When Rains Became Floods: A Child Soldier's Story (Latin America in Translation) - Softcover

Gavilán Sánchez, Lurgio

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0822358514 ISBN 13: 9780822358510

Publisher: Duke University Press Books, 2015

Synopsis

When Rains Became Floods is the gripping autobiography of Lurgio Gavilán Sánchez, who as a child soldier fought for both the Peruvian guerrilla insurgency Shining Path and the Peruvian military. After escaping the conflict, he became a Franciscan priest and is now an anthropologist. Gavilán Sánchez's words mark otherwise forgotten acts of brutality and kindness, moments of misery and despair as well as solidarity and love.

About this title

About the Author

Lurgio Gavilán Sánchez is a Ph.D. candidate in Anthropology at the Universidad Iberoamericana (Mexico).

Margaret Randall is the author of dozens of books, including Che On My Mind, also published by Duke University Press.
 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

When Rains Became Floods

A Child Soldier's Story

By Lurgio Gavilán Sánchez, Margaret Randall

Duke University Press

Copyright © 2015 Duke University Press
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-0-8223-5851-0

Contents

FOREWORD Carlos Iván Degregori Surviving the Flood: The Multiple Lives of Lurgio Gavilán, 
1. In the Ranks of Shining Path, 
2. At the Military Base, 
3. Time in the Franciscan Convent, 
4. I Return to the Countryside of Ayacucho, 
GLOSSARY, 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS, 
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS, 
NOTES, 
INDEX, 

CHAPTER 1

IN THE RANKS OF SHINING PATH

I write this history in order to retrieve my memory; and also so nothing like it will happen again in Peru.

Verba volant, scripta manent (Words fly away, what is written remains). In the spirit of this Latin phrase, and encouraged by a professor at the School of Pontifical and Civil Theology in Lima, today I decide to tell my story from the age of twelve, when I followed my brother into the ranks of Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso). She said: "Why don't you write about your life?" I often hesitated, asking myself: Who would be interested in a story like mine? Would writing it enable Peru to know a guerrilla fighter? Would it allow Peru to understand something of human suffering? Would it keep history from repeating itself? What could it possibly be good for? Now I simply prefer — as José Carlos Mariátegui said — that the work speak for itself. This is how I got the courage to talk about what I have lived. I hope my story contributes to human understanding, and that others may share the sentiments of this writer and of those I portray here, because our lives are like soap bubbles: from the moment they exist they begin to die. As we make our way through life, in that long process of dying we shoulder and then discard our cultural baggage.

This autobiography was written between 1996 and 1998 and finished in 2000. I filled in the empty spaces in 2007 and 2010. This was how I was able to complete the book and put a few of my memories into words. This is not a history of violence, but rather a series of stories about ordinary life, devoid of theatrics and party politics.

In no way do I try to justify the atrocities committed by Shining Path or the Peruvian army; I simply tell the events as they occurred. For this writer, these are ordinary memories, as if I lived them only yesterday. An unknown soldier's life takes many twists and turns. They are not all here, perhaps because some of the memories are distant now, or some are less important.

When we children had not yet reached adolescence we were already fighting in the so-called people's war. Back then, the idea was to contribute to the needs of a new nation, one that was more developed, with greater justice and equality, where man's exploitation of man did not exist. But it all disintegrated into humans acting worse than beasts to one another and into times of suffering (waqay vida).

All this has to do with something I have always asked myself, always wanted to know: what is Peru? Is it made up of soulless Indians, as the first religious men who came to the New World believed, or simply a lot of beggars seated on golden benches, as Antonio Raymondi wrote? Peru is a multicultural and diverse nation with many bloods, an amalgam of cultures with a discriminatory idiosyncrasy. When have we ever been one Peru, a country united?

Sometimes I think we are united (huklla) only when our soccer players wear their "red and white" and get our people to joyously scream the word "goal"; or when we raise on high the red-and-white flag, or simply a red one, as if begging for help. What passions fire our blood? What notion do we have of the country in which we live? What temporal meaning do these symbols express? Will they endure? Or, as the cumbia sung by a northern musical group proclaims about love: "will they appear and disappear." Peru is a country as complicated as its idiosyncrasies, as the indignation of its people or its momentary, regional, family, or individual conflicts. So when does resentment, vengeance, and rebellion explode? When Peru becomes aware that it lives in a deceptive system? When the level of hunger is greater than the daily possibilities of subsistence? When, tired of democratic utopias and political parties, people say "enough" and rise up?

As we have seen, our leaders have invented constitutions in order to legitimize their power, hiding within the judicial apparatus a language that gets more perverse by the day. Our political constitutions have not been documents of rights but models for structuring the state. We live in constant anxiety, trying this and that, always beginning again at zero and never getting anywhere. We have too much faith in the virtues of politicians, in presumed saviors, in the pretty phrases "the government is for all Peruvians," or the government with a "human face."

I am left with the words of Saint Francis of Assisi: "Brothers, let us begin, we have done little or nothing," or with the universal poet César Vallejo's judgment: "sadly, humans ... brothers there is much to be done."

