Last Wednesday I tried calling Father Ignacio Martin Baro, as I usually did when I was in El Salvador. Talking with him was always a welcome respite from the government and rebel spin doctors with their self-serving versions of events. "He's at home," said a voice on the other end of the line. "You'll have to see him tomorrow."
I did see Martin on Thursday. He was lying on the lawn behind his residence, clad in a familiar dark blue T shirt that seemed to be one of only three he owned. Most of his gentle, bearded face had been torn...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In