Convictions of the Soul: Religion, Culture, and Agency in the Central America Solidarity Movement

CONVICTIONS OF THE SOUL 0

This page intentionally left blank

CONVICTIONS OF THE SOUL 0 Religion, Culture, and Agency in the Central America Solidarity Movement

SHARON ERICKSON NEPSTAD

1 2004

3 Oxford New York Auckland Bangkok Buenos Aires Cape Town Chennai Dar es Salaam Delhi Hong Kong Istanbul Karachi Kolkata Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Mumbai Nairobi Sa˜o Paulo Shanghai Taipei Tokyo Toronto

Copyright 䉷 2004 by Oxford University Press, Inc. Published by Oxford University Press, Inc. 198 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016 www.oup.com Oxford is a registered trademark of Oxford University Press All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Oxford University Press. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Nepstad, Sharon Erickson. Convictions of the soul : religion, culture, and agency in the Central America solidarity movement / Sharon Erickson Nepstad. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-19-516923-9 1. Solidarity—Religious aspects—Christianity—History—20th century. 2. Christianity and politics—United States—History—20th century. 3. Christianity and international affairs—History—20th century. 4. Insurgency—Central America—History—20th century. 5. Missionaries—Central America—Political activity—History—20th century. 6. Missionaries—United States—Political activity— History—20th century. I. Title. BR517.N47 2004 261.8'7—dc22 2003015344

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

To the memory of Michael L. Miller (1963–1996), who had a remarkable passion for life and Christopher Morgan (1964–1996), who was always a good friend

CONTENTS

1

Culture, Agency, and Religion in Social Movements

2

The Origins of Central America’s Civil Wars 30

3

Leadership and the Formation of Solidarity 53

4

Biography and Recruitment Receptivity

5

Martyr Stories

6

Making Politics Personal

7

Rituals and Emotional Rejuvenation

8

Agency and Transnational Movements

3

76

95 116 137 157

Appendix 1. List of Central America Solidarity Organizations 167 Appendix 2. List of Interviews 169 Notes 171 Bibliography 185 Index

197

P R E FAC E

D

uring President Ronald Reagan’s two terms in office, one of the most controversial and hotly contested issues was his foreign policy toward Central America. Reagan was determined to claim victory in Cold War battles by overturning the 1979 Nicaraguan revolution and defeating insurrectionary movements in El Salvador and Guatemala. To accomplish this, he sent weapons, aid, and military advisors to the region, fueling these nations’ civil conflicts by equipping and training local armed forces to wage counterinsurgency wars. At home, Reagan faced another battle from those who believed this involvement in Central America was unjust and immoral. Some of his fiercest opponents were people of faith—priests, nuns, clergy, and lay people of various denominations who came to see their resistance to Reagan’s policies as a spiritual calling, not merely political protest. Their religious views and values linked them to the poor of Central America who, inspired by a belief in a gospel of liberation, were struggling for human rights, economic reform, and political change. Out of solidarity with these Christians, U.S. faith communities mounted numerous campaigns to stop U.S. aid to Central America, to cease the training of Latin American militaries, and provide protection for those fleeing the violence. Religion was more than a source of inspiration for this solidarity movement. It also provided an abundance of resources that were key in launching and sustaining these acts of protest for more than a decade. Christianity has a rich set of symbols, narratives, rituals, and teachings; it has moral credibility, authority, financial assets, and extensive networks throughout the world. Solidarity organizers, predominantly former mis-

preface

sionaries to Latin America, creatively used these resources to reach congregations throughout the United States, persuading them that supporting the liberation struggles of the Central American poor was morally imperative and that resisting President Reagan’s policies was completely consistent with biblical teachings. This book explores the various religious dynamics of the U.S.-based Central America solidarity movement. While other studies have focused primarily on the structural role of the church in this movement, I pay particular attention to the myriad ways that church members used the cultural resources of Christianity to build solidarity with the poor in Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala. It is important to briefly clarify my use of the term solidarity. Distinct from the traditional Marxist conception of support for the international working class struggle, the term acquired a different meaning in the Central America movement during the 1980s. The idea is linked to the theological notion of acompan˜amiento (accompaniment)—walking with the people of Latin America in their quest for justice. Father Paul, a Franciscan priest and a solidarity movement leader, elaborates on this new understanding of solidarity: In the 1970s, what people of faith were hearing was that the only role for First World people was letting go of our privilege. A little later in the 1980s, that became a movement more toward solidarity. Not only can we let go of our privilege, even our material goods, but we also need to be in solidarity with those who don’t have any choice about these things. It is the idea that we are being invited by the poor in the Third World to walk with them on their terms. It’s a little bit like the gospel, I think. Jesus talks about preaching the good news to the poor. The liberation theologians say, if you want to hear the gospel, if you want to find Jesus, the surest place to find him is among the poor. So we need to walk with these people. That’s where you’ll hear the gospel—in the process of accompaniment.1 Solidarity, therefore, has both religious implications and a political goal, namely, constraining U.S. interference in Central America so that the people of these nations have the opportunity to recreate their societies according to the principles of social justice. To explore the role of religion in this movement, I employed a triangulated methodology that includes several data sources.2 Primarily, I drew from in-depth interviews conducted with thirty-five activists in ten separate Central America solidarity organizations, listed in the appendix. I selected these groups based on several factors: (1) I wanted to study nationally prominent organizations rather than local groups; (2) I desired a blend of strategic initiatives that reflected the diversity of tactics used in the movement, such as direct action, lobbying, collection of material aid, and educational work; and (3) I aimed to include both faith-based and viii

preface

secular solidarity organizations. Based on these criteria, I chose ten groups after consulting with a number of leaders and activists. Next I contacted the staff at each organization, and with their input I constructed a purposive theoretical sample3 to ensure a diverse representation of geographic regions, age range, and gender.4 I also sought a mix of people who represented differing levels of participation in the movement; accordingly, the sample includes twelve leaders and twenty-three recruits. Since the designated solidarity organizations included both faith-based and secular groups, I anticipated that the sample would include both religious and nonreligious activists. I was surprised, however, at the number of Christians who were involved in secular solidarity organizations. As a result, the sample is heavily oriented toward religious activists, who comprise 77 percent of the total number of participants. I also drew from two other sources of data. Some of the material is from the extensive files of the solidarity organization Nicaragua Exchange, housed at the Wisconsin State Historical Society. These archives provided a wealth of demographic information on nearly 1200 activists and also contain reports, articles, and journal entries written by those who participated in agricultural brigades. Finally, as a participant in the Central America solidarity movement, I used my own observations to guide the questions that are central to this analysis. While some might argue that my personal activist experience prevents me from conducting “value-neutral” research with unbiased results, I concur with qualitative feminist researchers who state that bias is often an improper term since one’s experience can serve as a resource, facilitating trust with the subjects and providing the insights and language needed to elicit frank, unveiled responses.5 This perspective extends the wellestablished tradition of interpretive sociology in which Weber has argued for the necessity of verstehen. Such empathetic understanding enables the researcher to arrive at a causal explanation of social action by developing a grasp of the meaning that others attribute to it.6 Since one of the primary goals of this study is to understand the ways in which North American Christians were affected by their work on behalf of the Central American poor—emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually—I believe that my own involvement in the solidarity movement fostered trust and openness with the activists who participated in this project. Consider, for instance, the exchange that occurred between Stan, an organizer for Witness for Peace, and me as we concluded an interview: Stan: Thank you. This has been very rewarding for me. Sharon: It has been for me, too. I’m finding that people are still engaged with these issues, even if Central America isn’t making the front pages anymore. It’s really encouraging to see people continuing with this spirit. Stan: I sense that spirit in you. Somehow, I feel encouraged. ix

preface

It’s not just words. I feel like you know what I’m talking about. There would be other people [studying this movement] whom I would like and admire, but their knowledge is only intellectual and not experiential.7 Throughout the book, I use pseudonyms to protect the anonymity of the activists in this study. This is partly for legal purposes, since numerous activists have engaged in extralegal means of protest, such as civil disobedience or tax resistance. Although such actions have been conducted openly, many solidarity activists experienced significant repression and harassment, particularly during the 1980s. Therefore, out of respect for their privacy and to create the freedom to speak openly, the participants’ names have been changed, except where otherwise noted. The details of their experiences, however, have not been altered. One of the main assertions of this book is that collective action scholars have lost sight of the people who make movements happen. In calling for an agent-centered model of social movements, I feel that it is important to give voice to these Central America solidarity activists to the greatest extent possible. Therefore, I include many excerpts from the interviews, quoting activists at length. I am grateful to these individuals, who generously shared their time and experiences so that we might learn more about how a group of committed citizens can influence a country’s foreign policy, constrain its military influence, and promote peaceful relations between nations. In addition to the activists who participated in this project, there are many others who have helped bring this work to fruition. I want to thank Paul Wehr, Dan Cress, and Christian Smith for offering valuable guidance as I began this study of the Central America solidarity movement. I would also like to thank Suzanne Marten for giving permission to access the Nicaragua Exchange files and Harold Miller for his archival assistance at the Wisconsin State Historical Society. I am very grateful to those at Princeton University’s Center for the Study of Religion who granted me a postdoctoral fellowship that made the completion of this manuscript possible and who provided a collegial and engaging work environment. Others, who read various chapters in draft form and offered constructive critique, deserve my heartfelt appreciation: James Jasper, Francesca Polletta, William Gamson, Cliff Bob, Hank Johnston, Jackie Smith, Jeff Goodwin, and Charles Hanna. I am especially grateful to Rhys Williams and Richard Wood, whose insightful comments and wise suggestions have strengthened the book considerably. Additionally, I am thankful to Doug Harper, who reminded me to find my own voice in the writing process, and to Cheri Cunningham, who did a fabulous job of proofreading the manuscript, and to Angela Garcia, Lori Schreier, and Dana Fronczak, who were the best research assistants that one could hope for. Robert Wuthnow and Marie Griffith offered sage advice and insight into the publishing process. Parx

preface

ticular thanks go to Cynthia Read, Theo Calderara, and Robert Milks at Oxford University Press for expressing enthusiasm for the project and seeing the book through to completion. I also want to state my appreciation to friends and family who have provided abundant encouragement and support during this process. Anthea Butler shared her home with me while I was completing the manuscript and was a constant source of laughter. Members of my extended family—Arlene and Larry Betts and Steve Nepstad and Kerry Steele— graciously housed me during different parts of the data collection process. I am also grateful to Michael Miller for urging me to write as much from my heart as from my head. I particularly want to thank my parents, Millard and Virginia Erickson, who have supported me in many ways and by example have taught me that a meaningful life comes from being true to the convictions of one’s soul. My mother also read the entire manuscript, providing many helpful suggestions on writing style, and has been an insightful conversational partner on issues of faith. My sister Sandra Erickson Nepstad keeps my work in perspective by reminding me to not take life and relationships for granted. Finally, no one has influenced me more than my sister Kathryn-Sonja Erickson Inoferio. She is the one who first raised my political awareness, educated me on the effects of U.S. foreign policy, and connected me to the Central America solidarity movement. She was also helpful in the logistics of this research, providing me with contacts to numerous solidarity organizations. She is a steadfast source of wisdom, encouragement, and companionship. For all the ways that these individuals have shaped my life and my work, I express my sincerest gratitude.

xi

This page intentionally left blank

CHAPTER 1

Culture, Agency, and Religion in Social Movements

I

n the early 1980s, Jeff was preparing for the priesthood.1 Raised in a devoutly Catholic family in New York City, he had always been drawn to the solitude of the church, where he often stopped to pray on his way home from school. Although he loved the contemplative aspect of Catholicism, he also thrived on his interactions with all types of people in the church’s surrounding neighborhood. He befriended the local prostitutes, who adored this gregarious little boy, and he spent weekends talking with the homeless at the Catholic Worker house of hospitality. As he entered adulthood, he felt called to a life where he could combine his love for the church with his desire to serve the destitute and marginalized populations. Thus, he began training with a religious order, but he never completed his studies or took his vows. Before he reached ordination, he left the seminary to fight with the Salvadoran revolutionaries known as the Farabundo Martı´ National Liberation Front (FMLN). His transformation from priest to guerrilla began during his novitiate training, when he was assigned to prison ministry in a jail located along the U.S.-Mexican border. Jeff was surprised to find it filled with Salvadorans and Guatemalans, and even more startled by the stories they recounted. He discovered that these Central Americans were not thieves or murderers; rather, many had been union organizers, human rights workers, and church leaders. The journey that led them to these barred cells began when they tried to improve economic conditions in their countries by organizing the poor, calling for governmental reform, and advocating land redistribution. Jeff was nonplussed, since such actions are not criminal. The prisoners explained that in their homeland, the majority of the pop3

convictions of the soul

ulation is poor and owns little or no land. Thus, they are forced to work on large plantations owned by the upper class or multinational corporations who pay substandard wages. Labor laws are not routinely enforced. Consequently, the masses become poorer while the rich profit handsomely. Like most Central Americans, these prisoners were predominantly Roman Catholic. They told Jeff how the church initially taught them that poverty was a cross they must willingly accept and that their suffering would be rewarded in heaven. Due to the shortage of priests, and the fact that many clergy worked in private Catholic schools that only the wealthy could afford, a distance grew between the church and the peasantry. This changed dramatically, however, with the onset of the Vatican II Council in the 1960s. Numerous reforms were implemented within the Catholic Church, including an outreach program to the most impoverished sectors of Latin America. Many missionaries were sent to the region, and priests and nuns moved to the countryside and into barrios where they witnessed firsthand the conditions in which most of the population lived and worked. This led them to reinterpret the Bible in light of the suffering that surrounded them, and many concluded that it is not God’s will that the poor suffer. This conviction was underscored by a number of papal encyclicals that proclaimed that Christians have the right to be agents of change and a moral obligation to end the structural causes of poverty. To address these concerns, church workers formed local lay communities where the poor could discuss the meaning of the gospel for their lives. They also trained catechists to assist with church functions and lead liturgy. As these communities grew and the poor developed leadership skills, they also initiated projects to improve their social and economic conditions. As a result, the popular church, as it is called, flourished. The military regimes that governed the nations of Central America considered these new developments within the church dangerous and subversive. For centuries, a feudal system rooted in the region’s colonial past had remained intact. A wealthy minority controlled the land and dominated national politics. When civilian governments were unable to subdue the surging demands of the poor masses, the military stepped in and maintained the social order through terror. Paramilitary groups known as death squads formed and took on the task of silencing those who dared to critique the existing system. They abducted civilians from their homes at gunpoint. Sometimes the victims’ lifeless bodies would be found a few days later, bearing signs of torture and abuse. Others were never found— not in jail, or a morgue, or one of the infamous body dumps—adding to the growing numbers of people known as “the disappeared.” Human rights abuses became widespread, and anyone trying to change these conditions was labeled a communist. Nevertheless, many continued to struggle for social justice, not only because it was desperately needed but also because they felt their faith required it. The young Salvadorans and Guatemalans that Jeff encountered were 4

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

in prison because they had defended the rights of the poor. Such work grew increasingly dangerous as they saw friends and colleagues killed or disappeared. Some were arrested and tortured in unimaginably cruel ways—electrical shocks, fingernail extractions, rape, removal of eyes, burns, and submersion in rat-infested pits. Others received death threats and warnings that their families would suffer if they continued to promote social reform. Eventually, many fled their homes in search of asylum in the United States. The U.S. government, however, did not welcome them, claiming that they were not genuinely suffering political persecution but rather were economic refugees seeking a better standard of living. Some felt that the true reason behind the denial of asylum was more cynical; the American government would be exposed as hypocritical for accepting refugees that were being persecuted by dictatorships supported by U.S. tax dollars. In either case, these Salvadorans and Guatemalans were in jail awaiting deportation, fully aware of the violent conditions they would face at home. Jeff prayed with the prisoners and pondered their stories. The longer he worked in the jail, the more convinced he became that his ministry was not enough. It brought little comfort to these Central Americans and did nothing to change the circumstances that had placed them in this predicament. Aware that these refugees’ lives were at stake and the U.S. court system was failing to protect them, Jeff began working as a coyote, a guide helping people to cross the U.S.-Mexican border illegally. As time passed, he developed a strong emotional connection to the people of Central America. He was profoundly moved by their stories of violence and persecution, but also inspired by the strength of their faith and conviction. Eventually, Jeff abandoned seminary training completely. He believed that he could be of greater service to the church by working directly with faith communities in Central America than he could be by reading theological texts in the safety of his religious community. That decision altered his life, as he moved to El Salvador and discovered that progressive Christians throughout the region were actively struggling for human rights, democracy, and emancipation from oppressive economic and political systems. Yet the brutality of the military regime they confronted led some to believe that liberation could only come through armed resistance. After some time, Jeff arrived at the same conclusion, and he joined the guerrilla forces. Jeff underwent a more radical transformation than most solidarity activists, but the struggle of the poor in Central America touched many in the United States. My own political activism began with the civil wars in Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua. Like Jeff, there was nothing obvious in my background that made me a likely recruit to a progressive solidarity movement. I was raised by middle-class parents whose lives were centered in the church, in a conservative evangelical tradition. While I was growing up, I recall few discussions in our home about international 5

convictions of the soul

relations or progressive politics. Instead, I remember Bible stories, theological discussions, and an emphasis on piety and a personal relationship with God. Yet as a young adult, I found myself drawn to a social movement that challenged President Reagan’s foreign policy. My sister—who previously wanted to be a missionary—felt so strongly about the situation in Central America that she spent a dozen years working with an organization that took people to the region to witness the consequences of U.S.-sponsored wars. These civil wars, occurring thousands of miles away, so profoundly affected me that I delayed graduate school work, altered my career plans, and took a job with an international peace group. What was it about Central America that transformed Jeff from a priest to a guerrilla, and my sisters and me from conservative evangelicals to progressive activists? And why, in a world filled with civil wars, were we drawn to the poor of Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala? Some suggest that solidarity with Central America emerged because it is geographically closer to the United States than, for instance, Angola or the Philippines. As regional neighbors, we have a connection. Although that is true, the movement was also fundamentally about something much deeper. In the Central American struggles, I found personal fulfillment, a passion for justice, and a sense of vitality that I had not experienced before. Something about the situation struck a profound chord within me, offering a new perspective on faith and the meaning of life. It was not merely about making a difference in the world and helping to shape history. I had worked with East German church groups before and during the fall of the Berlin Wall; it was exhilarating to witness people transforming one of the most intransigent regimes of that era. Despite the excitement I felt working with peace groups in Europe, it did not have the same effect on me that Central America did. In fact, nothing else approximates the intensity of that experience for me. After working as a full-time activist for several years, I entered graduate school with perhaps naı¨ve but sincere intentions. I wanted to study social movements in hopes of finding answers to the questions that arose from my own experience: Why was I so drawn to Central America when other countries faced comparable conditions and suffered similar atrocities? What was it that so deeply resonated with me that I changed my career plans to devote myself to the work of social change? Why did solidarity activism give me a sense of fulfillment and meaning that other things did not? Why did I, a citizen of one of the wealthiest countries in the world, identify so strongly with a group of people with whom I had apparently so little in common? To answer these questions and to understand why the Central American poor won the support of many North Americans, we must look at the meaning this movement held for its participants.

6

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

The Neglected Human Component in Social Movement Research

A

s an enthusiastic and eager new graduate student, I dove into the literature on collective behavior and social movements in search of answers. Yet I was surprised to encounter many models, diagrams, and theories in which people are barely visible. The literature is filled with discussions of the objective structural conditions and organizational mechanisms of mobilization. Although the research findings are insightful, scientifically sound, and empirically impressive, it seemed that something was missing—namely, an emphasis on the human aspect of protest. Certainly movements are a complex phenomenon, shaped by a variety of factors, but both my instinct and experience led me to believe that at the heart of any movement are people of conviction and action. Naturally, they do not plan strategies and launch campaigns in a vacuum. Savvy activists must consider the resources available to them, the external constraints, as well as the advantages they possess when determining the best time and method of protest. Yet we must remember that although these factors are important, they are not substitutes for human actors. Even the best of conditions cannot produce a movement unless people choose to act. To understand why people act, we must place humans at the center of our analysis and focus on the meaning of protest, not merely the mechanisms. This involves an examination of the subjective and cultural side of movements. We must explore activists’ beliefs, values, and meaning systems that are reflected in movement symbols and stories. We ought to study the biographical and socialization experiences that shape activists’ moral vision, purpose, and commitment. We need to examine their sense of identity, how it becomes linked to movements, and how it is enhanced and sustained over time. We have much to learn about the relationship of emotions to activism—either as a source of inspiration or a deterrent. By looking more closely at these issues, we will develop a greater understanding of why people are drawn to act on the objective, structural conditions that facilitate the emergence of protest. In addition to the question of motivation and meaning, we also need to examine how people build movements and instigate change. This requires us to focus on the agency of movement organizers and recruits. Sociologists use the term agency to denote the efforts of actors, recognizing that we are not automatons who passively comply with established social rules and practices. The concept of agency acknowledges that humans deliberately use their knowledge and resources to perpetuate existing social structures or to creatively transform institutions and innovate new social practices.2 James Jasper uses the term artfulness to capture the essence of agency. He asserts: Individuals are not mere bearers of structures or dupes of culture. They act, albeit within certain limits. They monitor their actions 7

convictions of the soul

and the outcomes, make adjustments, imagine new goals and possibilities, respond to others. . . . Art pulls these dimensions together succinctly for it consists of experimental efforts to transmute existing traditions into new creations by problematizing elements that have been taken for granted. . . . Protesters, just as clearly, rethink existing traditions in order to criticize portions and experiment with alternatives for the future, in both large and small ways. They also offer ways of getting from here to there.3

Movements, therefore, are not simply the culmination of historical forces and favorable objective conditions; they are the result of human efforts. To illustrate the value of this cultural-agency approach to social movements, I will briefly review the dominant trends and models within the field. I will point out how human actors and the meaning of protest have often been ignored or minimized, and I will pose questions that a comprehensive cultural approach might enable us to answer. My intent is not to argue that a cultural model of movement agency is superior to others but rather to demonstrate how an explicit focus on the human experience of protest complements structural models by shedding light on questions that have received insufficient attention. By giving serious consideration to issues of agency and culture, we enhance our knowledge of the dynamics of collective action.

Resource Mobilization The field of collective action enjoyed a virtual renaissance in the United States during the 1960s and 1970s as a result of the numerous social movements that arose during this period. Concern for civil rights, the environment, gender equality, the Vietnam War, gay and lesbian rights—to name just a few—resulted in a surge of activism. Scholars began rethinking the classical theories of collective behavior that were predominantly derived from earlier studies of fascism. The classical approach portrayed activists as alienated and anxious due to rapid social change or the breakdown of existing systems. This made them highly susceptible to the calls of demagogues, such as Hitler or Stalin, who offered to give meaning and structure to their lives. From this perspective, activism is viewed as extreme, disruptive behavior carried out by malcontents who are easily manipulated by emotional appeals. Yet as the movements of the 1960s burgeoned, this view did not correspond to the youth who sat at segregated lunch counters in a polite, albeit defiant, manner. It did not accurately depict students in the New Left, many of whom came from privileged backgrounds and attended prestigious universities, who questioned U.S. involvement in Vietnam. They simply could not be cast as ignorant malcontents. An

8

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

updated model was needed to capture this contemporary brand of activism. The academic community responded by developing alternative theories of collective action. Within the United States, the first substantive rethinking of social movements became known as Resource Mobilization. The primary proponents of this model argue that protestors are not maladjusted deviants but rather rational actors who calculate the costs and benefits of various forms of collective action in an attempt to win political concessions and obtain their goals. Moreover, Resource Mobilization scholars posit that it is not a disruptive psychological state brought on by structural strain that is responsible for the outburst of protest. Rather, they propose that people’s sense of injustice is relatively constant. Racism, for example, existed centuries before the civil rights movement began, and therefore the presence of a grievance cannot sufficiently account for the emergence of collective action. What does explain the rise of protest, according to Resource Mobilization scholars, is the ability of entrepreneurial leaders to form centralized organizations and gather resources, particularly from elite groups who are sympathetic to the cause. This ensures that funds will be available to print fliers, to travel to protest locations, and pay staff salaries. It also provides places for activists to meet, a means of communication, and some administrative capacity as the movement grows.4 Resource Mobilization provides insight into the resources that are needed to instigate collective action. However, it does not fully take into account the cultural factors that make certain individuals effective at obtaining these resources. From this model’s perspective, entrepreneurial leadership is primarily a reflection of fundraising abilities and organizational management skills. Yet social, cultural, and biographical factors also affect agency. The moral authority and credibility of leaders may grant greater weight to their call for volunteers. Organizers’ knowledge of a targeted group’s culture may facilitate their ability to persuade members that a movement is consistent with their beliefs and values and therefore they should donate their time and money to the cause. Similarly, biographical experiences may give individuals skills and assets that are useful in the mobilization process—such as public speaking abilities, media contacts, and tactical knowledge. These traits may be equally important for movement leadership, yet Resource Mobilization treats biography, social status, cultural knowledge, moral convictions, values, and beliefs as basically peripheral to the process of launching a movement. The essential factors, they argue, are material and organizational. When Resource Mobilization researchers do focus their attention on human actors, they are depicted as calculating beings, devoid of emotion, who seek to maximize their gains while minimizing costs. The emphasis on rationality is an important corrective to earlier views of movement

9

convictions of the soul

participants. Nevertheless, we must question whether it is possible to speak of an objective assessment of costs and benefits, since an individual’s values and morals shape what is considered a loss or a gain. For instance, this type of utilitarian perspective would view Jeff ’s decision to leave the security of his seminary in the United States to wage a guerrilla war with poor Salvadorans as totally irrational, if not outright crazy. He had no objective benefits to gain but did risk substantive losses, including the possibility of death. Yet it may be completely rational, even noble, if such a choice is assessed by the values of an actor’s religious faith or moral worldview that encourages sacrifice for others. The hyper-rationality of Resource Mobilization also ignores the emotions that are ubiquitous in movements. Although solidarity activists like Jeff did rationally plan strategies and campaigns, they were often motivated by outrage at the violence inflicted on Central American civilians by U.S.sponsored regimes and by compassion for the victims. However, just as feelings of anger and sympathy can inspire activism, other affective states can deter it. Particularly when significant risks are involved, an array of emotions accompanies an intellectual decision to fight for change. Jeff had to overcome the fear of torture, imprisonment, or death that were real possibilities if he had been arrested by the Salvadoran army. Humans are multidimensional creatures; we are capable of both rational assessments and deep emotion. Decisions about whom we marry, which political candidate we vote for, and the careers we pursue are usually shaped both by affective states and logical concerns. Why would protest be any different? An agency-centered cultural approach casts a spotlight on issues that are important to the mobilization process but have not been addressed by Resource Mobilization’s emphasis on material and organizational matters. By shifting attention from structural factors toward activists’ values, beliefs, moral commitments, and emotions, we can learn why individuals might forgo lucrative careers or leisure time to mobilize the resources needed to form and sustain a movement organization. As we examine leaders’ biographies, social status, and cultural knowledge, we expand our awareness of why they are effective recruiters and fundraisers.

Political Process Resource Mobilization set the agenda for scholarship on social movements throughout the 1970s. Subsequent studies aimed to modify or build upon the ideas of this model and rectify its shortcomings. This led to the development of the Political Process approach that strongly influenced scholarly thinking and research in the 1980s and beyond. Proponents of this model agree with Resource Mobilization’s proposition that organizations and resources are important but add that the political context and changes in the broader environment also determine when collective action erupts and whether it is successful. However, they acknowledge that these factors 10

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

are not enough; even favorable conditions and an abundance of resources cannot generate a movement. They merely set the stage by creating a degree of structural potential. The crucial factor that transforms potential into action is a socialpsychological state known as cognitive liberation. Derived from the Marxist view that people must undergo a transformation of consciousness before they become agents of change, this term refers to a shift in beliefs. In short, it reflects a process whereby those who normally accept the social and political status quo come to denounce it as unjust. Additionally, fatalistic attitudes of resignation cease—such as “this is the way things are always going to be”—and people begin asserting their rights. Finally, an insurgent consciousness culminates when groups believe that change is possible and that they have the power to alter existing conditions. Once people embrace these views, they are able to seize existing opportunities and gather resources to mobilize action.5 Although Political Process scholars do address part of the subjective side of movements by exploring cognitive liberation, they too—like their Resource Mobilization counterparts—tend to downplay the human elements of protest. For instance, the driving force of social change, according to this model, does not lie in agency but rather in the expansion of “political opportunities”—that is, shifts in the broader environment and political establishment that increase the power and leverage of challenging groups. Events such as war, international political realignment, major demographic changes, or a serious downturn in the economy can all undermine the power of a government, thereby expanding the possibilities for protesters to mount a successful campaign against the state.6 Military leaders and seasoned activists alike know that timing is important. Yet Political Process researchers tend to depict people as passive recipients of political opportunities. They posit that movements arise when groups correctly perceive the cues that conditions are ripe for protest, thereby increasing their belief that change is possible. This sense of efficacy fosters insurgent consciousness, which is needed to act on these advantageous circumstances. Thus, protest occurs when people sense that the system is vulnerable, assess that the time is right to act, and mobilize resources to launch a movement.7 Political shifts and social changes certainly do expand or limit opportunities, yet people sometimes act because their moral conscience requires them to do so even if conditions are not favorable and change does not seem feasible. Quakers, for example, were considered naı¨ve idealists when they called for an end to slavery in the mid-eighteenth century. The United States was founded on a slave economy, and most people of that era considered slave labor acceptable or at least a necessary evil to keep the country financially sound. Many so-called realists proclaimed that slavery was wrong but, like war, was simply part of human history and therefore likely to continue. Fortunately, some committed Quakers and 11

convictions of the soul

other abolitionists held tenaciously to their beliefs, arguing that slavery is morally reprehensible and must be abolished regardless of its historical longevity. Even though the timing was not advantageous, since the nation was focused on gaining independence from Britain, they did not wait for favorable conditions to emerge before denouncing the institution of slavery and working to dismantle it. Deeply held beliefs, values, and ethical commitments may override concerns about lack of political opportunities or the efficacy of protest, leading some toward a “politics of moral witness.”8 The Political Process model also relegates agents to a somewhat passive role, leaving little room for them to generate opportunities to increase their leverage against the state and authority structures. It does not account for organizers such as Mohandas Gandhi, who argued that one of the primary functions of activists is to provoke a response from their opponent, thereby creating rather than awaiting political opportunities. This idea strongly influenced Martin Luther King’s strategy of nonviolent direct action that “seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks to so dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored.”9 Many accused King of using direct action to artificially accelerate the pace of change. He replied that time is neutral and many wellintentioned people become accomplices to injustice simply because they do nothing, purportedly waiting for the right moment to act. “Human progress,” he argued, “never rolls in on the wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men. . . . We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right” (emphasis added).10 Political Process proposes that movements form when weaknesses within the system emerge and actors have an increased sense of efficacy. Although this may hold true in most cases, I argue that some conditions may be so morally reprehensible and emotionally charged that individuals feel compelled to protest regardless of their chance for success. Moreover, by viewing agents as proactive rather than passive, I posit that the populace possesses the capacity to create vulnerabilities within authority structures, thereby generating political opportunities. This perspective is consistent with the work of Gene Sharp, who notes that while most people view the state as a monolithic entity that has the upper hand vis-a`-vis its citizens, no state or political leader has inherent power. Power is derived from the masses, who give their skills, knowledge, financial resources, and obedience to sustain and perpetuate the system. No government can run without money collected through taxation, and federal services cannot operate without human labor. Even dictators are dependent on the loyalty and compliance of their police force to impose sanctions on those who attempt to oust them. Yet sometimes armed forces refuse orders and people withhold tax payments or simply do not show up to work. When the popu-

12

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

lation withdraws its resources and cooperation, even systems that are perceived as durable or indestructible begin to collapse.11 This illustrates how Political Process scholars often reify the concept of political opportunities. Like all social phenomena, we must remember that political opportunities are both external factors that can constrain or aid protesters and they are human creations. In other words, events and changes in the broader environment can shape a movement’s options and alter the balance of power, yet people can also act in a strategic fashion that creates vulnerabilities within a system, forcing authorities to make concessions or negotiate with challenging groups. Many Central America solidarity activists in this study subscribe to this perspective, viewing themselves as provocateurs rather than passive, anemic observers who must wait for the moment when the state shows signs of weakness. Ben, a solidarity activist and former priest, said, “The lesson that is not yet fully realized is that our government is not this incredibly powerful force against the little people, who have to try to do what they can. We really do have the experience that sometimes little people are forceful. We use the example of a forklift. . . . You get a long lever and you can move pretty big things if you get it just right.”12 By overlooking activists’ moral commitments, values, and emotions, Political Process researchers miss the situations in which people create political opportunities or engage in protest as a moral witness, without the expectation of actually obtaining their goals. This structural emphasis, consequently, minimizes the role of culture and agency. Obviously, structural conditions are important, and by drawing our attention to them, the Resource Mobilization and Political Process models have significantly advanced our knowledge of movement emergence. Yet structural models do not devote much attention to what transpires in the hearts, minds, and souls of protestors. Neither do they comprehensively address the factors that shape agency, enabling individuals to effectively act on the structural potential created by the confluence of expanding political opportunities and strong mobilizing organizations. To fill out the picture, we also need to explore how culture—with its emotional, cognitive, and moral components—encourages or hinders activism and shapes agency.13

Cultural Approaches Structural models dominated a whole generation of social movement research. Yet throughout the 1990s there was growing interest in these types of subjective issues, and subsequently a cultural approach emerged that focuses on interpretation and meaning in social movement activism. Although there are numerous debates on the nature of culture, it can be seen as both internal and external, implicit and explicit. Culture shapes the way we think and behave and therefore is inside our minds. But

13

convictions of the soul

culture is more than just individual thoughts or an interpretive filter. It is “shared mental worlds and their physical embodiments.”14 We can see culture in movement symbols, rituals, slogans, icons, and stories. Yet these external, material manifestations of culture have no meaning in and of themselves; their power lies in the beliefs, values, and moral visions they reflect and the emotional responses they elicit. By exploring these cultural dimensions in movements, we can peer into the hearts, minds, and souls of activists. This cultural turn was particularly evident among European scholars who, like their American counterparts, began rethinking collective action theories when the movements of the 1960s erupted. European researchers argued that those and subsequent movements are distinct from older classbased movements because they are rooted in identities and emphasize changes in cultural views and practices instead of the focus of previous movements on economic and political gains. These so-called New Social Movements challenge people’s attitudes toward the environment, gender, race relations, peace, and gay and lesbian persons. Central to these new movements is the challenging group’s sense of collective identity. This concept refers to the image and definition a group has developed of itself, based on its values, beliefs, interests, social location, or practices. This identity is frequently derived from ascribed traits—such as race, gender, or sexual orientation—but it may also reflect a common identification with a religion or ideology. Over time, a group constructs a politicized identity that delineates its differences from the dominant group. This identity also entails a consciousness about the group’s interests, goals, and practices of resistance to the mainstream culture.15 Embracing and embodying a collective identity is both an act of protest in itself and an ideological critique of the dominant culture. Displaying a pink triangle or participating in a gay pride event is not primarily about political reform but rather a personal refusal to accept the shame that society has historically attributed to homosexuality. Wearing comfortable shoes rather than high heels is a feminist statement against cultural standards of beauty. Calling oneself Chicano/Chicana instead of Hispanic is a political decision to identify with one’s indigenous (rather than Spanish) roots, thereby defying the dominant culture’s propensity to erase ethnic differences. This notion of collective identity, therefore, reflects the internal and external aspects of culture. Identity refers to what is going on in people’s minds—the values, beliefs, and ideology one embraces—but it can also be seen in the way the group dresses, talks, and acts. The cultural emphasis of New Social Movements focuses our attention on how people actively construct identities that help generate and sustain movements. Scholars in the United States also recognized the absence of culture from their heavily structural models and subsequently began exploring the interpretive frameworks that shape our perceptions of social issues. Movement organizers, of course, offer a particular analysis that they hope others 14

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

will adopt. Scholars refer to this as a collective action frame, which serves three distinct functions. First, a movement frame accentuates the unjust nature of the situation so that circumstances that might be viewed as unfortunate but tolerable are now deemed unacceptable. When a child contracts cancer and dies, for example, people view the situation as regrettable and sad. However, if it is revealed that the illness was related to the unlawful disposal of toxic waste, community response is more likely to be condemnation and outrage. Second, an effective frame reveals the source(s) of a problem, thereby attributing blame to a specific group or person, and suggests a course of action to rectify the situation. Finally, frames provide a motivation or call to arms. By linking the situation to the values that are part of a group’s identity, a frame can evoke a sense of responsibility or obligation to act because one’s moral principles demand it.16 In short, collective action frames offer a specific way of viewing a social problem that encourages people to take a proscribed course of action to change it. But why do some people accept a movement’s interpretation while others reject it? The likelihood that a collective action frame will be adopted is partly dependent on the skills of movement spokespersons. Effective recruiters employ various techniques to align people’s preexisting views with the movement’s interpretation of an injustice. Activists may amplify the values and beliefs that the targeted audience shares with the movement. They may bridge the concerns of the broader population with movement goals, thereby illustrating how support for the cause is an appropriate expression of their moral principles.17 Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech illustrates this frame alignment process. King connected civil rights to the constitutional freedoms of all Americans. By amplifying the principles upon which the United States was founded, King presented civil rights as tantamount to democracy. His message, therefore, resonated not only with people of color who had been denied these basic rights but with a much broader segment of the U.S. population that believes in the ideals of democracy. In rare instances, activists can even instigate a total transformation of individuals’ interpretive frameworks so they reject a former worldview and embrace a new ideology. The effectiveness of a frame is not completely a reflection of the recruiter’s frame alignment skills, however. It is also dependent on the degree to which a frame resonates with the audience’s personal experience and perspectives. Unfortunately, neither cultural nor structural models pay much attention to the preexisting worldviews and the biographical aspects of potential recruits that make them open to the appeals of movement leaders. Theories of recruitment start from the premise that some individuals will be receptive and others will not. However, we do not know why this is the case, because people’s lives prior to recruitment have been essentially ignored.18 An additional problem with frame theory is that some scholars downplay the human origins of collective action frames. Such frames do not 15

convictions of the soul

appear out of thin air. They are formulated by people who contemplate a situation and reflect on it in light of their values and moral principles. They try to determine who is responsible, what should be done, and how to market their views to others. Without a doubt, these frames are shaped by the moral visions, beliefs, and biographical experiences of their creators. Although we know a great deal about the function of frames and how they are disseminated to the larger population, we know virtually nothing about how they initially form. Thus, collective action frames, like the concept of political opportunities, are reified when the people who create and implement them are ignored. Robert Benford, who helped develop frame theory, argues this point cogently: Movement scholars often write about social movements as “speaking,” “framing,” “interpreting,” “acting,” and the like, that is, engaging in activities that only humans are capable of doing. Social movements do not frame issues; their activists or other participants do the framing. . . . It is ironic that in many new social movement and social constructionist analyses, human action and interaction are stripped from the text.19

The concepts of collective identity and framing are useful since they illuminate the mental processes that generate intellectual support for a movement. Like Resource Mobilization and the Political Process approach, however, many working within this cultural perspective neglect the full human experience by allowing cognitive factors to overshadow other components of culture. If we want a complete understanding of the meaning of protest, we must recognize that people are not only intellectual beings. They also have hearts that react emotionally and spirits that grant a sense of meaning and purpose. In fact, as Jasper argues, these facets are often inseparable. We become indignant (emotion) when we discover information (cognition) that violates our sense of right and wrong, thereby jeopardizing our system of meaning (morals). The concepts of collective identity and framing are too limited to capture all of these experiences.20

An Expanded Cultural Approach

I

n The Art of Moral Protest, James Jasper offers an expanded cultural approach to social movements that extends beyond the traditional focus on cognitive beliefs and identity. He calls for greater attention to activists’ emotions and moral sensibilities while emphasizing how biography shapes their agency. Along with his colleagues Jeff Goodwin and Francesca Polletta, Jasper persuasively argues that matters of the heart play an important role in movement dynamics.21 Emotions can draw people to activism. Jeff, for instance, was compelled to join the Salvadoran revolutionary movement because of the indignation he felt about the brutality of Central

16

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

American regimes. At other times, affective states such as fear can be an obstacle to activism, particularly when the consequences of protest are severe.22 Even the positive emotion of affection may deter people from getting involved, especially when their loved ones oppose it or movement participation requires an extended absence.23 Furthermore, emotions can sustain collective action over time as solidarity and respect develops among activists, strengthening their collective identity and commitment. Conversely, feelings of jealousy or distrust can destroy a movement’s unity, ultimately contributing to its demise. Clearly, emotional factors shape protest. Jasper also notes that people may engage in protest to create morally significant, fulfilling lives. Movements may be an expression of activists’ beliefs about the purpose of life and the meaning of death—the fundamental questions of the soul. Such existential topics are traditionally the domain of philosophers and theologians, and so collective action scholars have shied away from them even though they are often expressed in movement culture. Just as movement slogans and fliers can help us understand the interpretive frameworks offered by activists, symbolic events and persons can reveal the deeper meaning of protest. Icons, for example, typically embody a group’s most cherished beliefs. These individuals lead exemplary lives that reflect collective aspirations, dreams, and hopes. Frequently, the most powerful icons are martyrs because they demonstrate great moral integrity and courage, even in the face of death. Moreover, when people are willing to die for their beliefs, they demonstrate the transcendent value of the cause through the totality of their commitment that, according to Michael Blain, “liberates the committed from the complacency of ordinary life.”24 Thus, scholars should pay attention to movement icons in order to learn more about the values and moral commitments of activists. While calling for an expanded cultural approach that includes emotional and moral components, Jasper also argues that social movement researchers should explore the role of biography. Biographical analysis can shed light on the formation of activists’ interpretive frameworks, thereby revealing the reasons why specific frames and narratives resonate, making these individuals open to recruitment. It can also grant insight into the factors that shape agency by revealing the origins of leadership abilities and organizing skills as well as the propensity toward certain strategies. Moreover, since some campaigns develop out of the efforts of a single individual, that movement may reflect the qualities, character, and experience of that person. Hence, “tracing individuals might allow us to see many sources and activities of protest that are not organized by formal groups and leaders, as well as the cultural and biographical materials out of which new organizations arise.”25 Jasper’s model directs our attention to factors and movement dynamics that are not fully captured by structural models or cultural approaches that 17

convictions of the soul

rely exclusively on a single concept such as framing or collective identity. He notes, however, that culture and biography are not everything. They are not the same as material resources—money, physical capacities, and technologies. They should not be conflated with strategy, that is, the courses of action that groups take in response to their opponents. Rather, he argues that we should view these four dimensions of movements— culture, biography, resources, and strategies—as analytically distinct but interactive. For instance, cultural knowledge enables agents to frame their appeals in a compelling manner, persuading others to donate their material resources to the movement. Culture helps determine which tactics and strategies are appropriate in light of one’s moral commitments. Culture influences whom we trust and to whom we attribute blame and even prescribes rules that shape our emotional reactions.26 We must not reduce everything to culture or biography, yet we ought to recognize how they influence other aspects of collective action.

Influences on Agency

E

ven with an expanded cultural model of collective action, we must vigilantly resist the tendency toward reification. That is, we must not lose sight of human agency, since “culture has little explanatory power if we ignore how it is used and changed.”27 Therefore, as we explore the meaning of protest by examining the emotional, moral, and cognitive aspects of activism, we cannot overlook how individuals construct this meaning. Like artists, protesters act as creative symbol makers, interpretive communicators, and emotional managers. They draw from the tools, artifacts, and patterns of their existing cultural traditions to evoke indignation and compassion, to recruit others, and to inspire resistance. They transform, alter, and play upon cultural rules, adapting them to the purpose of building a movement. They use the cultural assets and material resources at their disposal to mobilize collective action.28 Not all people are equally effective at these tasks, however. This is partly due to the fact that cultural resources are not evenly distributed. Social traits—such as one’s gender, class, race, profession, religion, and sexual orientation—determine the type of cultural knowledge and resources to which one has access. In addition, structural location shapes agency. Those who hold positions of authority in an organization have greater control over its resources and can access influential figures more readily than those at the grassroots. However, individuals who sit at the pinnacle of an institution may feel pressured by their constituents to back away from radical stances, whereas rank and file members may have greater freedom to express their views and act on their convictions. We need to recognize that as agents artfully organize protest, their ability to do so is partly conditioned by their social characteristics. Hence, theories of agency 18

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

must capture both the constraints and opportunities afforded by activists’ cultural and structural location. William Sewell offers a useful framework for understanding these influences on agency.29 Using Gidden’s theory of structuration, he proposes that structure, culture, and agency cannot be understood in isolation since they are intrinsically linked. This is because structures do not have an independent existence. They are created and reproduced by humans whose interactions are guided by specific cultural beliefs and principles. Over time, these patterns of social relations and cultural meanings become traditions that are institutionalized and sustained through a variety of resources. These include human resources (e.g., skills and knowledge, emotional commitments, and physical strength) and nonhuman resources (e.g., money and buildings). Hence social structure, according to Sewell, is nothing more than a set of rules (or “cultural schema”) that guide social interaction and the resources that are needed to perpetuate them over time. We often overlook these cultural and human roots of structures, and as a result we mistakenly view structures as purely objective entities. The state, for example, is frequently perceived as a faceless, durable, abstract structure. Yet the American government was created and is continually reproduced by humans whose interactions are guided by the principles of democracy. The government only exists because some people run for office, others vote, elected officials and federal employees carry out the work of ruling the country, and citizens pay taxes to finance these endeavors. The Christian church provides another illustration of Sewell’s notion of structure. The church began as a religious movement inspired by the teachings of Christ. Over time, rituals, music, and symbols were created to preserve these ideas; such practices eventually became institutionalized and perpetuated through the use of various resources. Thus, the state and the church are both structural and cultural, and their existence is wholly dependent on humans reenacting these practices and offering their resources. However, even as we create and perpetuate institutions, we are also shaped by them. A government, as discussed above, is reproduced by humans, yet its resources can be used to coerce people to follow prescribed standards of conduct. A church is not only given life by its members, it also socializes them to adopt specific beliefs, values, and moral principles of behavior. When individuals deviate from these norms, the church exerts social control to pressure them back into conformity. Thus, as Giddens describes it, structures have a dual nature; they are both constraining and enabling. Although we regularly focus on the restrictive aspects of structures, Sewell calls us to examine how they can empower actors by facilitating their quest for change. He posits that as people participate in institutions, they become knowledgeable of the cultural rules and principles at play. 19

convictions of the soul

And since these cultural schemas are contestable and malleable, actors have the capacity to creatively adapt, alter, or transform them to generate support for social movements.30 Beliefs can be politicized to inspire protest. Symbols and rituals can be reinterpreted to support insurgency. Figures who embody movement goals can be transformed into sacred icons, providing a model of moral action. In fact, Sewell’s very definition of agency entails “the capacity to transpose and extend schemas to new contexts.”31 Moreover, if activists successfully recast the cultural beliefs and practices of a given institution, thereby persuading members to support a movement, the institution’s resources may become readily available to protesters. This can be extraordinarily helpful since, as the Resource Mobilization model reminds us, movements are not born from ideas alone. Launching a campaign requires money, meeting places, communication systems, and people who will carry out actions. All of these resources exist, to varying degrees, in organizations. To illustrate Sewell’s notion that culture and structure shape agency, we can consider the example of Martin Luther King, Jr. In a widely respected book on the role of black churches in the civil rights movement, Aldon Morris claims that the strength of King’s leadership was partly derived from his skillful ability to recast traditional church practices and biblical themes. Through sermons, music, and stories, King linked biblical messages of liberation with the need to end segregation and racial discrimination. He put a contemporary spin on the story of Moses leading the Israelites out of slavery, equating the Promised Land with his dream of an American society that treats all people with dignity and equality. He reframed the cultural content of black churches so that civil rights activism became an honorable expression of Christian faith, thus persuading congregational members to use their human and nonhuman resources to support the movement. They donated funds and allowed church buildings to be used for civil rights meetings. Pastors announced information about campaigns from their pulpits and in their church bulletins. Church secretaries printed fliers and made phone calls on the movement’s behalf. And church members participated in various actions—from boycotts to marches and acts of civil disobedience—providing emotional sustenance to one another during difficult times.32 King was able to recast these church beliefs to elicit support for the civil rights movement because of his unique cultural position. Through his academic training, he could offer a theological and moral basis for activism. As a second-generation southern pastor, he had extensive experience with and a deep understanding of the principles and practices of the black church. Furthermore, his occupational status as a minister granted him moral credibility and respect. Therefore, not only was he knowledgeable of the cultural schema he was recasting but he was also a trusted insider. As Morris notes, “King was able to succeed in ‘refocusing’ black religion because by any criterion he was a Christian minister. . . . It would surely 20

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

be difficult for an ‘outsider’ to tamper with the sacred religious beliefs and practices of a people.”33 Due to this combination of traits, Belinda Robnett concludes that “Dr. King’s emergence as ‘the charismatic leader of the civil rights movement’ was decisively tied to his goodness of fit with a set of culturally prescribed attributes—as Black, as a man, as educated, and as a minister. . . . It was the overarching cultural context—that is, beliefs about race, class, gender and ministerial status—that defined his position in the movement.”34 Equally important, King was also in a strategic structural position. His leadership abilities were enhanced by the fact that he headed one of the wealthiest and most influential black churches in Montgomery. The city’s black pastors were well connected, and King was also part of ministerial alliances, thereby placing him in a nationwide network of churches. Therefore, when Rosa Parks was arrested, it only took a few phone calls to gather area pastors, who passed along the information to their congregations. Moreover, pleas to churches throughout the country resulted in a ready supply of funds. Since he was well positioned, his politicized religious views could reach a large number of people in a very short time, and their resources could be mobilized quickly. It took less than a week to launch the Montgomery bus boycott, which struck the first serious blow to racial segregation in the South.35 Thus, structures can empower agents by granting access to expanded institutional networks, facilitating communication, and providing the material means for action. Jasper offers a cultural model of social movements that places humans at the center of our analysis, recognizing that people are to be credited for transforming cultural and structural potential into protest. We can extend this cultural approach by incorporating Sewell’s theory of agency that demonstrates how activists’ ability to mobilize collective action is shaped by, and in turn shapes, culture and structure. However, we must also recognize that people do not act in a historical vacuum. Developments and changes in the broader context can further enhance or impede agency. For instance, several historic events worked in King’s favor, creating a relatively advantageous environment to mobilize collective action. Landmark court cases, such as Brown v. Board of Education, provided legal recourse to challenge segregation. Additionally, the economic growth of the 1950s generated greater resources among African Americans, expanding their ability to make financial contributions to the movement. Even though the historical conditions were ripe and King was in a prime cultural and structural position, his leadership potential would never have been realized if he had not chosen to take on this responsibility, accepting all the dangers and risks that it entailed. Throughout the Montgomery bus boycott, King experienced serious harassment and repression. He was arrested on fabricated charges, he received multiple death threats, and his home was bombed while his wife and daughter were inside. Other individuals with similar potential may have decided that it was not worth 21

convictions of the soul

putting one’s life and family at risk. To understand why King forged ahead with this campaign, even though he could have had a comfortable life as an academic in the North, we must explore the contents of his heart and mind and the convictions of his soul. We need to examine his biographical experiences to understand how they shaped his values, his moral commitment, his tactical choice of nonviolence, and his unique leadership skills. Studies of social movement agency, therefore, must take into account the following factors: (1) the social and cultural attributes of agents; (2) their structural position within mobilizing organizations; (3) their cultural knowledge of the structure in which they operate and their ability to creatively transform it; (4) the historical conditions that create a favorable or hostile environment for protest; and (5) the biographical experiences that instill specific moral commitments and provide an opportunity to develop concrete organizing skills. When we take these different influences into account, we will understand not only why people feel compelled to protest but also the factors that obstruct or facilitate their ability to mobilize resources and persuade others to join them.

