Encounters to Remember Pt. I

-Riding in the back of a pick up truck up a mountain on the way to Zacamil.

The pick up truck

-Meeting Graciela, a 16 year old resident of Las Nubes, a rural community that we visited. She has a one year old child. The child was probably born when she was 15, and thus she was pregnant at the age of 14. I was buying outfits for my homecoming dance in high school when I was 14, and going to the movies with my friends on the weekends. While we were with her, she didn't smile and she didn't laugh. She didn't look happy to see us. She didn't look happy at all.

-Visiting the bedroom of Elba and Celina Ramos, two women who were murdered along with the six Jesuits killed at the University of Central America in 1989. The room that we visited was the room in which they were killed. We stood where they died. Our friend Julio, explained to us that their bodies were found with Elba, the mother, holding Celina, her daughter, as if to protect her.

-Eating pupusas at a local restaurant in Antiguo Cuscatlan. One of the items on the menu was the "Gringa", a term typically used to describe those of us from North America, but used there to describe the food we might eat. Our waitress laughed out loud, kindly and even with embarrassment, as she had to introduce this special on the menu to an entire table of "gringos". Quite funny.

-Meeting a woman, said to be about 70 years old, in another rural community that we had visited. She seemed to be about 4 feet tall, but her arms managed to embrace even the tallest among us. Her smile, with few teeth to bare,spread across her face. When our group requested to take a photo with her before we departed, she agreed. But first she retreated into her house. Gone for only a few minutes, she was immediately missed. When she returned she brought with her shoes. She had been barefoot, but for the photo she chose to wear shoes. She has dignity, a dignity rooted in a cultural very different from my own.

-Washing all of my clothes by hand for the first time, and enjoying it.

-Attending a mass in the crypt (where Archbishop Oscar Romero is buried), the basement of the cathedral in San Salvador to commemorate the anniversary of the martyrdom of Silvia. Silvia was a religious sister that worked with the people during the civil war in El Salvador. She was a dear friend of Otí, one of the women that I work with twice a week at my praxis site. The homily given by the priest ended with calls from the pulpit to remember the martyrs, each call was met with a massive community of Salvadorans responding in full strength. The passion in his message I could understand, even while my spanish abilities would not allow for direct translation. And the emblem of fellow martyr, Oscar Romero, was on the stole of that priest.

The altar in the crypt.

Casa Silvia

Nice group photo after our first pupusa dinner

Mural at my home in Casa Silvia (Silvia was one of the martyrs killed while serving the people of El Salvador during the Civil War)

My bedroom, a very necessary place to rest.

There are people at the root of those profits 1.20.11

Home in La Valencia

Today we visited La Valencia. We drove our little van, packed with 30 people, 5 per row, as far as it would travel. Then we hopped out of the van, and began to walk. We walked up the volcano for about 20 plus minutes until we reached a home. We stopped at that home and the family came out to meet us, really two child

ren came out to meet us. One was 6 years old, the other about 10 years old. Our host in the community explained their role in the coffee production.

We learned that the family receives one dollar for every 25 pounds of coffee that they gather. One dollar. And the 6-year-old child also works, in order to support the family. They said she is one of the best workers. She had dirt on her face and “New York” spelled across her shirt. She had a sweet smile that could be seen through that dirt.

And so for the first time, I saw the reality of the coffee trade. I had heard stories before of families such as this family. I had understood the value of fair trade. But I had not seen this little girl’s face. I had not seen her home. I had not walked the same path that her family walks to get water.

Something in me hurt. Not my legs from walking. Not my shoulders from sunburn. Not my stomach from my new diet. Instead, my heart hurt and my mind as well from trying to process this experience. I needed to know more. I asked about who buys the coffee. I learned that this family sells to a man who comes to their community to buy what they have collected. Beyond that man, details were unclear. Our Casa community coordinators believed that this man would have been some sort of middleman, who bought the coffee directly from the growers, and then sold it again. It is unclear to me, for now, who else is involved. But from the family that I visited, it is clear that they primarily interact with this one man. Once they have sold the coffee to him, they would begin to collect the crop again, until he returns.

