LITMIR.BIZ

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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 the men who came here that night were obeying authority?”

      “Yes. One man came here and said their boss had made them do this. He asked us for forgiveness, to pardon him.”

      “When did that happen?”

      “When a marino came here, one of those from that night, he came here and said, ‘We killed. I participated in it but now I’m a Christian and I want to ask for forgiveness.’ So all the relatives came here. With tears he asked them for forgiveness.”

      “As hermanos, there’s an emphasis on reconciliation in the church, no?”

      “Yes,” he insisted. “We always talk about that.”

      “And the relatives, weren’t they resentful?”

      “Yes, some were, some weren’t. One hermana, she’d lost her husband and that resentment [rencor] didn’t go away. She said, ‘Those animals killed my husband, they have to answer for that. They have to do something—they’ve destroyed me.’ Even though we try to understand, it’s difficult. Even now she’s resentful. But some of the hermanos are forgiving from their hearts. She says, ‘You can forgive because you lost sons. I lost my husband.’”

      “Is it worse to lose a husband?”

      “Yes, a husband is worth more—it’s a greater loss. One hermana lost two sons and she forgave. She said, ‘What am I going to do? I can’t live like her—can’t live hating.’” He shrugged his shoulders.

      I nodded and followed him back out to the front of the church. We said our good-byes and I thanked him again before heading down the dirt road and past the stadium, where the shouts of the soccer fans echoed against the walls.

       Reel Life

      When I watched the evangelical films, I began to imagine. I imagined that life really must be that way.

      —Juan, twenty-five years old, Canrao

      Although individual conversion was frequently the result of revelation, in the alturas of Huanta—where the conversions were massive—the growth of Evangelismo had both individualizing and “collectivizing” aspects. Armed communities of faith were forged, and the Evangélicos would prove to be one of the most tenacious enemies the Shining Path militants would confront. Listening to Evangelical friends confirmed that the struggle between Evangelismo and Senderismo was a struggle of biblical proportions—an apocalyptic battle waged at the end of time.²⁰ How this happened becomes clearer once we go to the movies.

      A few weeks after we crossed paths in Callqui, Pastor Isaías Trujillano arrived in Carhuahurán en route to the selva. He was talking up the Fiesta Espiritual that would take place the following month. He went door-to-door during the day, visiting the Evangélicos. As darkness fell, he enlisted the help of several villagers to prepare for showing the Bible movies he had brought with him. Just as his father before him, Isaías traveled with films and a generator as he made his way up and over the mountains.

      After much debate it was decided the best place to show the films was on the side of Feliciano’s two-story house. Several of the ronderos helped him hang a large white sheet with nails they hammered into his wall, and this rippling screen provided the background for the images projected that night.

      Other men brought piles of ichu (straw) to soften the ground. Women began to arrive with their children, nestling into the ichu in a semicircle in front of the white sheet. Farther back, long planks of wood were dragged to the field and set atop adobe bricks to form benches. I sat down on one of the planks, Efraín, Shintaca, and Yolanda crowding together beneath my poncho. The cold fluctuated with the cloud cover, rolling in and out on the wind.

      Feliciano opened the padlock on his door and called Simeón and

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