A Message From Molly - May 6, 1999

Happy Spring to everyone in the United States! Happy Fall to Mikele in Australia! And Happy Winter to those of us in Central America! What a wonderfully diverse world we all live in!

The dry season has ended. Gracias a Dios! El Salvador has two seasons, wet (winter) and dry (summer). We have not seen rain since early last November. But now, each evening, there is a collective feeling of anticipation of the incoming rain. In the late afternoons, after teaching my seventh grade English class, I usually wander up to el campo, (the field) where the top of a hill has been cleared off. The young men from town are usually playing a serious game of soccer. Last night younger girls had a side game of softball. I join others who sit on large rocks and watch the games. The smaller children get bored with watching and climb trees, picking the pods that the trees produce and throwing them to other children on the ground. The children on the ground use rocks to break the pods open and suck out the sweet juice that surrounds the seeds inside. I've tried the juice. It's really not worth the energy it takes to retrieve, but seed juice really isn't what motivates the children to action. It's got something to do with the unity of our all being there. The wind blowing the dust from the soccer game into our faces. The way we can laugh, for the relief of ... something. For many people here I'm sure that part of it is the sense of peace. Ten years ago there was no way children or young men could play in an open field like they do now. Today children who are too young to remember use sticks to draw hop-scotch in the dust. A little later we feel the few drops of rain and can smile because there is the feeling of something different, something better, in the air.

I teach a lot of English, mostly to children. It's not uncommon for me to walk down the street and have children sing out to me, "Good Morning, Teacher. Good Morning, Teacher. How are you?..." I'm surprised by how quickly my second grade class is learning the days of the week. And my third grade students like me to give a color in Spanish, and they all quickly try to give the color in English - each wanting to be the first to know it. My ninth grade class, a small class which I spend seven hours a week with, are amazing. They understand concepts so quickly that I'm struggling to keep up.

Education is the key for the future of El Salvador. It is through education that we learn to see beyond the next corn or coffee harvest and into long term economic stability. Education is what allows the individual to take ownership of his or her own future.

I'm glad I can have the opportunity to help encourage education to people here. I don't have great hopes of my students all learning English in the next six months (though, like I said, my ninth grade class is pretty spectacular). However, my teaching opens my student's minds to what could be learned. I hope to plant curiosity to motivate them to want to continue their education. However in a country like El Salvador, instilling curiosity is not enough. Here in San Francisco the school only goes as far as the ninth grade. If a student wants to go any farther he or she has to travel to another town. Other towns have public schools as far as the 12th grade. The problem is the traveling expenses. The children of a farm family don't have the extra money it costs to ride the bus to and from other towns. So, with Fr. Rafael's help, I am trying to address the needs these students have. The project we are setting up is a sponsorship where an individual, family, or group in the United States will cover the additional cost it takes for a Salvadoran student in the rural areas to go to high school. A relationship will be set up between the student and the people in the United States who are helping. The idea is to begin the relationship now with letters and pictures. The actual financial contribution will not begin until next January when the next school year begins. The additional cost to send one student to high school is about $30 a month. With that they get transportation and other needs such as food, notebooks and uniform. If anyone is interested in beginning a relationship like this, please contact my parents (John and Rita L.), who can then get in contact with Fr. Rafael and me. I am doing well. I love (and am challenged by) the delicate balance between being motivated to take action, and discovering the peace and beauty that comes from simply being present. I'm living with people who have little control over their lives. There is so much I have to learn still. You hear a lot about the systemic problems of under- developed countries. I don't want to pretend that I have a sense of all that, at least not from the perspective that I'm given of rural Salvadoran farmers. Education empowers, and hopefully those who are educated can work to address the systemic problems found in these countries.

I hope all is well in your part of the world. Enjoy the change of seasons. God Bless.

Peace and Love,

Molly

A Message From Molly - April 5, 1999

Hello! For everyone who has been at all concerned because it has been two months since I’ve last written, let me thank you for keeping me in mind and reassure you that all is well with me in El Salvador.

I’ve been here over half of the time that I will be here. It has gone by terribly fast. When I think of it I can’t believe it. I’m in my eighth month. My commitment was for one year, which will be up in August. However, I’m the English teacher for nine English classes in three towns. The school year ends in early November. I’ll probably return to the States in late October. That seems so soon.

