Independance Day

While people at home in the States celebrate the Fourth of July, I’ll be thinking of another day of independence - July 28th. As Peru’s national holiday celebrating its own independence from Spain, it is also the date printed on my ticket to fly back home to Albany.

It seems appropriate, and no coincidence at all, that I should be returning home on a day that represents self-awareness, identity and freedom.

I do feel like I’m breaking free somehow, much more so than when I left home back in September. I didn’t come here to escape or to adventure out on my own. Instead I came here as an act of stepping into relationship. And rather than seek freedom, I entered into some very serious bonds and commitments.

However, the bonds that have held me during this year, in my family and at work, have not been restrictive or limiting. Instead, they have been fluid and resilient because they have been based in faith and love.

Another bond that I deliberately entered into is with G-d. A huge component of my experience in Peru has been an experiment in giving up control and putting my life in G-d’s hands.

I was tired of over-planning my life and writing its pages before the story even began. So, I chose to let go of my expectations and trust the ways in which G-d might work through me in this new place.

In doing so, I have felt a strong sense of being led. At times, this involved arriving in the office certain mornings and being swept up in a new project or invited to enter the outskirts of town on a home visit.

Other times this meant sitting at the kitchen table with my eyes sinking with exhaustion, but staying anyway because my host father just began to tell a story. And still other times, I found myself crying uncontrollably and accepting this also as G-d moving me along somehow.

In going along with the flow, I have noticed a change in my demeanor. Generally, I have been more quiet and subdued, more pensive and reserved. I have only recently brought out my more silly and lighthearted side, which has felt like a distant voice that I forgot I had.

At times I have held back, resisting the impulse to complain and even ask questions. I’ve felt a myriad of emotions, ranging from utterly frustrated to simply elated, few of which I’ve openly expressed while being here.

And this has led me to wonder whether trusting and following G-d means having to dilute one’s personality or, at times, censor one’s true self.

I learned an important lesson when my brother visited Huánuco back in January. I was anxious about how he might adjust to staying with my host family. I prepped him with what to say, how to say it, and generally how to act. At first I thought I was being helpful, but Carl responded by saying, “Can’t you just let me be myself?”

The question is, have I let me be myself this year?

Maybe… sometimes… I don’t know. It’s hard to tell when my “self” is constantly changing, constantly becoming.

What I do know is that I’ve allowed myself to detach from who I think I am in order to see certain possibilities of who I might become. Letting go of a rigid sense of self has allowed me to be more flexible, more sponge-like, soaking up all the influences around me.

I’ve entered a child-like state while here, one that embraces newness and change and is more intent on learning about myself rather than proving myself.

I think of Peru’s Independence Day as my own declaration of independence because I will be leaving a community and a window of time that has shown me the importance of being me.

As I leave, I will carry a deeper understanding of my own identity in relation to myself, others, and G-d. And this, I think, represents more freedom and independence than what initially brought me to Peru.

Patience

The other night while chatting with my host mom in the kitchen, I flipped the wall calendar to July and, admittedly, counted the number of days left.

I lifted my gaze to the image for the month, a baby panda bear lazily hanging over a tree branch, paws dangling down and eyes closed in absolute contentedness. Below the image was the word “patience” and a Bible verse from the book of Lamentations: “The Lord is good to those who wait for him, to the soul who seeks him.”

This seems to be the ideal theme for me for the coming month as I feel anything but patient, wrestling with how to not wish this time away.

I started the week in good spirits, ready to travel to Huancayo for our last retreat with all the YAVs. But by mid-morning Monday, I learned that everything was on hold as there was a road blockage, caused by a labor strike, along the main highway from Lima.

Worker strikes or paros are common and usually involve miners demanding improvements in working conditions, this time in the mining town of La Oroya. The strikes usually end after one or two days, as staple goods such as chickens, rice and sugar, not to mention people, need to be transported from Lima to the provinces.

As the paro continues indefinitely, I realize how easily one can feel isolated in the middle of the Andes. I can't help but feel stuck, anxious and simply inpatient.

My complaint is a minor inconvenience compared to the more severe disruptions others are experiencing. However, it is enough to hold me still and make me reflect on where I am.

While I struggle with a sense of restlessness, I look to the moments during this year when I felt utterly content, like the sleepy panda bear in the kitchen calendar.

One such moment was a few weeks ago when another volunteer visited from Lima. We rode out to the ruins at Kotosh along with my host sister and explored the Temple of the Crossed Hands.

