Sunday, May 16, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
My Life at PLQ
I’m the student coordinator at a Spanish language school in Quetzaltenango. A school that has a social justice focus. We are considered the most “political” in comparison to the other language schools because we put an emphasis on educating students about the social and political realities of Guatemala. Our mission statement was born in response to two murders that took place in 1987 in Quetzaltenango. René Leiva Cayax and Danilo Alvarado were student activist at the university in Xela. They were kidnapped by 6 police officers (at the time the police department was under the control of the military regime), tortured and murdered for their roles on their university campus.
In 1988, a group of teachers got together to create a school that would not only offer Spanish instruction but also denounce these murders and raise international awareness about Guatemala. Therefore, every Monday morning I give a 90 minute orientation to new students focusing on the last 100 years of Guatemala, highlighting major historical events and statistical data about present day and stats regarding the 36 years of internal conflict where over 200,000 men, women, and children were murdered, 440 villages massacred through a political campaign called "tierra arrasada" or "scorched earth" and 1.5 million people displaced. And I never forget to tell these new students how the United States fully supported this war, the repressive climate, and oppressive military regime. The US carried out a coup in 1954 ending the democratic spring and democratic government and later the US provided financial assistance, military weapons and equipment to the Guatemalan army, and provided training to the military dictators at the School of the Americas (today currently known as the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation). The number one enemies of the state at the time were the “guerillas.” This term is used to refer to the men and women that went and trained in the mountains to fight against the military regime. The war ended in 1996 with the signing of the Peace Accords but although there is no war, people still die at the same right as if there were a war going on. Violence, poverty, and hunger are common realities in this country.
After orientation students start classes and I head to the office to respond to an inbox full of emails, questions, and registrations from future students. During the rest of the day, students come in and out of the office to pay tuition, to chat, ask questions, complain or give thanks because they love their teacher. Some things I hear are “I think I have bed bugs, look at my legs?” Or “Where can I volunteer?” or “I started dating my host brother and now we are having problems, should I move out?” Every Friday night is graduation night where we have music, dinner, and singing. Its tradition to sing “Bella Chao” and have the whole school singing “Soy communista toda la vida!” Ha!Ha!
The school plans daily excursions and hikes within the area and show documentaries and films in our presentation room. I translate conferences (or guest speakers) three times a week. Conferences are different every week and are geared toward educating students about Guatemala. Some conference titles include; The Guerilla Radio Station “Voz Popular,” Women in Guatemala, Mayan Spirituality, the Politics of Rios Montt, or The Damage of Mining Companies. The most touching and difficult conferences are personal testimonies. Those who come to talk about a massacre they witnessed, their experience living in the mountains as a guerilla, or an experience as a refugee. The most difficult one thus far was today with the story of Don Pedro. Don Pedro was a leader (and still is a leader) of a cooperative of campesino workers in 1985. His cooperative offered people credit to purchase, provided training to people on human rights and helped organized his community. During the civil war, the military targeted various groups and individuals that were suspected of being “against” the state, for being “subversives” or “communist” so this included union workers, university students, professors, lawyers, and community leaders, even priests and nuns. If you were caught or even suspected of giving food or medical attention to anyone in the guerilla front, this was an automatic death sentence. The army had control over the state and governed the country so there was no such thing as having a trial or investigation into crimes committed by the army.