It is true that, as one remembers one experiences a kind of nostalgia, but at the same time there is a lightening of the spirit. I lived for many years in the ranks of Shining Path, in military barracks, in a Franciscan convent, in peasant communities, and in centers of academic learning.

MY FIRST EXPERIENCES IN THE RANKS OF SHINING PATH

It was the month of January 1983. My uncle and I were traveling from the rain forest to the mountains to visit my relatives in Auquiraccay. We carried some foodstuffs from the region (potatoes, geese, broad beans). It's a two-day trip by foot. And so we journeyed, through mountains, forest, and deep gorges.

"Where will you be tomorrow," my father asked — a day before my departure for Auquiraccay — as he looked toward the solitary hills that appeared blue in the distance at the hour of dusk (pantaq), when the sky stretching west was tinted with orange, a premonition of nostalgia.

I left my community weeks after the massacre at Uchuraccay. It was the rainy season, when peanuts are planted. It was the time when the first mangoes, oranges, and tangerines begin to ripen, and appear yellow as glints of light through the thick green forest of the Apurímac River.

Shining Path had also appeared at that time and in that place, imitating the dark clouds of the south. Clouds don't always come filled with good rain. They often flood the fields or destroy the crops. That's how Shining Path came to my community, disguised as good rain. The first drops gave us hope for life, for social justice. But the rains lasted longer and longer. And fear appeared, because the water began to destroy and clean away "all that was old." And so we began to live the "flood."

There was nothing to do but to climb aboard Shining Path's ark or join the village militias (rondas campesinas). Shining Path leader Chairman Gonzalo's words were coming true: "A blood bath is needed," because, according to him, there couldn't be an authentic revolution without spilling blood. And "when the flood passes," in the new state, under socialism, we will plant uncontaminated crops once more.

In 1983, that year of heavy rain, I went with my uncle to Auquiraccay, along a switchback path that runs serpentine from where the Ayacucho rain forest begins. It is the path used by the peasants of Punqui, Huarcca, Anyay, and Anco. They move with their beasts of burden, back and forth between the mountains and the forest. If it is time to plant potatoes, it is necessary to travel to the mountains and come right back to the rain forest, to plant peanuts or harvest coca leaves. This is why I went to Auquiraccay: to plant potatoes, visit my relatives who lived there, and return with goods from the region.

The route from rain forest to mountains passes through country that is cold and country that is hot; the ecology changes from zone to zone. The lonely ichus sway in the cold mountain wind. The precious orchids and berries, those sweet and sour little fruits, grow along the way to provide food for the wild animals and for the peasants too.

Country people have traveled these places for a long time. Each year they weed and clear the pathways. Keeping them clear was always a fiesta. Each community was in charge of its area, and so they came together in a gathering (tupay). The song (qarawi) of the women encouraged the workers. The lieutenant, with his whip in hand, kept an eye on those who didn't work. Fermented chicha nourished the workers and made them drunk. Fights were common. This was the way it was before, in the decade of the 1970s. Now it has changed.

When we were small, we would get tired walking and our father would mount us on horseback for the journey from rain forest to mountains. The trip took two days, sometimes three if the horses gottired of trotting. Seated comfortably, at ease with the rhythm of the horses' gentle gait, we would observe the native landscape. "Look at that bird over there," we would say. In those places nature immerses you in a wonderful world: "hanging" waterfalls with their transparent waters, cold and sweet. Our father would walk behind the horses, maybe thinking of home where our mother was waiting for us, sitting in the doorway knitting socks or sweaters, and looking toward Punquiqasa Peak where travelers from the mountains came into view, eager to see us the moment we appeared laden with fruits from our travels. Or maybe she was thinking she just wanted to see her husband and sons safe and sound. Every once in a while Papa would say: "Not much farther to Cabildo," and he would stuff a wad of coca leaves in his mouth. At that time, Shining Path was expanding; everywhere you went they were talking about social justice. On the radio we heard young people and professors talking about a people's war. Our parents and others said: "The organization is already here" (kaypiñas kachkan partido) or "They say they have killed over there" (wakpis wañurachinku).

Auquiraccay is the town where I was born. When we were very little our parents took us to live in the community of Killa, on the banks of the Apurímac River. And that is where we established our permanent home.

A week before we had planned to return to the forest, on a market Sunday in January 1983, I traveled with my uncle from Auquiraccay to Nuñunga, to that village's market. I bought canvas shoes there, and a few other things I needed. On the way back, we came upon my brother's friend Raúl. They had studied together at the school in Mayu. I asked about my brother, and Raúl said he was far away, fighting for social justice. He was headed to the forest and would be returning a week later because the Communist Party leadership had given him permission to visit his family.

Soon dusk came to Auquiraccay. We spent that afternoon with Raúl at my uncle's house. The next day, as I accompanied Raúl to a certain point — because he was headed to the rain forest — he said that if I wanted to see my brother I could join him on his way back. And that is what I did.

