What does solidarity mean to me?

So here are some reflections of solidarity. I can´t promise they are all coherent but it´s what I have right now. They have grown and changed these past months and will surely continue to change in the next few, so take this with that in mind.

What does solidarity mean to me? This question has changed and grown so much in the past 3 months. Before coming to El Salvador I felt I had a pretty good grasp and understanding of solidarity. I understood what it meant theologically and in practice…kind of. I just went back and pulled out a theology paper from last semester where I wrote, “Solidarity with the oppressed has lead to a deeper sense of commitment to them.” While this really has not changed it certainly can not begin to encapsulate what I have experienced this semester. It wasn’t until really experiencing praxis that my conception and understanding of solidarity began to change and take the shape it holds today. I also want to be completely honest that I doubt my understanding of solidarity today will be the same as tomorrow and weeks from now.
I truly want to live a life of solidarity. As my mind is skipping ahead to this summer and next fall I am worried I will somehow not be able to fulfill this desire. Last week I was talking with my dad about this very thing. We were talking about the challenge of living a life of solidarity outside of a regular praxis experience. It is so easy to feel removed from the struggle for justice when you are not face to face with it everyday. Before coming to El Salvador I had been on immersion trips and had experiences that opened my eyes to struggles for justice and helped me feel a sense of solidarity. Last fall I had the opportunity to sing the names of the dead at the SOA protest at Ft. Benning, Georgia. As I stood on the main stage in front of thousands of people, I was not scared, like I imagined I would be. Instead, I felt a deep sense of solidarity with the people I was walking with and with the people whom I was naming. Most of the names were, “unnamed child of Bohaya-Choco, Colombia.” These nameless children will never leave me, and more than once while in El Salvador my heart has gone out to the many nameless and forgotten children I have met.
The children I have met have found a place in my heart far deeper than I ever imagined. For me solidarity is about relationship. It is so hard to really feel solidarity when you do not feel a sense of relationship with the people you are in solidarity with. My relationships with children have been my primary source of hope and rejuvenation. There is something about a child that is so vulnerable, trusting, and innocent that helps me be the same way. More than once I have felt awkward or insecure about my language abilities and the children I am around have made me feel relaxed and able to communicate. I feel like they do not care how well I can speak, but are just happy to have me around. My relationships with Salvadoran adults have been another story. Sometimes I have felt like conversations with adults have ulterior motives or they do not have the patience to really build friendships. This has been disappointing, but I am so grateful for friendships I have made with kids.
My thoughts and feelings about my week in the campo have been unfolding over the past two weeks and it has now turned into one of the most blessed times here in El Salvador. The family we stayed with was full of kids. One girl especially stole my heart—Reina Isabel. We played for hours, laughed so much, and ate way too many mangos. Her older brother Santos and I also became close friends that week. He was really the first young Salvadoran man I was able to get close to. We spent so much time together walking and talking and the whole time we were able to just be ourselves and share that together.
If I had been thrown into the campo experience three months ago I would have never had the same experience and I can now see how much I have grown since that first weekend I spent in Tepecoyo. The friendships I have made here put faces and feelings with struggles. When I go protest at the SOA next fall, assuming it is not closed down, I will there for my friends who cannot. Solidarity through praxis has put humanity back into a people who have been forgotten and dehumanized. This experience is especially true of Salvadorans, and the frightening thing is that there are forgotten and dehumanized people all over the world. From this sense of solidarity I am developing a sense of responsibility that has come from my experience here and because of my relationships; where will this responsibility lead me next?

Life in the campo!

Massacre at the Rio Sumpul










The little girl that broke my heart








Biggest cactus I've ever seen, at sunset

Roosters actually roost...in the trees!

Last week in the campo I had my heart broken by an eight year old girl named Reina Isabel. I really fell in love with the family I stayed with. There were 9 kids in the family, some in and some already out of the house, but we were able to meet all of them. The house we stayed in was constructed of Adobe, had no electricity and was also inhabited by a number of friendly critters. The bats were creepy, but to their credit I think they munched on a lot of the mosquitoes, more than us anyway. The father of the family was nearly impossible to understand. Not only did he speak with a lot of slang but he also was missing most of his teeth. Just about every morning we conversed with the father, usually about religion. The first day were got there he sat us down and asked us if we had been to confession lately. Most of our conversations turned into awkward laughter. The mother of the house spent most of time grinding corn and making tortillas. We walked everywhere. The first day we walked from Los Posos to Nueva Trinidad, which is a 1.5 hour walk, for a 20 minute meeting, and then walked back home. We also swam in the Rio Sumpul, site of one of the most brutal massacres during the war. It is told that so many were killed that the river ran red with the blood of women, men, and children. It was surreal to be swimming and playing in that sacred river. I ate about 5 mangos everyday. I love mangos. There really are just too many stories. Last week will live with me forever, and I hope I never forget the taste of ripe mango, the innocence of children at play, the feel of massa in my hands, the smell of farm animals, the feeling of sticky mango hands clasped together with mine, the feeling of exhaustion after hours of walking, the sound of Salvadoran hymns at church, the taste of ice cream when you really just need it, and more than anything a life of simple joy.