remained neutral, any coming repression would be directed against the p­ eople of La Guacamaya and not against them.” I asked about evangelicals in El Mozote, thinking of Mark Danner’s (1994) assertion, shared by many in the United States, El Salvador, and elsewhere (including by former ERP commanders) that the mere presence of so many p­ eople in a contentious war zone must have been related to evangelical Chris­tian­ity. In El Mozote proper though, Fabio opined, “­there w ­ ere but very few [evangelicals].” More ­were to be found “in Meanguera [township], La Joya, Soledad, Villa El Rosario, and on the other side of the river around Osicala [where] a lot of ­people said that it was better not to get involved with the Catholics.” Andrés Barrera, a catechist from nearby La Guacamaya, who often preached in El Mozote (and who formed Los Torogoces musical group during the war), estimated that “­there ­were a few [evangelicals], sixty or seventy,” but apart from them, “the w ­ hole world [in El Mozote] was Catholic.”2

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FIGURE 5.1  ​Not a living person in sight: a deserted street in El Mozote three weeks a­ fter the

massacre of more than 1,100 persons on 11–13 December 1981 by the government’s Atlacatl Battalion. (Photo by Carlos Henríquez Consalvi, founder of the Museum of the Word and Image, and used with permission)

­W hether Catholic or evangelical mattered naught to government soldiers though, who invaded in mid-­December 1981 and “killed families no m ­ atter the religion. . . . ​They killed a lot of ­people from the Assembly of God, p­ eople from the Apostolic Church. They d­ idn’t care what church they belonged to.”3 The military’s objective was to eliminate all civilians from conflict zones, thus to drain the sea of ­water (civilians) so the fish (guerrillas) would be deprived of sources of food and logistical support and become easy targets for government soldiers. He explained how “the soldiers massacred the ­people, killed the animals, even the chickens, and burned the h ­ ouses,” and noted that more than forty of his adult relatives—­even more if infants, ­children, and adolescents ­were counted—­residing in the hamlets of La Ranchería and Los Toriles died, even as “the ­temple of the massacre was El Mozote” (see CIDH 2010; Tutela L ­ egal 1991, 2008; see figures 5.1 and 5.2). In the wake of the massacre, thousands of civilians fled northern Morazán for San Francisco Gotera and San Miguel, for displaced persons camps, and elsewhere, including other countries (Mexico, the United States, Honduras, Costa Rica, Nicaragua). ­Those who left El Salvador for UN-­sponsored refugee camps in San Antonio and Colomoncagua (both in Honduras) usually threw their support to the FMLN, as I ­will note l­ ater. O ­ thers who escaped the carnage joined the FMLN, many seeking revenge for the wanton murder of ­family members, relatives, and friends. Th ­ ese revenge-­minded guerrillas lacked

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FIGURE 5.2  ​Peasants observe the graves for the reburial of caskets that contained the jumbled

remains of 143 persons (7 adults, and 136 infants, c­ hildren, and adolescents with an average age of 6.1 years) from the sacristy where they ­were exhumed. At the foot of the statue of a ­family sits a plaque that reads (in En­g lish translation): “They are not dead. They are with you, with us, and with all humanity.” (Photo courtesy of the Museum of the Word and Image)

consciousness of the goals for which the FMLN strug­gled; chapter 4 explained how the guerrilla High Command assigned Fabio and other po­liti­cal activists the task of explaining the strug­gle to them and o­ thers. Fabio made several impor­tant points about the events at El Mozote. First, the ERP had scarce success recruiting in the immediate vicinity of the hamlet, though the rebels purchased food, clothing, and other goods from the well-­ stocked stores of Marcos Díaz and other local merchants who profited selling to the guerrillas. (Of course, refusal to sell food, clothing, and other goods to armed men and w ­ omen might not have been viewed as an option on the part of El Mozote’s storekeepers.) Second, the reticence of the local population to commit to the revolution owed a ­great deal to its religious conservatism, which in this case meant mainly conservative Catholicism and not evangelical Protestantism. In an ­earlier book (Binford 2016, 106–110), I used the experiences of Fabio and o­ thers to rebut the “evangelical noninvolvement thesis.” The thesis posited that large numbers of p­ eople remained in and around El Mozote during the tense year of 1981 ­because they trusted that their evangelical beliefs shielded them from military persecution. Fabio undermined the thesis—­ popularized globally by journalist Mark Danner (1994) and ­others—by explaining that El Mozote proper was conservative and Catholic (or Catholic and conservative). Conservative Catholicism resulted from a combination of the

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hamlet’s developmental advances—­which Fabio did not discuss—­and the temerity of local catechist José del Carmen Romero to materialize the lessons imparted in El Castaño, which he attended. So much has been written about liberation theology and the challenge that it represented to traditional Catholic theology that readers lacking sound historical coordinates might think that liberation theology gained a dominant or at least hegemonic position in El Salvador, Guatemala, Brazil, and other countries in Latin Amer­i­ca. Nowhere was that the case.

El Barrios In early 1982, shortly a­ fter the El Mozote massacre, ele­ments of the army (unit or units undetermined) massacred fifty-­four ­people at El Barrios in the canton of Nombre de Jesús, located north of the large, commercial city of San Miguel. Fabio had been sent to the Río Seco area in 1981 to help create a land bridge between northern Morazán and Usulután to the southwest. Such “bridges” consisted of narrow passages over which the FMLN had gained the confidence of local populations and could move troops, arms, and injured combatants from one relatively safe (i.e., guerrilla-­controlled) zone to another. The FMLN counted on civilian support to feed troops in transit and civilian-­supplied information to reduce the likelihood of surprise attacks by the ­enemy. They ­were also working to surround San Miguel, El Salvador’s second-­largest city and home to the army’s Third Battalion in what might be regarded as a Maoist “starve-­the-­cities” strategy. According to Fabio, “the Third Brigade considered that it had the support of the ­whole population” for which reason the FMLN’s goal “was to work with this population to make it into our base so that during our military operations ­these ­people w ­ ouldn’t take information [about our movements] to the barracks” as well as supply the guerrillas with food and information “even though we remained in the area for days at a time.” Apparently, they ­were successful ­because a short time l­ater—3 September 1983, to be exact—­ERP troops transported 120mm and 75mm mortars, along with other heavy arms that had been “decommissioned” previously from the FAES over the mountains and around military checkpoints to between 400 and 1,500 meters of the Third Brigade base. The resulting blistering artillery assault resulted in countless FAES casualties (see Mena Sandoval 1991, 307–319). Fabio recalled that the ERP assigned thirty-­three p­ eople to the Río Seco operation in addition to the following five members of the po­liti­cal section: “Lino,” “Moises,” “Job” (Gregorio Argueta, a former catechist from Torola), Gabriel (“a teacher”), and Fabio. Fabio described the El Barrios massacre as follows: When the El Barrios massacre took place, we ­were nearby in Concepción Jocotal with only the Río Seco in between. We heard the gunshots and asked ourselves what was happening. “That gunfire, who could it be? Was it with

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civilians or who?” So, upon hearing the gunfire, we went to see what was happening. The first ­thing we found when we crossed the river was a bunch of dead ­people. They [the soldiers] had left them scattered, some on top of ­others. The cadavers still trembled. We formed a unit and advanced. Th ­ ere was a girl who was the niece of one of our friends in the organ­ization. His name was Filio. The unit that went to the river came across an army captain who was ­going to rape and kill some girls. When the comrades saw him, they began to shoot from the opposite bank. With the shots, the captain and some soldiers headed uphill for the paved street. By the time our ­people arrived at Llano de Santiago in pursuit, they [the soldiers] had already left in cars and ­were sufficiently far away that one c­ ouldn’t identify the unit. That’s what occurred at El Barrios.

The massacre at El Barrios put the lie to the belief on the part of many people that the political neutrality evinced by members of evangelical churches shielded them from military repression. The compas buried the victims and invited civilians from nearby cantons (Concepción Corozal, San Antonio Chávez, and Nombre de Jesús) to bear witness.4 According to Fabio, “The p­ eople arrived terrorized ­because they had never seen so many dead . . . ​the bad odor from so many ­people together . . . ​­because the soldiers had machine-­g unned the ­children. They had blasted away their insides, destroyed them. ­Others, the head . . . ​machine-­gun fire exploded it, tearing it all apart. The way they killed them was horrendous. ­There was a mass of bodies.” Fabio speculated that the army committed the massacre to punish the population ­because two b­ rothers, Cecilio and Esteban, had joined the FMLN. Cecilio was involved in po­liti­cal work, Esteban was a combatant. But he emphasized that “they w ­ ere the only ones.” Their f­ ather died in the massacre though their ­mother was away shopping and survived, as did the two young s­ isters saved by the compas as they ­were about to be raped and then murdered by soldiers. The day a­ fter the massacre, “­people began to pack every­thing they had in cars, in carts, and headed to San Miguel. . . . ​That ­whole area was abandoned, but that was for a short time ­because afterwards p­ eople began to return.” Both fearful of more repression and angry at the gross injustice committed by the army, t­ hose who remained or returned sympathized with the FMLN and “collaborated with food, information, and even money, though not a lot. . . . ​They would say, ‘Look, h ­ ere are ten pesos. ­Here are twenty-­five colones.’ And we collected so we ­didn’t spend party money but survived off what ­people gave us. We ­didn’t have to make tortillas in the camp b­ ecause the population made them. A group of w ­ omen would gather the food and leave it at a place for us to go and collect it—at times food for five hundred men when columns moved from . . . ​ northern Morazán to southern Usulután.” The rebels could concentrate five or six hundred troops temporarily in cantons Concepción Corozal, San Antonio Chávez, San Jacinto, Agua Zarca, and

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other rural areas surrounding San Miguel without information reaching Third Brigade headquarters. While anger motivated many ­people to collaborate, Fabio credited the organ­izing work carried out by the five members of the ERP po­liti­ cal unit as playing a role in gaining the trust and sympathy of civilians. He explained how: We undertook to explain the justice of our strug­gle, the difference between us as guerrillas, what we did, and what the [Salvadoran] Armed Forces did. ­People could compare ­those two ­things and think about how the Armed Forces assassinated ­people. The proof was what had occurred in the Barrios massacre and in El Mozote—­because we made public what had happened in El Mozote. We explained the prob­lem of neutrality, how the e­ nemy had utilized it [in El Mozote] and committed a massacre t­ here. P ­ eople became convinced that what we ­were saying was true. This fact served to raise p­ eople’s awareness regarding which side they had to be on.

He opined that his e­ arlier training at El Castaño proved particularly useful when he discoursed with evangelicals, who ­were generally less inclined to actively support the rebels. In the manner of the Catholic Action program of “See, Judge, and Act” (Chávez 2017, 58)—­reinforced by Fr. Miguel when he administered the Torola parish (Rubio and Balsebre 2009, 80)—­Fabio invited evangelical preachers from the area to go and see the huge crime committed by the army. They went to see and, well, they saw that ­those who had been killed ­were evangelicals as well as Catholics. They realized that the army had killed ­children about to be born. That’s why ­people said, “Look, we c­ an’t take up arms, but any help, any ser­vice you want from us, come and ask for it. If you want food, you want economic assistance . . . ​what­ever you want, we w ­ ill give it to you b­ ecause we know that the strug­gle you are involved in is just.”

Members of the FMLN po­liti­cal unit also told evangelical ministers that the FMLN fought to change a class system in which the FAES “defended the rich, the millionaires, the classes in power, and not the poor.” He recalled explaining how the FMLN was struggling to change the system to benefit the poor: “We proposed an economic change for society, a distribution of wealth, of land, a more just distribution . . . ​that a large majority of the population had no place to work, a huge number of ­people with no place to live, who had to go and work in another country or move from one province to another to work for a plantation owner and provide cheap l­abor in order to eat.” The activists talked about the health, education, and housing prob­lems confronted by poor ­people and contrasted them with the advantages enjoyed by the rich:

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A poor person from that region c­ ouldn’t send his ­children to school, to high school, or to the university in San Miguel b­ ecause they had to put them to work to support the rest of the f­ amily. Meanwhile, the rich man’s c­ hildren studied at g­ reat universities, not only h ­ ere in the country but in the United States or in other universities throughout the world. And health . . . ​one could never find a doctor t­ here sent by the Ministry of Health. To get an appointment with a doctor, p­ eople had to go to San Miguel and wait in line u­ ntil they ­were attended in the San Juan de Dios hospital. At times, they c­ ouldn’t even get to the hospital alive ­because t­ here w ­ ere prob­lems with transportation, prob­lems getting money for transportation. While the rich had specialized medical attention, the poor w ­ ere d­ ying for lack of care. That’s the difference between poor p­ eople and rich p­ eople. ­People would say, “Yes, it is ­really true.” ­People made their own commentaries, they reflected.

Fabio noted that many ­people had no work during the winter (dry) season and that they ­either left to work on plantations in the south and west or “walked along the rivers with nets, looking for fish to eat ­because they had nothing to do.” By contrast, “the army’s propaganda was more focused on the massacres like in El Mozote and El Barrios.” The soldiers explained that the massacre took place ­because, in Fabio’s words, “the guerrillas ­didn’t want to collaborate with us [the army]” and the army told p­ eople that “we are g­ oing to kill every­one who goes around joining the guerrilla,” the object being “to instill panic and fear.” They threatened that they ­were ­going to use machine guns and bomb the population. Neither threats nor vio­lence had the intended effect of emptying rural areas of civilians and isolating the guerrillas. Salvadoran soldiers encouraged p­ eople to relocate to San Miguel close to the Third Brigade but overlooked the fact that few ­people possessed the skills necessary to make their way in an urban environment. They also told the parents of soldiers that the guerrillas would kill them if they became aware of a son in the barracks. That led Fabio and other organizers to give special attention to such cases, explaining to the parents that they ­were aware that many of the soldiers had been “compelled to join a murderous army,” (i.e., recruited by force). In his view the best t­ hing for the families was not for the soldier to transfer his loyalty (such as it was) from the government to the FMLN but to desert the army and migrate to the United States where “he is ­going to earn money . . . ​, w ­ ill save his own life, and w ­ ill stop killing p­ eople from the civilian population.” When two soldiers from the elite Belloso Battalion joined the FMLN without the army punishing their families, “the p­ eople became convinced that it was just a threat.” Meanwhile, some soldiers in the army collaborated by leaving the FMLN ammunition at a given place and ­others passed on information about army secrets by radio. The FMLN learned that some army captains hung hammocks in the field, removed their socks and shoes, and, afraid of an ambush at the well, ordered soldiers to bring them ­water so they could bathe. “Other

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officers would relieve themselves in a plastic bag so as not to have to go too far and [would] order a soldier to go throw the bag away. And we knew all that through the soldier who passed along the information.” Some of this material prob­ably found its way into humorous skits presented live in communities or broadcast on Radio Venceremos (Henríquez 2010; López Vigil 1994; Lievens 1989).

Transfer to Joateca Between November and December 1982, the ERP transferred Fabio Argueta to Joateca, located in the extreme northeast of Morazán and close to the Honduran border. Joateca had a checkered history from the point of view of guerrilla organ­izing. The ERP gained many recruits from the countryside and some from the municipal center, but paramilitaries had a strong presence in Joateca (the town) and local catechists, several of whom had attended El Castaño, had lacked pastoral support for the new evangelism. Hence, as noted ­earlier, Abraham Argueta, Felipe, and other catechists dedicated their energies before the war to forming a cooperative and working in other community-­oriented development proj­ects rather than developing a network of CEBs. One former catechist, interviewed in 1992, explained that Joateca’s isolation—­a road transitable by heavy vehicles was not completed ­until the early 1970s—­and its proximity to Honduras problematized travel into and out of the community.5 Fabio was sent to Joateca about six months into the Comandante Gonzalo campaign—­begun in the summer of 1982—­during which the ERP inflicted heavy losses on government forces and eliminated security force detachments (National Guard, Trea­sury Police) and paramilitaries from all northern Morazanian municipalities, giving the rebels day-­to-­day control over the territory (see López Vigil 1994; Radio Venceremos 1982). Fabio arrived shortly a­ fter the ERP seized the town. The guerrilla incursion frightened most inhabitants, who had historically supported the government. Fearing the worst, the majority fled across the San Antonio River and into Honduras taking with them cows, chickens, sewing machines, beasts of burden, and other property. Fabio arrived to carry out po­liti­cal work with civilians, and in par­tic­u­lar “to get them to trust that we w ­ eren’t g­ oing to do them any harm and then to convince them that they ­shouldn’t abandon their ­houses and ­things.” He and other organizers “arrived prepared to stay” and established their base in a ­house on the town’s outskirts. But ERP po­liti­cal activists confronted a serious prob­lem. Like Sergeant Gabino Mata in Jocoaitique, Nicolás Sorto, the local commander, had led a band of local paramilitaries that murdered numerous p­ eople—­seventy-­four by Fabio’s count—­many of them the parents, aunts and u­ ncles, cousins, and other relatives of FMLN guerrillas. A majority of the victims prob­ably died in a series of extended killings, described by Eunasia Argueta as a massacre.6 During the guerrilla assault, Sorto refused to surrender despite the promise that his life would be respected. Fabio explained that Sorto had a “huge quantity

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of ammunition” and was installed in a well-­fortified stone trench; like the paramilitaries allied with him, he “put up a tremendous re­sis­tance.” Enraged by the lack of re­spect the defenders had shown for civilian lives, the compas “­didn’t ­pardon any of the paramilitaries t­ here” during their assault on the town, leading Joatecans to think that they all w ­ ere g­ oing to be killed. Fabio remembered that “I went to do my job of gaining a bit of trust, explaining that we w ­ eren’t ­going to do anything to them ­because they ­hadn’t opposed us directly,” and reflected that “if the lives of the majority of the paramilitaries had been respected, the po­liti­cal situation would have been dif­fer­ent.”7 Similar to his previous mission in Río Seco, Fabio was tasked with developing a civilian base, convincing p­ eople to remain in place and hopefully to collaborate with guerrilla forces. In this case he had one advantage. Rosa, the young ­woman with whom he partnered during the war, came from the Joateca canton of Ocotillo and knew ­people in the town. He began to visit the residents, even crossing over to Honduras to engage with ­those who had fled ­there. “Look, d­ on’t abandon your ­houses,” I said, “­don’t abandon your ­things. If the army comes, they are not ­going to do anything to you. What happened in El Mozote ­isn’t ­going to happen now. Have trust and return to your h ­ ouses. The army wants to annihilate us, not you. Return with your t­ hings.” I said to ­people, “Look, if you d­ on’t want to join us, that’s up to you. But d­ on’t stop ­doing what you are ­doing. Continue to work, keep businesses ­going in the town, keep working t­ here.” I spoke with several impor­tant ­people from the population to tell them to return. And the p­ eople returned with the exception of ­those who had left for [San Francisco] Gotera. Aside from them, all the ­people who had fled to the other side of the river returned. So that was one of the impor­tant jobs—to get p­ eople to return home.

Fabio’s other job was to convince p­ eople to open a school in the city hall, but t­ here he encountered re­sis­tance, as p­ eople thought that instructors provided by the FMLN would turn their ­children against the government and encourage them to identify with—­and perhaps eventually join—­the rebels. Wisely, Fabio replied that if ­people considered FMLN instructors to be a prob­lem, “we w ­ ill look for ­people amongst you who can teach the rest.” And so it was. Between the end of January and the first days of February 1983, the rebels set up an elementary school in the town hall with local p­ eople who could teach classes and work with the ­children. ­Later, though, the FAES captured one of the civilian teachers: “The soldiers threatened ­people saying that if they continued to give classes to prepare guerrillas, all the teachers would be taken prisoner. But ­people continued offering classes.” He recounted a time when ele­ments of the FAES’s Belloso Battalion, one of five immediate-­reaction battalions trained by the U.S. government, disembarked near Juniguara, Honduras, and advanced secretly to Joateca to assault the town.

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He was in a meeting with civilians, having brought two trucks to transport local ­people who agreed to help the rebels build trenches. He recounted, “I was meeting with them, talking about the importance of the job, the help, their collaboration, the justice of the strug­gle, why we fought, our objective[s], when I heard the first explosion when the army attacked one of our [sentry] posts.” A tremendous firefight broke out and Fabio retreated south away from the center of town where he encountered Rosa pulling along a terrified young ­woman. I remember Rosa leaving with rucksacks amidst the shooting and bombing. The other girl got very frightened and her legs gave out so that she ­couldn’t walk. Rosa was having to flee while pulling the girl and the rucksacks ­toward the side of the street. When she reached the street, t­ here was a ­woman b­ ehind a ­house motioning with her arms, saying, “Nothing is g­ oing to happen to you. ­Don’t run. I am g­ oing to speak on your behalf.” The ­woman tried to stop my wife while she was struggling with the rucksacks and the girl who c­ ouldn’t walk b­ ecause her legs had turned to jelly.

The w ­ oman ­stopped trying to detain Rosa when she saw Fabio and three members of the security team, who ­were covering the retreat. The guerrillas had been caught by surprise b­ ecause the soldiers disembarked in Honduras and entered El Salvador secretly from the north, yet no one in the party was wounded by gunfire. Fabio remained on the outskirts of Joateca during the two-­or three-­ day occupation and returned a­ fter the soldiers departed. “The time had come to stay nearby,” he explained, “right ­there on the outskirts. In this way, we could return again to Joateca. We went around talking to the ­people.” “We thought they had killed you,” ­people would say. “No. We w ­ ere h ­ ere near the town,” I said, “watching their movements.” This sort of bravado was prob­ably intended to reduce ­people’s fear of government power and increase their re­spect for and admiration of the FMLN. Fabio wanted to alleviate ­people’s fear of the military, which regularly threatened to make another El Mozote for t­ hose who collaborated with the guerrillas. “When the army arrives,” [he pleaded,] “­don’t leave. Tell them that the guerrillas have a camp ­here. Show them where we ­were. Tell them who we are. That’s no prob­ lem. But d­ on’t leave. . . . ​­Don’t abandon your t­ hings. B ­ ecause if you abandon your ­things, your ­houses, the armed forces ­will destroy them. Look what has happened with so many ­houses destroyed in other parts ­because ­people left them abandoned. The soldiers ate the ­cattle, the chickens, every­thing. You are g­ oing to lose more if you leave.” This seemed to work with most p­ eople, though o­ thers left Joateca for San Francisco Gotera, where they lodged with friends or took up residence in squalid, militarized displaced persons camps.8 A strong fear of associating with the FMLN remained, especially among the families of rebel soldiers. According to Fabio, p­ eople “had seen how if the young ­people joined, the military killed the parents, siblings,

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and ­family members. So the parents and the youth would say, ‘If I join, look, you ­will leave h ­ ere but they might kill my m ­ other and ­father. Look what happened to Fredy’s m ­ other. Look what happened to so-­and-­so’s ­mother, Tacho’s m ­ other.’ And they would begin to tell stories of cases that had occurred ­earlier when the paramilitaries w ­ ere t­here. Even though p­ eople sympathized, they w ­ ere afraid that the person who joined was ­going to lose the ­family.” Fabio wanted to locate near the town center but was convinced to look for a ­house on the southern side of town by p­ eople who expressed fear that they could be caught in a crossfire if the army invaded the community again. Throughout his time—­a year or two—in and around Joateca, Fabio mainly worked clandestinely. He developed a network of in­for­mants who passed him information. But collaborators had to take care ­because Joateca always contained ­people sympathetic to the army, unlike other communities in northern Morazán like Jocoaitique, Torola, and Villa El Rosario. Fabio recounted that some ­people said, “If they see that I go around with a ­rifle or that I go around talking to you, they are ­going to inform the army about me . . . ​and [the army is] ­going to kill me or my f­ amily. I can collaborate, but clandestinely, secretly.” In Fabio’s analy­sis, Joateca was another town, like El Mozote, where “every­ thing was mixed up with religion.” ­Because of Fr. Argueta’s hold on the town, the progressive catechist Abraham Argueta had never been able to consolidate work in the prewar period. During the war Fr. Rogelio Ponseele, who e­ arlier worked in Zacamil, a working-­class neighborhood of San Salvador, left the capital for northern Morazán following state repression of progressive clergy. During the war, he administered to guerrilla fighters and civilians alike throughout the region, including Joateca (López Vigil 1987). But as Fabio noted, “the ­people who attended [Fr. Rogelio’s masses] came from areas outside the town or from Guachipilín where more had joined the organ­ization.” He concluded, “Joateca was difficult in e­ very aspect—­not participating religiously or po­liti­cally. The only ­thing that was or­ga­nized in the time I was ­there was the social organ­ization and [that was] primarily b­ ecause of common interests like education, health, the road issue. Th ­ ings like that.” Eventually, Fabio was sent to a more rural area around Guachipilín, where the FMLN had broad support and from which he could attend Agua Blanca and areas like Estancia, Calavera, and Ondable on the south side of the Torola River, all of which supported the FMLN and thus presented better opportunities than conservative Joateca for the development of armed militias. Promoting militia formation was one objective that the guerrilla leadership set for po­liti­cal activists like Fabio. With Fabio’s transfer out of Joateca, a succession of activists worked t­ here: ex-­catechist Samuel Vidal Guzmán (“Isaías”) for a few days; then Esperanza Castro, who l­ater died ­a fter stepping on a land mine; followed by “Javier,” who attended Joateca u­ ntil he became ill; and fi­nally “Alberto,” a Mexican national, “who came to work ­there and began to finish off all the ­enemy bases.” Alberto “expelled something like thirty families from Joateca” and sought

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to have ­others tried and brought to justice (which often meant execution via firing squad). Fabio recalled telling him that “the p­ eople are a bit ignorant . . . ​ [they] a­ ren’t capable of reflecting and recognizing the reason why we are fighting. I feel that when I talk and argue with many ­people, that discussion promotes concern and interest. But when you ­don’t talk with ­people and act in a radical [i.e., authoritarian] fashion, then we have prob­lems.” He insisted that “one had to find out [­things] from p­ eople b­ ecause sometimes they d­ idn’t want to talk. One began to investigate and realized that some prob­lem had occurred ­earlier with their ­family or with them and that ­people w ­ ere frightened ­because of it. If ­people spoke out against one, it was b­ ecause they had a reason. One c­ ouldn’t proceed by giving them more reasons ­because that made the situation worse.” Lucio Vásquez recalls “Albertón” (Big Alberto), the Mexican ERP po­liti­cal operative, as a tall, thin, and rather humorless zone commander with a tremendous capacity for work. Vásquez writes that Alberto was “very strict and you had to be prepared for what­ever order he might give. He ­wasn’t disagreeable, but one did not feel that p­ eople had sufficient trust in him to joke around. . . . ​He was a serene type with a slight smile: you’d never hear a guffaw from him” (Vásquez and Escalón 2012, 185). ­Whether from Germany, Spain, France, Chile, Venezuela, or, as was Alberto’s case, Mexico, internationalists had urban, middle-­class origins. Most commonly they entered the militant Left through university experience and, although I have no knowledge of Alberto’s po­liti­cal trajectory, I wager that he entered by that route as well. He came across in Fabio’s narrative as unfamiliar with rural Salvadoran social relations and uninterested in listening to, much less taking seriously, ­people’s concerns and complaints. He dictated, he ordered, and he punished. His unwavering commitment to the revolution could not compensate for ignorance of rural norms and lack of re­spect for civilians. Fabio and other former catechists, such as Samuel Vidal Guzmán, who grew up in northern Morazán and attended church training centers, exuded more sympathy for the plight of civilians and understood the reticence of many p­ eople to collaborate actively with the FMLN, especially a­ fter the El Mozote massacre. Fabio claimed that during the time he worked in Joateca he reassured local residents that the period of FAES massacres was over and that they should remain in the community, protect their property, engage in economic activity, and educate their ­children (with or without FMLN assistance). Fabio displayed awareness of the effects of the FMLN’s eradication of paramilitaries—­which included killing the wounded—­during their seizure of Joateca and seems to have deliberately ­adopted a “go slow” approach to sustain a civilian presence ­there, which benefited rebel forces in myriad ways. Yet Fabio’s profession of democracy—he said that some compas chided him for being “very demo­cratic” and “consider[ing] other p­ eople’s prob­lems”—­ underestimated the tough decisions (­ life or death decisions in some cases) t­ hat po­liti­cal activists like him had to make, as well as the fact that like Alberto, Fabio

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too sometimes erred. A petty-­bourgeois merchant from San Fernando—­let us call him “Saul”—­told me that during the war Fabio accused him of passing information to the Salvadoran army and recommended that he be executed.9 Cooler heads prevailed, and FMLN officials “merely” expelled Saul from the region for eigh­teen months, u­ ntil, according to him, his name was cleared (though several postwar interviewees maintained that Saul had indeed passed information to the army).10 But Saul never forgot the experience and maintained considerable odium for the FMLN a­ fter the war. He was particularly irate b­ ecause he had, according to him, risked his life during the revolutionary war smuggling arms past Salvadoran and Honduran army roadblocks and into northern Morazán by sequestering them in a hidden compartment of his pickup truck.11 In another case, “Sergio” accused “Benitón” (Fabio) of wanting to have him executed for having stolen from civilians. Sergio refused to surrender his weapon, with the words (as he recalled them), “para entregar mi fusil, tienes que matarme primero” (if you want my ­rifle, you’ll have to kill me first). Higher-­ranking commanders intervened and supposedly supported Sergio, himself a battle-­hardened combatant and po­liti­cal or­ga­niz­er.12 Fi­nally, Lucio Vásquez, a young combatant well-­disposed ­toward Fabio, whom he credited with possibly saving his life during a firefight with Honduran army troops, recounted how “Benito” (Fabio, also known as “Benitón” or “El Gordo Benito”) punished Lucio’s ­sister, Irma, for an unspecified error by sending her unarmed to a highly contested area near San Miguel with scarce covering vegetation. Fortunately, FMLN troops in that zone re-­armed Irma, and she survived the war (Vásquez and Escalón 2012, 76, 191).13 The ERP executed suspected informers and some ­others who ­violated its code of conduct, but it made many ­mistakes along the way. However, unlike the FAES, always ready to kill suspected guerrillas or guerrilla sympathizers, ERP commanders sought to investigate accusations of wrongdoing, though they w ­ ere l­ imited in their efforts by the vicissitudes of the war itself. In many cases, such as t­ hose described above, they acted to check the worst tendencies of Fabio and other po­liti­cal activists when they ­were judged to have made potentially life and death decisions without sufficiently strong evidence to substantiate the charges. Fi­nally, sexism was a particularly grave prob­lem in the ERP and other political-­ military organ­izations that composed the FMLN. ­Earlier we saw how Fabio downplayed the sacrifices made by Catalina, his first wife, by failing to acknowledge her efforts to locate his whereabouts and secure his release following his capture in 1977. Fabio volunteered no information about her flight with the ­children to the refugee camp in Colomoncagua, Honduras, or the difficulties they experienced living t­ here. He suggested that the marital breakup began in Morazán when Catalina defended her ­mother’s criticism of Fabio and his ­mother. Nor did Fabio discuss his war­time relationship with Rosa, a teenager at the time they bonded. Fi­nally, in chapter 4, we encountered Fabio narrating the case of young w ­ omen being accused of sexual libertarianism and expelled from the zone

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in order to prevent jealousies and hostilities among potential male suitors. Fabio followed the po­liti­cal line laid down by his superiors and regarded the ­women, and not the men pursuing them, as the “prob­lem.” This is not the place to go into a detailed discussion of gender relations in conflict zones in El Salvador. ­Needless to say, soon ­after the Peace Accords had been signed, substantial ethnographic and testimonial lit­er­a­ture appeared that contradicted FMLN war­time claims of gender equality (e.g., Duntley-­Matos 1996; Vásquez, Ibáñez, and Murguialday 1996; Rivera et  al. 1995; Garaizabal and Vázquez 1994). My interviews and observations in northern Morazán generally supported the view that ­women gained skills and assumed responsibilities for ­others’ lives that in many cases positively affected their postwar self-­images while si­mul­ta­neously being held responsible for their bodies (e.g., pregnancy) and usually subject to male command. Like Viterna (2013), who conducted systematic fieldwork and interviews with ex-­guerrilleras (former female guerrillas) in three Salvadoran municipalities, including Perquín in northern Morazán, I found that most northern Morazanian w ­ omen dedicated themselves to f­ amily and h ­ ouse­hold a­ fter the war. A minority—­generally ­those who ­were better connected or occupied high-­status positions in the ERP—­became postwar leaders in local government, po­liti­cal parties, community organ­izations, or NGOs.

