On September 11, the United States, and, in many ways, the world, entered a new paradigm. A convergence of experiences, which few ever imagined or anticipated, emerged to shape our worldview at the dawn of the 21st century. Our mouths stumble across words. Our hands grasp at gestures. Language is not enough to bring awe and horror into meaning.

In the aftermath of the tragedy, I have heard grief and anger join as one. I have seen the murderous hate of anti-Arab sentiment. I have felt my heart race with the roar of F-16 jets flying above my city. I am troubled. I am scared. This finger-wagging aggression, reminiscent of schoolyard banter, this demand of an eye for an eye, this cannot be the extent of our response.

Today, when human spirit and compassion is vital to our survival, we remain dangerously rooted in a rhetoric of yesterday. We must work harder to hold the complexities in our hands. Those of us who work for peace and justice must especially challenge ourselves to lead the way to a more complex and thoughtful public discourse regarding the events unfolding before us. I say this because the ricochet of pain and condemnation has begun. I have heard shots from the hip: These are the chickens coming home to roost. I have seen the reckless rendering of a swastika on an American flag where fifty stars belong. I have seen and heard too much already.

This is a time for us to confront difficult questions.
How do we progress from a critique of U.S. imperialism while simultaneously valuing America as a world symbol for freedom, democracy and hope? How do we reconcile our freedom with the xenophobic and racist tenor of U.S. immigration, foreign and domestic policies? Oklahoma, Waco, the World Trade Center: how do we sort terrorism and extremism now? Do we recognize the intertwining hegemony of capitalism, racism, and religion, and if so, how do we interpret the divide between Christianity and Islam? Can we fathom the origins of war that date back to the Ottoman Empire? In the era of international tribunals, do we continue to blame institutions or do we hold individuals accountable for their actions?

As a Salvadoran immigrant, I cannot separate this nation from the School of the Americas that trained Salvadoran soldiers to kill my, their, our own people, or from the Reagan Administration that financed the unrelenting murder, torture and psychological devastation of my country, leaving behind land mines and grenades still exploding today. I cannot unravel this nation, in all its complicity, from the genuine goodwill of American citizens and the constitutional protection of liberties that both welcomed and harbored my family from a life of political persecution and repression. I give thanks for my life, for my mind which has grown free, for my sister's activism, for my brother born here who has only known freedom and for my mother and father, whose intellect and spirit were not diminished and whose commitments to a just world have made a small and yet meaningful contribution. I grieve for the dislocation and destruction of country, culture, and family. Ten, twenty, seventy, five hundred years later, we Salvadorans still suffer and yet we know our suffering has been lessened by human will and the gifts of those who believed and struggled in the name of freedom. U.S. Representative Joe Moakley, may he rest in peace, fought fiercely for human rights in El Salvador, using his voice, vote and power to protect the lives of my people. His singular presence meant the preservation of justice for thousands and his actions breathed life into the ideals of a nation that I can neither wholly condemn nor praise, but only love.

Whose flag do I wave? My hands are not clean.

I wept for both my countries on September 15, the 180th anniversary of Salvadoran independence, when all commemorative events, both within and outside El Salvador, had been cancelled in mourning of the nearly 100 Salvadorans killed in the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

Who do I blame? Who do I thank? There are victims and heroes and criminals, and the borders between them are difficult if not impossible to distinguish.

It is painful for me to observe American democracy taken for granted and forgotten. Two years ago, I became a citizen. I cherish deeply my right to vote. In November 1994, I burned with rage at the Americans who arrogantly chose not to vote. Last November, as I watched our election results from Spain, I again became angry with the citizens of this nation, so rich with capital and opportunity, for having abandoned the dream. How dare we dismiss freedom?

The day they took my green card, I felt naked. I cried at the swearing-in ceremony, choking on my pledge to renounce my country of birth. Yet, when I received my naturalization certificate and my American passport, a weight was lifted. I could hold my head and shoulders higher and speak with conviction. In this nation, where I had lived and grown up since I was seven years old, I could no longer be silenced. Now I am cautioned not to take my place for granted. Today it is the Arab-Americans, the Indian-Americans and the Muslims, who are the targets of hate and blame. Yesterday it was the Japanese-Americans and the Jews. For who is this America? Is that my flag? How do I fight for my America?

We have all suffered a tremendous loss. Where do we stand in the global movement for justice and peace? Whose flag do we wave? The questions beckon us. There are no easy answers. Our hands are not clean.

In the wake of the suicide bombings of the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, I have found a new icon to behold: the Statue of Liberty, luminescent and poised before the city of Manhattan, cloaked in smoke, bore witness to the tragedy and stood firm in her welcome and promise and call to the world.

I pray we will be strong and summon the best of ourselves in this time. I pray still for that open shore, even if only in our imaginings, to hold true for us all.



History says, Don‚t hope
On this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up,
And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
On the far side of revenge.
Believe that a further shore
Is reachable from here.
Believe in miracles
And cures and healing wells.

              - Seamus Heaney, from The Cure at Troy