Its Always Sunny in El Salvador

It only took 15 months to see my first dead bodies. On the side of the road in Perulapia just north of sunny San Martín, the crime tape and police cars slowed the pace of of my bus barreling towards Suchitoto, and home. The neighborhood was gathered to identify what I am sure was their prima, tía, hermana, madre, o hija. The bodies of two women lay 20 meters apart, out in the open, covered in blood, their positions leaving much to the imagination of the spectator as to what their final moments entailed. To my left and to my right were passengers unaffected by the display. There were no exclamations of surprise, no quiet sobs, no whispered conversations about the tragedy that we happened upon on a breezy sunday afternoon. (Reminding me I still have much to learn about this complicated culture.)

My mind was racing, I was searching, unsuccessfully, for consolation in the eyes of a fellow traveler. Why don't they cover the bodies? Were their souls floating above their bodies observing the aftermath, feeling violated and vulnerable? Where were their mothers in that crowd? I pictured their mothers on their knees crying, harder than they could breathe.

Were they on their way to the tienda to buy some quesillo to make pupusas for dinner? Were they gastar-ing bienvenido saldo with a family member sharing the latest chambre? When they stepped out of their houses moments before, what was on their minds? What burdens were they living with? What enemies were they avoiding? What matters did they leave unsettled? What was the last thing that made them laugh?

Shock. It is a moment when your body and mind are overwhelmed and your system is on standby. El Salvador introduced me to shock as well as what follows- adrenaline and collapse. I experienced shock as an adolescent, however, I understand shock differently as an adult. Overwhelming vulnerability. I went numb, then I wanted to know why; I wanted all the answers. Finally, kilometers later, I collapsed into quiet sobs and sadness.

I had tried to turn away so that the images would not permeate my memory, but when I turned back I was surprised by the second body. She was a daughter, just like me. I thought of my own mother experiencing the tragedy. We forget that life is so incredibly fragile. “Ojala,” “primero a dios,” and “si dios me permite,” are beautiful phrases that help to remind me every moment of every day that nothing is concrete. We come from a society that assumes that tomorrow will arrive. We procrastinate, we take people for granted, and we hold onto painful grudges.

So maybe we should call our family now instead of tomorrow, confront the burdens we are living with, stop avoiding our enemies and overcome our pride. What matters in our lives are currently unsettled? Stop to remember the last thing that made you laugh.

At times tragedy and injustice will shock us to our core. Both sorrow and joy are deeply connected to the ability to empathize with our fellow human beings. So while it can be painful, empathy also allows us to feel great joy. Life in El Salvador can wear you down. The emotional rollercoaster is exhausting. But I encourage you to fight the desensitization, so that you can still be overcome by joy. So that after your tears have fallen, you will still be able to smile and eventually you will again laugh harder than you can breathe.

Keep Spreading the Love Around

Chels