I leave for the campo the day after tomorrow. I’m interested to see how that will
be. I’ve only been in this country five days! That seems absolutely impossible.
I feel like it’s been a month already. The time is passing so slowly. I think
it’s because life is a lot more relaxed. Not that it isn’t hard or a struggle
for many, but North Americans suffer from this constant panic attack in which
all its people run around frenzied screaming about how there isn’t enough time
for anything.
The program I’m working with has
their base in San Salvador, which is the capital of the country, and that’s
where we’re getting our orientation. These past few days in the city I’ve been
surrounded by the other volunteers who all speak English. Once they move us to
our respective communities we’ll have no one to turn to when we don’t
understand someone.
Already
it’s frustrating. I speak less Spanish than most of the other four and I feel
like, given my roots as the daughter of a refugee of this country, I should
speak more. I can already tell this summer is going to be intense.
We’ve crammed so much into the
orientation: visited the only unionized factory in the country, met with some
political figures, visited historical sites, learned a lot about the current
economic situations.
Yesterday
the most significant event of anything that’s happened since I’ve been here
took place: We went to the San Salvador museum of the FMLN--the political party
that opposed the right, and whose influence was pivotal in the grassroots
guerilla organizations my dad helped out with in the beginning of the war.
There
was an entire section of the museum dedicated to the almost twelve years of
civil war and it was really powerful and hard. Every picture I viewed I saw my
father, or cousin, or aunt, or uncle. My family was there in each pair of
saddened eyes, each hopeful soul and hardened heart.
This country has seen so much. It´s
really hard for me as a chelita (that
also happens to be half Salvadoran and full citizen) because I am so full of
all these unanswerable questions.
I
want to know every single thing about the war. If I had my way every person
with a story to tell would accost me on the street or line up in front of my
house and tell it to me.
However,
at some point I’m going to have to move on from all that. People here have. Of
course. Who would want to reminisce about such hard times? Me, I can’t let it
go. These are the stories that shaped who I am, the direction and values of my
life. That’s the difference, though.
They are stories to me—not my memories.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s harder for me this way, not knowing all the exacts.
My imagination is scarier to me than any truth could ever be, but I’m starting
to accept that there are certain parts of things I will never know about my
family and it’s selfish of me to think I should be entitled to the information.
I don’t want my peace of mind to come as the result of someone else’s distress.
What
matters now is the continuing luche por
la paz.
