Scallen Georgetown 0076D 14457

"THE BOMBS THAT DROP IN EL SALVADOR EXPLODE IN MOUNT PLEASANT:"
FROM COLD WAR CONFLAGRATION TO IMMIGRANT STRUGGLES IN

WASHINGTON, DC, 1970-1995
A Dissertation
submitted to the Faculty of the
Graduate School of Arts and Sciences
of Georgetown University
in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the
degree of
Doctor of Philosophy
in History
By
Patrick Daniel Scallen, M.A.
Washington, DC
July 22, 2019
Copyright 2019 by Patrick Daniel Scallen
All Rights Reserved
ii
"THE BOMBS THAT DROP IN EL SALVADOR EXPLODE IN MOUNT
PLEASANT:" FROM COLD WAR CONFLAGRATION TO IMMIGRANT
STRUGGLES IN WASHINGTON, DC, 1970-1995
Patrick Daniel Scallen, M.A.
Thesis Advisors: John Tutino, Ph.D. and Joseph McCartin, Ph.D.
ABSTRACT
This study charts the rise of metropolitan Washington, DC’s largest immigrant population
from its roots in the post-war international economy through the end of the Salvadoran civil war
(1980-1992). It traces Salvadorans as they migrated from a country wracked by economic
disparity, social inequality, dashed democratic hopes, and government-perpetrated mass killings
to the capital of the foreign nation most responsible for the conditions they fled. Part of the
Latino immigrant community in the District of Columbia that emerged as Washington became
the capital of world capitalism following World War II, Salvadorans had carved out a space for
themselves as a small but notable ethnic minority when civil war erupted, displacing hundreds of
thousands of their countryfolk. Those who survived the journey to the United States were
subsequently denied refugee status by the Reagan administration, which was bent on casting the
Salvadoran conflict in Cold War terms. Salvadoran immigrants to Washington, DC were thus
forced to take the lowest-paying menial jobs and faced broad racial, ethnic, and legal
discrimination as they struggled to gain a foothold in their new surroundings.
This investigation probes how Salvadorans struggled to survive and craft community in
the nation’s capital during the 1970s, 1980s, and early 1990s. It analyzes the impact of US
immigration policies on Salvadorans, particularly on those without legal documentation. It then
moves on to describe how exiled Salvadoran opposition members forged links with North
American religious leaders, politicians, and community members in the Sanctuary movement
iii
and Central American solidarity movement, giving birth to agencies that protected Salvadoran
immigrants from deportation and fought for their civil rights. The study explores the relationship
between Washington, DC’s burgeoning Latino population and its African American majority,
examining racial tensions on the street, in public schools, and at city hall. It then shifts to the
urban unrest that rocked DC’s multiethnic neighborhood of Mt. Pleasant in early 1991, sparked
by a policewoman’s shooting of a Salvadoran man. The dissertation closes with an appraisal of
Latino activism in the aftermath of the Mt. Pleasant riots within the broader social, economic,
and political context of the national capital region.
iv
AKNOWLEDGEMENTS
One can never do justice to the selfless efforts of others who have sacrificed so much of their
time, energy, and love to make this project a reality. In addition to those whose interviews are
cited in this text, dozens more have given of their time to help me better understand the complex
dynamics of such intimate subject matter. These individuals include but are not limited to
Arnoldo Ramos, Arturo Griffiths, Beth Perry and Orlando Cortés, Bonnie Cain, Chico Díaz,
Elinor Hart, Evelyn Gonzalez and Fred Mills, Jeannette Noltenius, Joe Eldridge, Jose Sueiro,
Lilo Gonzalez, Mara Cherkasky, Marcia Bernbaum, Mario Sol, Mario Velasquez, Olivia
Cadaval, Patricia Weiss Fagan, Lori Kaplan and Pedro Avilés, Sue and Phil Wheaton, Quique
Avilés and Hilary Binder, Rick Reinhard and Judy Byron, and Sylvia Rosales-Fike. I am also
deeply thankful for the efforts of the dedicated folks at CISPES, Humanities DC and the DC Oral
History Collaborative, Rafael Roncal and El Pregonero, Abel Nuñez and the CARECEN staff,
Ranald Woodaman and the Smithsonian Latino Center, Magdalena Mieri and the Civic
Engagement team at the Smithsonian National Museum of American History, and my friends in
Mt. Pleasant and beyond, who have become family to me in my adopted city and who have
provided the necessary levity by reminding me that there is, indeed, life outside the dissertation.
I owe a special debt of gratitude to two individuals in particular who have been advisors,
mentors, and role models throughout the ebb and flow of my academic career and without whom
this dissertation would never have reached fruition. John Tutino has shepherded this study
expertly, with wit, wisdom, and good cheer, through its many reincarnations. Joe McCartin has
provided invaluable and insightful feedback and essential moral support over the past 15 years. I
owe them, Bryan McCann, and the entire Department of History at Georgetown University a
deep debt of gratitude.
This project is dedicated to the Scallen family:

my parents (Tom and Jan) and sister (Bridget).
Mil gracias,
Pat
v
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION………….……………………………………………………………………..1
CHAPTER 1: A HISTORY OF INEQUITY AND THE FIRST EXPORT CRISIS,

1524-1932………..………………………………………………………………………………17
CHAPTER 2: MILITARY RULE, THE SECOND EXPORT CRISIS, AND THE ROOTS OF
REVOLUTION, 1932-1980………….....................…………………………………………….42
CHAPTER 3: CIVIL WAR AND THE EXPORT OF MIGRANTS AND REFUGEES,

1980-1992………………………………………………………………………………………..78
CHAPTER 4: ORGANIZING FOR JUSTICE IN THE CAPITAL CITY, 1980-1986 .………113
CHAPTER 5: LIMITATIONS ON NEW LIVES, 1980-1991…………………………………176
CHAPTER 6: FIGHTING FOR LEGITIMACY, 1991-1995………………………………….226
CONCLUSION: THE CHALLENGES OF PEACE…………………………………………...252
BIBLIOGRAPHY……………………………………………………………………….……...258
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A NOTE ON TERMINOLOGY
When this study was begun, the broadly accepted term – both in popular and academic circles –
to describe an individual of Latin American descent who resided in the United States was
“Latino” or “Latina” (plural: “Latinos”), consistent with traditional Spanish grammar. Over the
course of this investigation, the term “Latinx” has grown increasingly common in certain
contexts and is making its way quite rapidly into the popular lexicon. A more gender-inclusive
means of identification, it will most likely supplant the more traditional nomenclature of
“Latino/a.” I thus began this study writing and referring to “Latinos/as” and have since
transitioned to using “Latinxs” in casual conversation and with my students.
I have chosen to retain the former designation for two reasons. First, as of the completion of this
dissertation, there has been no historical manuscript published in the United States that has solely
utilized the “Latinx” designation. More importantly, the participants in this study identified
themselves as “Latino” or “Latina” when interviewed. In order to be true to the voices that have
shaped my dissertation, I have elected to use their words and thus have retained the more
traditional usage – for now.
vii
INTRODUCTION
One hot, humid summer evening in early May of 1991, a Washington, DC neighborhood
two miles due north of the White House exploded in violence. Mt. Pleasant, an area that over the
past several decades had welcomed an eclectic mix of activists, artists, punk rockers, and other
counter-culture types who shared space with multi-generational African American families,
Latino immigrants, and an increasing number of middle- and upper-income young white
families, had prided itself on its multicultural flavor and ethno-racial diversity.1 But following
the shooting of a Salvadoran man by an African American female DC police officer on May 5,
1991, something snapped. Youths – predominantly but not entirely Latino and male – took to the
streets, hurling bottles, bricks, and rocks at the police who rushed to the scene. Patrol cars went
up in flames; protesters raced through the streets and down the alleys adjoining the main
commercial strip of Mt. Pleasant Street, daring their uniformed pursuers to contain their rage.
The following night, the Latino protesters were joined by African Americans and some whites
from across the city; the situation quickly escalated into a full-scale riot. Hundreds tore through
the commercial areas in adjoining neighborhoods, smashing windows and sacking stores. Mayor
Sharon Pratt Dixon responded by slapping a curfew on the area, effectively halting the looting:
only sporadic skirmishes were reported in the nights to follow. But the damage had been done;
1
According to U.S. Census data, Mt. Pleasant in 1990 was approximately 42.6% white, 36.5% black, and 26.8%
Hispanic. The percentage of Hispanics in Mt. Pleasant had risen significantly over the past decade: the 1980 census
only recorded 12.6% of Mt. Pleasant residents as having “Spanish origins.” (District of Columbia’s Office of the
Chief Technology Officer (OCTO), opendata.dc.gov) In his study on Mt. Pleasant, Robert D. Manning used Census
data to determine that Mt. Pleasant in 1990 was 35% black, 35% white, and 27% Hispanic. It must be noted,
however, that the Census has been known to drastically undercount Hispanics, as many undocumented Hispanics
avoid the count or are not reached by Census volunteers. Unofficial sources often peg the racial distribution of Mt.
Pleasant at one-third white, one-third black, and one-third Hispanic. Robert D. Manning, “Washington, D.C.: The
Changing Social Landscape of the International Capital City,” in Origins and Destinies: Immigration, Race, and
Ethnicity in America, ed. Silvia Pedraza and Rubén G. Rumbaut (London: Wadsworth, 1996), 387.
1
the wounds were still fresh and deep. The neighborhood would take years to heal, and the city
would spend just as long grappling with the underlying forces that led to the Mt. Pleasant riots.
News of the unrest spread quickly. Newspaper reporters swarmed the scene that first
night and the following days. Radio and television stations picked up the story and broadcast it
nationwide. Even international news organizations aired small snippets; one Mt. Pleasant
resident picked up the phone to hear her friend in Germany on the other line, concerned about
her safety.2 The Mount Pleasant riots, as the violence came to be known, had gone global.
It is fitting that the disturbances of May 5 and 6, 1991 became international news, for
their roots stretched thousands of miles south to the war-ravaged nations of Central America.
Many – if not most – of the first night’s participants hailed from El Salvador, the smallest nation
on the North American continent, which over the past decade had received an infusion of billions
of dollars of United States economic and military aid aimed at quashing the country’s Marxist-
led guerrilla revolution. The administration of President Ronald Reagan, alarmed at what it
perceived to be the spread of Communist ideology across Latin America, had made El Salvador
the cornerstone of its anti-Communist campaign, funneling US weapons, planes, ammunition,
technical advisors, and Special Forces troops to buoy the corrupt and dysfunctional Salvadoran
armed forces, which used the aid to wage often indiscriminate warfare on entire segments of the
country’s population. Hundreds of thousands fled the violence and ensuing economic tumult, a
significant percentage of whom made their way to the capital city of the United States, including
many of those who led the assault on the Metropolitan Police Department in Mt. Pleasant those
fateful nights. Denied refugee status by the Reagan administration, the majority of Salvadorans
entered the United States illegally and lived undocumented lives. Denied ample city resources
and relegated to poorly paid service and domestic jobs, they struggled mightily to survive in a
2
Conversation with Louise Meyer, 6/21/17.
2
foreign land. Verbally harassed, physically abused, and marginalized by DC police, Salvadorans
responded with force. Despite – or perhaps because of – President Reagan’s best efforts, the
chickens of US Cold War foreign policy in Latin America had come home to roost, right in the
White House’s own backyard.
From Revolutionary Violence to Civil Unrest
In the late 1970s, El Salvador teetered on the brink of revolution. The past century of
economic exploitation, premised on the supremacy of agro-export capitalism and a servile rural
working class, had forged a nation in which a small percentage of the population owned the vast
majority of arable land and exercised significant control over the means of production. The
sprigs of hope for democratic change had just been quashed by General Carlos Humberto
Romero, the latest in a long line of military leaders, who had cemented his recent (fraudulent)
presidential victory in February of 1977 through the intimidation and persecution of his political
opponents. Romero had unleashed government security forces on the democratic opposition;
police and National Guard sowed terror by kidnapping, torturing, and often murdering those
suspected of questioning the prevailing order. Priests who preached liberation from misery and
poverty were threatened with death if they did not leave the country; many remained and were
murdered by right-wing forces. Campesino organizers disappeared by the dozens, their bodies
turning up on rural roads and in ravines, mutilated beyond recognition. Urban activists found
themselves in the crosshairs of death squads with nowhere to hide. Those opposition figures who
3
could escape fled to the mountains or to neighboring countries; those who could not generally
met a far more gruesome fate.
In 1980, following an orgy of state-sponsored violence that included the assassination of
outspoken peace advocate and government critic Archbishop Óscar Romero, El Salvador
descended into full-scale civil war. Its onset displaced hundreds of thousands: some fled military
incursions into their fields, homes, and places of worship; others escaped the generalized danger
of being caught in the crossfire between guerrilla insurgents and Salvadoran army soldiers.
Young boys generally fared the worst, as they found themselves in the unenviable position of
being conscripted by the army or recruited by guerrilla forces. Many of the displaced attempted
to relocate inside El Salvador with relatives or friends, often in another part of the tiny country,
and became internally displaced persons (IDPs) – by most estimates, over half a million strong at
the height of the war.3 Those who could afford to leave the country did so, migrating to other
Central American nations, Mexico, and the United States.
The Salvadoran civil war quickly took on international importance with the election of
Republican Ronald Reagan as US President in 1980. Reagan, an ardent anti-Communist, pledged
to win the Cold War and made El Salvador a key component of his new foreign policy. Casting
the Salvadoran conflict in stark Cold War terms, the new President persuaded the Democratic-
controlled US Congress to sign off on millions of dollars of economic and military aid for the
Salvadoran government. The government used this influx of cash to bomb civilian populations
and escalate attacks on guerrilla strongholds, generating massive human displacement and
increasing the flow of Salvadorans northward in search of a viable and sustainable alternative to
3
Patricia Weiss Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced Persons in Central America,” in Weiss Fagen and Sergio Aguayo,
Fleeing the Maelstrom: Central American Refugees. Occasional paper No. 10. (Washington, D.C.: Central American
and Caribbean Program, School of Advanced International Studies, The Johns Hopkins University, 1986), 10.
4
war and suffering. Ironically, their best opportunity for peace, stability, and relative safety lay in
the very nation whose dollars fueled the ongoing civil strife.
This analysis focuses on the experiences of Salvadoran immigrants in metropolitan
Washington, DC, a locus of national and international power that is home to the second-largest
concentration of Salvadorans in the United States. Salvadorans had been migrating to the US
capital since World War II, and by the time the Salvadoran civil war broke out, they had
established social networks and had begun to weave themselves into the fabric of Washington’s
greater Latin American immigrant population. Those escaping civil strife joined these initial
migrants in the DC area, drawn by a combination of the presence of family or friends and the
potential for economic opportunity. Many had heard that jobs in the Washington area were
plentiful and paid better than comparable positions elsewhere in the US; most discovered that
there was more than a grain of truth to that statement, at least until the latter years of the 1980s.
Yet if Salvadoran migrants to the nation’s capital found an abundance of jobs upon arrival, they
also encountered formidable obstacles to their attempts to build new lives in Washington, DC.
These obstacles were part and parcel of larger forces that structured the lives of
Salvadorans and other Latino immigrants in the US capital region. Within these boundaries,
Salvadorans sought to sustain themselves and to press for justice, assisted by North American
allies. Members of the Salvadoran opposition who lived in DC mustered their organizing
prowess to found agencies that helped undocumented refugees navigate the complex US legal
system, find gainful employment and affordable housing, and access quality health care. These
activists also cultivated valuable relationships with powerful North American religious leaders,
politicians, businesspeople, and a host of other professionals in continual attempts to shape the
5
contours of US immigration policies and foreign policies to the benefit of their countryfolk, both
those in the United States and those still in El Salvador.
While Salvadoran activists wrestled with the US immigration system, the potential
beneficiaries of their efforts coped with systemic discrimination on a daily basis in the nation’s
capital city. Racial conflicts in the schools, on the streets, and in city hall – the byproducts of
ignorance, cultural misunderstandings, and resource scarcity – bedeviled Salvadoran immigrants
as they adjusted to life in an openly racialized society. As the Salvadoran population boomed,
calls for increased representation and resource parity for Latinos grew more pronounced,
challenging black political priorities and generating not a small amount of discord between the
two groups. At the same time, Salvadoran youth faced racial discrimination, harassment, and
physical abuse at the hands of a majority-black police force and in a public school system run by
African Americans. Pitted against each other to compete for dwindling funds, Washington’s
blacks and Latinos clashed over access to resources and the opportunity for social mobility
within boundaries created and enforced by whites. The Mt. Pleasant disturbances of May 1991
provided a rare cease-fire in that battle, as a multi-cultural band of youths engaged in a common
interest – the sacking of commercial areas – on the second night. The opportunity for racial
solidarity along lines of shared economic grievances, however encouraging, would prove fleeting
at best.
6
Writing Brown into Black and White
The history of Washington, DC has traditionally been written in monochrome. Conflicts
(and occasionally cooperation) between blacks and whites have defined the nation’s capital since
its founding as a compromise between Northern and Southern politicians. Throughout the past
two centuries, black-white relations have played out in innumerable ways across the canvass of
the city. As a result, studies chronicling the history of Washington have fittingly focused on
these two racial groups in particular, examining the nuanced dynamics of the black-white
relationship. Even studies that have not overtly claimed to deal with race have rarely been able to
avoid the subject, as it has structured relations and power in Washington for the entirety of the
city’s existence.4
This work injects a long-overdue focus on Spanish-speaking brown residents of the
District of Columbia into the dominant English-speaking black-and-white discourse. By weaving
Salvadorans into recent social, cultural, and political history, it plants Latinos firmly at the center
of modern Washington, shattering the traditional narrative of DC as a biracial city. With the
4
The most comprehensive history of race in the District of Columbia is Chris Myers Asch and George Derek
Musgrove’s Chocolate City: A History of Race and Democracy in the Nation’s Capital (Chapel Hill: University of
North Carolina Press, 2017). Other valuable contributions include Constance Green, The Secret City: A History of
Race Relations in the Nation’s Capital (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967); Letitia Woods Brown, Free
Negroes in the District of Columbia, 1790-1846 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1972); James Borchert, Alley
Life in Washington: Family, Community, Religion, and Folklife in the City, 1850-1970 (Urbana: University of Illinois
Press, 1980); Kathleen Lesko, Valerie Melissa Babb, and Carroll R. Gibbs, Black Georgetown Remembered: A History
of Its Black Community from the Founding of the “Town of George” in 1751 to the Present Day (Washington, D.C.:
Georgetown University Press, 1991); and Elizabeth Clark-Lewis, Living In, Living Out: African-American Domestics in
Washington, D.C., 1910-1940 (Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1994). Other studies that incorporate
black-white relations include Harry Jaffe and Tom Sherwood, Dream City: Race, Power, and the Decline of
Washington, D.C. (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1994); Howard Gillette, Between Justice and Beauty: Race,
Planning, and the Failure of Urban Policy in Washington, D.C. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995);
Nelson F. Kofie, Race, Class, and the Struggle for Neighborhood in Washington, D.C. (New York: Garland, 1999);
Sabiyha Prince, African Americans and Gentrification in Washington, D.C.: Race, Class, and Social Justice in the
Nation’s Capital (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2014); and Derek S. Hyra, Race, Class, and Politics in the Cappuccino City
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2019). One anthology that does stand out for its dedication to addressing
Washington’s multiethnic flavor is Francine Curro Cary’s edited volume Washington Odyssey: A Multicultural
History of the Nation’s Capital (Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Books, 2003).
7
growth of a Latino community beginning in the mid-twentieth century and its subsequent
population boom in the 1980s as a result of the wars in Central America, the District took on
characteristics of a multicultural space akin to other large cities in the United States. The
percentage of Latinos in DC still pales in comparison to that of blacks and whites, and given
current trends in housing and real estate prices, their numbers will merely decrease in coming
decades as they are priced out of the city.5 However, we cannot continue to ignore the integral
part Latinos – especially Salvadorans – have played in transforming Washington over the past
half century. This dissertation aims to bring such efforts to the forefront, arguing that Latinos in
general and Salvadorans in particular have played consequential roles in shaping daily life and
social relations in the nation’s capital.
Within the few written works on Latinos in the Washington area, Salvadorans have
received some attention from scholars. However, not a single historical monograph has been
dedicated to researching the history of the third-largest population of Salvadorans in the world.6
In the following pages, I seek not to paint a comprehensive, all-inclusive history of Salvadorans
in the metropolitan DC area; instead, this study aims to bring Salvadorans into the realm of urban
US history and immigration history and insert them into discussions of Latinos in the DC
metropolitan area by highlighting the individual and collective histories of the approximately
300,000 Salvadorans who currently reside in the District of Columbia, Maryland, and northern
5
According to 2018 ACS Census data, Hispanics/Latinos made up 11.3% of the District’s total population, compared
to 45.6% for whites and 46.4% for blacks. United States Census Bureau, 2019.
(https://www.census.gov/quickfacts/DC#qf-headnote-b)
6
Behind San Salvador and Los Angeles metropolitan areas. Only two monographs approach Salvadorans in the
Washington, DC area with depth and rigor. Smithsonian folklorist Olivia Cadaval’s Creating A Latino Identity in the
Nation’s Capital: The Latino Festival (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998) includes Salvadorans in a broader
analysis of Latinos in DC. University of Maryland Latino/a literature and culture Professor Ana Patricia Rodríguez’s
Dividing the Isthmus: Central American Transnational Histories, Literatures, and Cultures (Austin: University of
Texas Press, 2009) incorporates the experiences of Salvadorans in metropolitan Washington, DC through the lens
of cultural studies. I hope that this study lays a solid foundation for future historical analyses of Salvadorans in DC,
which will undoubtedly follow in due time.
8
Virginia. For the purposes of length and scope, my research has focused generally, but not
entirely, on Salvadorans who either resided in or spent significant time in the District of
Columbia, particularly in the traditionally Latino neighborhoods of Adams Morgan and Mt.
Pleasant (and more recently Columbia Heights). For that space is where the roots of the Latino
community lie, and it is where so many Salvadorans first landed upon arrival in the Washington
area. Most have now moved on to other areas of the city or to the less expensive and increasingly
diverse inner suburbs, exurbs, and smaller cities on the outer rings of the capital region.7 These
areas represent the next frontier of immigrant life on the margins – geographically but also
culturally and socially.
Rationale, Methodology, and Sources
This dissertation is inspired and informed by fifteen years of living among, working
alongside, and teaching Salvadorans in Washington, DC and in El Salvador. As a historian of
Latin America – specifically of modern El Salvador – I was well aware of the Salvadoran
population in the Washington metropolitan area and especially in Mt. Pleasant, the neighborhood
where I first settled and in which I have remained to this day. It was not until I was working in
the archives of the Universidad Centroamericana “José Simeón Cañas,” in San Salvador, though,
that the reality of just how transnational Salvadoran lives had become sank in. After returning
from visiting a Guatemalan friend while the university was on vacation, I was chatting with an
undergraduate sociology major who worked in the archives about our respective travels during
7
Smaller “edge” cities include urban areas such as Leesburg, Springfield, Sterling, and Woodbridge (Virginia) and
Gaithersburg, Germantown, and Rockville (Maryland).
9
the break. I asked him how he had spent his week off. “Fui a arrrleengtun,” he replied. My face
went blank. “Dónde?” “Arrrleengtun,” he repeated. “Los Estados Unidos. Visité mis primos
allá.” After a couple of seconds, it registered. While I was touring Lake Atitlán and the colonial
city of Antigua, he was thousands of miles away from his home but right across the Potomac
River from mine, visiting his cousins who lived in the heavily Spanish-speaking suburb of
Arlington, Virginia.
Strange as it may seem, it took spending time in El Salvador and listening to Salvadorans
talk about Arlington, Virginia (and the rest of the United States) to pique my academic interest in
the Salvadorans I encountered on DC streets, taught English to, hung out with on neighborhood
porches, chatted with in the local hardware store where I worked, and bought mangoes from on
the corner. Later, while teaching high school in the District, I had second-generation Salvadorans
as students. Many of their parents had, for perfectly understandable reasons, avoided discussing
sensitive issues about their history – certain memories of El Salvador, why their families had left,
how they had arrived in DC – with their children. Lasting trauma from living through war;
suppressed memories and emotions surrounding the pain of family separation; latent fears
associated with the arduous journey north: all carried a certain danger in discussing them openly.
Some Salvadorans just wanted to forget, to start anew – and I respected their decisions to do so.
Yet I also sought to help my students in their quests to explore their identities as Salvadoran-
Americans. This work aims to honor the courage, perseverance, and grace with which these
Salvadorans sought out better lives for themselves (and their children) in the United States while
grappling with the broader themes that have structured the Salvadoran immigrant experience in
Washington, DC.
10
In plumbing the depths of such themes, a combination of first-person living narratives
and archival documents has yielded a rich long-release snapshot of the Salvadoran experience in
the context of the broader history of Latinos in Washington. Oral histories and interviews carried
out over the course of four years of research sampled a wide variety of Salvadorans: local
politicians, musicians, educators, health care and other social service providers, domestic
workers, janitors, artists, business owners, restaurant workers, city bureaucrats, nonprofit
employees, union organizers, radio and television personalities, religious figures, and academics
comprised my snowball sample of 40, all of whom lived and worked in the metropolitan
Washington area (and most in the District itself). These were supplemented by 30 oral histories
and interviews with non-Salvadoran Latino, Afro-Latino, Caucasian, and African American
community members whose lives and work intersected with Salvadorans on a regular basis.
Dozens of informal conversations provided essential background information and context for the
more formal interviews. Due to the potentiality of interviewing undocumented and other
vulnerable populations, all research was approved by the Georgetown University Internal
Review Board (IRB) and conducted under the auspices of human subjects research protocol. As
a result, some names may be pseudonyms, as preferred by the interviewee/narrator.
Documentary sources included local newspapers (Spanish- and English-language), church
archives, personal collections, unpublished studies, and a trove of oral histories and interviews
carried out by previous scholars who kindly made them available upon request.
Chapter One lays out a broad history of El Salvador, tracing its political and economic
arc from pre-colonial times through independence in the early nineteenth century, the rise of
Liberalism in the mid-nineteenth century, and the contemporaneous advent of the export-oriented
coffee economy and accompanying state-led privatization of communal landholdings beginning
11
in the late nineteenth century. This first cycle of export-oriented growth culminated in the
monopolization of peasant landholdings by coffee barons during the 1920s, which boded poorly
for rural inhabitants in western El Salvador after the onset of the Great Depression and the
subsequent plummet of coffee prices. Following a brief democratic aperture and fraudulent
elections, thousands of these workers rebelled, only to be crushed by the Salvadoran military in
1932 in the bloodiest massacre in twentieth-century Latin American history.
Chapter 2 analyzes the aftermath of the massacre in the context of authoritarian rule and
then moves on to examine the roots of the second crisis of El Salvador’s export economy: the
incipient industrialization, expansion, and diversification of export agriculture and the
consolidation of landholdings by a small cadre of agro-export elite as the twentieth century
progressed. As social conditions deteriorated, landlessness increased, and successive military
regimes quashed democratization efforts with increasingly brutal force, opposition movements
blossomed and gained support among rural and urban inhabitants. Migration had defined the
lives of many Salvadorans in the twentieth century – from one field to the next, from one region
of the country to another in seasonal labor, from the countryside to the city to search for
employment, from their former fertile lands to rocky, hardscrabble outposts, and often from El
Salvador into Honduras to find land and work. Yet previous migratory patterns did not prepare
Salvadorans for the widespread disruption and displacement that accompanied civil war.
Chapter 3 traces internal and external Salvadoran migration patterns following the onset
of civil war in 1980. Like previous migrations, the violence and economic turmoil that resulted
took their greatest toll on the poorest and most vulnerable, who fled to safer areas of the country,
trekked across the border with Honduras to refugee camps, or – if they had the means – escaped
to neighboring countries such as Costa Rica, Nicaragua, and Guatemala. Mexico played host to
12
tens of thousands of Salvadorans at any given time during the 1980s, some who settled there and
others who continued on the journey north to the United States. Upon arrival in the US,
Salvadorans were not afforded the benefits extended to refugees; instead, President Ronald
Reagan and his administration insisted that they were economic migrants who would have
remained in Mexico had they truly intended to flee political persecution. Denied legal legitimacy
in the nation that was fueling the civil war from which they fled, Salvadorans struggled to adapt
to what could often be a harsh and unforgiving new environment.
Chapter 4 assesses the efforts of a dedicated group of Salvadoran refugee-activists to
build community, organize, and advocate for their countryfolk in the capital area and across the
United States. Having arrived as domestic workers for Latin American diplomats and other
foreign emissaries after World War II, a mostly female cadre of Central Americans joined a
burgeoning Latino community in Washington, DC composed of Dominicans, Cubans, Puerto
Ricans, Mexican-Americans, and a smattering of South Americans. As the city’s Latin American
population grew, it coalesced and matured, forging a unique sense of “Latinidad” through public
festivals and shared rituals, both religious and secular. Salvadorans played an increasingly
prominent role in Washington’s Latino community as their numbers increased throughout the
1970s, and by the early 1980s, they had become the most populous Latin American nationality in
both the District of Columbia and its suburbs. The more political of these newer immigrants,
often members of the Salvadoran opposition who had escaped death at the hands of the security
forces, forged relationships with sympathetic North Americans and founded agencies to aid their
compatriots, who were arriving in DC by the dozens almost daily. With the help of North
American progressives, these Salvadoran activists provided necessary social services to newly
arrived Central American immigrants while at the same time fighting for large-scale changes in
13
US foreign policy and immigration policy, playing key roles in the Sanctuary movement and
Central American solidarity movement at the height of US involvement in the Salvadoran civil
war.
Chapter 5 situates Salvadorans squarely in the social space of Washington, DC,
examining the forces that drew them to the US capital city and the obstacles they faced upon
arrival. Attracted by higher wages and an abundance of jobs during the metropolitan Washington
area’s economic boom in the 1980s, Salvadorans encountered both de jure and de facto
discrimination. Most undocumented Salvadoran immigrants had arrived after the January 1, 1982
cutoff date for amnesty under the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986, and instead of a
pathway to citizenship, they faced legal discrimination at the hands of employers, city
bureaucrats, landlords, and educators, among others. Salvadorans also faced hardship based upon
their perceived racial origins, regardless of their legal status. They bore the brunt of continual
verbal and physical abuse, generally at the hands of African Americans, whether it was
harassment by police, corporal punishment in public schools, or street violence perpetrated by
black gangs. Tensions between blacks and Latinos even ran high at city hall, where Latino
leaders accused blacks of racism in denying parity in resources and government jobs.
Chapter 6 examines the explosion of violence that rocked Mt. Pleasant and its adjoining
neighborhoods in May of 1991 and forced the District of Columbia to acknowledge the plight of
Latinos in general and Salvadorans in particular. DC’s Latino leadership united in the aftermath
of the riots, determined to leverage the “disturbances” to wring concessions from the city’s new
mayor. Yet the process proved slow and tedious, and although Latino leaders succeeded in
convincing the mayor and city council to accede to at least some of their demands for racial
parity, the majority of their recommendations never became official policies. As the national
14
economy slogged through the recession of the early 1990s, the District faced deep deficits, and
Latino initiatives took a back seat to cutting spending and balancing the city budget. Funding
issues would continue to plague Latino initiatives in the future, especially as the years passed and
the riots faded in the public’s memory. Yet the disturbios in Mt. Pleasant had left their mark on
the District of Columbia, thrusting Salvadorans onto center stage in a performance that could
never be entirely erased nor forgotten. The deeply embedded economic inequities and racial
tensions exposed by the riots would continue to bedevil DC as the city entered a rapid period of
growth and change in the mid-to-late 1990s, even as Salvadorans gained limited legality and a
lease on life in the US with the passage of Temporary Protected Status.
Salvadorans fled large-scale injustices and deadly violence in their native land, hoping to
find stability and prosperity in the capital city of the United States despite the less-than-
welcoming attitude of the federal government under President Ronald Reagan and, later,
President George H.W. Bush. To a certain extent, they succeeded: jobs in Washington, DC paid
far better than their home country, and Salvadorans no longer went to bed each night worrying
about whether they would live to see the next morning. Yet they also struggled mightily against
structural constraints in the United States that were not of their own making but that challenged
their ability to adapt and settle securely into their new environs and ultimately led to the violence
of May 1991. This study charts Salvadorans’ determined efforts to overcome those obstacles and
pursue just lives in the nation’s capital.
15
Figure 1. Map of El Salvador
Source: Stock photo
16
CHAPTER 1:
A HISTORY OF INEQUITY AND
THE FIRST EXPORT CRISIS, 1524-1932
The Colonial Period: Conquistadors and Cash Crops
About five years after dropping anchor off the coast of what is now called Mexico, the
Iberian warrior and entrepreneur Hernán Cortés dispatched his captain, Pedro de Alvarado, and a
small band of men to explore those lands that lay south of the crumbling Aztec empire he had
just subdued. Picking his way down the Pacific coastal plain of Mesoamerica in 1524, Alvarado
encountered an assortment of indigenous peoples, from the Mayan Quichés, Cachiquels, and
Tzutuhils in modern-day Mexico and Guatemala to the Pipiles, who inhabited the western two-
thirds of the country now known as El Salvador but which the Pipil had dubbed Kozkatlan, or
“Place of the Diamond Jewels.”1 There is little indication that Alvarado’s men stumbled across
any of the gemstones from which the land derived its name. This, however, did not deter the
Spaniards from their quest to subjugate the native inhabitants and claim Kozkatlan for
themselves.
The Spanish invaders faced a difficult task, as indigenous resistance proved strong.2 But
in 1528 Pedro’s brother, Diego de Alvarado, succeeded in securing the region anchored around
the new Spanish settlement of San Salvador.3 The following decades proved tumultuous, as the
Pipiles and neighboring Lencas – their populations ravaged by smallpox and other European
1
For an account of Spanish relations with Central American native tribes, see Murdo J. MacLeod, Spanish Central
America: A Socioeconomic History, 1520-1720 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), 37-45.
2
After initial losses to Pedro de Alvarado’s army in 1524, Pipil fighters harassed Spanish settlers in guerrilla-style
attacks for the next several years. In 1526, they destroyed the newly founded town of San Salvador, forcing the
Spaniards to retreat to Guatemala. Alvarado’s forces returned two years later, rebuilt the town, and then set about
pacifying the surrounding regions. See David Browning, El Salvador: Landscape and Society (London: Oxford
University Press, 1971), 36; and Alastair White, El Salvador (New York: Praeger, 1973), 25, 30-31.
3
White, El Salvador, 25.
17
diseases – challenged Spanish rule in sporadic uprisings and a militia sent by the new governor
of Nicaragua attempted to seize control of San Salvador.4 It was not until the early 1540s that the
chaos spawned by the initial contact began to settle into a more systematic and organized
endeavor, with a more formal system of government and religious instruction initiated among
native Central Americans.5 The Spanish invaders eventually succeeded in subduing Kozkatlan’s
inhabitants, albeit at a great cost to Spanish energy and resources. Yet the cost to the Spaniards
paled in comparison to the toll taken on the area’s indigenous peoples, the vast majority of whom
perished from disease, famine, and other related causes following Iberian arrival on the shores of
the New World.6 The steep decline of indigenous populations during these years both facilitated
and frustrated the aims of the Spanish: disease and death sapped the strength of communities to
resist European incursions, but fewer natives also meant fewer potential laborers and fewer
sources of income for the colonizers.7
Upon gaining nominal control over the Pipiles and Lencas, Alvarado’s conquistadors set
about enriching themselves at the expense of their subjects. The steel-clad entrepreneurs quickly
learned that Kozkatlan offered few easily extracted precious metals compared to the far richer
Valley of Mexico. Conquistadors forced natives to pan for scattered deposits of gold nuggets in
4
The last notable act of armed native resistance in Kozkatlan was snuffed out in 1533, while indigenous peoples
east of the Lempa River continued to agitate, including an open rebellion between 1537-1539, until their eventual
defeat in 1547. Browning, Landscape and Society, 31. For more on the power struggles among rival groups of
conquistadors in Central America, see White, El Salvador, 26-28.
5
MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 44.
6
Demographers have estimated depopulation rates for Honduras (1,200,000 indigenous people pre-Spanish
contact to a mere 18,000 indigenous by 1590) and Nicaragua (over 1 million indigenous to 10,000 during the first
sixty years of Spanish settlement). Although no such studies exist for El Salvador, existing data suggests that that
region experienced a similarly steep decline in indigenous population. Browning, Landscape and Society, 42-43.
7
Spanish colonizers attempted to compensate for increasingly scarce indigenous laborers by purchasing African
slaves. However, Browning argues that African slaves played a relatively minor role in the survival and success of El
Salvador as an export region: by the end of the colonial period, he cites the total number of “negroes and
mulattoes” working on the large estates as “a little over six hundred.” Browning, Landscape and Society, 45.
18
riverbeds and streams, which they quickly exhausted.8 Settlers also ran a short-lived slave trade,
selling captured natives to serve as porters and auxiliary soldiers for Spanish expeditions
crisscrossing Central and South America. 9 It was the encomienda system, though, that truly
defined economic and social relations in colonial Central America. Instituted by the Spanish
Crown in 1525, this system “commended” a native or a group of natives into the charge of a
Spaniard, granting New World settlers the rights to the fruits of the labor of indigenous peoples
who resided within a particular geographic area.10 The settler, or encomendero, collected his
tribute in the form of agricultural goods or other services. Because it tapped into an existing
productive economy, the encomienda system proved far easier to implement and more
financially remunerative than slave labor – although it, too, declined as disease and famine
decimated native populations.11 By the end of the sixteenth century, those Spanish families who
had diversified their encomienda wealth had established themselves as major players in the
burgeoning agro-export economy of the region the settlers renamed “Cuzcatlán.”12
One crop that encomenderos sought to profit from was cacao. Cultivated by natives on
the Pacific coast of Mesoamerica, the bean had historically served as a means of currency and as
the base for the drink chocolatl.13 With the arrival of the Spanish, cacao surged in popularity as a
means of tribute, and chocolatl soon caught on in Europe as well.14 The decline of slaving and
8
9
The trading of native slaves, initially based on the west coast of Nicaragua and on the northern coast of
Honduras, expanded as far north as the provinces of San Salvador and Guazacapán in the 1540s as indigenous
populations plummeted in the original zones of commerce. MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 52.
10
Browning, Landscape and Society, 34. Spanish encomenderos often opted to live in close proximity to their
native charges, even in native villages, in order to “directly organize indigenous labor for their benefit.” White, El
Salvador, 30.
11
MacLeod argues that slavery was “a wasteful process:” many indigenous died resisting enslavement, and slave
owners paid for the living expenses of their slaves. He notes that “expenditures under encomienda were probably
much less” than using native slaves. MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 52, 111.
12
MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 130-131.
13
Browning, Landscape and Society, 52.
14
Browning, Landscape and Society, 53; White, El Salvador, 31.
19
gold panning in the mid-sixteenth century freed up both human labor and seaworthy vessels,
sparking a boom in cacao production on the rich volcanic slopes of the district of Los Izalcos in
southwestern Cuzcatlán.15 During the first decade of Spanish rule, Guatemalan encomenderos
enjoyed a virtual monopoly on cacao production in Los Izalcos. Thus, although much of the
cacao fields remained under native ownership and was worked by native laborers, indigenous
peoples reaped few benefits from the boom and “often did not even have enough surplus to
clothe themselves due to the power of their encomenderos.”16
As time passed, increasingly influential Spanish merchant networks in the region
gradually usurped the power of the encomenderos and connected local production to regional
and international markets, transforming the sleepy village of Sonsonate into a bustling trading
hub.17 By the early 1570s, the Izalcos district had eclipsed the Mexican region of Soconusco to
become the principle supplier of cacao in the Americas. 18 Yet even as production and trade
boomed, Old World diseases wreaked havoc on the area’s indigenous labor force in the hot,
humid coastal lowlands. In the years that followed, a halt in the importation of African slaves
combined with a steep decline in native populations in Cuzcatlán made it increasingly difficult
for cacao growers to procure workers to harvest their crop.19 Weeds took over the groves, yields
declined, and tribute debts piled up.20 Although new groves near San Salvador and San Miguel
bolstered the market for a time and cacao production in Cuzcatlán continued for two hundred
15
MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 82. Although cacao was cultivated across Cuzcatlán, the combination of
fertile soil and geographic proximity to the coast facilitated the rise of Los Izalcos as the hub of cacao production.
16
MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 87-88.
17
Browning, Landscape and Society, 57; White, El Salvador, 32.
18
Browning, Landscape and Society, 54; MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 91.
19
MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 92; Tommie Sue Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador: From Civil Strife to
Civil Peace, 2nd Ed. (Boulder: Westview Press, 1995), 27. By the late 1570s, epidemics and high death rates in
southwestern Cuzcatlán had significantly decreased the native population. MacLeod cites a report to the Crown
dated 1584 that highlights the dearth of manpower in the three principal villages of Los Izalcos and the futile
efforts by cacaotal owners to procure the necessary labor.
20
20
more years, the dawn of the seventeenth century brought with it the end of the highland cacao
boom.21
At the same time as the cacao trade was flourishing, another indigenous-Spanish
commercial endeavor provided a modicum of revenue for certain parts of western Cuzcatlán. The
balsam tree, whose sap contained both medicinal and cosmetic properties, was tapped and
exploited by indigenous residents of the “Balsam Coast” to sell to Spanish merchants, who sent it
as far as Peru and Europe.22 As its usage in medicines and perfumes increased in New Spain and
Europe, balsam sap became a prized export commodity. However, the limited area of balsam
growth and the harsh means by which natives extracted its sap lent themselves to a truncated
export period. By the end of the sixteenth century, balsam trade was in decline along with cacao,
and by the mid-1700s, production had ceased altogether.23
The decline of these two early export commodities led New World entrepreneurs to scour
the area for a reliable replacement. Cochineal, a red dye made from the dried remains of an
insect found on cacti, had been produced by the indigenous peoples of Central America for
centuries but could not compete with larger areas of commercial production in southern
Mexico.24 Indigo, a blue plant-based dye, fared somewhat better. Far less labor-intensive than
other cash crops and with proven markets in Europe, indigo grew in popularity during the late
1500s and early 1600s. 25 Originally harvested by natives from local wild plants, Spanish
21
22
This was the term for the stretch of coastal land between the port of Acajutla and the modern-day port of La
Libertad in which balsam trees flourished. Browning, Landscape and Society, 61.
23
24
For an analysis of cochineal production and its impact on colonial social relations in southern Mexico, see Jeremy
Baskes, Indians, Merchants, and Markets: A Reinterpretation of the Repartimiento and Spanish-Indian Economic
Relations in Colonial Oaxaca, 1750-1821 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000).
25
Indigo first began to make its way to Spain from fields surrounding San Miguel in the 1570s. At the time, it
consisted primarily of leaves gathered from wild plants by natives. However, sensing the opportunity for profit,
Spanish settlers acquired lands (often forcibly, against the will of indigenous communities) and planted the crop,
21
seigniorial entrepreneurs transformed indigo into a commercial crop initially cultivated on large
swaths of multi-use land, many of which developed into haciendas. These sprawling rural estates
owned by regional Spanish elites (hacendados) and worked by natives (and occasionally African
slaves) would dominate the region’s social and economic relations for decades to come.26
For much of the seventeenth century, indigo trade remained far below its potential due to
economic decline in the mother country and a lack of convenient markets elsewhere, a problem
exacerbated by transportation issues and high taxation.27 When its cultivation and sale finally
surged in the 1730s, indigo brought tax money flowing back into the Crown’s coffers, and
laborers found work again as the Central America’s moribund economy began to revive. 28
Because it was not subject to economies of scale, indigo brought prosperity to hacendados and
small farmers alike, enabling peasants to preserve a measure of autonomy while prospering in
the regional market economy. 29 Indigo’s success on the international market also bolstered
commercial growers’ belief in the power of export-oriented monoculture. As the eighteenth
century drew to a close, the region that would soon become known as El Salvador boasted both a
hacendado class and a strong and differentiated peasantry alongside it that relied heavily upon
titled communal and municipal lands for indigo production and subsistence farming.
standardizing production and laying the foundation for indigo as a major commercial venture. MacLeod, Spanish
Central America, 178.
26
Browning notes that in El Salvador, “most haciendas were located in clusters across the entire highland centre of
the country: these estates were the largest in area, the most important in terms of indigo production, and
generated the greatest demand for land and labour.” He argues that African slaves played a relatively minor role in
the survival and success of El Salvador as an export region: by the end of the colonial period, he cites the total
number of “negroes and mulattoes” working on the large estates as “a little over six hundred.” Browning,
Landscape and Society, 45, 85.
27
MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 196, 202-203.
28
Aldo A. Lauria-Santiago, An Agrarian Republic: Commercial Agriculture and the Politics of Peasant Communities
in El Salvador, 1823-1914 (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1999), 18-19. MacLeod argues that the advent
of large-scale smuggling provided new markets for indigo and re-energized production and trade in Central
America. MacLeod, Spanish Central America, 348-349.
29
According to Lauria-Santiago, observers passing through the Salvadoran countryside in the late eighteenth
century estimated that between one-third to one-half of the indigo crop was produced by smallholders. Lauria-
Santiago, Agrarian Republic, 19.
22
Independence and the Monocrop Economy
Independence arrived in relatively bloodless fashion. In the wake of Mexico’s separation
from Spain in 1821, most towns and cities in the Kingdom of Guatemala (comprising modern-
day Belize, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and the southern Mexican
region of Chiapas) voted to cut ties with the mother country as well.30 After a brief, awkward
courtship and subsequent union with Mexico, the Kingdom split with its northern neighbor and
formed the United Provinces of Central America in 1823.31 Yet this federation also proved a
short-lived affair, marred by spats among provincial elites from rival cities.32 For the next two
decades, Central America played host to political struggles, pitched economic debates, and
armed warfare among regional strongmen.
To a certain extent, political ideology mattered. Liberals generally favored a more
representative government, lower tariffs and taxes on goods, the primacy of private property and
individual sovereignty, and staunch anti-clericalism. Conservatives advocated the protection of
local markets and colonial trade monopolies, drawing their support from the Catholic Church and
as well as from many indigenous communities, which fought for the preservation of communal
land rights. 33 During this time, the state of El Salvador was a Liberal stronghold, its indigo
30
Jordana Dym, From Sovereign Villages to National States: City, State, and Federation in Central America, 1759 –
1839 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2006), 191-192.
31
Between January 1822 and June 1823, the former Kingdom of Guatemala was a part of the Mexican empire at
the invitation of the Mexican emperor Agustín de Iturbide, although many Salvadoran Liberals had favored
becoming part of the United States. Dym, From Sovereign Villages to National States, 191. Also known as the
Federation of Central America, the United Provinces of Central America was a loose union of five states:
Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. Chiapas opted to become part of Mexico. Héctor
Pérez-Brignoli, A Brief History of Central America. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 67.
32
For an analysis of early nineteenth-century Central American state formation at the municipal, provincial, and
national levels during the existence of the Central American Federation, see Dym, From Sovereign Villages to
National States, Chs. 7-9.
33
Pérez-Brignoli, A Brief History of Central America, 95.
23
producers chafing at Guatemalan merchants’ monopoly of trade routes and investment capital.
Its most famous son, Manuel José Arce, served as president of the Federation until he was
deposed by a rival, Honduran Francisco Morazán, who presided over several years of stability
and relative peace.34 Eventually, Morazán’s efforts to encourage secular reforms alienated more
provincial leaders, and he ultimately fell victim to a Conservative strongman, the Guatemalan
Rafael Carrera, whose defeat of his Liberal rival in 1840 ensured the destruction of the Central
American Federation.35
Despite the vituperative nature of the Liberal-Conservative conflict, most leaders of these
groups generally advanced interests that would first and foremost benefit their class interests, and
peasant voices rarely made it to the bargaining table unless channeled through one of the two
elite ideologies.36 In time, such bitter regional rivalries, combined with regular spasms of civil
unrest by indigenous communities and a growing Conservative rebellion in Guatemala, sapped
the strength of an enfeebled federal government. At the same time, though, the “determination of
the villages to ensure the existence of some central authority capable of mediating (the cities’)
most difficult disputes” had in fact strengthened the state.37 The inevitable dissolution of the
Central American Federation in 1839 thus produced nation-states that, remarkably, were
34
This relative calm lasted until 1934, when Morazán’s relocation of the federal capital from Guatemala City to San
Salvador stoked regional animosities. A Costa Rican civil war followed the next year, further weakening the federal
government. Dym, From Sovereign Villages to National States, 229-230.
35
Pérez-Brignoli, A Brief History of Central America, 75.
36
Lowell Gudmunson, writing on the volatile years between 1821 and 1871 in Central America, notes the
remarkable continuity between the Conservative era and the Liberal reforms that followed, arguing that the
struggle between the two political factions is best seen as an intra-class battle among elites and would-be elites.
Gudmunson, “Society and Politics in Central America, 1821-1871” in Central America, 1821-1871: Liberalism before
Liberal Reform (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1995), 82. Héctor Pérez-Brignoli agrees, warning against
being misled by the Liberal rhetoric of the time. “Outside of secularization and a growth of power within the public
sector, [Liberal] contrasts with the Conservative period are not all that great.” Pérez-Brignoli, A Brief History of
Central America, 94.
37
Dym, From Sovereign Villages to National States, 229.
24
generally republican and representative in nature and which grew stronger as the nineteenth
century progressed – including the new republic of El Salvador.
Independence brought both continuity and change in land tenure patterns to the fledgling
nation. At first, the situation appeared grim for indigenous peoples who farmed their traditional
communal lands and ladino peasants who worked common lands called ejidos, which were
administered by local municipal governments. 38 As the Spanish crown’s power waned and
eventually vanished, so did its institutional support of common landholding practices. Yet
community-held landholdings actually expanded in the years following independence, as
political leaders who depended on peasants for support defended their right to possess common
lands. New towns purchased ejidos from haciendas or were granted public lands by the
government, and established towns also received additional lands at low or no cost.39 During this
time, both ladinos and indigenous peasants maintained their access to large tracts of land through
legal titles and produced both for subsistence and for the market economy. By 1860, common
lands “had become the dominant feature of the agrarian landscape,” and small producers were
ubiquitous.40
From the mid-1800s through the early 1900s, a heterogeneous mix of these small
producers, their merchant creditors, and an entrepreneurial agrarian elite fueled El Salvador’s
export economy. Decades of war had hampered the large-scale, hacienda-based indigo economy,
severely damaging existing infrastructure and disrupting regional trade. However, smallholding
indigo cultivators rescued the crop, doubling the national output of indigo between 1830 and
38
The term ladino most often refers to any non-indigenous peoples or peoples of mixed indigenous and Spanish
ancestry. Ladino also may describe native peoples who left their communities and took on European language,
dress, and other cultural identifiers. Lauria-Santiago estimates that by the late eighteenth century, Ladinos made
up approximately half of the population of El Salvador. Lauria-Santiago, Agrarian Republic, 18.
39
Lauria-Santiago, Agrarian Republic, 34-36.
40
Lauria-Santiago, Agrarian Republic, 224.
25
1860. By 1872, El Salvador produced more indigo than it had in any previous year, contributing
to a boom aided by high market prices for the dye.41 Despite indigo’s proven success, Salvadoran
investors and producers sought to diversify the country’s export market, mindful of increasing
foreign competition from British India as well as attempts to produce a cheaper, synthetic dye.
Encouraged by the relative success of coffee in Costa Rica, entrepreneurs began to experiment
with the plant in the cooler highlands of western El Salvador in the 1840s. President Gerardo
Barrios, who held office from 1859-1863, took note and provided essential state support for the
nascent industry.42 Still, coffee developed slowly until the early 1870s, with production limited
to a select few regions of the country.43 In the 1870s, however, increased demand, higher market
prices, and improved processing infrastructure led to a rapid expansion of production across the
44
country. By the 1880s, coffee had overtaken indigo as El Salvador’s major export
commodity. 45 In the coming decades, coffee would usher in a new era of land tenure, labor
relations, and a reshuffling of the Salvadoran class system that would lay the foundations for the
conflicts of the next century.
41
Indigo production peaked in 1872, with about 32,000 hectares of land dedicated to the crop. Lauria-Santiago,
Agrarian Republic, 72.
42
43
During the early years of cultivation, coffee plantings were limited to specific regions in the departments of San
Salvador, Santa Ana, Ahuachapan, and Sonsonate. Coffee’s slow growth during this period may be rooted in the
methods of production: while small-scale farmers incorporated trees into their subsistence and commercial plots
with relative ease, large-scale growers faced greater financial risk in securing extensive plots, planting trees that
only yielded beans after five years, and recruiting and paying workers to maintain the trees. Lauria-Santiago,
Agrarian Republic, 133, 136. See also Héctor Lindo-Fuentes, Weak Foundations: The Economy of El Salvador in the
Nineteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 117.
44
45
Coffee was aided by the higher profit potential it promised, combined with the introduction of synthetic dyes in
Europe and a decline in the market price of indigo. Lindo-Fuentes, Weak Foundations, 112, 120-121.
26
Liberal Reforms, Coffee Migrants, and the Roots of the Oligarchy
The rise of coffee coincided with an acceleration of state-led “Liberal” reforms designed
to engender a nation of smallholding coffee producers. With improvements in transportation and
government assistance after the mid-nineteenth century, coffee production steadily increased.
Government officials, eager to maximize export production, sought to make as much land as
possible available for coffee growing by selling off unused state-owned lands at affordable prices
to prospective cultivators and encouraging the planting of coffee trees on communal and ejido
lands.46 Entrepreneurial peasants took advantage of the availability of state-subsidized credit and
technical advice to become fledgling coffee producers. As time progressed, some producers
began to complain that the common land system hindered commercial production: in many
municipalities, native and ladino communities owned the best land and refused to rent it to
farmers outside their respective villages.47 Other farmers viewed communal lands as an obstacle
to integrating rural areas into the market economy, arguing that communal plots did not always
encourage the most efficient use of arable soil.48 Holding that common land tenure was both
inequitable and inherently anti-republican, Liberal reformers advocated its dissolution. President
Rafael Zaldívar agreed: in 1882, the state abolished all communal landholdings, deeming them
“contrary to the political and social principles on which the Republic was established.”49
46
Lindo-Fuentes, Weak Foundations, 91-93.
47
48
49
Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 130. Lauria-Santiago concurs: “Both elite and plebian liberals,” he
explains, “saw the semifeudal ethnic privilege that was intrinsic to the common land system as incompatible with
republican forms of sovereignty, citizenship, and property.” Lauria-Santiago, Agrarian Republic, 230.
27
Yet the elimination of communal lands did not immediately displace El Salvador’s
peasant class.50 The abolition of such lands and their accompanying partition and titling instead
gave birth to a differentiated class of smallholding coffee growers who both supplemented the
production of the increasingly powerful coffee elite and provided a check on their power.51 The
division of communal agricultural fields into individually owned plots of land allowed peasants
to establish formal rights to their land and receive government-sponsored agricultural aid.
Thousands of peasants benefitted from this process, swelling the ranks of coffee producers.52 For
many small farmers at that time, Liberal reforms proved both financially rewarding and
empowering.
Other farmers did not fare as well. Some peasants who had been displaced by Liberal
land reforms, especially those in the western and central highlands of El Salvador, settled on
nearby coffee fincas and relied on landowners for income, food, and shelter in exchange for
labor. Others took up residence in villages and worked on the fincas as well. 53 Still others
migrated to peripheral areas of the coastal plain and to the northern departments of
Chalatenango, Cabañas, and Morazán, where they sought to scrape out a living from less fertile
soil and a more challenging topography. 54 When the rains came regularly, they could often
subsist on what they had cultivated, even with the low quality of the soil. When the land yielded
less, these peasants were forced to journey down to the coffee estates during the harvest season
50
Lauria-Santiago’s work clearly demonstrates that from the 1870s to the early 1890s, coffee production expanded
without displacing the landowning peasantry. Lauria-Santiago, Agrarian Republic, 133-135.
51
52
53
54
Squatter settlements also cropped up on unused private and government lands, on the sides of roads, and even
in riverbeds near San Salvador. See Nora Hamilton and Norma Stoltz Chinchilla, “Central American Migration: A
Framework for Analysis” Latin American Research Review 26, no. 1 (1991): 86.
28
to supplement the harvest with wage labor. 55 This formed the foundation for a seasonal
migratory laboring class that would come to define the Salvadoran economy in the twentieth
century.56
Although it at first sustained a heterogeneous mixture of peasant smallholders and
commercial coffee growers, the privatization of land that accompanied the abolition of
communal holdings and ejidos set El Salvador on the path to the eventual concentration of land
ownership in the hands of several powerful coffee-producing clans. Locked into their plots by
the titling process, small farmers were unable to expand their lands as their families grew over
succeeding generations. At the same time, wealthier farmers and entrepreneurs bought up much
of the unused state-owned land, which led to the rapid closing of the agricultural frontier by the
first decade of the twentieth century.57 The coffee market crisis of 1921 hit smaller Salvadoran
growers hard, leaving many peasants landless or in debt to larger growers. 58 As the decade
progressed, larger growers took advantage of such debts to consolidate and expand their
holdings. Dispossessed small-scale coffee producers, artisans, and poorer campesinos in the
western highlands increasingly turned to seasonal wage labor, settled marginal lands in the
northern and eastern departments of the El Salvador, or migrated to Honduras, where they
labored on banana plantations or farmed arable land in the neighboring country’s interior.59 For
55
“As the total population and the demands for seasonal labor increased,” notes Browning, “so the restless
migration of these unsettled people (was) encouraged as they move(d) in search of harvesting work in the dry
season and in search of a scrap of land during the rainy season.” Browning, Landscape and Society, 220.
56
Cecilia Menjívar, Fragmented Ties: Salvadoran Immigrant Networks in America (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2000), 40-41.
57
58
59
Hamilton and Chinchilla, “Central American Migration,” 86. Everett Wilson cites the Central American labor
leader Carlos Varahona Villaseñor, who reported that by the late 1920s, Salvadorans comprised approximately half
of the population of several towns on the north coast of Honduras. Wilson estimates the number of Salvadoran
migrants in Honduras by that time as between 12,000 and 60,000, comprising approximately 10 percent of the
29
many of these migrants, the memories of dispossession remained fresh and the resulting scars
tender.60
The larger coffee producers formed the backbone of an agro-export elite that came to
exercise tremendous power in El Salvador’s economic affairs. Many landowners, flush with
coffee profits, sank their savings into cattle raising, sugarcane production, and balsam export,
among other commercial ventures.61 This “suffocatingly small ruling class,” in the words of
historian Héctor Lindo-Fuentes, had previously benefitted from the arrival of a wave of
European immigrants around the turn of the century with expertise in banking, finance, and
62
international trade. Capitalizing upon their worldly status, these predominantly male
immigrants slipped easily into existing elite social circles, often marrying into the coffee
aristocracy. The immigrants offered connections to European capital, facilitating the
establishment of banks that would provide the funds necessary to sustain large loans to
Salvadoran coffee producers in the coming years.63 Immigrants and their families also founded
export-import firms, linking Salvadoran coffee producers to global markets. And they gradually
moved into the coffee processing business, laying the foundation for an agro-processor class that
would play a decisive role in ending the Salvadoran civil war almost a century later. 64 This
merging of European immigrants with “native” elites gave birth to what would become known as
the Salvadoran oligarchy, a class of influential citizens who combined the production,
national labor force. Everett Alan Wilson, The Crisis of National Integration in El Salvador, 1919-1935. (Ph.D. diss.,
Stanford University, 1970), 129.
60
Jeffery M. Paige, Coffee and Power: Revolution and the Rise of Democracy in Central America. (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1997), 105.
61
62
Lindo-Fuentes, Weak Foundations, 182.
63
In 1880 only one bank existed in El Salvador, while by 1898 five more had formed. Lindo-Fuentes, Weak
Foundations, 159.
64
Paige, Coffee and Power, 15. Paige offers a penetrating analysis of the Salvadoran, Nicaraguan, and Costa Rican
coffee elite over the course of the twentieth century and their roles in the political development of their respective
nations.
30
processing, and marketing of coffee with speculation in commodities, government bonds, and
loans to cement their claim to their nation’s resources and political power.65
Authoritarianism and the Meléndez-Quiñónez Dynasty
Salvadoran elites employed a loosely Liberal ideology to strengthen their hold over the
country’s political and economic spheres through the centralization of state institutions. Coffee’s
success on the world market validated the Liberal claim to modernization via the development of
the export agriculture sector, convincing Conservative landowners of the advantages of fewer
tariffs and a limited governmental role in the nation’s economic affairs. Elite discourse reflected
minimal ideological rancor as both Liberals and Conservatives focused on pragmatic issues of
shared concern, which often revolved around commerce and the export business.66 As coffee
boomed, the wealth it generated empowered elites to strengthen the power of the national
67
government. Successive presidents utilized revenue from import taxes to modernize
transportation infrastructure, provide investment capital, and ensure internal stability. 68 This
gradually chipped away at the base of support of regional political bosses, or caudillos, who
derived legitimacy from their ability to control local militias and manipulate elections.69 These
65
Lindo-Fuentes, Weak Foundations, 160-162.
66
Lindo-Fuentes, Weak Foundations, 153. Alastair White echoes this view, arguing that the doctrine of free trade
and minimal state intervention in national economic affairs was accepted by “almost everybody,” as it was “in the
immediate interest of the Salvadorean ruling class.” White, El Salvador, 91-92.
67
“In the case of El Salvador,” notes Erik Ching, “coffee was the sole product competitive on the international
market. It brought unprecedented amounts of wealth, which gave the country both the means and the motivation
to increase the size and powers of the state.” Erik Ching, Authoritarian El Salvador: Politics and the Origins of the
Military Regimes, 1880-1940 (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2014), 173-174.
68
Ching, Authoritarian El Salvador, 174.
69
Ching stresses the important roles played by armed civilians representing political figures: “In a political system
based on hierarchy and coercion, the difference between a monopolized election and a violent grab for power was
31
bosses became surrogates of the state, their clientelist relationships subsumed into the official
national political party (Partido Nacional Democrático, or PND) after its creation in 1918.70
The founding of the PND inaugurated a new era of authoritarian rule in El Salvador,
paying lip service to democracy by fostering a clientilist state. Following the death of mildly
reformist President Manuel Enrique Araujo in 1913, President Carlos Meléndez and his
successors managed the country through a delicate balance of social reform and political
repression, successfully blunting calls for popular representation and a more equitable
distribution of coffee revenue through piecemeal reforms and periodic crackdowns on political
rivals. From 1913 until 1927, Carlos Meléndez; his brother, Jorge Meléndez; and their brother-
in-law, Alfonso Quiñónez Molina, deftly controlled the national political scene, utilizing every
form of patronage available to centralize power in the PND. They successfully co-opted
members of the fledgling urban working classes by pressing for higher wages and fewer working
hours while creating state-run organizations to channel discontent away from and undermine
opposition groups such as the Communist Party, anarcho-syndicalists, and other working-class
organizations. To combat organized opposition and punish those who refused to embrace the
paternalism of the state, the regimes sponsored grupos de choque (literally “crash groups”)
composed of civilian collaborators who employed violence and intimidation to enforce the
government’s will.71
small … Whoever could physically beat his opponent into submission was rewarded with control over the
municipal government.” Ching, Authoritarian El Salvador, 151-152.
70
Ching points out that the PND was “the first patronage network to achieve national dimensions. [President
Jorge] Meléndez and [President Alfonso] Quiñónez disallowed political activity outside the confines of the PND
and, with only a few exceptions, placed the local political networks under their authority.” Ching, Authoritarian El
Salvador, 175, 181.
71
Ana Patricia Alvarenga, “Reshaping the ethics of power: A history of violence in western rural El Salvador, 1880-
1932” (Ph.D. diss., The University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1994), 264.
32
In rural areas, the Salvadoran state employed targeted coercion and co-optation to ensure
an adequate labor force for plantations and establish political hegemony. For decades, larger
indigo and coffee growers had complained of the difficulty of obtaining laborers, citing the need
to offer high wages and salary advances in order to attract seasonal workers who might not even
fulfill their temporal obligations. 72 The Salvadoran government responded by cultivating a
network of mandatory, unpaid peasant militias that informed upon their neighbors and policed
the countryside, enforcing vagrancy laws when laborers were more reluctant to work due to the
success of their subsistence plots.73 Later, as the Salvadoran state grew more centralized, the
newly created National Guard took over the project of guaranteeing rural order and soon became
a violent arm of the landowning elite.74 In addition, the state attempted to head off potential
unrest by creating the Ligas Rojas (Red Leagues), a hierarchical rural organization that, in
exchange for virtual immunity from arrest for most political and criminal acts, carried out the
wishes of the government under a vaguely socialist banner and a red flag.75 Elites thus sought to
discourage rural unrest through a combination of co-optation and coercion in order to ensure the
domestic stability necessary for the success of the burgeoning commercial agriculture sector.
Their plan proved only partly successful.
72
73
Alvarenga, “Reshaping the ethics of power,” ch. 4.
74
Alvarenga, “Reshaping the ethics of power,” 187-188. The National Guard was created with the help of Spanish
military advisors in 1912. It sought to ensure internal order and suppress domestic dissent by policing agricultural
estates, roads, ports, and remote villages and towns. Robert Varney Elam, “Appeal to Arms: The Army and Politics
in El Salvador, 1931-1964” (Ph.D. diss., University of New Mexico, 1968), 9-10.
75
The Ligas Rojas were founded by Alfonso Quiñónez in 1917. According to historian Thomas Anderson, while they
“appeared from [the] title to be a first cousin of the Bolshevik party,” the Ligas were “in fact a means of
manipulating the lower classes for the benefit of the old crowd already in power.” Thomas Anderson, Matanza, 2nd
ed. (Willimantic, CT: Curbstone Press, 1992), 39-40. Alvarenga argues that the Ligas went beyond merely serving as
a tool for the powerful; they also allowed subordinated sectors of the rural population – especially indigenous
peoples – to contest both ladino and state power through the use of selective violence. After winning the
presidential election in 1922, President Quiñónez proceeded to disband the Ligas, most likely to ensure their
members would not turn upon their PND benefactors. Alvarenga, “Reshaping the ethics of power,” 286-288.
33
Class Conflict and A Democratic Aperture
As this rural working class grew in size, its urban counterpart was becoming more
organized and increasingly militant. Up until the early 1920s, El Salvador’s artisans and workers
had remained relatively unorganized, despite intermittent attempts to improve working
conditions.76 By the early part of the decade, loosely organized mutual aid societies and guilds
had evolved into proto-unions and workers’ confederations, uniting shoemakers, bricklayers,
carpenters, plumbers, barbers, tailors, tanners, textile workers, bakers, mechanics, and a host of
other trades. Some of these “mutual unions” were strongly supported by the Salvadoran
government in an attempt to co-opt the working class and crush the potential for class conflict,
while others organized independently of the state. 77 Shortly after their founding, Salvadoran
unions formed the Federación Regional de Trabajadores de El Salvador (Regional Federation of
Salvadoran Workers, or FRTS) and quickly established ties to the larger Central American labor
federation (Confederación Obrera Centroamericana, or COCA) in 1924.78 In time, the FRTS
grew increasingly militant and eventually purged less radical members such as the reformists and
anarcho-syndicalists.79 Its strong ties to international labor networks lent the Salvadoran labor
76
Miguel Mármol, an early Salvadoran labor organizer, recalled Salvadoran railroad workers striking in 1919 and
tailors in 1920. Roque Dalton, Miguel Mármol (San Salvador: Editorial Universitaria Centroamerica, 1982), 99.
77
Patricia Alvarenga, “Reshaping the ethics of power,” 242. La Concordia, one of the more conservative mutual aid
societies of that period, cultivated a positive and paternalistic relationship with the Salvadoran government,
stressed a liberal ideology of material self-help and individual success, and denounced “the bloody fulgor of the
red flag” of socialism. Victor Hugo Acuña Ortega, “The Formation of the Urban Middle Sectors in El Salvador, 1910-
1944” in Landscapes of Struggle: Politics, Society, and Community in El Salvador, ed. Aldo Lauria-Santiago and Leigh
Binford (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004), 44-45.
78
Dalton, Miguel Mármol, 101; Anderson, Matanza, 40-41.
79
Mármol describes how the FRTS “received materials from Holland, Argentina, France, Italy, the U.S., Mexico,
etc., which reflected the many tendencies and positions influencing the international workers’ movement at that
time,” including reformism, anarcho-syndicalism, anarchism, and communism. “The intense struggle between
tendencies within the Regional,” recalls Mármol, “convinced us of the necessity … that someone would have to be
gotten rid of.” Dalton, Miguel Mármol, 139-140, 145-146.
34
movement both legitimacy and logistical support: as the decade progressed, leftist agitators from
neighboring countries passed on revolutionary literature and essential organizing skills to their
Salvadoran counterparts, laying the foundation for a what would later become the Communist
Party of El Salvador (Partido Comunista Salvadoreño, or PCS).80
Despite attempts by the Meléndez and Quiñónez-era regimes to persecute and co-opt it,
the independent Salvadoran labor movement gradually grew stronger as the 1920s progressed.81
According to the shoemaker and indefatigable Communist organizer Miguel Mármol, the abuses
and injustices suffered by the workers of El Salvador rendered them natural supporters of
systemic social change. “It was enough to talk about reality just as it was,” he relates to his
biographer, the late Salvadoran revolutionary author and poet Roque Dalton, “for any decent
man to feel deeply wounded and to come to understand the urgent need for change in our
country.” 82 Although Mármol’s description understates the difficulty of organizing workers,
especially in the context of state repression, he and his comrades achieved significant success in
the face of such odds. Strikes grew more common as the 1920s progressed, and by the latter
years of the decade, the coffee-rich rural zones of Ahuachapán, Sonsonate, and La Libertad had
become hubs of anti-government organizing at the same time that urban workers, public
80
Jorge Fernández Anaya from the Mexican Communist Youth League aided the fledgling Salvadoran Communists
in building a party structure; Ricardo Martínez from the Venezuelan Communist Party helped Mármol and his
comrades better understand the social relations of the countryside; and Jacobo Jorowics, a Marxist-Aprista from
Peru, educated the Salvadorans on the fundamentals of Marxist political economy. Dalton, Miguel Mármol, 141.
81
Despite the Salvadoran government’s efforts, “by 1924 the workers’ guilds had a membership unprecedented in
our national history … several guilds had organized into trade unions with a deep class outlook. In the large cities,
labor was organized in every shop, attracting all the unemployed workers: shoemakers, bricklayers, carpenters,
plumbers, barbers, tailors, tanners, textile workers, bakers, mechanics, etc. In the smaller cities and towns, the
trade unions had united into one organization of artisans and workers with different skills and trades, which was
called ‘The Union of Varied Duties.’” Dalton, Miguel Mármol, 100-101.
82
Dalton, Miguel Mármol, 135.
35
employees, indigenous leaders, intellectuals, and liberal politicians agitated for meaningful
electoral reform in towns and cities.83
Beginning in 1927, a democratic aperture in the Salvadoran political system allowed the
long-disenfranchised popular classes a taste of real political power. Pío Romero Bosque,
President Quiñónez’s faithful Minister of War and handpicked successor, shocked his patrons by
breaking from the ruling PND and creating his own independent party. Determined to open up
the Salvadoran political system and set the country on the path to becoming a legitimate
democracy, Romero Bosque purged his administration of corrupt officials, reinstated the
freedom of the press, cancelled the 13-year-old state of siege, and granted amnesty to many
exiled political leaders. Most importantly, he held the first free and fair presidential election in
the history of his country in 1931, laying the foundation for what he hoped would be a
democratic future for El Salvador.84
The winner of the 1931 election, the pro-labor candidate Arturo Araujo, entered office
burdened with high expectations and a dire fiscal crisis. The Great Depression had taken its toll
on the Salvadoran economy, as plummeting coffee prices on the world market had forced the
government to borrow extensively and run up a significant internal debt in addition to leaving
thousands of seasonal pickers without the jobs they had come to rely upon to survive.85 Araujo’s
cash-strapped government was immediately besieged by thousands of his working-class
supporters demanding land reform and by party officials seeking favors and positions in the new
administration. At the same time, coffee barons and bankers viewed their fellow hacendado
warily due to his leftist political leanings and avoided posts in his administration, forcing him to
83
Rafael Menjívar, Formación y lucha del proletariado industrial salvadoreño (San Salvador: UCA Editores, 1979),
59; Jeffrey L. Gould and Aldo Lauria-Santiago, To Rise in Darkness: Revolution, Repression, and Memory in El
Salvador, 1920-1932 (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008), 41.
84
Ching, Authoritarian El Salvador, 209, 215.
85
Ching, Authoritarian El Salvador, 249.
36
stock his new government with less experienced ministers.86 Araujo quickly found himself in an
untenable position, struggling to fulfill the expectations of the working classes who had voted
him into office and unable to soothe the fears of an increasingly nervous elite. In August of 1931,
the government suspended military pay in its attempt to mitigate the national fiscal crisis, an
action that would prove to be Araujo’s undoing. Three months later, members of the Salvadoran
military succeeded in driving the beleaguered president from office, defeating those forces still
loyal to him, and seizing the reins of government. El Salvador’s brief flirtation with democratic
rule had come to a sudden, grinding halt. For the next half-century, the armed forces would
dictate the terms from their new perch at the Presidential Palace.
The military turned to Araujo’s vice-president, General Maximiliano Hernández
Martínez, to bring some modicum of order and stability to a countryside seething with class
tension. Martínez responded with a careful blend of overtures to the working class combined
with the strategic harassment of Communist organizers and sympathizers. In the municipal
elections of January 3, 1932, the Martínez regime ensured – through fraud, voter intimidation,
physical threats, and the outright postponement or even cancellation of elections altogether – that
Communist candidates did not win office. Although a nationwide trend, this was especially
evident in those departments of El Salvador in which Communist candidates were heavily
favored: the western coffee highlands of Ahuachapán, Sonsonate, and La Libertad. 87 The
Communist Party’s hopes for an electoral path to power vanished, along with the expectations of
86
Alejandro D. Marroquín, “Estudio sobre la crisis de los años treinta en El Salvador,” cited in Anderson, Matanza,
74.
87
The Martínez regime blocked voters affiliated with the Communist Party from voting in Ahuachapán, postponed
elections in other PCS strongholds such as Turín, Tacuba, and Colón, and skewed the election results through
massive fraud in those areas in which PCS voters were allowed to vote, such as Nahuizalco. Gould and Lauria-
Santiago, To Rise in Darkness, 149-151.
37
thousands of workers and peasants, indigenous and ladino alike, for meaningful political reform
through democratic means.
La Matanza
To many rural inhabitants, the massive electoral fraud perpetrated by the government
during the municipal elections proved the last straw. Calls for a revolutionary uprising, which
had echoed throughout the hills of the western cantones in the months preceding the elections,
grew more vociferous. Bands of armed campesinos moved from one plantation to the next,
urging workers to strike and exhorting them to armed insurrection.88 As tensions mounted and
the military continued to violently repress strikes and demonstrations in the countryside, national
Communist Party leaders put in motion plans for armed revolution, concerned that the masses
would rebel without the party’s official support.
The Martínez regime, however, had caught wind of the insurrection well in advance. By
mid-January of 1932, police had captured the Communist firebrand Farabundo Martí and several
other key leaders, seizing their plans for the uprising as well. Army officers had purged their
ranks of soldiers suspected of sympathizing with the revolutionaries.89 Government harassment
88
Gould and Lauria-Santiago thoroughly evaluate the multitude of sources surrounding these groups of “mobile
strikers” who traveled across the western highlands, encouraging workers to cease their work and sporadically
engaging with government forces. They conclude that these bands “comprised mainly male, non-Indian
campesinos, including farm laborers, colonos, and semi-proletarian seasonal pickers, who lived in towns and in the
countryside. Their tactics in demand of higher wages and decent working and living conditions ranged from using
roving pickets who drove off non-striking laborers to occupying haciendas. The strikers both followed and
influenced local PCS leaders, despite some allegiance to former President Araujo.” Gould and Lauria-Santiago, To
Rise in Darkness, 158.
89
The Salvadoran Left did cultivate sympathy among the ranks of the regular army, having infiltrated various
regiments. Gould and Lauria-Santiago cite a secret police report that “suggested that 50-60 percent of the regular
army and 30 percent of the National Guard were leftist sympathizers.” Yet by January 16, the military “had already
38
and intimidation had left clandestine Communist Party networks in shambles, and a nationwide
state of siege had made communication between Party officials in San Salvador and militants in
western departments even more dangerous. “Instead of a party that was on the point of initiating
a big insurrection,” remembers Mármol, “we had the appearance of desperate, persecuted, and
harassed revolutionaries.” 90 Yet the government’s crackdown on national Communist Party
leaders did little to dampen the revolutionary spirit of the western highlands, and as the tense
days ticked by, support for armed insurrection swelled. The momentum for revolution had been
building for years, and by this point, little could thwart it. Campesinos in the coffee fields
sharpened their corvos (long knives) and prepared for battle while government soldiers waited
patiently, machine guns at the ready.
The tension snapped on the night of January 22, 1932. Under the cover of a thick cloud of
ash spewed forth by volcanoes in neighboring Guatemala, between 5,000 and 7,000 machete-
wielding insurgents assaulted military barracks in three departmental capitals and seized several
municipal seats in central and western El Salvador.91 Composed of both indigenous and ladino
rural workers and peasants, the insurgents succeeded in toppling some city officials and
occupying their municipal posts for several days. Several political leaders and local landowners
reviled for their exploitation of rural workers were executed, despite the aversion of insurgent
leaders to personal violence. 92 Assaults on military garrisons proved less successful, as most
barracks remained firmly under the control of the National Guard and regular army units.93 By
discovered and eliminated most of the revolutionary conspirators in its ranks” and were in the process of
interrogating, torturing, and often killing them. Gould and Lauria-Santiago, To Rise in Darkness, 166.
90
Dalton, Miguel Mármol, 247.
91
Gould and Lauria-Santiago, To Rise in Darkness, 170.
92
Anderson estimates that insurgents killed about 21 civilians. Gould and Lauria-Santiago concur, citing between
15 and 20 killed. Local rebel leaders reportedly opposed the execution of individual members of the elite.
Anderson, Matanza, 175; Gould and Lauria-Santiago, To Rise in Darkness, 187-189.
93
Anderson, Matanza, 149-159; Gould and Lauria-Santiago, To Rise in Darkness, 173-187.
39
the second day of the insurrection, the army and National Guard had moved in and crushed what
remained of the opposition. The campesinos, despite their overwhelming numerical advantage
and the passion and conviction with which they wielded their machetes, proved no match for the
firepower and superior military technology of the Salvadoran armed forces. Yet it was what
happened after the rebellion that would scar the collective psyche of El Salvador for generations
to come.
The Salvadoran military capped its suppression of the short-lived rebellion with the
wholesale slaughter of thousands of its countrypeople. In acts of brutal retaliation, the armed
forces and National Guard methodically eliminated any and all suspected bases of support for the
revolt. Military patrols hunted down either known or accused communists and executed them,
most often by firing squad. 94 The armed forces also conducted less discriminate large-scale
massacres in the rural villages of western El Salvador, many of indigenous communities.95 In
other cases, ethnic background proved less of a determining factor than a Salvadoran’s political
leanings or whether one’s town was considered a source of rebel support. 96 Within days,
thousands of rotting corpses had clogged up drainage ditches along rural roads, and mass graves
abounded. By the time the killing ended nearly a month later, between 10,000 and 30,000
94
Many sources corroborate the military’s use of “death lists,” or lists of voters who had signed petitions to
register the Communist Party as a political party in the recent elections. National and Civic Guards also captured
and used lists of Socorro Rojo International (the international Communist equivalent of the Red Cross, or SRI)
supporters and official PCS members to identify their victims in some territories. Gould and Lauria-Santiago, To
Rise in Darkness, 227.
95
Because Indians were perceived as having comprised the bulk of the insurrectionary forces, indigenous peoples
bore the brunt of ladino racism and state-sponsored violence post-rebellion. Indio became synonymous with
comunista in the popular lexicon as “the dam holding back the accumulated hostility and hatred towards Indians
on the part of the elite” broke wide open. Gould and Lauria-Santiago note that one survivor recalls townsfolk
shouting, “Finish off the Indian communists!” Gould and Lauria-Santiago, To Rise in Darkness, 226.
96
Gould and Lauria-Santiago offer as evidence stories such as that of the father of Alvaro Cortez, an indigenous
man who was a member of a government-organized civil patrol yet was gunned down by government troops.
“They didn’t ask for a declaration, they just shot him” because he lived in an area known for having leftist
sympathies, Cortez recounts. Gould and Lauria-Santiago, To Rise in Darkness, 215.
40
Salvadoran peasants and rural workers had met their death at the hands of the state.97 These few
weeks of bloodshed, dubbed la matanza (“the slaughter”), would remain seared into the
Salvadoran social psyche for generations to come.
97
Accounts of the number killed vary widely. Thomas Anderson argues for a death toll of between 8,000 and
10,000 primarily indigenous people. Subsequent investigations have called his numbers into question, stating that
anywhere from 10,000 to 30,000 died. Gould and Lauria-Santiago, acknowledging “the impossibility of arriving at
anything approximating a scientific estimate,” default to the British and American embassy records, supplemented
by that of Salvadoran General Tomás Calderón, of approximately 10,000 killed. Anderson, Matanza, 176; Gould
and Lauria-Santiago, To Rise in Darkness, 234.
41
CHAPTER 2:
MILITARY RULE, THE SECOND EXPORT CRISIS,
AND THE ROOTS OF REVOLUTION, 1932-1980
During the four decades following la matanza, El Salvador’s military rulers administered
state-led reform balanced by strategic doses of repression in order to ensure the political stability
necessary for a prosperous economy. The revolt of 1932 had confirmed the Salvadoran elite’s
fears of the dangers inherent to a democratic political system. It also convinced them that a
strategic alliance with the Salvadoran armed forces would be the most effective means of
ensuring the internal stability required to realize their dream of agro-export-based economic
growth. As a result, the Salvadoran oligarchy, which had regrouped and reconsolidated following
the onset of the Great Depression and the subsequent peasant revolt, joined in a strategic
coalition with factions of the Salvadoran military in a union that would last the next half-century.
In what political scientist William Stanley dubs a “protection racket state,” elites ceded the right
to rule to the military in return for the guarantee of internal political and economic stability,
which the oligarchy viewed as necessary for the country’s long-term prosperity.1 This unwritten
pact between the country’s two most powerful groups, although founded upon mutual interests,
proved fraught with contradictions and would be tested in the decades to come as the United
States increasingly inserted itself into Salvadoran political and economic affairs. Yet despite
severe strains, the relationship did not crack – and the growth of the agro-export economic sector
and the industrial sector proceeded in El Salvador.
During and following World War II, the quantity and diversity of agricultural goods
produced by large Salvadoran landholders soared while the number of associated jobs dwindled
1
William Stanley. The Protection Racket State: Elite Politics, Military Extortion, and Civil War in El Salvador.
(Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1996), 6-7.
42
as mechanization increased in popularity. The relative success of newer agro-export commodities
such as cotton and sugarcane (and later cattle) demanded fewer workers and more cultivable
acres, forcing rural inhabitants off their lands and threatening their livelihoods. Life at the bottom
of the socioeconomic ladder grew increasingly unsustainable. Many lower-class Salvadorans
sought better working and living conditions abroad; others remained and attempted to change the
existing system of government to promote a more equitable distribution of wealth. The
Salvadoran political and economic elite, however, met popular calls for a more just distribution
of arable farmland and resources with increasingly violent measures as the crisis of subsistence
intensified throughout the 1970s. As it had fifty years ago, the Salvadoran government responded
to popular resistance with a concerted campaign of violence, slaughtering thousands more than
the first matanza and triggering a mass exodus. By the outbreak of civil war in 1980, El Salvador
was not only exporting cash crops; increasingly, it was exporting humans.
Repression and Reform:

