A Baptism By Fire

The following was written by a North American church person and friend of Sojourners who witnessed the crossing of Salvadoran refugees into Honduras in March.--The Editors

The waters of the Rio Lempa divide the dry hills of Lempira, Honduras, from Cabanas, El Salvador; waters no wider than a stone's throw across to the other shore and just deep enough to reach over the head of a man or woman. On both sides of the river the hills rise sharply to a crest; cliffs and trees jut out into the water to offer protection from the sun.

Further to the west flow the waters of the Rio Sumpul, where 10 months ago 600 refugees fleeing from the repression in Chalatenango, El Salvador, were massacred in the span of six hours by the Salvadoran Security Forces. Honduran troops turned back those refugees who managed to cross the river. Children were thrown up into the air as targets and shot. Some were bayoneted. Women carried babies and other children who died in their arms. Few survived. And those who did cannot forget. Esperanza told me this morning she dreamed again of Sumpul. A Salvadoran My Lai.

Who would have believed it! Today, in the Rio Lempa, 4,000 refugees crossed over. Wednesday, March 18. In the darkness of the dawn hours they began to cross, cautiously. Now the hills are filled with men, women, and children--above all, children. Cries fill the air. Men and women in the river pass children over their shoulders to the other side. Everywhere shouts, mortar fire on both sides of the river. Then in the sky, a helicopter. Shots of machine-gun fire and several sweeps over the river. Unmistakable signs of a Salvadoran helicopter and the Security Forces. Rush to safety behind the cliffs and trees, then back to the river. Hundreds crossing. Everywhere cries fill the air. A baptism by fire.

40 days in the desert

The Village of La Virtud in Honduras is situated a few short kilometers from the border of El Salvador. Ten years before, the people here suffered a border war with El Salvador. Now the generals of these two nations have signed a peace treaty. Toasts were celebrated last November in the Organization of American States (OAS). But the only peace one encounters here is the "peace" with which the armies of both countries collaborate in their war against the refugees.

Since September, more then 11,000 Salvadoran refugees have crossed over the river to the hills and aldeas, or hamlets, of the municipality of La Virtud. The town itself has more than doubled in size to 3,000. Now with the new arrivals the number of Salvadoran refugees in the region approaches 15,000--nearly half the total number in Honduras.

Just to climb over the dusty rocks and pass through the hills evokes a biblical landscape: the dry dusty earth, ageless and monotonous rocks, trees jutting out of the stone to offer occasional shade, and the trickling water of a stream to give relief to our thirst. One thinks of Abraham: "Go, leave your family, to a land that I will show you."

Here, the simplest tasks of the day require a journey through the rocks and hills--to gather food or water, to carry a child to the clinic, or to gather to celebrate the Word of God. This is the daily bread of the refugees. Everywhere the impression is of a people on march, in procession, just to survive, and with the hope to reach a promised land, to return to a land from exile. A people formed in the desert, in the wilderness, and on march toward their liberation.

March 17: A visit to the hills

Today we set out for the hills. Everywhere--here as well as throughout the continent--people are preparing for the anniversary of the death of Bishop Oscar Romero. In each aldea novenas are celebrated each night, nine days of preparation before the final day: songs from the Misa Popular (Popular Mass), testimonies and remembrances of Bishop Romero, readings from his homilies. A whole people remember their 40 days in the wilderness as they relive the passion and death of their nation expressed in the life of their beloved companero, looking toward a day of liberation.

It is the time of Lent--40 days which take on vivid proportions here, both in the transformation of the landscape with the approaching rains as well as in the transformation of an entire people.

Daily news comes from El Salvador with the arrival of new refugees. Today for the third day, there are bombings in the distance. We can sight planes just on the other side of the mountains and hear the resounding explosions. People gather in groups to watch and recall the names of villages over which the bombs fall: Arcatao, Nombre de Jesus, San Antonio. Reports of movements of Honduran troops toward the border fill the air. Just this morning a soldier informs us they have been in radio contact with the Salvadoran Security Forces on the other side. Thousands of refugees are in flight from the bombings. People begin to speak of another Rio Sumpul.

It is a Lent lived out in the daily history of the people: in the ashes of the villages, in the blood shed by so many innocent, in the march toward resurrection.

