Noche de Paz

My name is Hector. I am ten years old. I sell mandarin oranges at the corner of the bus terminal in Nueva Suyapa. My mom sent me out to work about six months ago when times got tough due to the political crisis and the economy. She makes tortillas out of the house, but, you know, no one’s buying the same amount as they used to. Tortillas are a must but five tortillas per meal is just a luxury, so we all learned to cut back, even in the rich neighborhood, Miraflores, where my mom now sells tortillas.

Ever since I was three, she would get up at four in the morning to make tortillas, well, first to go to the corn grinder to grind the corn. I remember waking up to the sweet smell of the wood burning stove welcoming this morning’s version of fire. There then was the sound of swish swish, splat, intertwined with a puff puff crackle, interrupted by our hen’s cockle doodle doo, it was like my daily wake up orchestra. I guess it’s the entertainment we’ve got in these parts. Instruments are hard to come by here, guitars are the most common. I only know about orchestras because we had the opportunity to go to the pretty theatre down town, Manuel Bonilla for a Christmas concert, and there was what my teacher said was an orchestra playing when I told her I really liked the music. She took the time to explain to me what every instrument was called, because she could tell I really liked it. I had never felt so much of a warm feeling in my belly, well besides the kitchen when my mom was making tortillas, but this was different.

When after the swish swish splat came the clap clap clap, I knew then my mom had progressed to forming the tortillas with her hands. To flatten and ensure roundness she transfers the once small ball of cornmeal from one hand to another as fast as she possibly can, stretching the batter simultaneously, creating a perfectly circular tortilla, consistent with the others. Handmade tortillas are hard to come by these days, plus those ones made of real corn, not the store bought gross maeseca stuff that they press with the Mexican tortilla pressers that create super thin tortillas. Even though my mom doesn’t even have a real wood burning stove, hers is made out of pieces of metal, she has managed to make tortillas of better quality than the average one these days, selling them for four for two Lempiras, whereas those maeseca ones cost five for two Lempira, and for awhile was making a lot of money out of them. But quality isn’t as much valued when full is the aim. Still my mom wouldn’t cave, she is really traditional in that way. In other ways she really isn’t, like she taught me how to make tortillas once and I got pretty good, so sometimes she would let me help her or do it for her when she was sick. It is usually the woman’s job to make the tortillas, and they say that if a woman can’t make good tortillas she won’t be able to find a man, and if a man makes tortillas he is gay. Well, I kind of like making tortillas, and I kissed Maria from class one day at recess and I liked it too, so I think I can like the two together and not be any of those names they call me. I don’t think my mom is one of those feminists, it just came out of necessity. I was the oldest, and she needed help. I started taking care of my brothers and sisters when I was eight, so Mom could go to Miraflores to sell tortillas. I felt proud that she trusted me but scared that one of my brothers or sisters would disappear or choke on something, or I would do something wrong and hurt them. I only hit them every now and then, because I don’t like it when my mom hits me. She can be pretty nice, but when she hits us its like she is another person. Sometimes it is for things I didn’t even do anything wrong, like slip on a banana peel in the road, she says I better watch better, and I wasn’t being careful. Sometimes, when I did something that she considers really bad, like sneaking out to play soccer when she comes home, well she hits me until she gets tired, and it really doesn’t matter where. She has a reason though, I was being mischievous.

The instrument I watched the most was the violin. It fascinates me how different pieces of string put together can make such a beautiful sound, depending on what you do with it; especially knowing that some strings are made out of catgut, that’s disgusting. My teacher told me that, cuz I was asking lots of questions. I never knew adults could like questions, but I guess that is a teacher’s job, to ask and answer questions. What a cool job, I wish my mom was a teacher. When I ask her questions like those ones I had about the violin, cuz I just wanted to know things, you know, she would get angry and say shut up or you ask way too many questions. Sometimes I think I’m smarter than her. I’m in the 4th grade, and I’ve never stayed behind or even had to go through recuperation. She never passed the sixth grade, and she says she wants me to graduate from high school, that would make her proud. But sometimes she just seems jealous or feels stupid or something. Sometimes, when she was preparing tortillas, I would have to help her with math. I would help her and then she would get mad at me, for some little thing I did, even though I was the one who helped her, things like that.

I think my mom is beautiful. She is one of the few women on our block who had the guts to cut and keep short hair, and I really think it looks good on her. It is not really a mushroom cut, but her hair is about that length, a little past her ears, rounded, with little orange rind curly cues to frame her cheeks and forehead. The hair in the back of her head goes a little past the end of her neck, kind of like a boy’s style. She has a wonderful smile, with an off center dimple on her left cheek, that dimple mixed with those curls have given her a long line of admirers, many of whom I don’t like. I think just by nature, I am protective of her. My dad wasn’t that great either, always telling her to stay in the house, and wouldn’t let her sell her tortillas in Miraflores, only from the house, though he never hit her, and he really seemed to love her, he just had a different idea of what a woman’s job was. That seemed to be what everyone told him, so that is what he demanded, and demand he did. My mom was actually the one who left him, I was proud of her for that. That was also pretty nontraditional. She didn’t tell me why, I just kind of figured some things out because I was curious, plus we live in a two room house, and I can basically hear everything that happens in there, so, nicely and badly there are no secrets. I have many a time heard and comforted my mom sobbing either after talking on the phone with my father or just out of loneliness I guess, hard to know. All I know is I cry out of loneliness often, so I guess it is not uncommon.

