on nicas and nationality...

New week, new country. I guess that happens a lot in this job. Although I'm not sure why it was such a bizarre sensation to me this time around - the idea that life, almost entirely, could be so different just a few days later. The rhythm changes, staff changes, climate changes (goodness it's hot here) and the political landscape changes.

Nicaragua is distinct from the other two countries for lots of reasons, but especially due to its unique history: a Revolution that triumphed and a counter-revolution that ravaged the country. Earthquakes and hurricanes and leaders that seem to take advantage of the people rather than build them up, have left Nicaragua in tough shape economically. It's the largest country in Central America, rich in resources, but the second poorest in the hemisphere, after Haiti.

This economic situation means that lots of people immigrate. However, while hundreds of Salvadorans are going to the States every day, people in Nicaragua are filling the jobs left behind in Honduras, Guatemala and Salvador...and most commonly, attempting to cross the border into Costa Rica, where there are better jobs with better wages. It's created quite the contempt filled relationship between these neighboring nations; one similar to that between Mexico and the United States. On Tuesday, Joao brought me to the national theater to see 'El Nica'; a monologue in which a Nicaraguan immigrant talks about his faith, life, journey, challenges, rage, hope and pride.

It was incredibly moving to see an immigrant's resilience depicted with such humor and honesty, and painful to see how humans treat each other based on border and class. However, for me, the most powerful moment was the end, when the whole theater stood up and applauded their flag, so many with tears in their eyes for their people and enormous pride in their country. I stood there and applauded as well - feeling somewhat out of place - having one of those moments where I wonder 'How did I end up here? A gringa in Nicaragua, caring so much about immigration to Costa Rica? How is it that life/my decisions brought me here? Why haven't I ever clapped for my flag with tears in my eyes?' And all of the sudden I felt so saddened by the fact that I'm not proud of where I'm from. I was so envious of all of those people who tell you where they're from with that sure smile on their face like nothing anyone could say about their homeland would make them any less proud of it. And me, I'm not proud of it, just ridiculously privileged because of it - life is so strange.

And in the midst of this little question-session going on in my head, the actor began to wind together the Costa Rican and Nicaraguan flag, and the applause swelled. And with that symbolic action I started to feel part of what was going on again, because then I felt part of a movement. So I don't sing to stars and stripes - and that doesn't mean I'm ashamed of where I'm from - I'm just also not boasting about what my nationality so often stands for in places like Latin America. I'd rather identify with this group of people, with people in general that also want borders to mean less and people to mean more. I want so much of who I am to be about learning and educating in order to move closer to treating people like humans regardless of nationality.

Back in real life, turns out I don't get to turn my passport in for one to some 'nationless utopia' where everyone is equal. Hm. Which means I'm reminded, again and again, that being born in Iowa rather than Managua means that I was also born with a responsibility to use my privilege to love better, to be generous, and to work for changes that validate the idea that people are more than their nationality.

marching for Romero and peace...

Our time in El Salvador always flies by. We only spend four weeks there to begin with, and to add to the chaos, we spend every weekend in a different community observing the ways they have decided to live out Liberation Theology.

This time around, the students begged to stay one day longer than usual. The march commemorating the 30 year anniversary of Monsenor Romero's assassination was held on Saturday (our scheduled day of departure) and the students wanted to be there. After a month of hearing about this man - revered as a prophet by many and a as saint by others - they wanted to be there and to march in solidarity. And I'm so glad that we did.

It was a moving day for a lot of reasons. Despite the fact that I've only spent a total of 4 months in El Salvador over the course of the past 2 years, we ran into so many people that I've met along the way: members of christian base communities, local youth, other foreigners working for social justice. There was a sense of community that was touching. A sense that those of us who truly long for things to be different aren't alone in that desire. And in the few years since I've dedicated myself to this path, this path of attempting to live serving and loving others - I've realized that those moments of feeling deep solidarity and hope in a collective people are fewer than I'd like them to be. And therefore they must be appreciated, savored even.