A young friend of mine, who knows me through these letters, wrote me asking, "Do you ever smile down there or is it all terrible with nothing to smile about?" (Thanks, Bobby) The question caught me off guard and made me consider what I write in these letters. I feel myself wanting to put into words what I cannot. I know that I have said that it is a great privilege to be here. I know I’m repeating myself when I say that an old woman’s dark eyes or a child’s smile are the most real things I’ve ever known. I know that I’m repeating myself when I say that I am more alive than I’ve ever been before. So how can I tell you that the struggle is so real that it can only lead to joy?

I'll try. Today is the day after Christianity celebrates the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. As Christians, we know that even the greatest suffering is overcome by the greater joy of resurrection. On Good Friday morning (three days ago) Don Tonio died of cancer. Parents die of cancer everywhere. In fact, the cancer rate is much lower here since many people die of something else at a younger age. Perhaps here I have learned to sit with pain, to accept the mystery of it, then grow in peace and joy.

Don Tonio had six children. One died in the war, another works to send money from the United States and could not be here. The rest live near by. Two of them, Silvia and Hernando, are my good friends. Since embalming is not customary, and this is the hottest time of year, the funeral, procession and burial were Saturday morning. We were present for the family in the procession from the church to the cemetery, a kilometer along the dusty, unpaved road. Our dark clothes, worn for the funeral, quickly absorbed the heat making us damp so that the dust stuck to us all the more. A barefoot woman, who is slightly out of her mind, with large eyes full of tears, put her arm around me as we walked. Men cried; the sons hugged each other. In the heat and sadness our breathing was deep but short as our heart pushed against our esophagus, wanting so much to hold just some part of their pain.

That night as it was getting dark, I went to visit Silvia and Hernanndo. They were out on the steps to the house with cousins from another town. They had had no sleep since Don Tonio’s death but didn’t seem to want it. Instead they asked about me and how I was. We talked about English and the United States. They told their cousins, with pride, how I planned to stay only a year but I like it here so much that I’m staying until October. Hernando invited us for pupusas, a traditional Salvadoran food sold on street corners in the evenings. We had pupusas and Coke and talked about how unusual it is in this country, that their family has green eyes. We joked and enjoyed each other’s company. There was the slight hint of stability returning to their lives as they looked for the eye contact that I could give.

For Silvia especially, breathing without crying may still have been difficult, but she was doing it and even venturing to smile. And I was glad to be here. No, more than that; I was grateful that their father had loved them and that they loved him. And I was extremely grateful that I could be here for them. The pain that Silvia and Hernando feel has little to do with their living in El Salvador. Parents die of cancer everywhere. Embracing pain and joy is embracing death and resurrection. It’s not a call to look for suffering or even to accept suffering as God’s will, but it is a means to hold firm in the belief that good does overcome. Do I ever smile? I wonder if I ever don’t.

I will not let so much time pass again between my future letters. It is exciting to be this busy. However, writing these letters needs to be a priority. I am grateful for your interest in what I do, and, in turn, in the lives of Salvadorans. Like eye contact giving stability to those who are mourning, your awareness has value. My father, when visiting me in February, used the metaphor of holding hands. As long as we value the common humanity of each other and reach out to hold hands, we will not be lost. It is easy for me. I’m in a situation in which barefoot women put their arms around me, and children just want to be sung to. I don’t have to reach far to hold hands. But you are present too. Your interest is a way to reach out to them.

They know that I have the support of people at home, and it is received with joy. Please don’t underestimate the value of your compassion.I’ll write again soon.

Peace and Love,

Molly

"Tell me how much you know of the sufferings of your fellow men and I will tell you how much you have loved them." -Helmut Thielicke