In my previous visit, I had learned that one of the stones outside the temple has a body-shaped indent, meant for someone to lie in. The idea is to soak up the available energy in the atmosphere, meanwhile basking beneath the sun.

We each took a turn laying in the body mold, having our moment with nature. As I settled down and closed my eyes, the warm surface of the rock infused all its goodness into my back. I felt the mountains surrounding me and the presence of my friends enjoying the moment in their own way.

I stretched out my arms and, in the most concrete way possible, I felt unquestionably content - waiting for nothing, expecting nothing and all the more ready to experience everything… in G-d’s time.

G-d’s time – that progression of life that has so little to do with our plans yet has so much to do with us.

A few years ago my mom’s friend gave me a box of jewelry she no longer wanted. One of the items was a watch with two faces, each with its own battery and ticking hands. It was so unusual that I hung unto it, but never ended up using it.

Since my current watch has taken a beating this year, and with it my own conception of time, I plan to start using the double-windowed watch when I'm back home.

It is a tangible reminder that there are two hour glasses, mine and G-d’s. And the more I accept G-d’s timing the more content and patient I will feel.

Returnings

Lately, I’ve been noticing some curious reversals going on in my world – mirror reflections of my first couple months, which now seem to bookend my experience here.

The most obvious to me at the moment are fresh mosquito bites covering my lower legs and feet. I realize I’m re-entering bug season, which left my legs red and swollen back in September. However, this time I’m armed with anti-itch cream and an awareness that I’m literally partaking in the cycle of nature in this region.

With the slight seasonal change also comes cooler mornings with warmer and more windy afternoons. The dust circulating the air has left me with a never-ending head cold, which characterized my first couple weeks. And once again, a thick layer of Huánuco earth covers every surface in my bedroom, which no amount of sweeping and cleaning can mitigate.

I realize that it’s not so much a return of these aspects of life that grabs my attention. Rather, it is a return of my own attention. I am recapturing the wide-eyed alertness which informed me of my surroundings when I first arrived.

For a while, I became quite accustomed to the endless presence of potatoes and cumbia music, the astonishing size and variety of avocados and the occasional flock of sheep that cross through our neighborhood.

Once again these aspects appear out of the ordinary, distinct and altogether different from what I will return to. And while my refreshed awareness of certain elements are more welcomed than others, all seem to be an inseparable part of life here.

One very significant return was a personal pilgrimage I took to the Granja last weekend. Thanks to the suggestion of our YAV coordinator, Debbie, I realized that I needed a break and I didn’t have to go far to find it.

Being at the Granja felt so familiar and home-like, this time arriving by myself and for myself. I crossed the river (blue-tin-boat style), consumed myself in the last remaining corn fields and slowly came into range of our alfalfa fields, our cows, our place in the midst of all this land.

After a nap in the farm house, filled with memories, voices and faces of the campamentos in February, I met some of the volunteers from England in the eating pavilion to help peel a mound of coffee beans. Brown leathery shells cover tiny light green beans, and before roasting, they smell faintly of almonds and wild flowers.

After about forty minutes, I decided to escape any form of work, even if it was simply a nice excuse to chat. I headed toward the green and white gated entrance to the farm and crossed the pebbled road leading to Tomayquichua. I made my way through some prickly brush and then uphill along the overgrown walking path toward the mirador (look out).

As familiar to me now as the hilltop at Tawasentha Park overlooking the Heldebergs or the stone ledge viewing point at Thatcher Park, this is another one of my “heaven spots.” A shell of a bamboo hut sits behind a row of sturdy rocks, protected even more by immovable boulder-sized cactus plants.

It was about 4:30pm and the sun was beginning to fall toward the mountain edges on the opposite side of the river below. At my elevated spot overlooking the farm, I seemed to be at eye level with the gentle mountain outline.

In the open space between my perch and the opposing mountain wall is a valley of plant growth and a blend of animal sounds – clicking birds, barking dogs and a rooster, all amidst a thick warm breeze passing through the unobliterated openness.

After soaking in the end of the day, I came back down rocky incline, bouncing more than walking, and met up with the two teenagers that live in the shelter Casa de Buen Trato (House of Good Treatment). They brought me along to their shared bedroom where a new bed is awaiting another young girl, who will arrive shortly with her one-year old baby.

