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• 1 2018-04-05T23:55:25-07:00 Maria Dolores Dubón 44 plain published 2022-05-19T22:04:47-07:00

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  In this oral history, Maria Dolores Dubon recounts her experiences fleeing El Salvador during the military operations in the early 1980s that resulted in multiple massacres of civilians in Chalatenango, El Salvador. As a survivor, she describes the violence she and her family witnessed while in hiding and while trying to escape the devastating violence in northern El Salvador. She describes experiences during a military operation popularly known as the Guinda de Mayo and during the massacres that took place at the Sumpul River and its tributaries as civilians attempted to reach Honduras to seek refuge. She then shares experiences surrounding the return of thousands of refugees coming from the refugee camps of Mesa Grande, Honduras and their resettlement in Guarjila, El Salvador.  She also reflects upon her own involvement with the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front (FMLN) during the war.
  
  Please be aware that some of the content in her oral history describes violent situations that some may find upsetting.
  
  My name is Maria Dolores Dubon. I am 42 years old. My parents were Tomas Alfaro Rivera and Paula Menjivar. I was six or seven years old when the war started. I didn’t know the meaning of “war.” I remember they killed my sister-in-law around the same time. My mother was a brave woman. There would have been a lot of killings that day but thanks to the intelligence of my mother only six people passed away that day.
  
  Out of the six people, five were women. No, four women and two men. Bernardina Serrano, Juana Castillo, the other was Julia Castillo and the little girl Esperanza Ayala, Mariano Rivera Alfaro, my uncle, Miguel Franco Dubon.
  
  It was very difficult for me, but I am satisfied and proud because my mother was very brave and dedicated to being a woman of service. Among all the women in the area, she was the most recognized midwife. People appreciated her a lot. They would ask for her services at all times of the night. She would not turn them away. She delivered many babies. Again, I am very proud of her because, aside from that, she was very brave with us in las guindas.
  
  Despite the fact that we had left the house, she carried three orphan children. That’s because during the time I’m telling you about, there were about—I don’t remember exactly—there were about twelve children who were left orphans. Among them, three of them were my nephews; Miriam Dubon Castillo, Elva Dubon Castillo y Lucinda Dubon Castillo. My mother was carrying the clothes for the women, but since they were all family, she was left traumatized. One of them was pregnant. It was very painful for me because I witnessed that moment with my mother.
  
  The survivors from Patamera came around seven in the morning. We did know what those poor women had coming. When they saw that my mother was running around the place, known as the Dubones hamlet, warning other families, they advanced further to arrive in the hamlet. But thanks to my mother and her warnings to the families, they were able to run. Otherwise, there would have been more massacres than had already occurred.
  
  My mother had fifteen children. My oldest brother, Regino Dubon Alfaro, died in the war. My second oldest brother, Alberto Dubon, was also killed in the war. His proper name was Prudencio Dubon. For us, it was very sad, very painful. We saw my mother take the clothes to be able to change her, but then she saw the labyrinth of blood of the poor woman who was pregnant. I don’t remember how old I was, seven or six years old at the same time. The woman, Niña Esperanza Ayala, had a hole right here where the bullet entered. Because she was pregnant, it came out of this part.
  
  The hole was big. The bullet broke her arm. So, just my mother and I were there, and another child who was left out in the sun, together in the bed, because they mistreated us. And so, they had my mother up against the wall before we went to go see the woman who had died. They hit her right here, in the abdomen.
  
  We saw our mother get beaten. We were small. There was a soldier, perhaps he was a lieutenant or their boss, perhaps. He was the one who yelled at them, from the hill, to not kill a defenseless woman. But that didn’t stop them. When he came down to my mother’s house, where they were torturing my mother, they had her against the wall. Also, they were going to light her on fire in the kitchen. But thank God, because this man arrived—perhaps he was a colonel—they didn’t. He yelled, but even more quickly, they shot her. They left my mother, after beating her, and said she should be left locked inside with us. They left, headed down the hill.
  
  And we saw everything they did because my sister-in-law, Julia—since the girls were small—she grabbed one by one arm and the other girl by the other arm. She said that if they wanted to kill her, that they should kill her with her three girls because she didn’t want them to remain there, suffering. Those were the three my mother had raised.
  
