Life back "Here"

I've been home for three weeks now and pretty much resumed life as normal, whatever that word means. I'm living at home for the summer, after living in different countries for the past 8 months. I'll have the three months here at home to try to process, for the time being, all my experiences from the other parts of the world in which I have lived and traveled.

For now, though, I would like to try to reflect in the way El Salvador has influenced my life here and how I perceive this country to which I hold an invaluable passport. As for all 24 of us in the program, we came back "shocked" by our culture after living four months in El Salvador; and in many ways, the United States has disgusted me while at the same time, I've been gaining a respect and appreciation for what this place has to offer. The idea of "luxury" still bothers me, after seeing so many people with so few possessions. We've come to a point where value is completely reversed, where goals are inverted. Some of my professors in Spain communicated the Spanish way of life: work only hard enough to enjoy life. As I told my friend, that's in the right direction. We get so caught up with work towards the goal of making money and "moving up" in society. Success is completely based on your bank account and how much prestige you can garner. We're obsessed at having the "best" things possible, and this is very tough for me to get over. We "deserve" these best things because of how "hard" we work, evidently. But do we deserve this things that much more than the majority of people on this earth?

So many people are dying (literally) to enter, and I was so quick to leave. The migration between the United States, Mexico, and Central America formed a large part of my experience in El Salvador, and I believe that it will continue to affect my life here in the US. El Salvador, as I and all of my friends in El Salvador have said, is a country of opposites: a giant, sick dichotomy. It is controlled by 14 unimaginably rich families, in business and government, and a huge class of the Salvadoran population is direly poor and growing more destitute. Just to give you an idea, the UN puts El Salvador somewhere in the middle of world countries in terms of economic strength, so it does not look like Haiti or other intensely poor places. Living costs continue to rise there, especially after the recent adoption of the US dollar, but salaries are not increasing at any profound rate. In fact, many adults and young people often told me the biggest root cause of the country's problems is lack of employment. We spoke with many youths in high school, college, and recently graduated young adults, and they told us that more often than not, a normal person (not of the upper crust) cannot find a job in the area in which they were trained: a lawyer opening up a stand in the market, a business school graduate selling mangoes from a basket on her head--these are not uncommon stories. The violence is out of hand, as well. The UN lists the country as one of the most violent in the world, behind Iraq, of course. It has a terrible history of police violence, especially death squads and extra-judicial killings, since the 1970s. It passed through 15-ish years of horrible civil war, only to enter the 90s and continue today with a surging level of violence. Gangs control much of the country now, and lame attempts from the government have only hardened gang organization and encouraged them to enter into more organized crime, especially drug trafficking.

People are leaving the country for the United States, almost 700 per day (many are repeat attempts to enter the US). There are villages with almost no men between the ages of 15 and 50. We were told by countless individuals that they don't want to leave, to flee everything you know and all the people you love, for a $7000 attempt (that's the cost of emigrating, just once) to work for better wages (the minimum wage is around $150 per month, and many jobs don't pay that). Families fall apart, children enter gangs, children have to leave school to beg or find some form of employment. And the cycle continues.

I have the opportunity to do whatever I want with my life, as I've been told for so many years. What a huge opportunity that is for me. A blessing of God. I was born here, to this family, in this country, for no doing of mine. There's no way that I deserve this as opposed to the very-talented Tomás with whom I stayed in the campo. I can walk around my neighborhood after dark and not fear violence from a nearby gang member. My parents can take days off work and not fear that their kids will go hungry. What do I do with all this privilege?

From my reflections thus far, I've taken away some key things from El Salvador. Thankfulness. We all have so much to be thankful for--I know this sounds trite. I'll list some of mine: housing, healthcare, education, employment, family, and it continues. A need to help others to comprehend the world situation. The US has oppressed countries and peoples for centuries, and it continues to do so. We continue to do so. Yes, it's a horrendous system that we can't help but support, but we can do what we can. Each person has the opportunity to choose for him/herself how s/he wants to deal with this reality: turn and run and ignore or stop and fight and struggle. I don't know yet how I'm going to do it, really, but at this point, it's about small life choices and daily realizations. We are a country of waste, a country of excess, and I'm a representation of this at many times. However, we as youths have the choice of continuing this legacy or creating a new one of our own: defining what we understand as success, how we choose to devote our time, and what money means to us. We can do something about this self-perpetuating system that tells us how we need to act and what we need to value.

