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By Sarah Pryor Something caught my eye in the garden. Pulling at oregano stems for dinner, my hand grazed over an orange lump just cresting over the soil. Excitement and surprise arose in me, joining together in elation – to see, after all this time, growth. I hadn’t gone out to dig for sweet potatoes that day. Most of my garden plants had already reached peak harvest by late September; the potatoes were the only ones left untouched, partly because of my theory that sweet potatoes are an autumnal vegetable and partly because I didn’t know the first thing about harvesting them. Sweet potatoes, like regular potatoes and most other things, were foods we just bought from the market growing up. This year was different: the first year of my own garden, at my own house. Planting potatoes was a spontaneous act, christening new ground for new life with new plants. When I stumbled upon the first potato that day, unexpected awe filled me. I know it sounds dramatic, but I found it to be beautiful. All beauty has a reference point beyond ourselves and our world. Harvard Professor Elaine Scarry discusses this idea in her book On Beauty and Being Just. She says when beautiful things are too self-referential, they start to lose their beauty: think songs about music or a book about writing. Works like these don’t often elicit surprise or connect new ideas. When the song ends or the book closes, we find ourselves to be the same people, in the same place, as before – trying to follow a moving dot that never moves. True beauty, she says, refers to something entirely other, beyond the imminent world. Pastor Ted Kim elaborated on this idea in a 2020 episode of The Ferment podcast: “We get glimpses of the kingdom of heaven in the here and now.” A musical masterpiece, prolific writing, dare I say a juicy peach – are pieces of beauty and wonder piercing the veil of our material world, whose reference points bound infinitely outward, drawing our gaze away from ourselves and toward a distant north star. “True beauty,” Kim says, “carries with it greetings from beyond.” I understand it’s absurd to regard a sweet potato this highly, but I’m going to do it anyway. Not due to any one of its qualities, but simply by virtue of where it came from: a garden. * * * Backyard gardens have felt like important endeavors for as long as I can remember. As a child, I begged my mom to let me plant vegetables – not that I particularly recall begging, but it felt like she was doing me a favor, saying how much work these things are to maintain. We planted marigolds around the plot to keep bunnies away. I tended to them year after year. For a couple of summers around middle school, I transformed my lemonade stand into “Sarah’s Vegetables.” I’d roll my mom’s old manicure table into the front yard, piling it high with cucumbers and green bell peppers. A cardboard box with a hole in the lid sat beside them, ready to receive donations. I think the homemade sign is still in my parents’ basement. Moving away for college brought my gardening seasons to an abrupt end. I left behind ripe tomatoes and a bumper crop of cucumbers in mid-August, adding to the list of sad goodbyes. It didn’t help that it was hard to find good, inexpensive produce in the city where I moved. I walked through the supermarket produce aisles with disdain, wondering, “Why is produce so expensive? Why is everything smaller and less flavorful?” My parents would visit and bring bags of cucumbers — three for a dollar, as they should be — and apples for my roommates and me. I’d lumber back to my dorm after fall break, weighed down by a bulging cooler bag full of bell peppers and eggplant. Someone observing me do this might think we didn’t have vegetables within city limits. In reality, I was stuck between living there and going “home” on holidays and long weekends. I pined for home, and a sweet, red bell pepper could transport me there, even if just for a moment. Like most young adults trying to figure out their lives, I had several hopes and dreams. But underneath my ambitions was a quieter one: to plant a garden in May and stay there long enough to see the harvest through. To have a place to land with room for a garden. Fast forward a couple of years, and my husband and I have just passed one year of living in our home. When we moved in last January, my eyes often wandered out the back windows to the yard. An old wooden frame stood there, crawling with withered ivy vines. I dreamed warmly of the months ahead, of turning over the dead grass and replacing the ivy with grapes. In early spring, we invested hard labor into that dry, rocky terrain, jumping up and down on shovels like pogo sticks to break through the dead, yet strangely strong vines running along the ground. Hives crawled up our arms as we discovered the wooden frame’s ivy was poisonous – a poignant reminder that working the ground had become a cursed activity. We poured soil onto broken ground, laboring for a time when new grapes might replace the toxic and withering vegetation. We dug little holes for the plants and crafted a fence from wooden posts and chicken wire, praying life might spring up from this dying ground. I’d never tried to grow a root vegetable before. The only viny plants I’d had before were zucchini and cucumbers, and of course, the pumpkin vines that grew from a couple of seeds I snuck into my mother’s flower beds one year after carving a jack-o’-lantern. She was less than pleased to see her shrubs overrun with vines, and they never did produce any pumpkins. Something about non-self-pollination. It was a bit of a lose–lose. Growing root vegetables was much harder than I imagined. When to dig? Where to dig? There was one time, though, I got it right: that first potato, which grew so large it actually pushed itself above ground. Harvesting that potato was much more of an involved process than I had bargained for. Its size and shape were largely a mystery, of course, which made digging a shot in the dark. After much cautious poking and aggressive tugging, I was shocked when a sweet potato the size of a child's head finally emerged from the ground into my hands. I felt a rush of adrenaline. Somehow I had freed it from the earth, though pressure bore down on all sides. It was radiant, though caked in dirt. My eyes were the very first to ever behold it. Maybe I’m projecting, but it was sparkling. Happy. I took the potato inside and weighed it on the kitchen scale: two pounds, seven ounces. It was as if I had seen, just then, through a window into the mystery of birth. For a moment, it was wide open: beauty, cracked and filtering light, just for me. I felt compelled to recall memories I didn’t have. “It must’ve been something like this,” I thought, “in the beginning.” * * * The Bible tells us in Genesis that God created the first man from dust. He breathed life into his bones, then took one and made a woman. Bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh. God placed them both in a garden. From dust, life. Eden was creation’s epicenter – from it bursting forth flowers, trees, animals, people. The first human was born of the breath of God and the dust of the ground, in a garden. Adam, whose name itself means “man of the earth,” breathed his first breath in Eden, surrounded by unstained creation. Communion with