Now, one week before the celebration of the 24th, the anniversary of Bishop Romero's death, we gather in the evening with the refugees, a stone's throw from the mountain which marks the border. On the other side is the village from which they have come over the last six months, a morning's walk in better days. By the light of the lantern a woman leads us in prayer. We listen to the homily of Bishop Romero given one year before.

The voice is unmistakable: "Poverty is the force of liberation. It is a denunciation, a spirit, a commitment." The people listen with conviction. "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of Heaven." There is joy in the bishop's voice as he announces the great hope, the joy that the people share for knowing that this hope is theirs, that this word is addressed to each one, the great mass of poor which is El Salvador.

"Woe to you who are rich." Here his voice begins to break as the message takes on flesh. "You who join together house with house, field with field...and sell the poor for the price of sandals." To call injustice by its name: the oligarchy, the armed forces, the Christian Democrats who obscure the brutal repression, and--U.S. intervention.

There is no mistake. One is called by one's name. And the impression is profound. The rising prophetic voice of truth and authority bring to mind a Martin Luther King, Jr. shortly before his own death: "I've been to the mountaintop...and seen the promised land."

This poverty which is at the same time a commitment: "Make no mistake, brothers and sisters. Those who commit themselves to the poor must run the same risks. And in El Salvador today, we know what that means: to disappear, to be captured, to be tortured, and to appear as a cadaver."

The applause is thundering. There is no mistake. This man speaks the truth, and the authenticity of that truth is not only in the inevitable persecution, but in the love of his people, expressed now in the faces of those gathered around the lantern.

The night is late, arid we extinguish the lantern to await another day.

March 19: Return to the river

Two days later we decide to return to the river to investigate, to look for survivors. To return, just to return. Something happened here which we still cannot believe. The return is more difficult. By now the Honduran soldiers have mobilized. We are checked every hundred yards along the way--negotiating, displaying passports, bags and possessions searched. We travel as a "commission," as journalists, and are able to pass. At the last checkpoint the soldiers inform us that they are prohibited to go any further, and we travel at our own risk.

We approach the river with great anticipation. What will we encounter? And who? The dead? The missing? Those who have managed to cross the river and who have saved themselves? Along the way we see unmistakable signs of the battle the day before: rocks piled up in circles like miniature caves behind which the people hid from the helicopter fire. Huge holes gape in the ground where the mortar fell. On Honduran territory! There is no mistake. I reach down and pick up the lead fragments of the mortar. This is the neutrality; this is the peace which falls from the lips of the generals and politicians.

Suddenly someone shouts out ahead: "We've found somebody! He's alive!" As we approach we find an old man; the gray in his hair and the features on his face show 80 or 90 years of age. He can hardly speak for fear and exhaustion. He lies still by the tree. Someone from his village recognizes him. "That's Don Felipe!"

A little further toward the river we encounter more refugees: three women and their children. What joy! A little further on we find a small child, four years old, lying still on the rocks. Her mother brings us closer and turns the child over. She cries out in pain. Half of her back-side is torn away, infested with flies and dirt. Her mother informs us it was a helicopter which did it. "Animales," the people say to refer to helicopters and planes.

At last we reach the river and climb down the steep cliffs to the water. "Here's another! Dead." There stretched out on the rocks is a woman, 60 years old. Her mouth is open and turned toward the sky: silence. Her hands, folded across her chest, are clutching a straw cross. Her clothes are soaked in blood. No one speaks. Only the water ebbs on the shore.

"Salvador!" Another man who is with us cries out to the other shore. "Salvador!" He is looking for his 10-year-old son who did not cross over. We have to restrain him to prevent him from crossing over. "Salvador!" he cries again. "Salvador!"

The return home is somber. Exhaustion and the heat of the day subdue us. Over our shoulders we carry the old man and the little girl in hammocks. The soldiers stop and search us and let us pass. At one stop I call out for water for the little girl. No one responds. Then a soldier steps up and offers some water from his canteen. The little girl drinks thirstily. The soldier, no more than 20, looks like so many of the peasants here. The woman next to me urges me to drink too. I am unable.

Finally we arrive at the camp. A makeshift clinic has been set up to attend to the refugees. Someone attends to the little girl. The old man rests in the shade. Next to me a mother feeds her child through a medicine dropper. On a cot another child receives nourishment intravenously. His belly is extended, his ribs pronounced, his eyes stare out into the distance. I reach out to touch his forehead. By morning both children are dead.

