Slain bishop gave voice back to
Mayans
By PAUL JEFFREY
Special to the National Catholic Reporter Guatemala City
When I asked Bishop Juan Gerardi Conedera last year if he had
forgiven the military officials who slaughtered his pastoral agents and tried
to kill him when he served as bishop of the diocese of El Quiché,
Gerardi easily answered, Yes.
Seated amid the ancient furniture that filled his dark office in
Guatemala City, Gerardi quickly added, Its difficult, I know.
Forgiving doesnt mean forgetting the monstrosities of that time. But if
God forgives someone, then that person has to forgive others, although at times
we remember, and that memory makes us angry.
Gerardi, who was murdered April 26 outside his residence, had a
lasting memory of the violence against the church and indigenous people of the
highlands province where he served as bishop. The wide assumption here and
outside the country is that Gerardi was killed because of his work to keep the
memory alive.
The violence became so severe in 1980 that Gerardi took the
unprecedented step of closing the diocese rather than watch as the army picked
off more of his priests. It was the intense memory of that time that motivated
Gerardi, during the last months of his life, to put the final touches on a
report about the civil wars violence. He simply refused to forget, and
his April 24 report -- Guatemala: Never Again! -- described in
detail the assassinations and massacres, many of which occurred in
Quiché, the scene of some of the most intense violence of the war (NCR,
May 8).
The testimony of almost 7,000 people, most of them indigenous
Maya, formed the foundation of Gerardis final report.
It was as if the bishop had the last laugh. On the last afternoon
of his life, according to Ronalth Ochaeta, director of the archdiocesan human
rights office, Gerardi was brimming over with joy. Ochaeta, who ate
dinner with Gerardi that fateful evening, said Gerardi felt pastorally
realized for having concluded the project.
Just two days after releasing the report, Gerardi was
dreaming of new ideas and new projects that would help rebuild the social
fabric of the country. The great project of his life was the reconciliation of
this country.
The 75-year-old Gerardi, the grandson of Italian immigrants, spent
several hours with his family and friends that day. He told a few jokes.
His jokes were usually pretty bad, said Juan Carlos Cordoba, a
priest in Antigua who was a close friend. I dont know where he got
them, but they almost always involved priests and doctors. Two young
nephews were there. They called him Uncle Mocho -- a title
theyd invented when young because they couldnt pronounce
Monseñor. Several friends his own age called him Juanito
-- little John -- though he was a big man. Younger associates
always addressed him as Monseñor.
Following his cheerful evening with family and friends, Gerardi
returned to his simple quarters in the Church of San Sebastian, three blocks
from the National Palace in downtown Guatemala City. Waiting for him was an
assailant who repeatedly smashed Gerardis head with an eight-pound chunk
of cement.
Twenty priests had been killed by the military in the past, but
never a bishop. In peacetime, few would have thought it possible.
Fr. Ricardo Falla, a Jesuit anthropologist who first got to know
Gerardi in the 1970s, said the manner in which Gerardi was killed is
significant. He contrasted it to the 1980 assassination of Archbishop Oscar
Romero in El Salvador. Romero was killed with a bullet to the heart, as
if to kill off the love and the passion that drove people to struggle,
Falla told NCR. Gerardi was killed by someone who smashed his
brain, as if they were trying to wipe out his memory.
They didnt succeed. The assassination has provoked renewed
interest in what the church had to say about the violence and who caused it. In
the wake of Gerardis death, archdiocesan officials increased the press
run on the four volumes of the churchs report from 3,000 copies to 20,000
copies.
Finding out whats in the report isnt easy. Only 100
copies of the first two volumes of the four-volume report were available when
the report was made public, and those have been photocopied extensively to meet
the needs of journalists and diplomats.
Wrenching testimonies
It is not easy reading. Besides the statistical breakdown about
who did what during the war, there are dozens of selections from the
testimonies. Many of the women were pregnant, and they cut open the
stomach of one of them who was eight months pregnant. They took out the
creature and played with it as if it were a football, said one survivor
of a 1981 army incursion.
In a section titled Mechanisms of Horror, the report
guides the reader through the maze of death squads and other clandestine
organizations spawned by the military. Besides the organization of hit squads
and descriptions of domestic spying, the report describes how novice assassins
often practiced their skills on street people, conducting social
cleansing in preparation for more political jobs.
Testimonies of former soldiers relate how troops were trained in a
step-by-step process for conducting massacres. How military agents carried out
disappearances -- characterized in the report as a particularly
vicious form of social control -- is also described in morbid detail.
The report relates how civil defense patrols were designed to
extend the armys reach in the countryside and induce civilians to kill
each other. Moving testimonies of refugees and the internally displaced are
given prominence, and the disastrous effects of the war on indigenous cultures
are discussed at length.
