Breaking the Veil of Darkness

The following are Christmas reflections written by a North American church person and friend of Sojourners who had worked for several years with Salvadoran refugees in the camps of Honduras when this article appeared.—The Editors

"Comfort, comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem, and cry to her that her warfare is ended, that her iniquity is pardoned, that she has received from the Lord's hand double for all her sins.

"A voice cries: 'In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low; the uneven ground shall become level, and the rough places a plain.'"—Isaiah 40:1-4

This morning as I woke up in the camp, one of the delegados de la palabra (lay catechists) recalled that on this day, the beginning of Advent, one year ago, he had left his home during an invasion by the National Guard: "I have learned one thing," he said. "If we don't pass through this martyrdom, this suffering, we will never understand the gospel."

The hope of these refugees is born in the crucible of violence, blood, and death. They have suffered the sin of those who seek to destroy the poor of the earth before their time. Their hope is the hope of a people in exile: to return one day to El Salvador.

The story of Advent is dramatic, written in the faces and voices of the people. Each day people come to ask when they will have to register with the local immigration authorities, each day new refugees arrive in search of shelter, each day the threat of another entry into the camps by the National Guard recalls the same slaughter of innocents as in the time of Herod. Here we experience the same census, the same search for refuge, the same flight into Egypt as in the time of Jesus.

The Bible says, "Make straight in the desert a highway for our God" (Isaiah 40:3). The way in the desert stretches from the Red Sea to the promised land, from the River Lempato to El Salvador. It is a way which goes forth from the mountain of the Lord where swords will be beaten into plowshares and nations will not prepare for war anymore (Isaiah 2:4). The same machetes that, in the hands of paramilitary ORDEN, sow terror in the hearts of the people will one day sow fields of corn and beans again in the hillsides of El Salvador.

These days in the camps have been refreshing as the last rains of winter announce the coming of the dry season. Each day men return from the fields with bundles of dry corn. The planting last May has borne fruit. The camp is filled with activity as young and old alike sit on heaps of corn shucking the dry husks from the ears. Others carry bundles of cornstalks to the camp to serve as firewood.

Tonight another group of refugees arrived in the rain, mostly women and children. Family by family they disappear from their homes into the dark, making their way down the mountainside to the camp below. Only a flaming torch, a fire-lit stalk of corn lights their way into the camp. "The Lord will not be silent until justice and salvation shine like a torch" (Isaiah 62:1). Tonight in campamento a light shines in the darkness.

Each night I look up over the hills surrounding the camps to the evening star, and I think of the refugees we accompanied here during the day. I think too of the star of Epiphany, which led the Magi in their search for the king of the Jews who was born in Bethlehem. In his 1980 Epiphany homily, Bishop Romero of El Salvador referred to this star as the light that would lead the people through the present crisis: "What we must preserve above all is the liberation process of the people. What is the star," he asked, "that will guide our people?"

In subsequent weeks he made clear that neither the project of the oligarchy nor the project of the government had the moral authority to provide that guidance. Only the "popular organizations" and their emerging "popular project" could guide the people through this historical process of liberation.

One really has only two alternatives here in Central America: to take sides with the poor and the popular organizations that exist in their defense at this point in history, to search together for the most humane solution; or, in one's search for "purity," to risk further complicity with the dominant force of violence in the region, the United States.

Today we read the great consolation of Isaiah together with the delegados in the camp: "Comfort, comfort my people." Surely these people have paid the price. The situation here among the refugees is strikingly similar to the exile in the time of Isaiah: a people in exile yearning for a message of hope to return, to Jerusalem or to El Salvador.

This hope must be active, a message which, like the one John the Baptist brought, prepares for the coming of the Lord in history. It must make a way, turning the desert into a garden: "Every valley shall be lifted up, and every mountain and hill be made low." One delegado remarked: "We too are in a desert because our cry falls on deaf ears." The Word of God has power, the power of the Lord in history to open a way where no way exists. The prophetic word creates options that open a way of salvation in history. The Lord saves people in history, with unexpected historical possibilities.