Religion and Social Movements

T

his brief examination of Martin Luther King’s agency reveals that religion can be a potent force for those seeking social change. This should not be surprising since religion has played a prominent role in many movements, such as Solidarity in Poland, Gandhi’s campaign for independence from Great Britain, and the nonviolent overthrow of Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos. Yet the influence of Structural-Functionalism and Marxism has led some to view religion primarily as an institution that legitimates the authority of elites and encourages submission to the social order. Functionalists, for instance, argue that religion preserves societal systems by establishing consensus about moral values and obligations while simultaneously granting a constraining power that reinforces these norms.36 Marxists concur with this conservative perspective, claiming that religion is a tool used by the ruling class to preserve its power. Marx argued that the faith of the proletariat was a manifestation of false consciousness, a search for compensation by people in misery. Religion provides that compensation, offering illusory happiness that keeps the oppressed from revolting against the conditions that cause their suffering.37 Realistically speaking, however, we must recognize that religion has a dual social influence. It can serve as an apology and legitimation of an unjust status quo on the one hand, yet it can also be a source of resistance and protest on the other hand.38 In his book Disruptive Religion, Christian Smith provides an overview of the numerous ways that religion can foster movements that challenge 22

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

the social order. He notes that religious leaders may transfer their training, experience, and skills to the task of political organizing. When they do, they bring with them the moral authority and credibility that the public often grants clergy. Religious congregations may also contribute financial and material support and provide networks for recruitment. Given that denominations tend to be geographically dispersed, efforts at bloc recruitment can have far-reaching effects. This, in turn, can “reduce public and state perceptions that the movement represents a narrow or small constituency; it can increase the number of political representatives to whom the movement has access; and it can make repression of the movement by the state or a counter-movement more difficult.”39 The symbols, narratives, rituals, and collective identity that are part of religious culture may also be valuable to political organizers. As movement leaders attempt to win support and recruit participants, they may call for action on religious grounds by linking scriptural themes to movement goals. They can transform the meaning of consecrated symbols and religious rituals so that protest activities take on spiritual significance and religious practices become politically meaningful. They can reshape a religious group’s collective identity to generate support for those who share a common faith and are engaged in political struggles in other parts of the world. Activists can creatively employ religion’s cultural resources to elicit support for movement goals. Finally, as a system of values and sacred beliefs, religion can provide transcendent motivation for activism since it addresses the most profound human questions—the purpose of life, the significance of death, the path toward a meaningful existence. Activists may offer an interpretation of scripture that encourages movement engagement as a means of putting one’s faith into practice.40 Moreover, many religious traditions call the faithful to a life of altruistic service that can be channeled into activism. This type of sacrificial disposition is particularly valuable since movement participation often demands a lot of time and effort and may entail serious risks. When faith is linked to activism, protest becomes more than strategic efforts to win political gains or implement social reform. It is an expression of fidelity to one’s convictions, a sign of commitment to religious principles and values.41 Not only does this provide the faithful with a sense of moral fulfillment and meaning, it may sustain their commitment over time and compel them to protest regardless of the conditions, the outcome, or the cost.

Religion, Culture, and Agency in the Central America Solidarity Movement

R

eligion played an important role in the U.S.-Central America solidarity movement. As Christian Smith documents in his book Re23

convictions of the soul

sisting Reagan, faith communities fostered the emergence of solidarity organizations by providing leaders, material support, and recruitment networks. Yet Smith does not view religion through an exclusively organizational perspective. While he emphasizes that faith-based groups acted as midwives, helping to birth the movement, he also argues that religion provided a set of moral norms. These norms helped people see the violence of Central American regimes, and U.S. support for them, as unjust. Therefore, even though Smith analyzes the movement through a Political Process approach, he pushes the boundaries of this model’s structural orientation by calling for greater attention to activists’ moral commitments. He asserts: The case of the Central America peace movement suggests that, whatever else humans are or are influenced by, human persons should be understood to be, at their core, normative and moral creatures. This movement erupted, in part, because President Reagan’s Central American policy deeply violated the moral beliefs and normative standards of tens of thousands of U.S. citizens. . . . This view suggests that people draw on the resources of their own cultural traditions and, through a process of lived experience, develop within and among themselves standards of what is right and wrong, appropriate and inappropriate, obliged and prohibited, just and unjust. . . . When dearly held standards are egregiously violated, people sometimes take action to try to oppose and prevent further violations.42

Smith offers a persuasive account of how religion provided both the material means for mobilizing collective action and the moral motivation to protest Reagan’s policy toward Central America. However, he does not devote much attention to other cultural factors. For example, he only nominally touches on the emotional aspects of the movement and does not examine how leaders sustained these feelings and moral convictions over the years. Even when organizers operate in a context of strong structural potential and expanding political opportunities, we cannot assume that these circumstances are sufficient to sustain resistance over time. Although it may be easier to remain committed when change appears feasible and success is likely, people still burn out from the long hours and personal sacrifices that movements often demand. Consequently, leaders must find ways to rejuvenate people’s convictions and emotions and to increase the pleasures of protest. Structural approaches to movements seldom look at how organizers manage the emotional and moral dynamics of movements, yet without these efforts, activists may lose stamina and determination even under optimal conditions. Similarly, Smith downplays the artful role that solidarity organizers played. He acknowledges that missionaries were an important part of the movement, but he primarily portrays them as conduits of information 24

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

about Central America. From an agent-centered cultural perspective, I posit that they did more than just convey facts and stories; they played a key interpretive role. In this book, I examine how missionaries made the goals of insurgent Central American movements compelling to a population that was repeatedly told that they represented a threat to U.S. national security. I explore how missionaries used Christianity’s cultural resources to capture the attention of North American audiences who, during the 1980s, faced numerous domestic concerns and were inundated by news of civil wars throughout the world. I seek an understanding of how these missionaries convinced faith communities that responding to the suffering in Central America was an urgent moral priority. Additionally, I examine how they drew upon Christian themes and narratives to help recruits overcome the emotional obstacles to activism, granting courage to embark on high-risk forms of protest. Another difference between Smith’s predominantly structural view of the Central America solidarity movement and my cultural-agency approach is reflected in the relative importance placed on political opportunities. Smith argues that changes in the social and political environment fostered the emergence of the Central America peace movement in the early 1980s and hastened its demise by 1990. Certainly, as he posits, the movement gained strength because of divisions within Congress and the lingering Vietnam syndrome that made the U.S. population reluctant to get involved in another foreign war. Likewise, other events—such as the signing of peace treaties in several Central American nations and the shift of world attention to the collapsing Soviet Union and to the tensions in the Persian Gulf region—undoubtedly contributed to the weakening of the solidarity movement. However, by using the opening and closing of political opportunities as the defining parameters, Smith overlooks successful efforts of solidarity activists who continued protesting even after conditions were no longer favorable. For example, the formation of the School of the Americas Watch, which aims to stop U.S. training of Latin American military officers, only started in 1993 and has drawn its largest numbers of participants in the early part of the twenty-first century. By the time this campaign began, the advantageous structural conditions of the 1980s had diminished. Nevertheless, a former missionary was able to launch this new campaign that kept opposition to U.S. policy toward Central America alive long after Reagan left office. This case indicates that while campaigns are aided by political opportunities, they are not necessarily dependent upon them. By using a cultural-agency perspective, we can explore how committed and skilled agents overcome unfavorable environmental circumstances. I am not suggesting that my cultural-agency approach provides a more accurate account of the Central America solidarity movement than Smith’s structural analysis does. On the contrary, I see the two perspectives as complementary since each sheds a different light on the movement by 25

convictions of the soul

drawing our attention to distinct aspects and dynamics. Since Smith provides a thorough documentation of the organizational role of churches and the favorable structural conditions, I will not repeat his findings. Rather, to fill in the picture, I will primarily focus on the specific ways that religious actors artfully employed the cultural resources of Christianity in the Central America solidarity movement.

The Agency-Centered Approach

B

efore embarking upon this task, I want to briefly summarize the key elements of this agency-centered cultural approach. The first premise is quite simple: Movements cannot happen without people, even when conditions are favorable for action. Although that may seem obvious, human efforts have been minimized, overlooked, or stripped from many academic accounts of social movements. Following Jasper’s lead, I propose that we place people at the center of our analyses and give serious attention to activists’ beliefs, emotions, moral commitments, and sense of purpose, and why this leads them to organize or join movements. We must also place activists in their broader social, historical, and structural context, acknowledging that people do not develop value systems, beliefs, or a sense of purpose in isolation. We are influenced by various communities and organizations, the historical context in which we live, and our unique personal experiences. Thus, a cultural-agency approach requires an examination of the socialization influences and biographical experiences that shape activists. It takes into account the factors that form our moral commitments and priorities, thereby generating receptivity or resistance to the goals of a particular movement. A third point is that an agency-centered cultural approach places great emphasis on people’s ability to creatively use their cultural knowledge to promote social change. People are familiar with the cultural principles and practices that undergird the structures in which they participate. This knowledge is valuable since it can be used to recast or transpose cultural schema to generate movement support. Activists may be able to politicize an institution’s beliefs and alter their traditional rituals to evoke feelings of solidarity or outrage. Protesters may narrate stories about individuals, transforming them into icons that offer a model of action for others to emulate. Agents can develop symbols and collective action frames, aligning them with a group’s preexisting values and moral commitments, thereby infusing protest with transcendent significance. Such creative efforts can persuade others to contribute a wide array of human and nonhuman resources to assist in the mobilization of a movement. However, we need a greater understanding of the precise traits that make some activists particularly effective at these tasks. Sewell states that agency is determined by structural location as well as cultural characteristics 26

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

such as gender, ethnicity, education, prestige, class, and occupation, since this defines the type of knowledge we acquire. Yet we would benefit from further empirical and theoretical exploration of how these traits can serve as an asset or a hindrance. Similarly, we ought to examine how biographical experiences can also affect agency. And what is the most advantageous structural position for activists? Is an individual more likely to successfully mobilize organizational resources and recruit others if he or she is located in the upper echelons of an institution or at the grassroots? The fourth point, therefore, is that an agency-centered approach to movements requires a theory of agency that accounts for the influence of cultural, structural, historical, and biographical factors. Finally, not all institutions are equally amenable to the creative efforts of activists to instigate protest. Some have a long and rich tradition of cultural practices, whereas others may be relatively young and thus have less developed but potentially more malleable cultural schema. Some institutions have considerable resources, such as a large membership, substantial funds, and social respect. Others may have minimal monetary assets, a small number of adherents, and nominal influence. The cultural aspects of some structures are fluid and open, while others are deeply entrenched and rigid. All of these factors affect the degree to which people will be empowered or limited by a structure. Thus, even though I propose that our primary focus remain on human actors, an agency-centered approach must consider the characteristics of the institutions in which people act and how this facilitates or impedes their ability to mobilize collective action. The cultural-agency approach is the guiding framework for this study of the Central America solidarity movement. People of faith were at the center of this movement, determined to change President Reagan’s foreign policy toward Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala. To achieve this goal, some petitioned Congress to stop aid to those responsible for the region’s terrible human rights records. Others gathered tools, medicine, and clothing to send to Central America. Many attended protests, marches, and commemorative vigils. Thousands provided sanctuary to refugees who illegally crossed into the United States. Some traveled to war zones to document abuses, to provide protective accompaniment to those in danger, or to harvest crops.43 To understand why these people were passionate about Central America, we must look at the meaning it held for them. This requires background information on the Central American civil wars and the United States’ involvement in the region, which I provide in chapter 2. In chapter 3, I look specifically at the individuals who launched key solidarity movement organizations and campaigns, many of whom were missionaries to Latin America during the 1960s and 1970s. I analyze why they were effective agents by exploring their biographical experiences—shaped by historical changes in Latin America and in the Roman Catholic Church—as 27

convictions of the soul

well as their social traits and structural position within the church. Similar to King, I posit that these individuals had substantial knowledge of the cultural elements of Christianity, had respect and credibility due to their profession, and were strategically positioned within church institutions to mobilize resources and build networks. In chapter 4, I examine recruits’ biographies, focusing on how various socialization experiences shaped their beliefs, values, and moral vision, ultimately creating openness to the plight of oppressed Central Americans. In the subsequent chapters, I look at the specific means whereby these former missionaries reframed the cultural content of the church to elicit support for the movement. In chapter 5, I recount the stories of several religious figures who were assassinated in El Salvador. These martyrs formed the basis of a collective identity that linked progressive Christians in North and Central America by highlighting their common beliefs and faith, and aligning both groups against a common opponent. Missionaries were key in constructing this identity by interpreting these religious murders and altering the traditional Christian concepts of conversion and resurrection to evoke solidarity with the suffering popular church in Central America. Although these martyr stories were powerful, it is a challenge to sustain people’s emotional convictions and keep the concerns of transnational solidarity movements alive when the beneficiaries live thousands of miles away. Therefore, missionaries and U.S. clergy employed other techniques to personalize the issues and bring them closer to home. This is the focus of chapter 6, where I explore the effects of interpersonal contact between U.S. citizens and Central Americans. Through educational trips to the region and encounters with Central American refugees seeking asylum in the United States, many American faith communities began to feel an array of emotions as well as a personal obligation to respond as they witnessed the human consequences of their government’s foreign policy. Then in chapter 7, I examine the efforts of one former missionary who rejuvenated the emotions of solidarity activism just as the broader movement was subsiding in the early 1990s. By incorporating politicized religious rituals into his campaign, by focusing on a specific target responsible for moral atrocities, and creating a symbolically and emotionally charged location for activists to gather, he sustained solidarity activism long after the demise of the larger Central America solidarity movement. Throughout the book, I also explore the particular challenges of organizing at the transnational level. Despite increasing globalization and the expansion of activism across national borders, most theories of collective action are derived from case studies of movements that operate within state boundaries and have a domestic focus. Thus, we have little empirical data on how international links are established and transformed into movements. Moreover, transnational movements like the Central America solidarity movement face a variety of potential obstacles due to race, class, cultural, and ideological differences, as well as geographic distance. How 28

culture, agency, and religion in social movements

do transnational activists overcome potential barriers to collaboration? I argue that the traits of the institutional church were essential in transcending obstacles and overcoming differences. The final chapter is devoted to the transnational implications and theoretical lessons of the solidarity movement. Yet even as our focus becomes increasingly macro, we must always remember that movements begin with human agents and end when people no longer act.

29

CHAPTER 2

The Origins of Central America’s Civil Wars

T

hroughout the 1970s and 1980s, Central America experienced escalating levels of violence. Civil war and state-sponsored repression resulted in widespread human rights abuses and the displacement of millions. Various international agencies—such as Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, and the United Nations—have documented the devastation of this era. One Guatemalan physician offers a personal account of the brutality and its effects: I lived not far from a small union office and on the way to the hospital each morning, I saw the fresh black ribbons on the union door, the new photographs, signaling yet another member dragged off to an ugly death in the middle of the night. And I saw the morgues. The torture that had been inflicted on those poor people, the expressions on their dead faces, I will never forget. . . . I worked in the city with another medical student named Melissa. . . . [One day] I found her in the morgue with so many others. She was naked and battered, her face bluish from strangulation, small razor cuts and cigarette burns up and down her arms and legs. Her autopsy report showed vaginal slashes, as if her captors, once finished with her themselves, had raped her with a broken bottle. Her eyes were gone, the sockets filled with mud. . . . That was the day I left for the mountains. . . . I had made a decision—I had decided to fight. I had decided that when those animals came looking for me, to kill me in that way, by God they were going to find me with a gun in my hands.1 30

the origins of central america’s civil wars

This woman’s story reflects Central America’s spiral of violence. In response to the oppression, and due to the inability to implement change from within the existing political systems, many joined the ranks of revolutionary groups. The growing insurgency in turn led to greater levels of repression on the part of military, which was trying to preserve its power at any price. The human costs of these wars were high. The Commission for Historical Clarification—implemented as part of the Oslo Peace Accord— concluded that over 200,000 people were killed or disappeared in Guatemala’s civil war.2 More than one million were displaced as a result of the violence, many of whom fled to Mexico and the United States.3 In El Salvador, the number of war-related deaths is estimated at 70,000.4 The repressive conditions created one million refugees, roughly 25 percent of the entire Salvadoran population.5 The Contra war in Nicaragua left 15,000 combatants dead; an equal number of civilians lost their lives. An additional 20,000 Nicaraguans were severely injured during this period; many lost limbs from land mines planted during the 1980s.6 To understand the roots of the conflicts that caused so much suffering, we must look back to Central America’s colonial heritage.

A Colonial Legacy

C

entral America’s colonial legacy began in 1524 when the Spanish conquered the region. Possessing superior weaponry and horses, the Europeans dominated the indigenous population, coercing them into submission. The Spanish also brought a variety of diseases that further contributed to the decimation of the local people. It is estimated that between 65 and 85 percent of the indigenous Mexican and Central American population had died by 1650.7 Although the Spanish initially came to the region in search of gold and silver, they quickly realized that Central America’s true riches lay in its fertile soil. They seized the most arable land and set up a feudal system whereby the indigenous people could live in their own villages but were obliged to work for large colonial landowners for a designated amount of time per week. Over the next centuries, this system enabled the descendants of the early colonizers to develop vast plantations known as latifundios that grew cacao, indigo, and tobacco for export to Europe. As the demand for these products increased, colonists confiscated more territory, thereby expanding their estates while the amount of land available to the indigenous people diminished.8 Land seizures were also motivated by the colonists’ desire to keep labor plentiful and inexpensive. Since many of the poor no longer had sufficient land to feed their families, they were forced to work on the latifundios; their poverty and desperation made them willing to accept substandard wages. This was the start of a highly stratified society in which a small elite controlled 31

convictions of the soul

most of the land, using it primarily for export crops, while the masses became landless and destitute.9 Although it began centuries ago, this pattern continues today. During this period, the church blessed the colonization process. There are some notable exceptions, such as Fray Bartolome´ de las Casas, who denounced the injustices committed against the indigenous people, and Bishop Antonio Valdivieso, who was executed by a local governor for defending the rights of Indians.10 Most clergy, however, preached a theology that encouraged the oppressed to accept their lot as part of God’s divine will. And some religious orders benefited financially from these feudal arrangements as they became involved in agricultural production. The power of religious orders in Central America grew over time, and the church found itself increasingly in alliance with the wealthy, helping to preserve a system that perpetuated their control over the economic and political domains. This symbiotic relationship endured for centuries, only changing with the advent of the Vatican II Council in the early 1960s. Eventually, Spanish rule began to weaken. This strengthened the power of local elites and stirred international interest in the region. American business leaders saw great potential in Central America, since the area boasted the natural resources and plentiful labor that are necessary for growing multinational corporations. Opportunities to access these resources arose out of internal disputes that divided the Central American elite in the years prior to and following independence. The quarrels were between two political parties—the Liberals and the Conservatives. Berryman describes the source of tension between these groups: “Liberals saw themselves as the bearers of ‘progress’: they propounded the ideas of the Enlightenment (including anticlericalism) and advocated independence from Spain and later on nation-building and new crops, particularly coffee. Conversely, the Conservatives sought to defend older traditions and the church, and were more tied to local power.”11 Although the Conservatives initially controlled the newly independent Central American republic, the Liberals soon took power, enacting a number of harsh measures against the church. They confiscated church funds, abolished religious holidays, and restricted the activities of religious orders. This caused a great deal of friction that culminated in the eventual splitting of the region into five separate nations in 1838. As a result of these divisions, the Conservative Party was able to regain control and dominate the political scene for several decades until Liberals resumed power in the 1870s. One of the Liberals’ first actions was to implement land reform measures that would enable them to expand the production of coffee for export. They declared that all land must be owned as private property, thereby eliminating the communal lands of indigenous groups and religious orders. Although there were a number of peasant revolts against these measures, they were quickly subdued and the inequality of

32

the origins of central america’s civil wars

land ownership expanded.12 Yet these actions also provoked new resistance from the Conservative Party, and the escalating tension led each side to invite outsiders to intervene on its behalf.13 This was the start of U.S. involvement in the region, which profoundly influenced the course of Central American history. To detail the role the United States has played in these nations, I will review each country’s unique history and relationship to its northern neighbor.

Nicaragua

L

ike the rest of Central America, Nicaragua’s early years of independence were marked by political rivalries, disputes, and rebellions among the Liberal and Conservative Party leaders. In the 1850s, the Liberal Party hired U.S. mercenaries, led by a Tennessee man named William Walker, to help them secure power. When the Liberals gained control of the country’s political institutions, they made Walker commander-in-chief of the army. Walker saw the lucrative potential of Nicaragua and was not content to remain the head of the military, so in 1856 he declared himself president. He quickly attempted to attract foreign investment in order to modernize the country, and thus passed legislation that legalized slavery and made English the official language. Eventually, Walker was driven out by the armed forces of neighboring countries. He was later caught and executed in Honduras after attempting another invasion.14 The significance of the Walker affair was greater than simply the Conservative-Liberal struggle among Nicaraguan elites. It reflected the international competition for control over the country, which offered the most strategic route for a proposed interoceanic canal site. Originally, Walker did not act on his own initiative; he represented the interests of businessman J. P. Morgan. Moreover, the forces that overthrew Walker were sponsored by the North American railroad giant Cornelius Vanderbilt, who was also interested in the canal construction rights. To many Nicaraguans, Walker became a symbol of United States expansionism and imperialism.15 Its credibility damaged by its association with Walker, the Liberal Party lost power, and Nicaragua was ruled by a series of Conservative Party leaders until 1893. At that point, General Jose´ Santos Zelaya became president and initiated some modest reforms. He separated church and state, began taxing U.S. investors, canceled some American concessions, and developed plans to build a canal in conjunction with Germany or Japan. His actions infuriated both the Conservative Party and U.S. investors, and in 1909 the Conservatives revolted with the assistance of four hundred U.S. Marines. When Zelaya executed two North American demolition experts, whom he accused of plotting to destroy Nicaraguan ships, the

33

convictions of the soul

United States took an official stance of opposition to the Zelaya regime. Knowing his days in office were numbered, Zelaya resigned and fled the country.16 After Zelaya’s departure, the Nicaraguan Congress appointed another Liberal, Jose´ Madriz, as president. The United States continued to support the Conservative Party, while Madriz struggled to quell the Conservative uprising. In 1912, President Madriz resigned after a confrontation with U.S. gunboats delivering arms to the Conservatives, and the United States helped replace him with a member of the Conservative Party, Adolfo Diaz. Diaz, who had worked for an American mining company, soon encountered resistance from dissident Liberal forces, who saw him as a puppet for North American interests. The United States responded by sending 2,700 Marines to defeat the Liberal rebellion and keep the Conservative Party in power. Marines remained in Nicaragua for the next two decades, backing a series of Conservative presidents who succeeded Diaz.17 Not all Nicaraguans passively accepted the presence of foreign troops. While the United States was training a Nicaraguan armed force to stabilize the political situation, the Liberals continued to resist militarily. One member of this resistance was Augusto Ce´sar Sandino, who had spent years working for the multinational corporations of Standard Oil in Mexico and the United Fruit Company in Honduras and Guatemala. Through participation in various trade unions, he became convinced that U.S. involvement in Central America was imperialistic. Consequently, Sandino called for the departure of the Marines, land redistribution into peasant cooperatives, and the creation of a popularly based political party.18 In 1927, the Conservative Party gave the Liberal resistance an ultimatum: Surrender and participate in a U.S.-supervised election or face an attack by the Marines. The Liberal forces surrendered but Sandino refused. With a small group of peasants, he continued to fight the Marines and the U.S.-trained National Guard for more than five years. Unprepared for his guerrilla warfare tactics, the military was unable to defeat Sandino, whose popularity among the poor masses grew with each passing year. Eventually, the Marines withdrew in January 1933 but transferred command of the National Guard to a young Nicaraguan named Anastasio Somoza.19 Sandino’s main goal, the withdrawal of U.S. troops, had been attained, and he signed a preliminary peace agreement with the government in February. In return for the disarmament of Sandino’s forces, the government would end the war, guarantee amnesty for Sandino’s troops, and grant them control over the northern provinces of Nicaragua where they intended to establish agricultural cooperatives. After further negotiations in 1934, the final treaty was signed. As Sandino and his aides left the National Palace with a sense of victory, they were shot by the National Guard, under orders from Somoza. Hundreds of his followers were subsequently killed and the government did not uphold the terms of the peace accord. While the guerrilla resistance was eliminated, Sandino’s influence 34

the origins of central america’s civil wars

was not. His life had been devoted to resisting North American imperialism, and his death transformed him into a Nicaraguan folk hero.20 Following Sandino’s assassination, Somoza quickly consolidated his power. He overthrew the elected president, proclaimed victory in a fraudulent election, and retained command of the National Guard, which he used to suppress opposition. The Somoza family held power for the next forty years, through Anastasio and his two sons, Luis and Anastasio Jr. Although the elder Somoza had virtually no property when he assumed power, the Somozas increased their wealth tremendously during their period in office. Many claim that the family embezzled a portion of the nation’s industrial profit and international aid. By the end of their rule, the family assets included fifty-one cattle ranches, forty-six coffee plantations, baseball teams, a variety of industries, an airline, and a shipping fleet. Estimates of the family fortune range from $400 to $900 million.21 The Somozas’ wealth stood in sharp contrast to the poverty of most Nicaraguans. Approximately 2 percent of Nicaraguans owned over 50 percent of the land, which was primarily used for export crops and cattle grazing rather than the production of food staples for local consumption. Ten out of eleven million acres were used for beef production and export by the 1970s.22 As a result, most Nicaraguans had little or no land and thus were forced into low-paying jobs that were not sufficient to cover basic necessities. Half the rural population earned less than $39 a year. The illiteracy rate was more than 50 percent among the general population, up to 70 percent in the countryside, and as high as 93 percent among women.23 Roughly 60 percent of Nicaraguans were malnourished, the unemployment level reached 36 percent, and 73 percent lived in substandard housing. Eighty percent of children did not attend school.24 Health care was not readily available, except for those with financial resources. Many parts of the country had no physicians at all. In some rural regions, night blindness reached epidemic proportions as a result of widespread malnutrition. Nicaragua also had one of the highest infant mortality rates in Latin America, with 46 percent of children dying before the age of four.25 These conditions, combined with Somoza’s repressive rule, produced a number of revolutionary movements that waged several failed uprisings between 1956 and 1960. Then in 1961 the Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN) formed, taking the name of the folk hero who stood up to the United States and the National Guard. With the goals of ousting Somoza, redistributing land, establishing a mixed economy and political pluralism, the Sandinistas began a campaign of armed resistance.26 The ranks of the FSLN began to swell after the 1972 earthquake that destroyed Managua, killing 10,000 people and leaving another 250,000 homeless. Although international relief funds poured in, with the United States alone sending $76.7 million, most of the reconstruction never took place. Funds earmarked for emergency housing were largely spent on luxury accom35

convictions of the soul

modations for National Guard officers, while the poor were left to construct temporary shelters out of wood.27 The city’s basic infrastructure was repaired, including the drainage and transportation systems, but Somoza angered many by granting the reconstruction contracts to his own companies. Business leaders increasingly resented the way he used the construction industry and banking operations to his own advantage. In addition, Somoza forced the elite classes to pay new emergency taxes from which he exempted himself. As a result, a growing number of individuals from the upper class and the business sector lent financial support to the FSLN while many of their sons and daughters joined the revolutionary movement.28 As opposition to Somoza expanded, so did the brutality of the National Guard. It carried out a wave of repression from 1975 to 1977, when Somoza declared martial law. The Guardia patrolled the mountains, seeking out the FSLN. In the northern region of the country, thousands of peasants were executed, granting Somoza an international reputation as one of the worst abusers of human rights.29 Yet rather than suppressing opposition, the repression increased popular resistance. In particular, the National Guard’s assassination of Pedro Joaquin Chamorro, editor of the leading opposition newspaper, outraged Nicaraguans and strengthened their resolve to oust the dictator. Chamorro—the most highly regarded person within the anti-Somoza bourgeoisie and an outspoken critic of the regime—had been granted a certain degree of tolerance in his public opposition. But in January 1978, he was shot while driving to work. His death provoked a mass demonstration of 50,000 as his body was carried in a procession that lasted seven hours. This event spurred an occupation of the United Nations office in Managua.30 From that point on, resistance spread rapidly. A call was put forth for an urban general strike that was 80 to 90 percent effective. The FSLN managed to briefly occupy the presidential palace and take two thousand hostages by posing as Somoza’s advance guard. They demanded the release of political prisoners, ransom money, and the publication of the Sandinista manifesto. Humiliated, Somoza conceded and published the FLSN communique´ in his own newspaper.31 This wave of revolt culminated in the FSLN’s final offensive. On July 19, 1979, Somoza fled and the FSLN entered Managua, declaring victory.32 Immediately following the Sandinista triumph, there was a strong level of national unity as Nicaraguans from all socioeconomic classes were glad to be free of Somoza’s corrupt rule. The population was also proud of the National Literacy Crusade that dramatically increased literacy rates, winning the United Nations’ praise. This unity disintegrated quickly, however, as the upper classes saw their privileges erode and as they realized the revolution intended to do more than simply oust the dictatorship. When the FSLN assumed power, it confiscated and nationalized all of the Somozas’ property and assets, as well as the possessions of their exiled asso36

the origins of central america’s civil wars

ciates. Within weeks of the Sandinistas’ victory, two million acres on roughly two thousand farms had been nationalized; 20 percent of Nicaragua’s agricultural land became part of the “People’s Property.” Approximately five hundred houses, abandoned by “Somocistas” who had fled the country, were transformed into public health care facilities, schools, and day care centers. Eventually, all banks and natural resources were nationalized and efforts were undertaken to unionize workers.33 Although the FSLN claimed that they were establishing a mixed economy and a pluralistic government, wealthy Nicaraguans feared that the revolution was becoming a tyranny of the masses.34 Together with others in exile, they appealed to newly elected President Reagan. The White House responded by cutting off $15 million in economic assistance to Nicaragua, including food shipments promised by the Carter administration. It also imposed a full economic embargo that obstructed loans and effectively blocked $58 million worth of exported Nicaraguan goods and over $100 million of U.S. imports to Nicaragua.35 By December 1981, Reagan had authorized the Central Intelligence Agency to spend $19.5 million to sponsor a military force known as the Contras and to establish training camps for them in Honduras and Florida.36 The Contras initially comprised former National Guard soldiers and Somocistas who fled after the revolution. Later, Miskito Indians from Nicaragua’s isolated eastern region also joined their ranks. Under a program of revolutionary reconstruction, the Sandinistas had sought to integrate the region politically, economically, and administratively. They handled the situation poorly, showing insensitivity to the indigenous group’s distinct culture. When local resistance arose, the government sent in troops to impose control.37 The tension between the Miskitos and the Sandinistas grew when the Contras planned to occupy the sparsely populated region and declare it a free zone, independent from government control. In response, the FSLN evacuated residents, relocating roughly eight thousand Miskitos and Creole peoples in order to maintain control of the area. Although the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights and the Americas Watch Committee released reports stating that the level of danger in the area provided reasonable grounds for this relocation, they criticized the implementation of the policy. The FSLN government did not include Miskitos in the decision-making process, and residents were given very short notice and forced to walk through difficult terrain for days. Once the relocation was complete, freedom of movement was restricted in the new settlements, and the government did not provide compensation for property that was destroyed after the evacuation.38 The Sandinistas made other grave mistakes as well. After taking power, the FSLN had issued a communique´ that publicly expressed gratitude to the many Christians who, inspired by a theology of liberation, had helped the revolution. But when some church leaders criticized Sandinista policies, the government expelled several priests and shut down a 37

convictions of the soul

Catholic radio station. Consequently, members of Nicaragua’s Catholic hierarchy—who initially supported the Sandinistas’ overthrow of Somoza—claimed that the FSLN did not respect religious freedom.39 All this added fuel to the fire, and the United States increased its financial support for the Contras.40 In the beginning, the Contra strategy was to overthrow the Sandinista government. However, it soon became evident that the Contras had little support from the Nicaraguan population, despite the Sandinistas’ political blunders. Under the CIA’s guidance, the Contras concluded that a direct attack on the FSLN would be defeated, so they shifted their strategy to attack select targets, namely, the human and material infrastructure of Nicaragua. Their purpose was to disrupt the economy, government, and everyday life of the country in order to inflict economic hardship on all Nicaraguans and to curtail government social services. They hoped this would foster popular discontent with the Sandinistas by obstructing FSLN efforts to rebuild Nicaraguan society. Such attacks would also force a heavy increase in the government’s defense expenditures, further undercutting social services and causing inflation.41 Primarily, the Contras attacked (1) the rural social service infrastructure, such as schools and day care centers, health clinics, and food storage facilities; (2) the economic infrastructure, such as bridges, power lines, agricultural cooperatives, and state farms; (3) grassroots organizations, such as the association of small farmers; and (4) any individuals connected to the targets listed above.42 The new strategy was effective. Eighty percent of the country’s basic foods were grown in regions subject to Contra attacks. Between 1982 and 1984, Contra actions cost approximately $1 billion in economic losses for Nicaragua. This is equivalent to roughly 70 to 80 percent of the value of its export earnings over the same period. Moreover, the war caused the Sandinistas to divert government resources from development to defense. Military expenditures climbed from 7 percent of the national budget in 1980 to 62 percent by 1987.43 The combination of escalating defense costs, the loss of export crops, and the U.S. embargo was devastating to Nicaragua’s economy. By 1988, the inflation rate reached 36,000 percent. Stabilization and austerity measures introduced by the government failed, and real wages dropped to 29 percent of their 1980 value.44 The human costs of the Contra war were also steep; roughly thirty thousand Nicaraguans lost their lives. Consistent with the Contra strategy, many of these casualties were civilians—medical personnel, teachers, technicians, and others connected to government projects.45 Initially, U.S. aid to the Contras was justified as a national security measure. However, it increasingly became a point of contention as members of Congress heard reports of Contra abuses and covert actions authorized by the president. The controversy grew in 1984 when reports revealed that the CIA had illegally mined Nicaraguan harbors, damaging

38

the origins of central america’s civil wars

ships from six nations and violating international law. A few months later, the national press reported the discovery of two secret CIA training manuals. The first, entitled Freedom Fighters Manual, described thirty-eight methods of sabotaging Nicaragua’s material and economic infrastructure. The second manual, Psychological Operations in Guerrilla Warfare, proposed actions such as “neutralizing carefully selected and planned targets, such as court judges, magistrates, police and state security officials” and the “creation of martyrs” at antigovernment rallies. Dubbed the CIA’s murder manual by the Washington Post, such practices violated the 1976 Presidential Executive Order prohibiting U.S. government involvement in assassinations.46 In response, the House Intelligence Committee passed an amendment that banned any government agency from funding groups or individuals involved in military or paramilitary efforts in Nicaragua. This officially curtailed Contra support.47 Unofficially, however, supplies and funds continued to flow to the Contras. This became evident during the Iran-Contra scandal of 1986 when the FSLN shot down a plane carrying five tons of U.S.-supplied ammunition and weaponry. The aircraft’s flight log revealed extensive U.S. involvement in Contra attacks. Further investigation exposed an illegal supply network coordinated by Lieutenant Colonel Oliver North. North illegally brokered the sale of arms to Iran in exchange for the release of American hostages; the profit from this sale—amounting to millions of dollars—was diverted to the Contras. Although this violated congressional mandates, North had acted with the approval of CIA Director William Casey, National Security Advisors Robert McFarlane and John Poindexter, and possibly Secretary of State George Schultz, Secretary of Defense Caspar Weinberger, Vice President George Bush, and President Reagan. Outraged by this blatant disregard for the law, Congress ended U.S. military aid to the Contras, although it did send humanitarian aid in 1987 and 1988.48 By that point, however, the Contras had already dealt a serious blow to the Nicaraguan population and the Sandinistas. Between declining federal resources and attacks on social service workers, the Contra strategy had stunted FSLN development plans, and government provisions to the poor were restricted. Nicaraguans were also growing weary of war and the Sandinistas’ policy of forced conscription. Additionally, women’s groups began expressing discontent with the government. The FSLN had named sexual equality as one of their objectives and quickly passed legislation that allowed for paid maternity leave, removed men’s legal privileges in custody agreements, and prohibited the use of women as sexual objects in advertising. Other promises, however, remained unfulfilled, and women made only limited economic and political gains.49 Eventually the war, grievances against the state, and the dire economic situation undermined the revolutionary regime. In 1990, the Sandinistas were voted out of office.

39

convictions of the soul

El Salvador

E

l Salvador’s civil war developed out of the same conditions of poverty and inequality that existed in Nicaragua. Throughout Spanish colonial rule and into the postindependence period, a wealthy oligarchy amassed land and expanded their estates to meet the growing European demand for coffee, and later, bananas. The ruling party enacted laws that abolished communal lands, held primarily by the indigenous, which were subsequently confiscated by the rich. The land became increasingly concentrated in the hands of a small minority, and in response to this trend, a number of peasant uprisings occurred in the late nineteenth century. Although they were defeated, this resistance prompted the government and private landowners to stockpile weapons and organize security forces. The government declared a state of siege and granted landowners the power to arrest, torture, and execute oppositional forces. This set in motion a tradition of using violence to maintain the established order and keep a lid on protest. Yet these nineteenth-century practices also planted the seeds of resistance, which grew and flourished in the twentieth century.50 By the 1920s, unions were forming, and many Salvadorans were inspired by the Mexican and Russian revolutions. One of these unions was led by Augustı´n Farabundo Martı´, who later served as the personal secretary to the Nicaraguan folk hero, Sandino. Martı´ split from Sandino after fifteen months, partly because he was a committed Marxist while Sandino was primarily fighting foreign imperialism, but Martı´ continued to hold him in the highest regard.51 He then returned to El Salvador, where he founded a communist party and began working for social reform. However, conditions were difficult in light of the Great Depression’s devastating impact on the country’s economy. Expanding financial troubles contributed to a fragmentation of the elite and the military during the presidential campaign of 1931. This enabled the reformist candidate, Arturo Araujo, to capture the support of workers, students, and peasants and win the election. However, after assuming office, he was not able to effectively address many of the country’s problems, and corruption spread among some of his colleagues. Eventually, the military overthrew Araujo in December 1931.52 In his place, General Maximiliano Herna´ndez Martı´nez was declared president, inaugurating an era of military rule. General Martı´nez quickly established a reputation for brutality, using repression to secure his position for more than a decade. Martı´nez is most notoriously associated with an event known as La Matanza (the slaughter) that unleashed the violence of El Salvador’s military and paramilitary forces and set the stage for the civil war that erupted decades later. The events leading up to this massacre began when groups who were angered by the overthrow of the democratically elected Araujo administration planned a revolt against the Martı´nez regime. The communist party, led by Martı´, 40

the origins of central america’s civil wars

organized the insurrection, gaining the support of nearly five thousand indigenous people who were angry at the oligarchy’s expropriation of their land and the oppressive treatment of laborers. The revolt was to occur in January 1932, less than two months after the military coup d’etat. But the army got word of the uprising; they arrested Martı´ and declared a state of siege. The rebels nevertheless revolted, winning control over a few towns, but their victories did not last long. Within two days, the military captured those who participated in the insurrection, lynching some and shooting others. Martı´ was brought before a firing squad, where he reportedly shouted “Long live socialism!” before he was executed.53 The military did not stop once the fighting ceased. Since many of the rebels were indigenous, the dictatorship sought revenge on the whole native population, whether they had supported the uprising or not. Martı´nez ordered the troops to systematically move through rural areas, inflicting a harsh punishment. Robert Armstrong and Janet Shenk record one survivor’s account: General Ochoa . . . made everyone who had been captured crawl on their knees to where he was seated in a chair in the courtyard of the fort and he said to them, “Come here and smell my gun.” The prisoners pleaded with him in the name of God and their children. . . . But the general insisted, “If you don’t smell my pistol then you are a communist and afraid. He who is without sin knows no fear.” The campesino [i.e., peasant] smelled the barrel of the gun, and in that instant, the general would put a bullet in his face. “Bring the next one in,” he said.54

In the end, it is estimated that Martı´nez’s troops killed between ten thousand and thirty thousand people.55 La Matanza had enduring effects on all segments of Salvadoran society. It traumatized the indigenous people, who abandoned their traditional language, customs, and clothing to adopt the practices of ladinos—those of European descent—effectively eliminating the indigenous culture. The events also shaped the mentality of the military regime and its wealthy constituents, who saw violence as an effective means of eliminating any movement for change. In fact, during the exceptionally tumultuous years of the 1970s and 1980s, the oligarchy printed statements in national newspapers suggesting that “something like 1932 might be necessary again.”56 Furthermore, the massacre reinforced the political power of the military, which continued to rule for the next fifty years. The army faced little resistance from the oligarchy, whose economic interests were protected as long as the established social structures remained intact. Economic conditions began to decline in the 1960s and disintegrated further in the 1970s. Although coffee remained the backbone of El Salvador’s economy, cotton and beef production took on greater dimensions, prompting the oligarchy to expand their estates into the Pacific lowlands, 41

convictions of the soul

where peasants fled after being displaced from the highlands during the growth of the coffee industry. Finding themselves without access to land again, many migrated to urban centers hoping to secure jobs in the developing industrial plants. But the country’s industry did not bring much growth in employment since it forced many small businesses out.57 Other peasants moved to Honduras in search of land and work, but the so-called Soccer War of 1969 led the Honduran government to expel 130,000 Salvadorans, adding to the problem of landlessness and unemployment. In addition, the war drove up prices for corn and beans while cutting off the Honduran market where many Salvadoran goods had been sold. During this period, the landless population grew from 11.8 to 40.9 percent of rural families, leaving 90 percent of these households with insufficient income to provide basic nutrition.58 Rural unemployment rose to approximately 54 percent by the early 1970s.59 Poverty and unemployment contributed to the burgeoning of popular organizations. Peasant leagues and labor unions expanded and became increasingly militant in their demands for higher wages, better work conditions, and land reform. The church was also experimenting with base Christian communities that combined religious practice with tangible efforts to improve social conditions and standards of living. Eventually, a broad popular opposition movement coalesced around a revolutionary political agenda represented by a political party, the Democratic Revolutionary Front. Yet as these organizations grew, so too did the military’s tactics of intimidation. The most notorious acts were carried out by paramilitary groups known as death squads that comprised members of the police force, the military, the National Guard, and a few civilians. Dressed in civilian clothing, these groups abducted union organizers, base Christian community leaders, and political activists—along with their family members, colleagues, and neighbors. These individuals were taken to clandestine prisons where they were tortured and often executed. Their corpses were left at one of the infamous body dumps or at a symbolic location, such as the entrance to a progressive church or a popular organization. Sometimes the bodies were never found.60 State-sponsored violence intensified throughout the late 1970s. During this period, it is estimated that the army killed between five hundred and eight hundred civilians each month. The level of repression eliminated open expressions of protest, precluding the possibility of working for change through electoral politics. As a result, more people turned to the various revolutionary forces that had emerged. Although these armed groups were initially divided over tactics, strategies, and economic and political platforms, they united in 1980 to form the Farabundo Martı´ National Liberation Front (FMLN), naming themselves after the leader of the failed 1932 uprising. Inspired by the success of the Nicaraguan revolution, the FMLN launched a full-scale offensive. They gained control of parts of the Salvadoran countryside and an all-out civil war began.61 42

the origins of central america’s civil wars

These events transpired as Ronald Reagan was taking over the presidential office in the United States. Already committed to overturning the Sandinista revolution, Reagan pointed toward the FMLN as evidence of a growing communist threat that was spreading throughout Central America. El Salvador and neighboring Guatemala were considered the next to fall in the domino effect started by Cuba and Nicaragua. The president persuaded Congress to pass aid packages for the Salvadoran military regime despite substantial documentation of their human rights abuses. The people of the United States, however, were leery of getting involved in another foreign conflict since Vietnam was still fresh in the nation’s collective memory. There was little popular support for U.S. military intervention in Central America. Polls taken during the early 1980s revealed that between 62 and 74 percent of Americans who were aware of conditions in El Salvador felt that “it was likely that it could turn into a situation like Vietnam.”62 Therefore, the Reagan administration would have to fight this Cold War battle without sending American troops to the region. This led to the development of the low intensity warfare strategy that dominated U.S. foreign policy toward Central America throughout the 1980s. The approach was built on the premise that superior weaponry would not necessarily ensure victory in Third World conflicts, since they are often rooted in ideological struggles. Thus, physical domination should not be the primary goal of these battles but rather destroying the opponents’ credibility, morale, and legitimacy as an alternative political force. This is accomplished through a variety of tactics—economic sanctions, political acts of aggression, and psychological warfare—that make it costly for the population to back an insurrectionary movement while simultaneously providing incentives to comply with allied forces. Rather than involving U.S. troops in combat, low intensity warfare uses proxy armies to generate popular discontent, thereby eroding civilian support for revolutionary groups. Because American soldiers were not being sent off to foreign lands, this strategy was much less visible than a traditional war, thereby minimizing controversy and opposition at home.63 The low intensity strategy of the United States toward El Salvador, and Central America more generally, included several measures.64 The first step was providing massive aid packages to those regional allies that would serve North American interests. In essence, the Salvadoran military did the fighting while the U.S. government paid the bills. American funds poured into El Salvador, amounting to over $4 billion between 1980 and 1990.65 Much of this money was designated as military aid, but a portion was also sent covertly to political organizations and groups pursuing goals consistent with U.S. aims. For example, during El Salvador’s 1984 presidential election, the CIA provided more than $10 million to political groups that supported the Reagan administration’s preferred candidate.66 Even humanitarian funds served a political purpose in this low intensity warfare approach. The U.S. Agency for International Development in 43

convictions of the soul

El Salvador provided food and development assistance in order to foster favorable relations between the Salvadoran population and the United States, thereby undermining support for the FMLN and generating a sense of gratitude to the American government and its ally, the Salvadoran military. Humanitarian assistance took the caustic edge off Central Americans’ indigence, with hopes that it would ease their misery enough to pacify them. Food and development aid diminished daily suffering but did nothing to change the structural conditions that caused poverty; on the contrary, it helped preserve the social and economic systems that had been in place since the colonial era.67 In addition to providing financial assistance, the United States trained Salvadoran officers at the School of the Americas in Georgia and sent Special Forces advisers to Central America. By 1983, nearly one thousand Salvadoran soldiers had been taught the techniques of counterinsurgency warfare, including strategic sabotage, psychological warfare, and the use of selective repression against the civilian population.68 The overarching goal was to make people so frightened that they would not protest, organize, oppose the government, or support those who did. In addition, valuable information about resistance activities was often extracted from those who were illegally detained and tortured. Salvadoran officers were also trained to conduct scorched-earth land sweeps designed to cut off the FMLN’s popular base by severing ties between the guerrillas and their civilian supporters. Search and destroy units, accompanied by helicopters and antiterrorist battalions, would systematically sweep through rebel-controlled territories. Using strafing, aerial bombing, and crop burning, the military aimed to render the region uninhabitable, thereby forcing guerrilla supporters to relocate and cutting off supplies to the FMLN.69 Despite the aid, weaponry, and training provided by the United States, the Salvadoran military could not defeat the FMLN, and the civil war continued throughout the 1980s. In 1989, the guerrillas launched their final offensive in San Salvador, hoping to gain control of the capital. The army responded with widespread bombings and hundreds of arrests. The guerrillas’ final strike did not result in the triumph of the FMLN and the inauguration of a revolutionary government. It was becoming clear that the FMLN could not win militarily but neither could the Salvadoran army.70 Eventually, the two sides participated in peace talks that ended the war in 1991. As part of the agreement, a commission was formed under the auspices of the United Nations and given the task of investigating the acts of violence committed during the war. In their final report, the UN Truth Commission team wrote that the vast majority of human rights violations resulted from the army’s counterinsurgency tactics. The team attributed almost all of the blame to the Salvadoran military and death squads, whom they found responsible for 95 percent of the abuses. The UN report stated that the FMLN instigated 5 percent of the violations.71

44

the origins of central america’s civil wars

Guatemala

I

n many ways, Guatemala’s history parallels that of El Salvador and Nicaragua. Yet unlike other Central American countries, Guatemala’s indigenous citizens—roughly 50 to 70 percent of the population—retained their distinct customs, identity, and languages even though their ethnicity has historically been a source of discrimination. During colonization, communal Indian lands were outlawed, and legislation required all Maya to work on latifundios for a designated number of days each year. They were forced to carry identification papers that verified this labor obligation had been fulfilled. These policies exacerbated the gap between the rich and the poor, enabling a small minority to gain control over most of the land. By the twentieth century, 2 percent of the population controlled 70 percent of the land, and Guatemala became one of the most impoverished countries in the Western Hemisphere. The United Nations Commission on Food and Agriculture reported that by the mid-1980s, 80 percent of peasants lived in destitution or near-destitution. The illiteracy rate was over 70 percent, and closer to 85 percent among the indigenous. Unemployment and underemployment affected 45 percent of the population.72 Multinational corporations compounded Guatemala’s social problems. One corporation in particular, the United Fruit Company, played an influential role in twentieth-century Guatemalan politics. The company had purchased large tracts of land for banana production, and its aggressive expansionism eventually made it the largest single landholder in the country. The Guatemalan government provided an array of privileges to the corporation including exemption from import duties and minimal export taxes. The United Fruit Company was granted unlimited use of the nation’s natural resources and was able to conduct business without government regulation, including autonomy in its labor practices. It was also given free reign to construct new infrastructures and faced no restrictions on profit remittances.73 The United Fruit Company’s interests were protected, along with the privileges of wealthy Guatemalan landholders, by a series of dictators. One of the most notorious was General Jorge Ubico, who took office in 1931 and ruled the country for thirteen years. Considered rather eccentric, he was well liked by U.S. officials due to his gracious treatment of American businesses. However, Ubico did little to improve the life of the poor masses in his own country. He legalized the killing of Indians by landlords, and his policies undermined the labor movement. He expanded the repressive capacity of the army that was sometimes called the Guatemalan Gestapo because Ubico’s admiration for Hitler was well known. When he assassinated approximately three hundred people suspected of plotting against him, he proclaimed “I am like Hitler. I execute first and give trial

45

convictions of the soul

afterwards.”74 He eventually began to lose support, even from his allies, as his policies and leadership became increasingly outdated. Sensing his power slipping away, his tyranny grew fiercer, provoking demonstrations and protest from a broadly based opposition coalition that included student radicals and disillusioned army officers. They instigated a general strike in 1944 that ultimately led to Ubico’s resignation and the transfer of power to younger military officers.75 The overthrow of Ubico unleashed democratic aspirations among many Guatemalans. Empowered by the success of the general strike, students, teachers, and professionals pressed for a national election. The ruling military triumvirate conceded, and a university professor, Juan Jose Are´valo, won the presidential office with 85 percent of the vote. Are´valo quickly enacted a number of measures as part of his self-described program of “spiritual socialism.” These included the establishment of voting rights for women and the illiterate, the right to free speech and the freedom of assembly, lawful unionization of workers, and the formation of political parties. In addition, he implemented a social security program and increased funding for schools and health care services. He also initiated modest land reform policies that provided some land to peasants in the highlands and fixed the amount of rent that could be charged.76 More comprehensive reform began when Jacobo Arbenz took over the presidency in 1951, elected with 63 percent of the popular vote. In an attempt to modernize the country, Arbenz encouraged diversification of Guatemala’s economy, movement toward economic independence, and a redistribution of income. Foreign investors no longer received special privileges, tax exemptions, or rights to national resources. Through the 1952 Agrarian Reform Law, Arbenz decreed that any estate over 233 acres that had not been cultivated for more than three years would be bought by the government and sold to peasant families. The owners would receive compensation for the land’s full value. By June 1954, the government had purchased 2.7 million acres, which were then sold to over 100,000 landless peasants.77 The United Fruit Company’s land was also designated for redistribution since the company owned 550,000 acres but only used 15 percent of its land. The government notified the corporation that it would incrementally buy 400,000 acres for $1.2 million. The price was determined by the United Fruit Company’s own valuation of the property for tax purposes. Company executives were outraged, claiming the territory was actually worth over $16 million. Arbenz did not yield to their complaints, and thus United Fruit turned to the U.S. government for assistance.78 Two individuals were influential in shaping the outcome of the Arbenz–United Fruit dispute: John Foster Dulles, who served as the secretary of state, and his brother Allen, who was the deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency. The Dulles brothers had long-standing ties to the United Fruit Company, previously serving as legal counsel for the cor46

the origins of central america’s civil wars

poration and successfully facilitating lucrative contracts with the Ubico regime during the 1930s. As a result of their work, they had received a large stock package from the corporation. Thus, they had both a vested interest and the ability to overturn Arbenz’s initiatives. They persuaded President Eisenhower that it was necessary to oust Arbenz, whom they argued was merely a puppet for the communist Guatemalan Workers Party (PGT). PGT members were active in labor movements and peasant organizations during this time, but they only held 7 percent of the seats in Congress and their total number of members was around four thousand. Moreover, the PGT disagreed with many of Arbenz’s economic measures since they were essentially capitalist in nature. Although Arbenz had been democratically elected and he upheld basic democratic freedoms, these facts appear to have mattered little to the Eisenhower administration. Ultimately, as Susanne Jonas argues, “U.S. actions were motivated by economic interests as well as ideological anticommunism.”79 Eisenhower gave the CIA permission to undertake a multifaceted destabilization effort in Guatemala in 1954. The first step was to weaken the loyalty of military officers through bribery. Next the U.S. attempted to politically isolate Guatemala at international meetings and increase internal tensions by airing critical reports through a clandestine radio station. In addition, a small band of mercenaries, numbering fewer than two hundred, was recruited to serve as an invading force. The destabilization plans culminated when the CIA sent planes to bomb Guatemala City, airing reports that the attacking forces had arrived. In reality, the mercenaries never reached the capital; they stopped just inside the country’s border. Arbenz, however, believed the reports and resigned when he realized that a number of prominent military officers had defected, leaving him vulnerable.80 Colonel Carlos Castillo Armas, who orchestrated the coup with the CIA, quickly replaced the president. Once he assumed power, an estimated nine thousand people, whose names had been supplied by the U.S. embassy, were detained and tortured. This was done under the auspices of the Preventive Penal Law Against Communism, which gave the Armas regime virtually unbridled powers of arrest and sanctioned the death penalty for those involved in a wide array of activities. Indigenous leaders and United Fruit Company union organizers were especially targeted, and it is estimated that up to eight thousand peasants were killed in the first two months of Armas’s leadership.81 The new president also reversed many of Arbenz’s and Are´valo’s social programs, cutting funding for literacy programs and firing hundreds of teachers. He cancelled the registration of over 533 unions and returned over 99 percent of the land that had been redistributed under the land reform measures. The U.S. government proclaimed the coup a victory for democracy and sent more than $80 million to the new regime. This was the beginning of a long history of U.S. support for Guatemalan leaders who ruled with impunity in the name of anticommunism.82 47

convictions of the soul

Within a few years of the 1954 coup, several revolutionary groups formed to oust the military regime and reinstate the reforms of the Are´valo-Arbenz era. Small and poorly armed, the guerrillas were generally unsuccessful in their early campaigns, provoking violent responses from the army. In 1972, for example, a small band of guerrillas killed a landholder in the Ixca´n highlands who was renowned for his cruel treatment of indigenous workers. In retaliation, the army swept through the area the next day, kidnapping thirty-seven cooperative leaders and church catechists, forcing some to dig their own graves before executing them. By 1973, the army began a bombing and kidnapping counterinsurgency campaign in the same area, and the number of atrocities climbed over the course of the next few years.83 When President Carter took office, he imposed an embargo prohibiting any military aid to Guatemala until the country improved its human rights record. Despite the embargo, military abuses continued to escalate.84 This led several dozen Mayan peasants from the highlands to travel to Guatemala City in January 1980. Joined by labor activists and university students, they visited the offices of the United Nations, the Organization of American States, and numerous embassies requesting that a commission be sent to the region to investigate the army’s actions. After two weeks they had received little support for their proposal, so the group entered the Spanish embassy and took the staff hostage. The police arrived and surrounded the building when a fire broke out. The police did not allow firefighters to help, resulting in the deaths of nearly forty people. The only peasant to survive was taken to a hospital, where he was later kidnapped from his bed. His corpse was found in front of the university campus the next day. During his funeral, two university leaders were assassinated in front of hundreds of mourners. The message was clear: The army placed no limits on the amount of violence it would use to preserve the existing system. Consequently, many began to look toward the guerrillas for liberation.85 By this time, the guerrillas had gained experience, strength, and numbers. The various factions had joined forces, forming the Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity (URNG). They announced a platform that included an end to repression and the domination of the wealthy, racial equality, a new government, and international nonalignment. Although they were gaining support from the masses, some of their tactics alienated the poor. For instance, the URNG often destroyed bridges and buses to undermine the economic power of large landholders. Such actions, however, also imposed a burden on small farmers whose sole source of income came from the modest crops that they sold in local markets. Another incident occurred in the city of Huehuetenango, when the revolutionaries stopped a bus and ordered the passengers to hand over their goods. A physically handicapped man challenged the guerrillas, asking why they were stealing from them when they claimed to be fighting for the poor.