The Military and the Oligarchy in Salvadoran Politics, 1932-1972
Under President Martínez, the Salvadoran state deftly wove a network of patronage
among the populace, employing calculated humanitarianism and subtle fear to maintain a tight
grip on civil affairs. After presiding over the massacre of thousands of rural inhabitants, the new
leader ordered his military to turn right around and protect indigenous survivors from ladino
reprisal killings. 2 Believing that long-term stability in the countryside was more likely to be
2
Erik Ching and Virginia Tilley explain this seeming contradiction by arguing that the military’s understanding of
the rebellion – a result of poverty and unequal access to resources as opposed to an ideological revolt – shaped its
response: “Military leaders reasoned that if the poverty of the campesinos could be alleviated, the message of the
43
established through reform, Martínez initiated several piecemeal social programs designed to
improve the lives of the rural poor.3 In addition to courting peasants, he successfully co-opted
urban workers and artisans by imposing high import tariffs that delayed industrialization and
protected cottage industries.4 At the same time, the dictator banned all labor unions and kept
tight control over the countryside through a network of informants and government-sponsored
civil militias.5 Through this method of ruling, described by the British charge d’ affaires as a
combination of an “iron fist and a velvet glove,” Martinez used the power of the state to reward
his allies and punish his enemies, cultivating valuable ties of political patronage in the process.6
Martínez’s governing style succeeded in suffocating challenges to his rule until the force
of world events overtook him. Amid the pro-democracy rhetoric of the Second World War and
the crumbling of authoritarian governments throughout Latin America, Martínez attempted to
amend the Constitution to help himself to a fourth consecutive term in office in 1943. This
proved too much for the rising urban middle classes, a smattering of reformist military officers,
and even some landowning and financial elites, who worried that the general’s insatiable thirst
for power would impede national progress. 7 In April of 1944, Martínez responded to an
communists would fall on deaf ears, and in this way, further episodes of insurrection would be prevented.” Ching
and Tilley, “Indians, the Military, and the Rebellion of 1932 in El Salvador,” Journal of Latin American Studies 30,
no.1 (Feb 1998): 140-142.
3
Such reforms were largely unsuccessful in creating viable change, as none of them truly challenged the
dominance of the landowning elite. They involved buying private estates at market value and then dividing the
land to be sold at low interest rates to poor families; the construction of cheap working-class homes; and
encouraging landowners to make land available to their workers free of charge. Yet Ching still argues that despite
the limited effectiveness of such reforms, they gave workers and peasants “room to maneuver” by including them
as an integral part of the nation. Ching and Tilley, “Indians, the Military, and the Rebellion of 1932,” 146.
4
Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 39.
5
Héctor Lindo-Fuentes and Erik Ching, Modernizing Minds in El Salvador: Education Reform and the Cold War,
1960-1980 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 2012), 40.
6
Shepherd, San Salvador, 4 December 1933, PRO, FO 371/16560, A8750/706/8, cited in Erik Ching, “Patronage and
Politics under General Maximiliano Hernández Martínez, 1931-1939: The Local Roots of Military Authoritarianism
in El Salvador,” in Landscapes of Struggle: Politics, Society, and Community in El Salvador, ed. Aldo Lauria-Santiago
and Leigh Binford (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004), 53.
7
Lindo-Fuentes and Ching, Modernizing Minds, 45.
44
unsuccessful attempt to violently remove him from power with a vicious crackdown on civil
liberties, torture, and the summary executions of those suspected of plotting his overthrow. His
actions horrified and infuriated an already critical urban populace, who responded with a massive
nonviolent general strike that toppled the Martínez regime and replaced it with a provisional
junta promising free elections and a transition to civilian rule.8 But the favored candidate, Dr.
Arturo Romero, proved too progressive for the landed elite, and a group of conservative military
officials led by Martínez’s former chief of police ensured that his election never came to fruition.
Once again, the Salvadoran armed forces had acted in a decidedly undemocratic fashion to
benefit their elite civilian benefactors. The military had made good on its part of its bargain with
the upper class – for the time being.
Successive heads of state found that the best means of navigating potentially treacherous
political waters lay in placating urban residents with reforms while engaging in selective
repression to reassure landowners of their control over the countryside. During the 1950s,
Lieutenant Colonel Óscar Osorio (1950-54) and Colonel José María Lemus (1954-1960) utilized
their party, the Revolutionary Party of Democratic Unification (Partido Revolucionario de
Unificación Democrática, or PRUD), to establish a corporatist state with broad-based legitimacy
in both popular and elite sectors of society. 9 To gain the support of lower and middle-class
urbanites, the government focused on improving the educational sector, undertaking public
works projects, legalizing state-friendly labor unions, and reducing the cost of city living through
8
For more on the general strike, better known as the Huelga de brazos caídos, see Patricia Parkman, Nonviolent
Insurrection in El Salvador: The Fall of Maximiliano Hernández Martínez (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1988).
9
As William Stanley observed, the new military leaders decided that they “would neither turn the state over to a
civilian mass public that had proven itself prone to leftism, nor act merely as an instrument of an oligarchy whose
selfish pursuit of private interests would impede national development, stability, and the ability to resist
communism.” Instead, they would attempt to position the state in the middle ground between the two. Stanley,
The Protection Racket State: Elite Politics, Military Extortion, and Civil War in El Salvador (Philadelphia: Temple
University Press, 1996), 69.
45
housing programs, public health initiatives, and food subsidies.10 Yet the modernizing ethos of
the PRUD, its rhetoric of social justice, and its welcoming attitude towards international
development experts with their focus on industrialization and infrastructure reform alarmed more
conservative elements of the elite during the 1950s.11 To appease them, PRUD administrations
authorized violent crackdowns on leftist political opposition to assure conservatives and their
allies in the military that the state would never fall prey to Communist influence. Through this
approach, the military government trapped itself in a vicious cycle, according to political
scientist William Stanley. The Salvadoran government, he argues, “could not maintain broad
popular support without providing socioeconomic benefits, and it could not deliver these without
jeopardizing its support among elites, unless they were carefully justified on anticommunist
grounds and accompanied by [violent] measures demonstrating the government’s commitment to
its protective role [of the elite]. Yet such crackdowns further eroded popular support,
undermining the military’s hopes of establishing an autonomous base of incorporated political
support.”12
Osorio and Lemus’s eventual successor, Colonel Julio Rivera, tried a slightly different
tack by promoting reform and scaling back state repression while he sought to develop and
modernize the country. Propelled uncontested into the presidency in 1962 as the candidate of the
new Party of National Conciliation (Partido de Conciliación Nacional, or PCN), Rivera
10
Stanley, Protection Racket State, 74; Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 46. For an analysis of government
initiatives to protect female workers as a means of co-opting unions, see Kati Griffith and Leslie Gates, “Colonels
and Industrial Workers in El Salvador, 1944-1972: Seeking Societal Support through Gendered Labor Reforms” in
Landscapes of Struggle: Politics, Society, and Community in El Salvador, ed. Aldo Lauria-Santiago and Leigh Binford
(Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004), 71-84.
11
According to Lindo-Fuentes and Ching, “a consistent view of the conservatives was opposition to meddling
outsiders, be they socialists or capitalists … as much as they hated communists, they held special antipathy for
modernizing North American capitalists who believed that Salvadoran landowners were a source of
backwardness.” Modernizing Minds, 56.
12
Stanley, Protection Racket State, 75.
46
proposed a wide-ranging set of reforms which sought to modernize many sectors of the
government, focusing specifically on taxation, health, education, housing, and labor. The timing
of his “election” proved fortuitous, coming on the heels of the unveiling of U.S. President John
F. Kennedy’s multi-billion-dollar development initiative for Latin America, the Alliance for
Progress.13 President Rivera netted millions of dollars of U.S. development aid by stressing his
staunch opposition to Communism and support of social reforms that, he argued, would address
the widening chasm between the few rich and the many poor in his country.14 He also introduced
a form of proportional representation for the Salvadoran Legislative Assembly that allowed
opposition parties to gain significant electoral ground, leading to the rise of the anti-communist
but reformist Christian Democratic Party (Partido Demócrata Cristiano, or PDC) to national
prominence by the mid-1960s. 15 In the presidential election of 1967, Rivera’s handpicked
13
Conceived as a means of battling the spread of Communism in Latin America through the promotion of
democratic values and a more just distribution of economic wealth generated by capitalist growth, the Alliance for
Progress funneled $63 million in loans to El Salvador between 1962 and 1965. Perhaps even more important than
direct US aid was the Alliance’s focus on encouraging North American investment in El Salvador, which did help to
diversify agro-export production and stimulate the growth of new industries to the extent that the Johnson
administration proclaimed El Salvador “a model for the other Alliance countries.” Yet most of the material benefits
of this seemingly remarkable economic growth directly enriched those who already controlled the country’s
economy, as upper-class families sank their money into new industrial-mercantile ventures and strengthened their
hold on the nation’s wealth while fending off the modest proposals for land and income redistribution which
accompanied U.S. aid. Walter LaFeber, Inevitable Revolutions: The United States in Central America (New York:
W.W. Norton, 1983), 174-175.
14
Although the bulk (about 80%) of Alliance For Progress grants to El Salvador merely ended up bolstering the
status of the existing economic elite through aid for road building, industry, and commercial agriculture, Rivera
also directed funds to social programs such as school construction, food distribution, housing, and
telecommunications upgrades. Lindo-Fuentes and Ching claim that “Rivera’s reformist impulse was more than
mere window dressing” and reflected his strong belief in the usefulness of reform in combatting the threat of
Communism. Modernizing Minds, 72.
15
The PDC steadily gained momentum as the decade progressed, scoring a major victory in 1964 with the
unexpected election of José Napoleón Duarte as mayor of San Salvador. Espousing the idea of a peaceful
“democratic revolution” of social and economic justice, Christian Democrats sought to reform society within the
capitalist sphere through the just payment of labor, a more equitable distribution of property and the fruits of
production, and the provision of basic services to guarantee every Salvadoran a dignified existence. This agenda
was, as Stephen Webre points out, “not forward-looking;” rather, it sought to maintain an ordered society by
strengthening traditional institutions such as the family and the church while seeking to reform, not eliminate,
existing social and economic disparities. Stephen Webre, José Napoleón Duarte and the Christian Democratic Party
in San Salvadoran Politics, 1960-1972 (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1979), 58-59, 65, 67.
47
successor, General Fidel Sánchez Hernández, was forced to fend off a slew of challengers from
across the political spectrum in order to win the presidency. In part a consequence of the
promotion of democracy (or at least the narrative thereof), which was part and parcel of the
Alliance for Progress, the PCN’s once-commanding hold on the reins of government slipped
considerably as the 1960s progressed.
The Rivera administration also sought rural reform, provided it did not strike at the heart
of the landed aristocracy. Rivera made no secret of his disdain for large landowners, using state-
run publications to portray them as selfish reactionaries who were merely inviting Communist
incursions through their monopoly of wealth and their control over the means of production.16 To
counter what he perceived to be their outsized influence, the Salvadoran president encouraged
the organization of peasant cooperatives.17 The American Institute for Free Labor Development
(AIFLD) – U.S. organized labor’s foreign relations arm – and the Salvadoran Catholic Church
both developed networks of cooperatives centered on supporting small landowning and landless
peasants, teaching farming and business skills while training communities in organizing and civil
rights.18 By 1969, the government had joined them, setting up a cooperative of its own which,
according to one participant observer, “‘broke the ice of fear, distrust, and passivity’ that existed
between the peasantry and the state since the 1932 massacre.”19 By facilitating the establishment
16
Lindo-Fuentes & Ching, Modernizing Minds, 61-62.
17
The 1960s witnessed the Salvadoran state begin to “actively encourage the formation of agricultural
associations, giving increased jurisdiction and resources to government agencies … to expand the number of rural
cooperatives.” Guerra Calderon (1976) quoted in Almeida, Waves of Protest, 75.
18
Both cooperatives were founded as self-help organizations. The Salvadoran Communal Union (Unión Comunal
Salvadoreña, or UCS), was a joint project of the Alliance for Progress and the staunchly anti-communist AFL-CIO.
The Catholic Church’s cooperative, FUNPROCOOP, “centered on fighting rural hunger, breaking dependency
relationships between poor peasants and local village elites, creating mutual awareness among peasants, and
training communities in organizational and leadership skills based on the principles of social Christianity espoused
by the documents of Vatican II.” Almeida, Waves of Protest, 75-77.
19
Walter Guerra Calderón, Asociaciones comunitarias en el area rural de El Salvador en la década 1960-1970:
Análisis de las condiciones que enmarcan su desarrollo. (San José, Costa Rica: CSUCA, Programa Centroamericano
de Ciencias Sociales, 1976), 231.
48
of such self-help organizations, Rivera provided a tiny portion of the peasantry with the veneer
of empowerment, slightly chipping away at the status of the landowning elite but not doing
enough damage to warrant his overthrow.
Rivera’s decision to curtail the state’s repressive apparatus opened up space for certain
groups in civil society to organize and press for more substantial political and economic reforms.
Labor federations, emboldened by the administration’s 1962 recognition of the right to strike and
of public employees to unionize, grew increasingly vocal as the decade progressed. 20
Supplementing the government’s existing client union (the General Confederation of Salvadoran
Unions, or CGS), the Unitary Federation of Salvadoran Unions (FUSS) and a host of public
service employee unions formed and rapidly expanded during the Rivera and Sánchez Hernández
era, growing from seven unions in 1962 to 41 by 1972.21 Perhaps the best example of such
empowerment was the teaching sector. Teachers, historically clients of the ruling party,
gradually weaned themselves off their patron, created a national organizational structure with 86
local chapters, and evolved into vocal and militant critics of the government, staging massive
demonstrations protesting pension cuts and highly controversial education reforms.22
This is not to say that state-sponsored repression disappeared. Mass arrests of protesters
were common, with leaders suffering torture, exile, and occasionally death at the hands of state
security forces. Right-wing groups linked to government intelligence agencies bombed
university, opposition, and union offices in attempts to silence their critics. In the countryside,
the government – with the financial and technical assistance of the United States Army, CIA, and
20
As the light manufacturing sector boomed as a result of El Salvador’s membership in the Central American
Common Market during the 1960s, trade unions emerged as a means of advocacy and solidarity among the urban
working classes. Lindo-Fuentes & Ching, Modernizing Minds, 76-77.
21
Almeida, Waves of Protest, 72 & 101.
22
Almeida, Waves of Protest, 101. See Lindo-Fuentes and Ching, Modernizing Minds, chs. 2,4, & 5 for the
important role played by teachers and their union, ANDES 21 de Julio, over the course of the 1960s and 1970s.
49
State Department – cultivated the Nationalist Democratic Organization (Organización
Democrática Nationalista, or ORDEN), a 60,000-member strong nationwide network of
informants who worked closely with the Salvadoran military high command and its intelligence
wing to gather information on suspected “enemies of the state.”23 In the 1970s, ORDEN would
take on a more active role as the paramilitary arm of the elite, intimidating, harassing, and even
killing those who attempted to organize for rural workers’ and peasants’ rights. Yet between
1962 and 1972, the state scaled back its use of brute force and violence, allowing a small
window of opportunity for civil reformers to challenge the government – within limits.24
Post-War Economic Development:

