In 1989, Karen Ridd and four other international volunteers were working with a group called Peace Brigades International (PBI) when they were suddenly arrested by the Salvadoran military. Three of the five were Spanish nationals and they were promptly deported from El Salvador. This left Karen, who was Canadian, and her friend Marcela Rodriguez, who was from Colombia, waiting for what was to come. Fortunately, Karen had time to call the Canadian consul and alert another PBI volunteer who happened to call at the right time. This was a comfort, as was the politeness – at first – of the soldiers.

But none of the team had faced arrest before (so far, not a single international volunteer had been killed in Central America, despite the enormous violence around them). From another room, Marcela heard the soldiers describing them as “terrorists of the Episcopal Church.” The mood of the two women did not improve when they, along with other prisoners, were blindfolded and loaded onto a truck to an army barrack. They were subjected to five hours of interrogation over their alleged links to the guerrilla Frente Farabundo Martipara la Liberacion Nacional (FMLN). Sounds of torture and victims’ sobbing came from nearby rooms. Karen knew that PBI would quickly alert their global network of the arrests, but she also knew that time was short – there was no telling what would happen in those barracks if someone didn’t get them out before nightfall.

PBI had indeed activated its global network, and soon hundreds of people were sending faxes to the Canadian and Colombian embassies, calling and sending e-mails to their representatives urging the immediate release of Karen and Marcela. None of this produced any response from the Colombian embassy, but Canada put official pressure on the Salvadoran government, no doubt hinting that their extensive trade ties with El Salvador could be threatened if Karen was not released immediately.

Whatever it was that got through to whoever was in charge, Karen walked towards freedom across the barrack grounds to a waiting ambassador a few hours later. But when the soldiers blindfolded her in the barracks, she had glimpsed Marcela, facing the wall, “a perfect example of dehumanization.” As happy as Karen was to be alive, something was pulling at her. She felt terrible and made a few apologies to the annoyed Canadian ambassador who had come all the way from San Salvador to get her. Then she turned around . . . and walked back into the barracks, not knowing what would happen to her there, but knowing that it couldn’t be worse than leaving a friend behind.

The soldiers were shocked, and almost as annoyed. They handcuffed her again. In the next room, a soldier slammed Marcela’s head against the wall, saying that a “white bitch” was stupid enough to walk in there again, and “Now you’ll see what kind of treatment a terrorist deserves!” No more mister nice guy. But Karen’s gesture had a strange effect on the men. They talked to Karen despite themselves. She tried to explain why she had come back: “You know what it’s like to be separated from a compañero” (Spanish for comrade). That touched them. They released Karen and Marcela and the two women walked out together under the stars, hand in hand.

From The Search for a Nonviolent Future by Michael Nagler (2001), Berkeley Hill Books.