Lynn in Mission

Thank You!

2010-04-19T05:26:00.000-07:00

Thank you to all of those who followed my blog during my year in Peru. I could not have embarked on nor could I have endured this journey without your support and encouragement. Future entries related to my experience in Peru and where it has taken me can be read on my new blog:

http://stayawhileschenectady.blogspot.com

Transformed?

2009-11-24T06:00:00.001-08:00

I think I expected to feel some closure by now, to have some sense of what exactly happened to me during the past year. I had hoped there would be a more obvious sign of the transformation that took place. But somehow I find myself right where I left off - asking myself what do I really want to do with my life and how do I want to live it.

I find myself regressing back to a way of life that I had hoped I could eternally escape from – the fast-paced, material-centered, schedule-infected lifestyle that leaves me feeling isolated and lonely. How did this happen? How did I leave everything for another reality and return with so little of it within me?

I want to feel that part of Peru is engrained in me, but I’m not quite sure what to keep and what to let go.

It’s so easy to accelerate life where I am now. To jump in my car, hop on the highway and speed my way to another town or city, attempting to lift my spirits with yet another activity, another event, another distraction.

And as I drive back home, alone in my car, listening to the radio, I stare ahead and wonder what, if anything, did I learn during the past year?

I learned to fill an entire weekend just by lying in bed and reading. I could thoroughly occupy myself by walking to the Plaza de Armas and back, treating myself to pudding cake and peach nectar. I loved hand washing my clothes and continued to even after my host mother invested in the family’s first washing machine.

I felt utterly satisfied every time I wrote a long letter and brought it to the serpost. I would wait for several minutes for the teller to find change and an old lick-on stamp inside her empty desk drawers. I’d then bring the letter to the corner of the post office, kiss the sealed fold of the envelope and slip it inside the small blue box that read internacional, hoping that it would arrive safely.

So much of my time was filled with mundane activities, each providing a joyful ritual for me. What happened to that reverence for the simple? Why do I not feel that same sense of joy?

Partly because I’ve spent the past few months in constant motion.

I’ve moved into a new apartment and acquainted myself with a new town. I have started to work at a women’s shelter. I’ve reconnected with friends and family and returned to dancing with the small company I joined after college.

I’ve packed on just about everything I can to rebuild my life. Yet it’s beginning to dawn on me that reconstructing my life will take something more than just filling time with activity, responsibilities and relationships.

I’ve jumped back into the life I knew before with such ferocity that I haven’t allowed any shifts to take place.

If I am looking for ways that the past year has transformed me, I have to allow the time and space for the changes to emerge here, in this new place. During this season of hibernation, where one slows down and lets life simmer under the surface, maybe I will understand the growth that has taken place.

Brave New Dances

2009-11-21T08:12:00.000-08:00

In early November I performed in BRAVE NEW DANCES, a glimpse of the first drafts of dance theatre works created by members of Maude Baum and Company Dance Theatre. This year I presented a piece reflecting on my experiences in Peru - a blend of folkloric and modern dance in traditional hand-made skirts from Huanuco.

World Communion

2009-10-08T07:57:00.000-07:00

(Read at Hamilton Union Presbyterian Church on World Communion Sunday 10/4/09)

Last year, on World Communion Sunday, I took communion for the first time in Peru. And while we didn’t formally recognize that it was a special Sunday, I experienced a very real sense of world communion - to be in one place partaking in a sacred ritual and at the same time imagining our sanctuary here at Hamilton Union and all of you, taking the same bread and drinking the same grape juice and meditating on our shared devotion.

As I bowed my head in prayer in our church in Huánuco, I placed my hands along the back of the wood pew just as I do here and had that indescribable feeling of being in two places at once - a feeling I experienced many times throughout the year.

During my first few months in Huánuco, I tried very hard to be fully present in my new place. To devote all of my energies to my immediate environment. To really immerse myself - in the language and the day to day relationship building among my host family and co-workers. I consciously detached from my world here in order to adapt.

But as the year continued, especially after the celebrations of Christmas and my birthday and January, I started feeling very homesick. I longed for those who really understand me, who have known me since I was little, those who I can vent to in my own language and listen to them effortlessly without the roadblocks of translation.

I felt so frustrated whenever I was homesick. In thinking of those I missed and loved, the places I longed to return to, I felt distracted and distanced from the present. But I realize now that during those times of homesickness, I was experiencing the realities of world communion.

Like homesickness, entering world communion is uncomfortable because it calls on us to be present in our own lives and to also care deeply for those that are far from us. It is a state of being that makes one feel torn, even conflicted, causing us to ask where we belong and who do we relate to.

I didn’t see this then, but what a blessing! The blessing of being part of one community yet simultaneously immersed in another. That I might have a deep feeling of belonging in more than one place.

The blessing of feeling connected to others even while they are physically far from me. The idea that even while living in Peru, I had a home in another country, belonged to a family in another hemisphere, and shared memories from another corner of the world.

And this is, I think, where the idea of World Communion begins - the ability and willingness to physically live in one place but let your heart and soul reside in many places, among many people – to hold hands with someone from halfway across the world through a deep knowledge of their circumstances and a shared belief that we are connected through our relationship with G-d.

For me, World Communion means sitting down for dinner with my family here in Guilderland and also finding my place at the kitchen table with my host family, Pastor Abdon, Elena and their daughter Carla. One family brings into mind the other, both of which I am part of.

The conversations at each of those gathering places mirror each other, a family sharing about their day, planning for the week, and laughing about the cat and dog as they pace around the kitchen. And while I sit at one table thinking of and longing for the other, I realize that they are in fact the same table.

World Communion is sitting down at the table before me and at the same time sitting down at many tables, and then realizing it is all the same table.

World Communion is also knowing intimately the rhythms and motions of another place - knowing that on any given Sunday in Huánuco the cows at the Granja farm are being milked at 5:00 am. Two hours later, the massive Catholic church in the middle of town will blare praise songs over a loudspeaker. Later in the morning, our pastor will roll up the metal garage door to our newly painted church. And having returned from church and after eating a mountain of tallarines (spaghetti), the entire Camarena household, including me, will retire for a mid-afternoon nap.

World Communion is saying to myself multiple times a day, “If I were in Peru right now, what would I be doing? Who would I be with?"

If I were in Peru this Sunday morning, I would be at church, the Christian Mission Alliance of Huánuco. I would be standing next to Carla whispering together like two little school girls, then singing the opening worship songs nearly drowned out by the electric guitars, drum set and the woman in the front row waving her tambourine. The entire congregation would be clapping to the beat, raising their arms high. And it’s not a question of whether my friends in Peru might be doing this… it’s that they are, right now.

I don’t think we’re called to be in just one limited geographic place, whether it be Guilderland or Huánuco. I think we are called to expand what we name our community and see ourselves as part of a much larger family, sitting at a much larger table.

And it’s wonderful when everyone at that table is having a good day. But what happens when a member of that larger family is facing a difficult challenge? What do we do when a member of that larger family is suffering?

It is difficult to be home and far from those I came to love in Peru and those at Paz y Esperanza, where I worked. It was difficult to leave just as fifteen year old Gladys and her 6 month old baby Luis Migel moved into the shelter on the farm own by Paz y Esperanza. I had become very close to her and I know this transition was not easy for her. How does she feel right now? What is going through her mind?

Accepting the invitation to world communion is challenging because it means acknowledging that the realities at other ends of the table are harsh, saddening and unfamiliar. It is knowing that while I sit down for dinner in my comfortable apartment, with a big kitchen and my own bed, Talia and her brother Eliaquim are going to sleep on an empty stomach because their father didn’t sell enough pop sickles on the streets of Huánuco. The entire family will share two single beds in a closet-sized bedroom.

By entering world communion we recognize that we are from the same community and no longer are others’ struggles a distant concern. World Communion asks us to know intimately the hardships that others have endured and are experiencing at this moment. To listen to stories that are painful and traumatic marked by sexual abuse, domestic violence, civil war, disabling poverty.

By entering World Communion we must prepare ourselves for deep sorrow and ugliness.

But world communion also brings great joy.

World Communion emerged every time I pulled out the piece of orange felt with Ariel’s name on it, another volunteer who I was chosen to pray for while she served in Southern India. While I prayed for her, Celeste was praying for me in Guatemala.

World Communion emerged when I visited a women’s weaving cooperative in Lima that made the bags that were given out at the Presbyterian Women's Gathering in Louisville a few years ago.

World Communion was alive during an evening with my host family, skimming through old hymn books in Spanish, looking for melodies we all recognize.

I think part of me will always reside in Huánuco, Peru. In accepting that, I’m starting to understand what it means to have my heart in two places at once, to live here but simultaneously feel knitted into the daily life and ways of another community.

Having returned home, it is Peru that I am now homesick for. But I have come to believe that homesickness is a holy place, a recognition that while I may never be able to see all those I love in one room, I know that we are indeed at the same table.

Landing

2009-08-13T13:46:00.000-07:00

I feel like I’ve been coming home for the past several weeks, months even. In the countdown I began in the upper margins of my journal. In the final letters I sent out to close friends, sealed for the last time with Peruvian postage stamps. In the packing and repacking that I did during my last days, pulling out one more item to give away with each gift or recuerdo I was given.

I knew it was time to leave when all I could talk about was home, my family, my friends, the job I hope to have and the colors I plan to paint my apartment walls. But that did not stop the tears from flowing when I gave one last hug to my host sister Carla at the bus station.

Nor did my face stay dry as I kept in view until the last possible instant, the line of my friends from Paz y Esperanza waving to me from the street as the bus crept around the corner, making its way out of Huánuco. Thus began my longish journey home.

My last ride over the mountains brought me to Lima where I stayed for a week with the other volunteers. We spent most of our time in a quiet Catholic retreat center in the middle of the city, preparing our hearts and minds for “re-entry,” as if returning from outer space.

I don’t think any of us knew what returning would look and feel like, but there was a sense that we might and surely would encounter a sense of the unknown, even in our own home towns.

We took a night plane together to Atlanta, Georgia and then branched off to make our respective flights back home, myself racing through customs only to miss my flight to Albany. With five hours until the next flight, I found I was grateful for the suspended time frame to just sit in the United States and observe the busy airport life.

First observation – how sparkling clean and well-dressed everyone looked, especially children with their McDonald’s happy meals, little backpacks and playing cards.

I sat for a while watching CNN, updating myself on missed news, only to find a repeating loop of three news stories – the investigation into Michael Jackson’s death, Michael Vick returning to the NFL and fortunately something worthwhile to learn about, the Supreme Court nomination of Judge Sonia Sotomayor.

My sudden interest in current events reminded me of when my brother came to visit in December. I whiled away a long layover in the Lima airport by hungrily flipping through the New York Times he had brought and asking him for a rundown of the state of the economy.

It’s not that I didn’t care about world news during the year, but I did narrow down my focus somewhat. There was so much to absorb and understand in my immediate environment that I couldn’t help but detach from certain events and issues that simply seemed a world away.

I slept most of the way during my connecting flight to Albany, letting go of the anxiety I had been carrying. I tend to become increasingly superstitious when traveling home from far away places, worrying that something terrible might happen at the last possible moment.

As we began to lower over the Hudson River Valley, I trusted that we would in fact land in one piece and I was able to simply gaze longingly and lovingly at the landscape below. I’ve never felt so instinctively attached to a particular patch of earth. The color of the trees, the bend in the river, even the imagined smell of pine.

As we drew closer to the ground, more details of life appeared - elements that proved I was no longer in Peru. Free standing homes with sturdy roofs and turquoise colored swimming pools, a well-paved highway that shot out into the horizon, a parking lot filled with beaming yellow school buses. Markers of affluence and security.

With just a few feet separating the wheels of the plane from the runway, I savored the last instant of this feeling of suspension between two worlds, time held still between leaving and arriving.

And then, I was home, on ground that suddenly carried more significance. I was relieved. There was simply nothing else to do but walk into my mother’s arms and then hug my dad, letting loose the rest of my tears and feeling the joy of being welcomed home.

Imperdible

2009-07-23T14:46:00.000-07:00

On my last night in Huánuco my host mother and sister surprised me with an unforgettable despedida. I knew a few close friends would be coming over to the house for dinner, but otherwise I was completely unprepared.

Carla and Elena left the living room to retrieve the “supplies” and returned carrying three plastic bags stuffed with what I dreaded was the guinea pig costume from the office. But then when Carla put on some traditional Huayno music and pulled out a large wool embroidered skirt, I knew just what they had planned.

After taking a few dance classes during the fall and becoming fascinated by the diversity of dance in Peru, Elena had suggested that we rent folkloric dresses one day and have an authentic dance party.

A few local seamstresses stock traditional clothing to outfit local schools for dance competitions. These concursos de danzas are the Peruvian equivalent of homecoming football games, with fans in the rafters whistling, cheering, throwing confetti and rooting for their classmates to win the Marinera from Trujillo or the Saya from Puno.

At home on Tuesday evening, Elena and Carla had pulled out the dress of the Huayla dance of Huancayo, where I traveled during Holy Week. I stepped into two knee-length red and orange skirts, each with a wool border of giant hand-stitched flowers, birds and even pumas from the surrounding jungle of the region.

Elena pulled a black tunic over my head and adjusted the skirts. She then slipped my hands into two decorative sleeves, connected by a string behind the back like a pair children’s mittens.

Over the shoulders is draped a heavy manta, or shawl, usually with a flower pattern square in the middle but sometimes with more personal designs. And, of course, no look is complete without the typical hat of the region.

In Huancayo, the hat is the simplest I’ve seen, a round top low-brimmed felt hat of tan or black with a ribbon that gathers on one side in a delicate fan shape rather than a bow.

This is quite unlike the hats of other regions such as Ambo, for example, a small but busy town just beyond the Granja outside of Huánuco. Here the women take their hats very seriously.

Hats are a bit of a status symbol giving each woman a distinct look, without which the woman look markedly similar, with their dark pleated skirts, knit sweaters and black braided pigtails.

In Ambo, each woman decorates her hat with a mix of bright colored silk flowers, ribbons and even Christmas tree tinsel. Local shops near the market cater to this by hanging all the necessary hat accessories outside their doors, with women coming to refurbish or upgrade their otherwise bland cream-colored top hats.

At first glance the hats seem a bit excessive, but after understanding that these women have few personal possessions, let alone freedoms in life, the hats represent a form of personal expression, identity and artistry.

As Elena continued dressing me in the outfit from Huancayo, Carla tried on a dress from the town of Huacaybamba, a small pueblo near Huánuco. She stepped into a longer black skirt, bordered with a vine of fuchsia flowers. The top was a pink and yellow satin button-up vest with longer panels laying over the sides of the skirt.

Carla then helped Elena put the finishing touches on my Hualya, including a multicolored woven sash wrapped around my waist to hold up the skirt and then a large safety pin to secure the heavy shawl across my back.

She asked Carla for an imperdible to pin the shawl and I remembered how much trouble I’ve had with his word. Sounding nothing like “safety pin,” I had to have my co-worker write it down for me when I was heading out to buy some craft supplies for the office.

Carla, who has been my trusted language simplifier, said it means “unloseable,” derived from the verb pedir, to lose. What an absolutely sensible name for a safety pin!

So, while Elena secured the imperdible and rushed around me making final adjustments for my outfit, I reflected on the new concept of what it means to be “unloseable.” Thinking more during my long bus ride to Lima, it seems this entire year has been a demonstration of what this means.

To be held together, bonded to and constantly surrounded by loving and supportive people.

To work with survivors of abuse who have surely been lost but have arrived at Paz y Esperanza where the message is “You have been found.”

To reinforce my faith and belief in G-d, which tells me that we are all found, already and every day without question.

As it says in Psalms 139 “Oh Lord, you know it [me] completely. You hem me in behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.”

I find this to be so absolutely reassuring, to know that no matter how lost I feel, no matter where I find myself, no matter what happens from here on out, I am unloseable. We are already found, already loved, already assured, already justified and already accepted in every way.

I am re-learning this concept or maybe understanding it more completely for the first time. And I love that what triggered all of this was a tiny pinky-sized safety pin, holding together my shawl so I won’t lose it while dancing in the living room on my last night in Huánuco.

Transitions

2009-07-21T13:02:00.001-07:00

Last week left me in a mess of disjointed feelings, somewhat similar to the emotional shock I felt during my first few days in Lima. My mind has been emptying itself with each day and gradually I feel more and more at peace with leaving Huánuco. But it has surely been a process of unlayering and finally surrendering to all that is in me.

On Wednesday, I met my host parents for dinner at a new café in town. On any other evening, I would’ve been thrilled to step into this neat little place, with Peruvian artifacts on the walls and new age Andean music in the background. But on this particular night, I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

As we sat down, I couldn’t contain myself any longer and I buried my face in my hands, elbows resting on the woven tablecloth, and cried. I couldn’t explain myself and I realized I didn’t have to when my host mom laid her hand on my shoulder and just let me be.

With all the thoughts and plans, faces and memories washing over me, I become aware that I was at the threshold of transition - a time of change that will take me away from Huánuco… and into the rest of my life.

While I felt a certain heaviness on my heart, others grounded me with reassurance and hospitality.

It was my last week in the office and each afternoon during lunchtime I found myself invited into the home of a different co-worker. On Friday I was invited to almorzar with Elía, a quiet woman who works part-time and has shown me much warmth during the year.

We left the office and took a small mototaxi to the edge of town where the paved roads end and sandy pebble-strewn paths lead to a crowded maze of improvised houses. From the outside, Elía’s home looked more like a square box garage, with layers of plastic sheets and styrofoam serving as a roof.

We walked up her front steps, entered the main room of her house and out popped Benjamin, her nine year-old son and also my most precocious English student. Elía sat me down with Benjamin while she slipped into the back kitchen to finish preparing almuerzo.

The main room was divided into three quadrants by a couple of bookshelves and a giant television set. In the limited space, there seemed to be surprisingly enough room for a seating area, dining room and office. But as I mentally cleared away the few pieces of furniture, I realized that the space was no bigger than my bedroom.

Elía soon returned carrying a deep bowl with a mound of rice, chicken, potatoes and camote (sweet potato), drenched in a green herb sauce. I knew instantly what it was – Pachamanca - a traditional meal in Huánuco, served at weddings, baptisms or any other special family occasion.

Pachamanca means “earthen oven” in Quechua, referring to the unique method of cooking all the ingredients underground on hot rocks, the vapor infusing the flavors. I assume Elía prepared the dish in a more conventional oven or maybe a stove-top pressure cooker like my host mom uses.

We were joined by Elía’s older son and husband, who led us in a soft-spoken prayer of which I could hear faintly “Si, Señor” (Yes, Lord) after each pause.

The way this man calmly entered the room and sat down with his family was very telling of the kind of husband and father he is.

Before sitting down, Elía had accidently tipped over one of the glasses of juice, which spread all over the table as it seemed to be on a bit of an incline. In so many homes in Huánuco, this would have incited some ungrateful hideous reaction from the man of the house.

But the man of this house is something entirely different - peaceful, loving, and respectful - an example for his two sons, who seem equally peaceful, loving and respectful.

We ate together over a lively conversation about local food, music and indigenous land rights. I was left completely stuffed, as it appeared that I had been served a double portion.

After clearing the plates, Elía returned with a giant apple and placed it before me. It was probably the most perfect apple I’ve seen so far in Peru, where apples never quite compare to those in New York.

Elía and her husband repeatedly said “Servite, servite” (help yourself). I was hoping this was to share between all of us, as I couldn’t possible eat it all myself.

However, as I cut open the fruit and offered to share it, the whole family seemed to refuse in unison. It was clear that the apple was intended for me and me alone.

In reserving that shiny oversized apple for their lunch guest, I felt the presence of a startlingly true generosity. It was only after I managed to eat two slices and force down a third that Elía and her husband allowed themselves the much smaller apples from the kitchen.

As we prepared to leave, Elía rushed back into the kitchen to retrieve something. She returned with what appeared to be one of the left-over sweet potatoes wrapped up in a sheet of white paper. She presented it to me as a small offering to eat later.

It wasn’t until I returned home after work that I realized it was chunk of fresh cheese. Knowing how much of a luxury cheese is for a family of little means, this was yet another sign of the genuine kindness of Elía and her family.

A kindness that weaved all of my anxious unnamed feelings of the week into a single deeply-rooted feeling of gratitude.

Seat 55

2009-07-13T15:31:00.000-07:00

I just purchased my final bus ticket back to Lima – as always seat 55, first floor, window side, leaving at 9:15am. After having taken this trip a total of ten times, coming to or leaving from Huánuco, it has become quite a familiar route and one that I enjoy very much.

I tend to be rather busy leading up to such trips and welcome the eight hours of drastically beautiful scenery and absence of conversation. I rarely bring a book to read or music to listen to, and avoid watching the frequent Jean-Claude Van Damme action movies. Instead, the ever-changing landscape outside my window provides the ultimate entertainment.

To ride an omnibus, as they are called, with reclining seats and plenty of leg room, is an unfathomable luxury for most Peruvians. More often, long distances are covered in piecemeal, taking a series of overstuffed mini-buses and dilapidated taxis.

I consistantly struggle with lack of seatbelts and breakneck speed of these vehicles. But I also recognize that passengers need to pay as little as possible and the drivers need to pack in as many people as possible, regardless of the number of the seats. Safety and prevention are absolutely secondary when earning/conserving money and arriving at one’s destination are of upmost importance.

The two-story mega-bus which I will ride, at first glance appears mammoth and indestructible. But in a short time, this giant mass of metal becomes an isolated speck journeying along a ribbon of a road between vertical mountains.

After leaving the lush river valley outside of Huánuco, the trek becomes desolate and virtually unpopulated. There are high altitude lakes, snow-capped peaks, distant views of new mountain clusters to pass and those previously conquered.

At about 1pm, we approach Cerro de Pasco, a distillingly flat altiplano at 14,400 feet above sea level. This is where a dusting of snow made my heart skip a beat returning from our Thanksgiving retreat in November.

It is at this point in the voyage that passengers are served lunch. A small styrofoam box with rice and something else, many chicken or mashed potatoes. Afterward we are offered a cup of Coke or Inca Cola, which are always in competition. I usually opt for sweet tea if only to warm my hands with the sudden chill in the air.

I didn’t realize just how cold it gets at this elevation until our bus broke down on my way to Trujillo in May. We waited roadside for at least two hours while some horrid clanking of metal went on under the back of the bus. The mountain air rushed inside as others swung open the doors and windows to see what was going on.

I sat calmly for the first hour, noting how miraculous it was to never have had any road trouble during my previous trips. I started feeling a little nervous when a woman across the aisle began vomiting in a plastic bag, affected by the lack of oxygen at such high altitude.

I then became officially anxious when I realized that the clock was ticking. We were still four hours from Lima and I had an overnight bus to catch to Trujillo.

In a sudden moment of clarity, I decided to get off the bus with a few passengers, hoping to wave down a passing bus. And as I waited outside, trying to stretch my shirt into a warmer article of clothing, I took a good look around.