Modernization, Displacement, and the Crisis of Subsistence
In the years following the overthrow of the Martínez dictatorship and the end of the
Second World War, El Salvador initiated a sustained, state-driven effort to modernize its
economy, focusing on export agriculture and light industry. Recognizing the dangers of a
monocrop economy – even one as profitable as the post-war coffee market – government
planners had encouraged more Salvadoran growers to experiment with cotton as a cash crop.
Relatively quickly, this gave rise to a highly mechanized, capital-intensive system of production
that expanded from 47,000 planted acres in 1951 to 302,100 acres by 1960.25 Thanks to the
introduction of easily available, inexpensive insecticides and aided by an established domestic
textile industry, cotton quickly became the country’s second-most profitable export. By the early
23
Allan Nairn, “Behind the death squads: An exclusive report on the U.S. role in El Salvador’s official terror,” The
Progressive (May 1984). Lindo-Fuentes & Ching, Modernizing Minds, 77.
24
Almeida, Waves of Protest, 100.
25
Browning, Landscape and Society, 231; 234.
50
1960s, cotton accounted for 24 percent of El Salvador’s total exports, with over 90 percent sold
on the global market.26 At the same time, technical assistance, low-interest loans, and generous
grants to encourage infrastructure development provided by the United States Agency for
International Development (USAID), the World Bank, and other international organizations were
stimulating rapid growth in sugarcane production in the coastal lowlands, whose exports soared
1,000 percent over the course of the 1960s.27 Beef production, too, profited from favorable U.S.
quotas and post-war advances in refrigerated transport.28 By the early 1970s El Salvador had its
first meat-packing plant and was on its way to joining its Central American neighbors as a beef
baron.29
However promising these economic advances may have seemed to government
economists and producers, they bore a steep price for El Salvador’s rural workers and peasantry.
The rapid expansion of highly mechanized cotton and sugar production during the post-war era
displaced tens of thousands of subsistence farmers, rupturing traditional patterns of small-scale
food cultivation and swelling the numbers of dispossessed peasants. 30 Desperate Salvadoran
farmers on the coastal plain and in other new agro-export zones uprooted their families and
relocated to marginal lands, where they attempted to scrape out a living from the rocky soils of
26
Browning, Landscape and Society, 239; Héctor Dada Hirezi, La Economía de El Salvador y la Integración
Centroamericana, 1954-1960 (San José: EDUCA, 1983), 40.
27
After 1964, falling world cotton prices combined with severe insect infestations to drive many smaller and
middling producers out of the cotton business, some of whom compensated by planting sugar. Robert Williams,
Export Agriculture and the Crisis in Central America. (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986), 66-68;
LaFeber, Inevitable Revolutions, 175.
28
Williams, Export Agriculture, 98. The United States favored Central American beef as part of the Alliance for
Progress programs to stave off Communist influence in the Caribbean and Central America. Williams, Export
Agriculture, 86.
29
Williams, Export Agriculture, 77.
30
Browning, Landscape and Society, 239. For an analysis of the impact of mechanized agriculture, especially
cotton, on landlord-tenant relationships, see Williams, Export Agriculture, 71-73.
51
the northern and eastern parts of the country.31 Yet in times of little rain, subsistence farming on
such nutritionally depleted land often did not suffice to feed one’s family, forcing farmers to
make the arduous journey to the coffee, cotton, and sugarcane fields during harvest season. This
was to the benefit of the large producers, who profited more from utilizing their lands for
mechanized monoculture because they only paid their workers for seasonal – as opposed to year-
round – labor. Whatever pittance rural workers earned went to keep their families alive back
home; rarely did their earnings guarantee solid sustenance.
Other displaced Salvadorans traveled even farther, following a well-worn path to
Honduras in search of survival. Salvadorans had historically utilized their northern neighbor as a
safety valve, from those lured by promises of work on the banana plantations in the early
decades of the twentieth century to displaced small coffee growers in the 1920s and Great
Depression migrants in the 1930s. This trend continued as the century progressed, accelerating
with the post-World War II agro-export boom. William Durham estimates that from 25,000 in
the 1930s, the number of Salvadorans residing in Honduras swelled to 75,000 by the 1950s and
then exploded to over 300,000 by the late 1960s, when Salvadorans made up approximately 12
percent of the population of Honduras, or one out of every eight residents.32 Don Julio A., a
Salvadoran who had migrated to Honduras in the early 1960s, explained to Cecilia Menjívar that
31
Beginning in 1950, out-migration from subsistence areas in the north and east increased, perhaps as a result of
greater cyclical migration during harvest seasons. Between 1950 and 1961, 73% of all migrants moved to cities; San
Salvador alone absorbed 41% of them. Hamilton and Chinchilla postulate that such patterns may have resulted
from declining land productivity in more marginal areas in the north and east combined with increasing potential
for well-paying jobs in the city which accompanied incipient industrialization. Hamilton and Chinchilla, “Central
American Migration,” 88.
32
One report estimated that by the mid-1960s, Salvadorans comprised 30 percent of the Honduran banana
plantation workforce. Durham notes that numbers were most likely far higher in earlier decades, before massive
layoffs during the 1950s. William Durham, Scarcity and Survival in Central America: Ecological Origins of the Soccer
War (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1979), 2, 124.
52
at the time, “Honduras was a paradise – lots of land, jobs. For those of us who had nothing at
home, just our hands to work [with], it was really paradise.”33
For a Salvadoran peasant accustomed to scratching out an existence on the nutrient-poor
soils of the mountains or laboring in the cane fields, the vast expanses of land and rich soils of
Honduras must have seemed like paradise. El Salvador, with its rapidly vanishing agricultural
frontier, was anything but. Recognizing the perils of relying so heavily upon agricultural exports
for economic growth, successive military regimes sought to increase El Salvador’s
manufacturing sector outputs in the hope of generating more industrial jobs for its booming
population. Partnering with the business sector, the Osorio, Lemus, and Rivera administrations
pursued an ambitious strategy of import-substitution industrialization and infrastructure
development in order to grow domestic manufacturing. The creation of the Central American
Common Market in 1961 and the accompanying economic aid provided by the U.S.-sponsored
Alliance for Progress and North American investment firms considerably boosted the small
country’s industrial output, creating new manufacturing jobs in urban areas of the country,
especially San Salvador. 34 The promise of industrial jobs attracted tens of thousands of new
migrants to urban areas, especially the capital city. 35 Yet upon arrival, most rural migrants
discovered few well-paying manufacturing positions. 36 Instead, most landed in the far less
lucrative informal economy and often made seasonal trips to the agricultural fields to supplement
33
Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 46.
34
By 1965, El Salvador boasted more small manufacturing firms than any other Central American nation. Growth
averaged 7.7 percent in the Central American region as a whole during the 1960s. Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 43;
Hamilton and Chinchilla, “Central American Migration,” 89. For an analysis of the forces that gave birth to the
Central American Common Market, see Dada Hirezi, La Economía de El Salvador.
35
Between 1950 and 1961, 73 percent of all Salvadoran migrants moved to cities, with the department of San
Salvador absorbing 41 percent of all migrants, or about 55,000 new inhabitants. Hamilton and Chinchilla, “Central
American Migration,” 88; Nora Hamilton and Norma Stoltz Chinchilla, Seeking Community in a Global City:
Guatemalans and Salvadorans in Los Angeles (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 2001), 26.
36
Dada Hirezi, La Economía de El Salvador, 90-91.
53
their meager incomes, joining subsistence farmers residing in less fertile areas in the northern
and eastern departments of El Salvador.37
Although the manufactured goods produced by Salvadoran firms failed to significantly
boost the fortunes of most urban migrants, they did flood the markets of less industrialized
nations like Honduras and Nicaragua, stifling their attempts at domestic modernization.38 Such a
significant trade imbalance only added to El Salvador’s mounting tensions with its northern
neighbor, a product of a long history of border disputes and a post-war population boom that
strained Honduras’s scant domestic resources. The Honduran government responded by passing
an agrarian reform law that evicted tens of thousands of Salvadorans from the Honduran lands
they had been cultivating. The ensuing “Soccer War,” a 100-hour military conflict between the
two nations in July of 1969, provided a boost to the morale of the victorious Salvadoran armed
forces and united disparate political groups and social classes in patriotic fervor against the
Hondurans, offering the Salvadoran military government a brief respite from dealing with the
crisis of subsistence. In the long run, however, the war only exacerbated conditions of
landlessness and poverty. Anywhere from 130,000 – 300,000 Salvadoran refugees, expelled by
the Honduran government, returned to find a scarcity of cultivable land due to the rapid
expansion of export-oriented agriculture.39 At the same time as these peasants scoured for work
and land, the country’s remaining agricultural frontier was rapidly vanishing, gobbled up by
cattle farmers caught up in the beef export boom of the early 1970s. “As the cattle boom
progressed,” Robert Williams observes, “life on the edge of the peasant system consisted of
37
From 1961 to 1975, the urban informal economy grew almost threefold. Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 44.
38
Durham, Scarcity and Survival, 105-108.
39
Stanley, Protection Racket State, 85. The outbreak of the war followed a series of high-stakes soccer (fútbol)
matches between the two countries in 1969. El Salvador’s army is widely seen as having won the war, which
spanned five days and was ended by a cease-fire arranged by the Organization of American States. Estimates of
repatriated Salvadorans range widely; see Durham, Scarcity and Survival, 170; Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 46;
Chinchilla and Hamilton, “Central American Migration,” 91.
54
being chased toward an ever-vanishing frontier.”40 Tillable land proved increasingly elusive, as
“forested areas that had once provided survival insurance for the rural majority were blocked
from peasant access by the relentless spread of pastures … Barbed wire meant prosperity and
prestige for ranchers, but for those who grew corn it came to symbolize a crown of thorns; the
harbinger of crucifixion and death.”41
The rapid expansion of cattle ranching across previously tilled marginal lands marked the
effective closure of El Salvador’s agricultural frontier, concluding a process of rural
disenfranchisement that had begun with the expansion and consolidation of coffee fincas half a
century prior. Thirty percent of rural Salvadorans were landless as the 1960s opened; one decade
later, that percentage had surged to 41 percent. By 1975, fully half of the country’s rural
population had no soil to till.42 Not surprisingly, during that same time period the number of
tenant farmers in El Salvador plunged from 55,769 to a mere 17,019. 43 The lack of arable
subsistence farmland drove up competition for seasonal agricultural work, causing rural wages to
plummet as well.44 The collapse of the Central American Common Market following the Soccer
War precipitated massive layoffs in El Salvador’s incipient manufacturing sector as regional
demand for industrial goods suddenly dried up. And the global oil crisis of the 1970s caused the
price of manufactured petroleum-based imports for industry to skyrocket, cutting deep into
Salvadoran industry profits. 45 Thus, just as thousands of peasants and rural workers were
migrating to urban areas to find work, Salvadoran industries were shedding jobs to stay afloat
40
41
42
Carmen Diana Deere and Martin Diskin, Rural Poverty in El Salvador: Dimensions, Trends, and Causes (Geneva:
International Labor Office, World Employment Research Program, 1984), 18. See also Montgomery, Revolution in
El Salvador, 59 for slightly lower figures based on a different calculation.
43
44
45
Hamilton and Chinchilla, Seeking Community, 28.
55
and retooling to produce for a more competitive global market. Efforts by President Sánchez
Hernández to prompt a conversation on agrarian reform met with stiff resistance from the
business community and large hacendados, who refused to even entertain the issue of land
redistribution.46 Administration officials were equally helpless in slowing the hemorrhaging of
industrial jobs. Social reformers renewed their calls for structural economic and political
reforms. And Salvadorans looked to the upcoming 1972 presidential elections for a ray of hope.
Popular Mobilization, Rural Labor Unions, and the Church in the 1970s
The pleas for a more transparent, responsive, and representative democratic system which
would initiate wide-ranging structural economic and political reforms echoed off the walls of the
Presidential Palace and down the corridors of power in January of 1972, heard by many but
heeded by few. The electoral fraud perpetrated by the ruling PCN in the 1972 presidential
elections dealt a profound setback to those in El Salvador who held hopes of popular democratic
reform, ending a decade of political liberalization and precipitating a crisis of immense
proportions in the years to come. By most accounts, José Napoleón Duarte, the popular Christian
Democratic mayor of San Salvador who headed a broad opposition coalition known as the
National Opposition Union (Unión Nacional Opositora, or UNO), received more votes than
Colonel Arturo Molina, President Sánchez Hernández’s handpicked successor. As it became
clear that the PCN would lose the presidency, the government suspended public announcements
46
The government’s most meaningful attempt at dialogue on agrarian reform, a week-long congress organized by
the Legislative Assembly in January 1970, was spurned by the business sector, whose representatives proposed a
type of agrarian modernization that would improve techniques of production while not impacting land tenure.
Lindo-Fuentes and Ching, Modernizing Minds, 197.
56
of the vote count and declared Molina the victor. This rather blatant public repudiation of
election results conveyed the harsh limits of the military’s toleration of democratic governance:
it would accept the presence and limited success of oppositional parties as long as they did not
threaten its political hegemony. The presidential elections of 1972 thus marked the end of the
electoral experiment as an expression of Salvadoran popular sovereignty.47 For the rest of its
time in power, the Salvadoran military would rig elections as it saw fit, regardless of the true
vote tallies.48 El Salvador’s brief flirtation with democracy had come to an abrupt end.49
The disappointment and frustration wrought by the failure of electoral politics to bring
about meaningful change led many Salvadorans to pursue alternative means of voicing their
concerns in the public sphere. As it became increasingly clear throughout the 1970s that the
military government would block political opposition groups from electoral victory, Salvadorans
formed what came to be known as “popular organizations” to express discontent and lobby the
government for reforms.50 These organizations, the product of relationships built between rural
and urban activists, attracted a broad swath of society, from peasants and urban slum dwellers to
trade unionists, secondary and university students, teachers, and a host of other working and
47
Jorge Cáceres Prendes considers the 1972 electoral fraud to be “a decisive turning point in Salvadoran politics. In
the future, very few would retain their faith in elections as instruments of popular decision-making.” Cáceres
Prendes, “Political Radicalization and Popular Pastoral Practices in El Salvador, 1969-1985,” in The Progressive
Church in Latin America, ed. Scott Mainwaring and Alexander Wilde (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press,
1989), 111.
48
These measures included but were not limited to manipulating vote totals, decertifying PDC candidates, stuffing
ballots at the local level, and widespread intimidation of opposition candidates. Almeida, Waves of Protest, 107.
49
Immediately following the election, a group of reformist military officers unsuccessfully attempted to overthrow
Sánchez Hernández. The military struck back, viciously beating and exiling Duarte along with several high-ranking
PDC leaders and manipulating future elections to guarantee that the PDC would remain a marginalized opposition
party for the rest of the decade, powerless to enact any reform measures on its own. Webre, Duarte and the PDC,
176-178.
50
Almeida views these popular structures, which he dubs “multi-sectoral broker organizations,” as the successors
of civic groups that emerged during the liberalizing period of the 1960s but that lost legitimacy with the state-
sponsored electoral fraud and mounting repression of the 1970s. Almeida, Waves of Protest, 139-140.
57
51
middle-class professionals disenchanted with the military’s recalcitrance. The first
organization, the United Popular Action Front (Frente de Acción Popular Unificada, or FAPU),
grew out of a shared concern for higher living costs during the early 1970s and spawned a more
radical group, the Popular Revolutionary Bloc (Bloque Popular Revolucionario, or BPR), which
quickly surpassed its parent organization in popularity and political strength.52 The two were
joined later by the Popular Leagues of February 28 (Ligas Populares 28 de Febrero, or LP-28) in
1977. The fronts, often known collectively as “el movimiento popular” (“the popular
movement”), staged rallies of hundreds of thousands of people in urban areas, facilitated
relations between anti-government organizers in the city and in the countryside, and worked to
garner more support among the Salvadoran people for the revolutionary cause. By the end of the
1970s, each front would establish ties with at least one of the emerging guerrilla organizations.
However, for the first few years of its existence, the popular movement opted for protests and
civil disobedience over military action.
While such popular organizations provided rural inhabitants with a vital means of
political engagement and important contacts in urban social movements, they were only one
means by which Salvadoran campesinos attempted to mitigate their suffering. During the 1970s,
the government-affiliated Salvadoran Communal Union (Unión Comunal Salvadoreña, or UCS)
garnered tens of thousands of new members as the crisis of sustenance mounted. Founded in the
early 1960s as a network of self-help cooperatives with the financial and institutional support of
USAID and the American Federation of Labor – Congress of Industrial Unions (AFL-CIO), the
UCS offered access to lower-interest loans, reduced fertilizer and seed prices, and technical
51
52
A mere two years after its founding, the BPR boasted more than double the membership of FAPU, which it
painted as a “vacillating petty bourgeois current” whose orientation towards organizing workers in a broad anti-
fascist front betrayed the true interests of the working class and peasantry. James Dunkerley, The Long War:
Dictatorship and Revolution in El Salvador (London: Junction Books, 1982), 101.
58
support from the government with the goal of creating a privileged class of peasants who would
be loyal to the government and head off any radical tendencies in the countryside.53 As the 1970s
progressed and landlessness soared, the UCS swelled in number and potency: in a mere three
years, the organization more than doubled in size from 30,000 members in 1973 to 70,000
members in 1976. By 1980, estimates put the UCS at 120,000 members strong.54 As it grew, the
UCS became more politically engaged and independent, demanding resources from the
government in return for its support of the Molina administration’s proposed agrarian reform
project.55 Yet to many, the UCS did not go far enough to address the structural causes of rural
poverty.56 According to Evaristo, a native of Chalatenango, “When it came to asking the UCS for
help with problems we had in the village over a family being evicted, they didn’t help. They just
talked nicely to us, but in practice they did nothing. So in 1975 we decided to organize ourselves
in the UTC.”57 Like Evaristo, many peasants found their voice in local federations, many of
which had been nourished or inspired by Roman Catholic clergy.
Starting in the late 1960s, the Catholic Church took an increasingly prominent role in
addressing the brewing economic and political crises in El Salvador. Following Vatican II (1962-
1965) and the Latin American Bishop’s Conference in Medellín (1968), Catholic clergy brought
53
Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 106. The AFL-CIO worked hand-in-hand with USAID to promote the
Alliance for Progress’s goal of capitalist economic development and modernization through the American Institute
for Free Labor Development (AIFLD), which was created “to buttress democracy in Latin America through free and
strong labor unions.” The idea of creating rural cooperatives, notes Jenny Pearce, was attractive to the Salvadoran
government at the time: “politically, it might generate an organized social base of support for the government,
while economically, it allowed for collective solutions to certain immediate problems, particularly related to the
need for credit.” Jenny Pearce, Promised Land: Peasant Rebellion in Chalatenango, El Salvador. (London: Latin
American Bureau, 1986), 92-95.
54
Pearce, Promised Land, 96-97; Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 106.
55
According to Almeida, between 1973-1976 “state-sponsored and/or controlled peasant groups and construction
unions held the largest demonstrations and strikes.” Almeida, Waves of Protest, 104, 126.
56
The nature of the dependent, patron-client relationship promoted by the UCS is evident in the following quote
from a UCS member: “We have always felt that the (government) representative is the father of the family, that
the government must have the good will to smooth out the difficulties of the people … the government is always
willing to help.” Pearce, Promised Land, 95.
57
Pearce, Promised Land, 143.
59
the message of the “new evangelization” to the countryside, where a scarcity of clergy had for
years limited the pastoral practices of the Church. 58 By the mid-1970s, parish priests had
successfully cultivated Christian Base Communities (Comunidades Eclesiales de Base, or CEBs)
across several dioceses. 59 Composed of small groups of peasants, the CEBs would gather in
prayer, reflect upon Biblical passages and their application to their own realities, and study how
to solve community problems in the spirit of Christianity.60 CEB leaders received training not
only in theological matters but also in a host of practical issues such as agriculture, co-
operativism, and public health. As Walter Guerra, a Salvadoran priest and CEB trainer,
remarked: “the catechist, among us, is a man who works not only as a religious person but [who]
assumes leadership that is also social, including, at times, political.”61 Delegates of the Word and
catechists organized reflections on political events and led their communities in defending their
lands, petitioning the government for aid, and advocating for higher wages. By the mid-1970s,
the empowering message of liberation theology had spread across parts of the Salvadoran
countryside. Gone was the emphasis on passivity and submission promulgated by the traditional
Church; instead, the “new pastoralism” presented a God who cared for the poor and oppressed
and desired that they create the Kingdom of Heaven on Earth.62 Priests encouraged their flocks to
become active participants in their liberation – both from spiritual and material oppression –
58
Cáceres Prendes notes that “the Church’s social programs, which through most of the decade had been mainly
developmentalist in outlook, began to incorporate new pastoral initiatives” as a result of Vatican II and Medellín.
Caceres Prendes, “Political Radicalization,” 112.
59
Carlos Rafael Cabbarús, Génesis de una revolución: analysis del surgimiento y desarrollo de la organización
campesina en El Salvador (México, D.F.: Ediciones de la Casa Chata, 1983), 148-158.
60
Pearce offers an excellent description of the workings of a CEB: “ Each base community would be quite small,
about 30 people, and would concentrate on Bible study and a community approach to the sacraments…A priest
would direct the work of the group, but they would be encouraged to elect their own leaders – those who showed
most willingness to serve the community. Catechists, or lay teachers, would be elected to teach Christian doctrine”
while “Delegates of the Word … were lay preachers who could do most of the tasks of the priest, including the
weekly celebration of the Word of God, although not the sacramental functions.” Pearce, Promised Land, 113.
61
62
60
inspiring them to take practical action in order to improve their lives and bring about a more just
social order.
The pastoral work of Catholic priests and the new role of CEBs galvanized support for
independent rural labor unions, still officially outlawed by the government. Within months of the
establishment of CEBs by Fr. Rutilio Grande and his team of Jesuits in the town of Aguilares, a
1,600-person strike halted production at the nearby La Cabaña sugar mill. 63 CEB activists
reinvigorated the existing Christian Federation of Salvadoran Peasants (Federación Cristiana de
Campesinos Salvadoreños, or FECCAS), pushing it to sever its connections with the reformist
PDC and articulate a more radical critique of rural problems. 64 At the same time, in
Chalatenango and San Vicente, CEB leaders helped lay the groundwork for an even more radical
rural organization. Caravina, a community leader in Chalatenango, remembers the power of the
new pastoral teachings: “the development of the interpretation of the Word and the Bible
readings,” she recalls, “was so great that it came to unite the peasants,” giving them “a sense of
identification, of security and unity in what they were doing.”65 For Evaristo, “…it was through
the study of the Bible that I decided to join the UTC; it was there that I realized that a man can’t
do things alone but that his capacity comes through working with the compañeros, and then
63
“As consciousness grew amongst the peasants, so did their desire to organize,” observed Jenny Pearce in her
study of rural social movements in El Salvador. Pearce, Promised Land, 120. For an impressive analysis of social
relations and the radicalization of rural Salvadorans in response to state-sponsored persecution based on field
research in Aguilares, see Cabbarús, Génesis de una revolución.
64
In its statement of principles, published on 8 October 1975, FECCAS identified itself as not only a means by which
rural workers might seek better living and working conditions but, above and beyond that, as a political
organization that sought “to participate directly in the radical (root) change of the capitalist system and total
liberation from imperialism.” Pearce, Promised Land, 157.
65
Pearce, Promised Land, 144-145. Fr. José Alas, who organized CEBs in nearby Suchitoto, describes how in 1970,
he and his team “looked at baptism, the role of prophets and priests, and applied our study to the socio-economic
realities of El Salvador. The peasants discovered they were not kings; they were slaves. So we discussed how to
have domain of the land in order to be lords not slaves, and we discovered that the way was through land reform.”
Pearce, Promised Land, 102-103.
61
being able to form an organization.”66 This led to the founding of cooperatives and eventually to
the founding of the Union of Rural Workers (Unión de Trabajadores del Campo, or UTC) in
1974. Recognizing their shared objectives, FECCAS and the UTC joined forces in 1978 to form
the Rural Workers Federation (Federación de Trabajadores del Campo, or FTC), the most
militant and outspoken peasant organization in the country. In this way, the dedicated pastoral
work of certain members of the Salvadoran clergy helped foster a sense of campesino communal
identity and of shared grievances as well as an articulation of plans to address them.
The State Response: Militarization, Repression, and Terror
As calls for reform by popular opposition groups grew louder, the Salvadoran elite and its
allies in the military responded with increasing violence. Efforts by the Molina administration in
1976 to affect modest land reform in the eastern departments of San Miguel and Usulután
outraged large landowners and many business elites, who launched a vicious propaganda
campaign to discredit the administration’s efforts by painting it as one step away from
socialism.67 Spearheaded by the National Association of Private Enterprise (Asociación Nacional
de la Empresa Privada, or ANEP) and a newly formed group of militant landowners who banded
together under the Eastern Region Farmers’ Front (Frente de Agricultores de la Región Oriental,
or FARO) the campaign successfully undermined the proposed redistribution of 61,000 hectares
of cow pastures and farmlands to 12,000 landless peasants through slander, intimidation, and
66
67
Baloyra describes the torrent of propaganda unleashed upon the government by ANEP and its affiliates as
“hysterical anti-Communism.” Enrique Baloyra, El Salvador in Transition (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina
Press, 1982), 59.
62
outright murder.68 Despite the fact that the proposal did not threaten the interests of the major
landowners, most refused to sell their lands to the government.69 Bereft from support from the
left and demonized by the right, Molina finally backed off his modest proposal after his Minister
of Defense, General Carlos Humberto Romero, threatened a coup d’état if the reforms went
through. 70 Stripped of any remaining political legitimacy, Molina abandoned his plans and
retreated to the Presidential Palace to wait out the final months of his term.
If the fraudulent outcome of the 1972 presidential election sounded the death knell for
electoral democracy, the election of 1977 drove the final nail into its coffin, crushing any
lingering hope of reform with the elevation of the hardline Defense Minister Romero to the
presidency. As it had done five years earlier, the military resorted to intimidation, violence, and
ballot-box stuffing to ensure the “victory” of General Romero over the UNO candidate, Soccer
War hero Colonel Ernesto Claramount.71 And as they had done in 1972, the opposition protested
vehemently against the PCN’s blatant rigging of the election. The military responded with
repression, following a familiar script. Yet during the months that followed Romero’s “win,” the
violence perpetrated by security forces against government opponents far exceeded any
retribution exacted in 1972. “While under Molina,” notes Cáceres Prendes, “repression had been
68
Chapter 4 of Jesuit sociologist Segundo Montes’s El agro salvadoreño, 1973-1980 (San Salvador: UCA Editores,
1980) expertly describes how large landowners strategically employed violence, including death squads that
targeted government functionaries, to discourage Molina’s reform.
69
The agrarian reform project, modeled after that of Taiwan, deliberately excluded all coffee-growing lands. Most
of the land involved was government property, and very little of the land proposed for expropriation was even in
production. Landowners were fully compensated for any losses incurred. Pearce, Promised Land, 40; Baloyra, El
Salvador in Transition, 56.
70
This claim, attributed to an anonymous source in Montgomery, is bolstered by Stanley’s interview with a retired
senior military officer and generally believed to be the reason for the death of agrarian reform. Montgomery,
Revolution in El Salvador, 97; Stanley, Protection Racket State, 104.
71
In San Salvador, the government placed all 400 of the capital city’s voting booths in an industrial fairground five
miles from the center of the city, far from the working-class homes. The opposition UNO party was denied
observer’s rights, ballot boxes were stuffed with PCN ballots, the military and paramilitary groups employed
widespread violence to intimidate and suppress voting, and many UNO votes were destroyed in a coordinated
campaign of electoral fraud by the ruling party. Dunkerley, The Long War, 106; Montgomery, Revolution in El
Salvador, 71-72.
63
dressed up in more refined terminology as a requisite for ‘National Security,’ the Romero
government plunged straight into state terrorism.”72
Seemingly less inhibited than his predecessor by international pressure to respect human
rights and not burdened by what Almeida describes as “the pretense of reform or electoral
accountability,” President Romero and his allies in the oligarchy unleashed the security forces on
the increasingly vocal and militant opposition.73 By the mid-1970s, the rural intelligence network
ORDEN had matured and had woven a network of informants across the country that reported to
the Salvadoran National Security Agency (Agencia Nacional de Seguridad Salvadoreña, or
ANSESAL). In exchange for cheap access to land, lower agricultural credit, and immunity from
prosecution of minor offenses, ORDEN’s estimated 100,000 members assisted the government’s
security forces by informing upon, harassing, intimidating, torturing, and often gruesomely
murdering their neighbors who joined rural labor unions.74 Meanwhile, members of the agro-elite
organized groups of hit men composed of personnel from the security forces supplemented by
private mercenaries to eliminate any and all threats to their power.75 Such “death squads,” as
they came to be known, coordinated with the National Guard and other security forces to
terrorize the political left, disappearing and assassinating hundreds of journalists, trade unionists,
peasant organizers, clergy, and others sympathetic to reform. Supported by military commanders
who acted as their padrinos (godfathers) and their civilian sponsors, death squads espousing
72
Cáceres Prendes, “Political Radicalization,” 122. Lopez Vallecillos notes that while President Molina presided
over 37 state assassinations and 69 disappearances during his five years in office, Romero’s brief two-year tenure
as president witnessed the Salvadoran state kill 461 of its citizens and disappear 131. Lopez Vallecillos (1979) as
cited in Almeida, Waves of Protest, 152.
73
74
75
Stanley, Protection Racket State, 120. Cabbarús’s hamlet-level analysis of several cantones in areas of rural
unrest reveals the importance of economic and familial ties in determining which family units supported FECCAS
and which were loyal to. Cabbarús, Génesis de una revolución, 197-234.
64
fascist ideology and vowing a return to the 1932 matanza proved highly effective in killing off
opposition to the landowning elite.76
One of the recipients of the increased right-wing violence was the once sacrosanct
Salvadoran Catholic Church. Beginning in the late 1960s, the increasingly active role played by
some members of the clergy in advocating for human rights and dignity in the spirit of Vatican II
had earned the Church the ire of the Salvadoran oligarchy and the military, its historic allies. As
priests inspired by the theology of liberation worked with impoverished communities to confront
the causes of their earthly suffering, repression against the Church mounted. In 1970, Fr. José
Alas, who had been engaging in pastoral work with Christian base communities in the town of
Suchitoto, was kidnapped, drugged, stripped naked, and left for dead on a cliff after representing
the Church at the government-sponsored Agrarian Reform Congress.77 The archdiocesan radio
station, YSAX, was firebombed in 1972. Bombings of the Catholic Cultural Bookstore and the
Universidad Centroamericana (UCA), the Jesuit university, followed. 78 The Jesuits earned
special honors: the National Guard stormed the Christian base communities they had cultivated
in the town of Aguilares, killing at least 50 unarmed civilians, in May of 1977.79 Meanwhile,
conservative elites worked to paint the Jesuit social scientists at the UCA as communists and
traitors for their advocacy of land reform and social restructuring.80
76
77
The fast action of Bishop Arturo Rivera y Damas and Bishop Urioste, who planted themselves at the desk of the
Minister of Defense and refused to move until they received proof of Alas’s whereabouts, most likely saved the
young priest’s life. Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 81-82.
78
Cáceres Prendes, “Political Radicalization,” 118.
79
80
Conservatives felt betrayed, as they had provided significant funding for the building of the UCA in 1966 with the
expectation that the Jesuits would provide a traditional Catholic education for their children so they would not be
exposed to the ideals of Marxism and revolution that circulated freely at the public university. Instead, the Jesuits
taught the children of the ruling class about “the social and economic reality in which a majority of their fellow
citizens lived, creating a sense of responsibility for changing this reality.” Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador,
91-92.
65
After the election of President Romero, violence against the Church skyrocketed.
Between February and May of 1977, the government expelled or exiled 17 priests and jailed and
tortured four more.81 The White Warriors Union, a death squad which had adopted the slogan
“Be Patriotic – Kill a Priest,” assassinated six clergy and threatened to execute all 47 Jesuits
residing in El Salvador if they did not leave the country immediately.82 In the next two years, 40
more priests would be expelled, and six more would be murdered by security forces and death
squads. 83 The Church’s most decimating loss, though, proved to be the assassination of
Monseñor Óscar Arnulfo Romero. 84 A bookish conservative cleric from eastern El Salvador
appointed Archbishop of San Salvador in part because he was thought to be in poor health,
Romero underwent a profound transformation while witnessing the suffering of his flock. By
1979, three years after taking the reins of the largest diocese in the country, he had become an
outspoken critic of the violence meted out by the Salvadoran military; his sermons broadcast
from the national cathedral spread hope to hundreds of thousands of Salvadorans who tuned in
every Sunday. In his last sermon, Romero had commanded the military to disobey their superiors
and refuse to kill innocent civilians. The next day, an assassin’s bullet struck him dead while he
was celebrating Mass.85 The Archbishop’s murder in May of 1980 silenced the moral conscience
81
Dunkerley, The Long War, 109.
82
The Jesuits were spared by the intervention of President Romero, who posted armed guards outside the Jesuit
residences, “made ostentatious visits to them, and pledged full guarantees for their safety.” Dunkerley argues that
Romero only did so because of the bad publicity El Salvador had been attracting of late for killing priests. Cognizant
of the Carter administration’s emphasis on human rights as a guiding principle of U.S. foreign policy, the new
president dialed down the repression for a short time before allowing it to pick up once again. Dunkerley, The Long
War, 109.
83
84
Pope Francis canonized Archbishop Óscar Romero on October 14, 2018, elevating him to sainthood.
85
Romero’s killing was ordered by Major Roberto D’Aubuisson, a right-wing former military officer who played a
vital role in encouraging the formation and proliferation of El Salvador’s “death squads.”
66
of a nation and one of the last voices for a negotiated settlement to the violence that had gripped
El Salvador.86
The Church did not hold a monopoly on suffering. Far less publicized than clerical deaths
yet far more alarming was the quantity of civilian blood spilled in the fields and on the streets.
As the 1970s progressed, security forces grew bolder in their attempts to quash peasant
organizing, and massacres were increasingly common.87 Specifically, death squads and security
forces targeted members of militant rural unions such as FECCAS and the UTC. Incensed at the
gumption of formerly submissive peasants who organized militant land invasions and who loudly
petitioned for higher wages and better working conditions, the government and large landowners
deployed the National Guard and ORDEN to terrorize the regions where rural unions were
strong, destroying their harvests, setting houses aflame, and driving their populations into the
surrounding hills.88 Meanwhile, security forces stepped up their campaign of intimidation and
assassinations in urban areas, targeting factory workers and other members of popular
organizations who had been staging massive general strikes and occupying their places of
work.89 President Romero’s government helped to legitimize such violence by promulgating the
wide-ranging Law of the Defense and Guarantee of Public Order, which declared an indefinite
state of emergency, suspended the constitution, and provided a “blanket legal cover for the
complete annulment of democratic guarantees.” 90 Although the security forces had been
86
For a comprehensive biography of Archbishop Romero, see James R. Brockman, Romero: A Life (New York: Orbis,
1989).
87
Almeida, Waves of Protest, 124; Lauria-Santiago, “State Repression in El Salvador,” 100-101.
88
Aldo Lauria-Santiago, “The Culture and Politics of State Repression in El Salvador,” in When States Kill: Latin
America, the U.S., and the Technologies of Terror, ed. Cecilia Menjívar and Néstor Rodriguez (Austin: University of
Texas Press, 2005), 95. For analyses and first-person testimonies of the persecution of Salvadoran peasants by
government forces, see Jenny Pearce, Promised Land, Ch. 6
89
Baloyra, El Salvador in Transition, 66.
90
The measure, passed in November of 1977, was modeled after the national security codes of Southern Cone
dictatorships. It suspended the formal democratic liberties protected by the Salvadoran constitution such as the
right to public assembly, freedom of association, and public dissent. (Almeida, Waves of Protest, 150) The law used
67
harassing the political opposition for years, President Romero gave them the green light to
perform violent acts at will with virtual impunity. 91 Following the law’s promulgation, the
number of disappearances doubled, and political assassinations increased tenfold.92
As the state ramped up its use of violence and hope for reform through democratic means
dimmed, Salvadorans contemplated less peaceful methods of pursuing justice. After countless
demonstrations cut short by the guns of the National Guard, many Salvadorans grimly concluded
that the only means of both surviving the carnage and breaking the power of such an intransigent
ruling class lay in armed conflict. As a result, guerrilla fronts gained a steady stream of recruits
as conditions worsened and state-sponsored repression deepened. 93 These groups, which
emerged from radicalized labor, education, and Catholic Church/Christian Democratic sectors of
society, began as small cells of resistance that carried out minor campaigns of bombings and
occupations of embassies and radio stations in the early to mid-1970s. 94 As government
repression of the democratic opposition increased, guerrilla organizations staged high-profile
kidnappings of foreign and domestic elites to generate funding and cull popular support. The
main guerrilla groups disagreed – often violently – regarding the most effective strategy with
which to bring down the government, and for much of the late 1970s they remained locked in
bitter internecine struggles that limited their effectiveness in battling their common enemy, the
broad, vague language to make it easy for security forces to target whomever they suspected of questioning the
status quo, paving the way for what Dunkerley calls “a full offensive against the guerrillas, popular organizations,
unions, and sectors of the Church without any need to adhere to the niceties of the constitution or consider the
carping objections of human rights activists.” Dunkerley, The Long War, 115.
91
It is likely more than coincidental that General Romero promulgated the Law of the Defense and Guarantee of
Public Order at approximately the same time that the Sandinista revolution in Nicaragua was making significant
headway in undermining the legitimacy of the US-backed Somoza regime.
92
Baloyra, El Salvador in Transition, 66.
93
Almeida notes that as government repression increased, “activists replaced nonviolent forms of dissent with
disruptive and violent ones as revolutionary organizations gained hegemony over the social movement sector and
state-sponsored brutality reached alarming levels.” Almeida, Waves of Protest, 161.
94
68
state.95 The presence of a wide spectrum of Salvadorans – university and secondary students,
teachers, industrial workers, peasants, white-collar professionals, and even some large
landowners – also made for a diverse and often volatile Left. Yet despite generational and
ideological differences, all armed groups agreed that violent resistance provided the only means
of shattering the grip of the economic and political elite on their country and hastening the
creation of a more just and equitable society.
Descent into Civil War: 1979-1980
The continued high-profile killings of opposition and Church leaders in El Salvador
yanked the small country into the international spotlight in a decidedly unflattering manner,
placing President Romero in a bind. On one hand, the state’s increasingly bloody campaign
against the democratic Left threatened to cast his country as a pariah in the global community,
upon which Romero depended for essential loans and grants for infrastructure projects. This
international aid also hinged upon the approval of the United States, and incoming U.S. President
Jimmy Carter’s rhetoric indicated that the promotion of human rights would be a central factor in
determining U.S support.96 On the other hand, leftist opposition groups were gaining strength
and carrying out increasingly audacious kidnappings of business leaders and politicians,
95
The relationship between two guerrilla fronts, the ERP and the RN, grew so poisonous that at one point a third
group, the FPL, deemed it necessary to step in to prevent a bloody civil war inside the armed Left. For an analysis
of the armed and democratic leftist organizations, see Dunkerley, The Long War, ch. 6.
96
Although the Carter administration publicly claimed to make human rights the centerpiece of its foreign policy,
its actions with regard to human rights in El Salvador rarely measured up to its rhetoric. Despite the egregious
record of abuses, kidnappings, and extrajudicial killings under the Romero administration, the State Department
supported three World Bank loans and one loan from the Inter-American Development Bank in 1978-1979.
Raymond Bonner, Weakness and Deceit: U.S. Policy and El Salvador (New York: Times Books, 1984), 37-38.
69
bombings, and occupations of public buildings, rattling the conservative elite. Coordinated
strikes were shutting down entire industries and cutting into corporate profits. The foundation of
the military’s claim to rule – its implicit promise to protect the civilian elite’s property and
wealth by maintaining economic and social stability – was beginning to crumble.
President Romero found himself trapped between the perceived need to repress and the
fallout from repression.97 He continued to allow the Salvadoran security forces to run rampant,
but such repression only earned him more enemies at home and abroad. By early 1979, the
question was not whether Romero would be overthrown – just when and by whom. 98 The
successful toppling of the U.S. sponsored military regime in Nicaragua by Marxist-inspired
Sandinista forces in July of 1979 merely accelerated the process.99 In October of 1979, President
Romero was deposed in a bloodless coup by a dedicated group of young reformist military
officers intent upon breaking the power of the landed elite, ending right-wing violence, and
paving the way for democracy in El Salvador.
The officers who eventually toppled the Romero regime and the juntas that succeeded
them ultimately failed in the one task necessary to prevent a civil war from erupting: curbing the
violence of the Salvadoran security forces and their paramilitary allies. Upon deposing the
president, these officers – representing a broader group of reformists known as the Young
97
Romero employed repression as a means to assure the civilian elite of his control over the domestic situation.
However, with every death squad killing or peasant massacre, he invited more international condemnation, which
hurt his legitimacy at home as well.
98
Several military plots were hatched around April of 1979 to overthrow Romero and matured throughout that
summer. One set of plotters was led by hardliners from Romero’s own administration; another group by the
military generation of former President Molina; and another by reformist junior officers advised by the Jesuits at
the UCA and Archbishop Romero. Stanley, Protection Racket State, 133.
99
Besides serving as an inspiration to leftists in El Salvador of the potential of armed revolt to overthrow a
repressive regime, the Sandinista revolution also, “more than any other single event, galvanized the feeling within
the Young Military that the time for change had come,” according to Montgomery. As the Nicaraguan dictator’s
army was disbanded, Salvadoran officers “saw men who had lost homes, money, and country. They looked at the
growing strength of the popular organizations and guerrillas. They saw the same fate that befell the Nicaraguans
befalling them before long” and thus decided to act. Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 74.
70
Military (Juventud Militar) – proposed sweeping changes to the Salvadoran political and
economic system that, if implemented, might have averted civil war. Crafted with the input of
the UCA Jesuits and approved by Archbishop Romero, their Proclamation of the 15th of October
promised an end to violence and corruption; guaranteed free elections, freedom of speech, and
the freedom of organization for all political parties; and declared an amnesty for all exiles and
political prisoners. It affirmed the right of workers and peasants to organize, called for “an
equitable distribution of national wealth,” and proposed sweeping reforms of the agrarian and
financial sectors.100 It was “a stirring promise of liberty, justice, and equality – economic as well
as political – for all.”101 It was the right wing’s greatest fear come true.
Such reforms proved anathema to both the military high command and conservative
civilian elites. The latter quickly recovered from the shock of the coup to launch a vicious
propaganda campaign against the governing junta’s proposals, not coincidentally accompanied
by a surge in political violence against the Left.102 The following year (1980) witnessed some of
the Right’s most audacious assassinations yet: Attorney General Mario Zamora shot point-blank
in his home; Archbishop Óscar Romero murdered weeks later; and the six leaders of the non-
guerrilla left, the Democratic Revolutionary Front (Frente Democrático Revolucionario, or
FDR), kidnapped by state security forces from the Jesuit high school at which they were
meeting, tortured, and executed before they could announce their intention to enter into Church-
mediated negotiations with the junta.103 Meanwhile, massacres in rural areas continued unabated,
and death squads were quickly reconstituted despite attempts to dismantle the state’s repressive
100
Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 159. For a comprehensive exploration of the Proclamation, see Baloyra, El
Salvador in Transition, 87-88.
101
Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 159.
102
In the first two weeks of the reformist junta, more civilians died as a result of politically motivated violence than
in the entire previous year. Dunkerley, The Long War, 143.
103
71
intelligence apparatus. 104 Both indiscriminate killings and targeted killings of government
opposition figures skyrocketed. By the end of 1980, approximately 12,000 Salvadorans had died
in an orgy of violence perpetrated by the security forces and their civilian allies on the Right, the
vast majority killed in wholesale massacres in rural areas or captured, tortured, and executed by
death squads.105
The ability of senior army officers in the military high command to outmaneuver the
junior reformist officers by retaining control of the security forces guaranteed that state-
sponsored repression against the democratic left would continue unabated, thus undermining any
efforts at reform by progressive members of the junta. “By increasing violence, the high
command drove a wedge between the civilians in the government and their potential base of
popular support,” such as the BPR and FAPU, notes William Stanley. “By attacking the popular
left, hardliners could ensure that any kind of inclusionary strategy would fail.”106 Right-wing
violence merely confirmed the democratic opposition’s suspicions that the juntas would not or
could not deliver on their promises of reform, further polarizing the political climate. “In a
sense,” observes Stanley, “the repression worked. Demonstrations grew smaller, and fewer
people would outwardly identify themselves as being affiliated with leftist organizations.”107 Yet
as faith in the reformist junta quickly dissipated, those who once flooded the streets in nonviolent
defiance of government intransigence and repression gradually began to join the ranks of the
burgeoning armed opposition, convinced that the only viable option by which the military would
be persuaded to relinquish its stranglehold on the country lay in violent rebellion. By late 1980,
104
Roberto D’Aubuisson played a key role in preserving the lists of suspected subversives and facilitating the
exchange of security files among the state security forces. He also helped revive the operations side of the squads
(killing) following the 1979 coup. Stanley, Protection Racket State, 167.
105
Statistics compiled by Socorro Jurídico Cristiano, 1984. Cited in Stanley, Protection Racket State, 179.
106
Stanley, Protection Racket State, 168 & 177.
107
72
the civilian left was mounting fewer protests as government forces and death squads intensified
their repressive measures.108 Meanwhile, the armed resistance was brimming with new recruits
and relocating to more remote regions of the country in preparation for war. By ensuring that the
civilians members of the governing junta could not protect the democratic opposition from
violence and deliver on their promises, the military destroyed the political center and with it any
chance of peace.
During this time, the United States did little to mitigate the violence that threatened to
engulf this small Central American nation. In fact, U.S. policymakers often exacerbated the
situation. President Carter’s first ambassador to El Salvador, Frank Devine, deeply misjudged the
contours of the crisis, deciding that ragtag bands of poorly armed guerrillas posed a greater threat
to the economic and political stability of the nation than the death squads and state security
forces. Devine accordingly encouraged the Salvadoran government to focus on maintaining law
and order at the cost of human rights, playing directly into the narrative of the Romero
administration.109 Tacit support from defense attaches, the CIA, and the U.S. embassy also lent
authority to conservative senior military officers in their successful bid to outflank their reformist
colleagues after the October 1979 coup that overthrew Romero.110 In the weeks following the
coup, the Carter administration had ample opportunity to bolster the first civilian-military junta
but failed to act in a decisive manner when it counted the most. Raymond Bonner, a journalist
for the New York Times whose experience reporting from El Salvador led him to pen a scathing
108
Almeida notes that from mid-1980 through 1981, “state repression caused a drastic reduction in above-ground
popular organization activity” as the state killed over 1,000 of its own citizens per month. Almeida, Waves of
Protest, 167.
109
Devine showed little regard for Carter’s professed human rights policy during his tenure in San Salvador,
defending President Romero’s draconian policies and downplaying right-wing atrocities. Following the reformist
coup of 1979, Devine painted the Juventud Militar as a threat to the military’s stability and advised Washington to
support the more conservative high command. Stanley, Protection Racket State, 137.
110
Stanley, Protection Racket State, 137, 143-145; Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 147.
73
analysis of the US role in the conflict, argues that the first junta “probably could have been
saved” had the Carter administration insisted that agrarian reform be implemented sooner, made
aid dependent upon the military submitting to civilian control, and demanded that all officers
closely linked to the violence be purged. 111 It did none of the above. 112 Instead, as state-
sanctioned killings increased, the Carter administration actually approved more military aid for
El Salvador’s army and security forces - over the protests of human rights groups and despite the
public pleas of Archbishop Romero to the U.S. President.113
By the time Carter’s new ambassador, Robert White, took over in March of 1980, the
opportunities for meaningful democratic reform had dwindled. The new Christian Democrat-
dominated junta had just approved the first phase of a sweeping land reform initiative, but the
military sent a chilling message by murdering hundreds of peasants, especially leaders of
collectives, who were in line to benefit from the reforms.114 The election of Republican Ronald
Reagan to the White House in November of 1980 delighted the Salvadoran civilian right and its
allies in the government, who were thrilled with his hardline anti-Communist rhetoric and tough
111
Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 164. Instead, Bonner points out, the U.S. in some cases did just the opposite,
shoring up support for more conservative elements of the high command and conveniently overlooking human
rights abuses.
112
U.S. inaction in El Salvador can be explained in part due to the administration’s other foreign policy
preoccupations (Sandinista revolution in Nicaragua, hostages in Iran) and in part due to fears that the new junta
was too leftist which, according to State Department planner Richard Feinberg, was “like one big black mark next
to your name.” Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 164.
113
The Archbishop penned an open letter to President Carter urging him to cancel his promise in February of 1980
to send $5.7 million in military assistance to El Salvador, eleven times the average amount sent by the U.S. in each
of the preceding 33 years. The aid, he argued, “instead of promoting greater justice and peace in El Salvador, will
surely increase injustice here and sharpen the repression that has been unleashed against the people’s
organizations fighting to defend their most fundamental human rights.” Carter sent the money anyway. Bonner,
Weakness and Deceit, 168.
114
See Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 198-202 for individual accounts of the gruesome ways in which military and
security forces, often bribed by large landowners, instituted a reign of terror throughout the countryside in order
to sabotage the implementation of the reforms. “The formation of reform cooperatives provided the military with
an opportunity to draw politically minded people and organizers into the open,” where they could be easily and
systematically eliminated, according to Stanley. Even the UCS, which since its founding had been closely allied with
the government and dependent upon it for agricultural assistance, lost several leaders in mid-1980, all
assassinated by the National Guard. Stanley, Protection Racket State, 195; Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador,
106.
74
talk of a military solution to the crisis.115 Not coincidentally, the two following months saw the
Salvadoran military torture and execute the top leadership of the FDR, rape and murder four U.S.
churchwomen, and assassinate two AIFLD officials working with the agrarian reform project, in
addition to killing over 2,500 other civilians.116 The continuation of extreme levels of military
violence over the protests of the civilians on the junta confirmed what many critics had always
believed: that the military had no interest in negotiating a peaceful end to the crisis. According
to one U.S. diplomat who served in El Salvador, the right wing “‘felt somehow vindicated by
Reagan’s victory,’ that ‘we’ve held out against these pious, idealistic human rights policies of
Carter. Now we can get down to some serious killing.’”117
Recognizing this, leftist forces labored to overcome ideological obstacles and unite. In
January of 1980, the popular fronts joined to form the Revolutionary Mass Coordination
(Coordinadora Revolucionaria de Masas, or CRM) and subsequently marshaled over 200,000
people in the heart of the capital city to commemorate the anniversary of the 1932 peasant
uprising. Yet that gathering, like so many others before it, ended abruptly in chaos and bloodshed
as government soldiers fired on the crowds from adjacent buildings.118 The situation had become
so dire that protesting in public seemed equivalent to signing one’s own death warrant. Mutilated
bodies of government opponents piled up in street gutters, dangled from highway signs, and
littered the ravines of the surrounding countryside, their loved ones unable to retrieve them out of
115
Bonner reports that on the night of the election, November 4, there was “wild and enthusiastic celebration”
among Salvadoran elite upon hearing that Ronald Reagan had won. In rich neighborhoods, “homeowners stepped
onto manicured lawns and squeezed off a few rounds from their automatic rifles to register their joy.” Bonner,
Weakness and Deceit, 211.
116
Stanley, Protection Racket State, 206. In a cable to Washington, Ambassador White observed that “by killing the
leaders of the FDR, the military have explicitly rejected dialogue and heralded a policy of extermination.” Stanley,
Protection Racket State, 122.
117
Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 212.
118
Although the government blamed “armed leftists” for the massacre in which 49 civilians were killed and
hundreds more injured, a senior army officer later revealed that Minister of Defense Garcia and certain members
of the oligarchy had ordered the shooting, hoping to provoke the left into a confrontation. Montgomery,
Revolution in El Salvador, 108-109.
75
fear that they, too, would be marked for death by association. Such brutality pushed many
members of the democratic opposition to take up arms, at first in self-defense and then in support
of the burgeoning guerrilla movement, which they saw as the only alternative to certain death.
Guerrilla groups expanded rapidly as state-sponsored violence intensified over the course
of 1980. Trade unionists, schoolteachers, students, peasants, and others whose lives were at risk
fled to the far-flung regions of the northern departments of Chalatenango, Morazán, and Cabañas
as well as the thick forests blanketing the Guazapa volcano to join the armed movement.119 By
May of 1980, the guerrilla organizations had united under a single command, and in October
they declared the formation of the Farabundo Martí National Liberation Front (Frente
Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional, or FMLN) in honor of the Communist organizer
and leader of the 1932 peasant uprising who was later executed by the Martínez regime. Vowing
that by the time President Reagan took power, Central America would be “red hot,” the unified
guerrilla forces stepped up their campaign of attacks on military garrisons and government
offices, demonstrating impressive operational flexibility and organizational maturity. 120 In
January of 1981, only days before Reagan’s inauguration, the FMLN launched its “final
offensive,” assaulting government positions throughout the country in an attempt to deal a death
blow to the Salvadoran regime before the new U.S. president could take office. The attack,
repelled by government forces after several days of intense fighting, turned out to be far from
final. Instead, it constituted merely the opening salvo in a bloody revolutionary war that would
engulf El Salvador during the next decade, driving hundreds of thousands of its citizens to
119
According to Teresa Whitfield, over the course of 1980 armed revolutionary organizations expanded from a
cadre of a few hundred to five thousand. Teresa Whitfield, Paying the Price: Ignacio Ellacuria and the Murdered
Jesuits of El Salvador (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1994), cited in Almeida, Waves of Protest, 167.
120
RN commander Fermán Cienfuegos quoted in Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, xvii.
76
abandon their families, homes, and former lives in a desperate search for refuge from the
violence that had overrun their communities.
77
CHAPTER 3:
CIVIL WAR AND THE EXPORT OF MIGRANTS AND REFUGEES,
1980-1992
The wave of Salvadoran migration that commenced in the late 1970s as a result of state-
sponsored terror was only the latest in a centuries-old pattern of moving in order to survive. The
dispossession of rural inhabitants during the crisis of export agriculture in the 1960s and 1970s
had stretched the country’s social fabric to its limit; life for many Salvadorans had been reduced
to constant relocation in pursuit of sustenance. And, like preceding migrations, this displacement
took its greatest toll on the poorest and most disadvantaged Salvadorans: those least likely to be
able to absorb the destructive impact of war. From the outbreak of the Salvadoran conflagration,
a protracted and bloody civil conflict that officially began in 1980, until its culmination 12 years
later, approximately 70,000 Salvadorans died. Those who escaped death often did so by
jettisoning their former lives, abandoning their lands and possessions merely to face an even
more precarious state of existence on the run. Some fled to other parts of the country where the
fighting was less intense. Others left El Salvador entirely, taking refuge in camps run by
international aid organizations just across the Honduran border. Still others, often those with
more financial means and with friends or relatives living abroad, sought safety in neighboring
Central American countries, in Mexico, and in the United States. Yet most host countries
remained less than enthusiastic about the refugees surging across their porous borders: responses
ranged from a tepid acceptance at best to antagonistic and dismissive at worst. By the time
Salvadorans reached what they had once considered “safety,” they realized that their struggle for
survival had truly just begun.
78
The Human Cost of War
In January of 1981, Salvadoran guerrilla forces mounted what they hoped would be their
first and only large-scale attack on the government. Designed to spark a popular uprising which
would overthrow the repressive state apparatus and bring the military to its knees, the “final
offensive” of the newly formed FMLN succeeded in demonstrating the depth of opposition to the
regime but failed in its ultimate goal of toppling it. The offensive did, however, usher in what
would become the bloodiest conflict in the history of El Salvador, with one of the highest
civilian death tolls in the history of twentieth-century Latin American conflicts.1 During the next
12 years, the war spread from a few select “departments,” or regions, to engulf much of the
country. Fighting took a severe toll on civilian populations, prompting uncertainty, chaos,
disorder, and economic collapse from which Salvadorans fled by the thousands. They ran from
one valley to the next; from the countryside to towns and cities; from their milpas to refugee
camps in foreign countries; from their nation of origin to Guatemala, Mexico, and the United
States.
During the revolution’s early years, military incursions into several zones of guerrilla
activity displaced tens of thousands of Salvadorans. In the northern department of Chalatenango,
progressive Catholic clergy, lay ministers, and trade union activists had worked with peasants
beginning in the early 1970s, assisting them in forming self-help cooperatives and advocating for
1 Approximately 75,000 Salvadoran civilians died in the civil conflict between 1980 and 1992. This number does
not include the thousands of members of the political opposition killed by death squads, the National Guard,
ORDEN, and other state security forces in the 1970s. The only other Latin American nations whose civilian death
tolls rival El Salvador’s are Guatemala (200,000 killed between 1962 and 1994) and Peru (70,000 killed between
1980 and 2000). Sources: Daniel Rothenberg, ed. Guatemala: Memory of Silence: Report of the Commission for
Historical Clarification (New York: Palgrave McMillan, 2012), 17; Hatun Willakuy: Abbreviated Version of the Final
Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (Lima: Transfer Commission of the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission of Peru, 2014), 12.
79
higher wages and better working conditions. Such empowered peasants provided fertile ground
for the Fuerzas Populares de Liberación (Popular Forces of Liberation, or FPL), the largest and
strongest of the guerrilla groups, which grew in popularity and strength as the Salvadoran state
became increasingly repressive.2 By the late 1970s, the Salvadoran military had begun “sweeps”
of the region in order to eradicate bases of civilian support for the FPL. Jenny Pearce, a British
scholar who lived with peasants in Chalatenango during this time, describes the sheer terror of
her neighbors who, as the army blazed its way through, were forced to flee to the hills to save
their lives.3 These flights, termed guindas, often proved the sole means of avoiding the military’s
harsh repression. Those who could not journey to the hills – namely, the old and the sick – most
often met their deaths at the end of the barrel of an M-16 rifle or, if they were less fortunate, a
machete.
Upon returning to their decimated villages and torched fields, peasants often found the
grisly calling cards of the army: horribly disfigured bodies hung in the town square, twisting in
the wind, their limbs hacked off with machetes. Nearby, the bloated carcasses of village animals,
slaughtered wholesale to deprive their owners of sustenance, beckoned to circling vultures.
Beyond that, houses lay in tatters, ransacked and robbed of anything of worth. José, a peasant
from Chalatenango interviewed by Pearce, describes the horror: whereas in years prior, the
Salvadoran government had “sent armed patrols to the hamlets to threaten the people,” it now
“invaded with thousands of soldiers, killing people, burning their homes, and robbing the people
of their animals. It was a persecution to the death.”4 The testimony of Walter, a campesino from
Chalatenango, is reflective of many:
2
3
For a firsthand account of a guinda by Chalatenango peasant María Serrano, see Pearce, Promised Land, 216-222.
4
80
I had five children who were killed by the enemy; my compañera was four
months pregnant and had a miscarriage because of an attack. In 1979 my father
was killed by the army; five days later they killed my mother by putting her on a
stake and machine-gunning her. My mother-in-law, too, they cut her ears off, the
nose, cut all her face down to the bone. Later, in 1982, they also killed my girl
who was two years old.5
The practice of killing off entire civilian populations in order to eliminate support for the
guerrilla opposition, often known as “draining the sea to kill the fish,” became the Salvadoran
military’s primary method of combatting the FMLN in the early years of the war.6 Government
troops assumed all men between the ages of 15 and 60 who lived in zones of conflict to be
guerrilla fighters and made them primary targets. Women, children, the elderly, and the sick
living in conflict zones fared little better; in the eyes of the Salvadoran military, they were
guerrilla sympathizers and deserved the same fate: death. 7 In one of the deadliest massacres,
government troops drove hundreds of civilians toward the Sumpul River, which formed the
border between El Salvador and Honduras, and then stained it red with their blood, raking
machine guns over 600 peasants as they tried in vain to escape and swim across.8
Civilians who opted not to flee military incursions suffered similar fates. In perhaps the
most high-profile massacre of the war, which occurred in the impoverished department of
Morazán in December of 1981, 1,200 Salvadoran soldiers composed of members of the National
Guard, the Treasury Police, the regular army, and the U.S.-trained Atlacatl commando battalion
swept down in a “hammer and anvil” strike designed to ensnare guerrilla forces operating in the
5
6
7
In her description of one guinda, Pearce informant María Serrano recalls how “when the enemy hears a child cry,
they throw grenades in the direction of the noise,” knowing that there are most likely more families close by.
Serrano also relates the story of a guerrilla who overheard a military commander ordering his soldiers to shoot and
kill a column of women and children passing through. Pearce, Promised Land, 222.
8
This first massacre at the Sumpul River was abetted by the Honduran army, which guarded the northern side of
the Sumpul and turned back Salvadorans attempting to cross. Forced back into the jaws of the Salvadoran military,
few escaped the bloodbath. Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 164.
81
area. The FMLN, having received advance warning, urged civilians to evacuate the area and
assisted those who did so. Others, assured by a trusted local merchant that the soldiers would
only kill those in the countryside, took refuge in nearby villages. In what anthropologist Leigh
Binford terms a “meticulously planned operation,” Salvadoran army commandos entered one of
those villages, El Mozote, and systematically murdered approximately 400 civilians, singling out
younger women and older girls and raping them repeatedly for 12-18 hours before killing them
with a bursts of gunfire to the head.9 In the course of four days of the mission in Morazán,
ironically dubbed “Operation Rescue,” government forces killed about 800 civilians,
approximately one-third of the zone’s pre-war population. 10 The Atlacatl Battalion left the
following scrawled in charcoal:
The Atlacatl was here.

The father of the subversives. Second Company.
Here we shit on the sons of whores
And if you are missing your balls
Ask for them by mail from the Atlacatl Battalion.
We the little angels from hell will return.
We want to finish you off.11
High-profile massacres such as those at the Sumpul River and El Mozote, with their
grisly details and massive body counts, received far more publicity and condemnation than the
daily brutalities suffered by Salvadorans who attempted to scratch out a living in deadly war
zones. The region surrounding the Guazapa volcano, which lay a mere 25-30 miles north of San
9
Leigh Binford, The El Mozote Massacre: Anthropology and Human Rights (Tucson: The University of Arizona Press,
1996), 16, 20-21.
10
Binford, The El Mozote Massacre, chapter 6. According to Binford’s estimates, by the end of the war, the
Salvadoran government had wiped out approximately 10 percent of northern Morazán’s population, killing over
5,000 residents. Binford, The El Mozote Massacre, 16. For a journalistic account, see Mark Danner, The Massacre
at El Mozote: A Parable of the Cold War (New York: Vintage, 1994).
11
Carlos Henríquez Consalvi, La terquedad del izote (Mexico: Diana, 1992), 109. Cited in Binford, The El Mozote
Massacre, 26.
82
Salvador, became one of the most fiercely contested zones of the war; its hamlets suffered
regular strafing and bombings, including napalm, from government aircraft. Dr. Charles
Clements, a U.S. Vietnam war veteran who provided medical care to poor peasants farming the
sides of the volcano and the surrounding valleys, recounts in his memoirs the destruction of
villages by Salvadoran warplanes and the agonizing multi-day guindas in which peasants died
from disease, malnutrition, lack of proper medical treatment and medicines, and sheer
exhaustion. Others were not so lucky in death. Even if they had survived bombings and mortar
rounds, many infants died at the hands of the very women who had given birth to them,
smothered into silence so that their whimpers would not alert nearby government soldiers to the
presence of hundreds of peasants hiding in the hills.12
In addition to “scorched-earth” sweeps through the countryside and large-scale
massacres, Salvadorans fled targeted state-sponsored persecution. Security forces and death
squads trained their crosshairs on student activists, professionals, trade unionists, peasant leaders,
clergy: virtually anyone who spoke out against the government in a public manner.13 In 1979,
Mauricio Alarcón was a law student and president of the student government body at the Centro
Universitario de Occidente, a branch of the National University of El Salvador in the western
city of Santa Ana. An outspoken opponent of the administration of Salvadoran President General
Humberto Romero, he recalls the circumstances surrounding his flight from El Salvador:
I was being persecuted. My youngest brother was kidnapped and held,

