Que Dios les bendiga. Bienvenidos a Mexico.

Nogales, Mexico. La Casa de Misericordia (House of Mercy), BorderLinks’ Mexico office. I am sitting in the sun listening to the squeak of playground swings and children’s voices and barking dogs. There are many mountains here, and houses – some of which have the border wall as their only view. The sun is warm and the air is cold. From this place I write to you.

Before arriving in Mexico, we spent two nights at the BorderLinks (http://www.borderlinks.org/) office in Tucson, AZ. When we first arrived, they fed us, of course – homemade veggie pizza and salad. On our last day in Tucson, we would discover the beauty and philosophy of BorderLinks Sustainable Food Program, which made nearly every edible experience as organic, local, fair trade, homemade, and meat-free as possible. And yes, it all relates to immigration. From Mexican corn farmers to Coca-Cola, we are what we eat after all. And we depend on roots. It is good to know "from whence we came and with whom we cast our lots". One of our first activities with BorderLinks was an Immigration Timeline (Howard Zinn style). The timeline posted by BorderLinks began in 1492, and included as much information about slavery and the civil rights movement as it did immigration from Mexico, Europe, and Asia – among other regions and countries. There was also mention of the forced migration of indigenous peoples in the US, and the trials of anarchists, socialists, and communists in the US in the early 1900s. And to all of these, we added our own stories - the where, when, how, and why of our own family histories. At first I was surprised to see such a range of information, straining a bit to see the connections. But then I thought, it’s all about who has been kept out and who has been let in – where the lines are drawn, and what purposes these lines serve. The inscription on the Statue of Liberty reads: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door." Currently, 2.3 million people occupy our prisons and jails, hundreds of thousands reside in immigrant detention facilities throughout the country, approximately 5,000 migrants have died in the desert trying to reach the US from Mexico since 1994, and 600 miles of a wall whose pricetag reads $2 million per mile and whose own invisible inscription reads remarkably clearer barricades the United States' closest southern neighbor. The tempest continues to toss, and we leave the refuse washed up on the shore. Though I suppose there are some that have been welcomed, there are many things I have trouble seeing now.

Earlier that day, we saw a sculpture entitled "Border Dynamics" at the University of Arizona. Made of some kind of greenish metal or steel, it depicted four people pressing against a piece of the border wall, two on each side. The only recognizably human aspect of the figures was their muscles – which stood out from the drab greenish-gray metal as tangible red and white and orange and yellow. But there was no way of knowing whether the figures were pushing the wall down or building it up, nor which side of the wall they were on. So where do we stand? What does our strength create and what does it destroy? Where is our place in the history of immigration? Where have we come from, and what, really, is ours? Day One.

The next morning, after some homemade yogurt and fair trade coffee, we all participated in a Free Trade skit. I, of course, was the President of the United States – complete with tie, oversized suit jacket, Dr. Suess patriot hat, American flag, and a symbolic laminated US dollar. Other players included CEOs of various corporations in the both the US and the imaginary Paniagua, a hormone meat-packing plant owner, factory worker, and farmer on the US side, and a farmworker and maquiladora employee on the Paniaguan side. You could probably guess how it all played out – lies and money were exchanged among government officials and corporate CEOs as the rich got richer and the poor poorer on both sides of what essentially was a game. Though perhaps simplified, my photographic memory holds more images now, and the images are disturbing to say the least. And as I expected, the farm and factory workers on the Paniaguan side eventually went north.

Later in the afternoon, we visited the Tucson courthouse to witness “Operation Streamline.” I had never been in a courtroom, much less seen dozens of migrants chained together and handcuffed facing deportation or jailtime. All of the defendants were prosecuted en masse in groups of 10 or so, standing before the judge together, responding to his questions together, sentenced as one ambiguous mass. Sounds of clanking chains filled the room as we gazed upon well-dressed lawyers and public defenders amid humbly-clothed migrants whose individual stories simply had to go unknown. And the whole thing was so damn routine. The judge read his script while some of the lawyers checked their phones or did crossword puzzles and the migrants simply waited for translations and the sound of their mispronounced names to come forward or say “presente.” All of this is, of course, a crude violation of the law and the US constitution. In fact, when we spoke with public defender Yendi Castillo, she shared with us the decision that was actually made public the day we visited the courthouse regarding one public defender’s challenging of Operation Streamline. He objected three times in one day to the courthouse procedure, and Wednesday, two years later, the decision he received basically stated that, yes, it is a violation of due process to take guilty please en masse, but there is essentially no harm in doing so because they all would have pleaded guilty anyway, right? When she read this part of the decision to us, Yendi simply began to cry. Up until this point, it all sounded like a lot of legalese to many of us trying to wrap our heads around the implications of everything. But her sudden tears were a heart-wrenching wake-up call. She humanized all of it in a single moment of despair. She also spoke to us of the heightened salaries of private court-contracted defenders, and the conditions within temporary detention facilities (where many of the migrants have most recently been before entering the courthouse, where there are no beds or adequate sleeping facilities, where they are fed fast-food burgers, and where too many occupy a space for less). She spoke of the for-profit prison business of the Corrections Corporation of America (who receive approximately $13 million per month for border-related crimes; and in a part of the country where there is zero industry and limited employment opportunities, these facilities are more than welcome). She mentioned Boeing and the astounding level of military technology along the border (which includes drones), and various concerns about the environment. She told us that her job is something spiritual for her, and that, really, the border in the US is everywhere and affects us all. Her only solution, “as radical as it sounds,” was an open border. She said people would go home. Day Two.

