An afternoon of football frenzy at a small Tela bar

By KEN JONES

PERSONAL REPORT 

Special to Honduras This Week 

I was in Tela a couple of Sundays ago.  I hadn't been there for a long time.  It was mid-day, after the mass, and walking down the street, I thought about the padre's sermon - a lack of faith prevents miracles from happening today.  I didn't know it then, but I was about to meet a group who had faith - lots of it.

Only a couple of years ago, it was dangerous to walk the streets of Tela, even at mid-day.  On the beach, you were likely to get a pistol or a knife in your back, but these days it is as peaceful and safe as any other town of its size.

Nowadays, Tela is a quiet remittance town.  There is some tourism and educating young people is a big business, but the chief industry in Tela is going to the bank to cash vouchers sent by brothers, fathers, husbands, sisters, mothers and even wives working in the United States - the land of dreams.

I walked along past Parque Central, an oasis of shade in a hot town.  On the street, the young in their BMXs scooted in and out of cars and pedestrians, while men and women glided by on their more sedate bicycles.

Out of curiosity, I continued on to the bus terminal around which used to be the red-light district, where free spending banana workers and sailors from the banana boats looked for pretty muchachas practicing the world's oldest profession.  The Alameda and the Hollywood bars are gone, along with the banana business, which has moved to La Ceiba and Puerto Castilla.  The whole area has been sanitized.

The former block of sin now holds a bank, private dwellings, a medical clinic, pulperias, and a pharmacy - not Park Avenue - but a sin strip no more.

Along and up an incline with houses on the right, and on the left one of those open air casetas, the wood painted in Pepsi blue, a tin roof, a few rough hewn wood tables and chairs in front of a rudimentary bar made of 12-inch plank and, most important, an ancient 14-inch television set mounted high behind the bar and facing out.

It was hot and I was thirsty.  I went in and bought a beer - the only client. Soon two campesinos came and checked their machetes behind the bar (shades of Dodge City).  With eyes on the TV, they picked a table.  The boys were "Indios," short and very dark - early 20s - decked out in Sunday clothes, well worn but clean jeans, clean and ironed short-sleeved, open neck white shirts and cowboy hats.  It was clear the beer was secondary.  They were waiting for something on the TV.

A street vendor entered with an armful of food, ready for sale, packed in individual plastic bags.  He was a little taller than the campesinos, skin a little lighter, hatless, with a blue striped shirt, soiled in front where he may have been carrying something.  He had on a pair of green polyester pants with a hole in one knee -- the kind of used clothes that you used to see for sale on market days, the kind that were imported by the bale.  In those days, a man could buy a pair of used pants for 20 cents.  Then the government said it was an affront to the dignity of Hondurans to buy imported used clothes, and jacked up the import taxes.  Almost overnight, the flow of used clothes into the country slowed down to a trickle, and what is still for sale is no longer cheap.  I don't know what the poor do for clothes.

The street vendor, with a friendly gin, went to the campesinos, the owner, and to this gringo, offering each of us a cigarette.  I said, "No thanks" and bought him a beer.  He thanked me graciously.

Finally, an elderly gentleman, a Hispanic like the others, came in and sat down at one of the tables.  He wore a white Sunday shirt, brown polyester pants -- threadbare but clean.  He ordered nothing.  With the pleasant courtesy that lives in this country, the owner just let the old man be.

The host has a young fellow, about 25, and with a friendly disposition.  He moved behind the bar to get an angle where he could watch the tele.  His little girl of more or less four years came in front of the bar, and stood on a stool next to me.  I thought she would fall, but she didn't.  She gave me the kind of smile that makes your day.

The owner's wife went to one of the unoccupied tables, an infant in her arms and pregnant with another.

All eyes were on the TV.  It was football - soccer style.  The players were entering the field to the roar of the crowd.  The Honduran national soccer team in white and Salvadoron team in blue.

Everybody in our group was an expert.  Honduras would win this World Cup qualifying match.  There was no doubt.  This is the kind of faith the padre had in mind in this morning's sermon.

From seven individuals we changed, altered, into a cohesive group.  "Honduras, Honduras," we shouted.  They asked me my opinion.  I became an instant expert, "Honduras will win, cierto," I said.

Even when El Salvador scored the first goal, we didn't lose faith.  The padre would have been proud.

Then a Honduran goal: the game was tied.

The old man, the two campesinos with machetes checked behind the bar, the street vendor, the owner, his wife, all on their feet screaming, "Honduras, Honduras."  I got up and yelled too.  I wasn't going to be the odd man out.