disappeared in clandestine prisons for 22 days. And I was looking for him all
over, even seeing bodies that were abandoned – or they were buried, and I would
have to find people to help us to look for the bodies to see if he was one of them.14
12
Charles Clements, M.D., Witness to War: An American Doctor in El Salvador (New York: Bantam, 1984), 5.
13
These types of Salvadorans were the first to journey north, followed later by semi-urban and rural migrants.
Laura O’Dogherty, Central Americans in Mexico City: Uprooted and Silenced (Washington, D.C.: Hemispheric
Migration Project, Center for Immigration Policy and Refugee Assistance, Georgetown University, 1989), 64.
14
Mauricio Alarcón interview, 11/10/15.
83
On October 15, 1979, the very day that reformist officers overthrew then-President Romero,
soldiers seized Alarcón as he returned to Santa Ana from San Salvador:
When I arrived at the university, I was taken. I was kidnapped by soldiers with
two others, with a kid from secondary school and another guy from the university
who had nothing to do with me … Then the three of us were tortured and
[interrogated] several times.15
Their torturers released the three students that night, but Alarcón quickly realized that if
he remained in El Salvador, the military could easily return and “disappear” him for good, his
body joining the unmarked corpses deposited in the city dump on a nightly basis. As he recalls,
“I didn’t want to leave. I felt safe that my daughter and my wife were already in the United
States,” having left earlier to escape the violence. Alarcón ultimately relented when his wife’s
family in California borrowed money to fund his journey. Within days, he had landed in Mexico
City and was on his way north towards the U.S. border.16
Many opponents of the Salvadoran government faced similar dilemmas as military
repression mounted and death squads stepped up their campaigns of terror: should they remain in
El Salvador, aware that they may be marked for death, or should they escape to safer confines?
Some, like Alarcón, left the country, often with the help of family or friends. Others remained in
their communities, continuing their organizing activities both openly and clandestinely. Still
others joined the burgeoning armed opposition forces in the northern and eastern departments.
By the early 1980s, rebels were mounting increasingly successful attacks on Salvadoran military
strongholds; the government responded by ramping up its incursions into the countryside,
15
16
84
uprooting thousands of rural peoples and dramatically increasing the flow of Salvadoran refugees
streaming out of red-hot conflict zones such as Chalatenango, Cabañas, San Vicente, and
Cuscatlán. 17 In short time, paths forged by earlier economic migrants became well-traveled
corridors trod by hundreds of thousands of Salvadorans attempting to escape the chaos of war.
Those who managed to flee the war zones, however, quickly discovered that “safety” was still a
long way off.
A Lukewarm Reception:
Salvadoran Refugees in Central America and Mexico
Whether threatened by death squads, bombed from their homes, or displaced due to the
economic crisis resulting from the conflict, Salvadorans sought safety and stability wherever
they could find it. Those of lesser economic status – “the most destitute of sectors of the
Salvadoran population,” in the words of sociologist Cecilia Menjívar – for whom migration for
survival was not uncommon and whose perilous conditions had only worsened with the outbreak
of armed conflict, possessed fewer material and social resources and were generally relegated to
settling inside the country as Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs).18 By 1983, a mere three years
into the war, an estimated 400,000-500,000 displaced people resided in El Salvador. 19 Many
resettled with family members or friends, often in the burgeoning shantytowns that ringed
17
Patricia Weiss Fagen posits the period after March of 1980, congruent with the enactment of the first phase of El
Salvador’s agrarian reform law, as the beginning of “widespread flight from El Salvador.” Her counterpart, Sergio
Aguayo, notes the presence of “large numbers” of Salvadorans in Mexico as early as 1979. Patricia Weiss Fagen,
“Refugees and Displaced Persons in Central America,” and Sergio Aguayo, “Refugees: Another Piece in the Central
American Quagmire,” in Weiss Fagen and Sergio Aguayo, Fleeing the Maelstrom: Central American Refugees.
Occasional Paper No. 10 (Washington, D.C.: Central American and Caribbean Program, School of Advanced
International Studies, The Johns Hopkins University, 1986), 46, 96.
18
19
Weiss Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced Persons,” 10.
85
regional capitals and San Salvador.20 A smaller percentage ended up in camps run by either the
Salvadoran government or by religious and humanitarian groups like the Salvadoran Catholic
Archdiocese, the International Committee of the Red Cross, and the Salvadoran Red Cross.21 Yet
due to a well-founded distrust of the Salvadoran government, thousands of displaced persons
chose not to register as such, fearful they would be suspected of aiding guerrilla forces. The vast
majority of internally displaced Salvadorans remained stranded in active war zones, far from
legitimate humanitarian assistance.22
Salvadorans in Honduras
Those Salvadorans who were able to escape El Salvador’s northern conflict zones often
did so by crossing the Sumpul and Lempa Rivers into neighboring Honduras. They followed a
well-worn migrant path from the hills of Chalatenango and Cabañas across the border to the
department of Lempira, a popular region with Salvadorans before the expulsions that preceded
the Soccer War of 1969. 23 Some made it to Honduras successfully; others, such as the 600
aforementioned victims of the Sumpul River massacre in May of 1981, were not as fortunate.24
Despite the efforts of the Salvadoran (and often the Honduran) army to prevent river crossings,
by June 1981 an estimated 3,000-4,000 Salvadoran refugees had taken up residence in Honduras
20
21
Weiss Fagen estimates that 8% of the IDP population resided in these camps, many of which were subject to
harassment and attacks by the Salvadoran military. Weiss Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced Persons,” 11-12.
22
Of the 260,000 IDPs who had registered with the Salvadoran government by 1983, at least 70% lived in the
northern and eastern departments of the country, some of the poorest and hardest hit by the violence. Weiss
Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced Persons,” 10.
23
Before the Soccer War, approximately 350,000 Salvadorans resided in Honduras, most in Lempira. After the war
ended, approximately half of this population returned to El Salvador. Weiss Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced
Persons,” 50.
24
Similar massacres of lesser scope but equal brutality also took place at the Lempa River in March of 1981 and
again at the Sumpul River in May of 1982. Elizabeth G. Ferris, The Central American Refugees (New York: Praeger,
1987), 100.
86
in makeshift villages or with local families.25 Over the next two years, the United Nations High
Commissioner on Refugees would construct bona fide camps for the booming refugee
population: by 1983, 15,250 out of the estimated 23,000-25,000 Salvadoran refugees lived in UN
camps along the border. By 1985, 19,000 refugees were spread out among several camps, with
an equal or greater number living in Honduras outside of the camps, to the great dismay of the
host country.26
Camp conditions were often abysmal; a Washington Post reporter who toured them in
1982 described them as “virtual internment camps” in which refugees had neither freedom of
movement nor permission to work and remained under the watchful eyes of Honduran soldiers
who collaborated with the Salvadoran army. 27 The Honduran military generally shared the
Reagan administration’s anti-Communist ideology and echoed the Salvadoran government’s
argument that camps merely provided refuge for Salvadoran guerrillas and served as “a
sanctuary for subversion.”28 Honduras cared little about the wellbeing of refugees, distracted by
25
Weiss Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced Persons,” 50-51; Ferris, Central American Refugees, 98. The Honduran
government officially requested UNHCR aid in 1980 to take on the task of assisting thousands of Salvadorans,
Nicaraguans, and Guatemalans who had fled conflicts in their respective countries and taken up residency in
Honduras. The first refugee camps were built to accommodate Salvadorans along the Honduras-El Salvador
border; after a few years, several camps were moved to interior locations outside of the conflict zone.
26
Weiss Fagen notes that “it is unclear what became of the large number of Salvadorans who still remained
outside of the official camps … Honduran authorities had made it clear that they would not tolerate the presence
in their country of Salvadorans outside of the official camps.” Weiss Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced Persons,” 51.
Ferris, Central American Refugees, 98. The Honduran refugee camps sheltering most Salvadorans were at La
Virtud, Guarita, San Antonio, and Colomoncagua. La Virtud and Guarita were later folded into a new camp, Mesa
Grande, which was located on a high plateau 35 miles from the Salvadoran border. For refugee counts, see Weiss
Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced Persons,” 50-51, 65; Edelberto Torres-Rivas, “Report on the Condition of Central
American Refugees and Migrants,” Hemispheric Migration Project Occasional Paper Series (Washington, D.C.:
Center for Immigration Policy and Refugee Assistance & Intergovernmental Committee for Migration, 1985), 26;
Ferris, The Central American Refugees, 98.
27
Christopher Dickey, “Honduras and Its Neighbors in Turmoil over Resident Refugees” The Washington Post, Nov
11, 1982, E1. Some relief agencies eventually stopped registering refugees with the Honduran government
because they suspected that Salvadoran refugee names were being turned over to death squads. Ferris, The
Central American Refugees, 100. For descriptions of camp conditions in 1983-84, see Weiss Fagen, “Refugees and
Displaced Persons,” 65-70.
28
Quote by Col. Elovi Sierra of the Honduran armed forces. Because it would be “bad propaganda for Honduras to
shut down [refugee centers along the border] and kick out the United Nations,” argued Larry Cohen, “the military
87
its own domestic economic woes and the violence that raged on all three of its major borders.
Bitter squabbles and organizational differences among the UNHCR, the Honduran government,
the U.S. government, and those organizations that provided services for Salvadoran refugees
added dysfunction and confusion to the general climate of fear which pervaded the camps.29 This
led some refugees to move from Honduras to Nicaragua and Costa Rica in the search for a more
secure existence.30
Salvadorans in Nicaragua
Nicaragua proved by far the most welcoming Central American country for Salvadoran
exiles during the early 1980s. Despite the fact that it was mired in a U.S.-sponsored guerrilla war
and burdened by millions of dollars of foreign debt after decades of fiscal mismanagement, graft,
and corruption under the previous Somoza dictatorships, the Sandinista government’s policy
towards displaced Salvadorans stood out as a model of generosity in the region. Nicaragua
immediately recognized Salvadorans as refugees and afforded them the full freedom to travel,
live, and work in the country as well as the same rights as citizens to education and health care.31
The Sandinista government directed refugees to UNHCR-assisted camps, where they were
provided medicine, shelter, and food while they were processed. Nicaragua also went out of its
way to incorporate Salvadorans into state-run cooperatives in order to help them become self-
allows these structures to exist while seeking to subvert them every step of the way.” Larry Cohen, “One More
River to Cross,” Christianity and Crisis, Nov 29, 1982, 389; Ferris, The Central American Refugees, 105.
29
These included but were not limited to tensions between relief agencies and the Honduran government;
accusations that one relief agency, World Vision, was pressuring refugees to accept fundamentalist religious beliefs
in order to obtain food and medical services; and a general climate of mistrust among governments and the
UNHCR. Ferris, The Central American Refugees, 101.
30
31
Ferris, The Central American Refugees, 136. Nicaragua’s treatment of refugees was so exemplary that the U.S.
Department of State, which was at that time actively seeking to topple the Sandinistas from power, described the
Sandinistas as being “fundamentally generous” for their routine granting of legal status and emergency assistance
to Salvadoran refugees. Aguayo, “Refugees,” 125.
88
sufficient and encouraged them to pursue education and training.32 In fact, a 1982 Canadian fact-
finding commission named Nicaragua as the “most favored destination of new refugees from El
Salvador and Guatemala.”33 However, the Honduran government’s threat to shoot any refugees
not in UNHCR camps, combined with U.S.-sponsored covert operations on the Honduran border
with Nicaragua, made Salvadoran passage to Nicaragua nearly impossible by the mid-1980s, and
migration slowed to a trickle. By 1986, the number of Salvadoran refugees in Nicaragua had
stabilized at approximately 18,000, in spite of the country’s ongoing economic troubles and
social instability.34
Salvadorans in Costa Rica
Some Salvadorans stayed for a time in Nicaragua and then left; others stayed and settled;
still others bypassed Nicaragua altogether and continued south to Costa Rica.35 In early 1980,
Salvadoran refugees began arriving en masse in this nation, which prided itself on its stable
democratic traditions. By 1984, most estimates pegged the number at anywhere from 90,000 to
100,000 refugees, although UNHCR figures were typically much lower.36 Despite Costa Rica’s
longstanding tradition of accepting refugees and serving as a haven for Latin American exiles, its
government’s response proved tepid at best, its ability and willingness to accommodate refugees
mitigated by the economic crisis the country was suffering at that time.37 Costa Rica’s economic
32
Aguayo, “Refugees,” 126; Patricia Andrea Landolt Marticorena, “The Causes and Consequences of Transnational
Migration: Salvadorans in Los Angeles and Washington, D.C.” (Ph.D. diss., Johns Hopkins University, 2000), 74.
33
34
35
36
The UNHCR estimated a total of 15,000 Salvadorans in Costa Rica by 1984, mostly hailing from urban areas, who
settled in San José. In her analysis, Ferris notes the UNHCR’s incentives for underreporting. Ferris, The Central
American Refugees, 76.
37
By 1983, 71% of all Costa Ricans lived below the government-defined poverty line, due in part to high inflation
and oil prices combined with sagging coffee production. Costa Rica was also forced to renegotiate its debt with the
89
woes affected public perception of refugees as well, as Costa Ricans blamed the newcomers for
rising crime and high unemployment.38 In addition, Costa Ricans erroneously painted Salvadoran
migrants as Marxist subversives. Reflecting broad-based popular sentiment, one Costa Rican
refugee relief official declared that Salvadoran refugees were “all Communists” bent on
“infiltrating the country to cause internal dissent and eventual revolution.”39
Costa Rica did welcome the UNHCR’s efforts to provide assistance to Salvadoran
refugees in both rural and urban areas, including the establishment of a refugee camp in the
Guanacaste region. 40 Beginning in 1982, however, the U.S.-sponsored war to destabilize the
Nicaraguan government impeded Salvadoran efforts to migrate south, demonstrably reducing
refugee flows. In 1985, the UNHCR estimated that 10,000-13,000 Salvadoran refugees remained
in Costa Rica, with approximately 8,000 of those receiving humanitarian aid from the UN,
international aid agencies, and the Costa Rican government.41 However, by that time Costa Rica
had ceased to be a viable destination for Salvadorans fleeing by land due to the intensity of the
Nicaraguan contra war.
Salvadorans in Guatemala
As tens of thousands of Salvadorans were fleeing to refugee camps in Honduras and
making their way south and east to Nicaragua and Costa Rica, far more were leaving in the
opposite direction towards Guatemala, following trails blazed by previous economic migrants in
IMF, resulting in even deeper cuts in social services and government assistance programs. Ferris, The Central
American Refugees, 74.
38
39
40
Weiss Fagen, “Refugees and Displaced Persons,” 22; Torres-Rivas, “Report on the Condition of Central American
Refugees and Migrants,” 32.
41
Torres-Rivas, “Report on the Condition of Central American Refugees and Migrants,” 32. Ferris’s numbers are far
higher (see footnote 23).
90
their journey north. For decades, seasonal Salvadoran laborers had made the long trek to harvest
coffee in the Guatemalan highlands and cotton in its lowlands.42 In addition to these temporary
wage laborers, thousands of other Salvadorans had also settled into a more permanent existence
in Guatemala, particularly after the mass exodus from Honduras surrounding the 1969 Soccer
War.43 As violence increased in El Salvador, a steady stream of Salvadoran refugees fled via
well-worn paths to Guatemala’s Pacific coastal plains. Some, generally peasants who found
permanent employment in the export and commercial plantation industry, remained in
Guatemala. 44 Most, however, continued north, sometimes working the fields during harvest
season to finance the next leg of their trip. The Guatemalan government, having shunned
collaboration with the UNHCR and other outside humanitarian aid organizations, denied
Salvadorans refugee status, robbing approximately 70,000-180,000 migrants of food, medical
assistance, and other types of humanitarian aid.45 In addition, the Guatemalan military and police
regularly exchanged intelligence information, including lists of suspected “subversives,” with
their Salvadoran counterparts.46 Most Salvadoran refugees thus did not linger in Guatemala if
they had the choice.
42
In the late 1960s, Salvadorans made up 10 percent of the picking force for Guatemalan cotton. Williams, Export
Agriculture, 65.
43
Torres-Rivas, “Report on the Condition of Central American Refugees and Migrants,” 29.
44
Torres-Rivas characterizes those Salvadorans who did remain in Guatemala as peasants from border areas who
were unaccustomed to long travel and did not want to leave the work sites to which they had grown accustomed.
45
In 1985, the UNHCR estimated the Salvadoran refugee population in Guatemala at 70,000, many of whom were
in transit. A study by the University for Peace concluded that Salvadoran refugees in Guatemala numbered as high
as 180,000. Torres-Rivas, “Report on the Condition of Central American Refugees and Migrants,” 29.
46
Allan Nairn, “Behind the Death Squads: An exclusive report on the U.S. role in El Salvador’s official terror,” The
Progressive, May 1984.
91
Salvadorans in Mexico
As Salvadorans picked their way through the plains and jungles of Guatemala, they
joined Guatemalans attempting to escape similarly oppressive conditions. Beginning in late
1981, tens of thousands of Guatemalan peasants fled the harsh scorched-earth policies of the
Guatemalan military’s anti-insurgency campaigns, crossing into the southern Mexican state of
Chiapas. Primarily indigenous Mayans from the provinces of El Quiché and Huehuetenango,
they took temporary shelter inside the Mexican border in UNHCR refugee camps.47 Although the
majority of Guatemalan refugees remained in these border camps, many also joined Salvadoran
refugees in Soconusco, a region of Chiapas whose coffee fincas had historically attracted
seasonal migrants from the Guatemalan highlands.48 For refugees seeking to supplement their
cash reserves for the coming journey through the Mexican interior, Soconusco offered temporary
work in the construction and coffee industries as well as in the realm of domestic services.49 This
small region in Chiapas formed the main pipeline for Salvadoran and Guatemalan northward-
bound migrants.50
47
Conditions in these camps were generally horrible: most lacked running water, the food provided was of poor
nutritional quality, mortality rates were extremely high, and there were few employment opportunities in the
general area, as the camps were quite isolated in the dense Lacandona jungle. In addition, the camps were never
safe from incursions by Guatemalan military and paramilitary units, which often entered at will and carried out
forced disappearances and extrajudicial killings of suspected guerrillas or other “subversives.” Aguayo, “Refugees,”
102-105.
47
By the mid-1980s, approximately 50,000 Guatemalans resided in these camps, struggling to scrape by and
waiting expectantly to return to their plots of land and resume their subsistence farming. Torres-Rivas, “Report on
the Condition of Central American Refugees and Migrants,” 36.
48
49
Aguayo, “Refugees,” 107.
50
Due to the dependence of private sector agricultural interests on cheap, seasonal Central American labor, the
border between Chiapas and Guatemala remained relatively open until the mid-1980s, when pressure from the
United States led Mexico to tighten its control over immigrants. Sergio Aguayo and Patricia Weiss Fagen, Central
Americans in Mexico and the United States: Unilateral, Bilateral, and Regional Perspectives (Washington, D.C.:
Center for Immigration Policy and Refugee Assistance, Georgetown University, 1988), 6-7. Soconusco’s location on
the crossroads of the Pan-American Highway, its regional airport, and its massive railroad hub offered several
options, depending on one’s financial reserves and connections. Aguayo and Weiss Fagen, Central Americans in
Mexico and the United States, 7.
92
In Soconusco, Salvadoran migrants determined how to best chart their courses through
Mexico. 51 The situation of Salvadoran migrants in Mexico was a precarious one. Mexico’s
constitution allowed for the immediate expulsion of undocumented individuals without due
process. Migrants had no right to legal counsel, release on bond, or hearings through which to
plead their cases. 52 Consequently, when the Mexican government sought to crack down on
migrants, it was able to expel them quickly, efficiently, and in significant numbers.53 Migrants
could apply for political asylum in Mexico, but the government rarely granted it.54 Unlike those
Guatemalans in the Chiapas border camps, Salvadorans in Mexico’s interior possessed no legal
documentation guaranteeing their stay, leaving them vulnerable to exploitation by employers and
government officials, among others.55 Most hailed from urban areas of El Salvador, lived in the
poorest neighborhoods of Mexican cities, and struggled to find work, with migrant
unemployment levels hovering around 70-75 percent.56 Some remained in the city, but as the
51
Some migrants rested only briefly at certain points on the way north, including the well-situated Federal District,
where they clustered in specific neighborhoods for safety and support. Others stayed in Mexico much longer, often
working and saving money for the next leg of their journey. Still others settled down to wait out the war, adjusting
to the realities of Mexican life.
52
María Cristina García, Seeking Refuge: Central American Migration to Mexico, the United States, and Canada
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2006), 67.
53
Mexican authorities expelled approximately 2,000 Central Americans in 1981 and 3,500 in 1982. García, Seeking
Refuge, 49. In 1983, police in Mexico City began staging daily raids on undocumented migrants. Laura O’Dogherty,
Central Americans in Mexico City: Uprooted and Silenced. (Washington, D.C.: Hemispheric Migration Project,
Center for Immigration Policy and Refugee Assistance, Georgetown University, 1989), 46.
54
In the early 1980s, only 100 Central Americans were granted the asylee visa; none received one between 1986
and 1990. Mexico officially had no refugees; it labeled Guatemalans in camps in Chiapas “border visitors” and
those in Soconusco “agricultural workers.” García, Seeking Refuge, 46 & 51.
55
Aguayo, “Refugees,” 113-114.
56
Study by the Mexican Friends Service Committee of Central Americans in Mexico City (random sampling), quoted
in Aguayo, “Refugees,” 112. Several case studies, including the aforementioned, conducted by social scientists
during the early and mid-1980s turned up general information on the migrants: they were characteristically young
(generally between 21 and 30 years old) single males who hailed from urban or semi-urban areas in El Salvador.
They were well educated by Central American standards: almost 42% of the participants in a survey conducted in
the “Ajusco Colony” on the periphery of Mexico City had graduated from high school, and 22% had some university
education. There were also a high percentage of former union leaders, peasants, catechists, teachers, and
members of other groups that had challenged the legitimacy of the Salvadoran state and had suffered the harsh
consequences. Of 534 individuals interviewed in Mexico City by Sergio Aguayo in 1983-84, only 7% named
economic difficulties as their principal motivation for leaving their native land. The rest, fittingly, mentioned
93
Mexican economy continued to shed jobs and a deep recession set in, more and more made their
way north to find work in the United States.
The Mexican Response
The Mexican government’s response to the growing number of Salvadoran migrants
within its borders was decidedly unenthusiastic. Like Costa Rica, Mexico prided itself on its
history as a haven for the politically persecuted, especially those fleeing authoritarian regimes.57
The Mexican government opposed the state-sponsored violence perpetrated by the Salvadoran
military and provided strong financial and political support for the Salvadoran guerrilla
movement.58 Yet Mexico had never received foreign migrants on such a grand scale before, and
its unwieldy bureaucracy struggled to accommodate them. 59 In addition, the first waves of
refugees arrived as Mexico was plunging into its worst financial crises in decades. Amid soaring
inflation and unemployment, thousands of new immigrants placed a tremendous burden on the
economy. The Mexican government also faced increasing pressure from the United States as the
1980s wore on to apprehend migrants before they could make it to the U.S. – Mexican border.60
These factors gave birth to an ambiguous immigration policy that appeared generous but
that offered Salvadorans in Mexico little practical assistance. On one hand, the Mexican
“repression, fear of generalized violence, and murders of their families” as motives for their flight. Torres-Rivas,
“Report on the Condition of Central American Refugees and Migrants, 24-25; Aguayo, “Refugees,” 123.
57
Throughout the twentieth century, Mexico welcomed a broad range of political refugees, including but not
limited to the Irish, Turkish Jews, Spanish Republicans, Eastern Europeans, Lebanese, Cubans, Chileans, Argentines,
Brazilians, Uruguayans, and even North Americans. García, Seeking Refuge, 44.
58
Ferris, The Central American Refugees, 46-47.
59
Mexico served as the country of first asylum for refugees fleeing wars in both Guatemala and El Salvador. In
response, the Mexican government created the Mexican Commission for Refugee Assistance (COMAR) in July of
1980 and charged it with coordinating the government’s response across the federal bureaucracy, a task that
proved both impractical and impossible. García, Seeking Refuge, 49.
60
During the late 1980s, the number of deportations of Central Americans (predominantly Salvadorans) by
Mexican border police rose dramatically from 14,000 in 1988 to 85,000 in 1989 to 126,000 in 1990. García, Seeking
Refuge, 69.
94
government created the Comisión Mexicana de Ayuda a Refugiados (Mexican Commission for
Refugee Assistance, or COMAR) in 1980 to develop a comprehensive national refugee policy,
advocate for the refugees’ rights within the government bureaucracy, and coordinate the
UNHCR refugee camps on the border with Guatemala.61 At the same time, though, COMAR
offered scant aid to the hundreds of thousands of Salvadorans who resided in urban areas like
Mexico City and made up the majority of the generally young, male migrant population.62 The
Mexican government also sought to discourage further immigration through mass deportations,
by issuing fees for renewing immigration documents, and by denying the majority of Central
Americans legal protection through political asylum, branding them economic migrants as
opposed to political refugees.63 From a high in 1982 of $1,800,000, the Mexican government’s
budget for migrant assistance programs plunged to a mere $55,000 in 1984.64 Overwhelmed by
its economic woes and entangled in messy bureaucratic infighting, Mexico proved both unable
and unwilling to divert sufficient attention and resources to effectively address the needs of the
approximately 500,000 Salvadoran migrants within its borders.65
61
Ferris, Central American Refugees, 52.
62
Reliable studies of the urban refugee population of Central Americans in Mexico are rare. See footnote 56 for
one of the few.
63
Central Americans could apply for political asylum, but the Mexican government rarely granted it. (See García,
Seeking Refuge, chapter 2 for a breakdown of Mexico’s stingy asylum record) Much of the ambiguity which
characterized Mexico’s attitude towards Central American immigrants sprang from clashes between COMAR,
which sought to provide relief and attention to the immigrant population, and the General Directorate of
Migration Services, whose director took a much harsher stance and dismissed Central Americans as economic
migrants. Only those Guatemalans who resided in the UNHCR camps in northern Chiapas were afforded anything
close to refugee status, although the Mexican government labeled them “border visitors.” Sergio Aguayo,
“Refugees,” 134-136.
64
65
In 1984, Salvadoran embassy officials in Mexico City estimated that there were at least 500,000 Salvadoran
migrants in Mexico, 40 percent of whom were thought to be in transit to the United States or Canada. This figure
remained more or less constant throughout the rest of the decade. UNHCR estimates were far lower, to the tune
of 120,000 Salvadorans in Mexico in 1988. Torres-Rivas, “Report on the Condition of Central American Refugees
and Migrants,” 24; Aguayo and Weiss Fagen, Central Americans in Mexico and the United States, 2.
95
The UNHCR, COMAR, and local organizations also struggled to provide services and
protection, especially in large urban areas. In their 1988 analysis of Central Americans in the
United States and Mexico, Aguayo and Weiss Fagen noted that the UNHCR had failed to fully
comply with its mandate to protect Central Americans in Mexico’s interior due to a lack of
international and domestic pressure pertaining to non-refugee groups combined with the
Mexican government’s own restrictions on UNHCR activities outside the camps.66 In addition, in
1983 COMAR shifted the vast majority of its resources from Mexico City to designated refugee
camps on the border with Guatemala, leaving urban migrants to rely upon informal social,
familial, and religious networks in addition to secular non-governmental agencies. Unlike the
camps, with their easily identifiable refugee populations consigned to specific geographic areas,
Central Americans in the interior of Mexico were far more difficult to locate and serve because
many were intent on blending in with the local population and keeping low public profiles to
avoid deportation. Although some neighborhoods in larger cities such as Mexico City possessed
a higher concentration of Central American residents, migrants in the interior were scattered
among a number of cities across Mexico, thus making it far more difficult to determine their
collective needs. This highly mobile and transient population, far less visible yet far more
numerous than those migrants in refugee camps, proved far more challenging for traditional
refugee agencies to pin down and to serve.
With the UNHCR and COMAR focusing their resources almost entirely on the
Guatemalan refugee camps on the Chiapas border, the Catholic Church emerged as perhaps the
most effective advocate for Salvadoran and Guatemalan migrants in Mexico’s interior.67 Clergy,
66
Aguayo and Weiss Fagen, Central Americans in Mexico and the United States, 19.
67
The role of international, national, and local non-governmental organizations (NGOs) should also not be
overlooked. NGOs, especially local agencies, gained the reputation for being advocates for the populations they
served and often helping them in a more effective and culturally competent manner. For an analysis of the role of
96
nuns, and lay workers in Chiapas were among the first to sound the alarm regarding the
increasing numbers of Central Americans appearing in their communities in the early 1980s.68
Following that, Catholic parishes organized informal networks to manage the distribution of
food, clothing, and medical care for northbound migrants, many of whom, at least initially, were
catechists or community leaders in Christian Base Communities in their respective countries.69
Mexican Catholics not only provided material assistance; they also hid Central Americans from
local police, procured temporary employment for migrants, and transported them from one safe
house to the next. In the process, these parishioners and hundreds of others affiliated with them
laid the foundation for a network of faith-based “sanctuaries” that stretched from the
southernmost villages of Chiapas to the sprawling shantytowns of Mexico City to the U.S.
border, where it eventually plugged into the burgeoning U.S. sanctuary movement.70
Just as ambiguity defined the position of the Mexican government with regard to Central
American migrants, so did it characterize their reception by the Mexican populace. As previously
mentioned, thousands of Mexicans went out of their way to provide food, shelter, clothing, and
transportation to Central Americans moving north.71 Solidarity organizations, civic groups, and
local refugee agencies provided necessary social services and lobbied the Mexican government
NGOs in Central American refugee assistance, see Sergio Aguayo, From the Shadows to Center Stage: NGOs and
Central American Refugee Assistance (Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Hemispheric Migration Project,
1991).
68
García, Seeking Refuge, 69.
69
Those faith communities, both Catholic and Protestant, which took in Central American migrants were generally
located in poor or working-class communities, especially in the neighborhoods that ringed Mexico City. Their
members commonly viewed the provision of sanctuary as an act of faith and solidarity with the persecuted
activists of El Salvador and Guatemala. O’Dogherty, Central Americans in Mexico City, 35.
70
In her book on the Sanctuary movement in the United States, Ann Crittenden notes that one of its founders,
Arizona rancher Jim Corbett, traveled to Chiapas to provide aid workers with the contact information of churches
on both sides of the US-Mexico border that would shelter refugees. Ann Crittenden, Sanctuary: A Story of
American Conscience and the Law in Collision (New York: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1988), 82.
71
Several of the Salvadorans in Menjívar’s study stressed the generosity of Mexicans they encountered on their
journey north. “Don’t forget to mention all the great people who have helped us there,” said Mireya, one of her
informants. “Many Mexican brothers and sisters received us in their land with open arms, and we must never
forget that. Many Salvadorans owe many Mexicans their lives.” Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 72.
97
to end deportations and advocated for the legal rights of migrants.72 On the other hand, some
Mexican groups lashed out at migrants, accusing them of snatching jobs and draining valuable
natural resources; causing an increase in crime, prostitution, and drug trafficking; and corrupting
local officials with bribes to avoid deportation.73 Conservative commentators warned Mexicans
that Central American refugees were “agents of Soviet imperialism,” bent on importing
Communist ideals with which they would utilize to launch a war on the Mexican state.74 Even
Mexico’s own director of Migratory Services routinely used her position to demonize the very
people she was tasked to help, blaming them for the social ills that befell Mexican society,
including but not limited to “social disintegration, poverty, promiscuity, ignorance, delinquency,
and violence.”75 As the decade wore on and their country’s economic crisis deepened, many
Mexicans – even those who had originally welcomed Central Americans into their homes –
soured on the seemingly endless stream of needy migrants and cut back significantly or grew far
more selective in hosting “guests”.76 By the end of the 1980s, Mexican public discourse had
turned decidedly anti-immigrant, leaving Central Americans to largely fend for themselves.77
Although many Salvadorans remained in Mexico to carve out new lives, the pull of
familial ties and the promise of better economic opportunities in the United States led tens of
thousands to continue northward. The Mexican government’s denial of refugee status to
Salvadoran migrants also led them to migrate to the U.S. in far greater numbers than
72
Some NGOs in Mexico City even opened hostels for Central Americans to facilitate their journeys north.
O’Dogherty, Central Americans in Mexico City, 40.
73
Aguayo, “Refugees,” 137-138, 144. O’Dogherty, Central Americans in Mexico City, 37-38.
74
Aguayo, “Refugees,” 145.
75
76
O’Dogherty, Central Americans in Mexico City, 36.
77
Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 65. Sergio Aguayo’s 1985 study of Central American migrants, El Éxodo
Centroamericano: consecuencias de un conflicto, also analyzes the reception of Mexican society to Central
American migrants. (Mexico, D.F.: Secretaría de Educación Pública, 1985)
98
Guatemalans, many of whom benefitted from protected status in refugee camps. 78 Although
often the country of first asylum, Mexico was not the final destination for the majority of
Salvadoran migrants. Mired in economic stagnation and trapped between raging civil wars to the
south and an increasingly bellicose superpower to the north, it became for most migrants the
necessary – albeit increasingly dangerous – conduit to their final destination: the United States.
Ronald Reagan and U.S. Foreign Policy in El Salvador
El Salvador is nearer to Texas than Texas is to Massachusetts.79
- President Ronald Reagan, 1983
If the Mexican government’s response to the tens of thousands of Salvadoran refugees
streaming through its interior seemed tepid at best, it still proved exponentially more welcoming
than that of its northern neighbor. Although Mexican officials were not thrilled with the presence
of so many migrants within their national borders, the state both acknowledged their presence as
“visitors” and created a federal agency to coordinate humanitarian responses and provide limited
assistance to Central Americans either residing in or passing through Mexico on their way to the
United States. The United States government, in stark contrast, did nothing of the sort. Instead,
federal agencies focused not on ministering to Salvadorans who made it across the border but on
deporting them as quickly as possible. The United States refused to recognize Salvadorans – or
any Central Americans, for that matter – as refugees, echoing Mexico’s argument that the they
78
79
“President Ronald Reagan’s Address on Central America to Joint Session of Congress,” April 27, 1983.
99
were economic migrants who had come north looking for better life opportunities. Its decision to
do so was based in large part on the foreign policy objectives staked out by the incoming
administration of President Ronald Reagan with respect to the crisis erupting in Central America.
Like the outgoing Carter administration, the incoming Reagan administration’s foreign
policy with respect to Latin America was rooted in a longstanding bipartisan consensus anchored
by two beliefs. First, there was general agreement among Democrats and Republicans on the
importance of maintaining U.S. economic and military dominance in its own “backyard,” even if
it meant supporting unsavory dictatorships and repressive regimes.80 Second, both parties agreed
on the need to prevent another Communist government from coming to power in Latin America
after the success of the Cuban revolution. 81 Although many have stressed the differences
between the two administrations’ foreign policies, in the case of El Salvador there existed far
more continuity than change, at least in their goals: both Presidents Carter and Reagan were
determined to keep the leftist guerrilla forces of the FMLN from coming to power, especially in
the wake of the successful Sandinista-led revolution in neighboring Nicaragua. In his final days
in office, Carter authorized $5.9 million in lethal aid to the Salvadoran military to battle the
FMLN’s “final offensive” just one month after the rape and murder of four U.S. clergywomen by
Salvadoran soldiers.82 In the years to come, the Reagan administration’s program of economic
and military aid to El Salvador would dwarf that of his predecessor as the new President sought
80
This consensus was challenged by President Jimmy Carter’s human rights - focused foreign policy to a certain
extent during the late 1970s.
81
These two goals are articulated in Cynthia Arnson’s introduction to her article “The Reagan Administration,
Congress, and Central America: The Search for Consensus” in Crisis in Central America: Regional Dynamics and U.S.
Policy in the 1980s, ed. Nora Hamilton, Jeffry A. Frieden, Linda Fuller, and Manuel Pastor, Jr. (Boulder: Westview
Press, 1988), 35.
82
William LeoGrande, Our Own Backyard: The United States in Central America, 1977-1992 (Chapel Hill: University
of North Carolina Press, 1998), 73.
100
to use the small Central American nation as a test case for his hardline anti-Communist foreign
policy.83
During his two terms in office, Ronald Reagan employed alarmist rhetoric and mass
disinformation to convince both the U.S. Congress and the American public of the existential
threat posed by Salvadoran insurgents and the necessity of supporting the government they
fought to overthrow. To Reagan, the Salvadoran revolution was not an organic revolt of citizens
against an oppressive, undemocratic regime in the hopes of creating a more economically just
and politically inclusive society. Instead, it was a means by which the Communist-run Soviet
Union, Cuba, and now Nicaragua were extending their fearsome tentacles.84 A mere month after
he took office, Reagan’s policy advisors released a much-hyped “White Paper” that claimed to
offer incontrovertible evidence of a worldwide Communist conspiracy directed at El Salvador.
Over the past year, the paper argued, the insurgency in El Salvador had “been progressively
transformed into a textbook case of indirect armed aggression by Communist powers,” with the
Soviet Union colluding with Cuba and Nicaragua to arm the Salvadoran guerrillas.85 Although
closer analysis showed the document to be disingenuous in some respects and patently false in
several of its major claims, the White Paper succeeded in reframing the public debate on aid to
El Salvador on Reagan’s terms.86 Questions no longer revolved around whether or not the United
83
Reagan’s Secretary of State, Alexander Haig, proclaimed in the first several weeks of the Reagan administration
that El Salvador was the “test case” of the new administration’s foreign policy and that the United States would
“draw the line” there against “Communist interference.” Benjamin Schwarz, “Dirty Hands,” The Atlantic, Dec 1998,
106-116.
84
In a speech to the Chicago Council on Foreign Relations, President-elect Reagan claimed that “in El Salvador,
Marxist totalitarian revolutionaries, supported by Havana and Moscow, are preventing the construction of a
democratic government,” warning of the danger that it would, along with Nicaragua, Grenada, and Cuba, become
“new outposts for Soviet combat brigades.” Speech by Ronald Reagan, “Peace and Security in the 1980s,” Chicago,
IL, March 17, 1980; cited in Cynthia Arnson, El Salvador: Revolution Confronts the United States (Washington, D.C.:
Institute for Policy Studies, 1982), 63.
85
LeoGrande, Our Own Backyard, 86.
86
For a thorough breakdown and debunking of the White Paper’s main accusations, see LeoGrande, Our Own
Backyard, 86-87.
101
States should provide military aid to defeat the guerrillas; instead, officials debated how much
should be supplied and under what conditions.87 Reagan peppered his proclamations with dire
predictions: if the U.S. did not act decisively in support of El Salvador’s government, Central
America would soon be ruled by “a string of anti-American Marxist dictatorships.” “We cannot
permit the Soviet-Cuban-Nicaraguan axis to take over Central America,” he warned.88
In promoting their hardline Central American foreign policy, Reagan and his aides often
employed the specter of massive, unchecked immigration to raise fears of an existential threat to
the American way of life. The President conjured up recent memories of South Vietnamese and
Cuban “boat people” who fled Communist governments, warning that this time the “tidal wave
of refugees … swarming into our country” would be composed of “feet people” invading the
United States from the south.89 Elliot Abrams, Assistant Secretary of State, picked up on the
theme, arguing that leftist victories in Guatemala and El Salvador could “create a Southeast
Asian refugee crisis right here on our doorstep.” 90 General Ernest Graves, Director of the
Defense Security Assistance Agency, agreed, predicting “a flood of refugees and illegal
immigrants larger than any we have every experienced to date.”91 “What happens in El Salvador
is not long ago and far away,” warned Senator Jesse Helms, then the senior Republican on the
Senate Foreign Relations Sub-Committee on the Western Hemisphere. “If Central America falls,
we are going to be flooded with refugees – 10, 15, 20 million of them – coming across our
borders, people who cannot speak English, who have no job, who have nothing.”92 The threat to
87
LeoGrande, Our Own Backyard, 88.
88
Lars Schoultz, “Central America and the Politicization of U.S. Immigration Policy,” in Christopher Mitchell, ed.,
Western Hemisphere Immigration and United States Foreign Policy (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State
89
Schoultz, “Central America and the Politicization of U.S. Immigration Policy,” 157.
90
91
Schoultz, “Central America and the Politicization of U.S. Immigration Policy,” 157-158.
92
102
American culture, language, and workers was imminent but could be effectively snuffed out by
US military and economic aid to the Salvadoran government, conservatives concluded.
Over the next decade, the Reagan administration did just that, funneling billions of
dollars southward to quash the threat of a leftist revolutionary victory in El Salvador. In February
of 1981, President Reagan announced $25 million in military assistance for El Salvador, more
than the combined US military aid granted to the small Central American country in its entire
history.93 One year later, that figure had doubled to $50 million; by 1985, it had exploded to a
staggering $136 million per year. 94 Such aid allowed the Salvadoran government, heavily
influenced by the military high command, to rapidly expand the capacity of its armed forces. El
Salvador’s helicopter fleet tripled to 50, supplemented by C-47 and A-37 warplanes sent from
the US arsenal.95 Ground forces also swelled from 16,000 soldiers in 1981 to 56,000 strong by
the latter years of the war.96 The United States undertook a massive effort to “modernize” and
“professionalize” the Salvadoran army, training hundreds of officers and enlisted men in El
Salvador, Honduras, Panama, and at the School of the Americas in Ft. Benning, Ga. through its
International Military Education and Training (IMET) programs. 97 The U.S. also boasted a
significant “unofficial” presence: Green Berets operated out of secret bases in Honduras,
creeping across the border at night to sabotage Salvadoran guerrilla bases. 98 The CIA flew
93
Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 150. For statistics on yearly US military and economic aid to El Salvador
since 1945, see “US Overseas Loans and Grants,” the annual report to Congress on US foreign assistance, known
informally as the Greenbook. The United States only began providing military funding to El Salvador in 1960;
previous funds were targeted for economic development purposes. All dollar amounts cited are historical dollars
and not constant dollars. USAID: 2018. https://catalog.data.gov/dataset/u-s-overseas-loans-and-grants-greenbook
94
“US Overseas Loans and Grants,” USAID: 2018.
95
96
Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 198. The Salvadoran army accomplished much of this through forced
conscription, seizing adolescent boys as young as 12 years old and pressing them into military service.
97
By 1987, over 150 US military personnel were operating the ground in El Salvador, not including Special Forces
and other covert soldiers. Maj. Paul P. Cale, “The United States Military Advisor Group in El Salvador, 1979-1992,”
Small Wars Journal, 1996, 15.
98
103
reconnaissance missions from bases in Honduras and Panama, paid US “contract pilots” to fly
Salvadoran troops into battle, and sent paramilitary operatives to accompany army patrols that
regularly engaged in combat with guerrilla forces.99 In all, by the end of the war, the United
States had gifted the Salvadoran military over half a billion dollars, more than twice as much as
neighboring Honduras, the next-closest recipient of US military aid.100
Despite the millions of U.S. dollars poured into training and equipping the Salvadoran
armed forces, the military high command struggled to defeat the wily, well-trained, and highly
motivated guerrilla forces. The FMLN, from its beginnings as a few hundred ragtag volunteers
armed with bolt-action rifles and machetes, had by mid-decade matured into a full-fledged army
of anywhere from 9,000 to 12,000 fighters, bolstered by thousands of sympathizers who
provided the rebels with the food, supplies, and logistical support necessary to sustain their
struggle. They faced an equally formidable Salvadoran army which had begun to display greater
competency in the field after several years of US training and which boasted a significant
technological advantage, control of the skies, and overwhelming numerical superiority.
Recognizing its limits, the FMLN pared down its forces and concentrated on “lightning strikes”
by smaller groups of soldiers on military targets and the destruction of government
communications and infrastructure.101 US military aid had helped transform the Salvadoran army
into a more professional fighting force that could go head-to-head with guerrilla fighters.
However, this failed to crush the resilient FMLN: by the end of the decade, guerrilla forces had
expanded their theater of operations from seven to all 14 departments of El Salvador, including
99
Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 166; Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 284.
100
The United States spent approximately $574 million on military aid to El Salvador over the course of the 12-year
war, which, when adjusted for inflation, tops one billion dollars in 2019. Greenbook, USAID.
101
104
most major urban areas.102 Because US military aid had also increased the Salvadoran army’s
capacity to prosecute the war, civilians were left with little choice but to flee oncoming military
sweeps – if they had the time and means.
Like military aid, US economic aid also stimulated out-migration, even when its stated
goal was often to deter it. In March of 1980, El Salvador’s governing junta promulgated the first
stage of an ambitious three-part, US-backed set of land reform proposals that split up
landholdings of more than 500 hectares into cooperatives to benefit landless peasants in an
attempt to blunt leftist revolutionary support in the countryside.103 Despite the relatively limited
scope of the reforms, the thought of ceding any portion of their land to peasants enraged local
landowners. They contracted death squads to murder peasants slated to benefit from the reforms:
by the end of 1980, 240 cooperative leaders – to say nothing of other members of the
cooperatives – had been killed.104 According to a US State Department report, “more than 5,000
peasant farmers (campesinos) had been killed in 1981,” and “thousands more had been evicted
forcibly from land they had claimed” under Phase III of the land reform, which allowed those
who rented land to register it as their own. 105 Although the “vast majority of small farmers,
tenants, semi-proletarians, and seasonal workers were untouched by agrarian reform,” few
102
Anjali Sundaram, “Taking Centre Stage: The Reagan Era” in A Decade of War: El Salvador Confronts the Future,
ed. Anjali Sundaram and George Gelber (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 1991), 147.
103
Phase I of the agrarian reform, promulgated on March 6, 1980, nationalized 376 farms of more than 500
hectares. This, however, did not dent the landed elite, as 69% of the land expropriated was either used for pasture
or not utilized at all. The agrarian aristocracy remained relatively intact: after Phase I’s promulgation, 85% of the
land dedicated to coffee, 75% of cotton, and 60% of sugarcane remained untouched. Phase II was intended to
strike at the heart of the rural elite by expropriating 2,000 farms between 100 and 500 hectares, which included
70% of the coffee fincas and over 70% of El Salvador’s total agricultural exports. It was never implemented. Phase
III, the much-heralded “Land to the Tiller” program designed by University of Wisconsin professor Roy Prosterman
and inspired by his earlier proposals to blunt rural support for the Viet Cong among South Vietnamese peasants,
was promulgated in April of 1980 but proved equally difficult to enforce. Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador,
137-138; Edward F. Lehoucq, “Reform with Repression: The Land Reform in El Salvador,” ISHI Occasional Papers in
Social Change, No. 6 (Philadelphia: Institute for the Study of Human Issues, 1982), 4-6.
104
Wim Pelupessy, “Agrarian Reform in El Salvador” in A Decade of War: El Salvador Confronts the Future, ed.
Anjali Sundaram and George Gelber (London: Catholic Institute for International Relations, 1991), 48.
105
Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 138-139.
105
escaped the accompanying violence. 106 Peasants fled the countryside to escape the military’s
“rural pacification” programs; while violence meted out by death squads intended to disrupt and
sabotage the reforms sent thousands fleeing to other areas of the country, to neighboring nations,
and northward towards Mexico and the United States.107 It is not a stretch to state that both US
military intervention in the Salvadoran revolutionary war and massive US economic
development aid worked in tandem to force Salvadorans out of their country. Many searching for
that elusive comfort and security looked north – ironically, to the very nation that funded the war
they fled.
The Refugee - Migrant Debate
The United States of America was surely more prosperous and provided far more
opportunity for economic stability and advancement than a war-torn El Salvador or even a
recession-plagued Mexico. It was, however, even less interested in accepting Salvadoran
refugees than its neighbor to the south. Like Mexico, the United States denied Salvadorans
refugee status and insisted that they were merely economic migrants despite the United Nations
recommendation that all Salvadorans who left their country beginning in 1980 be considered
refugees. 108 In one sense, President Reagan was merely following the precedent set by his
Democratic predecessor, whose administration deported over 12,000 Salvadorans in his last year
106
Pelupessy, “Agrarian Reform in El Salvador,” 48.
107
Pelupessy, “Agrarian Reform in El Salvador,” 49. The Catholic Church also opened up refugee centers around
San Salvador to accommodate those fleeing repression and maintained them for the next five years. Montgomery,
Revolution in El Salvador, 138.
108
106
in office.109 Neither administration denied the existence of politically motivated violence in El
Salvador. 110 However, both administrations denied the country of El Salvador refugee nation
status on the grounds that “simply to be victims of generalized violence is insufficient to
mandate refugee status.”111 One had to provide convincing evidence of having been singled out
for political persecution – an almost impossible task for any migrant, regardless of national
origin.112 Furthermore, the Reagan administration argued, significant U.S. financial backing of
the UNHCR, local nongovernmental organizations, and national governments enabled them to
absorb and assist refugees in and around El Salvador, thus eliminating the need to travel any
farther for safety or assistance.113 By the administration’s logic, those who continued on from
their countries of first asylum to the United States migrated not out of political necessity; instead,
they pursued economic opportunity. In the words of Peter Larabee, Director of the INS Detention
Facility at El Centro, California, Salvadorans were “just peasants who are coming to the U.S. for
a welfare card and a Cadillac.”114
The US government’s denial of refugee status to Salvadorans and its equally severe
decisions on individual cases of political asylum directly reflected the reality of U.S. foreign
policy aims. The United States pursued two main goals in El Salvador: to defeat the guerrilla
forces and to cultivate a stable, pro-US regime with at least the outward appearance of a
democracy. In order to do so, the Reagan administration needed to convince the U.S. Congress to
109
Throughout the increasing violence of the late 1970s and 1980, the Carter administration steadfastly refused to
grant Salvadorans temporarily in the United States EVD (Extended Voluntary Departure). Stephen Macekura, “ ‘For
Fear of Persecution’: Displaced Salvadorans and U.S. Refugee Policy in the 1980s” The Journal of Policy History 23,
no. 3 (2011): 361.
110
111
Ferris, Central American Refugees, 121-122.
112
113
Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 81; Patricia Weiss Fagen, “Central American Refugees and U.S. Policy” in Crisis in
Central America: Regional Dynamics and U.S. Policy in the 1980s, ed. Nora Hamilton, Jeffry A. Frieden, Linda Fuller,
and Manuel Pastor, Jr. (Boulder: Westview Press, 1988), 69.
114
107
appropriate hundreds of millions of dollars in military and economic aid to support the
Salvadoran government, which a Democratic Congress proved less likely to do while state-
sponsored torture and military repression continued unabated. Reagan thus adopted the argument
that the human rights situation was improving in El Salvador and denied reports of Salvadoran
military atrocities. 115 To admit thousands of Salvadorans into the United States as political
refugees would thus have been a tacit acknowledgement that the human rights situation in El
Salvador was not as the U.S. portrayed it and would have undermined the narrative of
democratization and successful economic development that the Reagan administration sought to
promote.116 Accordingly, in 1981 – one of the bloodiest years of the war – the United States did
not admit any refugees from El Salvador, granted only two Salvadorans political asylum, and
deported 10,473 who crossed the southern border.117 By the mid-1980s, asylum acceptance rates
had risen incrementally: in 1984, the US government granted 328 Salvadorans asylum and
denied 13,045, deporting between 6,000-12,000 Salvadorans. 118 These numbers remained
relatively constant: between 1983 and 1991, only 2.8 percent of Salvadoran applications for
political asylum were approved, compared to approximately 25 percent of Nicaraguans, 50
percent of Somalis, and 75 percent of applicants from the Soviet Union.119
Human rights and legal activists roundly rejected the Reagan administration’s depiction
of Salvadorans as economic migrants. Based on their experiences working with recent
115
Macekura, “ ‘For Fear of Persecution’”, 365.
116
Schoultz, “Central America and the Politicization of U.S. Immigration Policy,” 208; Aguayo, El Éxodo
Centroamericano, 111.
117
Ferris, Central American Refugees, 126; Macekura, “‘For Fear of Persecution,’” 365. 156 Salvadorans applied for
political asylum in 1981; most who entered the US did not bother, aware that their chances of being granted
asylum were exceedingly rare and aware that if they did they would then be registered with the INS. Office of
Refugee Resettlement 1985, A11-12, cited in Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 81.
118
Ferris, Central American Refugees, 124, 126.
119
Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue. The Human Impact of Immigration and Refugee Law on the District of
Columbia’s Latino Population. Report prepared by Arnold & Porter and the Washington Lawyer’s Committee for
Civil Rights Under Law on behalf of the D.C. Latino Civil Rights Task Force for presentation to the United States
Commission on Civil Rights, January 27, 1992, 27.
108
Salvadoran immigrants, they argued that most migrants to the U.S. fled politically motivated
violence and thus qualified as refugees under the 1980 Refugee Act. The act, among the most
important legislative achievements of President Jimmy Carter, brought the United States into line
with the 1952 United Nations Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees and its 1967
Protocol, which defined a refugee as any individual “unwilling or unable to return to … his/her
place of residence because of persecution or a well-founded fear of persecution on account of
race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group, or political opinion.” 120
Through this, the Carter administration hoped to separate U.S. refugee policy from U.S. foreign
policy, depoliticizing the refugee process by establishing congressional checks over what was
formerly the exclusive domain of the executive branch: the determination of how many refugees
to admit and from what parts of the world.121 Yet despite depriving the President of some control
over the refugee process, the act still allowed the President and Congress to prioritize members
of one country or region over another – which was precisely what the Reagan administration did,
rejecting 98 percent of asylum claims filed by Salvadorans during the 1980s.122
Activists, both North Americans and newly arrived Salvadorans, shared devastating tales
of migrants who had been threatened by state security forces, had fled death squads, had
witnessed family and friends tortured and murdered, and had even been imprisoned and tortured
themselves. Based on these testimonials, they argued that Salvadorans should be eligible for
political asylum, as they possessed a valid fear of persecution if deported. Legal foundations,
immigrant advocacy organizations, solidarity groups, and social service agencies teamed up to
120
Menjívar, Fragmented Ties, 78-79. With this elimination of geographic restrictions, the potential number of
individuals eligible for refugee status in the United States shot up from 3 million to 13 million people. In a feeble
attempt to accommodate this new reality, the Refugee Act raised the annual refugee ceiling from 17,400 to 50,000
and created federal positions to ensure the regularization of the refugee process. Ferris, Central American
Refugees, 113-114.
121
122
109
compile overwhelming evidence that their clients would face persecution if deported. The
American Civil Liberties Union published a list of over 100 Salvadoran deportees who were
murdered upon their forced return.123 Yet even the most searing personal narratives and physical
evidence – one labor organizer showed the court the cigarette burn marks on his back from
torture sessions – often failed to convince immigration judges, who generally hewed closely to
the State Department’s “suggested” directives concerning Salvadoran migrants. In the case of the
labor organizer, the immigration judge dismissed the asylum applicant’s claims because “he had
heard similar stories from alcoholic men who were too drunk to realize that they had burned
themselves with their own cigarettes.”124
Academics weighed in on the argument, bolstering the case of immigration advocates and
human rights organizations. In a 1983 study of 534 Salvadorans residing in Mexico City,
sociologist Sergio Aguayo found that only seven percent of those surveyed mentioned economic
reasons as their principal motive for migrating; the remainder stated that they had fled due to
“repression, fear of generalized violence, and murders of members of their families.”125 Later,
political scientist William Stanley’s 1987 time-series analysis revealed a direct correlation
between fluctuations in political killings in El Salvador between 1979 and 1984 and the number
of Salvadorans apprehended near the U.S. – Mexican border. 126 Geographer Richard Jones
challenged Stanley’s findings, noting that many Salvadorans apprehended by the INS between
1982 and 1985 had fled regions of El Salvador plagued more by “economic setbacks” than
123
124
125
Aguayo, “Refugees,”123; Carlos B. Cordova, The Salvadoran Americans (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press,
2005), 36.
126
William Deane Stanley, “Economic Migrants or Refugees from Violence? A Time-Series Analysis of Salvadoran
Migration to the United States,” Latin American Research Review 22, no. 1 (1987): 132-153. Stanley’s quantitative
analysis echoes the experience of an aid worker in Houston who claimed that he could predict what part of El
Salvador the next wave of refugees would hail from based on the location of the worst violence. “There is an 8 to
10-day lag” between reports of the violence and refugee arrival, he noted. Dan Balz, “Another War, Another Wave
of Refugees,” WP, Mar 15, 1982, A1.
110
political violence. 127 Yet even though Jones concluded that social class rather than political
violence was the major determinant of Salvadoran migration to the United States, he readily
acknowledged that Salvadoran migration was “conflict-related.”128 Salvadorans interviewed in a
1981 study carried out in Washington, DC, agreed that the two causes were inseparable: “the dire
socio-economic situation has contributed to the political oppression, and the political oppression
has made awareness of the inequity and injustice in the country all the greater,” the study
concluded.129
Whether Salvadoran migrants fled certain death at the hands of an esquadron de muerte
or whether their lives had been thrown into disarray due to the destruction of local roads, the
torching of their cropland, or the rapid decline of the industrial sector and capital flight, all
sought to escape the ramifications of war. Some flight paths followed more traditional routes
trod by economic migrants over multiple decades; other refugees blazed new trails tread by
thousands in succeeding years. Salvadorans settled in Guatemala and Mexico if they managed to
secure stable employment and relative safety. Those who did not pushed on northward. Often,
journeys slowed or came to temporary halts due to lack of funds: fortunate migrants waited for
money to arrive from family, while those who lacked such connections searched for work to
finance the next leg of their forced pilgrimage. Thousands perished along the way, victims of
exploitative coyotes, corrupt Mexican authorities, and a host of common diseases that often
127
Jones noted that although a significant percentage of those migrants apprehended at the U.S. – Mexican border
between 1982 and 1985 originated in departments that suffered severe political violence (San Salvador and
Cuscatlán), an equally significant percentage hailed from the eastern departments of San Miguel and La Union,
regions that suffered more economic setbacks than political violence. Richard C. Jones, “Causes of Salvadoran
Migration to the United States,” Geographical Review 79, no. 2 (April 1989): 183-194.
128
Wealthier Salvadorans from the eastern departments generally migrated north to Mexico and the U.S., while
poor villagers from the northern and central zones were more likely to migrate to refugee camps inside El Salvador
or in neighboring Honduras and Belize. Jones, “Causes of Salvadoran Migration,” 193.
129
D.C. Community Humanities Council, “A Profile of the Salvadoran Community - Washington, D.C.,” 1981, 24.
111
turned fatal due to a lack of adequate health care and services. Even if they survived to make it to
the U.S.-Mexican border, many Salvadorans were swallowed up by the harsh, unforgiving desert
sands or swept away in the currents of the Rio Grande, their dreams dashed on the rocks that
littered the swiftly flowing river.
Those who crossed safely and succeeded in pushing on to their final destinations found
that although one period of tribulation had come to a close, another had merely begun. Whether
or not they had relatives and friends in the United States, Salvadorans who arrived in the United
States were people in need. Only a small percentage managed to win asylum – and thus tentative
legal status. The vast majority did not apply, knowing their chances were slim. As “illegals,”
they received no assistance from the U.S. government; most avoided contact with federal
authorities, fearful of being deported. Recognizing this, a host of US-based nonprofits, social
service providers, religious groups, and other non-governmental organizations stepped in to fill
the void. The next chapter examines how both US and Salvadoran actors collaborated to help
Salvadorans cobble together new lives in the context of Washington, DC’s burgeoning Latino
community.
112
CHAPTER 4:
ORGANIZING FOR JUSTICE IN THE CAPITAL CITY,
1980-1986
During the 1980s, approximately one million Salvadorans fled political persecution, civil
unrest, and economic chaos in their native land and settled in the United States.1 Yet by no
means were they trailblazers. Rather, they followed in a long line of migrants from El Salvador
who had made their way to the US over the last century. Beginning with the success of the coffee
industry in El Salvador in the late nineteenth century, employment opportunities facilitated labor
migrations from Central America to the United States over the course of the next 100 years. In
addition to providing an advantageous labor market, the US also served as a safe haven for
middle and upper-class Salvadoran political exiles during the country’s half-century of military
rule (1931-1979).
Although most Salvadorans who arrived in the United States in the decades following
World War II gravitated towards West Coast cities like Los Angeles and San Francisco, a
significant minority settled on the East Coast, particularly in the Washington, DC area.
Washington’s newly arrived Salvadorans were drawn by offers of contract work – housekeeping,
child care, and other domestic labor – from Latin American diplomats and financiers who had
relocated to the burgeoning international arena that defined the US capital city in the post-war
1
A study directed by the esteemed El Salvador-based Jesuit sociologist Segundo Montes in conjunction with the
Center for Immigration Policy and Refugee Assistance’s Hemispheric Migration Project at Georgetown University
concluded that approximately one million Salvadorans resided in the United States in 1987, 77% of whom had
arrived between 1979 and 1987. Adding on five more years of conflict-related migration in all likelihood puts the
total wartime migration of Salvadorans to the United States at over one million between 1979 and 1992. Montes
was unable to follow up to his initial exploratory study because he, five of his fellow Jesuits, their housekeeper,
and her daughter were murdered by members of the Salvadoran state security forces in November of 1989.
Segundo Montes Mozo and Juan José García Vasquez, Salvadoran Migration to the United States: An Exploratory
Study (Washington, DC: Georgetown University Center for Immigration Policy and Refugee Assistance, 1988).
113
world order. There, they joined a diverse mix of Latin Americans who had settled in
Washington, DC and who constituted a small but increasingly vocal Latino community in the
area. As the civil conflict in El Salvador intensified, immigration to Washington from Central
America’s smallest country surged as Salvadorans sought safety with friends and relatives or
merely fled the carnage with little idea of where they might land.
This chapter analyzes the dynamics of Salvadoran migration to the US and its capital city
during the second half off the twentieth century, locating Salvadorans in the broader ethno-racial
history of Washington, DC. It then examines efforts by exiled Salvadoran opposition activists to
weave support networks, provide essential services for refugees, and raise awareness of their
plight in the hopes of influencing US policy. The vast majority of Salvadorans who arrived in
Washington during their country’s civil war were denied refugee status - branded “illegal aliens”
by the Reagan administration - and forced to navigate a confusing cultural landscape in which
they found themselves socially and economically marginalized. Recognizing this, a dedicated
group of Salvadoran refugee-activists reached out to DC-area religious communities, political
power brokers, and other sympathetic civic actors for assistance. The organizations born from
such collaborative efforts during these early years addressed immediate human needs while
working to change the conditions that caused them to flee north. In the process, they brought the
idealism of the Salvadoran revolution to the streets of Washington, DC.
114
Figure 2. Map of Washington, DC
Source: Washington Post, DC Office of Planning
115
Central American Migration to the United States in the Twentieth Century
El Salvador, although it boasts a long swath of Pacific coastline, is anything but an island.
Its historic ties to neighboring nations – economic, political, and demographic – demand that
migration from the smallest nation on the isthmus be understood in the context of the broader
social, economic, and political forces that have defined the region: the rise of agricultural export
production, industrial development, political persecution by autocratic rulers, and opposition to
such governments, both peaceful and violent. Salvadorans share a common history with millions
of other Central Americans, so much so that it proves extremely difficult to isolate Salvadorans
from the broader history of Central American migration to the United States.2 The following
analysis will thus place Salvadoran migration in the context of broader Central American
migration patterns to the United States, isolating Salvadoran patterns when the data allows.
Over the course of the twentieth century, Central American migration to El Norte proved
a gendered affair driven by market forces and shaped by social and labor networks. As coffee’s
popularity as an agricultural export surged in the late 1800s and early 1900s, Central Americans
involved in the production of the grano de oro capitalized upon industry connections with San
Francisco-based processors, turning their business relationships into contract-based employment
opportunities in the Bay Area. 3 Originally limited to Central American elites, labor-based
opportunities eventually expanded to include the less wealthy, many of whom leveraged their
contract work in the Panama Canal Zone during World War II to win jobs in West Coast
2
The Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS) first began recording the numbers of Central Americans
migrating to the United States in 1932. Consular estimates from individual countries often vary widely from INS
numbers, with the former’s count generally being far higher. Cordova, Salvadoran Americans, 60.
3
Cordova, Salvadoran Americans, 60-61.
116
shipyards and docks after the war’s end.4 Males traditionally filled these jobs, which more often
than not demanded intensive manual labor. Central American women who migrated to the US
often found employment in domestic services and in California’s textile and garment industries –
so much so that in San Francisco, the Levi-Strauss factory was known as the “University of
Nicaragua” due to the abundance of well-educated Nicaraguan women who staffed the assembly
plant during the 1960s.5
Not all Central Americans who migrated to the United States did so to pursue the
almighty dollar. Military dictatorships and other authoritarian regimes ruled the region for much
of the twentieth century, and their opponents sought refuge in the United States to avoid
persecution. These politically motivated migrants – teachers, students, artists, bureaucrats, labor
organizers, white-collar professionals, and a host of other potential subversives whose views ran
contrary to those of their respective governments – most often ended up in working-class jobs in
California and in other large urban areas such as Houston, New Orleans, and New York City.
Some left the US after the end of World War II or returned to their countries of origin with
changes in administrations. Those who remained formed the bedrock of Central American
immigrant communities that would benefit from the introduction of more open immigration
policies in the United States in the later 1960s and 1970s.6 Many stayed in California, but the
Golden State did not wield a monopoly on Central American immigrants. They secured work
and refuge in a variety of other areas across the country as well, including a formerly backwater
4
Central Americans also found work in U.S. coffee processing plants, due in part to the economic ties between
coffee producers in El Salvador and Bay Area-based coffee companies such as MJB, Hills Brothers, and Folgers.
Cordova, Salvadoran Americans, 62.
5
Cordova, Salvadoran Americans, 62; Carlos Cordova, “Central American Migration to San Francisco: One Hundred
Years of Building a Community.” In “Central Americans in California: Transnational Communities, Economies, and
Cultures,” ed. Nora Hamilton and Norma Stoltz Chinchilla. Proceedings of conference at the Center for Multiethnic
and Transnational Studies, University of Southern California, May 12-13, 1995, 18.
6
Cordova, Salvadoran Americans, 62, 64.
117
government town that was rapidly blossoming into a world-class city and that would eventually
rise to become the de facto politico-military capital of the new world order: Washington, DC.
From a Chocolate-and-Vanilla Town to Multicultural City:

Central American Migration to Washington, DC
The capital city of the United States, nestled on the Potomac River about 163 miles
upstream from the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay, had never been a magnet for immigrants.
Because of its location, it had no deep-water port facilities that could accommodate the colossal
passenger ships brimming with thousands of European migrants that plied the Atlantic during the
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These vessels tacked north, depositing their human
cargo in Boston, New York City, Philadelphia, and Baltimore. Washington, DC also lacked the
heavy industry whose rising wages eventually propelled many European immigrants and their
descendants into the middle class. The federal city instead specialized in government jobs, most
of which were inaccessible to immigrants. Of those jobs that were open to foreigners, Robert
Manning points out that “the relatively low wages of black-dominated manual, craft, and
domestic service occupations effectively discouraged European immigrants from entering the
DC labor market.”7 As a result, by the turn of the twentieth century Washington had absorbed
very few foreigners compared to other cities on the East Coast: only seven percent of the
7
Robert D. Manning, “Multicultural Washington, DC: The Changing Social and Economic Landscape of a Post-
Industrial Metropolis.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 21, no. 12 (1998): 332. An exception to Manning’s observation
occurred in the 1850s, when Congress set aside funds for several large, labor-intensive public works projects that
in turn attracted a massive influx of Irish immigrants. By 1860, Washington’s Irish population had tripled in size and
was more than double the size of the city’s slave population. Irish laborers, who competed directly with free and
enslaved blacks, used violence, threats, legal discrimination, and other tactics to undercut their competition and
win labor contracts. Chris Myers Asch and George Derek Musgrove, Chocolate City: A History of Race and
Democracy in the Nation’s Capital (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2017), 99-101.
118
District’s population was foreign-born – compared to 35 percent in Boston and 37 percent in
New York City – by 1900.8
In the place of a significant white ethnic European population, Washington boasted a
deeply rooted African American community that swelled over time with various waves of
migrations from the South. In 1860, blacks made up nearly one-fifth of the city’s population,
over 75 percent of them free.9 During the Civil War, the capital city became a magnet for former
and runaway slaves. After the war’s end, many black Union soldiers who had been garrisoned
there decided to put down roots.10 Southern blacks continued to migrate to Washington during
the latter decades of the nineteenth century; by the turn of the twentieth, more African Americans
lived in the District of Columbia than any other large urban area in the United States.11 This
population continued to grow as blacks fled the enclosure movement, mechanization, and
political persecution, particularly in the tobacco fields of Virginia and North Carolina. By the
1930s, Washington, DC was fully one-third African American.12
Yet large numbers did not translate into substantial political or economic might. Despite
the presence of a sizeable black middle class, African American political power, social standing,
and economic opportunity plummeted as segregationists introduced Jim Crow laws during the
early twentieth century.13 Such institutionalized barriers to material wealth severely limited the
8
Terry A. Repak, Waiting on Washington: Central American Workers in the Nation’s Capital (Philadelphia: Temple
9
Manning, “Multicultural Washington,” 331.
10
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 52. See also Chandra Manning, Troubled Refuge: Struggling for Freedom in the
Civil War (New York: Vintage, 2016).
11
Blacks in DC numbered nearly 87,000 at the turn of the century. This remained the case until the beginning of
the Great Migration in 1916, which witnessed massive flows of blacks from the Deep South to northern industrial
cities such as New York City, Philadelphia, Chicago, and Baltimore. Manning, “Multicultural Washington, DC,” 332;
Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City, 206-207.
12
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 52.
13
This legislative push was emboldened by government efforts to segregate blacks and deny them federal jobs
under the administration of President Woodrow Wilson. For an analysis of Southern Democrats’ successful efforts
to curtail black rights, see Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City, 185-216.
119
economic potential of DC’s black population, many of whom were forced to live in “alley
communities,” informal housing arrangements lacking indoor plumbing and wracked by disease
and high mortality rates that provided meager shelter to approximately one-fifth of the city’s
African Americans.14 The Great Depression ravaged the black community; more than 75 percent
of the city’s blacks were unemployed, and “transient camps” of homeless blacks dotted the
city. 15 The booming government employment rolls during the New Deal overwhelmingly
favored whites as well, and well-intentioned middle-class white reformers “generally did not
address the city’s fundamental racial or economic inequalities” such as restrictive covenants,
public housing, or segregation in the city government.16 Thus, on the eve of the Second World
War, the District of Columbia remained a hot, sluggish, segregated southern town plagued by the
same racial tensions and social ills that bedeviled the greater United States of America.
World War II and the post-war world order that followed set Washington on the path of
growth from a backwater community of government workers into a bustling international
metropolis. As the US ramped up its war effort and projected its military might across the world
to support the Allied initiative, demand for government jobs soared. New residents streamed into
the city at a rate of over 50,000 per year, lured by the promise of well-paying work in managing
and directing the US war effort. 17 The federal government recruited widely for women in
particular, attracting thousands of mostly single young females to the capital city to provide
sorely needed secretarial support to wartime offices.18 Blacks benefitted as well from the war
14
Despite the relative squalor, Asch and Musgrove stress that shared suffering spawned a sense of solidarity and
social cohesion among alley residents. Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City, 179-180. See also James Borchert, Alley
Life in Washington: Family, Community, Religion, and Folklife in the City, 1850-1970 (Urbana: University of Illinois
Press, 1980).
15
Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City, 250.
16
17
18
120
effort: a 1944 study by the Urban League recorded 41,566 black federal workers in Washington,
a dramatic increase from the 10,000 employed by the government before World War II began.19
However, African Americans generally found themselves relegated to those jobs that were least
financially remunerative: a 1942 survey revealed that more than 60 percent of black federal
employees labored in custodial positions, while only 2.3 percent occupied upper-level
bureaucratic positions.20 Blacks were joined in both categories by a wide range of individuals
from across the United States and its territories, including Puerto Ricans and Mexican-
Americans, some of whom settled down to raise families in the capital city after the war ended.
They would soon be joined by a much larger contingent of Latin Americans with the onset of the
post-war order.
The decades following World War II ushered in Washington’s transformation from a
chocolate-and-vanilla government town to an increasingly multi-cultural international city,
spurred at least in part by significant Latin American migration. The new world order that
emerged from the ashes of war championed international cooperation and dialogue among
Western nations and those governments aligned with the West, and the United States’ status as
the West’s economic and political superpower made its capital city the ideal location for
practicing the fine art of diplomacy that would be necessary to maintain world peace in the
context of a burgeoning Cold War with the Soviet Union and Eastern Bloc nations. Many
countries that had previously not maintained permanent presences in the United States
established official diplomatic embassies in Washington.21 Global lending institutions such as the
19
20
Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City, 274. See Frederick W. Gooding, Jr.’s American Dream Deferred: Black
Federal Workers in Washington, D.C.: 1941-1981. (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2018) for a
comprehensive analysis of the experiences of black federal workers in DC.
21
Prior to World War I, “legations” represented foreign countries in the United States. With the League of Nations
came the establishment of official embassies, but they were not always located in Washington, DC. After World
121
International Monetary Fund and the World Bank planted their headquarters in DC, attracting
thousands of employees from around the world. Regionally, the Organization of American States
was chartered to promote cooperation and economic development throughout the Western
Hemisphere in 1948, and the Inter-American Development Bank followed 11 years later. The
staff of these international organizations, combined with those of new embassies, infused a
formerly provincial southern town with a multitude of diverse languages and cultural traditions,
galvanizing its rise to fame as an international city.
It is in this context of a burgeoning market for international jobs and the growth of the
federal bureaucracy that the Central American – including the Salvadoran – community in
metropolitan Washington, DC took root. Following the establishment of the aforementioned
global institutions and the consolidation of embassies in the US capital, Latin Americans flocked
to Washington for jobs in international finance, development, and diplomacy. Many brought
with them their personal domestic servants or recruited domestic help from abroad, both for
financial reasons and out of deeply ingrained cultural practices. These predominately female
employees – cooks, child-care workers, housekeepers, and others – often remained in
Washington long after their employers had cycled through.22 In addition, Central Americans like
Lucia Herrera, a young housekeeper for a USAID family stationed in El Salvador during the
1950s, accepted invitations to continue working for their employers, who sponsored their work
visas in the US.23 After settling in Washington, women “formed their own networks for securing
employment and for recruiting others in their job searches, since they outnumbered men among
early arrivals in the city before community agencies or support systems for Latin American
War II, all foreign embassies resided in the capital city. Olivia Cadaval, Creating a Latino Identity in the Nation’s
Capital: The Latino Festival (New York: Garland, 1998), 88.
22
70 percent of the Central Americans surveyed by Repak who arrived in the DC area before 1980 were female.
23
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 73-74.
122
newcomers existed.”24 Such recruitment often took place through previously established social
channels: friends, family members, and even casual acquaintances composed the word-of-mouth
network through which domestic workers procured gainful employment in the DC area.
Central American women proved popular laborers with both Latin American and US
families in post-war Washington.25 They stood out for their diligent work habits, reliability, and
willingness to work in low-wage occupations in which North Americans expressed little
interest.26 Their Spanish language skills also made Central American domestic workers highly
marketable to North American ex-diplomats and foreign aid workers who sought to expose their
children to foreign languages and to Latin American employers, with whom they could easily
communicate. Geographical proximity and market economics also favored Central Americans:
they often proved far less expensive to recruit and transport than Spanish-speaking workers from
more remote parts of the hemisphere.27 Central American labor thus played more than a modest
role in the success of the post-war global bureaucracy anchored in Washington, DC.28
24
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 74-77. Women far outnumbered men because it was far easier for women to
obtain work visas as domestic servants.
25
26
Anglo and African American women proved increasingly less likely to serve as domestic help due to the
increasing availability of more stable and remunerative employment as the 1950s and 1960s progressed. Repak,
Waiting on Washington, 86-87.
27
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 86-87. Repak’s study also sheds light upon why Central American women chose
Washington, DC over other urban areas in the United States: see Repak, Waiting on Washington, 83.
28
The preponderance of Central American domestic workers who arrived in Washington during the post-war era
begs the question of why Central Americans – not Mexicans – were the workers of choice for Latin American
diplomats.
123
Figure 3. Partial Map of Columbia Heights, Adams Morgan, and Mt. Pleasant
Source: Google Maps, Author
124
The Latino Community in DC: Foundations and Evolution
Central Americans joined immigrants from South America and the Caribbean in forging
the social, cultural, and economic networks that formed the bedrock of an emergent Latino
community in the District of Columbia. As early as the 1930s, Spanish-speaking Caribbean
migrants to Washington had cobbled together community ties based upon their shared language
and cultural/religious values. 29 During the New Deal and throughout World War II, Puerto
Ricans and Mexican-Americans arrived in the capital city seeking employment in the booming
federal bureaucracy. 30 Dominicans and Cubans fleeing political strife and seeking economic
opportunity followed during the late 1950s and 1960s alongside newly arrived Latin American
diplomats and their staffs; by the end of the 1960s, migrants from the latter island nation made
up approximately one-fifth of the city’s Latino residents.31 Blue-collar workers and diplomats
alike settled in the Adams Mill-Morgan neighborhood, at that time a diverse and eclectic urban
milieu within walking distance of many embassies that provided both larger townhouses for
elites and inexpensive housing in high-density apartment complexes for working-class ethnic
minorities. By the 1970s, Adams Mill-Morgan (or Adams Morgan, as it is known today) had
become such a hub of Spanish-speaking businesses and restaurants in the District that the city at
one point considered rebranding it the “Latin Quarter.”32 These institutions served as vital social
29
The Smithsonian Latino Center’s Latino DC History Project has made admirable strides in reconstructing the early
histories of DC’s early Spanish-speaking families, predominantly Afro-Caribbeans from the Dominican Republic,
Cuba, and Puerto Rico.
30
Maria Sprehn-Malagón, Jorge Hernandez-Fujigaki, and Linda Robinson, Latinos in the Washington Metro Area
(Charleston, SC: Arcadia Publishing, 2014), 8; Olivia Cadaval, “The Latino Community: Creating an Identity in the
Nation’s Capital” in Washington Odyssey: A Multicultural History of the Nation’s Capital, ed. Francine Curro Cary
(Washington: Smithsonian Books, 2003), 234.
31
Cadaval, “The Latino Community,” 234; Philip Shandler, “The Silent Minority,” The Washington Star Sunday
Magazine, Jan 5, 1969.
32
This renaming, some business owners and the Council for Hispanic Agencies suggested, would bring much-
needed tourist dollars to the area, creating jobs and encouraging small businesses. After significant opposition
125
and cultural meeting grounds for Latin American migrants, leading to the development of strong
community networks as the years progressed.
During the 1960s and 1970s, DC’s Latin American community coalesced and matured,
transcending ethno-national bounds to forge a distinct Latino identity that its leaders leveraged
for legitimacy and government support. As the population of Spanish-speakers in the District
grew, Latin American immigrants fashioned social networks based on shared customs and
cultural preferences. They gathered at grocery stores such as La Sevillana, Casa Lebrato, and El
Gavilán in Adams Morgan and Los Primos and Casa Diloné in neighboring Mt. Pleasant to swap
stories in Spanish and hunt for ripe platanos while enjoying hot empanadas.33 Barbershops and a
shoe repair store in the same neighborhoods also catered to the Spanish-speaking community;
these, along with the bodegas, “provided both a hub for social interaction and an economic base
for community development,” according to folklorist and community historian Olivia Cadaval.34
Theaters showing Spanish-language films drew a broad cross-section of area Latinos, bridging
economic divisions and national rivalries by appealing to shared cultural experiences.35 Carlos
Rosario, a Puerto Rican immigrant and self-proclaimed “Godfather” of the DC Latino
community, played a prominent role in organizing these early social events. In an interview with
Cadaval, Rosario recalled that through such events as Latin dances organized in houses and
church basements, “People got to meet each other ... They got married – Ecuadoran girls to
from residents, the proposal was abandoned. Blair Gately, “City Considers Latin Quarter Development” WP, Aug 2,
1979, D.C.1. In his 1985 article on the history of the Latino community in DC, El Pregonero journalist Ricardo Trotti
claims that 90% of metropolitan Washington’s Hispanics lived in Adams Morgan during the 1970s. Ricardo Trotti,
“Los Latinos y su ‘barrio,’” El Pregonero, Oct 24, 1985, 1, 11.
33
Cadaval, “The Latino Community,” 237, 246.
34
Cadaval, “The Latino Community,” 237.
35
The Colony Theater, located on Georgia Avenue about a mile west of the heart of the Latino community, showed
monthly Spanish-language films beginning in 1962. From 1970 on, the Ontario Theatre in Adams Morgan, a 1,000-
seat movie house, drew hundreds with similar offerings on a daily and later a weekly basis. Cadaval, “The Latino
Community,” 235; Luis Aguilar, “Spanish Films Flavor Ontario,” WP, Dec 1, 1983, D.C.1.
126
Peruvians, Salvadoran girls to Hondurans. And I was godfather to their first child.”36 In this
way, Cadaval notes, Rosario and other community leaders tapped into the deep Latin American
cultural traditions of compadrazgo, a kinship system based on mutual assistance and reciprocity,
to stitch together a web of social and later political support for the burgeoning Latino community
in the District. 37
At the root of compadrazgo and a host of other cultural practices that facilitated the
formation of community among DC’s Latinos lay one very powerful institution: the Catholic
Church. During the 1960s and 1970s, Latin America was still overwhelmingly Catholic, as were
many of the District’s Latin American migrants. The Archdiocese of Washington recognized the
growing numbers of Spanish- and Portuguese-speaking faithful and sought to accommodate their
desire for pastoral and spiritual care in their native languages. In 1966, Archbishop Patrick
O’Boyle granted two Spanish-speaking priests, Fr. Virgilio Zaroli and Fr. Armando Jimenez,
permission to celebrate Mass in Spanish and Portuguese in the chapel of Cathedral Latin High
School, just north of Dupont Circle. In less than a year, Fr. Leo Beato, the Archdiocese’s
chaplain to Washington’s Spanish-speaking Catholic population, was presiding over Mass for an
average of 300 members each Sunday at the chapel.38 The Latin Chapel, or La Capilla Latina, as
it came to be known, evolved into a hub for the area’s burgeoning Latin American community,
offering new arrivals a means to connect in their native languages and opportunities to forge
36
37
The compadrazgo system (“co-parenthood” or “co-fatherhood”) is a ritual system of kinship common in Latin
American societies in which persons not bonded by blood establish systems of mutual support and reciprocity in
order to advance the common good. In an interview with Cadaval, Rosario recalled using events such as movies at
the Colony Theater on Georgia Avenue as a means to offer support and assistance to the greater Hispanic
community. Cadaval, “The Latino Community,” 235-236. See also Christopher Dickey’s portrayal of Rosario in the
Washington Post: “‘Godfather’ of Hispanics Finds ‘Style’ an Obstacle; Rivals Criticize Latino Leader’s Style,” May 20,
1979, C1.
38
Jim Hoagland, “The Spanish-Speakers are Isolated,” WP, Dec 17, 1967, D19.
127
meaningful bonds in a safe and welcoming environment in addition to serving as a key site for
both pastoral and civic activities geared towards empowering the immigrant population.39
One year after the inauguration of the Capilla Latina, the Archdiocese opened the Centro
Católico Hispano (Spanish Catholic Center; later called the Hispanic Catholic Center), located
one mile northeast of the Latin Chapel in the ethnically diverse neighborhood of Mt. Pleasant.40
The Centro Católico sought to integrate Spanish speakers into the broader population by offering
English as a Second Language courses for area residents, in time adding medical and dental
services, immigration advice, legal and employment assistance, and youth activities. 41 Two
blocks north of the Centro Católico, Sacred Heart Catholic Church was also fast becoming a
magnet for Latin American immigrants: by 1967 it, too, was offering mass in Spanish, thanks to
intensive lobbying by several Spanish-speaking parishioners.42 With the addition of a Spanish
mass at St. Thomas the Apostle Church in nearby Woodley Park and expanded social services at
the Centro Católico, the Catholic Church by the late 1960s offered vital resources and the
necessary cultural space for both newly arrived and more established Latin Americans to craft
community.
Although it was by far the dominant religious institution, the Catholic Church did not
hold a monopoly on ministering to the spiritual and corporeal needs of Latin American
immigrants in the District. In 1968, the Reverend Antonio Welty, a Princeton-trained Colombian
39
Frs. Zaroli and Jimenez had previously celebrated mass in Spanish in the chapel of the convent of the Sisters of
the Eucharist on 14th and V Streets NW. The larger Capilla Latina, although a more spacious milieu, was not
founded as a parish and functioned under the jurisdiction of St. Matthew’s Cathedral, the mother church of the
Archdiocese of Washington, one mile southeast of the chapel on Connecticut Avenue. In the words of Secretary
General of the Organization of American States Joâo Boena Soares, the Capilla Latina was “one of the principal
meeting places of our (Latin American) community,” a “magnificent work and indispensable to the Church in
Washington.” Ricardo Trotti, “Importancia de la Capilla Latina.” EP, 20 Feb, 1986, 12-13.
40
The Centro Católico was known as the Spanish Catholic Center until the late 1970s, when it adopted its current
name (Hispanic Catholic Center). It has always been referred to in Spanish as the Centro Católico.
41
Martin Weil, “Spanish-Speaking Center is Opened,” WP, Dec 11, 1967. C1.
42
Jim Hoagland, “The Spanish-Speakers are Isolated,” WP, Dec 17, 1967, D19.
128
pastor who had arrived in DC four years earlier, reopened the doors of the former National
Presbyterian Church – the preferred place of worship of former President Woodrow Wilson – on
Irving and 15th Streets NW to Latino community members, inaugurating the Iglesia Presbiterana
Buen Pastor.43 Two years later, the Rev. Welty welcomed local organizations to the aptly named
Wilson Center, offering the former educational space attached to his church as a meeting place
for community discussion and collaboration.44 There, he and several other community leaders
formed CADOLANCA (Comité de Ayuda y Desarollo de Latinoamericanos en la Capital de la
Nación), one of the first organizations of the nascent Latino community, which sought to
cultivate support for Latino causes among DC city government officials and encourage Latinos
to organize for their rights.45 The Wilson Center soon became known as the “lighthouse” of
community organizing for Washington’s Latinos, acting as an early incubator for nonprofit
agencies that would form the bedrock of the Latino social service sector in coming years.46
As the Latin American population in the District of Columbia swelled, so did demand for
bilingual social services. By the late 1960s, approximately 40,000 Spanish-speakers had settled
in Washington, DC.47 Although some – particularly diplomats and technocrats associated with
foreign embassies and international agencies – lived well above the poverty line, the vast
majority of Latin Americans who resided in Washington, DC earned modest incomes at best.48
Beginning in the late 1960s, Latinos founded organizations to address the growing needs of their
43
Betty Medsger, “Latins Form Largest Immigrant Group,” WP, Dec 4, 1972, A1.
44
Olivia Cadaval, Creating a Latino Identity, 64.
45
Ricardo Trotti, “Los Latinos y su ‘barrio’” EP, Oct 24, 1985, 1 & 11.
46
Olivia Cadaval, Creating a Latino Identity, 64, 222-223.
47
Jim Hoagland, “The Spanish-Speakers Are Isolated” WP, Dec 17, 1967, D19. The 1970 US Census officially
registered 15,671 people of Hispanic origin, but community leaders and social service providers argued that
number was a vast undercount. Hoagland claimed that 40,000 “Spanish-Americans” resided in the District but did
not cite a source for his tally.
48
In a Washington Post article on Spanish-speakers in Mt. Pleasant, United Planning Organization’s Manuel
Gonzalez singles out the 7,000-8,000 Hispanics there – the largest concentration in the city – as having an average
family income that hovered at the poverty line. Hoagland, “The Spanish-Speakers Are Isolated.”
129
fledgling community, which were often overlooked or outright ignored by local city officials:
educating infants and youth, caring for the elderly, providing mental health and substance abuse
support, advocating for affordable housing and tenants’ rights, offering free legal services,
teaching English as a Second Language, providing adolescents with practical skills and job
opportunities, and exposing them to music and the arts. 49 By the mid-1970s, Latinos had
established an increasingly effective network for the provision of a wide variety of social
services to Spanish-speaking District residents, services that would prove vital to the thousands
of Salvadoran migrants who would arrive in the coming years.
As more Latin Americans settled in Adams Morgan and the neighborhoods abutting it,
the Latino population of the District took a more vocal and public presence in the city’s affairs.
Leaders such as Carlos Rosario, Antonio Welty, longtime activist Casilda Luna, and others
sought increased political clout in local affairs and recognition from District officials, utilizing
personal pressure and high-profile public actions to achieve their goals. In 1969, Rosario
successfully lobbied Mayor Walter Washington to create the Spanish Community Advisory
Commission (SCAC), designed to advocate for Spanish speakers in the District government.50
“We don’t want to talk about the cockroaches and the poverty,” Rosario proclaimed after he was
named head of the SCAC. “We want to talk about our music and our beautiful Latin culture
49
In 1969, Educational Opportunities for United Latin Americans (EOFULA) was created to assist the burgeoning
Latino community in DC and eventually found its niche in elderly care. In 1970, Dr. Ricardo Galbis opened
Andromeda, a transcultural mental health facility; the Program for English Language Instruction for Latin
Americans (PEILA) began that same year. In 1971, Latin American parents created a cooperative pre-school that
they dubbed the Spanish Educational Development (SED) Center, and the organization now known as the Latin
American Youth Center (LAYC) adopted its current name. In 1972, Ayuda, a legal services and consumer protection
nonprofit, opened its doors. In 1975, El Centro de Arte, the first Latino artist-based cultural community
organization, was founded. Adelante, a housing nonprofit that aimed to help Hispanic families of lower economic
status, began operating in 1976. All of these organizations were located in or around the Adams Morgan
neighborhood during the 1970s.
50
Cadaval, “The Latino Community,” 240. The SCAC would evolve into the Mayor’s Office on Latino Affairs,
established in 1974 and also headed by Rosario. Its director was elevated to the level of the mayor’s cabinet in
1977 in large part due to the efforts of then-City Councilmember Marion Barry.
130
instead.”51 Despite Rosario’s stated interest in building community along cultural lines, he and
other prominent Latino figures in DC did focus on economic and social improvement,
advocating for city and federal funds for poverty assistance, job training, language services,
health care, and legal aid.52 Latino community leaders forged strategic alliances with African
American activists in the District to advance common agendas for minority rights while at the
same time appropriating methods of organizing and direct action honed in the black freedom
struggle to advance their own political agenda. 53 In one memorable instance, Rosario led a
mobilization of Latinos who lay down in front of the door of the office of Mayor Washington
and sang “We Shall Overcome” to protest the mayor’s proposal to curb the power of the SCAC
within the city’s bureaucracy. 54 Actions such as this brought Latinos together in a far more
politicized manner – often in direct confrontation with DC’s black political establishment.55
Perhaps the most compelling declaration of Latino presence in the District, however, was
the annual Latino Festival. Begun in 1970 as an attempt to raise the public profile of Latinos in
the District in the wake of what was widely perceived to be a vast undercounting of them by the
US Census, it became the annual event that defined DC Latino identity. Over the course of the
1970s, the festival blossomed from a one-day affair into a week-long celebration of Latinidad
complete with ethnic dances, foods, and floats from across Latin America; a massive parade
51
Medsger, “Latins Form Largest Immigrant Group.” This provides an excellent example of Benjamin Francis-
Fallon’s argument that in addition to shared cultural values and language, the need to win local and national
government support encouraged the formation of a distinct Latino identity. Benjamin Francis-Fallon, The Rise of
the Latino Vote: A History. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2019.
52
Claude Koprowski, “Spanish-Speaking Community Protests Poverty Fund Cuts,” WP, Dec 12, 1966, B6; Hoagland,
“The Spanish-Speakers Are Isolated.”
53
See Shandler, “The Silent Minority.”
54
The protest succeeded, and Washington ended up naming Rosario as director of the Commission. Cadaval, “The
Latino Community,” 240.
55
The role of Afro-Latinos in bridging black-brown cultural barriers to advocate for shared economic interests
during this period has often been overlooked. As of the writing of this dissertation, ongoing efforts to recognize
and celebrate the impact of figures such as Dominican-born community organizer and housing advocate Casilda
Luna are reshaping the interpretation of Latino history in Washington, DC.
131
down Columbia Road, the main artery of the Latino population, that drew hundreds of
thousands, and performances by popular Latin American musicians from the US and abroad.56
According to Cadaval, the Latino Festival “provided Latin American immigrants with a
framework for reflecting upon their cultural and historical past and a stage for creating and
commenting upon new identities” forged in the United States.57 It offered physical and cultural
spaces for participants to contest, negotiate, and ultimately craft a unique DC Latino identity,
celebrating national differences while still unifying immigrants from a wide variety of cultural,
social, economic, and political backgrounds.58 The festival, which underwent an almost annual
cycle of re-branding and re-naming over the course of its existence, empowered Latinos to
“reflect upon their diverse social and political perspectives on hispanidad, immigration,
community, and neighborhood,” serving as a salient reminder of the Latino presence in the
District to city officials and residents alike.59
As the 1970s progressed, Washington’s Latino community absorbed new nationalities
and ideologies due to changing conditions in Latin America. South Americans – Chileans,
Argentines, Uruguayans, Paraguayans, and others fleeing US-sponsored authoritarian
dictatorships – introduced a new level of international political awareness and activism.
Younger, more affluent, and with higher levels of formal education, they had been radicalized by
their experiences fighting right-wing repression in their countries of origin. Ideologically, many
strongly identified with Third World struggles of liberation, which they linked to the local fight
56
As early as 1972, according to community leader and Presbyterian minister Reverend Antonio Welty, Latinos
owned at least half of the businesses located on Columbia Road in Adams Morgan. Medsger, “Latins Form Largest
Immigrant Group.”
57
Cadaval, Creating a Latino Identity, 196.
58
59
132
for recognition and dignity for DC’s Latinos.60 These new immigrants galvanized the Latino
artistic community through mural painting, protest music, and street theater, forming an art
collective and Latino cultural center named El Centro de Arte that operated out of the Wilson
Center. 61 Although they sometimes clashed with more established leaders of the Latino
community, these South American immigrants forged bonds of social cohesion among DC’s
younger Latinos through their arts-inspired activism.62
Intipuqueños in Washington
The 1970s also witnessed the appearance of a group of Central American migrants in
Washington who as an aggregate could not have been more different from their South American
counterparts. In 1966, a 28-year-old man from Intipucá, a small hamlet in the eastern region of
El Salvador, arrived in the District on a five-year work visa.63 Sigfredo Chávez was no itinerant
vagabond; he was, according to anthropologist David Pederson, “among the best-educated and
most experienced managers and landowning capitalists in the pueblo at the time that he traveled
60
61
Marcia Bernbaum and Isaac D. Castillo, “With Dignity, Hope, and Joy: The Latin American Youth Center: A Case
Study.” (Washington, DC: Latin American Youth Center, 2007), 19.
62
See Cadaval, “The Latino Community” and Creating a Latino Identity for discussions of the tensions between “old
guard” leaders and newer activists from El Centro de Arte.
63
Chávez had purportedly heard about the opportunity for work in Washington from a Salvadoran acquaintance
whose daughter taught in the District and had decided to venture to the United States after splitting up with his
wife. (See Charles Lane, “Where the Boys Aren’t,” Regardie’s, May 1989, 113.) The narrative/legend of Sigfredo
Chávez and the forces which forged material, familial, and cultural links between Washington, DC and Intipucá are
the subject of anthropologist David Pedersen’s transnational study entitled American Value: Migrants, Money, and
Meaning in the US and El Salvador (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013) as well as several articles in the
Washington Post (cited below).
133
to DC.”64 His Salvadoran social status – albeit in the context of a tiny rural town – meant little in
his new environs, though, and he labored for eleven months as a dishwasher in the kitchen of a
suburban DC restaurant. Still, Chávez’s earnings in one of the wealthiest counties in the United
States dwarfed what he had been making in El Salvador as a bank teller, and word of his success
spread rapidly.65 In the succeeding years, hundreds of his fellow Intipuqueños followed Chavez’s
path to Washington, often amassing more money in one week of menial labor in DC than they
would have earned over the course of several months back home.66 By 1979, when Washington
Post journalists Christopher Dickey and Karen DeYoung published a three-part series on the
Intipucá-DC connection, they estimated that over 1,000 residents of the tiny cantón in eastern El
Salvador were working and living in the Washington area.67
Intipuqueños could not have been more different from the migrants arriving in DC from
South America at roughly the same time. Unlike the generally well-educated, middle-class
Chileans, Argentines, Colombians, and Bolivians, Intipuqueños hailed from a poor rural area of
eastern El Salvador and often possessed little – if any – formal education. While many South
Americans had participated in or sympathized with oppositional movements in their respective
nations and had been radicalized by those experiences, Intipuqueños tended to be more culturally
and politically conservative in scope. South Americans were generally of urban upbringing;
64
Pedersen, American Value, 65. This is not to suggest that Chávez’s small-town status and moderate wealth in any
way approached the financial heft of El Salvador’s powerful landowning oligarchs; he was a medium-sized fish in a
very small pond.
65
Chávez claimed his job in Bethesda, Maryland paid him $65 per week, compared to his previous job at a
Salvadoran bank, which had paid him 30 colones, or about $12, per week (still a hefty sum for a resident of
Intipucá). Pedersen, American Value, 60.
66
According to Dickey and DeYoung, Salvadoran peasants in the fields outside Intipucá were paid a daily wage of
$1-2 USD in 1979, in comparison to Chavez’s salary of $65 USD per week as the lowest-paid laborer in a restaurant
kitchen. Christopher Dickey and Karen DeYoung, “The Long Journey to Find Work Here” WP, April 1, 1979, A16.
67
Dickey and DeYoung, “The Long Journey to Find Work Here.” Ten years later, in May of 1989, Newsweek Central
American correspondent Charles Lane penned a piece on the Intipucá-DC connection for Washington-based
Regardie’s magazine. Two months after that, New York Times correspondent Lindsey Gruson published an article
strikingly similar to Lane’s. See Lane, “Where the Boys Aren’t,” 110-115, and Lindsey Gruson, “Intipucá Journal:
Emigrants Feather Their Old Nest With Dollars,” New York Times, July 18, 1989, A00004.
134
many Intipuqueños bore the calloused hands and sun-beaten faces that had weathered years in
the field picking cotton, coffee, and cashews and coaxing vegetables out of barren rented parcels
of land.68 Even if, like Sigfredo Chávez, they belonged to families that had owned or managed
the lands upon which poorer peasants toiled, they were still considered poor farmers by US
standards.69
The relative success of a handful of Intipuqueños who followed Chávez’s path during the
late 1960s fueled a significant outflow from the small Salvadoran town to the capital of the
United States during the succeeding decade, laying the framework for a sprawling transnational
migration infrastructure that linked an impoverished peripheral region to a center of wealth and
power in the developed world. Inspired by Chávez’s tales of plentiful jobs and the potential for
prosperity, Intipuqueños flocked to DC; soon the celebrated trailblazer was making regular trips
to Washington National airport to collect as many as ten of his countrymen landing each week.70
Like Chávez, most new arrivals started off at the bottom of the service industry, often trading off
dishwashing and cleaning positions with each other as they came and went.71 Some remained in
the restaurants; others, like Fernando Leonzo, went on to earn more money than they had ever
dreamed of. 72 From an inauspicious arrival in Washington in 1969 with a mere $150 in his
pocket, Leonzo rose to become one of the scions of the area’s burgeoning Salvadoran
community through a combination of hard work, a keen entrepreneurial acumen, the right
connections, and not a small amount of luck. By the late 1980s, he and his business associates
68
For a rigorous and quantitatively impressive analysis of the debilitating impact of the expansion of the cotton
industry and other export-oriented agriculture on Salvadoran rural workers and peasants during this time, see
Williams, Export Agriculture.
69
Pedersen, American Value, 62.
70
Charles Lane, “Where the Boys Aren’t,” 113.
71
Dickey and DeYoung, “The Long Journey to Find Work Here.” The distribution of service jobs hewed closely to
gendered norms: females generally worked in house and office cleaning or as domestic help (child care, cleaning,
food preparation), while males often worked in the food industry and in construction.
72
This rapid influx of money sometimes had perilous consequences. See Pedersen, American Value on the rise and
fall of Fernando Leonzo’s business enterprise and personal reputation.
135
owned several lucrative construction, banking, and real estate companies in the Washington area
in addition to their ever-expanding Salvadoran holdings, which consisted of two Burger King
restaurants, a steak eatery, an appliance store, a Shell gas station, thousands of square footage of
commercial real estate in the larger regional city of San Miguel, and control of the cooking-gas
distribution network for a third of El Salvador.73 Most Intipuqueños made nowhere close to the
amount of money netted by Leonzo and his partners. But overall, relocating to Washington, DC
allowed Salvadorans from this small town to significantly improve the quality of life for their
relatives back home.74
Perhaps the most significant impact of Intipuqueño immigration to Washington during
the 1970s was that it established direct channels from El Salvador to the US capital city, forging
a vital link of a broader transnational migration infrastructure that would ferry tens of thousands
of humans to the United States and billions of dollars and material goods back to El Salvador in
the coming decades. As civil war spread to the eastern parts of El Salvador in the early 1980s,
the well-oiled migrant machine that had served so many Intipuqueños over the past decade
kicked into high gear, funneling over 10,000 of the town’s inhabitants to the DC area through an
73
According to Charles Lane, who spoke with Leonzo’s San Miguel-based business partner in 1989, the partners
grossed over $1.15 million in 1988. Lane, “Where the Boys Aren’t,” 114.
74
See Móntes Mozo and García Vasquez, Salvadoran Migration to the United States and Segundo Montes, El
Salvador 1989: Las remesas que envían los salvadoreños de Estados Unidos: Consecuencias sociales y económicas
(San Salvador: UCA Editores, 1990). According to Maximilano Arias, who managed Intipucá’s public spending from
remittances in 1989, the town’s remaining 5,000 residents received a total of $100,000 per month, or $1.2 million
per year. (Gruson, “Intipucá Journal,” A00004). Every article on the relationship between Intipucá and Washington,
DC cites the myriad of improvements in the quality of life in Intipucá since its members began working and living in
the United States. From the superficial (fresh coats of paint, new roofs, cinder-block houses, modern appliances,
expensive clothing and consumer goods) to substantial improvements in municipal infrastructure and social
services, DC dollars helped modernize the town to a degree that few other rural areas of El Shave had achieved by
the end of the 1980s. This process, however, was anything but egalitarian and perpetuated a system of
questionable morals; see Pedersen, American Value for a historically grounded critique.
136
established smuggling system of overland and air travel in the following decade. 75 Upon
arriving, Intipuqueños squeezed into crumbling Dupont Circle row houses and into overflowing
apartments on Mt. Pleasant Street, relying upon social networks and communities formed in their
native land to rebuild their lives in a foreign and often overwhelming milieu. By 1990, an
estimated 15,000 Intipuqueños resided in the metropolitan Washington area, while only 5,000
remained in their hometown, cushioned by the thousands of dollars which flowed back on a
regular basis from their relatives abroad.76 Reminders of Intipucá dotted DC: painted with care
on fresh drywall in Salvadoran-owned restaurants; stitched onto the chests of the DC-area
champion Intipucá City futbolistas; scrawled on the walls of INS deportee holding cells.77 “Our
country,” boasted Pedro Aguilar, who had worked for four years in Washington, “has people all
over the United States.” But in Intipucá, “Everybody, everybody loves Washington.” 78
Intipuqueños had put their stamp on their adopted home, embracing economic opportunity in the
face of increasing poverty and instability in eastern El Salvador. Perhaps more importantly, in
doing so they had contributed to the construction of a complex transnational migration
infrastructure that would assist thousands of Salvadorans – both from Intipucá and other regions
of the country – in escaping the violence that would consume their country during the next
decade and in adjusting to the foreign environs of the capital city of the United States.
75
Lane and Gruson both cite a September, 1983 guerrilla attack on the National Guard post in Intipucá as the
triggering event for a significant increase in Intipuqueño out-migration. Lane, “Where the Boys Aren’t,” 113;
Gruson, “Intipucá Journal.”
76
Lane, “Where the Boys Aren’t,” 111; Gruson, “Intipucá Journal.”
77
Christopher Dickey and Karen DeYoung, “Illegal Entry: A People’s Terrifying Survival Tradition,” WP, April 2, 1979,
A1. In its first tournament of the Washington-area soccer leagues, Intipucá City averaged ten goals each game and
won the tournament outright. Teams from Intipucá proceeded to dominate the local Latin American soccer
leagues during the 1980s and 1990s. Joaquín Sanz, “Intipucá Campeon,” El Latino, Abril 1981, 8.
78
Dickey and DeYoung, “The Long Journey to Find Work Here.” “Pedro Aguilar” is a pseudonym used by the
authors to protect their informant’s true identity.
137
Salvadoran Activism and the Central American
Solidarity Movement in the United States
The moment came when those who were in movements or who were known to be sympathizers
had a choice: to either join the guerrillas or to flee. To stay there was simply to wait for the
executioner.
- Salvadoran political activist79
Intipuqueños were far from the only Salvadorans heading north during the 1970s. During
the decade’s latter years, life expectancy for Salvadorans who dared raise their voices against the
country’s military government had plummeted rapidly. Under the direction of General Carlos
Humberto Romero, the former minister of defense who rose to the presidency in a fraudulent
election in 1977, the Salvadoran security forces had ramped up their repressive measures
throughout the country in response to increasing public clamor for democracy, transparency, and
economic justice and the rise of left-wing armed guerrilla groups.80 Right-wing death squads
composed of off-duty police and military roamed and killed at will, plastering their macabre
calling cards on city walls and the doors of suspected government opponents. Their targets –
students, professors, campesinos, trade unionists, middle-class professionals, progressive
Catholic clergy and lay workers, or anyone else suspected of opposing the government – went to
sleep each night with no guarantee of waking up alive the next day. Increasingly, they did not.
Instead, their mutilated cadavers were often discovered rotting in the city dump or strategically
deposited on the side of the road, a gruesome warning to morning commuters of the perils of
challenging the Salvadoran regime. The terror and fear of government retribution was such that
families whose loved ones turned up dead avoided claiming their bodies, fearing the same grisly
79
Anonymous activist quoted in Susan Bibler Coutin, Legalizing Moves: Salvadoran Immigrants’ Struggle for U.S.
Residency (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000), 137.
80
See Montgomery, Revolution in El Salvador, 72-75; Cabarrús, Génesis de una revolución, 298-324.
138
fate. By the late 1970s, Salvadorans who publicly questioned their government faced a stark
choice: disappear or risk being disappeared. Urban areas offered scant opportunities for refuge
and anonymity, so many opposition members beat a hasty path to the hills to join the burgeoning
guerrilla forces, which were growing stronger by the day. Others – often those with the means
and connections to do so – fled the country altogether, many following family and friends who
had already migrated to the United States either temporarily for work or to reside permanently.81
Many of those who fled initially ended up in California, which already boasted the largest
population of Salvadoran expatriates in the United States. While the coffee trade had facilitated
Salvadoran migration to San Francisco since the early twentieth century, Salvadorans arriving in
the 1970s increasingly opted to settle in the sprawling Los Angeles metro area, drawn by the
availability of jobs in the booming garment industry as well as in a variety of other low-wage
service sectors. There they joined Mexicans, Mexican-Americans, and new immigrants from
Southeast Asia, Iran, and Russia in textile manufacturing, as landscapers and janitors, in food
service, and in domestic work and child care. 82 Like other Central American immigrant
populations in the US at the time, Los Angeles’s Salvadoran community was heavily female
before 1980, perhaps due to the lack of economic opportunities for women outside the household
in El Salvador and the relative availability of and access to jobs in the United States.83 As the
81
By July of 1981, only six months after the “outbreak” of civil war, at least 5 percent (250,000 people) of El
Salvador’s population of 5 million were either internally displaced peoples or refugees. These statistics include
official counts from Salvadoran and international relief agencies and neighboring governments; they do not include
estimates of Salvadorans in the United States. Alma Guillermoprieto, “El Salvador Confines Some of its Refugees,”
WP, July 15, 1981, A28.
82
National origins varied considerably, from Vietnamese, Laotian, and Cambodian refugees to Iranian political
exiles and from persecuted Russian Jews to Latin Americans fleeing political strife and economic upheaval. Many of
these new service-sector jobs catered to the white-collar employees of Southern California’s booming electronics
and defense industries. Hamilton and Chinchilla, Seeking Community, 38-40; Norma Stoltz Chinchilla, Nora
Hamilton, and James Loucky, “The Sanctuary Movement and Central American Activism in Los Angeles,” Latin
American Perspectives 36, no. 6 (2009): 108.
83
Kristine Zentgraf, “Deconstructing Central American Migration to Los Angeles: Women, Men, and Families.” In
Central Americans in California: Transnational Communities, Economies and Cultures, ed. Nora Hamilton and
139
1970s wore on and government repression ramped up, however, more Salvadoran males fled to
the US to escape political persecution and military impressment, balancing out the gender
disparity in LA and other cities.84
As the popular opposition movement in El Salvador gained strength and legitimacy, so
did affiliated US-based “solidarity” organizations. Beginning in 1975, politicized Salvadoran
expatriates in Los Angeles and in San Francisco united to form affinity groups, publish
newsletters, hold press conferences, and even organize sit-ins and occupations of the Salvadoran
consulate to draw the US public’s attention to El Salvador’s unjust economic conditions, lack of
democracy, and the forced disappearances and murders of Salvadoran opposition leaders.85 As
conditions worsened and more Salvadorans fled their homeland, recently arrived refugees
boosted the numbers and stature of these groups that professed to be “in solidarity” with their
suffering compatriots. 86 Such organizations were generally linked to one of the four major
opposition fronts in El Salvador, whose leaders recognized the vital role that Salvadorans in the
Norma Stoltz Chinchilla. Conference proceedings. (Los Angeles: Center for Multiethnic and Transnational Studies,
University of Southern California, 1996), 11.
84
Salvadorans often settled in low-rent, historically Mexican and Mexican-American neighborhoods in LA,
attracted by their culture and linguistic familiarity despite occasional Mexican resentment of their presence.
Hamilton and Chinchilla, Seeking Community, 53, 56-57.
85
Perhaps the most influential of these early organizations was the Comité de Salvadoreños Progresistas (CSP),
formed in 1975 by Salvadorans in San Francisco to decry the Salvadoran army’s massacre of students at the
National University in San Salvador in July of that year. The CSP funneled news from student opposition groups in
El Salvador to the US in the form of a Spanish/English newspaper named El Pulgarcito, raising awareness of the
human rights atrocities perpetrated by military and security forces in El Salvador. In April of 1978, the CSP
occupied the Salvadoran consulate in San Francisco to protest the ongoing disappearances of opposition activists
in El Salvador. Van Gosse, “ ‘The North American Front’: Central American Solidarity in the Reagan Era,” in
Reshaping the US Left: Popular Struggles in the 1980s, ed. Mike Davis and Michael Sprinkler (London: Verso, 1988),
19-20; and Héctor Perla, Jr., “Si Nicaragua Venció, El Salvador Vencerá: Central American Agency in the Creation of
the US-Central American Peace and Solidarity Movement.” Latin American Research Review 43, no. 2 (2008): 146.
86
By January of 1980, the Bloque de Solidaridad – ‘Farabundo Martí’, the most popular organization in the Bay
Area, boasted a core of about 100 militants and a base of several thousand sympathizers whom it mobilized for
public demonstrations. Other organizations formed in the late 1970s and early 1980s in San Francisco, Los Angeles,
and other cities across the United States. These included but were not limited to the Frente de Solidaridad Popular
Salvadoreño (Los Angeles), Casa El Salvador – Farabundo Martí (various cities), and the Movimiento Amplio en
Solidaridad con el Pueblo Salvadoreño (Los Angeles and San Francisco). Gosse, “ ‘The North American Front,’” 23;
Perla, Jr., “Si Nicaragua Venció,” 146; Hamilton and Chinchilla, Seeking Community, 132.
140
United States could play in influencing US popular opinion. 87 Accordingly, the Salvadoran
opposition “decided early on to organize a highly structured and tightly integrated movement in
the U.S., one that could implement a program synchronized with the overall strategic priorities,
and even the specific tactical needs, of both their guerrilla army and the unarmed movimiento
popular in city and countryside,” according to historian Van Gosse, who was intimately involved
in the US-Central American solidarity movement during the 1980s. 88 The aforementioned
“interlocking corporate directorship of the El Salvador solidarity movement,” as one observer
dubbed it, attracted both Salvadoran immigrants and sympathetic North American leftists – many
veterans of the Chilean anti-Pinochet movement, the anti-apartheid struggle in South Africa, civil
rights protests, and the anti-Vietnam War movement – in the quest to halt US intervention in El
Salvador and support popular opposition to the Salvadoran government.89
Although the West Coast formed the epicenter of early Salvadoran solidarity organizing,
the East Coast was no backwater. Perhaps the most fertile ground for solidarity organizing on the
East Coast was the nation’s capital. A high-profile international city, Washington, DC had for
decades served as a platform for Latin American political exiles who sought access to global
power structures and North American popular support for their causes. Washington’s liberal
inhabitants, many of whom had served in the Peace Corps, worked in international development,
87
Patrice Perillie, a major figure in the solidarity movement as co-founder of the first Central American Refugee
Center (CARECEN) in Washington, DC, recalled that “we called ourselves the Fifth Front.” While guerrilla forces
were fighting the Salvadoran government in the hills, “our battles were congressional battles and legal battles” in
the halls of Congress, in the courtrooms, and in the detention centers. Patrice Perillie interview, 10/19/17.
88
Van Gosse, “ ‘El Salvador is Spanish for Vietnam’: A New Immigrant Left and the Politics of Solidarity” in The
Immigrant Left in the United States, ed. Paul Buhle and Dan Georgakas (Albany: SUNY Press, 1996), 320. See also
Steve Striffler, Solidarity: Latin America and the US Left in the Era of Human Rights (London: Pluto Press, 2019).
89
Because of friendship and kinship ties to the various revolutionary groups in El Salvador, these solidarity
organizations often reflected the ideological and organizational tensions of their Salvadoran affiliates, sparring for
recognition, resources, and legitimacy within the Salvadoran exile community in the United States even after the
five revolutionary groups united under the banner of the Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional
(FMLN) in October of 1980. See Héctor Perla and Susan Bibler Coutin, “Legacies and Origins of the 1980s US-
Central American Sanctuary Movement” Refuge 26, no. 1 (2009): 10-11; Hamilton and Chinchilla, Seeking
Community, 126-127; and Gosse, “ ‘El Salvador is Spanish for Vietnam,’” 320.
141
or were otherwise internationally minded, were naturally drawn to previous popular efforts for
social change in Latin America such as the anti-Pinochet movement among Chilean dissidents
and the Sandinista revolution in Nicaragua, offering an existing base of support and social
networks for Salvadoran activists.90 Furthermore, as the locus of US legislative, executive, and
judicial power, the District of Columbia offered unparalleled access to those seeking to influence
the federal government. Washington thus provided an ideal locale for solidarity activists
determined to change US foreign policy with respect to El Salvador.
As US-funded state-sponsored violence increased in El Salvador and neighboring
Guatemala, a host of grassroots organizations sprang up to raise awareness among the US
populace, build potential alliances with progressive legislators on Capitol Hill, and reach out to
the refugees who were pouring into the city, especially following the outbreak of full-scale civil
war in El Salvador in December of 1980. Among these was a small legal aid nonprofit named the
Central American Refugee Center, or CARECEN. Founded on a shoestring budget and initially
staffed primarily by volunteers, CARECEN would over the next two decades emerge as a pillar
of Washington’s Latino immigrant community. Despite its relatively small size, CARECEN
played an outsized role in promoting and protecting the rights of Central American immigrants in
metropolitan Washington, DC.
90
The Ecumenical Program on Central America and the Caribbean (EPICA), a research and advocacy group founded
and directed by the Reverend Phillip Wheaton, played a pivotal role in fostering ties between US and Latin
American activists and in generating support for progressive Latin American causes in the Washington area.
142
The Central American Refugee Center
We are not just humanitarians. We are political humanitarian activists.91
- Joaquín Domínguez Parada, co-founder, Central American Refugee Center (2007)
In early 1981, Joaquín Domínguez Parada walked into the first-floor office of Goren and
Maggio, a well-known immigration law firm located in the heart of Washington, DC’s Latino
community. A recent arrival to the capital city, Domínguez had fled El Salvador after a death
squad barged in his front door. He, too, was a lawyer: most recently, he had worked for the
Salvadoran Institute for Agrarian Transformation (Instituto Salvadoreño de Transformación
Agraria, or ISTA) the government agency tasked with implementing the controversial US-
backed agrarian reform program promulgated in 1980. The agrarian reform plan had, like its
predecessor in 1975, garnered the immediate enmity of the landed aristocratic class with its
mandate to break up and redistribute their holdings to benefit the over 40 percent of Salvadoran
peasants with no access to owning, renting, or sharecropping land. 92 Certain members of El
Salvador’s entrenched agrarian elite, enraged at the proposal’s audacity, sought to torpedo it by
hiring death squads to intimidate and, if necessary, eliminate the program’s implementers and its
intended beneficiaries. Domínguez thus found himself in the unenviable company of peasant
cooperative leaders, several USAID officers, and a host of Salvadoran government officials
91
Joaquín Domínguez Parada interview with Marcia Bernbaum, 12/3/07; interview with Patrick Scallen, 12/9/19.
92
Landlessness statistics are based upon 1975 figures. By 1980, one may safely assume that even a greater
percentage of rural Salvadorans had no access to land. Even those peasants who did have some land access
generally did not fare well. By the late 1970s, 78 percent of El Salvador’s arable land was owned by the top 10
percent of the country’s richest landowners. Bonner, Weakness and Deceit, 19, 27.
143
targeted for elimination by the large landowners and their killers-for-hire.93 After outsmarting his
would-be murderers when they came calling with their capuchas, he hid out at a friend’s house
and then slipped out of the country, arriving in Washington, DC in late 1980.94
Domínguez’s case landed on the desk of a recent Washington College of Law graduate
named Patrice Perillie. Hired by Goren and Maggio to start the firm’s political asylum division,
Perillie had cut her teeth working at the US State Department under Pat Derian, President Jimmy
Carter’s hard-charging head of the Office of Human Rights, during her time in law school. The
young lawyer was deeply moved by her client’s tale of terror and his insistence that that
thousands like him – not only Salvadorans but Guatemalans as well – desperately needed legal
support. Together, the two lobbied the DC Mayor’s Office of Latino Affairs – the successor to
Carlos Rosario’s SCAC – for assistance in starting up an organization to aid Central Americans
seeking political asylum in the United States.95 In the summer of 1981, Domínguez and Perillie
settled into a tiny office space in the Wilson Center alongside a host of other progressive
nonprofits. The newly christened Central American Refugee Center (CARECEN) – the first of
several across the country – began the arduous work of defending the legal rights of Central
American immigrants in the United States.96
93
Two of those USAID officers were subsequently assassinated, along with Rodolfo Viera, the director of ISTA, in
the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel in San Salvador on January 3, 1981. During the first year of the attempted
implementation of agrarian reforms, ISTA reported the deaths of 240 cooperative leaders. Pelupessy, “Agrarian
Reform in El Salvador,” 48.
94
Death squads in El Salvador commonly used black cloth hoods, or capuchas, when capturing their victims.
Domínguez tricked the leader of the death squad into answering his home telephone and escaped out the back
window, hiding at the house of a friend whose uncle was part of another death squad until he had secured safe
passage out of El Salvador. Anonymous interview, 11/18/18.
95
Denied the benefits of official refugee status, labeled “economic migrants” by the Reagan administration, and
facing imminent deportation if captured by the INS, Central Americans had little institutional support in their
struggle to remain in the US.
96
According to Perillie, the Central American Refugee Center was officially founded in July of 1981. It bore the
acronym “CARC” for the first few months before she hit upon the idea of “CARECEN,” from the Spanish verb
“carecer,” which means “to lack.” Patrice Perillie interview, 10/19/17.
144
The first few years of the organization’s existence were equally exhilarating and
exhausting, as CARECEN’s skeleton staff fought valiantly to satisfy the seemingly insatiable
demand for legal assistance among recently arrived Central Americans. Neither Perillie nor
Domínguez had any prior training running a nonprofit, and the learning curve proved steep. “It
was an exciting time,” recalls Perillie. “We really didn’t know what the hell we were doing.”97
The avalanche of cases was overwhelming, and CARECEN’s staff learned on the go. “We would
get a call from a detention center at the border” from a migrant captured by the Border Patrol,
according to Perillie. “And then we would get on the phone with the immigration judge and
negotiate the reduction of the bond” necessary to temporarily free the detained migrant.98 Those
migrants released from detention with CARECEN’s help would often make their way to
Washington, where the organization would aid them in pursuing their asylum cases.
CARECEN also tackled cases closer to home – some only blocks away from its office.
Fredy Garcia, a former schoolteacher in El Salvador who arrived in Washington in May of 1980
after right-wing death squads assassinated several of his colleagues, was arrested along with 16
other undocumented immigrants in an INS raid in September of 1981. “They took us and
processed us like criminals,” Garcia recalls. “We were in the Baltimore jail; we were in the (INS)
Detention Center in DC. And the threat was to sign documents giving them (INS) permission to
deport us. But I told the others not to sign them.” 99 On their day in court, Garcia and his
colleagues found Domínguez and Perillie waiting for them with an offer of pro bono legal
services. Garcia subsequently began to work with Domínguez, Perillie, and a handful of other
Salvadorans to lay the foundation for CARECEN. “I realized that that there were many people
who did not know how to defend themselves against [the INS],” he remembers. Garcia’s
97
Patrice Perillie interview, 10/19/17.
98
99
Fredy Garcia interview, 8/22/18.
145
devotion to the fledgling organization illustrated, in his words, “a moral commitment; to be able
to help my countrypeople.”100
CARECEN’s small, mostly volunteer staff worked tirelessly to support and empower the
burgeoning population of undocumented Central Americans in the District. They created small
booklets dubbed the “Código de Mojados” (literally “wetback code”) that informed immigrants
of their legal rights, handing them out at churches, soccer games, concerts, and other public
gatherings.101 In the case of arrests like Garcia’s, CARECEN worked to bond Central Americans
out of DC-area jails and accompanied them through their asylum processes if they chose to
apply. 102 In addition, CARECEN’s staff worked to protect Central Americans from abusive
employers, thwarted immigration raids, and partnered with local social service agencies to
support victims of domestic violence.103 Within months of its July 1981 founding, CARECEN
had established itself not only as a legal aid center but also as a hub for information on
immigrant rights, services, and even potential employment for recent Central American arrivals
to the District of Columbia.104
Bonding individuals out of jail took money. So did filing court cases. Not to mention the
operational costs associated with running any organization: staff salaries, monthly rent, and
office supplies, among others. To keep the phones on and electricity running, CARECEN relied
heavily on community fundraisers: throwing house parties and benefit concerts, selling food on
100
101
102
“Gretta Siebentritt, who worked as a volunteer paralegal and then paid administrator for CARECEN between
1982 and 1985, estimates she interviewed and prepared legal cases for at least 1,500 asylum seekers.” Gretta
Siebentritt correspondence, 11/21/19.
103
104
146
the street, and holding a Sunday flea market across from its office.105 Progressive political and
religious groups also chipped in: donations from several local private foundations, a variety of
Catholic religious orders, Church World Services, and the American Friends Service Committee
ensured that the organization’s doors remained open. 106 Because CARECEN lawyers either
worked for free or offered a sliding scale for clients with limited resources, its dedicated staff
often lived “hand-to-mouth,” in the words of Perillie, during the early years of its existence.107
In addition to its legal and community service work, CARECEN advocated for an end to
US military involvement in El Salvador. Arguing that the millions of dollars of lethal aid
channeled to the Salvadoran government each year only increased the capacity of Salvadoran
security forces to commit human rights atrocities, CARECEN exhorted its Central American
supporters and sympathetic North Americans to protest the Reagan administration’s support for
such a repressive regime. Domínguez and Perillie also cultivated relationships with members of
Congress, bringing Salvadoran refugees to Capitol Hill to share their tales of political
persecution in the hopes of pressuring lawmakers and the Reagan administration into supporting
a negotiated peace.108 In its work to change US foreign policy, CARECEN collaborated closely
with other organizations in the US-Central American solidarity movement such as the
Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador (CISPES), the SHARE Foundation, the
Salvadoran Refugee Committee/CRECEN, and a smattering of progressive national religious
institutions headquartered in Washington, DC. By joining forces on shared issues, these small
but determined organizations maximized their limited resources and amplified their message,
105
One of the more successful benefit concerts brought Fiebre Amarilla, a Salvadoran musical group, to play in the
basement of Sacred Heart Catholic Church, raising $22,000 for CARECEN. Fredy Garcia interview, 8/22/18.
106
CARECEN Annual Report, 1985.
107
Eventually, after the organization secured more stable sources of funding for its projects, staff members
brought home about $500 per month. Patrice Perillie interview, 10/19/17.
108
147
raising awareness of US funding for and complicity in egregious human rights abuses committed
by the security forces and military of El Salvador.
CARECEN also thrust itself into the debate on US immigration reform. Although the
1980 Refugee Act was designed to unhitch the United States’s refugee policy from its foreign
policy, in reality the latter still very much dictated the former. Accordingly, because the
governments of El Salvador and Guatemala were US Cold War allies, the Carter and Reagan
administrations denied refugee status to those who fled them and approved very few political
asylum applications in comparison to applications from individuals fleeing US adversaries like
Poland, Ethiopia, Cuba, Afghanistan, and Iran.109 CARECEN fought to foster empathy among
the US public and in Congress for the plight of Central Americans who had fled their homelands,
arguing that they deserved asylum and that they contributed in a positive way to the US
economy. To drive home its point, CARECEN organized a one-day strike of all Salvadoran and
Guatemalan service industry workers on Capitol Hill to illustrate the US government’s
dependence upon its Central American immigrant workforce. “It was very effective,” Patrice
Perillie remembers. “You couldn’t get a meal served on Capitol Hill.”110 The strike – along with
public demonstrations organized by CARECEN and its partners – articulated a convincing case
for domestic immigration reform to the broader US public and to lawmakers, helping to promote
and later pass legislation which protected the thousands of undocumented Central Americans
who had sought safety in Washington, DC and other cities across the United States.111
109
See Chapter 3 for figures on rates of approval for Salvadoran and Guatemalan asylum seekers during the 1980s.
110
111
Continued pressure on lawmakers to protect undocumented Salvadorans and Guatemalans in the United States
culminated in the 1983 Moakley – DeConcini Bill, which called for a temporary stay of deportation until the US
government could undertake a thorough investigation of human rights abuses in El Salvador and Guatemala. Its
authors, Rep. Joseph Moakley (D-MA) and Sen. Dennis DeConcini (D-AZ), reintroduced their bill (or a variant
thereof) in succeeding years, but they would have to wait until Ronald Reagan left office before they could offer
148
In time, CARECEN evolved into one of the premier advocates for the legal rights of
Central American immigrants in the Washington, DC region, in the same vein as its affiliates in
San Francisco, Los Angeles, Houston, and New York. 112 Yet new arrivals, scrambling to
reconstruct their lives in a foreign land, needed far more than a legal lifeline. They also struggled
to meet the most basic of human needs: food, clothing, shelter, employment, health care. Keenly
aware of this, Salvadoran activists in Washington drew upon their experiences organizing and
supporting their country’s revolutionary movement to create a “political-humanitarian” affinity
group that combined social service provision, education, and advocacy on behalf of all Central
American refugees.
The Salvadoran Refugee Committee
What we are trying to achieve is to be able to keep alive the sense of community.
- Carmen Mónico, Executive Director, Salvadoran Refugee Committee113
The Washington-area Comité de Refugiados Salvadoreños “Óscar Arnulfo Romero”
(“Óscar A. Romero” Salvadoran Refugee Committee, commonly known as the Comité) was,
according to one of its founders, at its core a political affinity group. “We were a group of
refugees that simply helped the movement,” explained Jorge Granados, now a realtor who
Salvadorans (but not Guatemalans) a measure of protection through Temporary Protected Status (TPS), enacted in
1990.
112
In the 1985 CARECEN annual report, Executive Director Sylvia Rosales estimated that the organization
represented at least 75% of all Central Americans seeking political asylum in DC’s immigration court. Annual
Report, 1985, CARECEN archives.
113
Robert A. Tappan, “Extending Aid to DC Salvadorans: Refugee Committee Helps Those Who Have Fled Turmoil
in Central America,” WP, April 16, 1987, J01.
149
devotes his spare time to directing Washington-area remittances to community development
projects in El Salvador. “We met, listened to the news of what was happening in that period, and
then we came to an agreement on how we could help.”114 The Comité did assist the Salvadoran
popular movements in a variety of ways, even from its home – thousands of miles away – at
Calvary United Methodist Church on Columbia Road. Yet just as importantly, it provided
clothes, food, essential services, and valuable connections to newly arrived Central Americans in
the District of Columbia and its suburbs. It sought to educate both Salvadorans and North
Americans on the dynamics of the Salvadoran civil war and the United States government’s role
in it. And it spearheaded a nationwide network of like-minded institutions that cultivated
relationships with politicians on Capitol Hill in order to protect Central American refugees.
Given its limited resources and the formidable obstacles it faced, the Salvadoran Refugee
Committee demonstrated an impressive ability to address the basic needs of recently arrived
Salvadorans in the Washington area, sustain the hopes of exiled Salvadoran activists for justice
in their homeland, and advocate for broader policy changes – both locally and nationally – to
benefit all Central American immigrants.
From its inception, the Comité served as a multi-service clearinghouse for Central
American refugee needs. Founded by several of the same Salvadoran activists who established
CARECEN, the Comité served as CARECEN’s “social service arm,” according to Patrice
Perillie.115 Members collected donated food and clothing and distributed it throughout the local
Central American immigrant community. The Comité created support networks for recent
arrivals, offering connections to Washington-area employers and leads on housing opportunities.
If an undocumented immigrant needed medical care, the Comité provided references to trusted
114
Jorge Granados interview, 2/17/16.
115
150
low-cost or free health clinics.116 Comité members trained as “health promoters” educated their
communities on recommended public health practices; “legal promoters” did the same for
immigration and asylum laws.117 The Comité also cultivated relationships with other DC-area
social service agencies, building up a robust referral system for a wide variety of immigrant
needs.118
Comité organizers employed a model of service provision strongly influenced by their
revolutionary praxis. Just as movement organizers in El Salvador had helped peasants survive on
a daily basis while educating them on the structural reasons for their poverty, Salvadoran
activists in the US paired the provision of food and clothing to their needy countryfolk with
discussions on the civil war, its roots, and the rationale for revolution. 119 Unlike many
Salvadorans on the West Coast, who were far more likely to have been active in the political
opposition before fleeing their homeland, a large percentage of Washington, DC’s Salvadoran
refugee population hailed from more culturally and politically conservative areas of eastern El
Salvador. The Comité met this challenge by providing alternative interpretations of the origins of
the Salvadoran civil war and the US government’s role that challenged both the right-wing bias
of mainstream Salvadoran news sources and poorly informed US media reports on the civil
conflict.120 Through such consciousness-raising work, the activists of the Comité fulfilled the
Salvadoran revolution’s dedication to popular education and grassroots empowerment in an
unfamiliar land utilizing familiar methods.
116
Robert A. Tappan, “Extending Aid to DC Salvadorans: Refugee Committee Helps Those Who Have Fled Turmoil
in Central America,” WP, April 16, 1987, J01; Carmen Mónico interview, 9/24/17.
117
Patrice Perillie interview, 10/19/17; Carmen Mónico interview, 9/24/17.
118
Carmen Mónico interview, 9/24/17.
119
The Comité mandated that recipients of clothes and food first watch news reports and engage in critical
discussion and dialogue about the Salvadoran civil war – part of its general political education outreach. Fredy
Garcia interview, 8/22/18.
120
151
For those Salvadorans in the Washington area who sympathized with the popular
struggle, the Comité offered a welcome refuge for revolutionary camaraderie and a means by
which they could continue supporting the opposition movement from afar.121 Exiles gathered
every Sunday in the Comité’s office at Calvary United Methodist Church to listen to the latest
clandestine guerrilla radio broadcasts, sing revolutionary songs, and trade updates about family,
friends, and their compañeros back home.122 The Comité sold homemade tamales and pupusas to
support internally displaced Salvadorans attempting to return to their homes and to purchase
desperately needed medical supplies for regions of their homeland affected by war and natural
disasters. 123 Members also coordinated with other solidarity groups in staging demonstrations
and street theater to protest US foreign policy in Central America. In one memorable act,
Salvadoran activists hung life-size mannequins clothed in peasant garb from overpasses on
Connecticut Avenue, a well-traveled Washington thoroughfare. Accompanying banners
reminded government employees commuting to work of the bloodshed perpetrated by their
employer.124
Comité activists realized that outreach to DC’s Salvadoran population, though vital,
would do little to change the US policies that fueled the mass exodus north or the vulnerable
situation most Salvadorans refugees found themselves in upon arrival in the United States. They
thus fostered relationships with regional and national power brokers with the goal of halting US
military aid to the Salvadoran government and protecting refugees who possessed no legal
immigration documentation. In the Washington area, Comité members regularly spoke to high
121
Like refugee committees of Salvadoran exiles in other US cities, the DC branch was aligned politically with the
FPL (Popular Liberation Forces), the largest and most powerful of the guerrilla groups, and its mass organization,
the BPR (Popular Revolutionary Block). This did not, however, prohibit Salvadorans who identified with any of the
other tendencias from participating.
122
123
Tappan, “Extending Aid to DC Salvadorans.”
124
152
school and university student groups and local politicians to raise awareness of the precarious
situation of Salvadoran refugees and urge action on their behalf.125 The Comité arranged for
Salvadorans to share their intimately personal stories of persecution, displacement, and survival
with faith congregations across the DC metropolitan area that were discerning whether to
provide refuge to Central Americans as part of the Sanctuary movement.126 And Comité leaders
forged relationships with Latino leaders in the District, the DC city council, and the Mayor’s
Office on Latino Affairs, educating local politicians about the realities of the wars in Central
America and encouraging them to support refugees and protect them from incursions by federal
law enforcement agencies.127
In addition to lobbying city politicians, the Comité built strong ties on Capitol Hill and
pushed hard for legislation to protect the hundreds of thousands of undocumented Salvadorans in
the United States. With its partner CARECEN, the Comité forged close bonds with Democratic
Representative Joseph Moakley of Massachusetts, working with him and his staff over years to
craft a bill designed to temporarily prevent the deportation of Salvadorans who had fled their
homeland until a thorough investigation of the human rights situation in El Salvador could be
conducted. 128 According to Representative Jim McGovern (D-Mass), at the time a young
Moakley aide, Executive Director Carmen Mónico and the volunteer staff at the Comité were “a
125
Tappan, “Extending Aid to DC Salvadorans;” Carmen Mónico interview, 9/24/17; Alessandra Griffiths,
“Salvadorans ‘not accepted’ in America,” The Breeze (James Madison University student newspaper), Nov 13,
1986, 3.
126
The Sanctuary movement was a grassroots, faith-based organizing effort that sought to protect Central
Americans who had fled war and civil strife in their homelands from being deported by offering them refuge
(“sanctuary”) in places of worship. See following subsection on the Sanctuary movement for specifics on the role of
DC-area faith congregations.
127
Arcadio Torres, “Conferencia sobre refugiados centroamericanos,” EL, Feb 1, 1986, 4. Rita Soler, Deputy
Director of the Mayor’s Office on Latino Affairs, described the Comité as “visible, active, and well connected,”
stating that she and her staff shared information on the nuances of city government functioning and worked
closely with Executive Director Carmen Mónico on educating Hispanics in the District about the 1986 Immigration
Reform and Control Act (IRCA). Tappan, “Extending Aid to D.C. Salvadorans.”
128
See footnote 111 for background on the Moakley-DeConcini bill.
153
very politically savvy group of people” who were the “unsung heroes” of the movement to
protect Salvadoran immigrants in the United States.129 During the debate leading up to the 1986
passage of the Simpson-Mazzoli Act (better known as the Immigration Reform and Control Act,
or IRCA), the Comité lobbied hard to extend amnesty to as many Central Americans as possible.
After the passage of the final bill, which ended up covering only a small percentage of
undocumented Salvadorans in the United States, the Comité drew attention to IRCA’s negative
effects on Salvadoran laborers and redoubled efforts to push for a temporary stay of deportation
for undocumented immigrants through the Moakley-DeConcini bill, which eventually was
signed into law as Temporary Protected Status (TPS).130 Ultimately, the efforts of the Comité
and its affiliates across the United States lent impressive organizing prowess and a strong voice
of moral authority to the broader movement to disrupt the Reagan administration’s efforts in
Central America and press for legal protection of Salvadoran immigrants in the United States.131
Yet Salvadorans would need much more than legal protection if they were to survive and
succeed in their new surroundings.
129
Tappan, “Extending Aid to D.C. Salvadorans.”
130
A 1987 Washington Post article reported that approximately 90 percent of all Salvadorans who resided in the
DC metropolitan area had arrived after January 1, 1982 and thus would not qualify for amnesty under IRCA.
National studies reflected similar numbers: Hamilton and Chinchilla estimate that as much as 80 percent of all
Central Americans arrived in the United States after January 1, 1982, and Cordova’s numbers support this figure
for Salvadorans in the US. Carlos Sánchez, “Salvadorans Fearful of Deportation,” WP, May 26, 1987, B1; Hamilton
and Chinchilla, Seeking Community, 124; Córdova, Salvadoran Americans, 45.
131
The Salvadoran Refugee Committee functioned as part of a larger national network of refugee committees
called the Comité de Refugiados Centroamericanos (Central American Refugee Committee, or CRECEN), which had
close ties to the Salvadoran opposition movement.
154
La Clínica Del Pueblo: A Revolutionary Approach to Health Care
We were the artisans of our own project, with its own sauce and flavor. 132
- Dr. Juan Romagoza (2007)
It isn’t that the gringos gave us a clinic. With the help of the North Americans, we made the
clinic. Ourselves. 133
- Joaquín Domínguez Parada (2007)
In late March of 1982, almost two years to the day since the assassination of Archbishop
Óscar Romero and over a year since the outbreak of full-scale civil war in El Salvador, activists
around the world staged a massive coordinated hunger strike. Their loosely organized coalition,
dubbed “Fasting and Prayer for Peace in El Salvador and Central America,” denounced the role
of the United States in bankrolling the Salvadoran government and its military forces, voiced
support for political negotiations to end the civil war, and promoted the self-determination of
those Central Americans struggling to free themselves from US intervention.134 In Washington,
DC, a group of twelve political and religious luminaries including Argentine Nobel Peace Prize
recipient Adolfo Pérez Esquivel, Brazilian liberation theologian Domingos Barbé, Spanish trade
union leader Francisco Casero Rodriguez, and several well known DC activists added their own
demand, which they presented in a letter to President Ronald Reagan: that the US provide
temporary refuge to Salvadorans who had fled to the United States in lieu of arresting and
132
Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo: An Immigrant Community Health Center By the People, For the People (Case
Study Reference Document), August 2008, 18.
133
Joaquín Domínguez Parada interview with Marcia Bernbaum, 12/3/07; interview with Patrick Scallen, 12/9/19.
Original quote: “No es que los gringos nos dieron una clínica. Con la ayuda de los norteamericanos hicimos La
Clínica. Nosotros mismos.”
134
EL, Abril 1982, 1.
155
deporting them.135 Throughout their ten days of fasting, the high-profile group was carefully
attended to by members of Plenty International, a hippie community based a few miles up the
road.136 The medical professionals from Plenty - including a nurse practitioner and a midwife –
ensured that those fasting remained well cared for and hydrated. After ten days the participants
ended their fast, having succeeded in raising at least some local awareness of US intervention in
Central America and the refugee crisis.137 By the end of the year, members of Plenty would again
be closely collaborating with those advocating for the rights of Central American refugees – this
time, only blocks away from their commune. This cross-cultural alliance of North American
hippies and Salvadoran activists formed the foundation for a groundbreaking new approach to
immigrant health care in the District of Columbia.
The inspiration for the free bilingual health care center known as La Clínica Del Pueblo
(“The People’s Clinic”) had been percolating in the minds of CARECEN’s founders since mid-
1981. “We realized, while defending [our clients’] legal rights, that they needed medical
assistance as well,” recalls Joaquín Domínguez Parada. “When they got sick, they didn’t go to
private doctors or health clinics because they were afraid that they would be denounced and
deported.”138 Health care for undocumented Spanish-speaking immigrants also weighed heavily
on the mind of Priscilla Wheeler, a Plenty International member who had volunteered in public
health in Guatemala, spoke fluent Spanish, and had just completed her training as a physician’s
135
DC-based leaders included Luther Place Memorial Church pastor John Steinbruck, the Catholic Worker House’s
Reverend Richard McSorley, and CARECEN co-founder Joaquín Domínguez Parada. EL, Abril 1982, 1; Press Release
of the Washington Committee For the International Action of Fasting and Prayer, Luther Place Memorial Church
Archives.
136
Patrice Perillie interview, 10/19/17. Plenty International had a group house on 16th Street NW, close by the
Salvadoran immigrant community in the Mt. Pleasant/Columbia Heights neighborhood. Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del
Pueblo,” 9.
137
The event was covered by the local Spanish-language community newspaper El Latino but received no mention
in the Washington Post. Patrice Perillie interview, 10/19/17; EL, Abril 1982, 1.
138
Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 10.
156
assistant at nearby Howard University.139 Her experience working in a short-lived free clinic on
nearby Columbia Road established by a group of Latin American doctors to serve low-income
Spanish-speakers convinced Wheeler of the pressing need to provide high-quality bilingual
health care to the undocumented Central Americans streaming into the District every day. Peter
Schweitzer, her housemate and the founder of Plenty International, agreed; he had also been
talking with CARECEN about starting such a clinic.140 The Mayor’s Office on Latino Affairs
threw its support behind the endeavor, and the Spanish Catholic Center donated used medical
equipment from its clinic down the street.141 In late 1982, the joint Plenty-CARECEN venture
opened its doors – to a crowd of 600 anxious patients. Three months later, after securing a
permanent location on the top floor of the Wilson Center, La Clínica Del Pueblo was officially
inaugurated.142 A remarkable experiment in community-based, culturally sensitive, cooperatively
run bilingual health care had taken root.
From its inception, La Clínica Del Pueblo functioned unlike any other primary care clinic
in the District of Columbia. Instead of focusing on merely the provision of medical services, the
founders of La Clínica employed a more holistic approach developed in response to the life
experiences of their clientele. “We emphasized to our patients that they needed to understand the
trauma of war,” recalled Sonia Umanzor, a nurse and Salvadoran refugee who volunteered at La
Clínica from the very beginning. “This was not just a health clinic that dispensed medicines but a
place where we would assist them in all senses: with their social needs, their economic needs,
139
Marcia Bernbaum interview notes: Priscilla Wheeler, 11/15/07.
140
Schweitzer recalls the tremendous “inpouring” of Salvadoran refugees who needed medical care and were
afraid to visit DC General Hospital, which was located on the other side of the city and was infamous for its low
quality of care. His office had thus been turned into an examining room, with Salvadorans continually knocking on
his door in search of a Spanish-speaking medical provider. Marcia Bernbaum interview notes: Peter Schweitzer,
10/30/07.
141
The Office on Latino Affairs (OLA) and Mayor Marion Barry helped kickstart the venture with a $10,000
donation. Peter Schweitzer, in Jerry Hutchens, The Roots of Plenty: Tales from the “Hippie Peace Corps”
(Summertown, TN: Plenty International, 2019); Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 9-10.
142
Priscilla Wheeler, quoted in Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 10.
157
their physical needs, and their emotional needs.”143 Guillermo, a longtime patient, recalled that
when he was jobless and facing eviction, La Clínica immediately put him on an emergency fund
to pay rent and supplied him with food debit cards from the local grocery store. “Every time
when I come with an emergency, I sense I am as important as any other priority going on,” he
recalled in a 2008 interview. “I don’t feel like I am being put aside. There is a sense of
empowerment.”144
Those Salvadorans who staffed La Clínica in its early years proved well suited at serving
and empowering their patients, in part because they had shared their suffering. Both staff and
patients had fled the horrors of war and poverty in their home country, had survived journeys to
the United States, and had experienced similar anxieties of family separation, fears of
deportation, the shame of being “illegal,” and obstacles to cultural adaptation and survival in a
foreign country. Sonia Umanzor understood firsthand the trauma inflicted by the trek north; she
had fought off threatened sexual assault by a coyote and miraculously escaped death in the Texas
desert before arriving in Washington. 145 Carlos Montalban knew the humiliation of working
menial jobs; an accomplished physician in El Salvador, he was among many Central American
medical professionals who worked on construction sites, on cleaning crews, and in restaurant
kitchens to survive while volunteering their time and energies every Tuesday night at La
Clínica.146 “We were all in the same boat,” recalls Elsa Mantilla, an Ecuadorian mental health
counselor who began volunteering at La Clínica in 1985. “Missing our families, missing our
country, missing our traditions. We would celebrate those traditions at La Clínica: the posadas,
143
Sonia Umanzor quoted in Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 18.
144
“Guillermo” quoted in Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 72.
145
Sonia Umanzor interview, 12/3/15.
146
158
the Day of the Dead. It was like a substitute home. We (La Clínica staff) gave, they (patients)
gave, they learned, we learned. It was like a circle of life. It was wonderful.”147
Salvadoran medical professionals worked alongside US medical professionals in a
manner that epitomized the cross-cultural cooperation and collaboration that the US-Central
American solidarity movement strived to cultivate. Jorge Granados, an early volunteer, recalled
how important it was to him “to see North Americans who also served as volunteers at La
Clínica … They were educated people who had a desire to help our people; people with a
conscience and who respected us as immigrants. It was a special period. There was a meeting
between two countries; a desire to do something different than what our two governments were
doing.”148 Gretta Siebentritt, who worked alongside Granados in the early years of La Clínica,
concurred:
It was a very effective U.S./El Salvador collaboration. Two different societies

