Student Reflections from Spring 2005Below are the reflections and thoughts submitted by some of the Casa students who were in El Salvador for the Spring 2005 semester. These reflections are in alphabetical order by student's last name.
This quote has given me a lot of strength: "Speak your mind, even if your voice shakes." -Maggie Kuhn Everyday I returned home from my praxis site in Las Delicias, my feet would be completely covered in dirt. During the dry season here, the polvo (dirt) was about 2 inches deep. Without realizing it, the people of Las Delicias and of El Salvador have cleansed me with that dirt. Coming here, I stepped out of my "dirt free" life in Chicago and took down all the barriers. I swam in the rivers, I walked around barefoot, I danced in the rain, I climbed the trees and I lived. Salvadorans have washed my feet with that dirt, just as Jesus washed the feet of the disciples. He was their teacher, and the Salvadorans are mine as well. Jesus said to the disciples, "Tú no puedes comprender ahora lo que estoy haciendo. Lo comprenderás más tarde." Juan 13:7 (You cannot understand what I am doing now. You will understand it later.) That is the explanation of my whole experience here. I have no idea how this experience is going to play out in my life. But I do know that I will not walk away from El Salvador without being changed forever. I have been healed by the Salvadoran people. They have accepted me for who I am, and have embraced me in love. I too have fallen in love with El Salvador. The beauty in the children, in the strength of the people, and in the dreams of the next generation are what give me hope when seeing the struggles that people face daily with the lack of water and so much injustice and oppression. The people have held my hand and I will always hold them in my heart. "Cuando hay amor, la solidaridad no tiene fronteras." "Let the world change you and then you can change the world." Please contact me with any questions!! aberry2@luc.edu
In the theology class I took in El Salvador, our teacher, Sister Peggy, told us on our first day of class “El Salvador is a land of earthquakes, they come every few years. But look out for soulquakes, those come every day.” I was continually brought back to those words throughout my experience as I was constantly learning about life. Somedays I would look out at Volcan San Salvador in awe of the natural beauty of the country and somedays I looked at the city and my heart broke as I saw poverty, crime and pollution. There were some days where I was overcome with love for the people in my praxis site of San Ramon, my community in the Casa and all of my Salvadoran friends. Then days were I was overcome with fatigue and frustration. But through it all, I was constantly learning. Humanity is that wonderful reminder that we are all human. When we forget every label that society has given to us and look into the eyes of another human being and see ourselves. That is humanity. As I write this reflection now I have been back in the United States for a few months and I know that the experience I had at the Casa is one that will stay with me forever. El pueblo Salvadoreño will always be with me and because of this, I believe I will be a better person than I was before. Feel free to email me with questions: hershble@slu.edu Quotes:
Go to El Salvador. Just do it. Seriously. I’m not even joking. No, seriously. Never in my life have I experienced so much love and community—so much humanity. It will open your eyes and it will move you. You will do things that you never thought were possible and you will grow more than you could ever imagine. Your soul will shake and your heart will jump with the love of the Salvadoran people. It is a country riddled with war and hardship, but completely consumed by hope and adoration. To go to El Salvador is to experience what it means to be truly and fully human. It is to break out of everyday life and see the world with your own eyes. It is a once in a lifetime opportunity that everyone should get a chance to do. You will have a better understanding about what Truth and Justice mean in our world today. P.S. Honestly, you should just go…
Muddling Here, come, tell me what is important to you. Tell me your struggles. (This is, after all, why I came here, to listen, to be with you.) Your husband is in jail, you are a single mother with two children. Really? (What kind of response is that?!, I think to myself, frustrated, second guessing myself.) Your sister lives with you and pays the rent, she has a job washing the clothes of several families. But she is looking to move out. You tell me this and I see creases across your forehead as your eyes stare at something, and nothing, preoccupation penetrating your expression. (What do I say??!!!) I am sorry. I have no idea what will happen either. I see your neck lower so that you can hold your face in your hands, cradling it with your palms that open to catch the tears at the same time that you hide them from me. That’s fine. Fine. Cry. Please cry. Weep. Because this is life and it is difficult and I have no idea what to say to you. (I didn’t realize that people would be so open. You are. Your vulnerable-ness silently howls from your presence, longing like a wolf to the moon). Your son, that’s him, no? He is sitting on your floor naked. In a split-second I feel my insides bellow, and then plummet, because of what he shows, to us, with his nudity--his poverty, and yours, (does he show mine?) and how hard this thing called life really can be. I see, but do I understand. Does my freshly-plummeted soul fathom how it really is to raise him as you wade through the thick darkness of the unknown. You do not know when or if your husband will come back to live with you, whether or not your sister will live with you in the months to come, whether or not you will have a job, tomorrow, or in a month, or in a year, so that you can feed that mouth to nourish that naked tan child’s body as he grins up from your soiled floor. You are still crying. So am I.
