Disillusioned

What am I doing here?

Since July of last year, I have answered that question in countless emails and introductions with basically the same canned response, “I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer working with an association of indigenous women weavers in and around Tactic, Alta Verapaz, Guatemala.” But now I don’t know the answer to that question. Now I am just a Peace Corps Volunteer…

This is my blog, and I have the freedom to divulge the details of my split from Nu’Kem, but I am not going to. So I’ll resort to the ambiguous language of divorces and site “irreconcilable differences” as the reason for my departure from the association. I had poured myself into Nu’Kem, and although problems had been subtly arising, I never thought it would come to the point that I would have to leave. It was an agonizing decision full of tears, anger, disappointment, frustration, and sadness. But unfortunately it was a decision I was forced to make. Now because of the selfish and unethical actions of a few in places of power, Nu’Kem is left without my assistance. And I am left disillusioned.

6th Avenue Heartache

The McDonald’s on 6th Avenue in Zone 10 of the capital should promote itself with the slogan, “Where Peace Corps Comes To Poo.” I am not quite sure if it would increase patronage (and if written in English the odds of it hurting business would be slim also), but it would definitely highlight the role this American fast food behemoth plays in the lives of PCVs in Guatemala.

Unbeknownst to the owners and employees of this particular McDonald’s, every Peace Corps Volunteer who enters the establishment does so with one goal on his/her mind: stimulate a bowel movement in order to fill a little paper cup with feces. You see this Home of the Big Mac unfortunately (perhaps for them, but fortunately for us) happens to be adjacent to the lab that is connected to the clinic where all Peace Corps Volunteers have to do their mid-service and close-of-service medical exams. Whether it is to wait out stage fright in a comforting familiar environment or to down some cups of black coffee or a Frosty (both time tested methods) for some last minute stimulation to get the system working, if you see a volunteer in the 6th Avenue McDonald’s, you can be certain what he/she is about to do there.

And because this is Peace Corps and rumors travel faster around the country than through a small town high school (I know, I attended one), there are legends that have emerged from this rite of passage every volunteer has to endure. I will share with you my favorite: There was a volunteer (his name will not be used as to allow him to distance himself from the stupidity of his actions) who was not keen on defecating in a cup held in his own hand, lest he should miss his target. Instead he made a large pallet of paper towels in the stall and proceeded to do his business on the floor. He then scooped up his excrement and transferred it into the provided cup. The visual image of this process is amusing, but I question his methods. To me it seems like his system leaves much larger margin for error and unwanted touching. But to each his own.

You might be asking yourself, “Why does she feel the need to write about this?” Well, perhaps, it is because mixed in with our lofty discussions about how we are each individually saving the world, Peace Corps volunteers like to talk about poo. Maybe “like” isn’t the most apt word, but given the havoc Guatemala has wreaked on many a volunteer’s intestinal track, the subject does make its way into a fair share of after dinner conversations. But the real reason for this post is the fact that I just got to experience the joy of mid-service medical exams in the middle of July.

I had not been “fearing” mid-service meds per say, but I was a little anxious to get them over with. In every group usually one or two people contract Tuberculosis within their first year of service, and I was really hoping not to be among the chosen few (as heartless as it may seem, we actually had bets going on who would end up with TB—the overwhelming majority of my group’s money was on Felipe, who had already had his fair share of digestive problems and even went through a bout of very painful dengue fever). Also given that I have ignored every piece of advice provided by the medical officers during training—I have never washed a piece of fruit or vegetable, and I frequently enjoy food made in the street—I was kind of expecting to discover a family of amoebas and/or parasites happily residing in my stomach. But nothing was found. No TB. No weird tropical diseases. No parasites. No amoebas. No nothing. After three days of pooping in cups, giving a blood sample, examining my teeth, checking for Tuberculosis, and being poked and prodded I was given a clean bill of health.

The only minor hiccup in my otherwise perfect health was the surprising revelation I received at the dentist’s office. Apparently between the ages of 6 and 12, I overdosed on fluoride leaving my teeth “bien protegido,” but with small white stains (too bad I didn’t really OD staining all of my teeth a brilliant white). The fluoride vitamins we took daily at home were cherry flavored, and maybe on occasion I would eat my brothers’ when they didn’t want them and perhaps every once and a while I would double dip with the fluoride at school (everybody was doing it) even though I was not supposed to, but regardless, I am placing the full culpability of my white stains on my parents. Parents should warn their children of the dangers of over-flouriding, and unfortunately, mine did not. At that age I did not have the mental capabilities to be making informed decisions about my drug regimen. I thought fluoride was like Vitamin C—the more the better. But alas 26 years and the advice of a Guatemalan dentist later, I have discovered the folly in my youthful ways…and I only have my parents to blame.