48

the origins of central america’s civil wars

In response, one of the guerrillas shot the man. The story spread quickly, undercutting some of the URNG’s support.86 Despite these instances, the revolutionary movement expanded. It soon posed a growing challenge to the army, who responded by waging total war at the grassroots level. With input from U.S. advisers, military leaders constructed the “Program of Pacification and Eradication of Communism.” Using scorched-earth land sweeps and village massacres to depopulate the area, the goal of the program was to cut off the URNG’s civilian support base, seeking to “drain the sea in which the guerrillas swim.”87 The consequences were devastating. Highland forests were burned to ensure that they could not provide cover for guerrillas, causing severe and, in some cases, irreversible environmental damage. Civilians were killed or disappeared, regardless of whether there was any evidence linking them to the URNG. Entire villages were destroyed; the inhabitants were forcibly relocated or killed. In Phillip Berryman’s words, “a fullfledged policy of mass killing developed. On the basis of its intelligence reports, the army determined which villages were organized or sympathetic to the guerrillas and pursued a deliberate policy of massacre.”88 Recording survivors’ accounts of these village massacres, Jennifer Harbury tells one man’s story: He was from a village, a medium-sized village, the man explained to me. Maybe 300 people lived there, all of them Mayan, all of them trying to scratch a living together on their mountainous land. It was a hard life and they were all poor, but they loved the land. . . . None of them had ever thought of leaving, even when the army arrived. . . . But things grew even worse than they had expected. Dead bodies began to appear in the roads. People—good people—disappeared in the night. . . . The troops began to come more often to their village, he explained. They were angry and accusatory, always searching for the “subversives.” Finally, one day a large group of soldiers arrived all together, in big trucks and with machine guns. It was early afternoon, so some of the people were away tending the cornfields, or gone to the market. But the rest were ordered into the village square. He had hoped that the soldiers were only going to give them a lecture, a warning that they must never assist the guerrillas, but even as he prayed for this, he knew that they were in very bad trouble. . . . The soldiers, cursing, forced all of the men into the small town hall at gunpoint, clubbing those who resisted. The people cried out that they had done nothing, that they were not the guerrillas, but no one would listen, and no one would explain anything. Inside the building, the man could barely breathe. . . . Gunfire began, and the screams of the women as they were torn from their

49

convictions of the soul

children. The women were all shot. Some were killed outright, others dragged off and raped before being murdered. Some of the men tried to break out through the door, but the machine guns were there, waiting. After a while, a very long while, there were no more women’s voices, only the hysterical weeping of the children in the square. And then it was the children’s turn to die. But not by gunfire. The soldiers wasted no bullets on them. They were dragged out one by one and disemboweled. The soldiers took out long knives and cut out their stomachs. They opened the doors to the hall now and then, so that the men could see what was happening. They yelled that the children were the seeds of the subversives, that they had been born with the subversive sickness. The man watched in horror. All the children died that afternoon. In the end, only the men of his village were left, and they, too, were dragged out one by one to have their throats slit. There was little struggle now. But still, it took so long for so many to die. In the end, the soldiers grew tired and tossed a grenade into the hallway to finish off the last of them. The man awoke a long time later, under a pile of bodies. There was one other dazed survivor, staring at him from across the room, staring at his own blood soaked clothing. The soldiers were still outside, laughing and eating a cow they slaughtered, the bodies of the villagers scattered around them. The other man tried to escape into the darkness, but the soldiers heard his boots on the ground and fired after him. So he, himself, did not try to escape. He just lay back down among the corpses and waited till the soldiers were gone. Then he removed his shoes, running barefooted through the piled corpses, into the woods, into the mountains and far away, all the way to Mexico. There had been no one left in his family to stay for.89

The Guatemalan army also required civilians to monitor and control the rural population. Adult males were organized into “civilian defense patrols” in which each member was given a 24-hour shift every couple weeks. While on duty, they monitored buildings, roads, and bridges and reported any seditious activities to the army. Yet these patrols were not merely an extra supply of labor for the military. The underlying strategy was to force these men to participate in acts of violence so that they would be irrevocably alienated from the rest of the population. To achieve this, the army forced civilian defense patrol members to take part in guerrilla hunts or kill neighbors suspected of subversive activities. If they refused, they were accused of being guerrilla collaborators, which was often punished by execution. The army coerced approximately 700,000 poor Mayans into spying on their neighbors, thereby creating divisions and distrust, further undermining their ability to unite in a common struggle against the regime.90 50

the origins of central america’s civil wars

A national election was held in 1986, placing a civilian president in office for the first time in over thirty years. The civilian defense patrols and counterinsurgency actions did not end for another decade, however. This is due to the fact that the army maintained real control of the country, limiting the president to the tasks of attracting international aid and investment, increasing development, and ending Guatemala’s international isolation. The military and the URNG remained embroiled in combat while the civilian population continued to shoulder most of the burden of this civil war. The army acknowledged the complete destruction of over 440 indigenous villages. Approximately 200,000 civilians were killed or disappeared, and 1.2 million people were displaced—almost 12 percent of the entire population. Guatemala has the highest per capita number of widows in the world, and roughly 250,000 children were orphaned.91 A peace process eventually began in the spring of 1989. A commission was established to promote dialogue and reconciliation; organizers hoped that it would evolve into negotiations. Unfortunately, the major parties— the army, the URNG, and the business sector—were not involved, and the violence continued. In 1994, peace talks resumed, leading to a human rights accord that called for a United Nations investigation to be conducted after the final cease-fire. The UN team found that the guerrilla groups were responsible for 3 percent of human rights violations, 5 percent of arbitrary executions, and 2 percent of forced disappearances. The Guatemalan military and paramilitary forces were deemed responsible for 93 percent of all documented human rights violations, including 92 percent of extrajudicial executions and 91 percent of forced disappearances. The report noted that the military had normalized the use of torture. The victims “included men, women and children of all social strata: workers, professionals, church members, politicians, peasants, students and academics; in ethnic terms, the vast majority were Mayans.”92 Since none of the commission’s findings could be used for prosecution, many of those responsible for these abuses remain at large. In December 1996, a final peace accord was signed, putting an end to Guatemala’s civil war.

Conclusion

B

eginning with the Spanish conquest in the early sixteenth century, a feudal economic system was established in Central America that set the stage for widespread inequality, poverty, and conflict between wealthy landholders and the impoverished masses. These conditions erupted into civil wars in the latter half of the twentieth century in Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala. This was also the era of the Cold War and, fearing the spread of communism, the United States backed a series of military regimes and dictatorships in these countries. The U.S. govern51

convictions of the soul

ment sent military and humanitarian aid and helped implement counterinsurgency measures designed to sever civilian support for revolutionary movements. The human suffering caused by these wars was severe, calling some Americans to question the legitimacy of U.S. involvement in Central America.

52

CHAPTER 3

Leadership and the Formation of Solidarity

D

espite attempts to minimize public opposition through low intensity warfare measures, President Reagan’s support for the military regimes in Guatemala and El Salvador, along with the Contra campaign to overturn the Nicaraguan revolution, provoked significant resistance in the United States, particularly from progressive faith communities. In fact, the late CIA director William Casey publicly lamented the interference of religious people, proclaiming that “if Tip O’Neill didn’t have Maryknoll nuns who wrote letters, we would have a Contra program.”1 Casey’s comments indicate that members of religious orders had an influential role in the solidarity movement. Many of these individuals were former missionaries who had served in Latin America where they directly witnessed the effects of U.S. involvement. Although we typically do not view missionaries as important players in the political scene, they were key to the development of the Central America solidarity movement. Within a short period of time, they successfully organized campaigns that posed some of the earliest challenges to President Reagan’s foreign policy. The role of missionaries in the Central America solidarity movement raises a number of questions. How were they transformed from church workers to political activists? What experiences prepared them to take on positions of leadership? What mix of traits and skills did they possess that enabled them to build and sustain a movement that spanned across national borders? What historical events and changes contributed to their leadership abilities? If human agency is a fundamental component of social change, we must explore the factors that shape people’s ability to mobilize collective action and lead movements. 53

convictions of the soul

A Structuration Approach to Agency and Movement Leadership

T

he success of great leaders is often attributed to unique personality traits or particular skills.2 Martin Luther King, Jr., for instance, was a remarkable public speaker. Gandhi was a gifted strategist, nonviolently defeating one of the strongest empires of his era. Yet these leadership abilities would never have been exercised if King had accepted racial segregation or if Gandhi thought that British control of India was legitimate. The belief that change is necessary precedes the formation of a movement. Therefore, the starting point for a cultural study of leadership and agency is to examine the experiences that lead people to conclude that a situation is unjust and collective action is imperative. We also need to explore the factors that create a willingness to devote oneself to the task of mobilizing a movement. An examination of leadership must additionally take into account the effects of historical events on activists’ beliefs, values, and moral commitments. As C. Wright Mills wrote, “Neither the life of an individual nor the history of a society can be understood without understanding both.”3 Thus, to understand why missionaries became leaders in the Central America solidarity movement, we must consider the events that were unfolding in the world at the time of their mission work. Specifically, we will focus on changes within the Roman Catholic Church and how this led missionaries to the conviction that collective action was desperately needed to alter the conditions that created so much suffering for Guatemalans, Salvadorans, and Nicaraguans. Leaders are also shaped by the cultures and structures in which they operate. These factors can constrain agency or enhance leadership potential. The dual nature of culture and structures, as both limiting and empowering, is evident in Aldon Morris’s and Belinda Robnett’s studies of the civil rights movement. On the one hand, Morris documents how black churches shaped southern ministers into talented leaders by providing them with the training, experience, skills, and prestige necessary to lead a movement. He notes that the majority of civil rights leaders were accomplished public speakers since their pastoral duties gave them the chance to hone the oratorical skills needed to captivate an audience. Moreover, most had studied theology at black colleges and universities. This gave them the knowledge to artfully recast the cultural content of the black church, skillfully framing the concerns of the movement as consistent with the teachings and values of Christianity. Congregational members accepted these politicized interpretations of the gospel because of the respect granted to clergy as well as the fact that most of these pastors had grown up in southern black churches and were considered trusted insiders. Ministerial work prepared these pastors for civil rights leadership in other ways, too. Many acquired administrative abilities as a result of over54

leadership and the formation of solidarity

seeing church committees. They typically controlled or had access to the church’s resources—finances, buildings, and communication networks— that could be appropriated to support the movement. They were members of various pastoral alliances, both in their communities and throughout the country, enabling them to reach a large constituency in a relatively short time. Furthermore, they were keenly aware of their communities’ needs. As Morris notes, “The black minister, because of his occupation, listened to and counseled people about their financial woes, family problems, and health problems as well as problems stemming from discrimination, prejudice and powerlessness. . . . The minister was firmly anchored in the center of the ebb and flow of the social and cultural forces of the black community.”4 All of these factors—emanating from their occupational experience, social status, and structural position within the church— enabled black ministers to step confidently into leadership positions. Belinda Robnett, on the other hand, notes that some of these same attributes—such as gender, race, and occupational status—prevented others from accessing institutional power and obtaining formal leadership positions in the movement. Since Morris only examined those with titled positions in recognized civil rights organizations, Robnett argues that he overlooks many grassroots activists, whom she calls bridge leaders, who nurtured ties between the movement and local communities. Many bridge leaders were skilled women who were quite capable of taking on prominent positions, but because of the overarching cultural and gender biases of that era, they were excluded from the movement’s inner circle. This forced them to exercise leadership through other means, primarily in oneon-one interactions in “free spaces” rather than in public situations on the national level. Robnett notes, however, that this exclusion granted grassroots leaders the freedom to take radical stances because they did not need legitimacy with the state, as recognized civil rights leaders did. Consequently, she argues that we must consider how social traits may limit as well as facilitate leadership, and how the broader cultural context influences the form that leadership takes.5 In this assessment of leadership in the Central America solidarity movement, I will begin by exploring the experiences that gave missionaries a strong motivation to organize. I will pay particular attention to the effects of historical changes on missionaries’ beliefs, worldviews, and moral commitments. Next, following Morris and Robnett’s lead, I will assess how missionaries’ social traits, structural location, and the overarching cultural context affected their agency. I will examine the skills and cultural knowledge they acquired as a result of their mission work and how this prepared them for leadership roles. I will also consider the advantages of their structural position within church organizations and how it shaped their ability to launch solidarity campaigns. Finally, I will review the unique traits that enabled these missionaries to build and lead a transnational movement. 55

convictions of the soul

Historical Changes in the Roman Catholic Church

N

orth American missionaries working in Central America during the 1960s and 1970s witnessed a remarkable transformation in the church. Although religion had historically been a conservative force in Latin America, a new understanding of faith and politics was emerging, as the following anecdote illustrates. In the early 1980s, a North American journalist asked Ernesto Cardenal—priest, poet, and minister of culture in the Sandinista government—why he had participated in the Nicaraguan revolution. He replied, “It was my religious faith that led me to revolution, not my politics. . . . I think Nicaraguans who separate Christianity from revolution are mistaken. Here they are the same thing.”6 The Central American church was changing from a relic of the colonial era to a progressive force that inspired liberation movements. Although these developments in the Latin American church were relatively new, Catholic teachings have long advocated social justice, defended the rights of the poor, and proclaimed the dignity of all people. The foundation for Catholic social ethics was laid in 1891 with the release of Rerum Novarum, also known as “The Condition of the Working Classes.” This document, along with others that followed over the next decades, denounced economic exploitation and called for fair wages for laborers and an equitable distribution of wealth. Moreover, these encyclicals declared the need for a structural analysis of society and recognition of collectivized sin. They asserted that communal well-being should take precedence over the right to private property and that there are some natural connections between socialist and Christian values. Pope John XXIII took these teachings a step further in his encyclicals Mater et Magistra (“Christianity and Social Progress,” 1961) and Pacem in Terris (“Peace on Earth,” 1963). In these documents, he warned of the dangers of neocolonialism in the developing world. He called upon the owners of private property to be cognizant of their social responsibilities, and he affirmed the state’s legitimate right to control the means of production. Later he released Popularum Progressio (“On the Progress of People,” 1967) in which he stated that comprehensive social change was needed to end the suffering of the poor, and that people had a right to create a more just and equitable future.7

Vatican II Council Pope John XXIII’s greatest contribution to the Latin American church was the Vatican II Council (1962–1965), which updated anachronistic traditions and opened Roman Catholicism to the modern world. It altered the responsibilities and practices of clergy, fostering new forms of worship, ministry, and preaching. In addition, Vatican II provided the opportunity to address the needs of the Latin American church—especially the severe

56

leadership and the formation of solidarity

shortage of priests—and the pope responded by sending 10 percent of U.S. nuns and priests to the region as missionaries.8 As a result, thousands of North American clergy moved to Central America, and most were assigned to work with the poor. This was a noteworthy shift since pastoral workers had historically served the upper classes in elite urban parishes and private schools, neglecting the impoverished rural areas. Over time, the connection between the Catholic Church and the masses had weakened. Consequently, these new missionaries, full of enthusiasm sparked by Vatican II, were given the task of developing outreach programs to bring them back into the flock.9 Missionaries moved into Central America’s urban barrios and the countryside, living among the poor. Their intention was to gain an understanding of the daily reality and needs of the destitute so they could devise effective methods of winning them back to the church. In the process, however, the church workers became acutely aware of the injustices, exploitation, and repression that the poor routinely faced. One missionary named Grace described her experience: At age eighteen I decided to join the Maryknoll Sisters, and that’s how my opening up of the world began. I was eventually sent to Central America [as a missionary] and I went just as Vatican II started, which really changed the Roman Catholic Church. The church changed and I changed radically with it. I lived in a gold mining area in Nicaragua where they literally flew gold bricks out of this town. I worked with the miners and their children. The people who owned the mine, the Canadians and Americans, lived on a hill with palm trees and swimming pools. The people who worked the mine lived in this pit below. I saw a lot of children die, of measles and malnutrition mainly. Many of the women supported themselves by prostitution because of their poverty. And I began to question what was going on. The miners tried to organize and the company called in the National Guard, so nobody dared organize anymore. I knew something was really wrong. It was probably one of the worst cases of capitalism and exploitation of the people that you could possibly see. I began to listen to people and by the time I left Nicaragua, I was really very aware that there was something wrong with U.S. policy.10 As church workers like Grace addressed the material and spiritual well being of the people, the popular church in Central America flourished. Despite the influx of missionaries, clergy were unable to meet all the needs of the burgeoning church of the poor. Therefore, they established pastoral centers to train lay people to lead worship and liturgy. They also formed base Christian communities that drew people together to pray, read the

57

convictions of the soul

Bible, and discuss the gospel’s meaning in light of contemporary political and economic conditions. These communities often became the center of social action as well, as participants implemented plans to improve their quality of life through educational projects, cooperative economic endeavors, and medical services. In El Salvador alone, seven training centers were established, and within a decade approximately 15,000 catechists received instruction on subjects including liturgy, public speaking, agriculture, and health care.11 These developments occurred precisely as Central America’s economic conditions were deteriorating and political tensions were escalating. The use of state-sponsored repression was on the rise as military and death squads particularly targeted those advocating social reform. As a result, many people concluded that it was no longer possible to work for change within the established system; soon the ranks of guerrilla groups began expanding. Given the church’s new commitment to be engaged in the world, it could not ignore the rise of revolutionary movements and the cries for liberation. Out of this context, liberation theology was born.

Liberation Theology John Cobb has argued that “the greatest event in twentieth-century church history was the Second Vatican Council. The greatest achievement which this event has made possible is the liberation theology and praxis of Latin America.”12 Although the nascent ideas of this theology had been developing for some time, they became more pronounced during the Latin American Bishops Conference in Medellı´n, Colombia, in 1968, where bishops and theologians discussed ways of implementing the lessons of Vatican II. These meetings were particularly influenced by Peruvian theologian Gustavo Gutie´rrez and Dom He´lder Caˆmara, bishop of Rio de Janeiro. He´lder Caˆmara was a long-standing critic of the devastating effects of the economic system in Latin America. He also supported the Basic Education Movement in Brazil, led by renowned pedagogue Paulo Freire, which promoted literacy programs and the concientizacio´n (consciousnessraising) of the poor masses. In collaboration with other Third World bishops, He´lder Caˆmara wrote a statement at the conclusion of Vatican II that declared “the gospel demands the first, radical revolution” that will end class warfare against the poor and provide means for sharing the wealth.13 Many Medellı´n participants agreed with the Brazilian bishop, and together they produced a document emphasizing the urgent need for change in a region riddled with poverty, exploitative labor practices, repression, neocolonial dependence, and a grossly unequal distribution of land, wealth, and power. The Latin American bishops denounced the dehumanizing consequences of both liberal capitalism as well as Marxism and called Christians to work for a just social order and the authentic liberation of the people. The Medellı´n document stated that humans should not be 58

leadership and the formation of solidarity

objects but rather agents of history and that societal transformation would be achieved through organization and action by the popular sectors. In Central America, this statement was seen as a validation of the right of the poor to challenge injustices and resist repressive military regimes.14 The changes instigated by Vatican II, and furthered by the Medellı´n conference, helped nurture a more radical integration of faith and politics. Undoubtedly, the example of Camilo Torres contributed to this trend as well. Torres, a priest and sociologist, was radicalized while conducting research on poverty in Colombia. In 1965, he organized peasants, urban laborers, and professionals into a “United Front.” The overseeing cardinal denounced his work, arguing that he was diverging from the teachings of the church. Subsequently, Torres left the priesthood and joined the guerrilla forces known as the Army of National Liberation. He justified his decision by stating, “I took off my cassock to be more truly a priest. . . . The duty of every Catholic is to be a revolutionary, the duty of every revolutionary is to make the revolution.”15 Torres was killed in combat a few months later, but his commitment inspired many Latin Americans who were concluding that revolution was the most effective path to liberation. Some priests and nuns also started questioning whether reformist strategies were sufficient to instigate the type of social change that was needed.16 Out of this reflection on faith and political activism, liberation theology arose. This theology went beyond Vatican II and Medellı´n by articulating a more radical set of theological premises that include the following. First, liberation theologians argue that theology must be contextual. They posit that there is no eternally true doctrine; theology must be culturally relevant and cannot be separated from one’s socioeconomic and political context. Imported European theology did not fit the realities of Latin America in the 1960s and so it was necessary to recreate it to correspond to those conditions. Second, liberation theology extends the church’s historical emphasis on the personal and spiritual realms of religious life to examine the social, political, and economic concerns of contemporary society. To make sense of Latin America’s social problems, liberation theologians often employ neo-Marxist concepts to explain the roots of suffering and inequality. They insist, however, that Marxism is nothing more than a set of analytical tools; they do not accept it as a comprehensive worldview. A third premise is that God takes a “preferential option for the poor.” Liberation theologians hold that sin not only occurs at the individual level but is structural as well. This is evident in the predatory capitalist system perpetuated by the rich, which causes profound misery and suffering for the masses. So even though God loves both rich and poor, God takes the side of the poor in their struggle for liberation from this oppressive structural sin. Fourth, liberation theology maintains that salvation is a historical and social project of God. In contrast to the traditional teaching that salvation is granted to a Christian in the afterlife, 59

convictions of the soul

this theological perspective holds that there is only one reality and one history. The kingdom of God is an ambition for a just society in this lifetime, not a personal reward to be obtained after death. Therefore, Christian mission is not about proselytizing but creating social justice through the elimination of oppressive social, economic, and political conditions.17

Effects of Mission Work on Leadership Abilities

N

orth American missionaries working in Central America during the 1960s and 1970s found themselves in the center of a radical church transformation. Vatican II opened the windows of the Catholic Church, bringing in the winds of change and releasing a spirit of reform, innovation, and engagement with the modern world. The Medellı´n document encouraged the integration of faith and politics, and liberation theology articulated a coherent rationale for a radical Christian commitment to comprehensive social change. Surely, these events affected those missionaries who worked with the poor in Central America. But how did these experiences prepare them to launch transnational campaigns that challenged U.S. policy toward the region?

Transformation of Consciousness One of the immediate consequences of these historic changes is that many missionaries underwent a transformation. They had gone to Latin America to win the poor back to the church but found themselves radically changed in the process. As a missionary named Jean said, “I don’t know how to describe it except to say it’s a kind of conversion that took place for many of us.”18 The missionaries’ radicalization process does, in fact, reflect the dynamics of religious conversion. The process model of conversion argues that personal transformation often starts with an event, a crisis, or new conditions that cannot be sufficiently explained by one’s meaning system. This generates an internal tension that causes some people to seek more satisfying explanations, thereby creating openness to different perspectives.19 The second step occurs when potential converts come into contact with those espousing alternative religious views. As recruits develop relationships with these individuals, they are resocialized into these new beliefs and values. Resocialization may be expedited if the convert’s external relationships are weak and ties to group members are warm, supportive, and intense.20 Finally, the conversion process culminates in a public declaration or ritual that symbolizes the individual’s new identity. For these missionaries, the first step toward their “conversion to the poor” began when they encountered severe poverty, repression, and exploitation in the Central American communities where they worked. 60

leadership and the formation of solidarity

Many grew increasingly dissatisfied with the church’s traditional position that such suffering was part of God’s will. The tension between their belief in a benevolent God and the injustices they observed led some missionaries to question this theology that preserved the status quo. Grace described how she became discontent with the church’s explanation for social inequality: In the past, the church had really blessed the status quo and it was beginning, because of Vatican II, to question everything. . . . In the past, the gospel was preached basically as “God loves everybody but some were born to be rich and some were born to be poor. Just be patient. In heaven, it will be better.” But after Vatican II, we began to listen more and ask more questions. We began to see that Christianity is not just a vertical [relationship] or that you simply do good works and do what you’re told. . . . We began to read the scriptures with the poor, the people we worked with, and we applied it to what we saw. We saw people dying of hunger, people without medical care, education, people not being allowed to organize or being in danger if they did organize. We began to say, it is not God’s will that people live this way. In a situation where a few people own most of the land and wealth, it is sinful—it is not God’s will.21 As conventional religious explanations for poverty were rejected, missionaries became receptive to alternative theological views. The second step in the missionaries’ transformation occurred when they encountered liberation theologians and their supporters. As the process model of conversion posits, personal relationships are key because this is where resocialization occurs; it is through close interaction with others that recruits’ worldviews change. The experience of a Franciscan missionary named Paul illustrates this point. He explained how his connection to Gustavo Gutie´rrez, the father of liberation theology, led to his conversion to the poor: After I was ordained, I volunteered to go to Bolivia in 1960. I spent four years there and then another eleven in Peru. That’s where I was turned around. I can’t say that there were any significant experiences before Latin America that would have turned me around politically, but running into the liberation theologians surely did. . . . In Peru, Gustavo [Gutie´rrez] and other liberation theologians spotted me as a friend in a sense, or at least open to what they were doing, so they began inviting me to their meetings. . . . I feel embarrassed to say it, but I was in Latin America for seven or eight years before I ran into the liberation theologians, and only then did they lead me to see 61

convictions of the soul

what I had been looking at—to really see the poverty and the structural reasons for it. Then it was very immediate that I turned around. The way I spoke, the way I reacted to victims changed drastically within a year because these liberationists really challenged me and afterwards everything I did was from the vantage point of the poor, taking the option for the poor. . . . I had an enormous conversion experience in Latin America.22 Father Paul’s experience illustrates that while receptivity is necessary, it does not sufficiently account for conversion. He had been open to alternative explanations for Latin America’s poverty for years, but it was only when he came into contact with liberation theologians that he was radicalized. This process was also aided by the fact that as a missionary, far removed from his home community, his ties to those advocating more traditional theological views were weakened. While this conversion process entailed the adoption of a new religious outlook, missionaries’ political views of the United States were also transformed. Grace, for instance, saw how the changes initiated by Vatican II contributed to a different type of relationship with parishioners. As clergy made themselves more accessible to the poor, people spoke more candidly about their experiences. This, too, contributed to the resocialization process, shedding new light on U.S. policy toward the region. She noted: After I worked in Nicaragua, I went to Guatemala and worked with university students. By that time, I no longer wore a habit so people no longer deferred to me. When you wear a habit, they don’t really tell you what they think. But the university students did and they were very critical of everything. I began to hear an analysis of the world that I had never heard before, being educated in the United States. I learned that they had a social revolution in Guatemala between 1944 and 1954. And the U.S. government, with the CIA, overthrew it because of the United Fruit Company. And that started the cycle of violence that still continues to this day. . . . While I was there, the U.S. army trained the Guatemalan army in counterinsurgency warfare—the same kind of tactics they were using in Vietnam. They trained the Guatemalan army to look at the rural population as the enemy, so they would kill seven thousand to eight thousand people in an attempt to find 350 guerrillas. Also, the U.S. military presence was very obvious, with helicopters, police cars, weapons. At that point, I would never have come back to the States. . . . I didn’t even want to speak English anymore. I was very angry at what I saw our government doing.23 As a result of their church work, many missionaries underwent a radical transformation. They no longer perceived the system in Central Amer62

leadership and the formation of solidarity

ica as legitimate or U.S. support for these regimes as just. This change went beyond political attitudes; it also shaped their spirituality and core religious beliefs. Influenced by Vatican II, the Medellı´n document, and the ideas of liberation theology, their whole notion of Christian mission had changed, making the preferential option for the poor central to their faith and work. As nascent solidarity leaders, these missionaries had developed a radical worldview, an insurgent consciousness, that led to the conviction that Central America’s socioeconomic systems were oppressive and U.S. involvement in these regimes was immoral. By publicly declaring their solidarity with the poor of Central America, the missionaries completed the final step in the conversion process.

Credibility and Authority In addition to a transformed consciousness, mission experience granted church workers credibility. As clergy and members of religious orders, their occupational status already afforded them a degree of respect and moral authority. This was further strengthened by the intention and motivation behind their mission work. They had not gone to Central America to amass wealth or political power; they went in service to the church and the poor. These missionaries had no apparent ulterior motives, so when they returned to North America to organize solidarity efforts and challenge foreign policy, congregational members had no reason to doubt the authenticity or validity of their convictions. Christian Smith notes that “the American public might view the voice of religion—especially grassroots religion and religion viewed as normally nonpartisan—as politically naı¨ve, perhaps, but also generally as sincere and honorable.”24 Missionaries also derived authority from their firsthand knowledge of the social, economic, and political conditions in Central America that they gained from living in the region for extended periods of time. Since they had worked with the poor on a long-term basis, they had a keen sense of the situation at the grassroots level. They used this knowledge to directly challenge American political leaders, whose information came from government officials who typically remained in urban areas, rarely venturing into the countryside. Father Paul recalled how this enabled missionaries to speak authoritatively about the situation in Central America: I remember going to the White House one time with a group of Catholic leaders from various mission conferences and religious orders. There were three or four of us. We talked with top advisors in the Reagan administration and the leader of our group confronted them with information. They gave us that old line: “If you only knew what we know about what’s really going on.” Our spokesperson said, “Just one minute. We know more than you know. We have people on the ground who get 63

convictions of the soul

out of the embassy compound. They’re called missionaries and we rely on them because we’re getting a unified message back from them about what’s going on.” We just faced them down with counter-information.25 It was difficult for the Reagan administration to dismiss these church workers both because of the knowledge they possessed as well as the respect afforded to clergy in U.S. society.

Cultural Knowledge for Framing Through their work, missionaries also gained substantial cultural knowledge of the church in both North and Central America. Like the southern ministers in Morris’s study of the civil rights movement, theological training and practical experience made missionaries proficient in the language, practices, and religious views of Christians in the United States whose support they sought. Yet in their mission experience, they had also become familiar with the cultural practices of Latin America’s popular church and liberation theology. Consider the experience of Father Paul, who was trained at an American seminary but developed a strong understanding— virtually an insider perspective—of liberation theology during his assignment in Peru. He recalled: I got involved in the very early days. The liberationists didn’t even have a name for their theology yet. I remember the day when Gustavo [Gutie´rrez] said, “I think what we’re doing here has something to do with Exodus and liberation.” It was almost like the beginning of creation because he had been calling it a theology of development, but later he said, “No—it’s deeper than that. Development would imply catching up to a Western model. I don’t think that’s the image at all for us in the Third World. I think it’s about liberation from all the slaveries that hinder us.”26 Not all missionaries had such close connections to liberation theologians as Father Paul did, but most received training in preparation for their mission assignment. This provided them with the tools needed to critically analyze the situation in Central America and also offered a religious framework for understanding these issues. Grace described this training: We went to Mexico, where there was a very radical European theologian who trained people for mission work. He trained us to question realities. And in the late 1960s and the early 1970s, we questioned the development model versus revolution. We questioned the [existing] social structure and decided that you don’t want to get people to fit into a structure that is evil. For most people, [this structure] means they don’t have enough to 64

leadership and the formation of solidarity

eat and they don’t have enough education or medical care. They don’t have what they need to live as a human being and so it has to be changed. You have to go from a system shaped like a pyramid, with few people at the top and many at the bottom, to a circle. In Judeo-Christian terms, it means moving towards shalom, the kingdom of God, towards a community where everybody has what they need.27 This cultural and theological knowledge proved invaluable as missionaries appealed to North American congregations to support the poor in Central America, even though the U.S. government opposed such solidarity. In the midst of the Cold War, it was often difficult to get beyond Reagan’s rhetoric about the communist threat in Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala. Yet missionaries knew how to translate these concerns into a religious language familiar to North American Christians. In other words, they were uniquely equipped to frame the situation in terms readily understandable and acceptable to U.S. churches. One former Jesuit described how he used the cultural teachings of the Catholic Church to call his fellow Christians to take a preferential option for the Central American poor: The Vatican II Council was a tremendous breakthrough for Roman Catholicism. It had been very insular, very threatened, but there were a string of documents that came out during this period that talked about the need for the church to be involved in society, especially on behalf of the poor and oppressed. That language, that theological understanding was a great engine that drove a segment of us in the Roman Catholic community. It represented a tradition of turning from the elites to ministries to the poor, and allegiances to their cause. . . . Thus, we were able to present [solidarity activism] as part of the church’s ministry to the poor.28

Organizing Skills Mission work provided an opportunity to develop organizing skills. Because they arrived in Latin America when the ideas of the Vatican II Council and the Medellı´n Conference were being implemented, many missionaries were involved in establishing base Christian communities, training leaders, developing campaigns, and raising awareness through the Freirean techniques advocated by Dom He´lder Caˆmara. Some scholars claim that this had a profound effect on hundreds and perhaps thousands of Central American lay people, who transferred their skills as catechists to positions of leadership in progressive movements. For example, El Salvador’s United Popular Front—a coalition of student groups, labor unions, and teacher organizations—was established by a group of lay leaders who 65

convictions of the soul

were trained by Father Jose´ Inocencio Alas. This is the first documented case in Latin America of a mass, revolutionary organization being formed directly out of the experience of the church.29 Although there is evidence that church training prepared peasants to step into other leadership roles, it is rarely emphasized that it helped missionaries develop organizing skills as well. Armed with theological training (cultural knowledge) and organizing skills (the ability to mobilize material and human resources), these missionaries returned home with the goal of educating U.S. citizens about the plight of Central Americans and the effects of U.S. policy. Grace discussed how mission work in Guatemala helped prepare her for this task: When I was a missionary in Guatemala, I worked with university students. We took upper class kids from law school, medical school, teacher training school and took them out in the countryside to live with peasants, the campesinos, who were Mayan. We used the methodology of Paulo Freire’s concientizacio´n, and it radicalized all of us because the elites in the city really didn’t know much about the countryside and didn’t have much contact with Mayans except as servants in their homes. . . . But in 1968, I was thrown out of Guatemala, along with a number of other Maryknolls, and I ended up in the States. I did not want to be here and fought real hard to go back to Latin America. . . . But I realized I had to stay. Latin Americans will tell you, “We love you, but go home and work to change your country because we can’t do anything until you change your country.” I’d never worked in the United States and didn’t have a clue what to do. So once I decided to stay here, I began to develop a kind of concientizacio´n, a consciousnessraising methodology, with urban parishes in the United States. . . . I ended up organizing NISGUA, the National Guatemala Network.30 Eventually, Grace also formed Witness for Peace, a faith-based organization that took North Americans to Nicaragua to see the consequences of the U.S.-sponsored Contra war. She used the same methods that she had employed as a missionary. Witness for Peace participants stayed in the homes of peasants, shared meals with them, and worshipped with base Christian community members in order to gain greater understanding of the situation from the perspective of the poor.

Missionaries’ Social-Structural Position

A

s a result of their mission experience, these church workers gained a variety of cultural resources—such as theological knowledge, moral

66

leadership and the formation of solidarity

credibility, authority and organizing skills—that enhanced their ability to build a solidarity movement. Yet Morris and Robnett remind us that one’s social-structural position also shapes leadership and agency. Morris examined top-level leaders in the civil rights movement whose structural location enabled them to access national networks of pastors, church organizations, and political leaders. Conversely, Robnett focused on grassroots leaders who worked with local groups. In the Central America solidarity movement, missionaries primarily operated at a mid-level position, mediating between top-level leaders and grassroots communities. This mid-level location was a strategic position for launching the solidarity movement for several reasons. As John Paul Lederach notes, middle-range leaders typically have access to top-tier figures, such as bishops and politicians, who can be persuaded to support movement goals and grant institutional endorsements. Yet unlike high profile leaders or elected officials, they are able to take a more radical stance since they are not directly pressured by a constituency and are usually out of the public eye. Mid-level leaders also have greater freedom than those at the grassroots, who must attend to a community’s immediate needs and daily activities, and thus they can devote more time to building a movement. Finally, since middle-range leaders have ties to those in the highest sectors as well as the grassroots level, they play an important role in promoting vertical integration of different social strata.31 They not only relay the concerns and interests of one group to another, mid-level leaders can also foster relationships between them. In addition to vertical integration, missionaries were also uniquely positioned to promote horizontal connections across international boundaries. After spending years in Latin America, they had extensive ties to organizations and people in the region. And since many missionaries took jobs with faith-based organizations when they returned home, they were also connected to religious networks in United States. These relational and organizational ties granted missionaries the capacity to build bridges between North American and Central American churches relatively quickly. Without these preexisting ties, it might have taken years to build such connections. The combination of missionaries’ vertical ties, horizontal connections, and cultural resources was invaluable in launching the solidarity movement. Missionaries used their positions to cultivate links between Central American religious leaders and top-level religious figures in the United States, who were persuaded to use their status to influence American politicians. Missionaries also organized encounters between U.S. religious leaders of all levels and grassroots faith communities in Central America. Consequently, these North American clergy acquired firsthand knowledge of the devastating effects of U.S. foreign policy, and many lent their support to missionaries’ organizing efforts. This provided access to extended networks of churches throughout the United States, from which people 67

convictions of the soul

were recruited into solidarity campaigns. These campaigns often brought North American Christians into direct contact with members of the popular church in Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala. Thus, missionaries also fostered horizontal ties between grassroots faith communities in the United States and Central America. To illustrate how missionaries’ middlerange position in church institutions enhanced their agency, I offer examples from the work of Father Paul and Grace.

Linking Top-level Religious Leaders in the United States and Central America Like other missionaries, Father Paul returned to the United States determined to educate others about the suffering in Latin America and the negative effects of U.S. foreign policy. Yet as a priest, he wanted to remain involved in ministry, too. Hence, he sought out a middle-range position that would enable him to do both. This enhanced his leadership potential by providing access to top-level leaders, while his parish work kept him connected to church members, who were targeted for recruitment into solidarity campaigns. It is important to recognize, however, that this structural location alone did not make him an effective organizer. The quality of his leadership reflected the combination of his mid-level position and his moral credibility, cultural knowledge, skills, and experience gained through fifteen years of mission work. He recalled: When I came back to the States, I wanted three things. First, I wanted to live in a poor area. Second, I wanted to have what we call in Latin America a pastoral base. It simply means a place where you minister on a sort of day-to-day basis. Third, I wanted to have a national forum. So I looked for and was always able to do those three things. One of the national things I did was work for the [U.S.] Bishops Conference in their International Justice and Peace Office. And in September 1978, it was quite evident that the Sandinistas were on the move in Nicaragua. It was the beginning of the revolution, actually, and the Catholic bishops in Nicaragua asked for a representative from the U.S. church to go down to see what was happening. They sent me because of my background [in Latin America]. I guess being a priest helped out, too. (Emphasis added)32 As a result of this trip, Father Paul became a link between bishops in Nicaragua and the United States. In essence, he functioned as an emissary between the two, and the Nicaraguan bishops entrusted him with the responsibility of persuading their American counterparts to use their influence to intervene on behalf of the thousands of Nicaraguans whose lives were at stake. He recalled: 68

leadership and the formation of solidarity

It was an interesting trip and the analysis was clear to me. Somoza had been brutal and oppressive and the Sandinistas were going to make him go. The question was, how bloody was it going to be? The bishops of Nicaragua were very courageous in the beginning. Later they turned out to not be my favorite characters, but they knew that Somoza had to be removed. So their message back through me was for the Catholic bishops in the United States, and anybody else that we could get a hold of, to tell Jimmy Carter, “If you cut the umbilical cord with Somoza, you will save 50,000 lives.” It was absolutely true, almost to the exact number.33 Father Paul did convince the U.S. bishops to act. As leaders of the American Catholic Church, they conveyed their concerns to President Carter. “We got that message into the White House and we presumed Jimmy Carter heard it,” Father Paul said. “I thought he was a good president, but he really missed that one. He didn’t break with Somoza until 1979. Yet that was the beginning for me [as a solidarity leader]. Subsequently, I went on lots of trips to Central America.”34 Father Paul’s solidarity work expanded quickly from that point. He was invited to travel with Robert White, a former ambassador to El Salvador, who was leading a delegation of former diplomats to Cuba for talks with Castro. He accompanied Central American leaders—such as Ruben Zamora, the leader of the FMLN political party in El Salvador; and Guatemalan Nobel Peace Laureate Rigoberta Menchu´—as they returned home after years in exile. He guided church leaders on trips to Central America, including a group of Lutheran bishops, helping them to analyze what they saw and experienced. Other North Americans may have been willing to carry out this work, but most did not have the connections available to Father Paul through his position in the church and his extensive experience as a missionary. Additionally, Father Paul faced fewer restrictions than the U.S. bishops for whom he worked. As figureheads of the American Catholic Church, the bishops might have been reluctant to undertake some of these endeavors, since traveling to Cuba or accompanying revolutionary leaders might have provoked considerable controversy. In his mid-level position, however, Father Paul was not prominently in the public eye and therefore had greater freedom to participate in these acts of solidarity.

Linking Grassroots Communities in the United States and Central America Although the influence of high-ranking leaders was important, missionaries also aimed to mobilize the broader religious population in the United States. They wanted to engage grassroots churchgoing citizens, instilling 69

convictions of the soul

in them a genuine concern for Central America and a motivation to challenge Reagan’s foreign policy. Grace decided that one way to reach those in the pews was to win the support of their ministers and denominational leaders. Since she had been so radically transformed by encounters with the poor during her mission assignment, she believed that replicating this experience for others would yield similar results. Grace decided to organize a tour of Nicaragua for a delegation of U.S. religious leaders. She designed the trip to facilitate a conversion to the poor. Specifically, she planned to expose trip participants to the human suffering caused by the Contra war. Her hope was that delegates would experience a sense of tension—the first step in conversion—as they struggled to come to terms with the fact that the United States contributed to the pain of these fellow Christians. To facilitate the second step, she had participants stay in peasants’ homes and attend services at liberationoriented churches. Through these relationships, the intent was to evoke a sense of solidarity and radicalize delegates by exposing them to alternative views and religious beliefs. In essence, contact with the poor of Nicaragua started a process of resocialization. Grace and other missionaries aided this process by sharing their insights and analysis. Father Paul confirmed that church workers used their experience to expedite this conversion in others: My take on how people got radicalized in this struggle is the proximity of Central America and groups going down in droves, in large numbers over the years, to see what was going on. There’s nothing like that. I also think that some of the prior experiences that many of us [missionaries] had contributed to a sort of progression of awareness. I notice young people who go to Central America today, they’re radicalized very quickly whereas it took me years. . . . I think they are building on our experiences, standing on our shoulders, and that’s all for the good.35 Grace was able to organize this delegation because of her knowledge of Central America and her middle-range position within a religious organization. Employed by a regional interfaith task force, she had connections to church leaders throughout the United States. She also had extensive ties to grassroots groups and political leaders in Nicaragua that had developed through the course of many years of mission work. This enabled her to quickly launch a program that brought together leaders from religious organizations and various denominations in the United States with Nicaraguan peasants who were suffering the consequences of the U.S.-sponsored Contra war. She described the process: At the time I was 42 years old, so I was old enough to know how to organize. So I got together Presbyterians, Episcopalians,

70

leadership and the formation of solidarity

Roman Catholics, Unitarians, Quakers, Methodists, and within a year I led a delegation of thirty people from ten denominations to go to Nicaragua. Key people went on that delegation. We had the head of the Presbyterian Church, a key person from the [National] Council of Churches, a peace and justice coordinator for the Catholic diocese, and Moravian leaders. It was quite a delegation. We spent a week in Nicaragua and had the chance to go right to this village on the border where the Contras were. It was under attack when we got there. We could see the Contra command center, about two hundred yards across the border in Honduras. We were getting nervous and our bus driver wanted us to get out of there, but we noticed that they stopped shooting while we were present. So we talked to the villagers, the local militia, the civilians trying to protect the village. We went to the house of a young mother who was in shock [because] her mother and infant daughter had just been hit by mortar shells. When we got back on the bus, one man said, “If all it takes [to stop Contra attacks] is Americans here, why don’t we call for a vigil?” So we began to meet with some high-level people [which was possible] because we had high-level church people. We met with Cedras Ramirez, who was vice president, and Ernesto Cardenal [the minister of culture]. We kept asking, “What do you think about having a vigil of North Americans in the war zone?” Cedras was real quiet, but then he said, “Perhaps it would be good.” So right before we left we had a meeting with Toma´s Borge, the minister of the interior and the ideologue of the Nicaraguan revolution. And he said, “Yes, but we don’t want you to receive the bullets meant for us. That wouldn’t be Christian.” So we had clearance from the government right away.36 After gaining the approval of Nicaraguan leaders, Grace focused on the process of recruiting participants for the war zone vigil. The delegation participants helped with this task. Upon returning to the United States, they used their connections to denominational groups and religious organizations to spread the word to the grassroots level about the vigil in which regular U.S. citizens would live, work, and pray with Nicaraguan communities that were under threat of attack by Contra forces. Since church denominations tend to be geographically dispersed, their appeals reached the far corners of the country. These networks, combined with Grace’s contacts through NISGUA and the national interfaith task force, were essential in recruiting people for the first Witness for Peace vigil. Grace’s horizontal ties were also important. Friends and colleagues in Nic-

71

convictions of the soul

aragua assisted with many of the logistical concerns, enabling the vigil to be implemented quickly. Grace explained: On the plane back from Nicaragua, we designed what we called an “Action for Peace.” That was on April 15 [1983], and we decided that by July 3 we would have people from all across the United States in Nicaragua. I thought that certainly the Inter-Religious Task Force in New York, which coordinates all the interfaith task forces in the country, would take it on. They thought it was a good idea, but the board didn’t have the resources. So I put out a call, and I was somewhat known nationally because of NISGUA. We worked with the American Friends Service Committee, with Clergy and Laity Concerned, and SANE Freeze. The others also put out a call, and within six weeks we had 150 people from thirty-seven states who were ready to go. . . . And we had people in Nicaragua—Maryknoll Sisters and others—who helped set up our schedule.37 In less than three months, Grace successfully implemented a campaign in the war zones of Nicaragua. It was so successful that participants were eager to get more involved in Central American issues. Grace and her colleagues decided the campaign should continue indefinitely. Their goal was to minimize the war-related violence by providing an ongoing North American presence. Yet they also felt that it was important to replicate the delegation experience for others, with the hope of radicalizing thousands of U.S. Christians who would return home with a commitment to challenge Reagan’s policy toward Nicaragua. She elaborates: By October we had a founding retreat and Witness for Peace was launched. . . . Some people wanted to have long-termers who would stand with their bodies in the war zones [to deter Contra attacks], but we had defined ourselves as an organization that would work to change U.S. foreign policy. So I argued if you really want to change foreign policy, you’ve got to get a lot of mainstream Americans down there, radicalize them, and get them home to work with the press, Congress, and churches. So we tried both. The model was both long-term volunteers and short-term delegations that went to Nicaragua for a few weeks.38 Grace’s vision of radicalizing mainstream church people became a reality. Within a decade, Witness for Peace sent approximately four thousand U.S. citizens to Nicaragua and later Guatemala. This is a significant number, considering that participants paid their own costs and took vacation days to travel to a war-torn country where their lives were potentially at risk. These short-term delegations were highly effective, as another Witness for Peace leader noted: 72

leadership and the formation of solidarity

The strategy was to send people from all over the country with the mission to go to learn, and come back and be part of the resistance to U.S. policy. . . . People from the States would go down [to Nicaragua] for short periods, were shown around, and lived with the poor. These were the people who were actually suffering the consequences of the U.S.-Contra war. And then they went back and worked as advocates. It seemed to work. People were willing to go back and be active, particularly on Nicaragua. I felt like we were just turning out activists like crazy. It was phenomenal.39 Father Paul assisted with similar delegations and he, too, believes that these trips facilitated a conversion among many U.S. Christians. He said, “I went on some delegations, particularly to help with the debriefing process. In just a short time—a week or ten days in Central America—these people were changed for life. They really were.”40 Just as Father Paul served as a bridge between religious leaders, persuading U.S. bishops to carry the Nicaraguan bishops’ message to President Carter, Grace linked grassroots communities in Nicaragua to local church groups in the United States. Paul’s and Grace’s ability to forge these ties and mobilize people to protest U.S. policy was a reflection of both their social-structural position and their cultural resources. Their status as clergy and former missionaries granted them moral credibility, and their experiences in Latin America gave them authority, theological knowledge, and organizing skills. Their mid-level structural position in religious organizations enabled them to access far-reaching networks for recruitment and to meet with top-level leaders whose support furthered solidarity goals and campaigns.