Covering the bed is a bright blue crochet blanket, which caught my eye immediately. The girls’ tutor invited me in and showed me that each square was knitted separately by the girls, each with a crochet flower in the middle, each a little different.

As the girls looked over my shoulder examining their work, I could tell they were incredibly proud. And they deserve to feel proud of their work and their lives, after all they’ve put up with.

Later over dinner, asparagus soup and lemon grass tea, one of the girls shared with me what she is most proud of. Pointing to her son’s new leather shoes, she informed me with such enthusiasm that she had purchased them in a nearby town with her own money, which she earned by making Mother’s Day chocolates and selling them at our office. She´ll be doing the same for Father’s Day, but this time, she noted, she’d like to buy something for herself.

She has changed so much since I met her back in September. She was very quiet and at times resembled a small deer caught in the headlights with a stunned expression, unsure of what was happening to her.

But over the past several months, she has really taken up her own space, caring for her son with a deep sense of devotion and finding humor in just about everything.

It’s strange to think that when I first came to the Granja to watch over the girls one weekend last fall, I felt anxious when I arrived and overwhelmed when I left. Entering their world was so unfamiliar and I didn’t know if I belonged.

But now, in a blessed reversal, it has become a place I return to – a place where I can both get away from the world and at the same time feel ever more a part of it.

Incarcerated

My church at home used to have a prison ministry where several women would collect bath products to bring to the women in a local jail. I remember contributing some of my own supply, scented lotions from the Avon catalogue, travel soaps and shampoos from hotels and sample perfumes from makeup counters.

Though I never visited the jail, I learned from my mom that the women inside were not hardened criminals. Many were mothers missing their children or raising an infant behind bars. I learned that the women had made some mistakes which brought them to jail, but they deserved some luxuries like any of us.

This past week, I visited the women’s ward at the Potracancha Prison outside of Huánuco. And I had the chance to meet some of the very same women who I had only heard about.

The prison is located on a rocky plateau overlooking the countryside beyond the city of Huánuco. Accessed by an unpaved winding road, the jail is a cement fortress lined with coils of barbed wire. At the entrance gate we were met by uniformed guards and a flock a sheep grazing on some dry grass.

I arrived with one of the pastors in our office and six girls from England who are volunteering at the Granja farm for several weeks. The girls had prepared some hymns and a short skit of the “Prodigal Daughter.” Pastora Yessy would be giving a Bible reflection, while I was asked to lead another one of my movement workshops.

We entered the damp and chilly check-in area, left our passports and bags behind the desk and received an ink stamp on our left forearm. After a security pat-down inspection, we were led through several gates and behind a heavy iron door.

Suddenly, as if all the metal and cement had disappeared, we were met with several smiling faces welcoming us inside the women’s paballon. We were greeted with warm hugs, hands reaching for our hands, and multiple voices at once saying “Hermana, hermana, bienvenidas!” (“Welcome sisters!”)

We were led outside into a sunny courtyard where just beyond the high walls rose the familiar mountains that surround Huánuco – a glimpse of the outside world.

The outdoor space was busy with about twenty or thirty women. Some occupied themselves by knitting small square patches while three women sat kneeling on the ground weaving fabric on traditional back-strap looms hooked around a metal pole.

On opposite ends of the courtyard hung lines of laundry, colorful blankets, children’s shorts and t-shirts and baby clothes. It seemed like a typical backyard patio.

Inside the windows of the sleeping quarters I could see a mother holding her baby. Miniature cut-out stars hung from the ceiling and paper hearts were tacked to the walls. The women have tried to disguise that they live in a prison, and I imagine as much for their own sake as for their children’s.

It’s startling to remember that some of these women have not stepped foot off the property for ten or fifteen years, or maybe even longer. What brought them here? What did they do?

Some committed petty robbery while others were accomplices in more serious crimes. Many come from the surrounding jungle regions and most have been involved in drug trade.

Many of the women in jails across Peru are involved in drug trafficking, often pulled into the web by husbands and boyfriends. And while they work as a team, if caught, in many cases women end up serving a double sentence. The prevailing notion is that it’s better if the woman takes the burden as the male counterpart can still earn a living.

Sentences are often senseless and arbitrary, with outcomes negotiated in a room of three people. Verdicts are made between a couple of lawyers, a judge and some money thrown on the table. There is no litigation process, no jury of peers, and without this there is a vast gap in justice.

