Scattered by the thick woven clouds the morning sun washed
the narrow streets with a dim fluorescence that accentuated the green in
everything. I walked with Brother Junipero and three “Vocationals” through the
jutting produce stands, parked cars, and motor carts of the market. In Ciudad
Del Este I stayed at the brothers’ house in a quiet neighbor. It was only two
miles away from the sisters’ house, in the industrial and commercial section.
The order tries to keep the houses as close to each other as possible and still
near the poorer areas of whatever city they reside. It is not always the case
because of various reasons, but I have seen a good effort to optimize each
location to their work.
Two nights before, I helped distribute bread and juice with
the Fraternity to the shanty towns along the outer roads. In each city at least
once a week the lay members and religious assemble for a “street mission” to go
to the poor, in Paraguay they focus on the indigenous. The natives Guarani or
“indigenous”, as they are called by other Paraguayans, live traditionally in the
northwest region of this small and poor nation. Some seek a more modern life
which is difficult as the more Spanish influenced people both celebrates and
isolates their own native culture. It is a strange paradox that leaves the
Guarani alienated and at times exploded in the larger industrialized
cities.
In Ciudad Del Este Paraguay five days a week a lunch is
provided at the home of the sisters for any who are hungry. Men, women, and
children wait at the gates around noon, and are welcomed in carefully as the
Brothers send in small groups to sit and eat a preset meal of soup de Paraguay,
a hard potato like root called mandioca, and bread. Today we are the kitchen
crew and set to arrive around 9:30 AM.
We are greeted by Sister Veronica and have a small breakfast
in the dining room. After breakfast we walk into a part of the house that looks
to be a haste addition. It is a white walled room cut into a kitchen and a
dining room by a wood framed wall paneled to face the dinning space and exposed
in the kitchen. The room is heavy with the smell of fat, salt, and plywood
which changes balance as we walk farther away from the small closed off kitchen
and into the larger dinning space. It holds three long tables with the capacity
for ten people each and an over flow with 12 chairs with no table in an L shape
along the wall. The back wall is painted with the logo of the Fraternity and
cartoony caricatures of the poor, the religious, and the associates add color
to the dimly lit refectory.
I opened a wide and short door into the courtyard and
remembered seeing it when I first arrived, days before, all the way from the
other side of the house. I wondered where it led at that time and now I stood
enlightened at its threshold. The great courtyard had even more space. A tent and table were set for about eight,
and a grotto shaded by a grand tree offered plenty of space on the stone and concrete
ground.
Fernando, a vocational who was about nineteen, gave me the
task of cutting all the vegetables for the soup while he prepped the kitchen
and cut the chickens for both stock and the meat. We didn’t speak the same
language so communicated very short, but he gave a pure essence of quiet. Once
the soup was assembled we set the tables, ordered the chairs, and took plates
and cups out of large trash cans used for storage. At that moment six high
school students in blue catholic school uniforms walked in and joined in to
help. One of the girls spoke a little English and would explain the process of
setting up to me. They wanted to be there and held a youthful energy, and if
you have worked with motivated young adults you know the feeling. Somehow, the Order of the Poor of Jesus seems
to both fuel and draw from that energy. It is a young movement, but no matter
the age, from teens to those in their 60’s, a force of spirit is obvious in all.
Four girls that live in the sisters’ house discerning possible future vows also
came to help, and a crowd formed.
I faded back to take pictures and let the machine work so I
could observe. It is a strange thing for me to not define my role in life as a
worker. I realize at times my presence is best served to watch, and at other
times I follow the urge to observe in action. It is a new experience for me,
because I had never been good at backing up and taking something in. I thought
without dirt on me I was loitering in life and it would pain me right where I
thought my worth was, both to myself and other. Now amidst all the things I
have learned here in South America was called to pause and to redefine my worth
to myself. It has been unnerving, but I have only felt alone when the guides in
my path took their leave in my best interest.