Two-­Sided Power Fabio characterized the early years of the revolutionary war (1980–1983) as “dead po­liti­cally” ­because of the repression exercised by the FAES against the civilian population. Before the Comandante Gozalo campaign eliminated National Guard and Trea­sury Police posts from northern Morazán, mere suspicion of collaboration with the guerrillas often led to the capture and murder of innocent civilians. Even the innocuous purchase of commodities for one’s own use could have fatal consequences if the authorities suspected ERP involvement, as in the following example recounted by Fabio: “One girl came to Perquín to buy a pair of batteries. The batteries w ­ eren’t for us but for her f­ amily’s use. But since she was coming from Ocotillo [near Perquín] to the town, [she was s­ topped when returning home] at a checkpoint at the exit from Perquín, and the soldiers said to her, ‘Okay, you are carry­ing that pair of batteries to the guerrillas.’ And they captured and assassinated her. A lot of t­ hings like that happened.”14 Before 1984–1985, the ERP paid l­ imited attention to the civilian population. The rebels did lead civilian collaborators on guindas during large-­scale military incursions, but in the region, ­there was “something like a withdrawal . . . ​, a kind of stagnation of or­ga­nized work during that period.” Fabio opined that “it was necessary to dismantle the government forces, to take over Villa El Rosario, Perquín, Torola, San Fernando, Joateca, Corinto, all ­those populations, eliminate all the military bases that existed. Then [po­liti­cal] work could begin.”

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Fabio summarized the strategy well, but he left out key enabling developments. The most impor­tant of t­hese was the “demo­cratic” election that resulted in the ascent of Christian Demo­crat José Napoleón Duarte to the presidency on 1 June  1984. Duarte was the first civilian-­elected president since Arturo Araujo served six months from 1 March to 2 December 1931, before being deposed in a military coup led by General Maximiliano Hernández Martínez. In December 1983, some months prior to Duarte’s election, Vice President George H. W. Bush had visited El Salvador and lectured the FAES High Command on the importance of bringing the death squads u­ nder control if they wished to continue receiving U.S. security assistance. Massacres and grisly death squad killings declined quickly, though the air war, captures, and tortures picked up (Binford 2016, 157–181). The relative “invisibility” of the injured and dead, now littering remote hamlets in isolated “no go” areas for international journalists, enabled a massive increase in U.S. military assistance. U.S. advisers pressured the armed forces to undertake a twenty-­four-­hour war using air (spotter planes) and ground-­based intelligence (PRALs) to direct helicopter-­borne troops to surround and eliminate massed rebel forces (see Byrne 1996, 108).15 According to Corum (1998, 32), the investment was starting to pay off by 1984. Indeed, ERP commanders and the personnel of Radio Venceremos survived several lightning assaults that culminated in nail-­biting escapes (Medrano 2006, 342–352; López Vigil 1994, 164–172). The FMLN response was twofold, though it differed somewhat for rearguard areas and conflict zones. In general, Fabio noted that around 1984, “from the big battalion units, our forces dispersed [and a] new strategy emerged in which ­every combatant had to become an or­ga­nizer of p­ eople.” Guerrilla strategists referred to the new modality as one focused on the “Guerrilla Unit” (Unidad Guerrillera) formed by breaking up battalion-­sized troop aggregations into small units of six to ten ­people, dispersing them throughout the country, and expanding the war to previously untouched areas.16 Many ­people dropped out of the strug­gle, believing that the FMLN was throwing away a victory that was in its grasp. Th ­ ose who remained ­were sent to a school of guerrilla warfare in Jocoaitique where they learned about small-­unit tactics, learned how to h ­ andle explosives and mines, and studied politics so as to be able to communicate the FMLN’s vision to ­people exposed only to the bourgeois-­controlled media.17 Karin Lievens, a Belgian internationalist who worked with the ERP in the early to mid-1980s, discussed the FMLN’s plan to form “a po­liti­cal army: a conglomerate of [po­liti­ cally] conscious civilians that anchored the po­liti­cal strug­gle. E ­ very compa had to convert himself/herself into a po­liti­cal or­ga­nizer, able to undertake po­liti­cal tasks among the population. The object would be not only to undertake military actions but to live side-­by-­side with the population, give [it] classes on politics, or­ga­nize it. On the other hand, each compa would have to be capable of defending himself/herself militarily” (1989, 139–141).18 Radio Venceremos, the mobile hospitals, and the command post remained in the northern Morazanian rearguard, where extensive employment of mines

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and ambushes exacted high costs from the FAES when it invaded. In rearguard areas, the ERP and other FMLN political-­military organ­izations sought to exploit President Duarte’s claim that El Salvador had embarked on a new era of democracy. Thus they urged civilians to form community-­based organ­izations that would advocate before the army and government for fundamental ­human rights—­rights to life, property, choice of residence, po­liti­cal neutrality, and so on.19 Up to this point, however, most civilians, numbering as many as twenty thousand in northern Morazán, ­were impoverished, dispersed, disor­ga­nized, alienated, and terrorized, subject to random threats, captures, tortures, and occasional killings on the part of government forces (army incursions, artillery bombardments, and air force strafing, rocketing, and bombing). The ERP wanted to change the situation by convincing civilians to or­ga­nize collectively, defend themselves against the FAES, and reconstitute communities that would pursue proj­ects in education, health, and production, in the pro­cess of which they would solidify their identification with the FMLN. The ultimate objective was “two-­sided power”—­elaborated in an internal FMLN document (FMLN 1987) and shared with other FMLN political-­military organ­izations during a 1985 “conference” held in northern Morazán—­through which, as Fabio put it, ­people would learn “to keep the armed forces in their sights and us in their hearts.”20 Both catechists and po­liti­cal operatives (many of them former catechists) played key roles in implementing the strategy.21 In 1985, CEBES, which represented base communities throughout northern Morazán, successfully petitioned the ERP High Command to release some former catechists from combat duty and reassign them to CEBES to administer to communities’ religious needs (see CEBES n.d.; Notimex 1991). The catechists worked separately from FMLN po­liti­cal activists/organizers like Fabio, though the two groups coordinated with one another: One of the most impor­tant jobs for catechists was to make p­ eople from the civilian population feel that the armed forces ­weren’t r­ eally the civilian population’s protectors. For starters, one took all the t­ hings that had happened, the massacres that had taken place throughout the country, and made ­people feel that it was necessary for the population to defend itself for its religious and po­liti­cal growth. They d­ idn’t know what to do, so the Christian task was to promote the awareness that remaining united, staying together in community was a way of protecting oneself, beginning with a religious understanding of brotherhood, unity, friendship, fraternity, [and] loving one another. P ­ eople w ­ ere not ­going to be able to defend themselves individually. ­People together are able to defend themselves, utilizing faith as a means by which to join together and confront the armed forces.

He noted that “more than anything, po­liti­cal work focused on the formation of leaders and Christian work focused on the formation of pastoral agents, on

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[the formation of] more catechists, and the organ­ization of Christian m ­ others.” He explained how each community, ­every canton had a catechist dedicated to Christian work and a po­liti­cal leader focusing on po­liti­cal work. The catechist and po­liti­cal activist coordinated between themselves but met separately with members of the community. Catechists did not discuss politics, and po­liti­cal activists avoided religious m ­ atters so as not to confuse p­ eople. According to Fabio, “Po­liti­cal work was one ­thing and Christian work another. If t­ here was a religious meeting, it was only that. If it was an impor­tant cele­bration, a po­liti­cal leader from the region might come to hold a meeting with the population outside the church, separate from religious m ­ atters. They ­were always sharing the work but the po­liti­cal leader attended to po­liti­cal ­matters and the catechist to Christian concerns.” This coordination led to the identification of “natu­ral leaders” in the vari­ous communities and the eventual creation of the Patronato de Desarrollo de las Comunidades de Morazán y San Miguel (Community Development Council of Morazán and San Miguel, PADECOMSM) and the Comité de Madres Cristianas de El Salvador (Committee of Christian ­Mothers of El Salvador) in 1985.22 When some members w ­ ere captured, p­ eople insisted that the prisoner be re­leased. They would tell the army, “Look, it ­isn’t ­because we are on the FMLN’s side. We are on so-­and-­so’s [the captured person’s] side. He’s working for the good of the community and is blessed b­ ecause he is the president of this and that ini­ tiative.” At times they took over the entrance to the [San Francisco] Gotera barracks ­because of someone’s capture, and p­ eople with megaphones and signs would be t­ here demanding the captured person’s release. . . . ​Since the army wanted to earn p­ eople’s ­favor, they would say, “okay, we are g­ oing to ­free him.” On the one hand ­there was combat and on the other hand the population pro­ tested at the entrance to the barracks. They traveled to the Third Bri­gade [in San Miguel] and they went to the Gotera barracks. They also came to the legislative assembly in San Salvador to seek someone’s freedom. That forced the army to not repress ­people like it had done in previous years.

The army threatened, harassed, and tortured p­ eople, and denied ­people in northern Morazán the right to travel to and from San Francisco Gotera in order to buy and sell goods. Community organ­izations demanded and won freedom for Vicente Márquez, an evangelical member of an Adventist church in San Fernando, when soldiers “forced him to dress as a [guerrilla] soldier and walk through a minefield” with the result that a mine exploded and “tore up his clothes and blew off his shin.” Soldiers also denied northern Morazanians the right to sell products like coffee and timber in San Francisco Gotera, and during the 1984 Torola IV operation “impeded the f­ ree transit of civilians.” Fabio explained that “the situation of two-­sided power had to do with the organ­ization of leadership, to create ways of relating to the armed forces when they arrived in an area. Many

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times, p­ eople feared becoming victims of the army. Th ­ ere was a need to create an organ­ization among the population to get [them] involved, to exercise the power of organ­ization amidst all the repression that existed. To do this, it was necessary for ­people to act as if they ­were allies of the armed forces. But deep down and in their hearts, they w ­ ere with us.” Fabio described two types of catechists that played roles in ­these efforts: (rebel) camp catechists and civilian or community catechists. I understand the difference to be that “camp catechists” referred mainly to prewar catechists who joined the ERP and served in military units in the early stages of the war before being reassigned to work with CEBES; the civilian or community catechists w ­ ere mostly trained by the camp catechists (and the priests) to administer to their communities. (Jacinto Márquez was a community catechist.) He noted that “up in the mountains near Sabanetas some civilian catechists w ­ ere trained by catechists that arrived from the guerrilla camps, and they received special attention from the priests in ­those parts, Fr. Rogelio or Fr. Miguel.” Some catechists joined ERP militias, but following discussion “about the military role of catechists,” it was de­cided to permit catechists who ­were also in militias to focus on Christian work exclusively instead of [also] engaging in military actions. The ERP leadership judged it more impor­tant that they attend to the religious needs of the civilian population. Christian work was impor­tant for Fabio and ­others b­ ecause it “promoted and raised p­ eople’s awareness so they would join our military ranks.” Religion w ­ asn’t an opium like o­ thers said. Rather, religion raised ­people’s consciousness and awakened their understanding so they could learn their rights, they could learn who their ­enemy was. That was how our p­ eople’s consciousness was raised. I think that religion played an impor­tant consciousness-­ raising role in the sense that it moved ­people to concern themselves with the community’s needs. Faith led p­ eople to become interested in the good of the community. Living faith in that period and at that time and u­ nder t­ hose conditions was working to serve the community. So consciousness-­raising was work, we could say, and it was combined with po­liti­cal work.

It enabled ­people to resist military incursions and the propaganda that accompanied them. For instance, once when the army invaded Perquín (though elsewhere as well), soldiers installed a loudspeaker that projected as far as some nearby guerrilla camps in the forested hills surrounding the town. They prepared songs against Rogelio Ponseele and Miguel Ventura, whom they characterized as Marxist-­Leninist priests, and “warned that if p­ eople participated in meetings with subversive priests, something was g­ oing to happen to them like what happened in El Mozote.” The FAES sustained that discourse for a long time, making similar threats against ­people in Nahuaterique, El Carrizal, and El Zancudo.23

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It was necessary to talk with ­people a lot, make p­ eople believe that they had a right to buy and sell, that it is a just right to feed the f­ amily. We wanted to convince p­ eople that although it’s true that we are guerrillas, they are civil­ians and have the right to buy and sell. That we might be in a region like the one where we ­were d­ idn’t mean that they should have to pay the price. They ­were dif­fer­ent ­people than us. They w ­ ere civilians and we ­were soldiers. Therefore, they s­ houldn’t be repressed in that way. The impor­tant ­thing was to or­ga­nize to make demands on the authorities, especially the col­o­nels, since they ­were the ones giving the ­orders. (emphases added)

Or­ga­nized communities needed leaders, and Fabio and other po­liti­cal activists spent considerable time and effort identifying potential candidates. He recalled that “we went looking for leaders who sympathized a bit with the strug­ gle, who ­were liberating the community, who ­were loved and respected by the community . . . ​[and we] tried to talk to t­ hose ­people individually, meet with them alone.” In Perquín, to give one example, they met with Oscar Chicas, who became president of PADECOMSM, and Santíos Hernández, who served as the organ­ization’s secretary. When they thought that p­ eople w ­ ere prepared, ERP po­liti­cal activists like Fabio called a meeting to discuss what they thought needed to be done in the community (schools, health centers, e­ tc.) and how they (the ERP) might assist. But initially, many p­ eople w ­ ere wary of the guerrillas, fearing, as e­ arlier in Joateca, that once or­ga­nized at the community level they would be given a r­ ifle and sent to fight the government: ­ eople had that fear, that we w P ­ ere organ­izing them for that. But we tried to convince them that no, that the p­ eople involved w ­ eren’t t­ here to ­later take a ­rifle and fight on the battlefield but to work for their community’s develop­ ment—­for health, education, freedom of sale and the purchase of all products. ­People became convinced, though sometimes they then confronted the fear of g­ oing out to speak. But once they did speak—­not just one or two or three but the group—­the authorities began to re­spect the p­ eople involved, take them into account, and to see that what they ­were asking for was just and necessary.

The most impor­tant point about two-­sided power was that “the ­enemy believes that he is convincing me and is beating me, but I am beating him.” The FMLN was on the run for well over a year following the failure of the January 1981 nationwide offensive to topple the regime. However, by the summer of 1982, rebel forces had regained the initiative. In short order they eliminated government outposts in northern Chalatenango, northern Morazán, Guazapa, and the Chichontepec Volcano in San Vicente, and confronted poorly trained government units with well-­armed and highly disciplined battalion-­sized forces.

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In June 1982 the ERP wiped out an army com­pany at El Moscarón near San Fernando (Meléndez et al. 1982a, 1982b). Fabio spoke of the ability of the FAES to replenish losses through forced conscription, but he barely touched on the air war. On the other hand, he did discuss how the FMLN leadership overhauled its strategy by moving away from pitched ­battles and territorial expansion ­toward a guerrilla war involving small units dispersed throughout the country.24 Units of six or eight guerrillas sapped electric pylons, destroyed coffee-­processing plants (beneficios), disrupted transportation, laid mines, and engaged in hit-­and-­run operations. Also, each guerrilla fighter was to become a po­liti­cal activist and treat e­ very encounter with civilians as an opportunity to explain the FMLN’s program and extend its influence beyond the historical rearguard areas (see Ching 2016, 44–47; Crandall 2016, 362–370; Ibarra Chávez 2009, 189–190). To that end, ­those who remained w ­ ere required to attend school in Jocoaitique and pass a course known as Combatants Organ­izing P ­ eople (Combatientes Organizadores del Pueblo, COP) so they could learn to communicate the FMLN’s views to ­those living in areas nominally controlled by the army.25 Crandall cites Joaquín Villalobos to the effect that the new tactics formed part of a “war of attrition” in which “the question is who is able to destabilize and bleed the other side more” (2016, 370). However, many civilians resented the power outages and transportation disruptions, which made their difficult lives even more difficult. Also, the mines that FMLN guerrillas placed on frequently traveled paths did not discriminate between peasants’ sandals and soldiers’ boots. Civilians, too, stepped on them, and lost feet, legs, and their lives in some cases. Despite ­these drawbacks, the strategy did enable the FMLN to compensate for material disadvantages and continue the fight. The FMLN did not defeat the government, not even in its second general offensive of November 1989—by which time Fabio was working with Salvadoran refugee groups in Nicaragua (see chapter  6). However, the small-­unit strategy enabled the rebels to survive the U.S.-­ financed military buildup, stalemate the war, and in 1992 to negotiate peace accords from a position of military strength. Improved FMLN communication and logistical capabilities even enabled many small units to converge for spectacular assaults that put the lie to the col­o­nels’ (and U.S. embassy’s) contention that the FMLN had become a mere irritant to the government. However, Fabio failed to register the high level of discord and reduced troop morale that accompanied the shift in strategy. The camps to which rebel troops repaired following the big b­ attles of 1982–1984 supplied food and offered comradery and even entertainment in the form of dances, puppet shows, and m ­ usic, whereas small units operating deep in ­enemy territory had to rely on local peasants and workers—­ not always sympathetic to the strug­g le—­for supplies and information. Most impor­tant, badly wounded combatants had to survive a lengthy trip to one of the guerrillas’ mobile, clandestine hospitals located in remote rearguard areas high in the northern Morazanian mountains and out of artillery range.26

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Nor does Fabio mention that despite the ­labors of po­liti­cal activists like himself many rebel fighters had a l­imited vision of the conflict, which led them to view the breakup of large units as tantamount to handing over victory at the very moment that government forces seemed to be on the verge of defeat. Many even abandoned the strug­gle. Yet he had to be aware of the discontent in the ranks, and it is likely that he was given the task of explaining to ERP troops the need for tactical changes and convincing them to embrace ­those changes. However, our discussions took place during the years from 1993 to 1995, when the revolutionary war had recently ended and the FMLN was struggling to establish itself as a v­ iable national po­liti­cal option and at a time when few p­ eople felt comfortable airing the organ­ization’s “dirty laundry” or discussing war­time discord.27 That is no longer the case (see Sprenkels 2018). In discussing this period, Fabio emphasized community organ­ization in northern Morazán, which developed from the mid-1980s as a parallel feature of the FMLN’s strategic response to government attempts to change the war­time correlation of forces. The 1984 election of Christian Demo­crat José Napoleón Duarte as president opened up po­liti­cal space for civilians living in northern Morazán, northern Chalatenango, and other conflict zones to demand their rights. Duarte insisted that his election proved that El Salvador had transcended its authoritarian past and that the FMLN should lay down its arms and compete through the ballot box. Death squads no longer plied the streets of the major cities to the degree they had in 1979–1981, nor did the army regularly commit the kinds of large-­scale massacres—­like ­those at El Mozote and the Sumpul River—­that resulted in international headlines and negative publicity. Rather, the military’s strategic recalibration displaced h ­ uman rights violations to remote rural zones in which civilian claims of being indiscriminately targeted by air power w ­ ere subject to an ex post facto “he said, she said” dynamic (civilian accusations versus FAES denials) that “confused” the liberal press (see Binford 2016, 169–174; Amer­i­cas Watch 1985; Amer­i­cas Watch and the L ­ awyers Committee for International H ­ uman Rights 1984). Fi­nally, U.S. advisers pushed for a Vietnam-­era “hearts and minds” approach—­mentioned by Fabio—in which the same army that repressed civilians last year, last month, or yesterday attempted to win their allegiance t­ oday by distributing food stuffs, providing medical and dental ser­vices, and even offering entertainment during field operations. The strategy had ­little success in northern Morazán.28 Most of Fabio’s discussion focused on FMLN efforts to exploit the po­liti­cal opening represented by the government’s adoption of h ­ uman rights discourse. He had l­ ittle to say about small-­unit warfare in FMLN areas of expansion, prob­ ably b­ ecause he was assigned to promote community organ­ization—­poder de doble cara—in the northern Morazanian rearguard.29 Poder de doble cara (or the two-­sided power strategy) turned around the formation of a network of community councils or­ga­nized from 1985 or 1986 through PADECOMSM. The councils consisted of civilians who insisted on the right to live where they chose,

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protested military abuses, or­ga­nized the provision of basic ser­vices (e.g., schools, clinics), and challenged the military ban on the movement of persons and goods into and out of northern Morazán. Working catechists, along with po­liti­cal operatives, many of whom had been catechists, played crucial roles in shaping civilian strug­gle in this period. Fabio extended the discussion in two ways. First, he described the “division of ­labor” between FMLN po­liti­cal activists and community catechists in which each group acknowledged the work of the other but avoided encroaching on the other’s domain. He did not, however, trace its origins to 1985, when the zone’s resident priests (Fr. Miguel Ventura and Fr. Rogelio Ponseele) asked FMLN officials to excuse some former catechists from combat duty so they could attend to the religious needs of control-­zone communities (CEBES n.d.). Guerrilla catechists carried weapons with which to defend themselves but did not participate in military operations. Priests and catechists legitimized the armed strug­gle in transcendental terms by linking it to Old Testament stories familiar to most rural Morazanians, emphasizing the Good News of a God of the Poor who acts on their behalf in the ­here and now. Fr. Rogelio even celebrated the October 1984 death of Col. Domingo Monterrosa, who commanded the Atlacatl Battalion during the El Mozote massacre. Ponseele told Mario López Vigil that the theme of the liturgy at the time of Monterrosa’s death was “God carries out justice through the medium of his ­people” and stated that celebrating a death, even of an adversary as nefarious as Monterrosa, horrified some Eu­ro­pe­ans. However, he explained that the cele­bration “was not ­because of the tragic death of a person” but that “we see in that death how God rejects the bad and never abandons his ­people” (cited in López Vigil 1987, 93). Second, Fabio emphasized the importance of convincing a traumatized population that had suffered through years of arbitrary captures, tortures, and executions in addition to artillery bombardments and air force bombing and strafing to collectively demand its rights. By early 1981, and certainly by the El Mozote massacre in December of that year, most civilians had left northern Morazán. As many as twenty thousand remained though, b­ ecause they had no place to go and/or ­were afraid to abandon their property. One portion of this group sympathesized with the FMLN, another portion considered itself po­liti­cally neutral. While the ERP respected neutrality, the guerrillas required civilians living ­under its day-­to-­day protection to contribute food, ­labor, and even small amounts of cash to the organ­ization and to refrain from sharing information with the FAES that might prove useful during its periodic invasions of the zone. Soon ­a fter Duarte’s election, Fabio and other po­liti­cal organizers worked to deepen civilian commitment. They sought out “natu­ral leaders” to lead community councils that would form health and education committees as well as protest military abuses and secure the right for the f­ ree and unimpeded movement of p­ eople and goods into and out of the zone. As Fabio made clear, this was a delicate pro­cess.

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Fabio continued this work ­until 1988, a bit more than three years before the end of the war, at which point his deteriorating health led his superiors to or­ga­ nize his extraction from northern Morazán, first to Honduras and from ­there to Nicaragua, where he could receive expert medical care. Thus he was not around for the last three years of the war, particularly the massive November 1989 nationwide FMLN offensive, which combined with government ­human rights violations (especially the murder of six Jesuits, their ­house­keeper and d­ aughter at the Central American University) and the fall of the Berlin Wall and subsequent breakup of the Soviet Union to drive both the Salvadoran government and FMLN rebels to seek a negotiated end to the armed conflict. I treat Fabio’s retirement from northern Morazán, his time in Nicaragua, and return to El Salvador in chapter 6.