The disproportionate number of women serving time for drug procession brings a startling connection to New York’s Rockefeller Drug Laws and their effect women. Mandatory minimum sentences for non-violent drug offences have completely changed New York’s prison population.

Since 1973, when the laws were enacted, the number of incarcerated women in New York has increased over 500%, the majority being African-American and Latina women. The State Legislature is on the verge of repealing the laws but, in many ways, the damage has already been done.

http://www.interfaithimpactnys.org/positionpapers/womenprison.htm

In visiting the Potracancha Prison I realized how easy it is to forget who lives behind bars, in Albany or in Huánuco. And people do live here, many of whom are women, washing laundry, carrying babies, singing hymns and struggling to stay afloat.

Considering the imperfect justice system both here and at home, the least we can do is enter inside and meet those who live there.

Prayer Chain

At times I act well under pressure, able to focus my energies and carve out a sense of direction. Yet, at other times, when moments of crisis hit, I find I can’t quite manage. Last week was one of those times. And while I fell short in strength and faith, I was surrounded by some of the most deeply grounded people who showed me the way.

Tuesday morning began with a frightening phone call, the father of one of my co-workers calling to say that his son, David, had been in a car accident and was on his way to the hospital. Within moments, the two other psychologists I work with left the office for the hospital, and I was left in the room by myself with a mess of empty desks, including David’s.

My mind was swarming with thoughts and images. What had happened? Someone said he was unconscious. Another said the driver of the car had been killed in the crash.

Unable to sit still with every scenario flashing through my brain, I found myself anxiously pacing the small room and pausing at David’s desk. I think I prayed out loud and said, '' Please G-d, don’t let him die.''

Just as I sat back down at my desk, one of the pastors passed the doorway instructing everyone to meet in the conference room downstairs. I knew what this meant. A prayer vigil.

This is what Paz y Esperanza does when no on else knows what to do. And when no one knows what to do, we look to G-d for direction.

We met in the conference room, a handful of people present, and laid it all out on the table. We prayed for David’s life, for one of the layers who was hospitalized with flu symptoms and for one of the most serious sexual abuse cases, which is on the verge of a verdict.

A few hours later, we met again, this time the entire office, to unload the burdens of hopelessness, stress and exhaustion. We learned that David had regained consciousness, suffered a concussion, broke his nose and dislocated his shoulder bone. The driver was killed and it was and is a miracle that David was spared.

The legal office had reached its edge with the culmination of two critical cases, one of the lawyers out of commission with health problems and the director of the area in tears admitting to us all that she can barely handle it alone.

As I watched her trembling I remarked how devoted this team is to the wellbeing of its members. No one needs to hide behind their desk with the door closed to cry alone when it gets too hard.

At the national level, Peru is also in crisis, dealing with one of the most violent disputes since the terrorism of the 80’s and 90’s. This time it is over indigenous landowner rights.

As the Peruvian government tries to open territory in the north for oil, mining and lumber, indigenous communities are blocking road ways in order to protect their land. The local protests had been peaceful for two months, until this week when both local townspeople and national police were killed in the dispute.

It is obvious that Paz y Esperanza is not just concerned with issues in its own region in Huánuco. There is deep distress when it comes to both local family issues and national conflicts, which so often end in violence.

After words had been shared, my host father, a pastor, stood to draw us together in prayer. I stood next to him and he took my hand. What was previously an outpouring of human anxiety, confusion and desperation became a petition to G-d, that in our feebleness, G-d may intervene.

The prayer was a mantra, pulling in every one of our personal pleas, some unspoken, others whispered simultaneously around the circle. At times the prayer was loud and bellowing and I could feel a rush of energy through my host father’s hand. But as he closed the oration, he paused and then spoke softly in a tear-filled voice. Amen.

At my church at home, we often pass prayers through a "prayer chain," a list of phone numbers and emails where one person prays and then passes the request along. It is a comforting way to release one’s personal grief and lift it beyond our limited understanding.

I image the prayer floating along, hand to hand, heart to heart, building strength as it goes along, all the while speaking to G-d in a myriad of voices.

During this particularly difficult day, I imagined something similar. And just as the prayers moved along in succession, I too felt as if I was being passed along the chain.

The entire morning was a string of prayers, first alone at my desk, then a small group downstairs, and again with the entire office led by my host father. At each instant I felt I was swept up by a moving current bringing me to calmer water.

