“Wir haben es nicht gewusst.” We didn’t know anything.
This was the excuse used in the late 1940s by thousands of “good Germans.” That is how those who never participated directly in the crimes of Nazi Germany justified their inaction, silence, and passivity in the face of the horrors of the Holocaust.
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El Salvador is living under a dictatorship, even if your daily life does not seem to have changed. The long authoritarian night has begun, even if your Instagram feed is full of reels showing off trendy spots on sparkling beaches, to the rhythm of that same Bad Bunny verse.
Choose whichever indicator you prefer, and the result will inevitably be the same.
All power is concentrated in a single person.
This person has the security forces and the justice system at their disposal.
Whenever this person feels sufficiently annoyed by a dissenting voice, they have them arrested and prosecuted without due process.
This person changed the rules of the game to stay in power longer.
For this person’s friends: the goods. For this person’s critics: the law.
Many dissidents have fled the country. Others are languishing in prison. Some resist from within, fully aware they could be next.
More than 400 people have died in custody. The authorities will turn a blind eye.
El Salvador is living under a dictatorship, even if you do not want to see it.
Next time you go to that new gastropub, the one with fairy lights and sterile decor serving the latest trend in brunch, matcha tea, ramen, cold brew, or hung steak, remember that this appearance of modernity has been built just a few meters from where hundreds of people are demanding a dignified life, free from eviction threats, with basic public services, and without the fear of losing everything to the same sinkhole that has been there for years.
Remember, as you savor the hops in your New England IPA, quite far from New England, that some of those people never made it home because they were arrested as they protested and demanded the bare minimum for a decent life. So were the lawyers who defended them, and those who documented, exposed, or explained the abuses of power.
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At your table, notice what happens when someone, for some reason, brings up politics. Did their voice drop a little? Did they nervously glance around? Did they simply say, “I don’t get into that, I just keep working”? Did they quickly change the subject?
When that new dream project pops up on your social media feed, the one by the lake, remember what your parents used to say: “All of that used to be wildland.” Land where species once lived. Land where underprivileged families used to gather food and water to survive. Land that now has tractors tearing it up and trucks hauling away felled trees so that one day, on that new concrete slab, you can enjoy your sun deck, outdoor cinema, fire pit, and other amenities.
If they are lucky, the person who used to live there and got evicted might end up in one of the tiny rooms in your loft apartment, next to the water heater and the ironing board, wearing a pastel blue uniform while preparing your breakfast. If they are not so lucky, they may end up in prison for protesting their eviction or the destruction of natural resources. Or perhaps because the arresting officer, lacking cause, simply said they looked “nervous.”
Their mother will wake up early every day, trying to find out which prison they are in or whether they are still alive. If she dares speak to the media at the next protest, the police will ask for her ID and take a photo of it. It will be the last time she protests. When she finally finds out where her relative is being held, she will bring the money for the basic prison package: clothing, perhaps food. Her relative, held in the regime of bars and barbed wire, will never receive it.
When you head downtown to take photos in front of the new and shiny library that is oddly light on books, remember that thousands of children have not been able to continue their education regularly, because the reconstruction of their schools was halted. Those resources were redirected to other priorities, like surrounding the president with two armies: one of heavily armed bodyguards and another of cameramen and influencers presenting his life and work as that of a national savior. The Savior, as it were, of El Salvador.
The next time you show off your passport and boarding pass from the departure lounge, with subtle hints of your exotic, chic destination, take a moment to reflect on those who have no choice but to stay behind. And, while you are at it, think about those who had to flee without time to pack, to say goodbye, to hug the ones they love.
When an ad pops up on your Instagram for a downtown festival featuring well-known international artists, think about the artist who had to go into exile after denouncing the arbitrary arrest of his father, a man in his seventies accused of terrorism while he was hooked up to machines following a nearly fatal heart attack. Think about how he spent over a year in prison and was only granted parole when he was on the brink of death.
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If you come across a newspaper along the way, read the bylines. There are fewer and fewer names. Some journalists now do something else for a living, and dozens have fled the country, separated from their families and livelihoods, afraid to return. In exchange for this exodus, you receive less information, but it matters little. The gastropub is still there. The beachfront hotel with day passes, a heated pool, and house music DJ sets is still there. Your neighborhood increasingly looks like Condesa, Brickell, or Malasaña. You are still a “decent citizen.”
In fact, those kinds of citizens are the favorites of dictatorships. The ones who never make waves. The ones who go to work every day to provide for their families, never daring to look up, lest they see injustice. The ones who stay silent because “it’s not their problem.” The ones who keep building their nice, gentrified lives on top of a country with political prisoners, omnipotent rulers, and innocent people dying behind bars.
“Decent citizens” who, one day, when all of this ends, will act surprised and exclaim, like so many after the horrors of Nazi Germany, “Wir haben es nicht gewusst.” But the evidence was always there.
When you remember that you live in a dictatorship, I ask only one thing of you: Have some decency, please. For Ruth, for Enrique, for Fidel, Alejandro, Atilio, and José Ángel. For the 412 who have died in prison. For the journalists and professionals who went into exile.
Have the decency to demand decency from those in power.