Yes, I'm being idealistic. Yes, I'll talk about it pessimistically. But yes, we have to do something. The world is falling apart around us, and this is not only limited to El Salvador. We've gone away from what life really means and to what we should devote our lives.

Thanks for reading, thanks for caring, and thanks for trying. I love you all.

Back to the States...

At this point, I’m just damn confused. Everyone just left me, and now I’m sitting in the President’s Club in Houston Airport with Mom. Amy, Cara, and Katie just left on their flights back home, and before my mom arrived here at the airport, we parted from Ryan and then finally from Jenn.

It was a rough morning, to say the least. We left at 4:50 am, about 35 minutes after schedule. None of us had really slept that night, so we left very tired and very sad. It wasn’t quite a happy scene being the first group to leave and having to say goodbye to that many people at once. We stayed up all night telling stories, writing letters to each other, playing a great game of truth or dare, all kinds of things. On Monday morning early, we left our houses to spend the last two days of our time in El Salvador at the retreat house, on a “disorienation retreat,” which was supposed to prepare us for re-entry in the States. There’s really nothing that could’ve prepared us for all that we have seen thus far and what we will continue to see—I’ll hit more of this later.

I had an annoying time trying to change my ticket this morning, which cost about 50 bucks to take care of, but thank the Lord I chose to go with it. I would’ve had a terrible time waiting around for my next flight for four hours, without some of my closest friends who were on the earlier flight. Initially, I was on the 12:20 flight instead of the early-morning 7:15. At the last minute, I figured it would be easy to change to the morning one at the airport, and it turns out that it was relatively harmless except that I had to pay an unexpected fee to change. Oh well, I just went with it after some consideration. Too tired, sad, and beat to wait around for so long at that miserable airport. Anyway, we get through security and get on the plane, of course with me in a completely different area of seats than my friends. After sitting down by myself, I finally saw that I was able to grab the window seat next to Amy and Katie. Much better. That flight was a lot of fun, I must say. We were tired and delirious, and we told stories and jokes and had a blast. It’s so much better to travel with a group of friends through all this crap than by one’s lonesome.

We get here in Houston and pass through Customs and Immigration unscathed. I had some problems getting my connecting flight ironed out, because it was initially 6:40 pm and I realized (with the help of my companions) that when I changed the early one, they changed the late one. That was not good, I knew, because my mom was going to meet me in Houston for the later flight and that my dad wouldn’t be able to get me till later that night. So, that was fun to deal with, but it got taken care of pretty easily. It was just one event after another, seemingly, but it’s worked out all day long. At this point, I just want to teleport home instead of dealing with a three-hour plane ordeal.

Culture shock. Reverse culture shock? I can’t really explain what it is. We were used to four months of living relatively simply, of witnessing people on the margins, and of rarely experiencing that upper crest Salvadoran society that so much mimics that we find here in the States. I thank the Lord that I don’t have the feeling as bad as some of my friends were suffering, but I feel that it’s still going to be a struggle trying to understand this society in reference to that in which I have lived for four months. I look around this room in the President’s Club, watching all these people and all this excess in so many ways, and it’s tough to comprehend. I’m a part of it, as a Jesuit priest at the UCA, Dean Brackley, says, part of the “middle class tribe.”

It was tough leaving; I was ready, but the people were pulling me back, in a good way. I didn’t want to leave the people with whom I had become so close for so long. I still had conflicts until the end and I still didn’t really like my place within the Casa, but leaving tends to wipe away those negative sentiments. The Casa is fresh on my mind, and I’m really going to try hard to understand its significance in my life from the other side, from my situation in the States. For me, I think that that will be the most valuable aspect of my time in Salvador, that of what I need to do with it afterwards, in the society I know best and in environments that give me life.