Who is there to tell them that they deserve more than one dollar for every 25 pounds? It is certainly not this middleman. And who am I to buy coffee for nearly twice that much in every cup from each coffee chain, now knowing that that grower will not receive my dollars? This family does not see that profit, or the power that comes with a sustainable income, which could begin to relieve their poverty. Instead, their pockets and their stomachs turn to other sources of income when coffee just is not enough.

These are the stories I did not have time for at school. I had homework to finish and meetings to attend. I assumed that I understood the stories of these people and the value in fair trade that would keep them from living in poverty, as this family in La Valencia lives without a fair price. But when that home with a tin roof and the children working long hours stood before me, I realized how little I understood, not of the logistics in my head, but of the hurt of this family. Solidarity is becoming more real to me. Walking with these people is real, and learning of their hurt, and feeling it in my own heart is real as well. It is a hurt I will carry with me now when I use my dollars. There are people at the end of those dollars, at the root of those profits.

Forgiveness 1.16.11

"I know it is hard to forgive after so many attacks... let there not be resentment in your hearts."

-Oscar Romero

I am overwhelmed by the kindness of the Salvadorans. They invite us into their homes, with tin roofs, mud walls, and dusty dirt filled floors. They feed us, with tortillas, with fruit, and with cookies, even chicken. They share their stories, their hungry stomachs, their daily work, and their struggle for education. They share their histories, their poverty, their martyrs, and their faith. They expose their fears and their pains, even to the point of tears. And yet through all of that pain, they hold us in their hearts. They welcome us with open arms.

We have spent the past week of orientation visiting each of the Praxis sites where the Casa students will be working throughout the semester. We have visited small rural communities, urban schools, and medical centers hearing stories and learning more about the work that we will be doing. Every Monday and Wednesday we will leave for our Praxis sites at 7:30AM and work with these communities until 5PM. This work is one of the cornerstones of our time with the Casa de la Solidaridad program and the people of El Salvador. It is this time spent with the people that will take the theories that we are learning in our classes and allow them to become experience.

At La Valencia, one of the Praxis sites, I stood as a North American, holding my Nalgene, comfortable in my Chacos, aware of my privilege. And I wondered, and I wondered, and I wondered, how do the people of this community welcome me? How do they forgive my country's role in their history? How do they forgive me through their pain that they share so openly? Am I not the tax collector in their community? I take more than I need, letting them have what is left over after my wants have been fully met. Yet they love me and they invite me into their homes. And through that love they invite me into transformation. I have so much left to learn from these people about what it means to live as Jesus lived. As they welcome us with open arms, vulnerable in their sharing, and strong in their faith, I am invited to learn what it is to forgive, and to love.

The beginning 1.12.11 (afternoon)

I take with me, 45 minutes of sleep. 40 pounds of luggage. 21 years of life. 15 years of school. 2 and 1/2 years of college. I board the plane to El Salvador for 4 months. I should be sleeping. But I am not. When there is a fleet of clouds to wonder at out my airplane window, how could I? And below those clouds, the ocean, because I am going far away. There is plenty to worry about in my mind. Will my spanish be good enough? Will I miss home? Will I make friends that I can trust throughout this experience? Will I feel lost?

Yet my heart is not in these questions. I ask them only because I feel as though I ought to ask them, not actually because I am unsure of the answers. When I wonder if I ought to be worried, if I ought to be afraid, I find myself simply smiling. I know better. I have been here before. No, not on a flight to El Salvador. But here in this space, with a comfort in my heart that I cannot claim on my own. I have smiled in this same way before. I am familiar with this comfort in my heart, the comfort that surfaces in the times when I think I ought to feel most unsure and most afraid. I know this feeling well, and from it I have learned that God is with me. I have not boarded this plane on my own. I do not face adventures and challenges such as these on my own. Instead I hold close the love and support of each one of my family and dear friends. They are near, though I am far. With their love, I am not afraid. And God goes with me.

Casa de la Solidaridad Mission Statement

From the Casa de la Solidaridad Student Handbook

“The search- for self, for wisdom, for love, for truth, for justice, for

God - is strenuous and unending. We need good companions in order to

persevere in it. In good company, in a community of conviction, the

quest never loses its relevance, its urgency, or its savor.” - Kay Ashe, OP

The mission of the Casa is the promotion of justice and solidarity through the creation of a meaningful academic experience by integrating rigorous academic study with direct immersion with the poor of El Salvador. The program draws inspiration from the lives of the six Jesuits, their housekeeper and her daughter who were murdered at the University of Central America (UCA) on November 16, 1989 and from all the people of El Salvador who suffered during the civil war, especially those who were killed in their struggle for solidarity and social justice.

