René Colato Laínez grew up in El Salvador and became a victim of the civil war in 1979 when he was nine years old.
Throughout the twentieth century, the country of El Salvador was wracked with violence caused by class struggles, with only two percent of the population holding the majority of the wealth and political power. In 1932, peasants rose up against the government. The government responded by killing approximately 30,000 citizens. For the next fifty years, the class war waged as each side continued to fight, the poor majority against the wealthy minority, which was represented by the government. Murders by government death squads escalated in the late 1970s, culminating in a military coup in 1979. The junta failed to improve living standards so five left-wing militias united against the new government, thus “officially” beginning the civil war in 1980.
During this time, René attended the funeral of the murdered Catholic priest, Oscar Romero. Romero was the archbishop of San Salvador until his assassination on March 24, 1980. He was known for his ceaseless efforts on behalf of the poor in the midst of governmental violence. Before he was assassinated, he called on the U.S. government to stop funding El Salvador’s government and publicly criticized El Salvador’s military for what it was doing to the people of his country.
Romero’s death, along with the increasing violence, forced the government to admit that the country was at war, though this was not news to anybody living in El Salvador. The civil war lasted until 1992. It killed approximately 75,000 Salvadorans, sent a million fleeing north and left another million homeless.
To my abuela AMELIA CHÁVEZ VIUDA DE COLATO;
to MONSEÑOR OSCAR ARNULFO ROMERO;
and to all the victims of war in El Salvador and the entire world.
¡Que viva la paz!
WHEN I WAS nine years old, the water stopped running in my house and the electricity was cut off. The silent nights became very loud with sounds of guns and rifles. I always hid under my bed next to my parents to protect myself.
I knew that my country, El Salvador, was in a civil war. The army from the government was fighting against the guerrilla soldiers. Many people had disappeared and were found dead in rubbish dumps days later. Others were in jail as political prisoners while thousands of Salvadorans had left the country looking for peace and better opportunities. Teenage boys were taken away from homes and schools to become soldiers or to fight in the mountains with the guerrillas. Bombs destroyed factories and homes. Many innocent people died during shootings everywhere in the country. In the mornings when I walked to school in San Salvador, military men marched down the streets with big rifles.
But the day that the war really entered my life was when my father was taken away from me. That day my world turned upside down.
I was playing soccer with my friends in the neighborhood patio when I overheard my father talking with Eduardo. Eduardo was an odd person because he was always on the move. He disappeared for months from the neighborhood and, just when everyone believed that he might be dead, he would appear again with a big smile and with horror stories about the war.
“Come on, Fidel, it is only for one trip to Plaza Libertad. All you need to do is to help me to carry these boxes and the pay is good,” he told my father as he pointed to two big boxes and showed him a ten-dollar bill. “And see, I will be paying you in dollars and not in colones.”
My father shook his head from side to side, “Is this legal? It may be dangerous! What do you have inside those boxes?”
“Just flyers about the demonstration on the plaza,” Eduardo said. “But we must go now. I will double the payment, twenty dollars.”
My father looked at the money for a moment and then he agreed to go. They carried the boxes and climbed down the flight of stairs. I followed them. They crossed the damaged bridge, passed some cardboard houses and walked through the open market.
As they were leaving the open market, a group of military men aimed rifles at them. The policemen lowered the rifles against their necks and soon they were on their knees. My father noticed that I was nearby. He looked at me. I understood his look. It meant to run far away from him without saying a word. But I could not run; my feet were stuck to the ground.
Soldiers opened the boxes and yelled, “This is guerilla propaganda!”
“Let’s take them to jail. They have a lot to tell us,” one policeman said and started kicking my father’s stomach. Eduardo stood up and ran into the open market but he was not quick enough. A policeman aimed his rifle and shot him in the head while a soldier handcuffed my father. Eduardo collapsed to the ground, his head covered with blood. As the military men left with my father, a group of people surrounded Eduardo’s body.
“Rest in peace,” an old man said as he made the sign of the cross.
In a few hours, military men were searching our house. They threw drawers on the floor as papers and clothes flew in the air and onto the bed. They yelled at me to get out, or they would take me to jail too. As they pushed me to the door, a policeman said, “The wife has to know all the details. She will confess.” Then he asked me for my mother. I shook my head from side to side. A soldier pushed me to the ground. I got up and ran and ran.
