This is how I know that God has a sense of humor:
After being in Ometepe for two weeks and living off of gallo pinto and bananas (and I mean that quite literally... the diet didn't vary at all during week two either), I arrived "home" last night to my "family" in Managua. My little brother bolts to the door to greet me as if we've been best friends our entire lives (this is why I love five year olds) and my host mom, dear old María Inés, comes trailing behind. She embraces me in a hug and a sloppy kiss (this is why I love Nicaraguan women) and says to me, "Kendall! We've been so excited for your arrival all day. And in honor of you being back, I made a big pot of gallo pinto because I know how much you love it!"
I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time (I'm sure God thinks He's just hysterical), and so for dinner last night, for the 126th straight meal (or something like that), I consumed a hearty plate of gallo pinto. And somehow, miraculously, I still really do love it.
Speaking of leaving the island, you will all be relieved to know that, yes, great grandma cried as we said goodbye. Or, ok, maybe she came down with a bit of a cold yesterday morning so her eyes were a little teary anyway. BUT, she also asked me if she could come with me and live in the United States, so if you ask me, I showed the Germans up. I said, ABSOLUTELY she could come live with me, but unfortunately she backed out at the last minute, so I'll still be coming homo solo.
A little note on great grandma: She is, quite simply, the most incredible ninety year old woman I know. And while that isn't saying much, she would still be my favorite 90 year old woman even if I knew thousands of them. There isn't a tiny little thing about about this lady that I don't like. In fact, if I live to be ninety years old, I want to be exactly like her. She rotates between four dresses and two pairs of sneakers, she spends the first two hours of her day raking the yard like the agile woman that she is, she has an adoring friendship with the family's parrot and tries to teach it new words every day, she sits in her rocking chair and reads the Bible from 2-3pm daily, she yells greetings to every single person that passes by the house, she loves (I mean LOVES) wrestling (¡la lucha libre!) and yells at the men on the T.V. while she watches it every night, and she spends 80% of her day laughing and cracking jokes. I'm telling you... if there is a more endearing person in this world, I'd like to meet him/her.
The only thing I'm unsure about, with regards to her, is the fact that, when she found out I'm twenty years old, her reaction was: "Twenty years old?! I'm NINETY! That means there is a seventy year difference between us. Sure doesn't seem like it, does it? It seems like there's only a forty year difference! Right?"
...Which would either mean that I would be fifty years old, or she would be sixty... neither of which seem particularly possible/logical to me. So I let that one slide.
Anyway, a little update on the project. As I left the island yesterday, I officially closed the door on the "research phase." (Now all that is left is the 25-30 page paper...) All in all, things went as well as I could have hoped for. I spent the majority of my time in La Paloma, travelling with the coordinator of APS-Ometepe from village to village. This was, by far, my favorite part of the whole process. I was able to meet the different promoters (all of them women) and talk to them about how their role within the community has changed as a result of their involvement with APS. Conversation after conversation, I heard the same thing: We are leaders now, we are more respected, we have been given the tools to help our community. One summed everything up when she said to me, "It's like the doctor says, we are becoming leaders. Leaders of the barrios. Sometimes in the street, they call me doctor! No, I say, I'm not a doctor. I'm a promoter. But as promoters, well, all of the world comes looking for us." I've decided to use part of this quote in the title of my paper, which I will begin writing today.
In addition to speaking with the promoters, I also spent a significant part of my time (as I wrote about last week) learning about the health issues of the communities. I spent three days of my time on Ometepe in a rural indigenous community called Los Ramos, where I was asked to help out with the process of a community health-needs assessment. As this is a community that largely lacks potable water, latrines, and access to a health clinic, APS wanted to identify the most glaring needs and follow-up on those needs with an initiative. So, I was sent to the community for that purpose.
The only problem was that, as soon as I showed up, I realized I had ABSOLUTELY no idea what I was doing or how to go about this. It also became readily apparent to me that I was not in any way qualified to do a health-needs assessment. In any event, I decided I had to DO something and start somewhere... so after speaking with the promoter of the community, we decided to go house-to-house, asking each family if they have a latrine and, if so, what condition is it in? I'm sure anyone with a public health background could point out major flaws and red-flags in this approach, but as I had no direction or preparation for the assignment, this is what we did.
We did this for about 4-5 hours, during which time we managed to visit about half of the houses in the community. After we had taken a lunch break at the promoter's house, I asked if we should go out and finish inventory of the second half of the community, to which she replied, "No. We are done." Not wanting to do an incomplete job, I pressed her on this, but she eventually explained to me that, in going house-to-house and asking about the state of the latrines--"ESPECIALLY in the presence of a North American"--we were creating expectations among the community. After this, they would assume (and can you blame them?) that they would soon be given latrines.
This set me back in a hurry. Like I said, I won't pretend that I knew what I was doing, and I'm certain now that there were glaring issues in our approach. I immediately was flooded with all sorts of questions and thoughts and frustrations about how the world works. For the life of me, I still don't know why I was sent to this community or for what purpose. Yes, I was supposedly asked to do a needs assessment, but why me? As soon as I was there, it became clear to me that the promoter had a good enough handle on the issues and needs of the community. So why did they need someone else (and a foreigner, at that, someone with NO knowledge of the community) to affirm those needs? It just seemed to me to perpetuate all of the wrong and troubling perceptions about the need for foreign involvement.
So after cutting my visit to that community short, I went back to La Paloma with a host of questions and unsettled feelings. I still feel an uneasiness about my presence there and any negative backlash that it might have created. I still feel confused about why I went and a little embarrassed by the haphazardness of our approach. And worse, I'm still not really able to make sense of it or figure out where exactly things went wrong and what SHOULD have happened instead.
So this is just one of the many issues that I'll be tackling in my paper over the next week. Like I said: all in all, it was a good experience and I'm thankful for it. I certainly recognize how unique of an opportunity it was; in no other context would I really have been able to study such a program and learn what I learned. As with any experience, it had its share of frustrations, failures, and discoveries. It was difficult and lonely at times, as I expected it to be. And it certainly left me with more questions and the need to resolve them, but that seems to be pretty typical of my experience here. It's certainly not something I regret.
So for the next week or so, I'll be working on the paper! And then, before I know it, the program will be wrapping up and I'll be travelling through Nicaragua for a week with my sister. :) But there is still much left to live and experience before that point, so I'll keep you all posted!
In the meantime... Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Know that I am thankful for each of you. Do me a favor and eat an extra helping of stuffing for me. I'll probably be celebrating with (here's a suprise)... gallo pinto. :)
Love to you all.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Courage doesn't always roar...
...Sometimes courage is the little voice at the end of the day that says, "I'll try again tomorrow." - Mary Anne Radmacher
I received these beautiful words in an email from a friend just two days before heading out on my ISP adventure, and it has since been one of many things that has carried me through (not to mention that it replaced "diving into the shallow end" as my new mantra of the week). A little bit of courage was just what I needed, and I realized that it didn't have to come in the form of total fearlessness... If I could just pack my bags and start walking, that would be enough.
So that's what I did, and last Tuesday, I began the adventure. I said goodbye to my host family at 6am, and after 2 taxis, 2 bus rides, and a boat ride, I arrived at my destination at 5pm. Theoretically, the trip is only supposed to take 3 hours, maybe 4 at most. But what can I say? Nicaraguans have a truly admirable (and completely irritating) ability to stretch out a trip by a few (or SEVEN) hours. But that's a different story. So I am now officially staying on la Isla de Ometepe, in a community called "La Paloma" (which means "the dove" in Spanish, and I take this to be a good sign).
By the time I had arrived and settled in with my new host family, it was already dark outside. Being a self-proclaimed expert at the campo by now, I knew that one of the first things to do is ask where the latrine is located. So I did, and they pointed vaguely to the backyard. For some reason, I wandered out there without a headlamp, in the absolute dark (not such an expert move) and I was almost there when, at my feet, I heard the most horrific, mean sqealing noise that I've ever heard in my life. I looked down at my feet only to see the giant PIG that I had come inches from stepping on. I'm not sure who was less thrilled to see the other: him or me. But as I backed away from him and into the latrine, he continued squealing at me, almost as if he were saying, "Welcome back to the campo, kid." (I don't know if you have ever had a pig squeal at you, but I certainly wouldn't wish it upon you. It is TERRIFYING.) Our relationship has improved little since that first meeting, which is unfortunate, considering that I have to pass him everytime I want to use the bathroom.
The rest of the house, on the other hand, has been a little more excited to have me around (if not just to have someone to laugh at every now and then). The other day, grandpa invited me over to milk one of the cows, and when I looked up halfway through the process, I saw that two uncles, grandpa's friend, and three neighborhood kids had all come out of their respective houses to watch me. As Aynn says, "At the end of the day, if nothing else, at least you know you made someone laugh." If this is the standard of success, I have been incredibly successful over the past week.
