As El Salvador cracks down on gangs, one community unites to say 鈥榚nough鈥�
| La Noria, El Salvador
Rosa Idalia Chicas remembers her fear growing up in El Salvador during the civil war. The military could show up and take away a loved one at any moment and without explanation 鈥� sometimes forever. Even though the conflict ended 30 years ago, lately her community has felt similarly on edge.
In March, following one of the deadliest days in El Salvador since the civil war, President Nayib Bukele鈥檚 government declared a state of emergency to crack down on local gangs that have taken control of entire swaths of the country. It has been extended four times, currently in effect through August, and it restricts freedom of assembly, access to legal representation and due process, and allows the government to make indiscriminate arrests.聽聽
More than 45,000 Salvadorans have been detained, according to the Security Ministry. Rights groups say many have no gang ties and were arrested without their families having any knowledge of their well-being.
Why We Wrote This
Turmoil often breeds distrust. But in El Salvador, some lean on lessons learned from the civil war to unite amid fresh conflict in the Central American nation.
The arrests have hit Ms. Chicas鈥� community in eastern El Salvador hard, pitting neighbors against one another. Gang activity has been present here for decades, and no one wants to be mistaken as a sympathizer. Ever since her brother, Julio Cesar Chicas, was arrested at his home in May, even her extended family has kept its distance. He has never been involved with a gang, she says, but those who are still speaking with her only do so cautiously, out of fear of association.
The community divisions that are emerging are a red flag to civil war-era organizations that dedicated the past three decades to conflict resolution. Several have jumped into action first to unite families of the wrongfully detained and then to help them denounce the state of emergency and counter some of the stigmas tearing the community fabric at its seams.
Gossip and 鈥渉atred within the population鈥� has grown hand-in-hand with the state of emergency over the past several months, says Jos茅 Salvador Ruiz, a leader of聽Comunidades Eclesiales de Base,聽a grassroots organization that worked with survivors of a 1981 massacre here.
It propelled him and others to help families like Ms. Chicas鈥� petition the government for information on their loved ones and to put a public face on the fear many are suffering silently following the arrests.
Life has become 鈥渨orse than during the war, because we distrust even our neighbors,鈥� Ms. Chicas says of the past four months. Yet for those coming together to speak out against the detentions, these families are showing others that as a united front they can better fight for their rights. 鈥淲e are their voice,鈥� she says.
Worse than war
It鈥檚 no coincidence that it鈥檚 communities from this region, known as the Bajo Lempa, that united to take action: They鈥檝e suffered outsized violence at the hands of the government before. Between 1980 and 1992, families here were regularly harassed by the armed forces, and soldiers killed some 500 unarmed civilians in the La Quesera massacre in 1981.
The 1992 peace accords limited the role of the armed forces to national defense and created a new civilian police force meant to be professional and apolitical. But 鈥渢he police never had a squeaky-clean record,鈥� says Rina Montti, director of human rights research at Cristosal, a nongovernmental organization that works with victims of violence.聽Security forces have been implicated in serious abuses in recent years, from extrajudicial killings to sexual assaults and forced disappearances. Some 64% of Salvadorans have little or no trust in the police,聽.
The arrests under the state of emergency are most common in poorer areas, long stigmatized as gang hotspots where police harassment was already systematic, according to Cristosal. 鈥淥ur territory has been overwhelmed by gangs for years,鈥� Mr. Ruiz says. 鈥淏ut, we have to look at the root of what makes young people join these groups. Our communities fled the war, were repatriated, and then dealt with ... a state that never invested in youth, education, health, or decent housing,鈥� he says.
Mr. Bukele has made a name for himself as a social media-savvy leader, at one point describing himself as 鈥渢he world鈥檚 coolest dictator鈥� in his Twitter bio. He has previously pushed the limits on democracy, using his growing power and alliances to聽stack the Supreme Court聽with allies, and in his response to the pandemic, which raised concerns about an聽iron-fisted聽approach to keeping order.
In a June speech marking his third year in office, he called for support for the 鈥渂attle鈥� he鈥檚 waging via the state of emergency: 鈥淭his is a war between all honest Salvadorans against the criminals who have kept us in fear, mourning, and misery for years,鈥� Mr. Bukele said.