For now, though, like many of my program companions have already asked their loved ones, please let me process better everything that I have just experienced. It’s been a whirlwind of time, and I’m sure you’ll all hear about what it means to me at a later date—just not now. I’ll be happy to share stories and thoughts here and there, but for overall understanding or insight, it just ain’t coming right now. What I can do is be amazingly excited to see all my loved ones and share some “sacred spaces” (Casa lingo) with all of you.

It’s good to be back, but it’s confusing as hell. I’ve left the planet of Mars (what I’ve nicknamed El Salvador) only to return to this crazy culture. How? Why? I’ll continue asking these questions, and I’d be delighted to share it with whomever cares to listen. Thanks for reading, and God bless. Que Dios te guíe y te bendiga! Con todo amor—

AMDG,
Anthony

Two Old Posts

27 abril 2007

Last night, we had two choices for community night: a 90s dance or going to Zach’s show at a bar in Zona Rosa. The show was supposed to start around 9:30, and the dance was slated for 8ish, so we could go to both if we so chose. However, the night before I got about and hour and a half of sleep, if I was lucky. We have been working on our sociology papers that were due yesterday at midnight, so I’m just beat. They’re partner papers, and I’m working with Amy, with a topic of political parties and how they’re represented in the Salvadoran news media, pretty much in two newspapers. It was an article analysis mixed with the stuff he’s tried to teach us in class this whole semester. Anyway, I went to go eat pupusas while Amy finished the conclusion, as she told me that I had written more than she (even though our work was technically even), and then brought her pupusas back so I could take over and do some editing. The dance started, and the 90s music started bumpin. It started to rain, actually a bit harder than usual, but that didn’t inhibit anyone from bustin the move, as we had the dance outside on our patio. I finally finished editing, and then threw on my dancing attire. The theme had originally been “anything but clothes (just not naked!)” but it gradually just turned into whatever people wanted to wear, as no one had the time to make clothes and other people said they were just gonna dress normally. But, I figured I had to take it up a notch. Our last week’s community night was tie-dye, and because I didn’t have any white shirts, I decided to dye some other clothes: a light blue t-shirt, and two pairs of whitey-tighties (boxer briefs and some regular ones). So, with the encouragement of Ryan (of course he would tell me to do something), I rocked the tie-dyed t-shirt and the boxer briefs, quite a wonderful combination of color, I must say. So, I had quite a bit of fun dancing to ridiculous songs from middle-school, out in the rain, with my compañeros en crimen. Finally, though, it was time to leave for Zach’s show, and I thought that was a good idea going on an hour of sleep. So, I changed (yes, it was a shame), and about 12 of us headed over to watch him play guitar and sing. This place is in Zona Rosa, the section of the city that is the ritziest and has the most nightlife. I knew where we were going, since we pass the place every day we go to praxis, and I half knew what I was getting myself into. However, it hit me a little differently when we actually arrived. Like I’ve talked about before, El Salvador is a huge dichotomy—really, as I say, we live on Mars, cuz this can’t be real. This place was very nice and scattered with people who could have been in New York, drinking mixed drinks and trying to appear worldly. It gave me a weird feeling the whole night, not necessarily negative or even me judging them for acting in such a way with their surroundings of El Salvador.

I guess part of the reason it got me thinking was my own personal state for the past weeks. I’ve been evaluating a lot what I want to do, how I want to live, my vocation—and how all this plays into what I see and experience here in El Salvador. Sometimes, there are conversations here about how one could live in luxury here, surrounded by all this poverty—how could one shop and have a nice house and “safe” life? But it’s not different than in the States, except the poverty and danger doesn’t confront you in such a harsh way. The reality isn’t in so many places, depending on where you live, obviously. So, if you’re going to make that argument about well-off Salvadorans, you’ll have to do the same about well-off North Americans. However, take some of the middle-class Salvadorans and compare them to some extremely poor people in Haiti or sub-Saharan Africa. Then, don’t you have to condemn them too? Basically, if you follow the argument, you would! Basically, then, everyone would have to lower his/her standard of living to that of the poorest person on the earth? Well, that isn’t making much sense, so we can’t really condemn these well-off Salvadorans like we’re doing and for the reasons we’re using. Instead, let’s think about what we can do and how we can understand the situation. Are we not allowed to have a car or a computer because the grand majority of the people in this world don’t have them? I’m gonna have to say no to that one, not just because I composed this on my MacBook or because you’re reading it from your own computer. I think this whole thing goes back to my last entry about being personally liberated, about doing things for yourself and not being influenced by others. Furthermore, I think that we must be very careful how we say that we and others need to live their lives. In the very least, we could always be criticized by someone else for some luxury item we possess. And for some, the shoes on your feet are a luxury item.