There are 9 of us staying in the home, which is crowded, to say the least, but they are all very welcoming and inviting. My favorite, by far, is great grandma. At 90 (yes, 90) years old, this woman fits every stereotype that has ever existed of "crazy old lady." And while she is certainly the spriest 90 year old that I have ever met, her mind works like one of those 3-disc CD players. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, great grandma tells me, "I have seven sons, and one daughter. Eight in total. Now they live in Managua, Granada, and Moyogalpa. And I have more than 50 grandchildren! MORE THAN 50! And I have great-grandchildren too. These are the children of my grandchildren. My family is so large. It never stops growing..." That is disc one. Disc two consists of the previous extranjeros that have stayed with her (2 Americans and 2 Germans. "And when the Germans left, we cried. I cried, they cried, we all cried..."). And disc three is about the island's history. Sometimes (when I'm really lucky), I'll get the CD player on repeat, and our breakfast will last over an hour, with the stories cycling, over and over again... And yet, somehow, I could never get sick of them. (I just hope that she cries when I leave; my goal is to live up to that German standard.)
Now that I've talked about the bathroom and family situation, a little note on food: as of yesterday morning, I had eaten 11 meals on the island, and they all consisted of the exact. same. thing. Gallo pinto, bananas, and coffee. This is no exaggeration. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner... there has been absolutely no variety. And as much as I would normally be inclined to complain about the repetitiveness of it all, I have instead found myself humbled and in awe. I am staying with one of the more well-off families in the community, and yet they are unable to afford any accessories with their food. Their wealth is indicated by the mere fact that they eat three meals a day, all variety aside. In light of this, their hospitality and willingness to take me in has made me feel all the more grateful.
The gallo pinto/banana diet was interrupted yesterday because two friends from Managua, Nicole and Chelsea, came to visit for the day. In addition to venturing to the other side of the island, we indulged ourselves in some ice-cream and other baked goods that they brought with them (thanks dad!). It was a wonderful, wonderful little break and I have never been more excited for an opportunity to speak English. With all of those words stored up from the week, I actually became TALKATIVE for maybe the first time in my entire life.
As for my project, the research has been going pretty well, all things considered. I spent the last week shadowing and learning from the coordinator of APS-Ometepe. It is her responsibility to check up on the various promoters of the organization, so she spends her days walking from community to community and doing what needs to be done so that they each feel supported and enabled in their work. In all, we have probably walked up to 10 miles in a day, through banana groves and dirt roads and cow pastures. I had the opportunity to visit a couple of communities that are located on the coast of the island, which have suffered incredible floods from the recent rainy season; many of their houses and latrines are under several feet of water, completely uninhabitable. Among other things, I have been able to interview the health promoters and workers in the Ministry of Health about the health implications of these living conditions and the plan (or sadly, lack thereof) for recovery. This Thursday, I will move out of La Paloma and into another (slightly more isolated) community called Los Ramos, where I will shadow the promoter there as she begins a diagnostic process to identify the community's health situation/needs.
For the most part, I am very much enjoying this experience as a chance to explore something that interests me with a population who has taught me so much and continues to do so every day. In pure honesty, the days can be somewhat difficult and lonely, but I'm learning to take them in stride and embrace the company that I have been given. Still, it is in these times that I find myself all the more aware of what I've left behind and I tend to miss it/you even more than usual. At the same time, I am thankful for my time here and intent on making the most of the 11 days I have left on Ometepe!
Between Thursday the 20th and Tuesday the 25th (while I'm in Los Ramos), I expect to be mostly isolated, without internet access. But I hope to find my way to a computer before then! And certainly, after that Tuesday, I will be more in touch. Until then, adios! Take care, and I know that I miss each of you dearly.
P.S. "Abrazos de osos." Literal translation: hugs of bears. Bear hugs. I learned this phrase this week from one of my favorite Nicaraguans, and I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. But in honor of my new phrase, I'm sending you all bear hugs. :)
I received these beautiful words in an email from a friend just two days before heading out on my ISP adventure, and it has since been one of many things that has carried me through (not to mention that it replaced "diving into the shallow end" as my new mantra of the week). A little bit of courage was just what I needed, and I realized that it didn't have to come in the form of total fearlessness... If I could just pack my bags and start walking, that would be enough.
So that's what I did, and last Tuesday, I began the adventure. I said goodbye to my host family at 6am, and after 2 taxis, 2 bus rides, and a boat ride, I arrived at my destination at 5pm. Theoretically, the trip is only supposed to take 3 hours, maybe 4 at most. But what can I say? Nicaraguans have a truly admirable (and completely irritating) ability to stretch out a trip by a few (or SEVEN) hours. But that's a different story. So I am now officially staying on la Isla de Ometepe, in a community called "La Paloma" (which means "the dove" in Spanish, and I take this to be a good sign).
By the time I had arrived and settled in with my new host family, it was already dark outside. Being a self-proclaimed expert at the campo by now, I knew that one of the first things to do is ask where the latrine is located. So I did, and they pointed vaguely to the backyard. For some reason, I wandered out there without a headlamp, in the absolute dark (not such an expert move) and I was almost there when, at my feet, I heard the most horrific, mean sqealing noise that I've ever heard in my life. I looked down at my feet only to see the giant PIG that I had come inches from stepping on. I'm not sure who was less thrilled to see the other: him or me. But as I backed away from him and into the latrine, he continued squealing at me, almost as if he were saying, "Welcome back to the campo, kid." (I don't know if you have ever had a pig squeal at you, but I certainly wouldn't wish it upon you. It is TERRIFYING.) Our relationship has improved little since that first meeting, which is unfortunate, considering that I have to pass him everytime I want to use the bathroom.
The rest of the house, on the other hand, has been a little more excited to have me around (if not just to have someone to laugh at every now and then). The other day, grandpa invited me over to milk one of the cows, and when I looked up halfway through the process, I saw that two uncles, grandpa's friend, and three neighborhood kids had all come out of their respective houses to watch me. As Aynn says, "At the end of the day, if nothing else, at least you know you made someone laugh." If this is the standard of success, I have been incredibly successful over the past week.
There are 9 of us staying in the home, which is crowded, to say the least, but they are all very welcoming and inviting. My favorite, by far, is great grandma. At 90 (yes, 90) years old, this woman fits every stereotype that has ever existed of "crazy old lady." And while she is certainly the spriest 90 year old that I have ever met, her mind works like one of those 3-disc CD players. Every morning, afternoon, and evening, great grandma tells me, "I have seven sons, and one daughter. Eight in total. Now they live in Managua, Granada, and Moyogalpa. And I have more than 50 grandchildren! MORE THAN 50! And I have great-grandchildren too. These are the children of my grandchildren. My family is so large. It never stops growing..." That is disc one. Disc two consists of the previous extranjeros that have stayed with her (2 Americans and 2 Germans. "And when the Germans left, we cried. I cried, they cried, we all cried..."). And disc three is about the island's history. Sometimes (when I'm really lucky), I'll get the CD player on repeat, and our breakfast will last over an hour, with the stories cycling, over and over again... And yet, somehow, I could never get sick of them. (I just hope that she cries when I leave; my goal is to live up to that German standard.)
Now that I've talked about the bathroom and family situation, a little note on food: as of yesterday morning, I had eaten 11 meals on the island, and they all consisted of the exact. same. thing. Gallo pinto, bananas, and coffee. This is no exaggeration. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner... there has been absolutely no variety. And as much as I would normally be inclined to complain about the repetitiveness of it all, I have instead found myself humbled and in awe. I am staying with one of the more well-off families in the community, and yet they are unable to afford any accessories with their food. Their wealth is indicated by the mere fact that they eat three meals a day, all variety aside. In light of this, their hospitality and willingness to take me in has made me feel all the more grateful.
The gallo pinto/banana diet was interrupted yesterday because two friends from Managua, Nicole and Chelsea, came to visit for the day. In addition to venturing to the other side of the island, we indulged ourselves in some ice-cream and other baked goods that they brought with them (thanks dad!). It was a wonderful, wonderful little break and I have never been more excited for an opportunity to speak English. With all of those words stored up from the week, I actually became TALKATIVE for maybe the first time in my entire life.
As for my project, the research has been going pretty well, all things considered. I spent the last week shadowing and learning from the coordinator of APS-Ometepe. It is her responsibility to check up on the various promoters of the organization, so she spends her days walking from community to community and doing what needs to be done so that they each feel supported and enabled in their work. In all, we have probably walked up to 10 miles in a day, through banana groves and dirt roads and cow pastures. I had the opportunity to visit a couple of communities that are located on the coast of the island, which have suffered incredible floods from the recent rainy season; many of their houses and latrines are under several feet of water, completely uninhabitable. Among other things, I have been able to interview the health promoters and workers in the Ministry of Health about the health implications of these living conditions and the plan (or sadly, lack thereof) for recovery. This Thursday, I will move out of La Paloma and into another (slightly more isolated) community called Los Ramos, where I will shadow the promoter there as she begins a diagnostic process to identify the community's health situation/needs.
