The Beach
El grupo de jovenes: Youth group for peace and solidarity at Calle Real
March/Vigil for Monsenor Romero
Team Real Street!
The street outside of my house
31 March 2009
pictures!
The Beach
El grupo de jovenes: Youth group for peace and solidarity at Calle Real
March/Vigil for Monsenor Romero
Team Real Street!
The street outside of my house
crucified
so this is my second post today, bu tnot really cause the other one i really wrote about 4 days ago but couldn't post it until today. so hold on and get ready for the real one :)
so maybe because it's lent, rather especially because it's lent, I've been thinking of Christ: life, death, resurrection. i had my interview for exec with iv last wednesday and one of the questions was to talk about Christ (the uniqueness of Christ, but I started just by talking about him)... and for the first time this knowledge of God's gift: his love his word his son incarnate and with us, it is more than something i just know in my head. i am inspired by christ's life of radical love: love that went against norms traditions rules. love of the unlovable. love that because of evil in the world was killed, murdered. we never say that. that Christ was murdered, it's a bloody violent word that implicates us more than "killed." But he was murdered. and that great love of Christ broke the boundaries even of death.
i applied to be a retreat leader for the agape retreat and one of the questions was about something that has struck, something that is going on in my faith right now. i reflected on this exact thing: christ's life murder resurrection. i just wanted to share it with you all :)
Currently I am studying abroad in El Salvador at La Casa de la Solidaridad. The heart of this program is accompanying salvadorans, those who do not belong to the rich “14 families” upper class. Being here, walking with these people who do not have in a country where those who do not have are the majority, in a country whose people are still feeling the aftermath of a vicious 12 year civil war, my faith has been challenged, stretched, grown. Through these people, these communities I have been welcomed into with open arms, I know and I feel and I understand the death and resurrection of Christ in a new way, a more real and tangible way.
Life. Death. Resurrection. When I first got here, it was the death and resurrection that were the easiest to see. The hope of the martyrs, Romero alive in the people, the faith and the hope that shines from these people who have suffered (who have died in so many ways). But I think too how important Christ’s life before his death was. His call to love, his “Let the children come to me,” his affirming the dignity of the poor lepers woman – the outcasts. In constant contact with the death and resurrection of Christ in the people here, I am constantly called back to the life of Christ.
Twice a week I go to Calle Real, a community of 43 families all of whom relocated to Calle Real during the Civil War. I teach English, I play and I laugh and I joke with the kids. And I be. My presence there is much more about being present there, about coming back week after week, about listening than about anything that I do, that I bring such as the English class. I have seen and lived the life, death and resurrection of Christ with these people. Some stories: One of the kids in my afternoon class is named William. William is 6 years old with a smile as big the sun, and as toothy as anything: his little baby teeth are tiny, so tiny that there are gaps of gum between them. And his eyes sparkle. William is a ball of energy. The 10 or so kids in my class will be sitting, drawing or reading and William will jump up, do several wind-sprints back and forth across the room and then sit down next to me again. A few weeks ago we talked about the treasures in our lives; William said our English class was one of his treasures. We connected right away, this little six year old and I. And so last week I was very excited when we were going to go to his house for lunch. We got there while William and his sister Marina were still at school, and the woman who had cooked lunch introduced herself as Trieza and apologized for the smallness of her house and of her table. She was nervous as we set the chairs around the table and put the plates and food out. One of my class mates also at Calle Real with me asked if she was William’s mother? Aunt? No. No. And tears: Trieza started to cry. From the other end of the table I got up and held her and she told us how William’s dad was in the US, how his mom went to the market one day and never came back. “I am his mother now,” she said several times.
Maybe this story is very obviously connected to Christ, to his life death and resurrection. Maybe it is a stretch. For me the connection is so real and so elusive that it is hard to put into words why, upon writing about Christ, this story of William and his mother instantly came to mind. Maybe it is because, as Christ did in his life, Trieza has reached out to William and loved him, who would have been an outcast and an orphan, so big. Maybe it is the suffering and grief she feels for the loss of William’s mom, a loss I imagine she feels for herself and for William, and in this suffering and grief I can see and feel how Mary and the disciples must have felt at the death (the disappearance) of Christ. Maybe it is in the faith and the love Trieza shows in adopting William as her own, the faith and trust she shows in sharing her grief and life with me, maybe it is the fact that she still smiles, that she had us over for lunch, she who is already giving so much, giving more or maybe all of these things that fit themselves together like puzzle pieces to show me Christ’s resurrection. Maybe, too, it is the hugs and the smiles and the trust and the friendship I have with William, and the hugs smiles and trust shared between his mother and me that have been an invitation to me, that I, too, am a part of this story of life death and resurrection.
