“…a person needs new
experiences. They jar something deep inside, allowing him to grow. Without
change something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken”
Duke Leto Atreides,
Frank Herbert’s Novel, Dune
Part I – Jarring
I was too naïve to be scared. My forty-four-year-old self might have
panicked knowing the gravity of the situation, but the reptilian part of my 19-year-old
brain simply said “aww, yeah.” It’s not
every day you are awakened to the sound of a Soviet MIG scraping the mountain
tops at MACH 1, the “thoom” of a ruptured sound barrier, rattling windows, and
every Venezuelan and their dog jolted from bed at the socially-unacceptable
hour of 6:05am. Elder Whitby and I hit
the deck of our tiny apartment. We
thought it was a bomb.
That would come later.
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| Elder Josh Whitby and I had no idea what was about to hit us. |
It was all a bit surreal.
I should have been a self-absorbed sophomore back in Idaho, snoozing through
History after staying up late playing Zelda, stuffing my face with pizza and
kissing girls (not at the same time, mind you). Instead, I was feeling chilled and gritty
on the tile floor in Venezuela, rethinking my life. It was 1992.
I’d been in Maracay, Venezuela for one-and-a-half months as a missionary
for my church when I found myself smack in the middle of a full-fledged
military coup. The rebels sought to free
none other than Hugo Chavez from prison, a military leader guilty of leading a previous
coup attempt that February. The rebels’
plan was to unite the military, incite the public, and get Chavez out of prison
to replace then President Carlos Andres Perez.
The best part? My missionary
companion and I were living ¼ mile from one of four military bases that the rebels
were trying to take over—one that was soon to be hotly contested.
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| Our studio apartment in Maracay, Venezuela. |
Once we determined it wasn’t a bomb, we ventured outside and
found crowds of people everywhere talking.
The MIG streaked overhead, stoking fear.
As we headed toward the bakery to stock up in case things got crazy, military
jeeps sped through the streets with armed soldiers hanging off the sides. The crowds buzzed with “chisme” (gossip): “Van a matar al presidente”—they’re going to
kill the president. “He’s already fled
the country, and the military has control.”
“No, the president is still here, and the Governor of Aragua is in
prison.” It was all over the place. Who knew what was going on? We needed to get in contact with the leader of our mission zone to find out what to do.
We arrived minutes later at Sister Lopero’s house, a sweet
Colombian lady who frequently fed us, and tried using her phone to contact our
zone leader. No dice. Lines were jammed, but we kept trying every
few minutes, all while absorbing local TV news reports. Elder Whitby chatted with Sister Lopero and
explained to me (my Spanish still primitive) each scene as it played out. An animated President Perez appeared,
shouting: “The country is under control; please, everyone return to work!” Whitby
thought it was pre-recorded. At least
where we were, no one was going to work.
We also gleaned the base near our apartment was now under rebel control. Sweet.
We finally got through, and received instructions to return to our
apartment and stay put, which we did.
And then it got quiet.
And boring.
Hunger got the best of us and despite what we were told, we
left for our lunch appointment. That’s
when loud “pops” erupted nearby. Gunfire. I’d grown up shooting 22’s and shotguns in
Wyoming, but nothing prepared me for this gunfire. An unseen 50-caliber machine gun ripped open
from the side of a mountain near the base, looking to down a circling helicopter
and plane. While the gun was likely on
base, the sharp cracks of each round sounded like the weapon was next door, and
that it was shooting at us. The hair on
my neck stood on end. I felt completely
vulnerable. I wasn’t alone in the
sensation, as people spontaneously started screaming and running. My heart rate picked up, and Elder Whitby and
I launched into a slow jog to get home faster.
Upon arrival, we brilliantly opted to go to the rooftop to get
a better view. I can only assume we were too curious to
consider the danger this posed. A Korean-War-era
plane called a “Bronco” stopped its lazy circle and began to dive toward the
base. The 50-cal roared to life again,
unleashing a barrage of staccato fire while a small object detached from the
belly of the plane. My brain took a
moment to process that it was a bomb.
The explosion was deafening. We
rushed downstairs and inexplicably, my inner CNN war correspondent took over,
and I inserted a tape in my cassette player to record the chaos.
As I listen to this recording 25 years later, it awakens the mix of fear and excitement of being that crazy, young missionary caught in the eye of a storm. This is the first 30 seconds. Listen closely to hear the loud boom at the 5 second mark that is sound of the second bomb detonating.
I hit record just in time to capture the steady repeat of
gunfire, followed by the low zoom of the diving Bronco, and then a loud “boom”
as a second bomb detonated, much closer to us than the first.