For the most part, I am very much enjoying this experience as a chance to explore something that interests me with a population who has taught me so much and continues to do so every day. In pure honesty, the days can be somewhat difficult and lonely, but I'm learning to take them in stride and embrace the company that I have been given. Still, it is in these times that I find myself all the more aware of what I've left behind and I tend to miss it/you even more than usual. At the same time, I am thankful for my time here and intent on making the most of the 11 days I have left on Ometepe!
Between Thursday the 20th and Tuesday the 25th (while I'm in Los Ramos), I expect to be mostly isolated, without internet access. But I hope to find my way to a computer before then! And certainly, after that Tuesday, I will be more in touch. Until then, adios! Take care, and I know that I miss each of you dearly.
P.S. "Abrazos de osos." Literal translation: hugs of bears. Bear hugs. I learned this phrase this week from one of my favorite Nicaraguans, and I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. But in honor of my new phrase, I'm sending you all bear hugs. :)
Friday, November 7, 2008
Sink or Swim
I seriously considered titling this entry "Diving head-first into the shallow end of the pool," but a) it was too long, and b) I thought it might come across as a little melodramatic. In any case, that has, more or less, been the theme of my week. I'll explain...
This week, starting on Tuesday (election day! more on that later) we began the infamous ISP period. ISP, for those of you unfamiliar with SIT, stands for the Independent Study Project. It is (in addition to being the most terrifying thing of my recent life) the climax of all SIT study abroad programs, because it involves each student designing a research project on ANY topic, and going to ANY part of the country to do the investigation. You are entirely on your own for a month (I guess the whole "independent" part of the name kind of gives that away), left to figure things out, explore the world, and fend for yourself. Like I said... sink or swim.
So this is how I intend to spend my month. When I entered the program, I had a vague idea of what I wanted to study: women, health care, and leadership. I wasn't exactly sure how those three things were going to relate, but those were my areas of interest so I hoped that somehow they might fall together. At some point, I stumbled upon research of organizations that have taken the approach of using women as the agents of social change to acheive two things simultaneously: 1) the intended social change, and 2) the empowerment of women. So, for example, if the goal is to increase literacy, you would train a woman to teach her community how to read... in doing so, you not only increase literacy, but you place the woman in a leadership role within her community. Maybe this isn't a recently developed strategy, but the idea was new to me, and I instantly fell in love with it. It just makes so much sense!... does it not? So I decided that what I wanted to study was this model of social change, but as applied to medicine. And I wanted to do it in a rural area of Nicaragua, where the people don't have much access to health care.
Since that beautiful epiphany, I discovered and connected myself with an organization called Atención Primaria en Salud - Nicaragua (roughly translates to Primary Health Care). This organization does exactly what I described above: they identify the regions/communities that are most impoverished and in need of health care infrastructure in Nicaragua, ask each community to elect one of their own to be the "health promoter," and then train the promoter in the skills of basic, primary care. As it turns out, 80% of these promoters are women, which is so critical, particularly in a machista society like Nicaragua's. So what I plan to do is a three-week investigation of one of the communities where APS works, and study how the health of the people has been transformed, as well as the role of women within their community. (If you're interested, here's the organization's website: http://www.apsnicaragua.org).
But here's the best part: not only do I get to study this wonderful program, I get to do it in what is supposedly the most beautiful part of Nicaragua. For the next three weeks, I will be on the Isla de Ometepe, which, in addition to being the largest island in a fresh water lake in the world (fun fact of the day), it is also "Nicaragua's candidate for Eighth Wonder of the World" (according my guide book). Or, as my host mom tells me almost daily, "it is the the most beautiful place in the world... in the whole, entire WORLD." I find this particularly endearing because every time she says this, it takes about three minutes for her conscience to set in and then always adds, "but then again, I've only seen it at night, passing by." Needless to say, I'm excited to meet Ometepe, climb its two volcanoes (did I mention it is made from two volcanoes?), see the howler monkeys, perhaps take in a day at the beach, explore its waterfalls, and of course, study its health care programs. I guess I should note that I will be living in the campo of this beautiful island with a host family (in similar conditions as my previous campo experiences), and as the director of the organization warned me: "You'll be lucky if you have a latrine." But if you ask me, that's a small price to pay for living in the most beautiful place in "the world."
But as excited as I am and as much as I'm looking forward to it, I'm also dealing with a substantial amount of nerves and fear. My lofty, dream-like expectations for the month were brought back down to Earth this past Tuesday, when I began my research period. This is where the "jumping head first into the shallow end" part of the story comes into play...
Before heading out to Ometepe, my advisor (the director of the organization) thought it would be a good idea to spend a week around Managua, getting to know the urban programs and the overall philosophy of the organization. So on Tuesday, I began my whole adventure by taking a taxi at 7:30am to the other side of Managua, where his clinic is located. After talking with him for a few minutes, we got in his car and he drove me to a nearby barrio (neighborhood) in Managua, and dropped me off with the health promoter of that community. As my luck would have it, the promoter had already finished her healthcare duties for the day... and now, hosting missionaries from Honduras and El Salvador, she was heading out to do door-to-door evangelism in the neighborhood. My advisor assured her that it would be no problem, that I just wanted to get to know her and shadow her for the day, whatever her activities may be. Forcing a smile and a nod, I waved good-bye to my advisor and spent the morning and afternoon going door-to-door, shadowing the missionaries as they proselytized and prayed with each house of the community. Or, more accurately, I spent the morning and afternoon wondering what in the WORLD I had gotten myself into. Around 3pm, we had to bring the missionary activity to an end (unfortunate, I know), because the promoter had a meeting to attend. So we went, and when no one had arrived by 4:30, we decided it probably wasn't happening, so we returned to her house. At 6:00, having not eaten since breakfast that morning, I flagged down a taxi and asked him to take me back across Managua to my neighborhood.
Exhausted and discouraged, I sunk into the back seat. My driver looked at me through the rearview mirror and said, "You're from the U.S.?" I replied yes, and then suddenly remembered that the elections had been going on all day. I had just been so out of touch with the world. I got a burst of energy and leaned forward and asked him, "What's the news? What are they saying?" He laughed at me, shook his head and said, "Chelita [little white girl], the polls still haven't closed." But he graciously continued to tell me what they had been saying on the radio all day. (Side note: let's just say that later that night, when the results were announced, there was BASTANTE celebration in our neighborhood. It was SO exciting to watch it all happen from here.)
When I arrived at my house that night, I sat down to eat dinner with my host sister, as we do every night. She asked me how my day was, and I just BURST into tears, letting out all of my frustration from the day. As if that wasn't bad or embarrassing enough, I then had to try to explain, in Spanish, through the sobbing, all that had happened. Even though she was completely taken aback (our daily ritual of eating together had never unfolded quite like this before), she listened intently and patiently, filling in the words I couldn't think of and kindly not even correcting me when I used incorrect grammar. When I finished, she waited a few seconds, and then said this: "Kendall, you and I, we're the same. We don't trust ourselves, we don't know how to say no, we're not forceful enough, and we spend too much time trying to please other people."
I wouldn't have minded if she had thrown in some positive qualities in that list of things we share in common, but I have to hand it to her, she described me with near-perfect accuracy. What followed was a twenty-minute pep talk, which (in spite of the fact that it was in Spanish and I couldn't understand every fifth word), was one of the best motivational speeches I have ever received in my life. Essentially, she told me that I need to trust myself, that I am stronger than I think, and that whether I think I can handle this or not, God will be walking with me every step of the way.
So with that, I took a deep, grateful breath and prepared myself for the month. Having already come to terms with the fact that it probably wouldn't be a month of hiking volcanoes and living the island life, I now also reassured myself that it wouldn't be the opposite: I refused to spend the month feeling paralyzed, terrfied, and inadequate. It will be difficult and a challenge, there's no doubt. But I am excited for the adventure it holds, realizing that I don't go alone.
"He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them..." (John 10:3-4).
And so... just so you all know, I head out to Ometepe on Monday, the 10th. I will be on the island for about 2.5-3 weeks, and then I'll spend the rest of the time writing up my research in a 25-30 page paper. While I'm living there, I don't expect to have much internet access, although I plan to head into the "city" on Ometepe once or twice so that I can read email and maybe post an update on here.
Until then, know that I miss and love you all! Your prayers for this month are appreciated, and if you've successfully read all of this post, I am very grateful. Take care of yourselves!
This week, starting on Tuesday (election day! more on that later) we began the infamous ISP period. ISP, for those of you unfamiliar with SIT, stands for the Independent Study Project. It is (in addition to being the most terrifying thing of my recent life) the climax of all SIT study abroad programs, because it involves each student designing a research project on ANY topic, and going to ANY part of the country to do the investigation. You are entirely on your own for a month (I guess the whole "independent" part of the name kind of gives that away), left to figure things out, explore the world, and fend for yourself. Like I said... sink or swim.