God was alive and unhindered there, growing along with cedar trees and green figs and birds taking flight: communion that, of course, was severed with a bite of forbidden fruit. This one act of rebellion banished Adam and Eve from Eden. They were tainted by sin, a strange disease, beginning to fester in their good and beautiful bodies. It opened their eyes and minds to evil, drove their feet in the opposite direction from their Creator. “They heard the sound of the Lord walking in the garden in the cool of the day,” Genesis 3:8 says, “and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord.” Feet, infested with sin, running for cover. The strange disease drove them from that flourishing Eden, but their resting place landed them still in nature. After all, what other terrain was there? Genesis 3 says God banished Adam “to work the ground from which he had been taken.” Heading east, as they did, it feels far-fetched to imagine a hard scene break – rather, a kind of dimming effect from where they came. The terrain whispered of Eden, but with a gray overtone, stopping short of goodness, ground crumbling under their bare, cracked feet. That rebellion sparked a chain reaction, playing out in evil, sadness and isolation. It continued to echo out, generations of people singing a groaning song. Seventy-six generations trickled down before the birth of Jesus, whom the apostle Paul calls the last Adam. He triumphed in victory where the first man failed, even when that triumph was momentary death and defeat. He restored the barren land to flow with life once again. Though Eden was Adam’s birthplace, it was also where he fell into temptation. Jesus arrived in a garden, too, coming to the Mount of Olives in Gethsemane with his disciples on the night before his crucifixion. He admonished them to “pray that you will not fall into temptation” (Luke 22:40). The next day, Jesus gave up his life on the cross. He was laid “in a new tomb,” in a garden. He experienced a momentary death in that garden, death that birthed life for many. A chain reaction, continuing to echo out even now. Adam went from life to death in a garden. Jesus Christ, undoing that strange disease, went from death to glorious life – also in a garden. * * * This backyard garden patch has had its time of thorns and thistles. By the sweat of our brow did we cut open the earth to uproot what was dead, our arms suffering scrapes from prickly vines. How our back muscles strained, contending with the roots grown too strong, left too long. But even in this garden, even as we groan, that sweet Eden song sometimes sings. I heard it in the harvest – in a sweet potato, caked in dirt, emanating the scent of creation, carrying “greetings from beyond.” My eyes were opened, if just for a moment, to that good place where creation bears glorious witness to the Creator. Falling backward and forward at the same time, I tumbled into that garden in glory. The one with a westerly breeze, bathed in light. Sarah Pryor is a writer based in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. After graduating from the University of Pittsburgh with degrees in Nonfiction Writing and French, she interned for a year with Cru in France. Now, Sarah lives with her husband and works on the creative team for Lancaster-based NGO, Horizon: Empower the Orphaned, telling stories of life healing and transformation of children around the world.
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 After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google and other platforms. Listen to other Forecasts here. Roger Belbin describes a pilgrimage he and his late wife used to go on in honour of St Alban, the first martyr of Britain, joining their local church and culminating in a worship service. He also describes walking portions of the Camino de Santiago in France. Roger reads a poem recently published on Foreshadow about virtual worship during the pandemic and describes the influence that a devotional book and music have on his faith. Roger Belbin lives in northwest England.
Roger's other work on Foreshadow: Worship in Covid Times (Poetry, February 2023) Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast. By Matthew J. Andrews It’s not such a bad place. We work hard all day, manning our shops, raising our towers, forging iron into sharp points. We have parades on weekends to honor the heroes who came before and the brave ones who still keep an eye open for danger, for the faces of strangers on our streets. We love our children like the stars and look out only for our own. We like clean streets, flowers of every color, shady trees. Of course we’re not perfect, but we know how to transcend ourselves, how to stand erect with hands on our hearts and our eyes only on our flag, and to sing. Matthew J. Andrews is a private investigator and writer from California. He is the author of the chapbook I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember, and his work has appeared in Relief, Rust + Moth, Pithead Chapel and EcoTheo Review, among others. He can be contacted at matthewjandrews.com.
Matthew's other work on Foreshadow: Contribution (Poetry, May 2022) Jonah and the King (Poetry, March 2022) Related works on Foreshadow: A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2; Fiction by Sandro F. Piedrahita, March 2023) A World for Abimael Jones (Part 2 of 2; Fiction by Sandro F. Piedrahita, March 2023) By Sandro F. Piedrahita Torn between allegiance to his parents and the demands of his conscience, the son of two ruthless guerrillas makes a dangerous pilgrimage to become a peaceful soldier for Christ. Read the first half of this story here. -- One month after the death of Comrade Carlos At some point, Comrade Juana announces to the young Abimael that he will be sent to an “education” camp for young guerrillas located in an occupied territory somewhere in the province of Ayacucho. She tells him that at his age, he should already be thinking of his revolutionary future and that he must learn Gonzalo Thought and train in the use of weapons. “It is an axiom of Gonzalo Thought,” she tells him, sounding as robotic as all the senderistas, “that children must be encouraged to participate in the popular war.” Soon she dyes his hair, since he would stand out in the indoctrination camp if he went as a blond boy. Despite having light hair, he has the Amerindian features and color of his dead father, and so he will be able to fit right in with the other young recruits once his hair is black. On the day when two men arrive in a pickup truck to take him to the camp, his mother also announces that he should not expect Winnie to be in the home when he comes back. “You’re at an age where you no longer need a nanny. Comrade Barbara and I have decided that she should be let go.” “Why?” asks Abimael. “I love her so.” “The decision has already been made.” “Can I at least say goodbye to her?” asks the young Abimael. “Can I at least give her a last hug?” “I suppose,” replies Comrade Juana. “But make it snappy.” Soon Winnie appears in the living room, her eyes red and swollen from recent tears. “I am leaving for Ayacucho,” he tells her. “To a training camp.” “I know,” says Winnie, trying to avoid crying in order not to upset the boy. “And I’ve been told you won’t be here when I come back,” he adds. “You have to go, Abimael!” Comrade Juana cries out. “Come