Honduras scored again and again - ecstasy in our group.  We slapped each other on the back, arms around the other guy's shoulders.  It was like an old-fashioned revival meeting with the brothers and sisters moving and grooving.

When it was over, we all went our separate ways, promising to be together the next Sunday for the Jamaica game.

I didn't make.  I'm glad I didn't.  Honduras lost, and I wanted nothing to spoil that memory of football frenzy.

Lety Elvir, a valuable new force in Honduran poetry           

Lety Elvir, First Prize winner of the 1997 International Biennial of Poetry sponsored by a Chilean magazine, is the author of Luna que no cesa.  (Photo by Alejandra Flores Bermudez.)

By ALEJANDRA FLORES BERMUDEZ

Special to Honduras This Week 

"Lety Elvir has written a book of poetry favorable to solidarity and solitude.  In it words, whose significance have been lost at the end of the millennium because of the pragmatism of globalization, are treasured," writes poet and literary critic Eduardo Bahr about Elvir's Luna que no Cesa.

Elvir is a poet and writer with two international awards already under her belt and a second edition of her "Moon that does not Cease" in publication.  She won first place in the 1996 Embassy of Chile Prize and first place in the 1997 International Biennial of Poetry sponsored by the magazine "Correo de la Poesia," which is published in Valparaiso, Chile.

            Her poems appear in the "Anthology of Women's Poetry" by Adaluz Pineda and she contributes regularly to many local newspapers.  Elvir also wrote the essay: "Facts about the Life and Work of Eva Thais."

The poet, who has a degree in Spanish literature from the National University, currently teaches at UNAH's department of literature.

HTW recently interviewed this young poet who is a Honduran literary promise. 

HTW: When and why did you begin to write? 

ELVIR: I began to write poems when I was 12 years old but I never thought it was important.  The importance of writing at that age is just a point of reference for me.  I was busier studying at school.  I began writing again and taking it more seriously when I was 17 years old.  I was motivated by my mother, injustice, nature, feelings, and social problems my country experienced in those days and that still continue nowadays. 

HTW: You won a very important award.  Tell us about it. 

Elvir: I won the first place in the "Premio de la Embajada de Chile" (Embassy of Chile award) in 1996 and the First "Premio Internacional 1997" (International Prize 1997) of the VIII International Biennial of Poetry sponsored by the magazine "Correo de la poesia." Valparaiso, Chile. 

HTW: Did the poet Clementina Suarez influence you in any way? 

ELVIR: Not really, but I had already read her.  I think it's an  ensemble of national and international writers I have read who always come back to me when I write. 

HTW: Tell us a bit about this writing process. 

ELVIR: My first book, and the only one that I've published, is called "Luna que no Cesa" (Moon that does not Cease).  First, the poems came to life.  The name came to me when I finally decided to publish it.  But I really began nine or 10 years ago when a group of university students, including myself and some friends who were also writing, formed a literary workshop called "Casa Tomada" (Captured House) in 1993.  We chose Jose Luis Quezada as our coordinator.  He is a well known Honduran writer who is read internationally.  He founded and directed several literary workshops in Costa Rica.  We started to share our first attempts to write poetry.  We identified forms, styles, reviewed each other's work, criticized, improved.  From the beginning we decided to work with our own production, experimenting through our own creation.  There were also moments when we discussed and spoke about other writers.  We chose the name Casa Tomada together.  We used to get together in any house, in coffee shops.  We frequently went to a coffee shop near the Manuel Bonilla theater.  Sometimes we worked in the hallways of the theater.  We used to work everywhere where we could have space, in the house of a friend... 

HTW: When all of you leave the workshop does a strong struggle for literature begin? 

ELVIR: Yes, we were very interested in improving our work.  Our work began as a combination of intuition and technical knowledge.  We acquired experience through renowned writers who had literary and artistic experience who we invited to give lectures or simply to talk to.  Our basic working tools were our own poems, though.  Rebecca Becerra, Diana Vallejo, Ruben Izaguirre and others were part of the workshop.  Many of the members of Casa Tomada have received literary recognitions, awards, and are publishing.  Casa Tomada had its beginning, its climax... like all living beings; then each one of us started to fly alone with our own wings.  Each one of us found his or her own road.

I would like to add that this literary workshop was very important to me and that we still remain close, without the old structure, but all of us get together once in a while -- we communicate with each other, we share our literary works in search of suggestions for improvement.  It has been beautiful.  We've had a very healthy relationship without competition or envy.  Many of today's women writers were involved with Casa Tomada.  I speak of women because currently there is a incredibly abundant production of literature written by women.  All these women who have published and who had contact with Casa Tomada appear in the anthology by Adaluz Pineda, which is about poetry written by women from the 1800s until 1998. 

