LETTERS from Guatemala & Mexico 

Dear Friends,

I find it hard this year to know what to say in this Christmas greeting.  I could write so many stories of people we know and what has happened to them during this year.  One story is more moving and heartrending than the next.

What is the meaning or message of Christmas?  Each year I ask myself the same question.  Each year I answer a little differently.

When Jesus was born there were:

shepherds, magi, gifts,

angels singing and rejoicing,

news of great Joy, a King is born

There was also:

a long tiring journey,

no room in the inn,

fleeing at night to escape death,

the murder of innocent children.

Christmas.  The life/death mystery.  In Spanish the essence of this is expressed in the traditional greeting "Felices Pascuas" which is used to wish a "Merry Christmas" and "Happy Easter".

Our life here in Guatamala is also a life/death mystery, a life of extremes.  We are surrounded by unbelievable evil and violence and by unbelievable selflessness and love.

You may have read about how many thousands have been killed here in the past years.  Why are people killed?  Who are killed?  Often, it is people who believe in the dignity and equality of people.  Who take Jesus' message that "I have come that they may have life and have it to the full" seriously.  Life being enough food to eat, a house to live in, the possibility of health care, schools, etc.  In Guatemala today that is a subversive message.  A Christian who tries to live that message is labelled a "Communist", and considered a threat to the established government.

All of this becomes so much more real when people we know become part of the statistics.  Manuel was a catechist - not really the brightest - but full of good will.  Jane had cured just about every member of his family at one time or another - the kids of worms, his wife of anemia after so many pregnacies, Manuel of a back ache after working in his fields.  Silvia and I had studied the bible together with Manuel.  He was shot one Sunday at midnight.  Who will take care of his wife and 7 kids, the youngest 4 months old?  His is only one case among thousands.

It is a read challenge to believe in the hope of Christmas and it is often the people we are with who call us to hope with their laughter in the midst of pain and what looks like a hopeless situation.  

We are grateful for whatever you can do to help support us and people we are with - your prayers, money gifts and involvement with groups trying to change U.S. policy in Central America.

May Christmas be a special time of peace and joy for you and your loved ones.

Dear

My wayward spirit has been on the move again.  You can now find me in Chiapas, Mexico working with Guatamalan refugees who have had to flee the terrible massacres being carried out by the government of Rios Montt.

14,000 of the 100,000 refugees estimated to be in Mexico are located in the parish where I am working.  Daily one is confronted with the extremes of evil and of goodness.  The other day I was waiting for a small plane to fly out from one of the camps.  Eight others were also waiting, hoping to be flown out to the hospital.  They had arrived ten days earlier from Guatemala, walking through the jungle, or being carried.  All were suffering from severe malnutrition.

I'll just tell you about one of those people - Juana, a young Indian girl, about 10 or 11 years old.  Her family were all killed by the army.  A young boy of 15 or 16 years carried her through the jungle, took care of her in the clinic, bathing her and feeding her, and was patiently waiting with her for the plane.

 I sat by her side all that day - waiting, feeding her sugar water by the teaspoonful, fanning the gnats from her face and growing angrier and angrier at the incredible inhumanity of those who cause innocent children like Juana to suffer and die, alone, when life should be just beginning and filled with joy and wonder and hope.  I look at the picture in my wallet of Diana, my niece, smiling, healthy and loved and I look at the shriveled, 'old woman' face of Juana and I feel the pain and frustration in every fiber of my being.  My spirit cries out, "our God is a just and loving God that wants life to the fullest for all His children.  He/we cannot accept this desecration of life."

Around 5 o'clock we knew that the plane would not be coming that day.  The others began to head back to their shelters and Juana was carried back to the clinic.  I left the next day by boat to go to another camp.  I don't know if the others got out of if they died waiting by the side of that primitive airstrip.

One sees so much senseless suffering and pain.  It is hard to even know what to write.  I could go on and on with countless stories of so many - running from bullets, children burned alive, pregnant women slashed open with a machete and the unborn child taken out, others dying slower of starvation.  And somehow when one meets these people face to face who have witnessed these horrors and lived through them one can't ever be the same again.

I walk through the camp.  They come up.  "Madre, can you bring us a pot?  We have nothing to cook our corn and beans in."  "Madre, can you bring me a bottle of vitamins for my child?  He is so pale."  "Can you bring us some clothes?  I only have this one dress."  and that dress is in shreds.