I have some friends I play soccer with, but the thing is I can’t get out to play very often, what with first looking after my brother and sister and then with selling mandarin oranges. I have a friend who sometimes helps me sell, or competes with me. I don’t mind much that he competes, because I just like him being around. That is how I felt that night with my teacher, but even more so, well I wanted her to stay and answer my questions. She even seemed impressed by them, like I was really smart or something. That was what made me think I was smart. Sometimes, while I was watching the violinist, I would look out of the side of my eyes and catch my teacher looking over at me. She told me she played the cello in high school and college, and kind of misses it, she plays it every now and then these days, but teaching doesn’t allow for it much, you know. I guess I got her interest then.

When I went home that night, I told my mom all about the concert, the violin, the cello, my teacher, the songs, and how much I loved it all and couldn’t stop watching the violinist play, how fast she ran that bow back and forth, how quickly she moved her fingers. More than that, I told her about the music the orchestra produced, how many different sounds I heard at once, and how they all blended together perfectly. I told her about how I could pick out each instrument after listening to them for awhile, but especially the violin. I told her it seemed easy after you got taught the basics. Well, that’s what it seemed to me at least. My mom was more interested than I had ever seen her, she got excited when I did. She told me later she had never seen me like this before, so happy about something. She told me she had always felt bad, me being the oldest and all, having to take on so much responsibility. She said she remembers when I was a baby and we used to play peek a boo, and I would just giggle forever, and when I got old enough to talk, I learned how to say “again” pretty fast, so I would say that over and over again so that she would continue playing peek a boo, or throwing me up and kissing me, so she would. She said she wanted that moment to last forever, but then came the bills and the other children, and soon it all became a responsibility, like the one I have selling oranges, and we lost the fun. That night, the excitement I had about the violin, was fun, she told me. So we stayed up all night and danced like we would on the 24th and the 31st, just the two of us, it was true enjoyment.

My favorite Christmas song growing up was always “Night of Peace” (Noche de Paz or Silent Night). I think I always had some kind of magnetic stuck feeling to the concept of Peace. I always thought that would be so nice, sounded like a nice thought though I’m not sure I knew what it meant. But that night, listening to that violin, piano, cello, bass playing “Night of Peace”, I knew what it meant. It was that warm feeling I felt in my belly, and a break between the chaos of changing diapers and pleading for people to buy my oranges. It’s what I feel after a day of work, with a little extra in my pocket, coming home to a mom, content too, because she has a little extra in her pocket, watching her cradle my youngest sister and softly sing to her. It is the feeling I got dancing through the night with my mom. It is the feeling I felt when I came home Christmas Eve, before all the dancing started, and my mom said she had a surprise for me. It was a perfectly sized, shiny, non cat gut violin. And it is the feeling I get now, bow and instrument in my hand, using my other type of thought to discover where to put my fingers next.

Volveremos

The next time I waited in a long line, which this time, was over 1,000 people long, with cars, once again, learned to park on the side of the road was on Boulevard Morazán, the mero-mero of enjoyment in Tegucigalpa, the night that Honduras qualified for the World Cup finals in South Africa. It was a pulperia lottery chance that all Hondurans were sitting on the edge of their seat, praying, hoping and consulting all kinds of rabbit feet to come into fruition. In typical Honduran style, the Seleccion Nacional that all worshiped and followed even more than a Sunday afternoon service, waited till the last minute to put it all together. But, also in typical Honduran style, they summoned all their already overflowing passion, stored up angst and stress regarding the political crisis and inner adrenaline driven strength and came through. Their entry into the finals was more dependent on the performance of the U.S in their game against Costa Rica than Honduras’ own game against El Salvador, which, even if they won, was not a ticket into the finals. For once, out of their left over table scraps, the U.S showed a little bit of indirect generosity in valiantly scoring two goals against Costa Rica, the last one within minutes of the end of the game tying it up, preventing Costa Rica from getting a win point in the finals, putting Honduras in third place for the Concacaf region, U.S in first and Mexico in second.

When all this was realized, first by the fans, then by the players themselves, there were exponential celebrations throughout the country. In our Nueva Suyapa Genesis microcosm, behavior mimicked that of the players, incredulous exuberance that motivated tears, hugging, jumping up and down in cheers and mutual congratulating. Even the younger ones of the bunch were aware of the feat that had just been accomplished, and fed off the excitement of their elders, who became like children themselves, completely overcome by ecstasy, a rare moment that they decided to take advantage of.

The evangelical stiff erupted in dance to the prophetic song by well renowned Honduran singer Polache, “Volveremos”, for those who had prayed and unbelievingly predicted this moment, including Honduran Seleccion players themselves, it was a spiritual miracle. A halfed country, that jointly lived, breathed and intuned their Seleccion Nacional was one in emotion due to one chance goal at the hand of another.