HTW: What was your life like after the literary workshop? 

ELVIR: We got tired of the routine encounters each weekend and everyone started feeling they were ready to publish, so the workshop disintegrated.  The problem was finding funds to publish our books.  Anyway, the literary production of women nowadays is fantastic.  We are occupying space and also opening space; gaining a place in the history of literature because we deserve it, we're doing a great job.  In the 90s, it's mainly women who are publishing and producing.  It's a very good moment for us. 

HTW: You were invited to an international encounter of writers in Washington, D.C.  Tell us about it. 

ELVIR: Yes, indeed, I had the opportunity of meeting writers from many countries around the world.  It was a Tower of Babel -- all languages were spoken...  There were seminars, lectures, symposiums.  A Pulitzer Prize winner (1996) attended.  I met a famous novelist of Ecuador, Carlos Carrion, many Salvadoran writers living in the States, and others. 

HTW: Tell us about your next project. 

ELVIR: My next project is "Bajo Sospecha," a new poetry book that is almost ready.  I've been working on it since last year.  It's a search for my inner self, a woman's cry. 

HTW: Who are your favorite authors? 

ELVIR: The classics are very important to me.  I always reread Petrarca's "My Secret," which is about a conversation with Saint Austin.  There's so much to read.  I enjoy reading Chilean author Marcela Serrano.  And, of course, all my friends and companions in Honduras who are writing and doing it well.  Those three components are what attract me now. 

HTW: How do you think Honduran women writers should write about Honduras? 

ELVIR: Well, Honduran woman can write about any topic and any subject.  Honduras will always be essential because it's our country, where we live, what we love and feel, what we suffer for.  And you can write about Honduras in any way, through nature, children, any object; there's complete liberty in choosing a subject.  All that can be felt and perceived is the object of poetry; any object, any being is a motive to write a poem.

La Luciernaga: Candles that bring hope to victims of violence 

Thirty-two-year-old Angela Colomer is not only manufacturing original decorative candles at the La Luciernaga Cooperative workshop.  In addition to finding a decent job, she participates in the productive process that helps finance a shelter for women who, like her, have been the victims of violence. (Photo by Suyapa Carias.)

By SUYAPA CARIAS

 TEGUCIGALPA -- For most people, they are just decorative and aromatic artifacts that might look cute in a corner of the house.  But for women like Bertha Isabel Interiano, a survivor of sexual abuse and constant domestic violence from the age of 12, the candles of the Cooperativa La Luciernaga (The Glowworm Cooperative) have made the difference between staying in the darkness and coming out into the light.

The candles come in a wide variety of designs, shapes, colors and scents.  Their light represents a step forward in the life of each one of the guests at the ADP shelter for women victims of domestic violence. 

Since last October, Bertha has been part of a technical process that results in the production of nearly 90 candles of different shapes, sizes, colors and scents.  Graciously inserted into the paraffin shapes are cinnamon sticks, coffee beans, dry flowers or small shells.  While this new catracho product is being successfully sold and distributed in a growing number of souvenir shops around the country, few people know the real story behind these charming objects. 

SINGULAR CRAFTS

Dora Mejia de Sarmiento, administrator of La Luciernaga, said the flourishing activity is one of the projects managed by the Acciones para el Desarrollo Poblacional (ADP), a non-governmental organization.  Actions for Population Development was founded 14 years ago with the help of a group of Swedish women, but it wasn't until 1991 when its promoters focused their efforts on empowering women.  Among ADP activities, they opened a shelter for women who were victims of violence, inside or outside their homes.  Here, women not only get protection, food, clothes and a warm, clean bed to sleep in while dealing with their crisis but they also receive psychological and emotional support, as well as legal and medical assistance.

Last year, while looking for a way to ensure permanent self-sufficiency and at the same time offer a productive alternative to battered women staying at the shelter, a group of ADP contributors came up with the idea of creating a small enterprise dedicated to the production of candles.

Bertha Isabel Interiano (second from left) finishes a big star-shaped candle. La Luciernaga administrator Dora Mejia de Sarmiento says they are producing an average of 90 candles per day, mostly on request.  "Every single one of them is unique because they're handmade." (Photo by Suyapa Carias.)

"With the initiative of Ana Maria Sorenson and Celeste Matute, we were able to get aid from a Mennonite church in the United States," said Sarmiento.  "We started experiments with molds and materials in July, we learned the techniques, and three months later we were out in the market."

She said the process takes about 16 hours from the moment the wax is melted at high temperatures to the packaging of the new product, but varies according to size.

"Every candle is unique because it is handmade... each is a handicraft," she said.

