Intimate Enemies. Kimberly Theidon
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to how they would someday atone for their actions.
“I was able to free many of them. I was thinking they’d all be killed,” shaking his head as he remembered.
“But did the Senderistas ever ask you what you were doing?”
“No, never,” he replied emphatically. “But from a distance they challenged me. They knew I was working there, they knew I’d formed each church and that I was preaching. They’d listened to me. So they didn’t need to ask me anything—they knew me.”
“Of course. Hermano Vidal, what did people say when they delivered themselves to God? What made them decide to do it?
“It was from watching the films, from the message. It was to find their salvation with El Señor Jesucristo. There were so many massacres, so many people were dying. But later they formed the defensa civil [rondas campesinas]. They started going after the Senderistas and killing a lot of them.”
“What do you think of the ronderos?”
Vidal shrugged. “Bueno, they knew me. But one time when I left for Rosario, they wanted to kill me. The defensa civil asked to see my documents [libreta electoral]. They had a building with a second floor, heavily guarded. I heard someone say, ‘Kill him.’ Well, my son Isaías went up to the second floor and asked for my documents. Isaías saw the president—he was a hermano. He asked him, ‘Don’t you recognize my father?’ The president was frightened when he realized who I was, and he gave me back my documents. If not for my son, they would’ve killed me. But it wasn’t my time yet. I still had work to do, work for El Señor.”
“You’ve had a lot of close calls. Senderistas, ronderos, Catholics—every-one was after you!”
Vidal smiled, and agreed that he had escaped death many times, thanks to El Señor. “It just wasn’t my time yet, hermana.”
“What do you think about the way they organized in rondas? I wonder, did it help or did it make things worse inside of the communities?”
“Bueno, they weren’t evangelicals anymore. In that hour, they weren’t evangelicals. They would just kill anybody. They just grabbed them and killed them. That’s how it was. But with the ronderos, the Senderistas started to dwindle, things calmed down. It wasn’t easy for us either. With the authorities we had to get—what do you call it? A pass. We also had to have one with the military. With these passes, they let us by. Without it, you were dead. Everything was controlled, hermana. Men, women, children—it didn’t matter.”
“But you kept visiting all these communities in spite of the violence?”
He nodded. “Yes, except for the worst part of it. I had to stop for a while. But once there were fewer Senderistas, I started working again. But in the selva,” he paused, shaking his head, “with all the killing, there were microbes. I’m not sure just what kind, but all sorts of illnesses started appearing.”
“More illnesses?”
He nodded. “Oh, there were so many dead who weren’t buried. They were just left hanging in the trees, dumped in the river. There were so many flies. Well, lots of dead who weren’t buried.”
At the sound of the door scraping the floor, we both looked up. A tall slender man with high cheekbones walked up the aisle toward us. He smiled and greeted his father. It was Isaías, the son Pastor Vidal had mentioned many times during our conversation. We introduced ourselves and realized we had seen each other before on the road from Huanta to the highlands.
Isaías pulled up a chair to join us around the table. “I’ll be heading up to Carhuahurán later this month for the Fiesta Espiritual.”
“Then we’ll see each other. You know, I was talking with your father about his experiences, and how during the war the churches were full. But now some people have said the church is enfriándose [cooling off]. What do you think is happening?”
“The problem is when there was violence there was more work. The pastor from one church would visit another church and so the hermanos were encouraging each other. But when the problems passed, this enthusiasm also decreased,” replied Isaías.
I nodded. “How old were you when you started traveling with your father?”
“I was twelve years old. I always went with my father, and I liked it. Since I was fifteen, I’ve continually preached. Now I’m contracted by the association,” referring to Llaqtanchikta Qatarichisun (LQ), an organization that spun off from World Vision.
“What are you doing with LQ?”
“We’ve been filling out questionnaires. In Carhuahurán we worked with widows. There are orphans, too. We’ve met so many widows who lost their husbands during the violence and orphans who lost their parents. We’ve also seen what happened to the harvest. With everyone we asked how much they plant, how much they harvest. We started to wonder how they could survive. They told us that sometimes they live with relatives—uncles or distant relatives who give them food. That’s how they live. Sometimes they tell us, ‘If my father had lived, if only my husband had lived—we wouldn’t be working, we’d be eating well, we’d have animals.’”
“What do people want when you talk to them? Revenge? Fines?”
He shook his head. “They don’t talk about revenge. They ask for economic help. They say, ‘If I hadn’t lost my husband—before the violence we had fifteen bulls, eighty cows, eighty sheep, and other animals too.’ And when we ask them how many they have now, they have two, three sheep.”
“This is what I’ve been told, too. People lost so much during the violence.”
Isaías nodded. “Before they would help us out so we could travel, preach—now they ask us for money.”
“I’m still thinking about the widows, the orphans. Do you address the theme of repentance, reconciliation when you preach?”
“Repentance yes, but not reconciliation. We don’t spend enough time. We’re only there one or two days. But the hermanos want to talk about this.”
“And how do you talk about repentance? What does it mean in the evangelical church, hermano Isaías?”
“In the evangelical church, repentance is how we talk about the violence. We think, as flesh and blood, as humans, that we are—if something would happen, we would seek revenge. So repentance—sometimes you think, ‘I’m going to get my revenge with such a person.’ Well, you’re already sinning. Repenting is saying to God, ‘I have thought of doing this but I won’t do it.’ You leave it to the will of God because God says ‘revenge is mine.’”
“And when you talk about this with the hermanos in the churches, are there people that can’t accept someone’s repentance? I mean, those who don’t resign themselves to having lost husbands? When you visit the communities, is there really a willingness to repent?”
“Yes, yes. They understand, until tears flow. But there could be exceptional cases—the hermanos in the communities would know this. There could be people who’re resentful,” he acknowledged.
“Hmm. Your father said so many interesting things. He talked about opening up the heart so the Holy Spirit can enter. What is conversion for you?”
“It’s the conversion to Christ, the conversion has to be born in the heart. You have to feel it inside. There are some people who have come to our church to deliver themselves but it wasn’t from the heart but just for aid, for gifts.”18
“Oh, the blankets and calaminas.”
He shrugged. “It happens. But there are some that from the heart think, feel the presence of the Holy Spirit in their hearts and continue to, even now.”
“So some have a deep faith?”
“Yes, I’ve seen