guerrilla zone

The podcast discusses an image called "Guerrilla Zone" taken in 1988 during the El Salvadorian Civil War. The image shows a group of Salvadoran adults and children with guerrilla soldiers in the background. The adults don't seem bothered by the presence of the soldiers. The podcast explores the significance of the image and its representation of the divided nature of guerrilla warfare in Latin America. It also provides an overview of the Salvadoran Civil War and the historical context leading up to it. The war resulted in extreme violence and human rights abuses, with both the government and guerrilla forces involved. The conflict ended in 1992 with the signing of the Chaluputec Peace Accords. The image "Guerrilla Zone" captures the tension and divide between civilians and guerrillas during the war. Hello and welcome to our podcast. We are your hosts for the evening for Professor Nolan's documentary photography class at Bates College. I'm your host, Hollis Hale. And I'm Simone Overgaard. Today we're going to talk to you about our image, Guerrilla Zone, taken in 1988 by the photographer Donna De Cesare. First, let's talk about the content of this image. Guerrilla Zone is a photograph which depicts a group of El Salvadoran adults and children gathered on a cobblestone street with an inharmonious mix of guerrilla soldiers and civilians. The crowd in the foreground faces the group in the background of the image who are sitting in the front of the house. The children in the first group are all in motion, their blurry bodies seemingly leaving the scene except for one little girl who clings onto a wooden post, looking off into the distance away from the camera. Also leaning against this post is an armed man, one of many inside the frame. Yes, but what is surprising is that the adults in the background don't seem to mind the presence of the soldiers. Instead, the adults in both rows have their bodies and gauges kind of turned towards one another, where conflict doesn't necessarily seem imminent, but the presence of guns, although lowered, offers this promise of inevitability. As we look closer, we can see more and more shotguns, which are not in use, but are still very prevalent and visible. While examining this image, one must ask, why are most of the civilian adults so far away from the soldiers and kids? When does the civilian adults want to protect the kids? Not only are the soldiers carrying big lethal weapons, but I mean, the kids seem unfazed by their presence. Yeah, I mean, Hollis, I don't know about you, but if there was a big guy with a gun next to me, I would definitely not be half as calm as that little girl is. Even the soldiers look really relaxed here. One guy has his hand on his leg, the other guy is leaning vulnerably on a pole. But Simone, the question we have to ask ourselves is, why does this point in time intrigue Donna de Cesare? Does it intrigue her because it's moments before destruction, moments before chaos, maybe a calm before the storm? In this podcast, we will be discussing how de Cesare's guerrilla zone, through its physical separation or exclusion of human bodies, symbolizes the divisive nature of guerrilla warfare, and more broadly, conflict in general in Latin America. Now, before we get into this photograph, we thought it would be beneficial for both of us to do an overview of the El Salvadorian Civil War. The war officially began in 1980, but tensions had actually been present within El Salvador as early as the 16th century. El Salvador was known for its land and incredible natural resources, including cocoa, indigo and coffee. Originally, the Spanish ruled until independence shifted to Salvadorians of European descent. When this shift happened, the remaining 95% of the country's population who were not of European descent were forced to work hard labor for dirt cheap pay. The other 5% of the populations were landholders called the 14 families who ruled the country through corrupt dictatorships. It was along these lines, between peasant and planter, European and indigenous, that El Salvador's history of leadership has decayed. To combat these 14 families, a peasant revolt led by Agustin Farabundo Mati in 1932 started, but was eventually crushed within just a few weeks in a massive military reprisal called La Matanza, or in English, the slaughter. In the slaughter, an estimated 30,000 civilians were killed. So, this is where the Salvadorian military grew in power? Yep, and it would dominate the government for decades to come. Well, I mean, in a sense, the conflict between the right and the left wing never really ended, because throughout the 1960s and 70s, the left-wing guerrillas and right-wing paramilitary death squads frequently engaged in political violence. Carlos Humberto Romero, the dictator, was kicked out of office on October 15, 1979, by a group of moderate officers. These moderates then formed the Revolutionary Government Junta, also known as the J.R.G. In January of 1980, a Salvadorian army officer named Roberto Du Abuson, also known as Blowtorch Bob, yes, Blowtorch Bob, was from the right wing and fought against the J.R.G., bombing them, kidnapping, and murdering their members, including the murder of renowned human rights defender, Archbishop Oscar Romero. So, as cool as that name is, Blowtorch Bob, he was actually a terrible person, and his name runs true to his