This unity was apparent on Boulevard Morazán that night where thousands of Hondurans instinctively and immediately drove, motorcycled and walked to celebrate together. Hand slapping, spontaneous cheering started by one group and joined in by many others, various song singing, wearing Honduran and U.S flags, jumping on top and all around arriving cars and trucks, blowing plastic and shell trumpets, dancing, jumping up and down as one were common activities. Many people ran and walked up and down freely on the usually swiftly flowing traffic street to share their joint excitement with fellow countrymen and women. It all concoursed, ironically enough, at TGI Fridays where the Gringos once again dispersed of their sparse benevolence and provided a large tele-screen for the crowd to view their new disputed president congratulate the country and its beloved players as one. All were ecstatic to hear announced yet another holiday at the hands of the current government. Out of the 200 days of 4 hour day classes required by the government, public school kids have had between 80 and 90 days this year, which, on top of the numerous class cancelations due to teacher strikes and curfews, was mandated to end by October 31, to prepare for the upcoming elections. In addition to this, all kids are automatically passed on to the next grade, irrelevant of their skill level, whereas usually all children take a test each year, those who don’t pass it have a recovery period and a recovery test, and those who do not pass the recovery test stay in the same grade. This is projected to strongly hurt especially younger children’s ability to read and write, which will, ten years later, affect the work force and more importantly, further entrench the ditch of poverty in Honduras. A report stated that a year lost in school for a nation could possibly delay its development by seven years.

The country mosh pits together in the night life day bright haven thinking that in the unified jumping and visceral touching they could become brothers again. Back at the Brazilian embassy, the dueling presidents can’t seem to share the sentiment, Micheletti juggling time between the self-appointed elated privilege of congratulating the first Honduran team in twenty eight years for its entry into the World Cup Finals and functioning but not so slick delay tactics once again does not allow for the exhaustive talks to go anywhere. Sometimes I wonder what they spend so much time talking about, focusing on fluff while the most important ingredient is still a stalemate. Seems like a record filibuster.

“If Honduras makes it into the World Cup, well that will be the push Honduras needs to end the political crisis,” the cry of eager Hondurans echoed before the match.
Afterwards, there was no talk of that becoming a reality and yet too much talk that led to nothing.

Incarnation

This morning, before giving a Dharma talk, I was having breakfast with my attendant…I paused and said to him, “Dear one, do you see the cow on the hillside? She is eating grass in order to make my yoghurt, and I am now eating the yoghurt to make a Dharma talk.” Somehow, the cow will offer today’s Dharma talk. As I drank the cow’s milk, I was a child of the cow.

Thich Nhat Hanh, p.117, The Heart of the Buddha’s teaching.

It blows frontal locks,
enters in past other purposed hairs of my nose
and exits on the bottom of my tongue,
like a gleek. As I watch leaves waving
in the trees; a little close. The ones far away
in my sight stayed still. The flag salutes
simultaneously, all by the same force.

The finished swinging children
watch spinning, churning in wonder
observing robotic servants
compared to brute physical
forcing soapywaterandcloth mix
slodging against rippled stone
causing thinned wear, rips, tears
two hours tired; forming forearms
´´Que Rapido!´´
they fascinated.

“The water looks like a waterfall,”
belongs to pictures only;
they settle for sewage streams
that carry my stains to
grey rapids down below;

mimicking

the rivers that pulse through me.

An elevated oversized ant hole is used
as a soccer field. Posts; whatever is available.
One kid’s neon yellow shirt catches the setting sun
drying my and radial neighbor’s hung clothes;
a multi-leveled kaleidoscope.

A man carrying maize as a hat
lunges up one dirt exposed bank
protected slightly by select patches of grass
and even fewer existence of trees,
fruit and wild alike.

Up is a tentative oasis,
marked by cell phone towers;
down: stacked upon glued together
houses wherever an empty space
on the old garbage mound.

“Donuts, Donuts” trumpets to all those
in dilapidated circumference; a mom requests
her daughters presence
across the ditch, echoed
by ten. Birds exclaim to their lovers
about the flowers that fought to vibrant.
Nails aim to create structure,
the foundational rhythm to it all;
“No Woman No cry” provides their soundtrack
to Tegucigalpa's amphitheatre.

A wasp explores the metal fence,
my protective lens
to the dueling mountains:
those visibly untouched
and those turned into poverty’s museum.
The clouds, being no discriminator
floats and encloses around them both,
by heaven’s version of
what flows through my lungs.

Gas Station line:



Cars parked on all sides of the road:




Here are what the lines looked like, from different angles:

Phase II Tug of War

Phase II: Tug of War; 21 Sept 2009

The return of Mel Zelaya came as his departure did: “like a thief in the night” just as he and his ‘Savior’ said it would be. Though at this point, he and so many had cried wolf that the general population barely moved when the news trickled down to their own social ripple, some still faithfully deeming true whatever their new interim government sells them. If Micheletti blatantly lies to save face, as is common in Honduras, stating Mel Zelaya is not in Honduras until live news casts force him to admit it, those wanting “Peace and Democracy” have no other option but to believe it. Once his presence was confirmed as fact, the shock, sheer unbelief and surprise of ‘how in the hell did he do that?´ found a hard time settling in.

