Guatemala Catholics find the path to a new
future confronts sins of the past
By PAUL JEFFREY
Special to the National Catholic Reporter Santa Cruz
del Quiché, Guatemala
Guillermo Meza patiently asked Manuela Toj questions about her
husband, Anastasio. Which hand did he use when he picked up a machete? Did he
ever break any bones? Which teeth did he still have?
And then, how was Anastasio dressed the day he died?
Using an interpreter to understand Kiche, Tojs
Mayan language, Meza reconstructed the events of that day in April 1982 when
soldiers arrived in her village, Tabil, an hour north of Santa Cruz del
Quiché.
Toj described how the soldiers came with a list of names, looking
for her husband, a Catholic catechist. They shot him and her 19-year-old son,
Juan, while they were hoeing corn in a field. The two were among 17 people
assassinated in Tabil that day.
Before long, Meza, a forensic anthropologist with Guatemalas
Catholic church, had several pages of data on his clipboard. He then set off to
find the next widow on his list.
Toj wandered down through a corn field to a site where several of
Mezas colleagues were digging up bones. She joined a group of indigenous
women clustered at the edge of the pit, looking on as their communitys
past was carefully exhumed, allowing buried memories to surface along with the
remains.
Remains of three skeletons slowly emerged as evening approached.
Meza and several widows began a quiet discussion, standing in the bottom of the
pit. From the scraps of rotted clothing and the size of the bones, they
tentatively identified two of the skeletons as the remains of Tojs
husband and son.
The digging ended and the villagers knelt in the pit, among the
skeletons, which they had covered with flower petals and marked with candles.
As Augustín Laynez, a Mayan priest, prayed, Toj began to weep. Rigoberto
Pérez, a Catholic priest from nearby Santa Cruz, placed his arm around
her shoulders. Later, she prayed in Kiche, the only language she
understands.
Illusions of peace
It has been more than a year since the government and guerrillas
signed a piece of paper that said the decades-long war was over in Guatemala,
yet in villages like Tabil people still struggle to find healing after 36 years
of violence.
Worse yet, although the peace accords brought the disarmament of
3,000 guerrilla combatants last year and a reduction of the army by 15,000
soldiers, the legacy of repression still stalks the highlands.
Three weeks after Tojs husband and son were dug up in Tabil,
four unidentified killers arrived in the village and pumped three rounds into
Laynez, the Mayan priest. Laynez had argued in the village for the exhumation
and had disagreed with powerful local landowners about property boundaries. His
killing was just one more incident that belied illusions that the accords had
brought peace.
Despite the reduction in the army and a drop in political
killings, increased crime provided President Alvaro Arz with a pretext for
reopening several military bases closed just a few months earlier. The
militarys budget is up 10 percent this year, despite a requirement in the
peace accords that it be reduced by one-third as a percentage of national
income by the year 2000.
Edgar Gutiérrez, director of the Catholic churchs
Interdiocesan Project to Recover the Historic Memory, said such trends bode
poorly for the countrys future. If we continue to give the army
more arms to combat the problem of common crime, and as long as we allow the
army to recover their power, we wont be able to overcome the past,
he said.
Another concern of human rights organizations is the new civilian
police created under the peace agreements. Critics worry that too many former
soldiers and police are simply being recycled into the new force.
Oscar Recinos, president of Neighborhood Watchers, an anticrime
group, said the police academy, which is designed to train a new police force
of 20,000 in the next two years, is like a tortilla factory without
quality control. In the three brief months of training provided to
recruits, they cant teach honesty or take away the bad habits from
anyone, he said.
Moreover, Christian Tomuschat, a German professor of law and the
head of the U.N.-sponsored Historical Clarification Commission, complained in
January about a lack of cooperation from the military in figuring out what
occurred during the most brutal years of the war. An army that
doesnt want to talk about its past is cause for fear, Tomuschat
warned.