Don Pedro was suspected of being part of the guerilla front and in 1985 he was kidnapped from his own home by the army, tortured and held captive for 14 days. By some miracle he survived for returning after capture was unheard of. He came to the school today to share his story. He was honest and vulnerable and humbly narrated his experience. As the translator, I repeat everything using first person. For example, he said “Sacaron mi ropa, estaba desnudo en el piso, mis manos y pies atados, y me golpearon.” And I would translate “They took off all my clothes, I was naked on the floor, my hands and feet were tired, and they beat me.” As he went deeper and further into the story, I wasn’t sure if I was capable of repeating such cruelty. I’ve never had any formal training on translating so nothing could have really prepared me for this. Listening to a story is one thing, but having to repeat in front of a group is another. “They bit both my ears and then took a machete and kept hitting my face with it. They put me into this hole about the size of this room. And every day they would interrogate me demand that I talk. They would beat me some more. One day, they took a noose and put it around my neck…they would hang me and then they would drop me. Another day, they dropped big rocks onto my stomach. Another day, they said they were going to burn me if I didn’t give up information. So they put a gallon of gasoline and firewood next to me. Once they asked me if I was thirsty and then urinated on me and said “Drink this.” After 8 days of no food or water, my entire body was black from bruises and not an inch free from a wound...I would ask God to kill me and end this hell. When I was finally released I realized that I was being held in a parish and I saw a huge crucifix on the front of the building.” He told the details of his story for about an hour and a half and ended by telling us that his family fled to Mexico when he got word that the army was coming back for him. And after this intense story the only thing he asked of his audience was "to speak to others in your home country about what has happened here."
Don Pedro, you are so brave to tell your story in front of strangers. To relive those horrific moments, the details of your torture. You inspire me. How do you still believe in God? How are you not bitter? How do you not want to kill? How do you still have hope for Guatemala? I would have asked you these questions myself, but didn’t have the strength to do so without crying profusely. I didn’t think it was fair to cry and take any attention away from your story. I am just the messenger and translator and my only goal was to make sure I conveyed your story how you told it. But that wasn’t easy Don Pedro because when you started to cry and when I saw your mind was back in that place, back in that hole, all I wanted to do was stop writing and stop listening and give you a hug, tell you how great you are...but again this is not about me. So I just continued. I held back the lump in my throat but couldn’t help the tears welding in my eyes. I hope I didn’t fail in telling your story and I hope you saw my tears as a symbol of my solidarity to you in that moment. All the students in the room were patiently listening, suffering inside, and completely present with you. Though language was a barrier for many of the beginner Spanish students and though not everyone understood your words, they understood your story. Thank you Don Pedro.
We put away the chairs in our small conference room and the students individually thanked Don Pedro for his story. The light chatter in the room gently shifted to the upcoming soccer game that night and students headed back to class. “Can I take a picture with you?” One of the students asked Don Pedro. “Yes” he says. As the room empties, I look at the new mural up on the wall and remember why we chose that quote located in the center. For people like you Don Pedro, who cannot be defeated and who continue to have hope. For people like you that believe in the Guatemalan dream. “Podrán cortar todas las flores, pero no podrán detener la primavera.”- Pablo Neruda
In 1988, a group of teachers got together to create a school that would not only offer Spanish instruction but also denounce these murders and raise international awareness about Guatemala. Therefore, every Monday morning I give a 90 minute orientation to new students focusing on the last 100 years of Guatemala, highlighting major historical events and statistical data about present day and stats regarding the 36 years of internal conflict where over 200,000 men, women, and children were murdered, 440 villages massacred through a political campaign called "tierra arrasada" or "scorched earth" and 1.5 million people displaced. And I never forget to tell these new students how the United States fully supported this war, the repressive climate, and oppressive military regime. The US carried out a coup in 1954 ending the democratic spring and democratic government and later the US provided financial assistance, military weapons and equipment to the Guatemalan army, and provided training to the military dictators at the School of the Americas (today currently known as the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation). The number one enemies of the state at the time were the “guerillas.” This term is used to refer to the men and women that went and trained in the mountains to fight against the military regime. The war ended in 1996 with the signing of the Peace Accords but although there is no war, people still die at the same right as if there were a war going on. Violence, poverty, and hunger are common realities in this country.
After orientation students start classes and I head to the office to respond to an inbox full of emails, questions, and registrations from future students. During the rest of the day, students come in and out of the office to pay tuition, to chat, ask questions, complain or give thanks because they love their teacher. Some things I hear are “I think I have bed bugs, look at my legs?” Or “Where can I volunteer?” or “I started dating my host brother and now we are having problems, should I move out?” Every Friday night is graduation night where we have music, dinner, and singing. Its tradition to sing “Bella Chao” and have the whole school singing “Soy communista toda la vida!” Ha!Ha!