I found out, once again, by people who expected I already knew, through a text message a friend showed me that said, “Get out ¨Golpistas¨(Coup-ers) Long Live the Resistance!” common slogans used by Mel´s resistance crew that had been graffitied all over key city buildings and once aesthetically pleasing structures all over the city.

Mel had attempted to return the 5th of July on an airplane which could not land due to army tanks taking over the runway. On the 25th of July he proved he could in fact enter Honduras by quickly crossing over the Nicaragua border to the spot where it said “Welcome to Honduras” rallied around his support and went back to his asylum stationed country. This 21st of September entry. however, was an infamous feat that the grown sleepy by inaction armed forces didn´t expect. He says he walked fifteen hours ´through rivers and mountains´ through El Salvador with his crew to the smoggy capital of Honduras to reinstate his reign.

“Come on, you actually believe that,” a client of the community center where I work remarks,

“ He was driven in a private car.”

“He explained the way he crossed the border to news sources,” an animated coworker, Alan, explains.

“He said he shot out a prayer as he crossed, and a mighty wind moved through the pines, causing them to bend and make a big noise. So the soldiers turned, and focused their attention on the pines, and Mel Zelaya and crew could cross, unnoticed. He said it was a miracle…” Alan´s audience, over-devout Christians who thought it comical and ironic for any Honduran political figure to summon upon God and claim divine intervention, exploded.

“He was quoting a verse in Isaiah,” Marvin added, “Something about how God is always with you.”

Tickled, the office folk transitioned into a description of Mel´s current state where he decided to announce his return and is now sequestered, at the Brazilian embassy.

“Nobody can bring food in, they cut off the water, electricity, phone lines, he might as well be in prison.” Johnny reflected.

“They say a Venezuelan plane came in later,” Alan continued, “They came with Hugo Chavez, checked up on him and the plane left.”

A more left leaning newspaper, El Tiempo, which temporarily and often, was an ‘unreachable domain’ online, stated on behalf of Hugo Chavez, “We are behind you Mel, the Venezuelan army is ready to fight.”

Chavez´s close relationship with Manuel Zelaya has now become common knowledge, out in the open, so much, that Mel called Hugo Chavez´s cell phone when he arrived at the Brazilian embassy while Chavez was at an inauguration of a computer program for kids. Chavez was proud to announce to the audience Mel´s arrival in Honduras, to which most applauded. Chavez said he would be in Honduras to meet and discuss with other leaders the next day. It was as if they had planned it, and now only receiving pre-determined signals to know which move to make next.

Ecstatic about his return, Mel supporters rallied around the Brazilian embassy and extended their celebration into the streets, where a second grade student claimed they were charging a 100 Lempira ($5) fine to all who passed by at around 1:00p.m, when all the action was unfolding. This particular driver of this van of school children refused to pay the fine, and was eventually, strangely and gratefully passed through.

In predictable grip tightening fashion, Roberto Micheletti swiftly set a curfew (be at home or at least in your neighborhood) for 4:00pm at 3:30pm. The stated aim, “keep peace and prevent possible violence”. The hidden aim, “keep all Mel supporters from organizing and create a legitimate reason to punish them for doing so.” No action or dialogue even pursued much less resolved, Mel Zelaya still in the Brazilian embassy, Micheletti extended the curfew to 6am the next (Tuesday September 22) morning, and when that still wasn´t long enough extended it to 6pm Tuesday evening apparently that wasn´t long enough, so they extended it until 6am and then 6pm Wednesday.

On Tuesday morning, the from five am to seven pm bustling bus terminal was wanting of aggressive sing-songy sales pitches by cobradors and competing taxi drivers and the vehicles that made their shouts possible. The only vehicles seen were BMX bikes undersized for their owner doing figure eights and attempts at jumps, taking full advantage of their new found traffic free space. These were accompanied by the occasional motorcycle and the stagnant morning vegetable and afternoon cheese trucks. These determined to make a buck vendors join these pre-gang misfits in lounging with the news radio on full blast, simultaneously chiding them and all those within earshot to be astute and aware of the latest move of the dueling
presidents.

Upon nightfall, across the still vacant terminal at Nueva Suyapa´s own mini-market central, the owner is faced with the dual task of trying to sell his products while avoiding going scarce on the routinely delivered ones. His two co-workers/family members efficiently, professionally and hurriedly receive orders and collect products to be given to customers, shuffling through dirty bills and running to the cash stash to return change. They do this all with candles, as the routine crisis time power outage has lasted longer this night.

“The truck of products was due to come today; but with the situation like this, they wouldn’t let anybody go out of their prospective colonias to get anything or anybody come in to deliver anything.” He apologized to merchandise-hungry customers with a spelunking flashlight strapped to his forehead in the electricity starved dark.

“I heard they were even forcing some businesses to close downtown.” He explained to me after the ravenous crowd had left.

“Soon people are going to start raiding the stores. With all of this rising uncertainty, they’re going to get scared that they won’t be able to get food when they need it so they’re going to stock up.”

