Emboldened Hondurans Take Aim at Army’s Power : Abuses: The military’s impunity is under assault. But the institution remains a force to reckon with.

The soldiers stopped the crowded bus on its busy morning route the other day and ordered the young male passengers to step off, new “recruits” for the Honduran army.

Then something went wrong. A youth tried to escape through a rear door and the soldiers opened fire, killing a 22-year-old woman and wounding two Hondurans and a Canadian citizen.

The public fury was so swift and undeniable that it forced a rare admission of guilt and an apology from none other than the commander of Honduras’ powerful armed forces, Gen. Luis Alonso Discua.

Throughout the 1980s, as the United States poured millions of dollars into strengthening the Honduran army, few Hondurans dared to speak out against the uniformed men who essentially ran the country and were accountable to no one.

But now, with the American purse strings cut, things are changing. Hondurans increasingly challenge their military openly, while the army has been forced to redefine its role and look for more sophisticated--and more subtle--ways to retain power and privilege.

The United States used Honduras for most of the last decade as a staging ground for the Contras fighting to oust the Sandinista government in Nicaragua.

During that time, Washington gave Honduras more than $1.5 billion, much of it going to the military, which ruled this country for years until allowing civilians to occupy the presidency starting in 1982.

But with the Contra war over and post-Cold War priorities shifting, American aid to Honduras has been slashed to less than $50 million, with the military receiving a scant fraction.

Its patrons gone, the still-strong Honduran army, whose 23,000 members include all police agencies, has become fair game for Hondurans questioning their leaders and demanding justice and an end to impunity.

And two unprecedented, dramatic cases have been pivotal in changing Honduran attitudes toward the military: the trial of a high-ranking army officer for the vicious rape and murder of a 17-year-old girl, and revelations by a secret police officer of official involvement in a string of murders and torture.

Both fueled a vigorous protest movement during the last year that forced President Rafael L. Callejas to promise major judicial and political reforms.

“The people are no longer fearful of the military,” said Ramon Custodio, a veteran human rights activist and head of an independent commission that investigates abuses. “They speak out openly and in their own names. You did not see this two years ago. Before, victims hid. Now they will publicly announce they’ve been tortured.”

Discua, in an interview at his neatly refurbished headquarters, acknowledged “excesses” by the military and pledged to hand abusive officers to the courts. The spate of accusations, he said, “has made us (realize) that there must be an awareness (of human rights) within the official hierarchy and within each element of the armed forces.”

But critics question Discua’s and the military’s commitment to meaningful reform, saying the armed forces will never permit anything that threatens their power.

A curious ally in the protest movement has been the U.S. government--the same government that for years turned a blind eye to military abuses far more severe than anything that has been reported recently. Many Hondurans were encouraged to speak out because of what they interpreted as a signal from the American ambassador here, Cresencio Arcos.

Arcos, in the past a staunch proponent of Ronald Reagan Administration policies dedicated to fighting communism at all costs, now is an advocate for human rights. In public comments last year that were widely understood to be an allusion to the military’s traditional impunity, Arcos told Hondurans: “Society should not allow justice to be turned into a viper that only bites the barefoot and leaves immune those who wear boots.”

With that green light, Hondurans took to the streets to demand justice in the case of the rape and murder of Riccy Mabel Martinez, a high school senior last seen talking to Col. Angel Castillo Maradiaga before her mutilated, violated body was found in a ditch. Martinez had gone to the 1st Communications Battalion to seek the release of her boyfriend, who, like many Honduran youths, had been captured by the army and pressed into service. She reportedly had sought out Castillo for help in securing her boyfriend’s release.

The case against Castillo, filed by human rights attorneys, maintains that he took Martinez to a remote location where he and several of his men raped and then killed her.

Although the murder occurred in July, 1991, it was not until last September, after weeks of student demonstrations and other public and diplomatic pressure, that Castillo was arrested and charged. It was the first time in modern Honduran history that a high-ranking military officer faced prosecution in a civilian court.

Arcos offered the services of the FBI, which conducted forensic tests. According to attorneys involved in prosecuting the colonel, tests showed that pubic hairs found on Martinez belonged to Castillo.

Castillo and Sgt. Santos Eusebio Ilovares, also tried in the case, maintained their innocence. But on Friday, a judge found both men guilty, sentencing Castillo to 16 years in jail and Ilovares to 10 years.

The case served as a rallying point and a test of whether justice can be done when it involves military abuse of a civilian.

“Her death was so shocking that the people began to burn,” said Linda Rivera, a human rights attorney who pressed the case against Castillo. “We used to tremble before any military authority. But it got to the point where the interference in every aspect of life was too much. We are fed up with military men hurting or abusing civilians and getting away with it.”

The armed forces dominated Honduran government and society for decades. Military rule ended formally when the first popularly elected president in 20 years, Roberto Suazo Cordova, took office in 1982. The military continues to retain autonomous and enormous power, controlling everything from a vast business empire to basic services.

Coinciding with the Martinez case came a series of startling revelations by Josue Eli Zuniga, a former agent for the National Directorate of Investigations (DNI), a secret police force long believed to be responsible for many human rights violations.

Fired from the force earlier this year, Zuniga turned to the government’s newly appointed human rights ombudsman, Leo Valladares, in search of protection. “He feared for his life,” Valladares said of Zuniga.

Zuniga provided Valladares with volumes of testimony implicating army and DNI officers in the murder last January of prominent businessman Eduardo Pina Van Tuyl and at least seven other killings in Honduras’ second-largest city, San Pedro Sula.

