Saturday, April 29, 2017

To Die in Nicaragua, thoughts on the 30th anniversary of Ben Linder's assassination.

Mural of Ben Linder in Esteli, Nicaragua by Mike Alewitz. Painted in  1989. 

Thirty years ago, on April 28th, a young American was killed in Nicaragua. His name was Ben Linder and he was twenty-seven years old.
Because Ben Linder studied circus arts, he was almost certainly knowledgable about the archetype of the holy fool. While a fool is someone who behaves in ways that invite ridicule, the holy fool is someone who uses foolish behavior  to reveal deeper truths and show a better way. The holy fool has taken many forms in different times and places. In early Christianity fools for Christ, sometimes naked, roamed from town to town testing the populace’s capacity for compassion. Shakespeare's plays are full of fools who make king’s laugh only to realize mid-guffaw that the laugh is on them. The holy fool is prominent in Native American cultures tweaking vanity and self-importance at every turn. Circus clowns come on like buffoons , but by the end of the show the audience realizes they are the smartest ones under the big top.
Ben Linder dressed up as a clown, peddled his unicycle, and juggled in the Nicaraguan countryside  while a US funded war was raging. He was assassinated by Contra troops. The term “assassinated” is the correct one to use. The Contras were funded, trained, and supervised by the CIA in order to overthrow the Sandinista revolution. It strains credibility to think that these mercenaries would have killed a well known American Citizen on their own. You can bet someone gave the nod to take out Ben Linder. 
It is apparent that Linder was also a hell of an engineer, since in the middle of a war, he managed to get a damn constructed that brought electricity to El Cuá, the village where he had settled. However it was his clowning that caught the imagination of people in Nicaragua and the US. He is depicted on murals across Nicaragua and he is always shown on his unicycle, made up, red nose in place, objects flying from his hands into the air. He performed for children during vaccination campaigns, distracting them, making them laugh, filling them with wonder while they waited for their drops and injections. However, as a holy fool, his true audience was the US and the world. He modeled that the US could relate to Nicaragua in a better way. It was possible to be loving, helpful, collaborative, and delightful. Instead of hateful, destructive, imperialistic and brutal. This example was more threatening and enraging to then president Ronald Reagan and his cronies than building damns. 
The CIA set the policy during the Contra war of killing non-combatants who were working to make Nicaragua a better place. They kill teachers, literacy workers, farmers, medical personnel, and a holy fool; a sweet, decent, American kid.


        On the anniversary of Ben Linder's assassination I visited his grave with a group organized by Casa Ben Linder. Several people on the trip had known him well and they shared personal stories. One man told me they had been friends as young men and that his first child had been born two days after Ben's death. Another woman said that he had lived with her family for an extended period. Later, I heard these two people talking and the woman said to the man, I remember you. You use to come over to play pingpong with Ben on my grandfather's table. Many people spoke of Ben in political, anti-imperialistic terms, but what came across more clearly for me was the personal connection that he had with his friends in his adopted country. His grave is in a cemetery on a hillside on the outskirts of Matagalpa. The grave is not easy to find and it is a steep climb to get to it. On this day, there was a large, beautiful arrangement of roses provided by the Sandinistas in recognition of his status as a national hero and martyr.


"He was the sunrise in the smile of the children who saw him in his clown suit, illuminating the future we are constructing together in the new Nicaragua", Daniel Ortega. 

Now it is 2017, and thirty years later, the US continues to meddle in the internal affairs of this tiny, impoverished country. Representatives Ileana Ros-Lehtinen, Republican of Florida and Albio Sires, Democrat of New Jersey, recently introduced, for the second year in a row, the NICA Act. This bill would block international credit to Nicaragua unless it complied with the US’s wishes about how it runs itself. Nicaragua is not perfect. We know this because no country in the world is. However, sovereign states, especially those like Nicaragua who are not a threat to anyone, have the right to struggle with their own imperfections without outside interference.

The anniversary of Ben Linder’s assassination would be an appropriate time for for us to swear off imperialism toward Nicaragua or any other country.

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Adios, viejo

This story was written in Spanish and translated into English. It is a children's story for adults about saying goodbye.