(Mom and Dad you know that I love you, and I am just kidding. The dentist also said that I had very nice straight teeth, which is the direct result of all the money you poured into them during my youth. Thank you.)

Simple joys

This is my favorite building (for the color and not the design) in Tactic. I walk by it everyday on the way to and from work, and regardless of what mood I am in, it makes me smile. A simple joy in my life thanks to a flamboyant owner.

Wisdom from C.S. Lewis

I have shed an infinite amount of tears in Guatemala, especially in this past month. Being surrounded by poverty, injustice, pain, suffering, and death has taken a toll on my heart. At times I wish I could just stop caring—that I could do my job without getting too emotionally involved. It would spare me a lot of crying.

But whenever those selfish self-preserving thoughts come to mind, I read the words of a man far wiser than I can ever hope to be to remind myself that the pain of a hurting heart is much preferable to a heart that is incapable of feeling pain at all:

“In words which can still bring tears to the eyes, St. Augustine describes the desolation into which the death of his friend Nebridius plunged him. Then he draws a moral…All human beings pass away. Do not let your happiness depend on something you may lose.

Of course this is excellent sense. Don’t put your goods in a leaky vessel. Don’t spend too much on a house you may be turned out of. And there is no man alive who responds more naturally than I to such canny maxims. I am a safety-first creature. Of all arguments against love none makes so strong an appeal to my nature as ‘Careful! This might lead you to suffering.’

…[But] there is no escape along the lines St. Augustine suggests. Nor along any other lines. There is no safe investment. To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation.”

-C.S. LEWIS from “The Four Loves”

There is So Much More

I wonder how so many can be in so much pain
While others don’t seem to feel a thing
And then I curse my whiteness and I get so damn depressed
In a world of suffering why should I be so blessed

-Brett Dennen

Love & Money

About a month ago as I was standing in line to use the ATM at the Banrural in Tactic, I noticed a boy getting off of a bus. He was kicking and flailing about, and I initially thought he was just throwing a tantrum. Then I noticed his hands were tied behind his back. He managed to work one free and started repeatedly hitting himself on the head with it, all the while his legs twitching and kicking. His mother got off the bus behind him and calmly but forcefully held his arms down, tying his hands back in place as she led him up the street to the park. Behind the shield of my sunglasses, I started crying. How difficult life must be for this mother and her child.

Less than a week later I saw this same mother and son in the central park. As before, the boy’s hands were tied behind his back, and this time he was wearing a skateboarding helmet as protection from himself. His arms were working to get loose and his legs were twitching uncontrollably, as his mother, just as calm as the last time I saw her, walked with him in the direction of the market. People stared as they passed, but the mother, seemingly oblivious to the unwanted attention, kept her head up and gently guided her son with one arm around his shoulders. Once again tears welled up in my eyes.

When I first learned that it was possible for Mynor to have a life-saving surgery but it would most likely leave him with a permanent mental disability, this boy served as the basis for my vision of what his life would be like. A burden and a spectacle. Someone to be pitied. But to whom was this boy a burden and a spectacle? Whose pity did he warrant? I imagined him to be a burden. I contributed to making him a spectacle. I pitied him. With the gawkers in the park, all I saw was the disability. All I saw was a difficult situation in a country where life in and of itself is difficult enough. I failed to recognize the driving force behind this interaction between mother and son. I failed to recognize love—love in its purest most unselfish form.

After presenting the probable “grim” outcome of Mynor’s surgery, I was shocked when Aura and Carlos decided to go through with it. I didn’t want to influence their decision, but I didn’t understand it. In my mind there was a white tablet divided into “positive” and “negative” consequences of the operation. The negative side was full, while the only thing I could categorize as positive was “Mynor comes out of the surgery perfectly normal.” But there were no white tablets in Aura and Carlos’ minds. There was no need to list positives and negatives to see which side was longer. Their decision was based solely on love. Love is blind to disabilities. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

I never would have questioned an American couples’ desire to have the surgery for their baby. We are a rich people in a rich country, and more often than not, when it comes to saving the life of someone we love, money is of no consequence. So why were economic reasons underlying every negative in my mental list for and against Mynor’s surgery? Why did I think Mynor’s death would be better for the family than the economic burden his life with a disability would cause? Because I was thinking rationally. But rationality has no place in matters of the heart. Love trumps rationale. Love is not diminished by poverty and hardship. Love does not take back seat to economic ability, whether it is in the United States, Guatemala, or some other less developed country. Yes, Mynor’s life would have presented challenges to his family, but above all he would have been loved. I came to this realization, and then he died.