Part of this whole process, for me at least, is understand the personal degree of all this, of all this knowledge and experience I’m collecting, of my understanding of the world and others. This is part of my being liberated, as our theology professor would phrase it. I’m discovering my own personal belief system, how I want to live out my vocation. Those choices about what you want to have and what you choose to deny is yours. We can be encouraged by other people to change our actions, but in the end of the day, we have to take credit for what we do, what we have, who we are. Someone else can’t tell me how to be in solidarity with the downtrodden and how to live a simple life. Sure, I can take their suggestions, follow their example, or even feel the pressure to live a better life through their way of living. However, I will not let others try to tell me how to live my life, and on the other side, I cannot allow myself to tell others how to live their lives.

27 abril 2007 21:39
This morning, after theology class, I left the building with Chris. At a certain point, he went to split off the path back home, saying he was going to the Chapel (at the UCA). My plan after class was to get in a good hour nap before lunch, but when he said that, it reminded me of how much I had been wanting to go to the Chapel, to go to the Rose Garden—reminding me of my intention at the beginning of the year to visit those two places as much as I could. Let’s just say that I haven’t held up that promise to myself, when Chris told that to me, I went for the opportunity and skipped the nap.

When we arrived, the Chapel smelled of beautiful flowers, and as we got closer, I remembered that the massive amount of flowers covering the front of the church were for the recent death of an older Jesuit beloved by so many people down here. It was a strange sensation, sitting down to pray among the smell of these flowers—which in that situation was really the smell of death. Everything in the Chapel and its surroundings was reminding me of the realities of El Salvador, and I lost myself in thought. That happens more than usual here in El Salvador, just getting lost in memories and old experiences especially. Something about this place just makes me think of my past, and evidently that happens with a lot of students, as one of our directors told me. Especially last semester in Spain—my thoughts come from then. I have flash memories all the time from experiences during last semester. Basically, just how I’m writing here was how the thoughts came out of me. The people in my praxis site, my compañeros here, my successes and failures, my future (hell, even this summer), and so much more.

I left the Chapel and went to the Rose Garden, still completely lost. I was just praying, pleading with God to help me understand this place, to understand this experience, to help all this make sense in my life. We really do live on Mars, as this experience here has been so weird I can’t even explain it. Salvador really makes no sense, and now I’m beginning to understand why—and I think this process will continue throughout my time after I leave.

I want to return to normalcy—or at least what I’ve come to understand—and try to piece everything together. With my life.

Realization

So, I’ve found a little bit of worthy journaling to do, taking some time about for something that’s important at this point. This past weekend, I was sick. Really sick. Fever all weekend of around 102, terrible aches, horrendous headaches, and temperature swings like I were Jim Thome taking hacks at good breaking pitches. So, after I managed to get over 3 days of hell, I’ve just concluded, jódelo. ____ it. I’m just gonna finish this out, and I’m not gonna be counting down the days or be depressed that I’m still here. It’s been hard, it’s been good, it’s sucked; now I try to figure out what it means for my life, and go home and have some good food and good drinks with the fam. But before we do that, there’s still a whole lot of time in the middle. It may seem like less than a month, and you would be correct; but yes, that can be a long time in El Salvador.