We invite you to immerse yourself in the "classroom" of the people of El Salvador. Dedicated to fostering "men and women for others," Casa de la Solidaridad is a unique living and learning environment. Here you can develop your intellectual potential, strengthen your ethical and spiritual values, and learn to become a socially responsible global citizen.

OUR DAILY LIFE INCORPORATES:

Living in Community:

We choose to live in community in order to share with and learn from others.

Living Simply:

We choose a simple lifestyle, uncluttered by materialism, in solidarity with the marginalized of our world.

Focus on Learning with an Emphasis on Justice:

We choose to integrate rigorous academic study with the experience of the marginalized of El Salvador in the hopes of

committing ourselves in the world to justice.

Cultural Sensitivity:

We choose to live in the context of another culture and context, honoring and learning from Salvadorans whom we are visiting.

Integrating Faith:

We choose to invite our spiritual journey into our daily experiences as we seek to understand the world with which we live.

Students are constantly invited to reflect on these components as the experience evolves. Weekly community and spirituality nights are an essential part of the program which provide space to reflect in an intentional and ongoing manner.

Casa de la Solidaridad Application Essay

I want to be challenged. I want to know poverty, to see it, to feel it, and to understand how my lifestyle affects it. I want to forget how luxury feels, how close comfort is, and instead depend on only what is essential. I want to learn the history of a people, of a land, of a culture not my own. I want to know the roots and the consequences of the conflicts, the atrocities, and the injustices perpetuated in a foreign land by my home country. I want to need my faith in God, yearn for prayer, struggle for understanding, and surrender to a power much greater than my own. I want to live a life that practices all that I believe, in simplicity, intentionality and active love. For all of these deep-rooted desires, I want the challenge that is participating in the Casa de la Solidaridad program, to walk with and learn from the people of El Salvador.

The person that I am today and the desires that have led me to this application have been formed by important relationships and experiences throughout my life. As Thomas Merton said, “In the end, it is the reality of personal relationships that saves everything”. From the compassion and kindness I learned from my parents to the relationships that I have formed with fellow students, friends, mentors, Catholic Workers, and Jesuits since coming to college, personal relationships have challenged me and motivated me to keep learning, growing and discovering what it means to live an active love. Through Casa program, in its commitment to students walking with the Salvadorian people and living in intentional communities, I could continue to discover those formative relationships that have taught me so much.

Considering what experience has led me to the Casa application, I recall the first time I attended the School of the Americas Vigil outside of Fort Benning in Columbus, Georgia. Participating in the vigil, at the age of seventeen, opened my eyes, my mind and most importantly, my heart. That experience challenged me to look further, beyond myself, and to see myself as wholly connected to my fellow human beings. At the vigil, I went to the Catholic mass hosted by the Ignatian Solidarity Network. I had attended private Catholic schools my entire life, but this experience was different. In the homily, I heard a call to action to end injustice. I felt a connection between my faith and the activism that surrounded me that weekend. I found within me a passion for learning and action, a passion that led me to attend the vigil the next year, the year after that, and again this past year. That passion made it clear to me that I wanted to attend a Jesuit university. My education thus far at Loyola has affirmed that choice and inspired me to seek a similar study abroad experience, one that promotes justice and solidarity, through the Casa program. I have been formed by the growth and strength of the communities that I have found in the years following the vigil, and hope to grow through the Casa community as well.

I anticipate that the there will be experiences through the Casa program that challenge me both on the surface and at the core of who I am. In conversations with Casa alumni, it became evident that this particular study abroad experience would not always be comfortable. Challenges, such as food, language, and cultural adjustments are ones that I anticipate will make life less comfortable, but also provide an opportunity for growth. There are other challenges that I anticipate will affect me on a much deeper level. I anticipate that it will be difficult to hear the stories of Salvadorians and their history, as there are many stories of great pain and suffering. It will also be hard for me to adjust to a culture not my own, where women may be treated very differently than they are in the United States. Finally, I anticipate that it will be overwhelming to transition back into my life in the United States after experiencing the reality of living with the Salvadorian people. It is these challenges, and the many more I cannot now anticipate, that may teach me the most about myself and invite me to grow in deeper connection to other people.