In Repair

Well I never lived through the great depression
But sometimes I feel as though I did
And I don’t have answers for every single question
But that’s okay ‘cause I’m just a kid

-Kasey Chambers


I have been visiting Aura near daily since her return from the hospital to check on her progress. Everyday she is getting a little better—less aches and pains and more strength. Originally I went just to inquire about Aura’s condition, but I quickly realized she isn’t the only one who needs attention.

Carlos, ever assiduously at her bedside, can’t work and therefore the family currently has no source of income. He feels helpless. Aura’s six children have taken pains to stay quiet and care for the household while their mother is incapable. They feel neglected. Aura’s father is a drunk. He disappeared the night she came home from the hospital. Aura’s mother discovered three days later that he is in the hospital in Cobán after having been nearly beaten to death outside a bar in Tactic. Head hung low with tears streaming down her face, she recounted this to me as she was preparing the family’s next meal. “Please come and visit me. I feel so alone. My daughter is sick and my husband is in the hospital. I have to take care of everyone, and I am alone. Please visit me.” I held her worn, fragile little body in my arms as she cried and told her, “God bless you. God bless you for all you are doing for your family. You are a very loving mother. God bless you.” She is overwhelmed.

It is feria time again in Tactic and knowing that Aura and her family can’t afford to participate in the festivities in town, I decided to bring a little bit of the feria to them. I went downtown through the throngs of people and filled my backpack full of traditional feria fare: long suckers, rounded suckers, flavored popcorn balls, blocks of coconut candy, pretzels, mints, and peanut brittle. I took all the sweets out to their house this afternoon, and we had our own mini-celebration.

Aura felt well enough to move back into her own house this morning, and although still bed ridden, she was in better spirits than I had seen her in over the past three weeks. The whole family was. There was laughter in the house again. The children ate their candies, and the family asked me questions about the feria. They laughed as I told them about my less than pleasant experience being stuck on the ferris wheel for nearly an hour at last year’s feria. I concluded my feria report with, “Really, you aren’t missing out on anything, though. There are too many people and too much noise.” Unfortunately, I don’t think my admonitions did much to displace the children’s unspoken desire to be a part of the fun in which they can’t participate.

This has been Aura’s and her family’s own personal “great depression,” and to an exceedingly lesser and incomparable extent, my own. But thankfully Aura is getting better, as well as all those close to her who were never hospitalized, but nonetheless have suffered and struggled through this difficult time with her. The family is in repair. I don’t know how long this painful process is going to take. I don’t have the answer to that question. But I guess it’s okay, because I am just a kid.

Poor Man's House

You know you’ve done enough
When every bone is sore
You know you’ve prayed enough
When you don’t ask any more

You know you’re coming to some kind of understanding
When every dream you’ve dreamed has passed and you’re still standing

Mama says God tends to every little skinny sheep
So count your ribs and say your prayers and get to sleep

Nothing is louder to God’s ears than a poor man’s sorrow
Daddy is poor today and he will be poor tomorrow

Hey, that’s the poor man’s house
Everybody get a look at the poor man’s house
Everywhere they went before must have turned them out
And now they’re living in a poor man’s house

There’s nothing like poverty to get you into heaven
They’ve got a lot of wine and fish up there and the bread’s unleavened
They’ve got a lot of years that have heard a whip go crack
Got some missing toes and fingers and scars upon their back

Daddy’s been working too much for days and days and doesn’t eat
And he never says much but I think this time it’s got him beat
It isn’t that he isn’t strong or kind or clever
Your daddy’s poor today and he will be poor forever

Hey, that’s the poor man’s house
Those kids are living in a poor man’s house
They walk to school with the soles of their shoes worn out
And come home in the evening to the poor man’s house

Why are you chopping that wood now
Why are you growing that corn
Mama’s sewing a brand new shirt
And you’re wearing the one that’s torn
I guess it’s for someone else’s kid
Who wasn’t born in a poor man’s house

A poor man’s house

Hey, take a look at that house
Everybody we’re living in a poor man’s house
Seems like everywhere we go they find us out
Find out we’ve been living in a poor man’s house

-Patty Griffin

A Grief Observed

The public health care system in Guatemala is a hellish nightmare. Peace Corps would rather us travel hours on a camioneta to the capital to seek medical attention or go to the tremendous cost of transporting us in a helicopter if the seriousness of the situation warranted it than to ever leave us in the care of one of the free regional hospitals. In the early hours of this morning, I discovered first hand why.