6

Departure and Return, 1988–2010

By 1988, three years before the end of the war, Fabio’s health was rapidly deteriorating, in part ­because of the tortures to which he had been subjected back in 1977, the effects exacerbated by more than a de­cade of military assaults, forced marches, and life outdoors. He was fatigued, his heart was weak, and he suffered from asthma—­particularly during the dry, dusty winters between November and April. An abdominal hernia created when soldiers had struck him with ­rifles made it impossible for him to walk long distances or lift heavy weights. Porfirio, a catechist and member of the ERP, recalled that by the time Fabio was working around Perquín and living in guerrilla encampments t­ here, he could no longer go on guindas when the FAES invaded and “had to look for some place to hide.”1 “Eduardo,” a Mexican doctor who had joined the strug­gle early on, assessed his situation as “complicated,” and told Fabio that it was not ­going to get any better. The organ­ization would attempt to obtain (false) papers that would enable him to travel in Honduras and from ­there go to Nicaragua. In the interim, he would have to leave the zone for the refugee camp across the border near the Honduran town of Colomoncagua. Fabio recalled Eduardo telling him, “It’s impor­tant for you to go see your ­family for about fifteen days or a month while we take care of the papers for you to leave for Nicaragua.” One month became twelve, though, as a result of Fabio’s poor health and the FMLN’s difficulty in obtaining the necessary documentation. Fabio’s ­mother was in the refuge, as was his partner Rosa [whom he described to me as his “wife”] and her five c­ hildren by Fabio. (In the years following a miscarriage in San Juan de Dios Hospital in San Miguel, Rosa gave birth to 134

Departure and Return, 1988–2010 • 135

three c­ hildren in a hospital in Tegucigalpa, Honduras and “deposited” them with ­family members in Colomoncagua before returning to the strug­gle in northern Morazán. However, ­after the birth of twin boys, also in Tegucigalpa, she took up permanent residence in the refugee camp.) The plan was for Fabio to stay over in Colomoncagua en route to a safe ­house in Tegucigalpa from which he would travel to Nicaragua. The rest of the f­ amily would follow l­ ater. The FMLN leadership in northern Morazán could send Fabio ­there ­because Colomoncagua was much more than a refugee camp. It contained a clandestine guerrilla network that functioned inside Honduras from shortly ­after the first or­ga­nized group of refugees was led out of northern Morazán by FMLN guides on 14 December 1980. Most ­people with knowledge of the ­matter told me that the FMLN detained young men at the border and forcefully recruited them into the rebel forces. They sent most ­women, c­ hildren, and aged and disabled adults first to Soroana (near Santa Elena, Honduras), from which Honduran soldiers forced them back to El Salvador, and then to Colomoncagua, where they received a better reception. The refugees established a camp sponsored by the Alta Comisión de las Naciones Unidas para Refugiados (United Nations High Commission for Refugees, ACNUR) and provisioned both by the UN and a plethora of government and organizaciones no gobernamentales (nongovernmental organ­ izations, ONGs) mostly headquartered in Eu­rope. Despite the international recognition and material assistance, the purported po­liti­cal neutrality of camp residents, and a veneer of internal democracy, the real­ity was that the ERP High Command in northern Morazán chose the camp coordinator and placed ­people in other impor­tant positions. Fabio discussed at some length the camp’s structure and the ERP rationale for changing coordinators, the last of which was Hugo Meléndez, the ­brother of Jorge Meléndez, an ERP founder, military strategist, and high-­ranking official.2 Beginning in 1983, the Colomoncagua refugee leadership or­ga­nized risky, clandestine missions of up to thirty ­people to smuggle food and materiel, and even arms and money, from Honduras to FMLN bases inside El Salvador. Also, the Colomoncagua camp provided “R&R” for war-­weary rebel combatants and served as a way station for the movement of ­people (like Fabio) into and out of El Salvador, and as one of the ERP’s most impor­tant sources of recruits. Sandra Medrano (“Clelia”) recalled how she gave consciousness-­raising chats to young ­people, many of whom ­later returned to El Salvador to join FMLN forces ­there, the females generally as health aides or radio operators and most of the males as line combatants.3 In short, the refugee camp near Colomoncagua constituted an extension into Honduras of the ERP’s northern Morazanian military-­political field of power. (Fabio described it as a “buffer” or “trench” that allowed FMLN military forces to remain in northern Morazán in that the camp was located between the Salvadoran-­Honduran border and an impor­tant Honduran military base at Concepción.) Without such control, the guerrilla leadership would not have been able to send Fabio ­there.

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Of course, the political-­military activities of a large proportion of the refugees, most of whom had ­family members (sons and d­ aughters, spouses, ­etc.) fighting the Salvadoran government, had to be concealed from Honduran authorities and most international humanitarian workers b­ ehind a daily round of mundane religious, educational, health, and productive activities. Despite ­these efforts, Honduran authorities, undoubtedly aided by their Salvadoran counter­parts and local informers, eventually learned of the camp’s strategic role, and military pressure in and around the camp led to dozens of disappearances and vari­ous deaths during the refugees’ nine-­year exile (Todd 2010; Cagan and Cagan 1991).4 Fabio faced real danger t­ here. But first he had to get to Colomoncagua, no easy task u­ nder the best of circumstances and less so for a person with his physical limitations. He explained that “I got t­ here [in May 1988] with a lot of difficulty, walking very slowly all night. The place was guarded on all sides. We had to walk along the mountain almost u­ ntil we got into the refuge zone.” But his condition only deteriorated in Colomoncagua, where every­one cooked with wood and thick smoke settled in low-­lying areas. He recalled that he reached the point “where I ­couldn’t walk even to relieve myself . . , perhaps b­ ecause of the concentrated smoke ­there. The smoke hits you. . . . ​It spreads from one field to the next. That smoke is what r­eally did me in.” Furthermore, the food supplied by international relief agencies seldom included the fresh fruits and vegetables that Fabio’s condition called for, and the doctors, prob­ably Hondurans or internationalists provided by ACNUR, could not be trusted—­nor could many of the refugees. Eventually, the ERP had one of its own doctors slip into the camp and provide Fabio medical attention, indicative of his importance to the organ­ization. That doctor ordered him to seek accommodation at a higher altitude with better ventilation and gave instructions to camp coordinators, all of whom w ­ ere allied with the guerrillas, to upgrade his food and provide him with injections of vitamins and minerals, which helped bolster Fabio’s immune system and improve his health in preparation for his departure for the Honduran capital. Before that occurred, Fabio had to change ­houses again. He explained that a ­family resentful of the coordination left the refuge [and] the next day Hon­ duran soldiers moved the blockade closer so that only the street and a l­ ittle border separated us [from them]. In front ­were the foothills of the mountain, and sentries in the foothills watched the ­house by day and [by] night. When one left, another replaced him. Permanent guard. I was afraid that at night they would capture me and take me off to kill me or take me prisoner. We spoke with Juan José [the camp coordinator] and Tito, who said, “The best t­ hing is for you to change ­houses.” Well, another change and I went to live in a camp called Limón Uno where another cousin, named Secundina, lived. ­There ­wasn’t any smoke ­there . . . ​the conditions ­were a bit better. That’s when they arranged

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my documents so that I could leave through Honduras to go to Nicaragua. . . . ​I stayed t­ here the last days before leaving.

But since the sprawling camp was surrounded by Honduran soldiers, Fabio had to leave secretly and in disguise. He was unable to practice ­either as a catechist or po­liti­cal activist while in the camp. Colomoncagua was a way station for Fabio, and he was not ­there to work but to recover sufficiently so as to travel to Tegucigalpa, Honduras and thenceforth Nicaragua. “René,” working with a Eu­ro­pean NGO in the camp during the 1980s, explained how they disguised Fabio, with his third-­grade education, as a school inspector replete with a briefcase full of papers. He departed at night with a security detail, sneaked out of the refugee camp, and traveled by side streets through the adjacent town to a path that took him to Concepción.5 ­Those who accompanied him explored ahead and eventually a vehicle picked him up and dropped him at a safe h ­ ouse in Tegucigalpa, where he remained for six days or so before leaving for Nicaraguan territory. Fabio recalled that he arrived in Managua, Nicaragua, on or about 8 May 1989, a year ­after he had left northern Morazán and six months before the FMLN’s nationwide offensive. He remained in Nicaragua for the remainder of the war.

In Nicaragua Fabio arrived in Nicaragua with two serious health prob­lems: first, X-­rays indicated that the tortures to which he had been subjected in November 1977 had damaged his lungs, and the resulting “asthma prob­lem,” as he put it, had been aggravated further by the war; second, Fabio suffered from an organic heart deficiency that had gotten worse. On arrival in Managua, some German doctors who worked in the hospital t­ here, “took a ton of X-­rays of my heart, thorax and all that, the w ­ hole organism, and told me, ‘You are g­ oing to need a long treatment. . . . ​The heart prob­lem demands a pretty long treatment, approximately two years, ­because a serious prob­lem is developing along with the asthma you have.’ ” He was told that if the heart condition did not improve, the party planned to send him to Cuba or another country b­ ecause [other­wise] it was ­going to kill him quickly: “ ‘You are g­ oing to suffer a heart attack,’ they said, ‘you ­will die then.’ ” It was “very hard” for him to abandon the front in Morazán, surrender his gun, and leave his friends. “But since it was the party’s decision and it had to do with a difficult health prob­lem, I had to go.” The doctors tried to normalize his heart function: “The treatment was to take medicine. I received a treatment for high blood pressure that provoked anguish, sadness, desperation. I also experienced suffocation and tiredness. The two prob­lems went hand in hand. I felt like something dropped from my head to my heart, like something froze, and I said to myself, ‘Okay. One of ­these days I am g­ oing to go down.’ But with the treatment I felt that I was getting better. The symptoms began to dis­appear and my pressure returned to normal.”

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Rosa, their five ­children, and his m ­ other arrived in Nicaragua in November 1989, six months ­after Fabio. Fabio continued to work despite his asthma and heart condition. The party assigned him to take charge of a clinic and ­later had him work with Salvadoran refugees or­ga­nized into cooperatives in dif­fer­ ent parts of the country, such as in León, in Managua, and on the outskirts of Managua. Fabio also became involved in solidarity work with internationalists and both ­people who worked in ONGs supporting both guerrilla combatants in El Salvador and former refugees from Colomoncagua who returned to El Salvador between November 1989 and March 1990 and founded CSM in a strategic location overlooking the Torola River bridge. When the war wound down, Fabio traveled in a motorcade from Nicaragua to San Salvador to participate in the cele­brations that followed the signing of the peace accords in Chapultepec ­Castle, Mexico City on 16 January 1992. He returned to Nicaragua ­until leaving permanently in October 1992.

Reinsertion and Economic Adjustments Arriving in San Salvador, he lived in a h ­ ouse close to Andrés Bello University ­until January of 1993. Fabio already had his papers in order, and that enabled him to go on ahead, ­settle in El Salvador, and seek the documents that Rosa and the ­children needed in order to return legally. It obviously took him considerable time to complete the task and for them to arrange their papers ­because they did not return to the country u­ ntil 7 February 1993. By the time they arrived, Fabio had rented a h ­ ouse in the working-­class neighborhood of Cuscatancingo, where I interviewed him for the first time in the summer of 1993. He explained that he had been looking for a h ­ ouse that had a bit of room, some space, that ­wasn’t too expensive, and that was in a neighborhood that had some stores, for business. We got ­here with only “a knapsack on our backs,” as they say; we ­didn’t have anything. . . . ​ ­Because the party ­wasn’t g­ oing to support us like in the past, every­one had to figure out how to get by on their own. During the time that I was h ­ ere, I looked for a h ­ ouse and tried to get to know all the shops. I found several places and the one that seemed best was Cuscatancingo.6

Fabio also recounted how he began to work for the party but discovered that his work was not g­ oing to be remunerated. On the contrary, he was asked to make donations that ­were never reimbursed. As the 1994 elections approached, he had to drop po­liti­cal work entirely in order to support the ­family. He and Rosa began a tortilla business but earned just enough to cover “our most urgent needs.” Then FMLN contacts found work for Rosa at an Irish ONG, and the salary she received, albeit not high, proved sufficient to cover most ­house­hold expenses. ­Later, Fabio was named one of 120 mandos medios (midlevel commanders) from

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the ERP and became eligible for a small business loan.7 He also received assistance for his medical prob­lems, but neither he nor other former rebels received pensions, which proved to be a bone of contention between the government and ex-­g uerrillas over the next de­cades (see Sprenkels 2018). In general, he found city life unsatisfying. (Most prewar catechists—­those that survived the conflict—­ remained in northern Morazán; a few, such as Tercisio Velázquez, received land in Usulután or elsewhere and relocated.) He recalled fondly his early work in agriculture in northern Morazán and how he combined it with petty commerce, selling clothing and l­ ater mescal and twine when he was about fifteen years old. He noted how business in the city was conducted differently and how he had to limit his activity: “­Because of my physical condition, I can no longer work like I did then, when I grew beans, rice, corn, mescal. That [work] calls for a healthy body in good condition. If it ­wasn’t for the ­daughters I have, who help me with sales, the business I have now would be difficult for me to manage b­ ecause it demands too much movement ­here and ­there ­every day. I get tired and, well, I have this prob­lem. . . . ​I need them to help me. But I do okay.” His doctor told him that he should be retired with a pension, but he insisted that he was “not accustomed to hanging around ­doing nothing! I always have to be ­doing something b­ ecause I have always lived working—­heavy work and light work as well.” While in Nicaragua he took a course on raising ­cattle hoping to enter some proj­ect when he returned to El Salvador—­thinking that he would s­ ettle in northern Morazán. But the doctor in San Salvador who assessed his health situation quickly disabused him of the idea, telling him (as recalled by Fabio), “Look, your situation is very delicate. You ­shouldn’t leave ­here. If you go somewhere where ­there is no electricity, how are you ­going to receive respiratory therapy? You need to be near a doctor, near a hospital. You have to change your ideas about where you live. If you go to the countryside and you go to where you used to live, you are ­going to die. Believe me! It’s not to scare you, but you must understand.” He changed his mind about working in agriculture and “experienced a kind of vacuum ­because I was no longer in contact with all the ­people I [had] or­ga­ nized, with whom I had lived side by side . . . ​the health prob­lem has brought on an emptiness.” Some former catechists and followers made better accommodations in the postwar. For instance, Abraham Argueta resumed his tailoring in Joateca; Samuel Vidal Guzmán worked as a guide in the Museum of the Salvadoran Revolution in Perquín, at least for a time prior to his death from a stroke in 2007; and in 2010, I encountered Aparicio Orellana leading a veterans’ organ­ization in Ciudad Segundo Montes. ­Others ­were less fortunate. Jacinto Márquez, whose catechism practice started around 1986, grew small plots of corn and engaged in the itinerant sale of medicine, though he periodically worked on my ethnographic proj­ects in the early to mid-­nineteen nineties and the summers of 2010–2012; a few years l­ ater, gang members in Segundo Montes murdered his youn­gest son. At least one child of many former catechists had migrated to the United States by 2012. They must have maintained a very low profile during the

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Trump administration (2017–2021). The former catechists themselves ­were too old or too physically debilitated to make the journey. On the other hand, some that remained in northern Morazán used their skills and contacts to obtain postwar positions that provided a small but reliable income. Few returned to agriculture, which declined radically ­after the war, due in no small part to neoliberal policies—­advocated by the United States and ­adopted by the conservative Alianza Republicana Nacionalista (Nationalist Republican Alliance, ARENA)—­that reduced or removed tariffs on the importation of most food products, including corn. Henequen had been destroyed during the war and the hilly, rocky, and infertile soils of northern Morazán precluded competition with better-­positioned (and better-­capitalized) corn producers in other countries. Progressive Catholicism in El Salvador suffered a blow in the postwar when Fernando Sáenz Lacalle, a member of Opus Dei, was appointed archbishop in April 1995, succeeding the progressive Arturo Rivera Damas, who died the year before. When Sáenz retired in December 2008, he was replaced by another conservative, José Luis Escobar Alas. In northern Morazán, priestly duties fell increasingly to Fr. Rogelio Ponseele, who operated out of Perquín, as Miguel Ventura directed the Segundo Montes Foundation and cared for the f­ amily that he had begun during the revolutionary war. Eventually he retired from the priesthood. Fr. Rogelio, who had abandoned his position in Zacamil early in the conflict, served without an official appointment u­ ntil Msgr. Romeo Tovar Astorga succeeded Msgr. José Eduardo Álvarez Ramírez, who retired in April of 1997, as bishop of San Miguel diocese.8 ­A fter the war Ponseele focused on training new cohorts of catechists and administering to ­couples separated by the conflict and ­those seeking to adapt to the new demands of postwar society. Following the signing of Peace Accords in 1992, the FMLN demobilized its troops, handed weapons over to the United National Observers Mission, and formed a po­liti­cal party to compete for power through the ballot box. In March 1994, the FMLN named Rubén Zamora, a war­time member of the FDR, as its candidate to contest the presidency against ARENA and other po­liti­cal parties. The “Elections of the ­Century,” as the 1994 elections came to be called, produced a simultaneous changeover in executive, legislative, and municipal offices.9 In the end, ARENA’s Armando Calderón Sol easily defeated Zamora in a runoff, though the FMLN did gain a quarter of the seats in El Salvador’s 84-­member unicameral legislature and won 15 of 262 mayoralties, 5 in northern Morazán. But George Vickers proved prescient when in 1992 he predicted that “the end of fighting is . . . ​likely to test the cohesiveness of the rebel alliance” (1992, 7).10 Indeed, po­liti­cal unity among the ex-­rebel factions proved fleeting. In June 1994, a few months a­ fter the elections, Joaquín Villalobos took the ERP (and the RN) out of the FMLN, along with seven federal deputies and five mayors, and shortly thereafter formed the centrist Partido Demócrata (Demo­cratic Party, PD). In one of its first official acts, the PD delivered the decisive legislative votes

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FIGURE 6.1  ​Fabio, Rosa, and their five ­children at the inauguration of the Demo­cratic Party

(Partido Demócrata) at San Salvador’s International Fairgrounds, June 1994. (Photo by the author)

on a packet of fiscal changes proposed by ARENA in exchange for two positions on the Legislative Assembly’s Board of Directors in what became known as the San Andrés Accords (Allison and Álvarez 2012, 100). One fiscal change raised the regressive value-­added tax from 10 to 13 ­percent and was strongly denounced by FMLN affiliates throughout the country. Fabio Argueta defended the PD’s actions, parroting the Villalobos position that the tax was necessary to generate the revenue required to meet popu­lar demands for improvements in health, education, social security, and so forth.11 He also defended the PD’s willingness to negotiate with ARENA on the basis that negotiation was necessary to bring about changes (see figure 6.1). He compared po­liti­cal negotiations in the postwar—­including ­those between the party and ARENA—to the negotiations carried out between the ERP and civilians during the war, through which the guerrillas sought to gain the trust and cooperation of peasants in northern Morazán and elsewhere. In effect, Fabio accepted the position of the RN and the ERP that “the peace agreements represented a point of arrival and formed the backbone of the changes that El Salvador needed” (Allison and Álvarez 2012, 100). In our conversations, Fabio insinuated that negotiation with ARENA and other conservative forces was a tactic that, over time, would broaden the PD’s base and enable it to assume control of the government through the electoral pro­ cess. However, mass support for the middle-­of-­the-­road party failed to develop, in part ­because the higher value-­added tax hit the rural and urban poor—­who

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often lived hand to mouth—­much harder than the rich or the small ­middle class. Many ERP ex-­compas and civilian sympathizers in northern Morazán and elsewhere accused Villalobos of having betrayed the Left. Over the following years, the new party lost most of its rural base and failed to attract, as it hoped, ­middle class professionals, shop­keep­ers, and small-­scale entrepreneurs, who remained suspicious of Villalobos and other ex-­comandantes. The PD limped along for several election cycles and lost control of northern Morazanian municipalities. When the party’s electoral per­for­mance fell below the 3 ­percent ­legal minimum in the late 1990s, El Salvador’s Supreme Electoral Tribunal revoked its registration. Villalobos was not around for the funeral. He had left El Salvador in 1995 to study at St. Anthony’s College, Oxford, from which he obtained a master’s degree in po­liti­cal science in 1998. From his En­glish residence 5,500 miles across the Atlantic, he regularly slammed the FMLN, predicting dire consequences should the party accede to power (as it did in 2009). Among his other activities, this ex-­rebel, now seventy-­one years old, has advised Latin American governments on how best to deal with drug cartels in Mexico and leftist guerrillas in Colombia (see Wilkinson 2010; Carlin 1998, 2016). In the mid-1990s, the Argueta f­ amily followed Rosa’s employer, an Irish aid agency, to Tegucigalpa, Honduras, from San Salvador. The move merely confirmed what Fabio himself had volunteered e­ arlier—­that Rosa had become the ­house­hold’s economic mainstay. Fabio’s postwar efforts to establish a small store in his rented h ­ ouse in Cuscatancingo apparently came to naught. He lacked the skills, social networks, and most importantly the money capital to succeed on the hypercompetitive economic field of postwar, neoliberal San Salvador. During several brief conversations at her workplace in the mid-1990s, Rosa explained that Fabio suffered health crises periodically as a result of his chronic asthma, hernia, and weak heart. On my first visit to the ­house in Cuscatlancingo, I saw the oxygen tank that Fabio relied on to get through severe asthma attacks. I lost contact with Fabio a­ fter his move to Honduras and did not learn that he had returned to El Salvador u­ ntil 2008, when I resumed fieldwork t­ here ­after a de­cade of teaching and research in Puebla, Mexico. His ­family relocated to a gang-­controlled area of Soyapango—­difficult to visit without external assistance—­and he died in February 2010 before I was able to converse with him again. I learned of his death in San Salvador and subsequent burial in an email from Carlos Henríquez Consalvi (“Santiago”) on 18 February 2010. Catalina Chicas, Fabio’s first spouse, told me in 2012 that he died with nothing, spent the last eight months of his life bedridden, and at the end was “hooked up to machines,” possibly life support equipment. Catalina also stated that before Fabio’s death, Rosa left him for another, younger man with whom she migrated to the United States.12 Following his death, Fabio’s body was transported from the capital to northern Morazán and entombed in a plain, cement crypt that rests above ground in the Arambala municipal cemetery, several blocks south of the main plaza and a scant few kilo­meters from his birthplace in El Mozote (see

Departure and Return, 1988–2010 • 143

FIGURE 6.2  ​Fabio Argueta’s unmarked tomb in the Arambala cemetery, July 2012. (Photo by

the author)

figure 6.2). Rafael Alarcón, Jacinto Márquez, and I reconnoitered the graveyard one scorching day in July 2012. A ­ fter a futile search of the overgrown grounds, a local resident who had attended Fabio’s funeral led us to his final resting place. A blue cross and several clutches of purple and white plastic flowers nestled against one end of an above­ground crypt, but no headstone or inscription identified the person interred within. In our last interview in 1995, Fabio discoursed on war and peace and the efforts of the ERP and other political-­military organ­izations that composed the FMLN to change a brutal, inhumane po­liti­cal and economic system. I quote him at length: If we had been able to change the system, change conditions, not through war but through Christian efforts, seek change, that is to raise man’s awareness and begin to form a new man for the purpose of transforming, advancing society, to make it more h ­ uman, more fraternal, seeking out a distinct form, we would have done it. But the government forced us to take up arms. They forced t­ hings upon us u­ ntil they even controlled us when we went to pray and when we went to preach. They eliminated ­every opportunity for us to have a chance to freely express ourselves. I think that that has marked us h ­ ere in El Salvador. From the very beginning of the war, the largest number of victims was linked to the

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church. And that was precisely b­ ecause we wanted to change this society—­and not along the lines of armed strug­gle. That was a contradiction for us from the beginning. But the very same war forced us to take up arms to defend ourselves and defend the p­ eople. [Before the war,] p­ eople from the rural cantons had no opportunity to see a doctor. To get a medical appointment ­people had to go to Gotera or San Miguel. E ­ very month or ­every fifteen days a doctor would visit Jocoaitique or Perquín. ­There was another clinic in Joateca where a doctor came some days ­every month, e­ very fifteen days and provided medical attention to p­ eople. A lot of ­people died without being attended by a doctor. Also, the majority of the ­people c­ ouldn’t study b­ ecause the high schools ­were in San Miguel, in Gotera. In order to study, p­ eople had to move to San Miguel or come to San Salvador, and only t­ hose who had money could do that. We learned to read and write a bit better during the war ­because we taught one another. One who knew more taught someone who ­didn’t know anything. Of course, t­ here ­were huge limitations in the m ­ iddle of that war. But one feels that p­ eople experienced a m ­ ental revolution and developed new ideas about how to live, how to work, how to produce during the revolution. The revolution ­wasn’t only about dead p­ eople. ­There have also been changes and transformations in ­people’s mentality. Perhaps ­people can change. If t­ hose in power understood this, I think that ­there w ­ ouldn’t be any need for war in this country or in any other country. To develop a society, it w ­ ouldn’t be necessary for any of the sides to start a war but for all the ­human resources to be used to develop the economy. That would provide more effective solutions for ­people without the p­ eople d­ ying like what happened ­here. For example, the ­people who w ­ ere victims ­here ­were the poor against the very same poor, b­ ecause t­ hose of us guerrillas who or­ga­nized ­were poor and the soldiers who died on the battlefield ­were poor, led by the same policies of the ­people in power. If governments, authorities ­really defended ­human rights and the ­people’s development, they w ­ ouldn’t support war but would support economic changes that would create conditions for a more equal distribution of the wealth. ­Because ­here ­there is a lot of wealth that h ­ asn’t been exploited ­because ­really poor p­ eople a­ ren’t given opportunity.