The march began with a victorious feel, and we've definitely got to celebrate victories! Romero is celebrated every year, but this was the first year that the government officially joined the people in this celebration and publicly apologized for his murder. President Funes came to the march and declared that Romero was the greatest patriot El Salvador has ever seen and that the current government would measure their work for a better society according to how it is measuring up to Romero's vision for El Salvador. If you know the history of politics in El Salvador (too lengthy and complex to get into here), this is truly incredible.

And then we marched. We marched for a few hours from one of the richer parts of San Salvador right down into the center, to the national cathedral. It was downhill, and as we worked our way closer to the cathedral, the buildings were more and more run down, the street vendors more desperate to sell, the smell far less appealing, a downright stench, in fact. Poverty isn't pretty. It seemed beautifully appropriate to me in that moment that there was such an unpleasant contrast from where we started and where we were finishing.

Romero didn't plan to become the advocate he became. He could have easily stayed in his comfortable position of power and chosen not to walk into the pain and suffering, and ultimately the death, of the poor and repressed. But he did. And if we look at the paths that people in power generally take, that's a pretty miraculous act. Romero inspired a thirst for justice and empowered a battered people to use their faith for fuel - not only to claim their rights but to fuel them into living out their faith through relationships. The month in El Salvador always reminds me, in new ways, that this 'revolutionary' stuff is really about relationships and that my faith is really what fuels my desire for revolution, my desire for genuine peace.

A few words from Romero:

"Do you want to know if your Christianity is genuine? Here is the touchstone: Whom do you get along with? Who are those who criticize you? who are those who do not accept you? Who are those who flatter you?"

"Peace is not the product of terror or fear. Peace is not the silence of cemeteries. Peace is not the silent result of violent repression. Peace is the generous, tranquil contribution of all to the good of all. Peace is dynamism. Peace is generosity. It is right and it is duty."

no tengo miedo a la muerte...

Ya no tengo miedo a la muerte,
conozco muy bien
su corredor oscuro y frío
que conduce a la vida.

I am no longer afraid of death,
I know well
its dark and cold corridors
leading to life.

Tengo miedo de esa vida
que no surge de la muerte,
que acalambra las manos
y entorpece nuestra marcha.

I am afraid rather of that life
which does not come out of death,
which cramps our hands
and slows our march.

Tengo miedo de mi miedo,
y aún más del miedo de los otros,
que no saben a donde van
y se siguen aferrando
a algo que creen que es la vida
y nosotros sabemos que es la muerte!

I am afraid of my fear
And even more of the fear of others,
who do not know where they are going,
Who continue clinging
to what they think is life
Which we know to be death!

Vivo cada día para matar la muerte,
muero cada día para parir la vida,
y en esta muerte de la muerte,
muero mil veces
y resucito otras tantas,
desde el amor que alimenta
de mi Pueblo,
la esperanza!

I live each day to kill death;
I die each day to give birth to life,
and in this death of death,
I die a thousand times
and am reborn another thousand
through that love
from my People,
which nourishes hope!

-by: julia esquivel

at our doorstep...

Now, I don't generally agree with much of what Reagan said or did, but I thought this quote offered some perspective:

"San Salvador is closer to Houston, Texas, than Houston is to Washington, D.C. Central America is America; it's at our doorstep."

-televised national address on May 9th, 1984

You know, we're really not that far away down here, and if that's the case, why doesn't life here matter to the majority in the United States? Things just shouldn't be as they are. If a family member moves from Minnesota to Washington for a promotion, we applaud them for taking economic strides. If an El Salvadoran moves from San Salvador to San Antonio, they're immediately considered a criminal.

While this argument was used by Reagan to defend killing hundreds of thousands in a war against communism, today I hope it might inspire a little grace and empathy for those who fall outside of the arbitrary borders that decide who is worthy of opportunity and who isn't. It's worth thinking about the lines we draw to differentiate one human's worth from that of another.