I managed to disregard the stress of the situation and remark how gorgeous a spot of earth I was standing on - flanked by snowy mountains, resting above a pristine pool of rain water, in a place that I can only describe as the middle of nowhere.

The benefits of land travel do surpass its limitations. While I will never fully trust the top-heavy lumber trucks that barrel down the opposing lanes, I find I am transported into a quiet state of mind knowing the bends and contours of the land between Lima and Huánuco.

And while this trek is only a fraction of the beastly earthen formation that make up the Andes, it is a familiar glimpse that I have one last opportunity to encounter.

(Having written this before actually buying my bus ticket, I can now say that for the first time, seat 55 was already taken. A little reminder that change is good!)

Re-awakened

2009-07-08T06:52:00.000-07:00

I thought I had seen just about all there is to see and experience in Huánuco. I expected to quietly finish out my last month in Peru without any major surprises. But this past week has been one of the most unexpected, eye-opening and reaffirming weeks, reminding me why I came here and what it will mean to leave.

The week involved a visit from members of the River Church in San Jose, California. The group of six included a criminal investigator and a forensic nurse, who came prepared to share their knowledge and expertise yet with a deep understanding about how to work cross-culturally.

Their finalized schedule included meetings with police, district attorneys and judges to reinforce the need to advocate for victims of abuse. Evening seminars were organized for primary school teachers on how to identify abuse. Others facilitated Bible studies in the Potracancha jail on how to break down concepts of masculinity.

Law Enforcement

One member for the River Church Community, Mike, is a retired criminal investigator specializing in sex abuse crimes. I had the opportunity to join him and our team of lawyers for a meeting at the Huánuco Police Department. The purpose of the meeting was to give general introductions and also to provide an overview of Paz y Esperanza’s proposal for a sex crimes investigation unit.

In the States, investigation for sex crimes requires highly-specialized training with separate roles in crime scene analysis and interrogation. Here in Huánuco, there is no such distinction, and with that, sex abuse cases do not receive the level of care and expertise they deserve.

Without specialized police, crime scene analysis is done hastily and rarely results in sound evidence. Furthermore, survivors are often re-victimized during the interview process, enduring interrogation that is hostile and demeaning. Such treatment prevents the survivor from giving a concrete testimony and leaves the survivor doubting his or her own innocence.

While I translated for Mike during the meeting, I observed the uniformed men before me. I wondered how each one might handle a sex abuse case. Would he see it as just another one of the numerous crimes that occur in and around Huánuco every day - a name in a file and maybe a bride to gain? Or, would he give the case and the human being it represents, the attention it deserves?

I see police officials walking the streets, driving about in their trucks and motorcycles, and I wonder who and what they are really protecting. However, advancement may be closer than I initially thought.

With recent concerns over safety, our office has now hired a security guard to keep watch. He stands at the front door, patrols the park just outside and monitors the goings on of our small but busy building. He has a tiny desk in the front lobby with a sheet of all our names and photos, to identify who belongs and who might be an intruder.

One afternoon I noticed him sitting at the desk reading some material. After a closer look, I realized he was reading Pacificado, Paz y Esperanza’s quarterly publication of its ongoing work to confront sexual abuse.

He could easily have been bored and read the closest thing in reach. But what’s important is that he was reading it. And maybe, just by observing and protecting the work of our office, he’ll be able to counteract some of the blindness of others in his profession.

House Visits

Later in the week I joined one of our psychologists and two women from the River Church to visit families in the TAMAR Collective, each with children who are survivors of sexual abuse.

The first house we visited was above the city, entering the cerros or hills, where tightly-packed tin and cement homes look as if they’ll slide right down the mountainside if it rains too much.

I know the children well, ages four and nine. The younger, a little girl with pigtails, jumped into my arms before I could barely step out of the office pick-up truck. The ladies who joined us pulled out a fully stuffed bag of fresh fruits, vegetables, eggs and quinoa to offer the family as a gift.

We climbed up to the roof, which I realized was their entire home as another family lives below. The tiny block room taking up a small corner of the roof is where the family sleeps. Two beds are placed along the wall in an L-shape, and baby chickens scurried underneath a small table near the door.

Along with the two parents and their son and daughter is an adopted nephew whose mother recently passed away. He is four years old, the same age as his cousin, but nearly half her size. He is malnourished and has an abscess the size of an orange, swelling inside his right cheek.

He didn’t say a word, as I imagine it’s painful to open his mouth. He simply sat with us, gathered together in the one bedroom, staring beneath giant eyelashes at the giants before him.

Part of me questioned why we were there. There is something very unsettling about viewing poverty simply to exhibit the conditions and observe how desperate the realities are. But I know our visit was more than that.

I can’t describe how happy and smiling the kids were to see us. And also how deeply grateful the father was after my own host father led a prayer of encouragement and empowerment for the family.

The father knows he is poor, making his living selling ice cream and lollipops. Nonetheless, the family did not hesitate to welcome in their orphaned nephew.

As I walked home that afternoon, I felt as stunned and overwhelmed as I did the first time I climbed up those rocky inclines to meet one of the families back in September.

I remember wondering if I’d ever get used to this - empty potato sacks used to cover windows, a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling, mud brick walls deteriorating after each downpour.

But I was wrong to ever assume that I’d “get used” to the realities of poverty. Because the moment I “get used” to it is the same moment that I forget it exists.

The last thing I would want, after spending a year here, would be to leave feeling desensitized and apathetic. I want to stay shocked and disturbed, overwhelmed and uncomfortable. I want to stay awake and constantly re-awakened.

Independance Day

2009-07-02T07:50:00.001-07:00

While people at home in the States celebrate the Fourth of July, I’ll be thinking of another day of independence - July 28th. As Peru’s national holiday celebrating its own independence from Spain, it is also the date printed on my ticket to fly back home to Albany.

It seems appropriate, and no coincidence at all, that I should be returning home on a day that represents self-awareness, identity and freedom.

I do feel like I’m breaking free somehow, much more so than when I left home back in September. I didn’t come here to escape or to adventure out on my own. Instead I came here as an act of stepping into relationship. And rather than seek freedom, I entered into some very serious bonds and commitments.

However, the bonds that have held me during this year, in my family and at work, have not been restrictive or limiting. Instead, they have been fluid and resilient because they have been based in faith and love.

Another bond that I deliberately entered into is with G-d. A huge component of my experience in Peru has been an experiment in giving up control and putting my life in G-d’s hands.

I was tired of over-planning my life and writing its pages before the story even began. So, I chose to let go of my expectations and trust the ways in which G-d might work through me in this new place.

In doing so, I have felt a strong sense of being led. At times, this involved arriving in the office certain mornings and being swept up in a new project or invited to enter the outskirts of town on a home visit.

Other times this meant sitting at the kitchen table with my eyes sinking with exhaustion, but staying anyway because my host father just began to tell a story. And still other times, I found myself crying uncontrollably and accepting this also as G-d moving me along somehow.

In going along with the flow, I have noticed a change in my demeanor. Generally, I have been more quiet and subdued, more pensive and reserved. I have only recently brought out my more silly and lighthearted side, which has felt like a distant voice that I forgot I had.

At times I have held back, resisting the impulse to complain and even ask questions. I’ve felt a myriad of emotions, ranging from utterly frustrated to simply elated, few of which I’ve openly expressed while being here.

And this has led me to wonder whether trusting and following G-d means having to dilute one’s personality or, at times, censor one’s true self.

I learned an important lesson when my brother visited Huánuco back in January. I was anxious about how he might adjust to staying with my host family. I prepped him with what to say, how to say it, and generally how to act. At first I thought I was being helpful, but Carl responded by saying, “Can’t you just let me be myself?”

The question is, have I let me be myself this year?

Maybe… sometimes… I don’t know. It’s hard to tell when my “self” is constantly changing, constantly becoming.

What I do know is that I’ve allowed myself to detach from who I think I am in order to see certain possibilities of who I might become. Letting go of a rigid sense of self has allowed me to be more flexible, more sponge-like, soaking up all the influences around me.

I’ve entered a child-like state while here, one that embraces newness and change and is more intent on learning about myself rather than proving myself.

I think of Peru’s Independence Day as my own declaration of independence because I will be leaving a community and a window of time that has shown me the importance of being me.

As I leave, I will carry a deeper understanding of my own identity in relation to myself, others, and G-d. And this, I think, represents more freedom and independence than what initially brought me to Peru.

Patience

2009-06-24T14:47:00.000-07:00

The other night while chatting with my host mom in the kitchen, I flipped the wall calendar to July and, admittedly, counted the number of days left.

I lifted my gaze to the image for the month, a baby panda bear lazily hanging over a tree branch, paws dangling down and eyes closed in absolute contentedness. Below the image was the word “patience” and a Bible verse from the book of Lamentations: “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.”

This seems to be the ideal theme for me for the coming month as I feel anything but patient, wrestling with how to not wish this time away.

I started the week in good spirits, ready to travel to Huancayo for our last retreat with all the YAVs. But by mid-morning Monday, I learned that everything was on hold as there was a road blockage, caused by a labor strike, along the main highway from Lima.

Worker strikes or paros are common and usually involve miners demanding improvements in working conditions, this time in the mining town of La Oroya. The strikes usually end after one or two days, as staple goods such as chickens, rice and sugar, not to mention people, need to be transported from Lima to the provinces.

As the paro continues indefinitely, I realize how easily one can feel isolated in the middle of the Andes. I can't help but feel stuck, anxious and simply inpatient.

My complaint is a minor inconvenience compared to the more severe disruptions others are experiencing. However, it is enough to hold me still and make me reflect on where I am.

While I struggle with a sense of restlessness, I look to the moments during this year when I felt utterly content, like the sleepy panda bear in the kitchen calendar.

One such moment was a few weeks ago when another volunteer visited from Lima. We rode out to the ruins at Kotosh along with my host sister and explored the Temple of the Crossed Hands.

In my previous visit, I had learned that one of the stones outside the temple has a body-shaped indent, meant for someone to lie in. The idea is to soak up the available energy in the atmosphere, meanwhile basking beneath the sun.

We each took a turn laying in the body mold, having our moment with nature. As I settled down and closed my eyes, the warm surface of the rock infused all its goodness into my back. I felt the mountains surrounding me and the presence of my friends enjoying the moment in their own way.

I stretched out my arms and, in the most concrete way possible, I felt unquestionably content - waiting for nothing, expecting nothing and all the more ready to experience everything… in G-d’s time.

G-d’s time – that progression of life that has so little to do with our plans yet has so much to do with us.

A few years ago my mom’s friend gave me a box of jewelry she no longer wanted. One of the items was a watch with two faces, each with its own battery and ticking hands. It was so unusual that I hung unto it, but never ended up using it.

Since my current watch has taken a beating this year, and with it my own conception of time, I plan to start using the double-windowed watch when I'm back home.

It is a tangible reminder that there are two hour glasses, mine and G-d’s. And the more I accept G-d’s timing the more content and patient I will feel.

Returnings

2009-06-20T09:35:00.000-07:00

Lately, I’ve been noticing some curious reversals going on in my world – mirror reflections of my first couple months, which now seem to bookend my experience here.

The most obvious to me at the moment are fresh mosquito bites covering my lower legs and feet. I realize I’m re-entering bug season, which left my legs red and swollen back in September. However, this time I’m armed with anti-itch cream and an awareness that I’m literally partaking in the cycle of nature in this region.

With the slight seasonal change also comes cooler mornings with warmer and more windy afternoons. The dust circulating the air has left me with a never-ending head cold, which characterized my first couple weeks. And once again, a thick layer of Huánuco earth covers every surface in my bedroom, which no amount of sweeping and cleaning can mitigate.

I realize that it’s not so much a return of these aspects of life that grabs my attention. Rather, it is a return of my own attention. I am recapturing the wide-eyed alertness which informed me of my surroundings when I first arrived.

For a while, I became quite accustomed to the endless presence of potatoes and cumbia music, the astonishing size and variety of avocados and the occasional flock of sheep that cross through our neighborhood.

Once again these aspects appear out of the ordinary, distinct and altogether different from what I will return to. And while my refreshed awareness of certain elements are more welcomed than others, all seem to be an inseparable part of life here.

One very significant return was a personal pilgrimage I took to the Granja last weekend. Thanks to the suggestion of our YAV coordinator, Debbie, I realized that I needed a break and I didn’t have to go far to find it.

Being at the Granja felt so familiar and home-like, this time arriving by myself and for myself. I crossed the river (blue-tin-boat style), consumed myself in the last remaining corn fields and slowly came into range of our alfalfa fields, our cows, our place in the midst of all this land.

After a nap in the farm house, filled with memories, voices and faces of the campamentos in February, I met some of the volunteers from England in the eating pavilion to help peel a mound of coffee beans. Brown leathery shells cover tiny light green beans, and before roasting, they smell faintly of almonds and wild flowers.

After about forty minutes, I decided to escape any form of work, even if it was simply a nice excuse to chat. I headed toward the green and white gated entrance to the farm and crossed the pebbled road leading to Tomayquichua. I made my way through some prickly brush and then uphill along the overgrown walking path toward the mirador (look out).

As familiar to me now as the hilltop at Tawasentha Park overlooking the Heldebergs or the stone ledge viewing point at Thatcher Park, this is another one of my “heaven spots.” A shell of a bamboo hut sits behind a row of sturdy rocks, protected even more by immovable boulder-sized cactus plants.

It was about 4:30pm and the sun was beginning to fall toward the mountain edges on the opposite side of the river below. At my elevated spot overlooking the farm, I seemed to be at eye level with the gentle mountain outline.

In the open space between my perch and the opposing mountain wall is a valley of plant growth and a blend of animal sounds – clicking birds, barking dogs and a rooster, all amidst a thick warm breeze passing through the unobliterated openness.

After soaking in the end of the day, I came back down rocky incline, bouncing more than walking, and met up with the two teenagers that live in the shelter Casa de Buen Trato (House of Good Treatment). They brought me along to their shared bedroom where a new bed is awaiting another young girl, who will arrive shortly with her one-year old baby.

Covering the bed is a bright blue crochet blanket, which caught my eye immediately. The girls’ tutor invited me in and showed me that each square was knitted separately by the girls, each with a crochet flower in the middle, each a little different.

As the girls looked over my shoulder examining their work, I could tell they were incredibly proud. And they deserve to feel proud of their work and their lives, after all they’ve put up with.

Later over dinner, asparagus soup and lemon grass tea, one of the girls shared with me what she is most proud of. Pointing to her son’s new leather shoes, she informed me with such enthusiasm that she had purchased them in a nearby town with her own money, which she earned by making Mother’s Day chocolates and selling them at our office. She´ll be doing the same for Father’s Day, but this time, she noted, she’d like to buy something for herself.

She has changed so much since I met her back in September. She was very quiet and at times resembled a small deer caught in the headlights with a stunned expression, unsure of what was happening to her.

But over the past several months, she has really taken up her own space, caring for her son with a deep sense of devotion and finding humor in just about everything.

It’s strange to think that when I first came to the Granja to watch over the girls one weekend last fall, I felt anxious when I arrived and overwhelmed when I left. Entering their world was so unfamiliar and I didn’t know if I belonged.

But now, in a blessed reversal, it has become a place I return to – a place where I can both get away from the world and at the same time feel ever more a part of it.

Incarcerated

2009-06-15T15:23:00.000-07:00

My church at home used to have a prison ministry where several women would collect bath products to bring to the women in a local jail. I remember contributing some of my own supply, scented lotions from the Avon catalogue, travel soaps and shampoos from hotels and sample perfumes from makeup counters.

Though I never visited the jail, I learned from my mom that the women inside were not hardened criminals. Many were mothers missing their children or raising an infant behind bars. I learned that the women had made some mistakes which brought them to jail, but they deserved some luxuries like any of us.

This past week, I visited the women’s ward at the Potracancha Prison outside of Huánuco. And I had the chance to meet some of the very same women who I had only heard about.

The prison is located on a rocky plateau overlooking the countryside beyond the city of Huánuco. Accessed by an unpaved winding road, the jail is a cement fortress lined with coils of barbed wire. At the entrance gate we were met by uniformed guards and a flock a sheep grazing on some dry grass.

I arrived with one of the pastors in our office and six girls from England who are volunteering at the Granja farm for several weeks. The girls had prepared some hymns and a short skit of the “Prodigal Daughter.” Pastora Yessy would be giving a Bible reflection, while I was asked to lead another one of my movement workshops.

We entered the damp and chilly check-in area, left our passports and bags behind the desk and received an ink stamp on our left forearm. After a security pat-down inspection, we were led through several gates and behind a heavy iron door.

Suddenly, as if all the metal and cement had disappeared, we were met with several smiling faces welcoming us inside the women’s paballon. We were greeted with warm hugs, hands reaching for our hands, and multiple voices at once saying “Hermana, hermana, bienvenidas!” (“Welcome sisters!”)

We were led outside into a sunny courtyard where just beyond the high walls rose the familiar mountains that surround Huánuco – a glimpse of the outside world.

The outdoor space was busy with about twenty or thirty women. Some occupied themselves by knitting small square patches while three women sat kneeling on the ground weaving fabric on traditional back-strap looms hooked around a metal pole.

On opposite ends of the courtyard hung lines of laundry, colorful blankets, children’s shorts and t-shirts and baby clothes. It seemed like a typical backyard patio.

Inside the windows of the sleeping quarters I could see a mother holding her baby. Miniature cut-out stars hung from the ceiling and paper hearts were tacked to the walls. The women have tried to disguise that they live in a prison, and I imagine as much for their own sake as for their children’s.

It’s startling to remember that some of these women have not stepped foot off the property for ten or fifteen years, or maybe even longer. What brought them here? What did they do?

Some committed petty robbery while others were accomplices in more serious crimes. Many come from the surrounding jungle regions and most have been involved in drug trade.

Many of the women in jails across Peru are involved in drug trafficking, often pulled into the web by husbands and boyfriends. And while they work as a team, if caught, in many cases women end up serving a double sentence. The prevailing notion is that it’s better if the woman takes the burden as the male counterpart can still earn a living.

Sentences are often senseless and arbitrary, with outcomes negotiated in a room of three people. Verdicts are made between a couple of lawyers, a judge and some money thrown on the table. There is no litigation process, no jury of peers, and without this there is a vast gap in justice.

The disproportionate number of women serving time for drug procession brings a startling connection to New York’s Rockefeller Drug Laws and their effect women. Mandatory minimum sentences for non-violent drug offences have completely changed New York’s prison population.

Since 1973, when the laws were enacted, the number of incarcerated women in New York has increased over 500%, the majority being African-American and Latina women. The State Legislature is on the verge of repealing the laws but, in many ways, the damage has already been done.

http://www.interfaithimpactnys.org/positionpapers/womenprison.htm

In visiting the Potracancha Prison I realized how easy it is to forget who lives behind bars, in Albany or in Huánuco. And people do live here, many of whom are women, washing laundry, carrying babies, singing hymns and struggling to stay afloat.

Considering the imperfect justice system both here and at home, the least we can do is enter inside and meet those who live there.

Prayer Chain

2009-06-13T09:42:00.000-07:00

At times I act well under pressure, able to focus my energies and carve out a sense of direction. Yet, at other times, when moments of crisis hit, I find I can’t quite manage. Last week was one of those times. And while I fell short in strength and faith, I was surrounded by some of the most deeply grounded people who showed me the way.

Tuesday morning began with a frightening phone call, the father of one of my co-workers calling to say that his son, David, had been in a car accident and was on his way to the hospital. Within moments, the two other psychologists I work with left the office for the hospital, and I was left in the room by myself with a mess of empty desks, including David’s.

My mind was swarming with thoughts and images. What had happened? Someone said he was unconscious. Another said the driver of the car had been killed in the crash.

Unable to sit still with every scenario flashing through my brain, I found myself anxiously pacing the small room and pausing at David’s desk. I think I prayed out loud and said, '' Please G-d, don’t let him die.''

Just as I sat back down at my desk, one of the pastors passed the doorway instructing everyone to meet in the conference room downstairs. I knew what this meant. A prayer vigil.

This is what Paz y Esperanza does when no on else knows what to do. And when no one knows what to do, we look to G-d for direction.

We met in the conference room, a handful of people present, and laid it all out on the table. We prayed for David’s life, for one of the layers who was hospitalized with flu symptoms and for one of the most serious sexual abuse cases, which is on the verge of a verdict.

A few hours later, we met again, this time the entire office, to unload the burdens of hopelessness, stress and exhaustion. We learned that David had regained consciousness, suffered a concussion, broke his nose and dislocated his shoulder bone. The driver was killed and it was and is a miracle that David was spared.

The legal office had reached its edge with the culmination of two critical cases, one of the lawyers out of commission with health problems and the director of the area in tears admitting to us all that she can barely handle it alone.

As I watched her trembling I remarked how devoted this team is to the wellbeing of its members. No one needs to hide behind their desk with the door closed to cry alone when it gets too hard.

At the national level, Peru is also in crisis, dealing with one of the most violent disputes since the terrorism of the 80’s and 90’s. This time it is over indigenous landowner rights.

As the Peruvian government tries to open territory in the north for oil, mining and lumber, indigenous communities are blocking road ways in order to protect their land. The local protests had been peaceful for two months, until this week when both local townspeople and national police were killed in the dispute.

It is obvious that Paz y Esperanza is not just concerned with issues in its own region in Huánuco. There is deep distress when it comes to both local family issues and national conflicts, which so often end in violence.

After words had been shared, my host father, a pastor, stood to draw us together in prayer. I stood next to him and he took my hand. What was previously an outpouring of human anxiety, confusion and desperation became a petition to G-d, that in our feebleness, G-d may intervene.

The prayer was a mantra, pulling in every one of our personal pleas, some unspoken, others whispered simultaneously around the circle. At times the prayer was loud and bellowing and I could feel a rush of energy through my host father’s hand. But as he closed the oration, he paused and then spoke softly in a tear-filled voice. Amen.

At my church at home, we often pass prayers through a "prayer chain," a list of phone numbers and emails where one person prays and then passes the request along. It is a comforting way to release one’s personal grief and lift it beyond our limited understanding.

I image the prayer floating along, hand to hand, heart to heart, building strength as it goes along, all the while speaking to G-d in a myriad of voices.

During this particularly difficult day, I imagined something similar. And just as the prayers moved along in succession, I too felt as if I was being passed along the chain.

The entire morning was a string of prayers, first alone at my desk, then a small group downstairs, and again with the entire office led by my host father. At each instant I felt I was swept up by a moving current bringing me to calmer water.

As I left the office to walk home, my host father swung by and we drove home on his motorcycle. We entered the kitchen, sat down for lunch, and I was caught in prayer once again, among the rest of my host family.

Like a giant safety net set below my feet or two hands placed against my back, prayer met me at every possible crossway on a day when I just couldn’t cope.

Anyday

2009-06-06T08:44:00.000-07:00

I took a walk yesterday, crossing the same streets and passing the same sights I´ve seen since September. I walked around my neighborhood, Paucarbambilla. I crossed the new St. Sabastien bridge. And I followed the cracked sidewalk along the Huallaga River.

