Cofradía

Fish Soup

Sundays are the quietest days in Cofradía. Shops open late and close early in the afternoon, and people move gently, unhurriedly through the streets. This has been a week of rain and clouds, with days chilly enough to wear a sweater. Now the heat has returned, but I don’t mind it so much on Sunday like this, when everything is slow and lazy, and it’s easy to shelter in the shade.

This morning, I made fried plantains for breakfast, cleaned the apartment, and went to church. I met up with a family that is especially dear to me: Xiomara and Elvin and their two daughters. They have been very good to me since I met them, and now I feel like they’ve adopted me after a fashion. Later I went to their house for lunch. Xiomara made sopa de pescado, a hearty soup with a rich broth made from coconut milk. I helped her make the tortillas, trying to imitate the effortless way she shaped the masa in her hands, and finally contributing three lumpy discs to her pile of perfect circles. We ate lunch outside, in their tiny courtyard. Afterward, I played with the girls in the family bedroom – the only room with air conditioning – while their parents fell asleep on the couch.

Their house is one of my favorite places in Cofradía – it is small but not cramped, clean, plain walls of concrete like most homes, with pretty details like carvings of fruit on the ceiling. Xiomara and Elvin seem to live comfortably, by Cofradía standards, though I know they both work themselves to exhaustion. They always radiate cheerfulness and generosity, and everything in their orbit, from the little girls to their chihuahua and Xiomara’s rows of potted plants, seems healthy, loved, and well cared for.

They are both devout Catholics, and Elvin is sort of spiritual leader in their community. I often attend the weekly prayer meetings he leads. He is well-educated about the Bible and church doctrine, which I think is a rare quality here.

I appreciate Elvin because he is an exception to most of the male authority figures I’ve met in Cofradía. The machismo culture is strong here. I’ve been to more than a few dinners where the husbands do all the talking and never lift a finger while their wives stay in the background serving and cleaning up. But Elvin seems different to me; he helps with chores, he is kind and gentle, and I think the authority he takes on himself comes from a sincere sense of responsibility and care, rather than self-importance.

Thanks to Xiomara and Elvin, I feel much more at home in Cofradía’s Catholic community. Even so, conversations about faith are hard. The divide between Protestants and Catholics is marked, often to the point of hostility. As a Protestant-turned-Catholic, who has yet to be confirmed in the church, I find myself a little at odds with everyone. The evangelistas don’t try to hide their disapproval – I’ve watched so many faces fall when I tell them I go to mass. Among the Catholics, I feel that I am always a little suspect since I grew up Protestant. They seem especially incredulous to hear that I am familiar with the Bible. For example, today:

Elvin was commenting on the first reading at mass, a passage from Job. He asked me if I was familiar with the Book of Job. I said yes. Had I read the whole book? Yes. He looked at me, surprised, and processed this information for a few seconds, then continued explaining the premise of the book in great detail. As we talked said that I appreciated Job for his honesty, for although he didn’t reject God, he didn’t hold back his complaints. Elvin replied cautiously that, to his knowledge, Job never really complained against God, and perhaps I was reading a different translation of the Bible!

We also talked for a while about Honduran migration. Both Xiomara and Elvin are the only ones out of their siblings still living in Honduras. The rest of their brothers and sisters migrated illegally to the United States. Today I asked about their families, and they told me many stories: about Xiomara’s cousin who was kidnapped and held for ransom by a gang in Mexico, and Elvin’s brother who slept under a tall cactus for two nights in the Arizona desert to evade la migra, border police. Despite their harrowing experiences, all eventually made it into the US, where they now live and work. I asked what made them leave, and if they knew what dangers they were heading into. Yes, they knew, but they felt there were no more opportunities in Honduras. They were working themselves to death, and others were out of work entirely. People seldom mention the reasons for which someone migrated, and I have to press for an answer – perhaps it seems obvious to them, that people might want to leave if given the chance.

I wanted to ask Xiomara and Elvin what made them decide to stay in Honduras. This is the question that always lingers in my mind – what makes the difference between those who leave and those who stay?

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