I am a part of this story and so contemplating now Christ’s crucifixion makes me cry. I feel it in my heart, just the horror of it. And I see Christ’s face, the pain, and I see William; I think of the martyrs here; I think of El Mozote, the site of the largest massacre during the war; I see myself; all of us on the cross. At the same time, I know that the US, my country, was financing the government, the murders of Romero, the martyrs, the people of El Mozote, the oppressors of William’s family. And I am guilty. I am on the cross and I am crucifying Christ and William and Romero and myself at the same time. Somehow, through the grace of God, the love of Christ, the faith of his people here in El Salvador, I am welcomed with open hearts. I am forgiven before I knew to ask pardon and loved before “I am sorry” has ever left my lips. In coming here, and walking with the “outcasts” of Calle Real, as Christ did in his life, I am being resurrected when I didn’t even know I was dead.
This story is what I would share in AGAPE…and I don’t know the end yet as it is still being written. The story of Christ of his life and death and resurrection and that his story continues: that it is being lived here in El Salvador, that being here, I have been picked up and rung as a bell with the realization that I too am part of this. That it is real. This realization of how real it is scary and life-giving. And it comes with a challenge: if I am a part of this story, if I know the outcasts whom Christ loves, if I am one of them, if my faith is that real, how must I live? Everything is the same but everything is different. I am learning to be me, the me God created me to be, the one who is devastated by Christ’s death, his death on the cross and his death today in the little ones. I am being resurrected and now all are questions. All are questions, questions I would rather have than any answer, because as I question and as we live I can see the live flame of Christ and of faith that I want so bad to be ignited in me. Christ is dead. Christ is risen. Christ is come again.
so maybe because it's lent, rather especially because it's lent, I've been thinking of Christ: life, death, resurrection. i had my interview for exec with iv last wednesday and one of the questions was to talk about Christ (the uniqueness of Christ, but I started just by talking about him)... and for the first time this knowledge of God's gift: his love his word his son incarnate and with us, it is more than something i just know in my head. i am inspired by christ's life of radical love: love that went against norms traditions rules. love of the unlovable. love that because of evil in the world was killed, murdered. we never say that. that Christ was murdered, it's a bloody violent word that implicates us more than "killed." But he was murdered. and that great love of Christ broke the boundaries even of death.
i applied to be a retreat leader for the agape retreat and one of the questions was about something that has struck, something that is going on in my faith right now. i reflected on this exact thing: christ's life murder resurrection. i just wanted to share it with you all :)
Currently I am studying abroad in El Salvador at La Casa de la Solidaridad. The heart of this program is accompanying salvadorans, those who do not belong to the rich “14 families” upper class. Being here, walking with these people who do not have in a country where those who do not have are the majority, in a country whose people are still feeling the aftermath of a vicious 12 year civil war, my faith has been challenged, stretched, grown. Through these people, these communities I have been welcomed into with open arms, I know and I feel and I understand the death and resurrection of Christ in a new way, a more real and tangible way.
Life. Death. Resurrection. When I first got here, it was the death and resurrection that were the easiest to see. The hope of the martyrs, Romero alive in the people, the faith and the hope that shines from these people who have suffered (who have died in so many ways). But I think too how important Christ’s life before his death was. His call to love, his “Let the children come to me,” his affirming the dignity of the poor lepers woman – the outcasts. In constant contact with the death and resurrection of Christ in the people here, I am constantly called back to the life of Christ.
Twice a week I go to Calle Real, a community of 43 families all of whom relocated to Calle Real during the Civil War. I teach English, I play and I laugh and I joke with the kids. And I be. My presence there is much more about being present there, about coming back week after week, about listening than about anything that I do, that I bring such as the English class. I have seen and lived the life, death and resurrection of Christ with these people. Some stories: One of the kids in my afternoon class is named William. William is 6 years old with a smile as big the sun, and as toothy as anything: his little baby teeth are tiny, so tiny that there are gaps of gum between them. And his eyes sparkle. William is a ball of energy. The 10 or so kids in my class will be sitting, drawing or reading and William will jump up, do several wind-sprints back and forth across the room and then sit down next to me again. A few weeks ago we talked about the treasures in our lives; William said our English class was one of his treasures. We connected right away, this little six year old and I. And so last week I was very excited when we were going to go to his house for lunch. We got there while William and his sister Marina were still at school, and the woman who had cooked lunch introduced herself as Trieza and apologized for the smallness of her house and of her table. She was nervous as we set the chairs around the table and put the plates and food out. One of my class mates also at Calle Real with me asked if she was William’s mother? Aunt? No. No. And tears: Trieza started to cry. From the other end of the table I got up and held her and she told us how William’s dad was in the US, how his mom went to the market one day and never came back. “I am his mother now,” she said several times.