on, the men are waiting for you.” Then Winnie puts something in Abimael’s hands. On the front, there is a depiction of El Señor de los Milagros – the Christ of Miracles – and on the back a portrait of Saint Martin de Porres. The young Abimael looks at the image of the crucified Christ, with His mother Mary at His right, a sword piercing her heart, and Mary Magdalene sitting at His feet. The Holy Spirit is depicted above him, all with a purple background. Abimael knows the image was painted by an Angolan slave in a small adobe church in Pachacamilla many centuries earlier. During a great earthquake, the entire church had collapsed, except for the wall where the “dark Christ” had been painted. Thereafter, the wall where the crucified Christ was worshipped had withstood a number of other earthquakes. The image came to be venerated by all Peru, culminating with a multitudinous procession in Lima every October. “Don’t forget everything I’ve taught you,” says Winnie. “Your faith is going to be tested. Remember what the good Lord said in Genesis: ‘I am with you and will watch over you wherever you may go.’ Don’t do anything that will stain your soul. And in the most difficult moments, know that God is with you, know that God is still with you, know that God is always with you.” Abimael gets into the pickup truck with the two men, and they drive several hours before they abandon the car and tell him they’ll have to make the rest of the trek on foot. After two more hours traversing the verdant mountains, even crossing rivers, they finally arrive at the hamlet of Urubamba, controlled by the Shining Path. A tall indigenous man awaits Abimael in the largest house in the village and greets him warmly, knowing he is the son of Comrades Carlos and Juana. “You have great shoes to fill,” the man tells him. “Your father was a relentless warrior, and your mother has done great things in Lima. I expect you to shine among the brave ‘pioneers’ of the camp. Tell me by what name you want to be addressed. You can’t be a comrade at your age, but still you must choose a nom de guerre.” “You can call me Martin,” Abimael answers, without giving it a second thought. “Yes, Martin is my name.” There are about fifty other “pioneers” in the camp, none older than about fourteen and most of them sons of peasants who speak no Spanish. The thin man who initially greeted Abimael – his name is Comrade Jose – addresses them as “seedlings of the revolution” in Quechua and tells them a brilliant future awaits them. Then he tells them what their daily schedule will be: breakfast at six in the morning, classes on the teachings of Mariategui, Lenin, Mao and Gonzalo Thought from eight to noon, lunch at one, and training in the use of weapons, dynamite and explosives in the afternoon. Near the end of the course, some of the “pioneers” – the ones who prove the most adept – will be allowed to join older senderistas in occupying a nearby village or looting a mine for dynamite. He then addresses Abimael directly: “And I am sure you will be among them, Martin, for the armed struggle is in your veins. You imbibed it in your mother’s milk.” At first, Abimael understands nothing of the Communist philosophy he is forced to study every day. Among these, it is Presidente Gonzalo’s statements about the necessity for violence that befuddle him the most. He is simply perplexed when he learns that Presidente Gonzalo had written that “violence without remorse” is necessary to liberate the peasantry from capitalism and feudalism. And the more Abimael understands the message beneath the philosophical gibberish, the more he is astounded by its meaning. How could anyone possibly defend Presidente Gonzalo’s statement that political executions used as terror tactics were comparable to “killing weeds”? How to justify the claim that negotiating with the government instead of using selective and extreme violence was akin to eating “chocolate with poison inside”? How to approve Presidente Gonzalo’s maxim that you “kill one and influence a thousand”? And there is one thing also: what Presidente Gonzalo has said about religion. Religion is a “social phenomena,” he wrote, “the product of exploitation that will end with the end of exploitation, to be swept aside as a new society arises.” To the extent Abimael understands what Presidente Gonzalo says about religion, he finds himself in profound disagreement, even at his young age, and he finds his stomach itself rebelling. So, gradually, the more he learns, the more he discovers that everything he is being taught is contrary to what he has learned at church during Father Robles’ sermons. The senderistas are simply trying to teach him how to hate and how to kill. He engages in training in the use of arms reluctantly, wondering if it might not be a sin merely to participate in such practices. And yet he excels in the use of weapons. He learns how to discharge pistols and rifles, how to use pineapple grenades, how to wrap dynamite in balls of mud and launch them with a huaranco, the traditional llama-skin sling invented by the Incas. He knows the only reason he is being given these lessons is so that in the future he might use his weapons to kill actual humans, and he winces at the idea. He begins to pray relentlessly, prays in the morning and in the evening and whenever he has a moment by himself. He certainly has no interest in contributing to the “all-consuming river of blood” proclaimed as the supreme goal by his instructors. He is appalled at the senderista anthems chanting that “the blood of the people has a rich perfume, it smells like jasmine, violets, geraniums and daisies…” Why this emphasis on spilling blood? Finally, the day comes, the day Abimael has been dreading. Comrade Jose approaches him and has nothing but compliments for him, saying he had received excellent marks in all the classes on Communist philosophy, that he had excelled in the use of firearms and explosives, and that he was ready to take the next step. There is a mine not too far from Urubamba, about three days away walking on foot through twisting dirt roads which wound around the side of the mountains. The mine has dynamite, necessary to continue training the “pioneers.” About fifteen battle-hardened senderistas are to launch the mission, but Comrade Jose has decided that Abimael and another boy should go along to learn firsthand about the armed struggle and experience real conflict. “There’s only so much you can learn from books,” Comrade Jose says to Abimael. “Only so much you can learn on the firing range.” Abimael does not know how to respond. An attack on a mine would certainly result in deaths. He cannot contemplate the idea of actually killing a human being, or even of assisting others in doing so. But he cannot say “No.” One of the “pioneers” had done so when offered the chance to participate in the stabbing of a local varayoc suspected of collaborating with the Sinchi Battalions, and his punishment had been swift and decisive. He was left naked in the mountains, tied up so that he could not escape, and left to die for his infidelity. Of course, the doomed thirteen-year-old was not the son of Comrade Carlos and Comrade Juana, which gave Abimael certain perquisites. Abimael, unlike the others, is not expected to fight in the highlands but to aid in his mother’s activities in Lima. Still, there are