I go into the house or just stop on the path and we start to talk.  The story comes out slowly - the army coming in, shooting, burning, the fleeing with whatever they can grab quickly, first the children and then a few clothes, maybe a pot.  Sometimes they get lost and never make it to the border.

They arrive here and try and make a life for themselves.  One is struck by the indomitable will of these people to live and to go on.  Walking through the camps, one often sees a small plant being nurtured  - tomato, squash, herbs.

They are for the most part, very much a faith-filled people.  We come together to pray and reflect.  What is God asking of them/us in the midst of this? - the challenge to share the little they have with

someone who has less; the need to reach out with compassion to another who is also grieving; the urgency to continue to build the kingdom of peace and justice here in this world, in spite of unremiting persecution.

My own faith is challenged to the core.  How can I speak of sharing, reflect with them on the first Christian communties, and then not share what I have?  How can I complain of being weary, when I see the cross they are carrying?  How can we together celebrate our belief in a God who has promised to be with us through all the trials of life?  And so, we offer each other friendship and companionship through this desert passage.  They teach me patience.  They teach me what it is to really put ones trust in God for one's daily bread, for life itself.

I have seen the tears as they share their deep pain, and I have been blessed, too, to share the healing, refreshing laughter of the children as they play, free from fear.  These people grieve for all they have left behind - family members killed or missing, homes, fields, animals, all that makes for a normal life.  And yet, they continue to hope and work for a more just and peaceful world for themselves and their children.

Sometimes riding down the river in the cool of the evening, the jungle slowly passing by, all tranquility and peace, it is hard to believe that there is a war going on so nearby.  I think of the child, Juana, and of so many men, women and children who have become a fiber of my being these last few months.  I thank God for the precious gift of life He has given us.  I pray that all this pain and suffering and loss of life will come to an end and I renew my own commitment to do whatever I can to make that dream a reality.

I share these few impressions with you.  If you want facts and figures, there are many Solidarity groups all over the States who will readily share them with you and offer concrete suggestions on what you might do from up there to help us here.  If you don't know of any in your area, write to the Office of Social Concerns, Maryknoll, N.Y. 10545, and they will be happy to put you in touch with a group.

My present address is:

Casa Parroquial

Ocosingo, Chiapas

Mexico 29950

I'd love to hear from you, too!

RISE, TAKE THE CHILD AND HIS MOTHER 

AND FLEE TO EGYPT FOR HEROLD WILL 

SEARCH FOR THE CHILD TO KILL HIM.

Mt. 2, 13

Dear

You are often in my thoughts as I travel up and down the river - sometimes baked by the head of the tropical sun and sometimes drenched by a sudden shower or a slow steady rainfall.

Last week I went to a camp where 503 refugees had recently arrived.  Why did they come?  Aren't things better now that the government in Guatemala has changed?

On July 19th the Guatemalan army entered the village of La Esperanza (esperanza means hope).  Five people were killed, women were raped, houses, animals and crops were burned.  Hidden in the jungle, these people survived almost 3 months until they were again forced to flee.  Army personnel in helicopters and on foot patrol the area, shooting at wherever it seems possible people might be living.  A ten day flight through the jungle brought them to a refugee encampment in Mexico.  

The story has not changed.  Presidents Lucas, Rios Montt and Mejia Victores have headed ther Guatemalan government.  The US government says that they have improved their record on human rights, but the people tell a different story.

Juan's wife was shot in their home by Guatemalan soldiers.  Maria waited for her husband to return from the store.  He never came back because he was picked up by the army, tortured and killed and left on the side of the road as an example for others.  Esther is 13.  Her brother, Santiago is 4.  They escaped when the army went into their village, killing and burning.  Their mother, father, 6 brothers and sisters, an aunt and 2 uncles were killed that day.  Since having to abandon their home, Candelaria has lost 3 of her 5 children.  One was shot as they fled and 2 died of malnutrition after arriving in Mexico.

The government claims that these people are "subversives", "communists", "guerillas" and therefore must be killed.  I think if you ask Juan, Maria, Esther, Santiago or Candelaria, they would have a different answer.  Ask any refugee and you get the same answer.  "We are fleeing from death...from the army that wants to kill us and our children."

A child was born 2 days ago to one of the survivers from La Esperanza.  I wish you could meet Francisco,.  He is a beautiful, healthy baby.  What kind of life will Francisco have?  What hope does this child from the village of Hope have?

