This morning I arrived early at the office of Paz y Esperanza, excited to facilitate “Energia en la Mañana,” a morning relaxation session with my co-workers. After observing my movement workshop with a group of local women, my supervisor suggested that I offer something similar for the staff of Paz y Esperanza. I was thrilled by the invitation - an opportunity to share simple exercises to reduce stress, wake up our bodies and center ourselves amidst such intense work and social realities.Our short gathering was an ideal warm-up for the mountain trek I found myself on only moments later. Accompanied by one of the psychologists, we drove outside of the center of Huánuco, heading toward los cerros (high hills), with a list of families to visit.
The purpose of our trip was to invite several girls to a Saturday morning workshop of fun games, activities and fellowship. The girls are part of el Colectivo Tamar, a support group of young girls and teenagers who have survived sexual abuse. The name Tamar refers to a Biblical figure found in 2 Samuel 13: 1-22, a young woman who was raped by a family member. Her story is a reminder to the young girls that they are not alone and that G-d cares very deeply about the realities of rape and sexual violence. However, I would imagine that many of these girls feel that G-d has in fact abandoned them.
Our hike up the steep hillside was not exactly a walk in the park. Our taxi driver dropped us off mid-way up and we continued by foot, my co-worker in platform heels and me in flimsy flats (which I now trust can get me just about anywhere). We climbed a stone staircase that seemed to evaporate into the clouds, finally resting on a plateau overlooking the entire city of Huánuco.
Continuing upward over dusty rocks, broken dishes, thick cactus plants, and a couple of turkeys, we arrived at a decaying brick and mud hut. Inside was a friendly older man, the grandfather of a little girl who was violated by her grade school teacher. He accepted the invitation for his granddaughter to attend the workshop but his illiteracy prevented him from signing his own name on the parental consent sheet.
While the gentleman went to retrieve his identification card, my co-worker widened the front door, revealing the few contents of an otherwise bare room - two chairs, a few batches of cancha (dried corn) hanging on the walls and a sack of papa (potatoes). I wasn’t surprised when my co-worker said that the granddaughter suffers from malnutrition. "She would be better off at the shelter in la Granja," my co-worker admitted, "if only there were room."
Before this morning I had observed these remote communities from afar, tilting my head back, looking up at the hillside barrios (neighborhoods), wondering whether there were roads between the crowded homes. “How do you get up there?” I asked myself. But part of me wondered if I preferred to view life from a safe distance.
On the highest point of one of the mountains is a small hut and a white cross, which I acknowledge every morning when I walk to work. These sacred structures speak to me from their height as if to say, “These mountains are not as imposing as you think. Don’t feel overwhelmed. Here people walk on sturdy feet, live each day at a time... and pray.”