March 20: A day in the camp

Los Hernandez is situated about four kilometers from the river. It is an aldea of La Virtud, the closest to the Rio Lempa where the refugees crossed. Before, some 1,000 refugees lived here together with the Honduran people. Now there are 4,000 more. Overnight the aldea has doubled in size--twice over.

The daily life of the camp is impressive. Day begins at 4:30 with the first signs of dawn. As far as we can see, people are stretched out on the hard rock ground with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. Here and there fires dot the ocean of people. Everywhere the cries of young babies. Already people are hard at work looking for firewood, grinding corn, washing clothes in the river, bearing water. Everyone who can walk works, from the youngest child to the oldest grandmother. Women returning from the river form an impressive sight, bearing water on their heads, while men with machetes in hand carry loads of firewood on their shoulders.

"We're workers," says one, his worn face and hands testifying to his words. "We want to plant a milpa--a cornfield." The crowd of men who have gathered around all agree. The creativity, the industry, the pride and joy of work is evident in the activity around us. "Somos trabajadores," he says, "We're workers."

The dimension of faith of the refugees is profound. "Primero Dios!" Above and before all, God. Everywhere you hear this, almost as a greeting. "Primero Dios!" This is the only way people can explain what happened. Their gratitude is profound. "God is all-powerful," says another. No one can match God's power, not even the Honduran Army, not even the Salvadoran Security Forces. How else to explain it? In the span of one day, 4,000 refugees, the majority of them women and children, pass through the river with a minimum of deaths! Two killed, 11 drowned, many still missing on the other side of the river. But 4,000 passed over!

One man explained to me in terms of the flight from Egypt and the passage through the Red Sea. God divided the waters to allow us to pass through. There is no other explanation. Four days they fled the bombings, day and night without food. By the time they reached the river, the Salvadoran Security Forces were only one kilometer behind. The popular forces provided cover and time for the refugees to cross. And only the night before the Honduran troops had departed from the other side of the river. "God is all-powerful!" "An arm strong and mighty!"

But the reality is still grim. Most of the refugees have been in flight since August of last year. Nearly nine months on the run, fleeing from the repression and the bombings: 500-pound bombs, incendiary bombs, napalm. "The soldiers burned our houses in June..." "They killed my niece, pregnant with her first child, and threw the fetus to the dogs..." "The soldiers have no compassion..." "These are things of the devil..." Nine months in flight: men, pregnant women with babies in their arms, young children, and the old and lame. Each night a different spot. Days without food or water. And always the fear. "How long have you been in flight?" I ask another. "Two years." "Three years." There is no end to this testimony of suffering, this Calvary, it seems.

By now it is evening. People return to their few feet of ground to sleep. The ground is bare and rocky. Here one sleeps a bit more secure. But the fear remains: 15 people have been captured, and seven killed by the Honduran Army in a week's time here. Four bodies found with thumbs tied behind their backs, trademark of the Salvadoran Security Forces. People of ORDEN, the Salvadoran paramilitary organization, have been seen here collaborating with the Honduran soldiers, pointing out refugees along the way, marked to disappear. Few are willing to speak out. Even the United Nations High Commissioner congratulates the Honduran authorities on their cooperation with the refugees. And in the distance one still hears the bombs.

But there is peace here. The peace the world cannot give. The peace the people nourish in their hearts that God is leading them through the desert and that one day--"Primero Dios!"--they will reach the promised land and return to El Salvador. Free at last. Theirs is the hope of the psalmist: "Those who sow in tears, carrying the seed, will return with joy to reap, bearing the sheaves."

March 23: Songs of liberation

Tonight marks the end of the fifth day here. Already there is a little more security and food. The night again is clear. The stars are brilliant, and the moon rises over the mountains. Here and there fires dot the landscape. People are asleep.

Suddenly, voices break the silence. Then music:

March twenty-fourth
People will never forget
Another bloodbath
For one who spoke the truth.

It is the eve of the celebration of Bishop Romero, an event to take place throughout the continent. The popular forces in El Salvador have declared a day of cease-fire in commemoration. Throughout El Salvador church bells will ring at 6 p.m.