A Message From Molly - January 21, 1999
Estella is 15.The oldest of eight. She held the youngest on her hip while we visited. Her mother was inside, sick, most likely dying. Her father hovers close, worried about his wife and this year's small corn crop. She didn't go to school today. Her mother and younger siblings take priority. Her smile wasn't pathetic, or an attempt to reassure us that they were all right . . .She smiled because she honestly saw goodness in our visit. I don't know anything.
Celestina* is 17. Tall (approximately 5 foot 3 inches) with thick black hair that, when down, flows to her waist. She's beautiful but doesn't let it get in her way. Finishing the eighth grade this year is her first priority. She is not from San Francisco, but here we have school up to the eighth grade. Celestina lives with Nina Tila's family during the school year in exchange for housework and helping make cheese (the daily income for the family). Celestina's mother died in an accident when Celestina was three (not war related). Her older brother was recruited by the guerrillas and was killed by a land mine when he was twelve. Celestina's father took her to be raised by her extended family.
The family has had to move a lot; but her home is Las Canitas, a mountain village that had to be deserted during the war. Since the war, a few families have gone back to the land where they now grow coffee. Last weekend, Celestina needed to make a trip home and I went with her. We left San Francisco at 4:45am taking a bus partly up the mountain until there was no longer a road. There we waited for daylight before following a footpath up the mountains. It was an uphill climb and we hiked quickly. When we got to Las Canitas, which was at the top of the mountain, I realized that I'd been paying so much attention to the hike that I hadn't realized the beauty I was passing through. The village is high enough that there are pine trees, and though it's the dry season, they still get rain. All that can be seen for miles are mountains followed by more mountains. Here I'd hiked up the side of one of these mountains, focusing so on my balance and making each step that I didn't stop to take it all in.
I found the village enchanting. Translated "Las Canitas" means, "The Sugar Canes". Sugarcane grows plentifully in the high mountains. While there I tried homemade honey(not from bees but from heating sugarcane), a candy that is crystallized honey, and a sugar drink, as well as simply sucking on sugarcane. All of these things were new experiences for me which I delighted in. The product of Las Canitas is coffee which the families sell. I'm told that the coffee grown in this tiny village will eventually make its way to New York City. Every time I think of it, it throws me into some culture shock. When I left in August, coffee was right up there with bagels as being trendy. Imagine people in NYC, paying god-only-knows how much for NYC coffee, so they can get in their shiny cars and be held up in NYC traffic. And I'm laying in a hammock, sucking sugarcane, looking at mountain after mountain. There is not even a bit of New York City up in Las Canitas. It's so peaceful and I feel as if I've been given a chance to step back in time. It's like the peace that people of New York City must dream of.
It can seem that way from my perspective. I visit Las Canitas with the security that I can leave if I need or want. However, for those who live here, there is no doctor, school or church, no electricity, and the water is brought up daily from a nearby stream. There is no way out; the world has gone on without them. They don't have control over their lives; life happens to them.
On our way to her grandmother's house, Celestina and I were on the high side of a steep ravine. Below was a stream that went around a huge volcanic rock. Celestina pointed below, explaining that when she was two months old, the guerrillas took over their village and the family had to spend the night hiding by the rock in the stream. She said that her father tells her it was amazing she slept the whole night without making a sound. Had she made noise, of course, the guerrillas would have opened fire on the area and the family probably would have been killed. After describing this to me, Celestina simply said, "My family's story is very sad". She smiled; and once again, I don't know anything.
Celestina is remarkable. She has a sense of self worth that will give her options. She explains that school comes first. If a boy really cares about her, he'll wait for her to finish. And if Celestina can find the money, she intends to go to college (secondary school) in San Salvador. I admire her. She sees what few Salvadorans see: a vision of the future. Youth like her could change El Salvador for the better. But still there are many who simply cannot look beyond surviving today. Estella is as strong as Celestina, but she does not have the privilege of thinking of the future. For her, and most Salvadorans, it's an uphill climb. There is no way one could ask them to stop and take in the view of the future. Keeping their balance, climbing, plodding on, surviving takes all they have.
I admire Estella, probably even more than Celestina. The suffering that constitutes her life would crush me. At 15 years old she has to look misery in the face and believe in a power that is greater. She can find goodness, when I want to look away because it hurts to see her pain. Both she and Celestina are teaching me to accept an imperfect world. I'm struggling with the balance between accepting suffering as an instrument of growth, and then wanting to relieve the world of it. I cannot accept it as a good that children lose their mothers, and I know that school is something that every child should have. And so I ask God for serenity, courage and wisdom where I am. I continue to be astounded by what a true privilege it is to live with the people of El Salvador.
Pray for us; we are praying for you.
Love and Peace,
Molly

* Name changed for my friend's privacy.