I left the house at about 3pm, when most of the tiendas and storefronts are closed up for the afternoon siesta. And while the streets were sleepy and vacant, I could hear the familiar droning melody of a funeral march. Heavy drums and out-of-tune brass instruments followed a slowly moving mass of sixty or seventy people, toward the giant Catholic church. If I´m closer to the procession I usually stop and wait until the last snare drum passes, transfixed by the somber crowd. But today I continued along the river.

Sometimes merky tan and other times a cross between caramel and liquid chocolate, the river changes depending on the rain and sediments it carries. Everyday when I walk to work, it seems to contain something different.

I take this same route day after day, in the morning to the office and back home for lunch, returning in the afternoon and then home again at dusk. Each way gives me twenty minutes of solitude and a string of unassociated thoughts.

This afternoon I walked along as usual, but paid special attention to what was around me, identifying what I may or may not see again once I leave.

The sidewalk is lined with shady trees, each covered with a chalky white paint about waist high, to keep away termites. Every couple of months, a team of women from the el campo (countryside), come in for a day of work. Barefoot or in flip flops, they shlap on the paint with flimsy brushes. They´ll probably eat well that week with the extra income. But I wonder how long that will last.

I peaked over the cement retaining wall, watching the river flowing forward on its way to the Amazon. But my eyes were taken away from the water by a mound of rotting trash, dumped along the river bank and carelessly left behind. Beer cans, broken dishes, empty boxes, and shredded paper. No one trying to hide it.

"Save the Planet" campaigns have only recently begun in Peru and are slowly making their way into school classrooms. In fact, just after stepping foot outside the house, I passed perfect evidence that local kids are taking notice. In a small park, a blue construction paper sign was tacked to a tree, and in orange cut-out letters read "Cuidame" (take care of me). There was a little red paper butterfly glued to the top corner.

I left the shady walkway along the river and headed toward Jr. 2 de Mayo (May 2nd Street), which commemorates a battle for independance between Peru and Spain. As usual, I kept my glance low along the ground making sure not to trip into one of the many open holes in the cement sidewalk. I´m not sure of their purpose, other than a possible water drainage system, and most are half covered by a large rock or filled with trash.

When I take the risk of looking up, I am constantly met with a panorama of sandy colored mountains, which rise above and behind the cement block houses lining the streets.

I pass familiar front doors with decorative metalwork on the windows and bright colored outer walls - turquoise, orange and green. The small produce market I usually visit was closed for the afternoon, with a rusty aluminum panel pulled across the entrance.

Most buildings have small window balconies with delapitated wooden railings on the second floor. Mariachi singers still visit homes to sing love songs on a birthday or anniversary, but nobody hangs their arms over the creaking balconies anymore.

Along the streets are a web of electric lines, tangled with red and pink flowering vines, connected every which way through windows and improvised third floors. Every building has a cluster of iron poles sticking up and out of the four corners of the roof, in the event that another floor be added in the future. Each metal rod is covered by an empty plastic bottle, so as not to attract lightening.

This isn´t the only practical use of plastic bottles. Along public grassy areas, spinklers are made creatively out of bottles poked with pin-sized holes, then attached to a hose and propped up on a tree branch stuck in the ground. Water escapes in all directions, reminding me of the fan sprinklers I used to run through as a kid.

While I tend to look for distinctive elements that make these walks unique and different from what I will return to, I recognize the aspects that make the streets of Huanuco just like any other busy little town in the world.

A father slighly hunched over holding his daughter´s hand as she learns how to walk. An older man, well dressed, maybe a new belt, walking particularly slow because he is in no rush to go anywhere. Women carrying groceries, though they never seem to buy more than what they need for one day. People leaving and entering their homes, living their lives in seemingly ordinary ways.

As I watch all this, imagining what I may or may not miss when I leave, I realize that so much of everyday life here is like everyday life anywhere on any day. There is a certain pulse and rhythm to the day, the week and even the year. I´m happy to have been here long enough to settle into the everyday/anyday qualities yet still have the feeling that I´m taking part in something remarkable.

Dinner Guest

2009-05-25T10:32:00.000-07:00

One evening last week, I returned home to find a young woman and her two-year old son sitting in the living room. She appeared tired and out of place, and I had no idea who she was. My host mother gave few details and simply introduced us and said she was from Panao, a town three hours away where Paz y Esperanza has just opened a small office.

I asked her a few questions, simply to be social, “What’s your son’s name? How old is he?” She answered timidly and without emotion. I didn’t know what to say next, so I just slipped out of the situation and escaped to my bedroom.

I have experienced encounters like this before, in our living room, where a stranger waits on the couch, hands on her lap, trying to avoid eye contact and just keep quiet.

One Sunday afternoon, a young girl, about eleven years old, was waiting outside our neighbor’s door. We had just come home from church and learned that she had been waiting for over three hours. She looked hungry, so my host mother invited her in to have lunch with us and watch the annual Marinera dance competition on TV. We all sat mesmerized, commenting on the costumes and music, while the little girl consumed a mountain of pasta without saying a word.

Just as the television screen kept us all at a safe distance, my retreat to my bedroom last week kept me from getting too involved.

That is, until my host mom came in and asked if I could keep the young woman company while she went out to buy some bread for dinner. A quick glare in her eyes informed me that I should not only keep her company, but make sure she didn’t steal anything.

I invited her into the kitchen and started to set the table. Good, something to keep me busy, while I think of something to say.

“Is this your first time in Huánuco?... Yes. Do you like it?... I don’t know, I haven’t been here very long. The weather is beautiful isn’t it?... Yeah. Where did you live before?... With the baby’s father.”

She asked me where I was from and seemed slightly interested with my response. I described what I was doing in Peru, a vague comment about human rights, and her interest faded. “Human rights,” she probably wondered, “what are those?”

After rearranging every possible item on the table and folding an excessive number of napkins, I realized how in need this young woman was. A teenage single mom, on route from somewhere to somewhere else, with all her belongings in a ragged plastic bag.

The little boy’s face was smeared with dirt and tears and he looked hungry. I reached for the bag of leftover bread from breakfast and offered it to him and his mother. Both hands dove in like it was a bag of gold. I was stunned. Both were starving. They ate in silence while I listened closely for the front door to open and Elena to return.

As I waited I just stood near the girl, watching her son explore the kitchen, all of us trying to make sense of the situation.

But these situations simply don’t make sense. What causes a troubled lonely girl to find herself in the kitchen of a strange family where they have leftover bread and she hasn’t eaten all day? What causes this girl to be face to face with another girl (me), who thinks she has something to say about human rights but finds herself frozen when she meets the very person in need of an advocate?

What does make sense out of all this is that G-d created the space. G-d allowed the encounter. G-d instilled in me what I needed to be useful.

I didn’t need to know why she was here and where she was going. I didn’t need to be a trained psychologist who knows how to probe into another’s emotional state. And I didn’t need to feel scared or uncomfortable standing beside her in the kitchen.

I could be a calming presence as she prepared for her journey, offer her some bread and just stand there, leaning against the kitchen sink, with her and her son.

Elena came back and we quickly sat down for dinner, bread, soup and tea. We talked about the girl’s trip, confirmed the bus time and avoided all the details of what brought her here.

I later learned from Elena that the previous day the girl was found wandering the streets of Panao, alone with her son. She had left Lima to live with the baby’s father, who turned out to be abusive.

She came to a public cafeteria called “Comedores Populares” where women volunteer to cook meals for the poor, offering plates of food from fifty centavos. The women saw her and invited her in, learned that she was homeless and spontaneously gathered their money together to buy her a bus ticket back to Lima.

She somehow arrived at the Paz y Esperanza office where my host mother was working and it was arranged that they would return to Huánuco together. But not before filling out some legal paper work that declared she was leaving an abusive satiation. Without this document, the baby’s father could plead that she abandoned him and demand that she return…

Now protected by the law, she could travel to Lima and hopefully rebuild her life with the support of family. But it’s one thing to have a ticket back home. It’s another to actually have a home to return to, and I don’t know if she does.

A home that exists as a safe haven. A home that always has room for someone else. A home where one more person is always welcome at the dinner table. A home where an unexpected guest can rest and prepare for a journey.

Final Bracelet

2009-05-21T06:56:00.000-07:00

Things have been different since I returned from a week of vacation in Trujillo. I spent most of the week alone, reading, writing, and observing life around me. And between the ruins, the beach and an amazing Flamenco dance concert, I was able to assess where I’ve been, where I am and what it will mean to leave Peru in two months.

When I arrived back in Huánuco, it felt more like home than ever before. That realization shook me to tears when my host mother cheerfully asked, “How was your trip?”

I long to come home and return to my friends and family. But there is no denying that I have had a life here. I have let myself become truly a part of something apart from all I know. And in having taken that risk, and grown because of it, it is going to be somewhat devastating to leave those who have nurtured me along the way.

I can’t quite imagine what it will be like to say good-bye. But G-d is preparing me. Little by little, I am experiencing what it might feel like to let go.

In January, during the summer camps at the Granja farm, several of the young girls gave me plastic friendship bracelets. I left with six or seven, red, blue, yellow, green, to remind me of our time together. I decided to keep them on indefinitely, to feel connected to these amazing young ladies.

And now after a few months, all but one bracelet has snapped and broken off. I know it too will fall off someday when I least expect it, and I will be reminded that every day is one day closer to leaving.

But in the reality of the transitions to come, I am still here. And with that, I am able to gradually understand what this journey has meant, while still being among those who have informed the journey itself.

When I returned to the office on Monday, I was met with open arms and faces that have become so familiar. After my week of solitude, I felt changed somehow, wanting to be much more open, singing louder during our morning devotional and wanting to share more of who I am. And then, G-d presented me with an opportunity to do just that.

A group of volunteers from England visited the office that morning and I was immediately swept up in their wake, telling them about the work of Paz y Esperanza and sharing the high and lows of my experience in Peru. Then, yesterday, I was invited to join a group of college students from California for lunch at my co-worker’s house. She wouldn’t be joining us but she knew I’d enjoy meeting my paisanos (compatriots).

Spending time with both groups allowed me to reflect further on my time here. In light-hearted conversation, we asked each other:

Why did you decide to come to Peru? Do you miss home? How’s your Spanish? Has your family been supportive? Do you use Skype or Facebook? What will you do when you return to the States? Do you know where I can find bug repellent?

There was an instant unity and understanding that occurred during these exchanges. Some of us are idealistic nomads while others are focused on a specific growth experience or calling. However, we are all adapting to a new reality far from home, wondering how we will be changed by all of this.

I feel very content where I am, able to look back on my time here yet still walking the same streets. And if, as I’m walking, that last bracelet slips off, I’ll accept it as G-d’s way of letting me know it’s time to start letting go.

Queridas Mamás

2009-05-18T15:03:00.000-07:00

I passed a cool grey Mother’s Day in Trujillo, a colonial city north of Lima where I spent a week of vacation. After talking to my mom on the phone and wishing her a happy day, I spent the morning in the courtyard entrance of the Iglesia San Francisco.

Morning doves were cooing and I felt very peaceful as I thought about the mothers that visited our office the previous Thursday.

I had spent the week planning a small Mother’s Day celebration for the women. I was initially asked to just do a twenty minute time of relaxation and movement exercises with the guests. But by mid-week I found myself organizing most of the event, as the other psychologists were called out of town for a conference.

I felt honored to be left with the responsibility of creating a space that honored these women, all of whom are survivors of domestic abuse and mothers who are up against a wall of obstacles.

But I didn’t work completely alone. David, a psychology student interning with Paz y Esperanza, helped with the finishing touches as we cut out heart-shaped greetings cards and arranged chocolate “bon o bons” and votive candles around the table. He seemed a bit nervous about the program we had planned. Then, like a teacher declaring “pencils downs” at the end of an exam, David said, “Okay, let’s pray.”

Scissors down, I stood up next to David and we took a deep breath and he asked G-d to be with us during the gathering and to let it be a safe place for the women. I needed that. I needed the assurance that this was not just any party, but an invitation to something greater - a place of support and love and friendship. A sacred place.

With our minds at ease, we opened the doors and a group of twelve women entered, one carrying her baby grandson in a blanket. David was suddenly called upstairs and I was left among curious eyes that searched and questioned me. However, I felt more certain than ever that I was right where I was meant to be.

We arranged the chairs in a circle and I began some simple relaxation exercises. Deep breath in, and out. Slow head circles and shoulder rolls. Then I incorporated a short movement phrase, a warm-up from one of my dance classes in college.

This series of arm stretches and chest releases has shown up a lot this year. During orientation in Louisville, a group of us presented the phrase during our last worship service. On the beach in Mancora, Leslie, another YAV, and I greeted the morning in the same way.

And now, sitting among a diverse group of women from Huánuco, for whom the words “expressive movement” mean very little, it was obvious that it was something their body and soul longed for.

The next exercise involved mirrors. Not actual mirrors, but ourselves as the reflection of others. Each woman had the opportunity to create some spontaneous flowing movement, while the rest of the group followed along.

It became clear that no one else was willing to go first, so I started. And of course the ladies were hesitant. They are so rarely in control of their bodies, and when asked to move however they feel moved, it is an unfamiliar concept.

With some music in the background, I began moving my arms, in simple recognizable gestures – open palms inviting, closed palms praying, waving arms like ocean waves and rippling fingers like falling rain.

The woman who followed next caught on quickly and seemed uninhibited and very open. She traced shapes in the air with her palms together, and then rocked her head side to side with a peaceful smile.

Others were more restricted and uncomfortable, seeming very vulnerable. One particular woman sat arms crossed with her hand covering half of her face. She seemed to be frozen with anxiety, or boredom, I couldn’t tell. But then, suddenly, she threw her arms toward the center of the circle, with her had collapsed back. She proceeded to toss her head side to side, with a look of anguish, her eyes closed tightly with arms spread forward as if surrendering.

I began to really appreciate the time she took before moving. It was clear that she had something very strong to express. What the root of that expression was, I’m not sure. But it needed to escape.

A very young mother entered during the middle, carrying her one-month old son. I debated in my mind whether I should offer to hold the baby so she could participate more freely. But then I realized that we could incorporate her baby into a form of movement.

Mirroring the young woman, we all lifted our arms as if cradling a baby and rocked slowly back and forth, side to side, with eyes gazed downward. This was a very easy and natural movement for the women and in their faces I could see that it recalled something deep and meaningful for them.

The most delightful women to reflect was an elderly lady, who sat between her two daughters. She spoke mostly Quechua and her daughters had to explain the idea of the activity. Then, without much pause at all, she spread her shoulders and lifted her arms high in a giant body yawn. She tilted her chin upward with eyes closed. She continued to make wide circles with her arms, reaching toward the ground and then overhead as if an eagle in flight, all the while sustaining a carefree and elated toothless smile.

All I had to do was look around at the each of the woman’s faces to know how good they felt. They seemed more playful and energized than when they entered the room. And I felt inflated with gratitude to be able to share something I love with them.

***

Since the first activity required no words at all, I planned a get-to-know-you exchange in the form of partner conversations. Each pair of women was given a list of questions to ask her partner, an informal interview of sorts.

What special abilities do you have?
Describe the most beautiful moment in your life?
What is the most important thing you have learned from your mother?
What is one thing you would like to teach your children?

After a very chatty fifteen minutes, each woman stood up to introduce her partner to the group. Each spoke with such strength and respect for their partner, we couldn’t help but clap our hands and applaud each presentation. The simple questions only made me want to know these women more.

Before cutting the cake and passing out the heart-shaped cards and chocolate “bon o bons,” we had one more thing – a candle ceremony. David lit a large pillar candle and handed it to the son of one of the women, a little boy about five years old who, unfortunately, had a bit of a cold. He stood in the middle of the circle tightly holding the candle with both hands.

David dimmed the lights while I passed out a small tea-light candle to each of the women. One by one, they approached the center candle and lit their own. With the entire circle illuminated, David then invited each woman to think of a deseo or wish that they hoped for in their lives. And for most, this meant, more simply, a prayer.

Maybe some prayed for financial needs or for the health of their children. A prayer that something would change for the better. Or maybe, a prayer that they might feel whole. A prayer that they might be loved.

I can’t begin to imagine the depth of what these women hope and pray for. But in hoping for something better, maybe they will realize that they deserve something better. And in knowing they deserve something better, their life has the possibility to change.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom!

Sleeping Beauty?

2009-04-27T09:15:00.001-07:00

Tingo Maria is a mystifying place. Just two and half hours from Huánuco, it is the entrance to the Amazon Rainforest, with iridescent butterflies, cascading waterfalls and underground caves. Situated behind the center of town is a backdrop of lush mountains forming the perfect silhouette of a woman laying on her back. “La Bella Durmiente” as she is called, or “Sleeping Beauty,” watches over the humid overcrowded city.

While the city speaks of progress with a large university and booming tourist industry, it remains in a time warp in terms of gender equality. Machismo, as it is referred to in Peru and much of Latin America, is widespread. It is a mindset and behavior that considers women as inferior and deserving of mistreatment in the form of physical, sexual or psychological abuse.

This can range from whistling cat-calls on the street to more detrimental acts such as refusing to accept any form of contraception and creating a dynamic of power and control within marriage where sexual relations are rarely consensual.

However, women are not the only victims. Machismo and other reflections of patriarchy also damage men. By limiting men to a one-dimensional expression of masculinity, fathers and husbands are deprived of individuality, originality, and imagination. And to pass this shallow sense of manhood down to one's son, is a destructive inheritance.

On our visit to Tingo Maria, we continued the base-line work of interviewing local leaders on the prevalence of domestic violence. I’ve become the unofficial photographer, which allows me an ideal vantage point of observer. Just as I noticed in Chinchao, the women who are invited to be interviewed arrive promptly and with obvious commitment to the cause.

In having access to some of the more remote and isolated communities outside of Huánuco, I am becoming aware of how endemic the oppression is and how desperately some seek to maintain it, including those preaching from the pulpit.

We interviewed the pastors of two local churches, one of which oversees a notably conservative denomination. While I was somewhat prepared for the narrow-mindedness of his theology, it was still shocking to hear his comments.

“Have you participated in any activity that seeks to protect women’s rights?” we asked. The pastor, lounging on a tabletop propped against a dusty stained glass window replied casually, “I don’t believe in rights. I believe in responsibilities. We all have our roles to play. And when we don’t follow through with our duties, well…”

Fortunately, my co-worker, a sociologist, took a diplomatic approach and graciously thanked the pastor for his opinion and moved on without debate. I sat anxiously to the side recording the interview and observing the arrogance before me wondering what century I had regressed to. All I could think of is how far we still have to go.

Aside from my role as photographer, I have been asked to attend roundtable discussions of local leaders and social service professionals on the topic of women’s rights. During these discussions, I have been asked to note the reactions of the participants in response to various questions. I look for obvious or subtle mannerisms or emotional responses that might express what has not been explicitly said. In essence, read between the lines and search below the surface.

During these focus-group discussions, I have noticed female local officials who crumble in the presence of their male counterparts. However, I have also observed extremely articulate advocates for women’s rights who are slowly but surely changing norms in their communities.

The men who have been present including governors, security guards and farmers, range from disinterested and confused to visibly committed to empowering their wives, sisters and daughters. Needles to say, there is a range of opinions and a hesitant openness to the idea of gender equality.

In the smaller pueblos between Huánuco and Tingo Maria, I have felt a strange stillness in the air. Initially, these small towns come across as such peaceful, sleepy villages, nestled behind fields of corn fields with flowering trees cascading over mud brick walls. But I can feel the tension in the air, or at least my own personal tension, knowing that behind those walls, under the surface and under the covers, is physical and emotional abuse.

As we drove home from Tingo Maria, we passed wood huts without electricity fading into darkness as the sun set behind the mountains. Women were picking laundry off clothes lines and a young girl sat gazing out at the horizon chewing on a blade of grass. I looked out the window as we drove beside the massive mountain outline of the Sleeping Beauty. And while La Bella Durmiente may appear to be sleeping, like so many women here and around the world, I doubt that she will be able to close her eyes at night in peace.

Domestic violence is here in Peru and it is at home in New York. It is a violation of humanity that cuts across of all economic levels. And the worst we can do is to not talk about it.

Chinchao

2009-04-20T06:15:00.001-07:00

As I walked to work the other day, I partly prayed and partly wished in passing thought, “I hope I can see more of what lies behind these mountains.” Then, upon entering the office, before dropping my bag and greeting those around me, I was asked “Do you want to go to Chinchao?”

Where this place is located and what we would be doing, I had no idea. But in this field of ministry I have received so much and felt incredibly blessed when I just go and ask questions later. “Si, por supuesto! Yes, of course!” I answered, and we were off.

The purpose of the visit to the district of Chinchao was to begin the first stage of a three year project to train and empower local female leaders to assess, address and prevent violence against women in their communities. This initial stage involves interviewing local leaders of a state-sponsored nutrition program called Vaso de Leche (Cup of Milk) in order to understand their specific challenges and capacity to create change.

We drove out of the city of Huánuco and within minutes were deep in the Huallaga River Valley in the direction of the high altitude jungle of Tingo Maria. I know the route well but have left Huánuco in this direction more often for leisure rather than work. I was excited to be venturing here again but with a more meaningful purpose.

Our taxi sped up the winding mountainside road and eventually bent around to climb the narrow road leading to the center plaza of small town called Acomayo. A six-foot tall plaster angle stood welcoming us with open arms at the entrance to the town.

We situated ourselves in a damp garage-like auditorium, owned by the municipality building. We arranged a cluster of plastic chairs into a semi-circle and invited in the few women waiting patiently outside.

I later learned that the women had walked for two or three hours to arrive promptly at 8:30am while we, who comfortably traveled by car, didn’t arrive until 10:00am. The women barley acknowledged the difficulty of their journey, one of which carried a baby on her back.

I was struck by the obvious dedication of these women and a certain serenity they possessed despite the literal and figurative weight that they carry on their shoulders. But in questioning this state of apparent calm, I believe their stoic expressions were more of statement of, “I have had it up to here with not being treated as a human. And if you are here to offer an alternative, then I am ready.”

As the interviews began, I had each of the women sign in, passed out refreshments of crackers and peach nectar and took photos for the project’s archives. I then accepted the unexpected responsibility of holding one of the women’s crying baby, allowing her to concentrate during her interview.

I have held quite a few babies during this year and initially froze at each opportunity. The babies, wrapped in ragged and oversized clothing, often have dirty and sun burnt cheeks with dried tears caked to their tender skin. Sometimes I know whether the infant was a product of rape, other times I search the face of the mother, trying to decipher whether the child was born out of love or violence.

But after some time, I realized that regardless of how and under what circumstances the child was conceived, he or she is absolutely and unequivocally deserving of love. And if I am asked to hold such a child while his mother talks about the future of women in her community, I will no longer hesitate.

After the interviews concluded, we walked up the steep mountainside streets unto muddy unpaved roads, in search of various town representatives to invite them to a round-table discussion on the project. On our way, we passed an elderly woman whose physical strength put my heavy breathing to shame.