Conclusion

T

he Central America solidarity movement would not have emerged without the determined efforts of missionaries like Grace and Father Paul. As Resource Mobilization theorists suggest, these missionaries were entrepreneurial in their ability to use their organizing skills, cultural knowledge, and institutional connections to link people together from different regions and social strata. Yet viewing them strictly as entrepreneurial organizers misses the passion and moral conviction that was the inspiration and driving force of their work. One cannot understand the motivation behind their leadership without exploring their unique biographical experiences. Missionaries’ beliefs, values, and moral convictions were profoundly shaped by their work with the popular churches of Latin America during a period of momentous change, due to the Vatican II Council and the 73

convictions of the soul

emergence of liberation theology. Yet even though this cultural agency approach examines the broader environment in which movements emerge, it differs from the Political Process model in an important way. Instead of focusing exclusively on how events alter the playing field for challengers, an agency-centered model suggests that we must also explore the influence of historical shifts on activists themselves. Undoubtedly, there were political opportunities that enhanced missionaries’ abilities to mount campaigns of resistance to Reagan’s foreign policy.41 However, before people can act on favorable protest conditions, they must first become aware of an injustice, believe that it is imperative to fight it, and have the motivation and skills to take advantage of opportunities when they arise. If these missionaries had continued to believe that Central Americans’ poverty and suffering was God’s will, the presence of political opportunities would not have inspired them to organize. Favorable mobilizing conditions may increase people’s sense of efficacy by making change appear more feasible, as Political Process posits, but they do not explain motivation, conviction, passion, or leadership skills. Agency and leadership are also influenced by cultural and structural positions. In both the civil rights and the Central America solidarity movements, occupations within church ministry provided the opportunity to develop skills and knowledge that were then transferred to movement organizing. Similar to Morris’s study of pastors in the civil rights movement, the leadership of missionaries was enhanced by their structural position. However, missionaries differed from civil rights leaders in that they primarily operated in mid-level positions. These were not bishops or prominent religious figures; therefore, like Robnett’s bridge leaders, their actions were less likely to be criticized by the general public. Yet in contrast to the subjects of Robnett’s study, these missionaries were not working primarily with grassroots groups. They were building bridges at many different levels and across national borders. This demonstrates that powerful agents in transnational movements are not always internationally recognized, high-profile figures; in this case, the effective leaders were those with connections to the top and to the grassroots levels in both regions. Building a movement is demanding work, but it is even more challenging when activists reach across national boundaries. Language barriers, cultural and ideological differences, and geographic distance can impede organizing. Yet these missionaries were able to overcome these obstacles, building links between groups of people who were, in many regards, quite different. Precisely what factors contributed to their ability to launch a transnational movement? First, missionaries were bilingual and bicultural. They possessed an insider perspective of both regions, which granted them authority. As a Witness for Peace activist commented, “The reason so many churches got involved is the missionary connection. These missionaries spoke Spanish, had lived there for many years, and knew what was going on in the countryside.”42 This also enabled them to act as cultural 74

leadership and the formation of solidarity

translators, explaining the suffering in Central America and the need for liberation in terms that U.S. faith communities could understand. A second important factor affecting the ability of missionaries to organize on a transnational level is that they had moral credibility in both locations. They had the respect of many Central Americans because they had lived in the region, forgoing the comforts of their American citizenship to serve the poor. They also had credibility in the United States due to their social status as church workers. They were aware that this respect was essential and therefore intentionally chose to work through their occupational connections to spread the message. Grace noted: We created an advisory committee [for Witness for Peace] that was made up of people from Catholic bishops to conservative Baptists, so it was an organization that people could trust. I think it was key that we worked through the churches, seriously, because we then had credibility to speak. If we had just reached out to the Left, to radical students, the Communist Worker Party or the Socialist Party, we would have had zilch.43 Without credibility, potential recruits may have been reluctant to accept a radical critique of U.S. foreign policy toward Central America, much less risk their lives by traveling to war zones. Finally, a pivotal factor that enhanced the agency of these transnational solidarity leaders is that they had ties to various networks in both North America and Central America. Not only did this enable them to rapidly spread their message but also to link people of various social strata together. It might have taken years to build these connections from scratch. Due to their mission work, these horizontal ties were already in place and ready for mobilization. Missionaries were effective leaders in the Central America solidarity movement because of their unique set of skills, knowledge, and connections that were created out of the interplay of history, biography, culture, and structure. Since their lives were committed to the church, it was natural to work through this institution to generate solidarity with the poor of Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala. As a result, many congregations heard the appeals of these missionaries. To understand the factors that made some churchgoers receptive to the Central America solidarity movement, we will now take a closer look at the biographies and socialization processes of some of those who joined these missionaries in resisting U.S. foreign policy and expressing support for the Central American struggle for liberation.

75

CHAPTER 4

Biography and Recruitment Receptivity

T

he purpose of our work in Witness for Peace,” Grace said, “was to radicalize people, to get them to question what their government was doing in Central America.”1 Although the 1960s and 1970s had been a time of questioning, social unrest, and challenges to authority, the mood of the nation shifted in the early 1980s, just as missionaries were starting to organize solidarity campaigns. The United States entered a more conservative period, electing Ronald Reagan on a strong anticommunist platform. Reagan appealed to Americans’ patriotic sentiments, and conveyed international politics in clear-cut terms. He justified his support for the Nicaraguan Contras, who were attempting to overthrow the revolutionary government, by portraying them as the moral equivalent of the founding fathers of the United States. He proclaimed that the Sandinistas had turned Nicaragua into a “totalitarian dungeon” and that the governments of El Salvador and Guatemala were on the verge of a similar fate, as they defended themselves from attacks by Marxist guerrillas. His rhetoric resonated with the Cold War ideology and revived the image of the United States as a benevolent nation, promoting freedom and democracy in the world. Reagan was articulating a positive image of U.S. foreign policy precisely at the moment when missionaries were encouraging the population to question and challenge it. Therefore, even though missionaries were in a strategic structural position and had the skills and knowledge to build a solidarity movement, they had to contend with a political climate that encouraged the population to support Reagan’s anticommunist agenda. Since many U.S. citizens are socialized to view their nation in positive terms, the missionaries 76

biography and recruitment receptivity

could not assume that they would automatically find a sympathetic audience for their message, despite the relatively recent protests against the Vietnam War. In fact, some missionaries, such as Father Paul, encountered a great deal of resistance from U.S. congregations during the 1970s when they spoke about the CIA-sponsored overthrow of the Allende regime in Chile. Father Paul recalled: I was back [in the United States] in ’73 on furlough. That was the year that Chile went to the military. I remember saying to people here, “There’s a lot of evidence that the CIA was involved in Allende’s fall.” [Their reaction was] “That’s impossible. Couldn’t happen. No way.” To their defense, people were very taken up at that time with Vietnam. But still, there was a rejection of even that possibility, to even talk about it. Whenever I spoke about Chile, the response was, “We wouldn’t do anything like that.”2 To overcome Cold War sentiments and the reluctance to view U.S. foreign policy in a critical light, missionaries appealed to congregations in terms that reflected biblical themes, church teachings, and Christian identity. That is, they used framing techniques to generate sympathy and concern for the poor in Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala. Framing refers to the process of assigning meaning to events and conditions in a way that creates support for movement goals within a designated population.3 Leaders appeal to potential recruits by interpreting situations in a manner that indicates how movement aims are congruent with the targeted audience’s values and moral commitments. For Sister Jean, discussing Central America in the context of Catholic social teachings was a means of assuaging U.S. parishioners’ concerns. She framed solidarity as a reflection of Catholic tradition, not communism. She recalled: I remember coming back from Nicaragua and preaching in some Catholic churches. I was pleading with people for some understanding. Some people walked out, but on the other hand, some people would say, “I’ve always thought of that as some kind of communist, leftist position.” And I’d say that since the 1890s, the Catholic Church has taken a stand for the poor [referring to the 1891 papal encyclical, Rerum Novarum]. Now whether it’s been faithful especially is a different question. But the bottom line is that this is not foreign to us, to what we believe.4 As Jean reveals, these religious framing efforts worked with some church people but not others. This raises the question: Why were some North American Christians receptive to the missionaries’ message in spite of prevailing Cold War attitudes? Why were they willing to question their government’s involvement in Central America while others were not? We 77

convictions of the soul

know little about why some people are responsive to leaders’ frames while others are relatively immune to recruitment appeals. This is partly due to insufficient attention to socialization influences that foster openness to specific movements and a willingness to critically examine social practices. In most studies, researchers begin with the assumption that a portion of the population holds prior attitudes and beliefs that are incompatible with a movement and therefore they will not be open to attempts to win their support. Hence, they focus on those whose attitudes are not in contradiction with movement aims and could potentially be persuaded to join.5 The primary emphasis, however, has been on the factors that move some of these individuals from attitudinal openness to actual participation. Very little research explores the processes that shape these prior attitudes, making them amenable to recruitment in the first place. This has led one scholar to proclaim: Our theories have been about already-socialized adolescents and adults. We do not ask how sympathetic bystanders become sympathetic. What life processes have led them to identify with the movement’s beneficiaries, with the movement’s diagnoses? Even when we study conversion processes, where a transformation of commitments is seen as part of the recruitment process, the convert’s prior life and commitments are a small part of the story, as are the ideological surrounds of that prior life.6

Our limited understanding of recruitment receptivity additionally stems from an elite bias within framing studies.7 We know a lot about the framing efforts of leaders—including their alignment techniques and strategies—but few studies examine the factors that shape prospective activists’ reactions to these appeals. Yet according to David Snow and Robert Benford, “The relationship between the framing efforts of movements and the mobilization of potential constituents is highly dialectical, such that there is no such thing as a tabula rasa or empty glass into which new and alien ideas can be poured.”8 In other words, the targeted audience perceives leaders’ messages through an interpretive screen that is formed through personal experience and biographical influences. Thus, a frame or recruitment appeal is more likely to resonate with people if it reflects their preexisting experiential knowledge, cultural heritage, and values.9 We will only have a complete picture of how organizers’ appeals and the worldviews of prospective activists become linked—making people amenable to recruitment—when we study this process from the viewpoint of recruits as well as recruiters. For even if these missionaries developed highly compelling frames and recruitment techniques, their efforts would have failed without openness on the part of those Christians whose support they hoped to gain. Therefore, in this chapter I will examine the biographies of some individuals who joined the solidarity movement. I will not focus on the recruitment process itself—that is, the factors that moved 78

biography and recruitment receptivity

these people from sympathy to action. Instead, I will explore the socialization influences and life experiences that shaped their political attitudes, worldviews, and moral commitments prior to recruitment, ultimately generating a willingness to question the legitimacy of Reagan’s foreign policy toward Central America.

Formation of Political Views

P

eople are not born with predetermined political beliefs or values. They develop them over time through the influence of various individuals, groups, and institutions. Studies indicate that there are multiple forces at play encouraging citizens to accept their governmental institutions and the political status quo. This process begins at an early age, as children as young as three to seven years old begin developing an emotional attachment to the physical beauty and positive traditions of their country.10 From the ages of eight to ten, this attachment strengthens and expands to the symbols of political authority, such as the flag and the president. These bonds are typically quite resilient, since children demonstrate very little political cynicism, even after events such as the Watergate scandal.11 This is partly due to the effective internalization of nationalism by the age of nine or ten that provides a patriotic filter that screens out negative images of one’s country and political system.12 Then, as children move into adolescence, they begin to comprehend more abstract political concepts such as democracy and civic liberty, enabling them to grasp basic ideological differences. Studies from the Cold War era, for instance, indicate that most children in Western nations had internalized anticommunist rhetoric and beliefs by the age of ten or eleven. This is coupled with a distinct preference for their own country and growing disdain for other nations.13 As a result, youth between the ages of fourteen and sixteen begin to demonstrate a dichotomous moral worldview through which international conflicts are judged: The home country is good and righteous and the other nation is evil.14 These views are instilled and reinforced through a variety of institutions including education, religion, and the family. Formal civic and political education has traditionally been the domain of schools. Peers and religious organizations have some influence as well.15 However, the family plays the greatest role in shaping children’s political beliefs and attitudes. Although some families may create openness to oppositional views and opinions by encouraging critical thinking,16 the strongest parental effect is seen in children’s identification with a specific political party and the development of a sense of loyalty and attachment to the United States.17 Yet if numerous forces encourage citizens to embrace the political status quo and view their nation as morally righteous, why are some individuals open to movement frames that are critical of the government? Some studies 79

convictions of the soul

of student movements in the 1960s and 1970s explored this question because a critical orientation was one of the factors that distinguished student activists from the rest of their cohort. However, it was not completely clear how this criticality develops. One study established that student activists’ critical social views were unrelated to their parents’ income, education, occupation, political orientation, interest in politics, and party identification. Neither were they correlated to students’ college major, grade point average, sex, or marital status. The only factor that had a significant correlation was religious identification. Catholics and Protestants were less likely to be critical of their government and society than were those with no religious identification. All other factors were unrelated, leading the researchers to conclude, “It appears that the development of a critical orientation . . . is a creative intellectual response to life experiences which is not conditioned by either familial or university socialization.”18 In other words, this criticality can only be explained by their biographies. Yet what type of biographical experiences foster openness to critical views? Some suggest that new roles may cause unanticipated changes in social status or reveal injustices that bring a system’s legitimacy into question.19 For instance, women are more inclined to embrace feminism after they enter the paid labor force and have firsthand encounters with sexual harassment, discrimination, and unequal pay.20 Similarly, soldiers who witness combat atrocities are more likely to question their nation’s military policies.21 New positions in adulthood may impose demands or provide experiences that challenge earlier socialization lessons, causing individuals to rethink mainstream beliefs. It is this willingness to reconsider traditional views that is an essential part of recruitment receptivity. Without it, missionaries would not have been able to convince North American Christians to challenge Reagan’s Cold War agenda in Central America. But why were some church members responsive to missionaries’ frames that denounced U.S. foreign policy toward Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala as unjust? In his study of the Central America peace movement, Christian Smith offers an answer to this question. He argues that people of faith were particularly responsive to solidarity movement appeals for two key reasons. First, since missionaries recruited through religious organizations and denominational networks, church members were more likely than the average citizen to hear their critical views of U.S. involvement in Central America. Second, Smith posits that many Christians and Jews were more “subjectively engageable.” That is, they were “culturally and socially located in a way that ranked the Central American crisis in their personal and collective relevance-structures as a matter of personal, immediate concern.”22 He argues that this is a reflection of their religious traditions’ emphasis on justice, peace, and political engagement on behalf of the oppressed. In short, church groups in the United States were simply more likely to hear missionaries’ frames on the Central American situation, and 80

biography and recruitment receptivity

their moral commitments—instilled through religious socialization—infused this information with an urgent need to respond. Smith directs our attention to the fact that people’s preexisting values and moral priorities affect the degree of importance they place upon movement calls for action. This is an important contribution, yet his theory implies that all members of these religious communities were equally open to the goals of the Central America solidarity movement. That, however, was not the case. Those within a common faith tradition, even the same congregation, had different reactions to missionaries’ appeals, as Sister Jean points out. Even though they heard identical frames and were socialized to embrace similar religious values, some responded with deep concern about Central America while others were indifferent or ambivalent, struggling with conflicting allegiances to the church and to their nation. Additionally, some Christians actively supported President Reagan’s efforts to stop the spread of these revolutionary movements, which they saw as a Marxist threat to religious liberty. Clearly, there was significant variation in the degree of U.S. Christians’ subjective engageability. To account for these differential responses, we need to examine the biographical experiences and socialization influences that generated openness among some people of faith. Although a fully developed theory of recruitment receptivity would require us to compare those who were sympathetic to missionaries’ appeals to those who were not, such a task is beyond the scope of this study and its data. Nevertheless, an exploratory examination of recruits’ biographies will enable us to inductively discern patterns of socialization that appear to have generated openness toward the Central America solidarity movement. As we learn how recruits’ values, moral commitments, and life experiences shaped their responses to solidarity appeals, we will gain a better understanding of why some collective action frames strike a chord that makes people amenable to recruitment. I now turn to the biographies of a dozen recruits: Matthew, Neil, Dorothy, Sonya, Lucy, Jeff, Lisa, Ben, Mary, Rebecca, Carolyn, and Stan. After initial involvement in the movement, several of these individuals took on leadership roles in solidarity organizations. However, they are second-generation leaders who were drawn into Central America activism by missionaries like Grace, Paul, and Jean. Through these recruits’ life histories, we can see why missionary appeals had strong resonance, leading them to devote themselves to the task of challenging Reagan’s policies toward Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala.

Biographies of Central America Solidarity Activists

A

s missionaries developed solidarity campaigns, they intentionally targeted the regular churchgoing population in the United States for recruitment. Their appeals were not directed at political radicals—who, in 81

convictions of the soul

all likelihood, already held critical views of the government—but rather to mainstream people. Grace explained why they chose this recruitment strategy: I watched how people organized across the United States and I noticed that those folks who worked through the mainline churches were able to reach mainline people. Others reached out to the Left, which is very tiny in this county, and so I figured that if we wanted to change U.S. policy, we’d have to get people sitting in the pews in Presbyterian, Methodist, Lutheran churches and so forth. You need to get mainline people and blow their minds and hearts.23 Yet precisely because the targeted recruitment pool was mainstream, most had absorbed the conventional political socialization that encouraged them to embrace their government, not question it. One solidarity recruit, Matthew, recalled that his mother tried to instill such respect for the U.S. government that she would not even allow him to tell jokes about the president. Another activist named Neil said that he had thoroughly internalized the Cold War ideology of the United States as the gallant protector of world democracy: “I won the patriotism essay contest in the ninth grade. My essay was about patriotism along with God and country, . . . a description about how we stand for freedom and fight for people in places we know nothing about. All that stuff. So that’s where I was. There was nothing in my childhood or early education that prepared me to deal with the issues that would later become my life.”24 These comments are typical of the many activists who felt they were encouraged to be conforming, compliant citizens. So why were they open to missionaries’ critiques of President Reagan’s foreign policy toward Central America? To answer this question, we turn to solidarity activists’ biographical narratives. A person’s biography is formed from the unique set of experiences that he or she accumulates over a lifetime. It includes the influence of one’s family of origin as well as personal occurrences and encounters that leave a lasting impression. Naturally, biographies are also shaped by the broader culture in which people live, along with historical events that affect their lives. Yet James Jasper reminds us that each individual compiles cultural meanings and influences into a constellation that is distinct from others. This provides a sense of self, a set of beliefs and values that hold moral and personal significance to him or her. Together these life experiences form a mental outlook, “a kind of filter that encourages certain ways of feeling, judging, and thinking while discouraging others.”25

Family and Religion Every individual’s biography is, to some extent, shaped by the family and religion in which one is raised. Even the lack of a family, or being raised 82

biography and recruitment receptivity

atheist or agnostic, influences one’s biography. While most studies of political socialization have focused on the ways that family and religion promote status quo ideologies, these groups can also generate critical social views. Whether their influence is conservative or progressive, religious institutions and families teach their members to view the world through a specific mental lens, shaping the parameters of their “moral focus.”26 As social and political issues come into view, families and religious groups teach cognitive and moral norms that encourage their members to focus on some while deeming others irrelevant or unimportant. Zerubavel comments: Whereas some cultures explicitly stress one’s moral responsibility to “think of” the sick, the poor, and the mentally retarded, there are others where at least one of those categories is considered morally irrelevant. By the same token, while Jain monks in India deliberately avoid vigorous activities such as swimming and digging and carefully dust stools before sitting on them so as not to risk harming even tiny micro-organisms, most Westerners do not even consider the use of “pesticides” a moral matter.27

A moral focus, therefore, functions as an interpretive screen or filter that sifts through information, eliminating some from one’s consciousness while placing great value on certain issues, bringing them to the forefront. A moral focus may be general rather than oriented to specific political issues or agendas. This explains why many of the activists in this project felt there was no direct relationship between their families’ political attitudes and their own beliefs. In fact, some stated that their convictions reflected a virtual 180-degree reversal from the views they were taught in childhood. Nevertheless, as these recruits discussed their biographies, several patterns became apparent. Even though many rejected their parents’ political views, they acknowledged that their families shaped their moral focus and instilled values that ultimately created receptivity to the missionaries’ critiques of U.S. policy toward Central America. Many solidarity recruits reported that they were open to missionaries’ appeals because their families and churches encouraged a moral focus on global issues. In fact, the majority of activists in this study traced their interest in Central America and U.S. foreign policy to an emerging awareness of the international realm that arose during their childhood and youth. This awareness was often subtle and apolitical, but nevertheless generated a concern for the broader world. For instance, Matthew described how his interest in international issues developed: The family I grew up in was not political at all except that my parents had a certain world awareness. . . . My father grew up in a bilingual home speaking German. He wanted to work with East Germany through the Lutheran church, . . . so that 83

convictions of the soul

laid the foundation for me as I became an adult and had more life-challenging experiences. In fact, shortly after my father died, I was talking to my mom on the phone. I was trying to pay her a compliment when I said that a lot of who I am comes from my parents because they gave me this international perspective, this awareness of the world. My mother, however, is much more conservative. So I said, “Mom, a lot of who I am is a result of you and Dad.” Her response was “Oh no, it’s not!” I also went to a church camp and the director there had a real world vision. He had spent time in Africa . . . [and] saw folks struggling with famine and hunger, and he incorporated that in a really healthy way into his vision of the gospel. It was an eye-opening experience to hear these stories and be challenged to see the world and start to understand what was going on.28 Dorothy noted that her Catholic education was the source of her international interest: For those of us who grew up in Catholic schools, we had a great sense of the international. The missionary tradition among the religious orders and for the missionary nuns was to come back from Africa or India or Egypt or wherever they happened to be . . . and tell stories about life there and how it was to be poor. So we grew up with a very solid international sense.29 In addition to global awareness, religious groups also shaped the moral focus of many solidarity activists by instilling a concern for justice and peace. Using Sewell’s definition of a structure, religion reflects the institutionalization of cultural beliefs and practices. Churches, therefore, become the carriers of culture, transmitting values and beliefs to their members through the socialization process. The Roman Catholic Church, as discussed in the last chapter, has a history of social teachings that underscore Christian responsibility to the poor and oppressed. Such social concerns are also found in Protestant traditions. Protestant social ethics are reflected in the nineteenth-century effort to abolish slavery. The twentieth century saw the emergence of social gospel advocates who spoke of reforming urban industrial America according to Christian principles of equality and love.30 The Historic Peace Churches—the Quakers, Mennonites, and Church of the Brethren—have a 500-year-old commitment to pacifism and social equality. Those raised in church congregations that emphasized justice and peace began to focus on these issues, creating a moral foundation that was congruent with Central America solidarity goals. Matthew said, “It’s the call of the gospel I grew up with that drew me to this [activism]. In Luke 4, Jesus says, ‘I’ve come to free the captives, to lift the yoke of oppression, to bring sight to the blind.’ And Micah says, 84

biography and recruitment receptivity

‘What does the Lord require of you? To do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.’ Those are the cornerstones of my faith and they call me to this.”31 Another solidarity recruit, Lucy, underscored this point: From my faith tradition, part of the essence of Christianity and the call of discipleship is to enter into the suffering world to try to make it better. You can’t love God without loving your neighbor, and you can’t love your neighbor without living and working on their behalf. So for some of us Christians, the call to service is inherent in our faith commitment. And once your eyes are open, you see that service has more to do with justice than doing charitable acts.32 This combination of a Christian worldview that emphasizes justice and peace, along with an international awareness, shaped these individuals’ moral focus, making them responsive to information about human rights abuses, poverty, oppression, and war. These issues resonated with the religious values they had internalized, bringing U.S. foreign policy in Central America to the forefront of their awareness. A woman named Sonya described how this moral focus drew her attention to the issues the solidarity movement was addressing: Sonya: I began thinking about the impact of U.S. foreign policy from reading about these issues in Sojourners [a progressive Christian magazine] and other publications in which Christians tried to be responsive to social justice concerns. I kept reading it and became more educated on how U.S. policy affects people in other countries. Sharon: So part of your political awareness came through the language of religious concerns? Sonya: Definitely, definitely—because that was the paradigm through which I viewed everything. I filtered everything through that (emphasis added). So if something was going to affect me, chances are it would be through a route that I could understand, and that was a religious framework.33 This notion of a moral focus also suggests a possible explanation for why some Christians, particularly the Christian Right, supported President Reagan’s foreign policy toward Central America. Although they read the same scriptures and proclaim faith in the same God, progressive and conservative church traditions—and even specific parishes or congregations in the same denomination—operate as distinct cultural communities that encourage their members to adopt different values and moral priorities. The socialization that occurs in conservative congregations typically fosters a moral focus on personal piety, salvation, and evangelism rather than justice and peace. Therefore, President Reagan’s anticommunist frame resonated 85

convictions of the soul

with their fear that communism would threaten religious freedom and the ability to spread the gospel, which took precedence over concerns about human rights abuses in Central America.34 In contrast, the moral focus of solidarity recruits on international issues of peace and justice created attentiveness to missionaries’ calls to assist the poor and oppressed in El Salvador, Guatemala, and Nicaragua. Although comparative data are needed to confirm this claim, distinct moral foci appear to be a viable explanation for the varied responses to missionaries’ appeals for solidarity. Even those raised in conservative traditions may find that a unique biographical experience can reshape their moral focus. For instance, Jeff reported that his family was not very political and that the parish where he was raised did not emphasize Catholic social teachings. However, he grew up in a neighborhood where Dorothy Day—a pacifist, labor activist, and cofounder of the progressive Catholic Worker movement—lived. As a child, he loved to talk to people on the street, especially the homeless, and through them he discovered the Catholic Worker house. He began visiting on the weekends and became acquainted with Day. His relationship to her became a pivotal point in his biography, profoundly shaping his moral commitments. He recalled: I was raised by my mother, who was very materialistic, and my grandparents. They were never issues people [i.e., politically involved], but they were very Italian, very Catholic. It’s somewhat ironic because the Italian church is so crazy and so hierarchical, but I lived in New York City, close to Dorothy Day’s house of hospitality. I hung out there on weekends, just talking with people. Simply being around Dorothy had a big impression on me. Dorothy had a very clear sense of the fact that for good to happen, there had to be justice. . . . Dorothy Day, for me, has been the touch-all point in my life.35 Families and churches also fostered receptivity to solidarity appeals by emphasizing the importance of criticality. Regardless of their families’ political affiliation, many recruits in this study described how their parents encouraged them to carefully analyze a situation before drawing a conclusion. Sonya, for example, was raised in a conservative family and religious tradition. At first glance, it would be difficult to see any relationship between her biography and her openness to the Central America solidarity movement. However, her church and her family planted the seeds of criticality by encouraging her to think independently. She recalled: My family is solidly Republican, and I was raised in a very conservative religious tradition. I remember my grandmother once saying that you couldn’t be a Christian and be a Democrat. But we were also part of a free church tradition, so it was up to you to make decisions about your faith and life in rela86

biography and recruitment receptivity

tionship with your Maker and so forth. And it translated into the church structure. . . . The churches themselves are the grassroots decision-makers. No bishop sends you a pastoral communicative; it’s up to you to make the choices that you want. I also remember watching TV with my father when I was in third or fourth grade. We saw Bobby Kennedy [campaigning] . . . and I stated, “If I were president, I would make it a law that everyone would have to be a Christian” . . . He helped me see that there are important elements of choice that you want to keep in a political community. Coercion takes away the meaning of being a Christian since it’s no longer a choice. . . . So comments like that helped to develop my political thoughts and the belief that you have to think through a situation for yourself.36 Even those solidarity activists raised by liberal parents maintain that the primary influence on their political views came from a familial emphasis on independent analysis. Lisa, for instance, described how her father embodied this sense of criticality through his willingness to take a stand for his beliefs, even in the face of strong opposition: My father was a real liberal Democrat. He was a farmer and then a politician in the state legislature. One of the things that ended his career was . . . that he made a statement in support of another legislator who said we ought to recognize China. Anticommunism was so rampant then that that was just unacceptable, but for me it was a shining example of his willingness to be honest and forthright in the face of a wave of very strong opinions to the contrary.37 For others, criticality developed through biographical experiences that occurred later in life. Like many solidarity activists, Ben felt that his parents had little direct influence on his political views, but an incident in adulthood convinced him that it was essential to think independently rather than simply accepting what he was told. He recalled: Much of my own critical thinking arose when I was a priest living in a Jesuit community. I grew apples in a vastly successful fashion because we were out in the country and I grew stir crazy. So one year I wanted to donate them to a home for the poor in Boston. Eight hundred bushels of U.S. Grade A. If I didn’t take them, they’d fall off the trees and rot. I had to get permission from a superior, but I was denied on the grounds that canon law forbade us from doing so. I found out later that the superior had consulted with a friend of his who was an apple dealer, and he was afraid they’d get into the street markets in Boston and be competition. I resolved that never again 87

convictions of the soul

would I believe something straight out if it violated my common sense.38 In Ben’s case, a religious institution inadvertently socialized him toward critical thinking by revealing the consequences of accepting authority without questioning.

Historical Events and Changes Solidarity activists were also influenced by historical events. Since most were born in the 1940s and 1950s, they were entering adulthood during a time of significant social change in the United States. The events of that era—namely, the civil rights movement, the Vietnam War, and Vatican II—reinforced the importance of independent thinking and strengthened their moral focus on peace and justice. For instance, Lisa recalled a conversation she had with her parents about the Vietnam War. Although she had already internalized the mainstream ideological views about communism, her family encouraged her to think critically about the war, thereby counteracting this traditional political socialization: Both my parents were very opposed to [the war]. I remember saying to my mother, “But you have to stop communism! What are we going to do if the communists take over Vietnam?” She was a history teacher so she knew her stuff really well, and she started telling me of French and U.S. involvement in Vietnam and she pointed out to me that it was their country, after all. We were the ones attacking them. I was really amazed as I reflected on it later that I had absorbed the conventional wisdom that was being put out in the media that this was a great battle against communism. The message had never come through the media that the U.S. had any responsibility at all except to fight for democracy. So those experiences made me open to begin to question.39 Another activist, Mary, described the combined effect of these historical events and the socialization influences of church and family: I grew up in a suburb of Milwaukee in a very conservative and notoriously Republican family. They are very, very Catholic and always engaged in lively political discussion and debate. In that sense, politics was always part of my context growing up, but from a different place on the political spectrum. . . . Yet my family took its faith very seriously and sent me to a Catholic high school. A lot of the nuns there were very active in the civil rights movement, and they started bringing these issues into the classroom. Simultaneously, the effects of Vatican II were taking root, and there was a real effort to study the Bible 88

biography and recruitment receptivity

for the first time and mass was being held in the vernacular. For a lot of us Catholics, this was a time of real discovery. It was like we were suddenly understanding the message of the gospel, the inescapable peace message: Love your neighbor, lay down your life for one another. This message was up against the reality that we were watching on the news at the time. We watched police officers using water hoses against civil rights protesters in the South and reports of atrocities in Vietnam. It was one thing to think the Vietnam War was a great anticommunist struggle when you didn’t know anybody fighting it. It was something else when you started to know people who lost student deferments and were suddenly drafted. A lot of people of faith were struggling with their conscience about what was going on; it challenged all the [political] assumptions I’d grown up with.40 Like many Americans, these recruits were taught traditional Cold War views. However, due to biographical influences, these political beliefs were not so firmly entrenched that they immediately dismissed critiques of the U.S. government’s policies. They were willing to consider alternative perspectives because they had been socialized to think critically. Moreover, as missionaries framed Central American issues in religious terms, solidarity appeals resonated with the Christian identity of recruits and their concern for peace and justice, especially on the international level. Through socialization and various life experiences, these recruits had developed a moral focus that was congruent with the goals of Central America solidarity organizers.

Cross-Cultural Experiences For some recruits, frames about U.S. policy toward Central America also had substantial “experiential credibility.”41 That is, missionaries’ critiques of Reagan’s foreign policy were consistent with the knowledge they derived from biographical experiences overseas. Due to their global orientation, numerous activists in this study sought opportunities to travel internationally and many enrolled in college study abroad programs. This experience granted them a critical distance from the traditional political views and social practices of their country. Lisa described the effects of a semester she spent in Peru: I went to Peru as a student, and I was shocked at the level of poverty there. I was even more shocked that such poverty existed next to great wealth. And I was placed with a very wealthy family. I was pretty disgusted living in that situation, so I designed my project so that I would be studying in the barrios around Lima. I moved into this shantytown with some fear 89

convictions of the soul

and trepidation on the part of adults. But it really began to bring me to the point of realization of how the poor had organized to gain a foothold in society. My awareness began expanding to class consciousness, so I was becoming aware that things are not always the way our country, our government might like us to believe.42 Most participated in these international study programs during the 1960s and 1970s, when many nations in the developing world were engaged in civil conflicts that were often exacerbated by North American interests. As they traveled to these regions, these future activists frequently discovered negative views of U.S. policies. Neil, who won his school’s patriotism essay contest, recalled how a semester abroad brought his political beliefs into question: One thing [that shaped my consciousness] was reading about the war in Indochina in papers outside this country. That raised dramatic questions. It was a very different view than the U.S. portrayed here. Second was coming to terms with landing in Ethiopia. The only thing I knew about Ethiopia was that we were supporting Haile Selassie and I kind of expected that we would be greeted with warm cheers and love. But I was hated, just hated, as a North American. I came to see that the U.S. backed a dictator who was arresting people that the country’s populace supported. Then India wouldn’t let us in as a student group because they had just kicked out the Peace Corps for being infiltrated by the Central Intelligence Agency. . . . While in Japan, I picked up an English-edition newspaper that said, “Henry Kissinger threatens the use of nuclear weapons against North Vietnam.” Then I went to Hiroshima and saw the effects of what nuclear bombs do. There were a whole series of things like that.43 Since governments have substantial control of the symbolic and material resources that shape the political beliefs of its citizens, such as school curricula and the media, its ideology tends to dominate.44 However, as these nascent solidarity activists studied in foreign countries, they were removed from this hegemonic influence and exposed to alternative views that challenged the favorable images of the United States. This also occurred for those studying in First World nations. Rebecca, for instance, heard critiques of the United States while studying in France: I went to study eighteenth-century art in Paris when I was in college. . . . Paris is a very international city, and I met Latin Americans there and their stories were so compelling that I started studying about the Third World. Meanwhile, I’m living with French families who hate America and don’t stop telling 90

biography and recruitment receptivity

me this. So I began reexamining my culture from the vantage point of another culture, and I questioned everything we’ve done around the world.45 Berger and Luckmann posit that people are often unaware of the extent to which their norms, values, and worldviews are shaped by the culture in which they live. This is due to the fact that as constructed patterns of interaction become institutionalized within a society, they lose their transparency. Children are born and socialized into established constructs and views. Thus, they perceive these beliefs systems and behavioral patterns as natural, correct, or simply “the way things are.”46 However, by leaving one’s cultural context and entering into another society where these assumptions are no longer evident—and may even be contested— people may become aware of alternative worldviews. Indeed, this is what happened to many solidarity recruits as they traveled abroad. In some cases, they saw firsthand the effects of American policies, recognizing that at times the United States perpetuated repressive, corrupt systems that were not supported by the population. Through these cross-cultural experiences, they began to see their society through a more critical lens. This created openness to missionaries’ frames about Central America that portrayed Reagan’s policies as harmful and motivated by imperialistic, not democratic, interests. Even first-generation solidarity leaders acknowledged that their international experiences as missionaries fostered criticality. Sister Jean recalled how mission work made her aware of the socially constructed nature of her perspective and the existence of alternative worldviews: I come from a liberal to moderate family, but I don’t think there was much there in terms of pushing me toward any kind of political view. . . . It wasn’t until I was sent by my religious community to the Dominican Republic and I lived in this small town. It had an outdoor theater, and three of us went to the movie one night. They had some cowboys and Indians movie, and I realized that everyone in the theater was cheering for the Indians. It was like this moment of “Ah-hah!” It was a different world, and I distinctly identify that as an eye-opening experience in terms of how our beliefs are very much designed by our culture and by society in that our worldview is pretty much predicated on our experience.47 Grace emphasized how geographic distance enabled her to stand back and view U.S. culture from a critical perspective: I was raised in North Dakota where there are many Lakota people who are as oppressed as any people on earth. . . . But when I was raised there, I didn’t see it. I wasn’t aware of prejudice. I didn’t hear it myself until I came home from Central 91

convictions of the soul

America, and then it just screamed at me. Sometimes you can’t see it close to you. . . . If you go away and then come back, then you can see it. It’s almost as though you have to get out of your environment and go someplace else where you become conscious. (Emphasis added)48 A critical view of government policies can also develop in a domestic context. Many recruits had similar cross-cultural experiences within the United States in urban studies programs. These programs require students to leave their generally middle-class, white environment to live and work in lower income, multicultural urban areas. As they altered their cultural position, they came into contact with people who had different life experiences and a distinct analysis of American society. Although the critical perspectives voiced in this context were typically oriented to domestic issues rather than foreign policy, they nevertheless made students aware of counter-hegemonic worldviews. Lucy described the effect of her participation in one such urban program: “I spent a summer in Oakland, California, with something called Operation Survival. . . . It was a very radicalizing immersion experience for high school and college-aged youth. We met with Black Panthers and welfare rights mothers. . . . I went in a fairly naı¨ve person and came out with my mind completely blown. It raised my consciousness enormously.”49 The values and moral focus instilled during childhood made these nascent individuals interested in such programs. Those without an international awareness may not have found the prospect of studying in the barrios of Lima or traveling to Ethiopia appealing. Similarly, those who embraced the Judeo-Christian values of compassion for the poor and a concern for justice may have been more receptive to learning about these issues. Another activist, Carolyn, explained how her urban studies experience built upon earlier childhood socialization lessons and the religious values she was taught. Her story illustrates how the confluence of these socialization factors, in tandem with her biographical experience in an urban studies program, fostered a willingness to critically examine the role of the United States in international conflicts. This, in turn, generated receptivity to solidarity movement frames. She said: My parents sent us to private Christian schools. That education, both in my church and school, bordered on fundamentalist and yet, somehow, some of those threads of seeking to follow Christ were enough to keep me looking at these issues. The fundamental question I remember asking myself and really taking seriously is: What does it mean to be a Christian? That set the course for a lot of the choices I made. . . . It led me to go on an urban studies program, which really challenged me to look at the deeper, systemic causes of poverty. My whole per-

92

biography and recruitment receptivity

spective changed from blaming the victim to blaming the system. And the answer to the question “What does it mean to be a Christian?” became clear. It means to challenge the system and advocate for real justice. So it wasn’t a very large step then to look at that reality here and then on the international level.50

Conclusion

E

ven the most talented movement organizers can fail to mobilize support if the targeted population is unwilling to consider their appeals. Consequently, studies of recruitment ought to look at both the strategies of recruiters but also the factors that make potential recruits sympathetic to the movement. Similar to planting, the quality of seed matters as well as the methods of cultivation. However, even a knowledgeable farmer will struggle to produce a harvest if the ground is not fertile. Some seeds do better in certain types of soil, just as movement leaders find that some audiences more readily receive their messages than others. So even though missionaries had the skills, knowledge, and connections to build a solidarity movement with Central America, part of their success is due to the fact that a segment of the North American churchgoing population was open and amenable to their appeals. These Christians were receptive to the Central America solidarity movement for several reasons. First of all, religious values made them subjectively engageable, as Smith posits. However, not all people within a particular religious tradition, or even the same congregation, were equally responsive to missionaries’ calls for solidarity. The degree of attentiveness to Central American issues varied from person to person, based on the type of religious values and moral commitments they held. Those who were highly responsive had similar biographical experiences that created a moral focus on peace and justice concerns. Recruits’ life histories also reveal that their openness to the solidarity movement reflects a socialization process that encouraged them to pay attention to the broader world. The biography of a Presbyterian minister named Stan illustrates how the combined influences of family and religion shaped his moral focus in such a way that he was sympathetic to missionaries’ appeals: I’ve always been interested in public policy and international issues, even in high school. My father was born in Japan of missionary parents, so I was intrigued that he had lived in Japan until he was fourteen years old. I also remember reading National Geographic books as a child. My father was a United World Federalist, and so the world was always important to me. . . . I was also raised in the church, and for me the Old Testa-

93

convictions of the soul

ment prophets were yearning for justice—and I see Jesus in that way, too—so matters of humanity were important to me as well, and I got into Christian ministry.51 Yet a moral focus on the poor and oppressed could have translated into charitable acts, such as donation of aid, rather than participation in a movement that challenged U.S. foreign policy. Why did these individuals get involved in political activism instead of only providing material relief to the victims of Central America’s wars? Solidarity recruits felt that political reform was necessary because they accepted the missionaries’ analysis that U.S. involvement in Central America was part of the underlying problem. They were open to the view that their government’s policies were contributing to the suffering in El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Guatemala because recruits had a sense of criticality, creating a willingness to consider the merits of an alternative analysis. Additionally, missionaries’ critiques of U.S. policy toward Central America resonated with the experience of recruits overseas. Stan described how international experience made him receptive to critical views of his government’s foreign policy: I was always active as a pastor in the community, with civil rights and that sort of thing. But I stopped short. I admired the Freedom Riders but didn’t have the courage to make that leap. I was still too acculturated. So I was an old-line liberal in that I was progressive up to a point but not radical. Then I went to Vietnam with the Mennonite Central Committee and became disillusioned with U.S. policy. I saw that it was really about systematically trying to get to the top of the heap and if other people had to pay the price, well that’s just too bad. I began to feel that the church should speak out on U.S. policy.52 Like many other recruits, Stan’s moral focus was honed toward international issues of peace and justice during his childhood. Combined with his cross-cultural experience and his sense of criticality, he was open to the missionaries’ message that Reagan’s foreign policy toward Central America was unjust and needed to be changed. The combination of these socialization influences and biographical experiences created a fertile soil for planting seeds of solidarity. In the next chapter, we will explore one of the specific recruitment tactics that missionaries used to bring these seeds to fruition.

94

CHAPTER 5

Martyr Stories

O

n a spring day in 1980, Archbishop Oscar Romero was celebrating mass in one of San Salvador’s churches. As usual, the sanctuary was full, since Romero was loved and highly regarded by the poor. Despite the numerous demands and administrative tasks associated with his position, Romero had taken time to listen to their stories of loved ones who had been kidnapped or assassinated by death squads. Since it was too dangerous for the poor to speak for themselves, he spoke out on their behalf. He publicly condemned the human rights abuses and called upon the wealthy to implement desperately needed social and economic reforms. His bravery brought many to the church that day, as the people gathered to draw inspiration from his courageous faith. They came to hear a message of hope in the midst of their suffering and poverty. They looked to him for a Christian response to the brutality that was destroying their nation. With so many people listening to his words that morning, Romero took the opportunity to address the army. During his homily, he called upon soldiers to follow their moral conscience and to stop the killing. Romero would soon pay the price for his direct challenge to the military. The following day, while conducting mass at a hospital chapel, the archbishop was shot. He collapsed to the floor, and within a few minutes was pronounced dead. This assassination profoundly affected Catholics in El Salvador, including the many foreign missionaries who were in the country as a result of the Vatican II mandate. Not only did it mark a turning point in El Salvador’s civil war, since it indicated that no one was safe from the violence, it also stirred deep emotions and raised questions about the meaning 95

convictions of the soul

of Christian faith. Although the purpose of this murder was to deter the church from getting involved in the nation’s political affairs, it had the opposite effect. Many missionaries and members of the popular church drew inspiration from the archbishop’s example; his death strengthened their resolve to work for El Salvador’s liberation. The story of Archbishop Romero spread throughout Central America and North America as missionaries used their networks to convey the events that had culminated in his murder. This narrative became a powerful recruitment tool as church workers returned to the United States and appealed to faith communities to join the effort to stop American support for the military regime that was responsible for the archbishop’s death. Jeff, the former seminarian who joined the Salvadoran guerrilla forces, explained why he told the archbishop’s story during international appeals for support: Personally, I can’t even begin to talk about the effect that Romero had—not only on Central America but the whole world. . . . Romero’s words were so powerful, prophetic, revolutionary. The greatest thing about El Salvador is the word got out and built solidarity like it’s never been organized before. . . . I was at a socialist conference in Cuba and people from all over the world were there. They were amazed at the level of solidarity that Central America has been able to gain, and it’s because we got in from the beginning. We worked very closely with people from other countries and people told the story. We didn’t rely on the New York Times to tell our stories. It’s been person to person, and that’s the best thing we’ve ever done.1 Although many narratives are told in movements, few have been as powerful and effective in building transnational solidarity. As Romero’s story spread across state borders, the archbishop was transformed into a movement icon. However, thousands of other Salvadorans were also killed by the military, including several priests, yet their deaths did not arouse the same degree of international outrage and solidarity. Precisely what was it about the archbishop’s story that was so engaging? Moreover, how did this narrative function as a recruitment tool, helping missionaries build a solidarity movement?2 To address these questions, we begin with a closer look at the archbishop’s life.

Archbishop Romero

W

hen Romero was appointed archbishop in 1977, El Salvador was deeply embroiled in civil war. The historical tension over class inequality and the shortage of land and social services for the poor fueled

96

martyr stories

the growth of popular organizations and revolutionary movements. Liberation theology was inspiring the working class and peasants to demand change, but it also created a hostile division between the church hierarchy—who felt that the popular church was too closely aligned with specific political interests—and those priests and nuns who worked with the poor. A series of military regimes held power, protecting the interests of the affluent Salvadoran oligarchy, which was adamantly opposed to abdicating its power and privilege. Consequently, the masses began protesting and the state heightened its level of repression in an effort to control the population. Abductions, torture, and assassinations became commonplace as the army aimed to create a climate of terror so that people would be too frightened to continue organizing. The liberation-oriented churches particularly suffered at the hands of the Salvadoran army and paramilitary death squads. Due to their successful formation of base Christian communities that empowered the poor, they were considered responsible for this new political awareness among the masses and the expansion of popular movements. Thus, clergy and lay people within the church were frequent targets of political violence. One of the first attacks on the church occurred in April 1970, when Father Jose´ Alas was kidnapped and beaten only hours after he presented the archdiocese’s statement in support of agrarian reform. Two years later, Father Nicolas Rodriguez was killed by the Salvadoran National Guard, and in 1975, Father Rafael Barahona was captured and tortured. A more severe wave of repression against the popular church started in 1977. Between February 21 and May 14 of that year, ten priests were exiled, eight were expelled, two were arrested and tortured, and two were assassinated.3 During this period, a notorious death squad called the White Warriors announced that the Jesuits, whom they considered particularly subversive, had thirty days to leave the country or they would be systematically murdered. When they refused to go into exile, the army bombed the Jesuit university in San Salvador multiple times and circulated anonymous pamphlets urging people, “Be a patriot! Kill a priest!”4 This was the context in which Romero began his tenure as archbishop. The church was divided, economic conditions—already abysmal— were further exacerbated by the civil war, and priests were being tortured and killed. Given the volatile circumstances, the choice to appoint Romero was a strategic move by the church hierarchy. He was considered quite conservative, emphasizing prayer and personal salvation, not social change. One priest described him as “churchy, a lover of rules and clerical discipline, a friend of liturgical laws [who] suffered from nervous tension . . . and showed signs of delicate health.”5 Romero was not expected to make any changes in the institutional church’s stance, nor did anyone anticipate that his health would withstand the pressures of the position. Nevertheless, he was respected by all as a man of honesty and integrity. The liberation-

97

convictions of the soul

oriented priests and nuns were hopeful this would make Romero open to the suffering of the people, but they were also skeptical, wondering if he would have the courage to denounce the repression against the church. Ultimately, the archbishop turned out to be much more than the popular church ever imagined. He not only became a staunch supporter of the poor but the “voice of the voiceless.” His transformation from a conservative, apolitical church leader to an outspoken advocate of economic and political change is often referred to as a conversion, a key theme in Christianity. Yet this conversion denotes a political transformation as much as a spiritual one. Jon Sobrino, a Jesuit in El Salvador, describes the change in Romero: Romero was altogether aware from the outset that he had been the candidate of the right. He had known the cajolery of the powerful from the start. . . . Thus not only were the powers cheated of their hopes for a nice, pliable ecclesiastical puppet, but the new archbishop was actually going to oppose them. In store for him . . . was the wrath of the mighty—the oligarchy, the government, the political parties, the army, the security forces, and later, the majority of his bishop brothers, various Vatican offices, and even the U.S. government. . . . Romero had in his favor a group of priests and nuns, and, especially, the hope of a whole people. . . . If Archbishop Romero set out on new paths, at his age [59], in his place at the pinnacle of the institution, and against such odds, then his conversion must have been very real.6

Most consider the assassination of Father Rutilio Grande as the pivotal event in the archbishop’s conversion. Grande had been active in the formation of base Christian communities and the training of lay leaders. As liberation theology inspired some of his parishioners to organize, he supported their initiatives. Father Grande also denounced the military abuses in his region and the rise of human rights violations. The army considered him so subversive that at one point, they occupied his church in the town of Aguilares, turning the sanctuary into barracks for soldiers. Romero held Grande in the highest regard and considered him a friend although he disapproved of his pastoral work, which he considered dangerously leftist. Three weeks after the archbishop’s inauguration, Father Grande was shot and killed by security forces on his way to mass. This opened Romero’s eyes to the violence inflicted on the popular church, which profoundly affected him, as he claimed that “[Father Grande’s murder] gave me the impetus to put into practice the principles of Vatican II and Medellı´n which call for solidarity with the suffering masses and the poor and encourage priests to live independent of the powers that be.”7 As the violence against the church increased that year, Romero was compelled to defend the progressive clergy and condemn military repression. He began visiting base Christian communities throughout the coun98

martyr stories

try, where people stood in line to tell him stories and show pictures of loved ones who had disappeared or been murdered by death squads. This led him to more emphatically denounce the violence. Moreover, he began addressing the inherent problems of the Salvadoran economic system and calling for wide-scale reform. During one interview, Romero dared to bluntly proclaim, “The situation of injustice is so bad that the faith itself has been perverted; the faith is being used to defend the financial interests of the oligarchy.”8 Soon thereafter, he directly confronted the wealthy and the military, asking them to deal with El Salvador’s social turmoil and put an end to the repression. He called upon soldiers to refuse orders to torture and kill. On March 23, 1980, Romero specifically addressed members of the armed forces in a homily that was transmitted throughout the country on his weekly radio address: Brothers, you belong to our people. You are killing your own brothers and sisters in the peasants. God’s law, which says “Thou shall not kill,” should prevail over any order given by a man. No soldier is obliged to obey an order against God’s law. No one has to carry out an immoral law. It is time to recover your conscience and obey it rather than orders given in sin. . . . In the name of God, and in the name of this long-suffering people whose cries rise more thunderously to heaven, I beg you, I order you, in the name of God: stop the repression!9

Romero had been transformed during his three-year tenure as archbishop. No longer was he considered the safe leader of the Salvadoran church. In fact, in the eyes of the military regime and its wealthy constituents, he was a serious problem. As a result of Romero’s option for the poor, he was labeled a subversive and began receiving death threats. When people suggested that he hire security guards, he refused, stating that he would accept the same risks that the Salvadoran people faced. He was keenly aware that he might be killed, but he continued to call for justice, knowing that his death would only strengthen the cause of the people. In the last interview he gave, just two weeks before he was murdered, he prophetically reflected: I have frequently been threatened with death. I must say that, as a Christian, I do not believe in death but in the resurrection. If they kill me, I shall rise again in the Salvadoran people. . . . If they manage to carry out their threats, I shall be offering my blood for the redemption and resurrection of El Salvador. Martyrdom is a grace from God that I do not believe that I have earned. But if God accepts the sacrifice of my life, then may my blood be the seed of liberty, and a sign of the hope that will soon become a reality. May my death . . . be for the liberation of my people. . . . You can tell them, if they succeed in killing me, that I pardon them and I bless 99

convictions of the soul

those who carry out the killing. But I wish they could realize that they are wasting their time. A bishop will die, but the church of God—the people—will never die.10

While the archbishop was conducting a memorial mass on March 24, 1980, an assassin killed Romero. Although his physical life ended, he was indeed resurrected in the Salvadoran struggle. His image and words were frequently recalled, eulogized, incorporated into songs, poems, and artwork, and his story was widely recounted in Latin America as well as in the United States.