In her opinion, acceptance could not be better so far, especially among foreigners.  "They seem to love the candles with strong colors, and we are hoping to export them in the near future."

Sarmiento said that although their candles do not have a strong aroma because of the high costs of essences, their prices are considerably lower than those of imported candles.  Prices range from Lps. 30 to Lps. 250.  The women receive wages for their work, which also serves as a form of therapy as it provides them with a sense of worthiness and it increases their deteriorated self-esteem.

BRUTAL ABUSE

One shocking but not unusual example of the violent drama lived daily inside thousands of Honduran homes is the case of Bertha Isabel.  A native of the community of Tocoa, Colon, she suffered for nearly a decade from sexual and physical abuses from her sexual partner and uncle, 35 older, who took her by force and raped her when she was only 12.

"How could I have been in love with my own uncle," said Bertha.

However, she bore the alcoholic and marijuana smoker three children, only two of which are alive today.  One died after being raped by his own father, at the age of just 20 months.

"He told me that if I accused him he would kill me," said the short, shy woman.  But when the disturbed man raped and brutally wounded her younger sister with a machete, Bertha said she couldn't take it anymore.

"A friend from the local church took me to the police to file a lawsuit, and I hid for 15 days before I was taken to Tegucigalpa, then I arrived here."

The authorities of the shelter recall that day, too, about two years ago, since Bertha would not say a word and she always kept her head down and her eyes almost shut.

"It took months for her to start speaking out about her tremendous experience and talk normally to other people," said coordinator Maria Belen.  "The progress she has made is incredible."

Still, Bertha is still visibly nervous and insecure, and every time she was asked a question, she would remain silent for a moment, she would look at her co-workers with an anxious smile, and would cover her face with a white dirty handkerchief she held around her neck.

But despite the trauma she must carry over her shoulders, Bertha has found in ADP the help she needed to look at the future with an encouraging attitude.  "I feel happy now, I have more spirit to go on with my children."  Moreover, she thanked God and she shared the good news that the priests of the Sagrado Corazon de Jesus parish church will give her a new home.

At 23, Bertha feels unwilling to get involved in any kind of romantic relationship for the rest of her life.  "I will never be with a man again... I don't want to be anybody's slave," she said twice.  Her uncle is currently in a prison in the western part of the country.

Another victim is Angela Colomer, a 32 year old from Puerto Lempira, Gracias a Dios department, who ended up in the shelter after her second partner kicked her out of the house, as she found him with another woman.  When he slapped her in the face, she ran away to avoid further beatings and having her 1-year-old daughter taken away from her.

"I cried for a month, I couldn't even bring one pot with me."

But Angela had already experienced domestic violence with her first husband, with whom she had three children.  "Sometimes, when he got angry, he would hit me with his belt," she recalled, while wrapping a red large candle with plastic paper.  "During the months I have been in the shelter, I learned things I didn't know about violence, self-esteem, and how to treat people; besides, I like my work here."

Continued in next column...

Continued...

DROP IN THE BUCKET

Like Bertha and Angela, there are other equally shocking stories of violence featuring thousand of women all over Honduras. "We have received girls as young as 12 to old women, from women with no education at all to professionals," said Belen.  The women are usually referred by other related public and private institutions.  On average, most of them stay from 15 to 20 days, but others have remained for more than a year.   Here, a group of five trained employees and other volunteers organize the domestic chores among all the guests, hold relief and educational sessions, and put them to work at the candle factory in different shifts.

"It is a changing process that begins when a woman decides to come here through our main ADP office," said Belen.  "The emotional help we provide is really important from the moment the woman finds somebody to talk to about her problem, and meet other people who will understand her instead of making her feel guilty.  But our job is not to make the victim immediately leave their homes for good; if they can find strategies to improve their situation that is even better.  It is not an easy decision to make."

Once the women leave the shelter, they can come back to participate in group therapy sessions, obtain more assessment and even become volunteers.  ADP attends approximately 170 women per year, a number that looks rather small compared to the magnitude of the problem.  In regards to domestic violence alone, the Special Government Prosecutor's Office for Crimes Against Women reported 3,390 cases in 1999.  Through July of this year, there have been more than 2,165 cases filed.  Meanwhile, the police have registered 1,027 cases in the same period.  Nevertheless, experts estimate that only a small fraction of victims get this far after years of physical and psychological abuse from their partners.

In addition to the candle project, ADP recently launched a new line of handmade cards using dry flowers.  On Thursdays, they also prepare a delicious seafood soup for sale, and on Fridays they prepare nacatamales to go.  For more information about ADP, please call its director Enma Mejia at 237-3353.