What looked like fifty pounds or more of corn stalks were braced over her neck and shoulders while she nonchalantly spinned a spool of sheep’s wool wound around her wrist. She continued effortlessly uphill, though her back was visibly hunched, while I had to stop and catch my breath.

I have observed other elderly men and women who don’t seem to need to catch their breath, or more likely, they would like to but their current needs prevent them from ever getting a chance. I have seen many individuals well into their seventies working just as hard as a young adult.

Regardless of whether one’s back is hunched, one’s sight is lost or one’s fingers distorted by arthritis or broken bones, there are potatoes to pick, wood to chop, corn to transport…. survival to be maintained.

Despite the lack of health care and physical and mental stress of living in poverty, the elderly live extremely long lives. I continue to be puzzled by this.

If one is able to avoid some of the tragic accidents related to cars, machinery and general violence that takes place and for women who survive complications in childbirth often without medical care, it is possible and surprisingly common to live to at least ninety years old.

How, I’m not quite sure.

Although, I imagine such life expectancy in an otherwise stressful and dangerous context may have something to do with vigorous physical activity, strong family networks, deep religious piety and faith and maybe even the warm climate.

Or, perhaps there is something unknown, at least to me, that enables the human spirit to persevere in such environments.

All I know after this particular visit, is that the women being interviewed have probably much more to share and much more to teach my co-workers and I then we can instruct from our position as empowered and educated women. We may be able to give them strategies for ending domestic abuse but each of these women could offer the most real world, born of experience testimonies of how to overcome hardship.

Semana Santa

2009-04-15T06:43:00.000-07:00

For la Semana Santa (Holy Week) I left Huánuco for another mountain town called Huancayo. I spent four days at 11,000 feet above sea level where the thin and chilly air contrasted with blistering high altitude sun. And in this environment I experienced some of the most moving religious traditions I’ve ever witnessed.

On Thursday I met Sean, one of the other YAVs, and his host sister Hayde at the Plaza de la Constitution to explore the center of town. The first sign that we were entering a time of spiritual reflection were the covered tents sheltering local women from the rain as they weaved intricate palm arrangements and sold Pan de Pascua, a special unleavened sweet bread.

Later, we encountered alfombras, or rugs, being arranged on the main streets. Religious designs and symbols are drawn with chalk on the road by businesses, civic organizations and church groups. Each design is then filled in with rose and marigold petals, eucalyptus leaves, wood chips and dirt dyed a variety of brilliant colors. There is such artistry and attention brought to each rug, only to be trampled through hours later as the Holy Thursday and Good Friday processions make their way through town.

The following day we left Huancayo to visit a bustling little town called Chongos Bajo, where a re-enactment of the Crucifixion would take place. We entered the main church, dating back to 1540, whose wood beamed roof let in streams of refracted sun light and seemed to exhale fumes of previous centuries.

The center plaza was filled with venders selling fried trout (no sign of the red meat that usually tops any menu) and candles of every color with an unusual wax knot just below the quick. Each color represents a different blessing such as health or friendship. A striking green color represents, of all things, “documents,” which might have something to do with the need to recover lost identification especially when in need of government support.

Beyond the plaza is the rocky mountain top of San Cristobol and within moments we decided to climb it. As we made our way up the walking path I felt very peaceful, despite my racing heart in the higher altitude. I literally had to hold my hand to my chest to calm the heavy beating.

Down below we saw a procession making its way to the base of the mountain. We joined a crowd of local families at the mountain’s edge and waited for the procession to arrive. Children were blowing bubbles while women sold pastries and ice-cream. Two young boys ran around three wooden crosses lying on the ground, playing see-saw on the cross in the middle.

It felt like a spectator event, as if families were gathered for a basketball game or soccer match. The only difference seemed to be the surrounding scenery, the view of a broad river valley below, with two storm systems emptying over the villages in the distance.

The procession arrived quicker than I expected, led by costumed soldiers dragging a limping man resembling Christ. I wasn’t convinced. This was obviously make-believe. I knew the red stains on his gown weren’t real blood. The leather whips barely brushed his back. And when he collapsed to the ground near the line of crosses, it seemed pre-rehearsed.

The man was then tied to the center cross along-side the other two actors portraying criminals. As the guards elevated the cross from behind I began to feel more anxious. What if the rope came untied? What if the wood snapped? Would he fall over the cliff?

One of the crosses gave way, slightly leaning forward having not been sufficiently hammered into the ground. I felt myself gasp while much of the crowd erupted in awkward laughter. “Why are they laughing?” I thought. “This isn’t some comedy routine or fun entertainment.”

Then, I began to imagine the real Crucifixion. The crowds that gathered included those that followed out of curiosity, rather than devotion. There were many who laughed, who came to gawk at someone they considered a fool. For some, the brutal death was indeed a source of entertainment, a rush of adrenalin.

As the laughter died down around me, the Christ figure said in a muffled plea, “Padre, perdónalos porque no saben lo que hacen” (“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.”) At the same time, his right foot descended slightly off the wood ledge supporting his weight, just as Christ is depicted in paintings and religious art.

Mary Magdalene leapt out of the crowd and knelt at his feet… moaning, weeping. That’s when I really began to imagine the scene that occurred almost 2,000 years ago.

If I were in that crowd, would I have been laughing? Or would I have been crying? Would I have come to see a spectacle out of curiosity or would I have followed with a sense of deep loyalty?

I think it would have depended on whether I believed what I heard or saw about this man, Jesus. Did he really cure the sick? Did he really make the blind see? Did he serve the poor unselfishly and empty himself of pride and ego?

And if someone suggested to me that this living breathing human was really the son of G-d, would I have accepted it? And, even more, tell others the same?

I don’t know what I would have done, or said, or believed, because I wasn’t there. But in witnessing the re-enactment of the Crucifixion on the side of a mountain in the Peruvian altiplano, I was the closest I’ve ever felt to the truly imagining what took place.

As the bodies were lowered to the ground and we began to walk away from the scene, I felt stunned by what I had just seen. I walked in silence for a while wondering again what I would have done if I were leaving the actual death of Christ.

Would I have gone back home and returned to work as usual? Would I have talked about the event at the well with the other women, adding the story to a string of gossip? Or would I have knocked on my neighbor’s door and ask if we could pray together.

Pray for this person who was killed, who didn’t deserve to die, and who presented a philosophy of living that restores humanity. After having prayed and honored the life he led, maybe the two of us, sitting together in a dusty desert kitchen, would decide to try to live like he did.

And while we still questioned whether he was the son of G-d and before all the talk of whether he was born to a virgin, we decided it really didn’t matter. What matters is how he lived and what he stood for and whether we have the courage to act in a similar way.

Translating Food

2009-03-31T15:05:00.000-07:00

The most affirming feeling is being greeted by some of the campasinas that visit our office, women from the more distant mountain communities who take to heart the importance of a genuine “hello.” They look me straight in the eye, grab hold of my hands between their palms and kiss me on the cheek. “Mamita” or “little mamma” they say cheerfully with an endless smile.

I received similar greetings upon entering a room full of local parents, members of the Colectivo de Padres, a support group for parents of survivors of sexual abuse. I assumed the role of translator for an afternoon workshop on nutrition and child care, given by two visiting missionaries from Alberta, Canada. However, more than just translate, I became a bridge between the culture I came from and that which I have entered and embraced for the past seven months.

Ruth and Petra began their presentation admitting that they are not professionals. They came as foster parents, as mothers, and not as nutrition experts, which created a dynamic of commonality rather than instruction.

The first topic of discussion was infant child care. To get a sense of local practices, we asked the mothers how often and for how many months they nurse their babies. There seemed to be little difference until the topic of baby formula. In Peru, tap water is not purified and is therefore undrinkable, unless one has built up enough anti-bodies. However, this is often unknown or overlooked when preparing formula. We stressed the importance of boiling water and sterilizing bottles in order to prevent bacteria and infection.

We also spent some time passing around a plastic baby doll, in order to demonstrate the importance of healthy physical affection between parents and child. The presenters stressed that children need to be held, hugged and reassured through physical warmth and eye contact.

I have noticed a distinct distance between parents and their children, especially in very poor families where oftentimes each child is just another mouth to feed. Babies are carried on mothers’ backs suspended in a woven blanket tied around the women’s shoulders. At times I can’t tell whether a woman is carrying food from the market, wood for the fire or a sleeping infant.

In the rural communities that Paz y Esperanza serves, many women endure chronic domestic violence. Because they themselves have been denied dignity and respect in their homes, it is difficult for them to create loving relationships with their children. Paz y Esperanza has tried to change this.

During workshops with local mothers, the women are challenged to understand the concept of human value, a sense of worth that they have often been denied. The women are asked “How much is a kilo of rice? ... Compared to a sack of potatoes? … Which is more valuable, a cow or a sheep?” The women answer easily according to price and economic value.

The facilitators then ask, “And how much is a child worth?” There is of course some hesitation. “Which is more valuable, a son or a daughter?” Some of the women declare that a son is more valuable, because he will one day work and earn money for the family. Some agree, while others begin to question the failed logic.

Thus begins an open dialogue on the value of human life. We are not products to be bought and sold, nor are our children. No one being is better or more valuable than another, especially in regards to gender.

This seems obvious to those who were raised in loving families based on equality. But for many of these parents, the concept of human dignity is foreign.

As our visitors passed around the baby doll it seemed as if many didn’t know what to do with it. That is until Talia, a four year-old daughter of one of the participants, took the life-like doll and cradled it lovingly to her chest and showed, without words, how to express love to a child. As she crawled up near her father’s lap, I wondered if she herself receives enough care at home.

The rest of the workshop focused on nutrition and food preparation. I prepped our speakers briefly before the gathering, noting that the majority of the families that visit our office have limited resources and cannot stock the variety of food necessary for a balanced diet.

Bread, rice and potatoes are the staple food items while fruits and vegetable are often secondary. Meat and fish are expensive and many families tend to spend limited money on more luxury items like sugar and oil.

If a family has live chickens, they will often sell fresh eggs before keeping enough to feed their family. Dairy products are rarely purchased as few families have refrigeration.

With these factors in mind, I think we all entered the room quite unsure of what we could actually share to improve the nutrition of families who really don’t have many choices. But it was worth a try.

We began asking simple questions to assess what choices are available. “How many times a week do you eat meat? ... How much does a kilo of corn cost? … Do your children eat breakfast before going to school?”

After getting a sense of the basic diet and economic level of those gathered, we came up with a few recommendations:

1) For breakfast, avena (oatmeal) is a relatively cheap alternative to the basic bread and coffee. In addition to being low in cholesterol, oatmeal cooked in hot milk will provide more protein and calcium.

2) A bread roll served with a fried egg will provide more energy than bread alone.

3) If resources are extremely low, at least a glass of papaya juice will reduce intestinal parasites.

4) Have children bring a banana to school for a snack, or prepare granola bars with oatmeal, eggs and sugar.

5) During lunch, the largest meal of the day, a soup with chicken and vegetables is more nutritional than a broth with pasta and potatoes.

While many of these suggestions may not be adopted due to economic issues and buying habits, the group seemed extremely receptive. There seemed to be genuine interest and curiosity regarding what foods have more protein and how to select fruits with the most nutrients.

What is most difficult to accept is that no matter how much one tries to stretch their budget and select foods carefully, there is an overwhelming gap between what one’s body needs and what is available.

For example, one of the most ideal foods indigenous to Peru is a protein-rich grain called quinoa. However, it is nearly inaccessible to the people of Huánuco. Grown only in higher altitudes and expensive when sold in town, this product, which sustained the Incan Empire, is rarely eaten in local kitchens.

Both myself and the two visitors from Canada were saddened more than those sitting in the room. They, or course, have become accustomed to the reality of scarcity while we continue to feel the shock and guilt of our own over-abundance and consumption.

As I described these realities to the visitors, I could see that they were experiencing for the first time the same blinding truths that I encountered upon arriving in Huánuco in September. However, now, having listened to, talked with, prayer for, and become friends with children and parents who have less, I don’t feel so set apart.

I know I can’t change their grocery lists or fill their cupboards, but while I’m here I can learn about their struggles, offer whatever encouragement I can and also share with people back at home the truth of how 80% of the world’s population lives.

Regardless of what knowledge the Colectivo de Padres will take home with them after the workshop, I feel that they truly appreciated our effort. And that gratitude came in the form of a very humbling goodbye as each parent looked us straight in the eye, grabbed hold of our hands between their palms, kissed us on the cheek and said “Muchas gracias.” And that needs no translation at all.

Readings

2009-03-24T09:04:00.000-07:00

So, I’ve been reading. A lot. It’s been a wonderful therapy and pastime, a welcome return to the English language and a mental stimulator during times when I’ve been too exhausted to leave my room.

When I first arrived in Huánuco, I realized that books were one thing I didn’t bring enough of. I soon found myself fidgety after work and during Sunday evenings when, back at home, I would’ve curled up on the couch with a good book.

Fortunately, a previous volunteer had left one English book behind, a novel by one of my favorite authors, Isabel Allende. I’ve never been so overjoyed to run my fingers through worn pages and fold down their corners to remember a favorite quote. I felt like someone had left me a secret key or a personal note addressed just to me

Isabel Allende is significant to me in many ways. Her novel House of the Spirits, was the only book I brought with me when I worked in Mexico one summer during college. She writes beautifully about Latin America, and while in Mexico, she gave me a more rich understanding of the new culture I found myself in.

To have encountered her again in Peru, in the country where she was born, seemed to ground me, as if re-connecting with an old friend, officially welcoming me back to Latin America.

Her narrative Eva Luna got me through my first month here, when I found myself needing to just lay in bed during much of my free time, resting my brain and recuperating my energy for each new day.

Having finished her story, it would be two more months until I would be in Lima again, where I could borrow a book from our volunteer supervisor. During that time I turned to the one English book remaining, the book that has always been on a nearby shelf but one that I have barely touched… the Bible.

I continue to be intimidated by the Bible and all that it contains - all the events and opinions that surround its pages, the misunderstanding and misuse of ancient verses. In the past, I respected the Bible from a distance and instead preferred to learn about its contents through others’ more accessible paraphrasing.

However, I now found myself with nothing to read and I did bring the Bible here for a reason… to read it!

So, sometime in October I opened up the first page of the New Testament and began reading - simply reading. I didn’t pressure myself to know what was being said in between the lines or to fully comprehend the historical context in which it was written. I took each page as it came, allowing myself to react and ponder freely and to write in the margins.

I’m marking up my once pristine clean Bible and I’m finally getting to know its contents. I continue to work through the New Testament, taking it bit by bit, but sometimes I just need a break.

At which point came two more Allende novels. After our Thanksgiving retreat in Lima I brought back Inés of My Soul, a romantic and politically charged story about the wife of one of the first Spanish conquistadors in Peru. I was fully entrenched in the narrative, which described Incan society and the indigenous spirituality that I hoped to encounter on our trip to Cusco after Christmas.

Once in Cusco, among other imperatives like visiting Maccu Piccu and the Sacred Valley, I knew I had to find a bookstore. During our last afternoon, I came upon a nicely stocked shop just beyond the Plaza de San Francisco called Libreria Jerusalen (The Jerusalem Bookstore). The owner was a quintessential literary man, with overgrown wispy hair and thick-rimmed glasses sitting low on his nose. “Do you have anything by Isabel Allende?” I asked hopefully.

He directed me to a shelf featuring her novels. I pulled one out called Zorro, curious whether it had any connection to the films, but more so because of the blurry cover image of a flamenco dancer in a flowing red dress.

At the checkout counter, a friendly customer said, “That’s a good one you’ve got there.” The conversation became quite intriguing when we discussed Allende’s connection to the first democratically elected president of Chile, Salvador Allende, who was assassinated by a military coup in 1973 (the other September 11th). Isabel Allende was his niece and the customer shared that he had been in Santiago during the time of the coup.

After my interesting encounter in the bookstore, I guarded the book more than any of the other gifts and souvenirs I purchased during our travels.

I have since found an international bookstore right here in Huánuco, making me feel that I’ve been on a completely unnecessary wild goose chase for literature. However, in feeling desperate for a book, I now have a palpable appreciation for access to the written word. And when I return to the States, one of my first destinations will be to walk up and down the aisles of the local library, with deep gratitude that someone actually taught me to read.

Prayer Shawl

2009-03-17T07:03:00.000-07:00

In 2007, several women began a prayer shawl ministry in my church in Guilderland, New York. The group meets twice a month to knit and crochet shawls that are then given to new mothers, brides-to-be, or someone moving away. Shawls are given especially to those in need of comfort and support during difficult times of stress related to health issues or family problems.

Before leaving for Peru, I received a beautiful rose colored shawl with a personal note of blessing signed, “With our prayers, HUPC Prayer Shawl Ministry.” And after arriving in Peru, it wasn’t long before I dug out the shawl from my overstuffed suitcase.

We arrived in the Lima airport past midnight and then immediately rushed to each of our host families. My taxi arrived at the end of a dark narrow alley, with rain spitting down from a starless sky. I entered my host family’s house through a bolted metal door and crept up a tunnel like staircase. I felt completely disoriented.

After a cup of tea with my gracious host mother, my senses adjusted somewhat to the strange environment. She then led me up to the third floor where I would be staying. And by third floor, I mean roof.

Hand-constructed by her father, the third floor was an example of the resourceful use of space in most dwellings in Peru. Three pod-like guest rooms made of cement with thick plastic roofing provide additional income for the family.

The open-air living space would be ideal now that summer has reached Lima. However, on my first night, I entered my sky loft with an overwhelming chill and uncertainty.

I knew, deeply, that I was exactly where I was meant to be. I just needed a bit of comfort, warmth and remembrance of those who care about me.

What saved me from loneliness that night was the soft yarn and warm color of my prayer shawl, like a crackling fire in my parents’ living room. Even more comforting was the knowledge that each stitch was made by a group of wonderful women who have found a meaningful and creative way to share G-d’s love.

Since arriving in Huánuco, I have not felt any of the chill I initially experienced on that first night in Lima. As I ran my fingers over the hand woven fabric remembering that night, I thought of a young woman I have met who may need the prayer-embedded shawl more than me.

This past weekend, my host sister and I visited a neighbor of ours, a young woman who I met back in December at the Christmas celebration for the TAMAR Collective. When I met her during the holidays she was eight months pregnant, very cheerful and wise beyond her years. At eighteen years old she is much more prepared for motherhood than others. However, I sensed that she too needed reassurance.

We arrived at her front door, a rusty garage pull-down, which her brother unlatched through a miniature trap door leading to their house. Our friend welcomed us with a beautiful wide grin and invited us in. We passed a bed sheet hanging on a string, a make-shift wall, and came upon her bed where her peaceful one and a half month old baby girl lay sleeping.

I felt distracted as my host sister and I stood chatting with her next to the bed, while she attentively nursed the baby. I imagined myself, if only briefly, in her position – crammed into a cluttered room that resembled a tool shed with three beds tucked behind a curtain. The absence of privacy was startling.

Her brother lay on the bottom bunk behind us, hidden by another hanging sheet, his sleepy breathing reminding me to keep my voice down.

Meanwhile, our friend began to recount her labor and delivery, running through every stage of the process in a somewhat stoic and detached manner. I thought of all the women I know who have shared their own stories at baby showers or over tea with their girlfriends and female relatives. I wondered if anyone had genuinely been interested in this young woman’s story.

Just listening to her made me feel that I was serving G-d somehow, offering her a chance to share her experience, like all new mothers want to.

But I’ve never heard a story like this – giving birth in a frigid hospital, enduring contractions in a waiting room filled with people without any change of clothes. Her mother wasn’t even allowed to accompany her, as it would provide “too much of a distraction.”

She had preeclampsia, a high blood pressure condition, and needed to be induced. No anesthesia. No hand-holding. No emotional support.

Her baby was born with the umbilical cord around her neck, but managed to make a loud and healthy scream when she took her first breath. Clearly a miracle.

Our friend shared her story without showing much sign of distress. Maybe she has blocked out the pain and loneliness she may have felt. Her experience seemed traumatic. However, my host sister later informed me that such treatment is nothing out of the ordinary.

Living just down the street, I am overwhelmed by how different our circumstances are. I visited her a Friday, my “free day” which I usually spend reading or listening to music in my private, uncluttered bedroom that has four solid walls and a real door.

While she appears to be a confidant and happy mother, her hopeful smile and knowledgeable eyes seem to call out for more opportunity, more choices in life.

And until those choices are available to her, in a real way, I hope this prayer shawl can provide the same peace and comfort for her as it has done for me.

Borderless

2009-03-09T13:47:00.000-07:00

On March 3rd, the 183rd day of our 183-day travel visa, our group of six volunteers crossed the border into Ecuador and re-entered Peru with the official stamp of approval that, yes, we can stay.

The relative ease with which we crossed the border is a privilege that many do not experience. What for us was an adventure is a nightmare for countless others who encounter borders across the world – Israel and Palestine, Mexico and the U.S.

While our experience was thankfully uneventful, I still carried a feeling of emptiness as we waited at each checkpoint, imagining us all as mechanical robots in an assembly line, identified only by our country of origin and a nine digit ID number.

The process left me questioning how much humanity is lost in an effort to reinforce boundaries and achieve security.

Then, as if transported to another realm of existence, we arrived back at our private beach house, where we spent our mid-year retreat. This tranquil paradise in a sleepy fishing town outside of Máncora, allowed us time and space to relax, reflect and recommit ourselves to our work in Peru.

I accepted that I really did need a break and embraced all the restorative qualities of our tropical environment. What I enjoyed most was feeling immersed in nature, amidst the borderless, boundless surroundings of sand, air and ocean.

In the morning, miles of desolate undisturbed sand made my foot prints seem like the first steps on the moon. Misty clouds dissipated by mid-morning, leaving a true blue sky dome as we each walked along Katie’s sand labyrinth.

Afternoons brought reckless ocean waves that engulfed us even when we saw them coming. As we waited for each salty deluge, clans of pelicans would sweep down just barely skimming the surface of the water with their heavy bellies.

Higher in the sky, perfect formations of geese flew north for the southern winter, reminding me of the inverse cycle of my current hemisphere.

In this equatorial sky, the moon fills from left to right and the big dipper appears in an entirely new celestial space than I’m used to.

The nighttime tide was at times terrifying – an endless black abyss suddenly shattered by horizontal lightening streaks ripping through the darkness. As each white arch crashed, I had just moments to escape before it caught up with me walking along the sand.

Then, a new discovery…

Walking along the shore with Leslie one evening, she pointed out flashes of light in the foamy water around our toes. She explained that tiny floating plankton emit light when disturbed by the moving currents. After feeling assured that I wouldn’t be electrocuted, I observed these mysterious creatures with intense curiosity and awe – clusters that resembled marine fireflies or floating diamonds.

The timelessness and inhibition of our surroundings seemed unreal. When so much of our lives are limited by the boundaries we create, it seems so unfamiliar, almost unbelievable, when we actually feel… free.