no guarantees, and Abimael feels deathly afraid that his punishment will be severe. For the first time in his young life, he has to think of the possibility of his own death. What if the senderistas decide to stone or hang him for his cowardice? What if they use him as an example for the rest? And yet something deep inside him tells him it would be sheer evil to kill any of the men guarding the mines or any of the miners. What can he do? What recourse does he have? His first instinct is to pray. He takes out of his pocket the image of el Señor de los Milagros that Winnie had given to him on the day of his departure and pleads with the crucified Christ. “Lord, guide me,” he says. “If you want me to tell Comrade Jose that I shall not go on the expedition at the mine under any circumstances, please give me a sign. And if you allow me to go, please don’t let there be any casualties. I’ve heard that some of the Shining Path missions don’t result in any deaths. Grant me this favor, and I shall consecrate my whole life to you. But not my will, but Thine be done.” On the day of the expedition to the mine, Abimael rises early in the morning, with renewed vigor. Since the Christ has not given him a sign, he thinks of it as permission to go, is certain there will be no deaths. Comrade Jose appears a few hours later and tells him it is time to go. “I’m glad you’re going on this mission, Martin. It will make a man of you,” he says. “And if this expedition requires you to kill for the first time, it should be a great source of pride, not only for you but also for your mother. That would mean that, young as you are, you could be addressed as ‘comrade.’ Usually that only happens when a ‘pioneer’ kills a policeman and brings back his revolver. But killing a guard at a mine would be just the same.” The trek is long and hard. Finally, almost at nightfall, they appear at the mine, known as the Cienfuegos Mine. “Viva Presidente Gonzalo!” cry out the Shining Path guerrillas, already unholstering their weapons. But there are only two guards protecting the mine, and they raise their arms in the air as soon as they hear the senderista chants. “You can take all the dynamite you want,” says one of the guards. “We won’t stop you.” “Just leave us with our lives,” says the other. “All the miners are deep underground, and they won’t bother you.” “Do you want to shoot one of them?” Comrade Jose asks the young Abimael as if he were asking him if he wanted a cup of hot chocolate. “His death would be a trophy for your mother and would make you a ‘comrade’ immediately.” Abimael says a very quick and silent prayer to the Lord of Miracles before he responds. “No, I’d rather not,” he says. “I think I should receive the title of ‘comrade’ like all the others do.” “You’re a little squeamish, aren’t you?” Comrade Carlos laughs. “The first death is always the hardest. But don’t worry. You’ll have more than enough time to earn your stripes, particularly given that your mother is Comrade Juana. Come, let us collect the dynamite.” And with that, the night ends. It is Pentecost Sunday, and God has granted him a small miracle. Abimael will spend three more months at the guerrilla camp, but he will never again be asked to go on a mission. He redoubles his prayers and reaffirms his promise to consecrate himself to Christ. * * * One year after the death of Comrade Carlos Soon after the young Abimael returns from the training camp, the older Abimael – Presidente Gonzalo – appears and begins to sleep in the room vacated by Winnie. The young Abimael is sure that her mother has asked Winnie to leave under pressure from Comrade Barbara, who disliked the nanny with a passionate intensity. Of course the feeling was reciprocated. Comrade Barbara was in the habit of parading buck naked through the apartment, and Winnie was scandalized by her conduct. Abimael Guzman, a.k.a. Presidente Gonzalo, is a stout man, weighing almost three-hundred pounds, but he speaks with a soft voice that is almost like a whisper. Unlike Comrade Barbara, he is very gentle when dealing with the young Abimael. The young Abimael somehow knows that everything this man says has to be followed, that he is the grand puppet master over the lives of Comrade Barbara and his mother, as well as in the lives of many others. Unlike the late Carlos, neither Comrade Barbara nor the older Abimael care if the young Abimael overhears their conversations. Now that Winnie is gone, there is no longer a danger that the boy will report what he hears to his intrusive nanny. So the young Abimael figures out that his older namesake has come to Lima with a special purpose, a unique mission having to do with a black woman named Maria Elena Moyano, a person simply called “la perra” by Comrade Barbara and “la revisionista” by the older Abimael. Based upon what he hears, the young Abimael deduces that la perra is distributing milk to the children of a place called Villa El Salvador through public kitchens, and that somehow, that act of kindness is an unpardonable crime. “She is a traitor to the revolution, recalcitrant and counterrevolutionary,” says the older Abimael as if he were stating gospel doctrine, “and there is no alternative but to end her life. After all, we have warned her. Programs directed to ease the plight of the poor like the milk program diminish grievances against the government and lessen the revolutionary fervor of the masses.” The young Abimael tells himself perhaps he is misunderstanding, perhaps Maria Elena Moyano had committed other crimes, not just instituting the Glass of Milk program for the children of Villa El Salvador. But the more he learns about the doomed zamba, the more senseless the older Abimael’s plans appear to be. And now the young Abimael has no one with whom to share his anxieties. His father Carlos is dead and his nanny vanished, his mother fully co-opted by the words of Comrade Barbara and the man hailed as Presidente Gonzalo. And the young Abimael, as usual, seeks solace in prayer. One bright morning a group of armed men appears at the apartment building bringing with them a man in handcuffs. Comrade Juana immediately ushers them into a room next to the young Abimael’s bedroom. Everything is done in a hurry, and the young Abimael sees through the passageway that the men tie the hostage to a chair as they scream at him. “Capitalist pig! Now we shall see if you ever again write your bourgeois propaganda against Presidente Gonzalo and the revolution! Know that you won’t escape from this situation with your life, you revisionist worm.” The man – a thin, slight creature in horn-rimmed glasses – has a red handkerchief in his mouth and can say nothing. But his eyes alone tell the young Abimael that he is terrified. Later the young Abimael learns that his name is Guillermo Townsend and that he is a reporter with the magazine Caretas. Apparently he has written a number of negative stories about the Shining Path’s incursion into the towns of the Andean highlands in the province of Cajamarca. The young Abimael gathers from conversations that the Shining Path is seeking a ransom in exchange for the life of the journalist, but that Presidente Gonzalo has no intention of releasing him alive. The months draw out. His mother, Comrade Barbara and the older Abimael continue to revise their plans with respect to the retaliatory assassination