Parte 1
En la mañana, cuando el viejo estaba todavía acostado en su cama, llegaron todos sus hijos, nietos y bisnietos para decir adios.
Su hijo mayor le preguntó: ?Papi, a donde vas?
El viejo le respondió: No se.
El bisnieto mas joven le dijo: ?Papi, porque se va?
“Es mi tiempo, mi principe. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy alegre.”

(In the morning, when the old man was still laying in his bed, all his children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren came to say goodbye.
His oldest son asked him, "Dad, where are you going?"
The old man responded, "I don't know."
His youngest great grandchild said, "Pop, why are you going?"
"It is my time, my prince. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very happy day.")


Parte 2

Mas tarde en la mañana, cuando el viejo estaba sentado tomando un cafecito en  ropa interior, llegaron todos sus amigos para decir adios.
?Loco, a donde vas? le pregunto Memo.
El viejo le respondió: No se, hermano.
Pancho le dijo: ?Maje, porque te vas?
“Es mi tiempo, mis compadres. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy amistoso.”

(Later in the morning, when the old man was sitting and drinking a cup of coffee in his underware, all his friends arrived to say goodbye.
"Crazy-one, where are you going?" Memo asked him.
The old man responded, "I don't know, brother."
Pancho said to him, "Buddy, why are you leaving?"
"It is my time, my companions. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very friendly day.")

Parte 3

A medio día, cuando el viejo estaba almorzando, vestido con pantalones, llegaron todos sus amantes para decir adios.
La flaquita y la gordita dijeron: ?Desgraciado, a donde vas?
“No se.”
La negrita y la morena le preguntaron: ?Porque se va, maldito?
“Es mi tiempo, mis amores. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy caliente.”

(In the middle of the day, when the old man was eating his lunch, wearing his pants, all his old girlfriends came to say goodbye.
The lithe one and the voluptuous one said, "You wretch, where are you going/"
"I don't know."
The black one and the brown one asked him, "Damn you, why are you going?"
"It is my time, my loves. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very horny day.")


Parte 4

En la tarde, cuando el viejo estaba acostado en su hamaca, vestido en pantalones y camisa, llegaron todos sus enemigos para decir adios.
Chancho le preguntó: ?Hijo de la grand puta, a donde vas?
“No se.”
“?Porque se va, imbecil?”
“Es mi tiempo, hombres. Escuchen me, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy indulgente.”

(In the afternoon, when the old man was laying in his hammock, dressed in his pants and shirt, all his enemies showed up to say goodbye.
Piggy asked him, "You son of a whore, where are you going?"
"I don't know."
"Why are you going, asshole?"
"It is my time, fellows. Listen to me, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very forgiving day.")


Parte 5

  A noche, cuando el viejo estaba esperando su tiempo, vestido con toda su ropa bonita incluyendo su sombrero elegante, su cinturón de piel de culebra, y su corbata con la piedra de turquesa, llego la señora.
Ella le dijo: Yo se donde vas, mi amor.
“Si.”
“Yo se porque tu se va.”
“Si.”
“Llevamé contigo.”
“Si. Por supuesto! En mi corazón. En mi sangre. En mis huesos. Escuche me, mi vida, nos vamos a ver otra vez. No se donde. No se cuando, pero nos vamos a ver en un día muy glorioso.”

El viejo subió volando en el aire, encima del techo, encima de los arboles, encima de los nubes, y se desapareció. 

(At night, when the old man was waiting for his time, dressed in his prettiest clothes, including his elegant hat, his snakeskin belt, and his tie with the turquoise stone, his wife came.
She told him, "I know where you're going."
"Yes"
"I know why you are going."
"Yes"
"Take me with you."
"Yes. Of course! In my heart. In my blood. In my bones. Listen to me, my life, we are going to see each other again. I don't know where. I don't know when, but we will see each other on a very glorious day.

The old man flew up into the air, above the roof, above the trees, above the clouds, and disappeared.)



   

Friday, January 27, 2017

Matar El Tigre


Portrait of me by the artist Mario Jarquin Escobar.


 Here is the third short story (flash fiction) I've written in Spanish. You can find the other two earlier in this blog. They all seem to be about relations between men and women in a Nicaraguan context. It is a way for me to try to get deeper into the culture... and into the language.