Another child was born about 2000 years ago. He, too, was not born at home, but in a strange land.  He, too, had to flee with his mother and father because those who held the power in that land wanted to kill him.  I can remember being horrified by the slaughter of the holy innocents, yet secure in knowing that that kind of thing only happened in ancient history.  I am not secure any more.  Only an hour by plane from the US the tragedy of the holy innocents continues daily - children are herded into a building and burned alive, babies hung upside down and decapitated with a machete.  As the women of Bethlehem wept for their children and would not be consoled so these women and men of Guatemala weep for their children.

We celebrate Christmas - "I bring you news of great joy ...  Peace on earth to all of good will".  And celebrate we should because Jesus' birth was gift to all of us that goes on and on - a gift of love, of peace, of justice, of hope.  May we all, including all the little Franciscos of this world, share in abundance these Christmas gifts of love, peace, justice and hope during the coming year. 

In this time of Lent, of Spring, we move from death to a celebration of Life.  Here in my life among the refugees we also are moving from signs of death to signs of life, thanks to the hope, determination and hard work of the refugees themselves, and support that comes from many sources.  

We experience this spirit of new life when we visit the camps.  The children crowd into the makeshift schools, so eager to learn.  Their teachers are refugees, usually young people who may or may not have finished grade school, and who want to share the little they have received with the children.  We meet with the teachers when possible to give them some orientation on teaching methods and content.

Around 11 A.M. the line forms at the Children's Dining Room.  In most of the camps, we have been working with the community in the running of a 'one-meal a day' nutrition program for pregnant women and all children from birth to 12 years of age.  The women elect their own committees and are learning to organize themselves and work together in this common project.  It is a challenge for them as they come from many different language groups - Mam, Kanjobal, Kekchi, Quiche, etc.

Another communal project has been the planting of gardens.  A crew is out there as the day dawns, hauling up water from the well to water the small shoots before the heat of the day becomes oppressive.  Can you imagine how good a freshly picked radish or tomato tastes after not having eaten one in over a year?

Most refugee families have built their houses on a piece of land varying in size from 5 by 5 meters to 25 by 25 meters, depending on the camp they are in.  The houses are simple, built with poles and palm leaf or heavy cardboard roofing.  The Church provides the cardboard roofing when the palm leaf is no longer available.  It becomes a common work effort to build the houses of the widows.  There are over 100 in the camp of Puerto Rico.

But not all is hope and resurrection.  The suffering, torture and death of the people in Guatemala continues.  The end of March in one small village in the Department of Huehuetenango, 120 men, women and children were slaughtered by the army.  In February 101 people left another village when the army came in shooting and killing.  Only 99 arrived in Puerto Rico (now the larget camp with a population of over 5000).  2 children died on the 40 day march through the jungle.  Those who did arrive are severly malnourished.

Here in the camps, there are thousand who go to sleep at night remembering - remembering those in their family who are dead or missing;  wondering whether parents, children, spouses are alive and where they might be.  You can't pick up a phone and call, or even write a letter to the last known address telling where you are.  It would be dangerous for both the sender and the receiver.

After the houses, letrines (sic), school, clinic and Children's Dining Room are built and the paths cleared, what does a man do all day to feel he is useful and to earn a little money?  He is a good farmer, but he has no land.  How can he buy clothes for his children?  The used clothes the Church sends aren't enough for everyone.  And the little sugar, beans, salt and corn the Church and the United Nations (through the Mexican government) distribute don't last the whole month.

The radio station from Guatemala announces that the Guatemalan government is asking for the return of all the refugees in Mexico.  So as their fate is determined by others, the refugees live with the insecurity and fear that they may be sent back to the living hell that is their homeland.

A few years back a young man, only 33 years old, was brutally tortured and killed, based on a charge trumped up by the authorities of his day.  He spoke and acted once too often in favor of the people around him who were hungry, sick, and homeless, and against those who propagated and profitted from their sufferings.

The good news is that he didn't stay dead.  He lives even today, and because he lives, we don't have to stay dead either.  We, too, can speak and act in favor of the hungry, sick and homeless in our world.  We can speak and act against those who cause and profit from their sufferings.  We can continue to move from death to LIFE.

Dear

This is the hardest letter I've had to write.  That fragile spark of hope among the refugees that i wrote about only two short months ago has been quickly and cruelly crushed out.

I am at a loss for words to know where to begin.  I'd have to write a documentary but there isn't time.  I do want you to know a little of what is happening here though, as I doubt you are getting many facts through the media.