The room shook.
“Are they dropping bombs?”
an incredulous Whitby blurted, and seconds later debris rained down on
the corrugated metal roof. I heard
Whitby talking with the landlord, while a large piece of metal scraped across
the floor—a piece of sizable shrapnel from the ordinance itself. I stood on Whitby’ s bed to look through the
“windows” (gaps in the cinder-block bricks) to see a wall of smoke march toward,
and then wash over our building. With
mild tension in my voice I announced to my unseen audience “Hello, hello,
testing 1, 2, 3.” It was time to leave.
We heard people screaming in the streets. Maybe someone was hurt? The bomb must have landed in our
neighborhood; what else could explain the debris and wall of smoke? People huddled together; others loaded into
cars and entered a snarl of traffic to get away. We gathered the few things we had, and
hitched a ride downtown to where other missionaries were staying in a high-rise
apartment building—far away from the military action. Hours later, President Perez suspended the
constitution and declared martial law. I
recalled my American Government class in high school, the teacher discussing the
cataclysmic state of affairs needed for martial law to be invoked. It seemed laughable at the time, but now I
was living it. Curfew was set for 10 pm
that night, and anyone caught outside during those hours would be shot on site. No questions asked.
Away from the din at the other missionaries' apartment, I watched the sunset from the balcony. Streets normally swarming with industry and
culture lay in eerie silence, only to have the wail of a siren and a military
transport split the night. Then the pool
of quiet would settle again, awaiting the next ripple.
The next morning was as incredible as the events from the
day before, only because everything returned to normal. Everything.
Other than lingering speculation, it was as though the previous day was
an episode of Latino Twilight Zone. The remainder of my time in the country
passed with relative political stability, but the seeds of discord had found fertile
ground; the fruits of which could result in this hemisphere’s greatest refugee
crisis in decades.
Part II – Awakening
That bomb jolted me awake.
It jarred loose a bit of humility that was sleeping deep inside me,
commencing a lengthy process of shrinking the ego of a self-centered kid. I was that
kid who had to have $60 Guess jeans and fretted about every hair being in place,
who was so fickle about food that if the Jell-O touched the mashed potatoes, both
would be left uneaten, who never stopped to consider how the pantry magically
replenished itself. As pride diminished,
gratitude swelled to take its place, rich with recognition of my life’s abundance. The coup and my remaining time in country obliterated
the lens of privilege through which I viewed the world, and I found myself with
a front row seat to global inequality. My
perspective changed. Dramatically.
By the end of my two-year service, the “fashion horse” in me
was shot dead. I wore yellowed shirts
and the same dirty pants for days on end; my other clothes had been stolen. I relished getting 50-cent haircuts. I walked thousands of miles until my shoes fell
apart, leaving my feet blackened with each day’s wearing. My clothing changed from fashion statement to
simple necessity.
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| The shoes that stubbornly refused to stay glued together. |
I understood the advantages of being a member of the “majority,”
as I was now quite the opposite. My skin
color and accent marked me as a foreigner, and I had had F-bombs and water
balloons hurled at me, or calls for “gringo go home” as I viewed anti-American
graffiti scrawled across public murals.
I lived the painful embarrassment and frustration of having my intellect
held hostage by an inability to communicate in a new language. I developed a new-found empathy for anyone living a
similar experience; assimilation could be frightening and brutal.
I understood better the sweet taste of freedom, because it
could be taken away overnight with the decree of a president. I valued security as I worked
the slums of Caracas, losing count of the gunshots heard during the day. I remember taking a detour to avoid a dead body lying
in the street; and more than once, I witnessed teens armed with pistols, bent
on evening a score. After that, the
Stars and Stripes being hoisted to the sky would never look the same; and I recognized that my democracy,
while pilloried at home, was a symbol of progress abroad.
But even in Venezuela's 1992 morass, many of its citizens existed in
self-created oases of calm, beauty, and dignity. The poorest lived with dirt floors and no
plumbing, walls that were patchwork quilts of scavenged wood and metal. Yet, they fed me humble meals of caraotas
and rice. It pained me that I would return to a lifestyle
beyond their imagination, while they would be trapped in a vice of poverty. How could this be? We were the same.
One morning, a family’s shack in the neighborhood of Las Adjuntas (on the side of the mountain) burned down in a kitchen fire. The following day, a line of people endlessly wound up the mountain stairs, bearing gifts to get their neighbors back on their feet. These people had little to begin with, yet they recognized that a family bereft of their home had even less. If they, who had nothing would give generously, what was I? The coup, the explosion, the intensity of the experiences that followed had a cumulative, jarring effect on my soul. I would never be the same.