The songs continue with more from the Misa Popular:

Come, all of us together
To the banquet
To the table of creation.

The words recall the life of Rutilio Grande, killed in 1977. Here at the table of creation, all are equal, all will eat together and share the goods of creation.

People have begun to join in the singing. Now and then there is applause. Surrounding the camp in the darkness are the Honduran soldiers. But here, for the moment, there is release:

When the poor believe in the poor
Then we can sing of freedom
When the poor believe in the poor
Then we will build fraternity.

The whole camp comes alive, the words and music renew the bodies and spirits of everyone:

You are the God of the poor
A God human and simple
A God who sweats in the street.

This is the God of the poor, leading them through the hills and aldeas of Cananas in El Salvador, shielding them from the bombs and the repression, guiding them through the Rio Lempa to refuge in Los Hernandez in Honduras. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The God who preached from the hillside, "Blessed are you poor"; the God whose blood was mixed with that of Bishop Romero as he raised the chalice the moment he was shot. The hope and joy of these refugees is as profound as the Calvary through which they are passing and as certain as the day of liberation which approaches.

March 27: Rebuilding houses to live in

Today the first hundred men left the camp, walking an hour to reach La Virtud. It is the first time since crossing the river that permission has been given to leave the camp. Today will mark the first day of building shelters for the refugees to live in. Here in La Virtud there will be more security, they say, further from the border.

Below us lies a huge cornfield, fallow and surrounded on one side by a river. We climb down the hillside to begin the work of clearing the stubble away from the earth, hauling lumber and constructing simple tent-shelters. The work is long and hard beneath the hot sun, but there is a spirit of joy and cooperation to be able to work again.

I stop to rest beneath a tree. An old man, his face worn and tired, looks up at me and smiles through his toothless mouth: "When they mistreat and persecute you..." He stops to scratch his head, trying to remember a few words. Then he smiles, "Blessed are you when they mistreat and persecute you...for you will be rewarded." I smile in return.

Today in the refugee camp the first child was born. Healthy and full of life, they say. Looking over the field and the work, there is a sign here of a new day. A day when the poor will inherit the earth, when those who work the land will enjoy the fruits of their labor. A day when those who join house to house and field to field, excluding the poor, will be banished from the earth.

The people already have a new name for the colony here, one man says: "La Victoria." This is the new heaven and the new earth promised by the prophet Isaiah, when no more children will die before their time of malnutrition or babies be ripped from their mother's wombs with machetes.

It is a day which approaches, a day of judgment for those rich and powerful in San Salvador and Washington alike who manufacture and send arms of war to massacre innocent peasants and children, a day of liberation for the masses of poor, the peasants and workers in El Salvador who will inherit the land of their ancestors, as God promised: "Woe to you rich; blessed are you poor."

A new day dawns over El Salvador.

Year Of The Martyrs

In February, 1981, 266 North American missionaries in Latin America sent a letter to North American bishops asking for a special "Year of the Martyrs" to be celebrated in solidarity with the people of Latin America.

The letter states that, based on many years of service in Latin America, "we feel privileged to accompany a people whose faith, sacrifice, and dedication have evangelized us....In the past decade nearly one hundred religious leaders (including Archbishop Romero) have died 'before their time.' But that is just the tip of the iceberg: for each religious who has died, at least one thousand of the poor have met a similar fate, and for each death another thousand have been tortured, detained, imprisoned, deported, gone into exile, or have simply disappeared....The entire U.S. Church...is called by these tragic signs of the times to fulfill the prophetic demands of our faith, specifically in both educating the American people to the suffering of their Latin American brothers and sisters, and assuming a critical distance with regard to the U.S. Government's policy priorities in the hemisphere."

The "Year of the Martyrs" will begin on December 2, the first anniversary of the murders of the four North American church women, Dorothy Kazel, Ita Ford, Jean Donovan, and Maura Clarke. To commemorate this and other events, a 13-month datebook, Calendar of the Martyrs, is available from the Religious Task Force on El Salvador. The calendar, which lists feast and fast days, includes brief biographies, points for reflection from church documents and Scripture, and a bibliography. Also being developed are "Year of the Martyrs" study packets, which will integrate official church teachings on social justice, documents from the grassroots church, historical background, and study questions with suggestions for action.