A Candle in the Darkness: On Reading The Art of Political Murder

It’s better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.
Eleanor Roosevelt


On April 26, 1998, Bishop Juan Gerardi was bludgeoned to death—in a particularly savage fashion—in the garage of his San Sebastián parish house in Guatemala City. Two days before his murder, the report, Guatemala Never Again, had been officially released. This exhaustive documentation of the deaths of 200,000 Guatemalans during that nation’s thirty-six year civil war was a monumental task Bishop Gerardi spent years overseeing.

At once the news of the Bishop’s death circulated around the world and I, living in the States at the time, assumed that the Guatemalan military—the report was especially critical of that organization’s role in the vast majority of civilian deaths—had been responsible for the brutal killing. And, as the investigation of the crime proceeded, and the details of the findings that were filtered to the international media became increasingly murkier and contradictory, I lost hope that the culprits would ever be found.

But today, nearly ten years after Bishop Gerardi’s death, I’m thankful that a courageous group of people—including Francisco Goldman—were persistent in their quest for the truth. Because of their efforts several of the guilty are currently in prison, serving long sentences.

For years now I’ve been a fan of Francisco Goldman’s work. The Guatemalan-American is the author of three superb novels: The Long Night of White Chickens, The Divine Husband, and, my personal favorite, The Ordinary Seaman. The Art of Political Murder: Who Murdered the Bishop? is his first book-length work of non-fiction. This engrossing and true account of the assassination of one of Guatemala’s most prominent human rights activists is his most absorbing, blood-chilling effort. Goldman employs his considerable narrative skills to tell the harrowing story of the brave investigators and prosecutors who, at great personal risk and sacrifice, defied high-ranking members of Guatemala’s secret service to try to get to the bottom of Bishop Gerardi’s murder and bring those responsible to justice.

The Art of Political Murder is, indeed, a tale of perseverance, courage, and faith against seemingly insurmountable—and sometimes deadly—odds. (The mutilated bodies of witnesses, as well as of a brother of one of the investigators, were left in the countryside as warnings to cease the inquiries). Goldman’s work stands as a dramatic tribute to the men and women, author included, who stood before the gates of fear and pushed against them until the dimmest ray of light, hope, and truth entered the dark chambers and gradually illuminated the horror of what took place that night of April 1998.

Goldman’s book also details the unraveling of the secret service’s devious attempts to cover-up their act—the narrative is replete with fascinating and often macabre twists and turns—and in doing so it serves as a melancholic coda to Guatemala’s tragically long civil war. Because of the gripping factual story, and the artful way in which it is told, The Art of Political Murder is destined to rank high among Francisco Goldman’s already remarkable oeuvre.

Missing the Mangroves Already

The development of civilization and industry in general has always shown itself so active in the destruction of forest that everything that has been done for their conservation and production is completely insignificant in comparison.
Karl Marx

It is horrifying that we have to fight our own government to save the environment.
Ansel Adams


When one travels to the airport, riding along the Corredor Sur, a dense green wall of mangrove forest accompanies us on the last leg of the journey: beginning after one passes the ritzy residential development of Costa del Este and ending at the airport exit.

The mangroves are a soothing sight. And although the mangroves are not particularly beautiful, they constitute a splendid buffer zone from the urban chaos one has left behind; and what’s more important, they are the last great vestige of costal wilderness within city limits.

But that, I’m afraid, is about to change.

La Prensa, in its January 8, 2008 issue, reports that the Ideal Living Corporation—an investment group that includes Carlos Pellas, Nicaragua’s wealthiest citizen, and Alberto Vallarino, who hopes to be the presidential candidate for the Panameñista Party in the upcoming elections, among others—plans to build the Santa Maria Golf and Country Club on land that includes 23 hectares of mangroves.

And the Ideal Living Corporation is not alone in its intentions to exploit this stretch of land.

At present, due to the capital city’s unprecedented growth spurt, the mangroves occupy highly coveted space. La Prensa’s article strongly suggests that this site has become a magnet for greed. But recently, the National Authority for the Environment (ANAM) has delayed construction of two exclusive housing projects—Costa del Sol and Panama Bay—because the plans developers submitted do not meet environmental protection standards.

But for how much longer can the people of ecological conscience who work for ANAM hold at bay the machinations of millions of dollars and considerable political influence?

Already, Grupo Shahani Real Estate is taking out full-page advertisements in La Prensa selling houses in Costa Sur—a development project that, if one looks at the map on their website, represents the beginning of the end of the mangroves.