So this is how I intend to spend my month. When I entered the program, I had a vague idea of what I wanted to study: women, health care, and leadership. I wasn't exactly sure how those three things were going to relate, but those were my areas of interest so I hoped that somehow they might fall together. At some point, I stumbled upon research of organizations that have taken the approach of using women as the agents of social change to acheive two things simultaneously: 1) the intended social change, and 2) the empowerment of women. So, for example, if the goal is to increase literacy, you would train a woman to teach her community how to read... in doing so, you not only increase literacy, but you place the woman in a leadership role within her community. Maybe this isn't a recently developed strategy, but the idea was new to me, and I instantly fell in love with it. It just makes so much sense!... does it not? So I decided that what I wanted to study was this model of social change, but as applied to medicine. And I wanted to do it in a rural area of Nicaragua, where the people don't have much access to health care.
Since that beautiful epiphany, I discovered and connected myself with an organization called Atención Primaria en Salud - Nicaragua (roughly translates to Primary Health Care). This organization does exactly what I described above: they identify the regions/communities that are most impoverished and in need of health care infrastructure in Nicaragua, ask each community to elect one of their own to be the "health promoter," and then train the promoter in the skills of basic, primary care. As it turns out, 80% of these promoters are women, which is so critical, particularly in a machista society like Nicaragua's. So what I plan to do is a three-week investigation of one of the communities where APS works, and study how the health of the people has been transformed, as well as the role of women within their community. (If you're interested, here's the organization's website: http://www.apsnicaragua.org).
But here's the best part: not only do I get to study this wonderful program, I get to do it in what is supposedly the most beautiful part of Nicaragua. For the next three weeks, I will be on the Isla de Ometepe, which, in addition to being the largest island in a fresh water lake in the world (fun fact of the day), it is also "Nicaragua's candidate for Eighth Wonder of the World" (according my guide book). Or, as my host mom tells me almost daily, "it is the the most beautiful place in the world... in the whole, entire WORLD." I find this particularly endearing because every time she says this, it takes about three minutes for her conscience to set in and then always adds, "but then again, I've only seen it at night, passing by." Needless to say, I'm excited to meet Ometepe, climb its two volcanoes (did I mention it is made from two volcanoes?), see the howler monkeys, perhaps take in a day at the beach, explore its waterfalls, and of course, study its health care programs. I guess I should note that I will be living in the campo of this beautiful island with a host family (in similar conditions as my previous campo experiences), and as the director of the organization warned me: "You'll be lucky if you have a latrine." But if you ask me, that's a small price to pay for living in the most beautiful place in "the world."
But as excited as I am and as much as I'm looking forward to it, I'm also dealing with a substantial amount of nerves and fear. My lofty, dream-like expectations for the month were brought back down to Earth this past Tuesday, when I began my research period. This is where the "jumping head first into the shallow end" part of the story comes into play...
Before heading out to Ometepe, my advisor (the director of the organization) thought it would be a good idea to spend a week around Managua, getting to know the urban programs and the overall philosophy of the organization. So on Tuesday, I began my whole adventure by taking a taxi at 7:30am to the other side of Managua, where his clinic is located. After talking with him for a few minutes, we got in his car and he drove me to a nearby barrio (neighborhood) in Managua, and dropped me off with the health promoter of that community. As my luck would have it, the promoter had already finished her healthcare duties for the day... and now, hosting missionaries from Honduras and El Salvador, she was heading out to do door-to-door evangelism in the neighborhood. My advisor assured her that it would be no problem, that I just wanted to get to know her and shadow her for the day, whatever her activities may be. Forcing a smile and a nod, I waved good-bye to my advisor and spent the morning and afternoon going door-to-door, shadowing the missionaries as they proselytized and prayed with each house of the community. Or, more accurately, I spent the morning and afternoon wondering what in the WORLD I had gotten myself into. Around 3pm, we had to bring the missionary activity to an end (unfortunate, I know), because the promoter had a meeting to attend. So we went, and when no one had arrived by 4:30, we decided it probably wasn't happening, so we returned to her house. At 6:00, having not eaten since breakfast that morning, I flagged down a taxi and asked him to take me back across Managua to my neighborhood.
Exhausted and discouraged, I sunk into the back seat. My driver looked at me through the rearview mirror and said, "You're from the U.S.?" I replied yes, and then suddenly remembered that the elections had been going on all day. I had just been so out of touch with the world. I got a burst of energy and leaned forward and asked him, "What's the news? What are they saying?" He laughed at me, shook his head and said, "Chelita [little white girl], the polls still haven't closed." But he graciously continued to tell me what they had been saying on the radio all day. (Side note: let's just say that later that night, when the results were announced, there was BASTANTE celebration in our neighborhood. It was SO exciting to watch it all happen from here.)
When I arrived at my house that night, I sat down to eat dinner with my host sister, as we do every night. She asked me how my day was, and I just BURST into tears, letting out all of my frustration from the day. As if that wasn't bad or embarrassing enough, I then had to try to explain, in Spanish, through the sobbing, all that had happened. Even though she was completely taken aback (our daily ritual of eating together had never unfolded quite like this before), she listened intently and patiently, filling in the words I couldn't think of and kindly not even correcting me when I used incorrect grammar. When I finished, she waited a few seconds, and then said this: "Kendall, you and I, we're the same. We don't trust ourselves, we don't know how to say no, we're not forceful enough, and we spend too much time trying to please other people."
I wouldn't have minded if she had thrown in some positive qualities in that list of things we share in common, but I have to hand it to her, she described me with near-perfect accuracy. What followed was a twenty-minute pep talk, which (in spite of the fact that it was in Spanish and I couldn't understand every fifth word), was one of the best motivational speeches I have ever received in my life. Essentially, she told me that I need to trust myself, that I am stronger than I think, and that whether I think I can handle this or not, God will be walking with me every step of the way.
So with that, I took a deep, grateful breath and prepared myself for the month. Having already come to terms with the fact that it probably wouldn't be a month of hiking volcanoes and living the island life, I now also reassured myself that it wouldn't be the opposite: I refused to spend the month feeling paralyzed, terrfied, and inadequate. It will be difficult and a challenge, there's no doubt. But I am excited for the adventure it holds, realizing that I don't go alone.
"He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out. When he has brought out all his own, he goes on ahead of them..." (John 10:3-4).
And so... just so you all know, I head out to Ometepe on Monday, the 10th. I will be on the island for about 2.5-3 weeks, and then I'll spend the rest of the time writing up my research in a 25-30 page paper. While I'm living there, I don't expect to have much internet access, although I plan to head into the "city" on Ometepe once or twice so that I can read email and maybe post an update on here.
Until then, know that I miss and love you all! Your prayers for this month are appreciated, and if you've successfully read all of this post, I am very grateful. Take care of yourselves!
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Outside Looking In
With Tuesday quickly approaching, I thought it might be an appropriate time to share a little about the U.S. elections as viewed through a Nicaraguan lens. Because this is--or so I keep hearing--the "most important election of our time"... and it's been quite the ride to follow it from a distance.
The other day, I received an update on the latest nuances and developments of the election campaigns from someone in the United States, with this disclaimer at the end: "But I bet all of this seems a little frivolous to you right now."
Actually, just the opposite. Far from seeming frivolous, the significance of the U.S. elections has only been amplified for me since I stepped out of the country and into Nicaragua. Everywhere I look (El Salvador is a good example of this too), I see the impressions of the United States... whether that means learning about how we've shaped and redirected their history, seeing a Pizza Hut as I walk around Managua, or hearing "Hotel California" every time I step outside (really, EVERY time... evidently Nicaraguans never get sick of this song. I, for one, might go nuts if I hear it one more time). It's hard to go a day without noticing our influence in this country. So I guess it's not surprising that ever since I arrived here, I have hardly been able to meet a Nicaraguan without them asking about my political views within the first moments of talking with them. The conversation usually unfolds in a manner like this:
"What is your name?"
"Kendall."
"Where are you from?"
"The United States."
"Ah, so who is it, McCain or Obama?"
Really, this is a regular occurrence. And before I can even get a word out, they've already launched into their world view, spilling every detail of their political ideology with fully-developed and well-rehearsed arguments. It never ceases to amaze me. I really think that if I were to do an in-depth comparison, I would find that Nicaraguans are equally, if not more informed on matters of North American politics than U.S. citizens themselves.
Why is this? It's not as if Nicaraguans don't have their own politics to be immersed in; on the contrary, there are nationwide municipal elections here in just one week, on November 9th. The country is brimming with its own political activity. And yet, when someone brings up "the elections" in conversation with me, they are almost unfailingly referring to the U.S. presidential race.
The reason, of course, is simple: for as long as it has been a nation, Nicaragua has been at the mercy of international superpowers. This country has as many marks and scars of U.S. foreign policy as I have freckles... their entire history has been one phase of imperialism after another. And just when they think they're in the clear and moving in the right direction, someone (usually the dear old U S of A) intervenes again. It's unbelievable, really, the parts of our history that have failed to make their way into any U.S. history book or receive mention in any of my U.S. history classes up until this point.