Message From Molly - December 15th, 1998

It was after dark about a month ago. I had gone with Father Rafael to a parish about a half hour from San Francisco. It was the first time I'd met the congregation. Just before Mass I introduced myself to the congregation and explained that I am here to learn about Salvadoran life and to help Father where I can. I was tired and just realizing how complex he Salvadoran poverty really is. I'd already been to one Mass that day so left to sit on the stone church steps where I cried. The boy, probably about 8 years old, didn't say a word about my tears. He simply plopped next to me and interrupted them. He asked me to teach him how to count in English. He got me laughing right away. There is such goodness here.

It is a flip-flop wearing crowd that we meet every night for the four weeks before Christmas to participate in the posada. We gather outside a different house each night. The house we gather at has statues of Mary and Joseph that were left there the night before. The statues are mounted on a sort of cardboard altar, making them less awkward to carry. The leaders carry the statues into the street to begin a procession to a different house where the statues will "sleep" that night. The procession walks slowly and Spanish Christmas carols are sung that everyone knows, except me. There is that feeling in the air that we are a part of something bigger than ourselves. Even though I don't know the words to the songs, I've gotten to the point that I recognize them and associate them with the anticipation of something great.

Once at the next house, some of the procession goes inside while the statues, and the other half of us, stay outside. The door is shut. We, on the outside, begin a song saying that we are far away from home and need a place to stay. Those on the inside sing that there is no room here. Then we on the outside explain that our wife is pregnant. The song goes back and forth like this, maybe five times, before those on the inside open the door saying they did not realize that it was the Holy Family they were not letting in. We crowd into the house, filling the room. The statue is placed in a corner and one of the women put flowers around it. It's symbolic but powerful that for tonight Mary and Joseph will get to stay at theirhouse. The first time I participated in the posada and walked into the house, I couldn't help but to wonder if a stable wouldn't be better. (However, there are no stables or barns in El Salvador.)

The house we entered was bare and the adobe walls cracking. Water had seeped through the cracks in the adobe, taking some of the mud with it, causing gruesome dark stains seeping down the walls. The beams over our heads were decaying. There were no windows. That was an especially poor house. I don't know that family well. The woman of the house sells tortillas, three for one colon (8 colons to $1) She sells a lot of tortillas. I'm not sure why they remain so poor. My guess would be that her husband is an alcoholic and spends the family's money to finance his habit. Alcoholism is a real problem here in El Salvador. Subsistence farming seems simple and quaint in the United States, but when you have no choice it can seem hopeless. People don't have a vision of a way out of poverty. The only way for a Salvadoran to become rich is to go to work in the United States. One month at a minimum wage job in the States pays more than five months working (that's working, not subsistence farming where no money is made) here in El Salvador. If a family has running water and cheese with every meal, you can bet they have someone in the States sending money. How can a country get out of poverty if the only way out is to leave it?

Cows, dogs, chickens and pigs all roam streets in mountain towns like mine. There are no trash containers and no garbage pick up. The streets are filthy. I quickly learned to walk in the middle of the road. On a good day, during the rainy season, the streets become like shallow rivers so water carries the filth out of town, lower down the mountain. But it's no longer the rainy season. Children will get sick if they go barefoot since the filth spreads disease. Shoes are expensive. The poor can't always afford them. What almost everyone can manage to get is a pair of flip-flops. It is a flip-flop wearing crowd that we meet every night for the four weeks before Christmas to participate in the posada.

We left Mary and Joseph in a house that was not perfect. Jesus doesn't look for perfection; he searches for a welcoming heart to make his residence.

Have a wonderful Holiday. Your interest and caring mean a lot to me.

Love and peace,

Molly

A Message From Molly - November 17, 1998

I understand that the US news has given good coverage of the effects of Hurricane Mitch. For those who have not already received the word, the part of El Salvador in which I live was not badly affected. We simply had days and days of rain. However, I'm sure you could tell from the news, that the areas of Central America that were hit are suffering badly. There are thousands and thousands of subsistence farmers who have lost their crops. They are displaced with little food, no latrines and a very real threat of an epidemic. The president of El Salvador made a plea, via television, that Salvadorans living in the United States send money. In yesterday's newspaper there was an interview with the president of Honduras in which he identified the most dire needs of Hondurans: basic medicines and milk for the children. Just days following the hurricane, the youth group of my town organized a food and clothing drive to send to those in need. Salvadorans, who barely keep their children clothed and food on the table, came with a small bag of rice for those even more needy right now.