During the past week, as I observed and felt the cycle of daylight, moonlight, high tide, low tide and birds flying north along their internal map, I was reminded that the only real borders are those that G-d has created – sacred schedules and natural boundaries that bring freedom, rather than limit it.

Summer Camp

2009-02-16T07:17:00.000-08:00

As summer began here in Peru, I asked a few of the young people I know, “What are you going to do now that school is out?” Expecting an excited response, I instead saw confused or blank expressions, reminding me that for many of the children here in Huánuco, there is nothing special about summer.

There are no pool parties or soccer camps, no long-awaited family vacations. For some, the end of the school year is devastating, as it means returning to a stressful and oftentimes violent home life.

However, if you ask the young women and children that visit our office, “What are you doing this summer?” most likely, their faces will light up with anticipation for the annual summer camp for the TAMAR Collective, the support group for young survivors of sexual abuse.

Each summer in February, the TAMAR Collective spends a weeklong over-night camp at the Granja, the ecological farm owned by Paz y Esperanza. With one week for teenagers, some of whom are mothers, and another week for children, los campamentos offer these young survivors something few Peruvian children experience… a summer vacation filled with fun games, good food, spiritual development and therapy sessions with a team of compassionate psychologists.

The Granja property is situated in a river valley protected on both sides by a vertical wall of mountains. Beyond the river bank are towering corn fields, leading to a more shallow meadow of alfalfa, which finally meets a sprawling vegetable garden, avocado trees and towering rose bushes that create an isolated and utterly peaceful environment… that is until twenty-five teenagers take over for four days.

A Remarkable Group

Some loud and confident, others timid, the teenagers in the first week were a diverse group. One young lady stood apart from the others in her silence and also her dress, the traditional dark pleated skirt and knit sweater worn in the mountain communities outside of Huánuco. No one knew it was her birthday on Wednesday during the camp. I wonder if she would’ve delighted in the attention had we prepared a celebration for her, or the opposite, felt terrified by the fuss, preferring to hide in the shadows.

Three of the ladies had babies, however it was difficult to decipher at times who was the mother, as everyone seemed to take turns holding, calming and caring for the little ones. This provided relief to the young mothers, allowing them to run and play without a bundle tied to their back or a mouth to feed. These three mothers are startlingly mature, extremely responsible and have overcome trauma in a way that I cannot quite comprehend.

I observed an intelligent resourcefulness among the young people. After an afternoon spent in a muddy pool, wet clothing was hung on tree branches outside of the windows of the sleeping quarters. During our last evening as we prepared for the traditional fogata, or bonfire, two ladies taught me how to build a fire with bamboo branches and a roll of toilet paper.

The teenagers were encouraged to work collaboratively, which they achieved during a challenging team building activity one afternoon. In an overgrown grassy field with roaming cows, we played a game called “Cross the River,” which I recalled from my fifth grade gym class. Three teams were asked to cross the field without touching the ground, using a pile of equipment including an old mattress, rock, hula hoop, wooden chair, and potato sack. Oh, and one of the team members was blindfolded.

Each group experienced the disappointment of returning back to the starting point, after a foot or hand touched the ground. But during a reflection period, we discussed that sometimes in life you just have to start from scratch and rebuild. We all encounter obstacles, and fortunately we never have to “cross the river” alone.

Spiritual Development

Much of our time was spent either in the comedor, the outdoor eating pavilion, or Ichayhuasi, a Quechan term meaning “house of learning” situated next to the cow pen. These two gathering places facilitated a sense of togetherness and friendship that will hopefully uplift and sustain each participant beyond the short time spent at the Granja.

Each morning after breakfast, we met in Ichayhuasi to sing songs, tally up the points that each team earned during the previous day’s games and field competitions, and later to follow a Bible study focusing on the personal change.

The Bible study theme Rumbo al Cambio (Heading Toward Change) included discussions on how to be your true, authentic self, and how to relinquish stubborn self-sufficiency and trust in G-d.

During one of the many spontaneous moments I experienced during the camp, I suddenly found myself standing in front of twenty-five curious faces as I shared my own story of how I arrived in Peru. In an effort to listen to G-d’s intentions for my life, I stepped outside of my structure, comfort and yes, stubborn self-sufficiency, in order to place more trust in G-d.

As I came to know these young people, they reminded me that faith doesn’t need to be kept a secret, it is meant to be shared. For many, their faith is more pure and robust than I’ve ever experienced.

Various participants prayed out loud with conviction, recited with ease the Bible verses we learned in the morning and afternoon studies, and sang alabanzas or praise songs while waiting for lunch or settling down for the night. Their knowledge and understanding of Christianity is real and not forced, open and giving and not ashamed or embarrassed.

Paper Cranes and Poetry

It was such a joy to share some of my own ideas and creativity with the group, encouraged by the other psychologists that I had something valuable to share.

One evening I facilitated a workshop on relaxation on the porch outside our sleeping house. I was nervous that the hyper group would think the activity was silly and unimportant. However, I was surprised by their receptiveness and maturity, as we gave back massages in pairs and learned that tired feet need attention too.

Fortunately the group was undisturbed by the giant bearded moths that plastered themselves to the porch walls and the symphony of evening insects that could be heard just beyond the deck. And I considered the activity a success when, after a moment of silence, I found one of the most giggly girls fast asleep on one of the couch cushions.

During the following afternoon I introduced the group to origami, a craft I used to love and have since rediscovered in this new context. It’s difficult to teach origami to three tables of teenagers, with some quickly achieving each fold while others need individual attention. I would hear my name being called in five directions, and somehow remained calm and patient during the entire process.

A very significant moment for me was sitting next to one of the girls, guiding her hands and seeing her slowly yet surely make a paper crane, her smile widening after accomplishing each step of the process.

I continually looked over at one of the young men in the group, a sixteen year-old who seemed to be unamused by most of the activities. However, I observed him fully invested in the project, completing four cranes and moving unto the final task of making a wind mobile with popsicle sticks and string.

Below is a poem I came upon a few days before the camp, one of those coincidences that is no coincidence at all. It found me while I was re-reading some of my orientation materials and reinforces the process of rehabilitation that these young people are going through.

Please pray for them.

Origami Emotion - by Elizabeth Barrette

Hope is
Folding paper cranes
Even when you hands get cramped
And your eyes tired,
Working past blisters and paper cuts,
Simply because something in you
Insists on
Opening its wings.

Friendship

2009-01-30T12:51:00.000-08:00

A real blessing in actually living here, and not just passing through, is the opportunity to share in some very meaningful life events - to witness others’ lives move in new directions and also share in their losses. This past week seemed to have it all.

On Monday, during our usual morning devotional, one of my co-workers announced that she is pregnant with her second child. It was such a delightful moment as everyone’s eyes lit up to share in her joy. Later in the kitchen, she shared with me that she hoped I could stay until September to see the baby.

The following day, a cloud descended on the office when we learned that the grandmother of one of the psychologists, my supervisor, had passed away. I had just begun to learn about this incredible woman, ninety-four years old, who had the strength of spirit to raise seven children on her own. When my supervisor came to the office that afternoon, I awkwardly shared my condolences and stepped back to observe the compassion of my fellow co-workers.

As if that wasn’t enough emotion for one day, another co-worker approached my desk to inform me that she would be leaving the office and moving to Lima, where her husband and two teenage sons live. One of the founders of the Paz y Esperanza office in Huánuco, she has put her heart and soul into her work for survivors and their families.

Tears began to form in her eyes as she shared how difficult a transition this would be. As I stood to give her hug, she changed the focus of the conversation to me and our friendship. I was stunned and then delighted when she cheerfully invited me to have lunch at her home the following afternoon.

In really being here, working, living, learning and sharing, I’m finding the door to people’s lives opening and welcoming me in.

Earlier this month, I went to my first Peruvian wedding, for one of the members of the Paz y Esperanza office in Lima, and witnessed two people embark on a new path together. During the reception, I danced to just about every song, cumbia, salsa, huayño, and didn’t feel the slightest unease being the only foreigner.

I was so grateful to be included in the celebration, and even more meaningful was spending time with my co-workers outside of the office. Being in the rainforest town of Tingo Maria, we visited a pristine mountain top lake called the Lagoon of Miracles and hiked to view the massive waterfalls of Santa Carmen.

I think my favorite moment was waiting for our overheated bus to begin its trek back over the mountains, sitting among four women from my office, each of us waving our silk fans that we received as wedding favors. I felt so much a part of the group, celebrating the wedding together and enjoying a weekend paseo in the rainforest with friends.

As I near the half-way mark of this year long journey, I am becoming even more aware of how difficult it will be to leave. But I do not want to retreat or withhold my own friendship simply because my time here is limited. To the contrary, I want to give wholeheartedly and continue to experience the joys of becoming close to people.

Economy

2009-01-22T05:38:00.000-08:00

Most mornings I wake up to the sound of a woman’s voice from the street outside my bedroom, announcing at the top of her lungs, “Hay tamales!”

For fifty centavos, or about 16 cents, I can enjoy a steaming hot corn patty, wrapped in a banana leaf and sealed with a string of white twine. Hidden in the middle, one finds bits of chicken, a slice of hard-boiled egg and usually an aceituna (olive).

The women who sells them on the street has the most wonderfully bold get-out-of-bed-and-start-the-day voice. Her daily business of selling tamales reflects much of the local economy in Huánuco, and I imagine most of Peru.

During our volunteer orientation in Lima, we learned that Peru has an “informal economy.” This means, outside of Lima, you’ll never find a shopping mall, a fully stocked grocery store, chain restaurants or car dealerships. I have learned to bring exact change whenever I visit the market or post office, as store owners rarely have extra cash on hand. Everything is on a smaller, more local scale and prices seem to always be negotiable.

To me “informal economy” means family owned convenience stores, with relatives living in the back room, teenagers riding bicycles with a basket full of fresh bread tied to their back, older women squatting on street corners trying to sell a couple of hot dogs from a miniature grill.

There are of course markets, which are universe of their own.

El Marcado Antiguo (The Old Market), situated in a wooden warehouse behind a 400 year old colonial church, is a maze of stalls selling mounds of fruit, giant calabazas (squash) and overstuffed sacks of rice and colorful varieties of potatoes. Amidst vendors selling kitchen utensils and pirated CDs are pig heads hanging on rusted nails and chicken feet used to flavor soup.

One afternoon, as I was leaving the chaos of the market, I overheard a scratchy radio playing Joan Osborn’s “What If God Was One of Us.” It made me stop and look around. Instead of rushing out of the damp, overcrowded market, I lingered under the arched doorway.

G-d resides here, in the muck and mess of the marketplace, where local goods are exchanged between human hands.

While the informal economy of Peru allows for easy start up businesses and local production, it is unstable and unforgiving. For example, the walking bridge connecting my neighborhood to the center of town, initially provided a place of commerce for over a dozen independent venders, known as ambulates, or wanders. Some sell grilled chicken kabobs or fresh cut pineapples, while others sell boxes of tea or used books, among other things.

For several months, these vendors serviced crowds of people crossing the bridge, as the main bridge was under construction. Now that the new bridge has opened, and the pedestrian path dismantled, I no longer see those venders – old men or young mothers trying to make enough money to get by. Where did they go?

On the larger scale:

Beyond the streets of Huánuco, the economy of Peru is bound by powerful international agribusinesses and the illegal trade of narcotics. When I travel to and from Lima I pass a dangerous American-owned lead smelter in the town of La Oroya. The current director of the Presbyterian World Mission Office, Hunter Farrell, served for several years as a missionary in Peru. During his service he brought attention to the serious human rights violations at the site, including radical rates of cancer and child lead poisoning.

(visit http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2007/april/37.70.html?start=1

During Christmas time I visited a jail outside of Huánuco, where the majority of the female inmates were involved in drug trafficking. I have been told that if a couple is involved in drug trafficking, the sentence is often negotiated such that the woman serves for both her crime as well as her partner. This is especially true if the couple has children. The argument is that the father has more earning ability and should be allowed to work, while the woman serves a double sentence.

While I am aware of the macro-economic picture, it is the woman roaming the streets of Huánuco selling tamales that I am more focused on. As I walk home from work, late in the afternoon, I see her again, sitting on the street corner, steam escaping from a newly filled basket, without making her usual boisterous announcement.

Maybe she is tired of yelling the same old thing, day after day. Or maybe she is just tired, but still has to get up and sell tamales, because it is her only means of living.

Travel

2009-01-12T08:07:00.000-08:00

The past two weeks have been a blur of buses and hostels, canyons and Incan ruins, arrivals and departures and cool clear mornings in new places. Traveling through southern Peru with my brother and the other Young Adult Volunteers (YAVs), I observed and absorbed more of this beautiful and complex country, finding myself amidst surroundings that defy description.

Outside of the city of Cusco were the ruins of Maccu Piccu. It was challenging to grasp the awesome spirituality of the place among our large tour group. But, for once, my camera allowed me a quiet, more centered relationship to my environment. Rather than distance me from real life, the camera lens allowed me to capture light passing through angular rock formations, with a backdrop of green velvet mountains.

We explored another pocket of the Andes, known as the Sacred Valley, peddling along rocky terrain on used mountain bikes. Two young tour guides led us to the archeological site of Moray, a downward spiraling grassy pit, where the Incas developed ideal growing conditions for maize, papa and quinoa (corn, potatoes and grain).

The day of biking felt epic and terrifying. The tendons in my wrists were sore from gripping the brakes as we jolted down cliffs, which often ended with me walking half-way. I felt the extreme conditions of the landscape as I positioned my gaze across a sandy canyon toward storm clouds inching toward us.

As we explored the terrain, I felt like we were on the stage of a grand opera, with a team of hidden crew members continually refreshing the scenery with ever more dramatic features.

The town of Puno offered a mix of genuine hospitality and island culture that seemed to transport me centuries back. The duena of our hostel welcomed us with a cup of mate de coca, a traditional tea of coca leaves that alleviates the effects of high altitude.

After recuperating from the thin air and general exhaustion, we spent a day on Lake Titicaca, 4,000 meters above sea level. The first inhabitants of the lake envisioned the coast line as a figure of a lion chasing a rabbit and named the lake “Grey Puma” in the local language of Aymara.

On the lake we visited a series of islas flotantes (floating islands), where small one-room houses rest on tightly packed layers of totora reeds. The plants are a spongy celery like material, rich in iodine. The residents peel away the skin and snack on the stalks, leaving their teeth bright white against their sun scorched cheeks.

It felt strange to be a tourist, unsure whether the islanders received a portion of our tour ticket. I still don’t understand the system of tipping. And I prefer not to barter for chuyos (traditional wool hats with ear flaps) knowing I’m only paying five dollars to begin with.

My anxiety regarding my tourist identity diminished slightly when I bought hand knit leg warmers at a local artesian market in Cusco. The woman rejoiced in the purchase as it was her first sale of the day. She made the sign of the cross on her chest and thanked me with a large sunrisa (smile).

In Arequipa we entered lower altitude and warmer weather, a city surrounded by snow capped volcanoes and Spanish monasteries. It was a relief to be in one place for more than a couple of nights. We settled in and even cooked dinner in the hostel kitchen one night – grilled cheese and tomato soup.

We took an overnight bus trip to the Canyon del Colca. During the four hour ride we passed through a national reserve where protected vicuna roam – an endangered species of llama with more delicate features and fine wool.

At the highest point of 4,800 meters, we stopped to view the surrounding volcanoes of el Misti and Chachani and the miniature rock piles that locals place at the side of the road as a traditional offering to the mountain gods.

On our tour of the canyon, we stopped at cliff side miradores (lookouts), where ceramic bird whistles and embroidered bags were sold. We waited to view one of the gigantic Andean condors soar up and out of the canyon. Having seen none, I didn’t leave disappointed but felt full of fresh mountain air with eyes wide in disbelief of the geological beauty.

Now back in Huanuco, I can close my eyes and see the mossy green carpet of Maccu Piccu and feel the stinging sun reflecting off the grey waves of Lake Titicaca. I can picture the detailed stitching of the traditional vestimiento of the women in Chivay and remember our dinner conversations after a day of sightseeing.

It’s a relief to unpack my bags and find that returning home to Huanuco does feeling like I’m actually returning home.

Te Invito

2008-12-22T07:44:00.000-08:00

I observed quickly that much is shared here in Peru. This is partly due to limited resources, but moreover, I believe there is an ethic of reciprocity that lies deep within Peruvian culture.

This was evident during my first week in the office of Paz y Esperanza, when I realized if I was going to bring a mid-morning snack, I best be prepared to offer some to those around me. I noticed others offering a morsel of bread, a piece of banana, a cracker or two, even a lick of ice cream, to anyone who passed their desk.

Somehow, limited portions of food seem to satisfy more than I would have expected, like the accounts of Jesus managing to feed 5,000 with five loaves of bread and two fish. At the breakfast table with my host family, we often divide a ripe avocado among the four of us and share juice from the same glass jar. There always seems to be just enough.

“Te invito” (I invite you), I’ve learned to say, when sharing something to eat. And with this simple phrase, I found a key ingredient necessary for assimilating into my surrounding community, or at least that of Paz y Esperanza. I have replaced my somewhat isolative fend-for-myself attitude with a more communal philosophy, which I haven’t felt since living in a co-op during college.

I do admit, however, that greed and hunger have taken over at times, causing me to avoid sharing. I’ve never felt as ridiculous as when I stood in the windowless closet-sized bathroom of our office, hoarding a banana all to myself, while my co-workers went without.

This awkward moment of abundance, secretly eating food in the bathroom, somewhat reflects the awkwardness of Christmas. Families with means privately celebrate in the comfort of their homes, eating wonderful foods, amidst lights, decorations and gifts. Yet, right outside, so many people have… nothing.

“An authentic Christmas is a conflicted Christmas, una Navidad conflictiva.” This was the theme of my host father’s sermon, which he delivered at the annual Paz y Esperanza Christmas church service.

My co-workers and their families gathered for an evening of thanksgiving, where we sang songs, ate paneton, a traditional fruit-filled bread sold only during the holidays, exchanged our final “amigo secreto” gifts and honored the hard work of each of the offices.

Meanwhile, outside the church doorway, a crippled man sat with his hands empty, mouth agape and dry, mumbling for a couple centavos.

What does one do? How does one act, when passing such a person in need, while carrying a giant gift basket filled with fruit preserves and fresh dairy products from la Granja?

“It is a question of fair balance between your present abundance and their need,” wrote Paul in his Second Letter to the Corinthians.

I feel this tension on the streets of Huánuco, just as it exists in my hometown. However, this year I feel more involved in shifting the imbalance of the Christmas season, even though I did pass by the man on the street, as we left the festive environment of our office holiday gathering.

In previous years, I participated marginally and strictly financially, sending a check to the regional food bank or shopping for a nice sweater to give a young woman my age during the Joy Gifts Collection at my church. While these actions provided something, I maintained a distance between myself and those in need.

Last week, G-d gave me an alternative.

On a Saturday afternoon, I helped put on an annual Christmas festival for some sixty children and teenagers and their families, most of whom are participants in the TAMAR Collective, the support group for survivors of sexual abuse.

I had spent the morning decorating the empty church building, inflating one hundred red and green balloons and taping a giant paper Christmas tree to the wall with the words “Feliz Navidad TAMAR.”

Later, as families began to enter, I was asked to have each parent and child sign their name on the welcome sheet, in order to keep track of how much money to provide each family for transportation back to their homes.

One woman stared blankly at the sheet, and I realized she didn’t know how to write her name. Another volunteer rushed over with an ink pad and we took her fingerprint in place of a signature.

Over the next three hours, the church became full as the children enjoyed a story-telling clown, a skit put on by local students, a tree decorating ceremony, and the presentation of gifts, which included an article of clothing donated from Switzerland and a pocket radio.

For me, the most special moment was singing “Me Diste Una Razon,” a popular Christian ballad, with several of the young women in the TAMAR Collective. Since October, I have spent a couple hours with the group each Saturday, making crafts, celebrating birthdays, and having in informal time of fellowship.

As I stood among the ladies in front of our large audience, my eyes left the page of lyrics and floated across the faces of each of these young women. Incredibly courageous and very much full of spirit, these young women have endured more than I can imagine.

The least I can do is say “Te invito – I invite you” and offer these ladies my time, my energy, and provide some diversion from their otherwise stressful lives.

And wish them, with all my heart, a Feliz Navidad.

Preservation

2008-12-16T06:07:00.000-08:00

On Thursday afternoon I joined a small group of co-workers in the conference room for an impromptu prayer gathering, which often happens at Paz y Esperanza. Without any notice, a white wooden box covered in a blue plastic bag was carried in and placed in the center of the meeting table. I wasn’t prepared for a funeral.

A gathering of women followed soon after and sat along the wall as we began to sing a few familiar songs. I thought we might be giving a blessing to the casket, prior to a formal church service. I hadn’t imagined that a baby was lying inside, nor did I understand that this was in fact the funeral.

The mother stood near the table with a detached expression, twenty years old and living with Down’s syndrome. A survivor a rape, she carried the child for six months. He was born pre-mature and kept in an incubator for three days, revealing the same physical features of his mother.

“When children die they have direct access to heaven as they never knew the difference between right and wrong.” These were the words of my host father as he led a short sermon and Bible reflection.

After a closing prayer, we left the room, allowing the family a moment of privacy. I crept up to the third floor of our office, slid behind my desk and held my head in my hands. I felt numb. What just happened?

One of the psychologists came in and saw me hunched over on the verge of tears. “It’s better this way,” she said and explained the mother’s condition and the family’s difficulties. I responded quietly to myself, “No, it should never have been this way…”

I continue to struggle with the realities of life here in Huánuco. Some days I am so exceedingly happy, drinking fresh orange juice at breakfast or witnessing the birth of a litter of kittens outside my bedroom. Other days, I feel absolutely helpless and walk around in a haze.

Like Sunday afternoon.

After church, I sat down at my family’s computer, translating a letter hand written by a young woman who needed to send news to a missionary in the States. This young woman had been incarcerated for five years and had befriended an American missionary working at the jail. The missionary had offered to help finance her education when she was released from prison.

I agreed to translate the letter and avoided getting further involved. But even in just reading her words and her plea for continued support, I was completely overwhelmed by her dire need.

As we all sat down for lunch, my mind became a blank wall – partly due to the exhaustion of finding the right words to reflect the woman’s letter and partly because I wanted to completely remove myself from the situation.

There is a fine line between being compassionate toward a person in need and at the same time protecting myself. I am still learning where this line exists and how to navigate it.

During the informal funeral service, I avoided peering into the small satin framed window that would have revealed the swollen face of a lifeless child. I knew I couldn’t handle it. Likewise, after translating the personal letter, I asked my host father, in the most respectful way I could, if he would send the letter through his email, and not mine.

I’m protecting myself because I’m still new here. I don’t want to reach my saturation point and feel emotionally exhausted, just three months into this year of service. Furthermore, I am a gringa, a white American, who to many represents a source of money, a symbol of status and a variety of other markers, most of which have nothing to do with me personally. I recognize that a simple favor may lead to false expectations.