So it has been eye-opening, yes, and also humbling to find myself here during the election. I can tell you this much: whatever ounce of cynicism I had before coming here with regards to my vote and how much it "really matters" has been lost. (Perhaps I've picked up some other cynicism along the way, although, to be honest, I've tried to be mindful of this and contain it as much as possible.) I think sometimes it is easy to lose sight of how much these elections matter, given that we are not always able to feel their direct, tangible effects (although I would argue, and I think most would agree, that the consequences of this next election will be felt both directly and tangibly by most all of us). But since I've been down here, my eyes have been opened to just how much it REALLY matters... it matters to my host family, it matters to the campesinos that we've met, it matters to El Salvadorans, and to so many people in between. And the reason for this is not just because our world is becoming increasingly interdependent, because if that were the whole, sole explanation, the U.S. would be looking in on the upcoming Nicaraguan elections with equal eagerness and enthusiasm.
No, the reason it matters so much is because, when it comes right down to it, what happens in the U.S. has far-reaching consequences in every corner of the world. It's a hard fact to come to grips with, but it can be empowering at the same time. Because inasmuch as we have the capacity to do harm and create instability, we also have the capacity to create good, improve living conditions, and empower populations around the world. We are capable of this... I really believe it. So as you vote on Tuesday (or perhaps you already have), whichever way you choose to vote, be assured that it does matter--not just for you, but for the people all around the world, who will surely be looking in.
:)
And in honor of this post, I've decided to include pictures of Nicole (fellow Washingtonian) and I filling out our ballots because, yes, we DID take pictures to document the entire process. It was our first presidential election, and needless to say, we were a little excited about it. (Note: If our ballots look make-shift, it's because they are. The absentees didn't come on time so we had to get a little creative...)
Beginning the process...
Filling them out...
Sealing them up...
Taping on the "official" address label (if these actually get counted it will be a miracle)...
El fin!
A beautiful thing:
:) Alright friends, happy election week! Miss you all and love you.
The other day, I received an update on the latest nuances and developments of the election campaigns from someone in the United States, with this disclaimer at the end: "But I bet all of this seems a little frivolous to you right now."
Actually, just the opposite. Far from seeming frivolous, the significance of the U.S. elections has only been amplified for me since I stepped out of the country and into Nicaragua. Everywhere I look (El Salvador is a good example of this too), I see the impressions of the United States... whether that means learning about how we've shaped and redirected their history, seeing a Pizza Hut as I walk around Managua, or hearing "Hotel California" every time I step outside (really, EVERY time... evidently Nicaraguans never get sick of this song. I, for one, might go nuts if I hear it one more time). It's hard to go a day without noticing our influence in this country. So I guess it's not surprising that ever since I arrived here, I have hardly been able to meet a Nicaraguan without them asking about my political views within the first moments of talking with them. The conversation usually unfolds in a manner like this:
"What is your name?"
"Kendall."
"Where are you from?"
"The United States."
"Ah, so who is it, McCain or Obama?"
Really, this is a regular occurrence. And before I can even get a word out, they've already launched into their world view, spilling every detail of their political ideology with fully-developed and well-rehearsed arguments. It never ceases to amaze me. I really think that if I were to do an in-depth comparison, I would find that Nicaraguans are equally, if not more informed on matters of North American politics than U.S. citizens themselves.
Why is this? It's not as if Nicaraguans don't have their own politics to be immersed in; on the contrary, there are nationwide municipal elections here in just one week, on November 9th. The country is brimming with its own political activity. And yet, when someone brings up "the elections" in conversation with me, they are almost unfailingly referring to the U.S. presidential race.
The reason, of course, is simple: for as long as it has been a nation, Nicaragua has been at the mercy of international superpowers. This country has as many marks and scars of U.S. foreign policy as I have freckles... their entire history has been one phase of imperialism after another. And just when they think they're in the clear and moving in the right direction, someone (usually the dear old U S of A) intervenes again. It's unbelievable, really, the parts of our history that have failed to make their way into any U.S. history book or receive mention in any of my U.S. history classes up until this point.
So it has been eye-opening, yes, and also humbling to find myself here during the election. I can tell you this much: whatever ounce of cynicism I had before coming here with regards to my vote and how much it "really matters" has been lost. (Perhaps I've picked up some other cynicism along the way, although, to be honest, I've tried to be mindful of this and contain it as much as possible.) I think sometimes it is easy to lose sight of how much these elections matter, given that we are not always able to feel their direct, tangible effects (although I would argue, and I think most would agree, that the consequences of this next election will be felt both directly and tangibly by most all of us). But since I've been down here, my eyes have been opened to just how much it REALLY matters... it matters to my host family, it matters to the campesinos that we've met, it matters to El Salvadorans, and to so many people in between. And the reason for this is not just because our world is becoming increasingly interdependent, because if that were the whole, sole explanation, the U.S. would be looking in on the upcoming Nicaraguan elections with equal eagerness and enthusiasm.
No, the reason it matters so much is because, when it comes right down to it, what happens in the U.S. has far-reaching consequences in every corner of the world. It's a hard fact to come to grips with, but it can be empowering at the same time. Because inasmuch as we have the capacity to do harm and create instability, we also have the capacity to create good, improve living conditions, and empower populations around the world. We are capable of this... I really believe it. So as you vote on Tuesday (or perhaps you already have), whichever way you choose to vote, be assured that it does matter--not just for you, but for the people all around the world, who will surely be looking in.
:)
And in honor of this post, I've decided to include pictures of Nicole (fellow Washingtonian) and I filling out our ballots because, yes, we DID take pictures to document the entire process. It was our first presidential election, and needless to say, we were a little excited about it. (Note: If our ballots look make-shift, it's because they are. The absentees didn't come on time so we had to get a little creative...)
Beginning the process...
Filling them out...
Sealing them up...
Taping on the "official" address label (if these actually get counted it will be a miracle)...
El fin!
A beautiful thing:
:) Alright friends, happy election week! Miss you all and love you.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
El Salvador
I think there comes a point in all of our lives (or maybe two or three) when our world is fundamentally turned upside down. You encounter a place or a person or have some impactful experience, and it changes your entire way of looking at the world. For me, that encounter was El Salvador.
I travelled to El Salvador this past week and arrived back in Managua late Friday night. We divided our time between the capital (San Salvador), the campo (a community called Santa Marta), and a smaller town in the mountains called Suchitoto (where I met Sister Peggy, the nun from New Jersey, who was quite possibly one of the most wonderful women in the world. Within the first two minutes of talking to her, she dropped this line: "And look at the U.S. now! We've found ourselves in all this shit in Iraq and we don't know how the hell to get out." Next thing I knew, she was quoting the book of Mark and telling us that we are all children of God. Does it get any more endearing than that?)
But back to El Salvador. We spent the week learning about their history, their civil war, and the current state of the country. In everything we did, the goal was really just to understand hardship by interacting with people who have endured so much of it. As my host mom in Santa Marta said to me shortly after meeting her, "Ah, yes. You've come here to learn about our suffering."
I'll be honest: before going to El Salvador, I knew next to nothing about its history. And even if I had, I'm not sure it would have prepared me for all that I experienced there. To write about the atrocities and suffering on a blog doesn't at all do it justice, but words are all I have at this point, so that's what I'll do. Here's a quick look at the history of the country...
Boiled down, El Salvador's story is one of mass poverty at the hands of a small economic/political elite; for as long as can be remembered, the majority of the population has been landless and oppressed. In 1932, indigenous groups tried to organize an uprising against the landlords and the government, but the National Guard responded to this by killing 17,000 indigenous people. This event, known as la matanza (the massacre) created an alliance between the military and political elite, which continued to oppress the majority of the people through the 20th century.
In 1980, more than 75% of El Salvador's population lived in poverty, and over half lived in extreme poverty (unable to afford the basic food basket). It was around this time that workers, farmers, priests, and others began to mobilize, demanding social change. As the movement spread and numbers grew, the government responded with even MORE oppression and violence. In 1980 alone, more than 1,000 people were killed PER MONTH, the overwhelming majority of whom were civilians, and most were carried out by the National Guard. In March 1980, the Archbishop of El Salvador (and a national hero, for good reason), Oscar Romero, was assassinated the day after he pleaded soldiers to stop obeying orders and end the violence (he said: "In the name of God then, and in the name of this suffering people, whose laments rise to Heaven, each day more tumultuously, I beg you, I beseech you, I order you in the name of God: Stop the repression!").
After his death, the war unravelled even more and the number of deaths continued to accumulate. The strong majority of these were committed by the military's "death squads" which would raid and wipe out entire communities suspected of organizing resistance. According to the U.N.-sponsored Truth Commission, the intellectual author of these death squads was also the founder of the political party ARENA, which still holds power in El Salvador today. (In fact, just three days ago I sat in the National Assembly, in a room enshrined to this man, talking to a delegate from ARENA. It was, to say the least, eerie and unsettling.)