I had a meeting with Tom today at Jugolandia, an awesome little establishment that makes a million and one combinations of fresh-squeezed juice drinks. Amazing, as today I went for orange, carrot, and strawberry. This stuff would be a good 4 bucks in the States, and it’s only 1.25. Highly recommended combination, if you’re into good tastes. Yeah, so Tom and I discussed some shtuff and enjoyed some drinks. He shed some awesome light onto a lot of difficulties I’ve been having (keep an eye out for this name in 10/15 years, Tom Gill, as he’s going places). Anyway, I figured I’d share a little with all ya’ll (that one goes out to the Southern readers). A big topic of conversation among those thinking about social justicey issues—I try not to take this too seriously, but damn they are important—and those who have confronted poverty head on and attempt to integrate that experience fully in their lives, is that of how much is enough for solidarity? I’m currently writing a reflection on the meaning of “solidarity” to me, and I’m hitting a big writer’s block of a wall—not only because I don’t friggin know my definition but also because my concept is getting battered by those around me. A common, almost, trait among some people in this realm is to try to be the most “just,” to solidarizar yourself the most with other people around the world. That’s great, don’t get me wrong; if you want to work in a refugee camp, more power to you. I’m glad there are people in the world like you to do that. However, the sad thing that happens is that it almost becomes a competition, and if you don’t make it to the quarterfinals, you’re looked down upon. I shouldn’t have to feel like I should have to work in refugee camp to be in solidarity, that if I really enjoy good beer then I’m a terrible person. I have my own vocation, which I’m trying to work out (obviously), and if that’s to live in a city and work for justice that way, then that’s fine. That’s more than fine, that’s what’s for me. You can have your own life, and that’s for you. A lot of times, I myself (and know that others have the same tendency here) can get caught up in this flurry of expecting such things out of myself. Of expecting me to be more this way, that I need to be able to wean me off of that life, to be able to sell my things and stay down here or move to Haiti. No, I need to discern that for myself, and if that’s what God is calling me towards, than I do that. Not because of your life, but because of my own. I need to find out what it is that’ll get me out of bed every morning, what’ll provide me true happiness. Because most likely, that’s where God wants me, as Tom put it. God doesn’t want us to be miserable, he added, and I agreed. My whole life is in front of me, and all I have to do is pay attention to God’s call (seems a lot easier right now, doesn’t it?). That’s a wonderful thing of being this age, though, and having the blessing of being born with so many opportunities: I can figure out my vocation and if I have enough self-determination (which I believe I do), I can realize that life. If I choose I want to go to Uganda to live for a year after college, then I’ll do that; and if I want to get a master’s in Spain, then I’ll do that. Gotta thank the parents for the amazing sense of self-efficacy and the endless, loving support that has given me the confidence to take these great leaps in my life, especially over the past year.

One other interesting piece of the convo that I figured would be helpful to share has been a common struggle among many of us, and that is our level of freedom here and also that of the States. I can say for myself that I usually take it for granted, as all of the places I’ve lived I feel safe to walk alone, explore, get in transportation and go somewhere, go to a museum, sit in a café, go somewhere at night to get a drink, so many things. Here, you’re limited. It’s not just safety issues but a symptom of Salvador. I’ve found that I’ve missed a lot of these things, specifically that I’ve lacked outlets I typically have. Simply walking to class or walking through the streets with my iPod, taking the subway to get some food, getting in my car to go to a friend’s house, grabbing pizza at 4 in the morning, whatever. And yes, we have that freedom in the US, the great majority of us. Even in the Bronx I can do that. Here, it’s not that easy, and many people don’t realize it right away, but it takes a toll. Hard. What it has helped me to understand (along with Tom) is how damn lucky we are for this. We need to appreciate our freedom, a lot of which comes from economics. And, we need to take advantage of our opportunity, not abuse it.

Anyway, I used to think my desire to return to Spain after graduation was a bad thing to want relative to this environment here, but today I realized that perhaps the year or two of service after college (what I had planned) maybe is not just right for me. I know this will continue to nag me during the coming year, that I will have friends just like those here who will be almost self-righteous in their beliefs about solidarity. I just have to keep searching for that vocation to which God is calling me, and somehow, some way, it’ll all work out, verdad? Yep, I just heard you say, it will indeed.

