On the Other Side of the Deep Waters

Nearly a month has passed since I departed from Tegucigalpa, Honduras, site of my HNGR internship between May and November. Arrival in the U.S. during the Christmas festivities of the month of December has provided both encouraging and discouraging reflections. I would like to share what I have been thinking about for the past few weeks, none of it comprehensive, all of it true.

It is encouraging to return to the United States at a time when my tradition speaks of rumors of the coming of God into human flesh. Advent means the anxious anticipation of a a prophesied hope, a way out of suffering. So many of the people I encountered in Honduras are living in a year-around Advent. They are esperando, the Spanish word for both waiting and hoping. My friends are waiting/hoping for the government to recognize their ownership of land. My friends are waiting/hoping for their emigrated brother (or mother, or father, etc…) to contact them from the U.S. My friends are waiting/hoping for the drug-violence in Honduras to cease. My friends are waiting/hoping to not be poor anymore.  My friends are waiting for the resolution to this problem we call suffering. The hope of Christmas is that this Resolution is not a mere idea or spirituality, but an actual human being: The waiting ends at Christmas with the birth of Jesus. One day, we will stop waiting, and hope will not be necessary, for Christ will have restored things to what they should be.

It is discouraging to return to the United States during the month of December, when the consumerism consumes us.  With the help of my parents, I have adjusted fairly well to the sharp disconnect between wealthy-mall life and life in a poor neighborhood (after all, Tegucigalpa had both, too). Yet it still feels so wrong when I see the quantity and quality of U.S. American purchasing power. Never in my life am I so convinced that buying stuff does not make me happy, and that I am lonelier and lonelier the more I try to keep up in the race to the retailers. I am learning how to live with freedom and joy (I skied Loveland since I got back and I thoroughly enjoyed it) while living conscientious of the needs of others.

It is encouraging to meet so many people curious about what I saw, heard, felt, and did. So many of my friends and family have shown genuine interest in Honduras, and exhibit real frustration and pain when I describe some of the harder situations that I saw. I have been very careful with what I say to people, trying to avoid either bombastic or understated retellings of how I perceived things in Honduras. But people have been understanding and respectful of what I have experienced, and this has deeply helped my reentry into my home culture.

It is discouraging to see U.S. poverty again. There is a sense that I should understand the powerlessness and pain that is in this country before making any judgments overseas. 

It is encouraging to reenter into a community where I can see people truly seek fellowship with the Jesus of Bethlehem, of Nazareth, of Golgatha. I have people to admire here. I can integrate my experiences in Honduras with the experiences of others, so that we may together walk in discipleship under Christ. We are broken, sorrow-full people, but Christ is here with us and works with us anyway. I thank you for reading, for listening, for passing the time with me on this journey. Pray that I would integrate the thoughts, feelings, and friendships that I have made into the rest of my life with Christ.

Que Dios le bendiga y le guarde,

Adam

Investigaciones

For the past six months I have been researching one step in one law. It is about land rights, and I would like to explain it, but not here. Not now.

Let's talk about how I researched, instead. This investigation has brought me into the offices and board rooms of the powerful, and into the backlots and humble homes of the poor. Some are corrupt, most are victims of corruption. How I have composed myself, shown respect, and conducted interviews with people from different socio-economic backgrounds has been something weighing on my mind ever since I began researching. 

I was in San Pedro Sula for four days, baking in the sun while interviewing community leaders about how their property price was determined, how they were represented in the process, and whether they felt it was a fair price or an injustiprecio. The community members ask me why I am collecting this information. 

“I am investigating this step in the process so that we can eventually present proposals to reform the law.”

This answer does not give anyone clean water, a sewage system, or electricity. But when I walk into a neighborhood with my team, I am given food, coke or gatorade, a hearty welcome, and the title of "lawyer" even though I have no such degree. I feel the meagerness of my research. I hope no one feels that I hustled them into providing information for something that will never actually help their community. 

I am nearly done with my research now. I have put together a paper that diagnoses the problems of one step in one law. Like every other time I have traveled outside the country, I have been given more than I can ever give back.

Un Gol y Dos Puntos

Careening down the sideline, I neared the metallic bed frame that has been reengineered to be a goal, standing slightly cockeyed on the slanted street.