Maybe this story is very obviously connected to Christ, to his life death and resurrection. Maybe it is a stretch. For me the connection is so real and so elusive that it is hard to put into words why, upon writing about Christ, this story of William and his mother instantly came to mind. Maybe it is because, as Christ did in his life, Trieza has reached out to William and loved him, who would have been an outcast and an orphan, so big. Maybe it is the suffering and grief she feels for the loss of William’s mom, a loss I imagine she feels for herself and for William, and in this suffering and grief I can see and feel how Mary and the disciples must have felt at the death (the disappearance) of Christ. Maybe it is in the faith and the love Trieza shows in adopting William as her own, the faith and trust she shows in sharing her grief and life with me, maybe it is the fact that she still smiles, that she had us over for lunch, she who is already giving so much, giving more or maybe all of these things that fit themselves together like puzzle pieces to show me Christ’s resurrection. Maybe, too, it is the hugs and the smiles and the trust and the friendship I have with William, and the hugs smiles and trust shared between his mother and me that have been an invitation to me, that I, too, am a part of this story of life death and resurrection.
I am a part of this story and so contemplating now Christ’s crucifixion makes me cry. I feel it in my heart, just the horror of it. And I see Christ’s face, the pain, and I see William; I think of the martyrs here; I think of El Mozote, the site of the largest massacre during the war; I see myself; all of us on the cross. At the same time, I know that the US, my country, was financing the government, the murders of Romero, the martyrs, the people of El Mozote, the oppressors of William’s family. And I am guilty. I am on the cross and I am crucifying Christ and William and Romero and myself at the same time. Somehow, through the grace of God, the love of Christ, the faith of his people here in El Salvador, I am welcomed with open hearts. I am forgiven before I knew to ask pardon and loved before “I am sorry” has ever left my lips. In coming here, and walking with the “outcasts” of Calle Real, as Christ did in his life, I am being resurrected when I didn’t even know I was dead.
This story is what I would share in AGAPE…and I don’t know the end yet as it is still being written. The story of Christ of his life and death and resurrection and that his story continues: that it is being lived here in El Salvador, that being here, I have been picked up and rung as a bell with the realization that I too am part of this. That it is real. This realization of how real it is scary and life-giving. And it comes with a challenge: if I am a part of this story, if I know the outcasts whom Christ loves, if I am one of them, if my faith is that real, how must I live? Everything is the same but everything is different. I am learning to be me, the me God created me to be, the one who is devastated by Christ’s death, his death on the cross and his death today in the little ones. I am being resurrected and now all are questions. All are questions, questions I would rather have than any answer, because as I question and as we live I can see the live flame of Christ and of faith that I want so bad to be ignited in me. Christ is dead. Christ is risen. Christ is come again.
25 March 2009
Love and Memories
My mom and sister are here, visiting me. Take about reframing, recapturing perspective! All of a sudden I am talking, striking up conversations, making friends with people I haven't met before and I am understanding more than I ever thought I would...and I am being understood. I can speak Spanish! Who'd've guessed!
Especially with my family here (I said my family is here meeting my other family when we were in Calle Real) I am realizing and seeing just how at home I am here. How much I love the people here, how much i am loved.
I am just going to put here an excerpt from one of my reflections for my praxis class...memories :)
Roxana was angry at me this morning. The star chart must have been blown off the wall and so we had to create a new one, and I had to ask who had how many stars. Blanca and Karina both had 8 and I knew that, but for the others…When Roxana saw others had 8 and she had 5 redrawn, she refused to participate because I didn’t give her any stars. In her eyes, being treated unfairly by someone she trusted. What to do with that?
Blanca, who is about ten, is another of the girls in my morning class. The first word that comes to mind with her is lista: smart, clever, dying to learn, always ready to show what she knows, to dive headlong into the day’s lesson or activity. Log straight black hair, a small mouth, and very big eyes. Often she stays after to help me clean up. Often she is the only who has done her homework. But there is much more to her, this ten year old, than a thirst to learn, she has an energy, a desire to be recognized, a sweetness, and a little bit of a bratty know-it-all-ness which is all the more endearing. She has taken to repeating my instructions to the class in a way that is somewhat mocking and somewhat bossy.
All of them, Roxana, Bea, Blanca, Karina were making fun of Vanesa this morning, another ten year old, as she was an ARENA supporter while the other four are Mauricio aficionados. Normally quiet, normally very unsure of herself (constantly telling me “no puedo”…”no puedo escribirla” or “No puedo jugar esto”), today she retreated even more inside of herself. As class went on, I could see her shutting down more and more and more, withdrawing. At the end of class, we all talked about the need to respect each other, especially those who support a different political party. This was not received well. We talked a little more, class ended. Before Vanesa left, I asked her if I could visit her house later. She brightened up instantly, began to smile, and just relaxed.
