Foreign Relations: How U.S. Policy and Involvement Scarred El Salvador

by Tomás Rogel, on December 11, 2015.

Today marks the the 34th anniversary of the El Mozote massacre; a forgotten piece of Salvadoran history. The tragedy took place during El Salvador's civil war, an event fueled socioeconomic inequality, and to no surprise, the United State's irrational fear of communism. With 95% of the country's income going to the hands of the top 2%, peasants and coffee workers soon grew upset and revolted against the government. In 1932, the Salvadoran army responded with the genocide of 10,000 to 40,000 indians. Socioeconomic inequality continued to rise with the crash of the coffee market, the oil crisis of 1971, and finally a coup d'état in 1979, which marked the beginning of a 12 year war.

The United States saw the coup as the perfect change to prevent "another Nicaragua", and thus began to siphon money to the right-wing Salvadoran government. In addition, the United States also implemented several army schools in order to train Salvadoran soldiers. In 1980 alone, the U.S. had allocated $5.7 million to the Salvadoran military.

On December 10, 1981, the Atlacatl Battalion, formed in one of the American army schools, arrived at El Mozote village. Word of the battalion's coming had passed around, so villagers from other villages convened in El Mozote, in addition to its residents, in order to seek protection from the military. El Mozote had a reputation of neutrality and did support the government nor the guerrillas. On that night, all the villagers were searched, questioned about the guerrillas, and ordered to lock themselves in their house, otherwise they would be shot.

On December 11, the residents were ordered out of their houses. The battalion separated the men, women, and children and locked them in separate houses. One by one, they took the men. The men were questioned, tortured, and executed after digging their own grave. Then, they took the women. The were brought to the mountains and fields, where they would not be heard, and each one of them was raped and killed. Girls as young as 10 were raped. Last, they took the children. They were tortured and killed in numerous ways. Some were found with slit throats and others lynched on trees. They proceeded to burn the entire village to ground. The next day, the battalion left to a nearby village and continued their terrorism.

Reports of the crime began to pop up soon after, and many cited a death count of 733 to 900 civilians, but evidence suggests that the toll was likely much higher. The reports were discredited by several U.S. officials. The Reagan administration called the reports "gross exaggerations". Elliott Abrams, at the time Assistant Secretary of State for Human Rights and Humanitarian Affairs (and also a key player in the Iran-Contra affair), claimed the reports were communist-sympathizing and guerrilla-affiliated propaganda.

There was only one survivor in this massacre, Rufina Amaya, who hid in a tree and witnessed the deaths of her husband, four children, and community. With her help and testimonies, the UN was able to carry on with the Commission on the Truth for El Salvador investigation. In 1992, an exhumation of the bodies would confirm Amaya's claims. In March 1993, the Salvadoran Truth Commission reported that over 500 civilians were "deliberately and systematically" executed in El Mozote in December 1981 by forces affiliated with the Salvadoran government.

In addition to these crimes, the U.S-financed war saw the assassination Archbishop Oscar Romero, soon after Romero wrote a letter to President Jimmy Carter asking for the U.S. to remove itself from the conflict, as he believed U.S. involvement would only bring more destruction. A massacre also took place during Romero's funeral. Furthermore, in December 1980, four American churchwomen were raped and murdered by military and paramilitary forces, causing Carter to finally stop financing the war. In the same year, however, new President Ronald Reagan saw El Salvador as an ally during the cold war and began to finance the war once more until 1990. Under Reagan's support, the same Atlacatl Battalion that terrorized El Mozote entered the campus of the University of Central America and publicly executed six prominent Jesuit priests, their housekeeper, and her daughter.

An estimated 75,000 Salvadoran civilians died between 1980 and 1992 alone, in addition to the 10,000 to 40,000 natives killed in 1932.

Due to an agreement to end the war which granted the government with general amnesty, those responsible for the massacres have never faced justice for their inhumane actions. The United States has yet to apologize and acknowledge their role in the civil war. Meanwhile, the civil war and crimes against El Salvador are being erased from history altogether.

Silence

by Aasiyah Ameenah

When one hears the chant or sees the hashtag of “I Can’t Breathe,” it immediately makes one think of the Black Lives Matter movement, specifically Eric Garner's death by illegal chokehold. But when I think of those three words, it takes me someplace completely different. In fact, it takes me back to my senior year of high school, to my lit class.

I was super fortunate enough to go to a private school for fourteen years (pre-k to12th grade). For about six of my fourteen years at this school I was the only black girl. It’s funny because everyone would constantly remind me of it (everyone being my parents and the token two black female teachers in the school at the time) but I never really took note of it at all. In fact, I had 0 idea what being a black girl meant at all, because I felt that blackness wasn't apart of my experience. All I knew was that my skin was a medium brown, my hair was not as smooth compared to most of my dolls and my 8-year-old hips were a little rounder than my other female classmates. To be honest, if you were to ask me to identify myself from ages four to fourteen, I wouldn't have the slightest clue what to say at all.