The school plans daily excursions and hikes within the area and show documentaries and films in our presentation room. I translate conferences (or guest speakers) three times a week. Conferences are different every week and are geared toward educating students about Guatemala. Some conference titles include; The Guerilla Radio Station “Voz Popular,” Women in Guatemala, Mayan Spirituality, the Politics of Rios Montt, or The Damage of Mining Companies. The most touching and difficult conferences are personal testimonies. Those who come to talk about a massacre they witnessed, their experience living in the mountains as a guerilla, or an experience as a refugee. The most difficult one thus far was today with the story of Don Pedro. Don Pedro was a leader (and still is a leader) of a cooperative of campesino workers in 1985. His cooperative offered people credit to purchase, provided training to people on human rights and helped organized his community. During the civil war, the military targeted various groups and individuals that were suspected of being “against” the state, for being “subversives” or “communist” so this included union workers, university students, professors, lawyers, and community leaders, even priests and nuns. If you were caught or even suspected of giving food or medical attention to anyone in the guerilla front, this was an automatic death sentence. The army had control over the state and governed the country so there was no such thing as having a trial or investigation into crimes committed by the army.
Don Pedro was suspected of being part of the guerilla front and in 1985 he was kidnapped from his own home by the army, tortured and held captive for 14 days. By some miracle he survived for returning after capture was unheard of. He came to the school today to share his story. He was honest and vulnerable and humbly narrated his experience. As the translator, I repeat everything using first person. For example, he said “Sacaron mi ropa, estaba desnudo en el piso, mis manos y pies atados, y me golpearon.” And I would translate “They took off all my clothes, I was naked on the floor, my hands and feet were tired, and they beat me.” As he went deeper and further into the story, I wasn’t sure if I was capable of repeating such cruelty. I’ve never had any formal training on translating so nothing could have really prepared me for this. Listening to a story is one thing, but having to repeat in front of a group is another. “They bit both my ears and then took a machete and kept hitting my face with it. They put me into this hole about the size of this room. And every day they would interrogate me demand that I talk. They would beat me some more. One day, they took a noose and put it around my neck…they would hang me and then they would drop me. Another day, they dropped big rocks onto my stomach. Another day, they said they were going to burn me if I didn’t give up information. So they put a gallon of gasoline and firewood next to me. Once they asked me if I was thirsty and then urinated on me and said “Drink this.” After 8 days of no food or water, my entire body was black from bruises and not an inch free from a wound...I would ask God to kill me and end this hell. When I was finally released I realized that I was being held in a parish and I saw a huge crucifix on the front of the building.” He told the details of his story for about an hour and a half and ended by telling us that his family fled to Mexico when he got word that the army was coming back for him. And after this intense story the only thing he asked of his audience was "to speak to others in your home country about what has happened here."
Don Pedro, you are so brave to tell your story in front of strangers. To relive those horrific moments, the details of your torture. You inspire me. How do you still believe in God? How are you not bitter? How do you not want to kill? How do you still have hope for Guatemala? I would have asked you these questions myself, but didn’t have the strength to do so without crying profusely. I didn’t think it was fair to cry and take any attention away from your story. I am just the messenger and translator and my only goal was to make sure I conveyed your story how you told it. But that wasn’t easy Don Pedro because when you started to cry and when I saw your mind was back in that place, back in that hole, all I wanted to do was stop writing and stop listening and give you a hug, tell you how great you are...but again this is not about me. So I just continued. I held back the lump in my throat but couldn’t help the tears welding in my eyes. I hope I didn’t fail in telling your story and I hope you saw my tears as a symbol of my solidarity to you in that moment. All the students in the room were patiently listening, suffering inside, and completely present with you. Though language was a barrier for many of the beginner Spanish students and though not everyone understood your words, they understood your story. Thank you Don Pedro.
