El Salvador, lleno eres de gracia
I have always hated the sacrament of reconciliation. It always made me feel small, but not in the same way that a sky full of stars or watching Planet Earth make me feel small. The former smallness is insignificance and absurdity without beauty, the latter full of grace.
El Salvador is full of grace, and I have had to reconcile many a thing here. How is it that this place, so far from home, is filling me up as if it were Thanksgiving Day in mama´s kitchen? I am continuously broken and made whole. We break bread together and it fills us. I´ve never lived so fully in the mystery, named so many doubts and fears and questions, made so many connections. My life is a spiderweb. In a room of candlelight and tea, I laid my shit out on the table. Weighing my baggage and bringing it to the light. Todos aquí somos humanos.
All of this is very vague. Así es la vida. We share ourselves in pieces and peaces.
Last weekend we went to El Mozote. In December of 1981, about 1000 people were killed here. Rounded up and killed indiscriminately - men, women, and children. 146 children were later found buried deep in the earth, 140 of them under the age of 12. Read the Massacre at El Mozote by Mark Danner if you wish to know details, though of course you won´t find an explanation or a reason for such ugliness. But it´s important to know the story, which I think gives dignity to all of those people. The least and yet the only thing we can do.
There was one sole survivor of this massacre, Rufina Amaya. Buried deep within thorns and brush, she heard her children and could do nothing but cry and promise God that if she lived she would tell the story. She died recently, no doubt from the exhaustion of reliving it all over and over again, keeping her promise. Upon arriving in the nearby town of Perquín, we were greeted by one of Rufina´s daughters, who had been away from the town at the time of the massacre. She is a plump woman with big gaps between her teeth, but a lovely smile. She literally welcomed us with open arms, and did not introduce herself until the following day when she took us to El Mozote. Instead, she immediately started dishing out enormous portions of chicken, avocados, tortillas, potatoes, cheese, beans, rice, and more. She scooped vegetables from a giant silver pot with her hands, setting them roughly on our plates. Later she took us on a little walk up to Rufina´s house and to their little finca where they grow beans and corn on the steep hill. Our view from the top of this hill was the most beautiful view of El Salvador yet. Misery, mystery, beauty, and history - El Salvador, you are so full of grace. On the walk back, we passed by an old man in the middle of a bath. He was gray haired and gordo, and wearing blue underwear. Without any shame whatsoever, he continued his bath at the pila, saying good afternoon over and over again as about 20 gringos passed by, and gently pouring buckets of cool water over what seemed like a very grateful body. Speaking of baths, I watched little María Jose receive her bath in the pila. As her mamí poured the water over her head, she straightened her back, closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and made that rapid and refreshed breathing sound that we all make when jumping into an ice cold pool. Not a tear was shed. She was happy to be alive.
Back to El Mozote. After visiting with Rufina´s daughter, we went to visit the museum in Perquín where a man with a limp and a heavy accent from the campo showed us arround. Here we saw photos and weapons (all of course sent from the US), murals about caring for the earth, a giant crater from a bomb now surrounded by moss and trees, and walls full of brown egg cartons.The egg cartons were on the walls of the FMLN´s radio station room. Here, the guerrilla´s broadcasted their news and risked their lives. So much to see and learn in this country. Later, we went to our little hostel to settle in and then some of us left to play soccer on the little cancha nearby. As we started to play, we were immediately surrounded by an audience, overjoyed to see us making fools of ourselves in the rain. They stayed the whole time, eventually learning our names: muy bien, abi! bien, bien! Twas a bilingual soccer game, since Neto and Julio and Reina were there as well. Soccer will forever be my favorite sport.
The next day, we were visited by a man named Sebastian who was a guerrilla during the war. Over a marvelous breakfast, he talked to us about his country and his politics, about violence and nonviolence, about Oscar Romero and the Gospels, about community and forgiveness, about his family, about resistance and taking up arms, and about Barack Obama. In some ways, our votes cannot be our own. Much depends on this election, and it will effect the entire world. Makes me nervous, no matter who lifts his right hand in January.
In the bus to El Mozote, I sat next to Rufina´s daughter. She was knitting a blue purse, and I was holding her white roses. El Salvador, you are full of grace. Where the children were found, there are now roses and murals and mosaics. So much color and life. El Salvador, you are full of grace. The memorial reminded me of being at the Vietnam veterans memorial. Children rest in both places. Though the latter was a deep black beautiful gash in the earth of Washington D.C., the former was bright, made of wood and earth and flowers. (Michael, I know what you mean. You feel betrayed in the presence of that, but you linger because you want to give some shred of dignity to it, reading about it, looking at the names, walking on that ground.)
On Monday, in Mariona, we made candles and then took naps. I rested in a hammock and Maria Jose and Karen sang me a lullaby in Spanish. El Salvador, you are so full of grace. The pineapple here is always fresh, cut into large circular slices. They look like suns, especially when half-eaten. The strings stem out from the center like rays. El Salvador, you are so full of grace.