  There was also a boy named Audencio. He was one of my cousins. They also fled from the rifles and the war. They grabbed a 16 rifle with a spear and they tortured the poor women. They threw them face down on the ground. Among them, my mother’s aunt, and the pregnant aunt. They also shut all the minors in the house. When they were done torturing them, they took them outside to a little creek next to Aunt Verna’s house. That’s where they assassinated them. From there, right after they killed them, they went to the small valley of the Echeverrias, where my brother Juan lived and my uncle, Mariano.
  
  Then, a sharpshooter shot him in the brain. There was a child with him. His name was Nelson. The child managed to run when he heard my uncle, suffering in pain, told him to run. This occurred in that other valley that was located nearby. He ran, injured. But my uncle, sadly, got shot in the brain. The remains of the brain were scattered and recovered next to a couple of rocks. It was painful for us because we were all family.
  
  My mother at the time fought very hard to see if they could save Esperenza’s newborn. My mother saw that the stomach was jumping when she covered her side. I held her arm up like this. I was afraid because I thought she was dead. But she was alive. She lasted an hour. My mother sent me to the other valley to find men, so they could bury these six people.
  
  We all suffered throughout the war. We couldn’t take it anymore. After that massacre of the little hamlet of Dubones, we left twice to Mesa Grande. The first time was in 1983. My sister Dora was pregnant with her first child. My mother carried the three girls and me.
  
  They recruited my brother into the guerrilla after the Guinda de Mayo. The war started around the time of the massacre I told you about. During that time, we would sleep in the woods. At night we would be at the house, but at night, we would go to sleep in the woods because they would kill us if we stay. After that, we left for Santa Anita. There we were fleeing (guindiando), as well. We became more desperate to go to Mesa Grande when we could see that there were only bombing raids and lots of soldiers. 
  
  But we decided to leave because my mother had all the kids under her wing and my sister got pregnant with her first baby. My mother also had a big cyst on her foot. Victoria operated on it but that was not enough. It affected her ever since, and it was difficult for her to carry on with all the children in the guindas. It was hard to be barefoot, not eating, and withstanding the fierce storms with the kids on her shoulder. And so, in 1983 we decided to go to Mesa Grande, Honduras. It wasn’t easy because my mother was, as I told you, a midwife. And at the time, the women who were in the mountains [counted on her].
  
  My mother was desperate there though. She had stated that she did not want to die together with the kids at her side, so she did the impossible. We hid, we hid behind the people that went to Honduras by way of La Virtud.
  
  After being in Mesa Grande, my mother did not feel well. Over there, [back home] she had three children, one male, and two females. She already had a lot of little kids. So, when she was in Mesa Grande, after only a partial recovery, and my sister had her baby, the feeling of desperation returned, and she wanted to come back. And once we came back—repatriated—we continued to have to stay on the run (guindiando) here in El Salvador. We continued suffering in the war.
  
  
  When we came back, it was painful. We were getting sent to Calle Real, a refugee camp in San Salvador; I don’t remember where it was. We came back in two or three buses full of people if I remember correctly. And the sad thing was that none of the people wanted to go to the Calle Real refugee camp. Instead, the majority of the other people did not go there either. They followed us. And so, we felt responsible because my mother thought it would just be our family, my sister, Nora, and her who were going to come into the warzone.
  
  This was in 1984; I don’t remember the date too well. The war was worse when we got here. We thought that it was going to be better, but no.
  
  We continued and slept at a site along the way. The soldiers discovered us, and they requested air support. A lady told us where to hide. And we weren’t a small group of, say, 10 people. We were actually a large group: about a hundred people who were coming from Mesa Grande. Within that group, there were grandfathers, very old ladies, kids. We also found out that my sister was pregnant again.
  
  It was very painful. I remember Uncle Matilde and I couldn’t find a place to hide. They ended up putting me inside the trunk of a fallen tree to hide me from the bomber’s sight. There were ants in the trunk and they bit me. My face was swollen from the bites.
  
  When the ordeal was over we kept going to the town of La Laguna. We were getting closer to where we wanted to be.
  
  I remember my mother telling me and all the adults that they killed a man. Supposedly we were going to Calle Real, but really, instead of heading to the refugee camp, my mother—our family—planned on coming into the warzone in search of her children that were left behind here in Los Amates, Santa Anita, fleeing (guindiando). A mother’s love is big; it has no end. That’s the reason we came back.
  