Love everyone, and wish me luck in this last time here, por favor. Paz y amor—

AMDG,
Anthony Joseph Damelio III

Week in the Campo

10 abril 2007

The Campo (countryside, roughly translated). Life is supposed to be different out there, and it is, but I have to say, it wasn’t that different for me….

Day 1 (Monday 2 April) – So we all leave in our microbus out to Chalate, which is the capital of the department of Chalatenango, which is in the northern part of the country, bordering Honduras. Our final destination was the town of Arcatao, which is about 2 km from Honduras, in the mountains. We were going to take a public bus up there, but missed it, and had to wait a couple hours until the next one came. They told us that the reason we had to take the bus was that our micro would’ve bottomed out on the road too much, as the roads up there are still not the greatest (and not paved). So, we packed onto this bus, a school bus with adjusted seats (that is, pushed closer together), and as many people packed in standing as possible. Fun. We get up to Arcatao at about 1 pm, but not before a 30-minute break while they had to put more air into the tires. For the first two days, our directors told us we’d be having a retreat of sorts with youth from the area. That was on Tuesday, so on Monday we just went to the retreat center and rested for the afternoon. Padre Miguel, the Jesuit priest of the parish of Arcatao, came to talk to us, and that night after dinner with went with him to the community of Las Vegas, to join in a youth gathering there. More anti-climactic than expected, as it wasn’t really happening as Padre had said it would.

Day 2 – So, the retreat started around 9, or I mean being Salvadoran, they started at 9:30ish. There were a good number of people there, youths from all sorts of cantones (little towns around the area), with many of them walking long distances to get there. The retreat was more of a youth event than a retreat, even though we broke up at various points into small groups to discuss topics related to Holy Week. It was interesting to meet a few different youths and try to get an idea of what was life there. In talking with Padre Miguel, he told me that they have very few options there. So many youths from that area are migrating to the States, as education past grade school is very difficult in most cases. You may have to walk an hour to get to high school in the city, if you can pay for it, and if your family situation doesn’t require you to start working when you can—sometime in grade school. He told me that many of them really have no financial means, just like their family, but it’s especially poignant for the lack of diversion, of ways to have fun. Many play soccer, if they have shoes with which to play. It’s a very static lifestyle, which I imagine to be extremely difficult for youths hearing about and seeing a little of the outside world’s culture of consumerism. Hell, even just realizing what they don’t have relative to many of their peers around the world.

That night, we went to a prayer vigil for the deceased brother of one of the becarias (scholarship students) who lives in Casa Ita (one of our three houses). He died a few years ago from gang violence on a bus, in a very nasty way. I’ve only heard part of the story, but it seemed very tragic, especially for a family from the campo. Well, it took us an hour in pickup truck to get out there to her house, and the service was about an hour long. There were a lot of people packed into their house, and many of us just stayed outside the room in support. It was a shame that I got some pretty terrible intestinal cramps while I was there, which spoiled the experience. But that’s part of the price you pay for life in Salvador—and it’s not just us foreigners who get these intestinal problems too (you often see bulletins everywhere about what to do when you get diarrhea, as it’s still a major cause of death for many babies here). The water is just that bad, it really is.

Day 3 – So everyone headed out to their families in the morning, except for me pretty much. So here’s how it is supposed to work: each person is paired with another student, and the pair gets placed with a family in a community, no more than one pair per community. Ray, one of our assistant directors, takes care of all of it beforehand with Padre Miguel, but of course, everything doesn’t work out as cleanly as hoped. Oftentimes, Padre Miguel will change things last minute or a community or a family will request things, so that morning some people’s communities even changed. Frustrating. The night before, Ray came up and talked to my partner, Adam, and I, and he said that they needed to split us up. Wow, this was a great thing for Adam and me, as we’re both fairly independent and have a good degree of Spanish, with a less-likely chance of having a breakdown from being alone. That morning, everyone left except for Adam, me, and a pair of women from our group. I continued to have intestinal difficulties, so while I was in the bathroom, Adam headed out to one of the families with whom we had the option to stay. Padre Miguel told me to leave my stuff at the Parish and to come with him, as I would be his compañero for the day. Yeah, I just tooled around with him: we dropped off two pairs of students at their families, ate lunch at the Parish with two other visiting Jesuits, went to two reconciliation services in the afternoon, and finally ate dinner with just Padre before heading out to my family at 7 pm. The reconciliation services were disheartening, really. The first one was okay, small with a lot of singing. The second one, larger, was just frustrating. While Padre was outside hearing confessions, the people inside for mostly just talking amongst themselves or trying to control their terribly-behaved children. There was a choir singing, but most of the congregation chose not to sing. At least that service was in the community of a pair of students, so I sat by them, just nice to see a familiar face. Finally, at the parish, the oldest son of my host family came to pick me up.