On Thursday, we drove to Palominas, AZ to visit with rancher Bill Odle – who was quite the character. I trusted Bill. I suppose it was his simplicity, his way of being genuine and direct and hard. He could not be boxed in or labeled, and he was full of surprises, unique observations, and amusing phrases. According to Bill, people think there are only two kinds of people: “the bleeding hearts who think we're all brothers and sisters under the skin, and those who just want to shoot everybody.” It’s just not that way though, he said. Bill, for example, is literally on the fence. He reminded us that the media exaggerates a lot of the violence along the border, and that most of those crossing through the desert are regular people looking for work. He himself was a proponent of a renewed Bracero Program, which was a temporary worker program for Mexicans during WWII. Yendi, however, believes that such a program legally perpetuates an exploited and disposable class of people, hired to do the dirty work and fired when the job is done. I haven't really come to any conclusions myself, although I'm definitely closer to the "we're all brothers and sisters" type, and I try to think from that perspective. And at the very least, I know that a wall is not the answer - just as it was not the answer for China or Germany, and just as it is not the answer for Gaza and the West Bank. Pointing to the wall, Bill spoke of “that ugly hunk-of-junk your government put up,” which he argued was an utter waste, not at all a barrier to migrants, and – more importantly for Bill – a severe hazard to the environment and native wildlife. When it came to rattlesnakes, Bill said, "I don't like em, but I respect em because they were here first." Yet he doesn't seem to see Mexico - whose territory once included the present-day states of California, Nevadah, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and part of Colorado - in the same way. Yet Bill believed that taking care of one's friends and neighbors was the most important thing, and told us that his closest neighbor lives in Mexico. He has given water to some of the migrants, but staunchly follows the law, and to his disgust, maintains frequent communication with Border Patrol. Indeed, Bill's last bit of advice rang red, white, and true blue: "Be a patriot. Always love your country and never trust your governement." Bill was a "water's for fightin, whiskey's for drinkin" kind of guy. Hard to describe.

Later that day, we crossed into Mexico. I was surprised by how easy it was. Border Patrol did not ask for a single passport, but simply opened the doors to the van and told us to have a good time in Mexico. And actually, we did – at least later that evening, and despite all of the despairing reality thus far. We first drove to Agua Prieta to visit Just Coffee, a fair trade cooperative based in the state of Chiapas and made of forty families and coffee farmers who finally found a way out of the terrors of NAFTA and falling coffee prices. We listened to their story, watched the delicious golds and browns turning about in the roasting machine, and purchased some coffee.

We stayed the night at CAME (Center of Assistance to Migrants in Exodus), a Catholic ministry in Agua Prieta that provides shelter and meals to migrants both returning from the border and getting ready to cross. I met three men there: Augustín, Sergio, and Cesar. Augustín and Sergio had been picked up by Border Patrol, and Cesar had been deported after living in the US for years, but was waiting for his knee to heal while getting ready to cross again and rejoin his family. I will especially be thinking of Cesar in the coming weeks, wondering whether he is lost in the desert or reunited with his family, searching for work or once again sharing his story at CAME...They mostly spoke of their families, the intense pain of leaving them, and the strong desire to return to them. Augustín spoke the most, sharing with us how emotional it was to say goodbye to his son and how he did not attempt to cross again. He and Sergio displayed an amazing friendship, accompanying each other always. They were curious about the US, and we talked about work and the economy and racism, concluding only that good and bad, poor and rich, exist everywhere. These are difficult matters, and we learned from one another over chicken and beans and tortillas and tears. And then we thanked each other and said good luck and God bless.

But of course none of this was really the fun part. The fun part came later that evening when we met the young people from the community who volunteer at CAME through their church youth group. We sang and danced and played soccer and games as we happily transcended our borders, visible to one another in the dark and grateful for the good things. After saying goodbye to them as well, we spent the night at CAME on the floor of a newer facility that will soon be open to women. I hardly slept at all, feeling colder than I’ve felt in a long time. I thought of Michael and I thought of the desert – the warmth of companionship and a single migrant far from his family and shivering in the desert cold.

The next morning, we toured the Douglas, AZ Border Patrol office with agent Sean Murphy. And though we each agreed to acknowledge the humanity and individuality of Sean, it was difficult to be objective and gentle to a man who considers “chasing aliens” to be “fun”. He said this more than once, and also believed the hardest part of his job to be “haulin' dope.” At least that’s the answer he gave us. He used words like subjects, aliens, bodies, and exotics to refer to living and breathing human migrants, and referred to the wall as a “fence.” He showed us pictures of the Douglas Station Family Day, and the outdoor area where they apparently hold cookouts during “processing” (when the migrants are brought to the station, fingerprinted, etc.). He showed us the “heart” of Border Patrol, where we saw various men dressed in military garb monitoring a number of computer screens attached to various cameras placed throughout the desert. And he also showed us the “head” of Border Patrol, where the migrants are “processed". They call it the “fishbowl”, because it’s sort of a giant bay window out of which BP agents watch the migrants eat, sleep, and wait. The migrants could see us, too. When we walked in, our BorderLinks leader Susanna looked at me and said, “I hate this room.” The first time Susanna visited, she saw the phrase “aliens fed, 11” on a nearby whiteboard. Her group was also actually taken out onto the floor where the migrants are, without a single warning or word of caution (not for their safety, but for the utter despair and embarrassment that such closeness would inevitably ingnite). Also, for sale at the Douglas Border Patrol Station were a variety of teddy bears and baby hats printed with the letters USBP. There were also a couple Christmas giving trees for less fortunate families in the area, and various thank-you cards from children expressing gratitude for the Border Patrol visits to their school, especially when they brought the dogs. Sean also told us about SRT, which is essentially a SWAT team trained especially for the border. They go through extremely intense training, and have a high drop-out rate. And when they aren’t called in, they keep training. Sean recalled SRT being called in just twice in two years. Border Patrol became part of Homeland Security in 2003, and so we were told that the heart of their mission is protecting the United States from terrorists. Yet Sean could not recall any recent “terrorist suspects” and clearly told us that there really isn’t any “standard operating procedure” for apprehending potential terrorists on the border. I walked through this experience amazed by the irony. The irony of Family Day and cookouts in the midst of migrants missing and separated from their families, the irony of Christmas giving trees in the midst of migrant poverty, the irony of teddy bears for babies and thank-you cards from children in the midst of militarization and deception, the irony of Border Patrol's mission statement and the reality of the border, the irony of heart and head as places of detention and surveillance, the irony of waste. A constant theme throughout this trip has been waste. A waste of money, laws, political energy, materials, technology, training, and on and on – all of which exacerbates and perpetuates violence, racism, poverty, death, and hopelessness. Why does Border Patrol receive endless amounts of limitless technology and funding while organizations like CAME struggle daily to offer the migrants a simple meal? What must be done? To whom or what will I give my life and heart and energy? Certainly not to a wall.

