Rebecca's story

Rebecca and I.

Rebecca Is a woman I met at plaza de Armas. It is a bizarre place, beautiful and it would be a perfect place to relax if it were not for sustained harrowing of itinerary street vendors. Even in nearby plazas with less of a crowd I can hardly finish a chapter without being offered to buy whichever object. I find it tiring, especially since I dislike the word no strongly and it is always a bit hard emotionally to refuse time after time after time, I have caught myself at the limit of courtesy sometimes. But I really do enjoy being able to walk freely under the sky listening to music being uninterrupted.

            Anyways, as I was listening to freshly composed sounds at a strategic point in the plaza, as not to be bothered. A woman comes up to me and offers to buy some jewelry, I respectfully decline and she starts with the usual maneuvers “where do you come from?” .

            La suiza, she knows the languages we speak, as we sit down the discussion evolves, I take a closer look at her jewelry as I am looking for a pendant, nothing there. One is made of turquoise, I ask the price, it is way beyond what I have with me. (since I first arrived here I have got to learn some tourists walk around with large amounts of cash, it is almost as if they are ready to shop whatever wherever whenever).

            Here is her story. 1986, 28 years ago 23 members of her family have been executed by terrorists in front of her in Ayacucho, sole survivor.

 She moves to Cuzco one week later. Life goes on, she gets married, has kids. Her husband divorces and takes everything with him. leaving her, quite literally bed less, with four kids. Her tears are real and ancient. I give her a hug and the whooping 14 soles in my pockets, laundry can wait (as it often does in my life anyways). We agree to meet again she invited me to her place to meet her children.

Half of their living space

            As we meet on decided upon date I express my emotional unavailability, I just had a powerful reiki healing and need some alone time. She produces a document with all the necessary school items, more than 15 books per kid. Two of her kids do not have shoes and she is three months rent late, She did not sell anything since a week . Tears and hugs. Mixed feelings arise, I feel manipulated (I care about pretty much everything), but am humbled nonetheless, it would be hard for me to ask for money, I feel her sadness, it has been eating at her since a long time (or she is an evil extremely good actress, but being very sensitive I usually get a good read on people)  We convene of another meeting.

            Today I withdraw some amount of cash, 200 soles should be enough for two pair of shoes, plus a bit more for food upcoming days.

            I meet her and we go to her place. She pays 300 soles per month for one room, they are 5 living in there, one bed and an air mattress at night, looks pretty much like a basement storage room, apparent cement and cold white electric light. They rent a kitchen too, and share the bathroom with another family. Sometimes they can use the living room for homework when the other family is there. As humans, she and I are very different, we find ourselves in the room with nothing to talk about, sits me on the bed, she cries and tells me how her husband took everything, even the bed. Her poverty is real. I don’t know how so I simply ask if I can take pictures. I feel ashamed and voyeuristic, still I want to share I know some would like to see. An object does not judge, it has no sense of value, but I cannot avoid judging myself. She says it’s okay, just makes me promise I won’t show them to anybody that works on the main plaza.

Other half, one bed for 5.

Arise the desire to fund for blankets, paint and shoes, yet I realize it is futile to buy her more stuff if she is thrown out in the streets. I am taken aback when I give her the equivalent of one rent and she directly asks for more. What the heck, I decide to empty my pockets again and retain money for taxi only. I am not comfortable; I just gave her a full rent and yet feel greedy. She keeps crying. That’s what bothers me, the depth of her sadness. And my mind, doubting if she is playing me. I feel the guilt that I would allow myself to believe that.

She is not playing me. In truth, she needs that money and must ask for it for the survival of her family, but I was not invited as a gesture, there is no tea, nothing offered, not even immaterial, she is not interested in me, in who I am or my story, she s not interested in sharing, she has nothing to say. I am here to see, she is proving her poverty to me, and waits. She puts herself at my mercy. Gives me a power I never asked for, she surrenders while I have nothing to do with the situation. The hardest is that she remains inaccessible to my true wish, hugs do her good, but she won’t let her grief go. In the most important aspect she will not have help. Her tears keep her company, maybe she believes she needs them to “own” my help.

            She thanks me, truthfully, but instead of happiness of having one less month of rent to pay she chooses to be sad of having to pay still two. The most horrible feeling of not giving enough resonates with the ancient feeling of not being enough. My help feels voided. Feels like I dropped a pebble to fill up a crater. I can’t help her, she needs something else, I leave useless. Must be one of the rare occasions in my life where wealth shared or offered feels less than its worth. The difference in cost of living excruciates the vertigo. As I leave, the two kids I have met are waiting behind the door. The situation makes me feel as if their mother just sold herself to me. I have a hard time letting go of my feelings, of my judgment. How come I just helped somebody in need and feel ashamed and useless?

Almost all of their possessions.

I miss the blessing, I lack the gratefulness, not necessarily to me, or to my ego. It simply is that I have been accustomed to make people happy, that’s part of my job, it’s what I came here for.

That’s what hurts. I did not manage to bring her happiness, nor by hugs, nor by listening, nor by talking, nor by giving her what she asked for, nor by creating a opportunity for her to feel grateful. . Gratefulness is a grate feeling.

I met a sadness for which I was truly ineffective. I feel shamed that it feels wrong I did not manage to make her smile. Her sorrow, maybe she believes is the only companion she has left.

            It is a part of life, and I am grateful we met. Maybe, I somewhere did help her (I truly hope she’ll be able to retain use of their room) and she offered an opportunity to know myself more. I remembered something about me thanks to her.

Yet I do not care for sorrow.

I summon the basics of my soul.

Judgment withers in comparison to the beauty of the sky.

I keep on walking, thankful for my life.

Thankful I can care,

Thankful I know I care so much,

Thankful for friends and family,

Thankful I can love,

Thankful I do,

Thankful nothing can ever change that,

It is who I am, in truth as absolute as can be.

Thankful for so much more.

And now I am going to spend an afternoon hugging orphans!

Much love.

Scott