Mangroves are not welcoming places for humans; and they’re only beautiful in the eyes of true nature lovers. Their thick, entangled growth and the damp grounds they dwell on—they thrive on tidewaters—do not lend themselves for pleasant excursions. But this is precisely what makes their survival so important. Mangroves—as anyone with a basic knowledge of ecology can tell you—are complex ecosystems that support an astonishing wealth of wildlife. Birds, fish, shellfish, snakes, crocodiles, bats, and honeybees are only a handful of the creatures that find refuge here.

And there’s something else one needs to keep in mind: since 1960 the Republic of Panama has lost 60% its mangroves, and the destruction of these precious wildlife sanctuaries continues at an alarming rate.

Should the mangroves along the Corredor Sur be sacrificed to Panama City’s growing hunger for land?

According to the article in La Prensa, representatives of Panama’s government declared that they believe that the notion of establishing housing developments alongside the mangroves offers enormous employment potential and should be carried forth just as long as whatever project built there is carried out in harmony with the environment.

At present, what perhaps is most comforting as one travels along the Corredor Sur to the Tocumen International Airport is that in spite of the widespread view that the growth of the nation’s capital is out of control, humankind and nature are still able to live alongside each other—at least in the case of this precious extension of mangroves. But our once peaceful cohabitation will not continue for much longer. Now that developers have set their sights on this land, it’s easy to predict which side will come out the loser.

Another Brush with Fame

Worldly fame is but a breath of wind that blows now this way, and now that, and changes name as it changes direction.
Dante Alighieri

My good friend, Dr. Benjamin Murphy, who teaches Philosophy and Religion at Florida State University-Panama, honored me with this article which appeared in the December issue of The Panama Eagle.

Meet Me Under the Ceiba: Local Author Wins U.S. Literary Award

By Benjamin Murphy

Dr. Silvio Sirias is a teacher at Balboa Academy, occasional contributor to The Panama Eagle and an author. Actually, make that a prize-winning author. His second novel, Meet Me Under the Ceiba has just won first place in the annual Chicano/Latino Literary Prize organized by the University of California in Irvine. You won’t find Meet Me Under the Ceiba in the shops just yet – Dr. Sirias tells me that now that he’s won the award, he is negotiating with a publisher. His first novel, Bernardo and the Virgin, (which, like Meet Me Under the Ceiba is set in Nicaragua), is now available in paperback from Amazon. He is currently working on a novel with a Panamanian setting, The Saint of Santa Fe, which deals with the life of Father Hector Gallego, who disappeared in mysterious circumstances in 1971.

Meet Me Under the Ceiba is also inspired on a real event. On Christmas Day, 1999, Aura Rosa Pavon was murdered in the small town of La Curva. She was killed because she was a lesbian. Sirias was struck by the stark headline in the Nicaraguan newspapers: ‘Dyke Murdered.’ Three people were sentenced to thirty five years in prison, but were released on a technicality after three years. ‘The blatant homophobia shocked my sensibilities,’ he explains, ‘then as I read on, the bizarre circumstances seemed worth exploring. There is a lack of tolerance for any form of difference in Nicaragua, whether it be physical handicap, racial difference or sexuality. Because of the culture of machismo, homosexuality is an easy target. So most homosexuals tend to stay in the closet … Panama is slightly more tolerant than Nicaragua, but there is still considerable discrimination … Of course, discrimination is a problem in any society, not just in Latin America, but I wanted to understand the problem as manifested in Latin American society.’

Sirias was born in Los Angeles, California, to Nicaraguan parents, and when he was eleven years old, his family moved to Granada, Nicaragua. He spent the rest of his childhood in Nicaragua, returning to the USA for his college degree. Following the lead of novelists such as Julia Alvarez, he writes in English with a few Spanish words thrown in, like a dash of Ron Flor de Caña in a glass of coca cola. His sensibilities were shaped by the cultural melting pot of Los Angeles, but in writing about Nicaragua, he is writing about his own culture.

‘The novel is like a mirror, where Nicaraguans can see themselves, and a mirror is bound to reveal warts as well as beauty. The book deals with an ugly incident. But the people of the town are very likeable; it is not as though everyone stood up and cheered the murderers. On the contrary, I think Nicaraguans come out well. The book is up-lifting; despite the tragedy there is redemption.’