“Those who suffer are the people, while these guys sit around and decide whether or not to have dialogue,” He rightfully complains.

As I walked from one of the always stocked product depleting pulperias to the next, the dust packed road was almost empty, allowing it to haze into the city-plagued darkness above.

Pulperia #2, unlike #1, had candles for sale.

There, an old man with more gaps than browning teeth sprayed through them,
“32 injured at the Brazilian embassy off to Hospital Escuela. But, then again, those protestors, hooligans on both sides really, being paid off, and then when the police crackdown, eh, well, that is just another level of thug.”

Right before my eyes were the visible signs of “the people” growing disgruntled and losing faith in a “Honduras for Peace and Democracy”.

Many of them were behind and in front of me in the 65 person line at the pharmacy on Wednesday, when, due to all over outrage with the 30 hour curfew (toca de queda), that a local pro-interim government newspaper called a “toca de hambre” (Hunger Curfew), the interim government saw it necessary to give Hondurans at least a window to shop: between 10am and 4pm. Unsure of when this chance would come again, afraid the current government was going to continue to grip so tight their nails would start digging into the country, everyone that had the resources went out, waited in 500 people grocery store lines and bought. The parking lots to malls and grocery stores couldn’t fit the demand of parking space, nor the grocery stores themselves fit the customers, hence the lines. Gas stations and banks echoed in similar chaos. When we asked for a handful of money, the amount of $US1,500, the bank teller told us we had to wait for the money truck to come, which at 10:30a.m was just filling up.

“I never thought anything like this would ever happen my country. Never in my country!! Look at this craziness!!” Said an outraged middle aged woman waiting to buy her medicine whose teenage daughter, having apparently heard the spiel many a time before had contracted a sickness of her own that involved repetitive sighing.

“All because of these two power hungry men, who act like they need all of our freedom and money, we have to do crazy things like rush to the store all at the same time, wait in line, hoard what we can find,” she raised decibels, which inspired eye rolling in the already annoyed.

“Puppets, that’s all we are to them, being tossed and manipulated to their very whim. Is this entertaining to them? Their own sick form of fun!” she continues, defiant and pokerfaced to her daughter’s poor attempt at indirect communication.
Her daughters disease was not the only one newly infected, as booked psychologists and psychiatrists can testify and a rise in assaults and murders has displayed.

“The next step is a military state,” a friend informs me, “first comes the coup, then comes the curfew then the military state,” says one who has lived through the horrific transition from democracy to a dictatorship.

“I remember exactly how it was in the late 70’s, nobody is allowed to leave their house even within their own colonia or allowed to buy anything, like being under a country wide house arrest.”

And that is how it had already begun to feel, as, days later, Roberto Micheletti suspends a slew of civil liberties, including freedoms of the press and of assembly, an accustomed to various levels of abuse population braces themselves for the next blow, not even blinking as they crawl on the ground searching for their candles and matches on the eve of the 50th ‘unplanned’ power outage.

An American Dream

San Pedro Sula Airport on the way to Houston, TX.

Universal Declaration of Human Rights Article 13:
(1) Everyone has the right to freedom of movement and residence within the borders of each state.
(2) Everyone has the right to leave any country, including his own, and to return to his country.

It has the look of a small but accessible airport: a major Honduran coffee chain “Espresso Aericano” and Wendy’s accomadating anyone’s fast food needs. There are lines, but they are not long like in major airports; passed through in a matter of minutes. An airport tax is necessitated, making tourists pay, as they should, for visiting the country. Spanish and American accented English are spoken interchangeably, and in that lies the difference. Honduran natives holding U.S passports are the majority population. This is the bilingual class of Honduras; fortunate enough to fly in and out of the U.S legally and freely.

No coyotes needed here.

If one were needed, he would cost $6,000 to navigate one’s way from Tegucigalpa to San Diego or El Paso for the chance of possibly safely traveling to and crossing the border, un-interferred. My plane ticket cost $250.

To those who have more will be given.

The life lottery that demands long labored savings has a concentrated burden on Latin America’s lower classes. Those who grew up with garbage as their backyard, unemployment as their job security and $5 a day as a decent wage hear only the success stories of those who shed their rags and aquired more then their fair share of riches on the other side and immediately begin dreaming up an escape plan. Stories of the thousands who lay waste in the desert or back where they started deported, or trading a free and relatively financially predictable existence to an incarcerated, fear based, authorities dodging one either remain untold or don’t sink in. A sign on a highway heading north in Guatemala tried to remind possible future immigrants of these facts. But, with civil war, coups and human rights violations as a history, death is simply a part of life, and therefore a risk one is willing to take against so much oral promise.

This Honduran U.S citizen looks after American children in the city of Houston. She’s lived in the U.S for twenty eight years, starting to out live her years spent in Honduras. She says at first it was hard, but she’s used to the change by now. As the plane lands in her new found home, a U.S native exclaims that he looks forward to a hot dog. A Honduran family talks about eating mashed potatoes.


TECHOS DE CARTÓN/Cardboard houses
Alli Primera

How, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how, sad my people live, in cardboard houses

the worker comes down almost dragging his feet
for the weight of suffering
you see, he has suffered much
you see, the suffer weights.