Tomuschats group, commonly known here as the truth
commission, has also failed to get the Clinton administration to turn over
documents crucial to understanding the roots and evolution of the war.
The commissions limited mandate -- it was given less than a
year to work and cannot individualize responsibility for crimes --
has bothered grassroots activists convinced that a rigorous look at the past
was key to reconciliation. Such concern prompted the countrys Catholic
bishops in 1994 to create the Project to Recover Historic Memory, an
alternative truth commission of sorts.
The project began its work by selecting 800 church activists
trusted in their communities to serve as reconciliation animators.
The animators, many themselves survivors of the violence, were trained in
interview techniques and then sent home to gather testimonies of survivors like
Toj.
In some communities the project could build on what the church had
already done to collect testimonies about catechists and religious whod
been murdered. In Cotzal, for example, church leaders began celebrating a
feast of the martyrs in 1992 by placing 550 crosses on a wall in
the sanctuary. Each cross bore the name of an assassinated or disappeared
community member.
During the visit of Pope John Paul II to Guatemala in 1996, church
leaders presented the pontiff with carefully documented testimonies regarding
the political assassinations of 77 Catholic leaders.
The historic memory project was clearly a pastoral response to the
need of the people to talk about what had happened, victims and perpetrators
alike. Fr. Federico Wübbolt, the parish priest in Cotzal, said one man
described how he killed 70 people. The man said it was difficult at first,
Wübbolt recalled, but that it became easier with time. He said
hed killed babies, children. He told me that neither with liquor, nor
alcohol, nor with women could he forget what had happened, Wübbolt
said.
Most testimonies, however, came from victims of the violence. The
need to release the horror through telling the stories brought hundreds of
widows to some parishes the first day the animators began taking
testimonies.
The project provoked criticism. It is a bad idea,
declared Marco Antonio Rodríguez, president of the Evangelical Alliance.
There needs to be a genuine pardon, and that means forgetting. But they
want to write it down and remember it instead of forgetting.
Juan Gerardi, the auxiliary bishop of Guatemala City who oversees
the groups work, argued that pardoning doesnt mean forgetting.
The person who forgets or who pretends to forget doesnt do away
with what happened. You cant get rid of it, he said. To
pardon really means to create new attitudes, to provoke change inside people
and between people, not just to palliate the violence and the hurt that
remains.
According to Dennis Smith, a Presbyterian church (USA) mission
worker in Guatemala, The only power that has been left with the violated
is the power of choosing whether or not they can forgive. And in order to
forgive, theyve got to be able to put a name and a face on who is
responsible in their community.
Putting a face on the perpetrators was just what military and
guerrilla leaders had tried to avoid when they agreed to a weak truth
commission. Not surprisingly, they tried to discourage people like Manuela Toj
from talking to investigators for the historic memory project.
In Chimaltenango, military officials called together residents in
several villages and warned them that talking about the past would only
increase the risk that the violence would return. When church leaders protested
to the military high command in the capital, the generals denied the incident.
The animators had taped the militarys comments, however, and once the
recordings were turned over to the high command, the obstruction of interviews
in Chimaltenango ceased.
The guerrillas, meanwhile, often encouraged passive
resistance, Gutiérrez said. They told their people not to
come talk to us. In one area, their instructions were to go and tell everything
bad about the army, to not go into the details about what really happened. Talk
about the massacres, talk about the early 1980s. And dont say anything
more. But one way or another, we learned of their sins as well, the sins of
all.
The church investigators recorded more than 6,000 testimonies, 70
percent of which are in 17 Mayan languages. Each interview includes details of
an average of five assassinations -- a rough total of 30,000 killings. The
accounts include more than 600 massacres. The project did not define a massacre
under the terms of international law -- the collective killing of three or more
people. We looked for instances where the clear intention was to
annihilate an entire community or family, Gutiérrez said. If
we had used the international norm of three or more, wed be talking about
many more massacres.