“You can't claim you're for peace if you're not willing to disturb it.” –Bill Maher

I cannot claim I am for peace if I am not willing to disturb it. My humanity is clouded and restricted by the systems of injustice in which I participate. My faith is dispensable in the privilege that I hold close. My love is confounded by my fear.

This November I traveled to Columbus, Georgia to call for the closure of the School of the Americas now renamed the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation. I joined a community of people, thousands of people, outside the gates of Fort Benning in Columbus. I traveled there as a student, to join other students, as a Catholic, to join other faith-filled people, as a United States resident, to join my fellow citizens, as a human, to come together in community. I gathered with that community to withdraw my consent from the practices of the School of the Americas (SOA). As a student, a Catholic, a citizen, and a human, I cannot deny what I have learned in the classroom, in my church community, from our government and in my heart.

This was not my first journey to Columbus. In the fall of 2006, I was introduced to the SOA. When my friend first mentioned the school, I had never heard of it, never knew the history of the massacres, and knew nothing of the annual vigil in Columbus. What I did have was a desire to learn. My friend invited me to travel with my high school to the vigil; I was eager to learn more. I began to read about the history of the school. I read about the village of El Mozote. On December 11, 1981 in El Salvador, over 700 people were massacred in the village of El Mozote. Over 700 people. No, my sixteen-year-old mind thought, no that could not be. Over 700 people? Women and children? Marta Lilian Claros was only three years old, her father, Domingo Claros, only twenty-nine, when they were both murdered. It then became clear that, yes, Marta was only three years old, and no, El Mozote was not a special case. No, this destruction was in fact systemic. This systemic destruction protects the economic and political power in Latin America, and thus U.S. interests in Latin America, by targeting human rights defenders and their communities. And the source of that system? Our U.S. tax dollars.

In the massacre at El Mozote, ten of the twelve soldiers of the Atlacatl Battalion responsible for the murders were cited as graduates of the School of the Americas. That school is on our soil. That U.S. Army training school has trained over 60,000 soldiers from Latin America with funding from our tax dollars. However, I did not understand my complicity until I arrived at the gates outside Fort Benning, where the School of the Americas is located. On the Sunday of my first weekend at the vigil, which has been sponsored by an organization called SOA Watch every year since 1990, I listened to the names of those families, those children, parents and grandparents killed by the graduates of the SOA. Throughout the solemn funeral procession, I listened to those names for over two hours. We marched with crosses and held the names of those victims in our hearts and resurrected their lives with our voices. With each name called, my mind expanded, my heart opened and my complicity sank deeper.

After that first experience at the vigil, each year I have continued to make the journey to the gates of Fort Benning. And each year, my experience has evolved. I traveled first with my high school, then with Veterans for Peace the following year, then with my fellow students at Loyola University Chicago. Each year I have been challenged in a new way. My community has evolved, as well as the faith and love in my heart.

This year, yet again, I was challenged in a new way. In the twentieth year of the vigil, I had to ask myself, how would our voices be heard? Were our refrains becoming comfortable? Was our presence becoming routine? I was invited to consider my participation in the vigil. Would I march in the solemn funeral procession on Sunday? Or would I risk arrest and participate in the opportunity for direct action on Saturday? These were not easy questions. There were not easy answers.

Not only was this the twentieth year of the vigil, but this November it was also undergoing a significant restructuring. Each time I have traveled to Columbus, the events of the weekend have been co-hosted by SOA Watch and the Ignatian Solidarity Network. The two have worked together to gather the masses from Jesuit institutions as well as communities of faith outside of the Jesuit tradition. Personally, my participation in the vigil has been greatly influenced by the Jesuit tradition. The opportunity to gather for mass at the Ignatian Family Teach-In in Columbus connected my faith with social justice. That connection resonated with me for the first time in Georgia, with the Ignatian family. Yet this year, the Ignatian Family Teach-In had moved to Washington D.C. and chose to focus on legislative action to close the SOA. So I too moved to Washington D.C., I too engaged in legislative action. I dialogued with legislative staff about the School of the Americas and immigration reform. I walked away feeling competent and grateful for a new perspective. I now knew more about what it meant to work within the political system. Yet I also walked away with many questions. The legislative staff told me that, while their legislator firmly believed in these issues and shared our passion for reformation, the current “political climate” simply would not allow for the change we sought. Therefore I left Washington D.C. with a new challenge, a new question, how do I contribute to that “political climate”?