In this delicate balance between service and self-preservation, I am finding, more than ever, that I need the discerning presence of G-d and the support of friends and family. Thank you to those who have led me through the past few weeks and those who continue to support me through prayer.

Seasons

2008-12-11T06:39:00.000-08:00

As mid-November arrived with an afternoon heat that left me sunburned and exhausted, I realized how much I miss the slowing down of Autumn and the hibernation of Winter.

The weather here in Huánuco is consistently beautiful, la Primavera eternal (eternal Spring). While it sounds ideal and romantic, I find I need the change of seasons and the altered moods each one brings.

However, while there are no colored leaves strewn on the ground or the anticipation of the first snow, a new season has in fact begun – Advent.

The concept of Advent seems very real to me this year – a time of preparation and waiting and following a certain Light even if I don’t know where it’s leading me.

The first sign of the Christmas season came to me while sitting at the kitchen table, humming various church hymns with my host mother and sister. The next thing I knew, my host mother had spread out three dusty hymn books, and we started searching for Christmas carols we all knew, Noche de Paz (Silent Night) and Regocijad Jesús Nació (Joy to the World).

Another evening we sat together translating Sarah McLaughlin's “Angel,” – “En los brazos del angel, puedes buscar conforte aqui" (In the arms of the angel, may you find some comfort here).

On my return home from our Thanksgiving retreat in Lima, an eight hour bus ride up and over the Andes, I saw a most familiar sign that I had just about given up on… snow! Having reached a level plain, the highest altitude of the route, passengers were offered cotton balls saturated in alcohol, which I learned to inhale to lessen the change in air pressure.

As I situated myself to fall asleep, I peered out of my condensation-filled window and saw wide open fields with a dusting of white snow, which seemed to camouflage the few roaming llamas. I was stunned in a state of pure joy and disbelief.

I arrived back in Huánuco with a distinct feeling that I had returned home. Almost three months ago I had arrived for the first time, in a mental fog, completely disoriented yet utterly curious. This time, I entered the city of Huánuco with a sense of belonging and familiarity, wondering what happenings had occurred while I was away.

Walking home along the main streets of 2 de Mayo and 28 de Julio, I passed a tienda selling artificial Christmas trees and tinsel. The store was cluttered with imported plastic wreaths and Santa Clause dolls, with the sound of the Rolling Stone’s “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” blaring out into the crowded street. Not exactly what I expected…

I soon found myself looking for certain markers I typically associate the holiday season, like Christmas trees affixed to car roofs. However, I had to remind myself of my new context in Peru when I mistook a heap of alfalfa for a freshly cut pine tree. Another car appeared to be carrying a snow covered fir tree, which I soon realized were actually two live sheep tied to the roof of a taxi.

While there are some obvious differences in the Christmas season here in Peru, much feels the same. I chuckled to myself as my host mother placed a miniature llama in the manger scene, just as my mom places our collection of Boston terrier figurines among the camels and Three Kings.

I remembered the Joy Gifts Collection at my home church in New York, as my co-workers and I sifted through a box of donated clothes from Switzerland. We gave an article of clothing, wrapped in a plastic bag with a red ribbon, and a pocket radio with headphones, to each of the young women in the Tamar Collective, a support group for survivors of sexual abuse.

I thought of the various holiday food drives at schools and churches as I visited the market with my host mother. We prepared five small bags with viveres (basic ingredients), including a kilo of sugar and rice, a can of evaporated milk, a plastic mug and a chocolate candy bar. The bags were later delivered to five women who had participated in a program for survivors of domestic violence.

There is surely an air of anticipation during this Advent season here in Peru. Yet for me, I am unsure what will come with the celebration of Christmas. It will be the first time that I am away from my family, with our traditions of going to the candle light Christmas Eve service and my dad cooking waffles on Christmas morning. But in the unpredictability and newness of entering this Season in another country, I find myself in the midst of something… very… Holy.

Prevention

2008-12-02T14:46:00.000-08:00

There has been a festival atmosphere in the office of Paz y Esperanza during the past month. Banners have been spread across my desk, the kitchen has smelled of fruit and cancha (popcorn), and the official Paz y Esperanza pick-up truck has waited outside with giant speakers and a megaphone secured to the roof.

Three events drew all our energies together, in order to spread messages of peace and reconciliation to the people of Huánuco. On November 12th, a peace march was organized by local clergy to address escalating violence at the boarder of Peru and Chile. On November 19th, we participated in el Dia International por la Prevention de Abuso Sexual. And on November 25th, we observed el Dia International por No Violencia Contra la Mujer (No Violence Against Women).

During the weeks leading up to the campaigns, I transformed the office kitchen into a temporary art studio, spreading colored paper and poster board across the table. My first project was to create a giant children’s book modeled after some of the curriculum on the prevention of sexual abuse. The study materials, titled “Jesus te ama” (Jesus Loves You), offers practical tips for children on how to prevent sexual abuse through a context of faith and the development of self worth.

On a Saturday afternoon, we piled the five-foot laminated book into a taxi and headed to a nearby church for an educational program for local children. We brought along exactly 200 goodie bags stuffed with popcorn, candy and animal crackers for each of the children. As I glued a “Jesus te ama” sticker to each bag, I doubted that we’d see more than fifty children.

However, to my surprise, the large sanctuary was filled with children from various churches and a local shelter. I soon found myself leading an improvised game of Simon Says in front of the energetic group, while the sound system was put together. “Simon dice, growl like a lion! How do you say elbow again? Make the shape of the first letter of you name!”

The event ended with a greeting from our Paz y Esperanza mascot, one of my co-workers dressed up as a giant cuy (guinea pig) named Ruqui, a traditional Andean name. Cuy is usually eaten as a special dish, with a thick peanut sauce. But this day, Ruqui represented a cultural unifier, something like Mickey Mouse, but with sandals and an alpaca snow hat from the mountains.

Little did I know that I’d be stepping into the Ruqui costume the following week, as we drove around the mountain town of Huancachupa, me in the back of the pick-up truck, with one of our psychologists blaring out of a megaphone, “Don’t accept gifts from strangers! Tell your parents if someone tries to touch your body! Don’t keep it a secret!” Behind the truck was a procession of over one hundred children from the town’s only school house, dressed in uniforms and holding signs that read “No mas al abuso sexual” (No more sexual abuse!)

Never in a million years would I have imaged myself in a giant over-heated guinea pig suit, peering out at the most majestic scenery from this high altitude town, spending the morning reminding school children “Que nadie toque tu cuerpo!" (Let nobody touch your body!)

The following day, we spent a damp morning in the Plaza de Santa Domingo for a public information fair and press conference. School children, police officials, psychology students and religious leaders stood along the periphery of the Plaza, holding hands in a human chain. In the center, a mother stood timidly with her head bowed as she testified to us all the brutal rape and murder of her eight year old daughter, Yuri.

I know the horrid details of Yuri’s murder and the corrupt legal system in Huánuco that required the intervention of the Supreme Court in Lima. I was asked to translate her mother’s testimony for a private funder in the States who has offered financial support to the legal office of Paz y Esperanza. I sat at my desk with my Spanish-English dictionary looking up words I never thought I’d need to know, like strangle and blood stained mattress.

To me, the stories of victims and survivors are no longer anonymous cases. I know names and faces of young girls who visit our office, avoiding eye contact and speaking in whispers. One of the girls who lives at a local shelter has the same birthday as me.

A candle light vigil was held during one evening, to honor the children and families who have been affected by sexual violence. Psychology students from a local university presented several actos symbolicos to express the effects of violence on their community. A group of mimes reenacted how children are lured by distrustful adults and a skit focused on how to report cases abuse.

Four young men presented a powerful interpretation, demonstrating how the cycle of violence can be broken. Dressed in rags with dirt and bruises painted on their faces and legs, they each immerged in slow motion from a dusty potato sack - a chilly resemblance to body bags waiting in a morgue. With an eerie religious aria playing the background, each figure reenacted an image of violence and then slowly crawled back into their crumpled bag.

The tone suddenly changed as four other students entered dressed in white, each carrying a candle and a card with a name, one of which was Yuri. Another card honored a survivor who I know personally. She likes to pick flowers and, at only fifteen years old, she is good mother.

The cards were placed in front, before a small, yet deeply moved audience. The men immerged from the bags in unison, somehow transformed. Each knelt behind a name, head bowed, honoring a victim or survivor. While somewhat simplified, a change occurred in the heart and mind of the criminal, the violator, the aggressor.

I could’ve left the vigil cursing the monsters that destroy life and then peacefully return to their beds at night. But instead, I left the vigil thanking G-d. The active presence of G-d is what can restore an abused child into my caring host father. The active presence of G-d fuels the tireless energy and optimism of the lawyers and psychologists in my office. The active presence of G-d is what keeps me willing and able to stay here, without my fists clenched or my heart hardening.

Integration

2008-11-14T14:34:00.001-08:00

“So, I guess you’re really staying,” one of my friends wrote in an email. I paused for a moment to search myself for any doubt, and acknowledged with a sense of belonging that yes, I am here, and I am staying.

In staying, I am no longer the anonymous foreigner passing through for a visit. I now know the name of the woman who sells crackers and candy in a cart near my office. She let me huddle under her doorway during a rainstorm while I waited for my office to open. I think she realized that I‘m here for a while, at least long enough to watch together as the sky cleared.

For the first few weeks, I felt utterly dependent, floating along wherever others led me. I was a quieter version of myself, hyper-observant of my surroundings yet not quite able to express myself or understand my new environment.

I’m grateful for the disorientation that took place. It called on me to trust others, to ask for help, to struggle to find new words, to really open my eyes and listen - in essence, to refine all my senses in order to adapt.

My own speech has altered as I choose words more carefully from my limited Spanish vocabulary. Like a tricky puzzle, I search for the pieces that best reflect my thoughts, usually settling for the most basic means of expression. I find this to be a more meaningful way of communication, deliberately choosing phrases and keeping to what is essential.

My shortcomings in Spanish have revealed the beauty of others’ facial expressions, the subtlety of their hand gestures and changes in intonation. I have found myself laughing aloud along with my host mother at the dinner table, having completely lost track of what she is saying, but simply responding to her wide grin and busy hands as she tells a funny story.

I can now chit chat in Spanish and make silly jokes. I find myself singing popular songs from Church as I walk to work. I can even give instructions on how to make Origami cranes and lilies with the young ladies from el Colectivo Tamar. However, as my language improves, I want to maintain the simple and intentional means of communication that I relied on during the first several weeks.

My adjustment to the language is a reflection of a more profound feeling of integration. I am communicating, participating and engaging with the world around me here in Huánuco. I am no longer hiding behind a curtain of timidity, wondering where I belong. Instead, I am finding myself very much a part of something real, within a community where G-d is alive and present.

I felt especially integrated this past week when one of the pastors at Paz y Esperanza invited me to lead the Bible reflection during our Monday morning devotional. I was initially stunned by the responsibility of finding a meaningful Bible passage, reading from la Biblia in front of the entire office and connecting the verses to our lives here in Peru. However, despite my initially anxiety, I deeply appreciated the opportunity to be an active part of our traditional morning gathering.

I selected the Old Testament story of La Torre de Babel, with its reference to the confusion of language, destruction and the need to rebuild. The story felt appropriate to share, in this diverse country where earthquakes and violence call on the people to constantly pick up the pieces and start again.

The story also calls on us to include G-d in our struggles. Like the builders of the tower, at times, I’m so intent on achieving a certain outcome that I exclude G-d in the process. By avoiding G-d and trying to succeed on my own, I become disabled and I am left with the remains of a bad decision.

Always looking for a fun art project, I prepared a puzzle to reflect the messages of the story. I handed each of my co-workers a piece of the puzzle and invited the group to rebuild the image, without speaking. In doing this, the group found other means of communicating, leaving space and silence for G-d to enter the equation.

As the image came together, eyes lit up and sighs were released as my friends saw a globe, with Peru in the background, and two hands of different color crossed in the center. I’m not sure how each person reacted to the activity, but it was clear that the image of their country touched them deeply. I felt that G-d had allowed me a moment to express, without words, that I feel honored to be a part of this community.

Saints

2008-10-31T09:12:00.000-07:00

I like churches, especially ones with big open doors that allow me to enter as I am. Here in Peru, they offer a rare opportunity for solitude, where I can escape speeding mototaxis and unwelcome glares. Once inside, I feel inexplicably safe, where I can pray in my own language, cry for no reason or every reason, and simply rest in the moment that is.

One Friday morning, I entered la Iglesia San Sabastien, an imposing royal blue Colonial-style church whose twin steeples seem to compete with the surrounding mountains. I was initially intimidated by its size and remembered the various unresolved concerns I have about the Catholic Church. However, I was granted a bit of a miracle upon entering the giant wood doorway.

I was greeted by a friendly woman named Ana, who I understood to be the church secretary. Within moments she was leading me through the high-ceilinged sanctuary, pointing out the replicas of various saints and bringing me up to the front pulpit, where I was transfixed by a pair of life-sized plaster angels. A gentleman cleaning the pulpit area invited me to view the giant glass box housing a startlingly realistic figure of Christ on the Cross.

Ana then led me up the back staircase which led to an open balcony, three stories high, overlooking the sanctuary. The space below was so open and fresh, with rows of simple wooden pews and cloth banners. From this vantage point, I peered out the yellow stained glass window, which revealed a panoramic view of my neighborhood, including the familiar walking bridge over the river and the steady surrounding mountains.

I was incredibly moved by the welcome and was even more touched by Ana’s invitation to visit her adjacent apartment. A small door off of the pulpit led to a dusty storage room of wooden saints and ragged banners. We crept up the tight spiral staircase and arrived at her sunny kitchen. She offered me a piece of turron, a butter cake layered with honey and rainbow sprinkles.

It seemed as if Ana could’ve enjoyed having me as a guest for the entire day. I wondered if she was a bit lonely and in search of friendship. Moreover, I felt a true and refreshing hospitality that shook me to the core and touched my own need for friendship.

* * *

This encounter came to mind during the past week as all of Huánuco turned out for the procession of Senor de Burgos. Throughout the month of October, this particular image of Christ is honored with great piety among the Catholic community. Public processions are held throughout the city, passing even the quietest of side streets. A special market is held at the Plaza de Armas where Ana’s turron cake is sold, a traditional dessert to celebrate the festival.

On Wednesday of this week, I returned home for the afternoon siesta and observed students and store owners painting the street gravel with welcome signs reading “Bienvenidos Senor de Burgos." Beautiful religious images were decorated with flower petals and wet mud stained with bright colors.

My host sister informed me that the procession would be passing our house that evening. With little idea what to expect and somewhat confused by who exactly I was looking for, I left the office at dusk in search of Senor de Burgos.

I encountered crowds of onlookers in front of the Igesia San Sabastien, in a carnival atmosphere with cotton candy and carts selling pins and rosary beads, all purple and white. I backtracked toward another main street and soon found myself immersed in a sea of people, walking at a meditative pace.

A few blocks ahead was giant bed, the size of a billard pool table, progressing slowly down the street in a halo of light. Derived from a caoba tree, the wood was a deep red with ornate carvings along the side. Resting on top was a life-sized body of Christ, lying horizontal on a painted cross in a bed of purple gladiolas.

The structure rested on the shoulders of eighty men, divided into four rows, each dressed in identical purple robes. It was dusk and the flood lights attached to the bed highlighted the smoke of incense like beams of fog. Directly behind, an eerie droning melody was played by the municipal brass band.

The dramatic image was offset by the festive door fronts decorated with palm branches and purple and white balloons and ribbons. Every several feet, a giant arch stood waiting for the procession to cross underneath. Store owners pay ten soles for the privilege of hosting an archway. People hung out elevated balconies, tossing flower petals and waving banners to welcome their Savior.

I, on the other hand, stood stunned by the overwhelming smell of scented smoke and the purposeful movement of the crowd. I eventually tucked myself against a store front, letting the procession pass and just watched what was happening around me. I liked being there. I don’t know if I belonged or if my camera flash was too intrusive, but I felt part of pulse.

La Selva

2008-10-27T10:39:00.000-07:00

On the last day of our Kuskalla Retreat, we ventured into la selva (rainforest) of Tingo María, one of the entrances to the Amazon basin. Tingo means "union" in Quechua, and refers to the confluence of the Huallaga and Monzon Rivers. When the town was founded, the residents decided to honor a well-known woman named María who lived at the river crossing.

Once outside of Huanuco, our van passed roadside homes and tiendas with identical fruit displays. Porches were lined with green-striped zapallos (pumpkins) that looked more like watemelons and won’t be used for pies or carving.

The steep mountain sides became more and more green, lined with tightly packed rows of hydrangea bushes, which from a distance appeared more like puffs of cotton. The vegetation became wild and sprawling as we approached a mountain-top tunnel. Emerging out of the dark, we were suddenly surrounded by heavy fog and low hanging clouds. We had entered an entirely new environment - la selva.

Descending into the rainforest, we dodged giant pot-holes created by heavy timber trucks. I kept my eyes closed to avoid quick swerves, but caught glimpses of banana trees, with their carpet sizes leaves, and a welcome sign for a town called Tres Estrellas (Three Stars).

A bit disoriented, we arrived at a house overrun by chickens and ducks, and waited for our guides while snacking on banana chips … completely unprepared for what was ahead of us.

At first, just your basic Adirondack hike with rocks, mud and dense forest. Until… the first clearing revealed towering trees and Tarzan vines, a lime green canopy with filtered sun beams and a pair of chatty mariposas (butterflies). Brilliant turquoise with black trim, each wing was the size of my palm, flapping like cymbals from one edge of the clearing to the other. “Welcome to our home!”

We met our first catarata (waterfall) with a mix of terror, confusion and excitement. “You mean we’re climbing up that vertical drop, right through the water?” Before the fright set in, we each submerged ourselves in the small lagoon at the base, with our clothes and sneakers, and then, onward.

Without the usual commands of “Belay on! Climb On!” we each mounted the steep rock in a harness connected by a rope to our guide high above at the top. A second rope, connected to a rock or root, was thrown down for each to use during the climb.

It seemed like the laws of gravity (and safety) were put aside as we each met the cascade of water. Surprisingly, the rock was less slippery than the muddy surfaces below, but otherwise I questioned if this was really the best route.

Somehow, faith and pure enjoyment took over and I forgot my anxiety. Even during a frightening moment of miscommunication when a loose rope dropped me into a pool of water with a sore bum, I recovered quickly and laughed it off. Fortunately (and I mean by the Grace of G-d), nothing serious happened.

After climbing four waterfalls, burrowing through a few cave-like rock formations and dodging fluorescent colored grass hoppers, we arrived at our destination - a long cascade emptying into a hollow rock sanctuary with a sixteen foot pool of fresh mountain water ready to wash off the mud and sweat of our journey.

Kuskalla

2008-10-23T09:20:00.000-07:00

The past five days have pulled me out of my head and grounded me in my real life here in Peru – with our first YAV retreat in Huánuco, an adventurous trip into la selva (rainforest) and a team building retreat with Paz y Esperanza. Our YAV coordinator Debbie appropriately named the YAV retreat Kuskalla, meaning "together with strength" in Quechua. The past several days have been just that - a time to share with, learn from, depend on and care for… friends.

On Saturday morning I left the house just before 5:00am with my host father to meet the other YAVs at the bus station. We crossed the slightly unstable walking bridge that crosses the Huallaga River and brings us into the busy part of town. The bridge was empty and still, without the rush of pedestrian traffic I usually encounter when I walk to and from work. My host father calls it the “bridge of smiles” because everyone bumps elbows or slides into the railing while crossing.

As we entered one of the three-wheeled mototaxis, I realized it was my first time experiencing this hour, outside in the dark and silence. I loved it - the chill, the peacefulness. I felt a certain childlike anticipation to meet the other YAVs. It felt like the early hours of Christmas morning, waiting for everyone else to wake up. However, most likely this is also the hour when darkened rooms are a place of violence...

While I slept comfortably in the safety of my home, Debbie and the five other YAVs had crossed the Andes in the middle of the night, on swerving, crowded, overheated buses. I was reminded how rough the ride is when I met the first group from Huancayo, an artesian town eight hours south of Huanuco. Leslie suffered from an ear infection and Sean hadn’t slept a wink with no room for his long legs. Katie saved us with her enthusiasm and kept up a nice conversation with my host father as we waited in the bus station for the sun to rise.

The others from Lima arrived an hour later. I felt so relieved when Debbie and her husband Harry, Alex and Michael stepped off the bus. Each had separate paths, experiences and obstacles that led up to the reunion, but we were here, kuskalla, in my hometown in Peru.

Our final step was a ride out of town to La Granja, the farm land owned by Paz y Esperanza, where we stayed for the weekend. I watched the reaction of my friends from Lima as we entered el campo (countryside) with its lush green vegetation, rolling river and welcoming mountains. I’m getting used to this road passing colonial towns and haciendas. I enjoyed watching how the scenery entered the minds and eyes of my friends. “Yup! This is my home guys! Check it out!” I wanted to blurt out, but instead sat quietly enjoying the scene myself.

Amidst our luggage and two guitars were two care packages that Debbie brought from Lima, from my parents and very supportive couple from my church. I pretended to act patient and exert some self-control, but soon after arriving at the farmhouse, I snuck up to my room and tore open the boxes. After the anticipation during the morning, it really was like Christmas!

My parents’ gift was perfect, several bags of dried fruit, granola bars and travel tissues - the absolute essentials! My friends from church sent Halloween candy, rice krispy treats in the shape of maple leaves and dried orange slices. I was tempted to hoard the chocolate but remembered kuskalla. I brought down the bags of M&Ms during a competitive game of “Spoons,” a fast-paced card game that we taught the three girls living at La Granja.

Each night we gathered to share our most and least grateful moment of the day or, more generally, our joys and concerns. On the first night I shared that my joy was meeting everyone at the bus station. What drained the life out of me, however, was a fleeting moment during dinner, when my eyes met one of the girls in the entrance to the kitchen. Just a few weeks before I had spent the weekend with her and her baby. As our eyes met I could feel a million questions silently rushing toward me. “Why aren’t you sitting at our table tonight? Who are all those people you’re with? Why aren’t you speaking Spanish? Who are you? You seem different.”

I feared her judgment and wanted to reassure her that I’m the same person who picked flowers with her and gave her a wet towel when she had a fever. “I care about you!” I wanted to convey, but instead I was consumed by the loud conversation at my dinner table, realizing that I would feel torn between two worlds during most of the weekend.

When I shared my concern, the others responded with compassion and suggested we spend some time with the girls the next day. The following afternoon was wonderful! We sang Spanish praise songs under a bamboo hut near the goldfish pond, walked through the herb garden picking strawberries and smelling basil, mint and rosemary and visited the rabbits and cuy (guinea pigs).

Later during our game of “Spoons,” each person to lose received M&Ms sent from my friends at home. Little did they know that their gift of candy would go a long way to console one of the girls who lost early on. I felt my worlds had finally connected, if just for a moment - my friends and family in New York, my fellow YAVs and my new family at La Granja. I intentionally avoided reaching for a spoon, so I could remove myself from the game and observe how wonderful a blessing I had received.