When we reflect on the promises of Isaiah and the drama of Advent, not only do these words illuminate the great drama of the refugees, but the stark reality here illuminates the words of the prophet. When people come after days fleeing from the National Guard in the mountains, days without food, babes in their arms, feet swollen and without shoes, there is a great outpouring of grief, but also of compassion and amazement. "Milagro" the people say. Miracle. "A sign of God's grace." This war and this violence are terrible. But the resistance of the people is greater than the violence of those who violate and kill and inflict such great suffering. "We will prevail," said one delegado, "because we know how to suffer."

This is the great hope of the people, that God accompanies them in times of distress and gives strength to their resistance. The suffering of the people is the suffering of Advent, the struggle to be born. People go on. Their consolation is the consolation of the prophet Isaiah, their drama the drama of Advent: the flight from the repression of the National Guard, the struggle to make room so their children can be born, the massacre of the young. It is the story of a people written in their own flesh and blood, history which begins and takes life from the martyrdom and love of the people, the generosity of their blood.

Isaiah speaks of a day when the exiles will return, and the gospel speaks of a day when the lame will walk, the deaf hear, and the blind see. "Which is easier," Jesus asks, "to say, 'Your sins are forgiven you,' or to say, 'Rise and walk'?" (Luke 5:23). Here in El Salvador one must be seen in light of the other.

"Sin," said Romero, "is what brings death to the people of God." It is the yoke of oppression which must be unbound, the structures of centuries of violence and injustice which bind the poor. It is violence which cripples, blinds, and takes away the power of speech.

Grace, on the other hand, is what brings life to the people of God. It is a sign of the time, an opening in history announcing the good news of liberation to the poor, the hope of El Salvador. The promises of grace are life and liberation, a day when the poor will walk and speak with dignity, rejoicing in their new life. This is the subversive joy of the gospel, a joy one feels instinctively in the camps of the refugees.

These two aspects—the flight and search for refuge, the terror, persecution, repression, and resulting exile; and the hope of a definitive change, of a final liberation—profoundly mark the experience of the refugees here. One experience gives life to the other. The more profound the experience of exile and suffering, the more profound the hope of liberation, of a definitive liberation which touches on all aspects of life: economic and political structures, social and human relations, education, and the deepening of one's faith and commitment to the people.

It is as though a veil has been lifted. A people who literally walked in the darkness of ignorance, dominance, repression, and humiliation are now awakening to a new hope that breaks through this veil like light.

Yesterday at 11 in the morning, four National Guard from El Salvador crossed into Honduras. They came to the house of Lucio, a delegado, took him outside and bound him by the thumbs to begin leading him back to El Salvador. When he tried to escape they machine-gunned him to death, once in the back, once in the head.

Last evening we read from the story of the resurrection of Lazarus at Lucio's vigil. His pregnant wife and five children gathered around the coffin as a single candle burned in the darkness. At these times the immensity of evil weighs heavily upon us. Who can understand? Here people are killed first with the tongue, the people say, those who remain faithful to the gospel being singled out and labeled "subversive."

The message of Advent is a call to conversion, to draw near and accompany the poor in their suffering, to announce the good news and hope for the day of liberation, to defend their cause and participate in their destiny. In this is our fidelity to the incarnation. "And in El Salvador," Romero once said, "we know what this means: to be persecuted, to disappear, to be tortured ... and appear as a cadaver."

In this too is our salvation, that, in grace, God freely offered God's own Son so that we might have life, and have it abundantly. This path that leads to death is our path to freedom. We are called upon to lay down our lives for our friends and enemies, but we are given at the same time this gift: to be able to give our lives in love. Only by freely giving our lives are we empowered to overcome death. In this we see the example of Lucio, in this we see the immensity of God's grace.

Three days after Lucio was killed, the relocation of the refugees in the camp began. Some 500 were loaded into trucks together with their few possessions and driven six hours further into the interior of Honduras. How very sad to see these people go, shipped like cattle to another way station on their endless journey. People do not want to go, but they are afraid to stay.

One thinks of other displacements of people, of transports to camps during the night, of a long march through history, of a trail of tears. It is difficult to resist alone. The institutions that attend the refugees are left in a position of collaboration and helplessness in the face of government and army determination to clear the border of all refugees.