Jorge is the youngest in my afternoon class. Usually he is kind of with us, kind of doing is own thing (whether it be coloring or running around or just day dreaming). Whenever I call him back to us, he looks at me, gives me this angelic, toothy smile, participates for five minutes and then is gone again. Today, he came up behind me, monkey-grabbed on to my legs with his arms and legs and then started giggling when I started to walk with him. I stopped and he peered around my legs, smiling, still laughing. Marina is also in my afternoon class and she, there is no other way to put it, is simply impish, sprite-like, always wanting to play, always pushing the line, but with a smile much like Jorge’s.
Especially with my family here (I said my family is here meeting my other family when we were in Calle Real) I am realizing and seeing just how at home I am here. How much I love the people here, how much i am loved.
I am just going to put here an excerpt from one of my reflections for my praxis class...memories :)
Roxana was angry at me this morning. The star chart must have been blown off the wall and so we had to create a new one, and I had to ask who had how many stars. Blanca and Karina both had 8 and I knew that, but for the others…When Roxana saw others had 8 and she had 5 redrawn, she refused to participate because I didn’t give her any stars. In her eyes, being treated unfairly by someone she trusted. What to do with that?
Blanca, who is about ten, is another of the girls in my morning class. The first word that comes to mind with her is lista: smart, clever, dying to learn, always ready to show what she knows, to dive headlong into the day’s lesson or activity. Log straight black hair, a small mouth, and very big eyes. Often she stays after to help me clean up. Often she is the only who has done her homework. But there is much more to her, this ten year old, than a thirst to learn, she has an energy, a desire to be recognized, a sweetness, and a little bit of a bratty know-it-all-ness which is all the more endearing. She has taken to repeating my instructions to the class in a way that is somewhat mocking and somewhat bossy.
All of them, Roxana, Bea, Blanca, Karina were making fun of Vanesa this morning, another ten year old, as she was an ARENA supporter while the other four are Mauricio aficionados. Normally quiet, normally very unsure of herself (constantly telling me “no puedo”…”no puedo escribirla” or “No puedo jugar esto”), today she retreated even more inside of herself. As class went on, I could see her shutting down more and more and more, withdrawing. At the end of class, we all talked about the need to respect each other, especially those who support a different political party. This was not received well. We talked a little more, class ended. Before Vanesa left, I asked her if I could visit her house later. She brightened up instantly, began to smile, and just relaxed.
Jorge is the youngest in my afternoon class. Usually he is kind of with us, kind of doing is own thing (whether it be coloring or running around or just day dreaming). Whenever I call him back to us, he looks at me, gives me this angelic, toothy smile, participates for five minutes and then is gone again. Today, he came up behind me, monkey-grabbed on to my legs with his arms and legs and then started giggling when I started to walk with him. I stopped and he peered around my legs, smiling, still laughing. Marina is also in my afternoon class and she, there is no other way to put it, is simply impish, sprite-like, always wanting to play, always pushing the line, but with a smile much like Jorge’s.
19 March 2009
My country? whose country.
"i´m glad to be an american where at least i know i´m free..."
in elementary school i was in choir. we met before school and practiced and learned all kinds of songs. one of them was a medley of militay songs, including this line here. that was sixth grade. that summer, my family and i went to germany, and we were walking in berlin and i started singing...singing just to be singing and i was sang that medley. after about 5 minutes my dad told it was probably better if i picked a different song. i was so embarassed.
i am so embarrassed.
in 1932 there was a rebellion here. Farabuni Marti, a self proclaimed communist, led the campesinos in an uprising in Izalco, in the department Santa Ana. The government killed them all in what is now called La Matanza, The Massacre. The political structures and social conditions present and the basis for for that uprising stayed the same...and maybe even got worse. Now, .7% of the population own 40% of the land, including the 16% of the land that is the most arable. It is these same people who have most of the wealth and the opportunity for education. And this is today after some small steps in agrarian reform.
how did this happen? well in the mid 1900s the main cash crop of el salvador was indigo, and the marked was good until all of a sudden it wasn´t when it was discovered how to make indido colored dye chemically. so the landowners (usually referred to as the 14 families...which is to imply that one family for each department has all the resources) started growing coffee. Now coffee fincas need to be located on mountain- or volcano-sides, so they relocated all of the natives and campesinos to the flat land nd hired them 3 months out of the year to help harvest the coffee. then about a decade or so later cotton and sugar were introduced as other cash crops, these which can only be grown in the flat land. so again, they took the land from the natives and campesinos.
for history, i´m reading a book by don lito, who lived in one of these communities. he says before the 70s whole towns would be desserted s people (families) left there homes in search of a finca to work on, often coming back leaner and worse looking than before, but going every year because otherwise they really would have nothing, no food. nothing. the money they made had to last them the rest of the year. currently the pay is a few dollars for 10 pounds of coffee beans. he said they lived like dogs, poor dogs.
in the 70s, there was a consciencization, largely through the church, which began to teach people how to think how to organize starting in the church but it was very applicable to the politicl situation. Jesus came for the poor. the poor are ready.