Señorita!

2008-10-13T14:10:00.000-07:00

“Señorita! Señorita! Where are you from? Señorita, what color are your eyes? Do you speak English? Señorita! I can say ‘puuuurrple!’ Are you Evangelical Señorita?” I fielded similar questions for an entire afternoon, enjoying the curiosity and interest of a group of local children and noting that I’ve never felt so popular.

The group of fifteen children are part of el Colectivo Tamar, the support group developed by Paz y Esperanza for children who have experienced sexual abuse. The children, along with seven chaperones including myself, participated in an outdoor retreat Saturday afternoon. We piled into a van to drive to the rural town of Limon Pampa, where we spread out on an open field in a deep-set valley enveloped by mountains.

We played get-to-know-you games and volleyball, competed in jump-rope competitions and relay races. To escape the intense sun, we took several breaks under the one existing tree to share soda, candy, budin (pudding cake) and empanadas. The children appeared to be well-adjusted and carefree. I nearly forgot about the circumstances they are accustomed to – poverty, violence, neglect.

I suddenly remembered the reality of their lives when I caught a glimpse of one of the girls devouring her piece of cake as if it was her last meal. The others patiently ate while chatting with friends, although when offered more food, they too packed away extra helpings for their siblings and parents. The hungry little girl later found an orange and stuffed giant slices, three and a time, into her mouth. I later wondered if the volunteers had brought extra fruit for her.

When no one came to pick her up at the office, my co-worker and I accompanied her in a taxi to her neighborhood, the streets unpaved and full of bolders. We dropped her off at the base of a steep cliff, with an endless stone staircase. It was then that I realized she was the girl whose house I visited last week. This was the girl who lives on small helpings of rice and potatoes, whose parents abandoned her and whose grandfather seems incapable of caring for her.

My co-worker and I watched her climb the stairs, her little backpack bouncing up and down as she clutched the stuffed teddy bear she and the others received during the retreat. I felt like the mother who stands at the street corner, waving at the giant school bus taking her little one off to her first day of kindergarten – however , this farewell lacked any assurance and sense of pride.

This little girl had stuck by my side most of the afternoon, searching for my hand to hold, someone to lean on. I was unsure how to handle her neediness. I was somehow frightened by her. As I watched her motions, I was stunned and unable to give her the affection I so easily give other children.

I now realize that my fear was a reaction to the overwhelming presence of G-d - sitting under the tree with her shoulders embedded into my side, waiting in the office and sharing the back seat of a taxi. I can appreciate the presence of G-d in nature, in music, in friendship. But when G-d visits me in the form of a fiercely quiet child, I am shaken to the core...blinded by what is real.

When I meet this little girl again, during another afternoon of fun and games at Christmas time, I will recognize the presence of G-d and will not run away. Instead I will embrace her, ten-years old, hungry but full of laughter and quite possibly unaware of any other way of living.

Beyond Streets

2008-10-09T14:49:00.001-07:00

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.”

La Granja

2008-10-02T07:37:00.001-07:00

During this past weekend, I shared a room with three teenage girls on an organic dairy farm outside of town. We picked flowers, listened to music, danced in the adjacent school house and ate large homemade meals under a veranda over-looking massive alfalfa fields and mountains.

The three young women, ages 13 to 15, are all mothers. They each have an infant under the age of one, the product of rape by a male family member. They share a room at La Granja (farmhouse), living apart from their families while their aggressors are prosecuted in court.

La Granja is an extension of Paz y Esperanza, where the sale of fresh yogurt and cheese provides additional revenue, and a spare bedroom offers a safe haven for three young ladies in need of a home. Paz y Esperanza hopes to extend the girls’ shelter to accommodate more young women in similar circumstances. Once a month, I will stay with the three ladies and their babies, to relieve their tutor, continue their studies and offer some diversion with some creative activities.

I had been anxious about this element of my service here in Peru, wondering if I could move beyond the painful past that these young women have experienced. I remember feeling similar hesitancy when preparing for a theater camp with my dance studio in Albany, where half of the children participating where residents of a group home that removed them from abusive and neglectful parents. Preparing for the two-week camp, a close friend of mine reminded me that “All you have to do is love them.”

It really is that simple.

Before making the trip to La Granja, I made a commitment to myself to look beyond the difficult circumstances of these young women. I came with an open heart, a peaceful mind and my pressed flower kit to share with the girls. I was delighted to encounter three cheerful ladies, with a sparkle very much evident in their eyes and a friendly curiosity toward me that made me feel very welcome.

On Sunday morning we ventured up a steep rocky incline to collect flowers. I followed the ladies to a bamboo hut overlooking La Granja, observing each navigate the terrain with her baby in a backpack sack or a cloth shawl, flip flops and perfect balance, reaching for flowers across deep indents in the ground. I felt like we were Girl Scouts in pursuit of our next badge – a badge like no other – to achieve joy and innocence amidst friends and nature with a baby you never asked for sealed to your chest.

During the weekend, I began to see distinct personalities and interests among the ladies. One was especially engaged in our flower picking excursion and even constructed a pressed flower book, similar to mine, with layers of cardboard and paper and a string of wire wrapped tightly around to press the leaves.

Another young lady took time to be by herself, enjoying the music on her palm-sized radio, washing her hair and feet in the outdoor sink or giggling infectiously with her six-month old son.

The youngest of the girls, who just recently joined the others at La Granja, initially came across as the most shy. However, she proved to be quite a savvy card player, very engaged with her one-month old daughter and skipped happily to and from the lecheria (dairy room) to bring fresh bottles of yogurt to the cosina (kitchen).

I realized my Spanish was improving when I accepted, without hesitancy, the invitation to share a bedtime story with the ladies on Saturday night. I felt suddenly included in their private world and jumped into a story, limiting myself to present tense, and shared a tale of a young girl from the countryside named Christina who wanted to be a dancer. After much resistance, her family finally decided to send her to the city where she could formally study dance. After having a successful dance career, she returned to her community and shared a special dance she had created. The townspeople were inspired by the dance and also by the courage and vision the woman had to follow her dreams. It was decided that the dance would become the official dance of the town, to be shared for generations, because it represented freedom!

On Sunday morning the girls and I had a short devotional were we read Matthew 7:24-25. The verse seemed very appropriate, describing a house with an indestructible foundation, much like the safe home provided for these young ladies.

24"Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. 25The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock.

I left La Granja on Monday morning, crossing the Huallaga River in a blue tin boat connected to an overhanging cable. This is the quickest way to access the main road back to Huánuco, and it provided a fairytale ending to a very fulfilling but emotionally draining weekend. It’s easy to romanticize this rural paradise, with its eco-friendly principals and beautiful scenery. I believe my description is partially a coping mechanism, in order to keep my mind from slipping into dark corners, with images of violence, assault and the denial of humanity.

Workshop

2008-09-30T13:39:00.000-07:00

I was quiet and apprehensive during the thirty-minute taxi ride from Huánuco to the town of Ambo, as my eyes followed the Huallaga River and counted the potato pickers in the fields. I was accompanied by one of the psychologists I work with at Paz y Esperanza, a tireless and optimistic woman who invited me to participate in a Saturday morning esteem-building workshop with several women from Ambo.

It wasn’t until late afternoon on Friday that I was asked to develop a presentation on personal hygiene. I normally would have requested more time to prepare, but I liked the idea of being thrown into the project. I felt at ease with the assignment, especially because it allowed me to talk about one my favorite subjects… self care. I decided to expand the subject a bit and include practical exercises to reduce stress and stretch tired muscles, in addition to reviewing basic hygiene such as brushing teeth, washing hair and cleaning hands.

I enjoyed having some creative time as the week came to an end and prepared a poster, titled “Su Salud, Su Futuro”(Your Health, Your Future). I drew large pictures of each body part and jotted down some notes on a “cheat sheet.” It was a good way to build my vocabulary, learning the terminology for jaw, (maxilar), toothbrush (cepillo), and toes, which translate literally to “fingers of the feet” (dedos de pies).

To begin the workshop, my co-worker led a devotional, sharing praise songs that are becoming more and more familiar to me. We developed a nice group dynamic by working together to build various structures with popsicle sticks and glue. I was then invited to begin my discussion on self care.

Su Salud, Su Futuro

I invited the women to discuss the connection between our health and our future. All were in agreement that caring for our bodies today means living longer and more fulfilling lives tomorrow. I shared with the women that my mother is the person who instilled in me the importance of self care and how blessed I feel that she encouraged this philosophy at an early age. The women agreed that they each have a responsibility to share this knowledge with their own children.

After reflecting on the theme, I began with our head and shoulders, suggesting the following:
Wash hair vigorously at the roots, massage temples, roll head twice to the right and twice to the left and rub shoulder muscles. Brush teeth using tiny circles and pay special attention to the gums, where infections begin. Inhale deeply and roll shoulders up and back, to align the spine.

The women seemed to enjoy giving attention to tired muscles and stretching our limbs imaging our bodies as a five-pointed star. We moved on to arms and hands, practicing some more stretches and giving ourselves a much needed hand massage. The women in the workshop use their hands constantly, preparing food, cleaning, washing clothing and caring for their children. As a result, many women experience early onset of arthritis and other joint pains.

Our discussion on digestion and stomach pains was especially interesting. I shared my favorite remedies of chamomile tea, hot towel presses and a helpful leg excercise that places pressure on the abdomen. I then invited the women to share their own remedies. I knew full well that local traditions passed down through generations were far more effective then my little bottle of Tums. I learned that two other herbal teas, mate de coca and anis, also relieve stomach pains. I was humbled by the far reaching knowledge of the women and was grateful that they were so open and engaged in our discussion.

As expected, the women laughed at my toe exercise, which includes interlacing the fingers of one hand in between the toes of one foot, and slowly rotating the ankle. In addition to stretching tight tendons, it was a good reminder that every body part counts, even our pinky toe! It was a nice way to close our “body chat” and left the women giggling.

It was such a joy for me to share with a friendly group of women how to celebrate and care for our bodies. I felt a true sense of calling, where my passion for movement and women’s health met a need in a new community. I was overjoyed to be sharing this subject with women whose daily struggles cause them to be detached from their bodies and power dynamics between men and women have created a painful disconnect between women and their own skin.

Introduction

2008-09-23T14:02:00.000-07:00

It has finally come to my attention that I’m not Peruvian. Anyone could’ve told me this, but I was hoping I could at least convince my host family that I could adopt any and all of their ways. However, over the past week I have learned to be honest with myself and admit my own needs.

I am a giant compared to most Peruvians, a good six inches taller than most women. With that, I need to eat more food in order to keep up. I initially welcomed the idea of sharing three simple meals a day with my host family, of mostly rice and potatoes. But even with my daily multi-vitamin, I know I’m not receiving enough nutrients. I admitted to my parents over the phone how truly hungry I have been. The next thing I knew, I was sitting down for dinner where my host mother presented me with a second plate of food! The following morning, over breakfast, I was delighted to find a full bowl of fruit, a new fiber-filled cereal and a warm apple drink. Either my host sister overheard my conversation with my parents in English, or G-d sent down some grace in the form of papaya and bananas (most likely a combination of both). I decided to talk to my host mother and we agreed that I would buy extra produce and snacks for myself to eat in between meals.

I am also adjusting to the climate. The sun is much more intense and I’ve accepted that it’s okay to wear sunglasses, even if it reinforces my identity as an extranera (foreigner). I’ve also learned that I must take extra precausion against mosquitos. I’ve counted some fifty-eight mosquito bites on my legs, the result of a walk around town with my host sister during which I carelessly forgot to use repellent. With the help of aloe and chamomile lotion, the bites are healing and I have learned my lesson.

Paz y Esperanza

Alongside these early adjustments, I have come to really enjoy my work with Paz y Esperanza and the new friendships that are developing. On my first day in the office of Paz y Esperanza, I sat among new faces and participated in the usual Monday morning devotional. I am grateful to have a seat at the table, where we sing songs, reflect on a short Bible verse and share joys and concerns from each area in the office.

1) The Justice Program includes five lawyers who prosecute aggressors in the community, guilty of rape and sexual abuse. At a workshop on HIV/AIDS that I attended at a local church, I was shocked to learn that in the province of Huánuco, every three hours a young girl is sexually abused.

2) Victims’ Rehabilitation includes four psychologists who work with young girls who have survived sexual assault. When pregnancy is the result of rape, the young girl is especially vulnerable and is often disowned by her family. Three girls, and their young babies, have been placed in a protective setting called the Casa Del Buen Trato (House of Good Treatment), located on a dairy farm that financially supports the rehabilitation program. I will be spending one weekend a month with the girls, helping with their academic studies and discussing self-care, nutrition and maybe even an introduction to yoga. Although this will be a challenge, I continually remind myself not to indentify these young women solely by the trauma they have experienced.

3) Women and Children’s Rights includes three social workers who lead workshops that educate local women on how to prevent and respond to abuse and sexual violence in their communities. The training program, titled Mujeres sin Violencia, Mujeres en Desarrollo (Women Without Violence, Women in Development), also empowers women to be involved in local decision making in order to change power structures. The overall goal is to empower women to redefine relationships in their communities and reclaim their dignity.

While this program is directed mostly to women who live in poverty in isolated mountain regions, the concepts presented in the curriculum are universal and do not just apply to the needs of women and their families in Peru. I am already imagining ways in which this program could be used in communities closer to home.

4) The Church Program includes three pastors who encourage local churches to be community advocates in the areas of human rights, peace and reconciliation, safety and protection of youth, and the building of sustainable families.

5) The Peace Program includes two psychologists who continue the work of the Commission on Truth and Reconciliation, responding to the widespread affects of the civil war that occurred between 1980 and 2000. The Program works for the restoration of families and communities in Huánuco that continue to suffer psychologically, physically, financially and spiritually from the violence.

Kotosh

To retreat from the busy work environment, on Sunday three friends from Paz y Esperanza, my host sister and a visiting medical student from Switzerland, all visited the ancient temple of Kotosh. We walked through the busy streets of Huánuco, which eventually brought us to a dusty road that revealed absolutely majestic views of mountains and a rushing stream where two young boys were fishing with a blanket sized net. After roughly two hours we arrived at the site, situated on an open plane surrounded by mountains.

We visited the Templo de Manos Cruzados (Temple of Crossed Hands), a ceremonial hut where marriages took place, honoring gender equality and the equilibrium of nature. It was upsetting to think how much these values have been lost. Before leaving this sacred place, we each took a moment to stand on a flat stone where the confluence of magnetic fields magnifies one’s voice like a megaphone. The energy of the space was intensified by the heavy storm clouds drawing over the mountain tops, which brought on a cool rain.

Relief

That evening, I retreated to my bedroom to reflect on all that has occurred during the past week, and to apply my usual treatment to those annoying little bug bites. Then, through the dampened air, came the melody of a Spanish rendition of Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence," projected through the public loudspeaker of a nearby Catholic church. Static altered hymns of praise blared through the streets through much of the day. During the evening, I thought of what it must be like to hear similar announcements in Mecca, which call the masses to stop and pray.

I have never felt so compelled and relieved to pray as I do here in Peru - partly because it offers a rare moment to close my eyes and retreat from all that is new. But more often, I am drawn into prayer because there is simply no other way to fully admit the centrality of G-d in my life then to directly thank G-d and resign any personal responsibility for all that has occurred thus far. I couldn’t have created these moments even if I tried!

Arrival

2008-09-16T14:54:00.001-07:00

I feel relieved to have arrived safely in the city of Huanuco, which will be my home for the next year. The accompanying photo is the view from my office at Paz y Esperanza. I am surrounded by clear skies, protective mountains, and new friends that I will rely on in more ways than I can imagine.

I received a wonderful send off from Lima, having attended a high-energy church service on Saturday evening hosted by young adults in the community of Comas. I had a good night’s rest at the apartment of my YAV site leader, including a hot shower (which are hard to come by), pancakes for breakfast made by Debbie’s husband and big hugs at the bus station from Debbie and Leslie, one of the other YAVs.

I had been looking forward to the eight hour bus ride over the cordillera (backbone) of the Andes, which would allow me to rest, enjoy beautiful views and hopefully avoid the affects of the extreme change in altitude. Thankfully, I was able to do just that!

Driving through numerous towns and villages, I observed the daily activities of the more rural communities in Peru. I saw women and children wash clothing in the river, donkeys stood lazily on street corners, a young woman with tired eyes slouched on a stone ledge with her baby, sheep grazed on the steep mountain sides and a wild horse roamed through the grass. As we exited the desert reality that is Lima, cactus bushes and skinny green trees sprinkled the mountains. Abandoned adobe huts which would have had thatched roofs, revealed an older way of life. But the woman sitting in front of me who spoke Quechua, reminded me that indigenous life continues to exists.

I arrived in Huanuco at dusk and was welcomed by my host father, Pastor Abdon. The family's home is welcoming and comfortable and felt suddenly familiar as we sat down together for dinner. My host mother, Elena, noted that we each have assigned seats at the table, just like my family! We were joined by my host sister Carla and Judith, a medical student from Switzerland.

I presented the family a small gift I brought from Albany, four greeting cards from the Book House at Stuyvesant Plaza. I chose images that symbolize my home, with pictures of Thatcher Park, a stained glass window of a church in Albany and a picture of a red tulip. After describing Albany’s Tulip Festival, I noted with delight that my host family lives on the “Street of Tulips!”

After our dinner of thick noodle soup and bread, Pastor Abdon suggested that we take a walk around their barrio (neighborhood). It was while we lingered in a small park that I saw a bright clear luna llena (full moon). I paused with a deep feeling of belonging, realizing that this moon is the same moon that I’ve followed with a great deal of intention for the past several years. The cloudy sky of Lima had hidden the moon from view, and I had almost forgotten that she existed. But…. wow… ever does she illuminate the sky of Huanuco, surrounded by sandy colored mountains, where I have a bed, a family, and a life.

Orientation Part II

2008-09-14T05:37:00.000-07:00

The past ten days in Lima have been a whirlwind of learning, eating, sleeping, laughing, praying, singing and a strong dose of information overload.

To decompress from our busy orientation schedule, our group of six YAVs took on the role of silly tourists and visited Fuente de Agua, a beautiful park in central Lima whose fountains come to life in the evening with colored lights and music blaring from behind the trees and bushes. We jumped through puddles and dodged beams of water jumping out of the ground. My favorite was a tunnel made of jets of water overhead. It felt wonderful to relax among my new friends, after having felt exhausted and overwhelmed during much of the week.

Yuyanapaq: To Remember

A particularly intense afternoon included our visit the Museo de la Nacion to view the photo exhibit “Yuyanapaq: To Remember.” The exhibit memorialized the violent events that occurred throughout Peru between 1980 and 2000 as a result of the Maoist group Sundero Luminoso (Shining Path) and the government’s military response. It is a frightening history, especially considering how recent it all occurred. The organization I will be working with in Huanuco, Paz y Esperanza, is very active in the recovery of Peruvian communities that were most affected by the violence. To learn more visit http://www.cverdad.org.pe/

Chorrillos

We covered quite a bit of ground during our orientation in Lima, visiting La Plaza de Armas and taking a dangerous bus ride to the top of Cerro de Saint Cristobol, which overlooks the city. We also visited the developing community of Chorillos, where giant letters painted on the facades of buildings read “Cada Dia Mejor” (Each Day Better).

On our first visit to Chorrillos, our van sped around a corner suddenly bringing me face to wave with my first view of the Peruvian coastline. We continued through a congested business district and soon came to the Lima of dirt roads, roaming dogs and one-room homes embedded into the steep and dusty hills.

Rather than observe the change in economy from afar, we drove into a neighborhood that has become a well respected center for traditional Andean crafts. The community is called Ichimay Wari and draws its roots from the pre-Incan Wari culture, which was based in Ayacucho, a town southeast of Lima. Ayacucho was severely affected by the violence of the Shining Path and many of its residents escaped to Lima for safety. Many of the artisans who migrated to Lima settled in Chorrillos and have established successful artisan cooperatives where they can live with integrity while continuing the tradition of ceramics, weaving and decorative boxes called retablos. The detail of their work was especially evident in the ceramic angelitos (little angles), which were no bigger than my pinky finger but were filled with pin-prick colors and designs.

After meeting several of the artisans in their homes and work spaces, we visited Pachacamac, the site of a giant ceremonial center of the Wari Culture, dating back to 200 AD. According to my Lonely Planet guide, the name Pachacamac means “He who Animated the World.” What remains is a vast archeological complex that is mostly dust and rocks, except for the Templo del Sol (Sun Temple), whose solid steps led us to my second view of the Pacific Ocean, which once again took my breath away.

Adjustment

2008-09-09T15:54:00.000-07:00

I prayed aloud in Spanish tonight, over dinner, alongside my host sister Damaris, where I could finally give a formal offering of thanks to the person who has been my lifeline for the past several days. She shared tea with me at 1:00am when I first arrived in Lima, accompanies me in the taxi or bus in the mornings, prepares a wonderful meal to start and finish my day and at all times welcomes me with calm assurance.

My first day in Lima was positively the most disorienting and exhausting day I’ve experienced. Fortunately, I enjoy finding myself in new places with different languages and sights to adjust to. However, this was particularly intense because it was important to be engaged at all moments, much different than my other travels where I could take naps in libraries or zone out at a café to re-energize.

The other Young Adult Volunteers (YAVs) and I spent the day meeting the friendly staff at the office of Uniendo Manos (Uniting Hands), a fair trade and social justice organization where one of the YAVs will be working. The office has been our home base during our orientation in Peru. We begin each day with a devotional in the morning including a short Bible study and some singing, which then leads to presentations on human rights, environmental issues and the faith community in Lima. This week we will continue to study more of the history and culture of Peru at the Universidad Biblia de Latin Americana.

After that first day, our YAV supervisor Debbie accompanied me back to my host family, where we both sat down to a wonderful meal of fried pork, rice, and lime-marinated tomatoes and cucumbers.

As I sat down, head throbbing and eyes heavy, prayer caught me like a safety net. What initially felt like the need to just hide in my room with my head under the pillow, instead turned into a need to just let…it…all…out. Thankfully Debbie’s hands were there to hold and I allowed myself to feel completely overwhelmed. Rather than resist the flood of emotion and entertain thoughts of “Why did I come here?”, I instead prayed for G-d to stay with me, admitting that I can’t possibly do this alone.

In this gigantic city, where roosters crow at 2:00am, public transportation leaves no breathing room inside the vehicle and on the road, and there is an emphasis on being among others, I’m learning that solitude may not be easy to come by. While my life back at home seemed to allow for a great deal of alone time, I’m finding that I not only prefer to be among others, but my personal health requires the energy of the people that now surround me.