All of this was enough for one day, and so we spent the rest of the evening dancing, dining, and sharing life stories with some of Susanna’s friends in Nogales. Like El Salvador, like Colombia, like Chicago, like my own dear home in St. Louis, I find both the beauty and the violence.

There were other things. CCAMYN (Community Center for Attention to the Migrant and those in Need), and the volunteers and migrants we met there. Our short walk through the desert – just a fraction of what a migrant faces in the middle of the night. The family with whom Marycruz (our BorderLinks leader in Nogales), Mark, and I stayed, and my late-night conversation with Marycruz there as we lay in bed, restless from a long and troubling day. But the most important is what follows. As my friend Mark said to me not long ago, it’s all so much worse than we could have imagined. There is one particular day that will haunt my heart for a long time, and move me to tell the stories again, and to act. On this morning, we spoke with two managers of a maquiladora (foreign-owned, usually US-owned, factory) in Nogales. For some reason, my reaction to this place was far more intense than my reaction to our visit with Border Patrol. At one point, Susanna asked me quietly if I needed to step out. But I said no, choking back tears and fury. In this place, my impotence, an immense feeling of helplessness, overcame me. It was all just suddenly so big. As the managers told us how horrible unions are, how great the maquila jobs are, and how free and available an education is in Mexico – despite all the evidence to the contrary - I became overwhelmed. A maquiladora is everything I don’t believe in: exploitation, competition, hierarchy, dependency…I don’t know. It suddenly became this dramatic symbol of everything I loathe, of everything I try to withdraw my consent from, of everything I hope to work against, of lies and power and control. My faith tells me to love. It tells me to believe in community, and the common good, and social justice, and simplicity, and connection, and humility, and even weakness. The international corporate complex run by the United States is none of these things. Even so, Joana Sanchez (a member of the Alliance for Border Workers and current employee of a nearby maquiladora) believes that the maquiladoras are not the problem. After all, she said, they offer better employment than can be found throughout most of Mexico. She actually said that the problem is the workers who don’t know their rights. So she educates other workers about their rights and obligations, and never fails to speak up for them and for herself. Yet, while I do believe that it’s important for workers to know their rights, I can’t help thinking how exploited they still are, especially the women. There’s still somebody out there screwing them over, a filthy rotten system run by machines and greed that's hurting more than I'd like to think. And where the hell does that leave us? What to do about this sticky, mechanic web that's holding us all by the throat?

And after all this, there was Grupos Beta, a federally funded organization that offers basic services to migrants in Mexico. The official that we spoke with was slightly maddening as well, believing that open borders are not the answer because then everyone will cross (or will they go back home?), comparing the border wall to the fences around our houses to keep out “bad people”, and telling us that not all migrants are poor and that some actually have money and just want more. Even further, he expressed how silly he thinks it is to attempt to cross through the desert – easy to say for someone who hasn't had to, but I would have thought it would be hard to say in front of a crowd of migrants who had recently been through the most traumatizing experiences of their lives out there in the desert. The migrants present filled us all with deep sadness and a great sense of helplessness. To our surprise, the majority of migrants we have spoken with at various community centers are those that have been recently deported after living in the US for years, even after starting families there. Two of the men at Grupos Beta, Iram and Luis, currently have children in the US. And Luis’ wife is pregnant as well. Luis showed us photos of his baby, and both Luis and Iram shared drawings and notes their children had given them. And as they did so, they sobbed. And we all cried together. Because here they are now in Mexico, without money or family or a place to stay after years living and working in the US. And at that point, I remembered our walk through the desert and thought, of course I would do the same. It’s not silly or stupid. It’s necessary, the only thing left, absolute desperation. Of course I would risk rape. One woman and her child that we met had at least had their clothes taken off; but from the look of the mother and her tears, I think the desert for them was more severe than we could imagine. Of course I would risk thirst and pain and cold and loneliness if I had nothing else but my family waiting on the other side of a wall. Of course. And with all this, they ask, “What do you think of us? What should I do? What will you do?” And they say, “You have everything” and "God bless you. Welcome to Mexico.” And the only response I could think of was, “Well we are all human, and we are here to know your reality and the needs you suffer.” And Susanna, “We don’t choose where we were born.” The faces, the tears, the pressure, the pain, the despair. It was too much. And it seems too easy to “be gentle” with myself when I return, which has been the advice and guidance of so many mentors and leaders of mine throughout college. But something must be done. And I think the gentleness comes with community, that deep respect for interdependency and love, a refusal to be alone.