  That’s how we were able to get back to Los Amates. My brother was there, Patrocinio, also known as Geronimo. My mother was really happy because she had seen the first of her children. After that, we crossed the Sumpul river. It was deep but my Uncle Matilde knew how to swim well, and my brothers Regino (who was still alive, he had not been killed) and Ezequiel all knew how to swim, and they crossed us over to the other side. Then we got to Alberto’s. And so again, we continued suffering from the war, with all of the guindas and all that followed.
  
  When we got to the Alberto’s, my mother found Felipe and Juan—Juan Dubon, too—and my brother, Regino, and his wife, Juana, and all his children. There were four or five of them; two of his kids died of malnutrition.
  
  It was painful because at Alberto’s, after we had found our family, the worst was about to come: the Guinda de Mayo of 1980. My mother cried because we left my brother Alberto there. We were headed to Los Amates. The Sumpul river was quite deep. My brother got lost there. We crossed on dugout canoes from Los Amates. One capsized. We lost a newborn baby there, a beautiful baby, who drowned. My uncle Matilde tried to rescue her, but he couldn’t.
  
  At around 7:30 in the morning the next day, my mother heard a shot. There was a comrade that was keeping watch, and she told her, “Here come the soldiers.” Perhaps the rest of the group didn’t believe her since they didn’t hear the shot. My mother was quite smart and alert, and she told me and my family, “Come over here daughters, they’re not going to kill us standing here. Let them kill us while we run.” When the group saw us running on the other side of the river towards Santa Anita, coming back toward Sumpul, that’s when all the people started running. There were soldiers coming from the direction of Chalate, from way over from the direction of the Guayabo dam, from all directions, and they cornered the people. I was still very little. I remember a beautiful comrade who was injured was crying for help. She said “help me please, little one. If you can’t help me, kill me instead.” She had a fractured leg and was dragging herself along.
  
  Because I was busy assessing the woman—wondering how I was going to get her on my back if I was so little—I lost my mother, then, too. As I said, we were on our way back to the river, which was deep. When I got back to the very banks of the Sumpul river, I couldn’t find my brother, my mom, or my sister-in-law, Rosa (who lives up here and who at the time had just been married to my brother and didn’t have children yet). There I began to cry because I didn’t know where to run. The river was too deep for me to cross. I would have drowned. If you know where the river was—where the bridge is constructed today—that’s where it was. It’s a very deep area.
  
  But God didn’t want me to die, and I kept walking. I started to dip my feet into the water. I saw Inez and Melesia, my cousin. I just wanted to save myself from the soldiers, so I didn’t ask anyone for permission. I just jumped in and hung on to his pants. He had his wife on one side, and his kid, Adonai, on top of his shoulders. He was a really good person because he let me hold on. Plus, we were family. He told me to hang on tighter, as we crossed the river. “And my aunt, what happened to her?” asked Melesia. “I don’t know if they killed her or what,” I replied. This was in 1980: the Guinda de Mayo. On the other side of the river, by a big tree near Santa Anita, he says, “child, are you going to wait for my aunt or are you going to leave with us?” I told him, still crying, that I was going to wait for my mother. I hoped that she was still alive.
  
  I guess I would also like to share with you that I was not at the massacre of La Jarada. I was down here, as I was telling you. But the Sumpul river was bathed with the blood of kids, old people, pregnant woman, defenseless people.
  
  Also, before we left our homes, my father and young men from the same hamlet we were from were coming from cutting cane. There by the Sumpul river bridge, near San Jose Las Flores, the six of them were killed and tortured by the soldiers just because one of them said the word “compañero.”
  
  Well, for the Guinda de Mayo, for example, after we had gone up there near the Manaquil river, which they called Vayanpoque, it was very painful, especially for many mothers, including mine. After my mother had lost Alberto, shortly thereafter, there in another creek near the river, there we found out that they had killed Rosa, my sister-in-law’s mother, along with her baby. She was probably five.
  