As I left the office to walk home, my host father swung by and we drove home on his motorcycle. We entered the kitchen, sat down for lunch, and I was caught in prayer once again, among the rest of my host family.

Like a giant safety net set below my feet or two hands placed against my back, prayer met me at every possible crossway on a day when I just couldn’t cope.

Anyday

I took a walk yesterday, crossing the same streets and passing the same sights I´ve seen since September. I walked around my neighborhood, Paucarbambilla. I crossed the new St. Sabastien bridge. And I followed the cracked sidewalk along the Huallaga River.

I left the house at about 3pm, when most of the tiendas and storefronts are closed up for the afternoon siesta. And while the streets were sleepy and vacant, I could hear the familiar droning melody of a funeral march. Heavy drums and out-of-tune brass instruments followed a slowly moving mass of sixty or seventy people, toward the giant Catholic church. If I´m closer to the procession I usually stop and wait until the last snare drum passes, transfixed by the somber crowd. But today I continued along the river.

Sometimes merky tan and other times a cross between caramel and liquid chocolate, the river changes depending on the rain and sediments it carries. Everyday when I walk to work, it seems to contain something different.

I take this same route day after day, in the morning to the office and back home for lunch, returning in the afternoon and then home again at dusk. Each way gives me twenty minutes of solitude and a string of unassociated thoughts.

This afternoon I walked along as usual, but paid special attention to what was around me, identifying what I may or may not see again once I leave.

The sidewalk is lined with shady trees, each covered with a chalky white paint about waist high, to keep away termites. Every couple of months, a team of women from the el campo (countryside), come in for a day of work. Barefoot or in flip flops, they shlap on the paint with flimsy brushes. They´ll probably eat well that week with the extra income. But I wonder how long that will last.

I peaked over the cement retaining wall, watching the river flowing forward on its way to the Amazon. But my eyes were taken away from the water by a mound of rotting trash, dumped along the river bank and carelessly left behind. Beer cans, broken dishes, empty boxes, and shredded paper. No one trying to hide it.

"Save the Planet" campaigns have only recently begun in Peru and are slowly making their way into school classrooms. In fact, just after stepping foot outside the house, I passed perfect evidence that local kids are taking notice. In a small park, a blue construction paper sign was tacked to a tree, and in orange cut-out letters read "Cuidame" (take care of me). There was a little red paper butterfly glued to the top corner.

I left the shady walkway along the river and headed toward Jr. 2 de Mayo (May 2nd Street), which commemorates a battle for independance between Peru and Spain. As usual, I kept my glance low along the ground making sure not to trip into one of the many open holes in the cement sidewalk. I´m not sure of their purpose, other than a possible water drainage system, and most are half covered by a large rock or filled with trash.

When I take the risk of looking up, I am constantly met with a panorama of sandy colored mountains, which rise above and behind the cement block houses lining the streets.

I pass familiar front doors with decorative metalwork on the windows and bright colored outer walls - turquoise, orange and green. The small produce market I usually visit was closed for the afternoon, with a rusty aluminum panel pulled across the entrance.

Most buildings have small window balconies with delapitated wooden railings on the second floor. Mariachi singers still visit homes to sing love songs on a birthday or anniversary, but nobody hangs their arms over the creaking balconies anymore.

Along the streets are a web of electric lines, tangled with red and pink flowering vines, connected every which way through windows and improvised third floors. Every building has a cluster of iron poles sticking up and out of the four corners of the roof, in the event that another floor be added in the future. Each metal rod is covered by an empty plastic bottle, so as not to attract lightening.

This isn´t the only practical use of plastic bottles. Along public grassy areas, spinklers are made creatively out of bottles poked with pin-sized holes, then attached to a hose and propped up on a tree branch stuck in the ground. Water escapes in all directions, reminding me of the fan sprinklers I used to run through as a kid.

While I tend to look for distinctive elements that make these walks unique and different from what I will return to, I recognize the aspects that make the streets of Huanuco just like any other busy little town in the world.

A father slighly hunched over holding his daughter´s hand as she learns how to walk. An older man, well dressed, maybe a new belt, walking particularly slow because he is in no rush to go anywhere. Women carrying groceries, though they never seem to buy more than what they need for one day. People leaving and entering their homes, living their lives in seemingly ordinary ways.