 Conclusion This book traced the thought and actions of Catholic catechists before and during the Salvadoran revolutionary war. The experiences of Fabio Argueta (1943– 2010), whom I interviewed on a dozen occasions between 1993 and 1995, anchored the narrative, but many other p­ eople—­former catechists and o­ thers—­made substantive contributions to it.1 I have been particularly interested to highlight the contributions that catechists made to the revolutionary strug­gle and to link ­those contributions to their training in and practice of liberation theology before the war. In the pro­cess, I have argued that catechists often began as “popu­lar intellectuals” and that many became “insurgent intellectuals” once they joined the ERP. Joaquín Chávez defined popu­lar intellectuals as “university students, teachers, and peasant leaders who played crucial leadership, educational, and orga­nizational roles in the emerging social movements” and served as “the chief articulators of counter-­hegemonic discourses and anti-­oligarchic mobilizations in El Salvador during the 1960s and 1970s” (2010, 7). He considered insurgent intellectuals to be “university students, dissidents of po­liti­cal parties, peasant leaders, and teachers who articulated the ideology and politics of the guerrilla movement in El Salvador in the 1970s and 1980s” (2017, 283n5). I depart from his definitions by including catechists among popu­lar intellectuals and former catechists working during war­time as ERP po­liti­cal activists, quartermasters, musicians, and in other roles among insurgent intellectuals. In other words, I extend the definitions downward to include what I think of as “noncommissioned officers” of the church (prewar catechists who disseminated liberation theology) and the FMLN (in this case the ERP). Few if any peasants from northern Morazán came to be as well-­known before, during, or ­after the revolutionary war as Facundo Guardado, Juan Chacón (before his assassination), and ­others from Chalatenango, who sometimes achieved high-­ranking positions 145

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in the FPL or organ­izations linked to it. Indeed, one of the few weaknesses of Chávez’s work was his focus on peasants who achieved impor­tant leadership roles in the FMLN and popu­lar organ­izations, such as the BPR, linked to the FMLN and his failure to interrogate the intellectual contributions of peasants with “lower” levels of responsibility. Northern Morazán lacked peasant ­unions, radio schools, church workshops and church-­sponsored cooperatives, and other institutions common in areas served by the archdiocese and that contributed to the formation of peasant leaders ­there and elsewhere. In prewar northern Morazán (and prob­ably most of rural eastern El Salvador), popu­lar intellectuals consisted disproportionately of catechists trained in peasant universities by parish priests and members of religious ­orders. For a time, liberation theology practice in northern Morazán was impeded by conservative cleric Fr. Andrés Argueta, who sent peasants to El Castaño and other church training centers when ordered to do so but discouraged them from disseminating the progressive theology and social critiques they acquired ­there. This changed when Fr. Miguel Ventura settled in Torola in April 1973. Young, progressive, and himself of peasant background, Ventura lost no time in organ­ izing the catechists he met when teaching at El Castaño. Also, he trained o­ thers locally, and between 1973 and 1975 worked with a network of between fifty and sixty-­five catechists, most of whom administered one or more CEBs, coordinated with other catechists, and met regularly with the priest. The young priest initiated an exhaustive round of pastoral visits to areas that Fr. Argueta had largely ignored in the past, but he did not attempt to micromanage the catechists, who or­ga­nized and administered CEBs and set the themes to be discussed in them. Even so, from 1973 to 1977, Fr. Miguel anchored progressive Chris­tian­ ity in northern Morazán: organ­izing and training catechists, coordinating plans, and visiting communities. At least for a time, liberation theology in northern Morazán was characterized by the three ele­ments that Billings (1990) judged key to successful religious opposition movements: indigenous leadership, autonomous organ­ization, and plausibility support structures. Leadership of CEBs in northern Morazán was local (i.e., “indigenous”); the catechists or­ga­nized without interference from Msgr. Álvarez in San Miguel, who administered the diocese (thus they or­ga­nized relatively autonomously); and the insistence on peasant worthiness and the right to a dignified life on earth attracted ­people who had been maltreated by government agents, intensified their awareness of exploitation by regional merchants and landowners, and led many to question if not outright challenge Fr. Argueta’s man­tra that passive ac­cep­tance of earthly suffering would be rewarded a­ fter death (producing support structures). We might think of their practice as involving a kind of Gramscian prefigurative strug­gle conducted “within and against the state” in the terminology employed by Peter Mayo (2005). In this book’s introduction, I discussed Antonio Gramsci’s concept of prefigurative strug­gle” by means of which subaltern subjects break or at least weaken

 Conclusion • 147

the hold of hegemonic ideas prior to seizing po­liti­cal control. Gramsci had argued that in some socie­ties, a dense network of civil society organ­izations promoted discourses and practices by means of which many ­people come to acknowledge the legitimacy of dominant class rule. This “hegemony”—by means of which subaltern subjects acknowledged the right of ­others to rule over them had to be displaced, even if only partially, prior to revolutionary seizure of the state apparatus, lest the foundation of an ascendant subaltern power l­ater be eroded and eventually toppled by civil society institutions through which the “integral state” (in Gramsci’s formulation) reasserts control. Gramsci argued that it was not enough for workers and peasants to take over the institutions of po­liti­cal society without having previously conquered hegemony; also, he argued against a strict separation of civil society and the state in that civil society institutions—­ the church, newspapers, and other mass media, etc.—­often served the state (and dominant classes), resulting in a blurring of the bound­aries between po­liti­cal society and civil society. Gramsci’s interest in culture as a nonreductive power in its own right attracted many social scientists to his work (e.g., Crehan 2016, 2002; Macip Ríos 2005; Smith 2004; Brow 1996; Roseberry 1994). However, Gramsci’s discussion of prefigurative revolution referred primarily to the Western Eu­ro­pean socie­ties of his time with well-­developed civil society institutions in which hegemony served as the bedrock of domination. The states of the east—he was thinking of Rus­sia in particular—­might be attacked frontally b­ ecause they lacked the power­ful system of fortresses and earthworks produced by a highly developed civil society that contributed to the production of hegemony and shored up dominant rule (Gramsci 1971, 238). Italy of the 1920s was closer to the West than the East (e.g., Rus­sia), for which reason Gramsci viewed impor­tant and necessary the “prefigurative work” that prepares (“prefigures”) the ideological terrain for revolutionary change. In Turin and other areas of Italy’s industrial north, he conceived the factory council movement as playing a key prefigurative role in developing a ­future working-­class hegemony (Boggs 1974–1975). But if coercion predominated over hegemony in securing domination in El Salvador and other ex-­colonies subordinated to neo-­imperialist control, what role, if any, might prefigurative strug­gles t­ here play in advancing a left agenda prior to a frontal assault?2 El Salvador was a “nominally” demo­cratic country in which regime change proceeded according to the results of constitutionally mandated elections. Yet with rare exceptions, such as the 1931 election of Arturo Araujo, state military and security forces employed fraud and vio­lence (or threats of the same) to officialize results predetermined by eco­nom­ically and po­liti­cally dominant groups or (from 1931) the military (D’Haeseleer 2017; Williams and Walter 1997; Baloyra 1982). Most of the population had become resigned to being ruled by col­o­nels and generals of the official party, which does not of course imply that they liked it. It does mean that ­until the ascendance of the PDC in the 1960s and especially Napoleon Duarte’s 1972 presidential campaign, a small minority of Salvadorans

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(mostly in the cities) ­imagined an alternative path. Furthermore, the memory of the 1932 rebellion and the subsequent Matanza (see the introduction) eliminated for many the idea that power might be seized by force of arms. In El Salvador, the most forceful and generalized challenge to weak bourgeois hegemony took the form of liberation theology. Though the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) presided over by Pope John XXIII and then Pope Paul VI opened up space within the institution for alternative approaches, liberation theology was a specifically Latin American development that spoke to the perceived needs of Latin Amer­i­ca’s rural and urban poor and was influenced by a variety of ecclesiastical (and other) concerns.3 ­These included the following: the growing force of radical secular ideologies following the Cuban Revolution; the failure of liberal reformist social, economic, and po­liti­cal programs (e.g., the New Christendom, U.S. Alliance for Pro­gress, and Christian Demo­cratic parties) to resolve fundamental social prob­lems; the rise of oppressive, military governments in Brazil, Argentina, and elsewhere; growing competition from Protestant sects and denominations; and a decline in the strength of domestic Catholic churches (Löwy 1996; Smith 1991). Liberation theology combined the eschatological vision of Chris­tian­ity with Marxist-­inspired or -­influenced analy­sis of the historical pre­sent. It collapsed super­natural and historical planes so that material, worldly strug­gle became part of otherworldly strug­gle. In the words of martyred Jesuit Ignacio Ellacuría, liberation theology proj­ects “a transcendental unity of the history of salvation” (1991a, 21). Ellacuría considered that liberation theology was not, as some have argued, a sociology or po­liti­cal science but a [historical] theology “in intention, in methodology, in the facts” (20). He thought that liberation theology held “the conviction that ­human beings w ­ ill be able to become ­human only when by God’s gift they are more than ­human . . . ​A nd what is true of ­human beings is also true of the world and history” (21). Hence liberation theology retained the transcendental goal of salvation but refused the traditional Catholic position that ac­cep­ tance of earthly poverty w ­ ill receive its recompense in heavenly splendor, as preached in northern Morazán by Fr. Andrés Argueta. Mediating concepts drawn from radical, especially Marxist, sociology explained earthly injustice as the basis of social sin, which the poor, as the “preferential active subject of history,” have an obligation to eliminate. According to Ellacuría, In Latin Amer­i­ca prophecy puts more emphasis on the active and or­ga­nized poor, on the poor-­with-­spirit than on the passive poor—­that is, the poor who suffer their destitution with resignation and hardly notice the injustice they suffer. It does not deny the importance, even the prophetic importance, that belongs to the poor by the s­ imple fact of their being the poor, for ­there is no doubt that as such they enjoy Jesus’ special predilection and his very par­tic­u­lar presence. But when ­those poor spiritually incorporate their poverty, when they become aware of the injustice of their condition and of the possibilities and

 Conclusion • 149

even of the real obligation they have in the face of destitution and structural injustice, they are changed from passive to active subjects and with that they multiply and strengthen the salvific-­historical value that is theirs. (1991b, 60)

Advocates of liberation theology (like Fabio) who wielded ele­ments of Marxist analy­sis to explain poverty and suffering also disavowed Marxism’s atheism. But despite the disavowal, they extracted much of the good sense embedded in common sense, eliminated nonsensical ele­ments, and or­ga­nized the ­whole in a way that more accurately accounted for peasants’ and workers’ experiences. Liberation theology preserved the Christian mystique surrounding the ideas of God and the sacrifices of Jesus but materialized history and placed it firmly in the hands of h ­ umans whose responsibility was to play an active role in its making. Few priests or religious working in El Salvador in the 1970s and early 1980s agreed with the Left’s initial call for armed strug­gle and overthrow of the state, but some worked locally to improve social and economic conditions and avoid confrontations with power­ful state and civil society agents in the pro­cess. With rare exceptions, ­those who initially embraced the necessity of armed strug­gle as the necessary route to structural change did so as a last resort. Northern Morazanian catechists disseminated ­these ideas in vernacular form, and they resonated among many peasants and rural workers. Liberation theology (or theologies) evolved through conversations among social scientists, theologians, bishops, priests and religious, catechists, and laity in northern Morazán and elsewhere. Catechists trained in peasant universities played an impor­tant role in this communicative chain (or circle) b­ ecause of the number of ­people with whom they came into contact, the frequency of the contacts, and the depth and dialogical nature of the relationships they developed. We saw how the priest-­teachers at El Castaño and other centers cultivated a critical mass of popu­lar intellectuals and how instructors ­there promoted a liberal and demo­cratic agenda, not a revolutionary one (cf. Gould 2020, 34). They critiqued existing social relations, but few (if any) expressed interest in armed revolution or the seizure of state power, which urban-­based, political-­military organ­izations like the Party of the Salvadoran Revolution (PRS)–­People’s Revolutionary Army (ERP) advocated from the moment of their creation.4 In contrast to the radical Left, most liberation theology priests and religious believed that change could and would come gradually, as the mass of the population became conscious of the c­ auses of poverty and suffering and exerted pressure on the state to make substantive changes that would benefit the poor: land reform, improved wages, more and cheaper credit, support for cooperatives, and so on. Evidence for this conclusion derives mainly from the courses imparted in El Castaño and elsewhere, as well as the activities of members of the CEBs led by catechists working in northern Morazán.5 Catechists ­there sought to reduce peasants’ dependence on rich merchants and large landowners and initially expressed ­little interest in restructuring class relations or redistributing wealth

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and/or power. Fabio Argueta and o­ thers labored to deepen the sense of community, taking the lead in mutual aid schemes to assist el­derly and infirm p­ eople by weeding their fields or repairing ­houses on the verge of collapse (chapter 1). Such actions evidenced a Christian sense of responsibility for the welfare of ­others and served as a check on the petty competitions that set ­house­holds against one another. The orientation was essentially communitarian and developmentalist. As noted in chapter 3, the most audacious experiments in northern Morazán unfolded in 1974–1975, when some peasant agriculturalists undertook the collective production and pro­cessing of henequen (and other crops) in efforts to accumulate sufficient funds to support their h ­ ouse­holds and avoid working for regional elites or leaving northern Morazán to work in agro-­export zones during the fall and winter. I noted that historian Jeffrey Gould interpreted ­these experiments as evidence of peasants’ desires to construct a “minor utopia” involving partial changes (as opposed to the w ­ holesale state-­level changes of major utopian proj­ects) in social relations in select areas of northern Morazán. According to Gould, “the CEBs consciously forged a new society that coincided with what they ­imagined, that is to say, the first Christian communities” (2020, 36).6 In his book Entre el bosque y los árboles (Between the forest and the trees), Gould argued that minor utopias in Nicaragua, El Salvador, Uruguay, and elsewhere arose “in times of economic, social and/or po­liti­cal crisis” and ­were “responses to the crisis at times in indirect form, since they occurred within the context of strug­gles to mitigate their [the crises’] effects” (2020, 13). He also interpreted such experiments as evidence of a “prefigurative politics”—­similar to Gramsci’s conception of prefigurative strug­gle—­that fall within a tradition of microhistory in which “minor and delimited events [may] reveal tendencies and aspects of historical pro­cesses of greater magnitude” (14). Fi­nally, Gould lamented that leftists in each of ­these countries ­were so focused on large-­scale changes (the forest) that they lost sight of localized developments (the trees), viewing them “as social phenomena of l­ ittle importance. . . . ​[Thus] in the existing documentation, produced by the left, t­ here does not exist any reference to ­those movements that, in their time, showed that ­there existed a real possibility of creating a dif­fer­ent world” (15). I applaud Gould’s efforts, yet one can also read out of the minor utopian experiments in northern Morazán some of the features of peasant autarky noted by Eric Wolf in his 1969 Peasant Wars of the Twentieth C ­ entury. Summarizing the results of six detailed case studies, Wolf characterized the peasant utopia as the “­free village, untrammeled by tax collectors, l­ abor recruiters, large landowners, officials.”7 Peasants, he thought, view the state as a “negative quantity, an evil, to be replaced in short shrift by their own ‘homemade’ social order” which “can run without the state.” For that reason, Wolf concluded that “peasants in rebellion are natu­ral anarchists” (1969, 295). Whereas ele­ments of peasant anarchy ­were undoubtedly pre­sent in mid-1970s northern Morazán, I find no evidence that northern Morazanian peasants or

 Conclusion • 151

liberation theology priests like Miguel Ventura shared most ele­ments of the autarkic vision evinced by Wolf. Given the rudimentary educational and health infrastructure, most northern Morazanians would likely have preferred more rather than less state, or at least more of what Pierre Bourdieu (1998) referred to as the “left hand” of the state that promotes basic reproductive functions by supporting public health, education, and social welfare programming, which ­were clearly inadequate if not non­ex­is­tent in northern Morazán, as Fabio discussed in chapter 2 and elsewhere.8 By contrast, Bourdieu’s coercive “right hand” of the state was ever pre­sent in the form of National Guard and Trea­sury Police posts, cantonal patrols, and (beginning around 1962 in El Salvador) ORDEN paramilitaries. Security forces and many members of paramilitaries linked to them in Torola, Jocoaitique, Joateca, and other municipal centers surveilled meetings and assemblies ­because, to the catechists’ consternation, the authorities and ­those who worked with them viewed peasant self-­organization and liberation theology as evidence of collaboration with urban-­based insurgents, well before such collaboration developed. Fabio recalled that “sometimes . . . ​­there would be police on ­every corner of the place where we ­were gathered, as if we ­were u­ nder arrest.” By 1974, if not ­earlier, northern Morazanians w ­ ere learning about the capture and assassination of catechists in other areas of the country from radio programs broadcast on Voz Panamericana and p­ eople returning from El Castaño and other training centers, which functioned as impor­tant information hubs. This led them to think about the need to or­ga­nize po­liti­cally to defend themselves: “We saw,” Fabio told me, “that ­there was no other solution.” In Fabio’s account, catechists took the initiative and Fr. Miguel contacted Rafael Arce Zablah on their behalf, a view disputed by other evidence (see chapter 3, note 36). This study, then, documents the practical limits of any sort of prefigurative revolutionary strug­gle or prefigurative politics for challenging hegemony ­under circumstances where dominant classes depend mainly on coercion to secure subaltern compliance. If states in the West depend, in the Gramscian formulation, on hegemony protected by the armor of coercion, states in the East (or postcolonial states such as El Salvador) depend on coercion rationalized by a weak hegemony. The northern Morazanian gradu­ates of peasant universities and the CEBs they founded enjoyed but five or six (and usually fewer) years of relatively unimpeded operation before being targeted by the forces of repression—­more intensely so following the November 1977 shootout at Osicala. Only a demo­cratic opening of the po­liti­cal system paired with significant resource re­distribution could have derailed armed strug­g le in El Salvador—­ especially given the success of the Cuban Revolution and ongoing wars in Nicaragua and Guatemala. Following corrupt national elections in 1972 and 1977, when victories at the ballot box w ­ ere stolen from Christian Demo­cratic candidates Napoleon Duarte and General Ernesto Claramont, respectively, many Salvadorians lost confidence in electoral solutions. As to progressive change in

152 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

the economy, it behooves us to recall the vicious assault of private enterprise on the very mild land reform proposed by the military regime of President and Col­o­nel Arturo Molina in 1976 (mentioned in the introduction to this book). When the regime canceled the reform in the wake of right-­wing ideological critiques on the part of the Frente de Agricultores de la Región Oriental (Eastern Region Farmers’ Front), supported by ANEP, the Central American University’s Fr. Ignacio Ellacuría published an acerbic editorial in Estudios Centroamer­ icanos titled “A Sus Ordenes Mi Capital” (At Your ­Orders My Capital).9 It is true that a movement led by young officers or­ga­nized a coup that removed General Carlos Humberto Romero from the presidency on 15 October  1979 and replaced him with a five-­person civilian-­military junta that went through a make­over before overseeing elections for the constituent assembly in 1980. Whereas vio­lence declined over a six-­week period beginning in early November 1979, Jeffrey Gould’s contention that the period “may well have represented an historic missed opportunity [on the part of the Left] for a peaceful solution to the class conflicts that ­were wrenching apart Salvadoran society” (2019, 125; see also 2020, 52–79) did not take account of the failure—­and historical memory of that failure—of ­earlier military coups in 1944, 1948, and 1960 to carry out similar promised reforms (see Williams and Walter 1997). In any case, state authorities and the elites on whose behalf they ruled did not allow the progressive Catholicism through which some Salvadoran peasants and workers in northern Morazán and elsewhere contested weak hegemony to run its course, which is to say contribute to the development of a broad critical consciousness and alternative to the commonsense views that l­ imited the imaginations of a majority of the regional population. Official and unofficial harassment combined with knowledge of the violent repression of catechists in the center and west of the country to drive catechists in northern Morazán to seek the protection of a more expansive po­liti­cal organ­ization. Putting aside the m ­ atter of who first contacted whom, a more impor­tant point is that a group of carefully selected catechists heeded the call of ERP leader Rafael Arce Zablah in 1974 and became involved in the early formation of military committees. For several years the San Salvador–­based ERP leadership had an intermittent presence in the region and relegated day-­to-­day decision making to a small group of supporters, including Fabio Argueta, Tercisio Velázquez, Eleno Castro, Juan Ramón Sánchez, Bruno Caballero, and ­others—­most of whom ­were or had been practicing catechists trained at El Castaño and other peasant universities. Although “Chele Cesar” (Santos Lino Ramírez) and “Balta” (Juan Ramón Medrano) visited periodically to provide military instruction and assess pro­gress following Zablah’s death in combat, local p­ eople remained in charge of forming military committees and recruiting both militants and collaborators. As Fabio Argueta noted, some catechists continued to focus on religious organ­izing while o­ thers like himself, Tercisio Velázquez, and Juan Ramón Sánchez dedicated themselves to po­liti­cal organ­izing and military training.

 Conclusion • 153

Northern Morazanian religious prac­ti­tion­ers suffered a major blow with Sánchez’s death during the Osicala shootout; Miguel Ventura’s subsequent capture, torture, and decision to leave El Salvador; and Fabio Argueta’s capture and torture. Up to November 1977 the regional government, security forces, and paramilitaries at least tolerated progressive Catholicism. But from November 1977 onward they pursued catechists, and Catholic organ­izing drawing on liberation theology came to a halt in northern Morazán. Ventura left El Salvador soon a­ fter his release on the advice of Archbishop Romero, traveling to Mexico and spending several years working with the solidarity movement in the United States before returning to northern Morazán in April 1982; Fr. Argueta abandoned Jocoaitique for the friendlier confines of Joateca, ­until forced out of northern Morazán by the ERP around 1982; and progressive peasant catechists joined the insurgents, became displaced within El Salvador, or swelled the ranks of refugees in Honduras, Nicaragua, or another country.10 The catechists’ relative autonomy weakened when the urban ERP leadership left the cities for the countryside in the wake of enormous waves of urban repression in 1980 and prior to the nationwide offensive of 1981. As Jorge Meléndez (“Jonás”), Joaquín Villalobos (“Atilio”), and other members of the ERP High Command took charge of guerrilla camps in La Guacamaya, they instituted a hierarchical chain of command, and collaborating catechists like Fabio ­were assigned roles in an organ­ization (the guerrilla army) replete with ranks (even if informal), a strict code of conduct (15 Princi­ples of the Guerrilla Combatant), and sanctions for violations of the code. As the war heated up, many older catechists left northern Morazán ­because their bodies could not withstand the forced marches, monotonous diets, and rudimentary living conditions of the guerrilla camps. For example, Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”) formed Los Torogoces but retired to the refugee camp in Colomoncagua, Honduras sometime in 1987; Maximino Pérez, born in 1929, moved back and forth between northern Morazán and the refugee camp; Fabio Argueta suffered acutely from asthma, a hernia, and heart prob­lems that forced his departure in May 1988, more than three-­and-­a-­half years before the conflict ended; fi­nally, Abraham Argueta spent the entirety of the war in Nicaragua following the assassination by local paramilitaries of a member of the Joateca cooperative that he helped establish. Other catechists ­were hunted down and killed by ORDEN, the army, or the security forces in the late 1970s or fell in combat, usually between 1977 and 1982—­people like Juan Ramón Sánchez (Osicala, Morazán in 1977), Rodolfo Vásquez (La Unión in 1979), Nicolás Argueta (San Fernando, Morazán in 1980), José Ernesto Amaya Chicas (San Salvador in 1982), and ­others. During the war, former catechists, now insurgent intellectuals, worked as health care providers, quartermasters, musicians, and especially po­liti­cal activists—­positions that in varying degrees drew upon their intellectual training. Chapter 4 sketched the personal histories and some of the war­time activities of

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“Mauricio,” Andrés Barrera, Abraham Argueta, and Jacinto Márquez. And chapter 5 provided a detailed discussion of the po­liti­cal activist work of Fabio Argueta, and at one point contrasted the ­labor of “Alberto,” who a­ dopted a hard line in Joateca and “expelled something like thirty families” with Fabio’s sensitivity to the lingering effects of the El Mozote massacre and ­people’s fears of both the army and ERP guerrillas. As I noted in chapter 5, Fabio explained how “the catechist cultivates a practice of talking with ­people. Through training they learn to stop being afraid to talk, to learn to offer opinions, to know how to listen to ­others, and respond to o­ thers . . . ​how to treat p­ eople, how to discuss prob­lems with ­people. . . . ​That practice takes time to develop . . . ​when the war came, the catechists ­were better equipped to or­ga­nize, to relate to the population, to approach combatants to talk with them about their prob­lems, to guide them, and so on.” Both in El Barrios and Joateca, Fabio urged ­people to remain in their communities and carry on with life as best they could. Especially at the beginning of the war, the ERP needed civilians in the zone to supply rebel fighters with food (corn, beans, sugar, and meat), intelligence reports about ­enemy movements, ­labor (e.g., stretcher ­bearers, trench diggers); and recruits. Callous disregard for the opinions, feelings, and material needs of civilians could blow back on the guerrillas. In 1984 the ERP High Command undertook a controversial campaign of forced recruitment of peasant youth living in northern Morazán, justifying it on the basis that p­ eople who proclaimed po­liti­cal neutrality and remained in their ­houses to secure their property against theft and destruction on the part of the FAES should bear part of the ­human cost of defending the zone. The plan was rescinded when large numbers of peasants fled northern Morazán and inquisitive journalists wrote negative articles that soiled the ERP’s image internationally (e.g., Lemoyne 1984a, 1984b). The prestige of Fabio and other po­liti­ cal organizers likely suffered as a result of this policy and other incidents.11 On the w ­ hole, though, catechists cum po­liti­cal activists/organizers succeeded more often than they failed. They knew the population well, identified “natu­ ral” leaders, and usually w ­ ere able to convince anxious p­ eople to remain in their homes by allaying their worst fears when Salvadoran soldiers threatened to commit more massacres like the one at El Mozote. When in the mid-1980s CEBES requested the reassignment of ex-­catechists to serve the religious needs of a then more stable civilian population, seasoned po­liti­cal organizers like “Mauricio,” Fabio, and Samuel Vidal Guzmán (“Isaías”) continued with their po­liti­cal activities while a small number of ex-­catechists re-­engaged religious practice. Also, CEBES trained new generations of catechists, some of whom (like Jacinto Márquez) grew to adulthood during the conflict. As in all m ­ atters related to the war, discussions occurred up and down the line, and mid-­level operatives like Fabio, Samuel Vidal Guzmán, and o­ thers had the opportunity to put their local knowledges to work. Yet as noted, the scope for innovation was decidedly less than in the case of prewar catechism work,

 Conclusion • 155

where popu­lar intellectuals not only administered CEBs but or­ga­nized new ones as well. The difference in degrees of freedom was reflected in the tonality of Fabio’s narrative, which moved from in­de­pen­dent initiative before the war to creative execution of o­ rders from higher ranking persons during it. At least nine of fifty-­five (and prob­ably many more) former catechists about whom I compiled some information worked as po­liti­cal activists during the war ­either in northern Morazán (seven) or the refugee camp in Colomoncagua, Honduras (two). A small number of lay catechists drew on training imparted in San Lucas to contribute to the health sector; o­ thers (like “Mauricio”) worked in supply; and one (Andrés Barrera) or­ga­nized a band and wrote and played ­music to boost the morale of civilians and combatants alike. ­Here, though, it is appropriate to enter two caveats. First, I do not think that the ERP would have failed without the ideological, orga­nizational, and po­liti­cal work of catechists, but I do think that without them the ERP would have developed at a slower pace in northern Morazán and entered into more conflicts with its civilian base. Second, catechism training, ­whether at El Castaño and other centers or in Torola following Miguel Ventura’s arrival, was not the sole route to self-­confidence, critical thinking, and communicational abilities for the revolutionary war itself served as a school in which p­ eople developed their intellects, acquired new cognitive abilities and orga­nizational skills, and attained degrees of self-­confidence that they could hardly have ­imagined beforehand. Many campesinos and campesinas elevated their cultural levels and honed their intellects as radio operators that accompanied units into b­ attle; health workers who developed innovative means of resolving, to take one example, the shortage of plasma; educators in the rearguard and in refugee camps; members of Prensa y Propaganda (the press and propaganda unit); field commanders leading troops into ­battle; writers, broadcasters, technicians, and monitors of international news on behalf of Radio Venceremos; decipherers of ­enemy radio codes; and operatives in refugee camps like Colomoncagua who managed complex supply operations and assumed impor­tant decision making roles (e.g., Vásquez and Escalón 2012; Henríquez Consalvi 2010; Todd 2010; Smith-­Nonini 2009; González 1994; López Vigil 1994; Lievens 1989; Metzi 1988; Vigil Vásquez n.d.). Fi­nally, by focusing on the roles of Catholic lay catechists in northern Morazán, this book has sought to raise the profile of the so-­called “non-­ commissioned officers” found in most if not all progressive social movements—­ people whose communicational skills and local knowledges are instrumental to a movement’s orga­nizational success but whose contributions generally go unrecognized, or, if recognized, then underappreciated. With re­spect to El Salvador, only the work of Joaquín Chávez (2010, 2017) chronicles the roles of some catechists before and during the revolutionary war. However, as I have pointed out, Chávez focused mainly on the area of the archdiocese, where peasant universities served as one among vari­ous routes to critical thinking, ­others being radio schools, cooperatives, and church-­sponsored workshops.12 And though catechists

156 • From Popular to Insurgent Intellectuals

­ ere one group among vari­ous “poets and prophets of the re­sis­tance” he disw cussed, they get lost among his detailed considerations of students, poets, and writers. Fi­nally, many of Chávez’s “poets and prophets” wound up among the rebel leadership. He gives ­little attention to the “noncommissioned” officers in rural areas before and during the revolutionary war, which is what many northern Morazanian catechists became and whose ideas and actions this book has attempted to highlight.

Appendix 1 On Fabio Argueta’s Po­liti­cal Formation Much of this book has addressed the personal and po­liti­cal life of Fabio Argueta Amaya. In the following, I discuss Fabio’s conscientización (conscientization) and po­liti­cal practice and highlight the complex relationship between the life experiences that we coproduce and the sense that we make of them. With a sufficient amount of material—­multiple interviews constituting a life history— it would have been pos­si­ble to examine the conscientization and po­liti­cal practice of any number of ­others: “Mauricio” (Rosario Ramírez), “Felipe” (Andrés Barrera), “Tito,” “Isaias” (Samuel Vidal Guzmán), and Abraham Argueta, to cite but a few examples. In the case that has anchored this book, though, I believe that three sets of experiences contributed to, without determining in any absolute sense, Fabio Argueta’s radicalization: first, the depravity of excessive alcohol consumption that led to his ­family’s departure from El Mozote in the 1950s, when he was in his early teens; second, Fabio’s truncated educational ­career; and third, his experiences in Los Naranjos and El Castaño and his interactions with Fr. Miguel, other catechists, and members of CEBs. Th ­ ese experiences unfolded on a social and economic landscape of widespread suffering rooted in land shortage (for most), commercial theft, the paucity of regional health and educational ser­vices, corrupt municipal administrations, and repression exercised by the National Guard, Trea­sury Police, and paramilitaries, among ­others. Let us take them one by one.

