lágrimas

I was immediately drawn to the joyful baby in the room. He was the only person younger than me, and he drew attention in his own right with his energetic and bubbly personality. He started giggling at me as I poked his chubby cheeks and told his mother how adorable he was. I gestured to her that I wanted to hold him, and as she handed him over she joked that she wanted me to take my new “novio” (boyfriend) to the US with me when I leave. Everyone started laughing and got a big kick out of how much I enjoyed holding my “novio” and making him laugh with silly faces.

One would never have guessed that this group of 15 individuals were arranging flowers for the burial of their relatives, murdered by the government 25 years ago. 92 brilliant bouquets.

Three days later, in Putis, I watched in despair as she stood over the casket of her relative, still carrying her precious baby boy. Her eyes filled with tears, and they spilled over onto her face. I felt mine fill as well, but I tried desperately to hold them back. I didn’t feel worthy enough to cry, to join in this pain. I knew that I could feel only the tip of the iceberg of what this woman and so many Peruvians feel.

I carried a casket for the first time in my life. 92 white caskets, some marked with names, but most bearing codes. C90. C91. C92. They didn’t weigh much. Many were children. All are now bones, fragments of a person.

As the ceremony drew to a close, an older woman took the microphone and began speaking forcefully in Quechua. She grew more and more agitated, her voice growing huskier, her words dissolving into tears, and then into deep sobs. Someone near me translated, “We are innocent! The government did this to us!” The woman started yelling, sobbing, screaming, “JUSTICIA! JUSTICIA! JUSTICIA!”

I stood at the bottom of the hill watching the caskets being carried to their final resting place. Everyone was crying, many near hysteria. “What can I do to help?” I kept asking. “Acompáñales” was the reply – accompany them, be with them.

I felt completely helpless. I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. I stood there and cried. I cried for the baby boy and his mother, I cried for the woman begging for justice, I cried for the young woman who was sexually abused by soldiers for three days in prison, I cried for the children in the 92 caskets in front of me, I cried for the relatives who are still searching for C79, C26, C43 … The LAGRIMAS (tears) wouldn’t stop.

A woman came up and embraced me as I cried, saying, “Gracias por amarnos” … “Thank you for loving us.”

I have done a lot of crying in the last 3 months. But this weekend, my tears were converted from self-centered longing for home, to tears of empathy for the suffering people around me. Thank God. Don’t get me wrong, I still called Luke sobbing when I got back to my hotel that night, exhausted and frustrated and emotionally fried after 3 long days of ceremonies for the victims of Putis. But I can feel God working in my heart the longer I stay here. He is opening my eyes to see those around me, and He is giving me more and more love for them in their suffering. May He continue that process in all of our lives. Even when it causes us many lágrimas.