April 30th the Mexican government announced that all the refugees would be moved out of Chiapas to the neighboring state of Campeche.  The refugees immediately responded by writing to the President of Mexico, the bishop of the diocese, the representative of the United Nations Commission for aid to refugees and solidarity groups expressing their wish to remain in Chiapas, closer to their homeland.  They did not want to abandon all they had worked so hard to build up in the 2 years.

The government response has been an immediate, badly organizd and at times violent mass movement of refugees out of the area.  The enclosed letter, sent from Puerto Rico camp tells some of the story.  Many have chosen to resist the resettlement.  Others have chosen to accept the move to Campeche mostly because they fear what might happen to them if they resist.  They fear they would be killed here or be sent back to Guatemala to be massacred or lose the meager possessions they take with them to Campeche.  In all of this, these people have been treated like pawns in a chess game being played by the Mexican, Guatemalen and US governments.  Each has its political goals.  These poor people who have suffered so much are the ones who continue to suffer as others play their power games.

The move has been poorly planned.  In less than 2 weeks more than 5000 (?) have been moved.  The facilities have been completely inadequate.  On arrival the first groups were left standing in the rain and mud as no shelter had been provided.  In their stop over point in Palenque, halfway to Campeche, there were at one time 600 in a gym with 1 bathroom that had no water.  Later they were transferred to a stadium with no facilities at all.  Often the doctors provided by COMAR, the Mexican Commission for Refugees of the UN, had no medicine.  One woman with tuberculosis died in Palenque.  Her husband was not allowed to stay with her but was sent on to Campeche.

Yes, some do go of their own will, hoping to find security and a piece of land.  COMAR has promised them much.  So far they have delivered little more than more pain and suffering.  Will we as Church personnel continue to be with these people?  That is a question I can't answere right now.  We, too, are just pieces in this power game that is being carried out here in Central America and in Mexico.  

As election time comes closer in the States, we do have a chance to change the direction our government is taking.  We don't have to continue this way of violence we have been propagating.  Together with these people we reflect  on the Exodus journey through the desert.  We draw strength from Paul's words to another suffering people:  We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed but not driven to despair;  persecuted, but not forsaken;  struck down but not destroyed, always carrying in ourselves the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in us.  2  Cor  4,  8 - 10.

Dear friend,

It seems like it has been such a long time since I have sat down to write to let you know a little about what has been going on in my life and in the life of the refugees with whom I have been with these last two and a half years.  The transfer of the refugees from Chiapas to Campache began in July.  I was able to join them here in the camp the end of October.

What do I tell you of our life here in the camp of Quetzal-Edzna?  How do I capture with a few paragraphs what is here?  There is so much richness and so much pain.  There is hope, too, but always with that uncertainty lurking not too far away - where to next?  When?  We plant papaya trees, banana plants, flowers and herbs.  We ask ourselves, "Will we eat their fruits?"  Some say, "Why bother?", and others say,  "Why not?", "Someone will benefit, although it might not be us."  

If I feel a great weariness in my being at times, how much more so must they.  Our presence seems to help, to be a consoling and animating presence.  They don't all come and talk, (thank God they don't as there are almost 5,000 in the camp and new people arriving still) but they know we are here.  And many do come - to offer us a piece or two of bread, a few carrots, some hot tortillas, an armful of dry firewood.  And often they sit and we chat over life in the camp - "How's the water supply today?... wasn't it cold last night...", and this chatting leads to deeper, hidden things which gently need to be touched.  "My three children were killed in Guatemala by the soldiers.  I can't sleep at night because I keep remembering when the army came to massacre us."  And the tears come.  "My husband is sleeping with another woman.  There is no one from our families here to give us advice.  What advice can you give us?"  The list could go on and on - each person is unique, the story ofter the same, the pain so real.   

You might ask, and many do, "What do yo do all day?"  The days pass so quickly by, we often ask ourselves the same question!  So much remains left undone, especially letter writing, it seems.

Life usually begins early as the water trucks come in, blowing their horns and revving their motors about 4 am.  Then the radios go on, the children cry, the roosters crow and another day has begun.

The health situation has greatly improved.  The epidemics of dysentary, measles, and whooping cough have passed, although we are left with over 100 graves, mostly of little ones who just didn't have the strength to resist so much sickness.