A little after 3:00 A.M., I received a call. It was a cell phone number I didn’t recognize, but in my half asleep stupor I answered it. It was Aura’s husband, Carlos. They had taken Aura to the hospital in Cobán by ambulance a short while past midnight, and now her situation was “grave.” He wanted to know if I could go to Cobán and help.

I called my friend, Fernando, who is the chief of police here to provide transport. We picked up my sitemate, Carlos’ parents in Chijacorral, and later another volunteer who lives in Cobán and went to the Cobán Regional Hospital. The facility was absolutely horrifying. When we arrived at about 4:30 A.M., all the doors were locked, including those to the emergency room, and there were huddled masses of people sleeping on the concrete all around the outside of the building. Through a window we saw Carlos, and he let us inside. The sick and dying were all over the room lying on beds, cots, mattresses on the floor, and benches. There was not a single doctor or nurse anywhere in sight. The only hospital personnel present were a security guard and a janitor.

Carlos took me to Aura’s bed. She said the left side of her body had gone numb and the other side was affected by frequent uncontrollable tremors. They had been there for over four hours and the only medical attention they had received was from a nurse who attended to them upon first arriving. This nurse had given her an injection (God knows of what) to calm her down, but she was still worked up in a complete frenzy. I set about trying to find a doctor or a nurse. I asked both the janitor and the guard as to where I could locate a medic, and I received the same uninterested reply from both of them, “All the doctors and nurses are resting.” This is an emergency room!

I went back to Aura’s side to talk through her symptoms again while waiting for someone to wake up. It was at this point that Carlos and Aura sheepishly informed me of the manner in which they were hoping to receive my help. They asked of me the “huge favor” of transferring Aura to the private hospital in town and paying for her medical treatment there. I was put in a very difficult situation. The options in health care in Cobán are free at the dilapidated regional hospital or exorbitantly expensive at the private one. A short stay at the private hospital could easily consume one or two months of my Peace Corps living allowance if not more. I explained this to Aura and Carlos, that I receive just enough money to live off of and certainly not enough to cover hospital stays. They already “knew” this, but it goes without saying that a white American signifies “rich” here and in comparison to the meager resources they have, we really are.

Although I certainly didn’t tell them this, if I had honestly thought Aura’s situation was “grave” I could have probably found money to pay for her to be treated at the private hospital. But as harsh and uncaring as it sounds, I didn’t. In my year here, I have gotten numerous phone calls and reports from people about friends and/or family members that have been rushed to the hospital on the verge of death only to find out a day or two later that they are fine back in their houses. It makes it very difficult to parse out real medical emergencies from the false alarms, and even though from the beginning when I received Carlos’ call I slightly questioned the gravity of Aura’s situation, I wanted to go to Cobán to see her state for myself. I had brought the other Peace Corps Volunteers, Mike and Michelle, with me for this very reason—to help in logically assessing the situation (I owe them both dinner and some beers for dragging them out of bed so early).

Our first thought was to call the Peace Corps Medical Officer, but then we realized even though she was willing and ready to assist volunteers at all hours of the day or night, it is not her job to help Guatemalans, especially not before 5:00 A.M. on a Sunday. So with no professionals present, the three of us did our own amateur medical assessment. Although Aura said the left side of her body was numb, she felt pain when pinched, and she had feeling and movement in both sides of her face, so we ruled out the possibility of a stroke. She was speaking lucidly, and although she was warm, most likely from just being in a state of agitation, she didn’t appear to have a fever. It seemed like to us she had worked her herself up into a state of frenzy and agitation as all the grief and tension over the death of her baby she had pent up inside her was finally being released through her body.