Left foot placed centimeters further out from under my body than is the normal running stride, to support the pendulum swing of the right foot down upon the ball.

CLANG. Pelota meets meta.

Left foot on ground. Right foot in gutter. Shin scraping stone. Arms out in front to catch a body that will not be received with such great hospitality by the Honduran ground.

OHHHHHHH. Silencio from my family members. I get up because I don't want to be the guy that always gets hurt falling into the cuneta. I run after the ball down the street. Pick it up, bring it back, ask the question that makes all other consequences unimportant.

Fue un gol?
Si, fue un gol. ¿Está bien?
Claro.

Look down at the wound, and begin to wonder what to do. It was a goal (Priority number one completed). Now there is a gash in my leg and my blood is taking strategic advantage of this new breach in the epidermis. What is my next course of action?
Give me five minutes. I need to clean this up.

That night: water, coffee, salt, hydrogen peroxide, bandaids, bandaids, bandaids.

The next day: a struggle to decide what to do. It isn´t really bleeding anymore, and the members of my poorer Honduran community are telling me that it´s fine. They would call it good and keep working. I decide to go to the clinic. My North American friends kindly express their solidarity and accompany me.

Voy a darle dos puntos y un antibiótic que peleará contra cualquier infección, says the nurse.
Ok. I say.
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October 2010, Wheaton, IL, USA: Six stitches under left eye due to cut suffered during soccer game. $957. Pray that insurance covers it.

September 2011, Tegucigalpa, Honduras: Two stitches on shin due to cut on suffered during soccer game. $50. Pray to thank God for Louis Pasteur .
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At this point, I could publish a picture showing the wound now, several weeks later. But who wants to see an archipelago of dried blood on a hairy, white leg?

I could also begin to make a short comparative study on health care costs between the US and Honduras. $957 vs. $50. Hmmmm....

Or, I could talk about access to health care among vulnerable urban Hondurans, and the cultural and economic decisíons that made me decide to go to the clinic when my Honduran family would not (could not) have done so if the same happened to them.

But I enjoy knowing that the ball went in the goal. Tie game 3-3.

Formality

Classroom attire at Wheaton has never been a high priority for me. You could probably chalk it up to a combination of frustrations with capitalist advertising and my own confusion with about how to represent myself humbly despite coming from a powerful socio-economic class identity. Some degree of carelessness probably factors in there too.

This carelessness is unheard of among my Honduran friends. That I would have the means to dress with an ironed shirt and unstained jeans, and would yet choose to dress sloppily does not make sense to most Central Americans.

People from my neighborhood have a reputation in Tegucigalpa for being among the poorest and uneducated of all citizens in the Capital. To defy this reputation, people in my community make extra effort to dress smartly. This is particularly important for people around my age. For men, the jeans and shirt are unwrinkled, with special attention given to protecting luminescence of the shoe. Don’t think about leaving the house without hair gel. Women have a wide color range to their wardrobe, and always liberally apply accessories and make-up. Throwing on some kind of fragrance is important for both sexes.

The home may be on its last buckets of water, the tinned roof may have leaks in it, and the lack of a neighborhood sewage system causes mysterious smells to scent the streets, but no one would know this from the way one dresses to work or school. People do not want to carry their poverty with them. I wouldn’t either.

 My academic advisor helped me to see that this actually connects with the fundamental value of property law. People want formality in clothing and in land, because when there is formality, there is recognition. By holding this piece of paper, not only your property is recognized by the Republic of Honduras, but also you’re right to ownership. And this right to possess that which is the fruit of one’s labors must be owned by a human being. It is a human right. Receiving title is receiving recognition that you are a human, and should be treated as such.

We are humans. Children of God. I want to learn the ways to honor that in everyone I meet.

Adán

I extend my hand to a Honduran. ¿Cómo se llama? "What is your name?" I ask.

They respond, then ask me for mine.

Adán.

Upon the statement of my name, exactly 73% of Hondurans follow with a specific question. I will buy an ice cream cone for the first person who can correctly guess which question that is.


I´m looking for an inquiry that, for some reason, Hondurans specifically ask of me. "Where are you from?" "What are you doing here?" or questions of that nature do not qualify.