Of course there are still signs of hope, good energy, imagination, and change. There are microenterprises, microcredit, community banks, and solidarity groups. There are people teaching how to fish. There is a Children’s Food Security program at the Casa de Misericordia. There is public art invading private spaces – particularly along the border wall (Mexico-side, though; it's a federal crime US-side). There is the trusting of our imaginations, and the planting of seeds, often literally. There are pieces of truth, dignity, education, and dialogue. There is BorderLinks’ Sustainable Food Program. There is local and organic. There are growing gardens. There is Mike Wilson, member of the Tohono O’Odham Nation (whose tribal lands transcend the border), who disregards the laws and beliefs of his own tribal government, as well as the federal government of the United States (which ultimately "owns" the "property") in the name of human life, justice, and Christian faith as he continues to fill water jugs for migrants in the desert facing imminent death. This man, whose people were once (and still continue to be) oppressed, refuses to become an oppressor himself. He refuses to go to bed with politicians and prisons and violence and greed. He is giving to God what is God’s, creating the kingdom as a child. Indeed, when asked how youth on the reservation respond to his work, he replied, “The kids get it. No one needs to die.” He negates the Border Patrol presence on his land by doing the work of the social justice organizations and humanitarian aid workers that are prohibited. And there is Rev. Delle McCormick of the BorderLinks staff, who told us to let it all rest in our hearts first, and that dialogue between the oppressor and the oppressed looks a lot like listening. She talked of prophetic imagination, transformation, and healing. She said “those made poor” instead of “the poor”, and “differently documented” instead of “illegal”. She works within the tension of staying both fully alive and fully engaged, reminding me of the way Jesus (and I'm sure many other good hearts and leaders) took the time to pray and to be alone and to walk through the desert as he fasted and felt the pangs of temptation. He, too, was a migrant – even before he was born. And there is the Restoration Project at the Casa Mariposa (Butterfly House). This is another growing community, seeking to live sustainably, to give hospitality, to engage in "prophetic action". We sang with them, and ate with them, and asked questions. Their home was warm and inviting – fire crackling, bread baking, tea steeping, garden growing, drums waiting to be played. There are real signs, and there are things within our grasp. We are co-creators, able to breathe life into the dust and clay. I can only hope to have a swimmer's lungs and an artist's hands. Bienvenid@s a la frontera.

tres misas

I recently received a letter I had written to myself about one year ago, reminding me of what I had learned and what I hoped to carry with me from my experience living in the Vincent and Louise House - an intentional community of 10 students centering on faith, social justice, simple living, and service. One sentence, underlined among a series of quick thoughts and stream of consciousness reflections, simply said, "Practice spiritual activism." I have since come to the conclusion that this is one of the many pieces of advice given to me by Fr. Memo, a good friend, beautiful spiritual companion, and also my recent guide throughout Colombia. I often use his words to articulate my experiences in the world, to discover what moves and urges and disturbs me, to seek what calls me, to ask how and why. I suppose people are borrowers as they grow, borrowing thoughts and ideas and words until our hearts and minds begin to discover their own molds and stretch to fit them. Memo once told us that he used to write everything down, tried to use the words of his mentors and teachers, and then eventually the whole lot of them existed within his heart and he no longer needed to reference a page. I'm still learning, and so I have a million things stuffed in my head hoping to leak into my heart, and my notes read as follows: spirituality and justice cannot be separated; our ministry will always be humanization; "in truth this man was the son of God"; imperfect and perfectable at the same time; I relate, therefore I am human; life and reality is the most important book of revelation; fight everything that is destroying the poor; the common good; the human way... It's all jumbled and stuffed and spilling, as you can see. So it's here that I stand, pen in hand, hoping to convey something.



Practice spiritual activism. I've been thinking of this a lot recently, recalling one particular day in Colombia, reworking it in my mind, thinking it over, holding it close. On this particular day, I attended Mass three times. It's true that I'm Catholic, but I for sure set a record that day. Though I suppose that if our guide for the week was a much loved and much missed Colombian priest, three Masses in one day shouldn't stand too far from the expected. Anyway, the first Mass took place at the small chapel in Pinares, the retreat center where we stayed. Each morning, Memo said Mass for the nuns of this community, a beautiful group of women who were endlessly hospitable and joyfully open to our presence in their home. Their songs were deep and deafening, an awkward and yet fitting movement of raspy, off-key, and yet somehow harmonizing voices bearing the weight of duty and praise not too unlike the sound of cows heavy with milk and aching for a release. We all enjoyed the sound, and let their songs settle deeper than most. The Gospel reading for that morning spoke of how we cannot serve both God and money, and how we shouldn't worry about what we will wear or eat, where we will live, how we will get by. St. Vincent DePaul once said, "If the poor call you, leave without hesitation." Just go. Just do. Just be. God feeds even the sparrows. Yet people are hungry and homeless, and dying because of it, so what's the message if you're poor? Faith doesn't feed an empty stomach or stop the cold. But I'm thinking perhaps faith helps plant seeds, be patient with growth, and share the harvest. It creates community and helps build homes. It gives us ways of wrestling with the impatience and urgency of the poor, the hesitations and resistance of the rich. I'm finding at the very least that my faith gives me a sense of hope. "'Still,' wrote Van Gogh in a letter, 'a great deal of light falls on everything'" (Annie Dillard, Pilgrim at Tinker Creek).

Practice spiritual activism. The second Mass took place in Altos de la Florida, a community within the municipality of Soacha on the southern edge of Bogotá. Altos de la Florida suffers from a multitude of social ills, including poverty, displacement, and what has come to be called "social cleansing" - a rather sickening euphemism for government-backed murders of mostly young men accused of being involved in drugs, gangs or other criminal activities. For most of these young men, their only crime is poverty, and their bodies are often used as "false positives" in the war - meaning that paramilitary groups claim the bodies are actually those of members of guerrilla forces in order to give the impression that it is the government who is "winning" the war. On our walk through the community, we listened to one woman tell her story of losing both her husband and three of her children to such violence...Makes you wonder how she's alive, what makes one foot step in front of the other, what keeps food inside her stomach, what lets her close her eyes at night, what makes the words come out, how she could look at us and smile. She took us to the Tree of Love, the one single tree in Altos de la Florida and the only place for couples to seek peace and privacy and love amid the chaos and closeness of their makeshift shacks and thin walls. She laughed as she explained the story of the tree, and my insides shrunk a bit at the thought. I remember the smell of eucalyptus and the steep climb uphill.

