[1961 – 1966] Aftermath of Dictatorship: Transition, Civil War, and Intervention

The period 1961 to 1966. The air itself in Santo Domingo seemed to crackle with a strange new energy on May 31st, 1961. For thirty-one suffocating years, Generalissimo Rafael Trujillo, "El Jefe," had been the Dominican Republic. His portrait was ubiquitous, his name invoked in blessings and curses. Now, he was dead, ambushed on a lonely highway. Imagine the hushed whispers, the sudden, fearful glances exchanged in the *bodegas*, the small neighborhood stores, the cautious hope blooming in homes where generations had known only his iron grip. The silence left by his absence was deafening, pregnant with both promise and peril. But freedom, when it finally peeks through, is often a bewildering, unsteady dawn. The immediate aftermath was not a clean break. Joaquín Balaguer, a scholarly, almost priestly figure who had served as Trujillo’s puppet president, remained. The Trujillo family, particularly the notorious son Ramfis, a man known for his brutality and extravagance, clung desperately to the reins of power. Their vast wealth—estimated to be hundreds of millions of dollars, controlling nearly 60% of the nation's industry, including the crucial sugar mills, and vast swathes of fertile land—was their only remaining leverage. Yet, the tide, nudged by strong international pressure, particularly from a United States wary of another Cuba emerging in its backyard, was turning. By late 1961, the last of the Trujillos were forced into exile, their immense properties, from grand haciendas to sprawling factories, confiscated by the state. A collective sigh of relief, perhaps, but also a gaping void where absolute power once resided. What follows is a dizzying kaleidoscope of hope, idealism, betrayal, and bloodshed. A Council of State, a transitional government comprised of seven men, paved the way for the first truly free elections in nearly four decades, held in December 1962. And the people, many tasting political participation for the first time, spoke with a resounding voice. They chose Juan Bosch, a poet, writer, and long-time exile, leader of the Dominican Revolutionary Party (PRD). Bosch was an idealist, a man who spoke of social justice and constitutional democracy with a fervent, almost literary passion that resonated deeply with a populace starved for both. He took office in February 1963, and for a breathtaking seven months, it seemed a new Dominican Republic was possible. The scent of change was as palpable as the humid Caribbean air. Bosch’s government drafted one of the most progressive constitutions the Caribbean had ever seen. It called for land reform – a radical idea in a country where a tiny elite, often Trujillo cronies, owned most of the arable land, leaving peasants toiling on tiny, unproductive plots (*conucos*) or as landless laborers. It guaranteed civil liberties unheard of under Trujillo, secularized public life (ending the Concordat that gave the Catholic Church special privileges), and sought to limit the power of foreign corporations. Men in their simple cotton *camisas* or guayaberas, and women in their light, patterned dresses, who had previously known only obedience, began to speak of rights, of a future for their children. Radios, once crackling with Trujillo’s omnipresent propaganda and merengue tunes dedicated to "El Benefactor," now broadcast lively political debates and pronouncements of a new era. But Bosch’s vision, so inspiring to many, terrified the old guard. The traditional landed oligarchy, the staunchly conservative Catholic Church hierarchy (which saw his secularism as a direct affront), and, crucially, the Trujillo-era military brass, many of whom had blood on their hands, saw their privileges and power eroding. They whispered of communism, a potent fear in the Cold War Caribbean, painting Bosch's nationalism and reformism with a red brush. The United States, already deeply scarred by Castro's Cuba, watched with increasing suspicion, its embassy a hive of anxious observation. Seven months. That’s all the experiment was allowed. In September 1963, the ominous rumble of tanks was heard once more in the streets of Santo Domingo. Bosch was overthrown in a swift military coup, accused of being soft on communism, and bundled onto a plane, sent back into the bitter familiarity of exile. The dream was shattered, replaced by a civilian Triumvirate, headed by businessman Donald Reid Cabral, but visibly propped up and controlled by the very military forces Bosch had sought to reform. The Triumvirate’s rule was one of increasing austerity and repression. Discontent simmered beneath a veneer of forced order. The vibrant colors of hope that had briefly painted the capital faded to the grim grey of disillusionment. Prices for basic goods like rice and beans rose, while wages stagnated. The *colmados*, the small neighborhood grocery stores that are the lifeblood of Dominican communities, saw credit dry up. People remembered the brief, intoxicating taste of freedom under Bosch, and the yearning for his return grew from a murmur to a clamor. Secret meetings were held, often in the cramped, zinc-roofed living rooms of Santo Domingo’s burgeoning working-class neighborhoods or under the shade of mango trees in the countryside. Then came April 24th, 1965. It began as a popular revolt, an attempt by younger, reformist military officers and fervent PRD supporters to restore Bosch and the 1963 constitution. They became known as the "Constitutionalists," their ranks swelling with students, workers, and ordinary citizens. Their de facto leader emerged: the brave and charismatic Colonel Francisco Alberto Caamaño Deñó. The ancient streets of Santo Domingo, particularly within the stone walls of the Zona Colonial, a UNESCO World Heritage site even then, suddenly became battlegrounds. Barricades of overturned cars, ripped-up paving stones, and scavenged furniture appeared. The air filled with the staccato of gunfire, the thud of mortars, the desperate cries of the wounded, and the rumble of ancient tanks – this time, Dominican against Dominican. On one side, Caamaño's forces, a motley but determined crew, their hearts filled with revolutionary fervor, armed with whatever they could find, from ancient rifles to Molotov cocktails. On the other, the "Loyalists," hardline military factions, notably under the command of the imposing Air Force General Elías Wessin y Wessin, based at the San Isidro airbase, determined to crush the rebellion. The city split in two, with intense fighting raging around the Duarte Bridge. For days, the fighting was fierce, brutal. Food and water became scarce. The scent of cordite and burning tires mixed with the oppressive tropical heat. Radio stations became weapons, broadcasting propaganda and calls to arms. Just four days into this bloody civil war, on April 28th, the international dimension exploded onto the scene. Citing the need to protect American lives and, more controversially and urgently, to prevent a supposed communist takeover (a "second Cuba"), U.S. President Lyndon B. Johnson ordered in the Marines. "Operation Power Pack" began with a few hundred troops but rapidly swelled to over 22,000 American soldiers, later forming the bulk of an "Inter-American Peace Force" under the Organization of American States (OAS). The American presence, with its formidable firepower and sheer numbers, effectively froze the battle lines, preventing what many believed was an imminent Constitutionalist victory. The intervention was, and remains, a deeply contentious moment, viewed by many Dominicans and Latin Americans as a profound violation of national sovereignty, a heavy-handed move that choked a popular democratic movement. The official death toll for the civil war and subsequent intervention period is estimated at around 3,000 to 5,000, the vast majority Dominicans, many of them civilians caught in the crossfire. The fighting eventually subsided into an uneasy, bitter stalemate. Months of tense, complex negotiations followed, brokered by the OAS, with envoys shuttling between factions. A provisional government was painstakingly installed under Héctor García-Godoy, a respected diplomat, tasked with the monumental challenge of disarming the warring factions and organizing new elections. Those elections, held in June 1966, pitted Juan Bosch once more against Joaquín Balaguer. But the context was vastly different. The country was traumatized, exhausted, and still under the shadow of foreign troops. Balaguer, now expertly repackaged as a statesman representing a coalition of conservative forces, stability, and tacitly supported by Washington, ran a carefully managed campaign promising peace and order. Bosch, still branded a dangerous radical by his opponents and limited in his ability to campaign freely due to security concerns, found his message of reform struggling to penetrate the atmosphere of fear. Balaguer won. Many believe the election was held in an environment still thick with intimidation, with the U.S. presence subtly influencing the outcome. By September 1966, the last of the American troops departed. The Dominican Republic had journeyed from the death of a dictator, through a fleeting, vibrant democratic spring, a brutal civil war that tore its capital apart, and a massive foreign military intervention, only to arrive at a new, uncertain chapter under an old, familiar face. The vibrant dreams of 1963 were muted, buried under layers of political maneuvering and the harsh realities of power. But the memory of what had been, and what could have been, would linger for decades, a ghost in the machine of Dominican politics, a crucible of fire from which the modern Dominican identity would continue to be forged.