One morning, a family’s shack in the neighborhood of Las Adjuntas (on the side of the mountain) burned down in a kitchen fire. The following day, a line of people endlessly wound up the mountain stairs, bearing gifts to get their neighbors back on their feet. These people had little to begin with, yet they recognized that a family bereft of their home had even less. If they, who had nothing would give generously, what was I? The coup, the explosion, the intensity of the experiences that followed had a cumulative, jarring effect on my soul. I would never be the same.
Period.
It was impossible to go back. With my compelled humility, I found deeper humanity. Living among the people of Venezuela, speaking
their Castilian Spanish, silently swaying to the beat of their Salsa and Merengue as it seeped into my bones,
eating their pabellon, I gave myself over.
Part of me became Venezolano. As such, my heart broke to see “my
people” as victims of the country’s violence and poverty, its political
turmoil, its difficulty to enforce the rule of law.
Little did I know that 25 years later, those would be considered the happy years.
Part III. Realization
I never imagined that when I returned home after two years, the vivid memories of
Venezuela would curl at the edges and yellow with time. I didn’t have two nickels to rub
together, but like so many in my country, I was rich with opportunity and
possibility. As I earned college degrees
and financial security, humility and humanity began to fade as well; I
forgot names and faces I swore I would never forget as I was lulled back to sleep.
It was a recent moment that jarred me awake again. I was leaving Costco, when a mix up prompted
a tense exchange with a line employee. If
felt I was wronged, and asked to see the supervisor who backed the employee. I was angry.
I thought, “I’m about to leave on a trip to Hawaii with my family, and
now I can’t get my Costco run done.” As
the thought replayed in my head (and after a conversation with my wife, Heather, that added further clarity 😊), I felt sick. I was, you know….“that guy”--the self-absorbed dude in the movies that
dumps on someone vulnerable and drives off in a gold-plated Aston Martin. I thought he was buried 25 years earlier in
the crater of a bomb blast in Venezuela, but here he was again, in all his glorious jerkdom filling up a Costco
cart while emptying a bit of his soul.
People who know me will vouch that I’m a pretty nice guy, but this "rare moment" happened, and was another full-force bomb blast, jarring me, and
bringing perspective--especially as I consider the decline of conditions in Venezuela, and what Venezuelans suffer today. A trip to Costco would be beyond their wildest
imagination. Paper towels and soap are for the wealthy. A chicken can
cost a month’s wages for the poor. And
it’s no longer just the poor that are suffering; the entire country is queuing
in line for basics such as corn meal, meat, and eggs, while the government
teeters on the verge of collapse and constitutional
upheaval. Many are dying
in protests, and thousands
are fleeing.
These are my people.
I need to be reminded.
Call it serendipity, but I have come to know a local Venezuelan family, Marisol and David (mom and dad), this last month. Sitting in their modest
apartment, we hear no roar of jet planes or rattle of machine guns, only the breeze flowing through the ubiquitous Northwest pines. There is a muted TV mounted on the wall with
a livestream of a Venezuelan opposition leader decrying the latest attempt by President
Nicolas Maduro to consolidate power.
While it’s too far away for me to read the comments feed, it’s going
wild, rising like the tide with the speaker's fiery rhetoric. The situation is grave.
Marisol and I dance between Spanish and English like a smooth Merengue, as she tells me what they have endured in their quest to find
asylum in the US. In Venezuela, Marisol’s father was tortured
and killed due to his opposition to Chavez.
David was shot while protesting.
With US visas in hand, they fled to the US, leaving at different times. Marisol, pregnant, fled with
their 10-year old daughter through Miami. David arrived months later in New York via a boat that took him to the Dominican
Republic where he worked and secured plane fare.
While waiting for David, Marisol was scammed trying to secure an apartment, losing their life savings.
She eventually ended up on the streets of Seattle during winter, living in the bushes behind a Wal-Mart, her
unborn baby soon to arrive. It was the
darkest of times, but an encounter with a local church resulted in a
place to live rent-free. While attending services, her daughter hungrily ate the communion bread thinking it was a handout. She had a
healthy baby boy, and David eventually arrived, reuniting the family.
We end up having them to our house for a classic meal of arepa, avocado, and black beans. I call up llanera
music on Spotify and the vibrant 4-string cuatro rings out as a nasal-voiced singer intones a melody about a proud Venezuela from long ago, freshly liberated by founding father, Simon Bolivar. The outside air is hot; Venezuelan slang
flies; we tell stories and laugh. The
arepas hit the boiling oil and sizzle.