The group of women that we work with that were visiting the sick as we tried to offer some help in the crisis time, has now turned it's energies to learning about local herbs that serve as home remedies and improving their little piece of land to plant some herbs and vegetables.

The group that is responsible for preparing yogurt from the culture continues to produce the yogurt but has begun to learn recipes, using what is available in the camp.  The yogurt has served to alleviate some of the dysentary and to be a nutrition supplement.  About 125 liters are distributed daily. 

Our day usually ends early, as our only light is candle light or a flickering kerosine fed wick.  It sometimes ends with a prayer as we meet with a small grouping of people in their homes, reflecting on a bible reading and what God is saying to us here in our situation as people in exile.

The other night we were with a group from the pueblo of Kaibil as we gathered to remember the massacre of their pueblo.  We prayed for those who were killed that night - Manuel Perez, and with him, all of his family; Catherine Domingo and her three children, ...That night three years ago these refugees thought they were dead.  Now they thank God for the new life, the resurrection they have experienced here in Mexico.  We prayed for another resurrection -- a return to a Guatemala in peace.

They told the story of Misael, born three years ago, in the jungle, as they watched the smoke of their burning homes rising to the sky.  His name translated in their Indian dialect of Mam signifies tristeza y llanto ( sadness and weeping).

At this time of Easter and new life, let us work and pray for peace so that Misael and all of these children will no longer know sadness and weeping, but happiness and laughter.

What does it feel like to be a refugee?  There are so many millions in our world today, but I can only answer for myself here in campeche.  One lives a lot with memories.  We walk down these stark, sandy streets, eyes burning from the glare, sweating under the beating sun.  We remember green, lush growth and rich, dark land.  We remember cool, clear springs and wide rivers.

Here we wait anxiously for a bucket or two of water.  It is now after 10 in the morning and most of us have not received any water yet.  We live with the uncertainty.  Will the water trucks come today?  How many trips will they make?  They usually do come, but, once we did go for two and a half days without water delivery.  Every drop becomes very precious.  What does a mother of a family do?  Juana and Juan have 7 children.  Some days they are given 2 or 3 buckets of water.  You can drink a little, cook the beans or rice (rice uses less water, but we don't always have it), maybe wash a few clothes one day, and some few can bathe the next.  You pray the littlest one doesn't get diarrhea again.

To be a refugee means that your beautiful, hand woven clothes are wearing out and you can't get the thread to make another set.  You turn to hot, sticky, cheap polyester dresses.  Paula has been out of her traditional dress for 3 years now.  She stopped wearing it in the Mexican community in Chiapas when it was too dangerous to be readily identified as a Guatemalan.  She still feels naked and uncomfortable and longs for the day when she can return to Guatemala, and once again freely and proudly put on her 'real' clothes.

I greeted Irena on the street this morning.  What memories does she have?  Both she and her sister live with the memory of their husbands that were killed.  That memory is alive and is tangible as they struggle to feed, dress, love and care for their children.  Alone.  They are without that other to talk things over with, to share memories of happier, saner times, to even maybe dare to hope for a future, a return home.

There is a map of Guatemala hanging in our all-purpose library/meeting room.  Yesterday as we were waiting to begin a singing proactice, some of the young men were gathered around the map.  All of a sudden Miguel excitedly calls out, "Here's my village!"  Francisco asks, "Are all of our villages there?"  They begin to trace their history - where they were born, where they moved to in search of land, what river they crossed in their flight to Mexico.  They may never come closer to home than putting their finger on that dot on the wall.  That moment yesterday was special because it was another link with the past, with all its struggles and hopes and with a future still so uncertain.

One never feels 'at home' here.  that is one of the hardest things about being a refugee.  That feeling of 'foreigness' never goes away.  You know you are a 'refugee" because most people treat you like one.  If the cabbage is rotting or the surplus powdered milk gives your child diarrhea, you have to accept it.  You are a refugee.  Cesar is 9 months old and weighs 5 kilos (11 lbs.).  At the nutrition center, they gave his mother a package of oatmeal for him.  The oatmeal has worms in it?  You have to take it.  You are a refugee.  You want to leave the camp for a week or two to find work to earn some money to buy clothes for the children?  You want to go to Pich, 4 kilometers down the road, to buy a tomato?  Be sure and get your written permission signed by your group representative, a representative of COMAR and Immigration.  You are a refugee and this is not your country. 