The hospital finally began to slowly wake up at around 6:00 A.M. Nurses started turning on the lights and slowly meandered into the ER. I cornered each one I saw and led them over to Aura’s bed, but they were of absolutely no help. At the first site of a doctor, I tracked him down and insisted he give attention to Aura. Truthfully, I don’t think Aura would have received any attention had a gringa not been with her. One of the nurses told me there were only three doctors on duty for the whole hospital until Tuesday. This is a regional hospital—the only place well over half a million Guatemalans in the vast area can afford (because it is free) to seek treatment. Three doctors.

Two of those three doctors (I never saw the third) were attending to Aura. They took her heart rate, measured her blood pressure, and took a blood sample for testing. After the exam, the doctor confirmed to me what we had originally thought. He believed Aura’s infirmity was “psychological” resulting from “nerves” caused by the death of her child. Her took her blood as a precautionary measure to run tests to make sure there wasn’t any infection lingering from the pregnancy. They also gave her another injection (of what?) to once again try to calm her down.

Now I completely understand Guatemalans fear and near complete avoidance of seeking medical treatment. What medical treatment? Aura told me when Mynor was born the nurses were too afraid to even touch him, so she had to wrap his head up with a cloth herself. When the nurse inserted the receptacle in Aura’s hand to give the injection, he stuck the bloody syringe in the plastic bed while he was doing other things. He didn’t even make the effort to wipe the area clean when he removed it and threw it in the trashcan full of other bloody syringes and rags next to the bed.

As if some kind of sick joke, there were signs posted on the wall stating the patients’ rights. First and foremost patients had the right to “quick and comprehensive service.” If patients didn’t have the “highest quality of service” there was a number to call to log complaints. I wondered if anyone actually believed in the sincerity of the banner and made a call. I doubt it. Poor Guatemalans don’t know what it is like to receive real medical attention. All they know of hospitals are these deplorable regional ones where people go only as a complete last resort. They are not places of healing; they are places to die.

I felt horribly guilty about leaving Aura there, but she had finally started sleeping and with the doctor’s diagnosis, there was nothing else for anyone to do but to let her continue to rest. I left my business cards with the doctors and told them to call me if anything suggested to them Aura’s illness was being caused by anything more than nerves. Exhausted, we returned to Tactic at around eight in the morning.

With the horrifying images of the hospital and all that I had just experienced still fresh on my mind, I wrote the first portion of this post right when I got home. The following is what occurred later this afternoon.

At 2:00 P.M. I received a phone call from Beti, another Nu’Kem weaver. Crying hysterically she told me that Aura was dying. The doctors at the regional hospital weren’t doing anything to help her so they brought her back to the house, and now she was dying. I needed to get there as quickly as possible.

Not knowing what to expect, I threw on my shoes grabbed all the money I had and my ATM card and rushed out to Chijacorral. I could hear Aura’s screams long before I reached her house. The mud path to her shack was clogged with people, about 30 community members were surrounding her house and another 20 or so of her closest friends and relatives were packed inside. Everyone was crying. Upon the sight of me, the message started being passed along, “The Seño is here! The Seño is here!” The crowd parted to make room for me to go to Aura’s side. She was on the bed, thrashing about uncontrollably and screaming. Her face was blank and expressionless. I was scared to death.

With tears streaming down their faces, everyone turned to me and frantically asked, “Seño, what do we do? She is dying, Seño! What can you do, Seño?” What can I do!? I pulled Carlos aside outside the house and a huddle of people followed us. Completely distraught, he looked at me imploringly for direction. I told him, “I don’t have the money for the private hospital. I don’t know exactly how, but I will find some. We are going to the private hospital. We are taking her to Galeno.”

Once again I called Fernando, and he came to Chijacorral in his police patrol truck. Chijacorral is located up in the mountains, and there is only access to it by foot. Fernando parked the pick-up at the highest point he could, and Carlos carried Aura down on his shoulders. We placed her in the back seat and eight family members and friends piled in the back.

As Aura screamed and writhed in the back seat on the way to Cobán, all I could think was that I had made a huge mistake—that I had erroneously thought she was suffering from emotional distress when something much more serious was wrong. I felt angry with myself and incredibly guilty. I just wanted to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible. I had never been in a situation like this before, and like so many other times in this past week and a half, I was completely overwhelmed.

When we arrived at Galeno there were no doctors there. There were no doctors at the private expensive hospital. Upon seeing a group of obviously poor indigenous people, the receptionist said, “This is a private hospital, and it is expensive.” I told her I was paying for it. She got on the phone and started calling the doctors, asking if they could “please” come in and attend to Aura. We waited. During that time I went to an ATM to take out all the money I could, and I sat outside alone and cried. I cried tears of distress and tears of guilt. Tears of anger and tears of helplessness.

