A recent military crackdown shows the country still hasnât escaped the legacy of a brutal civil war.
This article was originally published by the Institute of Current World Affairs in D.C.
SAN SALVADOR, El SalvadorâThis countryâs brutal civil war ended nearly 30 years ago, but it many ways, it still feels like a battleground. Soldiers in combat gear patrol the streets alongside heavily armed police; razor wire runs atop many buildings and homes. Those who can afford to do so live in gated communities with private security, while guards stand at the entrance of many businesses. These days, however, they seem to spend most of their time taking customersâ temperatures and directing them to the hand sanitizer.
In February, at the direction of President Nayib Bukele, soldiers occupied parliament in an attempt to pressure lawmakers into approving an increase in military funding. Weeks later, Bukele ordered one of the worldâs longest and most restrictive pandemic lockdowns. Military checkpoints were set up around the country, and those deemed to be violating quarantine were arrested. When the legislature and courts attempted to block these moves, Bukele accused them of âbeing on the side of the diseaseâ and refused to follow the courtsâ orders.
Human rights defenders who challenged the militaryâs actions were threatenedâas were journalists who published investigative reports critical of the president and his Cabinet.
While Bukele took office in June 2019, these tensions are decades-old. Scholars generally agree about the basic facts of El Salvadorâs civil war, which lasted from 1980 until 1992: A small but powerful economic elite, supported by the military, resisted demands for reform and became increasingly repressive, leading the left-wing opposition to organize and take up arms. As part of its Cold War âcontainmentâ policy, the United States provided funding and military support to the right-wing government.
War crimes were committed by both sides, but the United Nations later found that U.S.-backed Salvadoran government troops and their allies were behind most of them. Perhaps the worst atrocityâthe massacre of around 1,000 innocent villagers in the hamlet of El Mozote on Dec. 11, 1981âlooms large over society in El Salvador today, pushing the country into a constitutional crisis and raising crucial questions about justice, memory, and the countryâs fragile institutions.
On that day, the elite Atlacatl Battalion invaded El Mozote and killed virtually all of its inhabitants, raping the women and desecrating the bodies. Although American journalists publicized the event several weeks later, and a 1993 U.N. Truth Commission report criticized the government for failing to investigate it, the perpetrators seemed destined to get away with it. Shortly after the commissionâs report was released, El Salvadorâs legislative assembly passed a sweeping amnesty law aimed at absolving the military commanders responsible for ordering the assault.
It took two decades for the Salvadoran government to apologizeâthough there was still no meaningful attempt to investigate the massacre. Then, in 2016, El Salvadorâs Supreme Court found the amnesty law unconstitutional, leading to a historic moment that same year, when a local judge, Jorge GuzmĂĄn, reopened the case against more than a dozen former top military officers. The prosecutor general called witnesses to testify about what had happened, but the military archives remained closed. Requests to the United States to release its own records related to the massacre have gone unanswered.
In 2019, GuzmĂĄn ordered the military to open its archives to allow court-appointed inspectors to search for evidence that could shed light on who was responsible for the massacre at El Mozote. Then came Bukele: Having run on a platform of being the first âpostwarâ president, he promised that his administration would open the archives âfrom A to Z,â claiming, âthe only way to heal the wounds of the past is for the truth to be known.â But this June, he suddenly reversed course, citing concerns about national securityâthe same argument made by every previous administration.
GuzmĂĄn rejected that claim and scheduled the inspections at eight locations throughout the country between Sept. 21 and Nov. 13. When he and his team arrived at the first stop, a military base in San Salvador, they were blocked by soldiers before being confronted by a top Defense Ministry official clad in fatigues. Days earlier, the military and police, along with health officials, were deployed to several towns, while a number of othersâincluding San Francisco Gotera, where the case was being heardâwere blockaded for âsanitary reasons.â Movement was restricted while coronavirus tests were administered. In a Sept. 23 address to the nation, Bukele railed against his enemies, including the courts, the human rights ombudsman, and U.S. lawmakers who had sent him a letter expressing concern.
