I Believe in the Streets

I was quite shocked at how busy my schedule remained my last year at Furman. The time I anticipated spending in "Traveler's Rest" involved little travel and no rest. Therefore, I sought out other spaces to use for reflection. They were not frequent, but the few times I had available, I spent with the Lilly Center. The Lilly Center for Vocational Reflection led two retreats I was able to attend. One at Mepkin Abbey to a monastery in Charleston, and the other in North Carolina modeled after NPR's series, "This I Believe."

The following is the essay written one weekend with Lilly:


I believe in the streets. I believe in their power, their healing, and their sanctification. I believe in the holy act of civil disobedience.
Yes, the streets are a political platform to advocate for the oppressed. But, I am an echo, not their voice. Just as I fight against public injustice, I am fighting for my own self-preservation.

I have to fight for peace of mind – the right to use the streets for political change and a private peace. It is only in the streets that I can translate this anger and this sadness into a prophetic witness. Into joy. Into hope. The streets save me from being lost in translation.

Just as I believe in the transformative power of the streets, I believe in one date in particular – November 21. You will find me at the gates of Fort Benning. I am holding a cross that bears the name of a woman killed in the massacre of El Mozote.
November 3, three weeks before the School of the Americas protest, I am touring the work of their graduates. 800 civilians dead. Our group is walking now. We carry our books for class and our cameras. To our left is the new church. The old one was used to burn children alive. We turn.

We walk to the house where the women were held before being lined up and shot. This? This is the tree that the only survivor of the massacre hid behind. And that? That is the riverbed she laid in before she could escape the 26 soldiers of the Actlatal Battalion.

November21. What am I doing here?
I am looking for other believers.


I am being photographed. I am being watched by soldiers stationed at even intervals around us. While they line the streets, a helicopters hovers over us.
How did I get here? I am a kid from the suburbs. While I stay on the streets for three days, my beautiful family waits nicely behind in our gated community appropriately named … The Enclave. In the Enclave, there is only room for whispers of social justice. I can drink fair trade coffee and try to buy clothes not made in a sweatshop. But, I have read the sign, NO soliciting! Dissent will not be tolerated. There will be no call to arms within gated communities.

With three years in the streets on November 21, this I have learned. I am called to exile. To leave the gated community and suburbs and head to the streets. There, we will find room for truth and justice. Not whispers, but shouts. There I can lay my cross alongside thousands of others at the gates.

Why am I here? Because 19 of the 26 soldiers of the Atlactal Battalion were trained at the School of the Americas in Columbus, Georgia. Because my country sent billions of dollars to a tiny country in Central America to fight a dirty war against civilians. Because in the streets, my life has integrity.

This I believe. There is truth to be found behind barricades and between police officers.







Memorial to the victims of the El Mozote massacre, El Salvador



The new school beside where the old school once was


The names of the children are listed below the mural



The destroyed home where the women of El Mozote were kept still shows bullet holes

School of the Americas Protest, November 19-21, hosted by School of the Americas Watch:




"presente"


Gates of Fort Benning after the November 21 Memorial Service


Rufina Amaya, the only survivor of El Mozote


Father Jon Sobrino, the only survivor of the Jesuit Massacre in El Salvador at the UCA carries a cross for Ignacio Ellacuria at Fort Benning. This was the first time Father Sobrino attended the vigil since his brothers were killed on November 21, 1989.

For more information, please see Mark Danner's "The Massacre at El Mozote"

8 a.m. War Call

As part of the Vista House community, we all share our narratives during the year. In the process of attempting to articulate my story & theology, I wrote the following prayer:

I am deliberately writing this out - pen to paper, heart to soul. As a daughter of privilege, seeking to follow my Father to His crucified people - this is my only connection - the contact point inside my head. My people, my fragile and beautiful friend group - my tribe cannot handle this. I can barely handle this.

God, give me peace of mind. Peace of Spirit. Trust.
Let me trust my community.
Let me be confidant in my story of faith, in my testimony. - that I have found You in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. that you did not find me in Bible studies and white suburban churches. I don't want to look for you there, because if there - you would be the predictability I was resisting. You did not fit nicely in between the American dream of 3 kids, a Volvo and a gated community.

Lord, give me peace. Give me righteous anger, but take away this rage.

I have more peace of mind abroad, in the face of extremes, than here. There, I can exhale and trust you. I know I am in the Kingdom of God. But, here - am I strong enough to fight my own head? Take this morning- I woke alone a little before 7 to shower and prepare to lead Morning Prayer. I turned on Al Jazeera for the morning news. Listening from afar, I heard news of a sniper and immediately thought Sarajevo. I looked to see if I recognized the buildings, the neighborhood - kinda. Sure enough, and to my dismay, it was BiH. At least abroad, I am braced, ready for the 2 extreme worlds. But, here, it is the subtlety that is alarming - I am not just a 22-year-old getting ready one Tuesday morning. I am shocked when I complete my outfit with a scarf, and realize, I have put on Sarajevo. I am wearing her. This is intimate. This is a lifestyle.

I am trying to process the thoughts and feelings of seeing Sniper Alley, people running for water - for their life. Srebrenica. These violent thoughts follow me down the stairs and into the kitchen. As I make coffee, I think - you don't know me. You cannot possibly want in my head. It's barely 8 am, and I've already been to war.