To David’s laughing chagrin (he’s the master chef), I murder an
avocado while trying to skin it. The evening transports us all
back in time to our sweet, shared experiences in a country we desperately miss. “This feels like home,” Marisol says
wistfully. “I haven’t felt this way in a
while.” I silently agree.
They are in the process of putting their lives back together, working as a painter and fast-food worker to stay afloat--collapsing on the beat-up sofa at night, exhausted from labor. Marisol recently lost her job, putting further strain on finances. Still, they are blown away by the generosity of Americans: rides, meals, a bit of cash here and there. "People have been so generous. It's amazing." Despite what they lack, they are plagued with survivor's guilt, as their hearts ache for brothers, aunts, uncles, and cousins remain stranded in a living nightmare. Through tears, she laments: “We have more food than we can eat. They have nothing.”
Marisol and David left behind their big house on the corner, cars, jewelry store, and much-loved trips to Disney World. After surviving the trial by fire to arrive here, their aspirations are simpler. “We have freedom, and we have each other,” Marisol says. “That’s all that matters. We know now what’s most important.” When asked about his dreams, David says simply: “To build a home here, for my family.” He spreads his fingers wide to show his palms and smiles, “with my own hands.”
Marisol and David left behind their big house on the corner, cars, jewelry store, and much-loved trips to Disney World. After surviving the trial by fire to arrive here, their aspirations are simpler. “We have freedom, and we have each other,” Marisol says. “That’s all that matters. We know now what’s most important.” When asked about his dreams, David says simply: “To build a home here, for my family.” He spreads his fingers wide to show his palms and smiles, “with my own hands.”
Part IV. Action
Weeks before the coup, I sat on a bus winding through verdant
mountains leading to the beach of Choroni. I rode along
with a large group of missionaries from Venezuela and the US, heading to a service
project there. As we snaked through narrow passes toward our destination, an energetic “sing off” took place, pitting gringos versus Venezolanos. With each back-and-forth song, the energy and volume escalated, culminating with the
Americans delivering a patriotic rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Satisfied,
with more than a touch of pride, we sat back thinking the contest was over.
The bus lurched to a halt and the driver (who had been entirely quiet to this point) set the brake. He nobly stood and belted, “Gloria al bravo
pueblo que yugo lanzo!” Glory to the brave
people that threw off the yoke. The other
Venezuelans joined in a raucous refrain, “Abajo cadenas, abajo cadenas!” Shake off the chains! Shake of the chains! It was mike drop and exit stage-right. You couldn't help but love it.
In 1811, people of the New World shook off the yoke of Spanish oppression to birth modern-day Venezuela. In 2017, the country's chains are forged by inept, autocratic rule prone to human rights abuses and economic mismanagement. President Chavez and his successor have set the country back more than 40 years, putting Venezuela on a fast track to be the next North Korea. The noble refrain of "abajo cadenas" that sounded on the bus to Chorini, still sounds today. The people will not be beaten. Not in 1811 nor in 2017. That resilient heart beats within Marisol and David, who, despite overwhelming
circumstances, find hope.
When asked what they wish people in the US most understood about refugees, Marisol pleads: “Not all immigrants are criminals." David says, "Just because you are raised under Communism, you aren't a bad person." "We want to work, raise our families, and be good people like you.” Hearing those words, I contemplate the love I have for my family. The thought of them in the hell that is now Venezuela is unbearable. What will I do for my Venezuelan family? I can no longer afford to be lulled into the sleep of prosperity and security. The sleeper must awaken.
When asked what they wish people in the US most understood about refugees, Marisol pleads: “Not all immigrants are criminals." David says, "Just because you are raised under Communism, you aren't a bad person." "We want to work, raise our families, and be good people like you.” Hearing those words, I contemplate the love I have for my family. The thought of them in the hell that is now Venezuela is unbearable. What will I do for my Venezuelan family? I can no longer afford to be lulled into the sleep of prosperity and security. The sleeper must awaken.
So, if you, like me, fall asleep from time-to-time…
Maybe this is your bomb.
Maybe this is your chance to wake up.
Your people are waiting.
Venezuela is one of a few countries currently enduring untold hardship. Marisol and David are among 60 million people worldwide who are currently displaced, struggling to put their lives back together.
If you're a little crazy about the current refugee crisis, please take a moment to contribute. Funding benefits the Seattle office of the International Rescue Committee (IRC) for use in purchasing and maintaining a passenger van to provide critical transportation services for refugees resettling in the US.
The IRC is a 501c(3)organization and contributions in the US are tax deductible.