 Matar el Tigre

El artista viejo fue a la inauguración de una exposición de un artista cuarenta años mas joven que el, quien se llamo Mario. El conoció al joven anteriormente y tuvo todo respeto para su talento. También tuvo celos porque Mario estuvo empezando su camino y el viejo estuvo terminando suyo. 
El exposición fue en La Galería Cristal en El Teatro Nacional Ruben Darío, un evento elegante en un espacio elegante. Había palabras de alabanza por el director cultural del gobierno y palabras de gracias por el artista. Al final había un rifa por los patronatos de la exposición, Flor de Caña y Arte Sur. Todos los asistentes tuvieron papelitos con números. 
El director sacó un numero y dijo, “120!” 
Una mujer tocó el brazo del artista viejo y le dijo, “Ando sin mis lenses! No puedo leer mi numero.” 
El le dijo a ella, “Lo siento, señora. Usted no ganó. Tiene el 88.” 
Ella le dijo, “?Y usted, mi amor? Ganó?” 
“Tampoco. Yo tengo el 50.” 
Se rieron. 
El empezó a salir, pero otra vez ella tocó su brazo y le dijo, “Mi amor, soy soltera sin compromisos y estoy buscando.”
El artista viejo miró a la mujer. Ella no era joven, pero el tampoco. Sus ojos eran grandes. Sus labios eran rojos. Tuvo un cuerpo amplio y sensual.
“Amiga,” le dijo. “Ha hecho esta noche muy interesante, pero no tengo interesa. Tengo mi señora.”
“Caballero, a mi no me importa.”
“Pero a mi, si.  Me importa mucho. Muy buenas noches.”
El besó su mejilla y salió. 

El artista viejo fue a su carro y manejo a la casa. Cuando entró a la cocina sintió un hambre grande en su estómago. Fue al refrigerador y sacó huevos, cebollas, ajo, tomate, jalapeños, queso, y aceite de olivas para hacer una omelette. Encendió el radio para oír música ranchero. Cocinó y bailo y cantó. La comida olio rica y le dio mucho apetito.
Por primera vez en mas de un año no pensó en dolor, no pensó en sangre, no pensó en noches sin dormir, no pensó en cancer, no pensó en la manera en que su esposa morió. Solamente pensó, “Estoy viviendo y tengo mucho hambre. Es la hora de matar el tigre!” 


To Kill The Tiger

The old artist went to an exhibition of an artist forty years younger than him named Mario. He had met the young artist before and had a lot of respect for his talent. Also he was jealous of him because Mario was starting his career and the old artist was at the end of his.
The exhibition was in the Crystal Gallery of the Ruben Darío National Theater, an elegant event in an elegant space. There were words of appreciation from the culture director of the government and works of thanks from the artist. Finally there was a raffle put on by the sponsors of the event, Flor de Caña and Arte Sur. All those in attendance had little slips of paper with numbers.
The director pulled a number and said, “120!”
A woman touched the old artist’s arm and said to him, “I don’t have my glasses! I can’t read my number.”
He told her, “I’m sorry. You didn’t win. You have 88.”
She said to him, “And you, my love? Did you win?”
“Not me either. I have 50.”
They laughed.
He started to leave, but again she touched his arm and said, “My love, I’m single. I don’t have any commitments and I’m looking.”
The old artist looked at the woman. She wasn’t young, but neither was he. Her eyes were big. Her lips were red. She had an ample, sensual body.
“Friend,” He said to her. “You have made tonight vey interesting, but I’m not interested. I have a wife.”
“Gentleman, to me that doesn’t matter.”
“But to me it does. It matters a lot. Good night.”
He kissed her cheek and left.

The old artist went to his car and drove home. When he entered the kitchen, he felt a huge hunger in his stomach. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out eggs, onions, garlic, tomato, jalapeños, and olive oil to make an omelette. He turned on the radio to hear ranchero music. He cooked and danced and sang. The food smelled great and gave him a big appetite.

For the first time in more than a year he didn’t think about pain. He didn’t think about blood. He didn’t think about sleepless nights. He didn’t think about cancer. He didn’t think about the way his wife died. He only thought, “I’m living and I’m very hungry. It is time to kill off that hunger.

Thursday, January 5, 2017

Multi-generational Global Citizenship


This post is part of Blogging Abroad's 2017 New Years Blog Challenge, week one: Global Citizenship.