  That was a massacre of innocent people. We were guided to a creek. We stayed there all day. Mothers did all they could to protect their children as they crossed the river. They would press the kids’ heads against their chests so that the water wouldn’t reach their head. It was very painful because, for example, my sister-in-law lost one of her babies, only about eight months old, who drowned. She was very beautiful. Also, Leonsa—one of her kids drowned. A woman named Lupe lost her child as well. Because the Atlacatl battalion was there, or perhaps others who were doing most of the killing, these mothers pressed them against their chests, so they would not hear the screams of the children.
  
  Later, around five in the afternoon, I remember they took us to a cave. I was little, but I don’t remember exactly, but it was a large group, perhaps of more than 50 people, all civilians. There were old people, kids, women, and men.
  
  When we left the cave at night, my mother went looking for water for the youngest girls. When she came back, she didn’t find us. That’s when we lost each other, that night. That was during the Guinda de Mayo. I had to carry the little girl myself. We found my mother about three days later.
  
  When we were going back to Mesa Grande, at the end of 1985, Ezequiel was killed. In Patamera, we saw all the people headed to Mesa Grande. They didn’t let my mother pass. They didn’t want to put her in danger, but they told her they couldn’t let her leave because she was the only midwife. The women that were in the warzone needed her.
  
  We left hiding, at night. On the way, we saw a line of people with white flags, which meant peace. The line of people were international delegates from other countries. They were looking for civilians to take them to Mesa Grande. The first one they found was my mother. That’s how we got to La Virtud to then go to Mesa Grande, Honduras.
  
  
  
  My father was in Mesa Grande, Honduras. He left with the first wave of people in 1980. When we got to Mesa Grande the second time, the people appreciated my mother a lot. She knew more people there.
  
  They killed one of my nephews. He used to live in the lower camps. We asked UNHCR, the international organization, to look for him. There was a boundary we couldn’t pass. It was near the soccer fields where the young ones used to play soccer and servbol. I remember if the ball went just past the boundary to the apple orchard, those retrieving the ball could get captured and could get killed. We were not allowed to leave, to go outside.
  
  UNHCR found him by the creek near the apple orchard. He was found with two fingers showing so that he could be recognized. They had left him half buried with sand and soil, floating in the water.
  
  In Mesa Grande, my mother worked in maternity health. She received many kids and helped many mothers as a midwife.
  
  There was a massive assembly with more than 5,000 refugees. We all got together to meet to propose the idea that we wanted to repatriate because they were going to move us to Olanche, further into the interior of Honduras. And so, everyone, mostly the mothers who had their children in the “controlled zone,” as we referred to it, reminded us that the war in El Salvador continued. And so, everyone was worried—all the mothers—well, everyone. In addition to the assembly meetings, we brought a lot of letters.
  
  
  The proposal that the people brought to them was that we would come on foot, on October 10th, whether there was transportation or not—buses or no buses—no matter how hard it would be. They weren’t convinced, so they called for another general assembly. There was a massive presence in that assembly from the other two encampments. We didn’t give up, and we said that if they were going to take us to Olanche, we would leave on foot.
  
  That’s how we got them to agree. They sent letters to the United Nations. They sent them to the United States, Germany, and the churches because the churches played an important role: the Lutheran church, Father Gerardo, as well. Father Gerardo came with us when we came back from Mesa Grande, Honduras. I remember that when they saw that we were packing everything up—little animals and all—they told us we couldn’t bring much.
  
  We must be grateful to all of the organizations that helped us when we needed it most. They supported us so much. I remember hearing from the first ones who arrived back in El Salvador that these organizations treated them well. If it hadn’t been for humanitarian aid from these organizations and delegations, we would not be here telling this story. And of course, God helped us, too.
  
  Finally, they agreed to offer us the buses. The buses were not enough, in fact, because we had people coming in cars.
  
  We were happy, but we were also afraid. Nor did they want to bring us to Guarjila. We had said that each family would go to their respective place of origin. And they said they still wanted to bring us to Calle Real, to another shelter. And everyone came to an agreement, prior to arriving at El Poy, back in Mesa Grande, that it had to be one massive return to one place. And UNHCR did not support that because we were still in a time of war.
  
  For example, when we got to El Poy, they didn’t let us pass through that day. They stopped us there. We formed a long line, which was processed very strictly. They didn’t let us through and so we slept poorly that night in the buses. I don’t remember if it was the 10th or the 11th, and if we got here on the 11th or the 12th, but we slept one night in El Poy.
  
