Perquin y El Mozote

This is a difficult post. Our time here has been extremely educational and important, but there aren't words suitably heinous enough to describe what happened in the pueblo of El Mozote. I won't elaborate on the massacre itself or the ways in which those poor people were terrorized first. If you search for El Mozote Massacre on the Internet, you will find various sources about it. The estimated number of those killed varies.


We'd read about this part of El Salvador and knew we needed to visit here. Perquin was a stronghold for the opposition to the government during the civil war in the 1980s and 1990s. It's sited within heavily forested mountains and therefore was perfect as guerrilla territory. Now it's very peaceful (like most of El Salvador), but this area was terrorized by the government military during the civil war, and the worst example of this was in El Mozote, about 10 kilometres away from Perquin.

We began our time in this part of the country with our journey to Perquin yesterday. From Alegria we got a bus to Santiago de Maria, another bus to El Triunfo, another bus to San Miguel, and then a final bus to Perquin. Unfortunately, when we got off the bus in Perquin, we both forgot that Chris had tied his bandanna around the window curtain to keep it from blowing in our faces. We later tried to find the bus and bandanna, but they had already left Perquin.

We were a bit shorter on cash than we liked, and it turns out there are no ATMs or banks in Perquin. So we wound up staying in a pretty posh hotel, the only establishment here that accepts traveler's cheques. By posh, I mean that this place is much, much nicer than hostels. And it only costs $30 a night, breakfast included. We are so spoiled by prices here in Central America. Another backpacker from our bus is staying here as well, and we had dinner together in the very grand hotel restaurant (more pupusas!).

It was after dinner that I read up fully on El Mozote, which we intended to visit this morning. I couldn't read about it without crying; in 1981, a massacre happened there that is so appalling I don't even want to think about it now. It's incomprehensible, and I was sorely tempted to say I couldn't go. Chris and I talked about it, though, and agreed that it's important to pay tribute to the people who died and also to the people who somehow manage to live there today. I barely slept last night, wrecked with anxiety about going.

We got up early so we could walk 3 kilometres to a fork in the road in time to catch a bus that passes there at 8am. It turned out that we got a pickup taxi to the fork in the road and had 30 minutes to spare before the bus passed through. A local boy joined us in the bus stop just to chat; he was lovely. Then we got the bus for the 10 kilometres to El Mozote. My stomach was in knots the whole way, and I was already fighting back tears.

Then we arrived in El Mozote, and I couldn't speak around the lump in my throat. I saw across the central square the main monument erected for those massacred, and tears just wouldn't stay away. A young man came up to us and offered to show us around, and I could barely respond. His name was Eduardo, and perhaps it was a blessing that we couldn't understand every word of his quick Spanish. We'd read that people in the pueblo act as guides, and most if not all of them lost family members in the massacre. In many cases, entire families were killed. As he showed us around the memorials, Eduardo mentioned various family members he himself lost in the massacre.

He took us first to the iconic memorial: a statue of two adults and two children, with very moving words on a plaque and tablets on the wall behind covered in the names of those killed. Each tablet is for a family, and every tablet is full of names. Under the statue, many bodies are buried. It's a collective grave. Later another guide brought us back to this memorial and pointed to her family's tablet. She also pointed to the grave itself, in which some of her family are buried. I couldn't speak.



They have not died. They are with us, with you and with all of humanity.
Eduardo then took us to the new church, built on the same grounds on which the old church had been destroyed. To one side of the church is an incredibly moving garden commemorating all the children who were massacred. There are beautiful paintings, gorgeous flowers, everything in the space designed to show the peace wished for the souls of these children. Part of the floor is left from the old building in which the remains of 146 of the children were found. They're now buried in a collective grave there. On the wall are tablets with their names and ages. The youngest age we saw was 2 days, the oldest 18 years. Eduardo could barely speak as he pointed out the names of the youngest babies killed. The garden is there to commemorate and to offer space for reflection. I just wanted to sob. When Eduardo pointed out that the battalion which perpetrated the massacre was funded and trained by the USA, I think he took my tears as a sign of guilt, assuming I was American. He put his arms around me; El Salvadorans very graciously do not hold the actions of the US government against its citizens.


He then took us to the other side of the church to see the massive mural there. It details the past, present, and hoped-for future of El Mozote. It was painted by American volunteers, yet again demonstrating the graciousness of the people living there now. Lastly, he took us to the house where many women were massacred. I was nearly numb by that point; in hindsight, I think my brain wanted to shut out what it was seeing and hearing. I didn't/couldn't take in all the bullet holes.

Finally, Eduardo led us back to a kiosk, where we could buy souvenirs to help fund the upkeep of the memorials. I wanted a keepsake that included the town's motto: Nunca Mas (never again). The entire ethos of the pueblo is that people need to know what happened there and keep it from ever happening again. The whole world should visit El Mozote.

Perhaps because it was impossible to dwell on the massacre without breaking down completely, we then focused on taking pictures of the memorials (encouraged by the people there) and exchanging pleasantries with the locals we passed. Life goes on there for these people; every day they pass by sites of the massacre, and yet they don't let it hold them back. At first it felt wrong and very difficult to smile at people and say buenas dias as if we weren't across the square from a collective grave. But we took our cue from the locals. We wound up waiting for the bus with some other tourists, and it was surreal to talk about travels - banal chit chat in a place where an estimated 757 people were massacred exactly 2 months after my little brother was born.

We made our way back to Perquin with 2 of the other tourists. We were all headed for the museum devoted to the civil war. Along the way, we stopped at a souvenir shop. In talking with the owner, we found out that she has visited Edinburgh as a sort of unofficial El Salvadoran ambassador. She was really happy to talk about her time there, and we were really happy to listen.

We then found the museum, which is amazing. It's small but crammed full of pictures, memorabilia, weapons, helicopter wreckage, and even the actual radio booth used by the opposition during the civil war. An ex-guerrilla attached himself to us and explained every article in the museum. He spoke so quickly, we could only understand about 1 word in 10. But he was really pleased to show tourists around, and we gained a lot from it. We might not have looked at everything in such depth if it weren't for him. Much of it is very sad, far too many pictures of people who died during the war. Part of it was encouraging, though; there's a room full of anti-war and support letters and posters from many different countries. And most importantly, the aim of the museum is to educate people (locals and tourists) in the hope of preventing further war in the future. We very happily made an extra donation to the museum.

We then had this afternoon to rest and reflect. Our heads are full of information, much of it terribly sad and depressing, all of it vital to learning about El Salvador. We will not forget this visit.