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 it. Profound faith looks for a way to survive. They listen to the radio, they get encouragement through the radio,” emphasized Isaías.
“Absolutely—many people have mentioned Radio Amauta. They tell me they always listened, even during the violence.”
Indeed, Radio Amauta had been an important source of information for people in the campo. Amauta broadcast messages between family members, letting worried loved ones know someone had safely arrived in Huanta, making it past the military checkpoints and Shining Path sweeps throughout the countryside. The broadcasters also provided news updates, frequently lending a biblical spin to world events. It was Radio Amauta, turned down to a bare whisper, that accompanied people on cold nights in the caves, allowing them to imagine a caring international community of Evangélicos who prayed for them and assured them they were not forgotten.
But I had forgotten the time and how long we had been talking. I began thanking both Vidal and Isaías for their generosity. Rising to his feet, Vidal extended an invitation to me. “Hermana, let me show you where the martyrs died.”
Vidal led me out the front door of the church and around to the back. Chickens scattered to avoid our footsteps as we entered a small corral. Pointing to a wooden plaque hung on the side of the church’s outer wall, he explained that this was where the marinos (navy) had killed the six hermanos in August 1984.
“I am so sorry—I’ve heard about this. Were you here when it happened?”
“No. I was in the selva. But one day we woke up and were listening to Radio Amauta. They started to talk about Callqui, about how the marinos had killed six hermanos.”
“August first?”
He nodded. “There was no shortage of enemies. The hermanos were in culto (service) with a gaslight. Back then there wasn’t electricity here. The marinos entered and cornered them—they couldn’t escape. They had a list of names and started calling people by name: ‘You, outside. You too.’ So they went outside. The marinos made the rest of them blow out the light and keep singing. They told them to sing as loud as they could. And then dynamite exploded.”
“Right here?”
“In my house. The hermanos couldn’t hear because they were singing. We heard the news—my family died there. Two young men I’d educated died. It was as though I were walking in my sleep. An old Presbyterian hermano told me the Senderistas had sent the marinos. The church of Callqui is known around the world because of that.”
“What happened when you got back here?”
“When I arrived here and they’d killed the hermanos, we started a legal case [juicio]. The marinos didn’t respect anyone—not women, not men, not children. They just killed until they were tired. Their captain was Camión—there in the stadium,” Vidal recalled, pointing down the hill. “He escaped to the United States.”
“Did the North American hermanos stay here during all this?”
“No, they went to Cuzco, some returned to the United States. They left. But there was the National Council, and they helped start the juicio. And World Vision also helped us.”19
“Was there ever justice in the case?” I asked, knowing my question was rhetorical.
He shook his head. “That Captain Camión made them do it. He escaped to Quito, Ecuador, and from there they say he was kidnaped. But we know he escaped to the United States. The case is still open—it hasn’t ended, even now. It wasn’t even the Senderistas who did it. It was the marinos. Instead of protecting us, they killed us.”
“What happened to the relatives of the people who died?
“They’re still here.”
“And what is life like for them? I wonder what it’s like living with this?”
“Very difficult,” he replied, shaking his head. “The people who killed—well, they did so in ignorance, not knowing anything, like a baby.”
I was surprised by his word choice. “Ignorant?”
“Yes, ignorant. Sometimes the leaders made people kill, obligated them. They killed because that Captain Camión made them do it.”
“So
