After having lived in Honduras for over a year now, I am very much accustomed to most of the differences between life here and life back home. There are some differences that I really like. People are much more affectionate here. They are also more blunt and honest about what they think. Family is considered very important, and siblings aren't embarrassed by or mean to each other the way they tend to be in the states. There are other differences that, while I am used to them, I don't like them. A mild example of this is the music and fireworks that are so commonly blasting in the middle of the night, and a more serious example is the knot that develops in my chest when I am alone and have to walk past a leering man on a mostly-deserted street. There is also one type of difference that I hate -- the tragic symptoms of a developing country. The devastating poverty, corrupt police force, land disputes, and drug trafficking throw an endless spray of fuel onto a wildly burning firestorm of violence, turning Honduras into one of the most dangerous countries in the world -- so dangerous, in fact, that the US government discourages its citizens from even visiting here.
I am blessed this school year to be living in an area of Honduras that is considered to be very safe. I can go out with my friends after 6 p.m. I don't get the, "They'll rob you!" warning whenever I leave the house by myself. I can't point out the drug lord's houses. I have not been woken up by gunshots. Despite these comforts, I still receive the occasional, stabbing reminder of where I am. My student's father was murdered Monday. He had apparently made a bad business deal, and the man he'd crossed walked into the father's pharmacy and shot him in the head while his 3-year-old daughter, my student, was watching. A mother is now left to raise her children by herself, three kids are left without a father or sense of security, and one little girl has been left with a horrific image she will likely deal with for the rest of her life. To make all of this worse, it is likely that nothing will ever be done about this. Everybody knows who murdered him. As my principal told me on the way to the funeral, though, "Crime scenes in Honduras have no witnesses." The police cannot be trusted, and people with information cannot be protected. No justice will be served. The family will never feel the sliver of relief in knowing that the man who murdered their husband and father is in prison.
This blaring injustice, this aspect which I hate the most, is the precise thing that tugs me the hardest toward this place. Honduras is not a country without hope. It's not a lost cause. I believe that my students hold the potential to bring about change in Honduras. My prayer is that the students' lives may be impacted by people -- family, friends, and teachers -- who encourage and empower them to live up to that potential so that they may begin rebuilding a better society than the one they were born into.
And I pray that God grants me the strength and wisdom to effectively be a part of that task.