Above he leaves his pregnant wife
below is the town
and he gets lost, entangled
today is the same as yesterday,
In his life without tomorrow
"Here comes the rain!"
Here comes the suffering
But if it stops raining,
When will the suffering stop?
When will hope come?

children with the color of my land
with its same scars
millionaires of worms
that's why.
how sad the children live
in the cardboard houses

how, cheerful the dogs live
house of exploiter

you won't believe it
but there are schools for dogs
and they give them education
so that they don't bite newspapers
but, the boss
for many years
has been biting the worker

how, sad the rain is heard on cardboard roofs
how far hope is
in cardboard houses...

Techos de Carton
(Alí Primera)
Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en los techos de cartón;
qué triste vive mi gente
en las casas de cartón.

Viene bajando el obrero,
así, arrastrando los pasos
por el peso del sufrir;
mira qué mucho sufrir,
mira que pesa el sufrir.

Arriba deja la mujer preñada,
abajo está la ciudad,
y se pierde en su maraña;
hoy es lo mismo que ayer
en su vida sin mañana.

Cae, cae la lluvia,
viene, viene el sufrimiento,
pero si la lluvia pasa,
¿cuándo pasa el sufrimiento,
cuándo viene la esperanza?

Niños color de mi tierra
con sus mismas cicatrices,
millonarios de lombrices,
y por eso,
qué tristes viven los niños
en las casas de cartón,
y alegres viven los perros
casa del explotador.

Usted no lo va a creer,
pero hay escuelas de perros,
y les dan educación
pa'que no muerdan los diarios;
pero el patrón
hace años, muchos años,
que está mordiendo al obrero.

Qué triste se oye la lluvia
en las casas de cartón;
qué lejos pasa la esperanza
de los techos de cartón.

Halfed

Halfed

Nueva Suyapa is a slum neighborhood on the side of a mountain on the outskirts of the city of Tegucigalpa in Honduras. It is a neighborhood infamous for its high crime, teen pregnancy and high school drop out rates.One room houses for families of five is the norm. Though most houses are securely structured, some are pieced together by random material lying around. The average education of adult inhabitants is below sixth grade. It is on this scene that this dialogue is set.

Hernan popped up in the same uneventful way he did the day Micheal Jackson died;

“They kidnapped the president,” he says; eyes climbing to his forehead stopping just before they reach it, roofed by raised eyebrows that contain the bulk of his surprise, finished off with a long stare that attempts to cause and assess the reaction in the recipient.

“Yes” I say in my equally unemotional manner. I had been woken up to a phone call that informed me of the news, so all of my shock lay in my initial response.

“They shut the power off in the whole city at 7:00am.” he continued in the same way.

Outside kids and adults are attending to their usual pulperia runs; participating in a buzz of a higher magnitude than usual.

“They say he is in the States,” Hernan comments to a passer-by that stopped to discuss the matter.

Having grown accustomed to his unwarranted fixation on the States, and his tendency to relay faulty information, I don’t believe that end of it. Despite that, my ears remain sponge-like;

“A ton of soldiers are surrounding the Presidential palace.”

“If you look on the TV, you’ll see right there, hundreds, kind of scary.”

“They made Zelaya leave by gunpoint.”

“How they did it was really well organized, up to Zelaya’s body guard, all were in on it. Shows how few people supported him.”

It is true, the plan was genius, seamlessly, bloodlessly and efficiently executed; something to cause at least a fraction of concern.

“I’m happy this happened, the people weren’t in agreement, so the people acted, that is democracy, not all of this stuff about changing the constitution.”

“Ya, I wasn’t going to go to the vote anyway,” comments the stranger

“Me neither.” Hernan agrees.

On Sunday a ballot was organized, called the “Cuarta Urna” to decide whether Manual Zelaya could add a referendum to the constitution which would extend his term limits. The constitution is very sacred to Hondurans, who fought hard to freely create it. The warping, bending and rewriting of the constitution is part of an ugly past that most Hondurans do not want to revisit. Changing firm articles, with which presidential term limits were a part, is illegal. The Supreme Court, Congress and Army were all against this possible change, resulting in Manuel Zelaya firing his chief of defense staff.

“It’s all due to this Chavez guy, he’s wanting to make Honduras communist like Cuba and Venezuela, we can’t have our liberties stolen like that, we have to have freedom.” Charly, overhearing the conversation on his frequent walk past the house, chimes in.

“They say in those communist countries everybody makes the same amount, regardless of what you do, that’s not fair,” He continues.

“Ya, in Venezuela, they are taking the land away from those who own it and giving it to those they think need it,” the stranger makes sure he maintains his place in the conversation.

“Exactly, they would come and say,’ you have two rooms and only need one, now you have to give it to a poor person!’” Hernan indignates

“Ya, rights, property, being taken away just like that, we can’t have that.” All are in agreement.

