May 1, 2006
Ignore him and he’ll go away
A visiting group of six was having dinner in a small café
in the backwater town of La Libertad in the Petén. We had
the choice of eggs and beans or a grisly piece of meat; the same
choice we’d have again for breakfast. I caught sight of
a small man standing about 10 feet from the table who was mumbling
something in English about food or money. In truth, I wasn’t
listening very closely because people wanting money frequently
approach me, and after four years I may be becoming indifferent
or deaf to some requests. I didn’t really look at the man
either—I just caught a few glimpses from the corner of my
eye. I did see he had on a holey tee-shirt, was shoeless, and
could have used a bath and a haircut but I would not have recognized
him in a crowd of two.
The man persisted in his efforts; this time I understood him.
“How are you?” he asked. “Where are you from”?
The group was uncomfortable, so was I, and growing more so, but
our Guatemalan host didn’t budge—neither did I. Everyone
tried to continue their table conversations, excluding the uninvited
guest in the process, but he was a presence that pervaded everyone’s
consciousness although none spoke to him. Reluctantly, I was about
to ask the proprietor to escort the man out. Proprietors don’t
readily do that since this kind of experience is common, and it
is the way those at the extreme margins survive.
Before I could do that a man from the group who was sitting next
to me, Greg, got up and walked to meet the man. He shook his hand,
put his arm around his shoulders and walked with him just outside
the door. There they engaged in a conversation. I could hear none
of it but I knew the North American spoke no Spanish and from
what I’d heard earlier the man from the Petén, the
Petenero, could only mutter a few words in English—not carry
on a conversation. Still, I did no more than glance at the Petenero.
I soon noticed that the North American, Greg, put something in
the Petenero’s hand, they exchanged a few more words or
grunts of communication, a few smiles, and then the Petenero went
on his way while Greg returned to the table, sat down, heaving
an audible sigh, and proceeded into a private mental space. Those
at the table, or maybe just me, were visibly relieved that this
uncomfortable episode was over but conversation was conspicuously
muted after that.
The next day I asked Greg how much money he’d given the
man, since that is the way most of these encounters are resolved.
“Nothing. I just gave him something to eat. A tortilla.”
A tortilla!? A lousy, lowly tortilla? That’s all? I thought
to myself, taken aback. A campesino eats a half dozen of these
simple corn pancakes with every meal—frequently they are
the meal with only a little hot pepper and a little salt to dull
hunger. Nobody approaching a group of North Americans and asking
for help would settle for a mere tortilla—or would he? It
became clear that what Greg had done—and what our host,
the Petenero’s countrymen, the proprietor and I had not
done—was to acknowledge the Petenero’s humanity. It
was nothing more complicated than that; it wasn’t about
food or money, just a simple recognition of the fact that two
pilgrims accidentally met that day and one needed assurance that
he was worthy of notice, and one North American had the courage
to offer it. It was an inadvertent teaching moment, but I learned
something and I’m glad I was there.
A couple of days later the same group was traveling by van to
an outlying village to consider the possibilities for a communal
water catchment system. Water is in short supply in the Petén,
dehydration and other water-related health issues are continuing
problems; water sources are rare and frequently contaminated.
Wells are not usually the answer, so catchment appears to be a
simple and economic way to address the issue. Although it was
late February it was hot—it’s always hot in the Petén.
Riding in the van were four representatives of the campesino community.
North Americans are advised to always have water with them and
additional water is made available in five-gallon containers in
the van. I have never seen a campesino carry water. When offered
a choice they will usually drink Cokes or Pepsis, rarely water.
This day was no different. It was hot, and the North Americans
were taking occasional drinks from their water bottles. None of
the Kekchi campesinos had water and none were drinking. One of
the North Americans, Frank, after enjoying a long swallow from
his bottle, immediately offered it to his Kekchi seat companion
who eagerly accepted the bottle, put it to his mouth and took
his own long, lingering swallows, and handed it back to his seatmate
who took another drink before replacing the cap.
The North American had not hesitated in his generous offer of
water. This was unusual, in that this was his first trip to Guatemala.
There had been no conversation between them, since neither could
speak any words of the other’s language, but apparently
they communicated on a deeper plane. Frank had recognized the
human need of water of his seatmate and that they shared a common
humanity. Later, after a strenuous hike through an archeological
site, the sharing of that communal bottle was repeated—again
without hesitation. Most North Americans would not share their
bottles with anyone, being well grounded in germ theory. To share
it with a poor, rural, indigenous, Guatemalan raises the level
of squeamishness beyond which most would not venture. But in these
acts of sharing something so basic as food and water, we experienced
the spiritual act of communion—coming together to share
the elements while recognizing our common humanity in Jesus Christ,
who still brings people together in the most unlikely places,
breaking down walls of misunderstanding while building community
across language and cultural divides. When we learn to not ignore
people and refuse to see them only as needy recipients of our
skills and money, and begin to react to them instead as brothers
and sisters, as Greg and Frank did, maybe then we’ll bring
the promises of our faith closer to everyone. We still have a
distance to go, but episodes like these are full of hope. The
best things we can do for people are often the most simple—just
see them for the human children they are of the God we have in
common. Then we won’t want to send them away but rather
we’ll enjoy their being with us in this life.
Roger
The 2006 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p.
64
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