of Maria Elena Moyano, the black woman who distributes milk in the shantytowns of Lima. At some point, a group of young men – none of them Amerindians – begin to join in the discussions. The young Abimael is beginning to get a fuller picture of why they plan to kill the Afro-Peruvian community organizer. He figures out that they resent anything done to help the poor outside of the “revolution” – it is a word repeated again and again by the older Abimael – so they decide to punish her for the Glass of Milk program which she has instituted. Then the day comes. The older Abimael, Comrade Barbara and his mother are glued to the television set. They don’t mind that the younger Abimael is sitting with them. At around one o’clock in the afternoon, the first reports begin to come in. Maria Elena Moyano, the black feminist and community organizer, has been shot dead in front of her family as she attended a community event organized by the Glass of Milk committee. Then the television announcer states that afterward her assailants dynamited her corpse, whereupon the older Abimael, Comrade Barbara and his mother all erupt in cheers. The young Abimael sees Maria Elena Moyano’s two children on the screen – their faces full of shock and a limitless sorrow – and he begins to cry. The older Abimael appears surprised by the boy’s tears. “I promise you,” he says. “Once we seize power, the deaths will cease.” “Go to your room right now,” Comrade Barbara orders, in the presence of his mother. Comrade Juana says nothing as her son leaves the living room still weeping. * * * Comrade Juana, Comrade Barbara and Presidente Gonzalo often disappear during the day, leaving the young Abimael alone with Guillermo Townsend. His mother leaves TV dinners in the refrigerator for the young Abimael and the kidnapped journalist, with instructions for her son to feed him, but to never, ever untie the ropes that bind him. “If he ever escapes,” she warns her neglected son, “the police will come after me. You wouldn’t want to live alone with Comrade Barbara.” But slowly the journalist begins to befriend the young Abimael as he is being fed. When Townsend learns that the young Abimael’s mother is an American, he starts to tell the boy wonderful stories about the United States, about Hollywood and Miami and the Florida Keys, about the skyscrapers of New York City and the Grand Canyon and the Mississippi River and America’s great baseball and football teams. “I like to play soccer,” the boy confides. “I love soccer too,” Townsend replies. “Are you an incha of Alianza Lima or Sporting Cristal?” “Alianza Lima,” responds the young Abimael. “I think they have the best goalkeeper.” “What’s your name?” Townsend asks. “Some people call me Abimael. But you can call me Martin. Martin is my baptized name. I’m named after Saint Martin de Porres.” “So you’re a Catholic?” Townsend queries. “I guess,” responds the young Abimael. “But I never get to go to Mass. I used to sometimes, when my nanny Winnie lived with us. But my mother doesn’t believe so we never go anymore. One October, Winnie even took me to a procession in honor of El Señor de los Milagros when my parents weren’t in town.” “I, too, have participated in the procession of Our Lord of Miracles,” Townsend replies. “I’m a Catholic just like you. And what a wondrous sight it was! Hundreds of thousands of the faithful, all the women in their purple habits with a white rope about their waists, the men in purple frocks carrying the heavy altar bearing the Dark Christ’s image, everywhere the purple and white balloons…” After some time passes, the journalist asks the young Abimael for a favor. “Couldn’t you unfasten the ropes, Martin, so that I can escape? I have a son about your age. His name is Claudio, and I’m sure he would love to see me.” “I’m sorry,” responds the young Abimael. “If I let you go, my mother will be arrested or maybe worse. I don’t want to have to live with Comrade Barbara.” “Comrade Barbara?” Townsend repeats. “She’s a very mean woman, the one with the twin braids. She’s the one who puts all the bad ideas in my mother’s mind.” “What if I don’t tell anybody? What if you just unfasten the ropes and we keep your mother’s involvement a secret?” “I don’t believe it. I’m not a baby, you know.” But a few days later, the young Abimael learns something dark and terrible from the older Abimael. Guillermo Townsend’s family has paid a ransom, and there is no longer any reason to keep the journalist alive. The young Abimael remembers what happened to Maria Elena Moyano. He faces the toughest dilemma of his young life, a tipping point unlike any other. To release the kind reporter knowing it might lead to his mother’s imprisonment? Or to let his mother kill him? The young Abimael decides to unfasten the ropes binding Guillermo Townsend. He knows his mother will probably be arrested, but he cannot allow a man to be killed merely because he is a journalist. The young Abimael wishes he could have saved the life of Maria Elena Moyano too, as well as the man who was stoned in Huanca Sancos, but he could not have done anything for them. But he can do something for the skeletal Townsend and after some initial hesitation decides to set him free. The journalist kisses the hands of the young Abimael before he swiftly departs. “You’re a saint,” he says. “You’re an absolute saint.” * * * Twenty years after the incarceration of Comrade Juana “Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.” The woman’s face is covered by a black mantilla veil, but the priest can still see the tears running down her face. “What do you have to confess, Margaret? When was your last Confession?” “About six months ago, Father Martin. It’s just that – well – I had nothing to confess.” “And now you do?” “It’s just that – well – it happened again. I’m sorry, Father, but Gregory is so handsome, and I let him have his way with me. I cheated on my husband once again.” “Are you seriously contrite?” “Yes, Father Martin. But I don’t know if the Lord can forgive me so many times for the same sin.” “Not seven times, not seventy times, more like seventy times seven. God will always forgive you if you sincerely repent and have the firm resolve never to sin again.” “That is my resolve, father, but I’m so weak. I dream about him sometimes, think about him when I am with my husband. I can’t – honestly – I can’t guarantee that it won’t happen again.” “Be patient with all things,” Father Martin says, quoting Saint Francis de Sales, “but first of all yourself. And pray to God for strength.” “I just think that I’m a miserable person in the eyes of the Lord. How can I receive His mercy when I sin and sin again?” “Your misery does not hinder His mercy, Margaret. That is the way of the Christian. We fall, we rise, we fall again. But we never tire in seeking God’s mercy. I still pray for my mother, who has been incarcerated in the Yanamayo Prison in southern Peru for the last twenty years. And she is guilty of sins far worse than marital infidelity. I still dream of her redemption.” “You don’t speak with an accent, Father Martin. Are you a South American?” “My father was, but my mother was born and raised right here in Los Angeles, before she moved to Peru. After my mother was imprisoned, my grandparents brought me to California.” “Your mother is in prison, Father Martin? What did she do?” “She was a