Óscar Romero statue, Westminster Abbey. Photo: Waymarking.com.
‘The story of Romero’s martyrdom is compelling.’
El Salvador has a history of conflict, but courage too. Anne M Jones visited to learn more about the recently-beatified Óscar Romero
El Salvador rarely features in the news, except when included as one of those Central American countries from which the USA deters migration. I felt a human responsibility to understand more, since I am involved in refugee issues in Europe. After all, the UK is said to enjoy a ‘special relationship’ with the USA. I also wanted to learn about human rights activists there, especially Óscar Romero, recently beatified, who was assassinated because of his outspokenness. A pilgrimage organised with The Archbishop Romero Trust opened my eyes in ways I had not foreseen, and left me pondering what we mean by words like ‘holocaust’, ‘genocide’ or ‘massacre’.
From around 1960 – a time when the world was beginning to wake up to the Holocaust – up to 1990, an estimated 25,000 people ‘disappeared’ in this small country of, at that time, around four million people. Massacres of entire villages took place, against anyone who opposed the military regime, and the farmers in particular who protested about starvation wages. During the 1970s, this brutal military regime was bankrolled by the US government.
Óscar Romero became known as an outspoken supporter of the poor, having dropped his once-conservative stance when a priest, Rutilio Grande, was assassinated for speaking out on behalf of the farmers. ‘[He] who attacks my priests, attacks me’, said Romero. But more killings of priests, and the rape and murder of nuns, were to follow.
The story of Romero’s martyrdom is compelling: he was approached by two troubled soldiers who were worried by the commands to kill their own people. Romero pondered and prayed all night, and on the following day gave a sermon that was broadcast all over the country. He said that in killing their own people they were disobeying God’s law: ‘Thou shall not kill.’
Óscar Romero was aware that these words effectively signed his own death warrant. The following day, while preparing to give Holy Communion, he was shot dead by a sniper. It is believed that the order was given by Roberto d’Aubuisson, a former national guard major who had set up anti-communist death squads. The courage of the most high-ranking churchman to speak such a clear message, which reached millions, is breathtaking. At his funeral well in excess of 100,000 mourners paid tribute to a man loved and known for his humility and concern for the poor.
The assassination sparked civil war, which raged until 1992 when the Chapultepec Peace Accords granted an uneasy amnesty (though this meant no prosecutions could be made; Roberto d’Aubuisson had already been killed, possibly by guerillas). Though a calmer time began to settle upon this impoverished country, ‘calm’ is scarcely appropriate since the work of re-adjusting and reconciliation is hard to imagine; small surprise that it’s capital, San Salvador, had the highest murder rate in the world until two years ago. On our trip, armed guards were situated outside our hostel, nearby gated housing communities, and even some supermarkets.
A glimpse into the terror of that era was offered during a visit to El Mozote. Once a village, it is now little more than a clearing in a jungle, with a simple church, a hut that is a gift shop, and another selling ice cream. But then we saw the school, the walls of which are pockmarked with bullet scars. There is a wall of remembrance encircling one side of the former village square, and a memorial garden to the children. In the shade of the wall bearing names we heard victims bravely tell their own story of one day in December 1981 when local people were ‘advised for their own safety to get to the village’. More than a thousand gathered, only to be separated into groups – men, women, children – then tortured, raped, killed (babies too) and left in heaps.
One eyewitness account came from a woman who managed to fake her death then crawl away, concealing herself among a herd of cows. We stood beside the monument listening to bereaved men and women who talked of their grief: a man who lost his older sister, his brother, his cousin. One woman told us: ‘They killed my family of thirty-two people.’ Another was thirteen years old and elsewhere at the time – they lost a brother and a sister then, two years later, two more brothers. Each of the speakers talked without rancour and, though overwhelmed by sadness, about the importance of identifying everyone and one day bringing the perpetrators to justice.
The escapee succeeded in walking to a convent, from where she was helped to a safer hiding place in the jungle. She was persuaded to broadcast the story on the radio, one of the most effective tools of the resistance groups. Later she had to escape across the border into Honduras as the military put a price on her head. In 1992, helped by a human rights lawyer, she began searching for and naming all the victims, to ensure they are never forgotten. Her immense courage in continuing this work in spite of her own trauma, and the huge emotional toll, seems super human.
In San Salvador stands the impressive ‘Monument to Memory and Truth’, a black wall engraved with the names of over 25,000 people who were killed or ‘disappeared’. Relentless work by human rights workers continues to identify every victim. This began in 1992, tirelessly, in the face of opposition, to make sure no victim was forgotten. The work is supported by Catholic Agency for Overseas Development (CAFOD).
After such grim visits I wrote, rather tritely, in my diary: ‘If God is so good, why does he let such appalling things happen to good people? In these survivors I saw such courage and honesty but does it need a massacre to reveal that in a person?’ This question has been asked through millennia, of course. I re-read Hugo Gryn and Viktor Frankl about their experiences in Auschwitz; they remark upon the immeasurable value of faith and daily prayer in maintaining hope and courage.
The country of El Salvador is beautiful, with brooding volcanoes creating a mysterious energy. We travelled inland, winding past overhanging trees of exotic dangling flowers. Every morning, as the sun rose, I listened to the bell sound from a bird nearby, then the clatter of chaffinch-looking birds as they swarmed from a tree covered in orange blossoms into a banana tree already replete with parrots, who squawked back then flew away. Attractive wall art is everywhere, showing Mayan figures, local children, flowers and birds.
High up in the mountains is the birthplace of Óscar Romero himself, a modest town house opposite a square of cream-coloured houses almost untouched by the centuries. There are wonderful jungle trees with vermillion blossoms or acid-yellow blooms. The place feels gentle and unshowy, apart from a recent massive golden statue of Romero. He was one of four brothers and quite a few half-brothers. His father was often absent from home and I got an impression of a very special mother. The town is justly proud, and large handpainted pictures of him addressing farmers, or among children, adorn the walls. There is even a ‘Radio Romero’ into whose studio the Spanish speakers among us were invited to say a few words about our pilgrimage.
So, with a very tarnished carbon footprint, what did I learn? A great deal about the unshakable nature of faith, and the capacity for hope. A massive respect for those untiring human rights workers who continue the battle for justice. And the need to report back on a forgotten part of the world with which we in the UK are linked, humanely and politically.
Finally, in the words beneath the memorial wall in El Salvador: ‘You may shed our blood but we will never shed our endless capacity for hope and joy.’ And to myself, answering my question with Viktor Frankl, reflecting upon his concentration camp experiences: ‘If there is a meaning in life, there must be a meaning in suffering.’
Those of us fortunate enough to live within a safe democracy must continue to fight human rights abuses wherever we can.
Comments
A worthy reminder to us of the martydom of Oscar Romero who came to mind as I sat in meditation yesterday in Brasilia’s cathedral which provides a very distinct interpretation of Christ from that of Rome itself, exemplified by the copy of Michaelangelo’s Pieta, which the Pope had copied and sent here. Was this gift accepted because the anachronism was recognised and conveyed a message about Rome’s liturgical straitjacket.?One final thought .
I have just read the 10 small page booklet called “why we rebel” produced by XR. We have yet so much much to learn beyond the gospels, specially from our successors, including the wonderful people of Brasil.
By Tommy G on 18th January 2020 - 14:33
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