"Fear not. I will help you, says the Lord; your Redeemer is the Holy One of Israel" (Isaiah 41:14). The prophet Isaiah offers consolation that we will never be abandoned, defenseless though we may be. In this moment, however, as the trucks pass along the highway loaded with refugees, it is difficult to see any light in the darkness.

We met as usual with the delegados to prepare the weekly celebration of the Word. Such gatherings are significant moments in the spiritual journey of the refugees, times when the Word of God acts to organize and form the mass of refugees into a people of God in history. This is the power of the gospel, to continually open a way in the desert of poverty and oppression, a way that will guide them to freedom.

It is the power of hope and love to create new options, hope that takes on flesh and is given form in the actions of the people. This requires a change in relations, a confrontation with the powers that be.

As we talked we began to reflect on our capacity to give our lives. One delegado said, "If God calls on us to give our lives for our people in this moment, bienvenida la muerte (welcome death)!" Another recalled the trials and temptations they had endured, including offers to return to their homes and country and collaborate. Said one person, "When the people from ORDEN came to me and asked me to collaborate, I told them, 'First give me back the life of my daughter whom you killed, then I will give you my answer!'"

The power to give life is beyond the powers of destruction which reign among the National Guard and ORDEN. To give back life is the power of God alone. This was Jesus' answer to the disciples of John the Baptist while he was in prison: "Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight ... the dead are raised up ..." (Luke 7:22). Jesus comes to bring life, a life that no one can take away because before it is taken it is offered freely as a gift. This is our consolation.

The Spirit of the Lord that calls us to conversion, to proclaim liberty to the exiles, comes in a moment of grace, a moment of anointing, a baptism that is the sacrament of liberation. The logic of this grace is the hope of the Beatitudes: "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth ... Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" (Matthew 5:5,10).

The following week we met again with the delegados to prepare the children for Christmas. We read the birth narrative together and chose three questions to help the catechists with the children. The questions were: Why was Jesus born poor? Why was Jesus persecuted? Why do we feel joy at the birth of Jesus?

One delegado said, "Jesus was born poor because of a system of oppression. Just the same as for us, our children are born on the bare ground and in the mountains because of this oppression." Another said, "Christ was born poor because of his love for the poor, and because of this love he struggled against his poverty." Still another said, "Jesus was persecuted because he came to proclaim another kingdom, another king." Why do we feel joy? This was more difficult to answer, particularly because so much around us in the camp is filled with sadness. "Because we follow the same path as Christ." This is why we feel joy. "Because Christ is born in our midst and accompanies us in our sufferings, on our way to freedom." This is our joy.

Later that week we celebrated Christmas Eve. As is the custom when evening draws near, small bands of pastoras—children dressed as shepherds—pass from tent to tent singing an ancient round taken from the drama of Jose and Maria as they look for shelter.

The drama is profound in its simplicity. Even the devil appears at times, chasing the children through the camps. It is a reminder of the actual drama which the refugees live, a story that began as the search for shelter and continues in the flight from persecution, a drama of the powers of light and darkness. What is lived by the refugees reinterprets and gives new life to the story that has been handed down and kept alive for centuries.

"We too are passing through the same situation as Jose and Maria," said one delegado. "This Christmas we will celebrate as they did, looking for a place where our children can be born." Another recalled the notice of the star that shone in the East. "We too hope for this star to shine, a star which illuminates a new dawn, a day of justice, of liberty, of joy."

Still another mentioned that some people "do not want our children to be born." They show a "disregard for children as in the day of Jose and Maria." One recalled the laments of Rachel in the desert refusing to be comforted (Jeremiah 31:15), and Herod who sought to assassinate the child Jesus and "so many other children who are the future of our people."

Herod was unsettled by the news of the birth of Jesus, so unsettled that he issued a decree to slaughter all male children under two years of age in the vicinity of Bethlehem. Jose and Maria were forced to flee with the baby Jesus. The decree still stands. The slaughter of the innocent ones continues today in El Salvador. The death of a child—or the birth—is so common in the camps; and for that reason it is profound, because it gives expression to the struggle for survival which is at stake in Central America.

The pervasive presence of children is a striking reality of the camps. They dominate everywhere, in the processions, around the manger scenes. These camps are truly a world of children. It seems that the adults are here simply to take care of and provide for the children. The dominant motive in the lives of the refugees is to be the servant of one's children, of the next generation.

