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the edge: across borders, over the line,through prison gates
- University of North Texas Press
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140 the edge: across borders, over the line, through prison gates Doris Sage Across Borders During the civil war in El Salvador, refugees fleeing the death squads arrived in Syracuse seeking sanctuary. In 1992, at the end of the twelve-year war, members of our peace community accompanied one of these refugees back to his home in El Salvador. In the mountains near the Honduras border, the Syracuse-La Estancia Sister Community was established. The five villages of La Estancia had been the headquarters for the Farabundo Marti National Liberation (fmln) guerrilla fighters where some of the bitterest fighting took place. My first trip to La Estancia, with my friend Shirley Novak, was the third year of these annual trips. The war was still very much in their minds. In each village we were overwhelmed with greetings of “Paz y Amor” and embraced by the entire community. I had difficulty understanding our warm reception; only three years before, planes and helicopters, provided by our government, flew overhead, dropped bombs, and burned their villages. El Salvador soldiers trained by the U. S. Army School of the Americas at Ft. Benning, Georgia, shot at them with guns and ammunition also provided by our government. But the people of La Estancia seemed more grateful that Americans would come and stand in solidarity with them than they were for the aid we brought—and they desperately needed the aid. There was poverty and malnutrition; they were building one latrine in each village to prevent cholera; there were no roads, no electricity, no potable water. We hiked up steep mountain trails; the campesinos carried our bags. We were welcomed into each village with a religious service. Part of this ceremony included the reading of the names of people from that village who had been killed in the war. As each name was read, the people responded: “Presenté,” acknowledging that person as present in spirit. The people wept and so did we. In one village, during the reading of the names ritual, I watched two women. They looked like they might be mother and daughter. I watched them the courage of choice 141 because their faces were so beautiful. A name was read and suddenly, silently, tears streamed down their cheeks … and I became an activist. Another morning, as we were getting ready to move on to the next village, a tiny woman picked up my heavy backpack. She was not as tall as my shoulders , looked much older than I, and had no teeth. I said: “No!” “Sí!” she insisted. “Quantos años tiene usted?” I asked. “Sesenta y ocho.” she replied. I was only 65. I knew I couldn’t carry that heavy bag. It was all I could do to get my own body up those steep mountain trails and carry my water canteen. I had no choice; the others had already started on up the mountain. I helped her strap the bag onto her back, and she bounded over the rocks and up the steep path ahead of me. When we reached our destination, she handed me my bag, smiled, gave me a big hug, reached into her apron pocket and brought out a handmade matata as a thank-you gift to me—and she had carried my bag! Matatas are the string bags the women make from the heniken plant that grows in the mountains. After they have harvested the plant and processed the leaves into string, it takes them a day to weave one bag. They sell the bags to us for 50 cents; then we sell them in the U.S. for $10. The proceeds are returned to the community to support the daycare programs, and at that time, to provide therapy for the children struggling to overcome the trauma of the war. Again I cried. This gift was more than 50 cents and a day’s labor for her; it represented $10 that could go to support their children’s program. They shared everything they had with us—and they had so little. They gave us their hammocks to sleep in. I don’t know where they slept; there were dirt floors inside their huts and rocks outside. In the fifteen years that our community has been visiting there, they continue to be the most gentle, generous, caring people I have ever met. In the capital city of San Salvador, I had been frightened. When peace was signed, the amnesty allowed soldiers to keep their guns. There were...