El Salvador is full of grace, and I have had to reconcile many a thing here. How is it that this place, so far from home, is filling me up as if it were Thanksgiving Day in mama´s kitchen? I am continuously broken and made whole. We break bread together and it fills us. I´ve never lived so fully in the mystery, named so many doubts and fears and questions, made so many connections. My life is a spiderweb. In a room of candlelight and tea, I laid my shit out on the table. Weighing my baggage and bringing it to the light. Todos aquí somos humanos.
All of this is very vague. Así es la vida. We share ourselves in pieces and peaces.
Last weekend we went to El Mozote. In December of 1981, about 1000 people were killed here. Rounded up and killed indiscriminately - men, women, and children. 146 children were later found buried deep in the earth, 140 of them under the age of 12. Read the Massacre at El Mozote by Mark Danner if you wish to know details, though of course you won´t find an explanation or a reason for such ugliness. But it´s important to know the story, which I think gives dignity to all of those people. The least and yet the only thing we can do.
There was one sole survivor of this massacre, Rufina Amaya. Buried deep within thorns and brush, she heard her children and could do nothing but cry and promise God that if she lived she would tell the story. She died recently, no doubt from the exhaustion of reliving it all over and over again, keeping her promise. Upon arriving in the nearby town of Perquín, we were greeted by one of Rufina´s daughters, who had been away from the town at the time of the massacre. She is a plump woman with big gaps between her teeth, but a lovely smile. She literally welcomed us with open arms, and did not introduce herself until the following day when she took us to El Mozote. Instead, she immediately started dishing out enormous portions of chicken, avocados, tortillas, potatoes, cheese, beans, rice, and more. She scooped vegetables from a giant silver pot with her hands, setting them roughly on our plates. Later she took us on a little walk up to Rufina´s house and to their little finca where they grow beans and corn on the steep hill. Our view from the top of this hill was the most beautiful view of El Salvador yet. Misery, mystery, beauty, and history - El Salvador, you are so full of grace. On the walk back, we passed by an old man in the middle of a bath. He was gray haired and gordo, and wearing blue underwear. Without any shame whatsoever, he continued his bath at the pila, saying good afternoon over and over again as about 20 gringos passed by, and gently pouring buckets of cool water over what seemed like a very grateful body. Speaking of baths, I watched little María Jose receive her bath in the pila. As her mamí poured the water over her head, she straightened her back, closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and made that rapid and refreshed breathing sound that we all make when jumping into an ice cold pool. Not a tear was shed. She was happy to be alive.
Back to El Mozote. After visiting with Rufina´s daughter, we went to visit the museum in Perquín where a man with a limp and a heavy accent from the campo showed us arround. Here we saw photos and weapons (all of course sent from the US), murals about caring for the earth, a giant crater from a bomb now surrounded by moss and trees, and walls full of brown egg cartons.The egg cartons were on the walls of the FMLN´s radio station room. Here, the guerrilla´s broadcasted their news and risked their lives. So much to see and learn in this country. Later, we went to our little hostel to settle in and then some of us left to play soccer on the little cancha nearby. As we started to play, we were immediately surrounded by an audience, overjoyed to see us making fools of ourselves in the rain. They stayed the whole time, eventually learning our names: muy bien, abi! bien, bien! Twas a bilingual soccer game, since Neto and Julio and Reina were there as well. Soccer will forever be my favorite sport.
The next day, we were visited by a man named Sebastian who was a guerrilla during the war. Over a marvelous breakfast, he talked to us about his country and his politics, about violence and nonviolence, about Oscar Romero and the Gospels, about community and forgiveness, about his family, about resistance and taking up arms, and about Barack Obama. In some ways, our votes cannot be our own. Much depends on this election, and it will effect the entire world. Makes me nervous, no matter who lifts his right hand in January.
In the bus to El Mozote, I sat next to Rufina´s daughter. She was knitting a blue purse, and I was holding her white roses. El Salvador, you are full of grace. Where the children were found, there are now roses and murals and mosaics. So much color and life. El Salvador, you are full of grace. The memorial reminded me of being at the Vietnam veterans memorial. Children rest in both places. Though the latter was a deep black beautiful gash in the earth of Washington D.C., the former was bright, made of wood and earth and flowers. (Michael, I know what you mean. You feel betrayed in the presence of that, but you linger because you want to give some shred of dignity to it, reading about it, looking at the names, walking on that ground.)
On Monday, in Mariona, we made candles and then took naps. I rested in a hammock and Maria Jose and Karen sang me a lullaby in Spanish. El Salvador, you are so full of grace. The pineapple here is always fresh, cut into large circular slices. They look like suns, especially when half-eaten. The strings stem out from the center like rays. El Salvador, you are so full of grace.
posted by Abbey and Michael at
4:18 PM
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