| February 5, 2005 |
Well, THIS was a memorable day. From the itinerary, I knew it would be, but I had no way of knowing just how memorable.
The day began with a visit to the home of Archbishop Oscar Romero and the chapel where he was assassinated in 1980 for his activism on behalf of the poor. His home is on the grounds of a small hospice, a mission of Carmelite Sisters. The Archbishop was assassinated while celebrating mass; it is a powerful emotional experience to stand at the altar where this man of peace was murdered. Throughout the trip, we saw Romero’s image everywhere on everything from murals to T-shirts. The narrative was tragic but the narrator was transcendent; Sister Bernadeta provided the description of Romero’s life and death. A tiny soft-spoken woman, she left a deep impression on all of us. She was a woman radiant with faith, and she emanated grace. When she told us that Romero is being considered for sainthood by the Vatican, she said that the people of El Salvador do not need the official beautification, that they know he is a saint. “And we are happy,” she said simply, and smiled.
Our next “stop” (literally) was the American Embassy. I got my camera ready as I thought the group might enjoy having a photo of the United States flag against the Salvadoran blue sky. We left the main highway and entered the divided boulevard which took us to the Embassy. We took the circle at the end of the boulevard and returned so we could get a good view of the Embassy. The Embassy itself is bunker-like, highly fortified behind thick walls of concrete. I was up front in my usual seat, talking to Herman and Dr. Lauren, chatting while attempting to take the photo of the Embassy building with the U.S. flag from a rapidly moving bus. The first photo was terrible, so I patiently waited until the flag was nearing the center of the viewfinder, timed myself for that brief digital delay, and snapped. I got it; it wasn’t a great shot but considering the circumstances, I was pleased.
Suddenly, an armed Salvadoran guard stepped off the sidewalk in front of the Embassy and in front of our bus, motioning for Herman to stop. Eleanor got out to talk to him. I watched her in conversation with this very serious guard, and I thought: “I really want a photo of this.” I realized my camera was still on. The bus had a small window just about level with my lap and I angled the camera, and with only a slight movement, I took my shot, shut off the camera, and waited with everyone else.
Eleanor stepped back on the bus. “He wants to know who took a photo of the Embassy as we drove by,” she announced and pointed me out to the guard explaining I was the group photographer. She then asked me to step outside and bring my camera. My heart did a funny little jump and I thought of that Indiana Jones line, I have a bad feeling about this. I turned and looked at the volunteers who were all smiling their encouragement. In a small show of bravado, I crossed myself, they laughed, and I stepped off.
The guard was stocky, shorter than I, and wearing reflective aviator sunglasses. He held a large gun strapped against his chest. He didn’t smile and spoke only in short demanding sentences.
Throughout the entire exchange, Eleanor never stopped smiling and never lost her cool. “He wants to know how many photos you took,” Eleanor said and in the same tone she serenely said to tell him “one.” Dutifully, I held up one finger, smiled, and said “uno.” I brought the camera up close to my chest, and with one quick motion turned it on and flicked the arrow key to try and pull up the photo of the flag; not the one I’d taken of Eleanor and the Guard. Up came my shot of the flag. I turned the camera to him and pointed to the viewfinder; how many times had I done that during this brigade, showing little children their photo! How different I felt this time! My brain was churning; I was hoping I hadn’t done anything that might jeopardize the group and our work and knew if this took much longer, we’d have little time left for our visit to the UCA.
Questions continued. The three of us stood, a silent triptych of various emotions; Eleanor, calm and appeasing, the guard, unsmiling and unyielding, and I with my conflicting emotions, angry at the guard but trying not to show it, nervous and wanting to somehow file a protest to the Embassy. The camera, a Canon SureShot, is a great camera but an older model that had been through a week of dirt, dust, and constant on and off use. So when the guard asked me to erase the photo of the American flag and the Embassy, wouldn’t you know it – the camera got stuck. Dale stepped off the bus in an effort to help. We pressed every button on the camera trying to erase the photos on the card, but no response. Then I had an idea. “Eleanor, tell him I will give him the card from my camera.” I took the camera back from Dale, ejected the card, and held it out to the guard.
The guard is stone faced, and I see myself reflected in his sunglasses, holding out my peace token. He finally takes the card, turning it over and over in his hand. He is still thinking about it when another armed guard shows up, asks what is going on, and hears the whole story. At one point Eleanor says: “Oh, por favor, Senor,” and points to her watch, obviously saying we are going to be late for our next appointment. She then gestures at the card as if to say: 'You have the photo and you can see it was innocent. Can’t you just let us apologize and be done with it?’
Eleanor steps back on the bus. “He wants our papers, hand me your passports.” They are presented to the guard, who says something and points to me. Eleanor gets back on the bus, returns everyone’s passport and says that he only wants the passport of the woman who took the photograph. I hand over my passport; Eleanor and Herman hand over their driver’s licenses. Now I really am nervous, and any passing thought of being assertive disappears as my passport leaves my hand. I make a conscious decision to change my body language; from here on out, I will not look at the guard unless he speaks to me.
I will make myself non-threatening and small (a challenge, since he was shorter than I), and I will not smile or look at the people on the bus. Guard #2 asked a number of question but I got a better feeling from him; he nodded and actively listened. Guard #1 just kept staring at me. After answering more questions, Eleanor gets back on the bus – still smiling. Guard #2 is going to take down some information and them we can leave. I apologized to the group; I thought they might be irritated that I had caused this delay. Not the case; they, too, were angry and more than a bit shocked by the whole thing. One person commented that the guard was probably told to do this or he would lose his job, someone else said: “Those are your tax dollars at work folks, your money is paying for that building and that guard and this little scene of intimidation.”
While standing in the bus vestibule, I glance down to see Burton writing furiously in his journal. I see my name, and gently move his fingers aside to see that he has written something like “Marlene’s name is probably now on a terrorist hit list.” Burton and I look at each other, half laughing and half wondering if it’s true. He whispers that when this is all over he has something to tell me. I promise to remind him.
Finally, after forty-five minutes and with pats on the back from the group I retook my seat next to Herman, my now card-less camera sitting silently on my lap. Dr. Lauren asked me to hold out my hands to see if I was shaking. My hands were steady although my mind was buzzing; with anger, relief at having my passport, and a sense of shock that of the nearly 1,000 photos taken on the trip, the only one to cause trouble was one of my own flag.
The next stop was a museum on the campus of the Jesuit-run University of Central America. On November 16, 1989 the President of the university, five fellow Jesuits, and the daughter and wife of a university gardener were assassinated by the government military. Their bodies were then dragged out to the lawn and symbolically shot again and again. We visited their home and the lawn that the gardener made into a rose garden of peace in honor of his daughter and wife and the others who were murdered. A small museum includes many artifacts of this massacre and many others that reflect the sad history of a war that took the lives of more than 75,000 Salvadoran.
While waiting in the lobby, we hear someone from the second floor call Margaret Jane’s name. It is one of the surviving priests, delighted to see his old friend. I don’t think I was the only one who got chills.
We spent the afternoon shopping and then had dinner at the mission base house. After dinner, Burton finally gets a chance to tell me what he wanted to say on the bus at the Embassy. It seems I was not the only one who took photos. His daughter Kari, who has been a fabulous interpreter for her mom all week, had the family camera and shot a video of the Embassy. Since my card may never be returned, Burton promises he will get me Kari’s video.
By the time I went to bed I was truly exhausted.
| An update: true to her word, Kari sent me her video a few weeks after we came home. It is brief, only six frames; I am delighted to have it. This frame looks very much like the photo that I lost, and it now hangs in my office. |  |