We put away the chairs in our small conference room and the students individually thanked Don Pedro for his story. The light chatter in the room gently shifted to the upcoming soccer game that night and students headed back to class. “Can I take a picture with you?” One of the students asked Don Pedro. “Yes” he says. As the room empties, I look at the new mural up on the wall and remember why we chose that quote located in the center. For people like you Don Pedro, who cannot be defeated and who continue to have hope. For people like you that believe in the Guatemalan dream. “Podrán cortar todas las flores, pero no podrán detener la primavera.”- Pablo Neruda
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Dream
Last night I dreamt I was leaving a concert. There were people everywhere; I saw a few of my cousins, an old friend from high school and Justin Timberlake. I have absolutely no connection or infatuation with Justin so as to why he was there, who knows? Anyway, on my way back “home” I walk thru this large building with several corridors, salons, and hallways. I realized that I lost my back pack and quickly start to panic. Where is my back pack? I search all over the place and I can’t find it. I’m upset and enter this room where a person was awaiting me, sitting behind a desk. I told this person, “I can’t find my back pack.” I suddenly realized I was being rude and that I did not introduce myself. “So sorry, I’m Tiana, excuse me for not remembering your name, but I can’t find my back pack.” This person already knew who I was and told me “That’s not a problem, Tiana. There is nothing in your back pack that you need.” He places a mirror on top of his desk in front of me and I look at myself. I'm crying with tears running down my face. I look so sad and I try and figure out why he placed this mirror in front of me. “But I really want to learn Spanish” I told him. He replied “That’s not a problem either” and he shakes his hands in the air at me as if I’m being ridiculous. “And why are you worried about your brother and sister? That does not do you any good.” I look back in the mirror and calm myself down until the tears go away and my face looks refreshed. “Oh, ok” I replied “I guess I don’t have any problems.” His words were simple and brought me back to the present moment. No need for tears or that sad girl in the mirror. There was nothing I needed that I didn’t already have. “I’ll see you tomorrow at 1:30pm” said the man. As I turn to leave his office, my back pack was on the floor in front of me. I picked it up, put it on my back and left. What’s the moral of the story?
Why Guatemala?
Many people ask me, why Guatemala? If you could be anywhere in the world, why there? There is political corruption, poverty and violence. It’s not your typical tourist spot or vacation destination. it’s dangerous! Last year, 5,975 people were murdered in the country (about 16 people die daily here from violence, and this does not include death by natural causes, disease, or hunger) But I think that it is more dangerous to live in the routine of unconsciousness and complacency. So why Guatemala? The same thing could be asked about our partners. Why do we fall in love with our spouses, boyfriends or girlfriends? For some unexplainable reason, I am attracted to this country for both its beauty and tragedy. For how I feel when I walk through the streets of Xela or when I listen to the language. It’s the food, the air, the cobble stone roads, the mountains, the children, the narrow sidewalks and street vendors. In a way, I did not seek Guatemala, she chose me. She appeared to me in an email and called to me like a child tugging on her father’s pant leg. “Hey, look at me, I want to show you something!” I came to Guatemala with no expectations, no preconceived notions. I came to her naked and desperate. In search of my language that was lost as a result of assimilation in the US. I came in search of my grandmother’s native tongue. My actions often are not driven by rational or logic. I’m a “feeler” that is intuitive and spiritual. It just felt like the right thing to do. I’ve been called crazy, bold, naïve, and fearless. I’m not sure what I am but I just know that us humans do drastic things sometimes to follow our hearts. And I have faith that at the end of my life, I will confidently say “I have no regrets.” That I will have had lived to the fullest, took chances, loved deeply, failed and succeeded all while helping a few people live better along the way. How many people can say that?