In all, more than 75,000 people were killed (in a country of less than 5 million) in the 12 years before the peace accords were signed in 1992. This comes out to 1 in every 56 Salvadorans, and it doesn't take into account disappearances. In essence, not a single family or community went unaffected.
In Santa Marta, we listened to the testimony of one of the women from the community. This was a community ADVERSELY impacted by the war. They were heavily, heavily persecuted by the military... so much so that in 1981, the entire community fled to Honduras and stayed there as refugees until 1987 when a group of them decided to return to Santa Marta. Her testimony of the war years included accounts of torture, rape, disappearances, and mass killings. As I sat there hearing about atrocities more awful than I could have ever imagined, it took all of my strength to convince myself that this story was real, and that it was hers. I felt like I was living a nightmare just LISTENING to her--the idea of actually living through it was more than I could take. In fact, the only coherent thought I could form was a single, short word: Why?
And then came the kicker. Because then we learned that the United States supported El Salvador's government throughout the entire war: through the killings, the human rights violations, all of it. In fact, not only did we let it happen, we gave the equivalent of $1.5 million PER DAY for 12 YEARS over the course of the war. And with that, the question "WHY?!" came crashing down on me all over again, like a 5,000 pound weight.
I was consumed by that question for days, and I was convinced that, if I just asked enough of the right questions, I would eventually get to the bottom of it. Something would click, the pieces would fall into place, and it would all make sense to me. So I spent the next few days TIRELESSLY asking questions... talking to whoever was there and asking them whatever was on my mind. But it didn't get any clearer; in fact, the whole WHY question just seemed to loom larger.
It was on the bus ride out of Santa Marta that I gave up trying to figure it out--maybe partially out of defeat and exhaustion, I don't know. But it occurred to me that no matter how many of the "right" questions I asked, I would never really understand it. I was trying to make sense of something that had no logical reasoning behind it. Or, as my friend Samuel said, "There's sense behind it, Kendall, but it's all political. You're just frustrated because you're looking for moral sense." Considering for a second that he was right, I decided to turn off my tendency to reason through things for once in my life and just decided to accept it for what it is: a tragedy that I will likely never understand.
This seems to be a trend for the semester. I think I came here trying to get a better grasp on the world and instead... my idea of the world is just getting turned inside out, repeatedly. I keep stumbling upon questions, wrestling with them, kicking them, often GETTING KICKED by them, and eventually walking away--sometimes with answers, but more frequently without. Maybe that is progress, in a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of a way. Maybe the best thing I can learn is just how small my understanding of the world is.
I don't know. But I do know this: as painful and as frustrating and as overwhelming as this whole process is, I wouldn't trade it for the world. I'd rather be exposed to the worst of the world if it means someday being able to do something about it. I know that these experiences are changing me, molding me for some purpose... and that is where I find my hope.
"Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand..." Jeremiah 18:6
I travelled to El Salvador this past week and arrived back in Managua late Friday night. We divided our time between the capital (San Salvador), the campo (a community called Santa Marta), and a smaller town in the mountains called Suchitoto (where I met Sister Peggy, the nun from New Jersey, who was quite possibly one of the most wonderful women in the world. Within the first two minutes of talking to her, she dropped this line: "And look at the U.S. now! We've found ourselves in all this shit in Iraq and we don't know how the hell to get out." Next thing I knew, she was quoting the book of Mark and telling us that we are all children of God. Does it get any more endearing than that?)
But back to El Salvador. We spent the week learning about their history, their civil war, and the current state of the country. In everything we did, the goal was really just to understand hardship by interacting with people who have endured so much of it. As my host mom in Santa Marta said to me shortly after meeting her, "Ah, yes. You've come here to learn about our suffering."
I'll be honest: before going to El Salvador, I knew next to nothing about its history. And even if I had, I'm not sure it would have prepared me for all that I experienced there. To write about the atrocities and suffering on a blog doesn't at all do it justice, but words are all I have at this point, so that's what I'll do. Here's a quick look at the history of the country...
Boiled down, El Salvador's story is one of mass poverty at the hands of a small economic/political elite; for as long as can be remembered, the majority of the population has been landless and oppressed. In 1932, indigenous groups tried to organize an uprising against the landlords and the government, but the National Guard responded to this by killing 17,000 indigenous people. This event, known as la matanza (the massacre) created an alliance between the military and political elite, which continued to oppress the majority of the people through the 20th century.
In 1980, more than 75% of El Salvador's population lived in poverty, and over half lived in extreme poverty (unable to afford the basic food basket). It was around this time that workers, farmers, priests, and others began to mobilize, demanding social change. As the movement spread and numbers grew, the government responded with even MORE oppression and violence. In 1980 alone, more than 1,000 people were killed PER MONTH, the overwhelming majority of whom were civilians, and most were carried out by the National Guard. In March 1980, the Archbishop of El Salvador (and a national hero, for good reason), Oscar Romero, was assassinated the day after he pleaded soldiers to stop obeying orders and end the violence (he said: "In the name of God then, and in the name of this suffering people, whose laments rise to Heaven, each day more tumultuously, I beg you, I beseech you, I order you in the name of God: Stop the repression!").
After his death, the war unravelled even more and the number of deaths continued to accumulate. The strong majority of these were committed by the military's "death squads" which would raid and wipe out entire communities suspected of organizing resistance. According to the U.N.-sponsored Truth Commission, the intellectual author of these death squads was also the founder of the political party ARENA, which still holds power in El Salvador today. (In fact, just three days ago I sat in the National Assembly, in a room enshrined to this man, talking to a delegate from ARENA. It was, to say the least, eerie and unsettling.)
In all, more than 75,000 people were killed (in a country of less than 5 million) in the 12 years before the peace accords were signed in 1992. This comes out to 1 in every 56 Salvadorans, and it doesn't take into account disappearances. In essence, not a single family or community went unaffected.
In Santa Marta, we listened to the testimony of one of the women from the community. This was a community ADVERSELY impacted by the war. They were heavily, heavily persecuted by the military... so much so that in 1981, the entire community fled to Honduras and stayed there as refugees until 1987 when a group of them decided to return to Santa Marta. Her testimony of the war years included accounts of torture, rape, disappearances, and mass killings. As I sat there hearing about atrocities more awful than I could have ever imagined, it took all of my strength to convince myself that this story was real, and that it was hers. I felt like I was living a nightmare just LISTENING to her--the idea of actually living through it was more than I could take. In fact, the only coherent thought I could form was a single, short word: Why?
And then came the kicker. Because then we learned that the United States supported El Salvador's government throughout the entire war: through the killings, the human rights violations, all of it. In fact, not only did we let it happen, we gave the equivalent of $1.5 million PER DAY for 12 YEARS over the course of the war. And with that, the question "WHY?!" came crashing down on me all over again, like a 5,000 pound weight.
I was consumed by that question for days, and I was convinced that, if I just asked enough of the right questions, I would eventually get to the bottom of it. Something would click, the pieces would fall into place, and it would all make sense to me. So I spent the next few days TIRELESSLY asking questions... talking to whoever was there and asking them whatever was on my mind. But it didn't get any clearer; in fact, the whole WHY question just seemed to loom larger.
It was on the bus ride out of Santa Marta that I gave up trying to figure it out--maybe partially out of defeat and exhaustion, I don't know. But it occurred to me that no matter how many of the "right" questions I asked, I would never really understand it. I was trying to make sense of something that had no logical reasoning behind it. Or, as my friend Samuel said, "There's sense behind it, Kendall, but it's all political. You're just frustrated because you're looking for moral sense." Considering for a second that he was right, I decided to turn off my tendency to reason through things for once in my life and just decided to accept it for what it is: a tragedy that I will likely never understand.
This seems to be a trend for the semester. I think I came here trying to get a better grasp on the world and instead... my idea of the world is just getting turned inside out, repeatedly. I keep stumbling upon questions, wrestling with them, kicking them, often GETTING KICKED by them, and eventually walking away--sometimes with answers, but more frequently without. Maybe that is progress, in a two-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of a way. Maybe the best thing I can learn is just how small my understanding of the world is.
I don't know. But I do know this: as painful and as frustrating and as overwhelming as this whole process is, I wouldn't trade it for the world. I'd rather be exposed to the worst of the world if it means someday being able to do something about it. I know that these experiences are changing me, molding me for some purpose... and that is where I find my hope.
"Like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand..." Jeremiah 18:6
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Green Bananas:
a phrase coined by Donald Batchelder in an essay he wrote about his time in Brazil. In the essay, he talks about how his encounter with green bananas revealed to him an enlightening piece of Brazilian perspective and culture. Over time, this phrase has come to stand for those rare cultural experiences, which, if pursued, provide a lens into another culture and our relationship to it.
Every now and then, someone in our group will look a little shell-shocked and say: "I just had a green banana." In other words: "I just had a really bizarre experience and I'm not sure how I feel about it yet."
