Marisa d’Aubuisson: “La historia nos ha dado la razón”

| Miércoles, 20 mayo 2015

Para María Luisa d'Aubuisson -mejor conocida como Marisa d'Aubuisson- aunque el caso Romero sigue impune ante la justicia del hombre, la opinión mundial reconoce su legado y lucha.

Periodista: Ileana Corado.

Cámara: Ricardo Marin Vladimir Chicas Gabriel Suria.

Edición: Vladimir Chicas.

Dirección: Juan José Dalton

Miércoles, 20 mayo 2015

7 comments on “Marisa d’Aubuisson: “La historia nos ha dado la razón”

  1. Felicitaciones a Contrapunto por este video y también por el artículo “Hoy todo el mundo habla de Monseñor Romero”. Es cierto: todo el mundo está hablando de él: los que lo mataron, los materialistas, los incrédulos, sus familiares, sus seguidores y amigos y también sus nuevos seguidores. Estos últimos que parecen muchísimos. Desearía que todos los que hablan de él, en bien, fueran sinceros. Pero de todas maneras, Monseñor nos ha perdonado a todos. Digo a todos, porque los que siempre hemos creído en él, hemos callado. No hemos luchado por lograr justicia, hemos sido, en parte, cómplices de su asesinato. ¿Servirá su Beatificación como punto de partida para una lucha en contra de la impunidad? Lo dudo, aunque lo deseo.

  2. Porque a la hora de reconocer honores de quienes han luchado arduamente para ver realizado este momento, no toman en consideración el trabajo y valentía de Marisa y la comisión Monseñor Romero? Eso es nada mas y nada menos que “Saludar con sombrero ajeno.” Marisa, no dude que Ud. queda permanentemente grabada en la historia y memoria de todos quienes acompañamos a nuestro pueblo en su valiente lucha y dolor. Mucho respeto y un abrazote

  3. Hace unas semanas, una colaboradora confiable me envió una entrevista reciente con la doña Marisa, que trataba a divulgar. Yo no se nada de ninguna traducción en inglés alternativa, pero ya tiene la mía.

    Saddled with the surname of Monseñor Romero’s killer
    by María Isabel Sánchez, Agence France-Presse, San Salvador

    When they killed Archbishop Oscar Arnulfo Romero as he said Mass, on 24 March 1980, María Luísa felt her gut wrenched by a grief redoubled. It was her mentor, the champion of El Salvador’s oppressed, who was dying. And the finger of accusation pointed at her brother, Roberto D’Aubuisson.
    Although Marisa, as they call her, uses the Martínez surname of her husband, Edín, she bears the stigma of D’Aubuisson. In 1993, a United Nations’ Commission named the army major, who died of cancer in 1992, as intellectual author of the Murder that shocked the world and sparked the El Salvador war of 1980-1992.
    Marisa is 66 – five years younger than Roberto and last-born of four brothers and sisters in a well-heeled family. In the Romero Foundation with her husband, she is extolling the memory of the venerable Archbishop, whose Beatification was endorsed by Pope Francis, who acknowledged him on Tuesday [3 March 2015] as a Martyr of the Church.
    In her San Salvador house, as simple as the life she has chosen, she speaks to AFP amid portraits of the man who was called “the Voice of the voiceless” because of his denunciation of an unjust society and repression by the army.
    • How do you assess the Case for Blessedness?
    They had it deadlocked. Pope Francis broke the deadlock. Powerful vested interests, the same old Establishment, still spurn Monseñor, but now they must watch what they say. Our Pastor is more alive than ever.
    • From where did your community concern and your own admiration of Romero spring?
    [They sprang] from my childhood. At school, the nuns made me aware of the realities of our country. The poverty, and its causes, staggered me. Monseñor put his finger on the bleeding ulcer whose hallmarks are exclusion and repression. He was courageous and clear.
    • How did you take it that your brother was a military man?
    Working in the homes of the common people, I knew all about the way young people were spirited away and about the anguish of their communities – and I found out that my brother was in the [National] Guard that was repressing them. One day I confronted him. I told him that they were inflicting terror on the people. He replied that the armed forces were our great bulwark against communism.
    • How were your dealings with him and the rest of your kin?
    Hard. I tried to keep my distance. Roberto would tell me that I was a useful idiot, my husband a pen for the Left. From my family there was flat rebuff. I was the black sheep, they were all founder members of ARENA (right wing Republican Nationalist Alliance). They would reproach that I was not supporting my brother. They used to say that the communists had addled my brain. But I went on with my work among the excluded.
    • How much does your surname handicap you?
    I cope with it better nowadays, though it’s still a burden. It was in the days of the war that my surname really handicapped me. But poor people, and the leaders of the Insurrection, did have confidence in me, even though they knew that I was sister to the founder of the death squads.
    • Were you afraid of him?
    Yes. I was terrified that they would make off with Edín or would arrest me. Afterwards, I thought he was not capable of doing me harm. When we were children, he was the brother to whom I was closest. We were very fond of each other. One day, they told him that someone called Marisa was under arrest in San Miguel (to the East). He ordered the Guard to do her no harm. And off he went in a helicopter, thinking that it was me. It was a sign that, if they were holding me prisoner, he was not going to tell them to torture me.
    • What did you feel about him?
    Contradictory feelings. One day, I said to him: “as a brother, I love you ever so much, but as an army man I detest you, I abhor you”. That was 1n 1979, [when] the repression was vicious. But when he fell ill with cancer, I visited him and I asked him to understand that he was wrong: I was not a militant in the Insurrection, but an ancillary; my commitment was to the people, but I loved him. And he replied: “Me too; very much.”
    • What did you feel when they killed Monseñor?
    Grief, redoubled: for his death, which saddened me profoundly; and to hear that it was D’Aubuisson’s doing. I wanted to hide, so they would not be pointing at me. Once in 1986 a young man in a village came up to me and told me that my brother had wrecked his life: killed his father, spirited his elder brother away – and his mother. But he gave me a hug, which dispelled his rage. It left me shattered.
    • Did D’Aubuisson acknowledge, behind closed doors, his responsibility for the [Romero] crime?
    It was something of which my brother would not speak. One day at a family reunion our sister told my brother that she had heard someone name him as the person who dispatched him to do the killing. My brother turned his back on Edín and me and said: “You will see that the man who killed that **** [expletive deleted] will have a monument erected in his honour in this country!”
    • He never repented?
    When he was in his death throes in hospital, I took his hand and said: “”Allow your spirit to survive, Roberto! Beg pardon of Monseñor.” By now, he was not speaking. He was very weak. He took my collar. He brought me closer. He let me go. And he wept. From rage or repentance, I don’t know. The next day he died.

  4. Re the previous.
    It seems I have Posted twice. I thought that you might not like me not having given my full name. Call me DAVID, if you like; but I don’t mind.

Comments are closed.