This, after all, is what I came for. To look, to listen, to be with the pain and the joy. More than once I reminded myself of that, in moments and hours that were somewhat similar to what happened in the above description, when the formalities that allow us to see past the hurt were abandoned, the hi’s, how are you’s skipped, rather, let’s go straight to the heart of the matter. In listening, and being with, and seeing, pain arose—the unexpected was that it arose in me too. This…is not easy. I listened, and became conscious, that I, myself, need to be listened to, I also need to be seen, comforted, loved. Universities are not for the students that attend them, as my Salvadoran sociology teacher once taught by Ellacuría told me. Universities are for the people who do not attend—the poor, the underdogs, the naked. May those of us who are ‘professional’ learners give profusely of what our opportunities allow—to help and to be for the poor. It made perfect sense to me when he said it. My experience, my learning, must zoom beyond the desk and the classroom and the deadlines and the grades to the world out here. Of course. Yes. But. Also. The experience came back to me—it was not linear, but circular. It was not one or the other, either/or, attend the university or wait, serve, or be served. Our souls are muddled. I saw need, simultaneously seeing my own need. Look, so as to feel their desperation. And then I feel my own. Cradle them, those who are weary. And cradle me. Gaze into their dark, longing eyes—hope! Ahh, yes. It is also in me. We are both phoenixes. In meditation form, may the Salvadorans be filled with loving kindness, may they be well, may they have peace and be at ease, may they be happy…and…may I be filled with loving kindness, may I be well, may I have peace and be at ease, may I be happy…and…
Little dreams and little voices
Back home they’d say this place is small potatoes, papas pequeñas. Full of little dreams and little voices. But may be they’re right: The mirrors one foot too low The buses made for going to school, You’re too big for such a little place, The Montana man laughs at their little mountains. But I am not too big for this place, El Salvador, And at night those sueños pequeños No they’re wrong—I am not too big for El Salvador,
“A kairotic moment is a moment that has so much, there is such a depth to it. You must see the density of the moment growing out of ordinary moments” –Sr. Peggy While experiencing our week in the Campo, I had the opportunity to visit the school in the village of La Rincon where we got together all the students for a game of soccer. As I stood back to look around, I saw and experienced the depth of the moment. I stood on the rocky ground that was the soccer field for these kids. Down the block from the field, a group of 15 men were finishing work for the day on the community meeting house which was being constructed by all the families in the town to be used for a meeting house and to replace the church which had been burned down during the war. The site of the old church was across the street, yet only the steeple tower with a small cross on top was standing there now as it was the only section that had survived the fire. On the single wall of the steeple tower, an artist was painting a mural of four women from the village who were killed in the war. My teammate and campo brother pointed to the woman being painted right then—it is his Aunt. One moment, brief and passing—yet it encompassed past, present, and future. The pain and suffering of the past, the ever-reaching effects of the death and destruction of the war within the difficult Salvadoran reality. The soccer game played by energy filled school children not so different from me as I first thought. The community house—a structure and symbol of the progress of community working towards the future. One moment—yet with a depth and thickness that cannot easily be described nor forgotten. El Salvador is more complex for me now. It seems with El Salvador, and life as well, the more I learn and experience the less I know for certain. Yet in the process I get to live the questions and walk alongside amazing people. In my kairotic moments, and in all my moments in El Salvador, I was able to experience “sacrament” in its truest sense. The Salvadoran people are a sacrament for me, as they are doors to the holy for me. The challenge before me now is to carry the Salvadoran people and my experience with me as I continue with my life. I want to give back to the Salvadoran people what they so graciously gave me, although I can never do that sufficiently. The best gift I can give my friends and family in El Salvador is to live my life people-centered…to bring the Salvadoran love for life with me everywhere I go. Asi es la vida, y la vida sigue.
Excerpt from Journal 4: What is solidarity? …Waiting for the Easter vigil to start I sat on a bench with two Salvadorans—a husband and wife who had come to Salvador del Mundo to take part in the vigil as well. They were from Sonsonate and like me had arrived rather early. We started to slowly talk first about the vigil, then where I was from and where they were from. The immediate reaction they conveyed to me was happiness to see a gringa, like me, present in their culture—wanted to learn their language, customs, values, and realities. As chance my have had it (or perhaps not chance at all), I met them again later in the evening and again entered into conversation as we sat together. The women turned to me and began to ask me about New York. As we conversed, she confided that she had children living there and sending back money. The couple has five children—the youngest at age 13 is the only one still living at home even though he strongly desires and probably will leave to join the others in the States. From merely looking into her eyes, which moistened with tears, I could sense the loneliness. If I actually had the an experience to relate or was a mother myself, I am sure my ability to understand would have extended stronger. Although all I could do was listen, I still felt a strong connection with her because she had granted me her confidence. As she spoke, I felt the beauty of a complete stranger sharing her story, her reality with me. This sharing did not arise to invoke a sense of guilt on my part, or to bring humiliation and shame to her family. Instead, the story, her history, her reality, was shared with me openly. I wanted to hug her, talk to her, but knew I did not know what to say if I even could have said what I wanted. In my most important relationships, I often take on the role of a listener—supporting people in the way that they need without having to say much in return or needing to say anything in return. I felt privileged to have this role with a Salvadoran—and especially with a Salvadoran that I did not even meet until this night. I hope that my gratitude and perhaps even compassion more than anything was evident to her. Whether sufficient or not, I did truly feel thankfulness and meaning after all my frustrations of waiting for the vigil to begin for so long. Later in the mass I read a petition about international solidarity, which took on a completely new and more profound meaning. Before the peticion was merely something I was going to do because I was asked, but through meeting the couple my words actualized into real personal importance. The connection I felt—if not a link of understanding (because how could I really truly understand) was a form of sharing — sharing stories, sharing in the mass, sharing confidence and even sharing the bench where it all started….
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