Glasses of The Mayans
Diana Skyles
They are the forgotten, the left-behind, the ones the soldiers missed. Ghosts of an unjust war that, though officially ended, still goes on, now being fought by the foot soldiers Discrimination and Indifference. They live in small villages sprinkled over the mountains of Chicabracan in almost the same fashion their ancestors did before the Spanish conquerors arrived; only now it is just them, the laborers, the ones who grow the corn. They have no leaders like the ancient rulers of Tikal to guide them, but they live in community cooperating and sharing with each other.
In Guatemala I learned the true meaning of the phrase "it is in giving that we receive" because these people give us so much more than we could possibly give them. Here we are, at an altitude of 6000 feet, away from the noise and haste of Houston and the pollution of Guatemala City. I have come with S.O.S., (Sending Out Servants), to help with a vision clinic. The picture-perfect countryside speaks of the contentedness and resignation of these people, but you won't find a drop of indolence here. The corn grows on the hills in parcels without fences; only the direction of the rows distinguishes one from the other. Beans and squash grow on the same rows as the corn in an effort to maximize the terrain.
We set up camp at the little church. We can prescribe glasses thanks to the focometer, an instrument created to be used on the field. I cannot describe the feeling we get from witnessing so much happiness as they can see once again. An old man missing several teeth is so grateful for his reading glasses that he makes the rounds to each station hugging and kissing and blessing each of us. Many women need reading glasses even though they can't read, because the glasses help them with their braiding. They buy palm leaves from the coast and they split them and braid them in rows that they sell to people in other towns who manufacture hats. It is a treat to watch their fingers moving with such dexterity. The image that for me captures the essence of Guatemala is a woman carrying her youngest child on her back, held by a colorful blanket that she ties on the front, like a kangaroo with a reversed pouch. On her head another blanket, folded into a square to help balance the basket with the corn; as she goes to the mill.
The last day of the clinic there is again a long line of patients when we get to the church. I notice a woman in her thirties, on crutches. I bring her to the front of the line. After lunch she is still sitting on the ground with other women. Around three o'clock a man comes to ask if we will give her a ride. Once in the minivan, she tells us how she lost her leg because of an infection that went untreated for too long. She casually mentions that the day before she walked to our village and spent the night at a friend's house. She is very grateful for the ride because her armpits are still bleeding and hurting from the previous walk. She is not feeling sorry for herself, she is happy she can see. She walked at least 5 miles on crutches, on uneven dirt roads because she was so desperate to see.
While we are talking to her I realize we give these people glasses so they can see and read but they give us glasses so we can look into our souls and look at the world with renewed eyes. Despite the absolute poverty there is no sense of neediness. They are totally dependent on the corn for their existence and totally dependent on God's rain to grow the corn. This reliance on God makes them humble; they are aware each of them is only a small dot in the infinite vastness of the universe. After each trip I feel this urgency to tell every one about it, but there are no words to describe the beauty of the experience or the way I feel for a while afterwards; how it doesn't matter if the kitchen needs remodeling, and how my life in Houston seems so superficial.
I wish I could build a wall around Chicabracan to protect them from outside influences. Recently their villages acquired electricity. During the home visits every now and then we find a pervasive intruder. In these little one or two room homes, with dirt floors where there may or may not be a bed and a couple of chairs, where there are no closets or kitchen table, we can always count on finding a rustic wood table against a wall made of mud bricks and hanging above it a crucifix or a picture of Jesus. This is their home altar, and whichever one is able; reads the Bible to the other members of the family. Now in a few homes we find another wooden table with a television on it. Technology is extending its relentless claw towards Chicabracan, and I, selfishly; wonder how much longer these Mayans will be able to keep giving us the true glasses of life.