My mother worked at a detergent factory. I knocked at the factory’s door until the janitor opened it. I told him what had happened and he looked for my mother. All the workers and the boss said the same thing to my mother, “Escape, they will put you in jail, even if you are innocent. Then your child will be abandoned.”
Mamá put a veil on her face, and we sneaked to the east bus terminal. We took a bus from San Salvador to San Miguel and got off at kilometer 123. Abuela Amelia, my father’s mother, lived there in a humble shack in the countryside. My father looked a lot like Abuela. They both had brown eyes and a small mouth. When they laughed with a big “Ha Ha Ho Ho!,” you could hear their laughter even inside the neighbor’s houses. But today, we did not have any reason to laugh at all.
Abuela made the sign of the cross, knelt and prayed in silence. She stood up and said, “Monseñor Romero can help us. He is around here in the next town blessing the poor and helping the ones in need.”
Monseñor Romero was the archbishop of El Salvador. My parents and I always went to his Masses at the Cathedral but when we did not have time, we listened to his Sunday’s Masses at the YSAX radio station. Abuela was right. Monseñor Romero’s Masses were about helping the poor and victims of war. He might help us to find my father.
We walked for twenty minutes along narrow dirt paths. My face and hair were dusty. We arrived at a small church made of mud and sticks. Monseñor Romero was finishing a mass. He listened very attentively to my mother and Abuela. Then he suggested we go back to San Salvador with him.
“I can’t come back home,” my mother said. “The military men will arrest me.”
“I can help you get shelter while we find out about your husband’s situation,” he said.
Three days later, Monseñor Romero found out that my father was in Mariona Prison, accused as a political prisoner because he was helping to spread guerilla propaganda in the city. The following Friday, Monseñor Romero went to the prison to give a mass and he took my mother and me as his helpers. At a distance, I could see my father. They had shaved his head. He was skinny and had some bruises on his face. Little by little, my mother and I approached him and held hands in silence while Monseñor Romero continued with the mass.
After two weeks, I returned to school. My teacher was holding a newspaper and pointed to a picture of several bald prisoners. I recognized my father; he was one of the men.
“Thank God that these criminals are in prison. We don’t want this trash to be walking on the streets,” he said. “All of you must study hard to become someone important, and you must be ashamed of these criminals.”
My eyes filled with tears.
WE COULD NOT go back to our house in San Salvador, nor could my mother return to her work. The policemen had gone to the factory asking for her. They were tracking her down in San Salvador. But they did not know about our shelter, and we were safe there. Abuela was staying with us.
Lupe and Fina, two women from the shelter, had plans to go to Los Angeles, California, in the United States.
“We can go north. To protect ourselves and to help our families,” Lupe said.
“We can ask for political asylum there,” Fina said. “We will be able to work.”
“Juana, you can come with us,” Lupe said to my mother.
I held tight. “Mamá, don’t go!” I said.
“I don’t have any money to pay for the trip,” my mother said as she caressed my hair. “But my uncle Jorge lives in Los Angeles. Maybe he can help me.”
“You should go,” Abuela said to my mother. “There you will be free to go anywhere you want. Call your uncle.” Abuela called me with her hand and I walked towards her. “I will take care of the boy,” she said.
The next day, Abuela and I went to the telegraph office to call the United States. My mother had written her uncle’s telephone number on a piece of paper that she put in my shirt pocket.
Abuela talked to my mother’s uncle. She told him that my mother was not able to call him by herself because the military men were looking for her in the city. She could not leave the shelter or her life would be in danger. After telling him her story, he agreed to help.
Two weeks later, a coyote lady visited Lupe, Fina and my mother at the shelter.
“We are ready for the trip. I spoke to your relatives in the U.S. and they already sent me the money. I will take all of you to Los Angeles,” she said. “We will fly to Mexico City and then we will travel by land to the U.S.”
“But they can arrest us at the airport,” my mother said. “They can find out who we are. The police are looking for us.”
Lupe and Fina nodded.
“You will be leaving the country under other names,” the coyote said and handed a passport to my mother. “In the U.S., you can use your real names.”
“Ángela Ramírez de Pérez,” my mother read out loud. Then she noticed my tears. “Mi hijo, I have to leave. If I stay here, the military men will eventually arrest me. You are staying with your abuela. I will be able to work and collect a lot of money to pay for a good lawyer for your father. Also, I will not stay forever. I will come back. We will be a happy family again.”
