On El perro en la niebla, by Roger Lindo
Review by Andreas Portillo
Is it possible to say something new about the Salvadoran Civil War? Can the armed conflict be narrated beyond testimony, through fiction? Aside from cynicism and tragedy, is it possible to narrate that era from other sensibilities? Yes, yes, and yes.
Few have done so. Perhaps the wounds are still too fresh. Perhaps it is another symptom of how structurally feeble national literary production is. Those who played a leading role in the civil war have opted for other genres—such as testimony, memoirs, biography, and poetry—to speak about it. Subsequent generations of writers wanted to recount their own contemporaneity by distancing themselves from the subject.
Among the exceptions, those who wrote complex fiction reflecting the contradictions of the eighties while the war continued to unfold include novels such as El traidor de nunca jamás (The Never-Ever Traitor) by Rafael Menjívar Ochoa, La última guinda (The Last Cherry) by José Rutilio Quezada, and La diáspora (The Diaspora) by Horacio Castellanos Moya. Moving into the post-war period, certain ways of directly addressing the civil war can be found in the later work of Horacio Castellanos Moya, such as La sirvienta y el luchador (The Maid and the Wrestler), and likewise in authors from other generations, like Roza, tumba, quema (Slash and Burn) by Claudia Hernández.
A novel that goes beyond tragic dimensions and a cynical approach, narrating from a different sensibility and moving away from testimony, is El perro en la niebla (The Dog in the Fog) by Roger Lindo. Published in 2011, and read in 2026, this novel holds great relevance today because its protagonists face an increasingly suffocating and repressive authoritarian government. The novel, narrated in the first person, follows the urban activism and shift into underground resistance of José, a young middle-class man entering adulthood who works as a newspaper editor. In a sense—and much like Lindo’s subsequent novel, La isla de los monos (The Island of Monkeys)—it is a coming-of-age story combined with a political awakening, a coming-of-age with the distinction of being set in a city boiling with political violence and class struggle, before moving to one of the rural war fronts once they are formally established.
José, the protagonist, begins his narrative with clandestine meetings in a union hall, revolutionary slogans spray-painted on walls, the organization of a strike at a beverage factory that turns into an occupation, and hormones running high. Could there be anything more exciting?
Likewise, the unraveling of that world of clandestine militancy, the proletarianization of the main character, and the characterization of the city of San Salvador and its metropolitan area as places bursting with life are fascinating. Equally compelling is the character's revolutionary perspective: far from dogma and disillusionment, it offers something fresh, bringing us closer to how militants of that era thought and felt. At the same time, the necessity of taking up arms develops organically through the exploration of urban poverty, exploitation, homicidal repression, and the daily lives of the beverage factory workers whom José comes to know closely.
On the other hand, there is a conflict between the protagonist's everyday, family, and militant life: he must fulfill his responsibilities at the newspaper where he works after dropping out of university, attend secret meetings, go to target practice, and participate in massive marches that turn into armed clashes with the army. He also lives with his family, with whom he debates politics and from whom it becomes increasingly difficult to conceal his militant life. Eventually, José becomes the lover of Ana Gladys, one of the militant workers who appears in the early chapters. In short, across the lives of the protagonist and his peers, there is a discovery of life itself: love, cinema, marijuana, grief, and the thrill of tactical and strategic achievements within the exceptional circumstances of the revolutionary process. This situation forces the protagonists to make difficult choices that entail a radical life change.
It is worth highlighting that José's transformation is fascinating—not only because he delves deeper into that secret, underground world and participates in armed operations, but also because he meets characters who broaden his world (and ours). These include the student militants of Santa Ana who, despite the threat of military repression, organize a public march; organizers like La Negra; master conspirators like Chico; or volatile comrades like Patricio. A large part of the novel can be read as a masterfully crafted political thriller, tinged with the thrill of youth and the excitement of being part of a movement that could change the course of history.
Yet the shift to underground resistance and the priority placed on the revolutionary struggle do not mean that José's life becomes gray, militarized, and deathly serious. The protagonist and his comrades share dozens of moments of quiet solidarity and tenderness, such as a secret wedding on the beach and conversations where they share their life stories or confess their fears.
In a way, both the protagonist and the city lose their innocence at the same time. There comes a moment when state and parastatal repression reaches such brutal and murderous proportions that José is forced to leave the city. It is in these final five chapters that Lindo addresses the harsh reality of war in the countryside. It is there that José experiences true nostalgia and loneliness for the first time. And yet, life remains worth living:
“Sometimes, before going to sleep, I would turn on my flashlight, gaze at its incandescent filament, and recall the streets of my childhood bathed in municipal light. One night, pursued by a force larger and better armed than ours, we climbed a towering peak whose name I cannot remember. Upon reaching the summit, a vast, distant glow hit me head-on and nearly knocked me over: it was the city, my city, in the far distance—beloved and cruel” (pp. 177–178).
Of course, the novel is not perfect. There is a certain condescension from the protagonist (and perhaps from the author as well) toward the working class, particularly toward Ana Gladys. There is a certain predominance of masculinity, bravery, and daring as the core values of a revolutionary. And despite not being a testimony, one perspective predominates: that of the urban middle class. This is a flaw if one believes a civil war novel must express the diverse experiences and paths of those who lived it, but it can also be seen as a virtue. The strength and freshness of the book lie precisely in the honesty and thoroughness of such a unique viewpoint.
I firmly believe that this novel and the others mentioned in this review are the foundational bricks of fictional narrative dealing directly with the civil war—a building that will be constructed both by those who lived through the war and by generations of writers born afterward, who possess a certain emotional distance from the events. Perhaps even by some who have not yet been born. Setting aside the vast differences in market and publishing scale, I am reminded of the example of Almudena Grandes, Javier Cercas, and many others who wrote deep and innovative novels about the Spanish Civil War decades after it took place. The Salvadoran Civil War is and will remain an important subject for fiction because it continues to be the most significant historical process in our country's recent history. This fact remains undeniable—even as the public discourse of today's fascists attempts to distort its causes and effects—as demonstrated by the support for exoticizing and superficial mega-productions like Luciérnagas en el Mozote (Fireflies in El Mozote, 2025). History is never safe; it is a perpetual battlefield, and narrative fiction is another one of its fronts.
El perro en la niebla, Roger Lindo, DPI, 230 pages.
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