What You Have Heard Is True: A Memoir of Witness and Resistance

by Carolyn Forché

I was at the time quite young, with a romantic view of the world, and I was also an American, which made this worse.

We could use some help, and what are they going to do, spend the rest of their lives in Mallorca drinking cognac? I think not. You can’t make a difference in the world by going to parties.”

“Señorita, señorita, of course I believe in democracy. We all believe in this. But unlike in the United States, we can only have a little democracy here. Just a little. We are a small country and most of our people are illiterate and live as the animals do. We have to take very small steps. If we had a lot of democracy here, you see, the peasants would win elections, and we cannot have that happening. The peasants vastly outnumber us. Surely you understand this?” “Yes, I think I do understand.”

“Well, for a little while at least, you will be watched closely and your opinions will matter. They will be reading you for signs of what the Americans think. Maybe we can even convince them that this human rights policy is serious.” “Isn’t it serious?” “I don’t know, but I have seldom seen the Americans serious about human rights unless it is politically convenient for them. So if this time they are truly interested, it’s something new—to me, at least.”

This is something you should learn, Papu. Lesson number four: If someone promises to do great things, ask them first for something small, like a bridge or a cow.”

“Military strategy. Logistics: strategic, operational, and tactical. And bring me everything the library has that is on, by, or about General Võ Nguyên Giáp, who, by the way, happens to be one of the greatest military strategists of the twentieth century.” “I don’t know who that is.” “No, you probably wouldn’t. He defeated the United States in Vietnam. We’re here.”

“Have you visited the local health facilities?” The health programs officer patted her stiff hair and stared at me. “The clinics,” I prodded as gently as I could. “Have you visited them?” “Well, there are only so many hours in a day, and as you can see, I have plenty of work to do right here at my desk.”

It was growing dark by the time we left the grounds, but we felt lighthearted as we walked to the car. Margarita playfully teased me about what I had understood and not understood about Ellacuría’s ideas. “He is a genius,” she said. “No one understands him.”

I wanted to be brave. I did not feel brave. I had no weapon; it would not have helped. There was no last chance to do anything over again. Are you afraid, Margarita? Jess. They were still behind us when we reached a heavier-trafficked road, behind us when we got to the roundabout, and that was where the honking began, other cars whose drivers saw what was happening, other cars pulling into the roundabout, slowing down, blocking the way of those who followed us, and all the while horns honking and even some cars stopping and people getting out of the cars and then there was an opening and we took it.

Strike him once more and I’ll blow your balls off. The foreman stopped beating the man. “And that is when I learned that something could be done,” he said, “that there was not nothing we could do.”

I left the water and stepped outside, as did the photographer, until we were visible to the open trucks where the soldiers rode standing, pointing their rifles at the clouds, the engines idling. I heard a whir and click, whir and click. Click click click. The American was taking photographs, so I opened my notebook and started to write nonsense, looking at the soldiers as if I were taking down names. You could hear the din of the courtyard from the street: crying, shouting. The soldiers seemed all to have mastered a certain demeanor: set mouths, hard eyes, helmet straps over their chins. The photographer was still photographing. I didn’t want to go any closer, but they could plainly see me writing in the notebook. And then, just like that, one after another, the trucks wheezed into the road and drove away.

“Well, that was close,” I heard the photographer say under his breath.

I’m not sure who he thought I was. No one asked in those days. Someone had vouched for me, I was told, and from his tone he thought I was somehow someone worth his time.

a single sentence from The Captive Mind by the poet Czesław Miłosz, written when he was also young: If a thing exists in one place, it will exist everywhere.

Americans already know what’s going on, and have known for a long time. What’s going on is fine with the Americans, so what am I doing here?

It was as if he had stood me squarely before the world, removed the blindfold, and ordered me to open my eyes.