During my journalistic reporting years, Guatemala was the only place that made me nervous. A genocidal war was underway, and Americans were not exempt from murder at the hands of Guatemala’s soldiers. Several Americans were among the 200,000 victims. At least 85 percent of those killed were Mayan people.
A reporting trip I made to an intense war zone, the village of Nebaj, in November 1985 brought home the danger. I was accompanied by two other American journalists. Here is an excerpt from my book.
We arrived at Nebaj, tucked between mountains, and arranged to stay in a rustic boarding house. Dinner had already been served, so we walked to a nearby convenience store to find something to eat and drink. Loud Andean music and the sound of men laughing filled the room as we picked out bags of chips and soft drinks that would be our dinner. Suddenly, two soldiers staggered into the store, evidently from a back room. They were pretty drunk; one had two Uzi machine guns, one slung over each shoulder. He eyed us angrily.
“Who are you?” he yelled.
None of us spoke. We were stunned.
Finally, I replied that we were American journalists.
“Oh, so you’re here to help the communists, huh? All you sons of whores do is write bad things about us and good things about the communists,” he said, now standing menacingly in front of us.
I realized our lives might be in danger. The army was notorious for its murderous savagery, and we were two hundred miles from the capital in a remote village. It was dark, and a drunk, armed, and belligerent soldier was confronting us. We had to extricate ourselves from this ugly situation.
“You are right,” I blurted. “A lot of journalists don’t tell the truth,” I said, lying through my teeth. “This is my first time in Guatemala, and I want to find the truth and report that.”
The soldier calmed down but remained wary. “Who are you going to interview?” he asked.
We had arranged to speak with the area military commander. “Oh, we have an early morning appointment with your commander.” The soldier then invited us to join him in the store’s back room, the source of the noise we had heard. When we politely declined, the soldier stubbornly insisted we accept his invitation. We entered the small room, where several soldiers sat on crates, drinking a popular sugar cane alcohol known by its brand name, Venado. Once we had sipped a few drinks, our hosts happily let us leave. Back at the boarding house, I felt uneasy. We had told the soldiers where we were staying. What if they decided we were really guerrilla sympathizers who ought to be killed? They could have murdered us with impunity.
Ricardo Chavira Chicano 