157

158 • Appendix 1

Alcohol Fabio’s po­liti­cal apprenticeship, if we can call it that, began in his youth when his ­family left El Mozote following threats and assaults perpetrated by an alcoholic cousin jealous of Baltazar’s economic accomplishments and prob­ably angered by Baltazar’s failure to properly maintain the fence dividing the terrains. In rural El Salvador, no less than in rural Mexico and other areas of Latin Amer­ i­ca, envidia (envy) is a disease with social implications. In this instance, Filipino’s drinking prob­lem combined with the small size of Fabio’s ­family to place Baltazar in a weak position. His death at Filipino’s hand would deprive his spouse and son of their principal means of economic support. On the other hand, if Bal­ tazar killed Filipino in self-­defense, he would prob­ably have to sell most or all of his property to pay the fees of avaricious l­ awyers to avoid prison. He seemed destined to lose ­either way. The move to Soledad canton in Meanguera municipality resolved the security prob­lem at the cost of the liquidation of accumulated property, abandonment of the El Mozote community, and a distancing of social relations ­there. That land was available in Soledad, thus saving the Argueta f­ amily from a more difficult adjustment in Honduras, proved a fortuitous circumstance, albeit one related in part to the municipality’s proximity to Honduras and the ­labor migration and sometimes permanent relocation of northern Morazanians to the neighboring country. As Fabio grew older, he obviously pondered the destructive power of alcohol, for he returned to discuss it at several points in our conversations. It is tempting to link his outrage in chapter 2 with the early experiences recounted in chapter 1. In chapter 2, I quoted Fabio to the effect that “once drunk, p­ eople fought over the cow, the chicken, the pig”—­a statement that accorded with his ­earlier account of Filipino’s drunken aggressions. At first Fabio criticized drinking and drunkenness, only ­later to situate them within a larger and more complex social field. It would be easy to ascribe alcoholism to moral weakness or failure, as did conservative cleric Fr. Andrés Argueta from his pulpit in Jocoaitique. But without sanctioning the be­hav­ior of ­those u­ nder its “spell,” Fabio went on to portray them, too, as victims of wealthy merchants and corrupt government agents, who made handsome profits from liquor sales. He stated that “the o­ wners of the bars w ­ ere merchants, ­people with money, which is why they opened bars.” On the other hand, some poor ­people set up clandestine stills and w ­ ere victimized by agents of the Trea­sury Police, who destroyed the equipment or exacted bribes in exchange for allowing them to remain in operation. In other words, the production and sale of alcohol functioned as one component of a complex system of state/class domination.

Education A second ele­ment in Fabio’s conscientización, subtly inflected in the text, was his desire for education. He stated repeatedly that the combination of his ­father’s

Appendix 1 • 159

poor health and need to make a new beginning in canton Soledad deprived him of the opportunity to pursue his studies beyond third grade. I cannot speculate about the origin of this educational spark in a rural agrarian setting in which many parents taught their c­ hildren that “las letras no se comen” (you c­ an’t eat the alphabet), which is simply to say that reading and writing do not put food on the t­ able, a good example of Gramsci’s concept of senso comun, or common sense (see Crehan 2016, 44).1 Perhaps Pablo Antonio Jara, the teacher who volunteered his ser­vices in El Jícaro, served as the catalyst. We know that in 1951, when Fabio would have been eight years old, Jara recruited fifteen-­year-­old Renán Alcides Orellana, a native of nearby Villa El Rosario who had completed eighth grade in San Miguel, to give literacy classes in El Mozote for a year (Orellana 2002, 56–60).2 Jara came to northern Morazán from Cojutepeque in the department of Cuscatlán, well west of Morazán, and appears to have developed a strong personal commitment to educating El Mozote’s youth. It is worth adding that both parents of highly respected Israel Márquez, who was related to Fabio on his m ­ other’s side, had worked as rural schoolteachers; also, Israel was himself something of a local intellectual. He owned books and practiced medicine surreptitiously. ­Whether his example carried any weight with Fabio, I cannot say. However, in the early 1970s, about fifteen years ­after Fabio’s f­ amily relocated, the El Mozote community convinced the government to construct a brick school building and provide instruction through third grade (Binford 2016, 93). No other rural hamlet in northern Morazán possessed a comparable fa­cil­i­ty. Educational institutions tended to be sited in municipal town centers—­Meanguera in this case—­and even ­there they seldom offered education beyond sixth grade. Without belaboring a point discussed in detail elsewhere (Binford 2016, chap. 4), El Mozote was home to a socially progressive rural petty bourgeoisie of landowners and shop­ keep­ers who invested time and personal resources in local community infrastructure and development. An attractive Catholic church, community center, brick school­house, and agricultural cooperative w ­ ere among the products of their efforts. However, Fabio’s desire to study and improve himself was thwarted by the ­family’s l­ imited economic resources. His f­ ather, a middling campesino (not poor, but not rich ­either), lacked the means and contacts to send him to Osicala, San Francisco Gotera, or San Miguel for higher levels of education, a strategy pursued by wealthier farmers and merchant families in Meanguera and Jocoaitique and by the regional coffee elite in Perquín, as well as ­others elsewhere (see Orellana 2002; Castro 2001). To compound the prob­lem, Fabio was a rare only child. He had no siblings, especially male siblings, who might have helped out eco­nom­ically and/or substituted for him in the fields. ­These limitations likely played a role in his l­ ater conscientización, particularly as he meditated on the life chances of the poor (among whom he usually included himself) and the rich. Like most young adults Fabio gave in to his ­father’s suggestion that he put aside

160 • Appendix 1

his “unreal” plans and begin a ­family: “Look, you are a son and you ­don’t have other opportunities, so it’s better that you marry.”

Catechism Training I take Fabio’s experience in San Lucas and El Castaño, as well as subsequent experiences in northern Morazán, as the third identifiable component of his politicization. Fabio narrated few specific experiences t­ here, even when encouraged to do so. But he did mention efforts the teachers made to “open up” the students and help them overcome low self-­esteem and fears of expressing themselves publicly. He noted that students had to discourse on assigned topics before their peers, ­after which ­there ensued open discussion and evaluation of their per­for­ mances. El Castaño proved a prominent catalyst ­because the priest-­teachers engaged pre-­existing, though seldom verbalized, contradictions; encouraged students to think about the under­lying ­causes of poverty and suffering; and suggested a dif­fer­ent way of living in community. Th ­ ose contradictions w ­ ere inscribed in and through the lives of the individual students, and it was one of the goals of the priest-­teachers to bring them to consciousness, draw out their social foundations, and suggest how through collective effort social and economic prob­lems might be overcome or at least mitigated. The role of El Castaño in furthering Fabio’s conscientización depended on pre-­existing tensions and disappointments that derived from his ­family’s forced relocation to La Soledad from El Mozote and his frustrated educational aspirations. Fabio Argueta pre­sents a specific example—­unique in its details but by no means aty­pi­cal—of the manner in which relations in a merchant-­capitalist dominated rural social economy work themselves out concretely in and through the lives of individuals. At critical moments, Fabio (and his f­ amily) ran up against constraints posed by structured social relations and found himself without options: to continue living in El Mozote, to extend his studies, to accumulate wealth through petty commerce. He had l­ ittle control over ­these events, but it is clear that they affected him deeply. Other peasant catechists with backgrounds similar to Fabio’s resisted the teachings of El Castaño; some who did not resist still resumed their former conservative practices. Fabio was among ­those who embraced liberation theology with gusto (plea­sure). I think that his early life experiences formed in him a “susceptibility” to critiques of rural society, and liberation theology provided him with a means of reframing ­those experiences within the context of uneven social relations writ in regional, national, and international domains. Liberation theology did not challenge fundamental beliefs and values regarding the super­natural but did distinguish between so-­called true understandings of the Bible (presented in El Castaño and other training centers, as well as by Fr. Miguel) and what Fabio came to understand as false ones (e.g., Fr. Andrés Argueta’s exaggerated emphasis on the saints and their images and his explanations for the c­ auses of wealth and poverty). By the early to

Appendix 1 • 161

mid-1990s, Fabio’s recall of t­ hese experiences and their meanings had doubtless been s­ haped by several de­cades of revolutionary strug­gle. But I take as significant the fact that of thousands of encounters and experiences, they w ­ ere among ­those that he elected to narrate, suggesting the deep and enduring impact they had made on him.

Appendix 2 Interviews Cited “A,” 22 February 1995, San Salvador. Abraham Argueta (1), 5 December 1992, Joateca. Abraham Argueta (2), 19 December 1992, Joateca. Abraham Argueta (3), 1 May 1995, Joateca. Abraham Argueta (4), 28 May 1995, Joateca. Amer­i­ca Argentina Vaquerano (“Dina”) (1), 8 November 1992, Perquín (PADECOMSM). Amer­i­ca Argentina Vaquerano (“Dina”) (2), 5 December 1992, Perquín (PADECOMSM). Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”) (1), Spring 1995, Jocoaitique (Quebrachos). Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”) (2), 12 July 2011, Jocoaitique (Quebrachos). “Anibel,” 16 September 1992, Arambala. Aparicio Orellana, 4 October 1992, San Fernando. Carmen Elena, 7 July 2010, Perquín. Catalina Chicas Guevara (“Margarita”), 29 June 2012, Jocoaitique. Cristobal Chicas (“Manelio”), 4 July 2012, Jocoaitique. “Cruz,” 24 July 2011, Arambala. Eduarda Esperanza, 11 February 1995, Perquín. Ermilindo Amaya, 29 November 1992, San Fernando. “Ernesto,” 20 November 1992, Perquín. Eunacia Argueta, 24 December 1992, San Fernando. Fabio Argueta (“Benito, “El Gordo Benito” or “Benitón”), a dozen interviews between 1992 and 1995, San Salvador. 163

164 • Appendix 2

Felipe, 28 May 1995, Joateca. Francisco López (“Franco”) (1), 19 November 1992, Jocoaitique (Campamento Quincho). Francisco López (“Franco”) (2), 20 November 1992, Jocoaitique (Campamento Quincho). Francisco López (“Franco”) (3), 24 November 1992, Jocoaitique (Campamento Quincho). Francisco López (“Franco”) (4), 22 June 1993, Meanguera (San Luis Cultural Center). Heidi Ventura, 18 December 1992, Arambala. Heriberto Chicas (1), 7 October 1992, San Fernando. Heriberto Chicas (2), 23 October 1992, San Fernando. “Hernán,” 18 July 2010, Arambala (Prodetur Office). Ismael Romero (Comandante “Bracamonte”) (1), 18 April 1995, Jocoaitique. Ismael Romero (Comandante “Bracamonte”) (2), 20 April 1995, Jocoaitique. Ismael Romero (Comandante “Bracamonte”) (3), 29 April 1995, Jocoaitique. Jacinto Márquez (“Oscar”), 6 June 1995, Perquín. José Jesús Romero (“Nolvo”), 14 July 2011, Meanguera. Juan Márquez, 25 June 1993, Meanguera. Margarito Chicas, 20 December 1992, San Fernando. Marisol Galindo, 4 April 2011, Perquín. Maximino Pérez, 22 December 1994, Jocoaitique. Mercedes Ventura, 25 June 1993, Meanguera. Miguel Ventura (1), 10 September 1992, San Salvador. Miguel Ventura (2), 18 September 1992, Perquín (CEBES). Miguel Ventura (3), 22 September 1992, Perquín (CEBES). Miguel Angel Benítez (“Serapio”), 4 June 1995, Perquín. Mistalia Altamirano, 30 July 1992, San Fernando. “Nasar,” 4 November 1992, Perquín. Pedro José Rodríguez (1), 28 November 1992, Perquín (PADECOMSM). Pedro José Rodríguez (2), 2 December 1992, Perquín (PADECOMSM). Porfirio, 1 July 2012, Torola. “René,” 1995, San Salvador. Roberto Carrillo (“Robertón”) (1), 1992, Meanguera (San Luis). Roberto Carrillo (“Robertón”) (2), 2011, Meanguera (San Luis). Rosario Ramírez (“Mauricio”) (1), 27 November 1992, Jocoaitique (­ Campamento Quincho). Rosario Ramírez (“Mauricio”) (2), 19 December 1992, Jocoaitique (­ Campamento Quincho). Rufina Amaya, 1993, Meanguera.

Appendix 2 • 165

“S,” 26 March 1995, Perquín. Samuel Vidal Guzmán (“Isaías”), 16 April 1995, Meanguera (San Luis). Sandra Medrano (“Clelia”), 1993, Perquín. Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Cesar”) (1), December 28, 1992, Perquín. Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Cesar”) (2), 1994, San Salvador. “Sergio,” 30 June 2012, Arambala. “Vergilio,” notes of an interview, prob­ably conducted in 1992, encountered in the archives of Perquín’s Museum of the Salvadoran Revolution, Perquín.

Notes Introduction 1 ​I refer to the war as a revolutionary as opposed to a civil war, unlike most analysts and commentators. While the war was technically a civil war “between or­ga­nized groups of the same country,” the FMLN leadership had the objective of seizing control of the state and revolutionizing the social, po­liti­cal, and economic systems. To refer to the Salvadoran conflict exclusively as a civil war blurs the distinction between groups seeking to separate from the state; ­those that attempt to seize power without fundamentally altering the social, po­liti­cal, and economic status quo; and truly revolutionary groups like the FMLN. 2 ​I refer to the centers as peasant universities in the remainder of this book. 3 ​Gramsci argued that the “integral state” encompassed both po­liti­cal society and civil society; that is, it involved hegemony protected by the armor of coercion: “In basic terms, hegemony is protected by coercion and coercion is protected by hegemony, and they both protect the dominant group’s po­liti­cal and economic positions” (Green 2002, 7). Po­liti­cal power consists of force plus consensus; it involves the unity of po­liti­cal and civil society. 4 ​In Mayo’s formulation, the war of position is conducted “in and against the state” (2008, 421; see Mayo 2005 for an example). Gramsci identified “slaves, peasants, religious groups, ­women, dif­fer­ent races, and the proletariat as subaltern social groups” (Green 2002, 2). “Subaltern” refers to oppressed groups in general, regardless of ­whether they have succeeded in organ­izing on their own behalf. 5 ​In Poets and Prophets of the Re­sis­tance, Chávez stated that “peasant leaders can be considered intellectuals in that they did the work of intellectuals: analyzing the situation of peasant communities, voicing their grievances and claims, and organ­izing an unpre­ce­dented social movement, all of which altered national politics in the 1970s. The peasant intellectuals articulated a new vision of the relationship between the spiritual and the po­liti­cal, which critically informed the ideology of the emergent peasant movement” (2017, 73). In this he was drawing on Baud and Rutten, who conceived popu­lar intellectuals as “persons who—­formally educated or not—­aim to understand society in order to change it, with the interest of the

167

168 • Notes to Pages 5–10

popu­lar classes in mind. They seek to define the prob­lems of subaltern groups, articulate their grievances, and frame their social and po­liti­cal demands” (2004, 4). 6 ​I am not aware that Gramsci used the term “popu­lar” with reference to intellectuals. 7 ​Much depends on how one understands the Gramscian phrase “a fundamental role in the pro­cess of production” (Gramsci 1971, 13). Gramsci wrote during a period of rapid industrialization in Eu­rope and other parts of the world when large numbers of men and w ­ omen worked in factories ­under conditions that varied l­ ittle from one workplace to another; for him, the industrial working class was the only potentially revolutionary group—­the only group that occupied “a fundamental role in the pro­cess of production”—­that other subaltern groups (e.g., peasants) might support. In 1970s El Salvador, most intellectuals originating from among the peasantry—­ priests, ­lawyers, government functionaries, and ­others—­tended to be absorbed by other classes and class factions, just as in Gramsci’s Italy (Green and Ives 2009, 25). Such “absorption” may no longer be the case, or at least no longer so common ­because of the changing contours of what William Roseberry referred to as a world historical pro­cess of proletarianization (1983). Workplaces everywhere have become more heterogeneous, as have the ways that ­people find themselves positioned in the commodity economy. Gramsci’s somewhat teleological view of factory workers as the leading ele­ment of the working class is clearly not the case t­ oday. As a pro­cess, proletarianization has deepened but also fragmented the working classes in the sense that the forms through which capital extracts surplus value from workers have become highly differentiated. Over the last half ­century, the changes brought about by downsizing, outsourcing, the decline of or­ga­nized l­ abor, and state vio­lence are leading social scientists to rethink their conception of the working class itself. As casualized forms of exploitation characteristic of flexible accumulation substitute for Fordism (see Harvey 1989), working classes are being understood increasingly in terms of strug­g les around access to food, housing, health care, and other ­matters and not solely in terms of commodity production (Gill 2016). “Working class” is increasingly a po­liti­cal as well as an economic positioning. To sum up, understanding organic and traditional intellectuals as precipitants of world historical pro­cesses must be time and place specific. “Popu­lar” is a way of acknowledging the intellectual ­labor of peasants (and ­others) without framing that ­labor within a linear view of historical development, and “insurgent” refers to popu­lar intellectuals—­catechists in the northern Morazanian case treated ­here—­incorporated into a political-­ military organ­ization espousing a secular ideology of revolution. 8 ​Of course, ­there remained theological ele­ments, even for ­those who joined the insurgents and defended the use of arms. 9 ​Lauria-­Santiago (1999, 25, 27) refers to colonial land grants to indigenous towns as “ejidos,” each town receiving 1,710 hectares [4,225 acres] with the possibility of purchasing more land from the crown. I have treated ejidos as communal lands to avoid confusion with the Mexican ejido land grant, which dominates conversation. 10 ​By 1921, coffee sales accounted for 80 ­percent; seven years l­ ater, in 1928, coffee’s contribution to export revenue had grown to 93 ­percent, and production and pro­cessing and commercialization, especially, had become highly concentrated (Sedgewick 2020, 207; Russell 1984, 28), even more so in El Salvador than in Guatemala, Nicaragua, or elsewhere in Central Amer­i­ca as “an elite of fully integrated coffee producers controlled the coffee system and much e­ lse as well” (Paige 1997, 82). 11 ​Añil succumbed to the disruption of transport routes as a consequence of the U.S. Civil War; the rise of cheap, Asian sources; and the development in Germany (and elsewhere) of synthetic (aniline) dyes made from coal tar (Sedgewick 2020, 40, 187).

Notes to Pages 10–19 • 169

12 ​Adding to northern Morazán’s isolation during the first half of the twentieth ­century was the absence of a bridge over the Torola River. The government constructed the first bridge in 1953, and bus ser­vice connected the region with San Francisco Gotera and the impor­tant commercial hub of San Miguel soon thereafter. 13 ​The Spanish “foco” refers to a “center” or “focal point.” It can also be a “street lamp,” “light bulb,” or “headlight” (on a vehicle). The “foco theory of revolution” derives from the Cuban experience and held that a small group of armed revolutionaries could touch off a more generalized revolutionary strug­g le by showing the way to masses already antagonistic to the regime and who would readily follow their lead (see Debray 1969). The foco theory contrasted with Gramsci’s theory of hegemony, which argued for a prefigurative (pre-­revolutionary) war of movement preceding the direct assault (war of position) on the state. Drawing on the Cuban experience, Debray maintained that “the opening of military focos and not po­liti­cal “ focos” ­will be decisive for the ­f uture [of successful revolutions]” (1969: 253). 14 ​On the genesis and early internal dynamics of the ERP, see Álvarez and Cortina Orero 2014. 15 ​All four noncommunist political-­military organ­izations had roots in the Salvadoran Communist Party. 16 ​The par­tic­u­lar skills that catechists gained or sharpened in the peasant universities depended on the number and range of courses they took. I discuss this in chapter 1. Montgomery (1995, 87) dates the training centers as operating between 1970 and 1976, yet the earliest center (Centro Reina de la Paz) was founded in 1968. Also, Montgomery (1995, 87) counted seven centers, whereas Chávez (2017, 78) listed nine. 17 ​Green (2002) notes that for Gramsci, “disor­ga­ni­za­tion is an ele­ment of subalternity but not the determining ele­ment, since a subaltern group can exercise some level of po­liti­cal organ­ization without any level of hegemony and therefore still be subject to the activity of dominant groups” (18). 18 ​According to Richard and Meléndez (1982, 59), the archdiocese contained 106 of 195 priests in 1965, compared to 30 each in the dioceses of Santa Ana and San Vicente and 29 in the diocese of San Miguel. The authors provided no figures for the diocese of Santiago de María, created in 1954, but church rec­ords indicate that in 1966 the Santiago de María diocese was staffed by 29 priests between diocesan priests (14) and priests in religious ­orders (15). See http://­w ww​.­catholichierarchy​ .­org​/­diocese​/­dstma​.­html. Adding in the 14 diocesan priests in Santiago de María brings the national total to 210 and the archdiocese’s proportion to 50 ­percent. 19 ​See http://­w ww​.c­ atholic​-­hierarchy​.­org​/b­ ishop​/­balvarezr​.­html and http://­w ww​ .­catholic​-­hierarchy​.o­ rg​/­diocese​/­dmlsv​.­html. 20 ​Ignacio Ellacuría distinguished between the “support model” and the “social collaboration model.” The latter is very close to the pastoral approach of engaging social movements (1991a, 28–33). Hammond explained the alternative versions as follows: “one focused on development and modernization, the other on liberation. The first aimed at social and economic development in the spirit of the papal social encyclicals and the Alliance for Pro­gress. . . . ​The second version called for liberation from below. This view held that poor communities could only f­ ree themselves from oppression through their own action” (1998, 29, 31). 21 ​Grande is widely regarded as the first priest to fall victim to the repression, but Joaquín Chávez stated that the murder of Fr. Nicolás Rodríguez in November 1970, initially attributed to common criminals, was viewed by many p­ eople as having been carried out by e­ ither or both military or paramilitary forces (see Chávez 2017, 95).

170 • Notes to Pages 23–30

Chapter 1  From El Mozote to El Castaño, 1942–1974 1 ​In El Salvador, a canton is an administrative district of a municipality. Rural cantons usually contain numerous casaríos (hamlets). Note that all unattributed quotes are from interviews with Fabio Argueta. 2 ​La Guacamaya is lower in altitude and hotter than El Mozote. Many ­people living in El Mozote and nearby hamlets sowed corn in La Guacamaya, attracted by the higher yields and shorter growing season t­ here (see chapter 2). 3 ​One manzana also equals 1.74 acres. 4 ​The word mezcal (or mescal) has a variety of meanings that are easily confused. Mezcal (mescal) is best known as a strong liquor distilled from the fermented juice of the maguey plant, a cactus in the agave f­ amily. In northern Morazán “mescal” refers both to the tropical American agave (Agave fourcroydes) or henequen (sisal) plant as well as the strong, hard, yellowish or reddish fiber obtained from the leaves. Northern Morazanians sold that fiber crude or spun it into twine that they or someone e­ lse worked up into a variety of artisan goods, such as rope, lassos, hammocks, and carry­ing bags. In southern Mexico (Oaxaca), the fiber is called ixtle from the Nahuatl language (see Cook and Binford 1991). In this book I use the words “henequen” and “mescal” interchangeably. “Mescal” can also refer to the fiber extracted from the henequen (mescal) plant. 5 ​Prob­ably most of the animals consisted of chickens, turkeys, and pigs. 6 ​Renán Alcides Orellana was born in Villa El Rosario and taught literacy classes in El Mozote in 1951–1952 when he was fourteen years old. He recalled the schoolteacher’s name as Pablo Antonio Alfaro and not Pablo Antonio Jara (Orellana 2002, 54–60). 7 ​A compadre is a ritual co-­parent. Filipino prob­ably would have been responsible for taking care of Fabio in case of the early death of his natu­ral parents, Baltazar and Francisca. 8 ​The history remains somewhat confused, but the thrust of Fabio’s narrative is that Filipino was jealous of Baltazar’s success. 9 ​Ismael Márquez subdivided the field into housing lots hoping to attract more ­people to El Mozote, which he foresaw as the cabecera (administrative center) of a ­f uture municipality to be carved out of Meanguera and perhaps nearby Arambala. Baltazar Argueta’s land was centrally located in a lightly inclined area at the foot of Cruz Hill near the community’s nerve center. Fabio’s criticism of Israel Márquez was not shared by the majority of p­ eople old enough to remember him (see Binford 2016, 91–92). Currently, Ismael’s image appears in a mural designed by Argentine artist Claudia Bernardi that adorns the north-­facing wall of the rebuilt church (308n13). 10 ​Fabio’s memory of the conversation was likely influenced by the brief 1969 war between El Salvador and Honduras. 11 ​Mescal pro­cessing machines arrived ­a fter the 1969 war with Honduras, thus more than a de­cade ­later. In one day, a machine could extract many times as much fiber as a man or ­woman using wooden or metal stakes. Machines cheapened the cost of producing fiber, but they reduced the availability of work for small peasants and rural wage laborers. (On the pro­cessing of mescal fiber, see Pedersen 2012, 72–73.) 12 ​Catalina’s surnames ­were Chicas Guevara. Her first surname (and likely the second as well) was prob­ably taken from her ­mother, suggesting that she was not legally recognized by her biological f­ ather. 13 ​Interview with Catalina Chicas Guevara.

Notes to Pages 30–34 • 171

14 ​If Fabio’s fourteen manzanas represented the totality of his ­father’s land, then the move from El Mozote to Soledad entailed a more than 40 ­percent reduction in landed property. 15 ​In 1975 some 41 ­percent of Morazán’s henequen fiber was sold to a factory to produce sacks for the coffee industry, and 54 ­percent was used locally for hammocks, lassos, and other artisanal products. Another 4 ­percent was exported (Gould 2020, 30). The importation of nylon twine and rope affected the local market only. White mentions that a single factory produced sacks from henequen (sisal) for the export of coffee beans (White 1973, 133, 177n3). 16 ​Los Naranjos was directed by Juan Macho, and El Castaño, established by Msgr. Graziano, was directed by Dionisio Santamaría (Denis Sanmarie from Cleveland, Ohio), Miguel Ángel Montesinos of unknown origin (but prob­ably Spanish), and the Belgian Raymundo Dumás. The directors sometimes invited other p­ eople— ­priests, and in some cases laity—to give courses on religious and nonreligious ­matters. 17 ​According to Chávez, the other five ­were La Providencia, the Santa Ana Proj­ect, Chacalcoyo, the Monsignor Luis Chávez y González School, and the Guacotecti Center (2017, 78). Peterson (1997) considered the centers as the products of separate initiatives, while Montgomery (1983, 71) attributed their formation to Fr. Walter Guerra. What­ever the case, by 1970 many centers had already been formed and actively collaborated with one another. 18 ​Calculated from material available at http://­w ww​.­catholic​-­hierarchy​.­org​/­country​ /­bsv​.­html. 19 ​Each of eight municipalities was administered from a head town that ­housed an alcaldía (mayor’s office), shops, some ser­vices (such as a health post and telephone office), a church, and the residences of the wealthiest p­ eople. The priest lived on church grounds in Jocoaitique, the parish center and site of the region’s largest population and endowed with the region’s largest and best-­apportioned church. From ­there he traveled around northern Morazán in a jeep, visiting churches in other municipalities, especially on festive days, when he presided over mass and carried out baptisms, confirmations, and marriages, each of which had its price. 20 ​Interview with Felipe. Three of Joateca’s six catechists collaborated in organ­izing the cooperative. 21 ​Ventura taught classes in El Castaño and met many northern Morazanian peasant catechists prior to being sent to the region. Administering a parish and all that such involved did not dissuade him from continuing to teach t­ here. Interview 2 with Miguel Ventura. 22 ​Rodolfo Vásquez attended El Castaño in 1968 or 1969. Felipe (surname unknown), born in 1927, was another sacristan who attended El Castaño soon ­a fter it opened. He stated, “I was in charge of the keys to the church [in Joateca] and every­thing, ornaments and all” in preparation for Argueta’s monthly visits. Interview with Felipe. 23 ​Northern Morazanian catechists averaged almost thirty-­t wo years of age on initial attendance between 1969 and 1978, and seventeen of twenty about whom I obtained property information owned land before the war. Two of the three landless catechists possessed a marketable skill: one worked as a carpenter, and the other operated a successful tailoring operation. I obtained no occupational information on the third (Binford 2004, 110–111). Juan Ramón Sánchez, who died in a 1977 shoot-­out in Osicala (see chapter 3), was a landless day laborer in Meanguera municipality and not included in the survey. Unlike older catechists, married or

172 • Notes to Pages 35–39

accompanied and with c­ hildren, Sánchez was young, single, and childless when he attended El Castaño. 24 ​The posadas involve a reenactment of the birth of Jesus Christ in which local ­people assumed the roles of Joseph and Mary as they sought lodging in Bethlehem. Typically, rural peasants and workers enacted them during the nine days between 16 and 24 December. Each night a dif­fer­ent h ­ ouse­hold volunteered to host the holy ­couple, who entered the h ­ ouse and, along with guests, sang and prayed before a nativity scene. 25 ​Nancy Scheper-­Hughes (1992) noted the same custom in Alto de Cruzeiro, a marginalized neighborhood of Bom Jesús da Mata, located in the sugarcane zone of Brazil’s northeast. 26 ​Also see interview 1 with Miguel Ventura. Andrés Argueta seldom celebrated ser­vices in the cantons; rather, p­ eople in the cantons and other municipalities in the diocese came on Sundays when, according to Fabio, “the church in Jocoaitique filled with ­people.” Most arrived on foot, often ­a fter a lengthy walk. 27 ​The Centros Rurales de la Iglesia consisted of centers located in Jiquilisco, Usulután (Centro de Formación Integral “Virgin del Tránsito,” Los Naranjos); Santa Tecla (Centro de Promoción Rural); Chirilagua, San Miguel (Centro Guadalupe and Centro Reina de la Paz, “El Castaño”); San Miguel, San Miguel (Centro San Lucas); and Santa Ana (Escuela de Formación Integral “La Providencia”). A detailed social history of ­these centers remains to be written, though Peterson and Sánchez provide brief but useful discussions of them (Sánchez 2015, 87–92; Peterson 1997, 54–57). 28 ​Minifundism refers to access by any variety of means (owner­ship, rental, sharecropping, e­ tc.) to an amount of land insufficient to maintain the h ­ ouse­hold. Minifundists have to supplement their incomes through petty commerce, petty commodity production, and/or wage l­ abor. Many minifundists in El Salvador ­were caught up in a pro­cess of proletarianization. 29 ​See White (1973, 117–118) for a description of the colono system. In 1965 the government headed by President and Coronel Julio Rivera passed a minimum wage law, and many large landowners responded by eliminating colonos or reducing them “to the number required at the slackest time of the year, relying on l­ abour hired for specific tasks, and usually for one or two days only, for a considerable portion of the work and not only for the harvest” (119). White was referring to the situation in coffee fincas, but something similar occurred on ­cattle ranches (129). 30 ​Rodríguez did not discuss the providence of the tapes with Sánchez, and he might not have known. I think it is likely that they came from the IPLA in Quito, Ec­ua­dor. 31 ​According to a brief obituary, Dionisio Santamaría (Denis Saintmarie) was born in Ohio in 1933 and died in 2013. He was appointed to the Diocesan Mission in the Diocese of San Miguel in August 1964. On 23 July 1974 he was elected coordinator of the Diocesan Mission Team. He taught classes at El Castaño, and Gould states that he helped found the Guadalupe Center in 1972 to train female catechists (Gould 2020, 40; Catholic Diocese of Cleveland 2013). 32 ​Interview with Maximino Pérez. 33 ​­Whether students ­were invited back depended on their response to and comportment in the first course. Interviewees in the mid-1990s explained that some students w ­ ere disturbed by the priests’ informality and/or ­were unresponsive to the messages they strived to impart. 34 ​Abraham Argueta of Joateca vividly recounted his experiences in the laboratorio vivencial during several 1995 interviews. He explained that once he and other

Notes to Pages 40–47 • 173

students demonstrated their control of the subject ­matter and the ability to put it into practice, they ­were broken up into rotating teams of two to four p­ eople that gave courses in training centers all over El Salvador. As they gained experience, they ­were invited to impart the course to priests, l­ awyers, teachers, and ONG (organización no gobernamental; nongovernmental organ­ization) personnel. “It was a job,” he said, “that provided us a certain economic incentive.” The trainers received ten colones daily, along with food and housing, “which was more or less good.” Interviews 2 and 3 with Abraham Argueta. 35 ​Speaking of his experience in El Castaño, Abraham Argueta said that “one r­ ose at five in the morning to bathe and clean up. At six the w ­ hole group prayed, class at six-­thirty, breakfast at seven, just a bustle all day long ­until we turned in at ten in the eve­ning.” Interview 4 with Abraham Argueta. 36 ​Interview 2 with Abraham Argueta.