The past few nights have been so comforting, as my host family seems to expand before my very eyes. During this weekend, I was joined by two friendly nieces, dressed in identical hot pink fleece sweat suits. I was so honored to be asked to play with the girls after dinner, rather than hide away in my rooftop bedroom trying to decompress from another busy day. What better way to feel at home than to sit on the living room floor with Marisu (Maria Jesus) and Mafr (Maria Fernanda), sorting through their collection of dolls and stuffed animals, while their uncle watched the Peru vs. Venezuela soccer game and their grandmother knitted a new pillow covering.

I soon found myself in the family’s library where Damaris’ brother showed me how to play the traditional Andean flute and shared with me his father’s collection of Bibles and history books. I am beginning to understand how truly remarkable Damaris’ father was. He founded the church that the family now attends, worshiping in the family’s living room for several years before finding space to rent. During his lifetime he was a very important community leader, and his legacy continues through the church that we all attended this morning. He published a book titled Origins and Development of the Evangelical Church of Peru, of which several copies remain in the family’s library. Before going to bed that night, Damaris’ brother dusted off a copy and singed the inside cover, “To a friend from the U.S. with much love and appreciation from your family here in Peru.”

Orientation Part I

2008-09-01T20:56:00.000-07:00

For the past week I've been mentally preparing and spiritually strengthing myself at the YAV Orientation at the Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, which I can now say feels like a home away from home. I've reunited with the thirty other Young Adult Volutneers, serving during the next year in India, Guatemala, Northern Ireland, Kenya and of course, Peru. Here are some of my thoughts on the week:

Bible Study

The Bible is a mystery to me. And that has been the very reason why I rarely open it. I'm partially intimidated by the authority this book holds for so many people and at the same time drawn to its contents for that very reason. The stories and verses written have meant a great deal to a great many people. So instead of keeping my Bible on the shelf, I've decided it's time to let its words mean something to me.

Each morning during Orientation, we had a Bible study focusing on Paul's letter to the Philippians. I've only heard the letter read in fragments and was happy to be finally looking at the four chapters as a whole.

We looked at the text academically, discussing in groups what gifts we will bring on our journies:
The verse that sparked discussion was "It is G-d who is at work in you, enabling you both to will and to work for his good pleasure."

We played with text creatively with a much needed craft time during the middle of the week. I chose the line: "Help these women, for they have struggled beside me..." and made a construction paper poster highlighting the verse with red glitter and gold stars to show the passion of the women that followed Christ.

We rested with the text contemplatively, using Lectio Divina, a meditative reading practice used by Benedictine monks as early as the 12th Century. The text is read slowly either to oneself or out loud while one listens for a specific word or phrase that resonates or "shimmers," as our Bible study facilitators described. After listening to chapter 3 verses 10 to 14, the word straining did that for me. I imaged myself washing vegetables in a steel strainer, watching the water remove the dirt and residue, with the excess emptying through the cracks. During this year, I'd like to attempt to streamline my life in a similar way.

Thoughtful Discussions

Our afternoons were spent addressing some very complex issues including serving in partnership, race and sexism in mission, how to facilitate interfaith dialogue, sexual misconduct policies and safety, integral health and self-care (thanks to my mom, I think I'm pretty good at this one), vocational discernment and a critique of globalization. Needless to say, we were all exhausted by the middle of the week, with each of us having our moments of personal frustration and burn-out.

We each wrestled with more nuanced issues during our small group sessions, which met at least once a day. Aside from sharing our "happy crappies" (more traditionally referred to as our joys and concerns) of the day, these meeting times allowed me to develop closer relationships with a smaller group of YAVS, each going to a different country.

Sharing Yoga and Dance
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2RS0vgJe4I

Day three of Orientation left me feeling mentally exhausted and physically restless. I had attempted to do some stretches on my yoga mat (which I will be taking to Peru) but I found myself becoming distracted by the next day's schedule or something discussed during the day. For my own personal benefit, I decided to invite anyone who was interested to do some yoga in the worship room in the evening. And thus began one of the most joyful parts of this Orientation, sharing my love of yoga and movement while at the same time addressing a need. Six women joined me that night and we stretched our limbs and opened our hearts for over an hour, leading to what we all noted was a better night's sleep and happy muscles in the morning.

When I didn't think I could be any happier, our yoga group developed spontaneously into a liturgical dance group. We met a few times during lunch and choreographed a dance piece to a contemporary version of "Amazing Grace" to share during the closing worship service. Each woman created her own phrase - a very personal expression that defies words. My two worlds finally merged, prayer and movement.

Tomorrow afternoon I leave for Peru, and I feel very ready for the journey!

Phrases:
It's one thing to believe in G-d, it's another to have a relationship with G-d. ~Maggie, my small group leader
Power is not for us to give but for each to discover. ~Jessica, facilitator for Sexism and Racism in Mission
How would your life change if you prayed for a single heart? ~asked during Sunday morning's sermon
And immediately they received... (Matthew 20:34).

Departure

2008-08-25T04:23:00.000-07:00

I just started a fresh journal, a plain white book contained in a durable leather cover. I know that the pages within are going to house some pretty remarkable observations this year. As such, I decided to begin the first entry in a manner I've previously reserved for moments of extreme self-realization or questioning.

I opened my first entry in prayer with the words "Dear G-d."

I think I'd like to share some of that first entry as a way of assessing where my beliefs lay today, the day before I leave for Orientation and then finally journey to Peru.

Dear G-d,

To the being and presence I devote myself to, the G-d who creates and destroys - I am here, I am listening. You know all this - it seems funny to even write to... You.

You have known these thoughts even before they were formed. I'm beginning to really understand that.

What has become tense in my heart is my inability to share with others how happy and overjoyed I am that I believe in G-d. How can I share this? I know I can and do through my actions - simply an expression of the love I feel.

But how can I invite others to have a loving relationship with their creator? It removes people from inward hate and outward vain. It restores my soul to simply accept the love of G-d.

Why do I feel it? How?

I feel fortunate in that I was always given an open invitation to believe - never a rigid expectation to accept certain mysteries as fact.

I have been able to maintain the mystical, magical elements of a faith that has so easily become a concrete, immovable and exclusive doctrine.

I experience the freedom to layer the stories and messages I've learned from Christian spirituality with a personal devotion to nature, physical meditation through dance and yoga and contemplative meditation found in other faiths of the world.

I believe that every living creature came into being through a loving creator - a presence among this universe that cradles all.

I believe that there are answers available to all of us - answers that are revealed not when we demand them but when we accept that we are not in the driver's seat.

I believe that giving up control is an answer in and of itself. A truly liberating answer to so much of this...

Giving up control is not a state of passivity. No. It is an active state of listening, openness and curiosity in living and breathing in a new way.

I am less afraid to relinquish my own expectations because I believe in a loving G-d who directs my life and cleaves out each passage of self-awareness.

I am learning to really trust the life that I have been given, the path that G-d has laid out for me.

And even my most controlling and ambitious moments were provided by G-d so that I may experience the sheer joy and relief of letting... it all... go.

My resistance has all been part of the design - so that I may witness with my own understanding my life truly resting in its place. I was always where I was meant to be and now I have an even more glorious view, a more clear vantage point.

In this new place, I'm asking less "Who is G-d?" and "Why am I here?" but more "How do I share this with the people I love?"

How do I articulate my beliefs? beyond actions? or is that really the best way?

All I know is I believe in G-d and I will tomorrow. And despite the three over-stuffed bags of material items I'm bringing with me to Peru (which do not include my family's dog Mikey, as pictured above), the most concrete aspect of myself that I can bring is my growing relationship with G-d.

A Retreat

2008-07-22T17:19:00.000-07:00

http://www.stonypointcenter.org/

I feel light, refreshed, honest with myself and admitting how hard this is. I'm beginning to shed something that I didn't even know I was holding onto. I'm releasing that part of me that tries to determine outcomes. It feels strange to abandon my sense of ambition.

This was the evolving consciousness I brought with me to the Catskill Mountains this past weekend, where my mom and I attended a retreat with Presbyterian women from across the northeast. This weekend represented an important transition as I had just completed my work with the New York State Senate. I needed to unpack my brain and replenish my soul, which I was able to do amidst the strength of wonderful women.

Many of the Presbyterian Women (PW) associations have financially supported my year in Peru, for which I am extremely grateful. Beyond this was an overwhelming offering of love and guidance, which I received throughout the weekend.

Each of the women I came to know during the three days had a certain sweetness, a "let me tell you, honey" assurance of knowledge and wisdom. We shared meals together, sang hymns, hugged, prayed and talked.

On the first evening, four of us watched the clouds peel away from a full moon of glowing copper. The next morning, I greeted two women on the porch of our communal cabin, bodies slowly waking. I silently passed others along the stone labyrinth, which I walked through unable to hold back giggles - experiencing with joy all that is occurring in me and around me.

Phrases:

We must be willing to get rid of the life we planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. ~Joseph Campbell
Clothe me in my rightful mind, still small voice of calm. ~Hymn
You hem me in, behind and before. ~Psalm 139
Santosha - (Sanskrit) feeling content where one's two feet are

Placement

2008-07-14T14:28:00.000-07:00

It's official! I received my placement in Peru! I'll be working with an ecumenical social justice organization called Paz y Esperanza (Peace and Hope) in the town of Huánuco, Peru in the central Andes. I'll be working with the Programa Derechos de la Mujer y el Niño (The Program for the Rights of Women and Children). This is the site I was hoping to be placed in and my prayers have been answered.

My wonderful YAV site coordinator Debbie Horne emailed me a couple pictures of the staff and children affiliated with Paz y Esperanza. These pictures show a group of courageous and spirited people and I am honored to have the opportunity to work alongside of them.

Preparation

2008-06-23T15:18:00.001-07:00

During the past few weeks, I’ve gone through various stages of preparation for my trip to Peru. I am in the midst of transitioning out of my current job at the New York State Senate, moving out of my apartment and returning home with my parents for the summer, reconnecting with friends and starting the process of saying good-bye.

Two weeks ago I said my first good-bye to one of my best friends. I was curious whether the event would be unbearably sentimental or completely manageable and affirming. Fortunately, it was the later, assuring me that my closest friends and family will continue to be in my life in important ways while I’m away and at the moment when I return. There are various types of connections in my current life, and each will involve a different kind of separation. I want to remain open to the mixed bag of emotions associated with each departure.

As I inch closer and closer to that departure, about every two weeks there seems to be a new theme, a stage of preparation that brings with it increasing levels of calm and assurance that I am on the right path.

Medical:

The first chapter of preparation began the day I returned from the YAV Placement Event, scheduling doctors appointments, blood tests, vaccinations and follow-up visits in order to complete the medical clearance required for all volunteers. I’ve never navigated the health care system with such purpose and intensity. Beyond the practical need for a thorough health assessment, I believe this journey was a test in my personal commitment to this year of service.

To follow through with every detail, from my first EKG to the 5-pill typhoid vaccination, I asked myself at each step of the way, "Are you sure about this?" During each appointment, I was asked to describe the YAV program, and without hesitation I was able to share eagerly my excitement and joyful anticipation for the coming year. Each doctor's visit was an affirmation of my commitment to stay healthy and present during my year of service.

Each visit was also a reminder of how blessed I am to be in a state of overall good health. I was reminded of the many people who find an unwelcome familiarity with hospitals and doctor's offices because of a chronic illness, and those who can not afford to be sick. To travel through this maze with relative ease, carrying my health insurance card and more than enough cash for the modest copay, places me in an ever shrinking minority. Every encounter with this broken system is a reminder that we have much to do to improve health care in this country.

Financial:

During my two week tour of local health clinics I was also determined to nail down every detail of the fundraising campaign I've developed in order to raise the $10,000 required for all volunteers. I quickly oriented myself to Microsoft Publisher and designed a fundraising letter, pulled out my church directory and confiscated my mom’s amazing rolodex of family and friends. I think my rush in sending out letters was to purge myself of the unenviable task of asking for money.

The total cost for an international term of service can range from $20,000 to $30,000 depending on the site. Volunteers raise a third of this in order to help finance health insurance coverage for the year, payment to our host family for room and board, travel expenses to and from our site and to various locations in our country of service. Funding also ensures that there is a wonderful staff working at the national Presbyterian offices in Louisville, Kentucky ensuring that each volunteer has support and reinforcement during their year of service.

On a less technical and more interpersonal level, I am called to raise money in an effort to build a community of supporters, individuals and groups who choose to offer resources to an effort they find meaningful. It is a sign of partnership. Regardless of whether one gives money, if there is a desire to connect, I will do what I can to nurture that desire. I see this year as an opportunity to connect individuals and environments that would not otherwise find reason or have the ability to unite. And somehow, financial contributions make the giver more engaged in that union, if not for the simple need to know if one’s hard earned money is being spent effectively.

The joy others have shown in supporting this program has allowed me to overcome my initial discomfort with fundraising. This was especially true after receiving a recent e-mail from the Treasurer of the Presbyterian Women (PW) of Newark, New Jersey, sharing with me that PWPN decided to pledge a very generous amount in four payments over the course of my year of service. I continue to feel overwhelmed with gratitude. The women of PWPN have also shown interest in including me in one of their Gatherings when I return from Peru, to share my experience. This new connection has made me very hopeful for the new relationships that will be built out of this year of service.

Intellectual:

While the first two stages of preparation brought intial feelings of stress and anxiety, I entered the next chapter with much enthusiasm. Having been out of college for three years and longing for intensive study in a new subject area, I have created my own self-led introductory class to Latin American Culture, Theology and History.

The first book on the syllabus was chosen for me by the book club a friend of mine organized. At our last potluck discussion we picked out of a hat the book Motorcycle Diaries, the diary of Che Guevera during his year long journey through Latin America before evolving into one of the most controversial actors in the Cuban revolution. Guevera’s travels take him to a leper colony in Peru, which reminded me that for centuries, the nation of Peru has called many others to embark on life-changing pilgrimages.

A second book, Dancing with Cuba, was given to me by one of my coworkers, who has shown a personal interest in my journey to Peru. I find I’m much more inclined to stick with a book when it is given to me by someone else who says, "I found this in a little book shop and knew I had to get it for you!" The author shares her experience as a young dancer who moves from New York City to teach modern dance at a struggling dance school in Havana. I connected with the author’s desire to assimilate to the host country and culture but ultimately finding herself always out of context.

Next on deck are two more academic books about issues of poverty and social justice. The first titled Peruvian Street Lives: Culture, Power and Economy Among Market Women in Cuzco, describes the necessity of local food and artisan markets as a driving force in the economy in Peru. The second, titled The Call of God: Women Doing Theology in Peru, reflects on the principal of Liberation Theology through local women who bring real change to the lives of the poor in Lima. In my reading I’ve learned that Liberation Theology was developed by the Peruvian priest Gustavo Gutiérrez who stressed the need to eradicate poverty and its oppressive and destructive quality, rejecting the passive understanding of poverty as a Christian virtue.

My summer reading list also includes several books that all volunteers are asked to read before attending our YAV Orientation at the end of the summer. They are short but thoughtful discussions on living in community, understanding partnership and how to cross cultural divides through a common sense of mission.

Material:

During the past week I have entered yet another phase of preparation - the question of what to bring. I have made a preliminary list of clothing, first aid supplies and adventure gear. I was able to quickly note the basic necessities but fell short on the "fun and games" section. I hesitated to develop a list, telling myself that this year is not some adventurous jaunt. This is a year of intentional, deliberate action and meditation. But let’s be serious... about not being so serious!

My emphasis on simple living seemed to turn into a need to prove what I can live without, an effort to escape from certain elements of my currently comfortable life. At times I have misinterpreted this year of service as an opportunity to endure a certain level of suffering by avoiding certain material comforts. Recently, I've struggled over whether to purchase a digital camera and laptop for this journey, questioning whether these objects will distance me from the community with which I am working. More importantly, will these devises distance myself from God?

I initially resisted these items, imagining myself stuck behind the camera lens and using my laptop as a temporary solution to loneliness when I should really be developing my prayer life.
However, I have discovered that I shouldn't underestimate the importance of maintaining connection with my friends, family and my church during the next year. Capturing images to share with others will bring people closer to my life and work in Peru. What would distance me from my spiritual life would be an excessive use of both pieces of technology.

Considering my intense deliberation over this issue, I have no doubt that in the end I will prefer to draw a picture rather than diminish the essence of an image through a photo. I hope that I also prefer to involve myself in the life of my host family during the potentially lonesome evenings rather than shield myself with the light of my computer screen. But I do admit that moderate and intentional use of these objects may not be as detrimental to my spiritual life as I initially thought.

Spiritual:

My debate over technology has inevitably introduced me to my next phase of preparation - a more deeply spiritual discussion that will be ongoing where I ask myself, "In what ways do I distance myself from God?" and "How will I bring myself closer to God during this year?"

I am only just beginning to wrestle with these questions. And this, by no means, is just a two week phase that will be completed in a one stop visit to the doctor, a delivery of fundraising raising letters to the post office or a summer reading list. I continually ask myself these questions and I am learning how to articulate the thoughts that arise. In keeping this online journal, I hope to be open with those who read it, stumbling through language and ideas that attempt to grasp the evolution of my spiritual life during this year.

Discernment

2008-05-19T09:36:00.000-07:00

I arrived at the Louisville Theological Seminary on Thursday April 24th, feeling delighted and open to what the weekend Placement Event would bring. I would be interviewing with two international sites, Peru and Guatemala. However, I had come having already made up my mind where I wanted to go for my year of service as a Young Adult Volunteer (YAV).

A women's health project in Hermosillo, Mexico had revealed itself a couple weeks prior to the YAV Placement Event. The site would be affiliated with the US/Mexico border ministries based in Tucson, Arizona. After talking with the site leader, I learned that if placed here I would visit small towns outside Hermosillo as part of public health initiative, developing relationships with local churches and community groups. I instantly felt connected to this possibility and was already planning out the year in my mind.

I convinced myself that God absolutely wanted me to go to Mexico and it just so happened to be a convenient compromise. This was an international site but closer to home than Guatemala or Peru, which seemed to calm my parents’ fears and satisfy my desire for cultural immersion.

At the Placement Event in Louisville I was excited to tell people that I had this special opportunity to work at a new site in Mexico. I would be a "satellite YAV" of the Tucson site and also a "pilot YAV" for this emerging health program. I felt proud of my decision and even a bit boastful. While others had to endure feelings of anxiety and uncertainty, I was coasting along with ease, convinced that I knew exactly where I was going. I was trapped in my own sense of uniqueness, thinking I could navigate this journey of discernment on my own.

During my first night spent at the Seminary I lay in bed, sifting through scenes in my head, the streets in Mexico, the church I'd be living in, the towns I would visit. I couldn't imagine myself in any other place. Needless to say, I was not incredibly interested in envisioning myself in Guatemala or Peru, sites I would be interviewing with the next day.

Saturday began with an early breakfast, an informal and uplifting worship service and eventually the first round of interviews. I hadn't slept much the night before and was very tired. I walked into my first interview for Guatemala and tried to show some excitement... but I couldn't. I felt dull and passive. While I was genuinely interested in hearing about the work being done in Guatemala and the needs of communities there, I made little attempt to find a personal connection.

With one interview behind me and an open afternoon, I decided to visit the Labyrinth on the Seminary campus, to center myself with God. While I may have felt less anxious than others, I still understood the magnitude of the decision ahead of me and the important choice I had to make. I walked along the circular path of the labyrinth, winding in and out, back and forth, eventually leading to the grassy center. When I reached the center I let out a giant exhale and allowed my body fall to the group, as if a carpet had been pulled out from under me.

The afternoon sun warmed my face and covered my outstretched limbs. I felt the ease of summer, the playfulness of childhood, the bliss of an open road and the trust of God all around me. Little did I know that I had only just begun the discernment process, which would soon require spiritual discomfort and a reassessment of my own intentions.

Stepping outside of the labyrinth, I returned to the "I know exactly where I'm going and nothing is gonna stop me" attitude. Despite my pensive journey through the labyrinth, I had surrendered nothing. While the walk had been thoughtful and relaxing, I didn't allow myself to entertain any new notions. In fact, I used the time to once again draft as much of the year as I could, visualizing myself in no place other than Mexico.

To confirm my choice, I decided to call the Tucson site leader to "touch base". He encouraged me the weekend before to reach out to him during the placement event if I had any questions. In fact, I did have one question. Put a little less boldly than this, I basically asked, "Can you guarantee me that I'll be placed in Mexico in my own special site...Pleeeeeeeease?"

After a short pause the response was, "Actually, I can't do that. It is against the discernment process to formally offer you a position before you complete your interviews." He kindly noted that there was nothing preventing my placement in Mexico and in fact he felt I would do well there. I thanked him for his thoughts and said I completely understood. But I tossed my phone to the ground and sunk into the earth, just outside the labyrinth, feeling deeply disappointed.

While I could have been grateful for what sounded like a possible match, instead I sat in a huff like a grumpy toddler because I didn't get what I so desperately wanted. And worst of all, I lay alone, keeping God at a safe distance, thinking this decision was up to me and me alone. I realize now that the greatest appeal of the Mexico site was the inviting possibility of self-sufficiency. I would live by myself and possibly have access to a car, allowing me to feel more free and independent, removed from other volunteers. In fact, maybe I wouldn't have to depend on anyone, especially God.

During this part of the discernment process I realized I had blocked out God's voice. However, God was with me whether I chose it or not. God was with me when I packed up my little bag and started walking away from the labyrinth. Crossing the campus grounds, I passed lilac trees and vines of wisteria, meandering slowly toward the student center and chapel. I found a pair of benches on a little hill under a tree of small white blossoms and settled down, still recovering from my less than ideal phone call - a conversation that was God's way of saying "Let me be a part of this with you."

God chose someone to explain this all to me, during a very meaningful conversation on my way back to the YAV lounge. Sitting calmly on the grass just outside our building was Jennifer, the Chaplain "on call" during the placement event. I had seen others seek out her council throughout the weekend and I thought, now is my time to ask and listen. So I sat down next to her and described how uninvolved I felt in the discernment process. Without much further detail she was able to make a remarkably accurate conclusion. Very simply she asked, "You like to have control, don’t you?" Without hesitation or defensiveness, I admitted, "Yes."

I think I was ready to hear this and also understand how severely my need for control limited the blessings of the discernment process. What is so affirming is that even when I thought I had stopped listening to God, God was still working in me. God was preparing me to seek an alternative. During my conversation with Jennifer, she invited me to just "let go." While other times in my life I may have resisted this concept and preferred to carry on along my own structured path, I was at this moment, finally willing to part with any agenda or desired outcome.

The following morning, I entered my interview for Peru with renewed energy and a thirst for the unknown. I felt invigorated and hopeful, curious and uninhibited. I left the interview with a feeling of joy and relief having let go of my need to work in Mexico. I completed the response sheet, including where I felt called to serve next year. Without hesitation I wrote Peru as my first choice. Later that evening my selection was confirmed through the Community Calling, where the other site leaders mutually agree where each YAV will be placed.

I feel my placement in Peru represents my willingness and readiness to let go of expectations, to listen to God and include God in my decisions, to be open to sudden changes of course and to surrender my own plans for something beyond my control. I am grateful for the opportunity to serve in this new place, a place with great need and also great spirit.