  Then we got to Chalatenango, and they didn’t want to let us pass to go to Guarjila. It was very hard because the army was right behind us. But it also brought us joy because we were going to get to see our brothers and sisters in the conflict zones. We were praying to God that they were still alive, that they hadn’t been killed yet. Thank God, that’s how we got to Guarjila.
  
  It was a big grassy field. They left all the people there. The line of people stretched from the Ceiba tree near [where] Cancun [now lives] all the way to the small ranch where we lived over here on the way to San Jose Las Flores. Also, we were afraid because there were two armies: the army of the soldiers and the guerilla army. They were coming just behind the buses. The zone was full of landmines. There were a lot of mines and bombs. There were kids who died when we got back from Mesa Grande because the children didn’t know any better when they would find a grenade or a bomb.
  
  The only ones who received us that day were the military. Later on, the people from San Jose Las Flores came, navigating danger, too. I remember they came holding a microphone, and Sister Tere, who was a nun, came with them.
  
  The road wasn’t a road. It was a deep path, from the bombs, through the tall grass. You couldn’t see it. If you wanted to look for firewood you would have to be careful, because if you didn’t pay attention, you would step on one of the mines and you could die.
  
  No one was here. The place was empty. The first houses we had—it was hard for our parents—because our first houses were small ranches made of grass, right next to the road. After some time had passed—some months, because we were fearful when we came—we made food collectively. We didn’t have cornfields and we didn’t have help. The group had to work collectively, to make collective food, among the first group.
  
  We mourned those who died. And I remember that afterward, as Manuel said, as we continued to overcome our fear, we found a couple of houses over there where the Sumpul radio station and the overpass are now. These were houses that had collapsed. And so, they were only pieces of houses and we had to work a lot. But the first houses–the very first houses we had–were made of grass.
  
  When shots were fired, what we would do is lie down underneath the table, if there was one. We would ask God to protect us.
  
  I remember that I was sixteen years old when I was incorporated [into the FMLN]. (I was born in 1971—not sure if I’ve got it right). I got involved because, for one, when the military would come, you would see them, and they would make you feel really afraid. And secondly, because they would say that they needed collaboration to be able to bring this war to an end. So, they would develop one’s conscience. And because you would feel fearful when you saw that they were capturing people.
  
  
  
  I remember going to a march in San Salvador, and that is where I got more courage to get involved. There they beat up a lot of people. They beat up my cousin, Chavelo, who was killed in the war. They threw teargas at us. My niece, Nancy—they peeled her nose. Everyone was on top of us. Something beautiful that I remember were the old ladies selling at the market in downtown San Salvador. They used to help us with new handkerchiefs and vinegar so we could cover our eyes and our nose, so we wouldn’t get as affected by the toxins from the teargas.
  
  I was scared at first because it was a strict and dangerous job. You could lose your life. It was very complicated to do that job.
  
  That day, when they killed that compañero, they had given me permission to go shower. I was all soaped up when I heard the big detonation. The compañero was named Vladimir. He was a good explosive specialist, a good compañero. He was finishing making the grenade, made from a 16, when it exploded. From his waist down, he was destroyed into pieces. When I heard the explosion, I didn’t finish taking a bath. I ran naked—I’m not embarrassed to say it—I went naked. I just put on my shoes. I got to the encampment and no one was there, and I followed the trail of his boot prints, and when I got there I could see that Vladimir was dead. We buried him in a black bag in a hole in the ground. This was very painful because one remains traumatized.
  
  The war meant a lot of things to me. But mostly, the war didn’t happen because people wanted an uprising. Rather, as my parents told me, it happened because violence already existed. The majority of people were poor campesinos who were working for the haciendas in the coffee fields. They demanded their rights, that they get good food, that they get a higher salary.
  
  We didn’t know the meaning of “war.” My mother says that they would say to her—I’m about to finish up—that when they would talk to her clandestinely about the war (because that too was a crime), they would say to her that it was like when a woman was going to have a baby. And that was a lie. They said that the war lasted about nine years. The war lasted longer than that. It lasted about 12 years, or maybe more than that. I was little at that time. And that’s how the war came about; our fathers, mothers, the poorest people were tired of suffering so much.