Natividad is 26 years old.  She has a husband, Antonio, 3 children and her parents with her.  The youngest boy died almost a year ago in the height of the measles epidemic.  She has been in bed now for three months.  Nothing hurts except her heart.  She has "tristeza en su corazon", sadness in her heart, and no pill, no injection can take that away.  "Her spirit still wanders on their land in Guatemala," says Nat's father.  "Don't you have a pill or a prayer to bring her spirit back?" he asks me.  Do I tell him that my spirit still wanders there, too?  I, too, feel sadness in my heart and the only way I can make that pain less is to share a few moments with friends.  We talk and share our joys, pains and frustrations from the past and from today.  Sometimes we talk of the future, but mostly we talk of the past and the present.  The future seems so out of our control.

There are so many people here I wish you could meet.  Adai, the mongoloid young man of 15 who lives on our street.  Rosa, the mother of the twins.  How she has struggled to keep them alive these last 10 months.  But their story and so many others' will have to wait for another time... 

It is overcast and cold this January morning here in Merida.  You were in my thoughts and prayers as Christmas came and went and one year ended and another began.

I share with you now just a short reflection of this morning, fed by moments lived every day in the camp with neighbors, friends and others, once, but never to be again, strangers.

A rain drop caresses the leaf, 

the sound so gentle

one has to pause and listen.

So much of life we miss,

running, always running

from one important engagement to another.

Time.

We need to take the time to listen to the rain drops.

If not, we may just all go crazy.

We keep building bombs and guns,

and we don't hear the rain drops.

We fill out days and nights with words and motion

and we don't hear that bird's song, the child's laugh,

the old man's cry.

Rain drops, tear drops, water of the earth.

Take time for the rain drops.

Take time for the tear drops.

Enter into that rain drop.

Enter into that tear drop.

That rain drop holds the world, the cosmos,

the land, the sea, the stars,

all that is outer.

That tear drop holds the soul,

the anguish, the longing, the remembering,

all that is inner.

How many tear drops have I seen?

How many have I shed?

Francisca.

You came the other day looking for milk for your baby.

But the tear drops came when you asked me with so much longing

and grief, "How are things in Guatemala?  Can we go home soon?"

Juana.

Your son is now 14, almost a man.  Four years ago he went away

from you to go to school.  Is he alive?  Is he dead?

How many tears, what hope and doubt and fear are held there?

Marfa.

A little son, a little daughter.

Both strangled, hung up outside your home where once

their shouts and laughter filled the air.

Romelia.

How strikingly attractive and poised you are as you grow

into womanhood.

Who could know the pain and fear that is there inside of you?

It is four years since you've seen your mother.

You ran one way, two little ones in tow, bullets flying,

houses burning.

One bullet pierces the two year olds arm, another grazes 

your wrist.  One escapes the bullets only to swell up and die

as you wander through the jungle.  There is so little to eat

and he is just a baby.  You tried to save them both, but you

were only 12 going on eternity.

Your mother runs the other way, 6 others along with her.

At first the dreams so vivid, so horrible:

your mother being doused with kerosine and set on fire by the

soldiers;  your older sister being tortured.

Thank God the dreams have gone away.

But will you ever see your mother, your brothers and sisters

again.

Have the tears, like the dreams, stopped, or do they,

ever so quietly, fall when you least expect them?

a certain Christmas song you always sang,

or eating that first ear of corn of the new harvest,

remembering the joy and hope and laughter of all gathered

around the fire?

Will these tears be rain for a new harvest?

a harvest of love and not hate,

a harvest of joy and not anguish,

a harvest of peace and not war?

I don't suppose any of us can answer that right now.  It seems we can only hope and dream and do what we can where we are to make it come to be.

Please don't miss the rain drops or the tear drops in 1986.

Life

born of pain

born of hope

we stand in awe

we embrace in love

we rejoice and give thanks

for that life 

born of our pain

born of our hope

The visit began when Moncha's mother met me in the plaza and said she wanted to give me a gift of some bread she had made.  We walked slowly to their house.  I sat down and we began to talk - Moncha, her mother, Candelaria and myself - three women from different times and places, brought together here in a place foreign to us all.

At first we talked of how nice it was to have a cloudy day and how we all hoped it would rain.  The land is so dry.  If it doesn't rain there will be no bean harvest, just like there was no corn harvest this year.  And as we talked of beans and rain we entered into another realm - the realm of the heart and what one does with all the pain and suffering and sadness that is there.