We are asked to write about a couple of green bananas throughout the semester, and even though this one happened a while back, I thought I'd share it on here because I think it sheds some light on daily (or isolated) Nicaraguan experiences and my attempt to process through them. So here you go. My green banana:
---
It was midway through brushing my teeth--right at that point where the saliva is building and begging for a way out--that I realized I didn’t know where to spit. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I would need to ask this question. Out of habit (and I suppose some cultural conditioning), I just assumed that I would spit where I always spit when I brush my teeth: in the sink. But seeing as there was no sink, I unexpectedly found myself at a loss for what to do.
So there I was, in the dirt-floor, no-electricity kitchen of my campo host family, stuck with a mouthful of toothpaste and no outlet in sight. In a panic, I surveyed my surroundings, looking for a solution to my current dilemma. I was frantically looking around when my host mom showed up at the doorway and stared--half sympathetically, half skeptically--at my distressed self. (Though it was pitch black, I was wearing my headlamp, making it a little difficult to remain low-profile.) It’s hard to imagine exactly what I looked like in that moment, but if I had to guess, I would say I vaguely resembled a deer in the headlights with a toothbrush lodged in its mouth.
In the midst of the chaos, this moment generously granted me the kind of word retrieval that only comes in the most desperate of situations. In a rare flash of brilliance, I looked at my mom and asked, as coherently as possible, “Dónde se escupe?” I have no idea when I learned the verb “to spit,” or how I managed to remember it, or even if I conjugated it correctly. But somehow my host mom understood me and, in response, motioned in the direction behind me. I turned around to follow her point, but all I saw was the table where, two hours earlier, I had helped her make tortillas. Certain that I had misunderstood, I looked back at my mom for clarification, only to find her still pointing at the same table. “There?” I mumbled incredulously, trying to keep the toothpaste in. She looked at me squarely and said, in all seriousness, “Yes, of course. The pigs eat that too.”
I had a flashback to dinner earlier that night, when my mom swept all of our food scraps off that table and gave them to the pigs. Unable to afford any more time with that mixture in my mouth, I just did as I was told and spat it all out onto the table in exasperation. Then I watched as my host mom “cleaned up” the mess in the same (seemingly ineffective) manner she had cleaned up our tortilla mess hours earlier: she threw some water on there and allowed the downward slope of the table to wash it all away, in the direction of the hole that had been cut in the wall for draining purposes. Sure enough, as the water flowed down the table, through the hole, and out the kitchen, I heard the pigs come running from their pen to consume my toothpaste slop. “See?” my mom said proudly. “They love it.”
I tried very hard in that moment to not appear as stunned as I felt, to act as if pigs always clean up my toothpaste mess and I had just had a brief memory lapse in this regard. In spite of my best efforts, however, I’m fairly certain my face indicated exactly how I felt: completely and utterly shocked... and to be quite honest, a little disgusted. I couldn’t get over the fact that I had just brushed my teeth on the same surface as I had used to made my dinner two hours earlier--and the same surface as I would likely use to make my breakfast the next morning.
Suddenly feeling a bit queasy, I climbed into bed.
Though I was entirely drained from the day--both physically and mentally--I couldn’t stop thinking about my tooth-brushing incident. I was embarrassed by my reaction of disgust and intrigued by how logical my host mom’s system of cleaning and hygiene seemed to her. It was in this period of exhausted reflection that I realized the cultural dissonance. In order to make sense of this situation, I needed to understand the fundamental values of our two very conflicting societies.
I come from a society that values, among its highest priorities, order. In every crevice of the United States one can find rules, regulations, and protocol written for the slightest procedures to ensure that everything operates in an orderly fashion. These regulations are especially important when health or well-being is in question (i.e. keeping food preparation separate from waste). Nicaragua, on the other hand, is a society that holds utility among its highest priorities. The question for a Nicaraguan is not, “How is this potentially harmful, and what procedure can we develop to fix that?” but rather, simply, “What can this be used for?” It’s a shift in thinking; one is preventative, the other is proactive. The difference between my host mother’s reaction to the situation and my reaction to the situation illuminates this distinction perfectly. Whereas I was concerned about the potential health implications of spitting on the same surface that is used for cooking, this seemed perfectly logical to my host mom. As far as she was concerned, the pigs would eat the leftovers of both, so why not use the same space and let them both drain to the pig’s trough? In her eyes, nothing--not even toothpaste spit--should have to go to waste.
As it turns out, we did prepare tortillas on that same surface the next morning. And in spite of my better judgment, I ate them. And I didn’t get sick. For me, this was my first lesson in relying less on regulations, and more on resourcefulness. Because you never know the potential value something holds until it is used for the unthinkable.
---
A little follow-up note: as can only be in the case when you're in another culture, no matter which one it is, green bananas have happened on occasion. Some are less impactful than this one, but they all have all helped me understand Nicaragua a little better. This week (tomorrow), I head to El Salvador, where we'll learn a little about their revolutionary history and how it relates to that of Nicaragua. I'm sure my time in that country will have its share of cultural experiences. With regard to this trip, Aynn said (direct quote): "Get ready to turn yourselves inside out again." Not sure what that means? But I'll let you know when I get back next Friday. Thanks so much for keeping up with me! Love to you all.
Every now and then, someone in our group will look a little shell-shocked and say: "I just had a green banana." In other words: "I just had a really bizarre experience and I'm not sure how I feel about it yet."
We are asked to write about a couple of green bananas throughout the semester, and even though this one happened a while back, I thought I'd share it on here because I think it sheds some light on daily (or isolated) Nicaraguan experiences and my attempt to process through them. So here you go. My green banana:
---
It was midway through brushing my teeth--right at that point where the saliva is building and begging for a way out--that I realized I didn’t know where to spit. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I would need to ask this question. Out of habit (and I suppose some cultural conditioning), I just assumed that I would spit where I always spit when I brush my teeth: in the sink. But seeing as there was no sink, I unexpectedly found myself at a loss for what to do.
So there I was, in the dirt-floor, no-electricity kitchen of my campo host family, stuck with a mouthful of toothpaste and no outlet in sight. In a panic, I surveyed my surroundings, looking for a solution to my current dilemma. I was frantically looking around when my host mom showed up at the doorway and stared--half sympathetically, half skeptically--at my distressed self. (Though it was pitch black, I was wearing my headlamp, making it a little difficult to remain low-profile.) It’s hard to imagine exactly what I looked like in that moment, but if I had to guess, I would say I vaguely resembled a deer in the headlights with a toothbrush lodged in its mouth.
In the midst of the chaos, this moment generously granted me the kind of word retrieval that only comes in the most desperate of situations. In a rare flash of brilliance, I looked at my mom and asked, as coherently as possible, “Dónde se escupe?” I have no idea when I learned the verb “to spit,” or how I managed to remember it, or even if I conjugated it correctly. But somehow my host mom understood me and, in response, motioned in the direction behind me. I turned around to follow her point, but all I saw was the table where, two hours earlier, I had helped her make tortillas. Certain that I had misunderstood, I looked back at my mom for clarification, only to find her still pointing at the same table. “There?” I mumbled incredulously, trying to keep the toothpaste in. She looked at me squarely and said, in all seriousness, “Yes, of course. The pigs eat that too.”
I had a flashback to dinner earlier that night, when my mom swept all of our food scraps off that table and gave them to the pigs. Unable to afford any more time with that mixture in my mouth, I just did as I was told and spat it all out onto the table in exasperation. Then I watched as my host mom “cleaned up” the mess in the same (seemingly ineffective) manner she had cleaned up our tortilla mess hours earlier: she threw some water on there and allowed the downward slope of the table to wash it all away, in the direction of the hole that had been cut in the wall for draining purposes. Sure enough, as the water flowed down the table, through the hole, and out the kitchen, I heard the pigs come running from their pen to consume my toothpaste slop. “See?” my mom said proudly. “They love it.”
I tried very hard in that moment to not appear as stunned as I felt, to act as if pigs always clean up my toothpaste mess and I had just had a brief memory lapse in this regard. In spite of my best efforts, however, I’m fairly certain my face indicated exactly how I felt: completely and utterly shocked... and to be quite honest, a little disgusted. I couldn’t get over the fact that I had just brushed my teeth on the same surface as I had used to made my dinner two hours earlier--and the same surface as I would likely use to make my breakfast the next morning.
Suddenly feeling a bit queasy, I climbed into bed.
Though I was entirely drained from the day--both physically and mentally--I couldn’t stop thinking about my tooth-brushing incident. I was embarrassed by my reaction of disgust and intrigued by how logical my host mom’s system of cleaning and hygiene seemed to her. It was in this period of exhausted reflection that I realized the cultural dissonance. In order to make sense of this situation, I needed to understand the fundamental values of our two very conflicting societies.