When I was thirteen in 1958 I went to Havana with my father for a long weekend. We lived in Miami at the time and he worked as a baggage handler for Pan American Airlines. The trip, including a couple of nights at the Hotel Nacional, was essentially free. A father-son trip like this was out of character for my dad and me. I was very affiliated with my mother and he and I didn’t have much to say to each other. I would guess there was some unspoken reason for the trip; some instigation on my mother’s part, some crises in their very stormy relationship. Who knows? But there I was in Havana at the height of the “gangsterismo” era, with the corrupt, murderous dictator Batista just hanging on by his finger tips. However, still enjoying the full support of the US government and still profiting massively from Mafia kickbacks for gambling, prostitution, and drugs. At the time, I knew nothing about this nor about the looming revolution. It is possible that bombs were going off in Havana, possible that revolutionaries were being hauled off to be tortured and murdered.
My father hit the casinos and I hit the streets. My memories are 58 years old and, of course, not to be fully trusted, but I think I was pretty much on my own. If I did anything with my father other than sleep in the same hotel room, I don’t remember it. I do remember wandering along the Malecón and watching boys about my age swimming and fishing naked from the sea wall. I remember walking along broad avenues, back streets, and wide plazas where it seemed every surface was covered in intricately patterned ceramic tile. I remember music in the parks, on the street corners and blasting from the bars. Everything had a sexual charge. I was 13, of course everything had a sexual charge.
As near as I can reconstruct it, I was in Cuba for between 48 and 72 hours. The family history is that my father lost all his money and we flew home early. As with many events in my family, this could either be accurate or it could be the version of the events that made the best story.
I believe this brief vacation was the start of my concept of myself as a global citizen; as someone who looks at the world with a broader perspective than can be provided by citizenship in only one country. The trip was on the eve of the triumph of the revolution. Within months, maybe within weeks, Batista would flee and a victorious Castro would enter Havana. The timing primed me to pay attention to everything that happened afterwards and substantially contributed to my left-wing, radical thinking in terms of politics, economics, history and culture.


Flash forward 58 years and I’m 71 years old and a Peace Corps volunteer living and working with my wife Deborah Drew in Chinanadega, Nicaragua, acknowledged by everyone to be the hottest city in a very hot country. 


I am also the oldest volunteer currently serving in Nicaragua. A big majority of Peace Corps volunteers are in their early to mid twenties. 
Just before Christmas, my step daughter, Helen Devol, my wife’s daughter, comes to visit with her family; her husband Dave and their three kids, Sammy 17, Simon 14, and Tess 11. They are amazing kids! OK. So I’m their grandfather and not objective. So sue me. I know exceptional when I see it. I’m going to focus here on Simon, the fourteen year old.

In addition to being smart, funny, and good looking, he is also the most kinetic kid I’ve ever known. I don’t mean hyperactive or ADD. He is perfectly capable of sitting still and concentrating for extended periods when its called for, but his default setting is physical play. Any object he encounters in the environment is an invitation to climb, run, jump, bounce, flip, balance, etc. He carries an iPhone 7 with him and documents all his antics in photos and videos. He is a fireworks fanatic, a fascination he shares with his dad. They both love blowing shit up.



The point, besides how wonderful Simon is, is that he is a global citizen. Since he was 10 he has been going to the international children’s camps, LPC (Luethi-Peterson Camps). He spends four to six weeks every summer with a group of campers from all over the world and he has attended camps in Spain and Italy. Now he has had this experience of traveling around Nicaragua for two weeks. I am hoping it will have some of the same effect on him that my time in Cuba, at the same age, had on me. I see in him a desire for new experiences, a willingness to engage with whatever comes his way, a non-judging openness that is rare in US teenagers. 

We spend New Years Eve with our neighbors in Chinandega, eating roast pork, drinking rum, translating back and fourth between English and Spanish, and setting off fireworks. A little after midnight a “torro” emerges from the car wash down the street. It is a large cardboard construction in the general shape of a bull that has been loaded with fireworks of every size and description. The young men of the neighborhood get inside it (where they are relatively protected), light the fuse, and chase people up and down the street while the bull shoots rockets in all directions. Simon takes one look at the contraption and can’t believe his luck at being in this place at this time. With a huge smile he says, “Oh my god! This is really dangerous! My goal is to touch it while it is exploding.” He achieves his goal more than once.

 


https://luethipetersoncamps.org/