This is a first hand recollection from our friend David Borton about his travels in Guatemala, and his experiences in the region of Pampojila…
Memories Hidden in a Cup of Coffee
Pampojila, Guatemala. Memory lane. Seeing that coffee for sale took my mind rocketing back to Guatemala, Summer 1988. Pampojila, rural western Guatemala, where many of the indigenous Mayan were among the 120,000 that had been murdered by its own army. Civil war. Nothing civil about this unending 30 year war that took its own innocent people as the first casualty.
As we descended into Guatemala City, my mind raced with anxiety…
MORE…
As we descended into Guatemala City, my mind raced with anxiety. We had read Love in a Fearful Land to prepare us for the 13-day visit. Henri Nouwen’s book had the area around Lake Atitlan as its setting. (Pampojila sits off to the southeast of the lake). It is the story of the toll the civil war took on the indigenous communities surrounding the lake and the murder of Father Stanley Rother by the death squads of the Guatemala army. Rother’s offense? He stood with the poor. And that village was on our itinerary…
Right about then, the noise and jolt of the wheels touching down jarred me back to the present. I began to have second thoughts about our scheduled visits to Christian base communities throughout rural western Guatemala. But it was too late. The attendant opened the safety of the our womb and we disembarked.
For about a week, we trekked over roads that our four-wheel found next to impassable. Sewing cooperatives, literacy programs, agricultural projects, stove construction with vents to prevent women’s blindness – you name it, we had seen it. Magnificient projects, funded with minimal dollars, all designed to foster collaborative efforts and raise the standard of living of community members. And in the midst of this, I saw mind-numbing numbers of young soldiers, all sporting Uzi guns wherever we walked. Our host, Jorge, told us, “…Just don’t make eye contact and keep the cameras away.”
On day eight, we headed south off the highway to Panajachel and took a ferry across Lake Atitlan, on our way to Santiago Atitlan, the village that served as the setting for Love in a Fearful Land
(http://www.henrinouwen.org/books/bibliography/view/?id=1101355054045722400 ).
Absolutely stunning scenery belied the horror and impact the 30 years of war had on these quaint indigenous villages. Just outside Panajachel a field greeted us, absolutely void of any growth, not even weeds. I asked Jorge what was wrong with the soil here. “The army poisoned it with chemicals. It will be years before it can come back.” What was that about?
Armies use all weapons available to them, including intimidation and terror. The army believed that this community (who had farmed it cooperatively, as many indigenous groups do throughout Central America) was sympathetic to the leftists who hid throught the mountaneous region to the south. Terrorize them. Poison their fields.
As we gathered in the church where Father Rother had served, Jorge took me aside. “The army has been following me since we left Panajachel. Lead the group in prayer and then ask everyone to scatter. We will meet at the ferry and catch the next boat out of town. I can lose them.” He had that look in his face that said, “…We aren’t discussing this.”
At that moment, I am sure that I offered the most bizarre prayer that had ever passed over my lips. I haven’t a clue what I said, but we all skedaddled like nobody’s business. The ferry was awaiting us, and its nasty diesel fumes never smelled so good. At the last moment short, barrel-chested Jorge came bounding aboard and off we went. Smiling.
Later that evening, in Xela, we stopped for dinner. Jorge then spilled the beans, figuratively. It seems that three nights before our arrival, at 2 a.m., three hooded men had awakened him, banging on his door. Their greeting?
“You are to quit your work among the poor – stop teaching the Indians (pejorative term) foolish ideas. Oh, and by the way, we know where your wife and children are every moment, of every day.” And with that mid-night greeting, they left as quickly as they had arrived.
But Jorge didn’t quit. That day or any day. It just wasn’t in his spirit. He died this past Spring at age 55, blind and in renal failure, still working with the poor. And it was from him that I learned love — in a fearful land. R.I.P., friend.
What’s in a cup of coffee? In this Pampojila, there are rich and very deep memories. As deep as Lake Atitlan itself.
Dave Borton
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
August 2008
http://sidewalkmystic.com