The Assassination of Four North American Churchwomen

R

omero’s death ignited El Salvador’s popular church. Five thousand marched in his funeral procession, braving bombing and sniping. When the archbishop’s body was placed in the main cathedral for viewing, the people hung a banner over the church entrance, proclaiming that those bishops who had opposed Romero and supported the military regime were not welcome. The priests, nuns, and missionaries who had worked in the popular church kept vigil, guarding his casket day and night. Among them were two North American missionaries from Cleveland, Sister Dorothy Kazel and Jean Donovan.11 Dorothy Kazel had joined the Ursuline order in 1960 as a young woman. After spending many years as a teacher and guidance counselor in Catholic schools, she volunteered for a mission team in El Salvador that the Cleveland diocese formed in response to Pope John XXIII’s call for more church workers in Latin America. She arrived in El Salvador in 1974 and quickly got involved in a variety of pastoral tasks. The Cleveland team was committed to training the local population to take on leadership roles within the church and in their communities, so they offered weekend workshops that taught peasants how to lead discussions, speak in public, and prepare the sacraments. Like other missionaries, Kazel found that these trainings empowered the poor by raising their consciousness, providing an experience of democracy, and offering the opportunity to develop organizing skills. Several years later, Jean Donovan joined the Cleveland team and began working closely with Kazel. Donovan’s family had been surprised when she announced she was leaving her lucrative position at a major accounting firm to work in El Salvador. Since she enjoyed a fairly affluent lifestyle, they wondered how she would fare in conditions of austerity. Yet her interest in missions had been growing for years, stemming from an experience during a college study abroad program in Ireland where she participated in a Legion of Mary group. Led by a priest who had served in Peru, the group would gather weekly to discuss Third World poverty, 100

martyr stories

international relations, and Christian responsibility. This biographical experience deeply influenced Donovan, who began contemplating missions herself. After receiving a masters of business administration and working for several years, she visited Ireland again. She shared her thoughts with this former missionary, who encouraged her to pursue the possibility. Upon returning to Cleveland, she became active in the local diocese ministries, and a parish priest gave her information about their team in El Salvador. Convinced that it was precisely what she had been seeking, Donovan applied for a three-year term and departed in 1979, despite her family’s concerns about the political violence. Although the Cleveland team in El Salvador was keenly aware of the repression against the popular church, they had been somewhat isolated from it since they lived in a remote rural area. But soon after Romero’s murder, death squads visited their region, killing six young men and women and decapitating a 24-year-old catechist who had worked with the missionaries. The victims’ bodies were so mutilated that two were beyond recognition. A few weeks later, death squads struck again, killing three more catechists. Increasingly, Kazel and Donovan found themselves blessing and burying the corpses of those who had been active in their church communities. It was difficult to convince others to take their places, since catechists were automatically considered suspect by the army. Kazel—whose mission term was designated to end in a few months— chose to remain in El Salvador, since she did not want to abandon the people in her parish at this critical time. Even as the brutality against the church increased, missionaries continued to arrive in El Salvador. Only moments after Romero was shot, Maryknoll Sisters Ita Ford and Carla Piette stepped off the plane at San Salvador’s international airport. They had worked together in Chile for many years but requested a transfer to El Salvador in response to Romero’s plea for foreign church workers. They chose to reside in the war-torn northern province of Chalatenango, where a recent massacre left hundreds dead and the army’s scorched-earth land sweep campaigns forced many to flee their homes. The Maryknoll Sisters transported refugees to safer areas and brought in desperately needed supplies of food, clothing, and medicine. Kazel and Donovan often assisted with this refugee work, providing additional transportation and helping reunite family members who had been separated. Several months after they arrived, Ford and Piette were returning from a refugee camp when their jeep overturned in a flash flood. Piette pushed Ford out of a window, enabling her to escape the trapped vehicle, but Piette drowned. Stunned and devastated by the death of her close friend, Ford became adamant that she would continue the mission they had begun together despite the growing risks. Donovan, who had seriously contemplated returning to Cleveland, also decided to stay in honor of Piette’s memory. Kazel wrote to a friend in the United States, describing 101

convictions of the soul

how Carla Piette’s death had served as a “resurrection experience” that gave these three missionary women new resolve and commitment to El Salvador. Shortly thereafter, another Maryknoll Sister joined Ita Ford in Chalatenango. Maura Clarke was a veteran missionary who had spent fifteen years in Nicaragua. Beginning in 1959, she taught in a gold mining town where a small community of Maryknoll Sisters lived. Within a few years, the effects of the Vatican II Council led the nuns into a discussion of whether their work was simply a short-term remedy that did not address Nicaragua’s underlying social and economic problems. As the superior of this community, Clarke seriously contemplated the direction that they should take. Eventually she decided to shift their work toward closer interaction with the poor, the formation of base Christian communities, and more direct activism for social change. Like so many other missionaries, Clarke was transformed and radicalized by this experience. In 1976 she reluctantly returned to the United States and, like Grace, continued to work on behalf of Nicaraguans by using Freirean methods of concientizacio´n to educate North Americans about Central America. After a few years, she requested a reassignment to El Salvador in response to Romero’s plea for missionary assistance. She returned to Central America in the summer of 1980, and only one month after she arrived, Piette died. Clarke quickly stepped in to help Ford continue their refugee work. Given the degree of violence aimed at the popular church, all four women were acutely aware that their decision to work in El Salvador might result in death. Particularly in the province of Chalatenango, tensions between church workers and the army escalated as the military concentrated on cutting off civilian support for the revolutionary FMLN forces. One morning in the fall of 1980, they found a sign on the parish door. It had a picture of a bloody knife and a severed head, accompanied by the threat: “Everyone working here is a communist and anyone entering here will be killed.” Kazel, Donovan, Ford, and Clarke each faced the possibility of death and struggled to accept the risks involved in their work. Clarke, for instance, wrote to a fellow Maryknoll nun and a former colleague in Nicaragua: I am beginning to see death in a new way. We have been meditating a lot on death and the accepting of it, as in the Good Shepherd reading. There are so many deaths everywhere that it is incredible. It is an atmosphere of death. The work is really what Bishop Romero called “acompan˜amiento” [accompanying the people], as well as searching for ways to help. This seems what the Lord is asking of me, I think, at this moment.12

At a Maryknoll retreat in Nicaragua in late 1980, Ford revealed that she was also prepared to die. During a time of reflection, she told her colleagues that she had been meditating on one of Romero’s sermons. She 102

martyr stories

read to them the following excerpt from his homily: “Christ invites us not to fear persecution because, believe me, brothers and sisters, one who is committed to the poor must risk the same fate as the poor. And in El Salvador we know what the fate of the poor signifies: to disappear, to be tortured, to be captive and to be found dead.”13 This reading portended the fate of the four churchwomen. The very next day—December 2, 1980—Kazel and Donovan picked Ford and Clarke up from the airport as they returned from their retreat in Nicaragua. As they were heading home, the women were pulled over by security forces. They were forced out of their vehicle, raped, and murdered. Their bodies were tossed in a shallow grave along the side of the road. The impact of the deaths of Romero and the four North American churchwomen was not only felt in El Salvador but also throughout Central America and into the United States, where missionaries recounted the story. During their mission assignments, many had developed an admiration for Romero as a man of great faith, a champion of the poor, and a model of Christian action. Additionally, some missionaries knew the four churchwomen personally or had ties to them through their religious orders. Therefore, they were in a prime position to feel the effects of these murders, to access information about the martyrs, and to pass these stories along to the faith communities in which they worked. However, missionaries did more than simply report the facts of these religious murders; they helped their audience interpret them. Using their knowledge of the Latin American popular church, they drew attention to the parallels between the persecution and crucifixion of Jesus and the fate of these martyrs. In other words, missionaries creatively adapted the narrative of Christ to portray the contemporary Central American situation as part of the unfolding history of the Christian faith. They developed a theological interpretation of martyrdom that gave meaning to these deaths, explaining how such sacrifices ultimately bear fruit and fulfill the meaning of Christianity. This narrative became one of their recruitment tools as they sought to engage North American faith communities and educate them about Central America. Moreover, the martyr stories provided an opportunity to recast the cultural content of American Christianity, aligning it with the preferential option for the poor. The results were powerful, as an activist named Carl recalls: “Romero was killed in such a brutal, deliberate, transparent way. This reverberated shock waves throughout the faith community in this country. . . . And the killing of the four churchwomen in El Salvador had a very strong impact on me and really began to open my eyes. The fact is that once that happens, the organizing begins [because] you have to do something.”14

103

convictions of the soul

Functions of Martyr Narratives in the Central America Solidarity Movement

T

o develop a clearer understanding of how these stories encouraged some people of faith to take action, we need to take a closer look at the specific functions of these martyr narratives in the solidarity movement.

Tool to Engage and Educate Although the moral focus and biographical experiences of some North American Christians made them open to solidarity appeals, there were numerous conflicts in the world in the early 1980s and many groups were vying for international support. Moreover, most U.S. citizens had little awareness of the repressive conditions in El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Guatemala, and thus missionaries had to find a way to capture their attention. Once engaged, they could begin to educate this receptive group about the roots of these wars and the effects of U.S. policy in Central America. Missionaries, therefore, recounted the stories of Romero and the churchwomen when they had the opportunity to address church groups. From their own experience, they knew that these stories were compelling, particularly for people of faith. Church communities listened to these narratives and began to ask about the conditions that could lead to such heinous crimes. Sister Jean observed, “The death of the four American women in El Salvador was the hook for people to let them know that something was going on there. In some ways, it’s so unfortunate because there were 70,000 other Salvadorans who were killed, but that’s what got things started. Missionaries and others were going [to Central America] and coming back and talking about it.”15 Given the number of civil wars being fought during the 1980s, however, Central America could have been viewed as simply another sad situation by a North American audience inundated by almost daily news reports of atrocities throughout the world. Why were these particular stories so engaging? Why did the international community pay attention to these murders when the deaths of thousands of other Salvadorans evoked little reaction, as Jean notes? Although more comparative research is needed, these narratives suggest that stories with strong mobilizing potential possess several traits. First, effective narratives offer personalized accounts that humanize a conflict, thereby concretizing abstract issues and enabling the audience to experience the situation vicariously. These martyrs were more than faceless statistics, casualties of a distant war. Their stories painted a picture of real people who had aspirations and hopes, who struggled with the demands of their faith and the prospect of death, and who demonstrated courage and bravery in the face of danger. Just as “the concrete experience of Anne Frank conveys the meaning of the Holocaust in an 104

martyr stories

experiential mode that no amount of factual information on the six million Jewish victims of Nazi death camps can convey,”16 so too did Romero and the four martyred churchwomen powerfully and personally convey the situation of progressive Christians in El Salvador. Their stories demonstrated the devastating but real human costs of this civil war. Movement stories are also more likely to engage people and evoke the emotions of solidarity when they dramatically portray a situation with moral clarity. European and North American audiences may not make an emotional investment in a distant conflict unless there is a clear delineation of right and wrong. When there is a despicable villain who commits egregious offenses against innocent victims, bystanders can confidently give their support to those who suffer unjustly. If the situation has any moral ambiguity, however, the international community may be reluctant to get involved at all. David Stoll explains: Solidarity imagery is a desperate bid for the attention of foreigners who have little at stake but whose governments can have an impact. . . . If they perceive much ambiguity, such as a contest between equally sordid factions, the only response is a check to a relief agency, if that. What they are most likely to embrace is a well defined cause with moral credibility. . . . One of the simplifying functions of solidarity imagery is that it offers a single platform to support. . . . What happens without the illusion of a single platform is illustrated by Peru and Colombia. In Peru the Shining Path guerrillas made no effort to conceal their terrorism against non-combatants. . . . In Colombia the guerrillas split into murderous factions, undermining the claim to be a representative political force. As a result, North Americans who care about these countries have not had a single, plausible movement like the Sandinistas or the URNG [Guatemalan National Revolutionary Union] to support. Instead, they face many-sided conflicts between elected governments, social democratic oppositions, left-wing terrorists, right-wing terrorists, and drug mafia. Even though the death tolls in these countries have approached Central American levels, little has developed in the way of solidarity organizing to change U.S. policy.17

The story of these religious murders in El Salvador was effective, in part, because it simply yet vividly depicts a struggle of good against evil, in which unconscionable crimes are committed against virtuous individuals. The moral analysis was clear, and the calculated murder of these innocent victims generated outrage. Missionaries channeled this indignation into action by inviting people of faith to support the repressed Central American church’s struggle for liberation.18 In short, the narratives accentuated the blatant violation of ethical norms, thereby stirring powerful emotions that provided an incentive to act. This moral clarity can be heard 105

convictions of the soul

in Lucy’s words, as she described why she got involved in solidarity work: Part of the reason that people originally got involved with Central America was because of the atrocities, the lies, the brutality. The unspeakable agony was just so clear, so concrete. People were being butchered, decapitated, disemboweled—and then the lies about it were just too much. The lies about Central America were more pronounced and numerous and easy to uncover, compared to the lies about other regions of the world. So personally speaking, I became involved because I was heartsick, appalled, and angered by the unspeakable wrongness of it.19 Furthermore, many people derived a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment knowing that they were contributing to a redemptive struggle against injustice. Sister Jean recalled how the ethical clarity of the situation aided the movement, as people responded to the missionaries’ appeals: “The thing about Central America is that it was pretty clear who the bad guys were and who the good guys were and people like that. And I think there is a longing in the faith community to do something that one identifies as right, good, or generous. What people got out of Central America was the belief that they were acting—and they were—out of generosity, out of a sense of justice, of what was right.”20 However, not all narratives with moral clarity generate the type of emotional responses that Romero and the churchwomen’s stories did. To build a sense of solidarity that calls people to action, movement stories must also have likeable protagonists with whom the audience can identify.21 If stories are too far removed from the biographical experiences and cultural heritage of the audience, they will not connect with the heroes or sympathize with the victims.22 Romero, however, was both likeable and familiar to people of faith. Part of his appeal is likely due to the fact that he was very human and made mistakes, including his early misunderstanding of the liberation orientation of the popular church. And much like the audience hearing his story, the archbishop was initially unaware of the injustices and human rights abuses occurring in El Salvador but was willing to listen, learn, and allow God to transform him. In addition, he did not spout extremist ideological rhetoric; he was a man of deep faith and integrity, which called him into relationship with those who were suffering. Many U.S. Christians may not have been able to connect with the ideology of the Farabundo Martı´ National Liberation Front or with a Latin American revolutionary figure such as Che Guevara. Yet they could identify with Romero because in him “that which is Christian and that which is human is very present.”23 Romero’s story was also familiar to the progressive faith community because it closely parallels the life of Jesus, thereby resonating with their

106

martyr stories

cultural heritage. For example, both Christ and Romero were born into families of modest means who were not politically or socially prominent. Each man devoted his life to spiritual pursuits, giving up family, wealth, and security. Both stood up to the religious authorities of their times. Jesus challenged the hypocrisy of the Pharisees; Romero criticized the church hierarchy for collaborating with and condoning the actions of the Salvadoran army. Each called for radical social transformations. Christ interacted with Samaritans, who were ostracized by society, told the rich to sell their possessions, and overturned the tables of moneylenders in the market when their exorbitant interest rates oppressed the poor. Romero denounced the economic system that benefited a few while impoverishing the masses. These actions created enemies for both men. Each had an impending sense of his death but was willing to sacrifice his life for a greater cause and was able to forgive those who took his life. Although Jesus and Romero were assassinated, both were resurrected in the sense that their undeserving deaths amplified and spread their messages, which are still remembered today. The similarities between the two were so clear that, as one person put it, “the secret of Monsen˜or Romero is simply that he resembled Jesus.”24 The qualities of the narrators further determine the effectiveness of a narrative.25 Storytellers are not neutral voices who guide listeners through the plot. On the contrary, the audience’s view of the narrator can strongly influence the perceived authority and authenticity of the story. As described in chapter 3, the missionaries had a high degree of moral credibility, based on their social status as clergy and church workers. Yet they also had acquired authority, or “empirical credibility,”26 as a result of living among the poor of Central America for many years, where they witnessed firsthand the climate of violence against the church. Additionally, many of these missionaries were clergy or lay people who held positions in church organizations. Thus, they were considered trusted insiders and representatives of the church. All of these factors contributed to the audience’s belief that the martyr stories were credible and to their willingness to accept the missionaries’ interpretation of these events. Finally, the storytelling context is important as well. Romero and the churchwomen’s stories were strengthened by the fact that they were often told in churches, during worship services or other congregational activities. The physical setting underscored the similarity between Romero and Christ, as the audience sat surrounded by artifacts and images that reflect the narrative of Christianity and its central beliefs and values. The martyr stories may also have been perceived as having implicit institutional endorsement and therefore representing a morally correct view. Aldon Morris observes that “people’s attitudes are heavily shaped by . . . such institutions as schools and churches, whose primary purpose is to interpret social reality and make moral pronouncements regarding the ‘right’ relationship for

107

convictions of the soul

people with the world around them.”27 A movement story told in a religious setting, therefore, may carry greater weight than the same story told in a bar or workplace.

Politicizing Christian Themes Romero’s life captured the attention of people of faith in the United States because it vividly depicted a clear moral struggle and it resonated with their Christian heritage. Yet these martyr stories also gave missionaries a strategic opportunity to use their cultural knowledge of the church to recast the meaning of well-known Christian themes in order to elicit solidarity with Central America. These narratives were a means of imparting a new understanding of faith and politics as missionaries creatively transformed the cultural schema of Christianity to equate the gospel with a commitment to the liberation of the poor. Consider how missionaries used these martyr stories to offer a new understanding of conversion. This familiar Christian concept takes on political connotations as it is extended beyond the traditional notion of spiritual transformation or religious awakening. This is particularly evident in the account of Romero’s “conversion to the poor.” Recall that at the time of his appointment, Archbishop Romero was considered apolitical; the Catholic hierarchy believed that he would keep the church out of the intense political conflict brewing in El Salvador by focusing exclusively on spiritual matters. But as his priests were murdered, he began to address the country’s social problems. Romero opened his heart to the poor and the oppressed, allowing himself to be transformed by them. Eventually, he changed his opinion on the role of the church in society. He became convinced that the church must be politically engaged by taking a preferential option for the poor and working for their liberation. Toward the end of his life, he stated this emphatically: “This is the commitment of being a Christian: to follow Christ in his incarnation. If Christ, the God of majesty, became a lowly human and lived with the poor and even died on a cross like a slave, our Christian faith should also be lived in the same way. The Christian who does not want to live this commitment of solidarity with the poor is not worthy to be called Christian.”28 Similarly, the four churchwomen also experienced this type of transformation. Before accepting their mission assignments in Central America, they had not espoused radical or leftist ideological views. Donovan was even known as a staunch Republican who found anti-Vietnam war protests abhorrent and had vehemently defended President Richard Nixon after the Watergate scandal.29 Their decision to work in El Salvador, therefore, was not a reflection of their politics but rather of their faith and willingness to follow God’s calling. As they worked in the popular church, they too were converted. Their stories invite other North American Christians to open their hearts to the poor of Central America, allowing 108

martyr stories

themselves to be changed in the process. Through these narratives, missionaries were imparting the lesson that a Christian conversion is not only spiritual but political. Lucy commented on the effect of these martyr stories: The witness of the martyrs—the four North American churchwomen and Romero—was so compelling. They were living out their love and following Jesus in ways that knowingly led them to their death. The church in El Salvador believed that it was to serve the poor and they knew it was deadly to do so, but they carried on. So those of us in the church in this country, seeing that, could not help but learn from them and be deepened in our own faith.30

Constructing a Collective Identity As missionaries narrated the stories of the martyrs, providing a particular political interpretation of these events, they brought the theological and social views of North and Central American faith communities into alignment. They highlighted the common beliefs and values that U.S. Christians share with the members of Central America’s popular church, such as compassion for the oppressed, a concern for social justice, and a belief in the power of conversion. They emphasized that the life of Jesus provides a model that all Christians seek to follow, and they captured how well Romero, as the head of the popular church, emulated him. As North Americans became aware of these similarities, a feeling of peoplehood was fostered, a collective identity or sense of “we-ness.” As Father Paul said, “We connected to Central America because of our common Christian faith. There was a theological and spiritual dimension to it. They were our ‘lesser brothers and sisters,’ if you will, in Matthew 25.”31 The martyr narratives further contributed to a transnational collective Christian identity by placing North and Central Americans on the same side in a redemptive struggle against a common opponent. Romero and the four North American churchwomen had all spoken out on behalf of the Salvadoran poor despite the military’s threats. The army, in turn, showed no distinction in their treatment of the martyrs, who—regardless of their nationality and background—met the same fate. Consequently, as Christians in both regions were outraged by these murders, they saw themselves as allies in a joint struggle, even though they often fought on different battlefields. They were all resisting the repressive military regimes responsible for these assassinations as well as the U.S. government that supported them. Thus, the martyrs functioned as a symbol that, in David Stoll’s words, resolves painful contradictions by transcending them with a healing image. . . . For white, middle class audiences, icons such as Rigo109

convictions of the soul

berta [Menchu´], Martin Luther King Jr., and Nelson Mandela bridge the gap between privilege and its opposite. They create identity by pointing to a common enemy—the Guatemalan army, segregation, apartheid—against which privileged and unprivileged can be on the same side. Such images . . . are probably necessary to pull together any [solidarity] movement. (Emphasis added)32

This transnational collective identity was particularly important given the ethnic, class, cultural, linguistic, and ideological differences that could have potentially become divisive. Most U.S. solidarity activists, for instance, were white and middle class while the majority of Central American Christians were poor and indigenous or ladino. One faith community enjoyed the privileges of living in an affluent society with basic rights and freedoms while the other did not. Furthermore, U.S. Christians were citizens of a country that was perpetuating the violence against the Central American church. Outwardly, these groups had little in common, and the Reagan administration actively discouraged any empathy between them, accusing the popular church of posing a threat to U.S. national security.33 Yet their shared faith was the basis of a collective identity that was strong enough to transcend these differences.34 As Jeff put it, “Faith takes away any borders.”35

A Model of Action Movement stories also offer a model of action, as the narrative’s heroes reveal methods of exercising agency that the audience can emulate.36 For many North Americans, the four churchwomen set a powerful and compelling example of a Christian response to the conflicts in Central America. Like the audience, Kazel, Donovan, Ford, and Clarke could have used their U.S. citizenship to distance themselves from the repression and violence in the region. Each of the women contemplated leaving El Salvador but ultimately chose to continue living and working with the poor, accompanying them in their struggle for justice. Like Romero and Christ, they were willing to sacrifice their lives for the liberation of others. Their example inspired others to do the same. Carl, who later worked for the Pledge of Resistance campaign, described how he did not know how to respond to the Central American conflict until a friend suggested following in the churchwomen’s footsteps: Back in December 1980, the four churchwomen in El Salvador had been killed. I was not at all involved in any kind of activism but I remember sitting with a friend and saying, “What can we do?” She replied, “Of course what we need to do is get hundreds of people to go to El Salvador to take their places, to share the same risk.” I was so impressed with that vision, of

110

martyr stories

breaking the rules of war and assuming those same kinds of consequences. . . . So all of this was washing up on our shores— sort of like the Word coming from Palestine to Rome and converting Rome.37 Many North Americans did follow the example of the churchwomen, as thousands traveled to Central America. Some volunteers accompanied church leaders, human rights workers, and union organizers whose lives were threatened by the military and death squads in El Salvador and Guatemala. Witness for Peace placed North Americans in the war zones of Nicaragua to deter Contra attacks. Another solidarity organization, Nicaragua Exchange, sent U.S. citizens to assist with agricultural work when the Contras disrupted the country’s economy by attacking those areas where export crops were grown. Romero also set an example for U.S. citizens by speaking out on behalf of those who were silenced by the repression in Central America. He used his position and influence to bring the social and political troubles of El Salvador into the public eye and to challenge government leaders. This, he noted, was the rightful responsibility of the church and its members. Couched in religious language, Romero’s words resonated with the values and moral priorities of those North American Christians who, based on their biographical experiences, were open to solidarity appeals. Romero said: The church is concerned about the rights of people. . . . and life that is at risk. . . . The church is concerned about those who cannot speak, those who suffer, those who are tortured, those who are silenced. This is not getting involved in politics. But when politics begin to “touch the altar,” the church has the right to speak. Let this be clear: when the church preaches social justice, equality, and the dignity of those who suffer and are assaulted, this is not subversion; this is not Marxism. This is the authentic teaching of the church.38

Father Roy Bourgeois, a Maryknoll priest and former missionary, underscored the influence of the archbishop’s example. He noted that “Romero said it best when he said that we who have a voice must speak for the voiceless. Those of us who live in the U.S. can speak without fear of being disappeared or tortured or assassinated and therefore we have a responsibility to do so.”39 Many were willing to act as a “voice for the voiceless,” but Romero was clear that they should not use their freedom of speech to call for the backing of a particular political party in El Salvador, nor did he ask them to advocate the implementation of a specific economic system. Rather, he argued that the poor should be allowed to determine their own future,

111

convictions of the soul

to reconstruct the social order to reflect the interests and needs of their own population. To do so, however, they needed basic rights and the freedom to organize and protest. Carl noted: One of the things that strikes me so much about Romero is that not only is he the bearer of the prophetic word, he’s also intuitively aware of what the conditions must be for justice to happen. So he didn’t just say people have the right to bread. He said people have the right to organize, to freely march and communicate with others. That’s what got him killed. He was actually supporting and approving and championing people’s right to organize and to express themselves.40 For Romero, the role of First World Christians is not to “fix” the conflict in Central America but simply to accompany the poor in their struggle. They should use their voices to challenge those, such as the U.S. government, who perpetuate the system of violence that limits the freedoms of the Latin American poor. Mary elaborated on this notion of accompaniment: Accompaniment is the essence of the way that I understand solidarity. Poor people in these countries are trying to organize, and Romero said that what we can do is to accompany them. We can either do it directly, as some people do by going and living there, or we can get involved in organizing delegations so that others have the chance to learn about the situation and get involved in the type of accompaniment that entails political work here in the U.S. The concept means not telling them [i.e., the poor] what to do, not determining their agenda, but just walking with them as they try to open space for these changes.41

Emotional and Moral Resources Although Romero and the four churchwomen offer a model of action for U.S. Christians, following their example is not easy. It requires a willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice and the ability to overcome the fear of death. Narratives can help activists access the moral resources needed to cope with anxiety, and stories often offer a message of hope that provides courage and motivation.42 Many solidarity activists drew moral inspiration from the Christian theme of resurrection in these martyr stories. As with the concept of conversion, missionaries and church workers recast the traditional meaning of resurrection, extending it beyond Christ’s physical resuscitation after the crucifixion. In the Central American context, resurrection came to denote the belief that people’s lives may be taken away but their desire for justice 112

martyr stories

cannot. On the contrary, an unjust death actually strengthens the struggle for liberation. Father Grande’s work did not cease when he was killed; it was carried on by Archbishop Romero, who was transformed by Grande’s death. Romero also articulated the political implications of this concept when he said, “I do not believe in death but in the resurrection. If they kill me, I shall rise again in the Salvadoran people. . . . If they manage to carry out their threats, I shall be offering my blood for the redemption and resurrection of El Salvador.”43 Similarly, Sister Carla Piette’s death infused her colleagues with a new resolve to accompany the Salvadoran people. The assassination of the four churchwomen, in turn, inspired others to a greater commitment to the Central American poor. Although their lives ended, their message did not. Just as the crucifixion and resurrection of Christ offers new life to humanity, these martyrs gave new life to the struggle for justice. As Mary reflected: The story of what leads people to give their lives for others is the essence of the gospel story. In that sense, the stories . . . of Maryknoll Sisters Maura Clarke, Ita Ford, and Carla Piette are a profound expression of that gospel for our time. Their witness, and that of Dorothy Kazel and Jean Donovan, these wonderful women who came from us and in martyrdom are given back to us, are repositories of hope, a fierce and active hope pointing the way to how this world, this suffering, this martyrdom in El Salvador will be transformed into redemption for our world. They show us the meaning of incarnation by having incarnated their faith, their hope, in that moment, that reality, in El Salvador. By doing so, they also show us what it means to incarnate our faith and hope at this time in our world. They join us together in the long struggle for liberation with the people of El Salvador, Nicaragua, Chile, and all the poor of our world.44 This politicized notion of resurrection helped activists cope with the fears involved in high-risk solidarity work. This was not due to a belief that they would receive a reward in heaven for their efforts. Rather, this alternative understanding of resurrection offered the promise that potential sacrifices would not be in vain but would further the cause of the people, ultimately contributing to their liberation. Jeff described how this belief, combined with Romero’s example, enabled him to continue working and fighting in El Salvador, even though he knew he might die in the process: At the end of his life, Romero knows he’s going to be killed and yet he doesn’t stop saying what he’s been saying. Right before he dies he says to the rich, “Take off your ring before they come for your hand.” And I thought, if we have this promise 113

convictions of the soul

[of resurrection], if we really believe it, then why are we afraid to die? . . . So the blood of the martyrs has never gone in vain because what draws people to Central America is that there is a great hope. Even with the deaths, there is hope in the fact that people have chosen to organize and fight with a very real faith that they will be delivered. . . . And it’s that faith that got me through the gindas [fleeing into the mountains during bombing raids]. It was awful. We’d be in the mountains for days and days and days. There were 500-pound bombs and mortars going off, white phosphorous. No water, no food. You didn’t know what was going to happen, but somehow you knew that you’d be okay, . . . that the outcome would be towards victory, because that’s the promise. There was never any doubt there.45 Those who were willing to sacrifice everything for the liberation of Central America found that their lives became more meaningful as they acted on their convictions. Their faith had new vitality, resulting in a deep sense of fulfillment. Stan, for example, was a pastor for many years before working with Witness for Peace. He experienced a new level of spiritual and moral satisfaction through his solidarity work in Nicaragua’s war zones: I was willing to die and I was very serious about it. I was prepared to give my life for the Nicaraguan people and to oppose what our country was doing. I didn’t want to die and I’m not masochistic, but I felt that deeply about this matter. . . . The land mines were what I really feared most, not the Contras shooting me. I remember driving and talking about people we knew who had been killed on that road. Once we saw a pickup truck burned to smithereens. They had cleared the bodies away but you could see a hole in the road and the remains of the truck. We picked up pieces of backpacks and toothbrushes. We knew it could have been us killed on that road. But it felt good to live that way, even though it was scary and risky and costly. I felt like I was a good human being, that I was doing the best that I could at that particular moment. If you read the gospels, you know that Jesus says that those who seek to save their lives are going to lose them and if you lose your life for his sake, you’ll find it. I think that’s what it’s about. It was a conversion experience.46

Conclusion

R

ecounting the stories of Archbishop Romero and the four martyred churchwomen was a compelling way for missionaries to engage the progressive faith community in the United States. Yet these narratives were 114

martyr stories

more than merely an attention-getting mechanism; they also served several key functions in drawing people into the solidarity movement and inspiring them to act on their convictions. First, the stories provided missionaries with a powerful tool for educating their audiences about Central America’s socioeconomic and political troubles. Second, the martyr narratives offered missionaries an opportunity to transform the cultural beliefs and practices of the church by politicizing familiar Christian themes to elicit solidarity and support for the movement. Third, these stories accentuated the common beliefs and values that progressive Christians in North and Central America share and placed them on the same side against a common opponent. This fostered a transnational collective identity that transcends class, race, and national and cultural differences. Fourth, the martyr narratives provided a model of action, teaching the audience how to exercise their agency to alleviate suffering and establish justice in the region. Finally, the stories provided emotional and moral resources that gave people the courage and motivation to embark on risky forms of activism. An agency-centered cultural approach to movements recognizes that organizers operate in particular historical moments. As political events unfold, activists can use these opportunities to increase their leverage against the state but also to reach potential recruits. In the Central America solidarity movement, missionaries turned the murders of Archbishop Romero and the churchwomen into a powerful movement narrative that drew international attention to El Salvador, Guatemala, and Nicaragua. In the process of telling these martyr stories, missionaries also had the occasion to politicize the meaning of conversion and resurrection, bringing it into alignment with the theology of Central America’s popular church. As a result, a strong collective identity was forged. Thus historical events, such as the rise of violence against the church in El Salvador, can create cultural opportunities for agents to transform a group’s beliefs, values, identity, and sense of purpose. Not all historical and political events make compelling narratives. Although personalized stories may humanize a social issue more effectively than a news report, they will still fail to arouse much response if they are too far removed from the experience or cultural heritage of the audience. Thus, the most effective stories are those that reflect the culture of the institutions that the targeted population cherishes most. The deaths of Romero and the churchwomen were powerful because they symbolically mirror Christ’s sacrifice. Consequently, these stories reflect the very essence of Christianity and the deeper meaning of faith.

115

CHAPTER 6

Making Politics Personal

T

he transnational nature of the Central America solidarity movement required missionaries to find a way to make the region’s civil wars visible and relevant to North Americans, who were geographically removed from El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Guatemala. By recounting the stories of Romero and the four churchwomen, missionaries put a human face to these conflicts and appealed to a collective Christian identity. Many people of faith responded to their call for solidarity. Jeff noted, “The martyrdom of the North American churchwomen touched such a chord in everybody that people were ready to go to El Salvador. People said, ‘I’ll step up to the line; I will go.’ ”1 Solidarity leaders built on this sentiment, recruiting people for educational tours and delegations that brought U.S. citizens to Central America for a few weeks. Simultaneously, face-to-face interaction between North Americans and Central Americans was occurring in the United States as hundreds of thousands of Guatemalans and Salvadorans were fleeing the violence in their homelands and seeking asylum in the United States. These direct encounters personalized the issues of American foreign policy, thereby solidifying and strengthening recruits’ commitment to the movement. Father Paul explained: It was individual contact with people that compelled many solidarity activists. They were very much in touch with the pain of Juan and Maria Lopez. Jean Donovan talked about that. She said that she thought about leaving El Salvador because it was so dangerous, but then she saw the children and she didn’t have 116

making politics personal

it in her to leave them. And those children have names. . . . That’s why the American churchwomen stayed in El Salvador. They knew the pain; they knew the people. Romero, the Jesuits, all of them. They knew the poor, and that brought them to the point where they were willing to sacrifice everything.2 Direct contact with Central Americans exposed solidarity recruits to the pain and suffering of the people, as Father Paul described. These encounters also evoked an array of feelings that provided a powerful motivating impulse. In this chapter, I will examine the emotions that arose as a result of this interpersonal interaction and how these experiences enhanced the agency of solidarity recruits.

Solidarity Trips to Central America

I

n honor of Donovan, Kazel, Ford, and Clarke, the first short-term Witness for Peace delegation arrived in Nicaragua on December 2, 1983—the third anniversary of the churchwomen’s assassination. As described in chapter 3, Witness for Peace sent long-term volunteers to Nicaragua’s war zones to deter Contra attacks and organized short-term trips designed to radicalize mainstream American Christians by exposing them to the human consequences of U.S. foreign policy. Through effective public relations work, that first short-term delegation received significant media coverage; every major newspaper in the country covered the story and live footage aired on NBC’s Today show. Moreover, trip participants were deeply moved by their experience in Nicaragua, where they had witnessed a thriving popular church, developed an emotional connection to the people, and directly observed the impact of the Contra war. Upon returning to the United States, these delegates spoke passionately about their trip with friends and church members, and the number of delegations rapidly increased to a rate of four trips per month.3 Eventually, thousands traveled to Nicaragua and Guatemala on short-term Witness for Peace delegations.4 Shortly after Witness for Peace began, other groups started organizing trips to Central America as well. Among these was Nicaragua Exchange, which originated in response to an international emergency call issued by the Nicaraguan government in November 1983 for assistance with its coffee harvest. Violently disrupting agricultural harvests was part of the Contra strategy to undermine the economic infrastructure of the country in order to generate social discontent with the Sandinista government’s inability to improve the quality of life. Coffee, a staple export crop and the foundation of Nicaragua’s international trade, was a key target. In fact, Contra attacks on coffee plantations cost the government $1 billion in losses during the first three years of the war.5 Foreign harvesters were 117

convictions of the soul

needed precisely because many local workers had either been killed or scared off by these attacks, or had been drafted into military service. Subsequently, the National Network in Solidarity with the Nicaraguan People formed the organization Nicaragua Exchange to implement harvest brigades. Between 1983 and 1987, nearly 1,500 North Americans participated in brigades, which typically lasted between two weeks and one month.6 Like Witness for Peace delegates, the U.S. “brigadistas” lived with peasants in the countryside. They spent their days working in the fields, picking coffee and cotton alongside Nicaraguans. This vividly exposed participants to the realities of daily life in rural Central America. A brigadista described the setting: ˜ ata are still very primitive. There is Living conditions at Punta N no indoor plumbing, no hot water, no running water. . . . Animals still roam the dusty streets and walkways. Many of the children and field workers are without shoes. There are no manufactured toys. Cooking is done over wood fires in steel drums outside cramped living quarters. Washing is done in sinks near a cistern that is filled daily with water brought in by truck. Needless to say, many members of our brigade experienced some culture shock. They weren’t used to sleeping on stone floors in sleeping bags or . . . washing with a cup of water at a time, when it was available. Nor were most of us used to a diet of rice, beans, and tortillas every day.7 North American brigadistas also became aware of the dangers posed by the Contra war. One of the earliest brigades arrived in Nicaragua in February 1984. Members of the group decided to call themselves the Maura Clarke Brigade, taking the name of one of the martyred churchwomen. They were assigned to work on a couple of small farms in the northwestern region of the country. During their first day of harvesting, they witnessed two bombing raids that killed four people, injured eleven members of the “People’s Militia,” and destroyed a radio communications center. Due to these incidents, the brigadistas were often escorted into the fields by armed guards. A woman recalled the atmosphere: The reality of war became more tangible as we reached the coffee farm. We were up in the mountains, not far from the Honduran border. There are four outposts surrounding the farm, and guards circulate twenty-four hours a day. . . . Many [of the guards] are just kids, quite a few are women. All have guns slung across their backs. And, to add to the open sight of arms, there was the sound of fighting in the distance”8

Although the brigades were designed to express solidarity with Nicaraguans by offering labor assistance, the laborers themselves were often changed in the process. The brigades immersed North Americans into Nicaraguan life, enabling brigadistas to experience the effects of the civil 118

making politics personal

war and poverty. One man said, “The thing that made this trip so intense was that there was no escaping it. Either physically or emotionally, there was no place to hide. You couldn’t put down the book, shut off the T.V., or go to your hotel room—you had to deal with it. If you tried not to see it, you smelled it. If not smelling it, you heard it. I had to deal with how living in this place made me feel. The importance of the brigades is just that—it makes you confront.”9 In addition to Witness for Peace and Nicaragua Exchange, there were many other groups who organized educational trips and travel seminars to Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala. The Center for Global Education sponsored between twenty-five and forty trips each year.10 Although they developed itineraries that gave participants a range of views on Central American politics, their travel seminars were designed to expose U.S. citizens to the experiences of the poor. Global Exchange, a human rights organization based in San Francisco, also offered similar travel programs that aimed to build people-to-people ties between North Americans and Central Americans. These groups, combined with many smaller organizations, led tens of thousands of U.S. citizens to Central America during the 1980s.

The Emotions of Solidarity Trips Solidarity trips to Central America were not only educational but also highly emotional. Those who participated in agricultural brigades, Witness for Peace delegations, or travel seminars felt an array of feelings from outrage to compassion, joy, and hope. Until recently, collective action scholars have not given much attention to emotions. Due to the influence of structural models—and in reaction against the classical model’s portrayal of activists as emotionally manipulated—many studies depict activists as rational calculators who dispassionately assess the costs and benefits of various types of action. The cultural turn, however, has brought renewed interest in the affective dynamics of social movements.11 This approach has also shifted attention away from older views of feelings as visceral somatic responses to environmental stimuli toward the perspective that emotions are culturally constructed. Constructionists propose that people are taught social rules that define which feelings are typical and appropriate in a given context. Such feeling rules are evident in statements such as “You ought to be grateful after all I’ve done for you” or “You should be ashamed of yourself.”12 The cultural perspective also emphasizes that emotions are linked to cognitions because affective states arise in response to an event or information. Yet how this information is interpreted determines the type of emotional reaction one experiences. For instance, if someone is killed in a car accident, people feel sad. If they discover that the automobile manufacturer had knowledge of a faulty construction design that 119

convictions of the soul

contributed to the accident but had done nothing to correct this problem, then the public’s reaction is likely to be outrage. Finally, “emotions are tied to moral values, often arising from perceived infractions of moral rules.”13 A cultural approach to the emotional dynamics of collective action, therefore, examines the connections between affect, cognitions, moral norms, and social practices. From this constructionist perspective, we can see how organizers evoke and stir emotions in order to garner support for their goals. Movement leaders can foster solidarity by accentuating the cognitive beliefs and values that one group shares with another since we often feel affection and an affinity toward like-minded people. Activists can generate anger by revealing information that violates moral norms or by framing an event as a breach of ethical standards. Indignation is even more likely, according to William Gamson, when organizers can point to a specific target—such as an individual, group, or organization—who is responsible for these moral infractions.14 Movement leaders may also establish cultural practices that allow people to express feelings that can be channeled into activism. For instance, feminist groups have encouraged women to acknowledge their sadness, guilt, or anger. These emotions can then be redefined as appropriate reactions to oppressive conditions, becoming a motivation for protest.15 Even though such emotions may be intentionally elicited by organizers, this does not imply that recruits’ feelings are disingenuous. It simply means that leaders can create conditions that enable people to experience and express authentic emotions, which may lead to resistance. Solidarity trips to Central America evoked numerous emotions that inspired and sustained political activism. One of the strongest motivating emotions was anger. This arose, in part, from a cognitive realization that the information the Reagan administration was disseminating about the region was inaccurate. As discussed in chapter 4, President Reagan frequently spoke about Central America, portraying the Nicaraguan Contras as freedom fighters who were courageously resisting the tyranny of the Sandinistas, and the military regimes in El Salvador and Guatemala as fledgling democracies struggling to protect religious and political freedoms against communist threats. Yet when U.S. citizens traveled around Central America, they often witnessed something quite different. As they visited the war zones of Nicaragua, where many noncombatants—such as farmers, teachers, and health care workers—were wounded or killed in Contra attacks, it was difficult to view the Contras as the moral equivalent of the U.S. founding fathers. Similarly, when North Americans met with Salvadorans and Guatemalans who spoke of church catechists being abducted and tortured, and human rights workers and political dissidents being assassinated, they could not believe that these countries had democratic governments. After attending vibrant church services in Nicaragua, they simply could not accept Reagan’s assertion that the Sandinistas had created a totalitarian state that had no respect for religious freedom. One woman 120

making politics personal

commented on the contradiction between Reagan’s views and the people she met in Nicaragua: “Now as I read about the ‘totalitarian Sandinista regime,’ I see and feel the trusting eyes of the children in El Carmen, the surge of warmth as the Peace was exchanged in a Catholic church, and the unwavering spirit of the people as they opened their hearts and lives to us.”16 After observing the situation firsthand, many trip participants concluded that their government was, at best, misinformed and, at worst, lying.17 They were indignant that the president was intentionally distorting the situation in Central America to further his own agenda. Lisa, who led many short-term Witness for Peace delegations, explained: Ronald Reagan made such a big deal about Nicaragua so the press picked up on it, and it wasn’t hard to prove him wrong. It wasn’t hard to go down there and see that he was lying outright. We didn’t even have to point it out to people. We just took them down there and they could look around and see it wasn’t a “totalitarian dungeon.” I think Reagan generated a lot of his own opposition. He was such an onerous demagogue and a liar on issues of Nicaragua. . . . We owe him a lot for the strength of the movement [because] his rhetoric was just so infuriating.18 Although Lisa notes that the contradictions were so evident that people could conclude on their own that Reagan was lying, the missionaries nevertheless played an important role in confirming this interpretation. Ben commented: Nicaragua became the prime foreign policy obsession of the Reagan people, and it was close enough that loads of people could go there and see for themselves. Ninety-nine percent of them came back disillusioned with the Reagan stance. Much of that was because there were long-term contacts. Missionaries played an important role in the sense that people who went there for a week or two would test their perceptions with them. So eventually, by the tens of thousands, they came back with a different analysis and truly believed that our government was lying. . . . We knew our government was lying, and exposing that became a noble task.19 President Reagan’s misrepresentation of Central America evoked anger, but so did the human suffering that recruits observed during solidarity trips. This was especially acute among brigadistas and Witness for Peace delegates who lived with Nicaraguan peasants. Through this immersion into Nicaraguan life, they became aware of how dramatically lives were affected by the Contra war. They observed that children did not have sufficient clothing or decent housing. They met people who had lost limbs 121

convictions of the soul

from land mines. They heard stories of civilians killed while picking coffee. Contra aid was no longer just a partisan debate in Washington, D.C. Trip participants were now aware that these legislative decisions would, to a great degree, determine whether the civil war continued or not. If the aid packages were approved, the fighting would persist and the Sandinistas would be forced to divert resources into defense expenditures rather than using them for schools, health care, and other social services. Direct contact with Central Americans made these political issues highly personal, as one man noted: “How can it not make your politics a personal issue when Nicaragua takes on the shape of little boys and girls, or the campesinos [peasants] who are up before you in the morning and the last ones in at the end of the day? The connection between whether some of these people will ever have enough warm clothes to wear and the Contra aid bill is suddenly quite clear.”20 Trip participants were indignant at the needless suffering they witnessed and, as Gamson points out, this anger was a powerful impetus to protest since the U.S. government provided a clear target to blame. Yet protest did not only arise from having someone to hold responsible for these injustices; it also developed from personal ties with the victims. For activists who traveled to Central America, those affected by U.S.sponsored wars were no longer faceless masses. These were real individuals with whom they had developed relationships. By making this political issue personal, recruits’ outrage increased and they felt a greater urgency to act. For instance, a Presbyterian leader who participated in a Witness for Peace delegation felt compelled to challenge Reagan’s policies after he returned from Nicaragua and heard that someone he knew had been killed. Before committing civil disobedience on the steps of Congress in an effort to persuade representatives to vote against Contra aid, he read a statement to the crowd that had gathered. His comments reveal the personal relationship that motivated his act of protest: I dare say that no one [here] . . . has ever heard of Justo Herrera. That is the real name of a poor peasant in Nicaragua, a subsistence farmer with a wife and three children. I lived in his home for a week last November. Justo was a proud man, a quiet man. But on a Saturday his tongue was loosened with a few beers and he backed me in a corner with a volley of vociferous Spanish. I could understand enough to get the drift. Why was the U.S. government trying to kill him and his children? Why were they paying remnants of the Somoza guard to wage war on his poor village? Why was it routine to find the mutilated bodies of school teachers, health care workers, agricultural experts—everyone who was trying to help him in his poverty? I learned later that Justo was . . . killed by my tax dollars, killed by the order of the President with the approval

122

making politics personal

of Congress. Justo’s death places on me an obligation, more urgent than ever, to deliver his message to my government. (Emphasis added)21

Some U.S. citizens who traveled to Central America also felt shame, guilt, and sadness over the repression and human rights abuses that they witnessed. They recognized that their government was contributing to these moral infractions by arming and funding the Nicaraguan Contras and the military regimes in El Salvador and Guatemala with American tax dollars. While guilt and sadness can foster protest, they can also be debilitating to a movement if they lead to resignation. As Grace noted, “Sometimes when we get a lot of information, it’s too much. And if we don’t know what to do about the problem we tend to close down because it’s depressing. Unless someone tells you what you can do about it, it just makes you feel bad.”22 Organizers, therefore, must help recruits process this information and transform emotions in a constructive manner that facilitates political action. The first step toward that end is to get people to discuss their feelings. Grace described how this was accomplished during Witness for Peace delegations: When we’re on a delegation, we reflect and do debriefing everyevening. We share what we’ve learned and we ask people, “How are you feeling?” We try to encourage people to express themselves, to open up to others, to not push their emotions down. . . . That’s difficult in our culture, especially for men. So we bring all those feelings right up to the surface and talk about them. If the session is done well, people open up. Some would cry, and you let them know it’s okay. In Latin America, people cry and express their emotions and hug one another. That’s a real liberating thing. I’ve had people tell me that they were socialized to leave their emotions in a box. . . . So you are getting them to ask questions and talk about what they are learning and feeling.23 In part, trip leaders instituted this practice of debriefing to provide a context in which they could establish new “feeling rules.” They encouraged trip participants to adopt the emotional norms of Latin America, where affect is more openly expressed. Then as recruits discussed the emotions that the trip was stirring in them, organizers had an opportunity to convert potentially incapacitating feelings into politically productive ones. When trip participants spoke of guilt, leaders encouraged them to transform this into a sense of responsibility to change U.S. policies. Many Central Americans did the same, extending forgiveness—which assuages guilt and shame—while asking people to work to stop the U.S. financial and military support that was fueling these wars. Mary recalled the power of these personal appeals:

123

convictions of the soul

I remember the first time I went to Nicaragua, in 1983. The Contra war was heating up, but a lot of the ideals of the revolution were still very much a part of the people. The first day we were there, we went right from the airport to this church because there was going to be this religious service, a mass, in a barrio of Managua that had been very active in the revolution. It was a funeral mass, a memorial mass, because a number of people had gone to fight the Contras and a number of them had been killed. I’ll never forget it. When we got there, the mass had just started and we walked up the steps of this church, packed with people. One of the priests at the church knew the priest who was leading our delegation, and he saw us come in. So, at the time of the Our Father, he invited us all to come up. We held hands and we said the Our Father, with Mothers of the Heroes and Martyrs whose kids had either been killed in the revolution or the Contra war. Some of the kids were there from the war front, still wearing their khakis. During the sign of peace, all these people were embracing us. For a lot of us North Americans, this was an incredible experience. The Nicaraguans said to us, “Your country is doing these terrible things but we know it’s not you. We forgive you and we love you. But please go back and tell what is happening to us.”24 Anger, combined with a sense of urgency and personal responsibility, compelled many to resist Reagan’s foreign policy. Yet protest was also driven by feelings of affection and solidarity with the people of Central America. For some, these sentiments emerged from a shared Christian identity. As Mary described, jointly participating in religious worship and rituals highlighted their common faith, beliefs, and values, thereby fostering mutual fondness. The emotional strength of this collective identity, however, often developed from personal contact. The affective bonds forged through face-to-face interactions between North Americans and Central Americans provided a strong motivation to act on the other’s behalf. Stan described how the emotional attachment he felt with Nicaraguans led him to protest: I happen to be an only child, and on that Witness for Peace trip, for the first time I really felt what it’s like to have a brother or a sister. It was such a strong bond of solidarity. I remember meeting with the Mothers of Heroes and Martyrs. They showed us pictures of their sons, and we stood together in a circle, crying and hugging one another. I recall saying to these mothers, “I want you to know your sons didn’t die in vain. We’ll go back and be their voice.”25

124

making politics personal

Brigade participants also had a lot of interpersonal interaction with Nicaraguans. They spent their days together on the coffee farms and their evenings cooking, dancing, sharing stories, and giving language lessons. Under these conditions, friendships blossomed quickly. The fondness and solidarity that resulted from these relationships is evident in the words of a brigadista who, during the flight back to the United States, wrote about her experience: As I close my eyes for a few minutes and think about what Nicaragua means to me, I’m squeezing out tears. . . . I remember the faces of the young women as they welcomed me to the new Nicaragua. I remember the first time Marlon and Mercedes descended on me from out of nowhere, asking first if I spoke Spanish and secondly if I had any books in English for them. The sounds of hands slapping tortillas at dawn and the crowing of roosters. Dipping my red and black bandana into the cistern several times a day to squeeze cool water over my head and sweaty face. I remember holding hands with Maria Elena as we delightedly faced the power of Pacific ocean waves, the outstretched hands of young men, dancing on a Saturday night. I think of the single tangerine that four of us shared and how fortunate we felt. The bag of M&Ms that was so precious, but not really as precious as the woman who was sharing them. I recall Virginia braiding my hair, English/Spanish classes outside the school house in the evenings. The poverty of the campesinos; the dirty, barefoot, smiling children; the one-room shacks which housed families; and what the revolution has meant for them. I remember being tired and dirty and full of peace. The plane drops now, descending on Miami. The Nicaraguan men on the plane are yelling, “Sandino vive!” and “Patria libre o morir!” Oh Nica, I know I’ll return.26

In addition to this solidarity with the people of Central America, many trip participants drew hope from their struggle for liberation. This was particularly true for those who traveled to Nicaragua and vicariously experienced life in a revolutionary society. Although it was physically challenging, and at times uncomfortable and dangerous, it was nevertheless exhilarating as people began to believe that the world could, in fact, be changed. Nicaragua came to represent the hope that the poor could overcome the powerful and mighty, creating a real alternative to the systems of the competing superpowers. It was a place where the people had triumphed over a ruthless dictator, where the masses had input into their government, where faith was made concrete. Neil commented, “There was a powerful sense of hope, especially in the early years. It was such a dramatically different experience to arrive in a place where the government of Nicaragua actually reflected the interests of the majority of people

125

convictions of the soul

who were poor and struggling for a different future. I had never had that experience in this country. I had never voted for a candidate out of conviction. . . . There was a great hope in Nicaragua that drew lots of people.”27 This hope deepened the commitment of recruits to the solidarity movement because they wanted to protect and preserve this revolutionary experiment, giving it a chance to succeed without interference from the United States. Many recruits also found moral satisfaction in Central America. For some, this was derived from experiencing a spirituality that had clear social and political repercussions. Grace observed that “people were so moved by a church that was living the gospel.”28 Father Paul also noted, “For people of faith, there was a theological explosion of their understanding of life in God. It was a wonderful opening up of their eyes to what Christianity is really all about. They gained a new understanding of faith because there was something really tangible in the Central American church, a real spiritual energy.”29 Thus, while anger resulted from the violation of moral norms in Central America, meaning was found in seeing people work to materialize their moral vision of social justice. Neil recalled: I remember hearing Fernando Cardenal speak, who was the minister of education and instrumental in the literacy crusade in Nicaragua. He said, “I really worry about my country because I think we’re asking our young people to do too much.” Essentially, they were the ones doing the vaccination campaign. They were the ones picking the coffee, and they were ones dying in the Contra war. But then he said, “I worry a lot more about young people in your country because you don’t ask them to do anything. You don’t give them a vision of life beyond themselves.” I think that part of what we felt in Central America was a vision of life beyond ourselves. Many of us were energized by that.30

Effects on Agency Delegates and brigadistas returned to the United States with outrage, hope, strong feelings of solidarity, a new understanding of faith, and a personal responsibility to change U.S. policy. According to the leaders of Nicaragua Exchange and Witness for Peace, most participants did subsequently get involved in solidarity work, and these trips enhanced their agency in several key ways. Like the missionaries, these individuals returned with eyewitness accounts that granted them a degree of authority. One brigadista reported, “I am energized to do solidarity work here at home, and I feel more confident, armed with personal stories like ‘Maria from the kitchen at the farm I picked coffee at told me . . . ’ ”31 Moreover, they were trusted 126

making politics personal

by their families, friends, and church communities, to whom they recounted these experiences, and thus their stories were considered credible. Dorothy noted the effect, as thousands who traveled to Central America returned home to share their insights and convictions: I spent a thousand dollars to go to Nicaragua, to stay in the countryside, where I met and talked with people. Then I came back to my small town in Maine and people here know me. So I told them exactly what’s going on down there, what I’ve seen with my own eyes, and it becomes more real to them. And they trust me more than what they read in newspapers and they start to realize, more and more, that the government is lying about Central America. . . . So thousands of people were doing this. We had a friend who worked in the State Department at the time who, with his wife, had been traveling around in all kinds of little towns throughout the U.S. He told us he couldn’t understand before why this movement was so strong. Yet in every single town they went to, at some bookstore, or on a corner or a bulletin board somewhere, there was an announcement of an event with someone who had been to Nicaragua, or someone who was coming to speak on El Salvador. He said it was everywhere, everywhere.32 Agency was also strengthened by the fact that Witness for Peace and Nicaragua Exchange organizers capitalized on the emotions evoked by these trips, providing guidance for translating convictions into action upon returning to the United States. Nicaragua Exchange, for example, produced the Brigadista Action Guide, which offered ideas for making community presentations and engaging in media campaigns. Witness for Peace required delegates to attend pre-trip training sessions that were partly aimed at getting people involved in solidarity work after the delegation ended. Lisa described this training: The strategy we used was that we got people from all over the country, with a mission to go to learn and then come back and be part of the resistance to U.S. policy. That model has been highly effective because people were really motivated. They were willing to come back and be active, and we trained people for it during the delegation training. There were three things we asked them to do. First, speak to your community, your church. Show them slides, tell them about your experiences, write a letter to your friends and family, tell everybody you know. Second, do media work. You could write a letter to the editor, but also let your local newspaper know what you’re doing. We sent them materials to go by, saying here’s how you do media work. Third, we asked them to do congressional 127

convictions of the soul

work to change U.S. policy. It was amazing. I knew they were very active because people would send me their articles and [there were so many that] after a couple months, I stopped collecting all of them. . . . And to multiply that news story hundreds and even thousands of times in towns and cities around the country, it began to have an effect. It counteracted the New York Times and the Washington Post that ran stories favorable to the Contras.33 Finally, solidarity trips instilled an emotional energy that motivated and sustained activism. The hope and determination that travelers encountered in Central America inspired people to live up to their own moral commitment to fight for justice. One man noted: Part of the reason I wanted to go on the brigade was I’ve been real burned out, disillusioned, hopeless this last year. But after seeing the odds those people are up against, how can I not keep fighting as hard as I can as long as I can? It feels so good to have that good energy inside me again. . . . I just feel amazingly positive, and I am hungry to know as much as I can about the country and the situation there so I can spread what I know, especially about the human spirit of the Nicaraguans. I feel much more alive now.34

Central American Refugees and the Sanctuary Movement

A

s people traveled to Central America, personal encounters were simultaneously occurring in the United States as refugees from the region entered the country in search of asylum. The effect on this side of the border was no less powerful, which is evident in the history of the sanctuary movement.35 Sanctuary work, which was part of the broader solidarity movement, began in May 1981 when a Quaker named Jim Dudley stopped to pick up a hitchhiker near the Arizona-Mexico border. The two men struck up a conversation as they drove toward Tucson, where Dudley was going to return the van to his friend and fellow Quaker, Jim Corbett. The hitchhiker introduced himself as Nelson and stated that he was from El Salvador. They continued talking until they were pulled over by the U.S. Border Patrol, who arrested the Salvadoran hitchhiker and interrogated Dudley. The officers accused Dudley of aiding an illegal refugee and violating immigration laws. They eventually released him, but not the hitchhiker, and he continued on to Corbett’s home, confused and concerned about the whole incident. Dudley recounted the story to Jim Corbett and his wife, revealing that Nelson had desperately pleaded with him to deny his Salvadoran nationality and to tell the arresting officers that they were traveling together on a work-related trip. Dudley did not do so but wondered 128

making politics personal

whether he had made the right decision. He was aware of human rights abuses in El Salvador. Only six months earlier, the four churchwomen had been murdered, and it had been about a year since Romero was killed. There were reports that deported Salvadorans were often arrested or killed upon their return, since the military regime assumed that they had fled the country because they were engaged in subversive activities. These Quakers were troubled as they sat contemplating the young hitchhiker’s fate. Dudley returned home that evening, but Corbett tossed and turned all night, thinking about this Salvadoran man. He was so disturbed by the whole incident that he got up early the next morning and contacted a local immigration rights organization. There he met a priest who had worked with refugees for many years, and he informed Corbett that the hitchhiker could not be deported if he signed a G-28 form, designating legal council. Once filed, this G-28 required the Immigration and Naturalization Services (INS) to contact the refugee’s lawyer before taking any action. Determined to follow this advice, Corbett called the Border Patrol and the INS offices to find out where Nelson was being held, but he was told this information could not be released. By chance, Corbett shared the same name as a well-known former mayor of Tucson, and he used this to his advantage, authoritatively demanding to know the whereabouts of the man in question. Believing that he was the mayor, government officials told him that Nelson was in a jail near the border. Corbett set off to get the hitchhiker’s signature. When he finally reached Nelson, he found him in a cell with two other Salvadoran refugees who recounted horrific stories of repression and torture. Convinced that all three would be in danger if deported, Corbett filed the hitchhiker’s G-28 and then went back to the Border Patrol to get forms for the others. When he returned, he was told he would have to wait to see the prisoners again. Time passed and Corbett grew increasingly impatient, knowing he needed to file the paperwork with the INS by the end of the day. Eventually he repeated his request to see them but was told that the Salvadorans he inquired about had already been moved by the Border Patrol. Corbett was furious. He felt that the prison officials had deliberately misled him, stalling for time to move Nelson and the other Salvadorans. Rather than discouraging him, however, this incident made him more determined to find the hitchhiker. A few weeks later, he went to Los Angeles to search for Nelson at a regional INS detention center. One of the inmates there informed him that the young hitchhiker had already been sent back to El Salvador. Corbett knew that this deportation was illegal, since he had filed the G-28 on Nelson’s behalf. The INS had broken the law, violated the rights of this refugee, and potentially sealed his death warrant by expediting the deportation process. Returning to Tucson, Corbett devoted himself to helping other Central American refugees. He used his own assets to bail out other Salva129

convictions of the soul

dorans while their applications for asylum were under review, and brought them home to live on his property. Over time, the costs continued to rise, the demand for assistance never ended, and the Corbetts’ resources were drained. Subsequently, Jim Corbett began writing to Quaker meetings all over the country, explaining the refugees’ needs and appealing for assistance. He spoke of his frustration with the immigration system, noting the deceptive practices that he experienced but also the discrimination that Central Americans faced when they followed the asylum application procedures. Although the Refugee Act of 1980 argued that anyone with a “well-founded fear of persecution based on race, religion, nationality, membership in a particular social group or political opinion” had the right to apply for asylum, data collected from 1983 to 1986 reveal that U.S. courts granted it in a biased manner. For instance, only 0.9 percent of Guatemalans and 2.6 percent of Salvadorans were given amnesty. These numbers stand in stark contrast to the percentage of Iranians (over 60 percent), Eastern Europeans (32–51 percent) and Afghanis (38 percent) who received asylum during the same period.36 The U.S. courts proclaimed that these Central Americans were primarily economic, not political, refugees who entered the country in search of a better standard of living. Critics, however, argued that the American government found it embarrassing to publicly acknowledge that Guatemalans and Salvadorans were the victims of political repression and human rights abuses while it was sending massive funding to these regimes. Thus, in the letter to his fellow Quakers, Corbett mentioned the possibility that someday extralegal measures might be needed to truly keep these refugees safe. That day came several weeks later when Corbett accompanied three Salvadorans to the INS office to apply for asylum. Although he was fairly certain their applications would be rejected, he hoped that it would buy them enough time to remain in the United States until the war in El Salvador ended. By now, Corbett knew the routine. The refugees would submit the proper paperwork and be released under the custody of a local minister to await their court appearance. But on this particular day, the routine changed. Instead of releasing the asylum applicants, they were arrested under orders of the State Department. Corbett realized that he could no longer work within the system. Playing by the rules meant that he was handing refugees over to authorities, who eventually deported them after an unfair hearing. Therefore, he decided to use his knowledge of the local terrain, which he developed over the years as a goat farmer, to smuggle people across the border. He loaded them into the back of his 1961 Chevy truck, and the Border Patrol did not bother him since he looked like many of the local ranchers transporting his field workers to or from a job. In reality, Corbett was bringing them to the homes of friends throughout the Tucson area. The volume of people fleeing Guatemala and El Salvador during this 130

making politics personal

time was enormous. Some analysts estimated that between 500,000 and 750,000 Central Americans crossed the U.S. border each year in the early 1980s.37 As the number of people Corbett assisted expanded, he was unable to find housing for everyone. So he approached the pastor of a local Presbyterian church, John Fife,38 and inquired whether some of the refugees could stay at his church. Fife had already been contemplating this possibility but was aware that he could be prosecuted for aiding and abetting undocumented individuals. His moral convictions eventually transcended concerns for his own safety, and he brought the issue to the elders of the congregation, who voted overwhelmingly to offer shelter to the refugees. Within weeks, the church was actively helping Corbett transport people across the border. After a month, the INS learned that the church was involved in this operation; Fife called a meeting to discuss their options. They could stop assisting Corbett and refuse shelter to these Central Americans, they could wait to be arrested, or they could stay a step ahead of the State Department by publicly announcing why they felt compelled to violate immigration laws. They chose the last option. On March 24, 1982—the second anniversary of Archbishop Romero’s assassination—members of the Southside Presbyterian Church of Tucson held a news conference to announce that they were proclaiming themselves a sanctuary. They framed their actions as consistent with biblical teachings that state, “If a stranger lives in your land, do not molest him. You must count him as one of your own countrymen. Love him as yourself, for you were once strangers, in the land of Egypt” (Leviticus 19:33– 34). In the Hebrew tradition of designating safe havens for those fleeing violence, Fife read a press statement denouncing the policies and practices of the INS as illegal and immoral. He revealed that members of his church had been violating the law for months because their conscience and their Christian faith required them to protect those whom the government would not. “We will not cease to extend the sanctuary of the church to undocumented people from Central America,” he said. “Obedience to God requires this of us.”39 Afterwards, roughly two hundred people gathered to worship at Southside Presbyterian. Pastor Fife faced the congregation and said: On an occasion such as today, those of us who’ve worked long and hard tend to get a little self-righteous about what we’ve done and the contribution we might have made. God puts that all in perspective. Behind our cross are small crosses on the wall with a few names on them. They are the names of priests and pastors and religious women who have died in service of their God in El Salvador. Compared to Archbishop Romero, compared to those faithful priests and women, we have done nothing to deserve any credit at all. . . . Let us, as God’s forgiven people, vow more and more to live by grace and be God’s faithful people.40 131

convictions of the soul

News of the Tucson sanctuary declaration evoked a strong and rapid response from faith communities throughout the country. Within weeks, Southside Presbyterian received dozens of inquiries from churches, synagogues, and Quaker meetings who wanted to follow suit. The Tucson group was so overwhelmed with requests for information and offers for assistance that they simply could not manage it all, in addition to their work at the border. Thus, Corbett asked the Chicago Religious Task Force on Central America—formed in response to the murders of the four churchwomen—to coordinate sanctuary efforts that were beginning to resemble a new underground railroad. Corbett was inspired by the idea of a network of people who would transport refugees from the border regions to churches and synagogues throughout the country that would shelter them. Under the leadership of those in Chicago, this vision soon became a reality. Within one year, thirty religious communities had publicly declared themselves sanctuaries, most announcing their decision on March 24, the anniversary of Romero’s death, or December 2, the anniversary of the churchwomen’s assassinations. By 1984, the number of sanctuaries expanded to 3,000, with the network extending into thirty-four states.41 The illegal nature of sanctuary work prevents a precise count, but some have estimated that 70,000 North Americans and 2,000–3,000 Central American refugees were involved in the movement.42 Although sanctuary work in Tucson originated as a humanitarian response to Central Americans crossing the border, the Chicago group soon recognized the potential these refugees had to educate people throughout the country on the effects of U.S. foreign policy. As they transported refugees to their final destination, sanctuary activists stopped at churches and synagogues along the way where the Central Americans told personal stories of repression at the hands of U.S.-sponsored regimes. Eventually, this practice caused a serious rift between the Tucson sanctuary workers, who saw their efforts as a humanitarian grassroots resettlement initiative, and the Chicago team, which wanted the movement to primarily assist “politically useful” refugees who could provide a critical analysis that would foster a national protest movement. Despite the tensions that ensued over this difference, the encounters between communities of faith and sanctuary refugees were powerful. Interaction with Central American refugees evoked the same emotional reactions that solidarity trip participants experienced abroad. In Neil’s words, “Without traveling to Central America, a lot of people became activists because of refugee stories that they heard. These were people who gave firsthand accounts of the repression, of why they were fleeing. The stories came here, we didn’t even have to go to the stories.”43 When refugees spoke of death squads, torture, and assassination in their homeland, many church members were outraged. They also felt compassion for these refugees sitting before them, who had suffered so much, as well as

132

making politics personal

a sense of responsibility, because their stories revealed that U.S. support for the Salvadoran and Guatemalan regimes was contributing to these moral infractions. Carl recalled his affective response to this information: Here were people in our churches and living rooms, telling us about what it means to see your brother killed or your mother raped. I became aware of this cognitive dissonance as we wondered, why is our government sending all this money to a place where people were being slaughtered? Why are we doing that? Then they [i.e., sanctuary organizers] turned the proclamation even more, saying, “I want you to search your heart and do what you need to do” . . . We had to do something.44 As Carl’s comments indicate, the emotional power of refugee stories created an opportunity for recruitment, as sanctuary workers encouraged people to channel their feelings into action. Although the primary purpose of these encounters was to educate faith communities and draw them into solidarity work through refugee stories, sanctuary workers often ended up telling their own stories as well. Many church members wanted to know why the movement was circumventing legal routes to protect the refugees. This required activists to explain asylum laws and the biases that worked against Central Americans. By putting a spotlight on refugees’ legal plight, they revealed the contradiction between the U.S. government’s official asylum policy and its treatment of Salvadorans and Guatemalans. Much like the inconsistencies that brigadistas and delegation participants saw between Reagan’s portrayal of Central America and the situation that they observed firsthand, this asylum information fostered an awareness of the injustices of U.S. immigration policies. Mary explained: The sanctuary movement was ingenious because with the network of churches that developed through the underground railroad, you had refugees that were moving into communities all around the United States and telling their stories. These were compelling stories, and that did two things. First, it gave people a human face to the reality in Central America, to this foreign policy debate that was going on in Washington. But it also taught people something about their own government, because in the face of these compelling stories we were told that our government said they had no right to be here. So people began learning about asylum laws. You ended up with a lot of white, middle-class folks—some of them quite conservative and Republican—who saw the injustice of the situation. They saw that we actually have laws that should have allowed these people to stay, but they weren’t allowed to stay. That became the

133

convictions of the soul

basis of a tremendous amount of activism, and a lot of people that met refugees ended up going to Central America because of that experience.45 Sanctuary refugees also fostered a sense of urgency and immediacy by putting names and faces to the thousands of people whose lives had been disrupted by Central America’s civil wars. They embodied the human consequences of U.S. policies and were living reminders that the suffering and violence was likely to persist as long as U.S. support for the military regimes in Guatemala and El Salvador continued. This motivated many people to act because, through the refugees, they came to see the situation as literally a matter of life and death. Rebecca described the sense of urgency that was generated through sanctuary stories, leading her to prioritize solidarity activism over other types of issues: Through these stories, we became aware that people were being murdered. It’s horrible how people are dehumanized here. People get spiritually impoverished. People drink themselves to death. That’s tragic; that’s a loss of life. But they’re not being murdered in cold blood. In this struggle, the stakes were so high and lives were in the balance so dramatically. So you feel compelled to work in an intervention way. If you saw a fire, you’d run to put it out. If people were in the building and it’s going to collapse, you think, well, that’s what I’ve got to attend to first. True, this old dilapidated house needs work, but not like the house on fire.46 Personal encounters can indeed be powerful. The sanctuary movement, which eventually involved thousands, began with one man who could not put the fate of a Salvadoran hitchhiker out of his mind. That single relationship, as tenuous and fleeting as it was, made Jim Corbett aware of the plight of these refugees and gave him a personal obligation to do whatever he could to help other Central Americans. As more Salvadorans and Guatemalans crossed the Arizona-Mexico border, Corbett’s friends and colleagues assisted him and they, too, were moved by these refugees’ stories. The effect reverberated outward, in expanding concentric circles, until a nationwide underground railroad was created. Even individuals who were already active in the solidarity movement, such as Carolyn, found that their commitment was strengthened through these personal interactions with sanctuary refugees. She recalled: There was a highly publicized refugee caravan that went through Chicago to Vermont with a Guatemalan family. As it turned out . . . [I] transported the family. So here I am, driving this van as I’m hearing this family’s story repeated for miles and miles and thousands of miles on this trip. It was those kinds of experiences that really cemented my conviction, hearing those 134

making politics personal

stories on a very personal level and having faces that will never be erased from my memory. There is no substitute for that. So at that point, it was, okay, I need to respond to this in a bigger way.47 Eventually, some paid the price for their commitment to these refugees and their willingness to defy immigration laws and the asylum system. In 1984, the INS arrested several sanctuary workers in Texas and charged them with transporting undocumented refugees. Over the next months, more charges were added and others were arrested. The following year, sixteen members of the Arizona sanctuary effort were indicted, including Jim Corbett and John Fife. As these individuals were prosecuted and served their sentences, the movement continued. Faith communities throughout the United States were inspired by these individuals who were living up to their moral commitments by following the gospel mandate of loving one’s neighbor. When it comes to matters of the soul, repressive acts often lose their power.

Conclusion

A

n important part of movement organizing is eliciting emotions and channeling this affective energy into political action. Yet emotion work can be challenging when the movement is addressing an international conflict from which recruits are geographically removed. Under these conditions, movement leaders must find a way to personalize distant issues. In the Central America solidarity movement, organizers used several techniques to personalize the politics of U.S. foreign policy. One means of evoking emotions was to give people firsthand experience by taking them to Central America. In the course of their travels, participants recognized that President Reagan’s depiction of these nations contradicted their own observations, and most concluded that the president was lying. This made many indignant and exposure to the suffering caused by these U.S.-sponsored wars further compounded their anger. Outrage was only part of the equation, though. Solidarity activism was also motivated by feelings of hope and affection that developed as U.S. citizens worshipped, worked, and lived with Central Americans during their trips. Through this face-to-face interaction, the human consequences of U.S. foreign policy became clear and activists’ commitment solidified. One brigidista underscored this point: The brigade experience, within the context of a political experience, is also a very personal one. The smell of the rain on the coffee trees, the weight of a full sack of coffee, the laughter, the tears, falling asleep at 8 o’clock, dirty and dead tired but satisfied with a day’s work, the faces, the stories. All of this stays with you 135

convictions of the soul

long after that last good-bye. Now there is a connection with the Nicaraguan struggle, the very life of the people there, that lives strong and sure in my heart.48

Solidarity leaders organized person-to-person encounters between North Americans and Central Americans on U.S. soil as well. Through the sanctuary movement, activists brought Salvadoran and Guatemalan refugees to faith communities throughout the country, where they told their personal stories, recounting the violence and repression that caused them to flee. These refugees embodied the suffering caused by U.S. policy. They evoked sympathy for the victims as well as outrage against the U.S. government’s support for these military regimes, and sanctuary workers encouraged people to channel their feelings into political protest. The refugee accounts were so compelling that many did respond. Even an inmate serving a life sentence in New Jersey’s Rahway State Prison was so moved by a television report of a Guatemalan family’s story that he organized a prison work crew to repair defective toys for refugee children.49 Undoubtedly, many people learned about campaigns such as Witness for Peace or heard the stories of Central American refugees because of their connection to progressive church networks. Hence, organizational ties are key to the recruitment process, but these ties only explain the flow of information to potential activists, not their emotional, moral, and intellectual response. We can only understand why sanctuary workers reacted to the plight of Salvadoran and Guatemalan refugees with a willingness to take them in, placing their own well-being in jeopardy, when we explore the cognitive, affective, and moral effects of these personal encounters. Similarly, it would be difficult to explain why thousands of U.S. Christians engaged in physically demanding labor in the middle of war zones, sleeping on dirt floors in villages with no running water, unless we understand their deepest convictions and most cherished beliefs. Without this emphasis on emotions, values, and moral commitments, we will not fully comprehend why people act on the information they receive and why they are willing to risk their lives for a cause.

136

CHAPTER 7

Rituals and Emotional Rejuvenation

D

irect contact with Central Americans and the example of the martyrs generated a great deal of protest toward the Reagan administration throughout the 1980s. For example, a group of religious leaders formed the Pledge of Resistance, a national network of citizens committed to resisting any U.S. acts of aggression toward Central America. Roughly 75,000 individuals signed this pledge, and regional coordinators set up elaborate phone trees that rapidly activated protesters across the nation. Veterans for Peace organized a blockade outside the Concord Naval Weapons Station, where armaments were loaded and shipped to El Salvador. They called their campaign the Nuremberg Action, referring to citizens’ ethical and legal responsibility to stop nations from committing crimes against humanity. Other organizations, such as the Central America Working Group, concentrated their efforts on lobbying, while some gathered material aid or embarked upon educational campaigns.1 One particularly innovative action was developed by Father Roy Bourgeois,2 a Maryknoll priest who had served as a missionary in Bolivia. Following the assassination of Romero and the churchwomen, Father Bourgeois was angered to discover that the United States still financed, equipped, and trained the Salvadoran army even though it was implicated in these religious murders. He was further startled to find that much of this training occurred in the United States at the School of the Americas in Fort Benning, Georgia, at the expense of American taxpayers. To draw attention to this issue and honor the martyrs’ memory, Father Bourgeois and two friends went to Fort Benning and purchased uniforms at one of the local military stores. Impersonating officers, they gained access to the 137

convictions of the soul

base. They waited until nightfall and then, using a map of the compound, they located the building where the Salvadoran officers were housed. Father Bourgeois climbed a tree outside the barracks, with a portable stereo strapped to him that he used to project a recording of Archbishop Romero’s final homily. He describes what happened next: “We waited until the last lights went out and then we said, ‘Bishop Romero, this one’s for you, brother!’ This was a powerful boom box and it just boomed into their barracks.”3 The Salvadoran soldiers awoke to Romero’s voice proclaiming, “No soldier is obliged to obey an order against God’s law. No one has to carry out an immoral law. It is time to recover your conscience and obey it rather than orders given in sin. In the name of God, and in the name of this long-suffering people whose cries rise more thunderously to heaven, I beg you, I order you: stop the repression!”4 Although Father Bourgeois was arrested, convicted, and sentenced to over a year in prison, his action revealed the connection between the U.S.-based School of the Americas and the human rights abuses in El Salvador. Yet after nearly a decade of protest, the solidarity movement began to subside in the late 1980s. Political Process scholars argue that collective action wanes as political opportunities close and challengers sense that the state is no longer vulnerable, thereby minimizing their chances of winning concessions. A number of events marked the closing of such opportunities for the solidarity movement.5 First, in August 1987, the presidents of the five Central American nations signed a peace accord that called for an end to military aid from foreign nations and the promotion of political negotiation, dialogue, cease-fires, and amnesty programs. The Esquipulas Accord, as it was called, led many activists to believe that peace would soon be achieved in the region. Second, President Reagan left office in January 1989. Although his successor, George H. W. Bush, had supported his efforts to oust the Sandinistas and reinforce the military regimes in Guatemala and El Salvador, Bush was not as vehement about the issue. In fact, he actively downplayed Central American foreign policy after observing the political havoc it wreaked on Reagan’s presidency. Thus, just as Reagan’s preoccupation with Central America had stoked the movement, Bush’s low profile approach subdued it.6 The final blows to the movement came in the early 1990s. In February 1990, the Sandinista party was voted out of power in Nicaragua. Although some argue that the election primarily reflected the desire of Nicaraguans to end the Contra war, which was causing severe social and economic hardship, many solidarity activists in the United States perceived this as revolutionary capitulation. Ben and Dorothy, who gather material aid for Nicaragua, described the immediate effect that this electoral outcome had on their organization: “At our peak, we had a mailing list of 37,500. After the election, it dropped to about 15,000. It was partly because a lot of progressive people lost heart and were angry with the Sandinistas for blowing what looked like a safe election.”7 Mary concurred, 138

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

noting that the revolutionary hope that Nicaragua represented quickly turned to disillusionment: Unfortunately, the movement subsided because a lot of the energy was rooted in the hope for change for the better. People really believed in these revolutionary processes, especially in Nicaragua where they actually had a chance in the first years after the revolution. Yet as those revolutionary processes began to be defeated, when the Sandinistas were voted out of office, it was a real kick in the teeth. . . . For a lot of people, for whom Nicaragua was their symbol of hope, they became very disheartened and very disillusioned.8 Finally, other world events—namely, the start of the Gulf War and the collapse of the Soviet Union—initiated a shift in the U.S. population’s focus.9 Even as movements subside, there often remains a cadre of activists who continue to organize.10 However, they face the difficult challenge of maintaining commitment to the movement when the momentum of collective action has slowed and the overall sentiment is that protest is no longer necessary or effective. Despite unfavorable conditions and the perceived lack of political opportunities in the early 1990s, Father Bourgeois successfully launched a campaign that kept solidarity activism alive, albeit on a more limited scale. Part of his success reflects his strategic use of the cultural resources of Christianity to rejuvenate the moral outrage and solidarity that fueled the movement throughout the 1980s. Another significant factor is that he chose an accessible target for action: the School of the Americas in Georgia, where he had been arrested several years earlier.

The School of the Americas

I

nitially established as the U.S. Army Training Center, the School of the Americas (SOA) began in 1946 in Panama. Under President Kennedy’s Alliance for Progress, the center was renamed and reorganized around Cold War concerns.11 The U.S. army began training Latin American militaries in the tactics of counterinsurgency warfare to strengthen their efforts to defeat internal leftist uprisings. By 1984, the School of the Americas had moved to Fort Benning, Georgia, due to the provisions set in the 1977 Panama Canal Treaty. Although the U.S. government argues that the SOA has been an important means of promoting democracy, many critics point out that the school has actually bolstered Latin American dictatorships by enhancing their coercive capacities. In fact, so many despots had been trained at the SOA that it earned the notorious nickname, Escuela de Golpes (school of coups).12 Numerous individuals, including former SOA instructors and stu139

convictions of the soul

dents, have publicly condemned the school. Retired U.S. Army Major Joseph Blair has called for its closure, asserting that the training courses in counterinsurgency, psychological warfare, military intelligence, and commando operations contribute to the violence and authoritarianism that was rampant in many Latin American countries during the Cold War years. Blair confirms that questionable tactics were taught at the SOA. During an interview, he said, “I sat next to Major Victor Thiess who created and taught . . . [a] course, which included seven torture manuals and 382 hours of instruction. . . . He taught primarily using manuals that we used during the Vietnam War in our intelligence-gathering techniques. These techniques included murder, assassination, torture, extortion, and false imprisonment.”13 There is evidence that this training contributed to human rights violations in Latin America. For instance, the 1993 United Nations Truth Commission investigated the atrocities committed during El Salvador’s civil war. It found that two of the three officers responsible for the assassination of Archbishop Romero were SOA graduates. Three of the men cited for the rape and murder of Kazel, Donovan, Clarke, and Ford were also SOA alumni. Furthermore, investigators indicated that ten of the twelve officers implicated in the massacre in the Salvadoran village of El Mozote—where one thousand men, women, and children were killed and buried in a mass grave—had recently returned from training at the SOA.14 The UN Truth Commission Report on Guatemala revealed similar findings. The commission confirmed that the Guatemalan army and affiliated paramilitary groups engaged in widespread use of torture, kidnapping, and execution during the country’s 36-year civil war. The report explicitly named the U.S. training of the Guatemalan officer corps in counterinsurgency tactics as one of the key factors that fostered the climate of terror. This claim gained further credibility during a civil suit brought against General Hector Gramajo by Ursuline Sister Diana Ortiz. While working as a missionary, Ortiz had been kidnapped by Guatemalan security forces and taken to a clandestine prison, where she was raped, tortured, and forced to participate in the abuse of fellow prisoners. Her body was covered with more than a hundred cigarette burns, and she had been lowered into a pit filled with mutilated and decomposing bodies. During the investigation into Ortiz’s allegations, the U.S. Intelligence Oversight Board reported that manuals had been used to train Guatemalan soldiers at the SOA from 1982 to 1991 that included instructions for kidnapping, blackmail, intimidation, torture, and execution. When this information became public, the Pentagon replaced the manuals but denied any responsibility, claiming that the “materials had never received proper Department of Defense review.”15

140

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

More Martyrs: The Jesuit Assassinations

T

he School of the Americas gained more attention after the assassination of six Jesuits in El Salvador in 1989. On November 11 of that year, the Farabundo Martı´ National Liberation Front (FMLN) launched a final offensive against the Salvadoran military, hoping to capture the city of San Salvador and declare a victory for the revolutionary movement. During the battle, the FMLN moved in and out of the city, and at one point a group of guerrillas fled through the grounds of the University of Central America (UCA), a Jesuit school. They set off a bomb in order to force open the campus gates, and shortly thereafter the army arrived to reinforce the area. Government-sponsored radio programs aired accusations against the Jesuit professors at the university, denouncing them as guerrilla sympathizers. The most caustic comments were aimed at the university rector, a Spanish-born priest named Ignacio Ellacurı´a, who had become the most outspoken critic of the Salvadoran regime since Romero’s assassination. Over the next several days, the military continued to control the area surrounding the university.16 As the final offensive raged on, army commanders met to discuss their strategy and response to the rebel attack. They decided to strike back forcefully, using air power as well as heavy ground artillery. The intention was to capture and assassinate guerrilla leaders and destroy FMLN command centers. They believed that the University of Central America was the launching point for guerrilla operations in San Salvador, which may have contributed to the military’s decision to eliminate the Jesuits. The following evening, November 16, the army took action. They broke down the gate, entered the south side of the campus, and proceeded to the Jesuits’ residence. All of the priests were there, except Jon Sobrino, who was in Thailand at the time. Sobrino recalls the events that transpired that night: Very late on the night of November 16th . . . an Irish priest woke me up. While half asleep, he had heard news on the BBC saying that something serious had happened to the UCA Jesuits in El Salvador. To reassure himself he had phoned London and then he woke me up. “Something terrible has happened,” he told me. . . . On the way to the telephone, I thought, although I did not want to believe it, that they had murdered Ignacio Ellacurı´a. Ellacurı´a, a brave and stubborn man, was not a demagogue but a genuine prophet in his writings, and even more publicly on television. . . . On the other end of the telephone in London was a great friend of mine and all the Jesuits in El Salvador, a man who has shown great solidarity with our country and our church. He began with these words: “Something terrible has happened.” “I know,” I replied, “Ellacurı´a.” But I didn’t know. He asked me if 141

convictions of the soul

I was sitting down and had something to write with. I said I had and then he told me what happened. “They have murdered Ignacio Ellacurı´a.” I remained silent and did not write anything, because I had already been afraid of this. But my friend went on: “They have murdered Segundo Montes, Ignacio Martı´n-Baro´, Amando Lo´pez, Juan Ramo´n Moreno and Joaquı´n Lo´pez y Lo´pez.” My friend read the names slowly and each of them reverberated like a hammer blow that I received in total helplessness. I was writing them down hoping that the list would end after each name. But after each name came another, on to the end. The whole community, my whole community, had been murdered. In addition, two women had been murdered with them. They were living in a little house at the entrance of the university and because they were afraid of the situation they asked the fathers if they could spend the night in our house because they felt safer there. They were also mercilessly killed. Their names are Julia Elba, who had been the Jesuits’ cook for years, and her fifteen-year-old daughter Celina.17

Eventually, details of the assassinations emerged. Fathers Ellacurı´a, Moreno, Martı´n-Baro´, Montes, and Lo´pez had been ordered to go to the garden and lie facedown on the ground. There they were machine-gunned and their brains removed and destroyed, sending a message to those who shared their beliefs. Father Lo´pez y Lo´pez, the oldest priest, came out into the corridor. When he saw the bodies he turned to go back inside, at which point he was shot multiple times. The soldiers then proceeded into the house, where they killed the housekeeper and her daughter to ensure there would be no witnesses. Afterward they regrouped in front of the university chapel and feigned a shootout with the FMLN. Before leaving, they ransacked the pastoral center, destroying books and documents, and they placed a sign on the gates stating, “The FMLN Executed the Opposition Spies. Victory or Death FMLN.”18 The next morning, the government radio announced the deaths of the six Jesuits, their housekeeper, and her daughter. The reports claimed that the FMLN was responsible, stating, “The communists kill all those who don’t serve them. . . . The government and armed forces condemn these assassinations committed by the FMLN in an attempt to destabilize democracy.”19 Archbishop Rivera y Damas, Romero’s successor, immediately went to the Jesuit house, where he proclaimed that the armed forces were responsible for the murders. Later in the day, he received a death threat warning, “You’re next.”20 Outraged, the international Jesuit community called for an investigation. Evidence revealed that the Salvadoran army was, in fact, guilty. The United Nations Truth Commission documented that nineteen of the twenty-six Salvadoran officers respon-

142

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

sible for these assassinations had been trained at the School of the Americas.21

Forming the School of the Americas Watch

A

s Father Bourgeois heard the results of the investigation into the Jesuits’ murders, he became determined to bring an end to this “school of assassins,” as he calls it.22 His religious community allowed him to take several days to travel to Georgia to assess the situation. Father Bourgeois recalls, “I talked with the soldiers there and was able to go to the firing range. I saw all those soldiers from Bolivia, El Salvador, Guatemala, Colombia, Mexico—from seventeen countries in Latin America. When I saw them with those M-16s, [I realized] this is where they practice! This is where they are armed and trained to kill! It became very clear: we have to come here.”23 He immediately called together a group of priests and peace activists, who embarked on a thirty-seven-day fast outside the main entrance to Fort Benning. Later, on the first anniversary of the Jesuit murders, Father Bourgeois and two others entered the School of the Americas’ “Hall of Fame,” where portraits of renowned graduates are displayed. They threw blood on the photos, symbolizing the bloodshed these officers were responsible for in Latin America, and left a letter requesting that the school be closed. The three were arrested, convicted of willful destruction of government property, and sentenced to sixteen months in prison. Father Bourgeois became more determined than ever to close the School of the Americas and began devising a broader campaign. Like many other former missionaries, he was in a strategic cultural and structural position to launch this effort. In fact, Roy Bourgeois’s biography parallels those of other Central America solidarity leaders. Born in a small southern town, he was raised by conservative, working-class, and devoutly Catholic parents. As a young man, he was not particularly interested in politics. He spent most of his time hunting and fishing and was actively involved in sports, participating in high school football, track, and swimming. He studied geology in college, with hopes of working in the lucrative oil business. After graduating, he felt a patriotic duty to serve in the armed forces and joined the navy. He spent a couple years traveling as an officer, including a year in Athens, before volunteering for shore duty in Vietnam. This biographical experience profoundly changed his view of U.S. foreign policy. He reflects: I only had another year to go. I could have finished it out on the beaches of Greece but they started asking for volunteers to go to Vietnam. . . . I wasn’t critical [of the war] at all. I thought the pres-

143

convictions of the soul

ident and the generals know best and they were telling us that we had to be there to fight communism. If we didn’t stop it in Vietnam, we’d have to stop it in California. When I got to Vietnam I said, “What the hell did I do?” Vietnam was a turning point. I lost some friends there, I was wounded; . . . it was a bad place to be. A lot of suffering, a lot of death. But this is what happened. Near the base where I was stationed, there was this orphanage run by a missionary priest, trying to care for about 300 kids [with] so few resources. So I would go over, and talk my buddies into going with me, collect some money to buy food, clothes, the basics. As the months unfolded, I was doing volunteer work whenever I could. And I’m thinking, this is what I ought to be doing. What am I doing here as a soldier? I started having problems because I was writing home and collecting donations for this orphanage. People were generous and soon we had enough for two orphanages. . . . Guys organized a big Christmas party for the kids. So the commander said, “You’re spending too much time at the orphanage.” And I thought, “What do you have against kids?” But I was beginning to enter the culture of the people . . . a culture much older than ours, so rich. I realized we knew nothing about its history, its people. We had been sent to kill communists but what happened is that I saw how these kids were suffering. A lot of their parents had been killed with bombs, with napalm. Many of the kids were wounded by napalm that we dropped. . . . I got into some hot water, but it became evident that I wasn’t called to stay in the military.24

Before returning to the United States, Bourgeois spoke to a military chaplain about his interest in missions. The chaplain recommended the Maryknoll order, whose primary emphasis is working with the poor overseas. Bourgeois applied, was accepted, and entered seminary training. After his ordination in 1972, he was assigned to a term in Bolivia. Like other missionaries in Latin America during this time, Father Bourgeois was transformed by the experience. His theology and his worldview changed, and he developed organizing skills as he worked alongside the poor in their struggle to change Bolivia’s feudal economic system and a government that protected the interests of the elite. His perspective of U.S. foreign policy, already called into question during the Vietnam War, became more critical during his five-year mission term. He recalls, “When we go overseas, the poor become our teachers and that’s what happened to me. . . . They taught me about my country’s foreign policy and how we were supporting General Banzer’s dictatorship. They taught me about the impact of the CIA, which was very active in Bolivia, working against the movement in the universities and among the tin miners.”25 In Bolivia, Father Bourgeois helped form a commission that docu144

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

mented human rights abuses committed by the Banzer regime. One night as he was leaving a commission meeting, he was abducted by two gunmen, who took him to prison for interrogation. They beat him when he refused to give information about other activists. He was eventually released but warned that the military could not guarantee his safety. He realized he was putting others in danger, and so he returned to the United States to build solidarity and change American foreign policies that exacerbated the injustices in Latin America. The focus of his work shifted specifically to Central America after Romero and the churchwomen were killed. Not only did the archbishop’s message resonate deeply with Father Bourgeois, but also his structural position in the church meant he was particularly affected by the assassination of the four North American women. As a fellow Maryknoll, he had personal connections to Ita Ford and Maura Clarke. He felt morally compelled to do what he could to stop the violence in El Salvador. Although Father Bourgeois was actively involved in the solidarity movement in the 1980s, he did not emerge as a national leader until after the Jesuit murders in 1989, when he devoted his efforts to closing the School of the Americas. At that point, he moved to Columbus, Georgia, where he rented a small apartment directly adjacent to Fort Benning’s entrance. Together with Cynthia—a former soldier at Fort Benning who went AWOL after becoming opposed to U.S. involvement in Central America—they formed the SOA Watch. While Father Bourgeois served his sentence for the blood-throwing action, Cynthia painstakingly documented the connection between the School of the Americas and atrocities in Latin America. She received the list of SOA graduates from the government under the Freedom of Information Act and matched these names with officers cited by the United Nations for human rights violations. She discovered that, in addition to the assassins who had taken the lives of Romero, the four churchwomen, and the six Jesuits, the school had trained many officers responsible for numerous civilian massacres.26 With evidence linking the School of the Americas to the martyrs’ assassins, Father Bourgeois conducted a series of speaking engagements after his release from prison to draw public attention to the issue. Initially there was little strategy or planning involved, he concedes. “The first year or two, we didn’t have a long-range plan. What we had was this rage, this sense of immediacy. No one knew about the school in this country so we wanted to call attention to it in a dramatic way.”27 Eventually, Father Bourgeois did find an effective strategy, and the results are impressive. His campaign combined legislative work with acts of protest that center around an annual gathering at the SOA on the anniversary of the Jesuit murders. The first commemoration in 1990 only drew ten people, but the following year brought seventy protesters to the gates of Fort Benning. By 1993, an amendment to close the SOA was brought before Congress by Representatives Joseph Kennedy and Joe Moakley. Although it was defeated, the 145

convictions of the soul

movement gained national media coverage and Father Bourgeois expanded his speaking tour, visiting Catholic colleges, churches, and peace groups throughout the country. As word of his efforts spread, Father Bourgeois received numerous awards including the Franciscan Federation Peace Award, Pax Christi’s Pope Paul VI Teacher of Peace Award, and Villanova University’s Adela Dwyer/St. Thomas Peace Award, among others. In addition, a number of documentaries were made about the campaign to close the School of the Americas. Eventually, several large church organizations endorsed resolutions calling for the closure of the SOA, including the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) and the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, which represents 76,000 Catholic Sisters. With each passing year, the number of protesters traveling to Fort Benning also expanded. In 1996, about five hundred attended the commemoration of the Jesuits. The following year, nearly two thousand people filled the road outside the base’s main gate. More than six hundred were arrested during a mock funeral procession in which eight coffins—representing the six Jesuits, their housekeeper, and her daughter—were carried onto the base, along with a petition containing hundreds of thousands of signatures demanding the closure of the school.28 Seven thousand made the pilgrimage to Fort Benning in 1998; 2,320 committed acts of civil disobedience. When Congress passed a historic vote to cut some of the School of the America’s funding in 1999, over twelve thousand attended the annual gathering and over 4,400 individuals demanded a complete closure by trespassing onto the base.29 Within a decade, the commemorative gathering had grown from a handful of protesters to a large event that drew people from all over the country. Even though the broader solidarity movement had subsided and political opportunities had apparently closed, Father Bourgeois successfully mobilized thousands of people. He did so without a large budget or a substantial organizational structure, initially operating out of his small rented apartment at the edge of Fort Benning. How was he able to build this campaign while other solidarity organizations watched their donations and membership decline? How was he able to overcome the unfavorable climate of the 1990s? Like other missionaries, Father Bourgeois used his cultural knowledge of Christianity as well as his structural position in the church to spread his message and recruit participants. However, one of the keys to his success was his ability to revive the emotions that drove the solidarity movement. Unlike the entrepreneurial organizers of the Resource Mobilization model, Father Bourgeois was not primarily raising funds and building organizational infrastructure. Rather, he was mobilizing emotions.

146

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

The Emotions of SOA Protest

D

uring the 1980s, the solidarity movement was filled with emotions that arose in response to the martyr stories and interpersonal contact with Central Americans. Yet as peace talks proceeded, as revolutionary groups lost momentum, and as the nation’s attention shifted to other troubled regions of the world, these feelings waned. Moreover, political opportunities appeared to be closing, and the belief that the movement could make a difference also diminished. To launch his new campaign, Father Bourgeois needed to rejuvenate the sentiments that had propelled people to act and convince them that the goal was both achievable and worthwhile. Father Bourgeois was aware of the powerful emotions that Archbishop Romero and the four churchwomen had evoked. Yet a decade had passed, and although people were still moved by the example of the martyrs, the intensity of their affective response had diminished. He realized that the story of the slain Jesuits, however, had the potential to strengthen activists’ waning commitment. By reviving the politicized notion of resurrection, the Jesuits’ deaths could be used to remind activists that such sacrifices are not in vain as long as resistance continues. Not only would this reinforce the obligation to sustain the movement but it could also renew the transcendent meaning of the Central American struggle, since the martyrs’ “deliberate willingness to sacrifice themselves . . . broadcasts the sense of moral commitment operating. . . . They are taken to represent the moral power of the movement; they symbolize the feeling that the movement will ultimately win out.”30 These sentiments can be clearly heard in the comments of John, a priest and peace activist, who echoes this resurrection theme and the belief in inevitable victory: When the six Jesuits were ordered out of their home, forced to lie on the ground, and shot point blank in the early morning hours of November 16, 1989, they paid the ultimate price for their lifelong nonviolent resistance to evil. They suffered and died, like the One they followed. And like Christ, they rose to new life, inspiring people throughout North America to demand an end to the war in El Salvador. Their martyrdom changed El Salvador and made peace possible. As my friends and I prayed, fasted, spoke, and demonstrated for an end to U.S. military aid to El Salvador, we knew that one day, evil would be overcome by good.31

The story of the slain Jesuits also had the capacity to revive the “moral shock”32 and indignation that had previously fueled the solidarity movement. Like the earlier martyrs, the Jesuits personalized the conflict and portrayed the Salvadoran civil war in morally clear terms. These priests were innocent victims who were devoted to serving the poor. They were murdered because they had dared to denounce the injustices of the Sal147

convictions of the soul

vadoran regime. Furthermore, the Jesuits reflected the persecuted church in Central America and reminded North American faith communities that such atrocities were not a thing of the past. Their deaths were proof that the militaries of Central America continued to use violence as a tool of social control. The Jesuit assassinations conveyed the message that innocent people were still dying at the hands of a murderous army. Not only was Father Bourgeois able to reignite anger by focusing attention on the Jesuit murders, he also amplified it by pointing a finger at one of the institutions responsible for the slayings—the School of the Americas. One man said, “When I learned that the killers had been trained in the U.S. at Fort Benning’s infamous School of the Americas, my outrage increased.”33 Selecting a concrete target for blame is essential. Without it, commitment can diffuse and emotions may dissipate.34 Skilled organizers, such as Martin Luther King, Jr., recognize the potential danger of abstract targets. Indignation over segregation, for instance, may have actually demoralized individuals who thought that nothing could be done to change such a historically entrenched system. Others may have felt paralyzed, believing that they, as individuals, were no match for the pervasive and deep-rooted problem of racism. By focusing anger at a specific form of segregation—the buses and the lunch counters—King and his colleagues offered an accessible target for protest within their local communities. Similarly, the decision to target the School of the Americas was effective for several reasons. First, Father Bourgeois and Cynthia convincingly linked the murder of the martyrs to the school. Although no one from the U.S. Army pulled the trigger, there is evidence that those who did learned these techniques of counterinsurgency warfare at the SOA. The school is partly responsible, they argued, because it trained the assassins and justified their actions as part of the battle against communism. Second, its U.S. location was accessible and safe for protestors. Even those with few financial resources could travel fairly inexpensively to Georgia. Moreover, unlike protests in parts of Latin America, activists could feel relatively certain that their activities would not endanger others or jeopardize their own well-being. Simply put, collective action outside Fort Benning is typically less costly and risky than, for instance, an action in the war zones of Colombia. Finally, the School of the Americas was a useful target because it can be directly influenced by North American protesters who have little input into the internal politics and practices of the criminal justice systems in foreign nations. Therefore, while U.S. citizens may not be able to effectively push Central American states to prosecute those responsible for human rights abuses, they do have the ability to affect their own government’s policies, including its support for the school’s operating expenses. By focusing on the goal of cutting the SOA’s congressional funding, Father Bourgeois offered a concrete way to address

148

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

the problem of military dictatorships and human rights abuses in Latin America.