People began to die. slowly, and with no visible pattern nor connection to political idealogy. but soon it increased and the pattern became more evident
Romero became rchbishop, Father Rutilio Grande was murdered. people were scared. if they killed a priest, would the kill me too? the guerrrillas began to organize. Romero began to speak
speak speak out, a voice for the voice, harshly criticizing the governments death squad, but also any killings that happened on the left.
communists the called the guerrillas. communists. the red scare, the cold war. it was here.
and the US was scared...the soviets, in OUR backyard? NEVER.
and people are dying
and the US is throwing money at the government, which is really the gang of the wealthy and the military. get rid of the reds. we don´t want another nicaragua. anything but that. anything.
and the guerrillas received weapons from cuba.
for a year: 1980.
but with that every one´s fears were confirmed
never mind that they asked the international community for support.
never mind that they were ignored by everyone but the eastern block.
they were communist. isn´t the communist party one of the groups in the left FMLN
(nevr mind they were the smallest, the last to condone violence...)
it´s a plot. the ussr is coming.
it´s coming.
and so the death squads were killing...the army was killing...army units trained by the us. with guns given by the us. in helicoptors provided by the us.
and the guerrillas? with no outside support after 1980, captured us weapons for dead soldiers, were sold us weapons by corrupt soldiers, kidnapped the wealthy for ransom.
and monsenor romero was shot saying mass. and the people cried. and 4 us church women were tortured raped murdred buried.
and the US? said shape up on human rights el salvador...while continuing to give 2 million dollrs a day.
we will give you 2 million dollars a day to kill priests, church women, and campesinos in the name of eliminating (purging!) your country of the communists.
the communists who in one profile were women wearing jeans and sneakers...a next a pile of bodies with breasts, jeans and sneakers was found.
2 million dollars a day... plus our best military advisors, just over the border in cuba as it was illegal to have more than 50 at a time in elsalvador.
2 million dollars a day for el mozote. a hamlet in morazan, a department on the border of honduras. go to el mozote all the peasants in the region were told. there you will be safe. and the believed them and flocked to el mozote. and the army was in morazon, hamlet by hamlet, killing by lists until they ran out of lists and just started killing. everyone in el mozote. men women children. over 1000. throwing kids in the air and having them land on knives to meet there death. mothers locked in abother building on the other side of the hamlet hearing the screams of their children.
2 million dollars a day...at all costs (but shape up on your human rights el slavador!) ... anything to defeat the reds.
12 years. the civil war last 12 years from 1980 - 1992. it would have ended much earlier, been less harsh, certainly suffered less deaths but for us. but for US.
and the cold war ended. and ARENA was founded...around DAbuison...the man in charge of the death squads. and the won the election in 79 (one of those o so free elections we could point to and say see...there are elections and so there´s democracy. see the progress in el salvador!)
and people died.
and in 1992 the peace accords were signed because we were tired of 2 million dollars a day and pretended we were never that scared all along and so the war could end.
and ARENA hs won every election since then, up until 2005 when a representative from colorado said all salvadorans in the us would be deported if ARENA did not win. and a half a million people did vote in 2005 that did vote in 2009, when threats such as that were not allowed to stand.
and still there is hope in El Salvador. Great pain and great hope and open arms.
and open arms and open heart to me, the guilty, the ashamed. but i am loved and so i have hope.
and the FMLN, Funes, is president. ¡Viva!
here, in this country, there is pain and hope...forever hope and faith.
but my country?
in elementary school i was in choir. we met before school and practiced and learned all kinds of songs. one of them was a medley of militay songs, including this line here. that was sixth grade. that summer, my family and i went to germany, and we were walking in berlin and i started singing...singing just to be singing and i was sang that medley. after about 5 minutes my dad told it was probably better if i picked a different song. i was so embarassed.
i am so embarrassed.
in 1932 there was a rebellion here. Farabuni Marti, a self proclaimed communist, led the campesinos in an uprising in Izalco, in the department Santa Ana. The government killed them all in what is now called La Matanza, The Massacre. The political structures and social conditions present and the basis for for that uprising stayed the same...and maybe even got worse. Now, .7% of the population own 40% of the land, including the 16% of the land that is the most arable. It is these same people who have most of the wealth and the opportunity for education. And this is today after some small steps in agrarian reform.
