Synthesis

“To affirm that men and women are persons and as persons should be free, and yet to do nothing tangible to make this affirmation a reality, is a farce.”

--Paulo Freire

“Pedagogy of the Oppressed,” 1993

Eight years ago, Melissa began a tradition for our Honduran trips. We sat at the restaurant, Tunkul, on crude benches, under the open sky, surrounded by lush vegetation. It was exotic—a tropical paradise that reminded me of Hemingway novels I had read in high school. We waited for our “pinchos”—skewered meats and vegetables roasted over an open fire close to our table—and the night before our departure, reminisced about the experiences we had collected. Melissa said, “let’s all describe our main purpose in life.” So we took turns and listened to each others’ hearts, probing, exploring, grasping for what was most important. The unscheduled context and camaraderie we had developed made the conversation easy and meaningful.

This year, I suggested the procedure at our first evening meal in Honduras. The setting was not exotic—we were at “Nelly’s Pizza” a few blocks from the center of town in San Pedro Sula. The question I posed was somewhat less intense than what Melissa had suggested—“Describe a shaping influence in your life”—, considering that we were at the beginning, not the end of our trip. The conversation flowed smoothly as people described grandmothers, parents, and experiences that had significantly affected their identities and values.

I described lessons from family history. My Mennonite family had experienced pressures to adapt to militarization and growing nationalism 80 years ago in the Soviet Union. My grandfather had chosen to stick to his principles, leave everything behind, and in his mid-40s, move across the ocean with his family and start life over again. The lesson for me was commitment to principle—a lesson in integrity.

Truth-speaking became an issue on our trip when we visited a Habitat for Humanity project in central Honduras. The visit was on our schedule, but the director did not know beforehand that our college had a special connection with Habitat for Humanity. When we questioned the director about some of the Honduran policies for Habitat, and described our connection with Habitat, the tension in the room became palpable. Our purpose was to learn, not to spy or criticize, but we found ourselves uncomfortably trying to re-establish a congenial relationship. We acted very interested; we accepted names and addresses of contact persons who could receive donations for this particular Habitat site. After the meeting, I asked the group whether we had been truthful. Had we feigned interest to maintain appropriate decorum? Would we follow up on any of the suggested contacts that we had accepted? Would we donate funds to this project?

We learned before we left the United States that truth-speaking was necessary on many fronts related to Central America. We had read about the many ways the poor in Honduras had been exploited. We knew the historic connections between US government officials and the fruit companies. We knew how the US had worked to plant its own supporters in positions of authority in the region. We knew the US had blocked the broadest land reform programs to benefit the poor in neighboring Guatemala even to the point of overthrowing a legitimately elected head of state. We knew that US-supporting Honduran leaders had “sold” their country’s land and resources, demanding only personal, not national gain from the transactions. The oppression had continued for a long time. I had told the rest of the group what I had seen painted blood red on a fence in Guatemala—“500 years of resistance!”

The need for truth-speaking about oppression and exploitation continued to strike us in Honduras. We recognized in the low aspirations of the children that their words, their vision for a better future, had been stolen from them. If they could do whatever they wanted, several children in Buenos Aires said, “We’d finish school (6 th grade or high school) and go work in the maquilas.”

Cycles of oppression can be broken. The four young men from Micah House had demonstrated the possibilities. We also had witnessed what peasants in Central Honduras had achieved in breaking oppressive economic cycles in the last 3 years. When we last visited, farmers told us that they had not been able to market their produce independently—the marketers (“coyotes”—the farmers called them) pressured buyers to reject direct dealings with the farmers, stealing from them reasonable wholesale prices. This year, Chepe Vasquez told us, they were able to market yucca, sweet potatoes, pineapple, and other crops directly to the retailers. Furthermore, the farmers had developed several innovations, including plans to produce and distribute pineapple vinegar for a national market.

Cycles of oppression need to be broken. Yet it is hard to see the cycles in which we are trapped, and equally hard to grasp a vision of solutions. In Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Paulo Freire describes the “false charity” that oppressors give to the open hands of the oppressed—false because it dehumanizes the oppressed, keeping them begging, instead of reducing their need to extend their hand. True generosity works to transform the structures that maintain oppression. Together, our group considered what it meant to give charity in different circumstances. Should we treat a 21-year-old man who has few ambitions and is not willing to accept some jobs because they are not to his liking the same as an 89-year old man who has worked hard all his life and wishes some comfort in his last years? What do we say to a family who chooses to operate a home for over 70 children who would otherwise be abandoned on the streets around Copan? Is the possibility of “false charity” reason to withhold resources from those whose need we clearly see? When the apparent need greatly exceeds our resources, how do we choose where to respond?

Such questions troubled us, and our responses were, no doubt, inadequate. But reading Freire a month before the trip gave me a new sensitivity—the answers come not from the world of the oppressors—those on top of some hierarchical structure—but from that of the oppressed. Freire’s book is about education and it was the student-teacher relationship that provided the most painful clue for me. My official role was “teacher.” But Melissa, my student years ago, provided the impetus for meaningful reflection. And Maria provided the model of courage to speak directly to power, a lesson I realized after leaving the airplane from Miami. Dimas, my teacher in

How does one respond to conditions that seem unbearable—to hunger, homelessness, intolerable working conditions, and the extreme disparity between rich and poor? Micah gives the words—“love justice, do kindness, and walk humbly with God,” but what actions bring those words to life?

In Uses of Haiti, Paul Farmer suggests 3 principles for new ways of relating to oppressed people. The first is to be honest about the history of past relationships. This suggestion involves the personal level. One must know oneself and one’s structural context. I am rooted in a country that has used its power to create my advantage. For Honduras, it means that peasants have been driven off their land so that I can eat bananas and drink coffee. It means that maquila workers will continue to receive less than they need to live so that my retirement account, invested in a corporate structure that knows no bottom line but the dollar, will grow in value. It means that I am easily fooled into thinking that to help means to give money—reflecting how deeply embedded my personal bottom line is in the corporate model of success.

Knowing the history of past relationships generates two emotional responses in me. The first is guilt—a recognition that I support the injustice that I see. I didn’t consciously choose to support it; rather, my support snuck up on me and trapped me without my knowing. A second response is anger—indignation at the structures that have lured me into violating standards of decency that I would otherwise proclaim.

Farmer’s second principle is to “forge new and stronger links with ordinary citizens.” This suggestion requires that I extend the knowledge of history into interpersonal levels involving the oppressed. Farmer’s verb speaks to the persistent energy these links require. Despite resistance—especially the inertial resistance inside oneself—we push ahead with force to stand in solidarity with those who are oppressed. Farmer demonstrates such new relationships in his own medical and social justice practice. He is at heart a medical practitioner. He is alive in the clinic, dealing with people’s needs and affirming their humanity.