La Memoria Vive

When I first came to Centro Arte para la Paz, I noticed the phrase "la memoria vive" kept popping up. "The Memory Lives." This is the name of a large sculpture in the Center, as well as the name of the museum that opened my first week here. "Huh," I thought to myself, "that sounds poetic... I like that." However, as I spend more and more time in El Salvador, I have come to realize just how true a phrase this is, how aptly it describes this country.

Living with Rosa has exposed me to several Salvadoran customs, and she has been generous enough to include me in her family's celebrations. The first event I attended with her family was All Souls Day. This is a HUGE day in El Salvador. Everyone goes to the cemeteries together, to paint loved ones' graves and to decorate them with flowers. When I say everyone, I really mean everyone. The entire town of Suchitoto, and many people from the surrounding communities, had come to the cemetery to celebrate and give remembrance to those beloved who had departed. Every year people do this, turning each tomb into a piece of artwork.

Rosa, Korla, Jhoana (Rosa's niece) and I left early to meet up with Rosa's mother (Doña Cruz) and one of her nephews, Samuel. Together we walked to the cemetery, the steady stream of people growing as we came closer, swelling into a river of people carrying flowers, cans of paint, brushes, and other supplies to decorate the graves. The vendors of flowers (which came in bunches, crosses, and wreathes) became more numerous and more vocal as the entrance came into sight. Laden with our own flowers, we joined the mass of people walking into a cemetery in a festive mood. This, to the extranjera's (foreigner's) eyes, seemed to be a strange juxtaposition. However, once we passed the entrance, I saw how beautiful a day this really was. The graves gleamed, each with fresh coats of paint, people draping flowers on the resting places of loved ones, turning what I normally imagine as a dreary, lonesome place into a place full of life and great splashes of color.

With Rosa, Doña Cruz, Korla, Jhoana and Samuel, I visited Rosa's grandparents, her great-grandparents, her great aunt and uncle, and a memorial for those killed in the Copapayo Massacre in 1983. Rosa's family is from Copapayo, so I thought we were paying tribute for those of her town who had fallen. On this memorial, a plaque with all the names and ages of those who had died. As we began decorating, Rosa pointed out two names next to each other, Claudio and Marisol. "This is my brother and my sister," she told me. Next, she pointed out a list of ten names, with the ages of 16 - 7. "And these are my cousins," she said, before placing and arranging flowers upon the grave. I watched as she and her mother  tenderly decorated this memorial, celebrating the memory of family who had died in such a horrible event. It was incredibly beautiful and touching, doubly so because they had been generous enough to share it with me.

Just this past weekend, I was invited by Rosa to go with her to Copapayo for the anniversary of the massacre. On Saturday, after work, we hopped on a bus to get to her community. One has never truly ridden a bus until one has ridden a bus in El Salvador. The doors remain open, people crowd in and jump off, and music is played throughout the ride. We were lucky enough to be treated to an 80's mix, and one has not relived the 80s in music until one has heard it in Spanish. Total Eclipse of the Heart. Lady in Red. Ghostbusters. Yup, we rocked out to Ghostbusters on a bus in El Salvador. Be jealous.

Upon reaching Copapayo, I was introduced to the rest of Rosa's family - her sisters and brothers, her mountain of nieces and nephews, and her father, who told me not to be fooled by his aged appearance but that he was actually another nephew. So I called him "Sobrino" for the rest of my stay. After being warmly greeted, I was immediately sat down by the family in order to eat some dinner. I was provided with pupusas, café, tamales, and (of course) beans. While eating this sumptuous meal (and marveling at the fact I could be eating while chickens, pigs, ducks, and dogs roamed freely about), Doña Cruz brought forth her daughter Marisol (who is my age) and proudly announced that her daughter had cooked all of the food before us. She then turned to me and said, "You need to stay for longer. We need to teach you how to make pupusas. And tamales. Then, you can be ready to marry!" I thanked her for the offer, but told her I needed to return to the Center because Sister Peggy needed me to give classes. She waved this off. "Don't worry," she said. "I will call her and let her know that you are giving ME classes. Then you can stay!" It took some convincing, but it was eventually decided that I would return to stay for an entire weekend, and learn to make pupusas. Watch out, Mom and Dad. When I come home for Christmas, I may be deemed "ready to marry" by my Salvadoran mother.

By the time Rosa and I had finished eating, it was time to head over to the vigil. We bundled up (I think I now have Salvadoran blood - anything below 70 is freezing), and headed to where the mass would be held. An altar had been set up, with the names of all those who died in this community behind it. Community members provided the music, and the homily was comprised of people's testimonies of the event and of people sharing their thoughts. This included Ramón la Suisa, a Swiss who fought on the side of the guerillas during the war. He is absolutely adored by the town of Copapayo. He was kicked out of the country for being illegal three times, but returned each time smuggled in a pick up truck. Now that El Salvador has an FMLN president, Ramón has been given pardon, and is now a citizen of El Salvador. So it was interesting to hear the thoughts of someone who was not Salvadoran, per se, but had really made the country his own, had believed enough in the cause of the guerillas to leave his home country and fight. Not the homily I was expecting, but it was incredibly beautiful to see people sharing this common pain, being there to share it even almost thirty years after it happened. After the mass, the altar space was taken up with musicians to play a concert for the rest of the night.

La Memoria Vive. The Memory Lives. Here, it seems as if everything is steeped in memory. The memory lives because the people refuse to forget.