I have always remembered that day when I left my community of Auquiraccay, when I left my aunt's house. With her eyes full of tears she pleaded with me to stay. But I had made up my mind, convinced. I embarked on an unknown adventure, with no idea when I would return. I was twelve years old.

That day there was a heavy mist in the heights of Auquiraccay. Auquiraccay always made me remember my childhood, because that's where I studied first grade. I remember that the teacher cut our hair short like the army recruits. Along with my companions, I learned my vowels under threat of the whip. In the school patio we learned to stand up straight and sing as loud as we could: We are free, we will always be free. We repeated those words mechanically, without any idea what they meant. I attended that school for three months; then we went back to the forest. That was what life and school were like back then.

How many things you can remember just by looking at the town! But that misty day I stood near the heights of Auquiraccay, where the paths crossed, by the cemetery. Nostalgia swept over me as I thought of when I played with my friends, tumbling around in the green grass as we watched over our sheep and pigs.

I waited impatiently for Raúl, who was coming from the rain forest after visiting his parents. We were supposed to meet in the morning. What if he hadn't shown up? I might have returned home, and my history would have been different. But Raúl soon appeared, his pack (qipi) on his back. We greeted one another and began walking to the community of Cochas, where we thought we might find his squad.

We walked all day. Around five in the afternoon we were approaching the Cochas Valley. We could see people with sweaty skin, on their way home from their fields, hauling their animals and tools. Some people recognized Raúl and called out: "How are you compañero?" (Allinllachu compañero?) Compañero, or comrade, was the new word people called each other, instead of uncle, grandmother, father or brother.

The local squad was not in the town; Raúl was told it was probably in Huallay. We spent the night in the community of Mayu, in the home of an old woman. She lived on the main road that led to San Miguel and other places. The old woman made us a potato (chuñu) soup and we sat outside the kitchen (tullpa) to eat. She asked us where we were from. We told her we came from the rain forest.

Early the next morning we continued our search for the squad. Mayu was a valley filled with green; it is still like that because of its geographical location. It has fruit trees and hundreds of birds flying this way and that, in endless celebration.

We walked along a fence whose posts were plum trees. Yellow passion fruits hung from vines that crawled among their branches. When we passed close to a particular house, someone Raúl knew called out and invited us to have squash soup made with curdled milk and some herbs I had never tasted in my life. It was awful and I thought I was going to throw up. During the entire trip, Raúl would give me looks I knew were meant to teach me how I must behave in my new life in the Peruvian Communist Party, how to greet people and the duties I would have. He told me that when someone invited us to a meal I had to finish it gratefully. And so I did. Later, continuing our journey we came to a river whose waters were high and turgid. We crossed it with great difficulty and then began to make our way up a steep incline.

As we walked, Raúl told me: "In the party each member has a special name." And so I had to choose my combat name. My brother, when we used to fish in the Apurímac River that ran gurgling along one side of our house, would talk to me about Che Guevara, and he also gave that name to our little raft. So I told Raúl I would take that name. "I don't think that will work. Why don't you call yourself Carlos; it's the same as Che Guevara." The name Carlos accompanied me until 1995.

Around noon we came to a town called Llachuapampa, where we found a group of women crying and protesting that soldiers had raped them and taken their hens. All of a sudden we heard gunshots. Before the soldiers saw us, we ran into a gorge. When we were sufficiently far away, we stopped to rest by the side of a wheat field. A woman with small children was weeding the field. We greeted her and said we were compañeros; she understood and invited us for some mote with charki. She said: "Poor things, look where you are!"

Two hours later we were at the top of Mount Tankar. In the distance a dark green helicopter flew across the blue sky. We came to the community of Huayanay and asked the villagers if the squad was there. They told us no: "We haven't seen any compañeros; they come and go without warning." Raúl was not impatient with our labyrinthine search. He remained calm. I was the one who thought maybe the soldiers had captured them. From Raúl's explanations, I learned that guerrilla life meant that you lived among the peasants, becoming one with them in time and space.

I still had 5 soles in my pocket, left over from what I was carrying to buy those clothes, and I used them to get a soda and some crackers at the store in Huayanay. Soon it was night. On the advice of some peasants we retired to the town. They told us soldiers were constantly coming by and resting in a rustic hut (chuklla). Peasants only used that hut when they were out with their animals.

Around noon the next day we headed to another town, Huallay. Someone had told us we might find the squad there. We walked almost all day long. Late in the afternoon we made our way down through a grove of eucalyptus and fruit trees. Ahead of us appeared a little adobe house with a roof of grass (ichu). "They are in that house," Raúl told me, "when we arrive we will say hello, and I will introduce you." The sun was dying on the horizon, tinted red like the Communist Party flag.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from When Rains Became Floods by Lurgio Gavilán Sánchez, Margaret Randall. Copyright © 2015 Duke University Press. Excerpted by permission of Duke University Press.
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Edition details

• Publisher: Duke University Press Books
• Publication date: 2015
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 0822358514
• ISBN 13: 9780822358510
• Binding: Paperback
• Number of pages: 152