When we first arrived in Altos de la Florida, the children greeted us with a song - all about the future and letting go of fear and painting your face the color of hope. I have yet to witness anything so cute as a group of small children singing in Spanish and forgetting half the words...Despite everything, there was so much joy in this community - a sense of progress and change that surprised us with its strength. The same woman that led us to the tree also eagerly welcomed us into her new home, glowing with pride the entire time. Since she was unable to pay rent on her previous home, which was beginning to slide down the side of the hill anyway, an organization called Elbow to Elbow assisted her in building a new home. Elbow to Elbow does a great deal of work for this community, assisting the people both economically and spiritually, building community and generating dialogue to work against violence and poverty. We were served a beautiful lunch in this community by the women of Hormipaz, which roughly translates to "little ants working for peace," a group of widows in the community that have come together believing that change is possible. Just before lunch, everyone crowded into a single-room building to celebrate Mass.

Cement walls, flapping roof, concrete floor. Loud songs with muddled verses and clapping hands. Faint and confused Gospel readings, lost in translation and drowning in the buzzing energy of hot bodies and growling stomachs. Restless, dirty, and eager children crowded around the altar with toys and flowers and empty hands staring at Fr. Memo as he raised the host - making it more sacred, he said. An old woman on crutches moving through the crowd to give the sign of peace to all the unfamiliar faces and Fr. Memo well after our hugs and handshakes had subsided. A final prayer for peace sung in Hebrew and Arabic, Spanish and English - the hands of many faiths and seekers clasped together around the table. Something crowded and alive and celebratory. And after the prayers, steaming hot bowls of thick soup filled with whole vegetables and strings of meat. Children sitting on the floor with soup-soaked and exhausted faces. A parrot sharing soup with a little boy and eating crumbs off Memo's shoulder. A sweaty, jumping dance party filled with sticky hands and heavy breathing and oh-so-many children. An atmosphere all at once light and heavy, draining and inspiring, hungry and filling. The Colombia that touched us.

Practice spiritual activism. I am often surprised by the times I'm moved to tears, and the times when I hold them back. The third Mass that day took place at Gloria's home, a woman who had spent the day with us in Altos de la Florida. Gloria's son's best friend David, a relative of Memo, drowned a couple of months ago in a lake while on vacation with his best friend's family. Gloria's home was middle-class, similar to any home you would find in the suburbs of the U.S. Safe inside the gate, the children of this neighborhood were free to run about after dark, play soccer, laugh and shout. Inside were shiny floors, high ceilings, paintings on the walls, enough pillows for everyone to sit on, a crowded living room of well-dressed men and women, no small children, cordial smiles and subdued questions. Yet the air was thick and sad and heavy. A picture of David decorated the small table that served as the altar, placed there delicately by his mother Olga who fought at every moment to hold back her tears. "It's the worst pain in the world, to lose a child," Memo said. Ironically, the Gospel reading for the upcoming Sunday was the passage about Jesus calming the water. Memo's entire homily was directed at Olga, who steadily maintained eye contact as she listened to Memo's words, telling her to cry as much as needed, to hold nothing back, and to give it all to God, who is hanging on her neck. You could practically see the knot forming in the back of her throat. I found myself soaked in tears upon watching Olga and listening to Memo's words, even more eloquent in Spanish. And I wondered why I hadn't felt so strongly in the displaced communities, in Ciudad Bolivar, in Altos de la Florida. Why didn't I cry there? What failed to move me? Why didn't I feel as hurt or aching or depressed? Many times in those communities, I even felt joy. In Altos de la Florida, we laughed and danced and shared food and stories. But in Gloria's home, veiled in wealth and security, was the most dreadful and complete sadness you could imagine. The loss of something huge, nostalgia, absence, lonliness. And a sense of being sucked backwards, an immobility in the present, a waking dread of the future. Yet still, some light. Some hope. Some prayers.

Memo often talks about "the dialectical dimension of reality," the idea that life is a paradox, that beauty and violence live side by side and we walk around like the humans that we are, incapable of avoiding any of it. It was all there that day, accompanied by the prayers that I've had memorized for years, the rituals that are now buried in my skin, remembered in my muscles. I walked as myself through everything that is life in just a single day. Practicing spiritual activism is like this, I think. It's getting in touch with all of those human things, knowing the stories, sharing the feelings. It's the way we hold things, memories, people. It's what we believe binded to what's real. It's walking with a sense of self, in relationship with others. It's me babbling about what all these experiences feel like, hoping for some listeners, some communication, some truth.

WANT TO LEARN MORE ABOUT COLOMBIA?
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ser arrancado en Colombia

We were invited to take off our shoes, to feel our skin against something deep. On the morning of our second day in Colombia, we gathered in the small flower garden of Pinares, a retreat center cared for by the Daughters of Charity in Bogotá, and began to reflect on the day’s theme: Internal Displacement and Refugees in Colombia. What does is mean to be uprooted? I suppose it is to have roots, and then somehow be torn away – though I have never felt that aching tear, that gash beneath my feet. I have moved, relocated, felt nostalgic, missed home, and struggled to find myself, but never have I been ripped away, stolen, forced, or displaced. Colombia is now home to the second largest internally displaced population in the world after Sudan. Approximately 4 million Colombians are internally displaced, most fleeing violence in the countryside and coastal regions of Colombia and migrating to large cities in search of work. In the capital city of Bogotá alone, approximately 1 out of every 8 people is displaced, totaling about 1 million. So what does it mean to be uprooted in Colombia? What does it look like? How does it feel?

As part of our morning reflection, we walked barefoot in the garden. Then after taking a handful of soil, we were instructed to meditate on our piece of earth in a separate area of the garden, later returning the soil to its rightful home. My hand felt invasive and disruptive as I sunk my fingers into the earth, reluctant and intrigued. I walked to the other end of the garden and sat staring at the teeming pile of life before me, considering the history and complexity of just one handful. The more I concentrated, the more the day weighed on my heart as I watched pieces of soil crumble and spill from my greedy hands. My thoughts quickened: I shouldn’t have taken so much, I can’t hold it together, I won’t be able to put it all back. I stared at the earth slipping through my fingers, uprooted and incurable. Suddenly I remembered Oti, a woman who accompanied me very closely on my journey in El Salvador. She once spoke to me about the difference between curing and healing, explaining how her work in her community never offers a cure, an elimination of pain, an end to sickness, the erasure of memories, poverty, violence, or loss. Rather, Oti’s work offers healing – a way of becoming conscious of suffering and the lasting weight of former pain, finding liberation in the midst of this reality. For Oti, healing was remembering. When I put the soil back, I remembered. I remembered the hole I dug in the earth, and the pieces I left behind at the other end of the garden. I remembered that I cannot fix it, that the pieces are too small and too many, and that the day would carry more than can be cured.