The logistics were all set out for me. The vigil would take place for the twentieth year, outside the gates of Fort Benning. The number of people gathered may be significantly less than in years past due to restructuring. The solemn funeral procession would take place on Sunday morning. There would be an opportunity for direct action on Saturday, with the opportunity to risk arrest and partake in civil disobedience. Within all of these details I asked myself, what was in my heart? Where was my faith? Where was God calling me? The questions of the proper “political climate” followed me on my journey as well. How can I live in a “political climate” that allows for injustice to continue? How can I depend upon politicians who don’t have the courage to speak out during an unfavorable “political climate”? And again, how do I contribute to that “political climate”?

I have wrestled with the call to civil disobedience. I have had to confront great fears related to risking arrest. I have had to redefine many deep seeded understandings of what it means to follow rules and do the right thing. Yet, I have also struggled deeply with my consent to injustice. The suffering caused by the policies, positions and power that I hold as a U.S. citizen overwhelms me. I cannot sit forever in my fears and also live with inaction. Traveling to the vigil this year, I was called to confront those fears. When I felt most vulnerable and alone, I turned to my community of friends, family and fellow activists for support. I found strength in that community. I realized that I was not acting alone, but acting with the solidarity of those closest to me. And so I decided to raise my voice to affect that “political climate” in a different way.

I chose to nonviolently disrupt the system that keeps us within our permitted protest area every year, and with it keeps our collective voice and message within a permitted area, a safe distance from the media and the general population. I have utilized opportunities for legislative action. Yet the school has not been closed, in fact, the bill calling for its closure has not yet moved beyond the House of Representatives. For twenty years the movement to close the SOA has gathered at the vigil and for much longer, graduates of the school have perpetrated massacres and assassinations against the innocent civilians in their own countries. So this year, I chose to risk arrest and help hold a banner that read, “Stop: This is the End of the Road for the SOA”, while blocking traffic on Victory Dr., a highway in Columbus near Fort Benning and the location of the annual vigil. I chose to confront my fears in community with fellow activists and friends. I chose to trust in God, and act on my faith knowing that the consequences would not be convenient.

And they were not convenient. I was arrested and held in the Muscogee County jail overnight. Soon after my arrest, I was joined by a group of activists and journalists that had been unlawfully arrested by the police. These individuals had not participated in civil disobedience, but were picked up on the way back to their cars or while taking photos of the event. I received four charges, two city charges and two state charges. I was fined for each of the city charges and my state charges are pending; I was released on bond. In court, an undercover cop testified against me and detailed my involvement in the civil disobedience because she had infiltrated our nonviolent direct action. In retelling these stories, it sounds surreal. But in the cold of the cellblock and the chaos of the court proceedings, which found all but one of those arrested guilty, I felt and now remember how real it is.

In the words of Daniel Berrigan I have found great challenge and great comfort, “…it is unheard of that good men and women should suffer injustice or families be sundered or good repute be lost-because of this we cry peace and cry peace, and there is no peace.” I am challenged to reclaim what is means to be a good woman, and accept the sacrifices and fears that accompany standing for justice. My fears of civil disobedience were not soothed in jail. I was even more afraid when at the mercy of the judge than I was in preparation. However, in that moment, standing in his courtroom, I believe the two of us shared our fear. It was clear that the police in Columbus as well as the judge in the Muscogee County courtroom wanted to send a message through us. They sent a warning to the movement to close the School of the Americas, that we must not step out of line; we must not take our voices and our message outside of the permitted area.

In that warning I felt their fear. I learned that our voices hold power, the power to challenge the systems that perpetuate injustice and violence. The School of the Americas is just one element of the systemic injustices perpetuated by our U.S. military and government power. I felt the power of those systems, in the holding cell, the cellblock, the courtroom; and I was afraid. Then I remembered that I was not acting alone, we had the support of a strong community and a steadfast movement. The police and the government also know our power, our voice, our spirit; and in the warning they sent, they exposed their fear of any challenge to the power of their systems. And from that fear we allowed barriers to be built between us. I withdrew, stayed quiet, looked down. The guards and the judge looked past me, stayed distant, didn’t listen. Our systems, our power, our fear, we shared. And these barriers are as impermeable as we allow them to be. If we fear each other, we sacrifice the strength in our love. That love, however, is more powerful than that fear, much more powerful than our barriers. At the School of the Americas vigil this year, I found hope, knowing that we did not act with fear, but with God, in community, we acted with love.

