A PERSONAL MEMORY FROM THE END OF AN INNOCENT TIME

It was the year I would begin my university education, September 1975. As a pre-requisite to be accepted into the different faculties, the new students were required to attend a preparation course under the generic term ‘orientation.’ The orientations were delivered from May to August three times per week from 6:00 to 8:00 PM.

The purpose of the orientation was to prepare us, the new students, for the rigors of academic life. Supporting new students in the complexity of higher education was a commitment to the University. The subjects were not academic per se, but rather subjects aimed to facilitate learning. For example, explaining what a lecture was and how to take notes, the requirements when submitting an essay, how to borrow books from the library, or the use of the ‘Kardex’ (a system to find books within the library).

I worked full time in the daytime attending the orientations in the evenings. Senior students delivered the orientation as part of their community services. Students of higher levels delivered the generic lectures and students from the second year provided individual support outside of the classes.

We used to meet in the cafeteria, the library, or even on the stairs of the main entrance of the Faculty of Law. The orientation was common to all careers. However, it was delivered in the auditorium of the Faculty of Law because was the only space with enough room to accommodate all the aspirants.

I began my orientation with great pride and enthusiasm, as the first member of our family to attend university.

It was a new universe for me. In the hallways of the faculty, one could find interesting and famous people such as the poets and writers: Matilde Elena López, Álvaro Mene Desleal, or Ítalo López Vallecillos. Among them was the legendary founder and former leader of the communist party, Miguel Mármol, who survived his own execution by a government’s firing squad during the 1932 massacre.

Don Miguel Mármol had an office in the political science department where he delivered conferences and individual consultations. His biography, written by the famous poet Roque Dalton in 1966, was available in the library, and everyone wanted to read it. It was a universe of freedom—a new experience for a student who had just finished high school.

Our individual instructor was a young second-year humanities student who planned to become a social worker. I didn’t know her name. In part, it was the practice of calling each other "compañero" or "compañera," and in part, it was because there were so many of us needing her help.

To me, she was everything one imagines a university student looks like. In my eyes, she was beautiful, with her copper-colored skin, wearing blue jeans with peace symbols embroidered on their back pockets, her long straight black hair parted in the middle, and plaid shirts tied at her hips. She was always willing to answer our questions and dedicate individual time to each of us newbies.

One evening, she explained to us that, unlike North American colleges and universities, there were no fraternities in El Salvador. Instead, the university had "Student Fronts," associations of students representing political tendencies advocating on behalf of the students. The fronts functioned as political parties promoting candidates to the "General Association of Salvadorean University Students" (AGEUS), the student's governing body that held a seat in the university's administration. 

Our instructor detailed the importance of student fronts, which functioned as political entities promoting candidates to the AGEUS. Any student could choose to join a front based on their political sympathies or interests, or opt not to join at all, a path chosen by many students. The most prominent among these fronts were the left-wing organizations, though moderates and conservatives also had their presence, the latter distinguishable by their formal attire of suits and ties.

As part of our orientation, we were encouraged to attend student debates where representatives from each front would present their plans for supporting the students.

After providing this explanation, our instructor inquired if any of us would participate in the upcoming student demonstration scheduled for Wednesday, July 30, 1975, which aimed to protest government intervention in the university.

I was captivated by her passion and commitment, and without hesitation, I volunteered to join her in the demonstration. She acknowledged my eagerness with a smile, and we arranged where to meet on the day. Perhaps her smile conveyed more to me than she intended, but it was enough to fuel my excitement.

On the day of the demonstration, I worked through the morning shift and feigned illness at noon to secure permission to leave early. I hastily boarded the bus that would take me to the university, where we had agreed to meet for the protest. Upon arrival, we joined a throng of students gathered on the steps of the Faculty of Law.

My anticipation grew as we waited for the demonstration to begin. The energy around us was palpable, with students fervently discussing their plans and rallying cries.

As the appointed hour approached, we chatted a little and joined the other students, who were beginning to march along the 25th Avenue towards the city center. We were talking to each other. Frankly, I didn't care much what the demonstration was about, but I was enjoying her company. It was then I learned she was a sophomore and planned to be a social worker. We talked about my job. We talked and how my degree would take longer because I needed to work full-time. She talked about her interest in working with farmers, and how her family had lost their small farm to a "Latifundista" a large landowner. Something I identified with as I had witnessed how my grandparents were forced to sell their coffee farm, for a price lower than its value. The landowner who bought their property was the same who owned the bank that held their mortgage.

I was happy, walking with her in the middle of a sea of students chanting political slogans, "...the united people will never be defeated...", or offensive songs against the government: "...Gorillas, sons of bitches, we are students..."

All of a sudden, we heard the unmistakable sound of machine guns. We looked at each other as if we weren't sure we could trust our own senses. The slogans stopped and the people who were in front of the demonstration began to fall to the ground and run in all directions. One of the students who was running in our direction was hit by a gunshot and fell near us. That woke us up from our initial surprise and we began running, in different directions.

My heart began to beat uncontrollably, and my mouth became dry, I instinctively began running without thinking about anyone but myself. The sounds of machine guns sounded further away but didn’t stop.

Not being at the front of the demonstration saved our lives, and because we were chatting, we were walking a bit slower than the rest of the protesters. Therefore, instead of being in the middle of the main group, we were walking on the sidewalks, which gave us some protection when the army began shooting at the demonstrators. The indiscriminately shooting at students would be known as the “Students massacre of July 30, 1975.”

When the university restarted orientations, I never saw her again, and I realized I didn't even know her name.

After I became a lawyer specialised in human rights. One of the few spaces, relatively safe to work on human rights was the Catholic Church. In 1985 became one of their lawyers.

It was the year the government and the guerrilla fighters began, for the first time, peace negotiations. The parties agreed that the archbishop, my boss, would be the mediator. The first step was to interchange prisoners. 

Part of my job as legal advisor to the archbishop was to escort former prisoners to the norther province of Chalatenango.

As the liberated prisoners were transported to the town of San Ignacio and from there we hiked for about three hours to one of a safe zone, or as the insurgents called them “liberated zones” where their families, friends and compañeros, were waiting for them. 

As we arrived at the camp, “She” was the one who formally received the former prisoners. As the highest-ranking commander in the “Liberated Zone.” She introduced herself as Commander Claudia.

I recognized her immediately, she looked tired and had short hair, her skin colour was darker and was much thinner, but her voice and presence were the same. I, on the other hand, had gained a lot of weight and had grown a full beard. 

I did not identify himself with her or rather I didn’t tell her that I had met her before. She called me Doctor I called her commander. I couldn't stop looking at her, as discreetly as I could. She carried a machine gun slung over her shoulder and a side arm. It appears she didn’t recognize me or if she did, she gave no signs of having done so. I was embarrassed, that’s why I didn’t even try to remind her who I was. The last time she had seen me was running a way from her in panic without any regard for her safety. 

The mediators, the former prisoners, their families, and the guerrilla column she commanded dined together that evening. The evening was pleasant with music and traditional food. By morning, all of them had left. Except for an elder man that was going to be our guide to take the mediators, back to San Ignacio. 

Years later, in 1989, one afternoon, arrived at my office the list of war victims that every so often we received from the International Red Cross Committee. I saw her nom de guerre or pseudonym in the list and beside it her legal name. The army had attacked a group of civilians running a way. She had been the last combatant standing protecting the retreat of the families on the run. 

I cried for her as I learned of her death. I finally learned her legal name. I grieve for her every July 30, as a reminder that the time of the innocence had ended.