Perhaps this is because here in campamento children die so frequently. The doctors say they die from a combination of factors: malnutrition and susceptibility to infectious diseases, especially diarrhea and pneumonia. During the first month here, two children died every day. Still hardly a day passes that a child does not die.

It is a common sight in the early morning to see the carpenters in campamento hard at work building a coffin. Each day measurements must be taken to determine the size of the coffin, depending on whether the child to be buried is an infant or five years of age.

I have seen children who have died, and I have been to the cemetery to bury them. I have been with children near death. I can still remember a tiny child who suffered from severe malnutrition. Unable to feed him intravenously, his mother fed him during the night from an eyedropper. By morning he was dead.

I remember another time when I could hear a group of women in a nearby tent singing quietly in chorus; it sounded much like early morning prayers in campamento, with one leading and the others repeating. I asked Consuela, "What is that singing?" "It's the child," she said. "The child is dying." She invited me to come with her, and we made our way to the tent and entered. Nine or 10 women were gathered in a circle around the mother of the child. A single candle burned. Between the verses of the song the anguished cries of the mother filled the air.

And there in the center was the child. His eyes were open and expectant, as if overcome by the whole spectacle before him. His mouth, too, was wide open, but he did not cry. The mother was unable to take the child in her arms, so she covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth. One of the women marked the sign of the cross on the child's forehead while the child looked at us fervently, as if expecting an answer.

"I am the Bread of Life," was the reading in the gospel that day. "If any eat of this bread they will live forever; and the bread which I shall give for the life of the world is my flesh" (John 6:51). The question the child does not quite ask, and the answer we do not give, are both bound up in this mystery: the body of Christ. "I have come so that you may have life and have it in abundance."

I walked away in silence, and soon after the singing stopped. A moment later Consuela told me, "The child is dead."

The Christmas eve and Christmas day celebrations bring joy to the camps. We sense a profound peace that Christ is born in our midst: "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" (John 1:5). This mystery becomes a reality for all of us as we realize: Jesus was born a refugee. As I looked around right then at the refugees in the camp, suddenly everything was transformed: "Jesus was born a refugee." "This news should not make us feel ashamed or sad," said one delegado. "We should be proud that we are refugees, that we pass through difficult times. Jesus as well passed this way. It is a sign that the Lord draws near to his people, to us in these moments."

Behind a cross on the altar, in the distance, rise the mountains of El Salvador. As I look upon the hills on Christmas morning, I remember how much sadness they have brought in the past; hills filled with soldiers and mortar fire. But now there is joy in these hills, the anticipation of a message of peace: "How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good tidings, who publishes peace" (Isaiah 52:7).

I have the sensation that all creation groans and gives birth to us, and suffers the same persecution as many of her children. But today all creation celebrates with us. Today the hills surrounding the camps are radiant in the morning sunshine. The people are joyous with freshly baked loaves of bread and tamales.

The word of the prophets—the promise of salvation and liberation from Egypt and the return from exile—took on flesh in the life of the Lord of history. "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us" (John 1:14). This promise lives on in the struggle of the poor today in Central America, the poor who are the body of Christ in history. The Word was born into history and pitched its tent among the thousands of refugees here in the camps of Central America. Jesus was born, and is born each day here in the camps, as a refugee.

Nowhere else have I seen the presence of this liberating Word in history expressed so profoundly as in the Christmas celebration here. We are certain that this Word is addressed to the poor of the earth tonight as it was 2,000 years ago in a stable among the shepherds of Bethlehem. We experience this Word of hope as the living unity among us and the hope of liberation for El Salvador in history. We feel all of this profoundly when we take hold of the rough and expressive hands of the Salvadoran campesinos, worn by labor with the machete and grinding stone. We feel this hope as we raise our hands together to give expression to our faith.

"The light shines in the darkness," like the cornstalk torch leading the new refugees to shelter in the camp; like the evening star that shines over the camps recalling a journey to freedom; like the candle burning over the body of Lucio, an offering of love and sacrifice. A light shines in the darkness over campamento tonight. Christ is born in campamento!