By Francisco Ayala Silva – Arkansas, U.S
The bullet that killed the archbishop found himself standing in the center of the altar, after the sermon and the short silence preceding creed. Muteness in that little bullet, They could be two, He flew down the aisle, between the seats and to the altar, in the chapel of a hospital founded by nuns for cancer patients and for devoured by misery.
The archbishop, tireless reader, He wore glasses with thick frames. Perhaps he saw his murderer take aim at the door of the church.
Era 1980 and dozens corpses appeared in landfills and hollows. Sometimes they appear at the corners sight of children. Sometimes only appeared heads, or hand, or nothing appeared, but dozens of mothers, wives and sisters wearied themselves to find their daughters and sons in barracks and delegations. El Salvador has never been quiet. The small volcanic craters land where lakes are emerald, He was born as an inheritance of a few families, generation after generation, They defended their privileges against the dispossessed, with truncheons and rifle wielding other dispossessed.
Truncheons and rifles multiplied in the seventies when workers, students, teachers, farmers and crowds refused to follow dispossessed. The government multiplied deaths, torture and exile. The future archbishop was then bishop of an agricultural area, bella, wild and poor. They called him conservative and the government was pleased when he was appointed Archbishop of San Salvador, but little joy lasted. Seventeen days later, his friend was killed, Jesuit Rutilio Grande, next to an elderly man and a young man, his friends. That day began Oscar Arnulfo Romero conversion into.
He preached against violence and threatened with death. He spoke against poverty and was cursed in clubs and waiters whiskey white sack. He visited the dispossessed and killed their priests, so also shared peasants, workers, teachers, catechists, students, who died over and over again. Against all that he spoke on the radio and radio and dynamited, when radio revived, the dynamiting again. Until the afternoon came his murder, 24 March 1980, and the slaughter at his funeral, slaughter of dispossessed. That night there was toast at casinos.
His death sparked a night that lasted a decade. It was the Salvadoran Civil War, one of the chapters of the Cold War, fought in a nation so small that, in world maps, his name is as big as herself. The dead could be 80 thousand, there was 8 thousand missing and a million people fled their homes. Half of them left the country and very few returned.
The she remained alive. In his tomb in the cathedral he remained alive. He lived his successor Arturo Rivera y Damas, who he was brave as Monsignor Oscar Arnulfo Romero without the privilege of martyrdom. He lived the arrival of peace and the dawn of hope, the resumption of trouble, saw entire villages and neighborhoods fell in the hands of outlaws and as those who fought in the mountains on behalf of the dispossessed came to power and created their own casinos whiskey and cigars. With the redeemers in power it is killed almost as much as when an archbishop fell dejected.
And still alive. Hope lives in each and every young person who says "no" and says "no" to violence. shall be holy, but do not look at clouds or altars. Look it over your shoulder and there, and looks into your eyes.