Honduras had recently signed the Venezuelan initiated ALBA charter which granted Honduras the entry into supposedly free and fair trade initiatives in order to “enhance political and economic trade ties” between other left leaning Latin American countries. The initiative has been criticized by left and right alike for its socialist tendencies. Benefits for Honduras included fuel at market price and $15 million in development aid. Honduran’s first visible sign of the benefits of this aid were environmentally friendly long lasting light bulbs that were donated to Honduran households. Many are now wondering what will happen to this aid, and especially fuel, if the removal of Manuel Zelaya sticks. However, it looks like removing Honduras from ALBA is the least of Honduras’ problems regarding Chavez at the moment.

“I agree with Zelaya raising the minimum wage, but changing the constitution, that’s crazy. He’s just power hungry, we can’t have a person like that running the country. It’s dangerous.”

“Exactly, he wanted to do the same thing that Chavez did in Venezuela, just a puppet of Chavez, will he do whatever he tells him?”

“Ya, right, becoming Hondurans own despot out to defeat the U.S with Chavez and friends.”

Chavez had recently extended his term limits from five to six years in Venezuela due to a very close ballot on the matter, extending even longer his going on ten year reign. Other ALBA member countries have been attempting the same.

Hernan continues to listen to the radio that’s been glued to his ears since three in the morning, when he was sleeping.

“OK, it’s now confirmed that the armed forces have Mel Zelaya in Costa Rica.” Hernan once again reports.

Conversation lulls, electricity returns and we are redirected to the television where the Congress begins to speak. The armed forces suspended electricity, blocked phone lines and censored channels such as CNN to limit communication and possible uprisings and ensure control before the Congress had the chance to meet.

Back in the Congress hall, the representatives are in agreement with Hernan and his neighbors,

“We cannot have a President of this state disobey the Constitution; we must have democracy here in Honduras. This is the consequence for attempting illegal activity!” says a defiant man with slicked black hair and glasses.

All applaud, out-pounding the slew of Constitutional rights they were simultaneously suspending.

“We must defend the constitution and the law, and anyone trying to steal what we as Hondurans believe in, must be stopped.”

Further applause and similar statements subdue.

Now it is time for the vote of the expulsion of Manuel Zelaya. Everyone raises their hands. It’s like they all were in this together. Roberto Micheletti reads the authenticity-to-be-confirmed resignation letter of Manuel Zelaya, and with the tap of a hat Manuel Zelaya is no longer president of Honduras.

“This country will not be without a President.” Congress echoes.

They then explained that because Vice President Elvin Santos resigned, and the head of the Armed forces was recently fired, the next in line to be President is Roberto Micheletti, the Speaker of the Congress.

They pursue the proclaimed necessary routine to make Micheletti president, reading pages upon pages of higher languaged (a.k.a indecipherable by the average illiterate lay man) official inaugaration papers. It seemed the reader was bored himself by the material. Like a high strung salesmen who convinces the unquestioning client that all the written material is a boring waste of time, “So just sign here”, Micheletti and his Congress friends lulled to sleep passive but loyal uneducated Hondurans leading them to sign the life of their country away for the next six months. This all happened within a matter of hours, a speed unheard of in the Honduran government.

Micheletti begins to talk:

“What happened was not a coup, it was a necessary procedure following the law to restore order in this country.”

He hides the meticulous long labored planning for the event, failing to mention that forcing a President out of their house and to another country is also highly illegal and dangerous. Coups and political instability were common in Central America post revolution, the last of which was in 1993 in Guatemala.

“Exactly!” says Hernan, agreeing with all that the Congress and TV is feeding him.

This seems like a common trend for the average low-income Honduran citizen who doesn’t cause trouble and whose only source of information is Honduran news. The slant of the paper can be noted in the title for a pro-Micheletti rally: “Honduras against Illegality.” The biggest crime committed by Honduran papers and news sources in this crisis was the leaving out. I was unaware until two days later of the riots which killed two protesters, injured thirty six and was filled with tear gas and rioters throwing rocks; the ugly side of Honduras that they didn’t want to admit even to its own citizens. The reason: promote the facade that all of Honduras was calm in order to prevent possible uprisings and backlash.

That night the existent divisiveness of the country was evident:

“Mel only wanted to know what the people thought and was asking the people to cast a vote to express these thoughts. He wasn’t going to do anything more,” said Mario who, having had the influence of higher education was more aligned with his left leaning professors.

“Well then it was not well communicated, because the people thought he was taking away their rights and was going to change the constitution,” said Karen who was on Hernan’s side, but had graduated to the ability to think for herself.

“Mel is a man for the poor people of Honduras,” continues Mario, unaware of his growing allegiance to the man.

“Are you poor?” he asks Hernan.

“No,” Hernan replies.

“But were you poor?” he fishes.

“Yes.”

“And how did you change?”

“By working hard.”

“Exactly, that’s how the poor man lifts himself out of poverty. By raising the minimum wage, Mel was supporting the working man in Honduras.”

“That whole raising of the minimum wage was just a way to get people to vote for ALBA, and it worked.” Hernan fights back.

“No, it was for the people, Mel cares about the people, but Micheletti and his stooges, I don’t think so. There are about 300 families that run this country, that own all of the major businesses. They don’t want the minimum wage being raised because it affects their profits. This was their master plan to help themselves through Micheletti and hurt the poor man.”