As I watch all this, imagining what I may or may not miss when I leave, I realize that so much of everyday life here is like everyday life anywhere on any day. There is a certain pulse and rhythm to the day, the week and even the year. I´m happy to have been here long enough to settle into the everyday/anyday qualities yet still have the feeling that I´m taking part in something remarkable.

Dinner Guest

One evening last week, I returned home to find a young woman and her two-year old son sitting in the living room. She appeared tired and out of place, and I had no idea who she was. My host mother gave few details and simply introduced us and said she was from Panao, a town three hours away where Paz y Esperanza has just opened a small office.

I asked her a few questions, simply to be social, “What’s your son’s name? How old is he?” She answered timidly and without emotion. I didn’t know what to say next, so I just slipped out of the situation and escaped to my bedroom.

I have experienced encounters like this before, in our living room, where a stranger waits on the couch, hands on her lap, trying to avoid eye contact and just keep quiet.

One Sunday afternoon, a young girl, about eleven years old, was waiting outside our neighbor’s door. We had just come home from church and learned that she had been waiting for over three hours. She looked hungry, so my host mother invited her in to have lunch with us and watch the annual Marinera dance competition on TV. We all sat mesmerized, commenting on the costumes and music, while the little girl consumed a mountain of pasta without saying a word.

Just as the television screen kept us all at a safe distance, my retreat to my bedroom last week kept me from getting too involved.

That is, until my host mom came in and asked if I could keep the young woman company while she went out to buy some bread for dinner. A quick glare in her eyes informed me that I should not only keep her company, but make sure she didn’t steal anything.

I invited her into the kitchen and started to set the table. Good, something to keep me busy, while I think of something to say.

“Is this your first time in Huánuco?... Yes. Do you like it?... I don’t know, I haven’t been here very long. The weather is beautiful isn’t it?... Yeah. Where did you live before?... With the baby’s father.”

She asked me where I was from and seemed slightly interested with my response. I described what I was doing in Peru, a vague comment about human rights, and her interest faded. “Human rights,” she probably wondered, “what are those?”

After rearranging every possible item on the table and folding an excessive number of napkins, I realized how in need this young woman was. A teenage single mom, on route from somewhere to somewhere else, with all her belongings in a ragged plastic bag.

The little boy’s face was smeared with dirt and tears and he looked hungry. I reached for the bag of leftover bread from breakfast and offered it to him and his mother. Both hands dove in like it was a bag of gold. I was stunned. Both were starving. They ate in silence while I listened closely for the front door to open and Elena to return.

As I waited I just stood near the girl, watching her son explore the kitchen, all of us trying to make sense of the situation.

But these situations simply don’t make sense. What causes a troubled lonely girl to find herself in the kitchen of a strange family where they have leftover bread and she hasn’t eaten all day? What causes this girl to be face to face with another girl (me), who thinks she has something to say about human rights but finds herself frozen when she meets the very person in need of an advocate?

What does make sense out of all this is that G-d created the space. G-d allowed the encounter. G-d instilled in me what I needed to be useful.

I didn’t need to know why she was here and where she was going. I didn’t need to be a trained psychologist who knows how to probe into another’s emotional state. And I didn’t need to feel scared or uncomfortable standing beside her in the kitchen.

I could be a calming presence as she prepared for her journey, offer her some bread and just stand there, leaning against the kitchen sink, with her and her son.

Elena came back and we quickly sat down for dinner, bread, soup and tea. We talked about the girl’s trip, confirmed the bus time and avoided all the details of what brought her here.

I later learned from Elena that the previous day the girl was found wandering the streets of Panao, alone with her son. She had left Lima to live with the baby’s father, who turned out to be abusive.

She came to a public cafeteria called “Comedores Populares” where women volunteer to cook meals for the poor, offering plates of food from fifty centavos. The women saw her and invited her in, learned that she was homeless and spontaneously gathered their money together to buy her a bus ticket back to Lima.

She somehow arrived at the Paz y Esperanza office where my host mother was working and it was arranged that they would return to Huánuco together. But not before filling out some legal paper work that declared she was leaving an abusive satiation. Without this document, the baby’s father could plead that she abandoned him and demand that she return…

Now protected by the law, she could travel to Lima and hopefully rebuild her life with the support of family. But it’s one thing to have a ticket back home. It’s another to actually have a home to return to, and I don’t know if she does.

A home that exists as a safe haven. A home that always has room for someone else. A home where one more person is always welcome at the dinner table. A home where an unexpected guest can rest and prepare for a journey.