I come from a society that values, among its highest priorities, order. In every crevice of the United States one can find rules, regulations, and protocol written for the slightest procedures to ensure that everything operates in an orderly fashion. These regulations are especially important when health or well-being is in question (i.e. keeping food preparation separate from waste). Nicaragua, on the other hand, is a society that holds utility among its highest priorities. The question for a Nicaraguan is not, “How is this potentially harmful, and what procedure can we develop to fix that?” but rather, simply, “What can this be used for?” It’s a shift in thinking; one is preventative, the other is proactive. The difference between my host mother’s reaction to the situation and my reaction to the situation illuminates this distinction perfectly. Whereas I was concerned about the potential health implications of spitting on the same surface that is used for cooking, this seemed perfectly logical to my host mom. As far as she was concerned, the pigs would eat the leftovers of both, so why not use the same space and let them both drain to the pig’s trough? In her eyes, nothing--not even toothpaste spit--should have to go to waste.
As it turns out, we did prepare tortillas on that same surface the next morning. And in spite of my better judgment, I ate them. And I didn’t get sick. For me, this was my first lesson in relying less on regulations, and more on resourcefulness. Because you never know the potential value something holds until it is used for the unthinkable.
---
A little follow-up note: as can only be in the case when you're in another culture, no matter which one it is, green bananas have happened on occasion. Some are less impactful than this one, but they all have all helped me understand Nicaragua a little better. This week (tomorrow), I head to El Salvador, where we'll learn a little about their revolutionary history and how it relates to that of Nicaragua. I'm sure my time in that country will have its share of cultural experiences. With regard to this trip, Aynn said (direct quote): "Get ready to turn yourselves inside out again." Not sure what that means? But I'll let you know when I get back next Friday. Thanks so much for keeping up with me! Love to you all.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Volcanic Eruptions (or lack thereof)
Hi everyone! Here's a little update on things...
Yesterday (Saturday) was spent exploring Volcán Masaya National Park with Jessica. The volcano was said by the Spaniards to be "the gateway to hell" and the Lonely Planet guidebook describes it as follows: "There's always lava bubbling at the bottom and a column of sulfurous gases rising above; in 2001 an eruption hurled heated rocks 500m into the air, damaging cars and narrowly missing people. The brochure explains that this is 'adventure tourism'... But you have to go."
So, we went. (And I mean, honestly, with a reputation like that, how could we not?) It was a long hike to the top in the Nicaragua heat (as my favorite Nicaraguan expression goes, I was sweating oceans), but absolutely worth it. From the top, we had a beautiful view of Lake Managua, the smell of sulfurous gases (who doesn't love that), and we didn't even get hit by an explosion of heated rocks. Slightly less eventful than I had expected, but all in all, a successful and wonderful experience.
The view...
Lava rocks from the 1700s (slightly impressive, right?)...
As for Managua life, things continue to go well. I made a new friend this past week... He is 70 years old and lives a few doors down from me. He spends nearly every hour of every day sitting in a plastic chair in front of his door. Just sitting, nothing more. But always with a smile on his face. The other day, I walked by and said "Buenas!" as I always do, and he asked me what time it was. And thus began our friendship. Now, every time I walk by, we talk about the weather, what we did that day (I usually have more to say on this subject), and other things that friends talk about. I don't know what his name is (that's this week's goal), but he is quickly becoming my favorite Nicaraguan (especially because my former favorite Nicaraguan, my four year old brother, recently discovered that the bathroom door locks from the inside AND the outside, and has since started playing a game where he locks me in the bathroom every time I use it).
As for the language factor, I've recently found myself having conversations that I would normally care nothing about, but because they're in Spanish, I get completely wrapped up in them. It's almost as if Spanish has become a game to me... it doesn't matter who I'm talking to or what I'm talking about. The only important thing is that I'm talking. (The other day, for example, I got really into a conversation about boxing with my Nicaraguan uncle, and had to stop midway and wonder: who was this girl that suddenly cared so much about boxing?)
Rat update: Yup, they're real. Not just my imagination. In addition to seeing one last week, I also found an empty plastic bag in my room that used to be filled with the Muddy Buddies that Claire sent (Claire: Jason and I ate the first half of it as a reward for surviving the Campo, and we were saving the second half for later, and now it's gone. Discovering that empty bag was probably the most devastating experience of my life.) Prayers that the rats would die are encouraged.
The food: certainly an aspect of life that keeps things interesting here. From the beginning of this abroad experience, I've really tried to embrace all Nicaraguan food and just eat whatever is put in front of me. Though (as you all know) this doesn't come totally naturally to me, I'm not going to lie: I've done a pretty solid job. Only on a few occasions have I not been able to choke something down (last night was one of those times... Doña María Inés brought out hard-boiled eggs mashed with guacamole. Yikes.) In fact, I've done SUCH a good job that this past week, Armando (my four year old brother) said, in admiration, "Kendall, eres una comedora!" (You're an eater!) And my host mom, nodding enthusiastically, added something about being thrilled that I'm not as picky as her students in the past. I forced a smile, but actually felt like someone had just played a big fat joke on me. Had I known all along that I wasn't expected to eat/"like" everything...
Meanwhile, as promised, I finally took some pictures of my street/house to give you all a sense of where I live. Here's a quick tour...
The andén:
The house (it's the middle one with the white gate):
My bedroom:
Our back yard/porch:
This is called the "pila" and it's where we wash dishes and clothes:
Alright, that's all for now! Life here is good. I'm really just trying to soak up the richness of every minute and every experience. I'll update more before I leave for El Salvador this week. Miss and love you all.
Yesterday (Saturday) was spent exploring Volcán Masaya National Park with Jessica. The volcano was said by the Spaniards to be "the gateway to hell" and the Lonely Planet guidebook describes it as follows: "There's always lava bubbling at the bottom and a column of sulfurous gases rising above; in 2001 an eruption hurled heated rocks 500m into the air, damaging cars and narrowly missing people. The brochure explains that this is 'adventure tourism'... But you have to go."
So, we went. (And I mean, honestly, with a reputation like that, how could we not?) It was a long hike to the top in the Nicaragua heat (as my favorite Nicaraguan expression goes, I was sweating oceans), but absolutely worth it. From the top, we had a beautiful view of Lake Managua, the smell of sulfurous gases (who doesn't love that), and we didn't even get hit by an explosion of heated rocks. Slightly less eventful than I had expected, but all in all, a successful and wonderful experience.
The view...
Lava rocks from the 1700s (slightly impressive, right?)...
As for Managua life, things continue to go well. I made a new friend this past week... He is 70 years old and lives a few doors down from me. He spends nearly every hour of every day sitting in a plastic chair in front of his door. Just sitting, nothing more. But always with a smile on his face. The other day, I walked by and said "Buenas!" as I always do, and he asked me what time it was. And thus began our friendship. Now, every time I walk by, we talk about the weather, what we did that day (I usually have more to say on this subject), and other things that friends talk about. I don't know what his name is (that's this week's goal), but he is quickly becoming my favorite Nicaraguan (especially because my former favorite Nicaraguan, my four year old brother, recently discovered that the bathroom door locks from the inside AND the outside, and has since started playing a game where he locks me in the bathroom every time I use it).
As for the language factor, I've recently found myself having conversations that I would normally care nothing about, but because they're in Spanish, I get completely wrapped up in them. It's almost as if Spanish has become a game to me... it doesn't matter who I'm talking to or what I'm talking about. The only important thing is that I'm talking. (The other day, for example, I got really into a conversation about boxing with my Nicaraguan uncle, and had to stop midway and wonder: who was this girl that suddenly cared so much about boxing?)
Rat update: Yup, they're real. Not just my imagination. In addition to seeing one last week, I also found an empty plastic bag in my room that used to be filled with the Muddy Buddies that Claire sent (Claire: Jason and I ate the first half of it as a reward for surviving the Campo, and we were saving the second half for later, and now it's gone. Discovering that empty bag was probably the most devastating experience of my life.) Prayers that the rats would die are encouraged.
The food: certainly an aspect of life that keeps things interesting here. From the beginning of this abroad experience, I've really tried to embrace all Nicaraguan food and just eat whatever is put in front of me. Though (as you all know) this doesn't come totally naturally to me, I'm not going to lie: I've done a pretty solid job. Only on a few occasions have I not been able to choke something down (last night was one of those times... Doña María Inés brought out hard-boiled eggs mashed with guacamole. Yikes.) In fact, I've done SUCH a good job that this past week, Armando (my four year old brother) said, in admiration, "Kendall, eres una comedora!" (You're an eater!) And my host mom, nodding enthusiastically, added something about being thrilled that I'm not as picky as her students in the past. I forced a smile, but actually felt like someone had just played a big fat joke on me. Had I known all along that I wasn't expected to eat/"like" everything...
Meanwhile, as promised, I finally took some pictures of my street/house to give you all a sense of where I live. Here's a quick tour...
The andén:
The house (it's the middle one with the white gate):
My bedroom:
Our back yard/porch:
This is called the "pila" and it's where we wash dishes and clothes:
Alright, that's all for now! Life here is good. I'm really just trying to soak up the richness of every minute and every experience. I'll update more before I leave for El Salvador this week. Miss and love you all.
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