If necessary, I will give a hint in a couple days.

The Arteries and Veins of My Internship

If my work were to be considered the brain of my internship, and my time with my host-family the heart, my transportation adventures would be the veins and arteries connecting the two together. 

Three types of transportation ferry the citizens of Tegucigalpa from one part of the city to another.  Taxis are the fastest—and most expensive—of the means of transport available to Capitalinos. There seem to be thousands scurrying around the city, honking in inquiry at anything that has two legs and a brain with the slightest possibility of desiring a ride. These are a good choice if you are carrying something valuable or need to get somewhere in particular quickly. But if this is the mode of choice, don’t slam the door. North Americans are infamous for committing this gravest of transport sins. Closing the door with even some briskness qualifies as a transgression that causes many taxistas to fear that a mortal wound has been inflicted upon their car. 

If you want a step down in price and can spare some time, the 30-passenger rapiditos can efficiently carry you from one place to another. Every route I’ve come across costs ten lempiras ($0.50), which is usually paid to the driver immediately before departure. Drivers in these cars are in a hurry, but will usually not abstain from throwing on the hazards and stopping for a pedestrian that is standing between formal stops. 

The cheapest, grittiest, most adventurous choice are the school buses that run the same routes as the rapiditos, but far, far slower. At rush hour, these buses carry up to eighty, aisles filled with two lines of tired, exhausted workers bracing themselves upon the seats or the two handrails bolted to the roof. The steps in the front or the back are not out of bounds (yes, the buseros have carved out another makeshift door toward the rear). 

Fare collectors—nearly always male—push through the crowd, pointing at the passengers, requesting the 3 lempira ($0.15) payment. At the stops they get out to yell the destinations of the bus, ushering potential travelers into the mechanical beasts of burden.

“¡Corranse, corranse, papi!”

“¡Avance, avance, avance, joven!”

The engine groans under the pressures of age and too many people, as if angry with driver, passenger, and fellow vehicle alike. The exhaust spews and every bolted joint creaks upon every acceleration or the slightest application of the brakes.

Sardines we are, in the belly of a tired beast.

Seafood Adventures

A random riddle among my  coworkers recently: What animal has bones outside and meat inside? See the answer above.

There is a market that sits right next to the National Stadium, where venders can sell their fruits, vegetables, fried foods, and even seafood. Apparently, a specimen from the last category caught the eye of one of my host brothers. He brought the crab home and put it in a Tupperware box that clearly was not designed to promote its well-being. One would not expect a cangrejo to survive the confined space, the rice diet, or the constant harassment of a family of four adolescent boys. Such an expectation would be correct. It died after about a week. 

I got these pictures before it died. I’m from a land-bound state with the blessing of mountains but no oceans! Of course I joined in my host-brothers’ fun! 

 The crab’s brethren had their revenge. My first of two bouts of food poisoning was brought about by some malicious shrimp I ate later that day. The wretching twas fierce that night.

Feliz Cumpleaños

Nearly two months ago, I celebrated my 21^st birthday. I was awoken at 6am to a playlist repeating Feliz Cumpleaños with variations of the same arrangement of brass horns, apparently a Honduran tradition. Given that cakes seem to be the love language of Honduran mothers, my own host mother made a cake with typical elaborate frosting, which was promptly destroyed when I followed Honduran tradition and smashed my face into the side of the cake to take the first “bite”. Eggs were cracked upon my head, blessings were bestowed upon me, and I was given an edition of National Geographic en Español and two Snickers bars. Karaoke ensued. These are good people.

Tegucigalpa

After a month and a half of living here, a description of my city and living space is more than overdue.

Tegucigalpa Municipio Distrito Central, is a city of 1.2 million located in the southern portion of Honduras in the department (equivalent of a state) Fransisco Morazan. President Profirio Lobo Sosa directs the country from the Casa Presidencial, but as is custom with all Honduran presidents, his home is located separate from the Executive office. The building for the Congreso Nacional, the legislative body of Honduras, sits in the middle of the city, just west of the central plaza characteristic of all Latin American cities. The mountainous terrain, informal city planning, and lack of resources has left the capital city with few street signs, and arranged as if someone spilled the roads out in a form resembling a pile of spaghetti noodles. 