actions. Then when 2,500,000 mourners gathered for his funeral, snipers attacked the crowd, killing 72 people and wounding over 200, on day of Du Abuson's orders. He was thrown in jail, which he was almost immediately pulled out of, but only through a series of terrorist attacks from the right wing. After this quote-unquote release, he founded the Right Wing Nationalist Republican Alliance, also known as ARENA, in September of 1980. This sniper attack at the Archbishop's funeral is what tipped the sporadic political violence into the full-scale Salvadorian Civil War we know. At the same time, five resistance groups joined together to create the Farabundo Mati National Liberation Front, or the FMLN. The FMLN fielded a guerrilla army to oppose government and right-wing paramilitary forces. The U.S. got warnings about these attacks, for which they sent aid to the Salvadoran government. This help didn't last long, though, right? In December of 1980, President Jimmy Carter cut off the aid after four American churchwomen were murdered by military and paramilitary forces. Eventually, when President Ronald Reagan took office, he brought the American troops back into the conflict, believing that El Salvador would help America during the Cold War in return. At the height of the Civil War, during the 1980s, the country saw countless cases of extreme torture, rape, disappearances, bombings, and executions between the government and guerrilla forces. These violent acts often caught civilians in the crossfire, accounting for a total of 75,000 Salvadoran deaths. Negotiations between the government and the FMLN stalled through the early 1980s, despite the election of Jose Napoleon Durat in May 1984. In 1989, Durat was eventually replaced in office by Alfredo Cristiani, an Arena Party member. This shift in power allowed for a major escalation in the conflict. But after his election, a horrifying incident took place when the Alcatel Brigade, a counterinsurgency unit, murdered Jesuit priests, a housekeeper, and her daughter at the University of Central America. This shocking event led the U.S. Congress to form a special investigative task force to find out how this happened. Their findings revealed that high-ranking Salvadoran officers were behind the murders. This actually pushed the U.S. towards advocating toward the peace settlement even more. But the Salvadoran conflict still seemed deadlocked, with neither side gaining advantages. While the Civil War was still in full effect, other global political issues and events took place that shifted the conflict and its outcome. The collapse of the Soviet Union meant the FMLN was at a loss for allies and monetary support. On January 16, 1992, the United Nations-brokered Chaluputec Peace Accords were signed, marking the end of 20 months of negotiation between the FMLN guerrillas and the government, marking the end of the war. But now we're going to go back in time a little bit, to the photo, which was taken in 1988, when the negotiations between the FMLN and the government were still stalled. From this time period, we have Guerrilla Zone to better exemplify and understand the social and more personal tolls that came from the conflict. So, now that we're looking at this image, what first catches your eye, Hollis? Well, the focal point of Guerrilla Zone, to me, seems to be that the armed man and little girl propped up on the same post. I feel like this first establishes a schism between us and them, between civilian and guerrilla. Yeah, I see what you mean. It's interesting to me how the little girl clings to the wooden post. It sort of seems as though she's clinging to it like a lifeline. Both of her arms are wrapped around it, and she's sort of slumped up against it. This slant of the post, the post not being straight, that is, suggests imperfections and instability in this town, a situation which the little girl is supported by, both physically and literally. In a sense, her leaning on the pole symbolizes her reliance on a corrupt and unstable system. Despite the fact that she can obviously feel and tell that the post is crooked, she has no choice but to cling to it for stability. Her gaze is cast down away from the camera and away from the civilian crowd. The man, in contrast, casually leans against the post, using it more for comfort than as a means of salvation or stability, while keeping his eye on the distant gathering. Is there something that the young girl is not permitted to see? I think that their opposing positions speak for the lack of understanding or disconnect between the two parties. They are both resolute in their perspectives, as neither of them are visibly making any effort to see what the other side is seeing. Similarly, the physical border, the post between the man and the girl, materializes this ideological and emotional divide between guerrilla and civilian. So, in a way, perhaps the girl isn't able to see any other side than her own. I think something we also need to mention is the camera. The separation of the two groups reinforced by the positioning of the camera, and thereby the audience, lends itself to the antagonistic, binary mindset. Of the group present in the foreground, the majority of the adults have their backs turned to the camera. This suggests, perhaps, either a familiarity or disregard for the camera, allowing the audience a place within the armed crowd. As is