The day before, we looked upon the capital city from the top of Monserrate, a hill in the center of Bogotá that lies about 3,000 meters above sea level. It is a beautiful view - expansive, breathtaking, and peaceful. Yet something felt uncertain, detached, distant…What really lies beneath the clouds, past the fog, behind the buildings, over the mountaintop? Though the view of the city reached the horizon, our backs once again faced South. Little did we know that behind us was Ciudad Bolívar, an endless sea of makeshift shacks and cinderblock houses nestled against a backdrop of stripped and eroding mountains, downwind of a massive garbage dump that keeps expanding despite promises to the contrary, and home to nearly 1 million people. And below us, in the shadow of the presidential palace, was Tercer Milenio Park, now filled with approximately 2,000 displaced families crowded in small shacks and tents made of plastic tarps and plywood.

So what did it take to turn around, to look deeper, and to not simply look, but to truly see? I suppose it took Norma pushing me into the crowd to see the struggle for food inside the displacement camp. It took Memo tightening his arm around my shoulder and telling me to look at the man sleeping in the street. It took smelling the garbage. It took a man’s hungry shouts outside the church. It took the weight of a crowd, of men and women parting the plastic flaps of their tents to reveal children sleeping on dirt floors, asking us to make them visible. It took children, grabbing our hands and giving us flowers and broken toys. It takes pressure. It takes faith. Slowly, with the help of friends and community, we began to fall into the cracks, peer into the crevices, and immerse ourselves in the shadows. We began to turn around and see a different expanse: the pervasiveness of poverty, violence, loss, and death that are also Colombia. When I was walking through the displacement camp, the only response I could give to the pressure and questions of the crowd that followed us was a promise to tell their story, and by remembering, to help heal.

post-reflections by the lake

There are things that I re-member. Peace again, together. And I have moved. I awoke shortly thereafter, and I peeled a pomegranate. I listened to the songs. I meditated and danced, still holding the expanse I thought I lost. Sometimes I force words, but I never know where they come from. This is the first beautiful day I have seen here. Things have been cluttered and covered in snow. A good friend, though, reflects on subtler hues. She sees gold and amber and spice. She sees blue and night and ice. She sees. ["And still, a great deal of light falls on everything."] It was that new bathroom and hot water, these layers, my dog. It was seeing a lime in a plastic bag, wasting a match, and the robots. It was the difference in toilet paper and milk, in the disturbing absence of volcanoes and ants, in conversations and in men. I miss long signs of peace, your distinct offerings, knowing that to give thanks is just and necessary, and the circles. And I am giving different things away, in altered measurements. And I'm guarding, but not everything. I am in love crafted by some brilliant benevolence that knows pain and shame and all matter of dark things. But I am walking in the night now, and feeling safe. I still hold the expanse.

in what is small, everything

So I painted, finally. I painted those kites that fill the sky on overcast and windy days in Mariona. I made them stand out, like kites should on such days. Last night, Anita took a bath in our garden, sitting in buckets of warm water heated on the stove. No Grandma, I have not forgotten how to laugh. In fact, Casa Ita is always filled with laughter. I am pretty sure we have all peed our pants at least once... Our house is named after Ita Ford, one of the four US churchwomen that were murdered here in El Salvador in December 1980. For one of our history classes, we spoke with a priest from Cleveland who is still living here and worked with these women during the beginning of the war. He told us that Ita was feisty, always demanding that people be released from prison, never letting up. I wish you could see the picture of her that hangs in our house. She is so beautiful. Sometimes I just stare at her and think about how screwed up the whole thing is. When the Jesuits were killed in 1989, Jon Sobrino happened to be in Thailand, and thus his life was spared. Due to serious threats on his life, he was urged not to return to El Salvador. He ended up staying for a number of months at Santa Clara University, ultimately establishing the relationship between El Salvador and Santa Clara that led to this study abroad program. So I shake my head at Ita, and I love her, and she gets it. She likes to watch us laugh.

I realize that I never told you about the campo. I haven't written in a while. Waiting for the colors to paint or something, I guess. Sometimes its hard, you know? To communicate, I mean. Or to savor, or to remember, or to be patient with it and let it soak instead of spill.

So I spent a week in the campo, which just basically means the countryside of El Salvador. I was in San Jose Las Flores, Chalatenango, in the northern part of the country (where Lolo is from, actually). I stayed with Susana's family, one of the girls in the Romero Program (the Salvadoran partner program that works with the Casa). Susana's father was killed during the war, and that's all I know. Our first full day in the campo was Dia de los Difuntos, or Day of the Dead. Everyone travels to the cemeteries to decorate the tombstones with flowers and wreaths, to say Mass, to pass the time remembering. I have never seen a cemetery so full of life. El Salvador exists like poetry; its irony and paradox, its metaphors and mixed up senses, dig into you. So we rode in the back of a pickup truck for about an hour to decorate a grave. For the first time, no one wanted to tell the story and I didn't want to ask. Everything was silent, hot, and simple. Rosa, the mother, now lives with a man named Rudy, who was also a guerrilla during the war, and her two nieces. Their father is in the States, and is able to send them about $100 per month. Rosa has a son in the States, too. I got the impression that she doesn't speak with him very often.