It was 45 minutes until a doctor arrived. Other community members from Chijacorral had made the trip to Cobán in a microbus and were gathered outside of Aura’s room. Aura had calmed down considerably, and the doctor performed an exam. He took her blood pressure and heart rate—both again normal. She said her arms were numb, but through some simple tests, the doctor realized that was not actually the case. The doctor came to the same conclusion as those at the regional hospital—Aura was suffering from severe emotional distress but she had no other seriousness life-threatening ailment. She needed to eat and rest in a quiet place. I was relieved.

Even though it was the same diagnosis as before, coming from a doctor at the nice private hospital, it held more weight. People here go to the regional hospital because they have no other options, but they never really believe the doctors there. And, honestly, given the condition of the facility and the manner in which things are run, I wouldn’t either. But now here was a “real” doctor at a “real” hospital saying that Aura was not dying, and people took note.

The doctor administered another sedating injection and gave Carlos the information for the medicine he needed to buy at a pharmacy in Tactic. I closed out the bill, and we all piled back into the patrol truck to go home. It was almost 7:00 P.M. when we arrived in Chijacorral. Dozens and dozens of crying community members were waiting outside in a complete downpour at the base of the hill when we pulled up. They all rushed over to the truck and followed Carlos as he carried Aura up the hill, this time to the house of her mother where she would have more privacy.

People were crowding around Aura’s bed, crying and inquiring about her condition. I managed to get everyone out of the room leaving just Carlos, Aura’s mother, and Fernando. In the adjoining kitchen, I addressed the gathering. Over the commotion, I began to talk. Mothers hushed their children and all conversations stopped. “The Seño is speaking.” There was complete silence—silence and inquiring eyes waiting for my words of “wisdom.” I told everyone that Aura was going to be fine. She was extremely emotionally upset about the death of her baby and now all the grief was leaving through her body. She needed to rest in a place without any noise. And although everyone there was very concerned about Aura’s wellbeing, the best thing they could do for right now was to leave her alone.

I can’t imagine the all-consuming sorrow Aura is experiencing. I can’t imagine the overwhelming heartache she is enduring. I can’t imagine a grief so intense that it consumes the whole body.

I left Chijacorral to the chorus of gratitude. But their gratitude is so undeserved. They think “the Seño” knows everything and is in complete control, when the reality of the situation is that I was, and am, in way over my head. I was scared to death that Aura was going to die. I was scared to death that it was my decision as to the course of action for which everyone was waiting. I do not belong on the pedestal on which they have put me. And it is only a matter of time before I fall bringing their hopes crashing down with me.

Mourning

Mynor’s funeral was this afternoon. I had never attended a Guatemalan funeral before, although I have seen many. The cemetery in Tactic straddles the only road in and out of town. It is the custom here for the mourners to walk from the house of the deceased to the cemetery in a group with the body. The processions often block the highway, and the micro drivers pull over to the side of the road and turn off their music in respect for the dead. Although I had never intimately known anyone who had died here, I always felt a deep sadness upon seeing these solemn gatherings. Now I know the sadness that arises from participating in one of these processions is infinitely more profound than simply watching one pass.

I went out to Aura’s house a little past noon. People were gathered inside sharing a meal of saq’ik and tamilitos that neighbors had prepared. I was served my portion and sat down next to some other Nu’Kem weavers: Beti, Estela, and Lucia. The atmosphere was both solemn and light. There was an underlying sadness, but people were engaged in conversations about other things. I chatted with the weavers about our big Cemaco order. With a forced smile, Aura said she needed some thread so she could start working again. I replied with my own forced smile that we would get her all the thread she wanted when she was ready. Maybe having something to keep her busy would be good for her.

Mynor’s little casket had a plastic bowl set on top of it. As mourners entered the house, they would go over to the bowl and place in it whatever they could afford—10Q, 5Q, 50 centavos—to help the family with the costs of the coffin and the funeral. One little old woman came in, dropped 25 centavos in the bowl, sat down in a chair, and broke down into tears. Her son had just died earlier today in a motorcycle accident and her granddaughter was in the hospital. People went to her side to comfort her. There will be another funeral in Chijacorral soon. It seems like life here is just a succession of deaths and burials.