I live in a poorer neighborhood on the eastern part of the city. Water comes once a week, and the sewage system is basic, as noted in a previous post. Electricity is not a problem, though it occasionally goes out for up to an hour. While I must stay very aware of my surroundings when I walk around the various parts of my area, my immediate street is secure.

I live with a family made up of two parents in their late thirties and five kids. Four boys and a young girl, all between the ages of 8 and 15. My host father is an artist, working in an area of the dining room/kitchen space set aside as his studio. My host mother works tirelessly around the house. The younger three kids attend a private elementary school, while the older two boys attend the equivalent of a high school. I have found myself connecting most easily with the youngest two kids, playing games and joking with them in ways that the older three boys simply do not react due to their awkward entry into adolescence. Already I have had good conversations with my host father about matters of faith and politics.  

I hope this family realizes how much I prize their generosity. Pray that I would find ways to show them how much their hospitality means to me.

28/6/2009

Two years ago yesterday, then-president Manuel Zelaya was taken from his home, put on a plane, and flown out of Honduras as the military temporarily took control of the government. An interim president served until the election of current president Porfirio Lobo Sosa in November of the same year.

Was this a coup? Depends on who you ask.

Manuel Zelaya was part of the Partido Liberal de Honduras, a left-of-center political party that enjoyed the following of most poorer urbanites and rural folks. For a number of reasons, Zelaya was probing the political waters for the purpose of extending presidential term limits. The Constitution of Honduras says a president can only serve one term of four years. The Constitution also references that any president trying to change the Constitution can be formally impeached by an order from the Supreme Court of Honduras.

Manuel Zelaya had not officially moved to change the constitution when he was removed from the country. Instead, he was simply proposing a referendum that would allow any citizen of Honduras the ability to change the constitution. Very fishy, everyone said. Zelaya must have that term limit article on his brain.

Thus, the Supreme Court condemned the measure, and sent the military to remove Zelaya from the country. This was not exactly the way the Constitution had defined the proceedings for impeachment.

People who say that it was a coup that violated Honduran democracy are part of the Resistencia (the Resistance). These former Liberal Party supporters do not view current President Lobo as legitimate and maintain loyalty to Zelaya. People who may or may not have supported the removal of Zelaya, but who perceive President Lobo's administration as legitimate are called Golpistas (Coup-ists).

A month ago, an agreement was signed between President Lobo and ex-President Zelaya that allowed the latter to return to the country. When he did, a giant rally was held at the airport here in Tegucigalpa to welcome him home.

Several people have told me that Honduras has a new political conscience, one that does not so trust the words of any one leader. Any democracy that bases political success upon the debate of the issues, not the personalities of the politicians, has acquired a new degree of health. How difficult this is in our current media-inundated society!!!

Anyone who has a different read on the Honduras political crisis let me know. I, like every other person, is still trying to define what happened two years ago.

Con Todo de lo que Tengo

I think that should mean "With everything I have," but I'm not 100% sure that it is grammatically correct. Feelings like this have defined my first month here: the uncertainty of correct expression, the frustration of inarticulate speech, the foolishness attendant with mistaken Spanish.

My first week here was an experience of dismay at my own deficiency in the language. It was similar to that experience you feel when that headache or broken bone first begins to hurt, casting a pall over every action you take. Maybe it is the healing process, or maybe it is simply you becoming accustomed to the pain, but the acuteness of the ache seems to dissipate.

Same with my Spanish abilities. I think I'm getting better, but it is difficult to tell. I am used to allowing the chatter around the house flow over my ears when I am tired of listening. I now understand how heavily my Spanish is accented and how much I still need to learn. I also have a new appreciation for my friends who have traveled outside the U.S. to learn a language, as well as my friends who have traveled to the U.S. to learn English. It is tough.

Right now, I am just trying to put my head down and climb the mountain of language proficiency without getting exasperated by altitude or false summits. I'm giving it all I got, at least I think so.