how did this happen? well in the mid 1900s the main cash crop of el salvador was indigo, and the marked was good until all of a sudden it wasn´t when it was discovered how to make indido colored dye chemically. so the landowners (usually referred to as the 14 families...which is to imply that one family for each department has all the resources) started growing coffee. Now coffee fincas need to be located on mountain- or volcano-sides, so they relocated all of the natives and campesinos to the flat land nd hired them 3 months out of the year to help harvest the coffee. then about a decade or so later cotton and sugar were introduced as other cash crops, these which can only be grown in the flat land. so again, they took the land from the natives and campesinos.
for history, i´m reading a book by don lito, who lived in one of these communities. he says before the 70s whole towns would be desserted s people (families) left there homes in search of a finca to work on, often coming back leaner and worse looking than before, but going every year because otherwise they really would have nothing, no food. nothing. the money they made had to last them the rest of the year. currently the pay is a few dollars for 10 pounds of coffee beans. he said they lived like dogs, poor dogs.
in the 70s, there was a consciencization, largely through the church, which began to teach people how to think how to organize starting in the church but it was very applicable to the politicl situation. Jesus came for the poor. the poor are ready.
People began to die. slowly, and with no visible pattern nor connection to political idealogy. but soon it increased and the pattern became more evident
Romero became rchbishop, Father Rutilio Grande was murdered. people were scared. if they killed a priest, would the kill me too? the guerrrillas began to organize. Romero began to speak
speak speak out, a voice for the voice, harshly criticizing the governments death squad, but also any killings that happened on the left.
communists the called the guerrillas. communists. the red scare, the cold war. it was here.
and the US was scared...the soviets, in OUR backyard? NEVER.
and people are dying
and the US is throwing money at the government, which is really the gang of the wealthy and the military. get rid of the reds. we don´t want another nicaragua. anything but that. anything.
and the guerrillas received weapons from cuba.
for a year: 1980.
but with that every one´s fears were confirmed
never mind that they asked the international community for support.
never mind that they were ignored by everyone but the eastern block.
they were communist. isn´t the communist party one of the groups in the left FMLN
(nevr mind they were the smallest, the last to condone violence...)
it´s a plot. the ussr is coming.
it´s coming.
and so the death squads were killing...the army was killing...army units trained by the us. with guns given by the us. in helicoptors provided by the us.
and the guerrillas? with no outside support after 1980, captured us weapons for dead soldiers, were sold us weapons by corrupt soldiers, kidnapped the wealthy for ransom.
and monsenor romero was shot saying mass. and the people cried. and 4 us church women were tortured raped murdred buried.
and the US? said shape up on human rights el salvador...while continuing to give 2 million dollrs a day.
we will give you 2 million dollars a day to kill priests, church women, and campesinos in the name of eliminating (purging!) your country of the communists.
the communists who in one profile were women wearing jeans and sneakers...a next a pile of bodies with breasts, jeans and sneakers was found.
2 million dollars a day... plus our best military advisors, just over the border in cuba as it was illegal to have more than 50 at a time in elsalvador.
2 million dollars a day for el mozote. a hamlet in morazan, a department on the border of honduras. go to el mozote all the peasants in the region were told. there you will be safe. and the believed them and flocked to el mozote. and the army was in morazon, hamlet by hamlet, killing by lists until they ran out of lists and just started killing. everyone in el mozote. men women children. over 1000. throwing kids in the air and having them land on knives to meet there death. mothers locked in abother building on the other side of the hamlet hearing the screams of their children.
2 million dollars a day...at all costs (but shape up on your human rights el slavador!) ... anything to defeat the reds.
12 years. the civil war last 12 years from 1980 - 1992. it would have ended much earlier, been less harsh, certainly suffered less deaths but for us. but for US.
and the cold war ended. and ARENA was founded...around DAbuison...the man in charge of the death squads. and the won the election in 79 (one of those o so free elections we could point to and say see...there are elections and so there´s democracy. see the progress in el salvador!)
and people died.
and in 1992 the peace accords were signed because we were tired of 2 million dollars a day and pretended we were never that scared all along and so the war could end.
and ARENA hs won every election since then, up until 2005 when a representative from colorado said all salvadorans in the us would be deported if ARENA did not win. and a half a million people did vote in 2005 that did vote in 2009, when threats such as that were not allowed to stand.
and still there is hope in El Salvador. Great pain and great hope and open arms.
and open arms and open heart to me, the guilty, the ashamed. but i am loved and so i have hope.
and the FMLN, Funes, is president. ¡Viva!
here, in this country, there is pain and hope...forever hope and faith.
but my country?
