the eyes shout what the lips fear to say

I've been pondering about when fear is justifiable. I went into my summer in Guatemala knowing big general themes about the problems the country faces such as having one of the highest inequality rates in the world, gang problems, civil war in the 80s, high levels of poverty, etc; but I didn't know too many specifics. I went into the summer saying..alright, I'll be okay. I have Guatemalan friends there, they're okay, they'll help me, I'll be okay.

Within hours of being there, I was being lectured on what zones of the city I could not enter, what to do if i did find myself there, how i couldn't take buses...the list went on. The mom of the aiesecer who's house I stayed at the first night told me over breakfast the next morning how afraid she was that I was going to be living in the city (they lived in the outskirts), and how violent the city was. I was terrified.

When I moved into my first house, I was told I could (and would have to) walk to work, and the women I lived with walked me there the first day. She said walk with a purpose, only in the day time, and on the more populated streets. I held my breath for 20 minutes every morning when I sped walked to work, with the mind set of "I'm going to get robbed, so don't freak out when it happens."

Within my first few weeks of work, I learned of co-workers who had been robbed at gunpoint blocks from work and within my 3 months in Guate sat patiently twice while friends described to me 'what had happened to them that weekend'- one being involved in a kidnapping and the other being a victim of humiliation and extortion from the police.

While all of this was happening around me, my fear i had in the beginning was very much still there...but it was masked by a growing love and appreciation for the country and its strong culture. The people, the food, the funky twist on the Spanish language, the colors, the smells. I loved it. I cried randomly my last week there. I cried more frequently my last 24 hours. I cried consistently my last 30 minutes. I cried during my connecting flight to Ecuador. It was like my summer was stuck in my chest like a big knot and it was fighting for time to stay still.

* * *

I'm now reading an article called 'Out of the underworld" focusing on Guatemala City, Los Angels and San Salvador and the gangs there. Outrageous stats of the homicide rate in each of the cities in 2005 my the hair on my arms stand on end. A paragraph describing Villanueve, a suburb guate, flashes a warm summer night into my head of getting lost in my friends car after a trip back from the beach. Tattered houses and sketchy characters walking down desolate streets remain in my memory...but nothing like the memory of the absolute fear that paralyzed my body for the 15 minutes we spent driving around trying to find our way out. According to this article gangs pull in $100,000 a week in Villanueve.

As small droplets of the fear I once had leak back into my veins;j a thought, i think I've tried to ignore, creeps back into the open: The feeling of relief I had when I sat in Panama City Airport waiting for my plane to Ecuador. Apart of me was relieved to be leaving, because leaving meant i was still in one piece and I had survived (dramatic i know) a summer in central america.

* * *

With 4 weeks of unemployment on the horizon before I'm due in NYC in June, amongst a variety of other factors (ridiculously cheap tickets!)- I'm presented the opportunity to 'dar la vuelta' around guate and el salvador for a couple of weeks. Visit friends, see places i didn't before, soak in some sun, and do some much needed traveling with a good friend after she finishes up her undergrad.

When is fear justifiable? Is it the easy way out to keep a memory a memory...for fear that revisiting the place- will only taint an experience I don't want changed?