I knew that she was right, but it was so hard for me to see her go.
The next morning, Abuela and I rode in a pickup truck to the airport with my mother and the rest of the group. Some military men stopped us on the road and asked for our documents. A policeman looked at my mother’s passport and said, “Have a nice trip, señora Ángela.”
At the airport, my mother gave me a big hug. “Protect your abuela,” she said. “I will miss you, but you will always be in my heart.” She brought out a picture of me that she carried with her. “This picture will be my strength on the journey.”
She kissed me and let go of my hand.
“Te quiero, Mamá,” I yelled as she was leaving.
Abuela and I climbed the stairs to the observation area. I pointed at my mother’s airplane. It was so big, like an eagle, but as I watched the airplane take off and fly in the air, it grew smaller and smaller like a butterfly. Finally it was just a dot and then it disappeared in the morning sky.
SIX MONTHS LATER, my father’s situation was the same. There was no way he could leave prison, not even with the help of a good lawyer. My mother was in Los Angeles, California. She was working in the house of a rich family. I lived in San Miguel with Abuela.
One afternoon, Abuela and I went to the small grocery store of the town to buy coffee.
Two women screamed and ran out of the store, “Lo mataron, they killed him. Monseñor was assassinated!”
They made the sign of the cross and began to pray.
The radio was up full volume and a newscaster spoke with a heartbreaking voice, “El Salvador is in agony. This afternoon of March 24, 1980, our archbishop, our voice of the voiceless, Oscar Arnulfo Romero, was shot while celebrating mass at a small chapel located in La Divina Providencia Hospital. This is a shame for our dear country.”
Abuela dropped to her knees and began to pray to all the saints in heaven. All the people inside the store murmured and cried.
“Why was Monseñor Romero assassinated?”
“Why him? He always protected the poor.”
“If they killed Monseñor Romero who was an archbishop,” a man said, “now they could kill us like ants because we are only peasants.”
For the next six days, El Salvador was in chaos. People talked about nothing except Monseñor Romero’s assassination. The newspapers reported that thousands of Salvadorans from all sides of the country would assist in his funeral at the Cathedral.
Abuela and I woke up at 3:30 A.M.
I put on the brand-new white shirt, khaki pants and shoes that my mother sent me from the United States. I was saving them for a great occasion and Monseñor Oscar Arnulfo Romero’s funeral was a very important day.
Abuela fixed her braids. She wore a black dress and her floral shawl. Around her neck, she wore the scapular that Monseñor Romero blessed on one of his visits to our small town. The scapular was so special to Abuela that she had embroidered her initials on it, A Ch vd. C, Amelia Chávez the widow of Colato.
We took a crowded bus going to San Salvador. Abuela and I took the only empty seat. Soon there was no space in the aisle of the bus. It was packed with people standing up. The rest of the passengers climbed on the rails on top of the bus.
People carried pictures of Monseñor Romero, flowers and palm leaves. It happened that Sunday was also Palm Sunday, the first day of the Holy Week.
On the radio of the bus, a newscaster said, “All Salvadorans are in deep mourning since that tragic March 24. Today March 30, 1980 will be an unforgettable day. Salvadorans, let’s go to the Cathedral to give our last tribute to our saint and archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero.”
Three hours later, we got off the bus inside a crowded terminal. Many more were getting off buses from other areas east of El Salvador. A group of young men carried a long cotton fabric banner. It had a picture of Monseñor Romero and lettering that said, “Monseñor is gone, but not our dreams.” They were chanting and blocking the exit of the terminal. Abuela and I tried to walk around them, but the group was getting larger and larger after every chant of “Monseñor Romero! Monseñor Romero!”
We passed the big open market, El Mayoreo, and arrived at the floral clock, el reloj de flores. It was a large decorative clock set into a flowerbed in a roundabout. It had a big clock face with two moving arms announcing the time. The flowerbed held roses, violets, daisies and other kinds of flowers.
“Abuela, every year my classmates and I planted flowers in this clock,” I said.
“I love flowers. You can always come to them when you are in need.” Abuela touched the flowers on her shawl. “They are like little miracles that embellish our lives.”
“Let me cut one rose for you and one for Monseñor Romero,” I said.
“Don’t do that! We can get in trouble.” She walked to the face of the clock. “Look, it is 7:20 A.M. We need to hurry up if we want to see Monseñor Romero’s casket before the mass. Afterward, it will be impossible to see him.”