The Use of Christian Rituals in SOA Protest

W

ith new martyr stories and a target for action, Father Bourgeois launched his campaign. Using his ties to movement networks and church organizations, he spread the word about the annual commemorative protest at Fort Benning on the anniversary of the Jesuit assassinations. He was aware that these gatherings needed to motivate participants, many of whom had grown weary after a decade of solidarity work. Therefore, unlike other missionaries, Father Bourgeois’s primary task was not to persuade them to support the people of Central America in their struggle for liberation. Rather, he was engaged in emotion work, reviving and intensifying key feelings so that commitment to solidarity activism would be strengthened and sustained. His efforts paid off, as the words of one priest convey the primary sentiments aroused by these commemorative events: The anniversary brings three emotions to the surface for me. I feel pride that, for all our failings as Jesuits, these Jesuits got it right. They promoted a faith that does justice without qualification. . . . These men stand out for us as witnesses to the power of standing up to the forces of oppression on the side of the oppressed. The second emotion I feel is deep anger. . . . I am deeply angry that my government had a hand in this elimination of my brothers, precisely because they were voices of truth that spoke out against injustice. The third emotion is deeper passion for a greater solidarity with the poor here and around the world. Remembering the martyrs of El Salvador gives me more courage and a greater desire to know those who are oppressed and to be on their side, by more frequently speaking out against unjust structures, on their behalf.35

Precisely how did Father Bourgeois elicit such emotional reactions? Certainly, the story of the Jesuit murders is moving in itself, and physically confronting those responsible for these assassinations contributed to the intensity of activists’ feelings. Yet Father Bourgeois enhanced these affective responses by incorporating Christian rituals into these commemorative protest events. As sociologists have long argued, religious rituals are an effective means of generating the emotional energy that can animate a group. This dynamic is created as people gather together, establishing a physical sense of community. As individuals embark upon ritual practice— their movements and language synchronized with one another—their attention is drawn to a mutual focus. This fosters unity and an awareness of

149

convictions of the soul

shared moral beliefs.36 Feelings of isolation dissipate as one develops a sense of belonging to the group. Rituals move people beyond their individual existence to a collective existence. This creates a heightened affective sensibility as one experiences the emotions of the group as a collective entity. Therefore, as the group becomes sad, outraged, or joyful, the individual feels the full force of this joint sentiment, resulting in an intensified emotional energy that Emile Durkheim called “collective effervescence.”37 While ritual practice generates these corporal and affective sensations, the ritual’s content reminds practitioners of the specific values and beliefs that unite them. As a ritual is enacted, the attention of group members is drawn to a focal element, typically an emblem of their moral commitments. As people march behind an exalted cross, for instance, they develop both a physical and emotional awareness of the group that surrounds them, but they are also drawn to think about what the cross symbolizes: suffering for one’s faith, sacrifice, and resurrection. These symbols reinforce participants’ moral beliefs and convictions, but simultaneously they may also encapsulate the memory of the ritualistic experience, the sense of collective effervescence. Some symbols, like the Jesuit martyrs, may become so emotionally and morally charged that they are used as a mechanism for reviving affective states at later gatherings.38 Father Bourgeois did not employ Christian rituals purely for the purpose of emotional rejuvenation. It was a natural expression of his faith, which is inextricably tied to political protest, and his cultural knowledge as a priest. Father Bourgeois turned to the cultural capital most familiar and meaningful to him: the symbolic and ritual resources of the church. He artfully adapted these resources, incorporating them into his campaign to close the School of the Americas. Now let us take a closer look at these annual gatherings to see how he and his colleagues created a seamless blend of political protest and Christian rituals so that movement actions took on religious significance just as altered Christian rituals became politically meaningful.

SOA Gatherings as Liturgy The central event in the School of the Americas campaign is the annual gathering that takes place each November on the anniversary of the Jesuit murders. As people from across the country congregate outside Fort Benning’s gate, the location itself is transformed into a sacred site, a place where the lines between worship and protest are blurred. In fact, in an editorial to the National Catholic Reporter, one participant described this commemorative rally as liturgy: This was great liturgy. A congregation of over 2,000 people gathered from the four winds, wonderful music to pace and focus the long ceremony toward its central act of worship, the gospel pro150

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

claimed simply, powerful preaching to apply it, over 600 celebrants giving physical witness to the divine presence in meal and sacrifice, a community set in motion to enact what it has just celebrated. Cathedral worship? An outdoor papal mass? A eucharistic congress? No, this solemn liturgy took place November 16, in Columbus, Georgia, as an act of nonviolent civil disobedience at the entrance to Fort Benning, home of the notorious School of the Americas, where thousands of Latin American soldiers later linked to atrocities have been trained by the U.S. Army.39

This description captures the religious tone of the annual gathering. Some participants come dressed in celebrants’ attire, carrying incense and trailed by acolytes. Many carry crosses that bear the name of someone killed by an SOA graduate. The event starts with a processional march that establishes the physical presence of the group, while the crosses focus participants’ attention on the moral meaning of faith and the transcendent nature of solidarity activism. The crosses signify the historical crucifixion of Christ and its contemporary corollary, the persecuted Central American church. The procession ends outside the gates of Fort Benning, where the commemoration begins. The story of the Jesuit murders is recounted, either as a narrative or as dramatically reenacted by the activists. The story, along with the group’s presence at the SOA, revives feelings of outrage as participants confront those responsible for the murders. There is an acknowledgment that officers trained at this location have victimized many others, not only the Jesuits. Some members of the crowd hold pictures of Romero, the churchwomen, or other Central Americans who have been murdered. Then the names of the Jesuits, their housekeeper, and her daughter are read slowly: Ignacio Ellacurı´a, Segundo Montes, Ignacio Martı´nBaro´, Amando Lo´pez, Juan Ramo´n Moreno, Joaquı´n Lo´pez y Lo´pez, Julia Elba, Celina Elba. After each name, the crowd responds, “Presente!”40 The list goes on, naming others killed by the armed forces and death squads of Central America. This ritual reading of victims’ names is performed at many solidarity events and reinforces the politicized understanding of resurrection. It acknowledges that the spirit of the martyrs is alive in the ongoing struggle for justice. Consequently, this commemorative act revives participants’ commitment to the solidarity movement by emphasizing their moral obligation to sustain the struggle in order to keep the martyrs’ deaths meaningful. Additionally, it rejuvenates hope by emphasizing the victorious outcome of resurrection. In a memorial homily for the slain Jesuits, an American priest emphasized the importance of this hope: The final word of this liturgy cannot be one of anger or denunciation. It must be one of hope. For this too, in the end, is the ground of our solidarity with the people of El Salvador. . . . We 151

convictions of the soul

believe that out of the crucifixion of our Savior, El Salvador, came life and comes life. With the people of El Salvador, we believe the words of Jesus: “Unless a wheat grain falls on the ground and dies, it remains only a single grain; but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest.”41

By focusing the group’s attention on the martyrs, this commemoration ritual also strengthens feelings of solidarity by reinforcing a Christian collective identity. The martyrs embody the values, beliefs, and moral commitments of the group. By standing for the poor, denouncing oppression, calling for justice and peace, and sacrificing their lives, the Jesuits—like Romero and the churchwomen before them—reflect the essence of these progressive Christians’ understanding of faith. They remind activists of the values and convictions that they share with one another and with the popular church of Central America. These sentiments are heard in the words of the individual who described the protest as liturgy: To call this dramatic protest a liturgy may seem to some an abuse of the term or too loose an application of a word we ought to reserve for sacred worship. . . . In Christian terms, liturgy is how we share in the church’s central work of making present and powerful the life, death and resurrection of Jesus in the world. . . . Inseparable from every Christian liturgy is the mission of Jesus to proclaim good news to the poor, freedom to prisoners, justice to oppressed peoples, an end to violence. As justice is constitutive to the gospel, so every liturgy is ultimately about justice, celebrating God’s will on earth, then going forth to do it. When we do it in our churches week after week, we may lose sight of the powerful reality liturgy is meant to be, a reality that became clear to those gathered at Fort Benning. To invoke the suffering and deaths of tens of thousands of our brothers and sisters in Latin America in the cause of justice was to proclaim the death of the Lord as the means by which the kingdom of God is to come. Our communion with them makes their fate inseparable from ours, and their suffering as members of the Mystical Body of Christ becomes a call to solidarity or a judgment on us for lack of it.42

By ritualistically remembering the martyrs, Father Bourgeois not only evokes outrage and solidarity with the victims, he also has revived the transcendent meaning of protest. In commemorating the slain Jesuits, activists reflect on the ultimate meaning in life: having a belief, a faith, a moral vision for which one is willing to die. Gregory, who worked with the sanctuary movement, emphasized the moral value of the martyrs: “Real martyrdom is a very high calling. Don’t let anybody tell you anything different. People who think this is merely a martyr complex are full of shit. Excuse me, but they have cheapened the notion of martyrs. Mar-

152

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

tyrs are people called to a very high thing and we have to recapture that. We need to celebrate and sacramentalize it.”43

Baptism of Solidarity After the remembrance of the martyrs, preparations for civil disobedience begin. Those who plan to trespass onto the base prepare themselves to cross over, knowing they will be arrested and, in all likelihood, prosecuted. This, however, is a chance to put their feelings of solidarity into action by sharing the suffering that their Central American brothers and sisters must endure as a result of their quest for liberation. Like a baptism, it is a public declaration of one’s convictions and commitment to the cause. Thus, before civil disobedience begins, Father Bourgeois tells the crowd that this is a sacred moment. A priest offers a blessing for those who stand in anticipation of the moment when they will trespass onto the grounds of Fort Benning. Then they cross the line, being “baptized” into greater solidarity with the victims of SOA-sponsored violence.44 Once inside the base, a few throw red liquid resembling blood while others kneel in prayer, awaiting arrest. The mood is one of solemn defiance, and yet the activists feel the exhilarating joy of living out their convictions and contributing to the fight for justice. Some do not commit civil disobedience by entering the base, but still see their legal forms of protest as part of a holy struggle. For instance, during one commemorative gathering, a septuagenarian stated that she was not trespassing this time because she wanted to stay out of jail so she could devote herself to the task of persuading her congressman to vote for the amendment to close the School of the Americas. “Father Bourgeois promised to get me canonized if I could get Newt [Gingrich] to change his vote,” she said. “I wrote Newt a letter asking him to not deny me the chance to be a saint.”45 Through these rituals, Father Bourgeois successfully rejuvenated the emotions that were the driving force of the solidarity movement during the 1980s. Yet a skilled leader must also be able to transform those affective states that can potentially demoralize activists and derail a campaign. Such a situation arose during the 1998 gathering when 2,300 SOA protestors trespassed onto the Fort Benning base, only to find that the security forces were not going to arrest them. The group’s collective effervescence quickly turned to disappointment and frustration. Recognizing that this was slowing the momentum of the rally, and potentially the broader campaign, Bourgeois quickly embarked on emotional transformation work, asking “those who felt let down to accept the feeling of powerlessness as part of their solidarity with those in Latin America who suffer routinely under authority applied in arbitrary and unpredictable ways.”46

153

convictions of the soul

Religious Pilgrimage Through his leadership, Father Bourgeois has created the religious ambience of the annual gathering to commemorate the Jesuit martyrs. As it has become an established event, participants have begun developing their own rituals. For instance, some people have come to view the trip to Fort Benning as a sort of religious pilgrimage and have created commissioning services. Consider one woman’s depiction of a worship service she attended at a progressive Catholic community. The evening began with a viewing of a documentary on the School of the Americas and Father Bourgeois’s campaign. It was followed by a mass that included a blessing ceremony for those heading to Georgia. She described the service: Thanks to the School of the Americas alumni, many of us have learned to recite, as if it were a creed: an archbishop, four churchwomen, six priests, their housekeeper and her daughter. Watching the film, we thought of the many graduates who have gone on to kill, order killing or look the other way; who have put down unions and other efforts in Latin America, using tried and true methods of torture, disappearance. . . . Father Rick asked those heading to Fort Benning to stand up. About a dozen did so. These good souls soon would join thousands for the annual November demonstration calling for the closing of the School of the Americas. Father Rick sprinkled them with holy water. He said a special blessing. I felt a drop on my hair. I flashed back to the film we’d seen: Christ’s blood poured out on the sidewalks and roadblocks [in El Salvador], his body broken by death squads in parish halls and union halls. And Christ rising: in the lives of babies being pushed around in strollers by parents and grandparents at the Fort Benning protest, in solidarity with activists throughout Latin America.47

The urge for an emotionally powerful and transcendent experience through solidarity activism is also heard in Jeff ’s account of his personal pilgrimage to the graves of the Jesuits in El Salvador. He noted that at times the martyrs became so morally charged that activists anticipated that they would sense a divine presence or experience enlightenment. Jeff confessed that he, too, fell prey to this dynamic, expecting a profound spiritual and emotional climax to his pilgrimage, which he made on bicycle from New York City to San Salvador. He recounted: I spent so many days getting there, to the site where the Jesuits were murdered. I’ve got that Catholic thing, you know, of wanting to have an experience, thinking something mystical is going to happen. So I got there and I went to the tomb of the Jesuits. I got on my knees, lit a candle and prayed. I was wait-

154

rituals and emotional rejuvenation

ing for something to happen, to feel something, but all I could think about was going to the ice cream place down the street and getting a milkshake. And I knew the Jesuits personally. So finally I said, “Segundo [Montes], I really want to go get an ice cream cone.” [Laughing] That was the great end of my pilgrimage!48

Conclusion

A

s Father Bourgeois and others incorporated the cultural resources of Christianity into the SOA campaign, the link between progressive Christian faith and activism was reinforced while the emotions that had fueled the solidarity movement during the 1980s were rejuvenated. In particular, the SOA protest rituals revived outrage by recalling the slaying of innocents, as reflected in the assassination of the Jesuits, their housekeeper, and her daughter. This outrage was further amplified by holding the commemorative gathering at Fort Benning; the site reminded participants that the U.S.-sponsored School of the Americas is partly responsible for these atrocities since it armed and trained those who committed the murders. The rituals also strengthened hope and commitment by reinforcing the belief in resurrection and infusing solidarity actions with moral significance. Actor Martin Sheen conveyed the transcendent meaning of SOA protest to reporters who had gathered to watch him lead the procession to the gates of Fort Benning with Father Bourgeois. He said simply, “I am here first to save my own soul. . . . Solidarity with the poor and with victims of injustice is what makes us human.”49 Father Bourgeois’s decision to center his campaign against the School of the Americas on the murder of the six Jesuits was strategic. Like Romero and the churchwomen, the martyred Jesuits embodied the moral power of the movement. Moreover, they were linked to a network of Jesuits in the United States and throughout the world, many of whom had personal contact with the Salvadoran priests before they were killed. Through these structural connections, the story of the murders and the School of the Americas was conveyed to dozens of Jesuit universities throughout the country. In response, many schools organize student trips to the annual gathering at Fort Benning. Similar commemorative services are held on campus for those who do not make the journey to Georgia. According to the Association of Jesuit Colleges and Universities, events were held on dozens of campuses on the tenth anniversary of the murders. Georgetown sponsored a teach-in and a commemorative mass, while a reenactment of the killings occurred at Loyola Marymount University in Los Angeles. Fordham held a lecture series on the Jesuit martyrs, Loyola of New Orleans sponsored a play based on interviews with witnesses to

155

convictions of the soul

the slayings, and several other schools planted crosses on campus in honor of the eight.50 The structural location of the Jesuits in life helped transmit the moral power of their message in death. This chapter has focused on the effectiveness of Father Bourgeois’s leadership in forming a solidarity campaign after the broader movement’s demise and the apparent closure of political opportunities. Father Bourgeois’s agency was shaped by his biographical experience as a soldier in Vietnam, which made him receptive to critical views of U.S. foreign policy, and by his priestly vocation and mission work, which provided him with the cultural knowledge needed to launch a religiously based campaign. His familiarity with the themes and rituals of Christianity enabled him to adapt them to the effort to close the School of the Americas. His cultural status as a priest granted him the moral credibility and trust to do so. Finally, his structural position within the church meant he had connections that allowed him to quickly schedule speaking engagements at many Catholic colleges, universities and parishes. Thus, even the emotional managers of movements must be understood as agents who make use of the resources available to them through their unique structural and cultural positions.

156

CHAPTER 8

Agency and Transnational Movements

I

began this book by stating that the people who create movements have not received sufficient attention. Decades of productive scholarship have left us with a strong understanding of the structural conditions that facilitate collective action, such as social changes and events that weaken the state, thereby providing greater leverage to challengers, and the presence of preexisting organizations that donate resources and provide recruitment networks. Unfortunately, we have less knowledge about human agency and the factors shaping it. Yet through this study of the Central America solidarity movement, we have seen that individuals do play an important role as they creatively interpret (or reinterpret) cultural themes and symbols to elicit support for movement goals. People evoke, transform, and rejuvenate emotions that can be channeled into protest. They construct narratives that educate people about distant injustices, build collective identities, and provide moral resources for activism. Even leading proponents of structural models acknowledge that agency is an important but neglected element in studies of collective action. Doug McAdam writes, “We think it is fair to say that the importance of collective processes of interpretation, social construction and attribution, have been undervalued in the dominant theoretical works.”1 I also asserted that the subjective experience of protest merits greater consideration. Structural models do not shed much light on what transpires in the hearts, minds, and souls of activists, while many cultural approaches have limited their focus to the cognitive dimensions of collective action. However, as previous chapters illustrate, movements are filled with emotions that can fuel resistance or obstruct it. The moral commitments of 157

convictions of the soul

activists are also important since they can foster recruitment receptivity and provide a motivation for protest. Furthermore, as people live out their moral obligations and beliefs through activism, they often feel a deep sense of fulfillment. For many in the Central America solidarity movement, activism was a way to manifest their religious convictions; it was a spiritual experience that brought meaning to their lives. Stan, for example, saw his participation in the movement as an expression of faith: There was a religious dimension to it for me. It was a fulfillment of my ministry. I didn’t see it as any different from what I’d been doing all my life as a Presbyterian minister. . . . When I was working for Witness for Peace, I felt that I was being used by a higher power than myself, despite my imperfections and whatever else, and there was a beauty in that. It was a Kairos moment. That’s not to say that God wasn’t active in other places, but it seemed that the spirit of God was really getting through in Central America. Another way of viewing it was that we were the receptors—both the Nicaraguan people and Witness for Peace—and there was a certain resonance, which was the spirit of God. That was a wonderful thing to feel, a wonderful thing to be part of.2 To comprehensively capture the subjective experience of protest, we need an expanded cultural model, as Jasper proposes, that includes emotional and moral components. More attention is now being devoted to other elements of culture such as emotions, moral discourse, and narratives.3 Yet as our focus on culture expands, we must not lose sight of the individuals who create and use culture, along with other resources, to generate support for movement goals. A sociological understanding of agency requires an assessment of the structural factors and cultural expectations that shape the ability to form movements and foster change. We must also recognize that people do not act in isolation of historical forces. Therefore, as we explore agency, we need to examine the constraints and opportunities afforded by activists’ social traits, structural location, and the historical context in which they operate. In the following sections I summarize how these factors conditioned the ability of church workers to organize, build, and sustain the Central America solidarity movement.

Agency in the Central America Solidarity Movement

A

s missionaries began returning to the United States, intent on creating a movement that would challenge U.S. policy toward Central America, they were aided by the presence of favorable structural conditions. As Smith points out, the Vietnam War was still fresh in the nation’s collective 158

agency and transnational movements

memory, creating a reluctance to support another foreign war. There were also partisan divisions within the government. These circumstances provided political opportunities to challenge President Reagan’s effort to overturn the Nicaraguan revolution and defeat insurrectionary movements in Guatemala and El Salvador. Missionaries also had connections to religious organizations and church denominations that acted as mobilizing structures by providing financial support, communication networks, and members.4 Yet we must also examine why missionaries were successful at recruiting these members, persuading them to devote their time and money to the solidarity movement. Why were they able to convince many Christians that their faith required them to stop the violence in Central America? It is not the mere presence of political opportunities and mobilizing structures that creates movements; it is when people use them effectively that protest erupts. Acting as cultural interpreters, storytellers, and emotional managers, these church workers and missionaries were able to convince thousands to act on the structural potential that existed. Yet their ability to mobilize the solidarity movement was influenced by a number of factors. First, their agency was enhanced by their social attributes. As clergy, members of religious orders, and lay people devoted to the church, they had an occupational status that granted them credibility and moral authority. As they returned from Latin America with stories of human rights abuses, poverty, and U.S. support for repressive regimes, people regarded their accounts as trustworthy. The missionaries were considered sincere and honest. This trust granted them the freedom and influence to reshape Christian themes such as conversion and resurrection and to incorporate religious rituals and practices into movement activities. Although many people may attempt to transform cultural schema to generate protest, not everyone will be perceived as having the legitimate right to do so. As representatives of the church, they already held a role associated with the task of interpreting scripture and explaining church teachings. Additionally, structural location within mobilizing institutions shaped the missionaries’ agency. Most held middle-range positions in church organizations, which was advantageous for a number of reasons. Unlike toplevel leaders, these former missionaries were out of the public eye; this granted them more flexibility to take radical stances and engage in controversial actions. Yet they still had access to high-ranking leaders, in both the United States and Central America, who could be persuaded to use their influence to further the goals of the solidarity movement. Moreover, they regularly interacted with local church communities and were attuned to the concerns of regular churchgoing Americans. This facilitated the missionaries’ ability to convey the issues of Central America in terms that were acceptable and readily understandable to this population. Finally, this mid-level position often provided access to national networks for recruitment. 159

convictions of the soul

The organizing abilities of these missionaries were also strengthened by their cultural knowledge of religion. They had intimate knowledge of church practices and teachings, and most had formal training in theology. This provided a strong basis for framing as church workers posited that solidarity with the poor of Central America was consistent with biblical principles and church social teachings. The notion of sanctuary, for instance, was drawn from Old Testament laws that called for the designation of safe havens for people fleeing persecution. Only those with substantial knowledge of scripture would have been able to link this biblical passage with the effort to protect Central American refugees. Similarly, it was through religious training that missionaries were able to portray solidarity activism as a part of Catholic social teachings that advocated workers’ rights, beginning with the 1891 papal encyclical Rerum Novarum. Finally, we cannot overlook the historical events that strongly influenced these church workers. Some may have never gone to Latin America had it not been for the Vatican II Council, which called people to the region to alleviate the shortage of clergy and to win back the poor who had previously been neglected by the church. Vatican II also instigated new methods of ministry that gave missionaries organizing skills and brought them closer to the people, revealing the poverty and suffering of the masses. It was this firsthand knowledge that granted missionaries the right to speak authoritatively on the conditions in Central America and instilled a strong commitment to act. They were also affected by the emergence of liberation theology, which reshaped their worldview, leading to a conversion to the poor. Interaction with liberation-oriented Christians gave them new religious language that enabled them to speak to North American faith communities about the biblical basis for solidarity with Central America. This experience in Latin America convinced many missionaries that their political work in the United States should be conducted through the church. One might argue that these solidarity organizers used religious resources for the strategic purpose of reaching mainstream people or out of convenience, since this was the culture they were most familiar with and religious resources were readily available to them. However, their decision to organize through the institutional church was ultimately grounded in the belief that social justice captures the essence of the gospel. Moreover, they maintained that the church has the capacity to transform people’s hearts and minds, inspiring the faithful to change conditions of poverty and oppression. Father Paul witnessed to this ability: I had a great experience of church in Latin America that I can never forget. The church, as an institution, has the capacity for real conversion. The Latin American church that I encountered in 1960 was in terrible shape. It was in awful shape, but within a few years, from an inner dynamic that you can only ascribe 160

agency and transnational movements

to grace and the Holy Spirit, it turned around and became the church of the poor. It wasn’t perfect, but it has a capacity. So I guess I challenge people who want to walk away from the church. I understand it because the church drives me crazy, too, but look what happened in Central America. Church people there were willing to give their lives for the poor. I knew some of them. I knew some of the Jesuits and I knew Maura Clarke, one of the women killed in 1980. They were ordinary people. We would sit and have a conversation like we’re having, but they had the capacity to give it all because of the remarkable changes in the church.5 As missionaries worked through the church, they linked faith and solidarity activism. As a result, recruits gained a sense of meaning and moral fulfillment from movement participation. Protest was not simply a strategic means of changing U.S. foreign policy, it was an expression of commitment to their religious principles and values. Consequently, as political opportunities diminished and the population’s attention shifted to other issues, some solidarity activists continued their work with Central America. Mary explained, “Where is solidarity rooted? In the religious community, it was rooted in this experience of accompaniment, of walking with the people. We need to recall over and over that it is a long journey of change.”6 Jeff added, “In a parable, Jesus talks about the seeds. . . . Some fell on rock, some fell on thorns, and some fell on fertile ground. It all shot up, but many died because the nutrients weren’t there. I really believe that this is a [religious] call.”7 The presence of political opportunities, therefore, does not always determine when people protest.

Lessons for Transnational Movements

T

his study demonstrates that agency is shaped by the social attributes of activists, their structural position in mobilizing organizations, their cultural knowledge and ability to creatively transform it, historical conditions, and biographical experiences that instill moral commitments and provide organizing skills. Yet the fact that these missionaries were organizing across national borders adds another element to the picture, since transnational campaigns pose some unique challenges. Often there are cultural, linguistic, class, and ethnic differences. Moreover, the market for international support is increasingly competitive. Groups appealing for solidarity must find compelling techniques to capture their targeted audience’s attention and generate concern for a distant issue.8 Given the success of missionaries at garnering support for Central America’s liberation struggle, there are a number of lessons to learn from their efforts. 161

convictions of the soul

Moral Clarity In calling for solidarity with El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Guatemala, one approach that missionaries took was to convey how the violence and repression was affecting Central America’s popular church. They chose this strategy because these were people they knew personally, with whom they worked during their mission assignments. However, it was also an effective method because Archbishop Romero, the Jesuits, and the four North American churchwomen had greater moral clout in the eyes of the international community than, for instance, members of the revolutionary forces. As civilians and religious figures, they were perceived as innocent, and the victims’ moral purity made it easier to depict the armed forces as villainous. While these church workers had selflessly devoted themselves to serving the poor, the military—and the wealthy elites whose interests they were protecting—were motivated by greed and power. This clarity was useful, since members of the international community are typically reluctant to lend support to an organization with a questionable reputation or to send funds to groups with a dubious record. People are more likely to respond when the source of the injustice is clearly identifiable and documented and when those suffering are blameless. However, this moral clarity was a mixed blessing for solidarity organizers. On the one hand, it made it easier to generate outrage and mobilize people. As Sister Jean observed, “The thing about Central America is that it was pretty clear who the bad guys were and who the good guys were and people like that.”9 On the other hand, this clear-cut analysis sometimes led to a simplified view of the situation and uncritical support. One activist, quoted in Smith’s Resisting Reagan, described the reaction she received after voicing some doubt about the Sandinistas’ future in Nicaragua: “I was not absolutely convinced that the Sandinistas were going to win the elections. The polling data on the draft and the economy was weak, and I said so. And . . . I was actually yelled at by some people. One person from one of the solidarity networks called me a fascist! All because I dared to say there was a slight chance the Sandinistas might lose because of their policies.”10 Father Paul also expressed some concern about the relationship between the church in El Salvador and the FMLN guerrilla forces, but he felt that airing the issue could have been divisive and detrimental to the movement. He described his dilemma: I was asked to write an editorial about Bishop Medardo Gomez of the Lutheran Church. I wrote it and then strongly suggested that we not print it, so we didn’t. I couldn’t see what good it was going to do, and I could see that it might do a lot of harm to him and to the church. There’s a lot of evidence that would indicate that some of the churches, including elements of the Catholic Church, were given over to the FMLN in Salvador. 162

agency and transnational movements

. . . I realize there was a war going on. Not to opt for a political solution, if you will, might have been to opt for the status quo. There were tough choices to be made in those days and I’m not blaming them. But that’s a question we really need to think about—how do you maintain a radical independence as a church, as an institution? I’m not sure what Romero would have done as things developed through the ’80s. Would he have been with Medardo? Would he have opted for a particular political line? I don’t know.11 For international organizers, portraying distant issues in morally unambiguous terms may attract greater support from the international community. Yet conflicts are typically more complex, and failure to look at some of the problems may ultimately undermine the movement’s strength.

Link Issues with the Audience’s Strongest Moral Identities Another reason that missionaries were able to successfully mobilize solidarity was due to the fact that they linked Central American policy issues to their targeted audience’s most cherished identity. Not all collective identities have equal moral weight, and recruits may not have felt such a strong obligation to respond if the appeal for solidarity had come through other identity-based organizations, such as a teacher’s association or a labor union. For committed people of faith, however, religious identities have great moral significance. Therefore, when missionaries recounted the narrative of the martyrs, they were not simply addressing the plight of fellow Christians; they were also highlighting the moral expectations associated with a Christian identity and offering people an opportunity to act on their beliefs. Since one can derive great satisfaction and fulfillment by living out one’s faith, the appeal of participating in a solidarity campaign was enhanced.

Establish Interpersonal Contact One of the greatest challenges that international organizers face is bringing remote issues closer to home and humanizing distant conflicts. To overcome this problem—to make U.S. Christians care deeply about Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala—missionaries and church leaders orchestrated interpersonal encounters between North Americans and Central Americans. Face-to-face contact strengthened the solidarity movement for a couple of reasons. First, North Americans directly saw the human consequences of U.S. foreign policy. They became acquainted with those who were suffering, whose lives were endangered because of the U.S. government’s support for military regimes in the region. Second, it made these political issues personal. Delegation participants and brigadistas met people 163

convictions of the soul

during their travels who could have easily become the next casualties of these U.S.-sponsored wars. They were not statistics or faceless masses; these were individuals with whom they had worshipped, shared meals, and picked coffee. Exposure to the human consequences of policies engages one’s heart and moral conscience in a way that news reports rarely do. Moreover, interpersonal contact with the recipients of solidarity may establish a strong, emotional connection that creates a sense of urgency and desire to act on their behalf. As one brigadista commented, “Direct experience is worth reading a thousand articles or going to a hundred films. Now these people live inside me and my commitment is much deeper because they are so much more real to me.”12 Personal contact with Central Americans also intensified activists’ convictions because it enabled U.S. citizens to assess the situation for themselves. Rather than relying on government accounts and analyses, they could travel to the region to observe conditions with their own eyes. Instead of simply believing the asylum court judges, who asserted that Central American refugees were not truly in danger, they could speak directly with refugees to hear firsthand why they had fled. They could determine whether their accounts of repression were credible or not. Many became angry when they saw that the U.S. government was misrepresenting the situation. This conviction, combined with an emotional connection to Central Americans, made it difficult to ignore the issues. These three factors—the moral clarity of the conflict, the link to a salient moral identity, and interpersonal ties—may explain why other countries have not been very successful at gaining solidarity from First World nations. Take Cuba as an example. Castro’s initial disfavor of religion alienated people of faith, and the denial of certain liberties made the Cuban revolution less morally palatable to outsiders. Additionally, most attempts to elicit solidarity for Cuba used appeals to political ideologies— namely, socialism—rather than religious identities that often have greater moral weight in the United States. Finally, travel bans prohibited this type of person-to-person contact from occurring in Cuba, and Cubans residing in the United States predominantly hold oppositional views that do not generate sympathy for the revolution.

Work through Established Transnational Institutions A fourth lesson that can be derived from the Central America solidarity movement is that it can be valuable to work through respected cultural institutions that span national boundaries and have established roots in different locations. With a 2,000-year-old tradition, the Christian church has a long history and a rich set of symbols, practices, teachings, and financial assets. This provided missionaries with a lot to work with, both culturally and materially, as they sought to develop solidarity between disparate people. They encouraged faith communities in both North America 164

agency and transnational movements

and Central America to identify with one another—even though, in the case of Nicaragua, their governments were considered enemies—by building on the religious themes and values that both groups embraced. Although missionaries had to transform and recast some of these themes to bring the theological views of U.S. congregations into alignment with the liberation impulses of the Central American popular church, they had a set of symbols, stories, and teachings that provided a common foundation. This enabled them to construct a collective Christian identity that transcended their race, class, and cultural differences. Carl described the advantage that church-based organizing offered this transnational movement: “The church transcends national boundaries. There are these natural connections between people in the same faith or denomination in one country or another. So there’s always that kind of channel that is open.”13 An additional advantage was that the church already had extensive networks in place in Central America and in the United States that missionaries could use to launch the solidarity movement. Trying to build international connections and relationships from scratch could have taken years. However, as missionaries convinced bishops’ councils, interfaith task forces, and denominational conferences that solidarity work was an appropriate expression of Christian faith, they were able to use these networks to spread word of upcoming actions, recruit participants, and raise funds. Moreover, respect for the institutional church granted missionaries access to high-level political leaders. For instance, Father Paul probably could not have met with President Reagan’s advisors if he had tried to make an appointment as a regular U.S. citizen or even as a parish priest. However, as a representative of the U.S. Bishops Conference, doors opened to him. The church’s moral authority also made it difficult to discredit progressive Christians’ efforts to change Central American policy. In fact, Langhorne Motley—assistant secretary of state for inter-American affairs during the first Reagan administration—said, “Taking on the churches is really tough. We don’t normally think of them as political opponents, so we don’t know how to handle them. They are really formidable.”14

Leaders Need Extensive Cultural Knowledge, Experience, and Ties in Both Regions The leadership of missionaries in the Central America solidarity movement was greatly enhanced by the fact that they were U.S. citizens who had lived in Latin America for a substantial period of time—in many cases, for a decade or more. Not only did this make them trusted insiders who had substantial knowledge of both regions; it also enabled them to act as cultural interpreters. They understood the religious sensibilities and attitudes of churches in both regions, providing them with the unique ability to frame Central America’s cries for liberation in a way that made sense to 165

convictions of the soul

North Americans raised in the Cold War era. Their mission experience and ties to religious groups in both regions enabled them to quickly set up campaigns that crossed state borders. In essence, they served as bridges, or cultural links, between faith communities in the United States and Nicaragua, El Salvador, and Guatemala.

Focus on Specific, Local Targets Missionaries were also astute in selecting concrete, local targets for action. Once they captured the attention of progressive Christians in the United States, they did not call upon them to change the international economic system or stop imperialism. Although many participants in the Central America solidarity movement might have supported such goals, they are abstract and tough to tackle. Even more focused aims, such as land reform and the enactment of fair labor laws in Central America, would have been difficult to obtain because they are too far removed from U.S. citizens’ sphere of influence. Emotional energy and moral commitments must be channeled into strategic actions aimed at accessible targets. Without this, people may feel helpless to change an international system. By focusing on the defeat of Contra aid bills or the closure of the School of the Americas, missionaries provided specific ways to make a difference. They offered a realistic course of action, thereby increasing activists’ sense of efficacy. Ben noted, “People are interested when they know that small efforts, joined with others, can make a real difference. There’s a great sense of making history. Sometimes you get pivot points and people will flock to them because, depending on where you push, you can affect how it will tip. People do want to make a difference, and they look for the places where their efforts will count.”15

Conclusion

A

s globalization and communication technology expand, we are likely to see more transnational movements. The Central America solidarity movement provides insight into the challenges of organizing at this level and sheds light on some of the factors that influence the effort to win support from the international community. As future studies elaborate the dynamics of transnational movements—including the structural and cultural factors that shape them—we must not lose sight of the people who link groups in different countries. As activists reach across borders, the importance of cultural interpretation may become more important than ever. Those who personalize distant issues, evoke emotions, build collective identities, link moral commitments to activism, and propose a realistic course of action are essential. Without these individuals, transnational movements of solidarity will not arise. 166

APPENDIX 1

List of Central America Solidarity Organizations

The following organizations are represented in this study’s sample: 1. Witness for Peace 2. Pledge of Resistance 3. Sanctuary 4. School of the Americas Watch 5. Nicaragua Exchange/Nicaragua Network 6. Sojourners 7. Religious Task Force on Central America 8. Quest for Peace/Nicaragua Cultural Alliance 9. Center for Global Education 10. Central America Working Group (currently the Latin America Working Group)

167

This page intentionally left blank

APPENDIX 2

List of Interviews

1. Neil, Center for Global Education, May 1994. 2. Sonya, Center for Global Education, May 1994. 3. Matthew, Center for Global Education, May 1994. 4. Neil, Center for Global Education, May 1994. 5. Susan, Center for Global Education, May 1994. 6. Rebecca, Pledge of Resistance, May 1994. 7. Amy, Witness for Peace, May 1994. 8. Marilyn, Central America Working Group, May 1994. 9. Laura, Central America Working Group, May 1994. 10. Sister Jean, Religious Task Force on Central America, May 1994. 11. Carolyn, Religious Task Force on Central America and Sanctuary, May 1994. 12. Gregory, Religious Task Force on Central America and Sanctuary, May 1994. 13. Kristin, Sanctuary, May 1994. 14. Lucy, Central America Working Group, June 1994. 15. Cheryl, Central America Working Group, June 1994. 16. Father Paul, Sojourners, June 1994. 17. Ben, Quest for Peace/Nicaragua Cultural Alliance, June 1994. 169

appendix 2: list of interviews

18. Dorothy, Quest for Peace/Nicaragua Cultural Alliance, June 1994. 19. Mary, Religious Task Force on Central America, June 1994. 20. Kate, Nicaragua Network, June 1994. 21. Steven, Nicaragua Network, June 1994. 22. Thomas, Pledge of Resistance, June 1994. 23. Bob, Witness for Peace, June 1994. 24. Stan, Witness for Peace, June 1994. 25. Tim, Witness for Peace, June 1994. 26. Lisa, Witness for Peace, June 1994. 27. Karen, Pledge of Resistance, June 1994. 28. Grace, Witness for Peace, June 1994. 29. Father Roy Bourgeois, School of the Americas Watch, June 1994. 30. Cynthia, School of the Americas Watch, June 1994. 31. Carl, Pledge of Resistance, July 1994. 32. Kim, Nicaragua Exchange/Nicaragua Network, March 1995. 33. Beth, Nicaragua Exchange/Nicaragua Network, March 1995. 34. Colleen, Nicaragua Exchange/Nicaragua Network, March 1995. 35. Jeff, Sanctuary, March 1995.

170

N OT E S

Preface 1. 2. 3. 4.

Father Paul (pseudonym), Sojourners. Interview by author, June 1994. See Denzin, Research Act. See Glaser and Strauss, Discovery of Grounded Theory. I conducted the interviews over a ten-month period in 1994–1995, and each lasted between one and three hours. Using a dialogical interviewing approach, I interviewed individual activists in two large midwestern cities, one East Coast metropolitan area, a southern urban region, a Rocky Mountain area, and a large West Coast city. The sample included 20 women and 15 men, ranging in age from 32 to 75 years old. 5. See Olesen, “Feminisms and Models of Qualitative Research.” 6. See Weber, Methodology of the Social Sciences. 7. Stan (pseudonym), Witness for Peace. Interview by author, June 1994.

1. Culture, Agency, and Religion in Social Movements 1. To protect their anonymity, I have used pseudonyms for all those who participated in my research, unless otherwise noted. The information from this section was derived from my interview with Jeff in March 1995. 2. Sewell, “Theory of Structure,” 2. 3. Jasper, Art of Moral Protest, 65. 4. For further elaboration of the Resource Mobilization model, see McCarthy and Zald, “Resource Mobilization.” 5. For further elaboration of the Political Process model, see McAdam, Political Process. 6. McAdam, Political Process, 41. 171

notes to pages 11–21

7. One of the problems evident in many Political Process studies is that any event which, in retrospect, appears to have created favorable conditions for movements is labeled a political opportunity. Unfortunately, many researchers do not provide empirical data that these events were prominent in shaping activists’ sense of efficacy and their decisions about when to act. 8. This term is from Epstein, Political Protest and Cultural Revolution. 9. King, Why We Can’t Wait, 79. 10. Ibid., 86. 11. See Sharp, Role of Power in Nonviolent Action. 12. Ben (pseudonym), Quest for Peace/Nicaragua Cultural Alliance. Interview by author, June 1994. 13. In their 1999 article, “Caught in a Winding, Snarling Vine,” Goodwin and Jasper expand on some of the limits of the Political Process model. 14. Jasper, Art of Moral Protest, 12. 15. For more information on collective identity, see Melucci, “Process of Collective Identity” and Taylor and Whittier, “Collective Identity in Social Movement Communities.” 16. See Snow and Benford, “Master Frames.” 17. For further elaboration of these frame alignment processes, see Snow, Rochford, Worden, and Benford, “Frame Alignment Processes.” 18. Zald, “Ideologically Structured Action,” 7. 19. Benford, “Insider’s Critique,” 418. 20. Jasper, Art of Moral Protest, 12. 21. See Goodwin, Jasper, and Polletta, “Return of the Repressed,” and their edited volume, Passionate Politics. 22. See Barbalet, Emotion, Social Theory, and Social Structure. 23. See Goodwin, “Libidinal Constitution.” 24. Blain, “Role of Death,” 260. 25. Jasper, Art of Moral Protest, 216. 26. See Hochschild, Managed Heart. 27. Jasper, Art of Moral Protest, 64. 28. As Polletta points out in “Culture and Its Discontents,” there are different ways of viewing culture in movements. Some view culture as an interpretive framework in people’s minds, while others, such as Ann Swidler, discuss culture as a toolkit from which people construct new strategies and mobilize others to resistance. I am using both notions of culture, recognizing that agents draw upon cultural symbols and practices to instigate changes in people’s interpretive frameworks. 29. For a more thorough overview of his theory, see Sewell, “Theory of Structure.” 30. Sewell’s theory of structure explicitly builds on Anthony Giddens’s notion of the duality of structure and Pierre Bourdieu’s concept of habitus. These ideas are developed in Giddens, Constitution of Society; and Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice. 31. Sewell, “Theory of Structure,” 18. 32. See Morris, Origins of the Civil Rights Movement. 33. Morris, Origins of the Civil Rights Movement, 98. 34. Robnett, How Long? 30. 172

notes to pages 21–35

35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

See King, Stride toward Freedom. See Durkheim, Elementary Forms of Religious Life. See Marx and Engels, “Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy.” See Billings, “Religion as Opposition”; Nepstad, “Popular Religion”; and Wuthnow, “Religious Commitment.” Smith, “Correcting a Curious Neglect,” 19. See Hart, What Does the Lord Require?; and Smith, “Correcting a Curious Neglect.” See Pagnucco, “Comparison of the Political Behavior.” Smith, Resisting Reagan, 384. See Smith, Resisting Reagan.

2. The Origins of Central America’s Civil Wars 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21.

22. 23. 24. 25.

Harbury, Bridge of Courage, 36–38. Tomuschat, de Cotı´, and Tojo, “Memory of Silence.” Jonas, Battle for Guatemala, 149. Peterson, Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion, 38. Fagan, “Central American Refugees,” 59. Sivard, World Military, 22; Vanden and Walker, “Reimposition of U.S. Hegemony,” 166. Jonas, Battle for Guatemala, 14. See Brockett, Land, Power, and Poverty; Browning, El Salvador; Smith, Emergence of Liberation Theology. See DeWalt and Bidegaray, “Agrarian Bases of Conflict.” See Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion. Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion, 37. See Armstrong and Shenk, El Salvador; Woodward, Central America. See Del Rio, Nicaragua for Beginners. This information is drawn from the following sources: Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion; Booth and Walker, Understanding Central America. See Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion; Berryman, Inside Central America; Millett, Guardians of the Dynasty; Woodward, Central America. See Booth, End and the Beginning; Walker, Nicaragua. See Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion; Munro, Five Republics; Walter, Regime of Anastasio Somoza. See Booth and Walker, Understanding Central America; Del Rio, Nicaragua for Beginners; Walker, Nicaragua. See Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion; Walker, Nicaragua; Walter, Regime of Anastasio Somoza. Ibid. See Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion; Black, Triumph of the People; Booth, End and the Beginning; Del Rio, Nicaragua for Beginners; Walker, Nicaragua. Collins, Nicaragua, 15. Dixon, On Trial, 113. Del Rio, Nicaragua for Beginners, 96. Dixon, On Trial, 113; Randall, Christians in the Nicaraguan Revolution, 23– 24. 173

notes to pages 35–43

26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 174

See Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion. Walker, Nicaragua, 31. See Lernoux, Cry of the People. See Randall, Christians in the Nicaraguan Revolution. See Arnson, Crossroad. See Del Rio, Nicaragua for Beginners. See Dodson and O’Shaughnessy, Nicaragua’s Other Revolution; Girardi, Faith and Revolution; Lancaster, Thanks to God. Collins, Nicaragua, 31; see Stahler-Sholk, “Stabilization, De-stabilization.” See Arnson, Crossroad; Brown, “Sandinismo”; Luciak, “Popular Democracy.” Smith, Resisting Reagan, 38. See Berryman, Inside Central America; Chomsky, Turning the Tide; Dixon, On Trial. See Prevost, “Status of the Sandinista Revolutionary Project”; Wehr and Nepstad, “Violence, Nonviolence, and Justice.” See Americas Watch Report, “Violations of the Laws of War.” See Smith, Resisting Reagan. See Berryman, Inside Central America. See Stephens, “Democracy in Latin America.” Booth and Walker, Understanding Central America, 154. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Politics of Compassion, 80; Vanden “Democracy Derailed,” 50. Vanden, “Democracy Derailed,” 53. Booth and Walker, Understanding Central America, 154. Kornbluh, Nicaragua, the Price of Intervention, 45; see Berryman, Inside Central America; Sklar, Washington’s War. Smith, Resisting Reagan, 107. See Smith, Resisting Reagan. See Metoyer “Nicaragua’s Transition”; Wehr and Nepstad, “Violence, Nonviolence, and Justice.” Peterson, Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion, 26. See Anderson, La Matanza; Armstrong and Shenk, El Salvador. See Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion. Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion, 95; see Anderson, La Matanza. Armstrong and Shenk, El Salvador, 29. Peterson, Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion, 27. Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion, 95. Armstrong and Shenk, El Salvador, 47. Peterson, Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion, 29. Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion, 103. See Fish and Sganga, El Salvador. Peterson, Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion, 35–36. Sobel, “Public Opinion about United States Intervention,” 116. See Sarkesian, New Battlefield; Smith, Resisting Reagan. For a broader account of low-intensity warfare, see Smith, Resisting Reagan. Peterson, Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion, 36. Karl, “Exporting Democracy,” 180.

notes to pages 44–58

67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84.

85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92.

See Garst and Barry, Feeding the Crisis. Smith, Resisting Reagan, 35. Garst and Barry, “Exporting Democracy,” Feeding the Crisis,150. Peterson, Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion, 38. United Nations Truth Commission Report: El Salvador. Bermu´dez, Death and Resurrection, xv; see Chomsky, Turning the Tide. See Jonas, Battle for Guatemala; Schlesinger and Kinzer, Bitter Fruit. Swomley, Liberation Ethics, 69. See Handy, Gift of the Devil. See Cullather, Secret History; Gleijeses, Shattered Hope; Handy, Gift of the Devil; Immerman, CIA in Guatemala. Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion; Cullather, Secret History; Gleijeses, Shattered Hope. Schlesinger and Kinzer, Bitter Fruit. Jonas, Battle for Guatemala, 31. See Cullather, Secret History; Handy, Gift of the Devil; Jonas, Battle for Guatemala; Immerman, CIA in Guatemala. Torres Rivas, “Guatemala,” 24. See Berryman, “Introduction.” See Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion. Some argue that the embargo actually freed the Guatemalan army to unleash its scorched-earth campaign because the United States no longer had a bargaining chip to pressure the military into improving its human rights record. See Berryman, Stubborn Hope. Berryman, Stubborn Hope, 115–116. Jonas, Battle for Guatemala, 149. Berryman, “Introduction,” 11. Harbury, Bridge of Courage, 93–96. See Berryman, Stubborn Hope; Davis, “Sowing the Seeds of Violence.” Jonas, Battle for Guatemala, 149; see Chomsky, “Introduction.” See Tomuschat, de Cotı´, and Tojo, “Memory of Silence.”

3. Leadership and the Formation of Solidarity 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

Woodward, Veil, 402. See Goldstone and Perry, “Leadership Dynamics.” Mills, Sociological Imagination, 3. Morris, Origins of the Civil Rights Movement, 10. See Robnett, How Long? Barbe´, Grace and Power, 38; Simon, “Tensions in the Nicaraguan Church,” 8. See Dorr, Option for the Poor; Mich, Catholic Social Teachings. See Brett, “Impact of Religion.” See Nepstad, “Popular Religion, Protest, and Revolt.” Grace (pseudonym), Witness for Peace. Interview by author, June 1994. See Adriance, “Agents of Change”; Lernoux, Cry of the People; Levine, “From Church and State.” Cobb, “Introduction,” xi. 175

notes to pages 58–77

13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

He´lder Caˆmara, as quoted in Smith, Emergence of Liberation Theology, 16. See Levine, Religion and Political Conflict. Gerassi, Revolutionary Priest, xiii. Smith, Emergence of Liberation Theology, 16–17; see Nun˜ez, Liberation Theology. The ideas of liberation theology are more complex than I have portrayed in this paragraph. Moreover, I have not included developments from the 1990s. I have summarized these themes based on the following works: Boff and Boff, Salvation and Liberation; Bonino, Doing Theology; Gutie´rrez, Theology of Liberation; Segundo, Liberation of Theology; Smith, Emergence of Liberation Theology. Sister Jean (pseudonym), Religious Task Force on Central America. Interview by author, May 1994. See Greil, “Previous Disposition and Conversion”; Lofland, Doomsday Cult. See Greil and Rudy, “What Have We Learned?” Grace (pseudonym), Witness for Peace. Interview by author, June 1994. Father Paul (pseudonym), Sojourners. Interview by author, June 1994. Grace, interview by author. Smith, “Correcting a Curious Neglect,” 20–21. Father Paul, interview by author. Ibid. Grace, interview by author. Ben (pseudonym), Quest for Peace/Nicaragua Cultural Alliance. Interview by author, June 1994. See Berryman, “El Salvador”; Montgomery, “Cross and Rifle”; Prendes, “Revolutionary Struggle.” Grace, interview by author. Lederach, Building Peace, 41–42. Father Paul, interview by author. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Grace, interview by author. Ibid. Ibid. Lisa (pseudonym), Witness for Peace. Interview by author, June 1994. Father Paul, interview by author. Many of these political opportunities are documented in Smith, Resisting Reagan, 88–108. Lisa, interview by author. Grace, interview by author.