the camera, its keeper and the audience all belong to one homogenous group. Yeah. I would also like to argue that this division is further highlighted through the physical distance between everyone. A large physical expanse between us, the camera, the little girl, and all the other children and soldiers present in the foreground, and the opposite crowd, the crowd composed of civilians, demonstrates this physical divide between the two groups. You can definitely sense the polarity within the space. The group gazes at each other, but makes no effort to converse with one another, as demonstrated by their motionless bodies. No communication with the other side occurs, as though there is nothing to say, no need to understand each other. The lack of figures in between the two groups demonstrates how depolarized a conflict is. There is no in-between. One is either with us, or with them. The placement of adults in the calmness of the children suggests that this village has experienced the routine of soldiers before. This almost cynical sense of familiarity is probably best explained by the years of torture and killings endured by civilians and soldiers alike, from both sides of the government and the guerrillas, as we noted before. The slight overlap present on the post, wherein the man comes into contact with the little girl's hand as he leans on part of it, suggests that despite their polarized nature, the two groups still have some overlap, some common ground. Though in opposing groups, the two share a language, a cultural identity, or even hopes and dreams for the betterment of their country. Despite their repulsion at one another, they are still two sides of the same coin. Honestly, Simone, considering what was going on in El Salvador at this time, what would intrigue the photographer to take this picture moments before its destruction? Wouldn't it put her in harm's way? Well, she's done it before, and she'll continue to do it. How so? Well, Donna DeCesare has spent many years photographing. She's an educator and documentary photographer who is most known for her engagement and coverage of mostly children in Central America. She's an associate professor of journalism at the University of Texas at Austin, a consultant to the Dart Center for Journalism and Trauma at Columbia University, and a master teacher with the Gabriel Garcia Marquez Foundation for Latin American Journalism. This all just goes to show that she's a very decorated, well-respected photographer, and I obviously don't want to discredit her, but some of her work does feel like it's very much in the vein of white saviorism. What do you mean? Well, her parents came from large peasant Catholic families. Her father was the son of an Italian immigrant, while her immigrant mother was from Scotland. Her quote-unquote home, as she calls it, has been Latin America for the past 30 years. She says that her purpose to go to these struggling, sorrowful places came from her mother's memories of her ancestral roots. On her website, de Cesare then goes on to say that she remembers her own injustice and struggle, but that her biggest memory is of ordinary people in Latin America who daily cast off despair and prejudice with courage and grace. Though her intentions may be wholly innocent, the fact that she, as a white woman, finds her responsibility to, in a sense, aid these places through her photography work feels reminiscent of white saviorism. Okay, yeah, Simone, I see what you mean. I agree. Although I think we still must remember to not discredit her work, still being aware of her faults, but not ignoring her ability. It's, I guess, kind of like that debate, do we separate the art from the artist? And, you know, honestly, in this situation, I don't know, but we cannot forget her work in this instance. So all this being said, we do have another image of de Cesare that we want to introduce in this episode. This image comes from her book, Untitled slash Desasosiego, from 2013. Officially untitled, this image has been captioned, Guatemala City, Guatemala, 2001. Looking at this image, we see a crowd of gatherers at the crime scene following what we can only assume to be the murder of a gang member from 18th Street Gang in the burial of Villanueva, as it's described in some of the publications it's featured in. Much like Guerrilla Zone, this image is strict in its shadowy monochrome nature. One's eyes are immediately drawn to the stark white sheet laid upon the still body, tainted only by the inky blackness of the victim's blood. The victim, present in the lower right corner of the image, is the only surviving indication that violence ensued at some point within the frame's perimeter. A single strand of police tape blocks off a crowd of onlookers from both the body and the detective or officer surveying the scene. Even though this image sounds very placid in nature, we can assure you that compared to Guerrilla Zone, this photo is extremely graphic in its depiction of death. Unlike Guerrilla Zone, Untitled, 2001, presents clear evidence of brutality in a country so divided, El Salvador as a result of politics, Guatemala in the face of gang wars. I would even go as far to say in that, in some sense, Guerrilla Zone acts as a sort of symbol of the quiet before the storm, whereas Untitled, 2001, portrays the storm's aftermath. Yeah, I agree. I think this idea speaks to Dick Cesare's