The first time I was truly made aware of my race was towards the end of my senior year. My high school experience greatly differed from middle school, not only because of the end of my awkward phase, but I also began to slowly pick up little things that people would say regarding race. “Of course he got into Brown because he's Spanish, I don't really think he's that smart." These comments would pop up always when I least expected it, and my face would twist as if there was a sour taste in my mouth. And when I would look amongst my friends to see if they heard it in the same tone I did, nobody would look back. So I would uncomfortably hold my tongue until I forgot about what happened. I figure if nobody else picked up on it, then it must have not been that bad.

So finally, fast forward to my Themes in American Lit class. I loved this class. It was taught by an eclectic black man that took everyone by surprise when he didn't have all white male written books in the class syllabus. My teacher was so animated and excited about what he was teaching that it made me excited to come to class. One day, we were discussing (my club's) posters that were in the hallway focusing on those little comments, called microaggressions. Instead of teaching normal class, my teacher decided to open a conversation about them, specifically the ones concerning race. I listened quietly to what everyone had to say, until he came to a boy who abruptly said, “I don’t really see the point of the posters, some of those were most definitely taken out of context, and were also probably exaggerated."

And there it was.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to bang my notebooks on the table and yell and personally claim about half the comments written on those posters. I wanted to say that he doesn't have the right to tell me how I should feel, especially if they’re not directed towards his demographic at all. But instead I stayed silent, with a stone cold face. Because in that moment, on a Friday afternoon in a classroom which I considered a safe haven, I was being illegally choked by the angry black woman stereotype. I had seen it before, the sudden outburst of emotion from my other female peers of color, and I had also seen the witnesses immediately tell that girl to calm down, saying she was “taking it too far” and it “wasn't that serious”, only further delegitimizing the girl's feelings because she looked too out of control to make sense.

As I sat there, I realized I had a choice to make: whether or not I should speak. I did, but instead of voicing my hurt feelings, I tiptoed around them only to address the boy who made the comment. I carefully and slowly explained that they were someone else’s stories, but he simply disagreed and continued to voice that the comments written couldn't be said at such a “progressive” school like ours. So the hands around my neck were soon placed in front of my mouth, and I stayed silent throughout the rest of class. I vividly remember walking out of class and feeling my throat close, to the point where I was ten minutes late to my next class because I was gasping for air outside.

To this day, I constantly go back and forth wondering if I should have been more vocal or more assertive or more understanding, but I realize there is nothing I could have done to escape that feeling of speechlessness. I now recognize that it is one of the many confusing and difficult things I have to carry along with my race. So when I hear “I can't breathe,” I don't only hear a call to action on police tactics, but I also hear a larger message from other little black and brown girls who have ever felt silenced simply because of what they looked like.

You May as Well Use an Empty Canvas

by Hanh Pham | genderqueer | they/them pronouns

Writing this on my body was meant to be a cleansing experience - and for the most part, it was. I have felt discomfited in this body for a while, and I am trying to claim the best parts of it that I can. I often feel like hurting myself, in mental and physical ways. Depression isn't romantic - and it's not cool, and I don't want you to look at my legs and think, "oh, they're really cool for doing this," and think that my sickness is pretty. It's not. I have mental illness - I have depression and anxiety, and it really hurts, and I have communicated that hurt in the most productive way I could. This is a declaration, a reclamation, and ritual to prevent myself from becoming so wrapped up in my head that I cease to breathe. Thank you, for everyone who takes the time to read this. I would also like to add some content/trigger warnings for suicidal thoughts. If you want to reach out to me to talk about this, feel free to message me on Facebook or email me at htpham@wesleyan.edu
There are days when I feel –
        That is to say sometimes I can feel
If numbness is a feeling I guess you could
  say I feel all the time
I wish I could say I was angry
        (all the time)
At least then I’d have something in my chest
        because sometimes I wake up and see nothing in the mirror
                and I hear a wailing –
        the sound made by all the wind
        echoing through the gaping cave I call a chest
Sometimes I think – why do you care so much?
And there are days I know the answer
                is that I’m making up for when I think,
        quietly,
                loudly,
       – when am I ever going to care again?
I want to say depression is an allergy,
        But in reaction to what?
How can I tell you that sometimes I think,
                       This sickness will kill me
or that sometimes I think it already has, because
What life am I living?
Perhaps I am allergic to life,
        and my mind is trying to tell me so.
My symptoms:
        that hollow feeling, like
I am a zombie, staring at a life not mine
        Walking slowly till something looks at me and goes,
        oh –
                and kills me
        the inability to wake up – the feeling
                of strength and will draining,
a paralyzed patient waiting for a doctor to read out those last, fateful numbers
this feeling of a cold that can’t be described or diagnosed
                the sense that my time is numbered.
I take medication every night
        I see my doctors once a week
Sometimes they tell me I’m making progress –
                       I’ll see you in a week
I don’t know how they can be so sure,
because it’s so easy to forget those days I came in with
        dead eyes and
                dead heart
                       asking for help –
                              for mercy,
I want to say my depression sometimes mimicks the feeling of death
        but it’s not enough
because I am still alive, but
        just sick enough to feel

Only I wish I didn’t.
(Only that is a lie).