On a Rural Road in El Salvador, an American Priest Encounters Hell

The memories are still fresh and still horrible. I remember lying on the floor of a shack, with shells exploding outside and bullets flying all around, and death very near. I remember being alone in a cell, listening to the sounds of electricity coursing through some large machine, water constantly running and voices shouting out questions. I wondered what had happened to my friends and felt the deep anxiety of just not knowing. And I remember the humiliation I felt when the soldiers laughed at me for refusing to get into a car with darkened windows; instead, I walked to the interrogation sessions.

The memories are clear and the feelings still profound because it all happened two weeks ago in El Salvador.

I was in a jeep on a rural road, riding with three social workers and two volunteers from the Archdiocese of San Salvador, when gunfire and shells began exploding nearby. The archdiocesan representatives had asked me to accompany them on a pastoral visit to the town of Santa Cruz in preparation for a vaccination program that the archdiocese was assisting. When the gunfire got closer, and when it finally seemed to be aimed at us, we stopped the car and ran for cover in a small shack near the road.

In the shack were about 20 campesinos also taking cover; most were women and children. The shells kept exploding and the bullets got closer, until one of the social workers said, “Mike, yell out that you’re an American priest! Do it!” I did, and immediately the firing stopped. We were told to come out and surrender, and we did so, hands raised, badly shaken.

We were surrounded by soldiers of the Salvadoran military, and since I thought that a battle was going on, I asked that we all be allowed to go back inside for our safety. “No, there is no need, everything is fine,” a soldier said. We never saw any evidence that they had been fighting with anyone, though another soldier told me that if I hadn’t yelled out who I was, he would have fired a mortar directly into the shack.

Although we were told that we were not being arrested, the six of us from the city were taken by helicopter out of the area “for our own safety.” I hope never to forget my feeling as the helicopter lifted off--the feeling of being connected to the family in that shack--a feeling of being helpless, defenseless against bullets and bombs. I know I’ll never forget the look of terror on their faces as they were ordered around and saw us being taken away.

We were taken to the Treasury Police headquarters in San Salvador, where we were fingerprinted, photographed and extensively interrogated. We were repeatedly told that we were “not arrested,” but we were not allowed to make any phone calls and were locked in cells.

No one knew what had happened to us, nor where we were, and I began to feel the chilling effects of Decree 50 in El Salvador--the law that permits the military to hold people without charge and without informing anyone for up to 15 days.

Later they separated us, and as I sat in my cell alone, I kept hearing the sounds of electricity and running water and wondered what was happening to my friends. At one point, I lay there with my sweatshirt over my head to shut out the light that was always on, and I heard two soldiers stop and look in on me. One of them asked the other, “Why does he have a capucha ? I thought there were only three.” A capucha is a bag filled with lime and put over people’s heads as a torture device.

After more questioning, I was finally released to the custody of the American Embassy, after having signed a statement that I would leave the country the next day. The Salvadorans who were with me were released the next day, one woman having been stripped to her underclothes and interrogated for hours.

Although my experience was unique--how many Americans have seen the effects of Decree 50 first hand?--what happened to me fits into a larger pattern of restricting the presence of North American religious people in El Salvador. In July, 19 Americans were deported while accompanying displaced people back to their homelands. Visas and interviews are now required of all people who travel to El Salvador. Early this month, visas were denied to three officials from the Archdiocese of San Francisco who had been invited to El Salvador by Archbishop Arturo Rivera y Damas. Only through his intervention with President Jose Napoleon Duarte, and pressure from Congress on the U.S. Embassy, were the visas finally granted.

Clearly, it is in the interest of the Salvadoran and U.S. governments to cover up the human-rights abuses still taking place in El Salvador. An American Embassy official told one priest in July, “We would just rather you people not come down here.” Of course not. It’s embarrassing to have an American priest go through what I went through. But it is much more than that. It is a scandal and an outrage that these restrictions are being placed on those who would offer an alternative to the official American presence in El Salvador. Washington sends military advisers and war-making materiel, and $500 million for the use of a government whose authority rests on intimidation and brutality. Church people from the United States bring vaccines, building supplies for clinics and schools, sewing machines and other equipment for livelihood--and loving support for Salvadorans victimized by their own government.

The woman from the American Embassy who escorted me to the airport said that she was sorry my stay hadn’t been more pleasant, and that she hoped I would come back and have a better experience next time. I hope so, too.