and cultures giving their best while our governments were giving their worst. It
was a Salvadoran struggle, and it was also our responsibility as U.S. citizens. Our
government was supporting a war that was creating refugees. There were daily
human rights abuses taking place in El Salvador, and our government was also
abusing rights by deporting undocumented refugees who were afraid to go back
… We were providing for immediate needs, but the broader issues remained. Why
don’t these people have a legal status? Why don’t they have health insurance?
How do we educate and mobilize people to deal with the issues they are facing in
the U.S.? How do we make sure that what we are doing is not just a Band-Aid?149
These larger issues of structural injustice were not new to the Salvadorans who worked at
La Clínica. In fact, those Salvadoran medical professionals who volunteered there drew upon a
rich tradition of providing medical aid for the poor that was an integral component of their
country’s revolutionary movement. For years leading up to the outbreak of civil war, Salvadoran
147
Elsa Mantilla quoted in Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 22.
148
149
159
doctors and nurses had offered free health care services to hundreds of thousands of rural poor
with little access to modern medicine – a subversive act in the eyes of political and economic
elites. In addition to caring for peasants dying of parasites and other easily treatable diseases,
physicians and nurses had also attended to protesters wounded in running street battles with
government security forces. Moved by such experiences tending to their suffering countrypeople,
many medical professionals had joined the ranks of the political opposition, making them
immediate targets for government intimidation, disappearance, imprisonment, torture, and
assassination. More than a few of those health care workers who escaped and made it to the
Washington area ended up volunteering at La Clínica Del Pueblo.150
Salvadoran medical professionals’ wartime experiences inspired and informed their
approaches to health care at La Clínica. They saw health care as a basic human right that had to
be as vigorously promoted and defended in the United States as in their native land. Before
leaving El Salvador, Sonia Umanzor had taught peasants how to administer first aid, stop
bleeding, remove bullets, sew sutures, and apply proper sanitation methods on the steep sides of
the Guazapa volcano, one of the most deadly conflict zones during the early years of the
Salvadoran civil war. Just as she had trained civilians to be health promoters on Guazapa, she
sought to spread first responder knowledge in the same way among Salvadoran refugees in
Washington, DC. “The idea,” explained Umanzor, “was to go out into the [refugee] community
and bring in the same people that came for consultations who were interested in the themes of
prevention and cure … to help participants understand when they were having an emergency in
their homes, so that they didn’t have to go to the emergency room every time a family member
150
Carlos Montalban and Juan Romagoza, two prominent Salvadoran doctors who worked for La Clínica Del
Pueblo, were both singled out for harassment and persecution by the Salvadoran government for their work with
the poor and wounded, respectively. They were among the many Salvadoran medical professionals who
volunteered or worked at La Cínica. Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 13, 16.
160
had fever or the flu.”151 Initially, health promoter courses also anticipated training volunteers in
DC who would then return to El Salvador to work as medical professionals in conflict zones.152
Although no one trained through La Clínica’s courses did end up returning to El Salvador to
practice in war zones, the knowledge and skills imparted through the health promoter courses
empowered Salvadoran immigrants in DC to sustain themselves when reliable health care proved
scarce or unaffordable. The concept of the health promoter – the offspring of necessity in both El
Salvador and in Washington – became a crucial part of La Clínica’s first several years of
outreach and advocacy on behalf of the Central American refugee population in the District.153
As the 1980s progressed, La Clínica increased its capacity to promote a culturally
sensitive approach to health care while maintaining its political activism. With the arrival of Juan
Romagoza, a Salvadoran physician who had previously directed a similar Salvadoran refugee
clinic in San Francisco, La Clínica evolved into a pillar of the Spanish-speaking immigrant
community. Like the Salvadorans activists who had helped to found CARECEN, the Salvadoran
Refugee Committee, and La Clínica, Romagoza had fled the country under threat of death,
making his way to Mexico City and then to California.154 Asked by then-CARECEN Director
Sylvia Rosales to save the floundering Clínica Del Pueblo in 1988, Romagoza reaffirmed its
founding ideals and steered it to a path to long-term stability and success. “The spirit that
motivated the creation of La Clínica was not only to respond to physical health needs but to
create our own original model based on our own culture and the realities of the countries we had
151
Sonia Umanzor quoted in Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 12.
152
“For those planning to return to El Salvador,” recalls Umanzor, “the idea was to give them some skills that
would help them to save lives.” Accordingly, Priscilla Wheeler and Umanzor used the textbook Donde No Hay
Doctor (Where There Is No Doctor), a manual penned specifically for impoverished areas lacking basic medical care,
when training health promoters. Bernbaum, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 12.
153
Plenty International’s North American medical staff were also well acquainted with the health promoter model
from their work in Guatemala. Marcia Bernbaum interview notes: Priscilla Wheeler, 11/15/07; Marcia Bernbaum
interview notes: Peter Schweitzer, 10/30/07.
154
161
come from,” reflected Romagoza in an interview recorded two decades after his arrival in
Washington. “We were the artisans of our own project, with its own sauce and flavor. Our
program wasn’t only culturally sensitive where we used our own language, our own conditions,
our own schedule, our own model. It was also based upon the concept that health is not only to
cure but to prevent, orient, promote, and most importantly to defend.”155
Guided by such perspectives, La Clínica Del Pueblo matured into a force that both
epitomized and transcended the model of a community health clinic through its efforts to
promote broad-ranging social and political change on the local, national, and international levels.
Inspired by their ideals as “political humanitarian activists,” staff at La Clínica dedicated
themselves not merely to dispensing health care advice and medicines but to addressing the
deeper issues that underlay the continued suffering of Salvadoran refugees. According to
Romagoza:
At that time, there was little differentiation between our work in health care and
our work in solidarity with what was happening in El Salvador. When we heard
that the city of Berlin (in El Salvador) had been bombed, we went as a group –
patients, doctors, and volunteers – to protest in front of the Salvadoran embassy in
Washington. We participated in hunger strikes to protest the continued
deportation of Salvadoran refugees back to El Salvador. We did protests on the
steps of the U.S. Congress and at night in churches. During the day we visited
Congressmen to talk to them about our concerns about U.S. policy in El
Salvador.156
La Clínica staff worked to educate and inform their largely rural and often apolitical
clientele, many of whom possessed very limited understanding of the civil conflict they had fled.
“While the Salvadorans waited to be attended to,” recalled Joaquín Domínguez Parada, “we had
political discussions with them. We told them they were refugees. Many had no concept of a
155
156
162
refugee and did not have a clear concept that they were political refugees. Afterwards, they
understood clearly; it was a mental process.” 157 Domínguez’s description of his work at La
Clínica reflects the process of conscientization, a practice rooted in the tenets of Latin American
liberation theology that encourages oppressed and marginalized peoples to analyze the broader
causes of their suffering and challenge structural injustices.158 Like the Catholic clergy in El
Salvador and in other Latin American countries who preached individual and communal action
in support of broad-based social change, staff at La Clínica stressed patient empowerment for
collective good. “We motivated patients to take ownership of La Clínica,” Romagoza recalled.
“That this was their project, and they needed to take charge … If you were a health promoter,
you helped with maintenance; you were an educator; you were an interpreter. You also
participated in campaigns to support bringing an end to the war in Central America.”159 This
focus not only on local, grassroots community empowerment but on the deeper roots of social
injustices perfectly reflected the praxis of the popular democratic revolutionary movement in El
Salvador that had shaped those Salvadorans present at the beginning of La Clínica Del Pueblo.
Even after its eventual separation from CARECEN in the early 1990s, the clinic held true, both
in form and function, to its name: “The People’s Clinic.”
157
Marcia Bernbaum interview with Joaquín Domínguez Parada, 12/3/07; Patrick Scallen interview with Joaquín
Domínguez Parada, 12/9/19. Although Domínguez and others on the Salvadoran (and North American) Left
promoted the idea of Salvadorans as political refugees, many of his countrypeople were reluctant to adopt it, as
they saw no political links to their flight north. See Perla, Jr. and Coutin, “Legacies and Origins of the US-Central
American Sanctuary Movement,” for a discussion on the “refugee identity.”
158
For a comprehensive discussion of conscientización in the Catholic context, see Louis M Colonnese and César A.
Aguilar, eds., Conscientization for Liberation (Washington, D.C.: Division for Latin America, United States Catholic
Conference, 1970).
159
163
Seeking Refuge in the Lion’s Den:
Salvadoran Agency in the DC Sanctuary Movement
For the first time since I left my country I have felt that I am among my Christian brothers and
sisters, feeling once again the human, moral, and spiritual warmth. For me, this declaration of
sanctuary represents what Isaiah 58 tells us: that today you are sharing your bread with me, but
even more importantly, you are helping to break the yoke of repression that binds the Salvadoran
people.160
- “René,” All Souls Unitarian Church public sanctuary celebration (1985)
Salvadorans active in CARECEN, the Salvadoran Refugee Committee, and La Clínica
Del Pueblo also collaborated closely with North American religious progressives, facilitating the
growth of one of the most high-profile grassroots movements of the 1980s. In the summer of
1981, several months before La Clínica’s conception, a movement began to gestate in the
otherwise barren Arizona desert. Sparked by the desire of several Tucson religious leaders and
other community members to assist the swelling numbers of Central American migrants crossing
the US-Mexican border to the south of them, the movement which would soon be known as
“Sanctuary” spread quite rapidly across the country, developing into a formidable moral and
political crusade. Inspired by the Judeo-Christian tradition of providing a safe place for worship
and refuge and drawing upon early U.S. religious movements that sheltered runaway slaves and
other persecuted peoples, Sanctuary urged North Americans to question the legitimacy of man-
made laws in light of Old Testament morality by providing food and shelter to Central American
refugees. 161 As it evolved, the movement gained support from secular activists as well,
expanding its appeal and deepening its impact across the United States over the course of the
1980s – including the nation’s capital.
160
Testimony of René Sánchez, Declaration of Public Sanctuary, All Souls Unitarian Church, Oct 6, 1985, ASUC
Archives.
161
Hamilton and Chinchilla, Seeking Community, 145.
164
Initially, the Sanctuary movement sought to provide desperately needed material aid to
Central Americans who fled civil strife in their homelands. A place to rest one’s head after days
wandering in the scorching heat of the desert and a ride to one’s destination city functioned as
merely one leg of what many dubbed the new “underground railroad,” complete with clandestine
accommodations, anonymous conductors ferrying migrants from one city to the next, and refuge
from the Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS) agents in places of worship, which
federal authorities had previously shied away from entering. The network stretched deep into
southern Mexico, providing safe passage through the most dangerous parts of the route north
until migrants crossed into the US, whereupon Sanctuary workers would offer “evasion services”
designed to avoid Border Patrol and INS agents seeking to capture and deport them. From the
border, volunteers shepherded migrants across the country to churches that had decided to offer
them refuge.162
As the Sanctuary movement matured, it addressed the causes of the forced displacement
of Central Americans while concurrently lobbying to reform existing US immigration policies.
Sanctuary participants joined a larger chorus of progressive voices protesting the Reagan
administration’s support of the Salvadoran (and to a lesser extent, the Guatemalan) government,
highlighting the United States’s critical role in funding military and security forces that harassed,
disappeared, tortured, and murdered thousands of their political opponents each year. Sanctuary
members also argued that the State Department’s refusal to grant refugee status to Central
Americans blatantly violated the 1980 Refugee Act, which had been expressly designed to de-
politicize refugee policy. Citing the UN High Commissioner for Refugees’ recommendation that
162
For extended analysis of the Sanctuary movement, see Miriam Davidson, Convictions of the Heart: Jim Corbett
and the Sanctuary Movement (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1988); Ann Crittenden, Sanctuary: A Story of
American Conscience and the Law in Collision (New York: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1988); and Susan Bibler Coutin,
The Culture of Protest: Religious Activism and the U.S. Sanctuary Movement (Boulder: Westview Press, 1993).
165
all Salvadorans fleeing their country be considered refugees and accorded the benefits thereof,
Sanctuary activists joined calls for the Reagan administration to grant a temporary stay of
deportation for Central American immigrants until the violence subsided.163 Begun as a simple
humanitarian gesture, the Sanctuary movement soon sprouted into a full-fledged network of
hundreds of faith-based and secular institutions that openly defied immigration law by providing
material aid for refugees, protested US foreign policy in Central America, and advocated for
immigration reform.164
From its inception, the Sanctuary movement received robust support from religious
congregations in the Washington, DC area. On March 24, 1982 – exactly two years after the
assassination of Salvadoran Archbishop Óscar Romero – Luther Place Memorial Church in the
District joined Tucson’s Southside Presbyterian Church and religious congregations in
California’s East Bay, Long Island, NY, and Los Angeles in the first public proclamation of
Sanctuary in the United States. 165 The Reverend John Steinbruck, the charismatic Lutheran
pastor who championed social justice causes through a multitude of outreach ministries at Luther
Place, was one of Sanctuary’s early promoters in the DC area. A Navy veteran who worked
extensively with the District’s homeless population, participated in anti-nuclear activities, and
regularly picketed the Soviet embassy in support of persecuted Russian Jewry, Steinbruck
collaborated closely with the Reverend Phillip Wheaton, an Episcopal priest and a towering
163
Jay Matthews, “U.S. Accused of Denying Asylum to Salvadorans,” WP, March 6, 1982, A24.
164
By 1987, five years after the first Sanctuary ceremony, 400 churches, synagogues, cities, and even states had
declared themselves sanctuaries. Christian Smith, Resisting Reagan: The U.S. Central America Peace Movement
(Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1996), 70. It should be noted that as the popularity and public profile of
the Sanctuary movement increased, so did internal tensions between those who believed it should maintain its
focus on humanitarian relief and those who preferred a more overtly political thrust. For a discussion of these
tensions and how they played out as the movement progressed, see Coutin, The Culture of Protest and Crittenden,
Sanctuary.
165
Timothy Nonn interview, 10/4/17. See also Crittenden, Sanctuary, 69. Although Luther Place joined the national
declaration of sanctuary in March of 1982, it would not vote as a congregation to extend sanctuary to refugees
until March of 1983.
166
figure on the religious left who had devoted his life to raising awareness of and denouncing
United States military and economic intervention in Latin America.166 Steinbruck and Wheaton
gathered a small group of progressive religious figures in the Washington area and formed the
DC Metro Sanctuary Committee, which in October of 1982 set about preaching the gospel of
Sanctuary to communities of faith in the District and its suburbs. By the year’s end, 12 churches
in the DC metro area were in the process of “studying the implications of ‘sanctuary,’” with six
congregations actively considering it as an option – so many that the coordinator of the national
sanctuary movement paid the capital city a visit.167
The following March, hundreds of Sanctuary supporters marched in solemn procession
from the Church of the Pilgrims Presbyterian Church near Dupont Circle to Luther Place. In an
emotional liturgy laden with biblical references to persecution, suffering, and redemption, the
congregation welcomed five Salvadoran refugees – a carpenter, a welder, a math teacher, and a
social worker and her two year-old daughter – into their church for the coming week.168 Several
other faith communities in the Washington area followed Luther Place in sheltering Central
American refugees in the years to come, and even more lent moral and material support to the
166
The Rev. Wheaton’s worldview and lifelong devotion to US-Latin American relations was profoundly shaped by
his years of ministry in the Dominican Republic, where he experienced the US military invasion in 1965. After his
return to the United States, he settled in Washington, DC and became an outspoken opponent of US intervention
in Latin America and the Caribbean by founding EPICA Press. Throughout most of the 1970s and into the 1980s,
Wheaton ran EPICA from a small office in the Wilson Center alongside many DC Latino social service agencies,
including La Clínica Del Pueblo and CARECEN.
167
The loose network of churches around the United States offering safe haven (“sanctuary”) to Central American
refugees received logistical support and occasional financial assistance from the Chicago Religious Task Force on
Central America (CRTF), a coalition of progressive religious leaders in the Chicago area. The CRTF became the
center of operations for the national Sanctuary movement as it matured, managing the movement’s logistics and
public relations throughout the 1980s. Dan Dale, a member of the CRTF, was listed as the “coordinator” of the
national Sanctuary movement in a Washington Post listing of December 1982 religious events; he spent time with
DC’s Sanctuary leaders at Luther Place Memorial Church that month. “The ‘Sanctuary’ movement in the D.C.
Metropolitan Area,” D.C. Metropolitan Sanctuary Committee, Dec 1982; ASUC Archives; “Religious events: Refugee
sanctuary meeting,” WP, Dec 23, 1982, B8.
168
Judith Valente, “D.C. Church to Shelter Refugees Facing Deportation,” WP, March 25, 1983, B1.; Luther Place
Newsletter, Early May, 1983, LPMC Archives.
167
cause, despite the danger posed by such close physical proximity to FBI, INS, and Department of
Justice national headquarters.169 As time passed and the movement spread, secular institutions
such as American University and the city of Takoma Park, MD also declared themselves places
of refuge for Central American migrants.170 The DC Sanctuary movement offered a powerful
rebuke of the Reagan administration, one that took on even greater symbolic importance due to
the proximity of area churches to centers of national and international power: the outcry and
condemnation originated in the administration’s own backyard.
In Washington and elsewhere across the country, progressive religious clergy and their
congregations played vital roles in creating and sustaining the Sanctuary movement. Pastors and
rabbis used Exodus analogies and other biblical imagery to encourage their followers to open
their hearts to the suffering of Central American refugees in need. Congregants, in turn, managed
the complex logistics of feeding and caring for sanctuary recipients. Religious communities also
helped the refugees they sheltered to procure employment and chipped in financially to
guarantee a web of support in transitioning to life in the United States. North Americans risked
their reputations and, in many cases, their careers to ferry undocumented immigrants between
safe havens in different cities and shelter them in their private homes. Sanctuary activists lobbied
169
As of April 1987, 11 congregations in the metropolitan Washington, DC area had declared themselves
sanctuaries and hosted Central American refugees, among them Dumbarton United Methodist Church, All Souls
Unitarian Church, 8th Day Faith Community, Langley Friends Meeting, Adelphi Friends Meeting, River Road
Unitarian Church, and the Unitarian Church of Arlington. Many more congregations and synagogues provided
logistical and financial support for those places of worship that did host refugees, including Calvary United
Methodist Church, St. Stephen and the Incarnation Episcopal Church, Hyattsville Mennonite Church, Church of the
Pilgrims Presbyterian Church, and the National Capital Union Presbytery. Number of congregations cited by
Reverend David Eaton in his letter to DC City Councilmember David Clarke, April 30, 1987, ASUC archives.
170
Takoma Park declared itself a sanctuary on October 28 1985; American University on March 6, 1986. “To Be a
Sanctuary City,” WP, Nov 8, 1985, D8; “Declaration of the Student Body of the American University as Sanctuary
For Salvadoran and Guatemalan Refugees” Mar 6, 1986, ASUC archives. In 1985, Mayor Marion Barry issued
Executive Order 86-91, which prohibited DC employees from asking applicants for city services about their
immigration status and mandated that DC officials not cooperate with INS agents “beyond the means necessary.”
Arnold & Porter, Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 11; Joyce Price, “INS Says Barry’s Sanctuary Policy Lured
Salvadorans,” WT, May 9, 1991; DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint for Action: Final
Recommendations to the District of Columbia Government, October 1991, 14-15.
168
their respective members of Congress to protect Central Americans who had fled war and civil
strife but who were still branded “illegal aliens” by the US government. In all, tens of thousands
of individuals devoted hundreds of thousands of hours and dollars to the Sanctuary cause. As
such, researchers have traditionally viewed Sanctuary as a grassroots US social movement, albeit
one with international ties.171
This focus on Sanctuary as a US-based initiative has long obscured the vital yet vastly
underappreciated roles Central Americans played in the movement. In their study of the legacies
and origins of the US-Central American Sanctuary movement, Héctor Perla, Jr. and Susan Bibler
Coutin reveal how Central Americans – particularly exiled Salvadoran revolutionaries – laid the
groundwork for Sanctuary’s success in San Francisco and Los Angeles by reaching out and
educating concerned North American religious leaders, who then mobilized their congregants to
provide refuge. 172 Although neither as numerous nor as well-organized as their West Coast
counterparts, Salvadoran activists in Washington, DC operated in similar fashion to cultivate the
Sanctuary movement in the nation’s capital. Members of the Salvadoran Refugee Committee
visited local churches and synagogues, sharing gut-wrenching personal testimonies of torture and
173
persecution at the hands of the Salvadoran government. CARECEN staff facilitated
congregational discussions on whether to offer Sanctuary, often physically accompanying
communities throughout the process of discernment.174 Carmen Mónico, one of Luther Place’s
first Sanctuary recipients who went on to direct the local Salvadoran Refugee Committee and
later its national network, sat on the leadership board of the D.C. Metropolitan Sanctuary
171
Political scientist Héctor Perla, Jr. argues that viewing the US-Central American Peace and Solidarity Movement
– of which Sanctuary is a part - from the perspective of the nation-state has inherently limited scholars’ ability to
understand its transnational origins, leading some to label it a “distant issue movement.” Perla, “Si Nicaragua
Venció,” 137.
172
Perla, Jr., and Coutin, “Legacies and Origins,” 11-12.
173
Patrice Perillie interview, 10/19/17; Carmen Mónico interview, 2/20/19.
174
169
Committee and played a central role in planning the 1986 national Sanctuary celebration in
Washington, DC.175 When Phil Wheaton set out on expeditions to promote Sanctuary, Mónico
and other Salvadorans often accompanied him, risking arrest and deportation to share their
stories with hundreds of strangers at churches up and down the East Coast.176 Salvadorans thus
played a crucial role in promoting the Sanctuary movement.
Despite such close ties, Mónico and other Salvadorans downplayed their involvement
with Sanctuary by positioning their actions within the bounds of the “persecuted refugee.” In
reflecting upon her role, Mónico emphasized that she and the Comité “did not offer formal
structural support” to the DC movement. Instead, she said, the Comité informally “promoted,
coordinated, and facilitated” Sanctuary, as it was more of a North American initiative.177 Perla
and Coutin note that this was a common trend at the time, a result of the complex dynamics of
the movement itself. Salvadorans in the US who supported Sanctuary generally sympathized
with the Salvadoran revolution, and they knew that publicizing those links could easily bolster
the arguments of Sanctuary critics who denigrated the movement for being more political than
178
humanitarian or religious in nature. Salvadoran Sanctuary activists thus consciously
constructed a non-threatening “refugee identity:” that of “innocent victims in need of support;
representatives of the poor and oppressed on whose behalf religious people of conscience would
175
According to an internal memorandum, Mónico and her staff at the Salvadoran Refugee Committee
coordinated all refugee-related logistics for the September 26-29, 1986 Sanctuary Celebration, including
transporting refugees from across the US to DC, housing them, and protecting them from potential threats to their
security over the weekend. Internal memo and organizing schema, D.C. Metropolitan Sanctuary Committee memo,
April 28, 1986 and Planning Committee memo, Sept 12, 1986, ASUC archives.
176
177
178
Perla, Jr. and Coutin, “Legacies and Origins,” 13. An article in the Washington Spanish-language neighborhood
newspaper El Latino in 1986 supports this, mentioning “some sectors” linking the Sanctuary movement to
“communist” tendencies in Central America and “Marxist guerrillas that want to take power and convert these
countries into another Cuba.” “Santuario: un movimiento en controversia,” EL, Sept 26 – Oct 3, 1986, 1, 6.
170
be compelled to advocate.”179 This narrative assumed little potential for Salvadorans to “publicly
identify as political protagonists or take credit for devising joint strategies for social and political
change,” relegating them to minor roles or even “invisibility.” 180 Salvadorans in the DC
Sanctuary movement were far from invisible, but they also acted within the strict contours of the
“refugee identity” and shied away from taking as much public credit for their participation as
perhaps they could have.
By adopting the refugee identity and working within its expectations, however,
Salvadorans placed themselves at the very heart of the Sanctuary narrative. Sanctuary’s success
depended upon many factors, but at its core, the movement hinged upon the ability of refugees to
cultivate empathy with a congregation or community through their personal testimonies, or
testimonios. 181 The defining characteristic of Sanctuary, testimonios ensured that refugees’
“presence, their stories, and their reasons for being in the United States were impossible to
ignore: they countered the official justifications for U.S. policy, bridged the cultural divide
between North Americans and Central American refugees, and galvanized increased
consciousness, support, and action” on behalf of the refugees.182 These intimate, searing tales of
intimidation, torture, suffering, and escape aroused emotions ranging from shock and anger to
grief and guilt, sparking “a sense of urgency and obligation of responsibility that would motivate
North Americans to take a stand against their own government on behalf of an ‘other’ with
whom they were largely unfamiliar.”183 Ultimately, the “refugee identity” endowed Salvadorans
179
Perla, Jr., and Coutin, “Legacies and Origins,” 13.
180
181
The testimonio, with deep roots in Latin American literature, took on even greater importance in the 1970s and
1980s as a means by which Latin Americans persecuted by their respective governments contested the hegemonic
narrative woven by their persecutors and, often, validated by mainstream US media outlets.
182
Norma Stoltz Chinchilla, Nora Hamilton, and James Loucky. “The Sanctuary Movement and Central American
Activism in Los Angeles.” Latin American Perspectives 169, no.6 (2009): 120.
183
171
seeking Sanctuary with a compelling moral authority that legitimized their public testimonies
and validated the broader movement.
In September of 1986, supporters of the Sanctuary movement from around the country
gathered in Washington, DC for a weekend billed as “Sanctuary Celebration: From Captivity to
Covenant.” The conference, which took place over four days at several houses of worship across
the city, incorporated many of the values and ideals the Sanctuary movement held sacred: an
inclusive ecumenical focus, spiritual reflection and discernment, accompaniment, and a
respectful, non-hierarchical relationship between the providers of refuge and refugees. 184
Throughout the weekend, participants from around the country – including such Sanctuary
movement luminaries as Sister Darlene Nicgorski, Reverend John Fife, Jim Corbett, and
Berkeley, California mayor Gus Newport – joined Fr. John Sobrino and Fr. Jon de Cortina from
the Jesuit University in San Salvador, Phil Wheaton, John Steinbruck, and a host of refugees and
Sanctuary participants in commemorating the successes and strategizing the future of the
movement. 185 Heavily covered by both English and Spanish-language press, the Celebration
symbolized Sanctuary’s maturation as well as its tremendous potential for communal and
societal change.186
On Sunday, September 28, the celebration held its closing public procession. Supporters
accompanied refugees from Luther Place Memorial Church past the White House to the steps of
the Lincoln Memorial in a “Sanctuary Pilgrimage / Solidarity March” symbolizing the refugee
184
All Souls Unitarian Church, Luther Place Memorial Church, St. Aloysius Catholic Church, and New York Avenue
Presbyterian Church played host to conference panels, films, cultural events, testimonies, plenary gatherings, and
worship services over the course of the weekend. DC Metro Sanctuary Committee papers, ASUC archives.
185
Flier, “Sanctuary Celebration: ‘From Captivity to Covenant,” ASUC archives.
186
Ruth Marcus and Keith Harriston, “Demonstrators Stress Strength Of the Sanctuary Movement,” WP, Sept 29,
1986, D1; “Sanctuario seguirá trabajando aunque se oponga el gobierno,” EP, Oct 2, 1986, 3; “Un movimiento en
controversia,” EL, 26 Sept – 3 Oct, 1986; 1, 6.
172
journey from captivity to freedom. 187 There, North Americans renewed their covenant with
Central American refugees and with the Sanctuary movement itself. More notable than the actual
ceremony, however, was the combination of “Sanctuary” and “Solidarity” on banners, posters,
and placards. In a way, the strategic pairing of these two potent words could be read as a public
affirmation – even a resounding confirmation – of the efforts of Salvadoran refugee activists in
Washington, DC and across the United States over the past several years. The thousands of visits
to churches, the testimonios, the fund-raisers, the lobbying, the coalition-building, the grassroots
outreach, the mobilizations, and the protests had borne fruit. The incorporation of Salvadoran
and other Central American voices into the Sanctuary movement had brought North Americans
closer to understanding the goals of Salvadoran activists in the US. At the same time, Salvadoran
activists had successfully leveraged their relationships with North Americans to gain a wider
audience and further legitimize their cause.188
The small but dedicated group of Salvadorans who, alongside their North American
counterparts, founded and staffed CARECEN, the Salvadoran Refugee Committee, La Clínica
Del Pueblo, and other self-help organizations had endured threats, intimidation, torture, and
ultimately exile for their opposition to a murderous Salvadoran military high command, the
politicians who supported it, and their wealthy right-wing benefactors. Stranded in an alien
environment, strapped for resources, and working under the constant threat of deportation, these
revolutionary activists put their skills to work for the benefit of all Salvadorans – those who
shared their experiences of persecution, those who did not, and even the persecutors
187
Marcus and Harriston, “Demonstrators Stress Strength.”
188
This occurred in a number of ways, including but not limited outreach to DC politicians and interest groups by
Salvadoran-North American activist coalitions. See Arcadio Torres, “Conferencia sobre refugiados,” EL, Feb 1, 1986,
4.
173
themselves.189 Robbed of their ability to contribute to the popular movement in El Salvador,
these activists utilized revolutionary ideals and organizing methods to advocate for the rights of
Central American refugees in Washington, DC and across the United States. “We came hungry
for democracy,” recalls Juan Romagoza, “with urgency, and (the) need to have all of our
rights.” 190 In fighting for these rights, they adapted the participatory, grassroots organizing
tactics of the Salvadoran revolution to the streets of Washington, DC, right up to the steps of the
US Capitol and the White House. Despite the Reagan administration’s best attempts to deny
them legitimacy and discredit their efforts, this small group of Salvadoran expatriates leveraged
North American connections and relationships to contest the dominant narrative spun by the US
President and assemble the framework of an incipient support network in the US capital city.
Such informal social networks worked in conjunction with existing social service
organizations and religious institutions to facilitate Salvadoran adaptation and survival in the
Washington, DC metropolitan area during the 1980s. As the decade unfolded and the Salvadoran
population grew in size and strength, some aspects of their lives in the District grew more
manageable: grocery stores began stocking more Central American foods; banks hired more
bilingual tellers; places of worship provided spaces for the preservation of shared cultural values.
Yet for most Salvadoran immigrants, formidable obstacles to achieving the American Dream
remained firmly entrenched. Language barriers prevented easy communication; drastically
reduced federal funding and a lack of legal status reduced their ability to take advantage of
desperately needed financial assistance; local government officials paid them little heed; abusive
landlords and rising real estate prices hobbled their attempts at finding affordable housing; and
189
CARECEN and La Clínica Del Pueblo treated all Salvadorans, regardless of their political affiliation or past history
in the war. It would not have been out of the ordinary to see an ex-guerrilla and a Salvadoran army veteran sitting
next to each other while waiting for the same services.
190
174
public schools failed to properly accommodate their children. Underneath all of these issues lay
the issue of race, which had defined the District of Columbia since federal planners carved it out
of the slave states of Maryland and Virginia over two centuries ago. As Salvadorans attempted to
navigate the treacherous racial fault lines that had bedeviled the city since its inception, they
encountered entrenched systemic inequity, widespread social ills, and a confusing array of
cultural barriers and unspoken expectations. The next chapter charts the course of their struggle
to surmount such obstacles to legitimacy as Salvadorans sought to become “Wachintonians.”191
191
Quique Avilés, Salvadoran-born and DC-based artist and poet, used the term “Wachintonian” in several of his
plays, playing off the Spanish phonetic pronunciation of the capital city. See Los Treinta, Quique Avilés, 2010, Np.
Ana Patricia Rodríguez of the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at the University of Maryland entitled her
later article “Becoming Wachintonians: Salvadorans in the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Area,” Washington
History 28, no. 2 (2016): 3-12.
175
CHAPTER 5:
LIMITATIONS ON NEW LIVES, 1980-1991
For Salvadorans, the decision to settle in Washington, DC was not a difficult one. A
prestigious international city boasting a booming economy, by the end of the 1970s the
Washington metropolitan area was already home to at least 30,000 Salvadorans, who offered
social and employment networks for refugees fleeing the country’s civil war.1 The regional job
market offered an abundance of opportunities to earn more money in one month than some
migrants earned in a year back home. 2 Better yet, no entrenched Latin American immigrant
group controlled the supply of jobs; the market was wide open. Yet despite the potential for
economic prosperity in the capital city, Washington struggled with social ills such as high crime,
impoverished neighborhoods and blight, and an escalating drug epidemic – all of which plagued
urban areas across the United States and were often exacerbated by federal policies during the
1980s. At the same time, local politicians often failed to recognize or prioritize Washington’s
burgeoning Latino population.
Salvadorans, who flocked to the capital area by the thousands during the 1980s seeking
gainful employment and the potential to build new lives, found ample opportunities for both
upon arrival. Yet surviving in Washington posed its own set of distinct challenges:
undocumented Salvadorans navigated a nebulous and murky world, vulnerable to exploitation by
employers, neighbors, and even family members. Even those lucky enough to possess valid
immigration papers found themselves at the bottom of the social ladder upon arrival, regardless
1
Karlyn Barker and Eric Pianin, “The Wait for Reprieve or Return,” WP, March 4, 1988, A1. Population statistics
vary radically, depending upon whether one utilizes US Census records or estimates by local social service
agencies. This study will generally cite numbers generated by the latter and by the District’s Office of Latino Affairs
(OLA), as such estimates are far more likely to include the vast population of undocumented Salvadorans who
were less likely to participate in official government counts.
2
Christopher Dickey, “The Immigrant Worker Ploy: Keeping Busy Without a Card,” WP, July 16, 1978, A1.
176
of their academic degrees or prior expertise. Salvadorans also encountered a city that had been
defined by race since its inception, and they struggled to come to terms with a new and often
confusing race-based social hierarchy. As the 1980s progressed, Salvadorans negotiated the
boundaries of two socially constructed systems – one defined by formal laws, the other governed
by entrenched assumptions and rooted in centuries of discrimination – in legitimizing themselves
as inhabitants of the nation’s capital city.
Background: Washington in the 1980s
In many ways, Washington, DC provided an ideal landing spot for Salvadorans seeking
to escape the chaos and instability of the civil war in their native land. By the 1970s, African
Americans who worked in the service industry and in other low-wage positions were beginning
to leave them for better-paying clerical and administrative jobs in the federal government, aided
by 1960s-era civil rights legislation and Great Society programs that opened up previously
closed doors to deserving minorities. 3 At approximately the same time, middle-class women
began rejoining the workforce at record numbers, creating demand for domestic help and child-
care workers. Into this void stepped pioneering Central American female workers, including
many Salvadorans, who left families and familiar surroundings to carve out a living in the United
States. These women laid the foundation for the coming Salvadoran diaspora.4
3
Robert D. Manning, “Washington, D.C.: The Changing Social Landscape of the International Capital City,” in
Origins and Destinies: Immigration, Race, and Ethnicity in America, ed. Silvia Pedraza and Rubén G. Rumbaut
(London: Wadsworth, 1996), 383.
4
177
Meanwhile, a rapidly expanding suburban home and business housing market along with
incipient inner-city revitalization demanded thousands of unskilled laborers for small and large-
scale infrastructure projects. The 1970s and 1980s witnessed the growth of suburban populations
far from the traditional city center as well-paid professionals fled the inner suburbs of DC for
more luxurious accommodations in what would come to be known as the “exurbs” or “edge
cities.” 5 The rapid rise of these areas was often sparked by the concomitant expansion of a
government-related industry or federal agencies themselves; the relocation of the National
Institutes of Health to suburban Maryland and the growth of the biotechnology industry sparked
a research-and-development “tech corridor” along the newly constructed I-270 highway north of
the Beltway, while defense contractors put down roots in the Northern Virginia suburbs for
better access to the Pentagon’s multi-billion-dollar budget. The expansion of government
contract and consulting industries created hundreds of well-compensated positions for highly
educated professionals in the DC metropolitan area: during the 1980s, the Washington
metropolitan area led the nation in income and education levels.6 The capital region was home to
the five richest counties in the United States, boasted more scientists and engineers per capita
than any other metropolitan urban area in the country, and ranked first in the proportion of
technical and professional employees in the labor force per capita.7 Metropolitan Washington
had become a magnet for wealth, influence, and power as never before.
The massive population shifts and creation of high-paying employment opportunities in
the DC metropolitan area resulted in a sustained economic boom that generated thousands of
service industry and “unskilled” jobs to support these professionals and their lifestyles. Massive
5
In his landmark study Edge City: Life on the New Frontier, Joel Garreau lists 16 areas surrounding the District of
Columbia that grew at a rapid rate during the 1980s that he terms “edge cities.” Joel Garreau, Edge City: Life on the
New Frontier (New York: Doubleday, 1991).
6
7
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 56. Income levels based on per capita income.
178
investment from international behemoths such as IBM, AT&T, and Martin Marietta in sprawling
new industrial parks lining the suburban highways combined with companies and nonprofit
organizations that decamped from the city to the suburbs to spark a building boom: in 1988, the
capital area led all North American and European cities in office construction, according to a
survey of 49 major metropolitan markets.8 Like any invading force, the “white-collar armies” of
contractors, consultants, scientists, lawyers, engineers, and information technology specialists
that carved farms and pastures into subdivisions demanded services and support: construction
workers to build new offices and homes, janitorial and housekeeping staff to clean the buildings,
restaurants to feed their inhabitants, and landscaping crews to ensure a pristine suburban
aesthetic. Fueled by this growth, small businesses sprouted up across the region at a rate of 50
percent higher than the national average.9 By the end of 1988, the Washington area’s economy
weighed in as the fourth-healthiest regional market in the United States, trailing only San Diego,
Minneapolis, and Atlanta in its rate of expansion.10
The demand for jobs created by the DC area’s sustained economic boom outstripped its
population increase during the 1980s, creating a void filled by Central Americans attracted by
the availability of employment and relatively higher wages. Between 1983 and 1988, the official
population of the Washington, DC metropolitan area increased by 12 percent, while the number
of available jobs shot up 27 percent. 11 Although it did not boast a garment sector like Los
Angeles or petroleum-related manufacturing jobs like Houston, Washington still offered hourly
salaries well above the minimum wage for entry-level workers at that time and superior to
8
Robert D. Manning, “Multicultural Washington, D.C.: the changing social and economic landscape of a post-
industrial metropolis.” Ethnic and Racial Studies 21, no. 2 (March 1998): 343; David Hilzenrath, “Washington Area
Leads in Office Construction,” WP, Feb 11, 1989, E1.
9
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 55
10
11
As official census data vastly undercounts undocumented individuals, DC’s population most likely increased by
far more than 12 percent. Repak, Waiting on Washington, 55.
179
working-class wages in similar cities.12 News of the demand for “good” jobs – primarily service-
oriented positions – spread rapidly along Salvadoran social and familial networks. Isabel
Martínez typified many Salvadorans who initially settled in Los Angeles but later decamped for
Washington. “I liked it in Los Angeles,” she recalled. “But when my brother came, he said we
should go to Washington because in Washington we could get better jobs. Some people told him
that.”13 “Ramiro,” who arrived mojado in January of 1987, also left L.A. to find work in DC. “In
L.A., things were so bad,” he recalled. “At least here I am working - $100 for a six-day week is
better than nothing.” 14 José Sandoval, who grew up in the rural Salvadoran department of
Chalatenango, emigrated to Washington after listening to his brother’s friend rave of the
abundant jobs, favorable working conditions, and higher wages he enjoyed during his two years
working in the capital city.15 Word had spread; Salvadorans knew DC meant better pay. “Here
they have more work, more opportunity,” opined a Salvadoran busboy interviewed by a
Washington Post reporter in the late 1970s. “In restaurants in Washington, they pay more than
anywhere.”16
In addition to a favorable regional economy, Salvadorans benefitted from the lack of
competition from established Latin American immigrant groups in the DC area. Unlike other
large urban areas that attracted Salvadorans, Washington’s polyglot Latin American community
contained no dominant Puerto Rican or Mexican population that already controlled entry to the
12
In her study of Central American workers in metropolitan Washington during the 1980s, sociologist Terry Repak
found that almost 50% of her survey participants moved to the Washington area from other US cities. In both Los
Angeles and Houston, two major centers of Salvadoran migration, wages were noticeably lower than in
Washington for comparable occupational sectors. Repak, Waiting on Washington, 61, 122-123.
13
14
Minor Sinclair, “Refugees: Nowhere To Go,” CARECEN Speaks, May/June 1987, 1. CARECEN Archives.
15
16
Dickey, “The Immigrant Worker Ploy.”
180
low-wage job market.17 Salvadorans also profited from an established reputation as hard-working
and dependable employees. In researching Central American workers in the Washington area,
sociologist Terry Repak found that many DC-area employers intentionally recruited Central and
South American women as housekeepers and child-care workers because they that they were
“more diligent, reliable, and willing to work hard in low-wage occupations than were North
Americans” and were more “warm and nurturing” with children.18 Employers across a variety of
sectors singled out Salvadorans in particular, noting that they “were imbued with a work ethic
that made them valuable employees” and that they were “diligent, hard-working, and willing to
commit to longer hours on the job than employees from other ethnic or national groups.”19 “They
are very good employees, extremely dependable,” remarked restaurant owner Dominique
D’Ermo when asked about the Salvadorans who manned his kitchen staff. “When one is sick,
they send in a brother to cover, and when they leave, they send a replacement. It’s like having a
built-in employment agency,” another restaurant owner observed.20 Salvadoran workers of all
genders and ages benefitted from such positive stereotypes.
Not all was rosy in Washington’s world of immigrant labor, however. Despite the
advantages of higher wages and more available jobs in the DC area, Salvadorans still found
themselves on the bottom of the regional economic ladder in menial jobs. Regardless of their
previous educational status or work experience in their native land, Salvadorans were relegated
to positions that had been left open by African Americans as they moved into more stable and
remunerative employment.21 Most of the low-grade jobs that Salvadorans took involved grueling
schedules with long hours and were often physically stressful; chronic pain and lasting injuries
17
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 99-100; 122-123.
18
19
20
Caryle Murphy, “Restaurateurs Fear Problems If Salvadorans Are Ousted,” WP, June 27, 1983, C1.
21
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 67; Dickey, “The Immigrant Worker Ploy.”
181
from work-related incidents were not uncommon. Live-in domestic workers often settled for
seeing their own children a mere one day each week, leading to emotional and psychological
stresses on existing families.22 Employer abuse – from intimidation and sexual harassment to
outright wage theft – ran rampant, especially in the cases of undocumented workers, who could
claim few legal protections. Yet thanks to the Reagan administration’s politicized refugee policy
during their country’s civil war, thousands of Salvadorans had no choice but to enter the United
States illegally and live at the margins of society. The plight of the “illegal” thus defined the
Salvadoran immigrant experience in Washington, DC.
Part I: A Question of Legality
They are penniless when they arrive. The Vietnamese, the Cubans all brought more money with
them, and this country felt it owed them something. They did not live as the Salvadorans do, in
permanent fear of this government.23
- Marcelo Fernández, Director, District of Columbia Office of Bilingual Education (1983)
During the 1980s, the Washington, DC metropolitan area experienced the most rapid
growth in its immigrant population in the twentieth century. 24 Salvadorans joined tens of
thousands of new immigrants from Africa, the Middle East, and Southeast Asia, transforming
neighborhoods in the District of Columbia and its suburbs into international and multicultural
22
Such hours inevitably led to interpersonal stresses and sometimes to fractured families. For a moving profile of
one of these families, see Alma Guillermoprieto, “Aliens in an Urban Frontier,” WP, Oct 12, 1983, A1.
23
Alma Guillermoprieto, “Salvadoran Refugees Straining D.C. Public Schools,” WP, Oct 2, 1983, A1.
24
During this decade, the immigrant population of the Washington, DC metropolitan area almost doubled in size,
while the District’s foreign-born population grew by 45%. US Census Bureau records cited in Audrey Singer, “At
Home in the Nation’s Capital: Immigrant Trends in Metropolitan Washington” (Washington, DC: Brookings
Institution Center on Urban and Metropolitan Policy, June 2003), 3, 5.
182
spaces. In terms of sheer numbers, Salvadorans were far and away the most numerous of the new
immigrant groups to settle in the DC area. 25 Yet with respect to the region’s other major
immigrant populations, Salvadorans found themselves at a distinct disadvantage. For while the
majority of Vietnamese, Cambodian, Korean, Chinese, and Ethiopian immigrants who arrived in
the DC area during the 1980s entered the US legally as refugees or on work visas, Reagan
administration denied Salvadoran immigrants refugee status and rejected approximately 98
percent of their political asylum applications.26 Branded “illegal aliens” and refused the benefits
granted to legal refugees, Salvadorans sought to negotiate the terms of their “legality” in the
public realm and establish a firm and lasting foundation for their presence in Washington, DC.
Those Salvadorans who arrived without papers during the 1980s were by no means the
first undocumented immigrants in DC or the first Latinos to face harassment and discrimination
because of their status. The capital city’s Latino community was founded in part by immigrants
who had overstayed tourist and diplomatic visas as well as those who had made the treacherous
trip overland through Mexico and the US Southwest. “Most of our people are not citizens,” noted
community leader Carlos Rosario in 1972. “They have no political power. They can’t get jobs.
Many of them are afraid to go out into the street.”27 Sharon Armuelles, Executive Director of
Ayuda legal aid clinic in 1980, observed that her clients suffered at the hands “unscrupulous
landlords, shopkeepers, and others who try to make a profit from the natural fear in which most
undocumented persons live.” “It’s staggering and frightening,” she said. “It means that
25
By 2000, Salvadorans made up 12.6% of the Washington metro area’s foreign-born population; the next closest
were Koreans (5.5%) and Indians (5.5%). Singer, “At Home in the Nation’s Capital,” 1-14.
26
During the 1980s, the State Department approved approximately 2% of Salvadoran requests for political asylum.
In comparison, between June 1983 and March 1991, it approved approximately 75% of asylum requests from the
Soviet Union, 70% from China, 61% from Iran, 47% from Ethiopia, 35% from Vietnam, and 25% from Nicaragua. See
Menjívar, Fragmented Communities, 83; and U.S. Committee for Refugees, “Refugees Admitted to the United
States by Nationality: FY 80-91," Refugee Reports, Dec. 30, 1991, 10-11.
27
Medsger, “Latins Form Largest Immigrant Group.”
183
somebody can just use and abuse undocumented people because they’re undocumented. They
can take their money or force them out of their dwelling.”28
Undocumented Latinos also faced periodic harassment from immigration agents at places
of employment, private residences, and public locales. INS occasionally raided restaurants in
downtown Washington, sending customers scrambling and employees dashing madly out the
back doors to avoid arrest and deportation.29 Immigration officers were also known to approach
“foreign-looking” individuals at bus stops or arrive unannounced at private homes to check for
residency or employment papers.30 High-profile mass arrests were less common, but they did
occur from time to time. In December of 1976, INS agents and US Park Police stormed a crowd
of 350 spectators cheering on local Peruvian and Salvadoran soccer teams in West Potomac
Park, sending players and fans diving into the icy waters of the Tidal Basin in frantic efforts to
31
escape. Three years later, the INS swept through the Annapolis Hotel, arresting 92
undocumented workers in the largest single roundup of illegal immigrants in DC history. 32
Immigration lawyer David Carliner was not exaggerating when he remarked that the illegal alien
in Washington, DC lived in “a mild state of terror.”33
28
Marsha Taylor, “ ‘Ayuda’ Means Legal Aid to Spanish-Speaking Community,” WP, Jan 3, 1980, DC4.
29
A 1979 Washington Post article described “dishwashers and busboys sprinting down M St NW or diving into
closets to hide” from INS agents who raided Blackie’s House of Beef in downtown Washington, DC. Other articles
from local newspapers note similarly chaotic circumstances surrounding immigration raids in the DC area. Dickey
and DeYoung, “Illegal Entry.”
30
Isabel West, “Ferment in the Barrio,” Evening Star, Nov 11, 1973, C1.
31
The action resulted in the arrest of 26 individuals; it was not reported whether any faced deportation after
arrest. Louise A. Reid, “U.S. Unit Bars Mass Arrests of Immigrants,” WP, Dec 4, 1976, B1.
32
Christopher Dickey, “Illegal Aliens Arrive Home to Start New Lives,” WP, May 7, 1979, A1.
33
Medsger, “Latins Form Largest Immigrant Group.” It should be noted that employers ran far less risk than their
undocumented employees. A 1978 Washington Post profile of DC-area restaurateurs who employed
undocumented immigrants portrayed INS raids as “largely an inconvenience.” The owner of Dominique’s, an
upscale restaurant in DC, claimed that “within an hour” of the INS raiding his restaurant and carting off several of
his employees, “a whole new batch of people were waiting at the door” ready to work. See Dickey, “The Immigrant
Worker Ploy.”
184
In response, undocumented Latinos devised ways to mitigate the risks of working
illegally, often with the tacit compliance of their employers. It was not uncommon for workers to
borrow “green cards” from friends, conjure up fake social security numbers, or otherwise forge
their identities in pursuing employment. 34 While some employers checked carefully for
documentation, many merely waved it off as a formality. “It’s no use to ask them if they have
green cards. You know they don’t have any,” opined restaurateur Dominique D’Ermo, whose
eatery lay a mere three blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House, in 1978.35
Guilio Santillo, owner of the posh Tiberio Ristorante on K Street NW, admitted that he would
accept any number that a prospective worker provided as proof of Social Security. “What they do
sometimes is take a telephone number and add two digits,” Santillo said.36 Employers were clear
when asked why they often conveniently overlooked the lack of proper documentation:
undocumented laborers would do the dirty work for low pay that North Americans refused to do,
and they were more diligent, trustworthy, and reliable than the US citizens who may apply for
such jobs. 37 Many Washington-area industries – not merely food service but construction,
housecleaning, child care, and landscaping, among others – recognized that undocumented
immigrants yearned to work and bent the boundaries of legality in order to accommodate them.38
34
Michel Mariott, “Growing Up Salvadoran in the U.S.,” WP, April 22, 1985, D1; Dickey, “The Immigrant Worker
Ploy.”
35
36
Santillo made no secret that when he founded his Italian restaurant in 1975, he himself was an illegal immigrant.
37
Restaurant owners openly shared their reasons for preferring foreigners over US-born workers, who in this case
often came from the black lower class. “It’s a question of respect for the job, for the place where they work,”
mused Barnard Gorland of Sans Souci, a DC restaurant. “I have one Spanish-speaking guy whose wife called this
morning and said, ‘Oh, my husband is so sick and can’t come in.’ She offered to come in herself. With a black guy,
you might be lucky to get a call.” Dominique D’Ermo concurred: “Blacks are not interested in scrubbing floors and
doing those dirty things. But somebody’s got to empty the garbage, and you don’t smell like Chanel No.5, you
know.” Dickey, “The Immigrant Worker Ploy.”
38
For a critical analysis of black/immigrant competition, see chapter 11 of Roger Waldinger and Michael I. Lichter’s
How the Other Half Works: Immigration and the Social Organization of Labor (Los Angeles: University of California
Press, 2003).
185
It would be wrong, however, to attribute to sheer altruism the willingness of employers to
look the other way when it came to documentation. Many may have done so out of empathy with
immigrant workers, but hiring undocumented workers was also in their best financial interest.39
North American parents chose Salvadoran women to care for their children because they found
them to be “warm and nurturing,” but they could also pay undocumented Salvadorans “under the
table” and skirt burdensome rules that governed employer-employee relations in more formal job
sectors. Restaurateurs hired undocumented Salvadorans because they would clean floors, scrub
dishes, and empty the garbage when North Americans would not, but it also helped that their
legal status left them far more vulnerable to exploitation and abuse. Joaquín Domínguez Parada,
who as Executive Director of CARECEN in the early 1980s met with hundreds of undocumented
Salvadorans every week, laid out the inherent injustice of the relationship: North American
employers “can pay Salvadorans less than the minimum wage, and no one will tell. Salvadorans
stay quiet. If they complain, the bosses threaten to turn them over to immigration. The bosses
profit from our tragedy.”40
39
Some bosses did truly support their undocumented employees, pay them nominally well, and even sponsor their
applications for residency. In her interviews with employers of undocumented immigrants in Washington, Terry
Repak encountered several who not only expressed sympathy for the plight of their illegal employees but also had
gone out of their way to support them in the legalization process. Stefan Viola, who at one time had been illegal
himself and who had risen to become the owner of an expensive Italian restaurant in the District, posted bond for
all 17 of his employees arrested in an INS raid on his restaurant and thereafter sponsored 16 of them for labor
certification, which eventually led to their permanent residency. Another restaurateur, who described himself as a
“staunch Republican,” footed the bill for the hefty legal fees necessary to help his undocumented employees gain
work permits. Repak, Waiting on Washington, 137-138.
40
Philip Shenon, “Salvadorans, Silence and Irony,” NYT, April 23, 1985.
186
IRCA’s Impact
I arrived in this country in 1983, because the soldiers killed my two brothers in El Salvador. And
if now, with the new law, they take our jobs away, I don’t know where we are going to go.41
- Juan Martínez, Salvadoran refugee (1986)
What should we do? Where shall we go? Swim to Sweden? 42
- Carmen Mónico, Director, Salvadoran Refugee Committee (1987)
While Joaquín Domínguez Parada, his colleagues at CARECEN, and other nonprofits
worked in the streets and in the courtroom to protect undocumented Salvadoran immigrants from
abuse, a bill designed to provide a long-term solution to the issue of illegal immigration was
slowly making its way through Congress. The Simpson-Mazzoli Act, formally known as the
Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986, or IRCA, was signed into law on November 6,
1986 by President Ronald Reagan after years of deliberation and debate. A bipartisan attempt to
address the nagging issue of illegal immigration to the United States, IRCA significantly altered
the terms by which employers and their undocumented employees negotiated legality, leaving
those Salvadorans without work papers vulnerable to increased exploitation and abuse. Designed
to stem the flow of immigrants who settled in the United States without proper documentation,
IRCA also addressed the millions of immigrants – a large percentage of them Mexicans – who
had arrived illegally over the past two decades and who remained “in the shadows.”43 The act
offered the latter group a direct path to citizenship if they could prove that they had resided
41
“Serán pocos los beneficiados por la amnistía,” EP, Oct 23, 1986, 5.
42
Minor Sinclair, “Refugees: Nowhere To Go,” CARECEN Speaks, May/June 1987, 7, CARECEN archives.
43
Language providing for a stay of deportation for Salvadorans illegally residing in the United States was struck
from the bill at the Reagan administration’s request before the bill went up for a vote. CARECEN Speaks, Jan/Feb
1987, 4, CARECEN archives.
187
continuously in the United States since Jan 1, 1982 and had not been convicted of a felony.44 To
dissuade more immigrants from attempting to enter the US illegally, IRCA beefed up security
along the US-Mexican border and, more importantly, sought to reduce the number of jobs
available to illegal aliens by only allowing US citizens, permanent residents, and other
authorized workers to apply. For the first time in US history, employers who knowingly hired
undocumented workers would be penalized financially for doing so. The government gave
employers 18 months to comply. On June 1, 1988, the INS began its crackdown on illegal
immigrants and their bosses across the country.45
The new law proved particularly devastating to Salvadoran immigrants in the
Washington metropolitan area, 90 percent of whom had arrived after 1981 and had failed to
qualify for amnesty.46 A March 1987 Washington Post article captured the terror and fear that
gripped undocumented Salvadorans across the District, Maryland, and Virginia in the wake of
the bill’s passage. “This is a time of desperation and even panic,” said CARECEN Executive
Director Sylvia Rosales. “Everybody is selling cars. They are ready to leave, but they don’t know
where to go.”47 Salvadorans pulled their children out of schools en masse: 10 percent of the
3,000 Salvadoran students enrolled in the District of Columbia’s public schools left the system
following IRCA’s passage, according to Marcelo Fernandez, the system’s director of bilingual
education. “I have at least 300 kids who have dropped out and gone back to the streets,”
44
Arnold & Porter, Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 16. Farm workers, or Seasonal Agricultural Workers
(SAW), were granted more lenient dates of entry. Repak, Waiting on Washington, 134.
45
46
Carlos Sanchez, “Salvadorans Fearful of Deportation,” WP, May 26, 1987, B1. Of the estimated 500,000 –
1,000,000 Salvadorans who resided in the United States at the time of the bill’s passage, studies suggest that
around half had arrived after the Jan 1, 1982 cut-off date. See Repak, Waiting on Washington, 135. In his 1988
survey of Salvadorans in the United States, Salvadoran sociologist Segundo Montes found that 22% were legal and
another 21% were in the process of attaining legal status through IRCA. See Montes Mozo and García Vásquez,
Salvadoran Migration to the United States, 9,20. CARECEN held that only 10% of Salvadorans in the United States
qualified for IRCA. CARECEN Speaks, Jan/Feb, 1987, 4, CARECEN archives.
47
Marc Fisher, “Legal Confusion Disrupts Area Salvadorans’ Lives,” WP, March 2, 1987, A1.
188
Fernandez noted sadly.48 Social service agencies that offered English classes witnessed a marked
decrease in the number of Salvadorans enrolled: Mark Poletunow, a Capuchin priest who
oversaw classes at Sacred Heart Catholic Church, noted that after IRCA’s passage, many
Salvadorans felt there was little use in learning English if they were merely going to be
deported.49 Dennis Hoffman, whose local community organization saw a 20-30% reduction in
ESL courses following IRCA’s passage, agreed. “Salvadorans are increasingly obsessed with the
very possibility of having to leave,” he said. 50 The situation seemed bleak, and Salvadorans
began to prepare for yet another forced displacement.
Confusion and misunderstanding among employers merely exacerbated the situation.
Although IRCA only applied to workers hired after May of 1987, many employers – either
because they did not understand the law or because they chose to use it as an excuse –
immediately fired all of their undocumented employees following the passage of IRCA.51 "My
manager called me in with seven other workers, all Salvadoran, and told us we were fired
because of the new law," said José Catarino, a Salvadoran who moved to Washington in 1985
under threats from government soldiers and found work with the local construction company
Miller and Long. "I asked what I had done wrong, because I was doing a good job. The manager
said, 'You aren't doing anything wrong, you just don't have papers.'" Unemployed, he struggled
to survive. “Life was so difficult in El Salvador, and I thought if I found good luck here I could
help my children,” whom he had left to find work in the US. “Now we face something we were
not expecting. There is no work, and my friends are even going back to my country because
48
Marc Fisher, “Legal Confusion.”
49
“English Classes Lose Salvadorans,” WP, July 9, 1987, J1.
50
“English Classes Lose Salvadorans.”
51
189
there is nowhere else.”52 Roberto, a 29-year-old recent Salvadoran immigrant fired by Richmarr
Construction, shared a similar experience. “My boss said they got an order from their bosses that
they can’t employ anyone who doesn’t have their papers, no matter what their reason for being in
the country,” he told a Washington Post reporter.53 Another local construction company ordered
employees to produce green cards within a week or be let go. “Hundreds of people are being
fired,” railed Arlene Gillespie, director of the DC Mayor’s Office of Latino Affairs. “Who will
replace these people?”54
Such misunderstandings of the law and blatant abuse thereof exacted a heavy toll on
Salvadorans. With so many immigrants who worked in the formal service sector – particularly
men – losing their jobs, families came to depend to an even greater degree on the work of
women, who often worked in the more informal (and less regulated) sectors of child care and
domestic service.55 These jobs, however, generally proved less financially remunerative than that
those held by men in the service and construction industries. 56 Women who suddenly found
themselves the sole breadwinners of their households often took on one or even two extra jobs to
compensate, causing both themselves and their families great stress. 57 Area social service
agencies also reported a significant uptick in applications for food and housing assistance in the
months following IRCA’s passage: CASA-Maryland alone saw an 800 percent increase in
families needing food donations.58 As the months dragged by and hopelessness set in, many
Salvadorans made plans to leave the United States. Six thousand Salvadorans surged across the
52
53
54
Marc Fisher, “Legal Confusion;” Minor Sinclair, “Refugees: Nowhere to Go,” CARECEN Speaks, May/June 1987, 1,
CARECEN archives.
55
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 126, 150; Zita Arocha, “Illegal Immigrants Decide to Stay Put,” WP, July 11, 1988,
D1.
56
57
Arocha, “Illegal Immigrants.”
58
James Muñoz, “Many Area Salvadorans Going Home,” WP, July 21, 1987, A1.
190
Canadian border in January of 1987, prompting Canada to restrict entry by refugees.59 Crowds
poured into the Salvadoran embassy each day demanding provisional passports: by July of 1987,
over three times the number of Salvadorans had applied for these documents than all of 1986
combined.60 One-way ticket sales at the Washington office of Salvadoran-owned TACA Airlines
doubled in 1987, prompting the airline to add a new flight from Washington-Dulles to San
Salvador to meet the heightened demand.61 “It is a crisis situation,” observed CASA-Maryland
director John Curry. “A lot of people who have lost their jobs are having difficulty finding new
jobs, and a lot of people are just scared. They don’t know how long they are going to make it.”62
IRCA, it seemed, had brought few Salvadorans “out of the shadows,” instead driving them
deeper underground.63
59
Sinclair, “Refugees,” 7.
60
James Muñoz, “Many Area Salvadorans Going Home,” WP, July 21, 1987, A1.
61
James Muñoz, “Area Salvadorans.”
62
James Muñoz, “Area Salvadorans.”
63
This may have been in part because IRCA’s authors designed it primarily to deal with the millions of
undocumented Mexicans, not Central Americans, who had illegally crossed the border. See Ana Raquel Minian,
Undocumented Lives: The Untold Story of Mexican Migration (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2018).
191
The Struggle to Subsist
“When a Latino is undocumented, their immigration status truly contributes to a much lower and
poorer quality of life … Undocumented status has created a whole disenfranchised sector of our
community that in many ways is really struggling to survive.”64
- Lori Kaplan, Executive Director, Latin American Youth Center (1992)
It’s really tough. But I’m not going back. I’ve got to stick it out here as best I can. We’ve got to
see how we can get work, even if it’s earning just $2 or $3 an hour.65
- Alvaro Vasquez, undocumented immigrant, El Salvador (1988)
In the wake of IRCA’s passage, undocumented Salvadorans adapted to the new
measure’s seemingly harsh stipulations. Recognizing that employers were bound at the very least
to follow the letter of the law, some job-seekers procured fraudulent papers, which were easily
accessible if somewhat more costly than they had been before IRCA.66 Undocumented workers
who chose not obtain forged documents often filed for political asylum, which offered a
temporary work permit while one’s case moved through the immigration court system.67 Still
others joined the informal economy, working as day laborers or as street vendors. In all cases,
Salvadorans strove to be legal – or at least attain the veneer of legality – in negotiating the terms
of their survival under IRCA.
64
Statement of Lori Kaplan, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-37.
65
66
In addition to falsified social security cards, workers now had to purchase a forged work permit, which ran
anywhere from $200-600. Repak, Waiting on Washington, 152. In a study carried out in Southern California by the
Center for U.S.-Mexican Studies, 39 percent of the 150 recently arrived undocumented workers surveyed admitted
they had purchased or used some form of false identification to obtain employment. Arocha, “Illegal Immigrants.”
67
In the year following the passage of IRCA, requests for political asylum at the DC-Northern Virginia INS regional
office skyrocketed from 50 per month to over 400 per month. Evelyn Hsu, “Under New Law, Requests for Political
Asylum Soar,” WP, March 16, 1988, B5.
192
In their struggle for sustenance, undocumented Salvadorans needed the collaboration of
one key group: their employers. If IRCA was unpopular with DC-area “illegals,” it was equally
despised by the individuals, families, and corporations that had hired them. Employers grumbled
about the added cost of complying with the law but saved their loudest complaints for the law’s
threat of sanctions against anyone who knowingly hired undocumented immigrants.68 They saw
little reason for the INS to punish them for hiring people who desired jobs; as a result, many
Washington-area employers paid little attention to whether documents proffered by potential
employees were in fact valid.69 “We had a problem for the first six months [after IRCA went into
effect], but then all of these people started coming in with perfect documents,” recalled Arletta
Smith, who managed a large cleaning company of approximately 2,000 workers. “I don’t know
where they’re getting them, but I would stand up in court and testify that they’re as legal as I can
determine.”70 Jean Boucher, owner of a posh Georgetown restaurant, agreed: he needed workers,
and he did not care where they came from. “As long as people bring in documents that appear to
be in order, I will hire them,” Boucher proclaimed. “I wouldn’t know how to spot a fraudulent
document and I don’t care to learn. Especially when my back is against the wall, I have to
improvise here to get around the law.”71
68
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 135. Under the new law, employers bore the burden of deciding whether the
documents submitted by their prospective employees appeared genuine but were not responsible for verifying the
validity of the work permits.
69
A majority of the 75 business owners interviewed by sociologist Terry Repak in her study of IRCA’s impact in
metropolitan Washington, DC hoped that IRCA would be either changed or outright abolished in the near future.
70
71
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 130. A U.S. Department of Labor report which analyzed the impact of IRCA on a
wide spectrum of businesses across the country concluded that larger firms were far more likely to be able to
adapt to the law and project labor needs in advance, while “small, ethnically-owned, competitive firms and
markets” experienced far more difficulty in adapting to the law’s stipulations. See Employer Sanctions and U.S.
Labor Markets: Final Report. (Washington, D.C.: Division of Immigration Policy and Research, U.S. Department of
Labor, 1991), 127. Cited in Repak, Waiting on Washington, 157.
193
Perhaps because so many DC-area employers did opt to work around the terms of the
new law, the post-IRCA period was rife with abuse. IRCA provided owners and managers more
opportunities “to exploit workers in a more flagrant manner than previously, since employers
could pay lower wages to undocumented workers and then threaten to fire them if they
complained.”72 Bosses conveniently overlooked falsified work permits or did not ask for them at
all – and then turned around and used that as leverage to abuse their employees, such as “Simon
Mendez,” an undocumented Salvadoran who arrived in the DC area in 1989. 73 Promised a
starting wage of $8.00 an hour by a marble contractor, Mendez was only paid $5.30 per hour and
then repeatedly underpaid after that, even though he had been promised raises. “I did not have
working authorization,” he recalled. “I feared if I did complain, I would lose my job.” The
company’s manager soon refused to pay him at all and began to harass Mendez when he did not
show up to work, threatening to shoot him with a pistol and cut his head off. When Mendez
returned to ask for the approximately $4,500 in back wages owed him, the manager flew into a
rage, smashing his former employee’s mouth open, hurling a box of tools at him, and ultimately
sending Mendez to the emergency room. The beleaguered employee attempted to file a
complaint about the physical abuse with local police, but they refused to accept it.74
Sharon O’Day, an attorney at the immigrant rights organization CASA-Maryland and
director of its Day Laborer Assistance Project at the time Mendez sought help with the agency,
helped her client successfully resubmit his complaint. She affirmed the rampant opportunities for
employer abuse that accompanied IRCA. “Discrimination motivated by the Immigration Reform
72
Repak, Waiting on Washington, 132. For a range of abuses, see Ernesto Clavijo, “Aprovechan carencia de papeles
para explotar a indocumentados,” EP, Sept 29, 1988, 1.
73
“Simon Mendez” is a pseudonym chosen by the Salvadoran worker who testified to the abuses he had suffered
under his employer. He opted to take a pseudonym to protect his identity from his employer and from the INS.
74
The DC police officer who took the report claimed it was “not in correct English and not coherent,” even though
it had been penned by a bilingual hospital official. Statement of Simon Mendez, addendum to Immigration Law: A
Civil Rights Issue, A-6.
194
and Control Act (“IRCA”) sanctions is obvious,” O’Day declared in her 1992 testimony to the
Washington Lawyer’s Committee for Civil Rights Under Law. “The employers, who are risking
sanctions by employing undocumented Latino employees, feel that they, in turn, have the right to
treat the Latino employee as a lower class employee who is ‘lucky to have a job.’”75 Employers
took liberties with their undocumented employees, demanding security deposits or paycheck
deductions to cover potential INS fines, restricting compensation for injuries and overtime work,
and consistently underpaying undocumented workers – or not paying them at all. 76 Life for
undocumented laborers grew less secure, with employers firing workers whom they suspected of
having presented fraudulent documents or whose work authorization was about to expire. Some
undocumented workers found themselves held hostage by employers who promised assistance in
procuring work permits or permanent residency status but never delivered them. 77 If their
78
employees complained about anything, employers threatened to call the INS. Yet
undocumented workers had little recourse: like Mendez, they feared filing complaints with the
Department of Labor over unpaid wages or poor working conditions, correctly perceiving that a
caseworker could turn the complainant over to the INS, which could then initiate deportation
hearings.79 Taking an employer to court had its dangers of INS encounters as well, and many
Salvadoran immigrants were already doubtful about the ability of the legal system to bring
justice, their views shaped by experiences of judicial corruption and court bias in their native
land.80
75
Statement of Sharon O’Day, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-10.
76
“Immigration Bill Brings Fear,” CARECEN Speaks, Jan-Feb 1987, 4, CARECEN archives; Fisher, “Legal Confusion;”
Marcia Slacum Greene, “A Push to Delay Deportation of Aliens,” WP, July 26, 1987, D4.
77
78
79
80
195
IRCA did not merely lead to more abuses of undocumented Salvadorans in the
workplace; it also fostered a widespread culture of discrimination against them in other realms.
Landlords took advantage of their tenants’ tenuous legal status, evicting them for lack of
documentation and forcing them into poor housing conditions after IRCA’s passage.81 District of
Columbia social service staff regularly turned away Salvadorans who could not produce “green
cards,” a marker of permanent residence, even though they possessed other forms of valid
identification that allowed them access to services. 82 The DC Department of Public Works
(DPW) and Maryland Motor Vehicle Administration (MVA) refused to grant drivers licenses to
illegal immigrants; according to Sharon O’Day, the Maryland MVA operated “under the
mistaken belief that they were an extension of the INS” in keeping undocumented individuals off
the roads. 83 George Mason University, the University of Maryland, and Prince George’s
Community College refused to accept undocumented students, and administrators at several area
universities whose official policies did not discriminate against illegal immigrants still often took
it upon themselves to deny them admission. 84 Although not required to do so, local banks
demanded social security numbers to open accounts, barring most Salvadorans from
safeguarding their hard-earned savings.85 In her editorial letter to the Washington Post, DC-based
immigration lawyer Priscilla Labovitz argued that such “petty harassment” of aliens by “well-
intentioned ‘volunteers’ as well as outright xenophobes” had created “a national policy of legal
discrimination against illegal immigrants. IRCA has given people – even reasonable men and
81
Carlos Sanchez, “Salvadorans Fearful of Deportation,” WP, May 26, 1987, B1; Greene, “A Push to Delay;”
Statement of Boris Canjura, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-32; Statement of Lori Kaplan,
addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-37.
82
Statement of Yvonne Vega, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-27.
83
84
Priscilla Labovitz, “No Green Card, No Green Light for Discrimination,” WP, Oct 31, 1990, C8; Immigration Law: A
Civil Rights Issue, 35-36.
85
Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 36-37.
196
women and well-intentioned bureaucrats – the impression that it is not only acceptable but
responsible to discriminate against undocumented immigrants in housing, education, and even
highway safety,” Labovitz opined.86
Such experiences, increasingly common among undocumented Salvadorans in the
Washington metropolitan area after November of 1986, stirred great fear, undermining
immigrant survival and subsistence strategies. Worried about deportation, they avoided hospitals,
doctors, and even community clinics, suffering unnecessarily or paying individuals outside the
medical profession for questionable health advice. 87 Undocumented Salvadorans rarely took
advantage of city services, afraid that employees would report them to the INS. 88 And they
avoided reporting crimes – including police, employer, and landlord abuse – for fear of arrest
and deportation. 89 In lieu of opening an account at local banks, undocumented Salvadorans
stashed their savings under mattresses, in kitchen cabinets, or in a popular but uninsured
underground “bank” that failed spectacularly, robbing Salvadorans of millions of dollars
overnight. 90 Undocumented Salvadorans also fell prey to notarios, non-licensed individuals
selling themselves as immigration experts who, in place of a lawyer, offered to procure
legitimate “papers” for a hefty sum and quite often failed to make good on their promises.91
Boris Canjura, director of the Salvadoran Refugee Committee in 1992, described the situation as
untenable. “The feeling here in the District is that the conditions that a Latino lives in as an
undocumented person are simply unbearable,” he testified. “Undocumented people feel there is
86
Labovitz, “No Green Card.”
87
In one instance, an undocumented immigrant shelled out $1,800 to a local palm reader before finally going to a
doctor and receiving professional medical assistance – for $73. Karlyn Barker, “Newcomers to U.S. Become Victims
of Exploitation,” WP, June 27, 1988, D1; Statement of Boris Canjura, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights
Issue, A-32; Statement of Lori Kaplan, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-46.
88
Statement of Boris Canjura, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-30.
89
Statement of Boris Canjura, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-32, A-33.
90
For a critical analysis of the rise and fall of the Latin Investment Corporation, better known as “El Banquito,” see
Pedersen, American Value.
91
Ernesto Clavijo, “Aprovechan carencia de papeles para explotar a indocumentados,” EP, Sept 29, 1988, 1.
197
nowhere to go in the U.S. where they will not be exploited. Yet people are resigned to being
exploited so that they do not have to return to El Salvador.”92 Scholars and city planners began to
fret about the rise of a new class of poor in Washington: the undocumented Latino.93
Despite the fear, distrust, and constant anxieties that plagued undocumented Salvadoran
immigrants, by the late 1980s it became clear that most Salvadorans who had emigrated to the
United States and the Washington, DC metropolitan area had opted to remain in their new
country of residence rather than return to the bloody civil conflict that still raged in their native
land. Of the 10 percent of those Salvadorans in the District, Maryland, and Virginia who did
qualify for IRCA, most successfully navigated the formidable logistical challenges of the
legalization process, gaining temporary work authorization that opened the door to more stable
jobs offering higher salaries and health benefits. 94 Of the approximately 90 percent of
Salvadorans who did not qualify for amnesty, thousands applied for political asylum, which
automatically granted them temporary work permits while their cases made their way through
the court system.95 Those who chose not to file for asylum purchased forged work permits or
hoped that prospective employers did not ask for papers.96 Many ended up like Alvaro Vasquez,
92
Statement of Boris Canjura, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-32.
93
Mary Jordan, “Many Roads Blocked for Salvadorans,” WP, Dec 17, 1987, A1.
94
Although numbers of Salvadoran in the metropolitan Washington area who received residency under IRCA are
difficult to come by, INS did report that across the country, 168,000 Salvadorans (approximately 95 percent of
those who applied) had obtained residency status under IRCA as of May 16, 1990. This is still a small number,
though, compared to the estimated 500,000 to 1,000,000 Salvadorans who resided in the United States in 1986.
Immigration and Naturalization Services, U.S. Department of Justice, 1989 Statistical Yearbook of the INS 46 (“1989
INS Yearbook”) cited in Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 18.
95
Asylum applications in the DC/Virginia jurisdiction exploded from an average of 50 per month to 400 per month
between 1987 and 1988. Arocha, “Illegal Immigrants.”
96
In testimony to the US Commission on Civil Rights, Salvadoran Refugee Committee member Boris Canjura cited
several reasons why Salvadorans feared applying for asylum, including the mistaken belief that they would never
being able to return to El Salvador after applying. Salvadorans also did not file for asylum because they were aware
they had very little chance of receiving it and feared being deported and labeled as communists by the Salvadoran
government upon return. A general fear of contact with the INS also kept Salvadorans from applying. Statement of
Boris Canjura, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-30; Statement of Lori Kaplan, addendum to
Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-35.
198
a 24-year-old Salvadoran man who had cleaned floors in a local restaurant for one month in 1988
before being fired for lack of immigration papers. Vasquez and his wife Marta, both
unemployed, slept on a blanket on the kitchen floor of a friend’s efficiency apartment in the
Adams Morgan neighborhood. Every Saturday morning, the couple lined up outside the
Salvadoran Refugee Committee office for a weekly handout of masa, beans, rice, sugar, and oil.
“It’s really tough,” Vasquez said. “But I’m not going back. I’ve got to stick it out here as best I
can. We’ve got to see how we can get work, even if it’s earning just $2 or $3 an hour.”97
Like Alvaro and Marta Vasquez, most undocumented Salvadorans in the DC
metropolitan area did stick it out, surviving the lean years following IRCA’s passage through
sacrifice, hard work, and mutual support. The feared tidal wave of thousands returning to their
native land failed to materialize, much to the relief of the Salvadoran government, which had
unsuccessfully lobbied the Reagan administration to allow Salvadorans to remain temporarily in
the United States.98 Although the INS carried out several high-profile busts at Washington-area
day laborer gatherings, construction sites, restaurants, and hotels to demonstrate its commitment
to enforcing employer sanctions, the Reagan administration pointedly refrained from carrying
out a massive deportation regime. Remittances continued to flow, keeping the Salvadoran
economy afloat. Salvadorans in DC were also buoyed by aid from local social service agencies,
which redoubled their efforts to serve a steadily increasing immigrant population: the Spanish
Catholic Center reported that applications for emergency aid jumped from 982 in May of 1987 to
97
98
Salvadoran President José Napoleón Duarte had asked President Reagan in April of 1987 to extend a temporary
reprieve to Salvadorans, fearing that an influx of 400,000-600,000 Salvadoran expatriates would send a country
already suffering from high unemployment and poverty into economic chaos and deprive it of the remittances it so
desperately needed from Salvadorans working in the United States. Terri Shaw, “El Salvador Asks U.S. to Help
Cushion Immigrants’ Return Under New Law,” WP, April 28, 1987, A18.
199
2,147 in May of 1988.99 Those who had not qualified for amnesty – the vast majority of the
Salvadoran population in metropolitan Washington, DC – set about testing the limits of IRCA,
bending rules and renegotiating the terms of their legality.100 Yet while the law proved somewhat
porous, other societal constructs remained far less penetrable.
Part II: Salvadorans Navigate the Color Line
The immigration problem here with the Hispanics is not economic; it is racial prejudice … This
is one of the points that the immigrant who arrives in this country realizes immediately: the
racial prejudice that he/she has to confront … And when one comes here to this country, one has
to study what racism is.101
- Rev. Alvaro Corrada del Rio, Auxiliary Bishop, Archdiocese of Washington (1985)
Of course there is tension between the races. The whites don’t like the blacks, the blacks don’t
like the Hispanics, and we prefer the whites. 102
- Antonio Alvarado, age 20 (1991)
For Salvadoran immigrants to the Washington area, the key to improving one’s lot in life
lay in the law. Those who could produce papers – real or falsified – gained access to a more
stable and potentially more lucrative job market. “Legal” Salvadorans could put aside constant
fears of arrest and deportation by INS agents, and they were less likely to experience blatant
discrimination from employers based on their immigration status – and more empowered to
99
100
A 1988 Washington Post article profiled Sonia, a 23-year-old Salvadoran amnesty recipient, who paid one
Salvadoran woman without work papers to help her clean houses and another, recently fired from her hotel
cleaning job because of her legal status, to watch her children while she worked. Arocha, “Illegal Immigrants.”
101
Javier de la Puerta, “El Obispo Hispano de Washington, D.C.,” EL, Sept 15, 1985, 1.
102
Richard Morin and Nell Henderson, “Miles Apart in Mt. Pleasant,” WP, May 19, 1991, A1.
200
report such behavior if they did. Yet work authorization, permanent residency, and even full
citizenship did not guarantee equal or even fair treatment for Salvadoran immigrants in the
national capital region. For Salvadorans, upon arriving in the United States, had immediately
been racialized: thrust into one of the lower tiers on the rigid ethno-racial hierarchy created by a
white majority to ensure the latter group’s social and economic dominance. Salvadorans quickly
found themselves subsumed into the category of “Hispanic” or “Latino” due to their language
preferences, cultural practices, and national origins.103
Such ethno-racial classifications confounded the newly arrived immigrants from Central
America. Most had never heard the word “Hispanic,” let alone “Spanish,” as DC denizens often
erroneously dubbed them. Unaccustomed to being pigeonholed in a racial category that also
defined the limits of their socioeconomic mobility and political power, Salvadorans found
themselves at a distinct disadvantage due primarily to their outward physical appearances and
limited proficiency in the English language. The new immigrants bore the stigma of being non-
white and thus were vulnerable to racially motivated bigotry meted out by whites. But when
asked about racism, Salvadorans rarely took whites to task; it was their encounters with African
American residents that left an indelible mark. Relations between Hispanics and blacks in DC
had never been smooth, and the influx of Salvadorans to the Washington area in the 1980s
introduced a highly vulnerable population of war refugees whose needs strained the District’s
already meager resources and whose presence in traditionally black spaces upset many African
Americans residents. Yet deep budget cuts, dwindling federal subsidies, and an overall scarcity
of resources more often than not pitted the two disadvantaged minorities against each other,
103
See Francis-Fallon’s The Rise of the Latino Vote for an analysis of the role of politics in the creation of the
categories of “Hispanic” and “Latino.”
201
resulting in racial tensions that played out on the streets, in the schools, and at city hall over the
course of the 1980s.
Race, City Politics, and Mayor Barry
I think [Latinos] have a better chance of getting elected in the District than in the surrounding
jurisdictions because black people are the most liberal people in the whole world . . . as a result
of the years of discrimination we've experienced.104
- Frank Smith, Ward 1 ANC Commissioner (1987)
The black community suffered and fought a lot to have political power. Now it's hard for them to
share political power with Latinos.105
- Pedro Lujan, President, Council of Latino Agencies (1987)
Salvadorans fleeing their country’s civil war in the 1980s arrived in a capital city that had
recently undergone profound changes in racial dynamics and was still testing the bounds of its
newly acquired political freedom. Governed by whites since its founding in 1790, Washington,
DC had just won the right to rule itself, freed at least partially from the chains of repressive,
racist Southern congressmen who had for decades dictated the city’s budget and laws.106 The
104
Caryle Murphy, “Old-Style Ethnic Voting Blocs on the Wane,” WP, Dec 18, 1987, A1.
105
Murphy, “Old-Style.”
106
The House District Committee, which exercised a stranglehold on the District of Columbia for decades, was
chaired from 1954 to 1972 by Democrat John McMillan of South Carolina, an avowed segregationist who staunchly
opposed civil rights and local control for the capital city. He lost his seat in 1972, largely the result of a coordinated
campaign by Walter Fauntroy, the District’s first nonvoting Congressional delegate, who organized a massive
campaign among McMillan’s black constituents to vote him out, paving the way for DC home rule. The Senate
appropriations subcommittee responsible for the District budget was for decades chaired by Democrat Robert
Byrd of West Virginia, a former Ku Klux Klan member who, along with McMillan, “reworked city budgets,
eviscerating welfare, education, and housing programs while beefing up the police force.” Asch and Musgrove,
Chocolate City, 336, 378-379.
202
steady flow of white city residents to the suburbs over the past several decades had by 1960
given way to a majority-black city, and the reformist fervor of the following decade had spurred
District residents to lobby for the ability to elect their own local leaders, a move supported by
Democratic administration officials at the federal level.107 In August of 1967, President Lyndon
Johnson replaced the unelected three-commissioner government that had ruled the city since
1874 with a nine-member city council and appointed Walter Washington, a moderate member of
the local black political establishment, as its commissioner – the unofficial mayor of
Washington, DC.108 Several years later, in 1973, the capital city won the ability to elect its own
mayor and city council.109 For the first time in the city’s history, a majority black population had
the power to govern itself.110 And after generations of suffering at the hands of white officials,
they had no intention of relinquishing it.
As blacks consolidated power in the District, a growing Latino community sought to
assert itself in local affairs. By the late 1960s, Latino leaders such as Carlos Rosario and the
Reverend Antonio Welty were advocating loudly for recognition and funding for Washington’s
burgeoning Spanish-speaking population.111 Still a small percentage of an overwhelmingly black
city, Latinos clustered in the Adams-Morgan/Mt. Pleasant/Columbia Heights neighborhoods,
squeezed into low-income apartment buildings and row houses. Here, they mixed with residents
of all races and socioeconomic types and cultivated an active presence in the city – to the extent
107
Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City, 326, 351.
108
109
110
A significant caveat to self-government was that Congress reserved the right to veto all legislation passed by the
DC city council, and the District budget remained firmly tied to federal funding. Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City,
379.
111
203
that Mayor Marion Barry proposed renaming Adams Morgan the “Latin Quarter.”112 As their
population grew, Latinos began to take a more vocal role in local affairs and ran smack into what
one Washington Post reporter termed “aggressive blacks,” who blocked their participation in
community organizations.113 Reverend Welty, while still holding out hope for a black-Latino
urban coalition, condemned what he perceived as black hostility toward Latino community
efforts. “The blacks move up one millimeter and think they have conquered the heavens,” he
groused.114
As the District’s Latino population expanded during the 1970s and began to stake claims
to social services, resources, and jobs, more than a few African American residents took issue
with their presence, which they often equated with illegal immigration. In 1978, activist Calvin
Rolark complained to the DC City Council’s Committee on Employment and Economic
Development that when he entered a restaurant, its workers “don’t even understand what I’m
saying.” “They still don’t have enough jobs for even the citizens and the legal people who are
here, “ he said. “If [the workers] are illegal aliens, let them get the hell out of my country.”115
During newly elected Mayor Marion Barry’s press conference on Columbia Road in Adams
Morgan to announce a needs assessment of the local Latino community in 1979, a black woman
112
The Council of Hispanic Agencies first suggested renaming Adams Morgan the “Latin Quarter” with the stated
intention of increasing the economic base of the neighborhood, stimulating jobs, supporting small businesses, and
protecting low-income Hispanics being displaced by rising housing costs by attracting some of the shopping and
entertainment dollars that the District’s 12 million tourists brought every year. In 1979, Mayor Barry threw his
weight behind the proposal at least in part as an expression of gratitude to Hispanics for overwhelmingly
supporting his successful mayoral bid. Barry eventually withdrew his support for the proposal due to broad
opposition from Adams Morgan residents, who objected to the idea of their neighborhood serving as a tourist
attraction and took offense at what they interpreted as undue emphasis on the area’s Latin heritage in a multi-
cultural community. See Blair Gately, “City Considers Latin Quarter Development,” WP, August 2, 1979, D.C.1;
Gately, “Citizens Opposed to Latin Quarter Temper their Dissent,” WP, Aug 9, 1979, D.C.1; Gately, “Latin Quarter
Plans Shelved After Complaints,” WP, Aug 23, 1979, D.C.1.
113
114
115
Dickey, “The Immigrant Worker Ploy.” For a nuanced analysis of black-immigrant tensions in the workplace, see
Chapter 11 of Roger Waldinger and Michael I. Lichter’s How the Other Half Works: Immigration and the Social
Organization of Labor. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003).
204
in the crowd questioned Barry: “How in the world are you gonna do so much for so many
immigrants when you have people already over here who don’t have nothin’?” she demanded.
“They can get jobs, and we can’t. Why can’t we get jobs? They’ve got homes and all. Why can’t
we get homes?”116 It would not be the last time Mayor Barry was forced to navigate between his
African American constituents in DC and the far smaller but vocal Latino community.
Marion Barry’s relationship with Washington’s Latino leadership proved rocky at best
during his three terms in office. The mayor, who had first triumphed in a narrow three-way race
for mayor in 1978, won in part due to his success in cobbling together a broad-based, multi-
ethnic coalition of blacks, whites, and Latinos. Although the Latino voting population was small,
it went solidly for Barry, no doubt remembering his role in elevating the head of the Office of
Latino Affairs to a cabinet-level position while he was a city councilmember. Yet some Latinos
found the political payoff to be far less than they had desired. For all of Barry’s hopeful words to
his Spanish-speaking constituents, his actions and those of his administration in the following
years consistently frustrated Latino leaders, who felt as though they were being strung along with
empty promises. “This administration is fast to talk but slow to act,” observed Alberto Gomez,
the Executive Director of the Council of Hispanic Community Agencies, citing what he
perceived as a lack of an aggressive housing policy to combat gentrification in Latino
neighborhoods and slashes to city budgets for Latino mental health services and education.117
Marcelo Fernández, director of the DC Office of Bilingual Education, concurred: “We are tired
116
Blair Gately, “Latin Quarter Shelved.”
117
Gomez’s argument did rest on solid statistics: for the 1983 fiscal year, Latino-focused DC social service agencies
received only $26,000 out of the $12 million budgeted to the United Planning Organization, the District’s federally-
funded community action agency responsible for doling out federal grants. Alma Guillermoprieto, “District’s
Growing Hispanic Community Seeks Political Clout to Match Numbers,” WP, Sept 11, 1983, A1.
205
of being served with nice words and hope,” he complained in a 1985 interview.118 Latino leaders
celebrated when Barry named José Gutiérrez, a prominent Latino community leader, to direct the
mayor’s Office of Personnel Services in 1979 – and then were furious when the mayor removed
him as head of the Department of Administrative Services after Gutiérrez went public with
claims of cronyism six years later.119 The resulting furor over Gutiérrez’s demotion and eventual
firing led to the creation of the Ad-Hoc Coalition for a Latino Community Agenda, an
independent body that produced a stinging critique of the DC government’s policies towards
Hispanics.120
The Ad-Hoc Coalition’s final report echoed a long-held criticism leveled by Latinos at
African American politicians concerning the unequal distribution of resources and funds. Latino
leaders had for years argued that DC’s blacks, because they had been deprived for so long of
political power, should naturally understand the Latino minority’s desire for parity in jobs and
resources. However, in what some Latinos argued was a sign of hypocrisy and blatant racism,
black power brokers “jealously guard(ed) the entry doors to the DC system,” in the words of
attorney and community leader Luis Rumbaut.121 Gilberto de Jesus, President of the Hispanic
Bar Association, echoed Rumbaut’s criticism. “We are concerned that the DC government may
118
Kenneth Bredemeier, “Hispanic Leaders Accuse City of Shorting Latinos on Jobs, Services,” WP, June 11, 1985,
B5.
119
Gutiérrez, for years the only Hispanic figure in the upper echelons of the Barry administration, accused City
Administrator Thomas Downs of pressuring him to approve a telephone contract bid offered by Chesapeake and
Potomac Telephone Co., whose executive vice president was a close friend of Mayor Barry. Gutiérrez refused, and
Barry promptly transferred him to a less powerful cabinet position. Gutiérrez then went public with his
accusations, whereupon Barry demoted him and initiated a smear campaign against him, infuriating city Latino
leaders. At the heart of the dispute lay conflict over how contracts were awarded; after the firing, it emerged that
many blacks in the Barry administration were upset that a Hispanic was controlling city contracts and that
Gutiérrez was demoted at least in part to placate certain African American administrators who resented Latino
power in the government. Eric Pianin, “D.C. Aide Claims Contract Pressure,” WP, March 23, 1985, A1; Eric Pianin
and Joe Pichirallo, “Barry Demotes Aide in Dispute Over Contracts,” WP, March 26, 1985, A1;“Despido de Gutiérrez
moviliza a hispanos,” EP, March 27, 1985, 2.
120
Bredemeier, “Hispanic Leaders.”
121
Luis Rumbaut, “Chocolate City,” EL, Dec 16-31, 1977, 7.
206
not be as receptive toward sharing power as it should be,” he noted diplomatically.122 Fr. José
Somoza, Director of the Spanish Catholic Center and longtime director of the city’s Office of
Bilingual Education, concurred. “The people who have the power don’t want to share power,” he
warned.123 All three leaders were correct: Washington’s blacks had fought for decades to attain
political and economic power in their city, and they were not about to relinquish it to an upstart
Latino minority. Clarence Lusane, an African American political scientist at Howard University,
described the situation in blunt terms: “Black city leaders, under electoral pressure to deliver to
those who got them in office, found little political value in calling for expanded services to
Latinos in an atmosphere of shrinking resources.” As a result, Lusane argued, the black-Latino
political relationship approached “quasi-colonial.”124
A significant component of power-sharing at the city level involved the dispensation of
minority contracts and the hiring of government employees, both of which became flashpoints of
conflict between the mayor’s office and Washington’s Latino leaders. Mayor Barry funneled
millions of dollars in city contracts to minority business owners during his first three terms in
office, helping many black Washingtonians into the middle class. Recipients of these contracts
forcefully defended their status, even lobbying for a narrow definition of “minority” that
excluded Asians, Africans, and Hispanics not born in Mexico or Puerto Rico.125 While a member
of DC’s Minority Business Opportunity Commission defended the move as a means to increase
the number of contracts for blacks and “disadvantaged” minorities, an anonymous “influential
122
Kenneth Bredemeier and Michel Marriott, “Barry Not Sharing Power, Hispanics Say; Ratio in City Work Force
Cited,” WP, April 1, 1985, D1.
123
Bredemeier and Marriott, “Barry Not Sharing Power.”
124
Keith Jennings and Clarence Lusane, “The State and Future of Black/Latino Relations in Washington, D.C.: A
Bridge in Need of Repair,” in Blacks, Latinos, and Asians in Urban America, ed. James Jennings (London: Praeger,
1994), 67.
125
Vernon C. Thompson, “City Agency Weighs Restricting Some Ethnics’ Minority Status,” WP, May 22, 1979, A1;
Tom Sherwood, “Expansion of City Minority Plan Draws Fire,” WP, May 28, 1982, B1.
207
Latino leader with ties to the Barry administration” feared that it could result in a disastrous
political war between Hispanics and blacks.126 After his demotion, former Barry cabinet member
José Gutiérrez remarked that he was “tired of the notion that it’s ok for blacks to get contracts,
but it’s something sneaky or dirty when Hispanics get contracts.”127 Black contractors replied
that it was not racism but necessity that prompted their efforts to exclude other minorities. “We
are dealing with black economic genocide, the survival of our black community,” said Cardell
Shelton, president of Southeast General Construction and Maintenance Corp. When rebuked by
DC City Councilmember John A. Wilson for adopting “the same traits as our oppressors,”
Shelton accused Wilson, a former civil rights activist, of being “black in color but white of
mind.” “Your blackness has to be questioned,” Shelton spat back. “What part have you played in
helping us?”128
Latino leaders also protested the paucity of Spanish-speakers in DC’s rapidly expanding
municipal government. Despite a few token upper-level appointments, Latinos lagged far behind
in city employment as a percentage of the District’s total population.129 Marion Barry, who deftly
utilized the city’s payroll as a form of patronage to bolster his popular support, claimed that he
directed his department heads to hire Latinos.130 José Lopez, Barry’s liaison to Latino agencies,
defended the administration’s hiring practices in 1983, arguing that the level of skill and training
present in the general Latino population proved insufficient for the positions available. Citing the
Metropolitan Police Department’s recent recruitment efforts in Philadelphia and New York City,
126
Thompson, “City Agency.”
127
Pianin and Pichirallo, “Barry Demotes Aide.”
128
Sherwood, “Minority Plan.”
129
In 1983, the D.C. Office of Human Rights reported that Hispanics made up approximately 10 percent of the
District’s overall population at the time but only slightly more than 1 percent of its workforce. Bredemeier and
Marriott, “Barry Not Sharing Power.”
130
Milton Coleman, “Records Reveal No Hispanics on Staff of Mayor,” WP, March 6, 1979, C1.
208
Lopez pointed out that the city was attempting to integrate and diversify its workforce.131 Yet
seven years later, the percentage of Hispanics on the government payroll had risen from 1% to a
mere 1.5% - as opposed to the 10% that Latinos insisted was needed to achieve parity.132
Despite their accusations of racism and discrimination, Latino community leaders still
worked to de-escalate tensions and encourage mutual respect and understanding with blacks. In a
1977 El Latino editorial, Luis Rumbaut explained the history of oppression and discrimination
faced by African Americans in the United States as well as their rich cultural traditions to his
largely Hispanic audience in an attempt to humanize black residents of DC, whom he
affectionately termed “our Afro-North American brothers and sisters.”133 Marcelo Fernandez of
the Office of Bilingual Education emphasized the two groups’ shared suffering. “We know what
affects blacks in their fight against racism affects Hispanics in equal manner,” he remarked in an
interview. Fernandez also noted that racism was not limited to whites and blacks. “It is a
contagious virus that affects all,” he said. Just as some blacks discriminated against Latinos,
some Latinos were just as racist as “whites of old.” The solution, according to Fernandez, was
“to work on common causes and get to know each other better.” 134 Yet structural inequities
revolving around resource scarcity ensured that the two groups would continue, as local activist
Aci Byrd put it, to fight “for the crumbs that they [the federal government] give us.”135
131
Alma Guillermoprieto, “District’s Growing Hispanic Community Seeks Political Clout to Match Numbers,” WP,
Sept 11, 1983, A1.
132
DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint for Action, 45. The key issue remained votes: DC’s Latino
population still made up only approximately 1% of the District’s voting population, even though it made up
approximately 5-10% of the District’s total population. Nell Henderson, “Power at the Ballot Box Eludes D.C.
Hispanics,” WP, May 5, 1992, A1.
133
Rumbaut, “Chocolate City,” 7.
134
“Apartheid y La Politica Local,” EL, 17 Enero, 1985, 7.
135
Carlos Sanchez, “Redirecting Racial Tensions,” WP, June 28, 1991, B3. Raul Yzaguirre, who would later serve as
the National Council of La Raza’s president, observed as early as 1978 (at a conference of black and Hispanic
organizations in Washington, DC) that “there’s been a lot of playing off of one minority against the other” by
certain interest groups in order to maintain their power. Warren Brown, “Black, Hispanic Groups to Cooperate on
Goals,” WP, Nov 14, 1978, A9.
209
Salvadorans in the Schools
My people came and planted the great trees. These Hispanics come and enjoy the shade.136
- African American DC school teacher
While Latino community leaders waged a protracted battle with Washington’s black
political class over jobs, city services, and access to power, Salvadorans fleeing a far deadlier
conflict in their homeland were settling by the thousands in the national capital region. Those
who could work did so, often juggling two or even three jobs in the struggle to survive and
provide for their increasingly transnational families. 137 Salvadorans of junior high and high
school age often chipped in to help their parents by working part-time while attending school. It
was at their schools – generally District of Columbia public schools – that many Salvadoran
youth had their first sustained exposure to the racial hierarchy that defined the United States. The
concept of race was not new to Salvadorans; most identified as mestizo, or a mix of Native
American and Spanish blood. 138 Yet upon arrival in the United States, Salvadorans were no
longer mestizos; they became Hispanics, Latinos, or just plain “Spanish” in accordance with the
evolving racial strata. Their national identity subsumed under the broader pan-national “Latino”
label, Salvadorans were immediately relegated to one of the lowest levels on the US social
spectrum, subjecting them to discriminatory policies and attitudes that accompanied the
designation. Yet it was through their experiences of discrimination that Salvadorans, especially
136
Manning, “Changing Social Landscape,” 373.
137
It was rare that an entire family made the trek from El Salvador to the United States together. Generally, one or
two family members would make the journey, establish themselves, and then would be joined in time by members
of their immediate and extended families. In the meantime, Salvadorans working in the US sent back portions of
their incomes known as remittances (remesas) to support those family members who had remained behind.
138
See historian Jeffrey L. Gould’s studies on the construction of mestizo identity, or mestizaje, in Central American
societies.
210
Salvadoran youth, came to understand the racial spectrum into which they had been thrust,
adapted to its shifting contours, and in a small but powerful way utilized race as a tool to
challenge and transform the way blacks and Latinos in Washington, DC perceived each other.
Salvadorans who sought refuge in Washington, DC beginning in the late 1970s and early
1980s were not the first Latin Americans to face discrimination and harassment in the District of
Columbia’s public school system. In September of 1967, the newly renovated Lincoln Junior
High School in Columbia Heights opened to violent clashes between black and Latino students.
“Savage” knife and fist fights broke out with alarming frequency over the first two months of the
school year, encouraged by a general lack of school discipline and an inept administration.139
The violence reportedly sprang from tensions between black students, who made up
approximately 85 to 90 percent of the school, and a small group of Hispanic students who often
communicated to each other in Spanish.140 “We were afraid they were saying things about us we
couldn’t understand,” said one black student involved in the violence.141 Racially based bullying
also likely played a role. “I think some of [the Spanish-speaking students] are aggravating things
now because the Negro kids have picked on them so much,” noted one 9th-grade black student.142
Such suspicion and resentment between black and Latino students in DC public schools
persisted throughout the following decade and escalated as Salvadoran war refugees began to
enroll in majority-black schools. Jazmín Garabito remembered that even after the initial violence
tapered off at Lincoln, she and her Spanish-speaking friends defended themselves against black
students bullying them because of their ethnicity. “We had to fight for our rights as Latinos,” she
139
J.W. Anderson, “Unkept Promises to a New School,” WPTH, Nov 12, 1967, B6; Hoagland, “The Spanish-Speakers
Are Isolated.”
140
Susan Jacoby, “Fights Plague Ailing School,” WPTH, Oct 15, 1967, A1.
141
Hoagland, “The Spanish-Speakers Are Isolated.”
142
Jacoby, “Fights Plague Ailing School.” The reporter interviewed only black students and school administrators
for her article and included no Hispanic voices.
211
recalled years later. “Peleadita va, peleadita viene, we were winning our respect.” 143 At
Woodrow Wilson High School, which in 1980 boasted the largest percentage of Hispanic
students of any school in the city, tensions between the black majority and small but rapidly
increasing Spanish-speaking minority ran high. 144 Hispanic students claimed their African
American classmates refused to mix with them; blacks accused Hispanics of talking only in
Spanish to their peers. “It seems like they’re lost,” opined senior John Rose of Wilson’s Spanish-
speakers. “They won’t relate to anyone else. They segregate themselves.”145
As Salvadoran refugees began arriving in greater numbers, the DC public school system
struggled to accommodate them. Hundreds of school-aged immigrant children poured into the
schools, quickly overwhelming an already resource-strapped system: between the 1978-79
school year and the 1982-83 school year, the number of Salvadoran children enrolled jumped
from 147 to 1,380. 146 Marcelo Fernández, head of the Office of Bilingual Education for the
District of Columbia, was flummoxed. “I tell you that in my 13 years of working with refugee
children, this is the first time I am totally disconcerted,” he admitted in a 1983 Washington Post
interview.147 Superintendent Floretta D. McKenzie echoed Fernandez’s sentiments. “We became
aware of the Salvadoran influx for the first time last year (1982),” she recalled. “We got a big
shock when we looked at the figures. [Salvadorans] are putting a tremendous strain on our
budget, and we’ve had to look for creative ways to finance their special needs.”148
143
Ricardo Trotti, “Historia oral de la ciudad,” EP, Nov 7, 1985, 12-13.
144
In 1980, 158 Hispanic students were enrolled at Wilson. By comparison, 349 white students and 1,133 black
students attended the high school. Judith Valente, “Basic Bilingual,” WP, Feb 4, 1980, C1.
145
Such voluntary segregation did not worry Maurice Jackson, Wilson’s principal. “We are a school of minorities,”
Jackson said when asked about the ramifications of self-segregation in his school. “I don’t think you can get whole
groups to mix.” Valente, “Basic Bilingual.”
146
Guillermoprieto, “Salvadoran Refugees Straining D.C. Public Schools.”
147
148
212
Incoming Salvadoran students did pose a challenge to the District’s public school system.
Many arrived traumatized by the violence of their country’s civil war, emotionally and
psychologically scarred from having been exposed to the torture, rape, and murder of friends and
loved ones at the hands of Salvadoran government authorities – or having been interrogated,
tortured, and/or raped themselves.149 The mental anguish and alienation after months and even
years of separation from their families weighed heavily upon students. 150 Serious health
problems plagued recent arrivals; refugees struggled with a host of physical ailments after years
of nutritional deprivation and malnourishment. Many Salvadorans who immigrated to the
Washington area from the impoverished countryside struggled to absorb the culture shock of
moving from villages of cinder-block walls and no running water to a bustling modern capital
city. 151 Students often had minimal to no formal education, even in their native language.152
Erasmo Garza, Assistant Principal at Ross Elementary School, identified the lack of formal
schooling as a major obstacle to accommodating new immigrants. “Some of these kids have
never been to school,” he noted. “We have to teach them what that means. They don’t know how
to sit still, to write. They don’t know what it is to study. Homework has no meaning for them.”153
Emily Zaas, who taught basic English to middle-school-aged Spanish speakers at Alice Deal
Middle School, observed that for many of her Salvadoran students, “Everything is new: They’ve
never seen black people before. They don’t understand the drinking fountain; they cup their
149
A study of the psychosocial state of adolescent Salvadorans in Washington, DC commissioned by the Office of
Latino Affairs found that one-third to one-half of the Salvadoran adolescents interviewed may have suffered from
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder or related symptoms and that 81 percent had been exposed to at least one
traumatic incident in El Salvador or on the journey to the United States. Tami K. Ito, Romana Campos, & David
Harrington, Summary and Preliminary Results of the Adolescent Salvadoran Health and Psychosocial Survey.
Mayor’s Office on Latino Affairs, November 12, 1987, 9; Karlyn Barker, “El Salvador’s War Reaches Into D.C.
Schools,” WP, Dec 30, 1988, C1.
150
Patrice Gaines-Carter, “Salvadoran Pupils Here ‘Still at War,’” WP, Oct 15, 1985, A1.
151
Gaines-Carter, “Salvadoran Pupils.”
152
153
Gaines-Carter, “Salvadoran Pupils.”
213
hands. When they hear the bell, they jump. They can’t open the lockers because they can’t read
the numbers.”154
All of these issues fell squarely on the District’s schools, exacerbating racial tensions
between African American teachers and administration and their newer Spanish-speaking pupils.
Teachers, already over-burdened and under-resourced, found themselves ill prepared to deal with
students who understood little English, spoke even less, and were often unaccustomed to a
formal school structure. Lacking the necessary support staff to effectively communicate with
their new pupils, they grew increasingly frustrated. Some teachers decided it was easier just to let
those students who struggled with English fail their courses.155 Many resorted to verbal and even
physical abuse, aware that Latino parents would be less likely to press charges because they were
fearful of teacher retaliation and had little means of demanding accountability.156 District schools
allegedly blocked the use of interpreters during parent-teacher conferences, made little effort to
include Spanish-speaking parents in PTA meetings, and engaged in other similarly “willful
discriminatory behavior” that violated the rights of their Salvadoran students and their
families. 157 DC Public Schools central office personnel, meanwhile, were known to steer
Salvadoran parents away from certain District schools, informing them that such schools were
not “for Latino children.”158 From the front office down to the classroom teachers, DC public
school employees knowingly and purposefully discriminated against Salvadoran immigrants.
154
Marc Fisher, “A Never-Ending Test,” WP, Dec 11, 1986, C1.
155
Valente, “Basic Bilingual.”
156
United States Commission on Civil Rights, Racial and Ethnic Tensions in American Communities: Poverty,
Inequality, and Discrimination. Volume I: The Mount Pleasant Report. January 1993, 150-151. For the case of José
Williams, whose father took public action to hold his teacher accountable, see “Denuncian maltratos y abusos
contra dos escolares hispanos,” EP, Jun 23, 1988, 3; and Marco Antonio Capriles, “Abusos a niños en las escuelas,”
EL, Agosto 5-19, 1988.
157
United States Commission on Civil Rights, Racial and Ethnic Tensions, 149.
158
United States Commission on Civil Rights, Racial and Ethnic Tensions, 151. The Report does not go into further
detail about which schools were considered “not for Latino children.”
214
For their part, Salvadoran students struggled to overcome what they perceived as racism
in the school system. Carlos Mendez immigrated to the DC area in 1979 with his parents, who
enrolled him at Wilson High School in the wealthy Tenleytown neighborhood. But his teachers
“spoke too quickly” for him, and he began to think that some disliked Hispanic students.159
Mendez gradually became less and less invested in his education. Feeling isolated and neglected,
failing to see the relevance of a US education to their own lives, many Salvadorans (and Latinos
in general) like Mendez eventually ceased attending classes altogether.160
Fortunately, an alternative high school arose to welcome them. In February 1980, the
Multicultural Bilingual Internship Program (MCIP), a collaboration between the DC Public
Schools and a national Hispanic jobs organization funded by the US Department of Labor,
opened with 47 students in the Adams Morgan neighborhood.161 Aimed specifically at Spanish-
speakers between the ages of 16 and 21 years old who were in danger of dropping out, who
experienced behavioral or learning disabilities in the classroom, or who had already left school
before graduating, La Bilingue provided its students with a globally focused, career-oriented
curriculum while mandating that all pupils participate in an internship program related to their
academic and/or professional interests.162 The school quickly became a haven for Salvadorans
who had fallen through the cracks of the DC public school system: of the Hispanic population
that dominated MCIP’s student body throughout the 1980s, the majority were refugees from El
159
Valente, “Basic Bilingual;” Charles A. Ericksen, “Multicultural School Taps Ignored Resources,” WP, March 15,
1981, D.C. 2; José Joaquín Sanz, “Aquí Se Aprende,” EL, Enero 1981, 2; Jorge García, “La escuela de los
inmigrantes,” EL, Jun 12-19, 1987, 4.
160
Nationally, in the 1988-89 school year, more than a third of all Hispanic high school students abandoned their
studies, triple the rate of whites and more than double that of blacks, according to a US Department of Education
study. In a survey of Hispanics who attended urban school districts that same year, a separate study recorded
dropout rates of up to 80%. “Deserción escolar entre hispanos sobrepasa la de negros y blancos,” EP, Oct 19, 1989,
3; “Deserción escolar hispana puede llegar a 80 por ciento,” EP, Nov 23, 1989, 6.
161
Valente, “Basic Bilingual.”
162
Ericksen, “Multicultural School;” “Aquí Se Aprende,” EL, Enero 1981, 2.
215
Salvador’s civil war.163 By cobbling together private and public funds, founder Maria Tukeva
kept the school’s lights on through lean times and laid the foundation for academic and
institutional success: in 1989, MCIP was fully integrated into the District of Columbia Public
School system.164
Although MCIP’s teachers and administrators fostered a culturally sensitive and inclusive
school culture, Latino students still had to contend with the color line. During its first six years of
existence, MCIP shared space with the predominantly black Lincoln Junior High School – the
same school where violent black-Latino fights had broken out years ago. The younger African
American students consistently subjected MCIP’s Latinos to bullying, threats, and physical
abuse. “We have to fight for our rights in this school,” said 18-year-old Salvadoran immigrant
José Ramos, who had been assaulted by Lincoln students deriding his accent and cultural
background. “Blacks don’t like Hispanics.”165 A 1984 article in El Latino, the neighborhood’s
local Spanish-language newspaper, painted Lincoln’s halls as a battleground of races and
cultures and called upon DCPS to provide MCIP with a safer space in which to educate its
growing student population.166
MCIP did eventually obtain a space separate from Lincoln, and it also reached out to
African Americans in order build a more racially diverse student body. African American
Yolanda Watts transferred from the prestigious Duke Ellington School for the Arts to attend
MCIP, as she had always been interested in the school’s international flavor. While a student at
Lincoln, “I used to sneak downstairs all the time to see this whole different world,” she recalled.
163
In 1981, Hispanics made up 70 percent of MCIP’s student body. A decade later, Hispanics still accounted for 60
percent. Ericksen, “Multicultural School;” Rafael Roncal, “Una tierra de diversidad,” EP, Oct 17, 1991, 10-11.
164
Amy Stevens and Charles Elder, “Immigrants’ School Gets Full Funding,” WP, July 19 1989, B1; “Welcome, Bell
Multicultural High School,” EL, Agosto 18, 1989, 3.
165
Marc Fisher, “Multicultural School Struggles to Survive,” WP, Jan 19, 1987, A1. Ironically, the student voiced his
opinion in the midst of a class discussion on the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr.
166
“La Escuela Bilingue,” EL, Mayo 3, 1984, 2.
216
“They had great Christmas parties, so I would hang here a lot. It’s like going to a different
country.”167 Savoy Harris remembered feeling isolated as a black student his freshman year. “I
felt out of place and wanted to transfer to a majority black school. But I stuck it out, and now I fit
in,” said Harris.168 MCIP grew more ethnically diverse as it matured and eventually dropped the
word “bilingual” from its title when it merged with the nearby Bell Career Center. As the 1980s
came to a close, Bell Multicultural High School offered a supportive and culturally inclusive
space for young Salvadoran-born students and had become a pillar of the Latino immigrant
community.169
Identity and Empowerment