It's difficult to know how to live and interact with the people of El Salvador. My sense of reality, and what life is, is different from theirs - my not having had the day to day struggle of getting food. Even those who do have food have lived with the reality of a war in their own yard. I interact especially with one family here: the family of Nina Tila. ("Nina" is a title of respect for an adult woman in Salvadoran Spanish, like "Senora" in Mexican Spanish.) Nina Tila made me feel a part of their lives right off. When I became sick one night, Nina Tila and her husband gave up their bed for me and slept on the floor. One of the daughters kept my fever down with cold cloths on my forehead. Nina Tila got up with me in the night when I became sick in their yard (They don't have a bathroom and the latrine was too far that night). Nina Tila will tell you, life is difficult in El Salvador. The fear, the struggle, the lack of control, all remain outside of my comprehension. However I get a glimpse of it in some of the people and their stories, like the story of Nina Tila's family.

It was late one night, about 9PM so most of the family had gone to bed. Israel (His real name, though the parallels are uncanny), the only son who lives at home, and I were talking. That day, twelve years ago, was already a bit out of the ordinary since Israel, then 15, managed to cut his foot rather badly the day before. Israel couldn't go out, as he did most days, with his brother, then 13, their cousins and friends. So while Israel nursed his foot at home, the others went to swim in the river. The boys separated from the girls, out of necessity since bathing suits are unheard of. Therefore, it was just Israel's brother, a cousin and a friend that the military soldiers came across while the boys were breaking for lunch. The war was between the military and the rebels. It was not uncommon for a 13 year old, or younger, to be one of the rebels; but those rebel 13 year olds didn't play in the river in broad daylight. The military began to give the boys a hard time, raising enough fuss that it got the girls' attention. So, with the girls watching, for a reason that cannot possibly be justified, the soldiers shot all three of the boys dead.

The loss in Nina Tila's family is not any different from that of any other Salvadoran family. Everyone lost someone in the war; it's just part of reality and the struggle for survival. I didn't know how to react. I could see the pain in Israel's eyes as he talked of the gash in his foot that kept him from the river that day. It didn't seem right that I should hurt from this story, since I know I can't even fathom the pain of Israel and his family. It took me two days to even allow myself to cry. As I wrote in my journal that night, "It's not right that I, someone who has had everything given to me, should pretend, or think, that I could feel pain at all. Have we, in the States, ever even lived?" Not that pain is something that only El Salvador knows. But here I can't separate myself from it, the way I can inner-city violence. It's simply part of the way things are.

Today, November 16, 1998, marks the ninth anniversary of the killings of the six Jesuit priests, their housekeeper and her teenage daughter at the UCA (the Jesuit University in San Salvador). There was a vigil beginning Saturday at 2 PM and continuing until 5AM Sunday, which I attended. The vigil was to commemorate the deaths of the six Jesuits and the approximately 80,000 others who were killed in El Salvador's war. There was a procession followed by Mass. The gospel reading was the Beatitudes, with a homily that spoke of Jesus' emphasis of the importance of the victim: victims of war, hurricanes or simply those forgotten in society. Following communion a letter was read, written by Jon Sobrino on behalf of the UCA community, to be sent to the United States asking that the School of the Americas be closed. The School of the Americas is a military school located in Fr. Benning, Georgia which trains military personnel of Latin America. The SOA was established with the intention of improving relations between the Latin American militaries and the US, and to promote democratic values. Somehow the graduates managed to miss the democratic value training part, opting instead to use what they learned in the US for counterinsurgency - with a rather broad understanding of who the insurgents were. The UN Truth Report, issued in 1993 as a product of the peace accords, identified 65 Salvadoran officers who committed atrocities in the war. Of them 49 were trained at the SOA - and that's just in El Salvador. With the exception of the removal of texts that encouraged torture techniques, used 1982 - 1991, the school itself has done nothing to acknowledge the horrors committed by its graduates. I find the School of the Americas alarming, not because 2 of the 3 officers responsible for Archbishop Romero's death, or 3 of the 5 who raped and murdered the US churchwomen, or 19 of the 26 who killed the Jesuits were trained there; but because my tax dollars paid for the training and arming of the military who did not respect the right to life of a 13 year old playing in a river.

