1 2 3 4

The Capture

The rain starts, we bid the divided community and soldiers good evening, and walk across the foot bridge, to climb the hill where the returnees are starting to get wet. The Colonel and soldiers walk up the hill and into the town to their helicopter. But, we will see them again.

Within two minutes, we hear a great roar, a collective shout, and quickly a gang of the patrollers and Association members come running behind: "'Esperense', (Wait) we want to talk to you." Surrounding, pushing and shoving us, the rain breaks out in torrents. "You are our hostages. You are to stay with us." Surprised, nervous, out of my element, I mumble "No problem," hands in the air, circled by angry, triumphant men with clubs and rope.

Some 20 to 30 men walk us back, sopping in the rain, to the center of town. A thousand thoughts race through my head. I stop thinking.

Once inside our small, dry hut, they tell us we have been detained for three reasons: 1. to ensure that the government arrives; 2. to ensure just and fair negotiations concerning the land issue; and, 3. to have the capture orders against Raul Martinez nullified. There exist outstanding capture orders against Raul Martinez for crimes he has committed over the past months.

One of the patrollers exclaims that they won't release us because we are their copa de oro (cup of gold).

Our residence: a bamboo hut, 10 by 5 yards; solid tin roof, swept dirt floor, a couple of benches, a rickety chair, bags of cement, tools. We joke about tunneling out of there, but where would we hide the dirt from the tunnel? Stumped, we sit and wait ... for what I don't know.

Soon, we are brought clothes, too small, comfortable and dry, and beans, tortillas, and lemonade. Our captors run back and forth, buying us cigarettes and warm soda pop. We pay. They are poor. I discover Casinos, a mild menthol cigarette. We sit and wait.

The same Colonel Trujillo comes in, an hour later, with the three soldiers. Our walkie was taken from us, we are incommunicado -- wondering what he is doing here. We talk awhile of the rain beating on the tin roof, of how we will all fit sleeping that night in the small hut, etc. An hour later it occurs to me to ask: "Do you know why we are here?"

"Well, he answers, I was thinking that it was to sleep somewhere out of the rain." All five of us at once: "No sir, we are here as hostages, detained against our will," reacting strongly against the thought that we would spend the night with the same people who were refusing lodging to the legitimate returnees, with their the sick, elderly and young.

The Colonel goes outside to radio to the Military Zone #22 (Playa Grande, Ixcan, Quiche) after we explain what happened and insist that he communicate this information. He returns: "I established contact ... but didn't tell them about you." "But, why?," we politely regale him.

Fifteen minutes later the Colonel heads back out. When he returns, "I again made contact and told them I was with 5 foreigners, but I didn't tell them you were detained because I didn't want to alarm them." "But, why ..., How could you not?"

The issue is dead for the night. We don't really know what he said to the base. We don't really know whether the base is closely linked to our capture, testing the resolve of the international community to push for and demand real change in Guatemala.

Outside our door armed patrollers walk around. When we go to the latrine, they walk along. We sleep dry that night, knowing that the returnees on the hill are wet and cold, the children getting sicker, crying all night.

Thursday, June 29, 5 am

Loudspeakers awake us, and men scurrying around. Out our door we see a beautiful Ixcan sunrise, the orange and gold pushing up over the hills and foliage shrouded in mist. I light a Casino and begin a slow day. With a hand held loudspeaker, the townspeople call on the men of San Antonio and the surrounding villages to gather. "Those of you who have slept late or those who don't show up will be punished by the Association."

They have obviously planned this hostage scene ahead. Raul Martinez expects the government and high ranking military officials to show up, today. The poor in the Ixcan don't matter that much!

A loudspeaker pipes up from another part of the community; the pro-return members of San Antonio are calling on their women to make extra tortillas and fresco, a type of Kool-Aid, for the men to carry up the hill to the returnees. Citing the Constitution, they call on the Association (with their clubs and guns) to allow them to take these basic provisions to their brothers and sisters.

Contrary to the pro-return folks promises made in Santa Maria Dolores on Tuesday night, 80 families did not come out to meet and escort the returnees. As we were later to learn, upon returning to San Antonio Tuesday night the ten men were attacked, beaten and threatened by Association members and civil defense patrollers. Early Wednesday morning local PAC leaders had blocked, guns and threats, the entrance to the molino (where the corn is ground) anticipating this offer of solidarity.

The loudspeaker war ends. The pro-return folks were allowed, finally, to take some basic provisions to the returnees.

Breakfast for us: tortillas, beans and fresco. We aren't that hungry, though hot watery coffee is good. An Association man grabs the loudspeaker: "It is urgent that the person in charge of the Catholic Church bring the key so that we can open the bathroom (outhouse) for the 5 internationals." This is appreciated.

The morning stretches out, as slow as the rising sun, heating the town center, and our hut. Cards! Miraculously in the nearby store (small hut) they sell packs of "Tiger Brand, Made in China" playing cards. We start a rousing game of 'Oh Hell.'

Through the day, I am constantly stunned by the apparently contradictory actions and deeds of our the majority of our captors. They treat us very well. They tell us over and over that they have nothing against us. They sit and talk. When one of our members puts in contact lenses, they are fascinated. Vicente, one of our captors, casually flips through my cherished note book as we chat. He can't read Spanish let alone English, or Kekchi, his first language. He closes it.

Yet, when they captured us, when we saw them arguing with the soldiers and the pro-returnee members of the community, or when later they violently resisted the anti-riot troops futile attempt to liberate us, they openly and vociferously showed their hate, rage and anger.

Their leaders actions are, however, not so contradictory. They have consistently lied to, manipulated and used the majority of region's population. The saddest residue of the hostage experience is that of looking in the eyes of the hatred, ignorance and fear of the majority of our captors -- most being themselves victims of the past 15 years of war and repression.

A captor, in a quiet moment, talked of how he lost two brothers in the war, one killed by the army, the other he is not sure, "So, who do I trust? I don't trust anyone. I am sorry we have to take this drastic measure, but what else do we have?"

Raul Martinez Association

Raul arrived at 8 am, Thursday, and demonstrated who was in command of the hostage enterprise. We ask, "Would you allow the doctor, to go back to the returnees to tend to the sick and infirm?" Raul, short, a small pot belly, dressed in quiet clothes and a simple fedora, responds: "But Senores, you can't ask me that. I do not rule here. I am a servant of the people. It is the people who rule."

The 'people,' gathered around Raul with clubs in hand, hang on every word. He politely asks: "Do the people rule?" They, practiced and obedient, chant "Si." "Can the Doctor go to tend to the refugees?" "No."

An army helicopter arrived at 10 am. Not troop reinforcements, or government officials coming to control the hostage situation. Rather, a group of army and government reporters and TV cameramen, escorted by an army G-2 especialista, Lieutenant-Colonel Garcia, from the Cari (Ixcan) military outpost. The reporter from La Republica, the only private sector press present, told us he had received a call from the public relations office of the army inviting him 'to come and see something interesting.'

They watched and filmed everything, including, from outside the hut, the midday aborted rescue attempt. The didn't get to film the eyes of the women and girls on guard inside our hut. The head office of the United Nations Human Rights Observer Mission (MINUGUA) did not find out about the hostage taking until 12 noon, on Thursday.

1 2 3 4