terrorist, Margaret, guilty of murder, bombings, kidnapping, you name it.” “Your mother?” “Yes, it’s true.” “So how did you end up becoming a priest?” “Because of the mercy and grace of God. Also an angel named Winnie, who died a holy death, surrounded by her children. I myself was responsible for my mother’s incarceration, something that pains me even today. But the alternative was to let an innocent man be killed.” “That sounds much worse than committing adultery.” “Yes, but don’t forget that small sins can lead to greater sins. My mother started her descent bombing electric transmission towers. And look where that led her, to bigger and bigger crimes.” “I’ll try not to sin again, Father Martin.” “Good!” says the priest. “I am hereby giving you absolution. The Lord declares you righteous, forgiven! Just remember that we are all beset by temptations. Don’t be mortified merely because you are tempted, for you have Christ and the Virgin Mary in your corner. Every time you are tempted, say the Lord’s prayer, and ask the Father to deliver you from temptation. And invoke the name of the Virgin Mary, a powerful intercessor when the evil of lust assaults you. With such powerful soldiers behind you, you are certain to prevail in your struggle against temptation.” The woman makes the sign of the cross and leaves the confessional. Father Martin is an excellent confessor, for over the years, he has learned to understand the great weaknesses of the human heart. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: A World for Abimael Jones (Part 1 of 2); Fiction, March 2023) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) By Sandro F. Piedrahita Torn between allegiance to his parents and the demands of his conscience, the son of two ruthless guerrillas makes a dangerous pilgrimage to become a peaceful soldier for Christ. -- “The loss of Eden is experienced by every one of us as we leave the wonder and magic and also the pains and terrors of childhood.” Dennis Potter When Abimael Jones meets Abimael Guzman, his namesake and the head of Peru’s Shining Path guerrilla movement, the young Abimael is surprised by how ordinary and undistinguished the older man looks. Abimael Guzman, a.k.a. Presidente Gonzalo, is a short, rotund figure with squinting eyes that look through bottle-bottom glasses and a thin scraggly beard. He looks so different from the poster above Abimael’s parents’ bed, the place where a crucifix or an image of the Sacred Heart would ordinarily go. In the poster, the older Abimael is fully bearded, robust but not obese, with dark, penetrating eyes and stripes of red and yellow emanating from his person, as if he were the sun itself. Not surprising that his followers hail him as “Puka Inti,” Quechua for “red sun.” Behind him are the figures of at least two dozen Amerindians bearing clubs, rifles and swords, marching as if they were in a parade and following a shining path. “I want you to meet someone,” Karen Jones, now known as Comrade Juana, says to her blond son as she moves him toward the older Abimael. The man is dancing in the living room with his arms up in the air, his fingers snapping. There are more than forty people in the living room, celebrating as if it were someone’s birthday or the twenty-eighth day of July, Peru’s fiestas patrias. As soon as Comrade Juana introduces her son to his older namesake, the obese man stops dancing, hugs the younger Abimael and gives him a wet kiss on the cheek. The older Abimael, despite the images of swords and guns in his posters, despite his history of ruthlessness, despite his reputation for calm, intellectual cruelty, is said to love children like the Christ. Sometimes – before he went completely underground – after a village was “occupied” by his men, he would sit surrounded by children in the center of the town plaza and preach to them about the wonders of the revolution. The older Abimael tells the younger one, “You should be proud of your father. Comrade Carlos was a great man, a hero in the struggle to oust the white oppressor from power in the land of the Incas.” The young Abimael does not understand why the older Abimael is speaking of his father in the past tense. Comrade Carlos has been missing from the house for about a week, but that is nothing unusual. The young Abimael is used to his father’s frequent absences. “Why do you talk about my father as if he were dead?” the young Abimael asks. The older Abimael looks askance at the boy’s mother, as if he doesn’t know what to say. Tears begin to well up in the eyes of the younger Abimael. “Your father has died, Abimael,” says Comrade Juana. “That is why we’re all celebrating his life. All these people have come to pay their last respects. Even Presidente Gonzalo, who is such an important man, fourth sword of international Communism, after Marx, Lenin and Mao.” “That shouldn’t make you feel sad,” the older Abimael intervenes. “Your father was one of the most valiant warriors in the fight to liberate the peasants of Peru. And he died as a martyr, at the hands of the police.” “So you’re telling me that someone has killed my father?” The older Abimael inanely quotes the last Inca, Atahualpa. “Such are the laws of war,” he says, “to defeat or be defeated.” The younger Abimael collapses at the feet of the older Abimael and begins to sob. “Why did he have to be in a war?” cries out the young Abimael. “Why couldn’t he be like the fathers of all the other children and be a carpenter or a butcher?” Suddenly, out of the shadows, Comrade Barbara appears. She is a stout Amerindian woman, olive-skinned, her hair cropped short, wearing olive-green pants and an alpaca sweater. Comrade Barbara has been living with the family of Abimael Jones ever since her own husband was killed by the military in the Andean town of Cajabamba. “I think you should leave Presidente Gonzalo alone,” Comrade Barbara says starkly, addressing the young Abimael. “You should just go to your room and let us be.” The boy does not like Comrade Barbara. She is bossy and once called him an “imbecile” when he opened the door to the bathroom when she was using it. Another time she called him a “rubio desdichado,” an unfortunate blond boy, when he complained of the meager food she had served him for dinner on a rare day when his nanny Winnie was absent. The young Abimael wondered if Comrade Barbara disliked him precisely because he was blond. The young Abimael does what he always does when he wants to circumvent Comrade Barbara: he speaks to his mother in English. The English language is his secret weapon, a connection to his mother with which nobody can interfere, the language she first spoke, before the American Karen Jones became the Peruvian Comrade Juana. Just like Quechua was once his secret link to his father, for his father proudly taught him the language and the history of the Amerindian. “I don’t want to be alone,” he tells his mother in English. “I shall miss my father. What does it mean to be dead?” “Leave your mother in peace,” Comrade Barbara again interrupts. And the young Abimael wonders what Comrade Barbara means when she uses the word “peace.” Is it peace to be drinking and eating, dancing and carousing, all because his father is dead? The boy looks to his mother, searching for consolation, but as usual she agrees with whatever Comrade Barbara says. “I think you should go to your