The service began around 2:00 P.M. The pastor from Aura and Carlos’ church shared some words while other members of the congregation later led the gathering in the singing of some hymns. The composure Aura had displayed throughout the dramatic unfolding of Mynor’s birth and eventual death finally gave way, and she was too distraught to participate in the service. Her sobs rose from the kitchen partitioned off by a sheet while the rest of us sang.

There is nothing more heartbreaking than a tiny casket. A tiny casket signifies a life that was much too short. The assistant pastor put Mynor’s tiny casket on one shoulder, and we accompanied him in the walk to the cemetery. Carlos and the pastor led the way, followed by children carrying flowers, Mynor’s body, and then the group of mourners. Our number grew walking down the hill out of Chijacorral as other community members joined the assembly. Aura could not bear to see her baby being put in a grave and therefore stayed at home.

Seeing the young children in the procession, some of them Mynor’s brothers and sisters, made me mourn for the loss, or more accurate, the lack of their childhood. From having to care for younger siblings, taking on jobs to provide extra income for the family, and constantly being reminded of the harshness of life—namely poverty and death—I don’t know there is even such a thing as childhood here.

Tactic’s cemetery is composed of two sides: one to the south of the main road is clean and the other to the north is situated right next to the city dump and is filled with trash. Mynor was buried on the north side.

The poorest people here are buried in the ground in unmarked graves, while those who are better off have small simple concrete mausoleums. Aura and Carlos could not afford to have a mausoleum, but the pastor of their church was kind enough to offer space for Mynor in his.

The crowd made its way over to the mausoleum walking over and on unmarked graves and through piles of trash. Another church member was just finishing chipping out a hole in the concrete large enough in which to slide in the coffin. There was already another tiny casket inside. It belonged to the pastor’s baby girl. As trucks deposited more trash in the dump and vultures circled overhead, the pastor spoke a few last words and then slid Mynor’s casket into the mausoleum next to the other one.

I left with Estela as they were concreting the mausoleum shut. I had been crying a lot all day, and I still was. Estela’s son looked up at me with a smile and took my hand in his. We walked that way, hand-in-hand, back to Aura’s house. I had never before received comfort from a child—a child, who at seven years, has probably endured more hardship and seen more tragedies than I will in my whole life.

Black

Tactic has been unusually sunny over the past week, but today the sky opened up and let forth a torrential downpour. It is fitting that the day has been gray, dreary, and cold. Mynor died early this afternoon.

I was in Cobán turning in some paperwork for Nu’Kem when I got the news. Mynor was having difficulty in breathing since he woke this morning and just a few minutes after noon he took his last gasp. I quickly finished my errands and headed back to Tactic.

Dripping wet, I arrived at Aura’s house at little after one. Mynor’s tiny casket was set on a wooden table in the middle of the room. Carlos and some other male relatives had hung a white sheet on the wall behind the casket and were in the process of decorating it with little fern branches and flowers they had collected from outside the house. A circle of chairs was placed around the room ready to welcome the mourners.

I presented Aura and Carlos with the best thing I could think to give them. From a waterproof bag I took out four photos I had taken of Mynor and the two of them the day before. Their reaction was like I had given them a block of gold. Babies die in the poorest countries of the world everyday never leaving any proof of their short existence—their reminiscences live on only in the memory of their parents and family. But here Aura and Carlos have pictures to serve as a reminder of their little baby long after their mental images fade.

I have learned the importance of just being present, and even though I didn’t understand any of the conversations taking place in Poqomchi’, I stayed at Aura’s house for the majority of the afternoon. Every time a group of family members, friends, or neighbors came to the house, Carlos would go over to the dresser, carefully unwrap the photos and show them to the new guests. Upon seeing the pictures, Aura’s mother started crying—the only tears, besides my own, that I saw shed in the house. A tragic premature death is no novelty in Guatemala, and although a deep sadness and loss hung over the house those emotions were not expressed outwardly.

Mynor lived for only 13 days, but in that short amount of time he touched a lot of lives, especially my own. He didn’t live long enough to get his surgery, but long enough to impact me for the rest of my life. Mynor died as a result of poverty. Babies die all the time because of poverty. I hope Mynor’s death and the memory of him will serve as a reminder to those of us fortunate enough to have been born in wealthy nations of the struggles the majority of the people in the world face. We are more privileged than we will ever fully know or appreciate.