Gerardi was well-acquainted with indigenous cultures. His first
episcopal appointment was in Cobán from 1967 to 1974, where he helped
implement the churchs newfound commitment to indigenous ministry with the
Qeqchi Maya. In 1974, he moved to Quiché, where the church was
reaching out in new ways to the almost 1 million Kiche Maya.
The diocese was home to a rapidly expanding network of Catholic
Action activists. Originally brought to the region in the 1950s by Sacred Heart
priests from Spain, who sought to form an ecclesiastical bulwark against
advancing world communism, Catholic Action took root in the diocese. By the
time of Gerardis arrival, however, the groups mission had changed.
It became a growing force for indigenous empowerment and village
development.
For military officials headquartered at the regional base just
south of Santa Cruz del Quiché, a stark highland town where
Gerardis cathedral anchored the central plaza, Catholic Action was just
one more subversive group. So they ordered the systematic assassination of
catechists and other Catholic Action leaders. In 1976, stepping up its attack
on what it considered church-sponsored subversion, the army started killing
priests, beginning with William Woods, a Maryknoll missionary from the United
States who worked developing agricultural cooperatives in the far north of
Gerardis diocese.
Until this time Gerardi had been a quiet, reflective man, not
given to taking dramatic stands. He was an indecisive man for a long
time, said Falla. You could see it in how he talked. Hed say
20 words without saying anything, because he didnt know what to
say. At the same time, he was apparently making an assessment of the
crisis in Guatemala. He was intelligent. He read everything that was
written about what was happening in the country, and he thought a lot about
it, Falla said. He was sort of like Hamlet, very intelligent but
also indecisive.
The pressure of accelerating repression motivated Gerardi to leave
behind the relative comfort of his Hamlet-like study and publicly express his
frustration and anger about what was happening. As massacres took place in
Soch, Rosario, Chola, San Pablo el Baldio and countless other villages, the
bishop finally knew what to say and started lambasting the army.
Gerardi made at least 10 trips to the military base near Santa
Cruz del Quiché to demand a stop to the killings and disappearances. He
traveled to the capital in 1980 to speak with the minister of the interior,
Donald Alvarez, and the head of the army high command, Rene Mendoza. According
to written church accounts of that period, Gerardi told the pair that by
attacking the civilian population so much, you are doing the
guerrillas work for them, increasing support for the guerrillas.
The bishop told the two officials -- both named in the recent
church report as among those who directed death squad activities at the time --
that the people believe that the guerrillas are their friends and the
army their enemy.
Falla claimed that Gerardi had a loathing for the
military, yet that didnt translate into an automatic admiration for
the insurgents. Gerardi wasnt pro-guerrilla. Placed between the
army and the guerrillas, however, he had a lot more sympathy for the
guerrillas. But he never helped them with either words nor actions, Falla
said.
In an interview with me last year, Gerardi recalled, At one
moment, perhaps there was more in common with the thinking of the guerrillas
than with the thinking of the army. But we couldnt share everything with
the guerrillas. We couldnt accept the guerrillas as a solution to the
problems. We couldnt accept their methods as ethical.
Such subtlety was lost on the capital city elites concerned with
the threat of international communism, among them Cardinal Mario Casariego, the
archbishop of Guatemala. Casariego, who died in 1983, was a close friend of the
military.
The conservative wing of the church blamed Gerardi for provoking
problems between church and state. Yet the bishop ignored such criticism,
preoccupied with mounting violence in his diocese.
In mid-1980, two of Gerardis priests were assassinated. And
then on July 18, a young Catholic arrived on a bicycle to warn that army
assassins were waiting to ambush Gerardi when he traveled to nearby San Antonio
Ilotenango to celebrate Mass. It was the last straw. Gerardi told his priests
the next day, It is not possible to work here anymore. They will kill all
of us. Associates of Gerardi said the bishop felt he had no other
choice.
In spite of Casariego, the episcopal conference backed
Gerardis decision, stating that the violence in Quiché had
made impossible all evangelical and pastoral labor. The conference
dispatched Gerardi to Rome, where he briefed the pope on the situation. The
pope sent him home to reopen the diocese, no matter what. As Gerardi was
traveling back to Central America, the pope released a letter blaming
Guatemalas violence on social injustice and calling on government
officials to take responsible action.
When the bishop got back home, he wasnt welcome. According
to subsequent news reports, as an army hit squad waited outside the airport to
kill Gerardi, immigration officials interrogated him for two hours and then did
him the favor of refusing him admittance. He flew off to four years of exile in
Costa Rica.
Falla recalled visiting Gerardi in Costa Rica in 1982. He went
there to convince Gerardi to join a group of celebrities who were forming what
Falla called a civilian screen for the guerrillas. Yet Gerardi
would have nothing to do with it, even from exile. He wanted to maintain
a very clear distinction between what was political and what was
ecclesiastical, Falla said. And he was very suspicious of the left
trying to manipulate him.