proclivity towards capturing the aftermath of a conflict, or, you know, her tendency to portray the life that surrounds and is surrounded by violence. Present in both Guerrilla Zone and Untitled, 2001, children and adults alike gather, captured as both subjects of De Cesare's photos and onlookers to the events implied in the photos. Unfortunately, as much as one might protect themselves, not one person is safe from the horrors of violence, not one face or turns a gaze of the camera in Untitled, 2001. All eyes are cast upon the body in a somber manner. Aside from this other image of De Cesare's, we have yet another one we would like to introduce, Robert Nickelsburg's Untitled, 1992. We feel that this image supports our overall claim that war is entirely polarizing and that photography only furthers or solidifies this divide. As opposed to the inaction or lack of immediate violence that informs so much of De Cesare's images, Guerrilla Zone, and Untitled, 2001, Robert Nickelsburg's Untitled, 1992, is centered around an animated scene of active battle. Like Guerrilla Zone, Nickelsburg also made his photograph in El Salvador five years prior to De Cesare's image in 1983, although it wasn't published until 1992. So, again, what do you see? Well, Simone, the first thing I noticed was that the two men had their backs turned away from the camera. One holds an assault rifle with his body contoured in such a way that suggests he is either aiming or preparing to shoot. It seems to me that we are observing them in the middle of battle. Yeah, I could see that. The other man is bent over his weapon, clutching it closely as he stands behind his partner, shielded by the wall. In the upper left corner of the photo, the shell from some unseen bullet streaks across the camera's frame, blurry in its frozen advancement. This was definitely taken during some active fighter shootout. I think it's safe to say that what De Cesare's photographs of El Salvador and Guatemala, characteristic of her work, lack in a dynamic account of conceivable war, Nickelsburg's Untitled, 1992, makes up for it in an objective exposition of volatile hostility. From both the men's civilian clothing and the photo's caption, as presented on the artist's website, armed Salvadorian guerrillas from the Ejercito Revolucionario del Pueblo, ERP, fire at government security forces in eastern El Salvador, May 1, 1983. We are fully aware of the fact that these men are true guerrillas. Despite the fact that this is the first of the three images we've mentioned in this episode to feature true acts of violence, we are completely held in the dark about who it is that these men are shooting at. Through the historical context of this photograph, we can assume their enemies are government soldiers. The fact that they are invisible to us, the observers on the guerrilla's side, this, to me, at least, only further demonstrates how polarizing this war was. Exactly. Positionally aligned with the guerrillas, we are deprived of any visibility of the opposition. We know neither their faces, numbers, or anything of the sort. As complete strangers to us, the observers, in this struggle we are completely polarized from them, both as opponents and humans. In all three photos, one key aspect is missing, the true visibility of them, or the other side of this conflict. These three photographs we've looked at all allude to this idea of polarity and the divisiveness born out of conflict. If we were to look at de Cesari's Untitled, 2001, and Nickelberg's Untitled, 1992, as the foundations that inform our reading of Guerrilla Zone, it is easy to see how the lack of representation of an opposition in conflict is a symptom of war. In Untitled, 1992, we never see the men our guerrillas are shooting at. Spared from sight by both a large wall in the no-man's land that is the meeting ground between both groups, artillery shells, and stray bullets, the viewer is spared any humanization of the enemy. A similar idea is present in Untitled, 2001, as the viewer isn't privy to exactly who the perpetrators are, nor their motives. Communication is completely non-existent in both images. The closest form of it being the violence itself, or the message left by it, in the case of the victim in Untitled, 2001. I would go so far as to say that Guerrilla Zone, truly the sum of both of these images, exemplifies this idea through its subtle stillness. Its inaction and lack of explicit evidence of dialogue leaves the impression that no exchange is to happen. Precisely. Even when the two opposing forces are pictured together and take up the same frame, as in Guerrilla Zone, they separate in ideals their occupation of space and their feelings. Despite the absence of violence within the scene, its promise still lingers in the air. Divided between those armed and those not, it is easy to discern who is in control of the situation. I think it's safe to say that this power dynamic, imposed by the potentiality of carnage, further supports the idea that violence, in all its forms, is entirely divisive, turning brother on brother, forcing us to hate them, and vice versa, without question. Precisely, Simone. Well, I think that's all the time we have for today. We just want to extend a great big thank you to you for listening. And a great thank you to everyone who helped us along the way during this project. We hope you enjoyed. Thank you.