A Long, Dark Journey to Joyous Night in El Salvador
The minister had endured torture and exile during El Salvador's brutal civil war. Last month, journalist-turned-elections-observer Steve Kelley was at his side as thousands celebrated a new era.
SAN SALVADOR, El Salvador - Late at night,
into the early hours of a Monday morning in mid-March, joyous throngs
of people, as many as 600,000, paraded down Avenida Escalón, through
the heart of some of the wealthiest neighborhoods in this capital city.
Three generations of Salvadorans wore red T-shirts, red bandannas
and red caps. For them, it was the color of victory. The color of
change. FMLN red.
They walked past grim-faced, helmeted police who, we were told, were
mobilized to protect the real estate of the rich. And they walked past
portable razor-wire fences that were wheeled into place as soon as the
The avenue was a season of red, and the celebration reminded me of
Lincoln on a fall Saturday night after a Nebraska football win over
Many of those celebrating around me had fled north during the
12-year civil war that ended in 1992. While in exile, they told their
stories again and again, from Ottawa to Seattle, from California to
British Columbia. They talked about their archbishop and their
teachers, their parents, brothers and sisters, friends and neighbors
who had disappeared or were murdered during the war.
On this evening, they cheered the first leftist presidential victory
in Salvadoran history. After decades of oppression, their candidate,
Maurício Funes of the FMLN (Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front),
had defeated Rodrigo Ávila of ARENA (Alianza Republicana Nacionalista),
51.3 percent to 48.7 percent.
Their exuberance was unquenchable.
I walked that Sunday night, March 15, with my friend, Pastor Miguel
Tomás Castro of Emmanuel Baptist Church, whose older brother and hero,
Gabriel, was murdered while fighting in the civil war.
Miguel was abducted during that war, tortured for being a pastor and
exiled to Canada. He returned to his congregation and his country in
1989 because he believed that he one day would witness this profound
change, and he strolled through the sultry election night with a smile
as wide as the avenue.
Support from Seattle
More than two decades ago, in 1986, he had told his story in a
living room in Seattle. Like so many others who were living in exile,
he bore witness to the seemingly unbearable suffering of his people.
Few in the United States listened then, but there were those in
Seattle, Portland, Eugene and others cities who did.
"Know the truth," Miguel said that night, "and the truth shall set you free."
Those words came to life on Avenida Escalón. They were revealed on
the faces and in the tears of those who celebrated. Families were
reunited on this street. These people had returned home to reclaim the
promises and the reality of the hope that had sustained them for more
than 20 years.
It felt on this night as if fear had been defeated.
Miguel grabbed my arm and pointed to the homes and office buildings
of the wealthy. "This is where they planned the massacres," he said.
"This is where they planned the election fraud. This is where they
planned the murders."
We listened as Funes spoke to hundreds of thousands in front of him.
The scene was reminiscent of President Obama's election-night speech in
Chicago's Grant Park.
Miguel translated for me as Funes forgave "the lies" that Ávila told
about him during the election. Funes promised "safe change," and the
crowd's roar rolled down the avenue.
Fireworks crackled. Teenagers climbed five-story billboards to get a
better view of the president-elect, and kicked the metal panels,
cheering his every word. Strangers hugged and cried in each other's
"We were not sure that this could happen," Miguel told me. "There
were too many periods of loss. We all lost so much, but we believed
that if we kept on fighting, this day would come. We have to thank all
the people who died in this journey. This day is for them."
I was wearing a light-blue jacket and hat that identified me as one
of 4,000 international observers who presided over the election
process. And, as I walked, people came up to me and my colleagues and
thanked us, in both English and Spanish, for "coming to be with us at
An elderly woman kissed me on the cheek. "She's thanking you for your part in assuring the election's fairness," Miguel told me.
A day of change
"This day means we have taken more steps from a very long march,
seeking an opportunity for real democracy," he said. "We can look
forward to taking the difficult steps to start a process to build a
different country. A very different country where everybody has an
opportunity for a life with dignity."
These people, who walked along the avenue, had lived in fear of
Salvadoran death squads, many of which were military- and
police-trained at the American War College at Fort Benning, Ga. These
death squads had terrorized the country for more than a decade.
All day I felt the energy of this moment. I felt something I'd never felt during a U.S. presidential election.
On Election Day in El Salvador, the capital's streets were choked
with cars and pilgrims. Voters and their families marched to their
polling places. It felt like the excitement that builds during the
morning of a big sporting event.
People wore the colors of the parties they supported: blue for
ARENA, red for FMLN. They flew party flags from their cars and chanted
party slogans. Vendors sold food and souvenirs on the sidewalks.
Entire families came. Parents shared their experience with their
children, holding hands as they signed in at the voting tables and as
they leaned into the official cardboard boxes to cast their votes.
It was Sunday, a day off, and the election was a shared, family
experience. It made me think that this is the way we should do it in
the United States. Everyone should have a visceral sense of the meaning
Sanctuary support here
When I told friends I was going to be one of 4,000 election observers, the typical response was, "Why you?"
In truth, I was invited by Miguel to be part of an ecumenical group,
one of several international teams asked to oversee the election
process. By our presence at polling sites, we hoped to limit coercion
and election fraud. I was invited because of my association with people
who had been part of Seattle's sanctuary movement in the 1980s.
Twenty-five years ago, it was the unambiguous convictions of
refugees in Seattle, and of those who assisted them, that captured my
attention and won my respect.
With the help of people like then-Mayor Charles Royer, Seattle
became one of the most supportive cities in the United States,
advocating on behalf of Central American refugees whose immigration
petitions for political asylum were summarily denied by State
Department officials, who said there was no just cause for their
Providing protection for former teachers, labor organizers and Roman
Catholic lay leaders, and offering shelter and assistance to Salvadoran
refugees so they might document their political asylum claims in
Seattle's immigration court, were deemed violations of U.S. law.
But the city's archbishop, Raymond Hunthausen, stood with the
refugees and alongside the people who sought to defend them. His
courage and the strength of the people with whom he stood were
justified on this election night.
During the weeklong observation period leading up to the election, I
made visits to memorials of those who had died. I visited the small
chapel in a hospice center where Archbishop Oscar Romero, a revered
supporter of the Salvadoran poor, was murdered. The assassin killed him
at the moment Romero lifted a chalice while officiating at a Mass for
hospice staff and those dying of cancer.
I saw the bloodstained garments he wore at that service, part of a
memorial for him on the hospice grounds. I saw the bullet hole in the
vestment, located directly over his heart.
I went to the University of Central America, where in November 1989,
five priests, their housekeeper and the woman's young daughter were
murdered by members of the military's elite guard, Atlacatl. The
premeditated killings on the Jesuit campus occurred at the height of
the FMLN's attack against government forces in the capital.
The bodies of the priests were dragged into the yard outside their
shared dwellings. Today, rose bushes planted in memory of each priest
and the two women grow and bloom as a memorial to their courage.
These memorials crystallized for me the importance of this election to the future of this country.
On the eve of the election, I spoke with Josue Cruz, a law student
at El Salvador University. A tall, thoughtful young man, he said to me,
"Most people in an election ask, 'What is in it for me?' But I don't
want anything for me. Not one penny. All I want is for the people to be
given some hope. And for the poor to be given respect."
On that Sunday night in mid-March, Josue walked in this sea of red,
in the neighborhoods of the wealthy, and celebrated what he believed
was a newly delivered hope and respect for the poor.
He walked with memories of those who had died to make this night
possible. He walked with Miguel and the hundreds of thousands who never
gave up, never quit on the idea of a democratic future.
It was a privilege to be among them.