When I arrived at their house, I discovered that I was in the town of Arcatao, proper, instead of being out in a cantón—two blocks from the church. The family goes as such: Dad, a carpenter, Agustín; Mom, a teacher, Dominga; older son, Tomás, age 17; daughter, Silvia, age 15; younger son, Kique (Enrique), age 13. All three were still in school, and it is Tomás’s last year of high school, with hopes of going next year to University. I feel that he will. The family is fairly well-off for the campo, as they had extra beds, a fridge, a tv with antenna, a toilet, a shower, and the kicker, a computer with internet. We had been prepared before the trip for no electricity, no showers, no toilets (perhaps an outhouse), and perhaps not enough beds, with a family of many kids and parents who worked their own subsistence farming plot. Well, to say the least, I was not expecting this. The dad had all the tools he would need for carpentry, including big table saws, circular saws, and sanders. Anyway, that night most of the family went to the reconciliation service at the church in Arcatao, leaving me at home with Tomás. We actually ended up talking a little, and I helped him with his English homework for class. He didn’t really want help in terms of just giving him answers—what he really needed was pronunciation. It hit me just how poorly taught his class was, as they were forging along regardless of the students’ learning anything.

Day 4 Holy Thursday – That morning, they were still working. I helped Augustín with his carpentry, as they were making wooden rifles for the re-enactment of the Río Sumpul Masacre, which was a horrendous massacre of people from that region by the army during the war, in which a large river of theirs turned red from all the blood. It was very strange to be making guns for that reason in such an environment, as I had to ask the veterans who were there working if my design was realistic enough. Just a striking action.

That afternoon, like much of the time there, I just relaxed and read, while asking to help in whatever way I could. Because they were “on vacation,” there was really nothing I could do besides offer to do the dishes and help in the kitchen. Throughout the week, I helped make pupusas and tortillas, and I did the dishes a lot. I got the comment that men often don’t like to make pupusas and tortillas, and during a table discussion, my host father, only partially-joking, said because it’s women’s work. The machismo takes on a whole different life in the campo, not really as abusive and vocal in the streets, but generally just reinforcing the gender roles. The men work, the women do all the house work and take care of the kids. That’s how it is. My family wasn’t as bad as some stories I’ve heard, of the father just sitting there in the house the whole time while the wife works constantly, but my host father didn’t really jump up to do the dishes. He could cook, and each family member did their own laundry. The kids cleaned the house a lot, instead of the mother doing all the work. It helps that the mother is educated and has a job outside of the house, which forces the father to be more involved and the male children to get off their rumps. One good thing about the week was that I was able to finish my book for lit class, Un Día en la Vida (A Day in the Life), which is basically about the military repression before and during the war through the eyes of a campesina. Very fitting reading for the week.

That night, we went to Mass. The family is very active in the church, mainly through music. The mother leads the choir, Tomás (the oldest son) plays guitar, and Silvia sings. The father just kind of sits there and plays the tambourine. The mother has been very active for a while now, even going with a church delegation back in the early nineties to a sister parish in Seattle.