He also accused GuzmĂĄn of being motivated by allegiance to leftist guerrillas and a desire to tarnish the image of the government and military.
Salvadorans themselves continue to disagree about what happened during the war.
The health ministry denied those deployments were politically motivated, claiming the soldiers were simply protecting health workers. But experts pointed out that the governmentâs own pandemic statistics did not suggest that infections in these towns were higher than in other parts of the country. Instead of ensuring public health, the deployment of troops to onetime guerrilla strongholdsâand the very town whose court Bukele is defyingâmade for a disturbing scene. Salvadorans have watched with familiar unease as the clash between GuzmĂĄn and the military has unfolded. Security protocols have been stepped up at human rights organizations, especially those associated with the case, as many still recall the disappearances and murders of lawyers and activists who dared to stand up to the military and elites. These days, the most visible attacks take place on Twitter; Bukeleâs enthusiastic followers denounce anyone they consider to be his enemies.
More complicated still, Salvadorans themselves continue to disagree about what happened during the war, as well as about who was to blame. Some see the guerrillas as freedom fighters, while others consider them terrorists who provoked the military. Either way, many Salvadorans believe the military is central to the countryâs fragile stability: Soldiers take an active role in law enforcement, which includes reining in the street gangs blamed for much of the countryâs ongoing violence.
But as a friend and local human rights lawyer, Marina Ortiz, recently reminded me: âMilitarization is not necessary in a democracy.â
Those Iâve spoken to have floated a few theories about Bukeleâs apparent change of heart but most boil down to a single one: âHeâs the same as the rest.â The economic elite and the military, many believe, are still on the same side ruling the country. Either way, says Ortiz, âIf the president was actually committed to justice, he would act differently.â Still, she adds that GuzmĂĄnâs initiative is a huge step forward, since in the past, the judicial branch would have likely colluded with the cover-up.
In the weeks following the standoff, the military presence on the streets seemed to increase. On a recent Sunday night, my partner and I decided to drive past the Paseo el Carmen, a popular strip of bars and restaurants in the Santa Tecla suburb, to see how it looked following the coronavirus lockdown. We noticed three soldiers in fatigues walking down the sidewalkâa quotidian sightâbut something felt different than usual. Instead of simply strolling along, they were walking with purpose, gripping the automatic weapons that usually hang from their shoulders. After turning the corner, we saw a group of young men dispersing. We quickly drove away, but with a feeling of unease.
The next morning, as I walked the dog a few blocks from home in my nongated neighborhood, I was approached by two tactical police officers in fatigues. âWhatâs your dogâs name?â one of them asked in a friendly voice. âDo you walk him every day?â I shared the dogâs name but answered vaguely, feeling instinctively (though possibly irrationally) that I did not want to divulge information about my routine. A few hundred yards on, I passed another pair on patrol, this time a soldier and a police officer in complementary green-and-blue fatigues. As I walked away, I thought about Ortizâs words: âIf the El Mozote case is successfully brought to trial, it is a message to the next generation that we are healing,â she told me. âIf not, we are sending the message that the military can do whatever it wants.â
A crucial test of El Salvadorâs democratic institutions, and of the stateâs capacity and willingness to ensure that such atrocities are never repeated, the case has come to represent the struggle to hold the Salvadoran military accountable and to transform El Salvadorâs culture of impunity. As the 39th anniversary of the massacre approaches, it remains to be seen whether itâll succeed.
Much is a stake: El Salvador is the second-leading country of nationality of those granted asylum in the United States (mass migration was sparked by the civil war, sending hundreds of thousands northward). Today, those seeking protection believe their government is unwilling or unable to protect them from violence. The Salvadoran military still faces accusations of human rights abuses in their fight against crime, while the criminal justice system is rife with impunity. Many once placed their hopes in Bukele to usher in a new era, but they are quickly becoming disillusioned.
© 2020 The Slate Group LLC.