Chapter 2  Economy, Society, and Culture in Northern Morazán 1 ​Whereas ­people produced coffee in Perquín and San Fernando (and as far south as Arambala and perhaps some higher areas of Jocoaitique), I never heard of coffee being grown in La Montaña. Many areas of La Montaña lay within the altitudinal limits of corn (normally 1,500 meters), but the poor soils and absence of the proper kind of tree cover for the shade coffee that predominates in El Salvador ruled out coffee production t­ here (see the discussions of Salvadoran coffee production in Sedgewick 2020). 2 ​Fabio overlooked artisanal sugar production in s­ imple horse-­or ox-­drawn mills equipped with a wooden or metal mechanism for expressing the juice from sugar cane (see chapter 4, figures 4.3 and 4.4 and the discussion of the work of Rosario ­ ere removed, and the Ramírez). The juice was then boiled in pans, the impurities w juice was poured into wooden molds as it thickened. The hard brown or black sugar, known as panela, was a cheaper form of sweetener than the granular sugar produced by industrial mills (called ingenios) and was highly valued by northern Morazanian peasants and rural workers. Fabio discussed the importance of sugar­making during the war but failed to mention it when asked about the prewar economy, prob­ably ­because sugar production was highly dispersed and took place on a small scale. 3 ​San Francisco Gotera, the capital of the department, functioned as Morazán’s commercial hub before the war. Jocoaitique’s dominance was l­ imited to northern Morazán. 4 ​See interview 1 with Heriberto Chicas; interview with Solomón Romero. 5 ​The migration Fabio refers to was primarily interdepartmental—­from northern Morazán in El Salvador’s extreme northeast to major coffee-­growing districts along the volcanic cordillera in west central and western areas of the country. Before the revolutionary war (1980–1992), the decline in coffee prices, and the advent of a rare coffee leaf rust that affected about half the country’s trees, internal migration to coffee-­producing areas numbered in the hundreds of thousands (see Sedgewick 2020). Local coffee producers provided seasonal work for a fraction of needy ­house­holds in the region. The northern tier of El Salvador supplied a good part of the national coffee harvest l­ abor force. 6 ​­There was no hospital in northern Morazán. Fabio was prob­ably referring to hospitals in San Francisco Gotera or San Miguel. 7 ​A matate is a satchel or large purse woven from twine made from henequen fiber.

174 • Notes to Pages 47–52

8 ​Fabio was not thinking of value in the Marxist sense of incorporated l­ abor but of value as the reigning market price. Selling forward meant selling below the price that one might anticipate receiving at some indeterminate ­f uture time. 9 ​A unit of mea­sure for spun twine, one roa equaled 12 kilograms, four roas a quintal or about 100 pounds. 10 ​According to White, selling forward was a common practice among small-­scale Salvadoran coffee farmers too (1973, 123). The practice is widespread in Latin Amer­ic­ a and elsewhere. 11 ​Segundo Montes (1987) discusses the role of ritual co-­parenthood in El Salvador. 12 ​Michael Kearney (1996) argued against the term “peasant” on the basis that no sooner did the concept gain currency in anthropology—as a replacement for “primitive”—­than the diversification of rural economies undermined its agrarian reference point. Like Michael Rolph-­Trouillot (1991), Kearney viewed the peasant as occupying anthropology’s “savage slot.” Kearney’s alternative construction was the “polybian,” who exists not in a fixed, territorial location (such as the peasant community) but at the node of a multiplicity of decentered social and economic relationships. Kearney argued that peasant h ­ ouse­holds have always pursued a diversity of income-­generating activities, among which cultivating the land was merely one. 13 In his lightly fictionalized Osicala: Vida y pasión de una aldea salvadoreña, published in 1985, Juan Allwood Paredes provided a highly romanticized version of rural social life in the 1950s and 1960s in Osicala, located a few kilo­meters south of the Torola River on the lower slopes of the dormant Cacahuatique Volcano. The lights of Osicala are vis­i­ble all the way from Perquín. Allwood wrote, If we meditate on life in Osicala we realize that not every­thing is bad. Certainly, ­here we are poor, but we are not miserable; no one lacks enough to eat even if it’s only ­those miraculous foods that God gave the Salvadorans: tortillas and beans. All of us have a ­little h ­ ouse and a piece of land on which we grow coffee, oranges, avocados, cashews, mangos and bananas; we ­don’t lack for chickens and many of us raise pigs. Th ­ ere are no beggars h ­ ere but if someone needs help t­ here are more than enough p­ eople ready to give it; ­we’re not jealous of one another and the doors of the ­houses remain open all day long; in spite of the drunks on the weekends, years pass before someone commits a serious crime. All of us have something to do and when we lack work we go looking for it on the north coast of Honduras. (1985, 17) Allwood then asked himself, “Why is it that although poor we enjoy peace and harmony?” And he answered, “Two explanations come to mind: one is that Osicalans do not suffer from excessive ambitions for material wealth nor from the desire to dominate ­others; the other is precisely that Osicala is far from the influences of the central government and the capital city” (18). 14 ​Nasar stated that it was common to hear something to the effect that “Este baboso no nos daba el dinero que nos corresponde” (This idiot [the employer] refused to pay us the wages we deserve”). Interview with “Nasar.” 15 ​Despite his inability to detail the function of the habitus, which approximated a black box of understanding (Burawoy 2012), Pierre Bourdieu’s recognition of the social potential of the ineradicable differences in practical experience of dominant and dominated groups, suggests a Gramscian influence. On the other hand, Bourdieu paid far too much attention to social scientists and other intellectuals (like himself) interested in knowing the “truth” of the world and far too l­ ittle to popu­lar intellectuals (like Fabio) more interested in changing the world.

Notes to Pages 52–60 • 175

16 ​Despite its status as the parish seat (and site of a small National Guard detachment), ­people in the town of Jocoaitique did incorporate into the ERP. However, this was likely less attributable to catechists than the work of “Calín” Hernández, a local schoolteacher. Also, Jocoaitique harbored a reputation for radicalism. In the mid-1960s, it was said to be the only municipality in El Salvador that opted for the Partido de Acción Renovadora (Party of Reformist Action). 17 ​Interviews 2 and 3 with Abraham Argueta. 18 ​For instance, interview with Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”). 19 ​Kate Crehan noted that for Gramsci, “the knowledge produced by intellectuals is never the result of some ‘head birth’: pure thought springing fully formed into an individual mind as Athena sprang from the head of Zeus” but “is always, and in fundamental ways, s­ haped by the beliefs, assumptions, and attitudes of the wider worlds in which t­ hose intellectuals live. Intellectuals are inextricably bound into existing power structures; to a significant degree they are products of their time and place” (2016, 19). For an excellent example, see David Harvey’s commentaries on Marx in Marx, Capital and the Madness of Economic Reason (2019). 20 ​Interview 2 with Ismael Romero (“Bracamonte”). 21 ​Interview 3 with Ismael Romero (“Bracamonte”). 22 ​In an other­wise insightful article focusing on the ethnographic limits of re­sis­tance lit­er­a­ture, Sherry Ortner praises Raymond Williams for trying to overcome the split between materialism and idealism by focusing on the ways “in which structures of exploitation and domination are si­mul­ta­neously material and cultural.” However, Ortner critiques Williams for having produced a perspective in which culture is suffused with power relations, raising the specter of “mystification” and “false consciousness.” She seems to agree with Scott’s critique that “analysts who emphasize hegemony in this relatively deep, culturally internalized, sense likely fail to uncover t­ hose ‘hidden transcripts’ of re­sis­tance and t­ hose non-­obvious acts and moments of re­sis­tance that do take place” (1995, 182). But Williams was a trenchant critic of the very orthodox Marxist ideas that Ortner accused him of endorsing. At no point (in Marxism and Lit­er­a­ture at least) did Williams sustain a true consciousness / false consciousness dichotomy (Williams 1977). It is correct that he maintained that culture is suffused by power relations, yet the hegemony represented in the dominant culture is always opposed by beliefs that arise (embryonic ele­ments) or are resurrected in new forms (residual ele­ments) in the course of strug­g le. To his credit, Roseberry does not equate hegemony with culture, as do many o­ thers (see Kurz 1996). 23 ​Former catechist Abraham Argueta confirmed that in the 1950s and 1960s, machete fights occurred regularly on the weekends among ­people drinking alcohol. Interview 2 with Abraham Argueta. 24 ​The standard translation of chupadero is a secret or clandestine military prison. Fabio understood it as the site of a clandestine drinking party. Chupar has many meanings, among them “to suck” and “to lick,” but it also means “to booze.” 25 ​See Gould 2020, 40.

Chapter 3  Political Incorporation, 1974–1977 1 ​Ventura spent the period between December 1977 and April 1982 outside the country, for reasons I discuss l­ ater in this chapter. 2 ​Workers and peasants in northern Morazán addressed him as “Miguel,” never as “Padre” (­Father). I have elected to follow their lead by referring to him as “Miguel”

176 • Notes to Pages 61–63

or “Fr. Miguel” and occasionally use Fr. Miguel Ventura. No participant in this study referred to Fr. Andrés Argueta as “Andrés” or “Fr. Andrés.” He was always Fr. Argueta. 3 ​Interview 1 with Fr. Miguel Ventura. The relationship was well-­k nown in northern Morazán. 4 ​A minor seminary is a day or boarding school created for the purpose of providing academic and spiritual training for boys who have expressed an interest in becoming Catholic priests. 5 ​See Notimex 1991 and interview 1 with Miguel Ventura. Progressives constituted a minority of the teachers in San José de la Montaña as most priest-­teachers ­were conservative Catholics. Ventura explained that in 1972 Archbishop Chávez y González passed control of the seminary from the Jesuits to diocesan priests. Interview 1 with Miguel Ventura. 6 ​Interview 1 with Fr. Miguel Ventura. 7 ​This encounter occurred before he entered San José de la Montaña. Miguel visited San Fernando for the first time in 1957 or 1958 as a minor seminarian studying in a Marist seminary in San Miguel. Eleven or twelve years old at the time, he stayed at the home of Mistalia Altimirano, a Nicaraguan by birth, who spent several de­cades working as a schoolteacher in northern Morazán. The visit with other seminarians apparently took place ­later, when he was studying in San Salvador. Mistalia was a spry ninety-­year-­old retiree when I spoke to her in 1992 and lived alone in a ­house in the woods off the beaten track in San Fernando where she passed most of the revolutionary war, at times caught in crossfires between the FAES and the FMLN. Mistalia maintained a long-­term relationship with Miguel and enjoyed recounting his clandestine visits, her rescue of religious images from the nearby San Fernando church (which she guarded in a chapel that she had constructed next to her h ­ ouse), and the downing of a he­li­cop­ter carry­ing Col. Alfonso Castillo, the Salvadoran Minister of Defense during a famous 1982 ­battle. Interview 1 with Miguel Ventura; interview with Mistalia Altimirano. 8 ​In the ­middle of the first de­cade of the new millennium, more than a dozen years ­a fter the end of the armed conflict, Torola remained one of El Salvador’s poorest municipalities (PNUD 2005, 2006). 9 ​Two northern Morazanian cantons formed part of Cacaopera municipality and fell ­under the authority of Irish Franciscans in San Francisco Gotera. 10 ​Fabio Argueta’s account was confirmed by Mercedes Ventura (no relation to Miguel Ventura). Interview with Mercedes Ventura. Both accounts, however, w ­ ere second­hand, based on a widely circulating story. It is certain, though, that Catholic practice in Meanguera was taken over, at least temporarily, by the priest who administered Osicala parish, south of the Torola River. 11 ​Interview 2 with Miguel Ventura. 12 ​Notimex 1991. 13 ​José Inocencio Alas in Suchitoto and Rutilio Grande and his team in Aguilares trained lay leaders locally as well. 14 ​Interview with Mercedes Ventura; interview 2 with Heriberto Chicas. During my early encounters with Fr. Miguel, I referred to him by the more formal usted, but he quickly (and g­ ently) corrected me, “por f­ avor, tú” (please, tú [the familiar form of you]). 15 ​“Dignity” also played an impor­tant role in the Zapatista Movement, which exploded in Chiapas, México in January 1994. See John Holloway’s “Dignity’s Revolt” (1998).

Notes to Pages 64–68 • 177

16 ​Interview 3 with Miguel Ventura. 17 ​Fr. Miguel also trained new generations of catechists during two-­to three-­day sessions held in Torola ­e very few weeks. Training catechists locally rather than sending them to El Castaño or another center enabled the incorporation into Christian work of p­ eople who, according to Fabio Argueta, “­were ­really poor” and found it “difficult to drop their work and go to El Castaño or some other place.” 18 ​According to Wikipedia, “Caritas Internationalis is a confederation of 162 Catholic relief, development and social ser­vice organ­izations operating in over 200 countries and territories worldwide. Collectively and individually, their missions are to work to build a better world, especially for the poor and oppressed. The first Caritas organ­i zation was established by Lorenz Werthmann on 9 November 1897 in Freiburg (headquarters for Germany).” https://­en​.­wikipedia​.­org​/­wiki​/­Caritas​ _­Internationalis. 19 ​­People arrived in Torola from as far away as La Guacamaya, which impressed Fr. Miguel in that the journey involved a four-­hour walk “in rain and sun” (cited in Rubio and Balsebre 2009, 81). 20 ​Castro was murdered in 1992, shortly ­a fter the peace, ­under suspicious circumstances during an altercation on the coastal highway. 21 ​Interview with José Jesús Romero; interview 1 with Roberto Carrillo. 22 ​In June 1984, three thousand soldiers of the FAES invaded northern Morazán and occupied Perquín. While two thousand stood guard, a thousand soldiers of the Ponce and León battalions ­were sworn in. “ ‘This is my first visit to Perquín in fifteen years,’ ” said Bishop José Eduardo Álvarez, who, according to journalist Robert McCarthy of the Washington Post, “blessed the banners of the units. His red cap and black cassock appeared to be out of place among the camouflaged troops with ­faces painted green and brown and leafy branches stuck in their b­ elts” (McCarthy 1984, A1). 23 ​On one occasion, peasant leaders in Chalatenango referred to Bishop Álvarez as “a member of the ‘repressive forces’ ” (Chávez 2017, 100). 24 ​During the interview in which Fabio discussed this meeting, he identified Montesinos as the bishop of the diocese of La Unión. However, ­there is not nor has t­ here ever been a Catholic diocese centered t­ here. Parishes in La Unión ­were and are part of the Diocese of San Miguel. Elsewhere Fabio identified Fr. Montesinos as codirector of El Castaño. 25 ​According to Pearce (1986, 195), “a co­a li­tion of professionals, ­unions, the National University [UES], small business associations, the social demo­crat (MNR) [Movimiento Nacional Revolucionario (National Revolutionary Movement)] party and the Popu­lar Social Christian Movement (a split from the PDC)” converged to form the Frente Democrático Revolucionario (Revolutionary Demo­cratic Front, FDR). The FDR allied with the FMLN, but my understanding is that its members did not take up arms. 26 ​ORDEN was created in 1962 as a rural paramilitary force composed of retired military officers and counted an estimated sixty thousand peasants in its ranks (Crandall 2016, 21). 27 ​Interview 4 with Francisco López; interview with José Jesús Romero; interview with Roberto Carrillo. 28 ​­There was indeed a Trea­sury Police (Policia de Hacienda) post in Torola. I have no evidence of a National Police (Policia Nacional) post as well. The National Police operated exclusively in cities.

178 • Notes to Pages 69–74

29 ​According to a brief biography of Arce penned in 1984 in Morazán, a left hagiography to be sure, Arce was a member of the Junventud Estudiantil Católica (Catholic Student Youth) prior to his radicalization soon ­a fter entering the University of El Salvador (ERP/PRS 1984). 30 ​Interview 1 with Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Cesar”). 31 ​Fabio refers to José Carmen Romero of El Mozote. José “del” Carmen Romero, was surely the same person mentioned in the lightly fictionalized memoir of Renán Alcides Orellana, who gave literacy classes in El Mozote in 1951 at the tender age of fifteen (Orellana 2002, 57). José Carmen Romero (or del Carmen Romero) must have been in his late thirties or early forties at the time he attended El Castaño (see Binford 2016, 96, 108–109, 113). 32 ​Interview 2 with Santos Lino Ramírez. 33 ​George Yúdice defined testimonial writing as “an au­then­tic narrative, told by a witness who is moved to narrate by the urgency of a situation (e.g., war, repression, revolution, ­etc.). Emphasizing popu­lar oral discourse, the witness portrays his or her own experience as an agent (rather than a representative) of a collective memory and identity. Truth is summoned in the cause of denouncing a pre­sent situation of exploitation and oppression or in exorcising and setting aright official history” (1996: 44). 34 ​Grenier might not have had access to Peterson’s work before his own entered production. However, Tommie Sue Montgomery dedicated a lengthy passage to the training centers in her widely read book titled Revolution in El Salvador: Origins and Evolution (1982, 103–104), repeated in abbreviated form in a 1983 article published in Latin American Perspectives (see 1983, 71–72). An expanded second edition of the book (Revolution in El Salvador: From Civil Strife to Civil Peace, 1995), which included l­ ater aspects of the war, the peace pro­cess, and the first postwar election, retained the e­ arlier book’s section on “The Training of Lay Leaders” (85–86). Given the prominence of Montgomery’s scholarship, Grenier has no excuse for his failure to acknowledge the developments she documents. 35 ​Grandin traced the conservative critique of revolution to at least Edmund Burke on the French revolution. The conservative critique “is a position that runs to the core of con­temporary debates concerning the ­causes of militancy, between t­ hose who see conflict as rooted in larger social relations, with vio­lence resulting from the instigating intransigence of elites, and ­those who blame terror on utopian ideological fervor. While the latter position has been used to explain events in Eu­rope and the United States . . . ​it holds considerably less influence in the Third World, where the relationship between repression, on the one hand, and colonialism, imperialism, and capitalism, on the other, is hard to deny” (2011, 13–14). 36 ​Fabio told a somewhat dif­fer­ent story during war­time, as recounted by Carlos Henríquez Consalvi (“Santiago”) in Broadcasting the Civil War in El Salvador: A Memoir of Guerrilla Radio (2010), an En­glish language translation of La Terquedad del Izote, published in San Salvador in 1992. ­There “Benito” (Fabio) explained that Arce met with thirty community leaders and invited them to “a short series of talks in San Salvador.” He also stated that on 12 July 1975 “they” [it is not clear to whom he referred] met with two hundred campesinos in El Tule and posed the idea of armed strug­g le. Fabio explained to “Santiago” that “this scared a lot of us. . . . ​Up ­until that moment, we ­hadn’t understood that you had to defend the lives of your very own ­family by confronting the vio­lence that comes from dictatorship and extreme poverty” (cited in Henríquez Consalvi 2010, 53). The available evidence suggests Miguel Ventura introduced them to Arce and hosted him during early visits to

Notes to Pages 75–83 • 179

northern Morazán (see Rubio and Balsebre 2009). It is doubtful that Morazanian catechists ­were familiar with Arce or the ERP prior to his initial visit or that many ever met him at all. That many of my interviewees claimed to have met Arce or to have been invited to a meeting with him prob­ably represented the sort of ex post facto reconstruction discussed by Alessandro Portelli (1997) with reference to World War II Italy. See Gould (2020, 41) for a slightly dif­fer­ent account of Arce’s engagement. 37 ​Fabio explained that they w ­ ere not relatives, that he had no kin relationship to Ramón but that it was a question of “just helping one another out.” Fabio also stated that “we helped his f­ ather rebuild his h ­ ouse ­because it was falling down.” 38 ​In Miguel Ventura’s 1991 recollection, also second­hand, Sánchez wounded one commando. Fr. Miguel did not mention deaths apart from that of Juan Rámon. He recounted that Juan Rámon Sánchez was single at the time of his death and was buried in the San Francisco Gotera cemetery (Notimex 1991). Fabio and Fr. Miguel coincided with re­spect to Sánchez’s death, their captures, and the repression that followed. 39 ​Fabio was referring to religious meetings and not po­liti­cal ones. 40 ​As this case suggests, catechists and ­others persons captured, tortured, and sometimes dis­appeared at the hands of military and security forces did not receive similar consideration from the church hierarchy as did priests and nuns. 41 ​He recalled that he was freed on 23 November and that the meeting in the Jocoaitique plaza took place during the last days of November or the first days of December: “I ­don’t remember the exact date [of the public meeting]. But I remember that it was very soon a­ fter having been liberated.” 42 ​According to page 237 of the diary of John David Sanderson, an American who joined the FMLN and died fighting in Meanguera in April 1982, Ventura spent three years in the United States and another year in Mexico (Museo de la Palabra y la Imagen in San Salvador, SV/MUPI/M/CEI./002 F7.02). 43 ​Fabio said that Mata dispatched his captives and buried them in Perquín, several miles to the north and about 1,500 feet higher in altitude than Jocoaitique. However, a clandestine cemetery excavated a few years ­a fter the war in Jocoaitique contained the remains of dozens of p­ eople killed by Mata and his charges. The clothing that clung to many of the remains enabled bystanders to positively identify some victims (see figure 3.2). In the mid-1990s I was told that Mata was preaching in an evangelical church in San Francisco Gotera. 44 ​­Until the guerrillas obtained military grade weapons in late 1980 or early 1981, their principal armament was the homemade contact bomb, which weighed a pound or less. They hurled it t­ oward the e­ nemy and it exploded, showering t­ hose in the vicinity with glass, nails, and other sharp objects packed into the projectile, as Fabio notes. Many interviewees mentioned the accidents, sometimes fatal, that occurred in bomb-­making workshops or when ­people carry­ing homemade ordnance slipped and fell while walking or r­ unning. Interview with “Nasar.” José Jesús Romero confirmed that Mata killed both Dora Amaya and her f­ ather. Interview with José Jesús Romero (“Nolvo”). Gould stated that Mata “symbolized the local version of authoritarianism. P ­ eople recalled how Mata beat ­people arbitrarily for small offenses: drunkenness, failure to carry official identification cards, or w ­ omen who walked around wearing mini­skirts” (2020, 32). 45 ​Former priest David Rodríguez (see chapter 2) provided Peter Sánchez with a list of twenty priests killed between 1970 and 1993. Th ­ ese included Msgr. Joaquín Ramon, a military vicar, on 23 June 1993 and thus following the peace accord, as well as

180 • Notes to Pages 87–90

Fr. César Valle on 11 April 1986, not listed by other sources, and Fr. Ernesto Barrera, who ostensibly died in combat on 28 November 1978 (Sánchez 2015, 251).

