In Difference

In America, life is about happiness and comfort. In Guatemala, I find, life is simply and honestly about survival.

This week I have been wondering why Americans are so out of place in third world cultures. My inclination is that it's not because we are taller or better dressed, but because we are the products of a culture that encourages us to correct, cover up and overcompensate. If we are born with things we don't like, we get braces, contacts, jeans that make our butts look smaller, new noses or Crest White Strips. Our lives are largely about avoidance and preventative measures.

People in Guatemala frankly don’t have the time (or the resources) for it all. Last week I was talking to one of the teachers at school, asking him if he ever thinks of leaving Guatemala to live somewhere else. "No," he said. "The only thing I dream about is providing for my family. Americans dream, we live."

Most Guatemaltecos work every day of the week, oftentimes 8-10 hours a day, and are quite happy to do it. Underneath their amiable demeanors there is a somber lining that suggests these people have a truly exceptional understanding of tragedy. And they do.

This country is less than 20 years out from a brutal civil war. The conflict that has only recently been acknowledged as a massive genocide (initiated largely by the U.S. government) turned neighbors against each other, saw indigenous peoples viciously tortured and murdered in front of their communites, and left families missing loved ones who the government still claims merely “disappeared.” (For more info, check out Guatemala: Never Again!)

The nation's first generation war victims are often my age, and have an deep understanding of death and brutality. Now it seems they desperately trying to find peace and civility without really knowing where to begin.

The culture here is nothing if not raw. Walking around the streets of Xela, I see drunk people passed out on the sidewalk, dead dogs that were run over the night before, people missing their arms, and guardian-less children dodging speeding cars in the streets.

Last Friday, as I was walking home from class, a little girl who I imagine was less than 5 years old came up behind me and grabbed my hand. I smiled at her and tried to initiate a conversation, but she just looked up at me silently and smiled. We walked 3 blocks together, holding hands in silence. I got to my gate and told her it was my home. She looked at the gate, then looked back up at me, and let go of my hand. As she walked back down the street, she smiled and waved goodbye.

There are many emotions I feel here, in varying degrees, both for the country and for its people. Amid the more one-dimensional and erratic, I think the deepest emotion I feel here is hope.