room now,” says his mother. “We can talk about all of this later.” And the young Abimael does what he always does when his mother rejects him. He goes outside, into the garden, where his beloved Winnie has a room of her own. Winnie is what they call a zamba in Peru, of mixed Amerindian and African blood. Her tawny hair is curly, her skin a soft brown color, and she has soft hands that the young Abimael likes to feel on the surface of his skin. Ever since he was about three years old, she has helped to raise him and filled the void left by his mother’s indifference and her overriding dedication to “the armed struggle.” “Mama Winnie,” he cries out to her as he knocks on her door. The woman greets him with a hug and asks him what is wrong when she sees his face. “They say my father is dead,” he tells her. Winnie knows that Comrade Carlos had been a kind father, despite the extremity of his views and his role in the Shining Path’s millenarian war. But while the young Abimael’s mother had hardened with the years, Carlos had softened instead. Not that Winnie was ever told exactly what Abimael’s parents were doing. But sometimes they were absent from Lima for weeks. Indeed, that is why Winnie had first been hired, to take care of the young Abimael when his parents left Lima in one of their “expeditions.” Soon she became a permanent presence in their home and even traveled with them when they left Lima for Andean towns. Winnie always told the young Abimael wonderful stories, tales about Saint Martin de Porres, a man of African blood just like Winnie, about Saint Rose of Lima and how roses fell from the sky on the day of her death, about Jesus the Lord and Mary His mother. In his earliest childhood, she told him stories about Sinbad the sailor, Snow White, and all sorts of fairy tales. Winnie listens when the young Abimael tells her, “I guess my father is now with the Lord in Heaven.” Winnie has been expecting this moment, ever since she learned that Comrade Carlos had been shot by a policeman. “I’m sorry, Martin,” she says. “But I’m sure he is with the Lord now. Do you want to say a prayer for him?” And the young Abimael nods and says, “Yes, the Hail Mary.” He knows that she calls him Martin when they are alone. It is a secret between them, that when he was about six years old she had taken him to a priest in Magdalena Nueva and had him baptized as Martin, in honor of the saint to whom they sometimes pray at night when nobody sees them. Winnie didn’t like the fact that the young Abimael’s parents had named him after an unrepentant killer. “We can pray the Rosary,” Winnie tells him. She begins the first half of the Our Father, then Abimael completes it. They do the same with all the Hail Marys. Winnie mouths the beginning, the salutation, and Abimael says the rest of the prayer, “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” he intones as he bows his head down devoutly, “pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen.” Then he adds some words of his own: “Also pray for the soul of my father in Heaven.” * * * Eighteen months before the death of Comrade Carlos The young Abimael is used to moving from apartment to apartment, often without much notice from his parents. But this time he is roused in the middle of the night as his mother cries out at him with urgency. “Hurry, hurry,” says his mother. “We have to leave this apartment now!” “What about my clothes?” asks Abimael. “Do I get to take my bicycle with me?” “Just put on a jacket,” his mother orders. “Snap to it!” she commands in English. When they go outside, his father is already waiting for them. Abimael notices that in addition to a single valise, his father is loading several rifles into the trunk of the vehicle. Winnie is already sitting silently in the back of the white Chevy Impala, holding a small bag of clothing. “Where are we going?” the young Abimael asks once the car is running. “And what is Papi doing with all those guns?” His mother is nervously looking out the window as his father drives with great speed, not stopping for any red lights. “Don’t worry about it,” she says to her son. “Just sit tight.” They continue to drive until they reach a small apartment. A woman is waiting for them outside. All the young Abimael sees is a shadow. “Just wait till I speak with Comrade Barbara,” his father says, and after a quick conversation, he comes back into the car. “I have the money now,” he tells Abimael’s mother. “That will be enough for a month in Huanca Sancos.” “How did they find out about us?” Comrade Juana asks. “I have no idea,” responds Comrade Carlos. “Duermete, mi niñito,” Winnie says as she caresses the young Abimael’s hair. Sleep, my child. “Aren’t you scared too?” the child asks Winnie. “Just place your faith in Saint Martin de Porres,” she whispers in Abimael’s ear. He knows she doesn’t want anyone else to hear. After about an hour, Abimael’s father finally speaks. He is already on the Panamericana, the highway that will take them all the way to the province of Ayacucho. He looks behind him to see if his son is asleep and thinks he is. Winnie is certainly asleep. But the young boy hears everything. “How they figured out we had anything to do with the bombing of the Banco Wiese, I will never understand,” says Comrade Carlos to Comrade Juana. “There must have been an informant. I don’t trust that new fellow, Castelblanco. I’m going to ask Presidente Gonzalo to launch an investigation. If Castelblanco’s guilty, I shall demand revolutionary justice. According to Gonzalo Thought, all traitors must be hanged.” “Still, it’s a good thing we were forewarned. Now I see the value of having spies within the government. Presidente Gonzalo is a genius.” At some point, the young Abimael falls asleep, unsure of what he has heard. Even at his young age, there are things that intrigue him. Why would anyone bomb a bank? And what did that have to do with escaping in the night? Why does his mother call Presidente Gonzalo a genius? Who is this strange man who is venerated like a god? Abimael sleeps for about six hours, cradled in Winnie’s lap. When he wakes, his father is still talking, but the boy remains silent. His parents have never before discussed their business in front of him, and now he has a morbid curiosity about it, drawn to his parents’ words like a moth to the heat of a lightbulb. So he feigns that he is still asleep even as Winnie seems to move restlessly. “You know what awaits us in Huanca Sanco,” his father says. “They will be stoning the mayor, a fellow named Rodrigo Huaman.” “I can tell he’s an Indian by his name,” says the mother of the young Abimael. “That is the worst kind of revisionist. The natives who side with the oligarchy are the greatest enemies of the revolution. And I’ll be the first to throw a stone.” There are a lot of words Abimael does not understand. Revisionist. Oligarchy. Revolution. And yet he realizes they are talking about stoning an Indian man to death. He’d like to think he’s just dreaming, going through a nightmare, but he knows that he isn’t. There’s a world beyond the confines of his home, far from the prayers he and his Winnie pray whenever they can, and it is a world where killing men is possible. It is a place where his own mother would help stone a man because he is – what were his mother’s words? – “a traitorous revisionist.” “They should just make