at the Latin American Youth Center
LAYC gave me confidence and a sense of identity. At a time when we needed something greater
than ourselves, the Youth Center was there. It gave us a sense of belonging, unified us as Latinos
as opposed to being either Indians [Native Americans] or Caribbeans and for periods of time
gave us a purpose.170
- Oscar Najera, LAYC participant (2007)
Across the street from MCIP, a ramshackle rehabbed row house that used to serve as the
Manse for the nearby Presbyterian church offered Salvadorans refuge from racial and social
pressures at school and on the street. The Latin American Youth Center (LAYC, or Centro de
Juventud) traced its roots back to the fateful fights between blacks and Spanish-speaking youth at
167
Marc Fisher, “Multicultural School Struggles to Survive,” WP, Jan 19, 1987, A1.
168
Patrick Welsh, “Our Classroom Barrios,” WP, Sept 8, 1991, C1.
169
Rafael Roncal, “Una tierra de diversidad,” EP, Oct 17, 1991, 10-11; “Welcome, Bell Multicultural High School,”
EL, Agosto 18, 1989, 3.
170
Marcia Bernbaum and Isaac D. Castillo, Oral History of the Latin American Youth Center (LAYC), 1969-2006
(Washington, D.C.: Latin American Youth Center, 2007), 12.
217
Lincoln Junior High School in 1967. Founded to assuage racial tensions in the neighborhood and
to support the burgeoning population of Latino youths, LAYC had by the 1980s evolved into a
multi-service agency offering technical skills, vocational and job training, performing arts
courses, English as a Second Language and GED classes, and a program of arts appreciation for
teenagers and young adults, most of whom spoke Spanish. 171 In response to the influx of
Salvadorans to the DC area, LAYC created a counseling and mental health center in 1985 for
youth who had been traumatized by war and related incidents. 172 In 1988, the counseling
program’s director, Suann Hecht, recognized that Latino youth needed a place to feel safe other
than the increasingly dangerous streets. “I would see all these kids hanging out with nothing to
do on the street, about 25 of them,” she recalled years later. “I struck up conversations with
them. They wanted a center to call their own and they wanted to play soccer.”173 LAYC thus
secured the basement of the Presbyterian church next door and started up several soccer teams.
The basement, which the youth cleaned up and painted, became the Drop In Center: a meeting
ground, social hall, and cultural space in which young Salvadorans cultivated friendships and
explored their identities.
Through their participation with the Drop In Center and with LAYC more generally,
Salvadoran youths adjusted to the realities of life in DC, gained leadership and practical skills,
and found a modicum of belonging in what was often a difficult existence. From its humble
beginnings, the Drop In Center quickly became a magnet for neighborhood Latino youth. Having
begun with a handful of Salvadoran teenagers, by the end of its first year the Center was drawing
171
Marcia Bernbaum and Isaac D. Castillo, Oral History of the Latin American Youth Center (LAYC), 1969-2006
(Washington, D.C.: Latin American Youth Center, 2007), 18-25.
172
Bernbaum and Castillo, Oral History of the Latin American Youth Center (LAYC), 24.
173
218
a diverse crowd of about 200 youths on a weekly basis. 174 In addition to pool, ping-pong,
weights, karate classes, music lessons, and a host of other after-school activities, the Center
featured a student-run juice bar and low-cost food options to supplement the outdoor pupusa
vendors who made their rounds come suppertime.175 Hecht, the Center’s director, and her staff
focused specifically on providing a safe space for undocumented Latino youth in order to help
them feel welcome in a new environment and to promote cultural resilience as they struggled to
adapt to the norms and values of a very different society.176 Because Salvadorans made up both
the core of Drop In Center regulars and a significant majority of the center’s participants,
chances of other ethno-racial groups preying upon them remained somewhat lower than they
were on the street or at school.177 The Drop In Center and its parent organization thus proved an
inviting atmosphere for Salvadoran youth adjusting to life in the United States.
Salvadorans very quickly assumed leadership roles in the Drop In Center’s daily
activities. Alvin (“Pibe”) Alvarado, one of the core group of Salvadoran regulars, recalled that
having their own space allowed his friends and him to feel more invested in the Center’s success.
“We became more involved,” he remembered. “We took the leadership” in everything from
running the juice bar to teaching informal classes.178 Recognizing the importance of empowering
the Center’s participants, LAYC offered Alvarado and another Salvadoran Drop-In Center
regular, Jose (“Chico”) Díaz, paid employment. Diaz’s computer classes, which he offered to
Drop In Center youth beginning in the mid-1990s, inspired another young Salvadoran, Jesus
174
Lisa Anllo and Bill Nordling, “Evaluation of Services at the Latin American Youth Drop-In Center,” unpublished
report, Latin American Youth Center, December 1989, 20.
175
Anllo and Nordling, “Evaluation of Services,” 4.
176
Several youths surveyed said that the ability to listen to music and lyrics in Spanish was one of their favorite
aspects of the Center. The study’s authors noted the Center’s potential to promote Latino cultural pride. Anllo and
Nordling, “Evaluation of Services,” 3, 14, 16.
177
Salvadorans still occasionally clashed with Dominicans, the second-most populous group, and with black
participants at the Drop In Center. Anllo and Nordling, “Evaluation of Services,” 16.
178
219
Amaya, to tinker with the new machines and eventually to work in LAYC’s Internet Technology
unit as its digital needs expanded.179 Lilo Gonzalez, a well-known Salvadoran guitarist, worked
as a drug prevention counselor at the Drop In Center and served as a role model for aspiring
young Salvadoran musicians. 180 In little time, the Drop In Center had become a space for
Salvadoran youth to negotiate the obstacles of race and belonging in a new city.
Several floors above the Drop In Center, a group of Salvadorans and North Americans
utilized LAYC’s resources to tackle issues of racism and discrimination in a dramatically
different fashion. Drawing creative inspiration from their experiences as young African
Americans and Latinos in the District, four friends joined together in 1985 to found a
groundbreaking theatrical group they dubbed LatiNegro. Borrowing heavily from theories of
collective creation popularized by the New Popular Theatre movement in Latin America, the
four co-founders – Enrique (Quique) Avilés, Michelle Banks, Valerie Peake, and Mario
Gonzalez – sought to engage black and Latino youth in a collaborative effort to raise
consciousness and stimulate discourse and dialogue around issues of race, culture, and
identity.181 “There were a whole lot of young Hispanic people moving into the city, and they
were meeting all kinds of obstacles and racial conflict,” recalled Avilés. Much of the tensions, he
surmised, sprang from the black community’s relative ignorance of why Salvadorans were taking
up residence in the city – as well as Salvadoran ignorance of the history of slavery and racial
discrimination in the United States.182
179
180
Anllo and Nordling, “Evaluation of Services,” 2.
181
“LatiNegro: Romper las barreras del silencio,” EL, Mayo 23-30, 1986, 13; Judith A. Weiss, Street, Stage, and
School: Teatro Nuestro, GALA Hispanic Theatre, and LatiNegro: Ten Years of Latino community theatre in
Washington, D.C. Unpublished pamphlet, 1989, 22.
182
Weiss, Street, Stage, and School, 21.
220
Inspired in part by conversations and workshops they had led on black-Latino relations,
the four fashioned powerful pieces that spoke directly to the social issues that affected youth at
the time, taking their plays directly to the streets and gleaning their themes from their audiences.
LatiNegro’s cast visited junior high schools, high schools, and community centers across the
District. They even performed in prisons, where they trained inmates to pen their own scripts.183
The actors prioritized interactive theater and engaged with their audiences in an intimate manner,
generating creative discussions on such sensitive issues as race, violence, drugs, domestic abuse,
unemployment, teen pregnancy, truancy, the criminal justice system, AIDS, gender, and
sexuality.184 Dianne Cottman, an early LAYC staffer at the time, remembered LatiNegro as “one
of the most creative things LAYC has ever done.”185
By openly questioning entrenched racial stereotypes and undermining preconceived
notions that blacks and Latinos held of each other, Avilés, Banks, and their co-creators spurred
participants to rethink their conceptions of race. By transforming black perceptions of Latinos –
and vice versa – the actors legitimized both oppressed minorities and critiqued the white power
structure that had pitted the two groups against one another. The shared experience of theater
engendered a bond of understanding that had not previously existed, laying the foundation for
further dialogue on the issues raised by the troupe. In this way, LatiNegro utilized theater as a
powerful instrument of social change, denouncing racial injustice and offering a new means of
conceptualizing and discussing race in the District of Columbia.
Had LatiNegro’s efforts to break down barriers of cultural misunderstanding by
challenging ethnic stereotypes and rethinking race been mandatory professional development at
183
184
Weiss, Street, Stage, and School, 23-24.
185
221
the DC police academy, perhaps a rookie MPD officer would not have been so quick to pull her
gun on an intoxicated Salvadoran man one hot Sunday in early May of 1991. But Officer Angela
Jewell did pull her gun. And the one shot she fired hit its mark, puncturing the chest of Daniel
Enrique Gómez early in the evening of May 5, 1991 and leaving him on the cusp of death. In
response, crowds of angry Latino youth – overwhelmingly male and heavily Salvadoran –
charged into the streets, setting fire to police department cruisers and city buses and hurling
rocks, bottles, and bricks at the police who attempted to snuff out their protests. They specifically
targeted officers of the law, airing grievances that had accumulated over years of verbal
harassment, cultural discrimination, and physical abuse at the hands of Metropolitan Police
Department officers. Powerless to respond through more traditional means of complaint,
Salvadoran youth held little faith in the ability of the DC police to treat them and thus turned to
more extreme measures to voice their frustrations.
The MPD, for its part, was wholly unprepared for such backlash, having struggled
mightily to keep the peace in areas increasingly riven by social conflict and economic change
over the course of the 1980s. As middle and upper-class residents – primarily but not exclusively
whites – bought up row houses and condominiums in nearby Dupont Circle and Adams Morgan,
displaced Salvadorans were forced to move to more affordable housing in Mt. Pleasant,
crowding into basement rentals and squeezing into apartment buildings already far beyond
capacity. Public spaces became increasingly contested areas; longtime and new Mt. Pleasant
residents fought to clear their neighborhood’s main street of drunks and dissuade store owners
from feeding their addiction, enlisting the majority-black Metropolitan Police force to aid their
crusade. 186 Police arrived to find intoxicated Salvadoran males urinating, vomiting, and
186
Patrice Gaines-Carter, “Mount Pleasant ANC Plan Angers Liquor Store Owners,” WP, Nov 22, 1985, C3; Thomas
Bell, “Mt. Pleasant Hopes to Cork Public Drinking,” WP, Nov 2, 1989, D.C.1. It should be noted that although some
222
defecating in public places and verbally harassing women on the street. 187 Loitering on the
corner, camping in abandoned lots or underneath porches, sleeping on mattresses in alleys: all
were survival techniques employed by Salvadorans who fled their country’s war and ended up
only miles away from the defense industry contractors, Pentagon officials, and White House
policy makers at least partially responsible for their flight. In the eyes of the law and many Mt.
Pleasant neighbors, these men committed acts of public nuisance that threatened the health of
established communities. “We haven’t been able to sit out on the porch for two years,”
complained 81-year-old Lloyd Johnson, a carpenter and resident of Mt. Pleasant for 22 years,
“because it ain’t nothing to see drunks passed out on the porch.”188
On the evening of May 5, Daniel Gómez was not passed out in front of Don Juan’s
carryout at the north end of Mt. Pleasant’s commercial strip. He was, by many accounts, quite
awake and belligerently drunk.189 He was also brandishing a knife as he lunged towards the two
police officers closest to him, according to their testimony and that of eyewitnesses.190 People in
the crowd that had gathered shouted at him in Spanish, trying in vain to convince him to lay
down his weapon; his corvo was no match for the handgun leveled at him only a few feet away.
Mt. Pleasant residents responded to the growing presence of lower-income Latinos with efforts that proved
socially divisive, many other neighborhood denizens sought to establish common ground with their Latino
neighbors, utilizing less confrontational means.
187
Paul Farhi, “Living on the Edge in Mount Pleasant,” WP, Oct 9, 1990, A1; Skip Kaltenheueer, “How to Kill a
Neighborhood,” WP, May 12, 1991, C4; Rudolph Gannascoli, “Roots of a Riot,” WP, May 12, 1991, C8; Robert
Fleming interview, 10/30/17; Bell, “Public Drinking;” Gabriela Gahlia Modan, Turf Wars: Discourse, Diversity, and
the Politics of Place (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2007).
188
Marica Slacum Greene, “Homeless Immigrants Camp Out in Mount Pleasant Alleys,” WP, July 22, 1987, B1; Sari
Horowitz, “Views of Police Efforts Vary in Community,” WP, Sept 8, 1991, B1.
189
According to witnesses, Gómez had been drinking heavily beforehand; he had even been refused entry into a
nearby restaurant because he was so intoxicated. In an interview several months after being shot, Gómez
acknowledged the same. “When I got out of the hospital,” he related, “I decided to stop drinking completely. If I
hadn’t been in the state I was in, I wouldn’t have found myself in that situation.” Ruben Castaneda, “Four Months
Later, Learning From Mt. Pleasant’s Turmoil,” WP, Sept 8, 1991, B1. “Officer Testifies About Shooting in Mt.
Pleasant,” WP, Nov 10, 1992, E1; Christine Spolar, “D.C. Police, Hispanics Reach Out,” WP, May 4, 1992, A1.
190
This description is taken from the court testimony of Officer Grisel delValle, who, along with her partner Angela
Jewell, first responded to the complaint of public intoxication in Mt. Pleasant on May 5, 1991. Linda Wheeler,
“Officer Says Mt. Pleasant Figure Wielded Knife,” WP, Nov 2, 1992, D3.
223
And in the words of the DC police officer who shot Gómez and the testimony of her colleagues
on the scene, she did so only in self-defense. Ultimately, none of this mattered.191
What mattered was the image the crowd beheld on the night of May 5, 1991: a
Salvadoran man crumpled on the concrete, rivulets of blood running outwards, staining the
ground deep red as he clung to his life, a slug from a DC police revolver lodged in his chest; his
hands cuffed above his head. 192 The image was undeniable and – for many residents –
unbearable. Onlookers gasped and gaped; rumors spread through the crowd and took off through
the still, muggy air towards the balconies, basements, street corners, and apartments where area
Latinos lived, worked, lingered, and socialized. For Latinos – especially those Salvadorans who
had arrived in the past decade – the news was just one more reminder of the abuses they had
suffered at the hands of DC police. The collective frustrations born of a thousand accumulated
humiliations – the bitterness, resentment, and rage that had built up among Salvadoran youth
over the past decade of social marginalization – had finally taken its toll, and they rose up in
resistance.
191
Wheeler, “Knife;” Linda Wheeler, “Mt. Pleasant Case May Turn on Images in Student’s Photo,” WP, Nov 6, 1992,
A1; Linda Wheeler, “Officer Testifies About Shooting in Mt. Pleasant,” WP, Nov 10, 1992, E1.
192
Nancy Lewis and James Rupert, “D.C. Neighborhood Erupts After Officer Shoots Suspect,” WP, May 6, 1991, A1;
Ruben Castaneda and Nell Henderson, “Simmering Tension Between Police, Hispanics Fed Clash,” WP, May 6,
1991, A1; Wheeler, “Knife;” Wheeler, “Student’s Photo;” Wheeler, “Officer Testifies.”
224
Figure 4. Curfew Map of Mt. Pleasant, Adams
Morgan, and Columbia Heights
Source: Washington Post, May 7, 1991
Figure 5. Map of Incidents Related to Mt.