Everything is work in the campo, but all very patient and slow. Rosa and Rudy wake up around dawn. Rudy goes to the milpa to gather beans or feed the cows. Rosa starts building the fire to make tortillas. Sounds of the campo: "El Norte" (the wind), dog fights, roosters at all hours of the night and day, and Rosa slapping her hands against the masa (ground corn and water, the tortilla dough), making perfect circles, all the same size - so much harder than it looks. Rosa stays in the house all day, cooking, cleaning, washing, and watching soap operas. The TV is constantly on. Rudy comes home, and after dinner, they fall asleep peeling beans.

The campo felt like a healthy prison, if that even makes sense. It is monotonous, boring, and slow. It is the same thing everyday. It is isolated, and yet one of the places most affected by the war. Filled with death and separation, but also a strong sense of community. Chalatenango is beautiful. Mountains, fresh air, rivers, fields, stars. Rudy told me how he loves his work, outside with bare hands, breathing deep. He took us to the milpa once, to see the horses and cows. We hiked around a little bit, through shit and mud and rock and barbed wire fences, pausing every now and then to take in the view. I had two thoughts: Where do I belong? and Thank God for my arms. Historical elections were happening in the United States, and there I was, in the middle of the Salvadoran countryside, following an ex-guerrilla uphill through barbed wire fences to see some cows. And only recently has some crazy divine something answered, "Tranquila. For now, right here." And I was grateful for my arms, because they were helping me to balance, or essentially to avoid falling on a big pile of cow dung.

Other things I will remember about the campo:

A scorpion the size of my hand on the wall near our bed. I was about ready to lay my head on my pillow, when all of a sudden, holy shit, what the f*%$ is that on the wall? Indiana Jones moment. I went outside to get Magdalena, Susana's sister, who then came in our room, squeeled a little bit, and made her boyfriend Mari take care of it. Mari stuck a blue flip flop against it and ripped its stinger off with a nail clipper, then held it in his hands so we could take pictures. I have zero pena about being a fresa or a tourist when there is a scorpion next to my pillow.

Taking bucket paths. (Olivia. What's up. I miss you, dear.) With a piece of trash bag as a door, unable to close and therefore free to blow in the wind, I poured buckets of cold water over my head. And...I loved it. Hooray for bucket baths!

Mari telling me that all he wants to do is study music. Such a gift, Michael. Really.

Eating oranges knocked off the tree by an old woman with an apron and a wooden stick. No running water that day, so no way of rinsing our hands. So, as so often happens, we were forced to enjoy the stickiness.

Looking at the stones near the Rio Sumpul, and thinking of all the history there. Something we can talk about someday. I feel weird about writing it all down right now. Anyway, I thought of Lolo.

The water slide at the pool next to the river. I forgot how much fun water slides are. Addictive, too. We took all the kids from our community swimming for a day, and caught the ones that couldn't swim at the bottom of the slide. Happy children are contagious. It was a beautiful day. We made chicken soup, and Anne and I sat in the sun and read East of Eden. Samuel Hamilton is my hero.

And the bus ride to Chalate. The roads are really bad between Carasque, Nueva Trinidad, and Las Flores, so we all took a public bus to the main city to meet our Casa driver. One of the most ridiculous experiences of my life. Chicago at rush hour doesn't even compare to how packed this bus was. Its questionable whether or not we should have taken the bus. They only come every few hours, so everyone waiting for the bus had to fit. There was no choice, really. 25 gringos and a bunch of Salvadorans all trying to get somewhere, traveling and stuck, some kind of wacked out metaphor for life. There were women hanging onto my legs as I sweatily balanced on a giant bag of beans with one foot on top of the other. Colin's leg was practically up another woman's skirt, our armpits were in each others faces, and we were occasionally sitting on each other's laps. Then this fat Salvadoran woman in a blue dress sitting on a bag of beans across from another woman holding a purse full of chickens, mistakes us for a Methodist choir and asks us to sing. Anita, naturally, starts to sing, no questions asked. Then the whole front of the bus is singing songs about God that everyone knows. And Anita starts offering sweet bread to all of these old women, who freely and joyfully accept her gift, opening their toothless mouths to receive what in that moment seemed like Communion as they held onto metal bars for balance. Like I have said before, El Salvador is full of grace. So I'm not as angry anymore. I'm less confused, but still without any answers. I'm feeling less sleepy, and more awake. There is more color in everything. And I am slowly, or quickly, coming to the realization that it is November 24 and I have less than one month left in El Salvador. I'm going to miss it, a lot.

smells rotten, tastes good

Milk. Today, Anita ate old soy milk that smelled like butt. Gross. She didn´t even notice. Salvadorans generally do not drink cold milk, though they sell it at the grocery store. It smells slightly rotten, but tastes good. If you ask for milk at a restaurant, you receive it hot. And if you ask for coffee with milk, the ratio is about 1:4, mostly milk. The milk in Casa Ita is usually powdered. Just add water! I´m personally more comfortable with powdered soy milk than powdered `real´ milk. Last Wednesday at Oti´s house, we drank fresh soy milk that she made herself. This, too, was served hot. New discovery: Chikis and cold milk. When I first arrived in El Salvador, there were three things sitting on my desk to welcome me - a map of El Salvador, a painted wooden pencil holder, and Chikis. Chikis are square shortbread cookies `enrobed´ on one side in either strawberry, chocolate, or vanilla. Vanilla is the only one that tastes good. Anyway, this is the best snack in the world. On Sunday morning, I milked a cow.

There are little things about being here that surprise me. Gum doesn´t last long. It looks chewed before you chew it, melted and stuck inside the paper wrapper. Envelopes seal themselves. But alas! The rainy season has left us and we are at peace with the wind. My clothes dried in less than a day.

Beans and rice are served with everything, even fried chicken and mashed potatoes. I was meant to be here.