Indeed, he tells me that when the book is published, he hopes to present a copy to Aura Rosa’s sister, whom he interviewed as part of his research, to show that something of her sister lives on. But although the book was inspired by a true story, it was not his intention to recreate the actual events and people. The characters are given different names, licensing Sirias to invent freely as he tells the story. ‘I now find it difficult to remember what is fact and fiction in this book,’ he says, ‘more so than with my two other novels.’

In their letter of acceptance, the judges mentioned that the novel is very well paced. I ask whether this is something he paid conscious attention to while writing.

‘Yes. I’m having a lot of fun developing my craft as a writer. You never achieve a point of mastery, but there is satisfaction in knowing you are getting better. The structure of Bernardo and the Virgin owed a lot to Julia Alvarez’s Yo, and the structure of this novel owes a lot to Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Garcia Marquez … It was an exercise in keeping a brisk pace while presenting events in a non-linear manner … When you are faced with something senseless, it’s a puzzle, and readers have to work at making the pieces fit together.’

Finally, I gave Dr. Sirias the opportunity to sell his work directly to the public. Why, I asked, would anyone want to read this novel. ‘Because it’s a good story, well told.’ The judges of the Chicano/Latino Literary Prize seem to agree.

Me, the Right-Winger

When you are right you cannot be too radical; when you are wrong, you cannot be too conservative.
Martin Luther King Jr.

A little over two years ago, I wrote “A Time to Step Aside,” which appeared in the December 4, 2005 issue of The Panama News. In that piece, written almost a year before the Nicaraguan presidential elections, I predicted that Daniel Ortega would never be re-elected.

Boy, was I wrong.

As the date for the election approached, the article was reprinted in Nicaragua Living, an online discussion site. The posting that included “A Time to Step Aside” was titled: “Reality Check”—suggesting, perhaps, that I was out of touch with events in Nicaragua. The discussions about the article were few, but passionate—an indication, I believe, of the polarization that characterizes the politics of that nation.

Among the comments, one reader calls my piece a “Right-Wing hit piece.” He also goes on to say that my “use of hyperbole could make Karl Rove blush.”

I’ve reread “A Time to Step Aside” as I prepared to write this and, with the exception of my bold assertion that “Daniel Ortega doesn’t stand a chance of getting elected,” I fail to see anything that can be construed as an exaggeration. What I wrote is based on the truth as I experienced it while living in Nicaragua.

But what disturbs me about being labeled a right-wing apologist is that the epithet suggests that I align myself—without reflexion—to political events based on rigid ideologies. This is certainly not the case. What guides my political stances are not party allegiances but my desire that the leadership of a nation work in a diligent, efficient, and transparent fashion to meet the most salient needs of the people.

My politics are as simple as that.

In the case of Nicaragua, neither the presidencies of Daniel Ortega or Arnoldo Alemán addressed the most pressing problem the majority of Nicaraguans face: poverty. Instead, both men concentrated on political maneuvers designed to allow them to perpetuate their stranglehold over their respective parties—all for the purpose of one day returning to power. (On the other hand, Presidents Violeta Chamorro and Enrique Bolaños—Chamorro had to contend with a disgruntled Daniel Ortega, and Bolaños faced the underhanded antagonistic schemes of both Ortega and Alemán—did the best they could under excruciatingly difficult circumstances).

With regard to Nicaragua, then, I believe the country deserves much better than to be trapped in the authoritarian clutches of Daniel Ortega and Arnoldo Alemán.

Thus, I am not a conservative when it comes to Nicaragua (or anywhere else, for that matter)—if one defines a conservative as someone who wishes to preserve the status quo. I believe that that nation needs profound changes—quite a few and urgently—if the material deprivation of the majority is to be alleviated.

If one reads “A Time to Step Aside” dispassionately, I do not call for the election of a conservative government; rather, I’d like to see Daniel Ortega allow his party, the Sandinistas, to become more democratic. (At present, if one closely follows the news of Nicaragua, Ortega’s iron grip on the Sandinista party is causing considerable friction within the ranks). There’s a new generation of Sandinistas—bright, well-prepared professionals who understand today’s world far better than Ortega and his cronies—ready to step forward to assume positions of leadership. They are better equipped to lead Nicaragua in the international scene and avoid the blunders Ortega has been committing even since he became a mindless puppet of his new mentor, Hugo Chavez, who, as everyone knows, is facing grave challenges of his own both at home and abroad because of his confrontational style of leadership.