Chapter 4  The Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero, 1977–1980 1 ​Fieldnotes, 14–15 April 1995. Tragically, Olga died of an illness a few years ­later. 2 ​Interview with Catalina Chicas Guevara. The reader w ­ ill recall that Fabio attributed his release to public pressure exerted on the government. 3 ​No catechists voluntarily credited their wives or partners with helping to ­free up their time for participation in religious and/or po­liti­cal activities nor did they discuss cases of their (wives’ or partners’) active participation in the strug­g le. 4 ​Fr. Miguel Ventura mentioned the 30 April Peasant Leagues in his lengthy 1991 interview with Notimex. Fabio referred to the Peasant Leagues (Ligas Campesinas) as having been proposed at the Planes de Renderos meeting discussed in chapter 3. 5 ​According to Marisol Galindo, the regional found­ers included José Ernesto Amaya Chicas (“Chele Beto”), Rodolfo Vásquez, Fabio Argueta, Leandro (from Agua Zarca, Torola), Edina Rodríguez, and “Calín” (Hector Alberto Hernández). The first three ­were catechists; Calín worked as a schoolteacher in Jocoaitique and was a member of Andes 21, the national teacher’s u­ nion; I have no information on Edina Rodríguez. Interview with Marisol Galindo and interview 1 with Santos Lino Ramírez. By 2011 four of the five northern Morazán found­ers had died, ­whether before, during, or ­a fter the war. Only Leandro survived. Jeff Gould (2020) interviewed him on several occasions, and I spoke briefly with him once in Agua Zarca. 6 ​Protesters and demonstrators w ­ ere accompanied, unbeknown to most, by members of military committees armed with pistols and contact bombs, who w ­ ere prepared to respond in kind to government or paramilitary vio­lence should such occur. In northern Morazán, at least, members of military committees, accustomed to clandestine operations, resisted such public exposure, with the result that the ERP leadership undertook a “strug­g le to eradicate clandestinity,” in the words of Santos Lino Ramírez. Interview 2 with Santos Lino Ramírez; also see interview with José Jesús Romero; interview 1 with Roberto Carrillo. 7 ​He also recalled that “We had arms t­ here inside the church—­pistols, some G3s, contact bombs,” and that two p­ eople from self-­defense ­were pre­sent in the church. “I remember that that takeover was a way to stop the repression a bit.” 8 ​The PRS, or Partido de la Revolución Salvadoreña (Party of the Salvadoran Revolution), was the po­liti­cal wing of the ERP/PRS, while the ERP was the military wing. Each of the five guerrilla organ­izations had po­liti­cal wings, though most members of the central committees of ­those wings w ­ ere also commanders in the military wings. 9 ​Bruno Caballero’s f­ ather, Enemesio, was head of a “rich ­family” of “peasants in better circumstances than o­ thers,” who had given money to the organ­ization. Enemesio had even been elected Jocoaitique’s mayor at one time. Fr. Miguel recalled that the Carrillo ­family lived in Volcancillo, Jocoaitique, and that the ­whole ­family got or­ga­nized, the ­father, the m ­ other, all eight c­ hildren, and even the grand­mother, a l­ ittle old lady almost ninety years old, helped out. ­Today, Bernardino Carrillo, one of the b­ rothers, continues as a pastoral leader. In t­ hose years the ­family owned properties, the ­father was a small employer and had twenty manzanas of land, forty animals, and around twenty laborers working for him. L ­ ittle by ­little, the ­father was radicalized as a result of conversations with his sons and pastoral work, ­until ­there came a point that he offered

Notes to Pages 91–99 • 181

most of his land—­fourteen manzanas—to be worked communally. Eleven families worked in a community in an experience that lasted more than a year. (cited in Rubio and Balsebre 2009, 82–83) 10 ​Ermelindo Amaya and Pedro José Rodríguez provided me with lists of executions by the ERP for the municipality of San Fernando. Interview with Ermelindo Amaya; interview 2 with Pedro José Rodríguez. 11 ​Interview with “Nasar.” 12 ​The G-3 ­rifle was standard issue to the Salvadoran National Guard (see McClintock 1985, 328). The FAL is a light automatic r­ ifle produced in Belgium and used by military forces in more than ninety countries. 13 ​I recorded this information during a postwar meeting in San Fernando on 26 November 1992 conducted by Efrain Campos working in the UN/UNICEF Program for the “Prevention of Accidents by Mines and Explosive Artifacts.” 14 ​Interview with Samuel Vidal Guzmán. 15 ​Samuel Vidal Guzmán noted that catechists who received health training in San Lucas played a large role as first responders before the arrival of doctors to the zone. Interview with Samuel Videl Guzmán (“Isaías”). 16 ​Interview 1 with Rosario Ramírez (“Mauricio”). 17 ​Northern Morazán was broken up into subregions with one person in charge of organ­izing supplies for each. 18 ​Bombing and strafing represented par­tic­u­lar ­hazards for supply personnel, who often moved large amounts of goods by mule trains, unaccompanied by support troops. Interview 1 with Rosario Ramírez (“Mauricio”). 19 ​On the importance of sugar, also see McKinley (2020, 118, 125), Sánchez (2015, 170), López Vigil (1994 [1991], 27–29), and Metzi (1988, 96). 20 ​See Binford 1992. A short but precise description of the prewar sugar production in northern Morazán is available in Enrique S. Castro’s Trapiche (2001, 47–49; see also White 1973, 132–133). According to Fabio, “not just anyone can learn the amount of time needed for the syrup to be boiling on the bottom sheet where it cooks, know when to take it out, how to h ­ andle it, and how much it should be agitated so it turns out well.” 21 ​Morazán TV 2016. 22 ​Warwick Fry (2014a, 2014b, 2014c) produced three videos of Felipe Torogoz on You Tube, on one of which (2014b) Felipe sings “Casas Quemadas.” 23 ​Interview with Cristobal Chicas (“Manelio”). 24 ​“Cumbia” refers “to a number of musical rhythms and folk dance traditions of Latin Amer­i­ca, generally involving musical and cultural ele­ments from Amerindians, Africans enslaved during colonial times, and Eu­ro­pe­ans,” while according to Wikipedia, “canción ranchera” “is a genre of traditional ­music of Mexico [that] dates to before the years of the Mexican Revolution and l­ ater became closely associated with the Mariachi bands that evolved in Jalisco. Rancheras t­ oday are played in virtually all regional Mexican ­music styles. Drawing on rural traditional folk ­music, the ranchera developed as a symbol of a new national consciousness in reaction to the aristocratic tastes of the period.” See https://­en​.­wikipedia​.­org​/w ­ iki​/­Cumbia and https://­en​.­wikipedia​.o­ rg​/­wiki​/­R anchera. “Chanchona” refers both to a standing bass and a large female sow. Chanchona groups typically featured two guitars, two violins, and a bass. They ­were particularly popu­lar in eastern El Salvador (Azahar 2015, 10). 25 ​The ERP also sponsored the formation of Cutumay Camones, a more professional band that disseminated the organ­ization’s revolutionary message internationally (see Alemeida and Urbizagástegui 1999).

182 • Notes to Pages 100–112

26 ​This aid prob­ably originated in Eu­rope as opposed to the United States. 27 ​Interview 2 with Abraham Argueta. 28 ​Interview 2 with Abraham Argueta. 29 ​His affinity for the deceased archbishop led Jacinto to select “Oscar” as his war­time pseudonym as well as the name of his oldest child. 30 ​Also, interview with Miguel Angel Benítez. 31 ​Fabio claimed that they succeeded in incorporating evangelicals, including adherents of the Assembly of God Church and Church of the Seventh-day Adventist, but that “­there ­really was no dedicated evangelical pastor for them.” Pastors from the Lutheran Church did occasionally visit guerrilla camps. 32 ​Fr. Rogelio agreed, noting that the prob­lem was with “some of the ­middle rankers in the organ­ization” who had “begun to study a ­little Marxism” (López Vigil 1987, 92). In a 1991 interview, Fr. Miguel stated that some instructors of the ERP’s military school argued for the nonexistence of God, which “many young p­ eople from religious families felt as a blow.” The priests tried to explain to t­ hose responsible that that was not the time to debate the m ­ atter given that ­people “have their [religious] beliefs, and if they nonetheless join the guerrillas and take up arms, why should they [ERP leaders] care” (Notimex 1991). 33 ​The principal text appears to have been “15 Principios del Combatiente Guerrillero” (15 princi­ples of the guerrilla combatant). COP also referred to an armed group, antecedent to the ERP, created by UES students in 1971 (see Álvarez and Cortina Orero 2014, 672–673). According to Hoover Green, FMLN commanders first distributed “15 Principios” in 1982–1983. She deemed it likely that by 1985, the document was in general distribution on all war fronts (2018, 123). 34 ​It is in­ter­est­ing that Fabio Argueta treated the death sentence and its execution allusively. He seemed unable to say words like “execution” or phrases like “condemned to death” directly, leaving the listener to fill in the blanks. Tom Gibb (n.d.) developed a book-­length discussion of the role of information control in the revolution and the paranoia resulting from the fear that the e­ nemy might obtain knowledge of one’s plans. Such paranoia lay ­behind the readiness of comandantes to execute ­those suspected of complicity with the FAES and the concern on the part of ­those assigned to carry out the order that the defendant might be innocent. 35 ​Hoover Green notes that “purely extrinsic incentives [e.g., punishment] are not sufficient to halt unordered vio­lence in irregular war, b­ ecause so many violence-­ causing f­ actors are pre­sent in most conflict contexts. Vio­lence is, in a word, over­ determined” (2018, 27). Hence the importance of po­liti­cal education. She tested her theory by interviewing 120 and surveying another 359 excombatants from the FMLN, regular army, elite state forces, and other/unknown state forces (56). The survey data revealed that whereas 91 ­percent of FMLN recruits recalled having received po­liti­cal education, the numbers declined for the elite state forces (43 ­percent), other/unknown state forces (26 ­percent), and regular army (FAES) troops (21 ­percent) (90).

Chapter 5  A Political Activist in the War, 1980–1988 1 ​Also interview with Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”); interview with Rufina Amaya. 2 ​Interview with Andrés Barrera (“Felipe”). 3 ​In a crass piece of po­liti­cal revisionism masking as social science, Ramón Rivas (2019) offers a series of unsubstantiated hypotheses purportedly supporting the army’s historical view that the ERP guerrillas employed civilians as h ­ uman shields.

Notes to Pages 115–125 • 183

He also claims that the number of victims in El Mozote was far less than the number reported (then and now) and suggests (again without evidence) that the ERP might have brought bodies to El Mozote from other areas between the exodus of the FAES and the arrival of international reporters (Raymond Bonner of the New York Times and Alma Guillermoprieto of the Washington Post) who broke the story. Curiously, his book appeared just as former Salvadoran military officers (now quite aged) w ­ ere on the cusp of facing judicial action for their parts in planning and carry­ing out the massacre. 4 ​Fabio referred to Concepción Corozal as Concepción Colosales. 5 ​Interview with Felipe (in Joateca). 6 ​Interview with Eunasia Argueta. 7 ​Santos Lino Ramírez affirmed Fabio’s account of the seizure of Joateca and its po­liti­cal ramifications and added two additional points: first, the FMLN had carried out very ­little work in the town before the war; second, the ERP appropriated many head of ­cattle to feed its troops, and this angered Joatecan ranchers. Interview 1 with Santos Lino Ramírez (“Chele Cesar”). 8 ​Local catechists also scattered to the wind when the war heated up. One left for the United States, another for San Miguel (the city). As noted e­ arlier, Abraham Argueta left for Nicaragua following the murder by paramilitaries of a member of the co­operative he helped found. Interview with Felipe (Joateca); interviews 3 and 4 with Abraham Argueta. 9 ​Ismael Romero suggested that the order came from Joaquín Villalobos following the government military’s claim that “Saul” was collaborating with them. Interview 3 with Ismael Romero (“Bracamonte”). 10 ​Interview with Sara Rodríguez; interview with Margarito Chicas. 11 ​“Saul” had a diversified economic operation combining coffee production with commerce and money lending. By purchasing coffee and other products forward from poor, cash-­strapped peasants, he developed a network of clients whose support proved crucial in postwar elections. Between 1994 and 2009, “Saul” served five consecutive three-­year terms as San Fernando’s mayor, usually on the ticket of ­either the Alianza Republicana Nacionalista (Nationalist Republican Alliance, ARENA) or the PCN. The FMLN fi­nally dislodged him from the municipal presidency in 2009. Interview with “Saul.” 12 ​“Sergio” stated that the commanders demoted Fabio. Interview with “Sergio.” 13 ​Irma went with Lissette, whom Fabio also sanctioned. According to Vásquez, “When they arrived at the Río Seco, Irma was surprised that they gave her a weapon so quickly. She got along well ­there and was able to integrate into the work” (Vásquez and Escalón 2012, 191). 14 ​A campesino from San Fernando recounted a similar story of the h ­ azards of purchasing medicine in Perquín to cure sick c­ hildren. Interview 1 with Heriberto Chicas. 15 ​Ernesto described the PRALs as “a well-­prepared special force,” highly disciplined (they neither talked nor smoked during patrol), and capable of carry­ing out lightning hit-­and-­run raids on guerrilla camps by day or night. The only way to deal with them was to mine the areas they w ­ ere likely to cross. Interview with “Ernesto.” 16 ​Interview 1 with Rosario Ramírez (“Mauricio”); interview with “Tito.” 17 ​Interview with Carlos Henríquez Consalvi (“Santiago”); interview 2 with Roberto Carrillo (“Robertón”). 18 ​A key document in this re­spect was “15 Principios del Combatiente Guerrillero” (15 Princi­ples of the Guerrilla Combatant) (FMLN 1986). Lievens mentioned that the guerrilla-­students received a dozen classes to prepare them to carry out the new

184 • Notes to Pages 126–131

strategy. The courses included a class on Salvadoran social classes (“Las clases sociales en El Salvador”), a class on capitalism and imperialism, and another on revolutionary movements in El Salvador. The series of classes was concluded with a curso detallado (detailed course) on ideology (Lievens 1989, 151–153). 19 ​According to Fabio, “Before we had been of the mind that we should dedicate all our combatants to get rid of the ­enemy and finish off the ­enemy militarily. We ­were completely wrong, you see. We would kill and wound hundreds of soldiers a day [an obvious exaggeration] in dif­fer­ent places. But the next day the army would recruit five hundred, one thousand, and replace all the ones that we had taken out of action. Despite the toll on the army and the number of losses it suffered, we w ­ eren’t annihilating it completely. So, to grow and increase participation in our ranks, we advanced a broader strategy in which ­every combatant would be an or­ga­nizer.” In focusing on troop strength, Fabio overlooked Bush’s visit, Duarte’s election, and the U.S.-­sponsored and -­financed military buildup. 20 ​“Two-­sided power” is my translation of the Spanish term poder de doble cara. Literally it refers to power with two ­faces or two sides (see FMLN 1987). 21 ​According to Pedro José Rodríquez, born in Torola in 1950, a majority of the prewar catechists joined the FMLN and of ­those a majority became po­liti­cal operatives in northern Morazán. Rodríquez attended three courses at El Castaño between 1972 and 1973. Interview with Pedro José Rodríquez. 22 ​The ERP also supported the creation of the Communal W ­ omen’s Movement (Movimiento Comunal de las Mujeres), but the movement was tightly controlled by the guerrilla leadership and did l­ ittle for its female members. It served mainly as a means of funneling money to the ERP from “­women’s proj­ects” submitted to international organ­izations (Duntley-­Matos 1996). 23 ​Communities high in the mountains of northern Morazán near the Honduran border. 24 ​Corum (1998) offers a highly informative, if pro–­U.S. government, perspective on the Salvadoran Air Force during the war (see also Venter, 2017, 15–30, 58–65 for an in­ter­est­ing but highly partisan and error-­fi lled account). The air force was a beneficiary of a thorough “make-­over” thanks to millions of dollars in U.S. government assistance for equipment and training. 25 ​Interview with José Jesús Romero 26 ​Interview with José Jesús Romero. 27 ​­Women represent the exception ­here (Vásquez, Ibáñez, and Murguialday 1996; Rivera et al. 1995; Garaizabal and Vázquez 1994). 28 ​The U.S./FAES strategy varied by zone. In some areas (Guazapa and San Vicente), the FAES strived to develop Vietnam-­era strategic hamlets, encouraging the formation of self-­defense forces to prevent the rebels from retaking areas that had been cleansed (temporarily) of FMLN ele­ments by the FAES. In northern Morazán this “hearts and minds” strategy involved the distribution of foodstuffs, provision of entertainment (clowns), and offers of medical and dental ser­vices to peasants living deep in the heart of guerrilla territory. To my knowledge, the FAES never attempted to “liberate” any community or area of northern Morazán ­a fter the summer of 1982. 29 ​A seasoned po­liti­cal activist, Fabio was far too valuable an asset to send as part of a small unit into a highly conflictive area, where he would have run a high risk of capture, serious injury, or death. It is also pos­si­ble that by 1984 or 1985, he was already experiencing health prob­lems (asthma, the hernia, his weak heart), some of them derived from or aggravated by his torture in 1977. His declining health forced his retirement from the battlefield a few years ­later (see chapter 6).

Notes to Pages 134–145 • 185

Chapter 6  Departure and Return, 1988–2010 1 ​Interview with Porfirio. 2 ​Hugo Meléndez was known during the war as Juan José Rodríguez. Prior to being sent to Colomoncagua, he worked as a technician with the clandestine Radio Venceremos. The ERP High Command sent him to the refugee camp to address internal prob­lems associated with the administrative weaknesses of the prior director. “Juan José” (Hugo) proved a capable administrator and charismatic figure who eventually or­ga­nized the repatriation of residents back to northern Morazán beginning in November 1989, where they founded a sprawling community that encompassed parts of Meanguera and Jocoaitique municipalities which they named Ciudad Segundo Montes ­a fter one of the Jesuit priests murdered in cold blood by the military on 16 November 1989 during the FMLN’s “Final” Offensive. “Juan José” coordinated Ciudad Segundo Montes u­ ntil he died unexpectedly from a stroke in February 1995. 3 ​Interview with Sandra Medrano. 4 ​Apart from discussions with Fabio, I draw on interview with “A”; interview with Sandra Medrano; interview with Eduarda Esperanza Argueta; and a typescript of an interview conducted by o­ thers with “Vergilio,” acquired in the Historical Memory archives of the Museum of the Salvadoran Revolution in Perquín. I employ letters in place of some names in order to protect former foreign aid workers whose past po­liti­cal compromises, if publicly revealed, could affect their pre­sent positions. 5 ​Interview with “René.” 6 ​Fabio was prob­ably attracted to the area by relatively low rents and heavy foot traffic, which translated into a potentially large clientele for a small store such as the one he eventually established. 7 ​During talks with the government regarding the postwar reinsertion of combatants into civilian life, the FMLN negotiated a special package for six hundred midlevel commanders (120 for each of the five political-­military organ­izations). Fabio was among the midlevel commanders named by the ERP leadership. The leadership reserved the right to make the nominations, which resulted in rancorous debate within the base concerning the merits of t­ hose included and ­those left out and complaints about the undemo­cratic nature of the se­lection pro­cess. 8 ​https://­w ww​.c­ atholic​-­hierarchy​.o­ rg​/­bishop​/b­ aparicio​.­html. 9 ​Presidents serve for five years without the possibility of immediate re-­election, though they can serve nonconsecutive terms. The 84 legislative deputies, apportioned to departments according to population, serve three-­year terms as do mayors of the country’s 262 municipalities. Elections of all three offices coincide e­ very fifteen years. The nation’s president appoints departmental governors. 10 ​Allison and Álvarez (2012, 90–91) discuss some of the pressures that came with peace and that problematized the survival of war­time co­a li­tions. See also Sprenkels 2018. 11 ​Most former progressive catechists remained faithful to the FMLN. 12 ​Interview with Catalina Chicas Guevara.

Conclusion 1 ​I spent considerable time interviewing former combatants and ancillary personnel between 27 July and 15 December 1992 as they awaited demobilization. Also, I spoke with many ex-­FMLN rebels a­ fter they had been demobilized in 1992 as well as over a

186 • Notes to Pages 147–153

nine-­month period in 1994–1995 and subsequently during the summers of 2008 and 2010–2012. (Most interviews in the new millennium focused more on the postwar lives of ex-­combatants and ­others. Even then I engaged in much of what anthropologist Ellen Moodie, who collaborated on this proj­ect between 2010 and 2012, affectionately referred to as “old men’s revolutionary talk.”) See the list of interviewees in appendix 2. 2 ​According to Gramsci, much of his commentary on the m ­ atter “is posed for modern states, but not for backward countries or for colonies, where forms which elsewhere have been superceded and have become anachronistic are still in vigour” (1971, 243). 3 ​Löwy sustained that “the categories or social sectors encompassed in the religious-­ ecclesiastical field that ­were to become the driving force of renewal ­were all, in one way or another, marginal or peripheral in relation to the institution: lay movements and their advisers, lay experts, foreign priests, religious ­orders. The first bishops to be affected ­were generally ­those with links to one or another of ­these categories” (1996, 41). In other words, experiences that radiated “ground up” from workers and peasants to clergy and religious and thence to the higher rungs of the church hierarchy helped shape liberation theology. 4 ​See chapter 4, note 8 for the relationship between the PRS and the ERP. 5 ​Catechists’ activities w ­ ere s­ haped in part by the level of clerical support—­high in the case of Fr. Miguel and low or non­ex­is­tent for catechists in the areas administered by Fr. Argueta. However, what the catechists did was also affected by the level of their re­sis­tance to priestly efforts to align (or realign) their beliefs and be­hav­iors with traditionalist teachings. Third, catechists living near municipal centers frequently visited by Argueta, such as the townships of Meanguera and Arambala, generally came ­under more scrutiny and pressure to conform, while t­ hose in relatively remote areas like La Guacamaya enjoyed more freedom. Fabio Argueta maintained a relationship with Fr. Argueta but critically analyzed the priest’s ideas and activities through the lenses of liberation theology. 6 ​Gould was following Jay Winter’s challenge “to imagine liberation at a lesser scale, without the grandiose pretensions . . . ​of large-­scale utopian proj­ects” (Winter cited in Gould 2020, 12). 7 ​Wolf (1969) analyzed the roles of peasants in the Chinese, Rus­sian, Cuban, Algerian, Viet­nam­ese (against the French), and Algerian revolutions. The book was written as a warning to U.S. civilians about the war in Vietnam, which spilled over into Laos and Cambodia. A recent collaboration looks at select peasant strug­g les in Latin Amer­i­ca during the fifty-­year period following the publication of Wolf ’s Peasant Wars of the Twentieth ­Century (see Binford, Gill, and Striffler 2020). 8 ​Many other interviewees discussed local conditions in similarly disparaging terms. 9 ​The title referred to the military government’s capitulation to agrarian cap­i­tal­ists’ rejection of the re­distribution of twelve thousand uncultivated hectares in Usulután with full compensation to the affected parties (see Beirne 1996, 130–131). 10 ​On Ventura’s decision to leave the country, see Notimex 1991. On Argueta’s forced exit from Joateca, see interview with José Jesús Romero. Fr. Argueta spent the war in San Miguel but returned to northern Morazán—­first to Joateca and then Jocoaitique—­a fter the signing of the peace accords between the government and the FMLN. He rebuffed my efforts to interview him in Jocoaitique in the mid-1990s. He died in 2006, three years before Mauricio Funes won the presidency on the FMLN ticket and appointed Miguel Ventura, who had by then renounced the priesthood, as Morazán governor for the period from 2009 to 2014.

Notes to Pages 154–159 • 187

11 ​América Argentina Vaquerano (“Dina”), an ERP war­time po­liti­cal operative, explained that young p­ eople ­were forcibly taken to an ERP introductory training school for a mandatory one-­month stay, during which time their families ­were allowed to visit. At the end of the month they w ­ ere ­free to return home or to join the guerrilla forces. Few elected to join and the policy was rescinded a­ fter seven months. Interview 1 with América Argentina Vaquerano. 12 ​Chávez also discussed developments in the department of San Vicente.

Appendix 1  On Fabio Argueta’s Po­liti­cal Formation 1 ​It is true that “letters” (the ability to read and write) did not put food on the ­table, but illiteracy reduced Morazanian peasants’ access to information, such as technological advances in agriculture and animal-­raising, and increased their dependence on ­those able to read and write. Gould states that during the 1970s some 65 ­percent of El Salvador’s rural population was illiterate (2020, 28). As the nation’s poorest department, the percentage must have been higher in Morazán. 2 ​Renán Alcides Orellana was born in 1936 in Villa El Rosario. His f­ ather farmed and his ­mother taught school. Orellana attended two years of secondary school in San Miguel then volunteered to take a one-­year leave when declining ­house­hold finances dictated that only two of the three ­children could continue their educations (see Orellana 2002).

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Index Note: Page numbers in italics indicate figures. AA. See Alcólicos Anónimos agriculture: decline of following war, 189n1; effects of illiteracy on advances in, 151, 187n1; effects of postwar neoliberal poli­­ cies on, 140; in northern Morazán, 8, 42–44; and petty commerce, 60, 139; taught in peasant universities, 187n1. See also agro-­export agriculture; Morazán, northern; Ventura, Fr. Miguel agro-­export agriculture: location of in El Salvador, 8; seasonal migration to, 31, 50, 65, 150 air power: and FMLN strategies, 125; and ­human rights violations, 131, 181n18; and panela production in northern Morazán, 110; and U.S. assistance, 184n24 Alas, Fr. José Inocencio: as advocate of land reform, 67; background of, 18–19; kidnapping of, 19, 67; training of lay leaders by, 18, 176n13 Alcides Orellana, Renán: background of, 187n2; in El Mozote, 159, 170n6, 178n31; as traditional intellectual, 6 alcohol: deleterious effects on social and eco­ nomic fabric of, 56–57, 59; ERP ban on war­time production and consumption of, 59; in Fabio Argueta’s po­liti­cal formation, 157–158; and f­ amily conflict, 25–26, 30, 60; and individualism, 57; vio­lence related to, 25–26, 30, 51, 57–58, 175n23

Alcólicos Anónimos (AA), 56–58, 82 Altimirano, Mistalia, 62, 176n7 Álvarez, Msgr. Eduardo: as bishop of San Miguel diocese, 16; and conflicts with Fr. Miguel Ventura, 62, 65, 82; conservatism of, 66–67, 80–81; critique of, 177n23; links to military, 16, 18, 177n22; and recruitment to peasant universities, 33; retirement of, 140 Amaya, Dora, 80–81, 84, 179n44 ANEP. See Asociación Nacional de Empresa Privada añil, 10, 168n11 Arce Zablah, Rafael: accounts of visits to northern Morazán by, 178n36; and armed revolution, 69, 152; assessment of northern Morazán by, 58; background of, 68, 104; death of, 72; early relation to Catholic Church, 104, 178n29; historical memory accounts of contact with, 69, 74, 151, 178–179n36 archdiocese: and armed revolution, 69, 152; clergy and religious in, 16; composition of, 15–16; contrasted with provincial dioceses, 16, 32–33, 66, 169n18; and FECCAS, 32; leadership training opportunities in, 32, 146, 155; and liberation theology, 15–20; and Miguel Ventura, 69, 70; reception of message of, 75. See also Alas, Fr. José Inocencio; 199

200 • Index

archdiocese (cont.) Catholic Church; Grande, Fr. Rutilio; pastoral week Argueta, Baltazar: agricultural economy of, 30; commercialization of mescal by, 24, 28; death of, 51, 85; diversified h ­ ouse­hold economic strategy of, 24, 30; and f­ amily conflicts, 25–26, 30; illness of, 24, 28, 29; land acquisition by, 24, 27; move to Meanguera by, 27–29, 30. See also alcohol Argueta, Fabio, 106, 141; abandonment of at end of life, 142; as anchor to narrative, 12–13; assessment of alcohol in northern Morazán by, 58–59; attendance at El Castaño, 34; author’s commentary on narration of, 84, 182n34; avoidance of capture by National Guard, 80–82; birth of ­children, 29; capture and torture of, 76–78; and clandestine organ­izing, 89; and Colomoncagua, 136–137; concept of value, 174n8; criticism of Fr. Argueta by, 35, 40; critiques of profession of democracy, 122–123; death and burial of, 139, 142–143, 143; discourse on war and peace, 143–144; early life of, 23–26; economic activity, 27–30; education of, 24–25, 28, 30, 31; erasure of Catalina from history of, 87–88; errors of fact made by, 177n24, 177n28, 183n4; evidence of sexism of, 123–124; health prob­lems of, 134, 136, 137, 139, 142; frustrated educational aspirations of, 28, 29, 30, 158–160; h ­ ouse­hold conflicts, 25–26, 85–86; introduction to peasant universities, 34; and justification for change in FMLN strategy, 184n19; and liberation theology in peasant universities, 35–36; marriage of, 29–30; as m ­ iddle peasant, 51; named as midlevel commander by ERP, 139; po­liti­cal formation of, 13, 23, 157–161; postwar life of, 138–139; and reaction to torture, 82; significance of life of, 13; so­cio­log­i­cal analy­sis of northern Morazán by, 49–51; torture of, 21, 76–78; value to ERP of, 184n29; views of El Mozote massacre, 110–114; views of rich and poor in northern Morazán, 35, 51; war­time activities of, 114–133; work in Nicaragua, 138. See also domination Argueta, Fr. Andrés: accused of theft of chalice from Meanguera church, 62;

breakup of Jocoaitique parish headed by, 62; catechists’ re­sis­tance to, 146; and conflicts with Fr. Miguel Ventura, 65; control exercised over catechists by, 41, 63, 74–75, 100, 111, 121; death of, 186n10; opposition to liberation theology by, 34, 40–41, 63, 186n5; relationship to peasants in northern Morazán, 37; religious practices of, 35, 36, 40; role of in recruitment to peasant universities of, 33, 53, 75, 100; war­time and postwar movements by, 153, 186n10 armed strug­g le: development of, 11–12; influences on in El Salvador for, 151–152 artisanal sugar. See panela artisan goods, 45, 149; called “la jarcia,” 48; enumerated, 170n4; and locally produced henequen, 171n15; and panela, 173n2; as source of income, 50; sold forward, 51 Asociación Nacional de Empresa Privada (ANEP), 12, 152 atheism, 149, 182n32 Balta. See Medrano, Juan Ramón Barrera, Andrés, 98, 99; and AA, 56; background of, 97; as founder of Los Torogoces, 97, 99; prewar activities of, 34; role in war, 97–100, 153, 155 Bloque Popu­lar Revolucionario (BPR), 20, 32, 108 Bourdieu, Pierre, 151, 174n15 BPR. See Bloque Popu­lar Revolucionario camp catechists, 128 cantonal patrols, 8, 83, 151 cantons, 170n1 Caritas, 64, 177n18 catechists: absence of from historical rec­ord, 3, 13–15; advantages of as war­time po­l iti­ cal activists, 93; ages and occupations of, 171–172n23; capture of, 67, 68, 75, 76, 83, 93; and CEBs, 13, 15, 34; characteristics of, 34; civilian and camp, 128; and civilian population in war­time, 104, 105; deaths of, 153; and Delegates of the Word in northern Morazán, 1; division of po­liti­cal and religious work among, 104, 126–127, 154; f­ actors affect­ing activity, 186n5; and Gramscian war of movement, 52; importance of levels of priestly support for, 40;

