Breaking the Silence |
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Finding Historical Consciousness in Guatemala
Kendyl tucks her sleeve over her hand and wipes the bus window. “Why are you so interested in war memories?” she asks, catching me off guard. “If you are interested in violence, you don’t have to go into the past to find it. Violence is everywhere.” I hesitate over my response. Why does insisting on remembering the war suddenly feel arrogant?
Outside the window, women roll barrels of corn on stones rough as their heels. “What’s so bad about forgetting? What’s wrong with not wanting your kids to know the fear you lived, to want a life for them where they aren’t held responsible for the past?” Maybe she has a point. Maybe selective forgetting is a conscious choice passed on to the postwar generation—but with what consequences?
In the aftermath of ethnic violence, historical consciousness can frame critiques of ongoing systems that reinforce social inequalities and suffering. But there is a history of silence here. And with the emergence of new forms of “postwar” violence, the memory of La Violencia, the thirty-six year civil war and genocide, has been pushed to the middle pages of newspapers or reframed in Plexiglas posters claiming peace and multiculturalism at city bus stops. School textbooks mask this era of internal violence as a conflict between “two devils,” as if the state and guerrilla armies played equal roles. Before coming to Guatemala, I had wondered what kinds of memories would surface from a submerged recent past. As contemporary violence escalates, my perceptions have turned like marbles on a wood floor.
Since that warm day on the bus with Kendyl, I have struggled to find out why studies of past violence warrant a place alongside discussions of present-day violence. Hundreds of Guatemalans have helped me see the past and present through varying prisms of memory and meaning. Guatemalan activists have insisted on critical historical consciousness as a postwar imperative, exposing to me the dialectics between silence and violence, history and culture, and impunity and empowerment.
Raúl, who asked that his name not be published for security reasons, for example, tells me about ongoing campaigns to raise consciousness about impunity for wartime crimes in the Hijos por la Identidad y Justicia contra el Olvido y el Silencio (HIJOS) office. When I ask whether HIJOS activism now extends to contemporary crime, he says yes and no, describing the topology of past and present violence like the twist of a Mobius strip. He explains that the same people who orchestrated past genocides still operate in unconcealed political and military positions of power, or more discreetly in the shadows of paramilitary forces, death squads or organized crime. “There are clear examples that the military still presides in Guatemala,” he says. “Ríos Montt continued his power in Congress; death squads still exist, eliminating hundreds of young people; social movements are repressed... forced disappearances against peasants or indigenous people also continue to exist. It’s a violence or repression that we can’t view as new—rather, it’s a result of the political repression that was used in the war against our parents.” I nod, watching Raúl’s eyes flicker over the poster of hundreds of faces of the disappeared, their photographs lined up like mug shots. “The mechanisms that made the genocide possible are the same mechanisms of control and repression, now much stronger and more dangerous, because today we can no longer identify only one group responsible.” This web of simultaneous forces creates a more dangerous contemporary network. Many of these dark forces collaborate, strengthen, and protect one another—or compete for power—thereby escalating the number of victims, he says. His critique emphasizes the connections between past and present violence, identifying a commonality between actors, modes of violence, and impunity.
When Guillermo, who also asked that his last name not be published for security reasons, and I go for after-dinner walks to the nearby soccer field, no more than 200 feet from his home, his parents await our return nervously. Relative proximity does not imply safety. “That gate doesn’t make you safe,” they warn me. Even living in a gated community with 24-hour security guards, as does one out of every ten families in Guatemala City, does not guarantee protection from the violence that defines present-day, “postwar” Guatemala. Guillermo’s backpack rattles as he comes through the open hallway, a dead giveaway. His parents unzip his bag in a panic, searching for cans of spray-paint that he uses for poverty, drug, and violence awareness messages, desperate words on the walls of buildings. They argue about the kind of person Guillermo is becoming, someone who vandalizes buildings, a common delinquent with secrets. He does not tell them the truth, that their sadness is heavier than the oak furniture that fills their dead daughter’s preserved bedroom. She left one night and never came back. Her body was found less than two miles from their house.