This particular newsletter has outlined a lot of the past. The horrors of the past are the reality to the people of El Salvador. To understand this culture I need to have some understanding of the past. In future letters I'll try to write about the issues of today and how they might be addressed. However, that's not an easy task. I spend my time listening to where Salvadorans consider themselves to be; and right now those I talk to aren't thinking much beyond keeping food on the table.

I hope this letter finds you well. Have a wonderful Thanksgiving and God Bless.

Peace & Love,

Molly

A Message From Molly - October 14, 1998

"Civilization is a stream with banks. The stream is sometimes filled with blood from people killing, shouting and doing things historians usually record. While on the banks, unnoticed, people build homes, make love, raise children, sing songs, write poetry and even whittle statues. The story of civilization is the story of what happens on the banks." -Will Durant

Across from the church there is a newly painted cement building with a tin roof. On a plastic sign, very much like you would see in the States, the word "Antel" is printed in blue on white. I think it's the only plastic sign in my town. The Antel is the town phone. From my seat on the curb I watched as Renal, one of the two Antel workers, rode by on his bike. When a call is made into town, a message is taken. Then Renal gets on his bike and rides to the house for whom the message is intended. Usually the message just says to return the call. In other words, someone is at another Antel in another town waiting for a return call. And do you know what? It works. Communication takes place.

I want to let everyone know that I"ve made it here safely and that I'm happy. One the challenges, for me, of writing to the US is finding a starting point to tell anyone what my experience is like. I wanted to have one common theme to write in this, my first newsletter to the States. So for the past few weeks I've been keeping my eyes open for that one thing that somehow represents my experience here so far. But it's getting late. So this morning I sat on the steps of the rectory thinking I'd describe whatever I saw. I saw Renal come out of Antel on his bike. So that's what you heard about.

So what am I doing here? There is a good question. The term (in service language) for what I do is "accompaniment". Accompaniment simply means that I live with the people of El Salvador. I converse with my neighbors and listen to their stories. Everyone knows suffering here. But most of the suffering they know is of the past. The people of El Salvador recognize the incredible blessing peace is. I'm learning to appreciate peace as well. As a citizen of the United States, my listening to their stories authenticates their reality. The people of El Salvador know that they are poor in the eyes of the world. They feel themselves to be of less value. My being here, and the support I have coming from you in the United States, lets the Salvadorians know that their lives are of value.

My being here is a wonderful honor. I'm the only person from the US, or any other non-Latin country, who lives in this town. Everyone knows me and I have felt very welcome. I also feel safe. El Salvador has a reputation for violence and it's rightfully merited. San Salvador, the capital city, is huge and filthy and dangerous. Crime is expected and a part of life. Rape is common. So I avoid the city. San Francisco is two hours from San Salvador. We are in the mountains, though not far enough in the mountains to be where the rebels camped during the war. The way it was described to me was: some rebels might come down here and be seen, so the military would come along and kill some people, to let the rebels know they were serious. Then the rebels would come back and they might hijack a bus and kill some people, to let the army know they weren't really scared. Then the army would come back, rape some women and kill some children, just to make it clear that they weren't going to be controlled. And so went the war for twelve years until the peace accords six years ago. Much has improved. People don't talk about the war unless you ask them. Those with vision focus on improving the roads, getting electricity and running water.

I fear that after only eight weeks here I can't very well make any blanket statements about El Salvador. Language is a barrier to really knowing people, and my cultural perspective is very different from this culture. As I said, I'm honored to be here. I'm truly enjoying myself. I feel very alive.

Please know that your role as a person who cares what I do here is important. Not just to me (though I personally appreciate it greatly) but also to the Salvadorians who know that I have such support in the States. Your interest in me and my work here gives value to people who perceive themselves as valueless. I believe that as I listen to their stories and you listen to mine, we can get somewhere. We can value each other as children of God. Thanks.

Please keep me in your prayers and know that you are in mine.

Peace and Love,

Molly