Henri Nouwen says to me and all who have or will go through this process, "When we become aware that our stuttering, failing, vulnerable selves are loved even when we hardly progress, we can let go of our compulsion to prove ourselves and be free to live with others in a fellowship of a weak." (Gracias pg.17)

So easy to say. So difficult to truly internalize.

Dios les bendiga, y espero que Dios me bendiga, también.

Our Land

Today, I formally began work with the Land Rights team. I share a cubicle with a community organizer and a lawyer. My coworkers organize and advocate on behalf of people who have not been legally recognized for owning their home. When a family does not have a property title, they are set up for exploitation by a number of different political powers. With proper titling, homeowners feel more security to invest in the development and construction of their home, while having the opportunity to use their home as collateral for gaining much needed loans.

Everyone is extremely hardworking at this office. The next two weeks will be spent carefully reading property laws and policy documents surrounding the Honduran property law system. From there, I will begin work on a research investigation within the realm of property law.

I read Steinbecks Grapes of Wrath back in January, and it has to be in my top 5 favorites. This passage resounds with truth, and I think it is fitting for the beginning of my internship that I share it with you.

----Funny how it is. If a man owns a little property, that property is him, it’s part of him, and it’s like him. If he owns property only so he can walk on it and handle it and be sad when it isn’t doing well, and feel fine when the rain falls on it, that property is him, and some way he’s bigger because he owns it. Even if he isn’t successful he’s big with his property. That is so.

But let a man get property he doesn’t see, or can’t take time to get his fingers in, or can’t be there to walk on it—why, then the property is the man. He can’t do what he wants, he can’t think what he wants. The property is the man, stronger than he is. And he is small, not big. Only his possessions are big—and he’s the servant of his property. That is so, too.----
--Steinbeck, pg 37.

The relationship between what we own and who we are is significant. We impress our identity onto tangible objects(e.g. a wedding ring, house), and I think that is ok--if done with sacred rarity. Christ did the same in the Upper Room with the bread and wine.

That, and a host of other reasons, is why I think the work that this Land Rights team is important.

I would love to hear your thoughts.

Osama's Shoes

I'm having a good time playing soccer with the boys in the neighborhood. We play in a narrow street with stone walls and house as boundaries, so the play is often interrupted by cars, motos, or pedistrians. A sewage lane runs down one side of the street, filled with trash, water, and other mysterious material. We make extra effort not to put the ball in the cuneta.

Sometimes, the parents watch the game, chatting to each other and making an occassional comment about the fútbol. Usually I focus on the play, just so I can keep up with all of the other muchachos. I had to stop and laugh when one of the mothers declared that there was something different about the shoes I was wearing. "Los zapatos de Osama! (Osama's shoes)," she announced. I later told her that I had stolen them from Bin Laden himself.

Just an interesting story about how a Latin American views a North American clothing item. I would guess that her view is probably influenced by North American presentations of Middle Eastern clothing. I wonder: How does a Honduran perceive the Middle East, and how has this been affected by the U.S. media?

Honduras

In 1502, a European named Columbus arrived on the mainland Central American coast and called the land he stood upon Honduras. This name, "depths," was meant to commemorate the deep waters off the coast.

I arrived here yesterday. With skin conditioned to the gray Chicago Spring and Spanish stumbling out of my mouth, I walked into the humid Honduran sun and into a taxi provided by the organization that I will be working with the next six months. I will be interning under Asociación para una Sociedad Mas Justa, an organization that provides legal support and advocacy in the areas of labor, land, and domestic abuse.

I will delve into the deep waters of my life here in future posts, but for this introductory post, I simply want to note my arrival. Hopefully this blog will have equal narration of what I'm thinking about and feeling. The connection of human well-being with land will probably emerge as a frequent topic, since it is the subject of my study and the focus of the legal team that I will join in a couple weeks. Income inequality and access to resources will assuredly come up. Of course, hearing my ups-and-downs as I learn Spanish will also be something to look forward to as well.

One final word: I will try my best to avoid a narcissitic, twitterish presentation in these blogs. I like stories and you like stories, and I want to share my experiences with you, but don't worry, I won't be talking about how I brushed by teeth this morning. Life goes on for all of you, so please keep me updated regarding your happenings as well. This is a journey that I do not embark on alone, but with all of you on my mind and heart.