His family moved to El Salvador when he was four years old. He lived there until when he left to attend York University in Toronto. On a visit home, he witnessed a demonstration of unarmed students and workers in which twenty-one people were killed by government snipers. He left El Salvador that March, but did not go back to Canada for school.
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Shelves: honduran The first-person protagonist is defined, at the very top of the inside flap, as an alcoholic, atheist, sex-obsessed writer. And yet oddly I did not see myself in him. This flawed narrator has fled from El Salvador something he said and is now in Honduras where he The first-person protagonist is defined, at the very top of the inside flap, as an alcoholic, atheist, sex-obsessed writer.
His assignment is bankrolled by the Catholic Church. Oh, the irony. The atrocities are vividly stated, as are the sexual escapades. The houses they were sad because no people were inside them. Because for me the sorrow is to not bury him myself.
If I die, I know not who will bury me. For always the dreams they are there still. For me remembering, it feels I am living it once more. They were people just like us we were afraid of. And so the reader. I get that. And Americans are spectacular self-loathers. However, I have tried to make the point, previously, that we are a large country and have many different positions, philosophies and dogmas and that it is wrong to paint us with a single, broad brush.
I suspect I have mostly failed. It is not my intention to engage in an argument about that here and now. But consider this: Horacio Castellanos Moya, who wrote this book, had to flee El Salvador, like the protagonist.
He had to flee Honduras too. He fled those countries because of what he said, what he wrote. The atrocities he exposed are real. But when he fled, he came here. Not just to the United States. He came to Pittsburgh, where he lives in exile. He is a ten-minute drive from me. He could wander downstairs to a bookstore filled with nyrb-classics. He can walk three blocks and take in a major-league baseball game. I could show him a joint around the corner that will play live jazz that will bare souls.
He can be religious or not. He can sit by the river, next to a Fred Rogers statute on a crisp sunny day. Be grateful you left.
Horacio Castellanos Moya