Pleasant Disturbances
Source: Washington Post, May 7, 1991
225
CHAPTER 6:
FIGHTING FOR LEGITIMACY, 1991-1995
The war in El Salvador must end, and the U.S. government must stop its intervention policy. The
bombs that drop in El Salvador explode in Mount Pleasant.1
- Frank Smith, DC City Council member, Ward 1 (1986)
The windows of the 7-Eleven on the corner of Kenyon Street and Mt. Pleasant Street lay
shattered in a thousand pieces, shards littering the concrete sidewalk, glinting and sparkling in
the light of the streetlamps that pierced the night sky above. Inside, a line of police officers clad
in riot gear crouched, pinned to the far wall of the store, wobbly racks of potato chips and
cellophaned snacks their only line of defense against the rocks, bottles, and bricks that rained in
from the street. Outside, police played cat-and-mouse with Latino youths who massed to launch
assaults on the closest uniform and then just as quickly melted back into the shadows. The acrid
smell of tear gas mingled with the plumes of thick smoke swirling upwards from the fiery
infernos of two recently torched police cruisers on Mt. Pleasant Street. One block east of the 7-
Eleven, several squad cars sat smoldering, their hollowed-out metal carcasses grisly reminders of
the past several hours of violence. The poisonous clouds hung low in the heavy summer air, an
ominous sign that something was terribly wrong in this placid, leafy neighborhood known for its
multicultural population and small-town vibe. It was midnight on May 6, 1991, and chaos
reigned in Mt. Pleasant.2
1
Anne Simpson, “ ‘Disgraceful Condition of Life’ Cited in Fatal Fire,” WP, Feb 8, 1986; B7.
2
This paragraph’s timeline and descriptions of events were primarily culled from Nancy Lewis and James Rupert,
“D.C. Neighborhood Erupts After Officer Shoots Suspect,” WP, May 6, 1991, A1; Rafael Roncal, “Mt. Pleasant,” EP,
Mayo 9-15, 1991; and from conversations with Jose Sueiro, former editor of the Spanish-language community
newspaper El Latino.
226
The violence that erupted following the shooting of Daniel Enrique Gómez by a
Washington Metropolitan Police Department (MPD) officer around 7:30 PM on Sunday, May 5,
1991 lasted for about six hours into the early morning of the following day, tapering only when
rain dampened the resolve of the youth who had taken to the streets.3 The next morning, Latino
community leaders hastily convened a meeting in the basement of nearby Sacred Heart Catholic
Church to discuss the previous night’s events and draw up a plan of action. Mayor Sharon Pratt
Dixon, who in January 1991 had just taken over the reins of the city from Marion Barry,
dispatched her aides to Sacred Heart while she had breakfast with the DC City Council. Later,
Dixon met with Latino community leaders and toured the battle-scarred Mt. Pleasant Street,
where residents and store owners were busy sweeping up charred debris and broken glass.4 Two
well-known Catholic priests from Sacred Heart walked the streets in their brown habits, listening
to residents’ opinions of and reactions to the violence.5 The Reverend Jesse Jackson, recently
elected the first Shadow Senator for the District of Columbia, led a march to promote peace and
understanding. 6 These figures joined a melee of media: reporters from every local, many
national, and even some international media outlets roamed the neighborhood searching for first-
hand accounts of the previous night’s incidents. As Mt. Pleasant struggled to come to grips with
the deliberate destruction it had suffered, it was given no privacy to mourn and heal. The
neighborhood bristled with TV antennae, and the lights of video cameras grew brighter as the
3
Lewis and Rupert, “D.C. Neighborhood Erupts.”
4
According to two Washington Post reporters covering Dixon’s visit to Mt. Pleasant, Hispanic residents on the
main street both jeered and cheered the new mayor as she toured the area. René Sanchez and Christine Spolar,
“Dixon’s Longest, Darkest Day as Mayor,” WP, May 7, 1991, A1.
5
Reverend Mark Poletunow and Reverend Donald Lippert were Capuchin priests ministering to the heavily
Hispanic faithful at nearby Shrine of the Sacred Heart Catholic Church at the time of the disturbances. Poletunow
resided at the parish and worked with Hispanic ministry throughout the Archdiocese, while Lippert served as
assistant pastor at the parish. H R Harris, “Priests Battle on Streets for Calm,” WP, May 11, 1991; D7.
6
José Sueiro interview, 11/25/17. Shadow senators and representatives were first elected to office in the District
of Columbia in 1990. They held no real power to speak of; their positions represented strategic (and fruitless)
efforts by the city to gain statehood status in the early 1990s.
227
sun sank below the horizon. As night fell on May 6 in Mt. Pleasant, its residents waited
nervously, unsure what to expect.7
Despite the best efforts of community leaders and city officials over the course of the day
to prevent a recurrence of the previous night’s violence, the evening of May 6 proved even more
devastating than the night before. The daytime media scrum had been all too effective in
generating attention and drawing young people – overwhelmingly black males – from across the
city and its suburbs to Mt. Pleasant. They came by bus, by car, and on foot, curious to see what
would happen and eager to partake in the action. Local bandana-clad Latino youth soon found
themselves outnumbered by their African American counterparts.8 Ironically – perhaps fittingly
– the Mt. Pleasant riots provided an opportunity for two marginalized racial minorities whose
relationship was scarred by hostility and misunderstanding to forge common ground over shared
grievances. For a few hours on the night of May 6, 1991, the politics of division failed. Blacks
and Latinos ran together in the streets: taunting police officers, looting stores, and dodging tear
gas canisters in a multiracial riot.9
Ordered not to employ physical violence or inflict bodily harm, DC police stood by as
rioters tore down Columbia Road, ransacking local businesses and carting away consumer goods,
7
Carlos Sanchez and René Sanchez, “Dixon Imposes Curfew on Mt. Pleasant Area As Police, Youths Clash for a
Second Night,” WP, May 7, 1991; A1.
8
Eyewitness accounts and arrest statistics strongly suggest a significant African American presence (and minimal
white participation) in rioting and looting after the first night. A Washington Post analysis of 105 adults arrested
between Sunday, May 5 and Thursday, May 9 found that the percentage of blacks arrested each day increased
while the percentage of Hispanics arrested declined. According to Police Department spokesman Lt. Reginald
Smith, only 25 percent of those who were arrested during the course of those five days were Hispanic. René
Sanchez and Debbi Wilgoren, “D.C. Police Consulted INS During Disturbances,” WP, May 11, 1991; A10. See also
Gary Fields, “Most seized in riots not Hispanic,” Washington Times, May 10, 1991, A1.
9
Despite this confluence of interests, common grievances proved a poor social adhesive in the face of
longstanding racial cleavages. Before the month of May had ended, blacks and Latinos were back to battling each
other on Park Road, hurling bottles, rocks, and insults across the very thoroughfare that some had traversed
together a few short weeks ago. Nathan McCall and Ruben Castaneda, “Northwest Street Has Become a Dividing
Line,” WP, June 12, 1991, B1.
228
jewelry, rugs, and a host of other valuables.10 For the second night in a row, the police proved
unable to stop the ragtag groups of youth which, now greater in number but less organized than
the previous night, laid waste to over two dozen businesses in the Adams Morgan commercial
zone alone. 11 City buses came under attack; several more police cars went up in flames. At
midnight, Mayor Dixon declared that anyone seen on the streets would be immediately arrested;
the curfew lasted until 5 AM that morning.12 The threat of jail had its intended effect, and over
the next two nights, violence ebbed and finally dissipated entirely. But the damage – both to area
businesses and to the communities that suffered the brunt of the riots – was already done.13
The violence that rocked Mt. Pleasant and the neighboring areas of Adams Morgan and
Columbia Heights in early May of 1991 left the District of Columbia reeling and in shock. Not
since the 1968 turmoil following the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., which had reduced
entire swaths of the city to charred rubble, had the nation’s capital experienced such mayhem.
Many residents who lived in the pricey row houses bordering the commercial strips of Mt.
Pleasant and Adams Morgan were perplexed and befuddled. “I still don’t understand the
uprising,” mused Barry Fernald, a 33-year-old white Mt. Pleasant resident, when interviewed
two weeks after the disturbances.14 Others downplayed the potential reasons for the violence.
“Oh, I imagine there is a difference between the way police treat whites and the way they treat
10
Linda Wheeler and Keith Harriston, “Amid the Ruin, Merchants Decry Response by Police,” WP, May 8, 1991; A1.
11
At least 31 businesses along Mt. Pleasant Street, 14th Street, 18th Street, and Columbia Road suffered damages
from a few hundred dollars to tens of thousands of dollars. Wheeler and Harriston, “Amid the Ruin.”
12
Sanchez and Sanchez, “Dixon Imposes Curfew.”
13
The riots sparked heated discussions – public and private – among Mt. Pleasant, Adams Morgan, and other
District residents on immigration, racial and ethnic tensions, US foreign policy in Central America, drugs,
alcoholism, and police tactics. For a range of viewpoints from neighborhood residents, see Kaltonheuser, “How To
Kill A Neighborhood;” Maria Otero and Joseph Eldridge, “Central America to Mount Pleasant,” WP, May 11, 1991,
A21; and Morin and Henderson, “Miles Apart in Mt. Pleasant.”
14
Morin and Henderson, “Miles Apart in Mt. Pleasant.”
229
Hispanics,” remarked Carla Boussen, a 38-year-old white resident. “But maybe it’s harassment
with a small ‘h.’”15
Mayor Dixon, still in the process of staffing up her agencies, was caught entirely off-
guard by the events of May 5 and 6.16 Yet for many Latino community leaders and members, the
riots did not come as a surprise. “This explosion has been brewing in the community for a long
time,” said Bea Rodriguez, a Mt. Pleasant resident. “If you live here, you see a lot of abuse by
police.”17 José Romero, a 26-year-old resident, agreed. “The shooting wasn’t the first time that
something like this has happened,” he said. “Every weekend I seen something else bad happen
with the police. When police arrest someone, they pow pow pow with their sticks. We’ve seen
too many things.”18 B.B. Otero, the director of a bilingual day care program based at nearby
Calvary Methodist Church, also registered little surprise. “I’m on the street all the time,” she
said. “I hear the anger. I see the tensions. I’ve been dreading the summer for months because of
this.”19
Latinos were well aware of the frustrations that had been building for years among their
youth, especially those who had crossed paths with the Metropolitan Police Department. Their
grievances were firmly rooted in shared experiences of racial discrimination and public
humiliation at the hands of Washington, DC police that long predated the influx of Salvadoran
migrants to the national capital region in the 1980s.20 With the arrival of tens of thousands of
Salvadorans and other Central Americans fleeing civil conflict, prejudicial practices proliferated
15
16
Christine Spolar, “The Painful Lessons of Mount Pleasant,” WP, May 12, 1991, A1.
17
Sanchez and Sanchez, “Dixon Imposes Curfew.”
18
19
Spolar, “Painful Lessons.”
20
See Philip Shandler, “Police, D.C. Latin Leaders Act to Close Language Gap,” The Evening Star, Dec 12, 1966, B3;
Martin Weil, “Group Urges Pilot Project to Teach Spanish to Police,” WPTH, Dec 5, 1969, C14; Mary Lenz, “Hispanic
Community Finds Much to Praise in Police Store Front,” WP, July 6, 1978, D.C.1.
230
– among police, among longtime residents, and among local politicians. But the surging
population of Spanish-speakers failed to translate into the greater political heft that DC’s Latino
community desperately needed to combat such discriminatory attitudes and practices. Any power
that Latinos did claim was contested and often curbed by established black politicians looking
out for their own constituents.
The Mt. Pleasant disturbios changed that. In the days, weeks, and months following the
unrest, Latinos found themselves with unparalleled access to the mayor’s office. Their leaders
seized the opportunity to thrust their complaints of racial discrimination into the center of public
discourse. Bucking attempts at cooption by city administrators, Latinos formed their own
independent commission that in turn produced an exhaustive report and called for sweeping
changes in how the city treated its Spanish-speaking population, paving the way for a subsequent
high-profile federal investigation and pressuring the Dixon administration into action.21
Piecemeal reforms implemented by Mayor Dixon and her staff in the wake of the riots
did lead to incremental improvements in the quality of life of Washington’s Salvadoran
population, but it was legislation and litigation on the national level that spurred far more
profound and lasting change. Just six months before the riots, Congress passed the Immigration
Act of 1990, which allowed tens of thousands of still-undocumented Salvadorans in the
Washington area to legally extend their stay in the United States by 18 months provided they
qualify for Temporary Protected Status (TPS). This law, along with the December 1990
settlement of American Baptist Churches v. Thornburgh, a lawsuit filed by a coalition of faith-
based and secular nonprofit organizations alleging discrimination in federal asylum decisions,
21
The DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, founded several days after the Mt. Pleasant disturbances, produced The
Latino Blueprint for Action: Final Recommendations to the District of Columbia Government in October of 1991. It
also recruited the US Commission on Civil Rights (USCCR) to conduct an intensive, multi-year analysis of the causes
of the civil unrest. See United States Commission on Civil Rights, Racial and Ethnic Tensions, 1993.
231
gave undocumented Salvadorans in the DC area and across the nation renewed hope for their
futures in the United States. For although the civil war in their country was winding down and
peace talks were advancing, few Salvadorans felt excited about returning. They had laid down
roots, started families, founded businesses, and cultivated communities. Having invested both
financially and emotionally in their new lives in the United States, Salvadorans were reluctant to
pick up and leave again, especially if it meant returning to a land that had been ravaged by civil
war and that was plagued by rampant poverty and soaring unemployment levels. The signing of
the Chapultepec Peace Accords in January of 1992 marked the official end of 12 years of
bloodshed, sparking celebration among Salvadorans in the DC area – but little inclination to
move back. They had woven themselves into the fabric of the US capital city.
The Fight for Latino Civil Rights
We don’t want problems with blacks or whites, we just want justice. We don’t hate blacks, but
blacks discriminate against us. What have we done?22
- Sonia Gutierrez, Principal, Gordon Adult Education Center (1991)
The outbreak of violence in Mt. Pleasant in May of 1991 took the incoming
administration of Sharon Pratt Dixon by total surprise. Stunned and rather befuddled, Dixon
initially dismissed the anti-police protests as mere “criminal activity” before pivoting to
acknowledge that the roots of the unrest ran far deeper and were intertwined with the collective
22
Juan Williams, “Black Power’s New Dilemma,” WP, May 12, 1991, C1.
232
grievances of her city’s Spanish-speaking residents.23 After the clouds of tear gas had thinned,
the looting had ceased, and the streets had calmed, the new mayor hastily convened a meeting of
representatives from across the city’s spectrum of agencies and organizations and proposed
creating a multi-cultural task force. Those Latinos who had been invited balked at her request;
they desired a robust and independent investigation and had no intention of serving merely at the
mayor’s pleasure.24 Within a few days, Latinos had formed their own task force – separate from
Mayor Dixon’s – focused solely on issues facing Washington’s Spanish-speaking residents.
Guided by Pedro Avilés, a 32-year-old Salvadoran with strong ties to the city’s older Latino
establishment who also represented a younger generation of predominantly Salvadoran activists
clamoring for a voice in community affairs, the DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force quickly
established itself as the public face of the Latino community in District politics.25 “I don’t know
if we have any more power,” Avilés remarked when asked about the Latino community’s
newfound potential, “but we have channels we didn’t have before. We have access to the mayor
we didn't have before.” 26 Determined to seize the moment and use the disturbances in Mt.
Pleasant to advance a strong agenda for Latino rights in the District, the Task Force immediately
set about investigating the problems that had historically plagued Latino residents in
Washington, DC.27
23
The mayor revised her interpretation after her May 6 meeting with Latino community leaders, who criticized her
initial comments on criminality. Spolar, “Painful Lessons;” Sanchez and Spolar, “Dixon’s Longest, Darkest Day.”
24
Pedro Avilés interview, 11/15/17.
25
The DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force was initially composed of 50 individuals who hailed from a broad spectrum
of Washington’s Latino community, including but not limited to health care, education, business, clerical, and
public service sectors. Carlos Sanchez and Nell Henderson, “D.C. Hispanics Find Voice, but Power Is Elusive,” WP,
May 11, 1991, A1.
26
Sanchez and Henderson, “D.C. Hispanics Find Voice.”
27
Sanchez and Henderson, “D.C. Hispanics Find Voice;” Carlos Sanchez, “A New Voice for District Hispanics,” WP,
June 2, 1991, B1; Carlos Sanchez, “D.C. Hispanic Task Force Talks Tough on Parity,” WP, May 12, 1991, C1; Nell
Henderson, “Small Likelihood Seen of Hispanic Advances,” WP, Sept 13, 1991; B1.
233
Within six months of the violence, the Task Force had produced a damning report
cataloguing the systemic discrimination faced by DC’s Latinos and called on the city to begin
rectifying deep-seated structural injustices. The Latino Blueprint for Action pinpointed with
devastating accuracy the ways in which the city had failed its Spanish-speaking population over
the past decade in a variety of arenas: police-community relations, housing, human rights,
economic development, employment, education, recreation, social services, and mental and
physical health.28 The Blueprint accused the Metropolitan Police Department of “widespread,
endemic racism and physical and verbal abuse” of Latinos, describing how officers routinely
employed excessive force and demonstrated galling insensitivity to the needs of a vulnerable
population with limited English language abilities. 29 Too many Latinos lived in substandard
housing, fell prey to manipulative landlords, and received little or no support from city housing
services.30 Latinos made up anywhere between 5 and 10 percent of the District’s population but
only accounted for 1.5 percent of the city’s 48,000 employees.31 Language barriers and a lack of
appropriate resources blocked many Latino students from succeeding in DC Public Schools, and
a dearth of bilingual support in general made it difficult for Latinos to access city services.32
Overall, the Blueprint argued, the District of Columbia did not allocate resources fairly and
systematically discriminated against its Latino residents.
The report called for significant structural changes to benefit the booming Spanish-
speaking immigrant population, focusing on achieving parity in both service provision and in
employment of Latinos. “We are ten percent of the population. We should be receiving ten
28
DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 16.
29
30
DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 32-33.
31
32
DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 51-54.
234
percent of the services” offered by the city, Avilés and the Task Force contended.33 The District
should hire more Latinos to bring the number of Latino city employees up to ten percent,
especially in the police force, where the presence of Spanish-speaking officers was sorely
needed.34 Cultural sensitivity training should be implemented for city employees, teachers, and
police officers. 35 The government should provide language access support for Hispanics
necessitating city services.36 DC should offer more recreational opportunities for Hispanic youth
and should employ more Hispanics in its summer jobs program.37 In articulating their call for
parity and justice, members of the Task Force reminded black politicians that they, too, had once
been barred from political power. “The Hispanic struggle is similar to the Afro-American
struggle of the ‘60s,” argued Avilés. “We see this as a beginning of the Hispanic civil rights
movement in the 1990s.”38
The Task Force’s calls for increased local government spending on Hispanics arrived at
an inopportune moment. The United States was mired in an economic recession that had cut into
city tax revenues and had slowed business growth throughout the capital region. Outgoing mayor
Marion Barry had left his successor several parting gifts, among them a massive budget deficit
and an infamously inefficient, bloated bureaucracy.39 Private foundation funding for the social
service sector had waned as the stock market had plummeted, and the federal government had
33
Sanchez, “Task Force Talks Tough.”
34
At the time the Task Force undertook its study, only 121 out of 4,790 Metropolitan Police Department officers
were Latino. DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 22.
35
DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 21, 39, 54, 64.
36
DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 36, 39,66.
37
DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 48, 55-60.
38
Nell Henderson, “Hispanic Plea A Reminder of ‘60s Battle,” WP, May 15, 1991, B1.
39
Two days before leaving office, Barry announced that the city’s budget deficit for the 1990 fiscal year would total
$114 million - the largest in a decade – which he blamed on regional economic woes. Incoming Mayor Sharon Pratt
Dixon’s administration estimated that the 1991 fiscal year would bring a deficit of up to $300 million. The District
government workforce at the time numbered 48,000 and was not particularly known for its effectiveness or
efficiency. Michael Abramowitz, “Biggest D.C. Deficit in 10 Years Looms Amid Region’s Economic Downturn,” WP,
Sept 5, 1990, A1; Mary Ann French, “D.C. Deficit Could Reach $300 Million, Report Says,” WP, Dec 27, 1990, A1;
Michael Abramowitz, “D.C. Deficit Estimate Now $114 Million,” WP, Jan 1, 1991, B1.
235
slashed spending on state and local initiatives.40 In her initial attempts to trim the bulging deficit,
Mayor Dixon had frozen city government hiring, made plans to fire up to 2,000 employees, and
cut city budgets for housing, training, and language programs – the very types of services that the
Task Force had singled out for increased funding.41
City politicians who counted on strong support from African American residents proved
even less enthusiastic about the prospect of cutting into their constituents’ shrinking funding in
order to assist Hispanics, who made up approximately one percent of the voting population of
Washington, DC. 42 “The blacks in city government aren’t really in a position to help blacks
themselves,” mused Calvin Rolark, president of the United Black Fund and organizer of a
coalition to defuse black-Latino tensions. “I always said that if I became a majority, I would treat
a minority better than white people treated me. But we don’t have the resources. We don’t have
the money.”43 Rolark decried the Task Force’s efforts to link the Hispanic struggle for equity
with the black movement for freedom and civil rights. “We never came over as illegal aliens, as
immigrants,” he remarked. They were never slaves.”44 This argument, observed Washington Post
columnist Juan Williams, rang true among African Americans in the District. “From the black
perspective,” he wrote, “Hispanics may suffer some discrimination, but they were never the
victims of slavery or Jim Crow laws. Now, some blacks see [Hispanics] as jumping onto the
black civil rights bandwagon just as blacks are starting to gain the fruits of their long struggle.”45
40
Sanchez, “Task Force Talks Tough.”
41
Dixon cut the budget of the Office of Latino Affairs by 10 percent her first year and by 28 percent her second
year in office. The mayor also cut bilingual service programs sponsored by the District government by 56 percent in
the 1991-92 fiscal year. Henderson, “Small Likelihood Seen Of Hispanic Advances.”
42
Hispanic groups estimated in early 1992 that about 3,000 out of the estimated 65,000 Hispanics who lived in the
city were registered to vote, or one in every 100 DC voters. Nell Henderson, “Power at Ballot Box Eludes D.C.
Hispanics,” WP, May 5, 1992, A1. Note: a 1991 Post article cited 5,000 as the number of registered Hispanic voters
in DC, 3,000 of whom lived in Ward 3. See Sanchez, “Task Force Talks Tough.”
43
Henderson, “Hispanic Plea.”
44
Henderson, “Hispanic Plea.”
45
Williams, “Black Power’s New Dilemma.”
236
Several black city council members chimed in as well. “I believe the Latino community
is entitled to their fair share of city contracts and services,” declared at-large DC City
Councilmember William P. Lightfoot, whose committee oversaw the Office of Latino Affairs,
“but I won’t allow that to happen at the expense of the African American community having its
fair share.”46 Councilmember H.R. Crawford, who represented Ward 7, a predominantly poor
and black section of the city across the Anacostia River, went even further. Days after the riots,
he suggested that granting more city programs to Latinos would be rewarding violence and that
the city should instead be concerned with “legitimate members of the community.” “If they don’t
appreciate our country, get out,” he declared. 47 Black radio stations in the city echoed this
perception of Hispanics as illegal and illegitimate, which even Mayor Dixon acknowledged was
rife in the black community.48
Other black politicians sympathized with Hispanic pleas for parity, even if they did not
wholeheartedly embrace all of the Task Force’s demands. City Council Chair John Wilson,
himself a former activist with the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), mused
that “after listening to the Hispanic young people I went home and told my wife it was like
listening to myself 20 years ago.”49 In Wilson’s eyes, race was less of an issue than economic
injustice. “We don’t have a Hispanic problem in this city; we have a poor people’s problem in
this city,” he opined. “Ultimately we’re pitting one group of poor people against the other.”50 Yet
he bristled at the idea that jobs and services should be rewarded to Hispanics because of their
numbers, pointing out that the city did not determine spending on the basis of race.51 Ward 1
46
Henderson, “Small Likelihood Seen of Hispanic Advances.”
47
48
49
50
Henderson, “Power at Ballot Box;” Williams, “Black Power’s New Dilemma.”
51
237
Councilmember Frank Smith, who represented the neighborhoods where most of the violence
took place, noted that many of those who had joined the looting on the second night of unrest
had hailed from Southeast DC, home to some of the most impoverished neighborhoods in the
city.52 Latino leaders acknowledged the importance of class in the debate over funding, but they
insisted that the question of race underlay the lack of parity in city spending. “There is a certain
level of racism against any foreign group by members of the dominant race,” Avilés argued.
“And here there is racism by the black community against Latinos.”53
The United States Commission on Civil Rights, invited by the Task Force to investigate
and assess the allegations of discrimination it had brought against the District government,
agreed with Task Force demands for spending and jobs parity while also calling for more
resources to be allocated to the Hispanic population in general. After more than a year spent
collecting evidence, the Commission found the Task Force’s allegations to have been justified.54
The USCCR condemned the District’s discriminatory practices and also criticized the city’s
response to Task Force suggestions as “piecemeal and inadequate,” faulting the mayor for
sidestepping calls for a comprehensive approach for addressing the needs of the District’s Latino
community.55 “Excuses citing budget constraints will not, and should not, satisfy most of the
community’s legitimate demands,” the final report argued, noting that many of the
Commission’s recommendations would not require additional funding.56 Yet after hearing more
than 100 testimonies of city officials, community members, merchants, social service providers,
researchers, and activists over a three-day period, Chairman Arthur Fletcher also called for a
52
53
Williams, “Black Power’s New Dilemma.” See also Beatriz Otero testimony, Mount Pleasant Hearing, Vol. 3, cited
in United States Commission on Civil Rights, “Racial and Ethnic Tensions,” 155.
54
United States Commission on Civil Rights, “Racial and Ethnic Tensions,” 155.
55
56
238
massive infusion of federal funds so that the District could better serve Latinos, recognizing that
the District would need significant outside financial assistance to tackle such massive structural
inequality.57
Although both the Task Force and the US Commission on Civil Rights sought to improve
the lives of Washington’s Latino immigrants – particularly Salvadorans – their recommendations
remained for the most part unfulfilled. With the nation still mired in a recession and the District’s
finances deep in the red, the city could spare little money to fund new initiatives and was busy
slashing services and spending across the board. Even Mayor Dixon’s efforts to balance the
budget failed, and when Marion Barry won his comeback mayoral victory in 1994, he was left
with little leeway over city finances. In 1995, Congress placed DC’s budget under the control of
a congressionally appointed Financial Control Board that instituted even harsher austerity
measures, effectively eliminating any remaining opportunities for Hispanic parity in government
jobs or funding.58
The city did witness at least minor improvements in relations between the Latino
community and the Metropolitan Police Department. Six months after the Mt. Pleasant
disturbances, Susana Cepeda, Executive Director of the Council of Hispanic Community
Agencies, noted “we have seen an improvement in how the police act, and we feel good about
that.”59 Francisco Amaya, a Salvadoran who worked in a Mt. Pleasant restaurant, thought police
had been more “respectful” since the uprisings that past May, and he lauded the presence of
more Spanish-speaking police officers.60 Police Chief Ike Fulwood had indeed detailed more
57
Carlos Sanchez, “U.S. Official Calls for Federal Money to Help D.C.’s Hispanic Community,” WP, Feb 2, 1992, B4.
58
Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City, 429-434; Blair A. Ruble, Creating Diversity Capital: Transnational Migrants in
Montreal, Washington, and Kyiv (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 2005), 123-125.
59
Sari Horwitz, “Views of Police Efforts Vary in Community,” WP, Sept 8, 1991, B1.
60
The DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force estimated in 1991 that of a force of 4,300 officers, Hispanics numbered
between 150 and 180. MPD did not keep an official tally. DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 2.
239
Spanish-speaking officers to areas with high concentrations of Latinos; he had also laid plans to
open a police community center in Columbia Heights, where more Latinos were moving and
interacting with the dominant African American population east of 14th Street. 61 Fulwood
encouraged his employees who spoke only English to enroll in Spanish conversation classes; 40
officers took him up on the offer. A Washington Post reporter noted in May of 1992 that due to
changes over the past year, “officers on the whole are viewed as less aggressive and their tactics
as less intrusive.”62 Juan Lleren, a local restaurant owner, acknowledged the same. “It’s gotten
better, a little better,” he said. “The police are trying to have better relations.”63
Progress with the police force, however, proved incremental at best. One year after the
Mt. Pleasant disturbances, the MPD had met few of the Task Force’s recommendations. It had
not conducted cultural sensitivity training on a large-scale basis, and there was still no box for
“Hispanic” on police reports – only boxes for blacks and whites. The police department had not
reached out to Hispanics to teach them how to lodge formal complaints, and there were no high-
ranking Hispanics on the force.64 The department was still quite young: 70 percent of the officers
in the 4th District, which encompassed Mt. Pleasant and Columbia Heights, had been on the job
for fewer than three years.65 Such inexperience, combined with a lack of cultural sensitivity, bred
incompetence and often outright bigotry; although some police officers reached out to Hispanics
to better understand them, many others continued to treat Spanish-speakers as second-class
citizens who did not belong.66 Ultimately, it would be not city government but federal policies
61
Horwitz, “Views Vary.”
62
Gabriel Escobar, “A Year After Unrest, D.C. Hispanics Remain United Despite Diversity,” WP, May 3, 1992, A1.
63
Christine Spolar, “D.C. Police, Hispanics Reach Out,” WP, May 4, 1992, A1.
64
At the time of the Blueprint’s release, the police department did not employ any Latino detectives first class,
captains, inspectors, deputy chiefs, or assistant chiefs. DC Latino Civil Rights Task Force, The Latino Blueprint, 22.
65
Spolar, “D.C. Police, Hispanics.”
66
See Nathan McCall, “Amid the Heat, Tensions Near Boil in Mt. Pleasant,” WP, May 31, 1991, A1; Gabriel Escobar
and Ruben Castaneda, “Mistrust of Police Persists in D.C.’s Latino Community,” WP, Nov 26, 1992, A25.
240
that would open the door to greater economic opportunity and social status for Salvadorans in the
capital area.
TPS: Foundation for Salvadoran Legality
In immigration law, you win by losing slowly.67
- Daniel Katz, Executive Director, Central American Resource Center, 1991
In April of 1983, a letter landed on the desks of US Attorney General William French
Smith and Secretary of State George Schultz. Bearing eighty-eight Congressional signatures, it
implored the two members of President Ronald Reagan’s cabinet to consider the plight of the
thousands of Salvadorans who had fled their country and had settled in the United States – most
without legal papers. The State Department, the letter said, should recommend that the Attorney
General grant a stay of deportation to Salvadorans, who would face danger if they returned to the
armed conflict still raging in their native land. This special designation, termed Extended
Voluntary Departure (EVD), would freeze all active deportation cases and legitimize the
approximately 500,000 undocumented Salvadorans who resided in the United States at that time,
providing them at least a temporary reprieve from the life of an “illegal alien.”68 The primary
author of the letter was Representative Joseph Moakley (D-Mass), an outspoken advocate for
Central American refugees on Capitol Hill who would become a voice of moral authority on the
issue in the years to follow. Moakley’s first attempt at protecting Salvadoran war refugees,
67
Bill Carey, “Fast, Temporary Relief,” Washington City Paper, April 19-25, 1991, 8.
68
Peter Perl, “State Department Set on Salvadoran Stand,” WP, July 12, 1983, A11.
241
however, met a stiff wall of resistance: Reagan’s State Department soundly rebuffed the
congressman’s plea. The deportations would continue for the rest of the decade.
Representative Moakley was not the only public figure calling upon the Reagan
administration to take action on behalf of Salvadoran refugees at that time; his voice just
happened to carry more weight on Capitol Hill. During the early 1980s, labor unions, religious
organizations, civil rights groups, legal aid nonprofits, and refugee agencies demanded a
temporary halt in the deportation of Salvadorans and/or political asylum for refugees until the
violence in El Salvador ceased.69 Some organizations pressured members of Congress; others
targeted the executive branch with lawsuits.70 Between 1983 and 1988, Representative Moakley
and his counterpart in the Senate, Dennis DeConcini (D-Ariz), introduced five bills mandating a
stay of deportation for Salvadorans (and occasionally Nicaraguans); all failed to garner enough
votes to advance, and President Reagan had promised to veto them if they had. By the decade’s
end, though, shifts in global geopolitics and US presidential administrations had cracked open a
small window of opportunity for the latest iteration of the Moakley-DeConcini bill, which had
been carving an excruciatingly slow path through the House and Senate. Passed by the House in
1987, it never made it to the Senate floor: instead, it was folded into the Immigration Act of
1990, which President George H.W. Bush signed into law in October that same year.71 The new
69
“Asylum Urged for Salvadoran Exiles,” WP, Dec 16, 1981, A20; Caryle Murphy, “Union Asks Reagan to Stop
Deporting Salvadorans,” WP, July 27, 1982, B3.
70
Jay Mathews, “U.S. Accused of Denying Asylum to Salvadorans,” WP, March 6, 1982, A24; Murphy, “Union Asks
Reagan.”
71
The Immigration Act of 1990, introduced by Senator Ted Kennedy in 1989, reformed and updated the
Immigration and Nationality Act of 1965. It increased the overall limit on how many immigrants the United States
would accept each year as well as raising each sending country’s visa cap, which had previously been limited to
20,000 individuals per year, to 25,600. The 1990 Act also divided employment-based immigration into five distinct
occupational categories, increased the number of family-based visas allotted each year, and created the diversity
immigrant visa category for immigrants from underrepresented countries. Finally, the act offered Salvadorans
living in the United States as of September 19, 1990 the benefits of Temporary Protected Status, or TPS. Warren R.
Leiden and David L. Neal, “Highlights of the U.S. Immigration Act of 1990,” Fordham International Law Journal 14:1
242
provision, entitled Temporary Protected Status (TPS), legitimized a generation of Salvadoran
immigrants and proved a key policy in anchoring the Salvadoran community in metropolitan
Washington, DC.
Like EVD, TPS stayed the deportation of immigrants at the discretion of the Attorney
General of the United States. Initially slated to last 18 months, it promised all Salvadorans who
had arrived in the United States by September 19, 1990 the opportunity to obtain work
authorization, commonly known as “permiso.”72 Recipients would be required to check in with
the INS every six months to renew their status over the course of the 18-month period.
Registration would begin January 2, 1991 and close on June 30, 1991; the INS later extended the
deadline by four months to October 31, 1991. Benefits would last until June 30, 1992; after that,
deportation proceedings could begin immediately.73 TPS did not set Salvadorans on the path to
permanent residency or citizenship, but it was the most that a Democratic Congress could
wrangle out of the Bush administration at that time. Despite its temporal limitations, Salvadorans
and immigrant rights coalitions cautiously welcomed its passage.74
Although word of TPS spread slowly, by February of 1991 Salvadorans were signing up
in droves. Initially, the INS arranged to use the IndoChinese Center, on 16th Street and Corcoran
St just east of Dupont Circle, to process TPS applications received in the District of Columbia
and northern Virginia. 75 During the first several weeks, hundreds of Salvadorans filled the
courtyard of the charming older building each day. The process was haphazard and poorly
(1990): 328-339. For more on TPS, see Bill Frelick and Barbara Kohnen, “Filling the Gap: Temporary Protected
Status,” Journal of Refugee Studies 8, no. 4 (1995): 339-363.
72
See historical overview in Temporary Protected Status: Overview and Current Issues (Washington, D.C.:
Congressional Research Service, Jan 17, 2018).
73
Al Kamen, “U.S. Warns Salvadorans of Deportation,” WP, Jan 11, 1992, A12.
74
“CARECEN destaca beneficios de acogerse a programa TPS,” EP, Abril 25 – Mayo 1, 1991, 5.
75
TPS applicants who lived in Maryland had to visit offices in Baltimore to submit their applications; Maryland
formed a different INS jurisdiction from the District of Columbia and northern Virginia.
243
planned: some TPS-seekers waited in line for 12 hours, were told to come back the following
day, and returned the next morning to discover that workers had lost their names.76 After two
months, the INS moved its evaluation and acceptance teams to the administrative offices of the
Centro Católico (Spanish Catholic Center) in nearby Woodley Park, which offered considerably
more room and logistical support.77
Even with improved facilities, administrators struggled mightily to keep up with the
hundreds of applicants who lined up each day before dawn to stake a claim for legal legitimacy.
Shivering in the cold morning air, Salvadorans formed lines of up to 200 people that snaked
around the block long before the center opened its doors at 9:00 AM.78 A Washington City Paper
reporter who spent time with those waiting for their applications to be processed described the
atmosphere inside the Centro Católico as “hushed, fearful, numbly hopeful … a place where
conversations are guarded and querying eyes scan each new arrival. The tedium is broken by
sporadic movements of grim-faced INS officers wearing suits, well-dressed lawyers consulting
with clients in quiet corners, and nuns bidding good morning as they file down the increasingly
crowded aisle.”79 Salvadorans had good reason to fear: for most, this was the first time they
would come face-to-face with representatives of “la migra,” the men whom they had spent their
waking lives avoiding for fear of deportation. Now they were in the wolf’s den, handing over
their most intimate details to INS officials – photographs, fingerprints, places of residence, birth
certificates, and phone numbers – with no assurance that the INS would not deport them
76
Ruben Castaneda, “Long, Cold Line Leads to a Better Life,” WP, Feb 14, 1991, E1.
77
The Archdiocese of Washington during this time was an ardent supporter of immigrant rights, especially that of
Salvadorans in the DC metropolitan area. Cardinal James Hickey, according to Fr. William Ryan, interim director of
the Hispanic Catholic Center, wanted to make it very clear that the Church was trying to help the Salvadoran
community. Ana Margarita Acosta, “Aumenta interés por ‘TPS,’” EP, Jun 20-26, 1991, 1.
78
Ana Margarita Acosta, “Aumenta interés por ‘TPS,’” EP, Jun 20-26, 1991, 1.
79
Carey, “Fast, Temporary Relief.”
244
immediately after TPS ended. Those Salvadorans who did choose to take the risk squeezed into
small wooden elementary school desks and awaited their fate.
Despite such perils, Salvadorans from across the District of Columbia and northern
Virginia made the pilgrimage to the Spanish Catholic Center, hoping for a brief spell of relief
from fear and a better chance at finding work. Refugee organizations and legal aid groups
trumpeted the news and pushed their clients to register, helping them fill out applications and
navigate what seemed to many an unnecessarily cumbersome process.80 By mid-June of 1991, as
the registration period wound down, an average of 600 Salvadorans were showing up daily at the
Centro Católico, forming lines outside the Center as early as 2 A.M. and waiting up to 16 hours
to ensure that their applications were processed in time for the June 30 cutoff.81 Eight full-time
INS employees and a handful of volunteers labored for 11 hours each day, but they still could not
keep up with the sheer volume of applicants.82 Ultimately, Salvadorans who had not yet applied
won a break when Congress pushed through a four-month extension a mere two days before the
initial registration period expired.83 By the final day to register – October 31, 1991 – 186,030
Salvadorans had applied for TPS across the United States. 84 Of the estimated 50,000
undocumented Salvadorans in the metropolitan Washington area, 35,354 (approximately 70
percent) had signed up – more than any other region in the country.85
80
“CARECEN destaca beneficios.”
81
Acosta, “Aumenta interés;” Carlos Sanchez and Al Kamen, “Illegal Salvadoran Immigrants Win Reprieve,” WP,
June 29, 1991, D3.
82
Acosta, “Aumenta interés.”
83
Acosta, “Extienden el plazo para solicitar ‘TPS,’” EP, Julio 4-10, 1991, 1; Sanchez and Kamen, “Illegal Salvadoran
Immigrants Win Reprieve.”
84 Paul Duggan, “Day Laborers Losing Gathering Place,” WP, April 19, 1992, B3.
85
Ernesto Clavijo, “Costo de documentos temporalis limita participación en programa,” EP, Enero 31 – Feb 6, 1991,
3; Arnold & Porter, Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 53; Saundra Torry, “Salvadorans Rally at White House to
Stay in U.S.,” WP, April 26, 1992, A14. This is not surprising, as an estimated 90 percent of Salvadorans in the
Washington metropolitan area failed to qualify for amnesty under the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986
(see Chapter 5 for a discussion of IRCA’s impact on Salvadorans in Washington). Local statistics reflect applications
received – not approved – at INS offices in Maryland and Virginia (Virginia includes the District of Columbia).
245
Immigration rights advocates were quick to point out that these numbers could have been
much higher. Some Salvadorans, despite the determined outreach efforts of social services
agencies and the saturation of Spanish-language radio, television, and print media with TPS
announcements, never heard about the opportunity or heard of it after the deadline had passed.86
Others caught wind of TPS but could not afford to take time off from their jobs to spend an
entire day waiting in line in hopes of submitting an application. Then there was the issue of
logistics and transportation: the Centro Católico was, for the vast majority of the registration
period, the sole TPS processing location in the DC metro area. All Salvadoran applicants who
lived in the District of Columbia and northern Virginia had to apply there, regardless of how far
away they lived. Salvadorans who resided in nearby Prince George’s County and Montgomery
County, Maryland faced an even more difficult task; they were required to submit their
applications at the INS’s Maryland regional office in Baltimore. In addition, TPS recipients were
obliged to check in every six months at their INS district office if they wanted to renew their
work authorization – yet another obstacle to compliance.87
Area social service agencies helped by spreading the word and supplying submission
papers, but they inevitably lacked the resources necessary to guide thousands of clients through
the maze of the US immigration system. The INS, although it partnered with the Centro Católico
and regional service organizations to promote TPS and process applications, provided no
financial compensation to the social service agencies for their work facilitating TPS. 88 As a
result, agencies found themselves stretched thin. Boris Canjura, executive director of the
However, the INS rejected very few applications; generally, those who applied for TPS were granted the status. See
Arnold & Porter, Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 53.
86
Statement of Boris Canjura, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-30; Statement of Yvonne Vega,
addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 25-26.
87
See Arnold & Porter, Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 54.
88
Statement of Yvonne Vega, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-26; Acosta, “Aumenta interés.”
246
Salvadoran Refugee Committee, stated that he had turned away “a lot” of Salvadorans because
the Comité lacked the trained legal staff to deal with such a high volume of clients. 89 Clare
Cherkasky, director of immigration services for the northern Virginia legal aid center Hogar
Hispano, expected her client load to double in the months following the passage of TPS. 90
Sharon O’Day, who directed a day laborer assistance project at the immigrant rights organization
CASA-Maryland, noted that while local legal aid agencies “did an extraordinary job pooling
their resources and supervising volunteers … because of the lack of resources it was very
difficult to reach the entire community.”91 For example, some Salvadorans who had already filed
for political asylum often did not see the benefit in applying for TPS, as they already possessed
permits allowing them to work while their cases moved slowly through the legal pipeline. Yet a
consultation with a community legal aid service would have alerted them to the fact that their
chances for asylum were slim, and TPS could guarantee at least a slight reprieve from their
eventual deportation.92 Without sound legal advice, many Salvadorans remained confused as to
the potential benefits of TPS and US immigration law in general – and thus did not apply.
The most prohibitive factors to registering for TPS, however, were the cost of application
and fears of deportation. Although other beneficiaries of TPS (Kuwaitis, Lebanese, and
Liberians) paid a one-time flat rate of $50, Salvadorans were initially charged $330 per
applicant, an amount that directors of refugee and social service agencies decried as “extremely
89
Statement of Boris Canjura, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 31.
90
Carlos Sanchez and Stephanie Griffith, “Agencies Feel Ill-Equipped for Immigration Changes,” WP, Dec 21, 1990,
C3.
91
Statement of Sharon O’Day, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-13. CASA-Maryland would
over the next several decades grow to become a powerful voice for immigrants in the Washington, DC
metropolitan area and one of the largest immigrant rights advocacy organizations on the East Coast.
92
Statement of Sharon O’Day, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-13; Statement of Yvonne
Vega, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, 27.
247
expensive,” “inordinately high,” “outlandish,” and “outrageous.”93 After much uproar, in May
1991 the INS reduced the fee to $255 per person and $765 for a family – still far more than many
Salvadorans working two or three jobs just to survive could afford.94 As a result, it was not
uncommon for just one person – generally a man – in a family of five or six to register for TPS.95
And the INS could always use the information submitted with the application to locate and
deport any undocumented Salvadoran after the time period ended, which scared many off from
applying. “We’re documenting people who are here illegally – yes,” INS spokesman Duke
Austin acknowledged. “We can use that information to identify you for removal from the U.S.”96
To more than a few Salvadorans, registering with the INS was too steep a risk for a temporary
reprieve that could easily be replaced by a deportation order upon expiration.97
Of those who did apply, the overwhelming majority did so in order to obtain temporary
work permits. Cesar Pineda, a 20-year-old TPS applicant who was unemployed and living with
his mother, claimed that he could not find a job because he lacked proper work authorization.
“But now I’m going to be able to work,” he said. “If they tell me I have to go back (to El
93
Statement of Yvonne Vega, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-26; Rafael Roncal, “No pierden
la esperanza de legalizarse algún día,” EP, Mayo 2-8, 1991, 1; Arnold & Porter, Immigration Law: A Civil Rights
Issue, 54; Carlos Sanchez, “Salvadorans Find Cost of Clemency Too High,” WP, Jan 9, 1991, A6; Ernesto Clavijo,
“Costo de documentos temporalis limita participación en programa,” EP, Enero 31 – Feb 6, 1991, 3; “Salvadorans,
Victims of a Glitch,” NYT, June 26, 1991, A22. Kuwaitis, Lebanese, and Liberians received TPS designation beginning
March 27, 1991 – three months after Salvadorans, whose designation began January 1, 1991. Frelick and Kohnen,
“Filling the Gap,” 362.
94
See “Salvadorans, Victims of a Glitch;” Sanchez and Kamen, “Illegal Salvadoran Immigrants Win Reprieve.”
95
According to Yvonne Vega, director of Ayuda legal aid, a mere 32% of her client population’s TPS applicants were
women. This may reflect the heightened importance of legitimate documentation to male laborers, who were
more likely to work in the formal economy and thus subject to stricter standards of accountability in terms of work
authorization. One cannot rule out, however, the reinforcement of traditional patriarchy as an additional impetus.
Statement of Yvonne Vega, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-26.
96
97
Statement of Yvonne Vega, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-25; statement of Sharon
O’Day, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-13; statement of Boris Canjura, addendum to
Immigration Law: A Civil Rights Issue, A-31; statement of Lori Kaplan, addendum to Immigration Law: A Civil Rights
Issue, A-36.
248
Salvador), I will. But at least I will be able to work for a good period of time.”98 Maria Granados,
who had worked illegally as a domestic aide in a retirement home and had been paid less than
authorized laborers, applied for TPS because she yearned for a minimum-wage job.99 Rigoberto,
a 26-year-old who worked in construction, had missed the 1986 opportunity for amnesty because
he could not afford to miss a day of work; he had come to the Centro Católico for a second
chance at legality. “We all know that TPS is important,” he said, motioning to the group of
young people in line with him. “What we do not know is how to proceed … or what must be
done to fill out our applications.”100 They hoped that the officials inside would help them and
that work permits would allow them to earn more money at their respective jobs as a result.
While Salvadorans were lining up to submit their TPS applications at the Centro
Católico, immigrant advocacy groups in the District of Columbia fought to extend the reprieve
beyond June of 1992. Both the national networks of Central American Refugee Committees
(CRECEN) and the Central American Refugee Centers (CARECEN) threw their organizing
weight behind the push for TPS extension, spearheading a prolonged campaign of grassroots
lobbying to sway Congress and President Bush. In addition to lengthening the actual time period
of TPS, CARECEN, CRECEN, and their coalition partners aimed to include those Salvadorans
who had entered the United States after September 19, 1990, pointing out that they were fleeing
for the same reasons as those who had arrived before the somewhat arbitrary cut-off date.101
Salvadoran activists leaned heavily on the relationships they had cultivated throughout the 1980s
with progressive Democrats on Capitol Hill such as Representative Moakley, Senator
DeConcini, and Senator Edward Kennedy (D-Mass), urging them to use their legislative power
98
99
100
Roncal, “No pierden la esperanza.”
101
Rafael Roncal, “Salvadoreños presionan para extender el ‘TPS,’” EP, Sept 19-25, 1991, 3.
249
and political muster to push for an extension. 102 Salvadorans traveled across the country to
rallies, marches, and other public events in which they proclaimed their support for more time.
“¿Quieren irse? ¡No, no, no! ¿Nos quedamos? ¡Si, si, si!” they chanted.103 Legislators on Capitol
Hill took note.104
Such organizing efforts by Salvadorans received strong support from local politicians as
well. In early 1992, DC City Councilmembers Frank Smith and Harry Thomas journeyed to El
Salvador on a fact-finding trip to evaluate the social and political climate post-peace accords.
Upon return, they teamed with Councilmember Jim Nathanson to introduce a resolution
supporting TPS extension. Because the majority of Hispanics in Washington were Salvadorans,
Smith felt a certain responsibility to use his position of power to support a cause that almost
every group in Salvadoran civil society, from the Salvadoran government to opposition parties to
the Catholic Church to the Office of Human Rights, favored. The TPS resolution, Smith said,
would send a strong message to US Attorney General William Barr and to the rest of the nation
that “the United States has a moral obligation to assist in the resettlement of Salvadoran refugees
who were forced to flee their country in order to escape bombs made in the United States.”105
Whether due to persistent and public appeals by activists, congressional calls for justice,
the Salvadoran government’s pleas, or other factors altogether, President Bush informed
Salvadoran President Alfredo Cristiani in May of 1992 that the US would allow Salvadoran TPS
recipients to remain in the United States for one year following the original June 30, 1992
102
Roncal, “Salvadoreños presionan.”
103
English translation: “Do you want to leave? No, no, no! Do we stay? Yes, yes, yes!”
104
Saundra Torry, “Salvadorans Rally at White House to Stay in U.S.,” WP, April 26, 1992, A14.
105
Ana Margarita Acosta, “Consejales del DC consideran apoyar extension del TPS,” EP, Abril 16-22, 1992, 4.
250
deadline. 106 Instead of prolonging TPS, the government offered essentially the same benefits
under a new name, Deferred Extended Departure (DED). Despite the nomenclature, DED was
commonly regarded as an extension of TPS. “The extension is our community’s victory, because
it will guarantee work permits for one more year,” proclaimed CARECEN legal advisor José
Ramos.107 After the extension expired, recipients would still be eligible to apply for political
asylum under the recent American Baptist Churches v. Thornburgh settlement, which stipulated
that Salvadorans and Guatemalans who had resided in the United States since September 19,
1990 and October 1, 1990, respectively, could apply (or re-apply if they had previously applied
and had been rejected) for political asylum under more favorable conditions. 108 Salvadoran
activists and their US allies had won the first in a long line of TPS battles. In doing so, they had
unknowingly laid the foundation for a policy – however imperfect – that would define the United
States government’s approach to Salvadoran immigration for decades to come.
106
Al Kamen and Gabriel Escobar, “U.S. Allows Salvadorans to Stay,” WP, May 15, 1992, A15; Rafael Roncal, “Un
año más de estadía para los salvadoreños,” EP, Mayo 21-27, 1992, 1.
107
Roncal, “Un año más.”
108
A class-action lawsuit brought by a group of religious institutions and refugee assistance agencies in 1985 in
response to the US government’s indictment of Sanctuary movement activists, ABC v. Thornburgh charged that the
INS unfairly discriminated against Salvadorans and Guatemalans based upon US foreign policy interests in rejecting
the vast majority of their political asylum applications since 1980. Federal defense attorneys chose to settle the
case in December of 1990, only months after the passage of TPS and after the INS had revised its asylum
procedures to make it slightly easier for applicants to argue that they deserved asylum. Importantly, while they
waited for their asylum requests to be adjudicated, ABC applicants could obtain permits that allowed them to work
legally in the United States. Over 260,000 ABC applicants still had cases pending as of 1996. Coutin, Legalizing
Moves, 7; Roncal, “Un año más;” Susan Bibler Coutin, “From Refugees to Immigrants: The Legalization Strategies of
Salvadoran Immigrants and Activists,” International Migration Review 32:4 (1998), 910; Hamilton and Chinchilla,
Seeking Community, 143-144. For more on ABC v. Thornburgh, see Carolyn Patty Blum, “The Settlement of
‘American Baptist Churches v. Thornburgh’: Landmark Victory for Central American Asylum-Seekers,” International
Journal of Refugee Law 3 no. 2 (1991): 347-356.
251
CONCLUSION:
THE CHALLENGES OF PEACE
The early 1990s marked a crucial period of transition for Salvadoran immigrants residing
in the metropolitan Washington area. As the fighting in their homeland tapered off and peace
talks progressed, Salvadorans faced a daunting existential crisis. Should they plan on returning to
a country saddled with a crippled infrastructure, an economy barely sputtering along, and a
fragile, fledgling democratic political system? Or should they remain in the United States, where
the opportunity for gainful employment – even in the midst of a national economic downturn –
promised a potentially more stable future?
In the short run, most Salvadorans in the DC area stayed put, even after the guns had
fallen silent and the peace accords had been inked. Their reasons for doing so, though, varied
significantly. José Gustavo Burucas, a 33-year-old former military officer, enjoyed his life in the
United States. “You have democracy and liberty here,” he said. “This is what Salvadorans are
looking for.”1 17-year-old Marvin Flores, a TPS applicant, yearned to return but could not. “I
would like to go back, but I don’t have nobody there,” he said. “All my family is here.”2 Evelyn
Villatoro, 25, also preferred life in El Salvador to the United States but stayed to earn enough
money to support her family back home.3 Juan Pablo Munguia, another former army soldier, was
hesitant to return for fear of reprisals, even after the war had ended. “I’ve got trouble with the
guerrillas,” he remarked, drawing a finger across his throat. He preferred never to step foot in El
Salvador again.4
1
2
3
Acosta, “Aumenta interés.”
4
252
Remaining in the DC area provided greater opportunity for Salvadorans, but it was not
without risks. As the 1980s drew to a close, the US economy took a nosedive, plunging into a
full recession that lasted well into the next decade. Employment opportunities shriveled up as
companies slashed their payrolls to stem the bleeding. The construction industry, which had for
years paid relatively high wages, slowed considerably and laid off hundreds of Salvadoran men.5
Worse yet, in December of 1991 the Latin Investment Corporation, an unofficial “bank” that
held the savings of over 3,000 predominantly Salvadoran clients, suddenly shut its doors.
Investors panicked; lawyers scrambled to recover the approximately $6-13 million in lost
savings.6 They never succeeded; those Salvadorans who had entrusted their hard-earned money
to Fernando Leonzo, the highly regarded Salvadoran owner of “El Banquito,” (“The Little
Bank”) and his business partners had lost everything.
Washington was also quickly becoming a dangerous place to live and work due to the
proliferation of crack cocaine. Since crack first hit the streets of DC in the mid-1980s, drug-
related violence had been steadily increasing, as rival crews and dealers battled over turf and the
right to millions in profits with submachine guns and military-grade rifles.7 By the end of the
1980s, the nation’s capital had also become the murder capital of the United States, with more
violent deaths per capita than any other city in the country.8 Salvadorans often found themselves
quite literally caught in the crossfire, as rising rent prices in traditionally Latino neighborhoods
5
Ricardo Castillo, “Immigrants Find American Dream as Elusive as Sleep,” WP, Aug 7, 1992, B1.
6
Carlos Sanchez and Joël Glenn Brenner, “Investors in Limbo After D.C. Firm Shuts,” WP, Dec 6, 1990, C1; Carlos
Sanchez and Joël Glenn Brenner, “Latin Investment Now Bankrupt as SEC Starts Probe,” WP, Dec 14, 1990, C1.
7
See Asch and Musgrove, Chocolate City; Ruben Castaneda, S Street Rising: Crack, Murder, and Redemption in D.C.
(New York: Bloomsbury, 2014); Harry Jaffe and Tom Sherwood, Dream City: Race, Power, and the Decline of
Washington, D.C. (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1994); and Clarence Lusane, Pipe Dream Blues: Racism and the
War on Drugs (Boston: South End Press, 1991) for accounts and analysis of the crack epidemic and the impact of
the War on Drugs in DC.
8
In 1990, Washington, DC recorded 77.8 homicides per 100,000 residents, topping the list of per capita murders
for major US cities for the second year in a row. Associated Press, “Washington Remained U.S. Murder Capital in
1990,” WP, Aug 11, 1991, A6.
253
such as Adams Morgan and Mt. Pleasant pushed them into lower-income, predominantly African
American neighborhoods where city streets doubled as open-air drug markets and the crackle of
gunfire echoed off alley walls on a daily basis. Such environments did not prove conducive to
raising children, and many Salvadoran youth joined gangs, craving a sense of belonging and
seduced by the temptation of quick money through selling drugs. 9 “The same kids who
scrambled under the piñatas at the Christmas parties are now on the streets dealing drugs,”
bemoaned one community activist.10 Prisons and graveyards began filling up with Salvadoran
surnames, to the anguish of immigrant families.11
The Metropolitan Police Department responded to rising drug and gang violence with a
heavy hand and even heavier truncheons. The unrest in Mt. Pleasant in early May of 1991
pushed the department to institute structural reforms aimed at reducing abusive practices and
improving community relations with Spanish-speakers, but it would take years to change deeply
entrenched attitudes and misconceptions on both sides. 12 The DC Latino Civil Rights Task
9
“We’ve been doing therapy for Latino children who have seen the [Salvadoran civil] war,” said Emilia Seckinger,
director of the local Spanish-language counseling service Familia. “Now we’re doing therapy for children living in a
drug war zone.” Karlyn Barker, “NW Latino Residents Feel the Tightening Grip of Drug Crime,” WP, May 1, 1989,
D1; See also testimonies of Alex Iraheta and Luis Castellanos in Bernbaum and Castillo, “La Clínica Del Pueblo,” 60;
and author’s interview with Suann Hecht, social services director at the Latin American Youth Center during the
late 1980s and early 1990s, 11/17/17.
10
Barker, “NW Latino Residents.”
11
Interview with Suann Hecht, 11/17/17.
12
Following the Mt. Pleasant disturbances, DC Police Chief Ike Fulwood made a concerted effort to reach out to
Spanish-speaking populations in the District, enrolling 40 officers in conversational Spanish classes, assigning more
Spanish-speaking officers to the Mt. Pleasant / Columbia Heights area, and opening up a police community center
on Columbia Road. The MPD also reached out to hire more Spanish-speaking officers and posted signs in Spanish
advising those arrested of their rights. Yet one year after the riots, the police force still had not undergone cultural
sensitivity training as an entire department, had not reached out to educate Hispanics on how to report police
abuses, and did not record identify Hispanics as such on crime reports, making it impossible to assess how often
Spanish-speaking people were victims of crime. Sari Horowitz, “Views of Police Efforts Vary in Community,” WP,
Sept 8, 1991, B1; Carlos Sanchez, “Fulwood Cites Steps for Latinos,” WP, Jan 31, 1992, B3; Christine Spolar, “D.C.
Police, Hispanics Reach Out,” WP, May 4, 1992, A1; Gabriel Escober and Rubén Castañeda, “Mistrust of Police
Persists in D.C.’s Latino Community,” WP, Nov 26, 1992, A25. For an assessment of MPD reforms and police
behavior during the decade following the riots, see A Place At The Table: Latino Civil Rights Ten Years After the
Mount Pleasant Disturbances, Conclusions and Recommendations of the Civil Rights Review Panel, 2002, 7-11.
Unpublished document.
254
Force, born out of the ashes of the conflagration, matured into an authoritative voice that raised
awareness of Latino priorities at the local level and sought to address long-term structural
injustices. In the years following the riots, the Task Force empowered Washington’s Spanish-
speaking community to seek redress of collective grievances and took the fight to city hall and
the Mayor’s Office of Latino Affairs, laying the foundation for a more inclusive city. As DC’s
budget crisis escalated, though, the Task Force’s power to prod government officials into action
ebbed, and the group eventually dissolved altogether.
Fortunately, other sectors of the DC Latino community stepped in to play more vocal
roles in local activism and advocacy. As the Salvadoran civil war drew to a close and the country
settled into an uneasy peace, solidarity and self-help agencies founded by Salvadoran activists
and their North American allies had faced an identity crisis. The revolution had ended. How
would they now define their mission? Following a period of intensive soul-searching, the most
successful of the organizations emerged with renewed vigor to recommit themselves to the local
Latino community, expanding the services they offered and rebranding to reflect the shift in the
nature of their work. The Central American Refugee Center became the Central American
Resource Center and took on neighborhood issues like tenant organizing and affordable housing
in addition to advocating for TPS and continuing its work with political asylum applicants. La
Clínica Del Pueblo separated from CARECEN and matured under the steady guidance of the
beloved Dr. Juan Romagoza, who succeeded in growing the organization into a model provider
of health care for low-income Latinos while keeping it engaged in efforts to promote social and
economic justice on local, national, and international levels. And Central American Solidarity
and Assistance of Maryland (CASA-Maryland), born in a church basement in neighboring
255
Takoma Park, Maryland, expanded to become the dominant voice for Latino immigrant rights in
the metropolitan Washington area by the end of the century.13
Perhaps the most publicly palpable Salvadoran contribution to DC, however, involved
neither politics nor social services. By the early 1990s, Salvadorans had established themselves
as enterprising entrepreneurs in the Washington world of work. The people who, even before
their massive migration north, had been known as the “capitalists of Central America” had
applied their famous business acumen to their new place of residence, and their perseverance had
begun to pay dividends. With each passing year, new Salvadoran (or, more appropriately, Salva-
Tex-Mex) restaurants opened their doors, serving up pupusas alongside burritos and
chimichangas. Salvadoran-owned variety stores dotted DC’s ethnic neighborhoods, offering gifts
for every occasion, a wide selection of international phone cards, and a slice of home in the
chatter of customers who had known each other since childhood. Salvadorans moved into the
import-export business and became wholesale providers of Central American and Mexican
goods. And construction workers who had labored for years on sites as assistants struck out on
their own as independent contractors, winning city and federal minority bids to spruce up old
houses and assemble shiny new condominium complexes in some of the very neighborhoods
where they once had lived, now populated by moneyed young families.
Not all Salvadoran immigrants to Washington, DC achieved the American Dream – or at
least what they perceived it to be. And even if they did prosper, material wealth often proved a
poor substitute for the comfort of one’s native culture: many affluent Salvadorans still longed to
return home, and some did. But the majority of Salvadorans remained, many continuing to work
13
CASA was founded in the same vein as CARECEN by progressive North Americans with the help of Salvadorans,
some of whom had strong ties to CARECEN. It provided services such as nutrition education and a food pantry,
English as a Second Language classes, and legal aid for immigrants. For years it was known as CASA of Maryland,
CASA de Maryland, and CASA-Maryland. It changed its name back to CASA in 2018, as it has expanded to Virginia
and Pennsylvania.
256
multiple jobs to make ends meet and provide for their increasingly transnational families:
scrubbing dishes, busing tables, cleaning offices, cutting lawns, pouring concrete, and tending to
the children of Washington’s middle and upper classes. Driven from their homeland by war and
civil strife, Salvadorans had journeyed north in search of security, sustenance, and stability. They
found opportunity in the heart of the beast: in the capital city of the nation that supplied the
bombs that were dropped on El Salvador. Salvadorans also encountered formidable obstacles
that challenged their ability to adapt, to adjust, and to persevere. Limited by the structural
confines of Washington’s political and economic realities, they worked to legitimize their
presence, advocate for their rights, and build new lives in the nation’s capital. In doing so, they
put an indelible Salvadoran stamp on the social institutions and cultural landscape of
Washington, DC.
257
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267

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"THE BOMBS THAT DROP IN EL SALVADOR EXPLODE IN MOUNT PLEASANT:"

FROM COLD WAR CONFLAGRATION TO IMMIGRANT STRUGGLES IN

Patrick Daniel Scallen, M.A.

Patrick Daniel Scallen, M.A.

Thesis Advisors: John Tutino, Ph.D. and Joseph McCartin, Ph.D.

(1980-1992). It traces Salvadorans as they migrated from a country wracked by economic

discrimination as they struggled to gain a foothold in their new surroundings.

immigration policies on Salvadorans, particularly on those without legal documentation. It then

by a policewoman’s shooting of a Salvadoran man. The dissertation closes with an appraisal of

and political context of the national capital region.

This project is dedicated to the Scallen family:

CHAPTER 1: A HISTORY OF INEQUITY AND THE FIRST EXPORT CRISIS,

CHAPTER 3: CIVIL WAR AND THE EXPORT OF MIGRANTS AND REFUGEES,

CHAPTER 4: ORGANIZING FOR JUSTICE IN THE CAPITAL CITY, 1980-1986 .………113

CHAPTER 5: LIMITATIONS ON NEW LIVES, 1980-1991…………………………………176

CHAPTER 6: FIGHTING FOR LEGITIMACY, 1991-1995………………………………….226

CONCLUSION: THE CHALLENGES OF PEACE…………………………………………...252

the cornerstone of its anti-Communist campaign, funneling US weapons, planes, ammunition,

White House’s own backyard.

From Revolutionary Violence to Civil Unrest

met a far more gruesome fate.

In 1980, following an orgy of state-sponsored violence that included the assassination of

Central American nations, Mexico, and the United States.

Republican Ronald Reagan as US President in 1980. Reagan, an ardent anti-Communist, pledged

This analysis focuses on the experiences of Salvadoran immigrants in metropolitan

those in the United States and those still in El Salvador.

ignorance, cultural misunderstandings, and resource scarcity – bedeviled Salvadoran immigrants

The history of Washington, DC has traditionally been written in monochrome. Conflicts

This work injects a long-overdue focus on Spanish-speaking brown residents of the

District of Columbia into the dominant English-speaking black-and-white discourse. By weaving

social relations in the nation’s capital.

culturally and socially.

Rationale, Methodology, and Sources

alongside, and teaching Salvadorans in Washington, DC and in El Salvador. As a historian of

a result, some names may be pseudonyms, as preferred by the interviewee/narrator.

Documentary sources included local newspapers (Spanish- and English-language), church

coffee economy and accompanying state-led privatization of communal landholdings beginning

1932 in the bloodiest massacre in twentieth-century Latin American history.

incipient industrialization, expansion, and diversification of export agriculture and the

consolidation of landholdings by a small cadre of agro-export elite as the twentieth century

progressed. As social conditions deteriorated, landlessness increased, and successive military

to what could often be a harsh and unforgiving new environment.

Chapter 4 assesses the efforts of a dedicated group of Salvadoran refugee-activists to

burgeoning Latino community in Washington, DC composed of Dominicans, Cubans, Puerto

Chapter 5 situates Salvadorans squarely in the social space of Washington, DC,

harassment by police, corporal punishment in public schools, or street violence perpetrated by

lease on life in the US with the passage of Temporary Protected Status.

pursue just lives in the nation’s capital.

The Colonial Period: Conquistadors and Cash Crops

sources of income for the colonizers.7

burgeoning agro-export economy of the region the settlers renamed “Cuzcatlán.”12

clothe themselves due to the power of their encomenderos.”16

As time passed, increasingly influential Spanish merchant networks in the region

and by the mid-1700s, production had ceased altogether.23

commercial growers’ belief in the power of export-oriented monoculture. As the eighteenth

Independence arrived in relatively bloodless fashion. In the wake of Mexico’s separation

armed warfare among regional strongmen.

To a certain extent, political ideology mattered. Liberals generally favored a more

individual sovereignty, and staunch anti-clericalism. Conservatives advocated the protection of