As I’ve said all along—and I repeat it again on the first anniversary of Daniel Ortega’s return to power—Nicaragua deserves better.

At the Crossroads of History, Politics, Literature, and Hope: On the Assassination of Benazir Bhutto

I remain in politics, in spite of losing several members of my family, because, at heart, I am an optimist who believes that everything will turn out well in the end.
Benazir Bhutto


Benazir Bhutto, like every politician that rises to a position of influence and power, was a complex person. A life in politics seldom, if ever, leads to sainthood. That’s because those who choose to tread this path are constantly obliged, every single day, to choose the lesser of two evils, sometimes making the wrong choice. And Benazir Bhutto’s story certainly reflects this reality.

I’d been observing Benazir Bhutto’s trajectory for several years prior to her assassination. Yet what first drew my attention to the Pakistani leader was not her involvement in the affairs of state of her country, but rather the instances in which her life intersected with literature. And what makes her death particularly poignant is that, on a couple of well-noted occasions, Benazir Bhutto proved to be a staunch defender of a writer’s freedom of expression.

Nearly twenty years ago, shortly after she first assumed the position of Prime Minister, Rajiv Gandhi, then Prime Minister of India, bowed to the pressure of a handful conservative Muslims in his parliament by banning the distribution of Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses in his nation. Following this example, the governments of Bangladesh, Egypt, South Africa, and Pakistan also banned the novel.

But the ban wasn’t enough for the more conservative Pakistani parliamentarians: they demanded that their Prime Minister do everything within her means to prevent Random House from releasing The Satanic Verses in the United States.

Benazir Bhutto, a graduate of Harvard’s Radcliff College, knew perfectly well that such a request would constitute a blatant attack on the First Amendment, and disregarding the consequences of her refusal, she never contacted the publishers. In frustration, the Pakistani politicians turned to neighboring Iran, and it was at their behest that the Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini issued the fatwa calling for Salman Rushdie’s death.

Yet Benazir Bhutto remained firm in her convictions. Throughout the entire ordeal, and in spite of incurring the wrath of Muslim extremists, she defended Rushdie’s right to publish his work in nations where freedom of speech is respected.

And recently, in June of 2007, when the Queen of England knighted Salman Rushdie for his considerable contributions to British literature, Mohammed Ejaz ul-Hag, Minister of Religious Affairs in President Pervez Musharraf’s cabinet, expressed his outrage over the honor and made a thinly veiled call for Rushdie’s death. This time, Benazir Bhutto spoke out courageously against the threat, calling Ejaz ul-Hag’s statement “a disservice both to the image of Islam and the standing of Pakistan.” And what makes her stance all the more remarkable is that Salman Rushdie had been an outspoken critic of her governance of Pakistan.

But my personal admiration for Benazir Bhutto’s ability to traverse the borders between politics, history, and fiction started during an interview I conducted with the Dominican-American author Julia Alvarez over ten years ago. While discussing Julia’s most highly regarded novel, In the Time of the Butterflies, the story of the Mirabal sisters, murdered by Rafael Trujillo in 1961 because they dared to openly oppose his dictatorship, I asked which of the sisters had been the most difficult to portray. Without hesitation, Alvarez responded that it was Minerva, the undisputed leader of the group.

“Minerva wasn’t evolving well as a fictional character. From the onset she was too strong, too determined, and too fixed in her beliefs; she became a character without hubris, without a single weakness or flaw. And it’s virtually impossible for any novelist to make such a character believable.”

Finding herself stuck, a friend suggested that Alvarez read Daughter of the East, Benazir Bhutto’s autobiography, first published in 1989.

“In that book, Bhutto describes how she became an agoraphobic while under house arrest,” Alvarez told me. “At that point I began to see that something very similar had happened to Minerva after her release from prison and during her house arrest. She, like Benazir Bhutto, became afraid of leaving the safety of the home and of being in a crowd. At that point, thanks to Benazir Bhutto’s account, Minerva Mirabal, as a character, became far more human, far less mythic, and thus possible for me to flesh out.”

And today, in the realm of history, like Minerva Mirabal before her, Benazir Bhutto was murdered because she believed in free, open societies in which citizens have a voice, in which they are able to elect their leaders, and in which men and women have equal rights. What’s more, the stories of these two brave women, Benazir Bhutto and Minerva Mirabal, represent a bold and fertile cross-pollination of cultures, history, and politics that should inspire all of us to keep hope alive for the sake of a just and free world.