We walked on Avenida Independencia. We passed the clothes store where my father bought me clothes for my birthday and Christmas, the movie theater where I went with my mother to watch movies on Sunday mornings, the daycare center where I went while my parents worked. So many memories! I looked at Abuela and realized that at this moment, she was all I had with me in this world.
On every corner, people joined the procession to the Cathedral. They carried palm leaves and pictures of Monseñor Romero and chanted his name.
People cheered when we approached a plaza where a statue of an angel was holding up a wreath in each hand.
“We’re almost there,” I said to Abuela. “This is Plaza Libertad. Papá and Eduardo were coming to this plaza when Papá was arrested and Eduardo was shot in the head.”
Abuela made the sign of the cross. “That was a tragic day.”
“The Cathedral is straight ahead in the next plaza, the plaza that has the statue of a man riding a horse,” I said.
As we were approaching the next plaza, people started to walk more slowly. We were in a people traffic jam. Finally I saw people clapping and waving their palm leaves.
“PLAZA GERARDO BARRIOS,” a group of women cheered. “Monseñor Romero is only a few steps away.”
I tried to show Abuela the statue of the man riding a horse but there were too many elbows and shoulders of people in front and around me. I looked up at the sky and saw the dome of the Cathedral.
“Monseñor Romero is above the steps of the Cathedral,” Abuela said. “The man on the radio announced it.”
We tried to walk to the entrance of the Cathedral, but no matter how many times we said, “Excuse me, please,” no one seemed to hear. People started to push to get inside. Using megaphones, volunteers tried to direct everyone to make a line in order to see the casket.
I took Abuela’s hand. “Follow me; we will see Monseñor Romero right now.”
I started to squeeze between people. Some ladies shot me dirty looks. Some men pushed me back. But we were getting closer.
“Abuela, hold on!” I cried.
Soon I was in front of the gate. I climbed the first broad steps to the main doors of the Cathedral. “We are almost there, Abuela,” I said and looked back. But I did not see Abuela. It was another woman holding my hand.
“Thank you, dear! You are so kind,” the woman said. She made the sign of the cross and kept walking to the doors.
“Abuela, Abuela!” I called but only unfamiliar faces looked back. I went down the steps and climbed the gate for a better look but all I could see were heads, umbrellas, banners, palm leaves and pictures of Monseñor Romero.
I started to climb the steps again towards the casket. I’ll wait for Abuela there, near Monseñor Romero, I thought.
I looked at women’s faces as I passed. One of them could be Abuela. I saw sad faces and tears but no Abuela.
“The voice of the voiceless is dead.”
“Who will be our voice now?”
“God, receive Romero and sit him next to you in heaven.”
Suddenly, there was an explosion and a black cloud formed in the sky.
People screamed and ran to the Cathedral steps. I was paralyzed as I heard more bombs and saw flames in nearby buildings. People pushed me from side to side, and I rolled down the steps. I was pressed against the gate and tasted blood. My nose was bleeding, and my heart beat as fast as the people’s legs struggling to reach the Cathedral doors. Rifle shots sounded all around. The panic increased. A group of soldiers closed the gate.
“Let us in,” people in the plaza implored.
The pull and push at the gate started like a tug of war while in the plaza the real war of guns and bombs continued.
People started to climb the fence to the Cathedral to save their lives.
Abuela, I thought. She must be outside.
I climbed the gate to get out.
“Where are you going? You’re crazy! It’s insane to go to the plaza right now,” someone said. “You could get shot.”
But I had to go. As I jumped down, I scraped my leg with a sharp point on the gate and limped in pain towards the plaza.
I could not leave without Abuela. She was the only person who was taking care of me. Now I had to protect her and looking for her was my first step. This war had already taken my mother and father. It could not take Abuela from me too.
I felt something buzzing near my ear. In front of me a lady fell to the ground. There was blood all over her face.
“Help me, help me,” she whispered, raising her arm as I crawled towards her. I reached for her arm, but it dropped to the ground. She did not move or say another word.
I looked back at the Cathedral and now more people were climbing the gate. Blood ran down on the bars of the gate. People yelled but did not stop climbing.
There was a stampede in the plaza. Everyone ran like a strong river’s current when it is storming and the riverbanks overflow and the waves tumble houses, trees and electric poles.