The projects final report, due out by May, will provide not
just a numerical accounting of what happened, but will also examine about 60
emblematic cases, particular acts of violence that represent the
larger picture of what happened during the war. The report will include 700
pages of analysis, examining the roots of the conflict and how the violence
affected different social sectors. Unlike the official truth commission report,
the projects report will indicate who was responsible for what.
Dignifying the dead
The dig in Tabil was the second exhumation by the projects
own team of forensic pathologists. The day after Manuela Toj and her neighbors
prayed around the skeletons, the team removed the bones and clothing fragments.
They were placed in cardboard boxes and stored in Pérezs church in
Santa Cruz until they could be transported to the teams lab in the
capital.
As team members sorted through the puzzle of bones, Mezas
detailed interviews with survivors helped identify which bones belonged to
whom. The team identified all 17 sets of remains before returning them to
Tabil, where they were given proper burial. With her husband reburied, and with
the church helping her obtain documents, such as a death certificate, that
could never be acquired during the war, Manuela Toj could begin to get on with
her life in a country at peace.
Exhuming, identifying and reburying the dead is providing
survivors an opportunity to properly grieve for their loved ones, a process not
allowed during the war. Such dignifying of the dead contributes to
emotional, psychological and spiritual healing.
Mayans place great importance on communicating with their dead,
which they carry out at the gravesite. Thats impossible if their loved
one was disappeared. To overcome this problem, the project has
worked with communities to create symbolic graveyards, a site set
aside by the community where the dead are named on crosses and their spirits
invoked. Community members can go there to celebrate the Day of the Dead or
when they need counsel from their ancestors.
The forensic teams third dig set a new precedent. During
three weeks of digging in Chacalté, a village in the north of
Quiché, the team uncovered the remains of at least 75 people, mostly
women and children. They were victims of a June 1982 massacre carried out by
the Guerrilla Army of the Poor, one of four guerrilla groups that waged war
against the Guatemalan government.
In more than five years of exhumations in Guatemala, it was the
first time that victims of a guerrilla massacre had been unearthed and it
sparked a controversy. Guerrilla leaders claimed the civilians had been killed
in a crossfire between guerrillas and soldiers, yet the bones told a different
tale. The common refrain on the forensic examination sheets filed away in the
teams lab in Guatemala City belied such rewriting of history. Golpes
contundentes en craneo y tórax --blunt blows to head and
chest. The survivors interviewed by Meza and his colleagues reported that
guerrillas came in the night and killed most of the victims without firing a
shot.
Its still a taboo to claim that the guerrillas did
something like this, acknowledges Ronalth Ochaeta, director of the Human
Rights Office of the Guatemala archdiocese. Certainly we cant make
a quantitative comparison with the army, because theres no comparison.
The army did much more. But its true that the guerrillas committed
barbarities like the army. Someone has to say that. The communities are
demanding that we say that.
Renewing social fabric
As it finishes gathering testimonies and analyzing data, the
project has begun working in villages affected by the violence in an effort,
according to Ochaeta, to reconstruct the social fabric of the
communities.
Hundreds of pastoral agents have received training in mental
health skills, helping them to accompany survivors in the difficult moments of
recovering and reburying their dead and assisting people as they grapple with
the everyday tensions of reconciling at the village level. In indigenous areas,
this training used Mayan cosmology and practices to help re-establish family
and communal relationships.
Project staffers are forming diocesan Offices of Peace and
Reconciliation, which will help survivors confront a snarl of
bureaucratic problems. Widows, for example, cant remarry until their
former husband is declared officially dead, which is impossible if there is no
corpse. Nor can they inherit land. So the church is training local paralegal
workers and working with the courts to speed up the process.
By insisting that the past be known before the future can be
defined, the Catholic church project makes a unique contribution to building
peace and reconciliation. It provides both a reference point for national
discussions about political responsibility as well as a local structure for
forging new relationships based on honestly confronting the violence imposed by
the war.
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