Commemoration of Victims of the Armed Conflict in El Jícaro

El Jícaro is one of the communities in Chalatenango that was severely affected during the armed conflict and was the site of three brutal massacres in 1981: January 23, July 4, and during the month of October.

The community decided to commemorate July 4 in honor of all the victims of the armed conflict in the area. The commemoration includes a procession through the community, a ritual accompanied by poems or texts dedicated to the victims and survivors, testimonies, and a mass.

The photograph on the altar is of José Alfredo Menjívar Alas, who disappeared in 1980 along with two other young people.

At the end of the commemoration, the following poem, written by Bautista Mejía, was shared [English follows]:

Huellas del alma

Para ellos,
los que partieron sin aviso,
sin un último abrazo,
sin tiempo siquiera
para decir adiós.

Ellos,
que arrastraban sueños de justicia,
como hojas que el viento
no quiso retener.

Cuando yo aún buscaba el camino
con pasos inciertos…
Ellos partían para no volver.

Ya no están sus manos
dispuestas al abrazo,
ni su risa bajo el sol.

Pero dejaron sus huellas,
frágiles y sagradas,
en los resquicios más puros
de una niña inocente.

En cada recuerdo,
su luz se derrama
como un faro encendido
en la penumbra.

Su ausencia duele, sí…
pero no es el final.

Porque vive quien ama,
aunque su cuerpo marchito
descanse en tumba sin nombre,
sin epitafio.

Sus nombres los lleva el viento,
las montañas, el río.

Y en los sueños
rozamos sus manos
como el frío de su partida.

Para ellos,
cierro los ojos
y detengo el ruido.

Entonces comprendo:
su amor no se ha ido.

Habitan en un rincón de mi alma,
como una sonrisa lejana,
como un eco que vuelve
cuando todo está en calma.

Están en la flor,
en la lluvia,
en la luz de cada día.

Y en cada latido
de este corazón que aún tiembla,
al escuchar sus nombres.

Traces of the Soul

For them,
those who left without warning,
without one last embrace,
without even enough time
to say goodbye.

They,
who carried dreams of justice,
like leaves the wind
refused to hold.

When I was still searching for the path
with uncertain steps…
they were leaving, never to return.

Their hands are no longer here,
ready for an embrace,
nor their laughter beneath the sun.

But they left their traces,
fragile and sacred,
in the purest corners
of an innocent girl.

In every memory,
their light pours out
like a beacon burning
in the half-light.

Their absence hurts, yes…
but it is not the end.

Because those who love live on,
even if their withered body
rests in a nameless grave,
without an epitaph.

Their names are carried by the wind,
the mountains, the river.

And in dreams
we brush against their hands,
like the cold of their departure.

For them,
I close my eyes
and quiet the noise.

Then I understand:
their love has not gone.

They live in a corner of my soul,
like a distant smile,
like an echo that returns
when everything is calm.

They are in the flower,
in the rain,
in the light of each day.

And in every heartbeat
of this heart that still trembles
when hearing their names.

The Surviving Memory in Postwar El Salvador research initiative is supported in part by funding from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, Western University, the Canadian Foundation for Innovation, and the Ontario Research Fund.