In desperation, people were bumping and tripping over each other, looking for a way to escape. They were trying to get away from the snipers who were aiming guns at them.
The megaphones blared, but it was impossible to understand what they were shouting.
I had a mission. What would I write to my mother when I sent her letters to the United States? What would I say to my father when I visited him in prison? I could not tell them that Abuela disappeared at Monseñor Romero’s funeral.
One man pushed me to a concrete barricade in the plaza. “Freeze like the statue riding the horse. Stay near on the ground. Keep low.”
“I have to find my abuela,” I said to the man and stood up.
The man pushed me behind the barricade again. “You will never find her in the middle of this battlefield,” he said. “The rifles and guns must stop first, and then you can look for her.”
Then he told me about the son he lost last month in a shooting in Santa Ana. The boy was my age. He tried to protect his son, but he was too late.
“Saving you is like saving my son,” he said.
Bullet after bullet hit the barricade. I covered my ears. It felt like it would never stop. My arms were shaking and sweat and dirt ran down my cheeks.
“This has to be over soon,” the man said.
After the bombs went off, after the guns and rifles stopped and after the black smoke disappeared from the air, I stood up and peeked over the barricade. The battlefield was abandoned. Purses, broken glasses, pieces of paper, bags, scattered shoes and dead bodies lay everywhere.
“Good luck finding your abuela,” the man said. “I will run to catch a bus at the west terminal.”
I waved at him and said, “Gracias, I will pray for your son.”
I walked into the middle of dead bodies and saw a woman with a ripped black dress, lamenting and holding her bleeding arm.
“Abuela,” I said, then immediately realized that it was not her.
“Thank God that it is only my arm,” she moaned.
I turned around and ran to the other side of the plaza. I saw a scapular but it did not have Abuela’s initials. I tripped over tons of shoes but none had mates. I looked at my left foot and realized that I was wearing only one shoe.
Tears ran down my face. I swept it with my grimy hands. It was no time to cry. I had to keep looking for Abuela. “Please God, help me. Give me a hand in finding Abuela. Monseñor Romero, protect her too.”
I walked towards Plaza Libertad; the angel was still there raising two wreaths, one in each hand. It was like the angel was blessing all the dead and wounded, as if the angel was saying a prayer asking for peace.
People were still running around in chaos. A pickup truck honked and many people climbed at once on the bed of the truck. I ran to the driver.
“Have you seen Abuela? She has braids and is wearing a black dress and a scapular.”
The driver shook his head, “I have helped many people today with my truck, many young and old women wearing black dresses and scapulars.”
“But Abuela’s scapular has her initials: A Ch vd. C, Amelia Chávez viuda de Colato. She is also wearing a floral shawl,” I said.
The man thought for a moment. “I believe I have seen a woman with a shawl full of flowers. Yeah, she had a scapular with her initials.”
“Where is she? Where is she?”
“I found her looking at the angel and praying for her grandson. She did not want to leave but some people helped me carry her to the truck. It was like San Salvador was falling apart.”
The people on the truck began to jump and hit on the sides of the truck, “Let’s go! What are you waiting for?”
“I have to go, or these people will destroy my old truck,” the driver apologized as he started to drive away. “I took your abuela to the east bus terminal,” he yelled over his shoulder out the window.
I found more shoes. I tried some of them until I found a shoe that fit me. Then I ran towards the bus terminal.
THERE WERE NO buses at the terminal. People were demanding buses but a man from the station said that all buses were transporting people to different places in the east of the country. “You’ll have to wait,” he finally said and turned around.
The “boos” and the “bahs” exploded at once.
I looked for Abuela among the protestors, but she was not there. Was she one of the lucky ones who were able to get a bus? Was she on her way to San Miguel? She could not leave without me.
Where could she be?
“Flowers,” I said. “Abuela said that you always look for flowers when you’re in need. If Abuela is still in San Salvador, there is only one place she could be.”
I left the terminal. As I ran, the floral clock started to strike.
DONG! DONG! DONG!
DONG! DONG! DONG!
DONG! DONG! DONG!
DONG! DONG! DONG!
Abuela was smelling the red roses. She kissed her scapular, stood up and opened her arms.
“Thank God you’re okay!” I said as she hugged and kissed me.
I was almost ten years old. A few kilometers divided me from my father in prison and thousands of miles divided me from my mother in the U.S.
But Abuela was next to me. After all, this war had not taken everything from me.