The San Pedro Sula killings have been especially unsettling in Honduras because the victims were well-known or affluent business figures. A journalist who inadvertently videotaped two gunmen leaving the scene of Pina Van Tuyl’s murder also offered a sworn statement implicating army officers close to Discua. The journalist then fled the country.

Discua denied military involvement in the killings, blaming the murders instead on a rising wave of narcotics-traffic-inspired violence in San Pedro Sula--and then he ordered 2,000 troops in tanks and armed with artillery into the city’s streets to underscore the point.

Responding to the public pressure, Callejas named an ad-hoc commission headed by Archbishop Oscar Rodriguez to study the police and human rights. The commission recommended the creation of an attorney general’s office and transfer of the DNI police to civilian control.

Military reaction to the groundswell of public outrage was initially one of anger. In a belligerent speech early in the year, Discua--who headed Honduras’ notorious intelligence battalion in the 1980s--seemed to threaten his critics with retaliation.

And, according to diplomats, Discua and a group of senior officers tried to have Arcos, the U.S. ambassador, declared persona non grata for his comments about the need for fair application of justice.

Later, analysts said, Discua adopted a more savvy approach of making minor concessions to his critics and of cutting his losses in a handful of untenable cases, such as the Riccy Mabel Martinez murder. He accepted the Callejas commission’s recommendation to relinquish the DNI to civilian commanders. But, critics point out, the bulk of the police, including those branches said to operate protection rackets and other profit-making scams, will remain under military control.

“Discua is smarter,” said Custodio, the human rights activist. “He knows this is the hour to admit a few things. The prestige of the armed forces is in play. . . . But when there are no witnesses, they will cover up crimes the same as always.”

In the interview, Discua said military abuses of authority have occurred but have been exaggerated in the press.

Buffeted by public scorn and deprived of a steady flow of American cash, the Honduran military has been forced to redefine its mission. Like armies throughout Central America that no longer have wars to fight, the Honduran armed forces are finding it increasingly difficult to point to the defense of national security as justification for a strong army with an ample budget.

Yet, while armies in El Salvador and Nicaragua have undergone drastic reductions in their troop strength, the Honduran military has submitted to only small cuts. And it continues to hold on to the most sophisticated air force in the region, complete with a squadron of 12 F-5 supersonic fighter jets, courtesy of the Reagan Administration.

“In the ‘80s, they knew who their friends were and who their enemies were. They had fluid money and their reason for being was clearly defined,” said political analyst Victor Meza. “Now they are having to readapt. It is an existential crisis: Who are we? What do we serve for? They have not yet encountered their new role. They have lost their old friends but have not found new friends.”

Where they are turning, with great alacrity since 1990, is the world of big business.

As other countries talk of disarmament and reduction of forces, top officers of the Honduran military are becoming active in the economy to ensure their continued wealth and comfort, diplomats, analysts and politicians say.

Through their pension fund, the armed forces own a string of profitable businesses, including a cement factory, a bank, a classical music radio station, a printing press and a funeral parlor. Officials of the Military Pension Institute say these multimillion-dollar holdings are investments necessary to guarantee pensions.

But people who have studied the system say it allows top officers to buy stock in the companies and share in profits before retirement. Several army officers, through the pension fund and other business dealings, have emerged as some of the most wealthy Hondurans, flaunting Italian suits, gold jewelry and luxurious homes in a country where 74% of the population lives in poverty.

Moreover, the business interests create a greater potential conflict for the army by pitting it against the country’s big economic interests. These traditional business leaders complain bitterly that the army is unfair competition because of tax breaks and other preferential treatment that the pension institute enjoys.

“We are in a changing world,” Discua said in the interview. “The armed forces, at this moment, are entering a process of readjusting their mission. . . . There is no (identity) crisis. What is happening is that after the end of the Cold War, the armed forces of Honduras have to assume a role more oriented to the integral development of the country.”

Discua in many ways is the ultimate caricature of a Latin American army general, with his tough speech, confident swagger and penchant for gold-braided uniforms and dark sunglasses. He has spent much of the year trying to consolidate his own power within the institution. Discua seized the command of the armed forces in a bloodless barracks coup in December, 1990, ousting Gen. Arnulfo Cantarero.

The position is supposed to last three years, but Discua campaigned--some say browbeat--his way to reelection for an unprecedented second term. In Honduras, the head of the armed forces is chosen by the Superior Council, a 60-member body of top-echelon officers.

The system is structured so no single officer becomes all-powerful, but Discua’s actions have defied the design. To fortify his grasp on power, he has struck alliances with friends within the military command and intimidated enemies in a risky strategy to minimize threats to his position.

The sway that Discua and the military continue to have raises questions about whether real reform will ever take root in Honduras’ public security forces and the judicial system.

The civilian government is seen as largely weak and corrupt, and with presidential elections scheduled for November, few politicians are in a position to take on the military.

And without deeper change, many Hondurans fear the impunity of the 1980s will continue through the 1990s. This year’s human rights report by the U.S. State Department blasted the Callejas administration for its failure to solve a single major human rights case.

“The people who run the government, both military and civilian, have very little interest in police or judicial reform,” said a diplomat. “The system as it is permits people over a certain threshold to act with complete impunity. The elites love the system--they can do whatever they want and walk away. If you are above that threshold, you have no interest in meaningful reform.”