4. Biography and Recruitment Receptivity 1. Grace, interview by author. 2. Father Paul, interview by author. 3. See Snow, Rochford, Worden, and Benford, “Frame Alignment Processes”; Snow and Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance.” 176

notes to pages 77–84

4. Sister Jean, interview by author. 5. Petty and Cacioppo (Attitudes and Attitude Change) describe how some individuals’ belief systems place them in a “latitude of rejection” that essentially precludes them from movement recruitment. However, only a small number of those in the “latitude of acceptance” actually join a movement. The difference between those who have an attitudinal affinity toward the movement and those who eventually become activists is the focus of a large body of literature that describes this process of “differential recruitment.” For further information, see Fernandez and McAdam, “Social Networks”; Klandermans and Oegema, “Potentials, Networks, Motivations”; McAdam, “Recruitment to High-Risk Activism”; Nepstad and Smith, “Rethinking Recruitment”; Oegema and Klandermans, “Social Movement Sympathizers”; Snow, Zurcher, and Ekland-Olson, “Social Networks.” 6. Zald, “Ideologically Structured Action,” 7. 7. See Benford, “Insider’s Critique.” 8. Snow and Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance,” 204. 9. See Snow and Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance”; Gamson, “Constructing Social Protest.” 10. See Davies, “Family’s Role”; Easton and Hess, “Children’s Political World.” 11. See Wasburn, “Children and Watergate.” 12. See Cooper, “Development of the Concept of War.” 13. See Jahoda, “Development of Scottish Children’s Ideas.” 14. See Cooper, “Development of the Concept of War”; Targ, “Children’s Developing Orientation.” 15. See the following: Geschwender, Rinehart, and George, “Socialization, Alienation”; Langton, “Peer Group”; McClosky and Dahlgren, “Primary Group Influence”; Newcomb, “Attitude Development”; Sherkat, “Counterculture or Continuity?”; Woelfel, “Political Attitudes.” 16. See Block, Haan, and Smith, “Socialization Correlates”; Flacks, “Liberated Generation.” 17. Campbell, Converse, Miller, and Stokes, American Voter; Davies, “Family’s Role”; Greenstein, Children and Politics; Hess and Torny Development of Political Attitudes; Jennings and Neimi, “Transmission of Political Values”; Trevor, “Political Socialization.” 18. Geschwender, Rinehart, and George, “Socialization, Alienation,” 316–317. 19. See Sigel, Political Learning. 20. See Carroll, “Gender Politics.” 21. See Laufer, “Aftermath of War.” 22. Smith, Resisting Reagan, 167. 23. Grace, interview by author. 24. Neil (pseudonym), Center for Global Education. Interview by author, May 1994. 25. Jasper, Art of Moral Protest, 54. 26. See Zerubavel, Social Mindscapes. 27. Ibid., 43. 28. Matthew (pseudonym), Center for Global Education. Interview by author, May 1994. 177

notes to pages 84–97

29. Dorothy (pseudonym), Quest for Peace/Nicaragua Cultural Alliance. Interview by author, June 1994. 30. See Fishburn, “Mainline Protestants”; Smith, Resisting Reagan. 31. Matthew, interview by author. 32. Lucy (pseudonym), Central America Working Group. Interview by author, June 1994. 33. Sonya (pseudonym), Center for Global Education. Interview by author, May 1994. 34. Comparative data with members of the Christian Right are needed to verify this assertion. Since I did not conduct interviews with Christians who supported Reagan’s policy toward Central America, this is only a suggestive theory. 35. Jeff (pseudonym), Sanctuary. Interview by author, March 1995. 36. Sonya, interview by author. 37. Lisa, interview by author. 38. Ben, interview by author. 39. Lisa, interview by author. 40. Mary (pseudonym), Religious Task Force on Central America. Interview by author, June 1994. 41. See Snow and Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance.” 42. Lisa, interview by author. 43. Neil, interview by author. 44. See Orum, “On the Explanation of Political Socialization.” 45. Rebecca (pseudonym), Pledge of Resistance. Interview by author, May 1994. 46. Berger and Luckmann, Social Construction of Reality. 47. Sister Jean, interview by author. 48. Grace, interview by author. 49. Lucy, interview by author. 50. Carolyn (pseudonym), Religious Task Force on Central America/Sanctuary. Interview by author, May 1994. 51. Stan (pseudonym), Witness for Peace. Interview by author, June 1994. 52. Ibid.

5. Martyr Stories 1. Jeff, interview by author. 2. I have previously addressed some of these issues in my article “Creating Transnational Solidarity,” published in Mobilization and reprinted in Globalization and Resistance, edited by Jackie Smith and Hank Johnston. For more detailed accounts of the role of narratives in social movements, see the following: Bruner, “Narrative Construction of Reality”; Davis, “Narrative and Social Movements”; Hunt, “Social Psychology and Narrative Concepts”; Polkinghorne, Narrative Knowing; Polkinghorne, “Narrative and Self-Concept”; Polletta, “Contending Stories”; Polletta, “It Was Like a Fever”; Somers “Narrativity, Narrative Identity”; Somers, “Narrative Constitution of Identity.” 3. See Berryman, “El Salvador”; Lernoux, Cry of the People; Melendez, 178

notes to pages 97–113

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33.

34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43.

“Catholic Church in Central America”; Prendes, “Revolutionary Struggle.” See Lernoux, Cry of the People. Erdozaı´n, Archbishop Romero, 6–8. Sobrino, Archbishop Romero, 8–9. Peterson, Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion, 61. Erdozaı´n, Archbishop Romero, 74. Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion, 150. Quoted in Sobrino, Archbishop Romero, 99–100. Information on the lives of the four churchwomen is drawn from Brett and Brett, Murdered in Central America and Noone, Same Fate as the Poor. Brett and Brett, Murdered in Central America, 296. Ibid., 300. Carl (pseudonym), Pledge of Resistance. Interview sent to author by respondent, July 1994. Sister Jean, interview by author. Gamson, “Constructing Social Protest,” 105. Stoll, Rigoberta Menchu´, 235–236. See Blain, “Power, War and Melodrama.” Lucy, interview by author. Sister Jean, interview by author. See Benford and Hunt, “Dramaturgy and Social Movements.” See Snow and Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance.” Sobrino, quoted in Dennis, Golden, and Wright, Oscar Romero, 116. Dennis, Golden, and Wright, Oscar Romero, 107. Polletta, “Contending Stories,” 425. This term is from Snow and Benford, “Ideology, Frame Resonance.” Morris, Origins of the Civil Rights Movement, 96. Romero, Violence of Love, 191. Lynch, “Jean Donovan’s Legacy,” 21–22. Lucy, interview by author. Father Paul, interview by author. Stoll, Rigoberta Menchu´, 245–246. The 1980 “Sante Fe Document,” which deeply influenced Reagan’s Latin American policy, claimed that liberation theology and the spread of base Christian communities in the region posed a threat to U.S. security. For more information, see Zwerling and Martin, Nicaragua. This idea is further elaborated in Nepstad, “Creating Transnational Solidarity”; and Rupp and Taylor, “Forging Feminist Identity.” Jeff, interview by author. See Fine, “Public Narration”; Ganz, “Power of Story.” Carl, interview sent to author. Romero, quoted in Dennis, Golden, and Wright, Oscar Romero, 39. Father Roy Bourgeois, School of the Americas Watch. Interview with author, June 1994. Carl, interview sent to author. Mary, interview by author. See Ganz, “Power of Story.” Romero, quoted in Sobrino, Archbishop Romero, 99. 179

notes to pages 113–126

44. Mary (pseudonym), quoted in Noone, Same Fate as the Poor, 147. 45. Jeff, interview by author. 46. Stan, interview by author.

6. Making Politics Personal 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

7.

8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31.

180

Jeff, interview by author. Father Paul, interview by author. Smith, Resisting Reagan, 77. Lisa, interview by author. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Politics of Compassion, 80. Background information is from interviews with the former directors of Nicaragua Exchange as well as the Nicaragua Exchange files at Wisconsin State Historical Society. For additional information on the agricultural brigades, see Jones, Brigadista. This quotation is drawn from one of the evaluation reports that brigadistas completed at the end of the brigade. These reports are part of the Nicaragua Exchange archives housed at the Wisconsin State Historical Society. Due to archival requirements, all quotations are anonymous. Quoted in Jones, Brigadista, 10. From a brigade participant’s evaluation report, Nicaragua Exchange archives. Sonya, interview by author. See Goodwin, Jasper, and Polletta, “Return of the Repressed,” and their edited volume, Passionate Politics. See Hochschild, Managed Heart; Groves, “Learning to Feel.” Jasper, “Emotions of Protest,” 401. See Gamson, Talking Politics. See Taylor and Whittier, “Analytical Approaches.” Anonymous brigade participant, Nicaragua Exchange archives. For further elaboration on this experience of “frame contradictions,” see Nepstad, “Process of Cognitive Liberation.” Lisa, interview by author. Ben, interview by author. From an anonymous brigade participant’s evaluation report, Nicaragua Exchange archives. Quoted in Griffin-Nolan, Witness for Peace, 174–175. Grace, interview by author. Ibid. Mary, interview by author. Stan, interview by author. From an anonymous brigade participant’s evaluation report, Nicaragua Exchange archives. Neil, interview by author, May 1994. Grace, interview by author. Father Paul, interview by author. Neil, interview by author. From an anonymous brigade participant’s evaluation report, Nicaragua Exchange archives.

notes to pages 127–138

32. Dorothy, interview by author. 33. Lisa, interview by author. 34. From an anonymous brigade participant’s evaluation report, Nicaragua Exchange archives. 35. Information on the origins of the sanctuary movement are drawn from the following sources: Coutin, Culture of Protest; Crittenden, Sanctuary; Davidson, Convictions of the Heart; Golden and McConnell, Sanctuary; Lorentzen, Women in the Sanctuary Movement; MacEoin, Sanctuary; Smith, Resisting Reagan. 36. Crittenden, Sanctuary, 21. 37. Ibid., xvi. 38. John Fife and Jim Corbett are the actual names of sanctuary organizers in Tucson. Neither man is a respondent in this study, and all the information presented is public knowledge, thus pseudonyms are not needed to protect their identities. 39. Davidson, Convictions of the Heart, 69. 40. Ibid., 70–71. 41. Golden and McConnell, Sanctuary, 53. 42. Lorentzen, Women in the Sanctuary Movement, 15. 43. Neil, interview by author. 44. Carl, interview sent to author. 45. Mary, interview by author. 46. Rebecca, interview by author. 47. Carolyn (pseudonym), Religious Task Force on Central America/Sanctuary. Interview by author, May 1994. 48. From an anonymous bridgade participant’s evaluation report, Nicaragua Exchange Archives. 49. Golden and McConnell, Sanctuary, 134–135.

7. Rituals and Emotional Rejuvenation 1. Smith, Resisting Reagan, 83–85. 2. Unlike the case of previous respondents, I am using Father Roy Bourgeois’s actual name, not a pseudonym. Due to his high-profile leadership position, it is impossible to discuss the solidarity organization he founded, the School of the Americas Watch, without revealing his identity. However, Father Bourgeois did grant permission to use his name. 3. Quoted in Haynes and Jarrett, “Father Roy Bourgeois,” 8. 4. Quoted in Berryman, Religious Roots of Rebellion, 150. 5. In his book, Resisting Reagan, Christian Smith argues that the Iran-Contra scandal of 1986–1987 marked the closing of political opportunities, thereby denoting the beginning of the movement’s demise. He recalls that the Iran-Contra hearings revealed new evidence that the Reagan administration had covertly sold arms to Iran in exchange for the release of U.S. hostages. The profits from this deal were illegally channeled to the Nicaraguan Contras. Since Congress had banned Contra aid by this point and the White House had vowed to never negotiate with terrorists, solidarity activists felt that the Reagan administration’s credibility had been severely damaged and members of Congress finally saw the situation clearly and 181

notes to pages 138–151

6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22.

23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 182

would reverse U.S. policies toward Central America. However, by definition, this does not reflect the closing of political opportunities; rather, as the state’s vulnerability was exposed, this was an important chance for activists to increase their leverage and push for reform. What led to the movement’s decline was a belief that the conflict was soon to be over, not a sense that the opportunities for challenging the state were no longer available. See Smith, Resisting Reagan, 348–361. Ben and Dorothy [pseudonyms], Quest for Peace/Nicaragua Cultural Alliance. Interview by author, June 1994. Mary, interview by author. Smith, Resisting Reagan, 359–360. See Taylor, “Social Movement Continuity.” The School of the Americas was replaced by the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation (WHISC) on January 17, 2001. SOA critics argue that this is nothing but a cosmetic change, leading to a movement slogan: “It is a new name, but the same shame.” See Nepstad, “School of the Americas Watch.” Quoted in Nepstad, “School of the Americas Watch,” 69. See Nelson-Pallmeyer, School of Assassins. Nepstad, “School of the Americas Watch,” 70. Sobrino, Companions of Jesus. Ibid., 4–5. See Doggett, Death Foretold. Instituto de Estudios Centroamericanos and El Rescate, Jesuit Assassinations, 33. Ibid., 27. Nepstad, “School of the Americas Watch,” 69. In addition to the other sources cited, much of this information was drawn from my own interview with Father Roy Bourgeois, conducted in Columbus, Georgia in June 1994. Quoted in Haynes and Jarrett, “Father Roy Bourgeois,” 8. Quoted in Haynes and Jarrett, “Conscience of a Christian,” 3–4. Quoted in Haynes and Jarrett, “Father Roy Bourgeois,” 8. Cynthia (pseudonym), School of the Americas Watch. Interview by author, June 1994. Quoted in Haynes and Jarrett, “Conscience of a Christian,” 2. See Marrin, “Six Hundred Arrested.” See Dear, Living Peace. Collins, “Social Movements,” 33. Quoted in Dear, Living Peace, 123. See Jasper, Art of Moral Protest. See Thelen, “Jesuits Reflecting.” See Gamson, Talking Politics. Alexander, “Jesuits Reflecting.” See Collins, “Social Movements.” This term is from Durkheim, Elementary Forms. See Collins, “Social Movements.” “Two Liturgies,” 28.

notes to pages 151–166

40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

See Coutin, Culture of Protest. O’Hare, “In Solidarity,” 443. “Two Liturgies,” 28. Gregory (pseudonym), Sanctuary/Religious Task Force on Central America. Interview by author, May 1994. This description is based on multiple accounts of the annual November gathering at Fort Benning. However, I do draw much of this from Marrin, “Six Hundred Arrested”; and Marrin, “Tactics Shift.” Marrin, “Six Hundred Arrested,” 3. Marrin, “Tactics Shift,” 3. Martinez, “Overcoming a Ratzinger Moment,” 18. Jeff, interview by author. Quoted in Marrin, “Tactics Shift,” 3. See the Winter 1990 issue of Company.

8. Agency and Transnational Movements 1. McAdam, “Harmonizing the Voices,” 227. 2. Stan, interview by author. 3. See Goodwin, Jasper, and Polletta, eds., Passionate Politics; Hart, Cultural Dilemmas; and Davis, ed., Stories of Change. 4. Smith, Resisting Reagan, chapter 5. 5. Father Paul, interview by author. 6. Mary, interview by author. 7. Jeff, interview by author. 8. See Keck and Sikkink, Activists beyond Borders; Smith, Chatfield, and Pagnucco, eds., Transnational Social Movements; Bob, “Marketing Rebellion.” 9. Sister Jean, interview by author. 10. Quoted in Smith, Resisting Reagan, 344. 11. Father Paul, interview by author. 12. From an anonymous brigade participant’s evaluation report, Nicaragua Exchange archives. 13. Carl, interview sent to author. 14. Quoted in Cohn and Hynds, “Manipulation of the Religious Issue,” 119. 15. Ben, interview by author.

183

This page intentionally left blank

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Adriance, Madeleine. “Agents of Change: The Role of Priests, Sisters, and Lay Workers in the Grassroots Catholic Church in Brazil.” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion 30 (1991): 292–305. Alexander, Andy. “Jesuits Reflecting on the Martyrs Ten Years Later.” Available online: http://www.creighton.edu/CollaborativeMinistry/10th-anniv.html. November 1999. Americas Watch Report. Violations of the Laws of War by Both Sides in Nicaragua, 1981–1985. New York and Washington: Americas Watch, 1985. Anderson, Thomas. La Matanza: El Salvador’s Communist Revolt of 1932. Lincoln, Neb.: University of Nebraska Press, 1971. Armstrong, Robert, and Janet Shenk. El Salvador: The Face of Revolution. Boston: South End, 1982. Arnson, Cynthia J. Crossroad: Congress, the President, and Central America, 1976– 1993. University Park, Pa.: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1993. Barbalet, Jack M. Emotion, Social Theory, and Social Structure: A Macro-Sociological Approach. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Barbe´, Dominique. Grace and Power: Base Communities and Nonviolence in Brazil. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1987. Benford, Robert. “An Insider’s Critique of the Social Movement Framing Perspective.” Sociological Inquiry 67 (1997): 409–430. Benford, Robert, and Scott Hunt. “Dramaturgy and Social Movements: The Social Construction and Communication of Power.” Sociological Inquiry 62 (1992): 36–55. Berger, Peter, and Thomas Luckmann. The Social Construction of Reality. Garden City, N.Y.: Anchor Books, 1967. Bermu´dez, Fernando. Death and Resurrection in Guatemala. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1985. 185

bibliography

Berryman, Phillip. “El Salvador: From Evangelization to Insurrection.” In Religion and Political Conflict in Latin America, ed. Daniel Levine, 58–78. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986. ———. Inside Central America: The Essential Facts Past and Present on El Salvador, Nicaragua, Honduras, Guatemala, and Costa Rica. New York: Pantheon, 1985. ———. “Introduction.” In Death and Resurrection in Guatemala, by Fernando Bermu´dez, 1–16. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1985. ———. The Religious Roots of Rebellion: Christians in Central American Revolutions. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1984. ———. Stubborn Hope: Religion, Politics, and Revolution in Central America. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1994. Billings, Dwight. “Religion as Opposition: A Gramscian Analysis.” American Journal of Sociology 96 (1990): 1–31. Black, George. Triumph of the People: The Sandinista Revolution in Nicaragua. London: Zed Press, 1981. Blain, Michael. “Power, War, and Melodrama in the Discourses of Political Movements.” Theory and Society 23 (1994): 805–837. ———. “The Role of Death in Political Conflict.” Psychoanalytic Review 63 (1976): 249–265. Block, Jeanne, Norma Haan, and M. Brewster Smith. “Socialization Correlates of Student Activism.” Journal of Social Issues 25 (1969): 143–178. Bob, Clifford. “Marketing Rebellion: Insurgent Groups, International Media, and NGO Support.” International Politics 38 (2001): 311–334. Boff, Leonardo, and Clodovis Boff. Salvation and Liberation: In Search of a Balance between Faith and Politics. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1984. Bonino, Jose´. Doing Theology in a Revolutionary Situation. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1975. Booth, John A. The End and the Beginning: The Nicaraguan Revolution. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1981. Booth, John A., and Thomas W. Walker. Understanding Central America. Boulder, Col.: Westview Press, 1993. Bourdieu, Pierre. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977. Brett, Donna Whitson, and Edward T. Brett. Murdered in Central America: The Stories of Eleven U.S. Missionaries. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1988. Brett, Edward. “The Impact of Religion in Central America: A Bibliographic Essay.” The Americas 49 (1983): 297–341. Brockett, Charles. Land, Power, and Poverty: Agrarian Transformation and Political Conflict in Central America. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1990. Brown, Doug. “Sandinismo and the Problem of Democratic Hegemony.” Latin American Perspectives 17 (1990): 39–61. Browning, David. El Salvador: Landscape and Society. Oxford: Clarendon, 1971. Bruner, Jerome. “The Narrative Construction of Reality.” Critical Inquiry 18 (1991): 1–21. Campbell, Angus, Phillip Converse, Warren Miller, and Donald Stokes. The American Voter. New York: John Wiley, 1960. Carroll, Susan. “Gender Politics and the Socializing Impact of the Women’s Movement.” In Political Learning in Adulthood: A Sourcebook of Theory and 186

bibliography

Research, ed. Roberta Sigel, 306–339. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989. Chomsky, Noam. “Introduction.” In Bridge of Courage: Life Stories of Guatemalan Compan˜eros and Compan˜eras, by Jennifer Harbury, 2–29. Monroe, Maine: Common Courage Press, 1996. ———. Turning the Tide: U.S. Intervention in Central America and the Struggle for Peace. Boston: South End, 1985. Cobb, John. “Introduction.” In To Set at Liberty, by Delwin Brown, xi–xiv. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1981. Cohn, Betsy, and Patricia Hynds. “The Manipulation of the Religious Issue.” In Reagan versus the Sandinistas: The Undeclared War on Nicaragua, ed. Thomas Walker, 97–122. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1987. Collins, Joseph. Nicaragua: What Difference Could a Revolution Make? New York: Grove, 1986. Collins, Randall. “Social Movements and the Focus of Emotional Attention.” In Passionate Politics: Emotions and Social Movements, ed. Jeff Goodwin, James M. Jasper, and Francesca Polletta, 27–44. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Company: A Magazine of the American Jesuits 8 (Winter 1990). Cooper, Peter. “The Development of the Concept of War.” Journal of Peace Research 1 (1965): 1–18. Coutin, Susan Bibler. The Culture of Protest: Religious Activism in the U.S. Sanctuary Movement. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1993. Crittenden, Ann. Sanctuary: A Story of American Conscience and Law in Collision. New York: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1988. Cullather, Nick. Secret History: The CIA’s Classified Account of Its Operations in Guatemala, 1952–1954. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1999. Davidson, Miriam. Convictions of the Heart: Jim Corbett and the Sanctuary Movement. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1988. Davies, James C. “The Family’s Role in Political Socialization.” The Annals of the American Academy of Politics and Social Science 361 (1965): 11–19. Davis, Joseph E. “Narrative and Social Movements: The Power of Stories.” In Stories of Change: Narrative and Social Movements, ed. Joseph E. Davis, 3– 29. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002. ———, ed. Stories of Change: Narrative and Social Movements. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2002. Davis, Shelton. “Sowing the Seeds of Violence.” In Harvest of Violence, ed. Robert M. Carmack, 3–36. Norman, Okla.: University of Oklahoma Press, 1988. Dear, John. Living Peace: A Spirituality of Contemplation and Action. New York: Doubleday, 2001. Del Rio, Eduardo. Nicaragua for Beginners. New York: Writers & Readers Publishing, 1982. Dennis, Marie, Renny Golden, and Scott Wright. Oscar Romero: Reflections on His Life and Writings. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 2000. Denzin, Norman. The Research Act. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1989. DeWalt, Billie, and Pedro Bidegaray. “The Agrarian Bases of Conflict in Central America.” In The Central American Crisis: Sources of Conflict and Failure 187

bibliography

of U.S. Policy, ed. Kenneth Coleman and George Herring, 43–54. Wilmington, Del.: Scholarly Resources, 1991. Dixon, Marlene. On Trial: Reagan’s War against Nicaragua. San Francisco: Synthesis Publications, 1985. Dodson, Michael, and Laura Nuzzi O’Shaughnessy. Nicaragua’s Other Revolution: Religious Faith and Political Struggle. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1990. Doggett, Martha. Death Foretold: The Jesuit Murders in El Salvador. Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 1993. Dorr, Donal. Option for the Poor: A Hundred Years of Vatican Teaching. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1983. Durkheim, Emile. The Elementary Forms of Religious Life. Translated by Karen E. Fields. New York: Free Press, 1995 [1912]. Easton, David, and Robert D. Hess. “The Children’s Political World.” Midwest Journal of Political Science 6 (1962): 229–246. Epstein, Barbara. Political Protest and Cultural Revolution: Nonviolent Direction Action in the 1970s and 1980s. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991. Erdozaı´n, Pla´cido. Archbishop Romero: Martyr of El Salvador. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1980. Fagan, Patricia Weiss. “Central American Refugees and U.S. Policy.” In Crisis in Central America: Regional Dynamics and U.S. Policy in the 1980s, ed. Nora Hamilton, Jeffrey Frieden, Linda Fuller, and Manuel Pastor, Jr. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1988. Fernandez, Roberto, and Doug McAdam. “Social Networks and Social Movements: Multiorganizational Fields and Recruitment to Mississippi Freedom Summer.” Sociological Forum 3 (1988): 357–382. Fine, Gary Alan. “Public Narration and Group Culture: Discerning Discourse in Social Movements.” In Social Movements and Culture, ed. Hank Johnston and Bert Klandermans, 127–143. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995. Fish, Joe, and Cristina Sganga. El Salvador: Testament of Terror. New York: Olive Branch, 1988. Fishburn, Janet. “Mainline Protestants and the Social Gospel Impulse.” In The Church’s Public Role, ed. Dieter Hellel, 245–262. Grand Rapids: Wm. B. Eerdmans, 1993. Flacks, Richard. “The Liberated Generation: An Exploration of the Roots of Student Protest.” Journal of Social Issues 23 (1967): 52–75. Gamson, William. “Constructing Social Protest.” In Social Movements and Culture, ed. Hank Johnston and Bert Klandermans, 104–115. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995. ———. Talking Politics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992. Ganz, Marshall. “The Power of Story in Social Movements.” Unpublished paper presented at the American Sociological Association annual meeting, Anaheim, Calif., 2001. Garst, Rachel, and Tom Barry. Feeding the Crisis: The U.S. Food Aid and Farm Policy in Central America. Lincoln, Neb.: University of Nebraska Press, 1990. Gerassi, John. Revolutionary Priest: The Complete Writings and Message of Camilo Torres. New York: Random House, 1971. 188

bibliography

Geschwender, James, James Rinehart, and P. M. George. “Socialization, Alienation, and Student Activism.” Youth and Society 5 (1974): 303–325. Giddens, Anthony. The Constitution of Society: Outline of a Theory of Structuration. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984. Girardi, Giulio. Faith and Revolution in Nicaragua: Convergence and Contradictions. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1989. Glaser, Barney, and Anselm Strauss. The Discovery of Grounded Theory: Strategies for Qualitative Research. Chicago: Aldine, 1967. Gleijeses, Piero. Shattered Hope: The Guatemalan Revolution and the United States, 1944–1954. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1991. Golden, Renny, and Michael McConnell. Sanctuary: The New Underground Railroad. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1986. Goldstone, Jack A., and Elizabeth J. Perry. “Leadership Dynamics and Dynamics of Contention.” In Silence and Voice in the Study of Contentious Politics, ed. Ronald R. Aminzade et al., 126–154. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Goodwin, Jeff. “The Libidinal Constitution of a High-Risk Movement: Affectual Ties and Solidarity in the Huk Rebellion.” American Sociological Review 62 (1997): 53–69. Goodwin, Jeff, and James M. Jasper. “Caught in a Winding, Snarling Vine: The Structural Bias of Political Process Theory.” Sociological Forum 14 (1999): 27–54. Goodwin, Jeff, James M. Jasper, and Francesca Polletta, eds. Passionate Politics: Emotions and Social Movements. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. ———. “The Return of the Repressed: The Rise and Fall of Emotions in Social Movement Theory.” Mobilization 5 (2000): 65–84. Greenstein, Fred. Children and Politics. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1965. Greil, Arthur. “Previous Disposition and Conversion to Perspectives of Social and Religious Movements.” Sociological Analysis 38 (1977): 115–125. Greil, Arthur, and Paul Rudy. “What Have We Learned from Process Models of Conversion? An Examination of Ten Case Studies.” Sociological Focus 17 (1984): 305–323. Griffin-Nolan, Ed. Witness for Peace. Louisville, Ky.: Westminster/John Knox, 1991. Groves, Julian McAllister. “Learning to Feel: The Neglected Sociology of Social Movements.” Sociological Review 43 (1995): 435–461. Gutie´rrez, Gustavo. A Theology of Liberation. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1973. Handy, Jim. Gift of the Devil: A History of Guatemala. Boston: South End, 1984. Harbury, Jennifer. Bridge of Courage: Life Stories of Guatemalan Compan˜eros and Compan˜eras. Monroe, Maine: Common Courage Press, 1996. Hart, Stephen. Cultural Dilemmas of Progressive Politics: Styles of Engagement among Grassroots Activists. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. ———. What Does the Lord Require? How Americans Think about Economic Justice. New York: Oxford University Press, 1992. Haynes, Sven, and Paul Jarrett. “Conscience of a Christian.” Flagpole Magazine, December 1, 1999. 189

bibliography

———. “Father Roy Bourgeois: Taking on the School of the Americas.” Revolutionary Worker 1008, May 30, 1999. Hess, Robert, and Judith Torny. The Development of Political Attitudes in Children. Chicago: Aldine, 1967. Hochschild, Arlie. The Managed Heart. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983. Hunt, Scott. “Social Psychology and Narrative Concepts: Explaining Individual Movement Participation.” Perspectives on Social Problems 12 (2000): 255– 290. Immerman, Richard. The CIA in Guatemala: The Foreign Policy of Intervention. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982. Instituto de Estudios Centroamericanos and El Rescate. The Jesuit Assassinations: The Writings of Ellacurı´a, Martin-Baro´, and Segundo Montes, with a Chronology of the Investigation. Kansas City, Mo.: Sheed & Ward, 1990. Jahoda, Gustav. “The Development of Scottish Children’s Ideas and Attitudes about Other Countries.” Journal of Social Psychology 58 (1962): 91–108. Jasper, James M. The Art of Moral Protest: Culture, Biography, and Creativity in Social Movements. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997. ———. “The Emotions of Protest: Affective and Reactive Emotions in and around Social Movements.” Sociological Forum 13 (1998): 397–424. Jennings, M. Kent, and Richard Neimi. “The Transmission of Political Values from Parent to Child.” American Political Science Review 65 (1968): 169– 184. Jonas, Susanne. The Battle for Guatemala: Rebels, Death Squads, and U.S. Power. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1991. Jones, Jeff. Brigadista: Harvest and War in Nicaragua. New York: Praeger, 1986. Karl, Terry. “Exporting Democracy: The Unanticipated Effects of U.S. Electoral Policy in El Salvador.” In Crisis in Central America: Regional Dynamics and U.S. Policy in the 1980s, ed. Nora Hamilton et al., 173–191. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1988. Keck, Margaret, and Kathryn Sikkink. Activists beyond Borders: Advocacy Networks in International Politics. Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1998. King, Martin Luther. Stride toward Freedom. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1959. ———. Why We Can’t Wait. New York: Mentor Books, 1964. Klandermans, Bert, and Dirk Oegema. “Potentials, Networks, Motivations, and Barriers: Steps toward Participation in Social Movements.” American Sociological Review 52 (1987): 519–531. Kornbluh, Peter. Nicaragua, the Price of Intervention: Reagan’s Wars against the Sandinistas. Washington, D.C.: Institute for Policy Studies, 1987. Lancaster, Roger N. Thanks to God and the Revolution: Popular Religion and Class Consciousness in the New Nicaragua. New York: Columbia University Press, 1988. Langton, Kenneth. “Peer Group and School and the Political Socialization Process.” American Political Science Review 61 (1967): 751–758. Laufer, Robert. “The Aftermath of War: Adult Political Socialization and Political Development.” In Political Learning in Adulthood: A Sourcebook of Theory and Research, ed. Roberta Sigel, 415–457. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 190

bibliography

Lederach, John Paul. Building Peace: Sustainable Reconciliation in Divided Societies. Washington, D.C.: United States Institute for Peace Press, 1997. Lernoux, Penny. Cry of the People. New York: Penguin, 1980. Levine, Daniel. “From Church and State to Religion and Politics and Back Again.” Social Compass 37 (1990): 331–351. ———. Religion and Political Conflict in Latin America. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986. Lofland, John. Doomsday Cult: A Study of Conversion, Proselytization, and Maintenance of Faith. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-Hall, 1966. Lorentzen, Robin. Women in the Sanctuary Movement. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1991. Luciak, Ilja. “Popular Democracy in the New Nicaragua.” Comparative Politics 20 (1987): 35–55. Lynch, Joe. “Jean Donovan’s Legacy to Her Parents.” Sojourners (June 1987): 21–22. MacEoin, Gary. Sanctuary: A Resource Guide for Understanding and Participating in the Central American Refugees’ Struggle. San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1985. Marrin, Pat. “Six Hundred Arrested at School of Americas Protest.” National Catholic Reporter 34 (December 5, 1997): 3–4. ———. “Tactics Shift as Protest Swells.” National Catholic Reporter 35 (December 11, 1998): 3–4. Martinez, Demetria. “Overcoming a Ratzinger Moment at Mass.” National Catholic Reporter 37 (January 5, 2001): 18. Marx, Karl, and Friedrich Engels. “Contribution to the Critique of Hegel’s Philosophy of the Right.” In On Religion. London: Lawrence & Wishart, 1957. McAdam, Doug. “Harmonizing the Voices: Thematic Continuity across the Chapters.” In Silence and Voice in the Study of Contentious Politics, ed. Ronald R. Aminzade et al., 222–240. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2001. ———. Political Process and the Development of Black Insurgency, 1930–1970. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1982. ———. “Recruitment to High-Risk Activism: The Case of Freedom Summer.” American Journal of Sociology 92 (1986): 64–90. McCarthy, John, and Mayer Zald. “Resource Mobilization and Social Movements: A Partial Theory.” American Journal of Sociology 82 (1977): 1212– 1241. McClosky, Herbert, and Harold Dahlgren. “Primary Group Influence on Party Loyalty.” American Political Science Review 53 (1959): 762–770. Melendez, Guillermo. “The Catholic Church in Central America: Into the 1990s.” Social Compass 39 (1992): 251–298. Melucci, Alberto. “The Process of Collective Identity.” In Social Movements and Culture, ed. Hank Johnston and Bert Klandermans, 41–63. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995. Metoyer, Cynthia Chavez. “Nicaragua’s Transition of State Power: Through Feminist Lenses.” In The Undermining of the Sandinista Revolution, ed. Gary Prevost and Harry E. Vanden, 114–140. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997. 191

bibliography

Mich, Marvin L. Kreir. Catholic Social Teaching and Movements. Mystic, Conn.: Twenty-Third Publications, 1988. Millett, Richard. The Guardians of the Dynasty: A History of the U.S.-Created Guardia Nacional de Nicaragua and the Somoza Family. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1977. Mills, C. Wright. The Sociological Imagination. New York: Oxford University Press, 1959. Montgomery, Tommie Sue. “Cross and Rifle: Revolution and Church in El Salvador and Nicaragua.” Journal of International Affairs 36 (1982): 209–221. Morris, Aldon. The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement: Black Communities Organizing for Change. New York: Free Press, 1984. Munro, Dana G. The Five Republics of Central America. New York: Russell & Russell, 1967. Nelson-Pallmeyer, Jack. The Politics of Compassion. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1986. ———. School of Assassins: The Case for Closing the School of the Americas and for Fundamentally Changing U.S. Policy. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1997. Nepstad, Sharon Erickson. “Creating Transnational Solidarity: The Use of Narrative in the U.S.-Central America Peace Movement.” Mobilization 6 (2001): 21–36. ———. “Popular Religion, Protest, and Revolt: The Emergence of Political Insurgency in the Nicaraguan and Salvadoran Churches of the 1960s– 80s.” In Disruptive Religion: The Force of Faith in Social Movement Activism, ed. Christian S. Smith, 105–124. New York: Routledge, 1996. ———. “The Process of Cognitive Liberation: Cultural Synapses, Links, and Frame Contradictions in the U.S. Central America Peace Movement.” Sociological Inquiry 67 (1997): 470–487. ———. “School of the Americas Watch.” Peace Review 12 (2000): 67–72. Nepstad, Sharon Erickson, and Christian S. Smith. “Rethinking Recruitment to High-Risk Activism: The Case of Nicaragua Exchange.” Mobilization 4 (1999): 40–51. Newcomb, T. M. “Attitude Development as a Function of Reference Groups: The Bennington Study.” In An Outline of Social Psychology, ed. M. Sherif, 139–155. New York: Harper, 1948. Noone, Judith M. The Same Fate as the Poor. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1995. Nun˜ez, Emilio A. Liberation Theology. Chicago: Moody, 1985. Oegema, Dirk, and Bert Klandermans. “Why Social Movement Sympathizers Don’t Participate: Erosion and Nonconversion of Support.” American Sociological Review 59 (1994): 703–722. O’Hare, Joseph A. “In Solidarity with the Slain Jesuits of El Salvador.” America (December 16, 1989): 443–446. Olesen, Virginia. “Feminisms and Models of Qualitative Research.” In Handbook of Qualitative Research, ed. Norman Denzin and Yvonna Lincoln, 158– 174. Thousand Oaks, Calif.: Sage, 1994. Orum, Anthony. “On the Explanation of Political Socialization and Political Change.” Youth and Society 8 (1976): 147–174. Pagnucco, Ron. “A Comparison of the Political Behavior of Faith-Based and Secular Peace Groups.” In Disruptive Religion: The Force of Faith of Social 192

bibliography

Movement Activism, ed. Christian S. Smith, 205–222. New York: Routledge, 1996. Peterson, Anna. Martyrdom and the Politics of Religion: Progressive Catholicism in El Salvador’s Civil War. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997. Petty, Richard and John T. Cacioppo. Attitudes and Attitude Change: The Social Judgement Involvement Approach. Dubuque, Iowa: Brown, 1981. Polkinghorne, Donald. “Narrative and Self-Concept.” Journal of Narrative and Life History 1 (1991): 135–153. ———. Narrative Knowing and the Human Sciences. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988. Polletta, Francesca. “Contending Stories: Narratives in Social Movements.” Qualitative Sociology 21 (1998): 419–446. ———. “Culture and Its Discontents: Recent Theorizing on the Cultural Dimensions of Protest.” Sociological Inquiry 67 (1997): 431–450. ———. “It Was Like a Fever. . . . : Narrative and Identity in Social Protest.” Social Problems 45 (1998): 137–159. Prendes, Jorge Caceres. “Revolutionary Struggle and Church Commitment: The Case of El Salvador.” Social Compass 30 (1983): 261–298. Prevost, Gary. “The Status of the Sandinista Revolutionary Project.” In The Undermining of the Sandinista Revolution, ed. Gary Prevost and Harry E. Vanden, 9–44. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997. Randall, Margaret. Christians in the Nicaraguan Revolution. Vancouver: New Star Books, 1983. Robnett, Belinda. How Long? How Long? African-American Women in the Struggle for Civil Rights. New York: Oxford University Press, 1997. Romero, Oscar. The Violence of Love. Farmington, Pa.: Plough Publishing House, 1989. Rupp, Leila, and Verta Taylor. “Forging Feminist Identity in an International Movement: A Collective Identity Approach to Twentieth Century Feminism.” Signs 24 (1999): 263–386. Sarkesian, Sam. The New Battlefield: America and Low-Intensity Conflicts. Westport, Conn.: Greenwood, 1986. Schlesinger, Stephen, and Stephen Kinzer. Bitter Fruit: The Story of the American Coup in Guatemala. New York: Doubleday, 1999. Segundo, Juan Luis. The Liberation of Theology. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1976. Sewell, William. “A Theory of Structure: Duality, Agency, and Transformation.” American Journal of Sociology 98 (1992): 1–29. Sharp, Gene. The Role of Power in Nonviolent Action. Cambridge, Mass.: Albert Einstein Institute, 1990. Sherkat, Darren. “Counterculture or Continuity? Competing Influences on Baby Boomers’ Religious Orientations and Participation.” Social Forces 76 (1998): 1087–1115. Sigel, Roberta. Political Learning in Adulthood: A Sourcebook of Theory and Research. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989. Simon, Jose Luis. “Tensions in the Nicaraguan Church over Revolutionary Process.” Latinamerican Press (December 10, 1981): 78. Sivard, Ruth Leger. World Military and Social Expenditures: 1991. Washington, D.C.: World Priorities, 1991. 193

bibliography

Sklar, Holly. Washington’s War on Nicaragua. Boston: South End, 1988. Smith, Christian. “Correcting a Curious Neglect, or Bringing Religion Back In.” In Disruptive Religion: The Force of Faith in Social Movement Activism, ed. Christian S. Smith, 1–25. New York: Routledge, 1996. ———. The Emergence of Liberation Theology: Radical Religion and Social Movement Theory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991. ———. Resisting Reagan: The U.S.–Central America Peace Movement. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. Smith, Jackie, Charles Chatfield, and Ron Pagnucco, eds. Transnational Social Movements and Global Politics: Solidarity beyond the State. Syracuse, N.Y.: Syracuse University Press, 1997. Snow, David, and Robert Benford. “Ideology, Frame Resonance, and Participant Mobilization.” International Social Movement Research 1 (1988): 187– 217. ———. “Master Frames and Cycles of Protest.” In Frontiers of Social Movement Theory, ed. Aldon Morris and Carol McClurg Mueller, 135–155. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992. Snow, David, E. Burke Rochford, Steven Worden, and Robert Benford. “Frame Alignment Processes, Micromobilization, and Movement Participation.” American Sociological Review 51 (1986): 464–481. Snow, David, Louis Zurcher, and Sheldon Ekland-Olson. “Social Networks and Social Movements: A Microstructural Approach to Differential Recruitment.” American Sociological Review 45 (1980): 787–801. Sobel, Richard. “Public Opinion about United States Intervention in El Salvador and Nicaragua: The Polls—A Report.” Public Opinion Quarterly 53 (1989): 114–128. Sobrino, Jon. Archbishop Romero: Memories and Reflections. Maryknoll, N.Y.: Orbis Books, 1990. ———. Companions of Jesus: The Murder and Martyrdom of the Salvadoran Jesuits. Nottingham, England: Russell Press, 1990. Somers, Margaret. “The Narrative Constitution of Identity: A Relational and Network Approach.” Theory and Society 23 (1994): 605–649. ———. “Narrativity, Narrative Identity, and Social Action: Rethinking English Working Class Formation.” Social Science History 16 (1992): 591–629. Stahler-Sholk, Richard. “Stabilization, De-stabilization, and the Popular Classes in Nicaragua, 1979–1988.” Latin American Research Review 25 (1990): 5– 88. Stephens, Evelyne. “Democracy in Latin America: Recent Developments in Comparative Historical Perspective.” Latin American Research Review 25 (1990): 157–176. Stoll, David. Rigoberta Menchu´ and the Story of All Poor Guatemalans. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1999. Swomley, John, Jr. Liberation Ethics. New York: Macmillan, 1972. Targ, Harry. “Children’s Developing Orientation to International Politics.” Journal of Peace Research 6 (1970): 79–97. Taylor, Verta. “Social Movement Continuity: The Women’s Movement in Abeyance.” American Sociological Review 54 (1989): 761–775. Taylor, Verta, and Nancy Whittier. “Analytical Approaches to Social Movement Culture: The Culture of the Women’s Movement.” In Social Move194

bibliography

ments and Culture, ed. Hank Johnston and Bert Klandermans, 163–187. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995. ———. “Collective Identity in Social Movement Communities: Lesbian Feminist Mobilization.” In Frontiers in Social Movement Theory, ed. Aldon Morris and Carol McClurg Mueller, 104–129. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1992. Thelen, Bert. “Jesuits Reflecting on the Martyrs Ten Years Later.” Available online: http://www.creighton.edu/CollaborativeMinistry/10th-anniv.html. November 1999. Tomuschat, Christian, Otilia Lux de Cotı´, Alfredo Balsells Tojo. “Guatemala, Memory of Silence.” Report of the Commission for Historical Clarification. Available online: http://shr.aaas.org/guatemala/ceh/report/english/ toc.html. 1996. Torres Rivas, Edelberto. “Guatemala: Crisis and Political Violence.” NACLA Report on the Americas 14 (1980): 16–28. Trevor, Margaret. “Political Socialization, Party Identification, and the Gender Gap.” Public Opinion Quarterly 63 (1999): 62–89. “Two Liturgies Match Swords with Plowshares.” National Catholic Reporter 34 (December 12, 1997): 28. United Nations Truth Commission Report: El Salvador. Available online at the United States Institute for Peace Library: http://www.usip.org. 1993. Vanden, Harry. “Democracy Derailed: The 1990 Elections and After.” In The Undermining of the Sandinista Revolution, ed. Gary Prevost and Harry E. Vanden, 45–73. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1997. Vanden, Harry, and Thomas Walker. “The Reimposition of U.S. Hegemony over Nicaragua.” In The Central American Crisis: Sources of Conflict and the Failure of U.S. Policy, ed. Kenneth Coleman and George Herring. Wilmington, Del.: Scholarly Resources, 1991. Walker, Thomas. Nicaragua: The Land of Sandino. Boulder, Col.: Westview, 1986. Walter, Knut. The Regime of Anastasio Somoza, 1936–1956. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1993. Wasburn, Philo. “Children and Watergate: Some Neglected Considerations.” Sociological Focus 10 (1976): 341–351. Weber, Max. The Methodology of the Social Sciences. Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1964. Wehr, Paul, and Sharon Erickson Nepstad. “Violence, Nonviolence, and Justice in Sandinista Nicaragua.” In Justice without Violence, ed. Paul Wehr, Heidi Burgess, and Guy Burgess, 81–98. Boulder, Col.: Lynne Reiner Publishers, 1994. Woelfel, John C. “Political Attitudes: Interpersonal Sources for White, American Youth.” Youth and Society 9 (1979): 433–452. Woodward, Bob. Veil: The Secret Wars of the CIA, 1981–1987. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1987. Woodward, Ralph Lee, Jr., Central America: A Nation Divided. New York: Oxford University Press, 1976. Wuthnow, Robert. “Religious Commitment and Conservatism: In Search of an Elusive Relationship.” In Religion in Sociological Perspective, ed. Charles Glock, 117–132. Belmont, Calif.: Wadsworth, 1973. 195

bibliography

Zald, Mayer. “Ideologically Structured Action: An Enlarged Agenda for Social Movement Research.” Mobilization 5 (2000): 1–16. Zerubavel, Eviatar. Social Mindscapes: An Invitation to Cognitive Sociology. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1997. Zwerling, Phillip, and Connie Martin. Nicaragua–A New Kind of Revolution. Westport, Conn.: Lawrence Hill, 1985.

196

Index

accompaniment, 102, 112 agency definitions of, 7–8, 20 influences on, 18–22 and missionaries, 158–161 social movement models’ neglect of, 7– 16, 157 asylum, 5, 130–135 base Christian communities, 42, 57, 97–98 Benford, Robert, 16, 78 biography, 17, 78–94 Bourgeois, Roy, 137–139, 143–156 brigades, 117–119, 121–128 Caˆmara, Dom He´lder, 58, 65–66 Carter, Jimmy, 48, 69, 73 Casey, William, 39, 53 Center for Global Education, 119 Central America Working Group, 137 Clarke, Maura, 102–103, 110, 113, 117– 118, 140 collective action frames and alignment processes, 15 creation of, 15–16, 64–65, functions of, 15, 77 receptivity to, 77–80

collective identity, 14, 109–110, 163–165 colonialism, in Central America, 31–32 concientizacio´n, 58, 66, 102 Contras, formation of, 37–38 conversion alternative meanings of, 108–109, 114 process model of, 60–63 Corbett, Jim, 128–135 cultural-agency model, 7–29, 74 culture and cultural resources, 66–67 definitions of, 13–14, 172 n. 28 and social movements, 13–18, 157–158 Donovan, Jean, 100–103, 108–110, 113, 116–117, 140 Durkheim, Emile, 150 Ellacurı´a, Ignacio, 141–142, 151 El Salvador, history of, 40–44 emotions cultural construction of, 119–120, 123 and encounters with refugees, 132–136 as inspiration or deterrent to collective action, 10, 16–17, 112–113 rejuvenation of, 147–156 and solidarity trips, 119–128, 135–136

197

index Farabundo Martı´ National Liberation Front (FMLN), 3, 42–44, 102, 141– 142, 162 Fife, John, 131, 135 Ford, Ita, 101–103, 110, 113, 117, 140 Framing. See collective action frames Freire, Paulo, 58, 66, 102 FSLN. See Sandinista National Liberation Front Gamson, William, 120, 122 Gandhi, Mohandas, 12, 54 Gomez, Medardo, 162–163 Goodwin, Jeff, 16–17 Grande, Rutilio, 98, 113 Guatemala, history of, 45–51 Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity (URNG), 48–51 Gutie´rrez, Gustavo, 58, 61, 64 Iran-Contra scandal, 39, 181–182 n. 5 Jasper, James on artfulness and agency, 7–8 on biography, 17, 82 cultural model of social movements, 15–18, 26, 158 Kazel, Dorothy, 100–103, 110, 113, 117, 140 King, Martin Luther, Jr. and frame alignment, 15 and leadership, 20–22, 54 and selecting targets for action, 148 and timing of protest, 12 leadership, 54–55, 60–75, 165–166 Lederach, John Paul, 67 liberation theology, 58–60, 64, 160, 176 n. 17 low intensity warfare strategy, 43–44 martyrs churchwomen, 100–103, 113 Jesuits, 141–156 Romero, 95–100, 111–115 significance of, 17, 103, 147, 152–153 and strategies for recruitment, 104–116 McAdam, Doug, 157

198

Menchu´, Rigoberta, 69, 109–110 moral focus, 83–94 Morris, Aldon, 20–21, 54–55, 67, 74, 107– 108 narratives as emotional and moral resources, 112– 114 as a method of constructing collective identity, 109–110 as a model of action, 110–112 and politicizing Christian themes, 108– 109 as a tool to educate, 104–108 traits of effective mobilizing narratives, 104–108 National Network in Solidarity with the Nicaraguan People, 118 New Social Movements, 14 Nicaragua, history of, 33–39 Nicaragua Exchange, 111, 117–128 Piette, Carla, 101–102, 113 Pledge of Resistance, 110, 137 political opportunities in the Central America solidarity movement, 25, 138–139, 158–159 critiques of, 11–13, 74, 161, 172 n. 7 Political Process model, 10–13, 74, 138, 172 n. 7 political socialization, 79–80 Polletta, Francesca, 16–17 Quakers, 11–12, 128–130 Reagan, Ronald and anti-communism, 76, 85–86, 120 and low intensity warfare, 43 and the Nicaraguan Contras, 37–39, 76, 120–121 and opposition to his Central America policy, 27, 53, 63–64, 122–125, 137 recruitment receptivity, 78–94, 158 refugees, Central American, 5, 128–136, 164 religion, and social movements, 22–23 Resource Mobilization, 8–10, 20, 73 resurrection, alternative understandings of, 99–100, 102, 112–114, 147–152

index rituals, 23, 149–156 Robnett, Belinda, 21, 54–55, 67, 74 Roman Catholicism in Latin America, 4, 32, 56–63, 160– 161 social teachings of, 56, 77 Romero, Oscar history of, 95–100 influence on U.S. Christians, 96, 103, 109 as a likeable narrative protagonist, 106– 107 as a model of action, 110–112 Sanctuary, 128–135, 160 Sandino, Augusto, 34–35, 40 Sandinista National Liberation Front (FSLN), 35–39, 138–139 School of the Americas, 44, 137–143, 166, 182 n. 11 School of the Americas Watch, 143–156 Sewell, William, 19–20, 26, 84 Sharp, Gene, 12 Sheen, Martin, 155 Smith, Christian and Political Process views of the Central America Peace Movement, 23–26, 158–159 on religion in social movements, 22– 23, 63 on subjective engageability, 80–81, 93

Snow, David, 78 Sobrino, Jon, 98, 141–142 Somoza regime, 34–39 Stoll, David, 105, 109–110 structuration theory, 19–20, 54–55 Torres, Camilo, 59 transnational social movements and the formation of collective identity, 109–110 lessons for, 161–166 and the limitations of domestic social movement theory, 28 and personalizing distant conflicts, 116– 117, 122, 135–136, 163–164 United Fruit Company, 45–46, 62 United Nations Truth Commission, 44, 140, 142–143 URNG. See Guatemalan National Revolutionary Unity Vatican II Council, 4, 56–65, 88–89, 102, 160 Witness for Peace and emotions, 121–124 history of, 66, 70–73, 75, 117 strategy of, 72–73, 76, 127–128 Zerubavel, Eviatar, 83

199