Falla said that although Gerardi was removed geographically from
Guatemalas western highlands, he still felt close in spirit. He
thought a lot about Quiché, Falla said. He mourned it. Being
forced to close the diocese had broken his life.
By 1984, Guatemala had started to change. The worst of the
violence was over. Sensitive to world opinion, the army took the first meager
steps toward democratization. It seemed safe for Gerardi to come home.
Yet there would be no return to Quiché, not for more than
another decade. Gerardi stayed in the capital, directing the ministry of the
church in the marginal slums burgeoning with thousands of families displaced by
the war. As the peace process got slowly underway, Gerardi helped mediate
between the government and the guerrillas. By the end of the decade, he had
founded a human rights office for the archdiocese, a carefully selected group
of lay people and former religious whose diligence and aggressiveness would set
a standard for such work in Guatemala.
According to Sandra Sánchez, the executive secretary of the
archdioceses social ministry, Gerardi wasnt someone who sought out
contact with the poor. He was intelligent, a great analyst, but he
wasnt close to the poor. It was hard for him to get close to the
people, Sánchez said. Yet that was just his style of
accompaniment. He knew what was happening in the communities, he was always
present in the meetings of the Christian base communities, and he understood
the problems the poor were wrestling with.
Falla said that Gerardis pastoral style in Quiché was
similar. He wasnt the kind of guy to spend all night talking with
the peasants, Falla recalled. That wasnt his style. But he
listened, he thought a lot, and he understood what was happening.
According to María García, editor of Voces del
Tiempo, a progressive Catholic magazine here, Gerardi nonetheless had begun
to open up. When he first came to the archdiocese, he was pretty timid
around people, García recalled. But in the last couple of
years he had begun to change, to become less distant. In one recent meeting
with 300 pastoral agents from marginal areas, he enjoyed himself talking with
them, eating with them, telling jokes. He was so happy. He seemed like a child
in their midst.
According to García, Gerardis change in personal
style came as a result of working more directly with lay people in the
archdiocese. Those boys in the human rights office helped to humanize
him, García said.
Accused of meddling
Gerardi often came under fire for the work of the human rights
office, but he didnt back away from reflecting responsibility for the
violence back onto those he considered responsible. They seek to blame
the church because were the ones putting our finger into the wound,
he told me last year. We didnt create the problems. What weve
done is say a word about the situation, shed light on the problems, and
thats what bothers them.
While some accused Gerardi of meddling in politics, he saw his
role as helping the church live up to its postwar vocation. The church is
called to reconcile persons, to bring together different groups of
people, he told me. Sure, thats a difficult task, but
its a very appropriate task for the church. And if the church
doesnt do it, no one will.
The Historic Memory Project -- known here by its Spanish acronym
REMHI -- was the vehicle Gerardi created for the church to carry out that
mission. He had been concerned early on in the peace negotiations that
the people were going to be increasingly excluded from the
resolution of the war by the two parties who signed the peace accords, and thus
the peace on paper would be of limited value to those who had suffered the
most.
In a series of discussions with the staff of the human rights
office, Gerardi came to see REMHI as a path out of the nightmare of violence.
He wanted a structure to help people remember, and thus maybe, eventually,
forgive. It was a process, Gerardi told me, designed to help create new
attitudes, to provoke change inside people and between people, not just to
palliate the violence and the hurt that remains after the war.
For Gerardi, who had carried with him for over a decade the pain
of having closed the Quiché diocese, REMHI was clearly an opportunity to
give back to the indigenous of Quiché the voice that had been taken from
them during the violence. REMHI was a way to compensate for the grief he
carried, stated Sánchez. According to García, REMHI
was a personal way for Monseñor to give back something to the people he
was forced to abandon.
Gerardi acknowledged as much when he presented REMHIs final
report on April 24. As a church, we collectively and responsibly assumed
the task of breaking the silence that thousands of victims have kept for
years, he declared. We made it possible for them to talk, to have
their say, to tell their stories of suffering and pain so they might feel
liberated from the burden that has been weighing down on them for so
long.
And then, so soon afterward, he was dead. But the memory of others
remained secure. He had given back the final word to the indigenous people of
Quiché and so many other tortured corners of Guatemala.
When I asked Bishop Gerardi last year about the importance of
martyrs for the church in Guatemala, he told me that martyrs were a sign
of testimony, a sign that our faith has really taken root in the people, that
faith has been able to sustain them in difficult times and take them even to
their death.
For most Guatemalans, Gerardi was a man who survived the many
dangers and snares of his countrys recent past, a nightmare during which
his faith sustained him, and then -- just as the country was beginning to try
to live in peace -- his faith took him to his death.
National Catholic Reporter, May 22,
1998
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