became clear he was referring to the Senderista ideologues. Just as a priest teaches his congregation, so did the Senderista cadres inculcate “Pensamiento Gonzalo” in their followers.17 Indeed, one term villagers used to refer to Senderista sympathizers was iñirusqaku—the “convinced ones” or “the believers.”
“I never talked against them,” he continued, referring to the Senderistas. “I talked well about them so they wouldn’t mistreat me.”
“Were you ever threatened?”
He rolled his eyes and nodded in response to my question. “Bueno, once I was in the selva and the Senderistas had sent a message to Hatun Rumi—it’s in the selva. The Senderistas had held their assemblies and drawn up Actas saying that I was a spy for the gringos and they needed to get rid of me,” dragging his index finger across his neck.
I gasped. “The Senderistas said this?”
“Yes, the Senderistas had their Actas. But some people in Hatun Rumi heard about this so they warned me. But I thought, ‘What did I do so they’d want to kill me?’ So if they kill me—well, I just kept going. Then there was another warning saying they were coming. I said, ‘Good. Let them come.’ Then a third time, the older people had a meeting and they said, ‘Hermano, please, if those men enter, how will we be free if they kill you? It’s better for you to leave.’ Only the older people knew anything.”
“How did they know?”
“At night we all met, the old people, my son, and me—we talked, but the other members of the church didn’t know anything. The Senderistas sent someone with a message for us. So we started to leave at night. It was spring,” he remembered, “three days of walking.”
“So people tried to protect you?”
“Yes, yes.”
“And what was that about ‘how will we be free if they kill you?’ What did they mean?”
“I baptized people, I married them,” he explained. “That way, if they were killed they’d be free.”
I got it, struck that Vidal had been preparing people for God’s judgment in the afterlife. This resonated with something several ronderos had said: they converted to Evangelismo during the violence, concerned that they would have to answer to God for what they were doing. Even while they were killing, they were thinking ahead 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