Legal impunity for the criminals of the past has engendered a “culture of impunity” that penetrates Guatemalans’ everyday lives, diminishing trust in the government, justice system, and the role of seemingly powerless citizens, conditions that have earned Guatemala the name “Killer’s Paradise.” For many, civic impotence leads to apathy toward violence, exhibiting a resignation that implies, past or present, you’re not safe here, because Guatemala is Guatemala. All over the country I hear the same narrative from adults and adolescents, Mayans and ladinos: Guatemala is a violent country with a violent culture. They cite the war and present-day violence as two examples from a historical continuum of turmoil, meaning that a history of violence implies a “culture of violence.”
The official rationale for much contemporary crime is that learned violence is an unfortunate social remnant of past violence, notably the recent civil war. Though thousands of young people were forcibly recruited into the state or guerrilla army and trained in methods of inflicting violence and invoking fear, the idea that contemporary crime can be so simply understood as a consequence of historical violence is misleading. Unlike Raúl, who holds powerful institutions and individuals responsible, many attribute Guatemala’s experience to an ingrained culture of violence. In this reading of history, though, power continuity and structural inequality go undetected. Like all “postwar” crime, socialized violence has been given room to fester because of conditions of impunity.
Jorge Velásquez enters the Ministerio Público investigator’s office after rescheduling his meeting for the fourth time. Once every week, Jorge dresses up in a suit, drives through Guatemala City traffic, pays a parking attendant, and waits in the public prosecutor’s office or his lawyer’s office or the human rights ombudsman’s office or some state institution to see whether they have made any progress on his daughter’s case. It has been three years since Claudina Isabel’s brutal rape and murder, but his devotion to her case is unwavering, even in the face of state ambivalence and outright resistance toward his pursuit of justice. Jorge begins, “I am not here to complain, but to request a change. I am here today, three years after my daughter’s death, and it is as if she died yesterday. I have been to meeting after meeting, and the case never moves forward.” Behind his glasses, tears gather in Jorge’s eyes.
The investigator listens with distanced composure. He leans over and adjusts his socks so that they rest evenly on his calves, then returns to Jorge. Jorge’s face is red and swollen, his shirt collar tight around his neck. He goes on. “There are six suspects, and none have been interrogated. There are mistakes in the forensic report. The case has not moved forward. The loss of a child is incomprehensible. No one’s stomach has been the same since Claudina Isabel was killed. They insulted my daughter’s character—her character! Do you know what the police said? The police said they thought she was a prostitute because she was wearing sandals. Do you know what it’s like to identify the body of your daughter? You are the third investigator to have this case in your hands. Every time I come in here looking for progress, I move backwards and have to start over. Ya no voy a ensuciar el nombre de mi hija.” Most victims of contemporary violence cannot do what Jorge does. They fear retribution, opting for silence as a mode of protection. They do not live near enough to the capital to register continuous complaints. They cannot afford to take time off work to pursue justice. They do not know the middle-class protocol required to be taken seriously. Though Jorge does not articulate his devotion to justice for these victims, he is simultaneously fighting for justice for past and present crimes by demanding an end to impunity, the salient connection between La Violencia and “postwar” violencia. He shoots the investigator a face stiff with rage. “Impunity was an invitation to kill my daughter.”
Lack of accountability for past and present violence has created an environment in which violence is permitted, if not provoked, by the implicit guarantee of impunity. And present crime often involves past criminals who have been granted legal amnesty. Fear of postwar violence, aggravated by impunity, may silence those who would otherwise make their memories known.
Postwar violence is also perhaps a consequence for a citizenry whose critical reckoning of the connection that its past has with its present has been silenced. The war is relegated to a history disconnected from the present. For many, the dangers of the present do not resonate with memories of the war. Postwar violence is dismissed as gang-related delinquency indicative of a “culture of violence,” even when crimes are noticeably politically motivated. The assertion about Guatemalan nature as inherently violent surrenders to discourses of power that situate contemporary violence as cultural rather than structurally caused, reinforced, and pardoned: “it negates the political character of the conflict and implies that there can be no political solution” (Victoria Sanford, “Learning to Kill by Proxy: Colombian Paramilitaries and the Legacy of Central American Death Squads, Contras, and Civil Patrols,” Social Justice 2003 p.15). This reductive excuse asserts that violence is endemic because it is intrinsic.