13 March 2009
dirty feet
my feet are always dirty here. i wear flip flops everywhere and especially at calle real, it is very dusty and so my toes get quite dirty. then both at calle real in the house where we teach and at my house casa ita, i usually end up shoe-less. and even though we sweep and mop fdaily at calle real and weekly at casa ita, walking around barefoot inside gaurentees black feet. so, whether i am inside or outside, my feet are always dirty.
more so than any of my house mates, who always wear shoes inside, and so they tease me about my black feet. so i wash them and scrub them and then half an hour later, i am upstairs but i´ve left my shoes downstairs and my feet are black again. and with the calluses on my feet, back around my heal is a line of dirt that does not come off. so even at their squeekiest, they are still not undirty.
the truth is though that i love it. it´s a source of constant reflection to me. especially as we are getting into march, slowly approaching holy week and holy thursday. the washing of the feet. we walk here in the heat in the dust. with laugh and walk and talk and live here. and to me, this presence here, with me downstairs and my shoes upstairs, chasing my kids around laughing, or yelling, life with dust, in dust, the earth the ground right there. and we are marked by life. life is messy and dirty and joyful and painful. and so my feet are black. and i think about what would it mean for Jesus to wash my feet. To clean my dirty smelly dusty black feet, blackness won through being, through presence, through living.
and then I think he has. Christ has washed my feet in dirt.
more so than any of my house mates, who always wear shoes inside, and so they tease me about my black feet. so i wash them and scrub them and then half an hour later, i am upstairs but i´ve left my shoes downstairs and my feet are black again. and with the calluses on my feet, back around my heal is a line of dirt that does not come off. so even at their squeekiest, they are still not undirty.
the truth is though that i love it. it´s a source of constant reflection to me. especially as we are getting into march, slowly approaching holy week and holy thursday. the washing of the feet. we walk here in the heat in the dust. with laugh and walk and talk and live here. and to me, this presence here, with me downstairs and my shoes upstairs, chasing my kids around laughing, or yelling, life with dust, in dust, the earth the ground right there. and we are marked by life. life is messy and dirty and joyful and painful. and so my feet are black. and i think about what would it mean for Jesus to wash my feet. To clean my dirty smelly dusty black feet, blackness won through being, through presence, through living.
and then I think he has. Christ has washed my feet in dirt.
09 March 2009
Yo, Real Street
So today at Calle Real (which is prob really translated Royal Street, but we kinda like Real Streat)...it just makes me smile even to say this much.
my class in the morning, we practiced pronouns (we made a dance) and learned please thank you you´re welcome---which (plus star and homework) were are words of the day. which palabras del dia are a new thing as of today. we are going to have mas o menos 5 words everyday that from then must always be said in english. the spanish equivalent becomes un-understandable in class. so we had a lot of fun with that... one of my girls, karina or blanca usually woud say "Crisit, dame una estrella" "Christy, give me a star" because when they finish their work they get a star drawn on it or if they come, do their homework and participate they get a star for the day (and surprise when they get 10 stars). and so they´s say estrella and i´d be like " estrella, what? I don´t understand!" and then they´d say star..a.dn when they wanted something, they started to say "I" and slap their chest, cause that´s out sign for I and then continue in spanish or maybe say a color if they wanted a marker... the mosst english i´ve ever heard them say and it´s fantastic cause it´s coming from them... and at one point I asked Blanca "por favor" for a marker and she gave it to me and then she grabbed it back and made me ask again, using "please." wonderful girls.
however, only Blanca of the 5 in class today brought homework and so only Blanca got a star and so everyone but Blance left without saying good bye or giving me a star. which i think at the beginning might have made me feel bad, but they way they did it was very sweet some how and little bit feels like they know they are safe enough to snub me a bit and come back wednesday knowing that i´ll be their, loving them, ready to hug, learn laugh play :)
good day :) another miracle day where both morning and afternoon classes went well... crazy.
this past weekend we went to El Mozote, the site of a terrible massacre during the civil war... i´ll write about that plus some government history stuff soon, but now... i must go, few things to do before avisos dinner class tonight..which all start in 15 minutes!
similar note: elections are this sunday! please be praying for El Salvador, for the people´s voice to be heard, for safety in elections...for change!the current party has been in control for the past 20 years. yikes, right? anyway i love you all!
peace
christy
my class in the morning, we practiced pronouns (we made a dance) and learned please thank you you´re welcome---which (plus star and homework) were are words of the day. which palabras del dia are a new thing as of today. we are going to have mas o menos 5 words everyday that from then must always be said in english. the spanish equivalent becomes un-understandable in class. so we had a lot of fun with that... one of my girls, karina or blanca usually woud say "Crisit, dame una estrella" "Christy, give me a star" because when they finish their work they get a star drawn on it or if they come, do their homework and participate they get a star for the day (and surprise when they get 10 stars). and so they´s say estrella and i´d be like " estrella, what? I don´t understand!" and then they´d say star..a.dn when they wanted something, they started to say "I" and slap their chest, cause that´s out sign for I and then continue in spanish or maybe say a color if they wanted a marker... the mosst english i´ve ever heard them say and it´s fantastic cause it´s coming from them... and at one point I asked Blanca "por favor" for a marker and she gave it to me and then she grabbed it back and made me ask again, using "please." wonderful girls.
