There is a certain sense of feeling overwhelmed whenever one enters a third-world country from a first-world country.  My trip to El Salvador, in the middle of the rainy season and the middle of the summer was no exception.  We were 23 people, united by a common worship community (St. Ignatius Church, San Francisco), invited by the Oscar Romero Foundation and a sister parish (San Antonio) in a section of San Salvador called Soyapango, dedicated to an open-minded exchange of ideas, fuelled by a desire to help, work, and learn together, and excited about the prospects of the adventure which lay ahead of us.  Yet, as we landed at the airport, a certain apprehensiveness settled in.  Were we covered, from head to toe, with mosquito repellant?  Had we sprayed our clothes with the proper DEET spray?  The first fear, in short, was protection from the dreaded mosquito with its potential of spreading dengue fever and/or malaria.  There had been much publicity in the States prior to our trip, and we were all more than a little armored with precautionary measures.

The actual arrival at our sister parish brought out fear #2.  We were offered a sumptuous meal, featuring the El Salvadoran specialty, papusas.  But the question of "What can we eat" and "What must we avoid" became one that always remained in the foreground.  Of course, all the food at the parish had been prepared with purified water,  (well, as it turned out, that was not always true, much to the chagrin of some in our company), so we had little to worry about.

The third and final intimidating factor, which, in reality, was rarely insurmountable, was communication.  Several of our band were completely fluent in Spanish, while others of us had little or marginal abilities at communication in Spanish.  But, like any country, even timid attempts at native speech were warmly greeted with smiles and appreciation.  There was never an condescension or even impatience by the natives for those of us who couldn't speak their tongue.  I wondered, would most Americans have been as forgiving?

It should not be underestimated, the degree to which the fear of mosquitoes and tainted food/water subconsciously worked to keep us from feeling a total sense of immersion in this culture, almost like we were going around in a protective bubble.  Couple that with the culture shock of affluent San Francisco lives, with all our freedoms, discretionary monies, and beauty which we take for granted, encountering poverty (not as extreme in Soyapango as we would soon encounter in the countryside), and indescribable air pollution that, at times, could leave your eyes burning, your nose stinging, and your head aching; and you have a recipe for stress!

Much to the credit of everyone in our group, no one caved in to anxiety.  In fact, I think most of us were so overcome by the generosity of hospitality shown us by our host families, that humility was more the order of the day than any form of arrogance.  Herein lies the first secret to what I would call the magic of El Salvador, the extent to which the natives welcomed us with open arms, sharing everything they had with us unconditionally.

Yes, we enjoyed some of the tourist things to see (not that there actually is a tourist industry there; there isn't), including the magnificent Mayan ruins in Tazumal.  But the purpose of our trip was mainly threefold:  to work, to learn, and to build relationships.  The relationships came first, both within the delegation itself, and with the Salvadorans.  Some of us, myself included, lived singly with host families.  In every instance, the pressure of communication gave way to the warmth of friendship and the dissolving of fears and prejudices.  Simple pleasures held great weight, such as the reception I received upon giving my host family a copy of one of my organ CDs.  I was moved by the Salvadorans' absence of pretense and love of things exotic and new.  In fact, I would venture that the site of Americans there is a novelty in and of itself, much less hosting one!

The exotic-ness of being foreign seemed even more pronounced when we visited the sister parish of our sister parish in El Carmen, a mere ten kilometers from the epicenter of the last big earthquake in 1991.  Traveling through beautiful countryside (found in abundance in this small but verdant country), we ended up in an area of extreme poverty, where people mostly exist by subsistence farming.  In this instance, my host family spoke almost nothing to me, and I was overcome with the sense of awkwardness, a white giant among shorter, darker people -- and probably the first American that they had ever seen, much less housed under their own roof.  Yet it would have been a mistake to assume that their simple lies were without difficulty, or that my feelings were any more complex than theirs.  Oddly enough, even through the awkwardness, there was not only a humanity that shone through, but a nobility.  I left El Carmen humbled by my inability to reach them in any way that my frame of reference could understand or allow.  We Westerners of the First World often assume that we can converse with and help anyone.  But perhaps there is something we've lost as we've gained our intellectual and psychological prowess.  Watching them standing around the evening kitchen firee, talking softly as the food cooked, I was struck by the timeless nature of what they were doing.  Here, in front of me, was a simplicity and a humanity that I had never seen before; and I was quite moved by it.

Learning occurred during the course of the week as we were addressed by several different social, religious, and political groups.  There are many ways in which the Salvadorans are taking charge of their world in positive and constructive ways.  From feminist awareness to liberation theology to organic farming, the fruits of many people's labors and ideas have spread.  I felt somewhat frustrated, however, at the enormity of the task before them -- frustrated because I wanted so badly to see them move into a more comfortable life as quickly as possible.  But, I am also aware that when America tackled many of these same social problems, we were already a fully industrialized country.  Any time a significant portion of a population lives by subsistence farming, the entire country becomes easy prey to natural disasters, famine, political unrest, and war.  My frustrations lay in wondering just how effective many of these social changes would be in the utter absence of any infrastructure on which to attach these ideals.  Have we put the cart before the horse, in attempting to assist people in the Third World, by offering our ideals without an economy, judicial system, political system, educational system, sanitary system (!), and industrial system in place?  For example, giving diesel-guzzling trucks and cars to a country where usable roads are at a minimum and air pollution is at a maximum may not be the most ethical thing for us to do.

On the whole, I was more impressed with the structure of Habitat for Humanity (the office of which we visited) than the building projects with which we were engaged.  Habitat's motto:  "A hand up, not a hand out" seems to me to be an effective solution in moving a country from the "undeveloped world" (Third World) to the "developing world" (Second World).  It gives people both responsibility and ownership, and forces them to create a job system which offers wages above and beyond subsistence farming.  Surely this is the way toward independence and away from total vulnerability in the face of natural and political disasters.

For me, the pivotal moment of the week was the visit to the site of Oscar Romero's assassination.  This is a humble, but beautiful church, with unique, striking, and gentle architecture and clear glass to bring in the deep green color of the trees.  Who would have dreamed that it was fated to become a point of pilgrimage, to mark a crucial moment in the Salvadoran Civil War, to be the spot of a gruesome and hideous tragedy, immortalizing the breakdown between a government and a people?  The life of Oscar Romero, his metanoia from a bookish and un-attached life to one of ministry to the poor and embodying the tenets of Liberation Theology, has become a cornerstone for the people of Latin America -- also an inspiration for me and many others.

Our chief manual labor during that week, helping build houses and create organic gardens, was tiring, stressful (mostly due to lack of organization), and humbling.  This is not the kind of work that we are used to.  Walking half a mile down to a water source, then carrying five gallons of water back up the same hill is exhausting work.  How do they do this all day?  It certainly made me appreciate every drop of water that I either drank or used for washing.

After a few days, what I started missing most was not the trappings of home, rather, I missed hearing music, the 'stuff' of our culture, art, literature, etc.  I came to a deep awareness that Art effects everyday life far more than we may realize.  I wished for more opportunities to worship together with those in our delegation.  I only experienced one worship service, at 6 a.m. on Sunday morning in a capacity-filled church (about 750 people).  The feeling of the mass, in this country which is probably 90 percent Catholic, was a feeling of completeness, of nurturance, of solidarity.  This is their life.  This is what they know as normal.

As I reflect back on the summer now, it was my week in El Salvador that formed the pivotal moments of the summer for me.  I was a different person before and after my trip.  I am grateful for the opportunity, grateful to live where and as I do, and grateful for the bonds of friendship that I formed with many people there.

Jonathan Dimmock,
September 2002