Guatemala’s national memory of La Violencia cannot be understood without recognizing its contemporary embeddedness in “postwar” violencia—violence provoked, protected, and perpetuated by impunity. The absence of critical analysis of ongoing violence is entrenched—not in the culture of Guatemalans, but in the sparse and sterile representations of the past by those in power. Despite its now leftist government, Guatemala’s Ministry of Education has yet to institute a history education that confronts the recent violent past. Perhaps the lack of critical inquiry into violence has contributed to a tolerance of violence. It also seems possible that the deficiency of critical historical consciousness is, in part, a consequence of postwar violence. In this context, it is no surprise that postwar crime overshadows the war.
Creating meaningful and sustainable peace requires critically confronting violent pasts: interrogating the conditions that allowed conflict to take hold, while holding individuals and institutions accountable for their actions. Critical historical consciousness of past violence has everything to do with understanding—and challenging—postwar violence in Guatemala.
Michelle Bellino is a doctoral student in Culture, Communities, and Education at Harvard Graduate School of Education. Her main research interest is history education that follows mass violence, particularly identity-based conflicts. She studies how Guatemala’s postwar generation engages with histories of violence and constructs their identity through vicarious “post-memories,” as part of the social memory processes that characterize transitional justice societies, This work was funded in part by Harvard University’s David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies summer and term time research grants.
Book Talk
Everyday Tales of Colombia’s Civil War
Breaking the Silence
A History of Violence, Not a Culture of Violence
Reading La Masacre de Panzós in Panzós
Development and Beyond
Central America Competitiveness Project
Development Strategies and the 1996 Peace Accord
Editor's Letter
First Takes
Guatemala, Guatebuena, Guatemaya
Immigration
Increasing Visibility of Guatemalan Immigrants
The Postville Immigration Raid
Indigenous Lives
Indigenous Rights and the Peace Process
Making a Difference
Related Links
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A Helping Hand for the Neighbors
Assessing Antenatal Care in Nicaragua
Replacing the Despair with the Demás in Democracy
Violence
The International Commission Against Impunity In Guatemala
Comments
Guatemala etc
Is it poverty, the drugs trade or some kind of macho culture that seems to pervade these South American countries with their gun and "eye for an eye" culture ?
violence
I work in the human rights field and I traveled many times in Latin America in order to study the people's behavior and to discuss about their fears and concerns.I was impressed by the political and social situation there and after several discussions with locals from Mexico I've realized that the most important is to learn how to survive surrounded by drug trafficking and criminal organizations.
Guatemala
This is a great review about the political situation from Guatemala.It is a country dominated by conflicts that are very difficult to manage but education helpls in order to bring peace.There are smart people who have proper education and try to convince the others that violence is not a solution when you want to obtain something.
A history of violence
This is a great article that provides a quality content.Guatemala is a country with a long history of violence and conflicts.It is very difficult to promote peace there but with some efforts the results will be as you expected.I've recently taken one of those special degrees in psychology and I am preparing to travel to Guatemala in order to participate to a promoting peace campaign there.
I think that we'll never
I think that we'll never deeply understand the mind of the criminal and the only thing that we can do about these people is to try to find out what is in their minds. I think that they shouldn't just be kept in a maximum security prison but also treated. I have a persona like this in my family and we were very supportive after the shock was gone.
Electric Golf Trolley
This post is very well written, also has a lot of informations. Thank you.
reply
Remede de grand mere
Very nice writing..Thanks for showing this with us.
I knew that Guatemala has a
I knew that Guatemala has a violent history but I didn`t knew that there were so many ways of violence and harm. I think those people are damned, unfortunatelly. And not only them, there are so many nations that have violent pasts.
wow
wow..so amazing..
Hello
Hello, thank you very much to post this. I needed this and now I found it. This is so great.
I'm so glad
I'm so glad that there are some people in this world which still appreciate this things.
Even living in a gated community
Even living in a gated community with 24-hour security guards, as does one out of every ten families in Guatemala City, does not guarantee protection from the violence that defines present-day, “postwar” Guatemala.
Legal impunity for the criminals
Legal impunity for the criminals of the past has engendered a “culture of impunity” that penetrates Guatemalans’ everyday lives, diminishing trust in the government, justice system, and the role of seemingly powerless citizens, conditions that have earned Guatemala the name “Killer’s Paradise.”