Moncha shared her way.  She is usually very  busy in the house doing all there is to do - take care of the children, wash clothes, cook, clean, carry water, make bread to sell - and then she doesn't have time to think.  But when she goes off to bring in firewood or to work in the fields, she thinks of Guatemala and of all they left behind.  She remembers their animals, the land, always so green, the crops never dry like here.  She cries.  She cries for all that was left behind.  She cries remembering the suffering of the flight through the jungle, one child held by the hand, another on her back, a pitcher of corn drink held in the other hand.  And they fled through the dense jungle, the children without shoes, and the thorns so big and sharp.  She was alone with the children as her husband was off with the other men, making sure they wouldn't be followed by the army.

Mocha's heart is sad when she hears the children here singing songs of Guatemala.  "Maybe we will never be able to go home", she says with tears in her eyes.

Candelaria sits on the other bed, two long, thin, gray braids falling from a face lined with toil and suffering and eyes that tell of strength and pain.  She, too, cries.  Her heart is not at peace, she tells me.  Two sons are left in Guatemala.  She wants to be near them.  Three daughters are here in Mexico, living in three different states.  She wants to be near them.  And it cannot be.

It is time to go.  The youngest child will be patient no longer.  Moncha gives me an egg and a summer squash, grown in their small garden.  We embrace and wish each other a good day.

And I embrace you and wish you a good day and a good year in 1987.  May there be a continuous birthing of life and love in you.

What is Easter besides chocolate bunnies and jelly beans?

Easter is light coming out of darkness.

Easter is life coming out of death.

Easter is Magdalena.

Last year on Easter Sunday I went to visit Magdalena for the first time.  I don't think I will ever forget that moment.  I had left the celebration at the Church filled with the hope and joy of the resurrection.

I was taken to the house of Magdalena and I was plunged back into the passion and pain of Good Friday.

A young, emaciated woman was lying on her stick bed covered by a sheet.  The heat was oppressive as it can get in Campeche before the rains come.  The catechist who accompanied me explained her story.

Magdalena was sick.  She had not been right since the soldiers had shot down her husband and oldest son and daughter in the market place in Cuarto Pueblo.

A few months after coming to Campeche, it seems she took a knife and cut herself.  The scar runs from her breasts down about ten inches.  The wound was still draining that first day and for many days to follow.

She wasn't eating, she couldn't get out of bed.  She seemed to be just waiting for death as Minga, Lucia, David and Marfa, her children, stood around feeling lost and confused and alone.

We began to visit Magdalena.  One day some vitamins, an orange.  Another day, just a friendly word, encouraging her to sit up, combing her hair, holding Marfa, laughing.

And Magdalena sat up.  

She took a few faltering steps.  

She talked a little more.

Today is Easter every day.

Magdalena is a little chubby now.

She greets me as she walks down the street.

She comes to visit with Marfa, her youngest daughter.

We watch and laugh as Maria gives the cat quite a time.

And then one day, I've had it with the noise and the dust and the waiting in lines for water.

I'm tired.

I go off to the fields to walk and get away.

And it's Magdalena, standing there, bathing her children, laughing with them, who raises a hand and shouts out a greeting to m.

There is a new lightness in my step,

a new lifeness in my being.

It is Easter.

Christmas Blessings

CHRISTMAS

a celebration

of life

of the birth/gift

of each one

sometimes this gift

comes wrapped in much

sorrow and suffering

but the ribbon of joy 

is always there 

somewhere.

in the small, little

moments of a day

the child's smile

or whimsical way

the suns warmth

after the cold

or the shades coolness

after the heat

the visit of a friend 

or something new

learned and shared

Mary, mother 

you knew

the birth/gift

coming

cannot be

without

a letting go

CHRISTMAS, 1987

As I begin to say my good-byes here in Quetzel Edzna,  I am very aware of the giftedness that has been a part of my life during these last years.  Even as I write a kaleidescope of pictures and memories flashes before me.

Many of you have also walked with me on this journey with my Guatemalan friends.  I have been grateful for your company.  The road has often been long and full of so much pain.  But we have also drunk deep from the well of wonder and sharing along the way.

I will be leaving Campache the end of January and will be heading north for Maryknoll, New York and a new work.  I ask for your prayers in these months ahead.  The tear drops are already beginning to flow quite freely here as we begin to try and put into words what we have meant to each other.

My address after January 15 will be:

Peggy Janicki

Maryknoll Sisters

Maryknoll, New York 10545

All mail will be most welcome!