Rainbows in El Salvador
I was sitting at a pupuseria in San Francisco, staring at a map on the wall when I said, “I want to go to El Salvador.” My boyfriend at the time got a funny a look on his face, his voice dripping with judgment when he replied, “What the hell for?” His parents were both from El Salvador and came to San Francisco as adults fleeing the civil war. For my boyfriend, it was inconceivable that anyone would willingly travel to El Salvador.
I shrugged it off and forgot about the interaction, until I found myself on a plane headed to San Salvador with a group of students from my college. When I applied for the trip, I had completely forgotten that moment in San Francisco three years before. When I arrived in El Salvador, the armed security guards standing on corners, trash littering the sidewalks, and packs of stray dogs roaming the streets were expected. What I did not expect was to hear so many different birds chirping from painted trees, to see so much natural beauty amidst the overwhelming amount of bright red lipstick and club wear and countless cars weaving through heavy foot traffic.
The contrast shocked and confused my mind as I tried to make sense of my new surroundings and discover the source of the heavy floral aroma in the air. The next ten days were packed with back to back meetings with various organizations and groups working toward the betterment of El Salvador. With my group, I visited museums and churches, historic monuments, a coffee plantation, and learned more about the civil war and government. Each day was concluded with group reflections at the hostel with our guides and mentors. It was much like a condensed college class, with the goal of filling our days with life-changing and eye-opening experiences.
We were warned that El Salvador would break our hearts. The retelling of gruesome and recent acts of war and violence, of missing children, and families torn apart for survival achieved this goal. But there were other, less significant things that grated on me. My breaking point came when I fell in love with a dog. To me, he represented every form of hardship. He was alone, hungry, and abused, yet still so desperate for affection. Leaving him behind marked the only time I cried. This led to what we were told would be the highlight of our trip: staying with families in the rural community of Pappaturro. For the first time, I was free to explore and truly get to know the people who had so generously opened their homes to us. For a short while, their community became my community as I shadowed their everyday lives. I ate plantains for breakfast, learned how to make pupusas, and watched soccer.
I chased cats with children and danced beneath the stars. I talked. I listened. I learned. I realized they were excited to see us not because they expected something, but because we represented the opportunity for their stories to be known. Sad eyes spoke of war and hardships, of trying to do the right thing for their families and communities without always knowing what the right thing was. Broken hearts mourned losses and angry souls cried out against the oppression and abuse they have endured. By the time they were done sharing their stories, it was as if a weight had been lifted. Men and women wiped tears from their eyes and sighed with half smiles, looking at us with renewed strength and gratitude. Our presence and compassion was all that was necessary.
We were the rainbows in their clouds, a moment of release and true companionship, but they were also the rainbow in my cloud. Each one of us grew up a bit more on that trip. We didn’t have money to offer, so we offered our humanity and became more human as a result. I walked away with a greater understanding of the world and all of the people in it. There was no doubt in my mind that I was exactly where I was meant to be, learning exactly what I needed to learn in order to become a fuller and more compassionate person.
Having gone on this trip, I am determined more than ever to travel the world and get to know all of the amazing people in it. I long to hear their stories and open my heart to them. When we share our stories, we are saying, “Look at me! I’m human. I matter.” When we listen, we say, “Yes, you do matter.” This human connection both heals and binds us. It proves that we are not alone. For that, I am grateful.
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