Encounters with Death
Numero 1: The day after Christmas, I went to the beach with a couple friends to Playa Tulate. While my home state of CT was cold, cold, cold at the beginning of its winter season, I was sipping tequila and pineapple soda in the sand. Aside from the perverted, ice cream attendant that was taking cell phone photos of the gringas in their bathing suits, I was quiet content laying in the sun, listening to the ocean waves. Lunch was a plate of fresh grilled fish seasoned with garlic and salt accompanied with a side of French fries. After lunch, I decided to go for a quick dip before laying out in the sun. I was alone in the water about waist deep, day dreaming about ordering another grilled fish, but this time maybe I would try the tilapia. Without knowing how, the water was up to my neck and the shore seemed really far away. I started to swim back, but realized I wasn’t making progress, in fact I was moving further away from shore. The waves got stronger and stronger, pulling me back so I tryed different swimming strokes to beat the current. I was getting tired and I didn’t think anyone noticed me. The waves kept coming and coming, and I kept struggling and struggling. I tried to do the international symbol for “help, I’m drowning out here.” But I don’t know if anyone saw me. After a couple minutes I thought to myself “I’m going to die.” I was getting tired, I was running out of breath, I didn’t think I could hold on much longer. Out of nowhere, like a knight in shining armor, appeared 45 year old Guatemalan life guard in a little, red Speedo. I lived to see another day.
Numero 2: A few days after the destructive earthquake in Haiti, Guatemala got shaken by a strong earthquake as well. Around 10am, I was in the office standing over my desk looking at some papers. I thought I lost my balance because I fell into the desk but in reality the entire school building wobbled back and forth and I could feel the ground beneath me move. Will everything collapse? I thought to myself “Today is a nice day to die, but I’m still not ready yet.” There was little to no damage in the country and I lived to see another day.
Numero 3: Monday night seemed like any old night Monday. After dinner and a shower, I got into bed with a book. I was looking forward to a good night sleep because I had to get up early the next morning for work. My roommate hopped in the bathroom after me to shower as well. Within a few minutes, I heard this crackling, hissing sound. The lazy part of me tried to ignore it but my instinct told me I better get up and see where the sound was coming from. I followed the sound to outside the bathroom door where the gas tank was located. Our shower water is heated by gas. One must turn on the gas, light the pilot, and the furnace turns on. I looked closely under the furnace just in time to see one of the pipes smoking and melting. “Shut the water off” I yelled and quickly looked down to turn off the gas. As I switched the gas off, something burst and exploded in my face. I don’t know where it came from nor did I look because my first reaction was to back away and run. There was a loud hissing noise and it sounded like some type of air was spraying all over the place. I thought to myself “Oh shit, The pilot light is still on, that is gas and the house is gonna explode.” “Get out of the shower!” I yelled again, this time with urgency and worry. The air blowing thru the second floor like a rocket ship lifting off to outer space got louder and louder. A burning, rubber smell filled the air. “Get out of the house!” For whatever reason my roommate thought it was best to take his chances inside that bathroom. Just as I was exiting the house, the noise and air stopped. I wasn’t sure if it was safe to go back upstairs but I did. We were left with a broken pipe and a mini flood on the second floor. During the next few hours, my roommates and I soaked up the water on the second floor with towels and buckets. Where is a water vacuum when you really need one?
Numero 2: A few days after the destructive earthquake in Haiti, Guatemala got shaken by a strong earthquake as well. Around 10am, I was in the office standing over my desk looking at some papers. I thought I lost my balance because I fell into the desk but in reality the entire school building wobbled back and forth and I could feel the ground beneath me move. Will everything collapse? I thought to myself “Today is a nice day to die, but I’m still not ready yet.” There was little to no damage in the country and I lived to see another day.