The only viable path
The only viable path for peace and resolution is to bring all Guatemalans together, to find a common story and unite them against political corruption, apathy and endemic forgetting.
Most victims
Most victims of contemporary violence cannot do what Jorge does. They fear retribution, opting for silence as a mode of protection. They do not live near enough to the capital to register continuous complaints. They cannot afford to take time off work to pursue justice.
Geography of Awareness
Thanks Michelle, I really enjoyed your thoughts. I am a Peace Corps volunteer working in San Marcos with the UN FAO program in Food Security, and throughout my service, I have had the rare opportunity, like yourself, to ask questions regarding La Violencia. What I find most intriguing at this moment in time, a time of Guatemalans gearing up for en election cycle, increased drug violence, and sieges staged in the Alta and Baja Verapaces, is the difference in opinion you will receive depending on where you ask.
I was in Salquil Grande, Nebaj, El Quiche (one of the hardest-hit regions during La Violencia) last week to aid with a nutrition "charla," and the elderly woman I was speaking to brimmed with tears only minutes into our conversation about La Violencia, yet did not have much to say about current drug violence. This region of El Quiche is not a stronghold of Las Zetas or any other mara fighting for control. On the other hand, in my border department of San Marcos, where violence during the civil war was constrained to certain areas, memory of La Violencia is not as potent, but fear about drug cartels is at an unprecedented high. Some people I talk to do make the connection between the political forces which conducted La Violencia and the current drug violence. However, I am increasingly finding that a mixture of geopolitics, forces which sustain silence, and a divide between older and younger generations creates the perfect conditions for maras to continue operating.
In short, I think you raise a very important point about a national education curriculum designed to critically respond to violence in Guatemala. Experiences were vastly different during La Violencia, and are similar now with respect to drug violence. The only viable path for peace and resolution is to bring all Guatemalans together, to find a common story and unite them against political corruption, apathy and endemic forgetting.
I appreciate your comment,
I appreciate your comment, Leah, and I agree that encouraging critique about the linkages between actors, institutions, and violence is critical to understanding these connections. One piece of this for me that is so important and underutilized is the idea of public awareness and national consciousness of the past. Deep historical thinking in classrooms is an effective way to encourage the kind of reflection that provokes understanding of these connections, even when they are not explicitly laid out for young learners. I often find myself struggling with the feasibility of these implications though, because clearly those with the power to incite national consciousness of ongoing experiences of violence do not want this kind of critical thinking to take place among citizens. For example, efforts within the Ministry of Education to really look deeply at the past have been easily overturned. This is, of course, nothing compared to the state-level corruption that hinders the justice system-- but if "critical historical consciousness" is one way in (and out?) of these fatalistic outlooks-- such as notions that Guatemala is a victim of its own "culture of violence"-- how can we encourage this kind of reflection safely?
Understanding Violence
Great article.
Contemporary forms of violence in Guatemala cannot and should not be understood apart from historical social dynamics as well as the power relations that have underpinned them.
In reading and researching about Guatemala for my PhD work that focuses on the relationship and linkages between development and violence, I have come to the same conclusion as Michelle – that there is a need for much more critical analysis geared towards better understanding violence in contemporary Guatemala. (That is not to say there are not people engaging in critical analysis, and the articles in this edition of ReVista are evidence of that critical scholarship. Yet the analysis that stems from much of the mainstream media, development institutions, and even certain academics for example, provide a very limited and narrow understanding of violence in contemporary Guatemala).
Throughout history, diverse forms of violence in Guatemala including different forms of physical harm, social and economic inequalities, racism, political oppression, violence of representation and other forms of domination such as the silencing of specific ‘voices’ have been linked in complex ways. Therefore, it seems to me that creating peace will require working towards a better understanding of the social dynamics that underpin diverse forms of violence (direct, structural, and symbolic etc.) and the relationship between them.
Most of the violence is because the economic inequalities
I believe that the majority of social problems are due to the lack of economic aid from the government, not giving money without reason, but by creating programs to help the neediest and creating programs to help the society especially at the school level and in the field of health.
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