Index • 201

as insurgent intellectuals, 72, 74, 153; and liberation theology in northern Morazán, 10–11; and literacy classes, 34; and militias, 128; omission of wives’ contributions by, 180n3; as po­liti­cal organizers, 93; as popu­lar intellectuals, 5; practices of, 64–66; and prefigurative strug­g le in northern Morazán, 4; reasons of for joining ERP, 2, 65, 74; roles of in armed conflict, 93–103, 108; state surveillance of, 68; strategies employed by, 36; successes of as po­liti­cal activists/organizers, 154; training of, 32, 160–161; types of ­a fter 1984, 128. See also Arce Zablah, Rafael; Argueta, Fr. Andrés; El Castaño; Joateca; peasant universities; Ventura, Fr. Miguel Catholic Action, 116 Catholic Church: assassination of priests, nuns, and missionaries of, 19, 179–180n45; conservative views of, 35; conservatism of provincial bishops of, 16–18; distribution of clergy in 1965, 16; distribution of priests by diocese in, 169n18; in Jocoaitique, 171n19; limitations of lit­er­a­ture on, 15; organ­ization of in El Salvador, 15–16, 17; in postwar El Salvador, 140; repression of ­under General Carlos Humberto Romero, 83; and Second Vatican Council, 10; views of ­women, 31–32. See also archdiocese; Argueta, Fabio; Caritas; liberation theology; peasant universities CEBs. See Comunidades Eclesiales de Base CELAM. See Consejo Episcopal Latinoamericano Centros Rurales de la Iglesia, 37, 172n27 Chalatenango, 20 Chávez, Joaquín: assessment of views of peasant catechists, 155–156; critique of, 145–146; focus on higher ranks by, 3; popu­lar and insurgent intellectuals defined by, 145; and popu­lar intellectuals, 5; views of peasant leaders as intellectuals, 167n5 Chele Cesar. See Ramírez, Santos Lino Chicas Guevara, Catalina, 88; harassed by government forces, 81–82, 87; involvement in ERP, 86–87; and life with Fabio Argueta, 87; likely provenance of surnames of, 170n12; and marital conflict,

85–86; marriage to Fabio Argueta, 29–30, 87; migration to Colomoncagua, 86 civil defense, 67 civilians: and air attacks, 131, 132, 154, 155; and ERP, 114, 124, 126–129; protests against FAES, 127–128 coercion: as centered in po­liti­cal society, 3, 167n3; as related to hegemony, 22, 147, 151 coffee: and capitalism in northern Morazán, 49; and clientelism, 183n1; concentration of production and pro­cessing in El Sal­ vador, 168n10; and education, 159; ERP destruction of pro­cessing plants, 130; and FAES denial of sale of, 127; in northern Morazán, 42, 43, 44, 173n5; seasonal migration to zones of production of, 45, 46, 50, 56, 65, 173n5; and selling forward, 47, 51, 174n10; as source of wealth, 44, 49 collective l­ abor, 180–181n9. See also Comunidades Eclesiales de Base Colomoncagua: catechists in, 93; conditions in, 136; and ERP control over, 135, 185n2; Honduran military surveillance of, 136; return to El Salvador of refugees in, 138; support for FMLN of refugees in, 112; war­time role of, 135–136. See also Argueta, Fabio colono, 38, 172n29 Comandante Gonzalo campaign, 118, 124 Comandantes: abuses of, 109; and Los Torogoces, 99; and memory communities, 14; and paranoia, 182n34; support for religious activities by, 104–105 Comandos Organizadores del Pueblo or Combatientes Organizadores del Pueblo (COP), 68–69, 107, 130, 182n33 “Commander’s Dilemma, The,” 109 common sense, 6–7, 15, 149. See also Crehan, Kate; Gramsci, Antonio Communal W ­ omen’s Movement, 184n22 Communist Party, 11, 169n15 community catechists, 128, 132 compadre, defined, 170n7 Comunidades Eclesiales de Base (CEBs): and alcoholism, 58; and armed self-­ defense, 13; and collective l­ abor, 64–65; and conscientization, 105; importance of, 13; limits of reach of, 52; participation in, 52, 66; and peasant catechists, 1, 4, 66, 97,

202 • Index

Comunidades Eclesiales de Base (CEBs) (cont.) 102, 146, 154; and politics, 70; repression and disbandment of, 93. See also prefigurative strug­g le; Ventura, Fr. Miguel Consejo Episcopal Latinoamericano (CELAM), 7, 16, 18, 61 contact bombs: accidents with, 81, 179n44; concealment of, 87; in self-­defense, 81, 92, 180nn6–7; as weapons of war, 92, 93, 179n44 COP. See Comandos Organizadores del Pueblo or Combatientes Organizadores del Pueblo Crehan, Kate, 6, 56, 175n19 Danner, Mark, 111, 113–114 death squads, 131 Delegates of the Word, 1, 15, 18 discipline: in peasant universities, 39; promoted among combatants, 105; vertical, within the ERP, 72. See also Hoover Green, Amalia displaced persons, 112, 115, 118, 120 division of ­labor, 32, 90 domination: and alcohol, 158; and common sense, 6; and hegemony, 55, 147; in Ray­mond Williams, 175n22; re­sis­tance to, 52; as understood by Fabio Argueta, 51 Duarte, José Napoleón, 11, 67, 102, 125, 126, 131, 151 education: access to in northern Morazán, 24, 37, 46; in the archdiocese, 16; atti­tudes ­toward in northern Morazán, 46–47; in El Mozote, 119; and ERP in war­time Joateca, 119; frustrated, 72, 159–160; restricted access of to poor, 46, 117; and role in the production of hegemony, 4–5. See also Argueta, Fabio; peasant universities; Ventura, Fr. Miguel Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo (ERP): assault of Third Brigade by, 114; assess­ ment of contribution of catechists to, 155; assessment of post-1983 strategy of, 130; ­causes and consequences of strategic change by, 123–126; civilian fears of col­ laboration with, 117, 120–121, 129; and COP, 69; disbursement of forces by,

125–126; early po­liti­cal line of, 71; and evangelicals, 182n31; exploitation of ­women in, 184n22; forced recruitment of, 154, 187n11; formation of mass organ­ ization in, 72; and incorporation of residents of Jocoaitique into, 175n16; organ­ization of military units of, 92–93; organ­ization of regional commissions of, 79; as part of FMLN, 1; reasons for joining, 103, 109, 112–113; relocation of leadership to northern Morazán, 1; self-­ordained difference from government army and security forces of, 107; sexism in, 123; strategies of recruitment to, 70–71; war­time efforts to separate politics and religion, 103; weaponry of, 179n44, 181n12. See also contact bombs; discipline; execution; Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero ejidos, 168n9 El Barrios massacre, 115–118 El Castaño: as communications hub, 68, 151; cultivation of popu­lar intellectuals in, 149; and discourse with evangelicals, 116; informality of priests in, 63; loca­tion of, 11, 21; and National Guard, 68; recruitment to and training in, 31–41; reinforcement of lessons in, 64; utility of training in, 116. See also Argueta, Fabio; Barrera, Andrés; catechists; peasant universities; Sánchez, Juan Ramón; Ventura, Fr. Miguel elections: clientelism in, 49, 183n11; erosion of public confidence in, 67; and FMLN in postwar, 140; fraud in, 11, 67, 183n11; results of in 1994, 140; timing of, 185n9 Ellacuría, Ignacio, 148–149, 152, 169n20 El Mozote: birth of Fabio Argueta in, 23; development in, 159; estimates of evan­ gelicals in, 111; and La Guacamaya, 170n2; merchants in, 110–111, 113; poverty in, 111; sharpness of class divisions in, 111; war­time panela production in, 96 El Mozote massacre: description and analy­sis of, 110–114, 112; limits of ERP recruitment in, 110–111, 113; revisionist claims about, 182–183n3; threats of repetition of by FAES, 120, 128 ERP. See Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo evangelical noninvolvement thesis, 113–114

Index • 203

evangelicals, 111, 116–117, 127–128, 182n31 execution: of combatants, 107, 109; of spies, 91–92; of suspected informers by ERP, 123, 182n34 existential laboratory, 39–40, 100, 101 FAES. See Fuerzas Armadas de El Salvador ­family conflicts, 30. See also Argueta, Baltazar; Argueta, Fabio FAPU. See Frente de Acción Popu­lar Unificada FDR. See Frente Democrático Revolucionario FECCAS. See Federación Cristiana de Campesinos Salvadoreños Federación Cristiana de Campesinos Salva­ doreños (FECCAS), 18, 32. See also Alas, Fr. José Inocencio Federación de Trabajadores del Campo (FTC), 18 Felipe. See Barrera, Andrés fertilizer, 45 FMLN. See Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional “ foco” theory of revolution. See hegemony folklore, 56 forced recruitment. See Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo; Fuerzas Armadas de El Salvador Foucault, Michel, 40, 51–52 Fourth Military Detachment: civilian protest at during war, 127; location of, 78; and military blockade of northern Mora­ zán, 127 FPL. See Fuerzas Populares de Liberación Frente de Acción Popu­lar Unificada (FAPU), 20, 108 Frente Democrático Revolucionario (FDR), 140, 177n25. See also Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (FMLN): change in strategy of, 125–126, 130; civilian fears of, 120–121, 122; critiques of claims to gender equality in, 124; debates over recruitment to, 74–75; demobilization of troops of, 140; discipline in, 72; FAES soldiers’ collabo­ ration with, 117; and FDR, 25; formation of, 12; importance of civilian support to, 114; mass organ­izations in, 108; objectives

of, 167n1; in postwar election, 140; prewar vio­lence of, 83; and reasons for fighting, 116; recruitment to, 38, 112–113, 115; suspicion by of survivors of torture, 84; war­time gender relations in, 123–124; and w ­ omen from in postwar, 124. See also two-­sided power FTC. See Federación de Trabajadores del Campo Fuerzas Armadas de El Salvador (FAES): effects of repression by, 124; and ERP, 117–118; ERP assault on bases of, 114; ERP fears of collusion with, 94; and forced conscription in, 130; invasions of northern Morazán by, 15, 93, 177n22; massacres committed by, 110, 112, 113–114; po­liti­cal education of troops of, 182n35; theft of civilian property by, 120; threats by, 119, 128; zonal variation of military strategy of, 184n28 Fuerzas Populares de Liberación (FPL): and BPR, 108; formation of, 11; kidnapping by, 83; po­liti­cal education in, 109, 182n35; zone of operation of, 3 Gould, Jeffrey, 65, 150, 152 Gramsci, Antonio: and class and historical positioning, 168n7; and common sense, 6, 159; distinction between po­liti­cal and civil society, 4; historical specificity of ideas of organic intellectuals, 168n7; and integral state, 167n3; and intellectuals, 5–7; and prefigurative strug­g le, 146–147; subaltern defined by, 167n3; on subalternity and organ­ization, 169n17; theory of hegemony, 3–7, 147, 167n3. See also Crehen, Kate; education; hegemony Grande, Fr. Rutilio, 18, 19, 83, 169n23, 176n13 Grenier, Yves, 7, 74, 178n34 guindas, 95, 96, 124, 134 health: absence of ser­vices related to in prewar northern Morazán, 111, 117; catechists trained in delivery of, 13, 94, 181n15; conditions of in Colomoncagua, 136; and ERP, 126; females assigned by ERP to serve as aides to, 149; formation of war­time committees to provide ser­ vices for, 132; ­limited access to ser­vices related to, 37; and municipal head towns,

204 • Index

health (cont.) 185n19; taught about in peasant universities, 15, 32, 33, 155; as topic of po­liti­cal activists, 116, 117, 129; war­time innovations in solving prob­lems related to, 155. See also Argueta, Fabio hegemony: centered in civil society, 3; challenged by liberation theology, 148; and coercion, 167n3; and culture, 56, 175n22; debates over, 55–56, 175n22; and “foco” theory of revolution, 169n13; functioning of, 2, 56; ideological re­sis­ tance to, 52–55; incompleteness of, 4, 52; and intellectuals, 5–8; and postcolonial socie­ties, 147, 151; reproduction of, 4. See also Catholic Church; Crehan, Kate; education; Gramsci, Antonio; liberation theology; prefigurative strug­g le henequen fiber: and competition with nylon, 28; destination of in Morazán in 1975, 171n15; devaluation of, 29; production and pro­cessing of, 28, 30; sale of, 28 Honduras: commerce with, 45; FAES disembarkation in, 119, 120; FMLN use of hospitals in, 135; Hundred Hours War and, 8, 50; importation of nylon fiber from, 31; postwar migration to, 142; prewar migration to, 10, 26, 45, 50, 174n13; Salvadoran refugee camps in, 112; as transit point to Nicaragua, 133, 134, 137; war­time flight to, 118. See also Colomoncagua; mi­ gration, permanent; migration, seasonal Hoover Green, Amalia. See po­liti­cal education ­human rights, 80, 84, 126, 131, 133, 144 ­human values, 57, 58, 63 indigo. See añil insurgent intellectuals: defined, 145; lack of memory community of, 114; and popu­lar intellectuals, 15; transition from popu­lar intellectuals to, 20, 72, 145 intellectuals: conceptualized, 5; organic and traditional, 5–6; peasant leaders as, 167n5 Isaías. See Vidal Guzmán, Samuel Jesuits: differences from parish priests, 16; and liberation theology in northern Morazán, 61; loss of control of San José de la Montaña by, 176n5; and peasant uni­

versities, 11, 31; teachings of, 61; threats to and assassinations of, 19, 103, 133. See also Ellacuría, Ignacio; Grande, Rutilio Joateca: catechists in, 34; conservatism of residents of, 118; development of collective in, 34, 100, 101; ERP assault on, 118–119; ERP killing of wounded paramilitaries in, 119, 122; FAES assault of, 119–120; guerrilla recruitment in, 118; paramilitary repression in, 118, 128; re­sis­tance to ERP seizure of, 183n7; war­time migration of catechists from, 183n8 laboratorio vivencial. See existential laboratory La Guacamaya: AA meetings in, 56; CEBs in, 97; climate and location of, 30, 172n2; ERP camp in, 107, 153; participation in ERP of ­people from, 111 land: concentration of, 7–8, 44, 49; pur­ chase and sale of, 24, 26, 27, 30; rental of in northern Morazán, 44 land bridge, 114 land reform, 11–12, 149. See also Alas, Fr. José Inocencio liberation theology: approaches to, 18; and armed revolution, 149–150; and con­ sciousness raising in rural areas, 4, 10–11, 15, 18, 20, 32, 34–35, 52, 64–65, 74, 102, 145, 146, 149–150, 160–161, 169n20; development of, 7, 149, 186n3; dropped by some catechists, 40–41; ­factors shaping practice of in northern Morazán, 33–34; impeded by Fr. Argueta, 40; influences on in Latin Amer­i­ca, 148; interpretation of, 66; limits of influence of, 52, 114; and popu­lar and insurgent intellectuals, 145–146; and poverty in Torola, 74; as religious opposition movement, 146; and religious traditions in northern Morazán, 35–36; repression of proponents of, 67; significance of, 10–11; as theology, 148–149; as wielded by catechists in northern Morazán, 66, 149. See also Ellacuría, Ignacio; Grenier, Yves; Márquez, Jacinto; Marxism Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero (LP-28): accompanied by armed security, 180nn6–7; development and activities of, 88–92; as ERP mass organ­ization, 21, 78,

Index • 205

88–89, 108; found­ers of in northern Morazán, 180n5; initial protest of, 78; as a means of pressuring authorities, 89–91; po­liti­cal cover provided by, 89; recruitment to military committees through, 66, 89, 138 literacy: campaigns promoting, 68; classes in, 32, 34, 159, 170n6; low levels of, 103, 187n1 Los Naranjos, 38, 171n16 Los Torogoces: formation of, 99; musical style of, 181n24; origin of name of, 97, 99; as part of Radio Venceremos collective, 99–100 LP-28. See Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero mandos medios (midlevel commanders), 66, 138–139, 185n7 manzana, explained, 24, 170n3 Maoism, 114 Márquez, Ismael, 170n9 Márquez, Jacinto, 102; affinity for Msgr. Romero, 182n31; background of, 101; as community catechist, 102, 128; l­ abor in postwar, 102–103, 139; as student of historical memory, 103; and training in liberation theology, 102 martyrdom, 84 Marxism, 148 mass organ­izations: explained, 88–89, 108; and roles in politicization, 108 Mata, Sergeant Gabino, 79–81, 80, 93, 179n43 matate, 47, 173n7 Medrano, Juan Ramón, 58, 72, 152 memory communities, 14–15 mescal. See henequen fiber migration, permanent: to Honduras in the postwar period, 142; to Honduras in the prewar period, 158. See also migration, seasonal migration, seasonal: ­causes of, 31, 75; and collective l­ abor, 65; and radicalization, 56, 75; regional within northern Morazán, to agro-­export zones, 31, 50, 56, 65, 173. See also agro-­export agriculture; Honduras military committees: actions of, 92; clan­ destine participation in, 97; defined, 71; expansion of, 90; recruitment to, 71, 89; training of, 72. See also Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero

mines: and civilian casualties, 121, 130; and FAES, 127; as form of self-­defense, 92; in post-1983 strategy, 125–126, 130, 183n15; training in h ­ andling of, 125; uses of, 92 “minor utopia,” 22, 65, 150, 186n6 Morazán, northern: and civilians in during war, 132; common sense of inhabitants of, 7; compared with archdiocese, 146; compared with Chalatenango, 20; devel­ opment of liberation theology in, 146; education in, 46, 47, 49; FAES blockade of, 127; geography of production in, 43–44; land and ­labor relations in, 44; location and economy of, 1, 8; merchant capital in, 47; municipalities in, 171n19; as place of punishment, 62; po­liti­cal economy of, 42–51, 56–59; popu­lar and insurgent intellectuals in, 146; poverty in, 46; prewar health ser­vices in, 173n6; prewar isolation of, 169n12; seasonal migration from, 10, 45–46; stagnation of religious work in, 79; as strategic rearguard, 2, 69; traditional intellectuals in, 6; war of position in, 4. See also catechists; Catholic Church; liberation theology ­music, Cutumay Camones, 181n25. See also Los Torogoces National Guard: and elimination from northern Morazán, 118; as part of security forces, 12; repression by, 77, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 107, 124; as right hand of state, 151; standard weapon of, 181n12; surveillance of municipal centers by, 52, 64; use of spies by, 91 National Police, 12, 68, 177n28 Nicaragua: and catechists during war, 94, 100–101, 130, 133, 137–138, 139, 153, 183n8; and ERP participation in revolution of, 89; Salvadoran refugees in, 93, 112 ORDEN. See Organización Democrática Nacionalista Organización Democrática Nacionalista (ORDEN): assassinations perpetrated by, 153; composed of informers, 68, 77, 82; creation and composition of, 8, 67, 177n26; execution of suspected members of by ERP, 92; surveillance by, 82. See also Partido de Conciliación Nacional

206 • Index

Osicala: captures in, 76–77; education in, 46; evangelicals in, 111, 129; LP-28 protest in, 78; romanticized views of, 174n13; shootout at, 76, 179n38; transfer of Fr. Miguel to, 65 PADECOMSM. See Patronato de Desar­ rollo de las Comunidades de Morazán y San Miguel panela: importance of in revolutionary war, 95, 109; pro­cess of production and dis­ tribution of, 94–97, 173n2, 181n20; and Rosario Ramírez, 94–97 Partido de Conciliación Nacional (PCN): creation of ORDEN by, 67; and electoral theft, 11, 12, 67, 83; formation of, 49; influence of in northern Morazán, 48–49; opposition to in northern Morazán, 49 “pastoral week,” 16, 61 Patronato de Desarrollo de las Comunidades de Morazán y San Miguel (PADECOMSM), 129, 131 patrullas de reconocimiento de gran alcance (PRALs), 59, 125, 183n15 PCN. See Partido de Conciliación Nacional peasant autarchy, 150–151 peasant catechists. See catechists Peasant Leagues, 69, 71, 89 peasants: assassination of, 19–20; attitudes ­toward rich, 35; criticism of concept of, 174n12 peasant universities: contribution to peasant consciousness of, 2; didactic materials employed by, 37–39; in eastern El Salvador, 31; formation of, 31, 171n17; importance of, 15, 32, 74; and m ­ ental transformations in, 53; mission of, 32; number of, 169n16; priests in, 39–40; recruitment to, 32–33, 172n33; support for students of, 34; as total institutions, 40; training in, 32, 38–39, 169n16; and training of female catechists, 31–32; years of operation of, 169n16. See also El Castaño periféricas (sentry posts), 92 Perquín: agrarian capitalism in, 49; basis of wealth in, 44 po­liti­cal activists: catechists’ advantages as, 93, 108; and ERP strategic shift, 125;

internationals as, 121–122; and religion, 103; and role in ideological formation, 107; roles of, 105 po­liti­cal education: of ERP compared to FPL, 109; study of in Salvadoran revolu­ tionary war, 182n3 po­liti­cal organizers. See po­liti­cal activists Ponseele, Fr. Rogelio: arrival in Morazán, 19, 79, 105, 121; as characterized by FAES, 104, 128; in Joateca, 121; in postwar, 140; role in ERP reassignment of catechists, 94; role in war of, 103; training of catechists by, 102, 104, 128 popu­lar intellectuals: catechists as, 66; consciousness of, defined, 5, 145; in context of neoliberalism, 168n7; freedom of compared to insurgent intellectuals, 154–155; and noncommissioned officers, 145. See also insurgent intellectuals posadas, 35, 172n24 poverty: alleviation of, 2; alternative explanations of, 40, 63, 148 160; and armed strug­g le, 13, 71, 178n36; and CEBs, 4; common explanations for, 6, 35, 148, 160; consciousness of, 71, 75, 105; and individualism, 57, 58; l­ imited understanding of, 105, 109; as limit on education, 72; 71, 72, 75; as related to social relations, 40, 63; in Torola, 62. See also El Mozote; Morazán, northern PRALs. See patrullas de reconocimiento de gran alcance prefigurative strug­g le: and CEBs, 4; defined, 4; and ERP in northern Morazán, 79–80; and Italian factory council movement, 147; and liberation theology, 4, 146; limits of in postcolonial states, 152–153; in West and East, 147 Ramírez, Santos Lino: activities in northern Morazán, 58, 73; and armed strug­g le, 70, 72; influence in Joateca, 183n7; on lack of ERP radicalization, 72 rape, 105, 107, 115 recruitment: civilian fear of, 129; to ERP, reasons for, 103, 112–113; following El Mozote massacre, 112; forced by FMLN, 135; to LP-28, 89. See also Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo; Ligas

Index • 207

Populares 28 de Febrero; peasant universities religion: conflict over within ERP, 104; and consciousness raising, 128; and politics, 71; war­time practice of, 103–105. See also Catholic Church; liberation theology; peasant universities religious traditions. See liberation theology re­sis­tance: claims of absence of, 51; critique of Foucault’s claims about, 51–52; prewar presence of in northern Morazán, 52, 55–56, 174n14; and seasonal migration to agro-­export zones, 56 Resistencia Nacional (RN), 11, 108, 140, 141 revolutionary war: and development of par­ ticipants in, 155; and El Salvador, 7–12, 167n1; h ­ uman cost of, 12; and spousal separation, 87 RN. See Resistencia Nacional roa, 47, 51; explained, 174n9 Rodríguez, Fr. David, 19, 32–33, 38, 179n30 Romero, General Carlos Humberto: esca­ lation of repression ­under, 19, 83, 91; fraudulent election of, 12, 108; and massacre at Plaza Libertad, 83, 108; overthrow of, 12, 152 Romero, José del Carmen, 41, 71, 111, 178n31 Romero, Msgr. Oscar Arnulfo: and Fr. Miguel Ventura, 78, 79; and liberation theology, 18; murder of, 12, 83; radicalization of, 83; support to popu­lar organ­iza­ tions of, 32 sacristan, 33, 34, 171n22 Sánchez, Juan Ramón: accounts of death of, 76, 179n38; background of, 75, 171–172n23; radicalization of, 67, 75; recruitment to ERP of, 71 San Francisco Gotera: as commercial hub, 173n3; as departmental capital, 173n3; displaced persons camps in, 46, 49; and education, 46; and prewar initiation of bus ser­vice with northern Morazán, 169n12; sales of henequen fiber in, 24, 28, 51, 76; wealthy northern Morazanian farmers and merchants in, 46, 49. See also Fourth Military Detachment San José de la Montaña, 61, 176n5 Santamaría, Fr. Dionisio, 38, 40, 171n16, 172n31

Second Vatican Council: influence on lib­ eration theology of, 7, 10, 16; tenets of, 10, 66–67 sentry posts. See periféricas Society of Jesus. See Jesuits spies. See execution; National Guard subaltern. See Gramsci, Antonio sugar. See panela testimonial lit­er­a­ture: definition of, 178n33; role in interpretation of revolutionary movements, 73 torture: of priests, 19, 21, 67; of suspected rebels by Salvadoran authorities, 89; in twentieth-­century El Salvador, 83–83. See also Argueta, Fabio; Ventura, Fr. Miguel Trea­sury Police, 68, 151 two-­sided power, 126–133 Unidad Guerrilla (“Guerrilla Unit”), 125, 183–184n18 Unión de Trabajadores del Campo (UTC), 18, 32 UTC. See Unión de Trabajadores del Campo Vásquez, Rodolfo: among regional found­ ers of LP-28, 180n5; attendance at El Castaño of, 171n22; death of, 153; as sacristan, 33, 34 Ventura, Fr. Miguel, 61; arrival in northern Morazán, 33; capture and torture of, 76, 78; character and background of, 60–61; as characterized by FAES, 128; conflicts with Fr. Argueta, 65; early visits to San Fernando, 176n7; and education, 60–62; and exile, 179n42; f­ amily relationship to Fr. Argueta, 60–61; organ­ization of par­ ish work in Torola by, 63–64; pastoral team inherited by, 34; in postwar, 140; as postwar governor of Morazán, 186n10; as promoter of liberation theology in northern Morazán, 146; relation to El Castaño, 171n21; relationship with catechists of, 62–63; training for priesthood of, 60–61; training in Torola of catechists by, 177n17; transfer to Osicala of, 65. See also Romero, Msgr. Oscar Arnulfo

208 • Index

Vidal Guzmán, Samuel: death of, 139; in Joateca, 121; as po­liti­cal activist, 7, 103, 121, 122, 154; postwar ­labor of, 139 vio­lence, overdetermination of, 182n35. See also air power; armed strug­g le; El Barrios

massacre; El Mozote; execution; mines; poverty; rape; revolutionary war; torture war of position, 4, 79, 169n13 Wolf, Eric, 51, 186n7

About the Author is Professor Emeritus at the CUNY College of Staten Island and the CUNY Gradu­ate Center. He has carried out fieldwork in Oaxaca, Puebla, and Tlaxcala, Mexico; Ontario, Canada; and northern Morazán and San Salvador, El Salvador. This is the second in a planned trilogy of books on northern Morazán. It follows The El Mozote Massacre: Anthropology and ­Human Rights (1996), published in an expanded and updated edition in 2016 as The El Mozote Massacre: ­Human Rights and Global Implications, and ­will be followed by an extended analy­sis of prewar, war­time, and postwar social relations in northern Morazán. He lives in Willimantic, Connecticut, with Nancy Churchill and three rascally felines. LEIGH BINFORD