Numero 3: Monday night seemed like any old night Monday. After dinner and a shower, I got into bed with a book. I was looking forward to a good night sleep because I had to get up early the next morning for work. My roommate hopped in the bathroom after me to shower as well. Within a few minutes, I heard this crackling, hissing sound. The lazy part of me tried to ignore it but my instinct told me I better get up and see where the sound was coming from. I followed the sound to outside the bathroom door where the gas tank was located. Our shower water is heated by gas. One must turn on the gas, light the pilot, and the furnace turns on. I looked closely under the furnace just in time to see one of the pipes smoking and melting. “Shut the water off” I yelled and quickly looked down to turn off the gas. As I switched the gas off, something burst and exploded in my face. I don’t know where it came from nor did I look because my first reaction was to back away and run. There was a loud hissing noise and it sounded like some type of air was spraying all over the place. I thought to myself “Oh shit, The pilot light is still on, that is gas and the house is gonna explode.” “Get out of the shower!” I yelled again, this time with urgency and worry. The air blowing thru the second floor like a rocket ship lifting off to outer space got louder and louder. A burning, rubber smell filled the air. “Get out of the house!” For whatever reason my roommate thought it was best to take his chances inside that bathroom. Just as I was exiting the house, the noise and air stopped. I wasn’t sure if it was safe to go back upstairs but I did. We were left with a broken pipe and a mini flood on the second floor. During the next few hours, my roommates and I soaked up the water on the second floor with towels and buckets. Where is a water vacuum when you really need one?
Friday, December 4, 2009
Lago Atitlan
I visited Lake Atitlan this past weekend. It was a relaxing weekend in one of the most beautiful places in the world.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The Past Few Weeks
Happy belated Thanksgiving! It’s been a few weeks since I have written. Lets see if I can recap. Overall, everything is still going well. My only complaint is that I have lost weight and I didn’t think it was possible for my breast to get any smaller; but they have. Maybe that is God’s plan to keep me humble? Or a curse bestowed upon me the morning I was born when my father asked my mother “Do you think she will have breast one day?” I still don’t know if that story is true and one might think that it is odd and somewhat perverted that a father would ask such a question. So I’m just going to change the subject and move on to my next thought.
During the past few weeks, I had the chance to visit “Fuentes Georginas” which is a natural hot spring with Jacuzzi like pools cut out in the mountains. The steaming, medicinal water was very relaxing and by the end of the day my hands and feet looked like prunes. It’s the closest thing to a bath I have had since I have been here since all the homes only have showers.
One night my legs and stomach were attacked by an unknown predator. I woke up one morning, itchy and with red bumps on my body. My host mom thought I had an allergic reaction to food, I thought I had creepy crawlers in my bed. Whatever the case may be, I bruised myself scratching too hard. I changed my bed sheets immediately, washed all my clothes, and luckily within a few days the bites went away.
On November 3, I participated in a Mayan ceremony on the anniversary of my grandmother’s death. Without going into detail, I told Sergio about it and he thought that this was a really bad idea. He is Christian and believes that it’s possible that this priestess put a spell on me or something. I’m not too concerned about this woman wanting to eat my soul. I enjoyed the ceremony and found it quit therapeutic and peaceful. But I’m sure he is praying to Jesus for me right now. He grew up in a very religious home so I can understand his concern. On Halloween, his mother told me to ask the Lord to cleanse my body and rid it of any bad spirits before I entered her house that night. I told her “ok, no problem.” I mean, who wants bad spirits following them? I believe in God and I think there are many forms of worship, meditation, or prayer. As long as my head doesn’t start spinning like the girl in the exorcist, I think I’ll be fine. I’m open to learning about other religions and spiritualities.
Translating conferences continues to be a challenge but I can tell that I am improving. Some of my new vocabulary this week included the following words: clandestine operations, neo- liberalism, trans-culturalization, bio fuel, agrarian reform, impunity, patronage, extra judiciary, legislative chamber of labor, open pit mining, paleolithic, vindicate, African palm oil, fair trade agreement, and gross domestic product…some of which I have no idea what they mean in English. I’m not complaining, just pointing out why this process might take a while.
I know I’m happy because the usual annoyances that would typically bother me; don’t. I don’t mind the fact that my shower only has two temperatures; cold and scolding hot. Or that my bathroom sink has two speeds; dribble or fire hose. I don’t mind that sometimes the electricity goes out or that there is no running water in the house for hours. My bank account was over drafted by $400 last week but hey whatever’s… My sister is mailing me packets of Swiss miss hot chocolate. Its freaking cold at night. Xela is located about
Some of the things I really like about living here: Life is simple. I know I speak with someone with a lot of privilege, as a
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