But imprisoning all gang members would hardly resolve violence in El Salvador, experts say. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a structure of organized crime that鈥檚 been fostered for decades, and it is not going to disappear so easily,鈥� says Ver贸nica Reyna, director of human rights at Social Service Pasionista.
Portraying government detractors as associates or supporters of gangs is part of the administration鈥檚 divisive approach under the state of emergency, rights workers say.
Esmeralda Dom铆nguez of Bajo Lempa was arrested on April 19. A community leader active in women鈥檚 rights and environmental organizations, she was targeted after trying to get her husband released after his arbitrary arrest earlier that month, says her mother聽Mar铆a Dolores Garc铆a, who is a survivor of the La Quesera massacre. Now family and friends have shunned the family.聽聽
Another 60 people 鈥� including farmers, construction workers, and聽tortilla聽sellers 鈥� have been detained in the Bajo Lempa region and their families similarly ostracized.
鈥淯nited we will free each case鈥�
This was the stigma聽Comunidades Eclesiales de Base聽hoped to confront. They organized meetings with the families of detainees, creating a space to share their uncertainties and pain.
A strategy for action emerged from that initial sense of unity. Family members composed a song called 鈥淗asta darles el abrazo鈥澛�(Until we embrace them), which tells the story of arbitrary arrests 鈥� including their frustration with the state for refusing to share information about a loved one鈥檚 whereabouts or the humiliation they鈥檝e felt at the hand of government institutions. But, in the song, the family is motivated to keep fighting, 鈥渞eunited and united we will free each case,鈥� reads one refrain.
As confidence and trust grew, the group tried something even more radical: Some 65 neighbors traveled to the Supreme Court of Justice in San Salvador twice in May to file more than 30聽habeas corpus聽petitions in defense of their loved ones. This legal measure is used to bring detainees before the court to determine if their imprisonment is lawful, and the collective filing is the first of its kind during the state of emergency.
They signed an open letter as the Committee of Relatives of Victims of the State of Emergency and read it before entering the court. 鈥淒o not be afraid, you are not alone. Get organized and demand respect for your rights,鈥� the statement urged.
That message was received by loved ones of the wrongfully detained in other parts of the country. Groups in at least two other departments have contacted Mr. Ruiz for guidance on demanding answers from the government. 鈥淚t takes some courage to get involved,鈥� he says.
This experience underscores the importance civil war-era organizations still hold, says Jorge Cu茅llar, assistant professor of Latin American studies at Dartmouth College. The trust and the connections they鈥檝e maintained with the community puts them in a unique position to mobilize members.
鈥淭his bond needs to be reactivated and reoriented toward鈥� today鈥檚 struggles around upholding human rights, he says.
Even though the state of emergency enjoys broad support 鈥� 74% in one poll 鈥� that breaks down when respondents are questioned about the suspensions of each right specifically.
President Bukele鈥檚 political strategy is to maintain a constant crisis that requires extraordinary measures, says Ms. Reyna. 鈥淭he population eventually gives up its rights to attend to the emergency,鈥� she says.
The lack of transparency and the way in which the government is flaunting its arrests is giving rise to further polarization. 鈥淵ou cannot continue to build a society that rejoices because others suffer,鈥� says Mr. Ruiz.
Ms. Chicas鈥� brother and her neighbors鈥� loved ones are still in jail. The judicial authorities have not responded to their petitions. Still, these families are plotting their next steps.
鈥淲e should take to the streets, 500,000, 2 million people to demonstrate, to defend their rights,鈥� says Manuel de Jes煤s Mart铆nez, whose son El铆as, the goalkeeper for his local soccer team, was arrested on March 26. His detention was prior to the announcement of the state of emergency, yet he received the same treatment 鈥� no explanation for his arrest or access to legal aid.
鈥淎s fathers and mothers we categorically reject the unjust incrimination of our children,鈥� Mr. de Jes煤s Mart铆nez says. 鈥淲e know, and the community knows, that they are innocent.鈥�
