Fear still rules the hearts of many Guatemalans, despite visible signs the country is moving towards a democratic structure and the end of 35 years of civil war. The psychological effects of the "long night" are much harder to eliminate than the fighting itself. PNS Central America editor Mary Jo McConahay has lived and worked in Guatemala for over a decade.

ANTIGUA, GUATEMALA -- For the first time in decades, Guatemalans this Easter have reason to hope for an end to the "long night" of civil war. Peace talks between leftist guerrillas and the government have taken on new life since the election of President Alvaro Arzu, who took office in January. In March, guerrillas declared a cease-fire, to which the army agreed.

But the psychological effects of 35 years of state terror and leftist insurgency are a lot harder to eliminate than the fighting itself. Despite real gains in formalizing a democratic system, many Guatemalans will tell you that in their hearts they remain governed by fear. Until that fear is overcome, real democracy -- the kind that takes deep root, demands justice for all and can prevent the country from sliding back into war -- doesn't stand a chance.

Helen Mack, a shy-looking former business manager who at 40 has become something of a legend here for standing up to the old regime, says the fear creates a civic paralysis. In 1990 Mack's life was transformed when her sister, anthropologist Myrna Mack, was killed collecting refugee stories about the army's counterinsurgency in the highlands. Ever since, she has doggedly pushed the authorities to investigate the killers, and has formally accused high-ranking officers of giving the orders to assassinate her sister.

"We carry a culture of terror inside, which makes it hard to make decisions," Mack says. "We've become accusted to not thinking, and now it's a habit that's hard to break."

Monica, a 29-year-old mother of two, graduated from high school along with her 14 siblings -- an almost miraculous feat for a poor family in this country. Now almost every weekend, wealthy motocyclists from Guatemala City terrorize her neighborhood by roaring through the streets in flameproof outfits with helmits and face masks. "They put the fear of God into us," Monica complains. "It won't be long before a child is killed."

But Monica, whose father was shaken down twice by police, won't seek help. When asked whether she might organize her neighbors to petition local government to enforce speed laws she pales.

"Our minds are not strong enough to act freely," explains a recent university graduate, a Maya Indian. "We're told the violence is behind us, that one is not killed these days for taking a public stand, for being an activist. But our minds don't believe it."

The graduate, a Maya Indian, lives intimately with the memory of violence. When his father, a village religious leader, entered a house a few years ago to bury the body of a neighbor killed by the army, the booby-trapped corpse exploded and killed him, too. Now with a family of his own, he keeps the literacy classes he gives indigenous people in the highlands a secret, lest the work be seen as "political activity."

Recently, Nobel Peace Prize laureate Rigoberta Menchu became the formal accuser in a case charging the army with murdering 11 Indian peasants last October at a settlement for returned refugees called Xaman. Menchu's act gives the case a weight it might never have if the illiterate survivors tried to bring the case to court. Now it has now been assigned to civilian -- not military -- court, over military objections.

The case is being hailed as a sign of progress, along with a new penal code in which accused faces accuser in open court.

Meanwhile, the news media report on exhumations by the National Forensic Anthropology Team, young professionals disinterring mass graves, giving names to individual skeletons, documenting once-hidden massacres. Churches nationwide participate in the Roman Catholic bishops' project for the "Recuperation of Historical Memory," funded by European governments, an effort to build both a record and a reconciliation after the horrors of the last decades.

"We have a sad, recent history of silence, because we fear reprisals," intones a radio announcer. But his subject this Easter season is a hopeful one. In a close-packed neighborhood recently, residents rescued a nine-year-old girl after she fled from her stepfather's sexual abuse. They refused to give her up, called for police protection and telephoned the radio station to denounce the crime.

"Yes!" the announcer exults. "It is right to join together when we need to, to denounce what we must, and this way move forward as a neighborhood, as a country."