Now, I’ll just give some highlights about the rest of the week along with some observations. We had a Stations of the Cross on Thursday, at about the hottest point during the day, at 11 pm for an hour and half to the church (outside, on the streets). This time, the youths included a theatrical interpretation of some of the stations, which was quite good. The Good Friday service features a washing of the feet, which took on a new spin in this setting, as they had multiple examples of societal roles washing each other’s feet (student/teacher, parent/child, husband/wife, young person/old person, etc.). We went on a process on Good Friday later that night, which was the longest thing I’ve ever marched in, and yes, the slowest. Evidently the tradition there is just to walk pretty much as slow as possible. Saturday evening is the resurrection service, instead of Sunday for many of us in the States, which was different. Padre arrived very late, at 10:45 instead of 10, from another service. So we didn’t get out until after midnight. However, after that, we had the burning of Judas, which isn’t technically a church sanctioned event, though it’s tradition. A man with a life-sized effigy of Judas danced around the main square of town to a mariachi band, until they finally strung him up and lit him on fire, as children beat the flaming corpse as if it were a piñata. Very strange. We had many discussions amongst ourselves, as about 6 of us in the Program usually arrived in town for the services (as well as our directors), about the faith life of the people there. By Saturday night, everyone was very tired. There had been a lot of processions and masses and events, so during the Resurrection service children were sprawled out on the pews, people were sleeping on the backrest in front of them, and the only people paying attention were basically the old ladies. The Sunday service was pretty lackluster, as evidently the big thing occurred the night before. I expected it to be so much happier, a lot of singing and praise and just general gladness. The people just looked tired and beaten, and I expected the joy of Easter and the coming of Christ to be a great moment and joyful break from the mainly-static lives of many campesinos. A lot of what happened lacked great faith and real theological underpinnings. My friends who went on the silent procession one evening after a service told me that it really wasn’t silent, that people just started talking. The processions were supposed to have singing, and most of the people didn’t really care. Many of the events seemed like people were just coming more as a community activity, a social-event of sorts.

The family didn’t really taking much of an interest to me, which was sad for the whole experience. They really just led me around and didn’t feel like introducing me to people their knew and people who came into the house or whom they saw on the street. I was the awkward elephant in the room who everyone saw as not belonging but whom no one felt like addressing. Very frustrating, as there’s only so much you can do from a visitor’s standpoint. We went to the river twice to bathe, and there were a lot of people there, especially families. There was a natural water slide and a 10-15 foot jump into deep water that was fun, I must say. In the end, the goodbyes were awkward and the family didn’t seem to care, but oh well. I did have a good talk with the mother the last night about her and the family’s life and what they did during the war. Strangely, some of my companions echoed the same sentiment about not being integrated into the family very well and the family not introducing them. We have reflection tonight about it, so we’ll hear more about what everyone’s experience was like.

Usually, the week in the campo for the program does not fall on Semana Santa. This year, they gave it a try, as it fit into the schedule and would be an interesting opportunity to see this all-important week from the eyes of the campesino. The only problem would be that this is a vacation week for most people, as they’re not working for much of it; so we wouldn’t be able to help out with their farming or other house chores.

Italian food for dinner last night. This place is awesome, really. I spent about four hours in there the other day, skipping lunch at the house, instead going for a good espresso, homemade pizza, and a glass of Italian red while studying for our sociology midterm. I took a big group there last night, and I thoroughly enjoyed the gnocchi and his house red. The place is owned by this Italian man from outside Rome and his Salvadoran (we think?) wife. His red wine is some house red, made in his town outside Rome (we agreed that he’d never stoop to the level of getting Chilean or Argentinean wine, as it’s the cheapest and best stuff easily attainable here), and they make all their cookies, bread, and pasta in house. The pizzas are all made from scratch, and the espresso is damn good. It’s a lovely change from Salvadoran food, if you need a little boost of the world outside here every now and then. Makes me really happy, I must say. Miss that life and that food, though, a lot more than I had expected I would.

Salvador continues to be difficult, a challenging experience, especially after my time in Europe. I thought two very different semesters would give me a broad view of the world, which they have, but I didn’t expect them to pull me in seemingly different directions. I still have a lot of soul-searching to do, and this is a good place to do it. Another month, the last month, here we go!

Loving and missing everyone,
Anthony