Through the fence I could see everyone filing the space in
front of the gate.
Brother Junipero reappeared and manned the latch at the
door, and I stood on the bricks beside to position myself higher. A group formed on our side and we waited for
the signal to open the door. A yell came from the dining room, and the crowd outside
pushed against the gate; Brother reached down to open the door. He could not
find the right key and raised his high pitched voice to the arms that reached
through the bars. I was directed to check for the correct key in the house as
everyone worked to quiet the unease outside. I returned with a different set of
keys and the gate was opened slowly by four of us. Brother Junipero stepped out
to the sidewalk in front of the opening, three children wriggled and slid by
him and jogged to the house. The crowd
pushed him against the side of the gate and he braced himself, glanced back,
and started to pull young children and mothers into the courtyard in groups of
four. Always a few more would slip in, but a since of order remained.
The older teenagers did not approve of his management, for
them the world outside this moment is different, taking and pushing are
strengths and patience is a weakness. They are raised by the street, to take
care of themselves in the streets, that assertive essence only fulfills their
immediate needs, beyond that they remain frustrated. They use drugs and
alcoholic to medic themselves internally as many have been abused and used for
the sex trade and drug trafficking. I was the surprised the night before last
at the unconcerned bravado of these boys, who may be their fathers, pushed the
children aside. Standing in the daylight I could see their soiled clothes
hanging heavy on them. I saw three of
them break from the outside of the crowd and converge at the gate. Brother
sternly held his arm out and rolled them off to the side and continued to
control the flow. It was a steady flow as the inside filled and spilled into
the courtyard.
The women and children sat alone taking up most of the
inside and courtyard. The men sat in the grotto area where they were shaded by
the large tree and huddled close to each other without much interest beyond
their circles. The only time the men and women mixed inside the gate was when
seconds were offered and the dining room overfilled in a mess of confusion. When the confined bedlam broke up, the room
cleared quickly, but the sickly sweet smell of unwashed bodies and the fatty
chicken soup was choking. Scattered on the floor and tables were chicken bones
and discarded chucks of bread. One of the boys walked by and chucked his
chicken bone behind his back on is way out. The room radiated filth and for a
moment I was filled with anger wrapped in a feeling of ownership. I wanted to
comment and yet I paused without a solution and turned to the courtyard. I look
out and noticed a little baby walking alone in nothing but a heavy diaper, a
thin layer of dirt covered the child and a little boy came and got the baby. I
watched the two walk back to their group in the courtyard and then scanned
those who remained.
How could the mothers bath their children? How did anyone
clean themselves? As I could see, there was no water supply that was clean and plentiful.
The little clean water was for drinking.
I have seen bags of trash thrown causally out of car windows
in Paraguay as if that was where it went. I wondered if for many of the Paraguayan people
and the government limited in resources if the issue has remained long enough
that the common belief was, “well that is just where they go”. There is no sanitation, limited services, and
few able or willing to assist these cast aside refugees in their own county.
I turned back into the dining room and my anger was gone,
but a stronger thought remained. They live in the trash of the streets, how is
this floor any different than in their tiny plywood homes. They are acting no
differently here than anywhere, resolved to the same fate as any repressed
people that a society allow as acceptable.
I knew a man in Kansas City named Michael who was homeless
and lived in the street. He explained that he lived in the streets all over the
United States and would talk to me about the Bible. I simplify to call him a
street evangelist, but that was always his main focus of conversation. He very emphatically
pointed out that some people must be snatched from destruction and held until they
can stand on their own. In most of my experience that is rarely the case if the
other does not first lift their arm and make a small even unconscious choice to
change. In observing the cast aside natives in the cities of Paraguay, I see
that little remains but to lift them out of the side of the road. The meals provided
by the sisters’ opens a door and the trust grows as the community learns the sisters
are no there to take. So many have taken from them in the past and then tossed
them back to the street. It is diligent work and only grows fruit if love is
present, the patient love to proceed without thanks or immediate results.
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