There are bigger things, too. Mauricio Funes, FMLN presidential candidate, directly outside our houses in rich, conservative, seemingly gringo-infested Antiguo Cuscatlan. Of course it was rained out. That night, we had to go the long way to get to Kevin and Trena´s to watch the debates, as the road was blocked. Bailey almost lost a shoe in the flood and we had to sacrfice the umbrella to save it. So we arrived soaking wet, but were welcomed by pillows and tea and borrowed clothes. We were even allowed to put our own clothes in the dryer. I forgot what it felt like to put on hot clothes. Beautiful. But the sunshine does wonders, too. Politics can be depressing; shredded bits and pieces of red FMLN flags still hang on the wires outside of Casa Silvia. Salvador, our taxi driver, stood on the corner one day looking up at the flags, and told me how much it hurt him that the rain came.

More: Trash collection is too expensive for many people, so they burn their own trash in the street. As far as I know, emissions regulations are relatively non-existent on the vehicles here, and so this giant disgusting brown cloud hangs weightly over an already depressed atmosphere as of late. It seems that everyone is sick, and it is no wonder. The health care system, too, is a wreck. Sometimes it rains when the sky is blue and cloudless, or so says Anita. There is no explaining this place. And it´s making me very tired. The awkward reaction, I suppose, to things I don´t know how to deal with. Outside, sleepy. Inside, unexpressive, blank, and angry. But I´m getting in touch with it, with all of these feelings, thoughts, inner somethings rising up within me. There are ugly things here: trash. pollution. sickness. poverty. gangs. shitty education sytem. abuse abuse abuse. the absolute impossibility of being able to walk down the sreet without being stared at, shouted at, honked at, kissed at, whistled at, whispered at. memories, stories, images of war. mental, spiritual, physical scars. corrupt governement, puppets of our corrupt government. There are glass shards and barbed wire on the tops of walls, high walls. Bars on every window. We cannot see our neighbors. Where are all the brown people on the billboards? Why do all the fast food restaurants compete for the biggest playpen? Where are the parks? In short, what is it that has been so intricately and subtely constructed so as to oppress people in the most ridiculous, absurdly violent ways? I want to fix it, naturally. During orientation, one of the first things Dean Brackley said to us was, `You can´t fix it.´ So, what then? This is all about my formation? my spiritual growth? my calling? my conscientizacion? my life? Bullshit, right? Maybe not...but sometimes I don´t feel any closer to solidarity. Dorothy Day: `Comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.´My time to be afflicted, I guess.

So, the halfway point, I suppose. For a while, the irony was beautiful. And it still is, but it gets harder to see, or appreciate. The list of life-giving, community-inhabiting, profoundly graceful things I have encountered here is overwhelming. Rain and pineapples shaped like suns. A green volcano, the view from our street. Casas abiertas. Singing, laughing, and learning so much. Children, and so many children... But somedays, it all feels like this empty, kitschy, pastel-colored drapery. And then the artist Sabina comes along and slices it down the middle, leaving this gaping wound of reality, fear, pain, suffering, and death. Am I being dramatic? Always a possibility. I am addicted to sad things. Am I a masochist for wanting to cry? Because the thing is, I haven't been able to cry. They sing dirges and I cannot weep. But it's not that I want any of this leftist kitsch, Grand March shit. Because that means two tears - one because you're moved, and the other because you know you're moved. This is the closest I've been to the dark spots, to those earthly bruises, pulsing and swelling with blood, a black and blue pressure that you feel in your chest but travels so slowly to the eyes. So I never cry when I want to. It's always completely unexpected. But I had a good cry the other night. Always brought out by Dad and Mama (by no fault of your own...I just get homesick, and start to wish things for you, and hate that you worry about me with probably twice the heaviness with which I worry about you and I wonder how you bear it...and there's something about hearing your voices that releases something enormous in me and there you have it...our shitty Casa Ita phone didn't help either).

So, it's been different. And heavy. And I've been trudging, feeling slow and locked. And then I think about my passport, and how unfair it is. This is not an exchange program. Already I dread the goodbye, for it will be both good and trying, light and heavy, relieving and painful. But asi es. I am a homebody getting in touch with her need to move. It's always hard for me to say goodbye, to change places, to leave home and come back and leave again. A pervasive nostalgia haunts me wherever I go, and there is always something that I miss. So, still, I am working on presence. And living in this tension, which I'm finding is very much a part of who I am. Neither far away nor close to home for too terribly long. But always with a home.

At night, the streets are empty and dark. Nothing but the artificial light of Casa Ita after 6pm. In Belgium, the sun set at 10pm. I forgot how much I love the night. The freedom to walk around in it, listen to it breathe, waiting patiently for the sun. I think maybe it is the intimacy of night that I love and that keeps me awake. Night is always in suspense, on the edge of something, unsure and buzzing. There are secrets resting here, and also waiting. And so it intrigues me. It's the brightness and noise of the day that lulls me to sleep. Like being at big parties as a child, and suddenly all the lights become blinding and all the voices a monotone murmur and you drown in it. So most of the time, I would rather stay up late and sleep in. But here, the sun rises early, the trash truck rings its obnoxious bell, the tropical birds perch on our windowsill, the showers are cold, and the day greets you with a slap in the face. But I am growing to deeply love the mornings. On Sunday, I awoke before dawn. I watched the day arrive with oil on my hands and the smell of fresh milk and shit. Cow utters are worty and warm. Cow tongues feel like sandpaper. Cow eyes are my favorite.

This past weekend, we were in Esquipulas, Guatemala, visiting what is apparently the Mecca of Central America - Cristo Negro. People from all over Central America, especially the Mayan people of Guatemala, travel here to see the Black Christ, the Christ of their people. Standing in line to pass by this beautifully foreign image of God, the man in front of me tells me that it all depends on how much faith you have. Sure, the wood is just old, blackened from more than 200 years of smoke and acid - but the walls are full of miracles, little silver plaques sent from all over the world thanking God for this and that. I'm not sure. It was like seeing St. Catherine's body in France. I left unmoved, disappointed even, and yet deeply touched. Blank on the inside, but with plently of room to paint. Yes. Plently of room to paint.