On January 19, 1972, the Edgar Ibarra guerrilla detachment
penetrated Guatemalan territory. This was the core of what
was to become, some years later, the Guerrilla Army of the
Poor. Thus ended a period of feverish preparation outside
of Guatemala, which had one pressing goal: to return to
Guatemala and to re-initiate the guerrilla struggle in the
mountains.
The border crossing did not, however, turn out as we had
planned. Our unit of twenty-five had meant to enter the
country secretly and to launch the armed struggle only when
we could count on a necessary base of support in the interior.
The defeat we had suffered in the previous decade had been
a learning experience, and one of its main lessons was the
risk of improvised action. This time, therefore, we intended
to do things right.
Months earlier, as part of our plan, a small group of compañeros
had managed to settle on the banks of the Río Ixcán,
passing themselves off as Mexicans. They made a clearing
in a pocket of the jungle close to Guatemalan territory,
and built huts on both sides of the river. While they cleared
the land and planted corn, they became friendly with the
people living along the river’s edge. This first undertaking
cost the life of one of our most valiant compañeros,
Concepción Garda. He was not a good swimmer, and
during one of many river crossings he was dragged away by
the current. We never recovered his body. But that small
jungle clearing and the palm huts he had helped build formed
the secret base used during the winter of 1971 by the rest
of us in our approach to the border.
Following the solitary routes used by the chicle workers
and settlers, a second group joined the vanguard from the
Patará region, secretly crossing the few inhabited
areas and traveling mostly at night. This contingent carried
most of the arms and ammunition that made up our modest
arsenal.
The final group arrived in December. It consisted of myself
and two others, and we arrived by air, aboard a small commercial
plane that made regular flights between the city of Comitán
in Chiapas and the Mexican side of the Ixcán. From
the air we could see vast jungle stretching as far as the
horizon. On landing at the tiny airfield, we set foot in
a steamy jungle world, dominated by the shrilling of cicadas
and the thunder of the river waters. The heat was suffocating
and we had trouble moving in the heavy atmosphere. The chicle
workers, pale from the humidity and malaria, sensed that
we were men of arms. That same night, the Mexican employees
at the supply station told us about a bullet-ridden body
that the river had dragged across from the Guatemalan side…