Even as my hands rest

Student speech given at Ignatian Family Fall Teach-In 2010, Georgetown University

Even as my hands rest, the destruction in my name does not. I may stop to sleep, but my dollars do not. I may love, but my consent to injustice does not. As a human being, as a student, as a U.S. citizen, as a consumer, as a Catholic, as a member of the Ignatian family, how do I walk with the poor? How do I do what love requires?

To do what love requires is a journey. I stand here today, four years after my first experience with the Ignatian family, and I know where that journey, for me, began. It started on my first trip in high school to the School of the Americas Vigil. Attending the ISN Family Teach-In for the first time four years ago, I was introduced to the concept of social justice. I was challenged to walk with the poor, not simply donate to their cause. I stood outside the gates of Fort Benning in Columbus, Georgia, and I saw both police and crosses. I considered how I was connected to both. As a U.S. citizen, that School and its guards are funded with my tax dollars. I am a human, and there is a human name on that cross. I pay for the School that caused the death of the human on that cross. That complicity does not reflect my love. Beginning with that experience, it has been the journey of walking with others and discovering what it means to do what love requires, which has brought injustice into focus, that journey has placed injustice in my hands.

My journey continued the following year. I made the trip to Georgia with Veterans for Peace. Then the next year, I traveled with my fellow students at Loyola University Chicago to the vigil. Each year, my experience at the vigil and the Teach-In has evolved. The School has not been closed, so I continue to make the trip, to hold vigil. And each year, my understanding of how I participate in injustice has evolved. I have learned more about the history of injustice perpetuated by my government, a history that was not shared with me as a child. A history, and a reality, that would not be shared with me even today, if I were not open to it. Yet it is a reality that I am invited to claim if I want to begin the process of changing it.

To change that reality, to walk with the poor, the suffering and the oppressed, as I was invited to do at my first Teach-In, I must first withdraw my consent to injustice, in order to love. I am invited to identify my participation in the systems that allow injustice. Only then can I begin to resist, and begin to walk in solidarity with the poor. I can challenge where I place my loyalties, is it in my government or is it in my people? I can discover where violence exists in my life, who suffers at the ends of the policies, positions, and power that I hold? Only then can I envision another reality, and begin to walk with the poor, to do what love requires. Does love require dialogue with legislators to make policy changes about Climate Change, Immigration and the SOA? Is that dialogue enough? Can I walk with the poor and still rest in the system that keeps them poor? What does it mean to protest or hold vigil? To disrupt the system? Beyond government, how else does my lifestyle affect these issues? The food I eat, the clothes I buy, and the conversations I share can all be challenged to support an active love, yet it isn’t easy. Where am I on my journey to walk with the poor, on my journey to do what love requires? Where are you on your journey? Once I admit to my brokenness, my participation in injustice, I am called to believe in a power greater than my own. I am vulnerable in that brokenness, and in that vulnerability; I have found my need for community.

I discovered that community here first. That first year, welcomed into the Ignatian family, I felt the strength in community. I was challenged and supported at one time in the Jesuit mass, in the community of people gathered together to share in a meal that is both life giving and unsettling in its call to action. I returned to that community the next year, and the year after that, ready for that challenge and yearning for that support. I have not made this journey alone. I cannot challenge systems of injustice on my own. I do not challenge my complicity alone. The gospel calls us to turn away from sin, and in that journey we turn away together, we walk strong together. Who do we walk with? Who do we invite to walk with us? As a part of the Ignatian family, I am invited to draw in both the politician and the persecuted poor into one vision of love. I am invited to identify those people suffering from the effects of climate change, people crossing the border into the U.S., and those people killed at the hands of the graduates of the SOA, as part of our community. Their pain becomes my pain. Their suffering, is tied up in my own. Their strength, their inspiration and their love, are the hope that we share. To walk together, with the poor, and live the prophecy of an active love, we need each other. Together we can do what love requires.