however, only Blanca of the 5 in class today brought homework and so only Blanca got a star and so everyone but Blance left without saying good bye or giving me a star. which i think at the beginning might have made me feel bad, but they way they did it was very sweet some how and little bit feels like they know they are safe enough to snub me a bit and come back wednesday knowing that i´ll be their, loving them, ready to hug, learn laugh play :)
good day :) another miracle day where both morning and afternoon classes went well... crazy.
this past weekend we went to El Mozote, the site of a terrible massacre during the civil war... i´ll write about that plus some government history stuff soon, but now... i must go, few things to do before avisos dinner class tonight..which all start in 15 minutes!
similar note: elections are this sunday! please be praying for El Salvador, for the people´s voice to be heard, for safety in elections...for change!the current party has been in control for the past 20 years. yikes, right? anyway i love you all!
peace
christy
02 March 2009
a crumb : a la concha
so la concha is a field, about a 10 minute walk from the house where I teach english. the kids told us about it our first day there...it´s the place to go play (soccer) and it´s a bit of a treat to go.
today we had a test the first half of class and the second half we went to the concha. now the crumb i want to share with you has to do with my afternoon class.
now this is my younger class, and bigger class. usually i have 8-10 kids, several you are 6, a few who are 8 and maybe one who is 9 or 10. all different levels. and all always bouncing with energy. so the idea of having them sit and individual write letters i said in english ... well i knew before hand (but didn`t really think about it) that that wouldn´t work terrible well... pretty much chaos, but constructive in a way because they were all trying. ahh.... so hard to teach.
anyway that´s all background. since these kids are younger, i felt like i needed to get permission from their parents before going, so last week i gave them all little papers (papelitos) that said "____ puede ir a la concha X ___________" por suspuesto (of course) some students didn´t bring it back, so i had them run home at the beginning with a new one to get it signed. one little girl, Jeni and her younger brother michael, didn´t have her paper and said no one was at her house and that she had asked but they had said she couldn´t go (i checked this several times) so i made arrangements for the rest of my class to go with carmela. as soon as they left she said no her parents were home and we could go ask them. so the three of us made a field trip to her house, got the slip signed, picked up another brother (who had to put on his shoes.... jeni´s skirt was wripped so she changed into shorts and changed her shoes...coming out from her room between each to be advised by her bother no not another skirt, shorts, no your tennies tc) pues, finally we got to the concha, and my whole class ran over to give me a monton (huge pile) of hugs. like they hadn´t seen me in a year.
i love my kids. and it´s these moments that i hold on...the why and the how and the what... especially when teaching feels impossible. this monton of hugs is my tree of lights (reference to a phil reading) that gives me energy, that keeps me going.
today we had a test the first half of class and the second half we went to the concha. now the crumb i want to share with you has to do with my afternoon class.
now this is my younger class, and bigger class. usually i have 8-10 kids, several you are 6, a few who are 8 and maybe one who is 9 or 10. all different levels. and all always bouncing with energy. so the idea of having them sit and individual write letters i said in english ... well i knew before hand (but didn`t really think about it) that that wouldn´t work terrible well... pretty much chaos, but constructive in a way because they were all trying. ahh.... so hard to teach.
anyway that´s all background. since these kids are younger, i felt like i needed to get permission from their parents before going, so last week i gave them all little papers (papelitos) that said "____ puede ir a la concha X ___________" por suspuesto (of course) some students didn´t bring it back, so i had them run home at the beginning with a new one to get it signed. one little girl, Jeni and her younger brother michael, didn´t have her paper and said no one was at her house and that she had asked but they had said she couldn´t go (i checked this several times) so i made arrangements for the rest of my class to go with carmela. as soon as they left she said no her parents were home and we could go ask them. so the three of us made a field trip to her house, got the slip signed, picked up another brother (who had to put on his shoes.... jeni´s skirt was wripped so she changed into shorts and changed her shoes...coming out from her room between each to be advised by her bother no not another skirt, shorts, no your tennies tc) pues, finally we got to the concha, and my whole class ran over to give me a monton (huge pile) of hugs. like they hadn´t seen me in a year.
i love my kids. and it´s these moments that i hold on...the why and the how and the what... especially when teaching feels impossible. this monton of hugs is my tree of lights (reference to a phil reading) that gives me energy, that keeps me going.
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