I’ve been toying around with ideas for how I might want to update folks about how things are going in Honduras and what I’m learning. For the time being Medium seems like a pretty good fit. I’d like to try to write something here on a weekly basis, but I’m not sure how faithful I’ll be to that intention. Vamos a ver.
First, the basics.
I’m very thankful to be here in Tegucigalpa. The host family I’m living with has been offering me tremendous hospitality. In addition, the staff at AJS Honduras have been nothing but kind and welcoming in my first week. Tegucigalpa is an exciting and beautiful place, and for every report of violence in this city, there should be dozens or reports of kindness. It’s easy to see God present and at work here. I don’t want to bore anyone with a log of my life, minute-by-minute, so I’ll just say that these last few days, I’ve felt very blessed — and also confident that this is also going to be a challenge for me.
That became particularly clear last Friday when a man from the neighborhood was killed near our house. The prominence of violence here in Honduras is reported regularly (it has the highest homicide rate of any country tracked by the U.N.) — and there are many brave people working to change that, but everyone in the neighborhood was still pretty shocked, saying that a shooting like this hasn’t happened in a while in this neighborhood.
After things had calmed down, I wrote down some of my reflections, and I thought it might be a good way to share a significant moment in my time so far.
Rusted chains. Rhythmic squeaking. Perched above the road, a half dozen children rock their swings under a stary sky. Like a reflection, yellow lights scatter the hills of Tegucigalpa below.
What was that? I thought I knew gun shots now. It must have been fireworks — leftovers from today’s World Cup match. How the neighborhood erupted when that goal was scored today! The first World Cup goal by the Honduran team in decades. Cheers. Fireworks.
Potential turned kinetic. Tension turned to celebration.
How silent when it wasn’t enough in the end.
What was that? Footsteps moving quickly. The dog’s barks have changed. Voices carry on in that tone that is hushed and heavy at the same time — when so much emotion gets thrust upon simple words.
They — the three explosions — they were shots. Down the street a man is dead. The swings are silent.
Some head to the scene; neighbors soon wander into each other’s houses. Quickly, a sea of solemness floods the room. In and out, neighbors and family enter and leave. Their eyes carry a gaze that is focused at a distance.
Reassurance: “Don’t be worried.” A 21-year old, young man points to the sky. “He is our savior.”
“Your faith is strong?” I ask. Hesitancy. Response. “I try to make it strong.”
I’m not sure if my presence would be appropriate in the street. In the room, I sit together with a 13-year-old neighbor.
“What a tragedy,” he says. On his face, though, is a smile. When we’re young, we have to learn to display sorrow, concern, fear. Before we learn, we often carry sunken smiles.
Outside, the mother collapses on the hood of a pickup truck. She weeps.
Potential to kinetic. Tension to mourning.
The police and paramedics arrive. The man’s body is taken away. The crowd disperses. I wander outside the door. Children climbs back into their swings. Rhythmic squeaking. Rusted chains.
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