“I don’t know, sounds kind of crazy to me. How could extending term limits help the people? That’s what I want to know, the direction he was going in wasn’t democracy, how can anything but democracy help the people?” responds Hernan, unused to being challenged by left wing rhetoric.

“But what about what Micheletti is after? Doesn’t seem to have the best track record himself,” I try to chime in.

“Ya, its true. Look; in politics in Honduras, they’re all thugs and thieves, that’s a given, but I’d rather a predictable thug that than an unpredictable freedom thief.” An overzealous Charly charismatically attempts to use his personality and choice of words to convince, starting to sound like a stubborn Republican from the U.S.

“What Zelaya was going to do was bring Venezuela and all its crazy communist laws to

Honduras, we just can’t have that. Do you want that?”
Conversation raises a couple of decibels as both sides, assuming opposing viewpoints from the other, try to out-load political ammunition and shoot at the same time.

Both, too impassioned to even recognize the other’s weapon in hand don’t even attempt to dodge, dismantling the delicately formulated opinion of the other before it even reaches them.

Trying to diffuse the fire, a friend of Mario's starts a side conversation on how it is all in God’s hands, and we shouldn’t worry or argue; that Jesus said the poor will always be with you. Allison, off in the corner, overwhelmed with all the simultaneous conversation, doesn’t know who to follow or believe, and slips off into the back room. Later she tells me she’s glad Mel is gone.

On the TV a lawyer calls for respectful dialogue; Obama chides the same.

This possibility is pursued at my work place, where slightly more informed individuals chime in,

“Ya, I’m not much for Micheletti or Zelaya, they’re both delinquents.” My boss begins the conversation.

“Ya, Micheletti is a coke addict and trafficker.” A co-worker adds.

“Exactly, trying to get his piece of the pie. What I don’t like about this whole thing is the way they did it all, it was unnecessary and illegal.” My boss makes clear his position.

“They could have waited and brought him to court sensibly, why’d they need a coup?”

“And if all was legal, why did they have to bring him to another country, they could have tried him peacefully here,” said a lawyer who earlier commented that she had no opinion on the matter.

“Ya, makes you wonder if something else wasn’t behind it; a little questionable.”

“You know what I say: the US is behind it, they were getting scared with Zelaya chumming up to Chavez and all.”

“Ya the U.S, acting all diplomatic and such, not reducing aid yet”

With US’s former tendency to help in ousting any potential left leaning leader in Central America, and their loyal support and training of the Honduran army, I understood my co-workers’ sentiments, but thought the possibility highly unlikely. Honduras had seemed to convict the US of many ills and accomplishments in which they had not participated; the assumed savior and arch oppressor simultaneously. A dependent relationship at the stage of teenage angst, at fault: its self proclaimed parents.

The conversation was then reduced to making fun of the political rivals. Both Mel and Micheletti had now become easy ways to get a quick laugh around the office, like the age of Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky. The change, history, settled in, announces its thorough affects when it makes its way down to the bone of children’s rhymes and games. Jokes are not too far from that reality.

Back at the house I am reminded by Hernan that Zelaya may come back Thursday,
“He’s coming accompanied with U.S support,” he says.

Rumors, and gossip with which this neighborhood are experts, wasn’t about to escape this situation; a way to fill in the news gaps.

Diana, Hernan’s daughter, begins to explain how in Venezuela, children at three years old are taken from their homes and forced into state owned nurseries where they are raised to be soldiers, and that Zelaya was on his way to doing the same in Honduras.

Glad to end the topic, Hernan’s partner, that they call La Chavela, is much more emotionally charged about a situation that involved Diana’s child, her five month old granddaughter in the past week.

With this I begin to realize the different levels of news, and the degree of impact each level has on a regular Honduran family. There’s the news that one's daughter’s five month old baby accidentally fell to the ground, provoking an in the chest fear.

The news that a friend with a fractured leg is hurting, causing one to immediately come running. Then, the news that one's President was just rid of his post, which off-settles one for awhile until it becomes back round information to food on the table; only to come back into the spotlight when it threatens that inner close to home level. We are all hoping that doesn’t become a reality.
Over a week later, Allison comes home at 9:00a.m still a school uniformed expectant, again; without given the opportunity of classes. They say schools are going to stay closed until Mel Zelaya comes home.

In the community the same story is retold; a single mother with two children, one deaf and sick often, laments that she hasn’t been able to sell tortillas, her lifeblood, since the crisis began. She at the moment is depending on the good will of her neighbors and friends.

A taxi driver friend complains the same, ridership has gone down since the crisis began, people more afraid to go downtown where the protests are.
Weeks later, my flight from Houston to Honduras had numerous rows that were totally empty. The tourist town of the Copan Ruins, usually swarming with tourists during the peak of the summer mirrors the airplane seats.

Now that the Honduras crisis has been removed from what the BBC calls news, Hondurans are left to deal with dual wars competing: the sudden waging political one and the constant scraping by one which has just reached another kind of unthinkable level due to curfews and anticipated danger.
Chavez’s lightbulbs still blaze on the rich and the poor.