it easy and shoot him,” says the father of the young Abimael as he continues to drive, his car hugging the mountains. “No sense in torturing the man.” “Since when have you had scruples?” asks the boy’s mother. “What difference does it make?” “I’m an old revolutionary by now,” responds his father. “I’m no longer given to the excesses of youth. Revisionists must be killed – it is the law of Gonzalo Thought – but there is no reason for human beings to be tortured.” “You’re forgetting something,” Comrade Juana responds. “By forcing the people to participate in the stoning, we’re leading them forward in their movement toward the armed struggle. That is why women are often asked to fire the final shot in an execution. Once they participate in their first homicide, the rest is easy. And they can then follow the shining path toward liberation without a second thought.” Suddenly Winnie has had enough. “Must you speak of such things in front of the child? Don’t you realize he can hear everything? Can’t you talk about movies or about the beauty of the Andean highlands instead? Why must you speak of revolution, bloodshed and war? You are going to destroy his childhood.” “Don’t act so surprised,” says Abimael’s mother. “You’ve known for a long time that Carlos and I are disciples of Presidente Gonzalo.” “You know I only stay with you because I love your son. I know your activities all too well. And your words about violence and immorality will only startle him. At some point, of course, he will know, but you should preserve his innocence as long as possible.” “Don’t get sassy with me,” cries out Comrade Juana, turning her face toward Winnie. “Don’t forget your only role is to take care of Abimael, not to give me advice about what you consider morality.” “Please,” interrupts Abimael, no longer pretending to sleep. “Please stop fighting over me.” He’s deathly afraid that Winnie might be fired. But Winnie continues, perhaps too angry to control her words. “I am but a humble, penniless zamba, but I know the difference between right and wrong. And stoning a man merely because he does not follow your demented faith is wrong itself.” “All right, let’s change the subject,” interjects the boy’s father. “I didn’t realize you or the boy were awake, Winnie. I’m truly sorry. And I’m sure Juana doesn’t mean to offend you. She’s just a little hot under the collar, given everything that’s happened over the last twenty-four hours.” * * * The following Monday the young Abimael hears a commotion coming from the plaza, which is just below the apartment his parents have rented in the Andean town of Huanca Sancos. His parents left early in the morning and he’s alone with Winnie. When Winnie realizes he is going toward the window, she tries to stop him. “Don’t look outside,” she tells him, but it is too late. He has already seen the crowds congregating in the plaza. “What are so many people doing outside?” he asks Winnie. “Martin, don’t worry about it. Come with me to the kitchen and we’ll make some picarones.” “No, I want to see,” responds the young Abimael. “Is it a celebration? Or is it some important man giving a speech?” Suddenly the young Abimael notices that the people in the plaza are casting stones at a man tied to a tree. From the window, he cannot see the face of the doomed revisionist, but he can definitely see he is the object of the crowd’s fury. And sometimes amid the clamor, he can hear the man’s wails. “What are they doing?” he asks, terrified by the man’s cries. “Is that the stoning my father spoke about last week while we were driving in the mountains? Are they really doing it?” “Yes,” Winnie assents, shaking her head in disbelief. “Are my parents among them?” asks the young Abimael. “I pray they’re not among the killers.” “I’m sure they’re not there, Martin,” Winnie lies. “Where else could they be? They talked about it in the car.” “They might be,” Winnie replies. She doesn’t know what else to say. And then they hear once again the man shrieking in the distance. “Wouldn’t they be guilty of a great sin?” ask the young Abimael. “You’ve taught me about all the Commandments, and I remember the commandment not to kill.” Winnie responds, in a thoughtful voice. “Yes, the stoning of that man is not pleasing in the eyes of God. Come, Martin, let’s say a prayer for the man being stoned and another for the conversion of both your parents.” “What do you mean by ‘conversion,’ Winnie?” Abimael asks. “Are we praying to deliver them from evil, as it says in the prayer which you have taught me?” “Conversion means that they will repent of – I don’t know what word to use, Martin – that they will repent of their extreme conduct. I don’t want to alarm you. Let’s just say we should pray that your parents get closer to God, that they abandon the wrong path.” “Are they on the wrong path, Winnie? Do you mean the stoning of that man?” “A long time ago there was a man named Saint Paul, Martin, and he participated in the stoning of a man called Stephen. Paul persecuted the followers of God and even consented to their killing. But through the actions of the Lord, he converted and recanted his wicked ways. So never stop praying for your parents.” “Why do they want to kill him, Winnie? Do they think he is a bad man?” “Let’s just say, Martin, that your parents are staunch followers of an ideology that is extreme. How can I put it? They’re so interested in saving the poor people of Peru that sometimes they do bad things.” And the doomed man wails again. After hearing the tumult of the death of the man in the plaza, the young Abimael returns to his room and waits for the return of his parents. When he hears the door of the living room opening, he sees that it is only his father returning, but that is just as well. It is his father with whom he wishes to speak. “I saw something from the window early this afternoon, and I didn’t like it, Papi. People throwing rocks at a man tied to a tree. I heard him cry. I think it really hurt him.” “Oh, you saw that, huh? I thought you might.” “Papi, tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it.” Comrade Carlos lights a cigarette, weighing the words he will say. “I don’t want to lie to you. You’re no longer an infant. I was there this afternoon, as was your mother.” “Did you throw a rock at him?” “You have to understand it’s all part of a great war. Haven’t you heard in school about the heroes Bolognesi and Miguel Grau, about the martyrs Tupac Amaru and Atahualpa? They had to do stuff they didn’t like. Your mother and I are involved in a war now, and to win a war, sometimes you have to do ugly things.” “But I don’t think the Lord Jesus would like it.” “Who has taught you about Jesus? Did you hear about Him at school? Or was it Winnie?” “Don’t get mad at her. Sometimes she tells me stories.” “You love her, don’t you?” Comrade Carlos asks. “As much as I love you, Papi. As much as I love my mother.” “Well, that’s all right. I don’t mind her telling you stories. If only reality were as simple as Winnie’s tales.” “Why did you hurt him? I mean – the man…” “Have you noticed while walking close to the Plaza de Armas in Lima that there are sometimes women on the ground, dressed in rags, begging for help? Have you seen their skinny children?” “Yes.” “And have you noticed that others – very few – go about town in fancy new cars, driven by chauffeurs?” “I have.” “Well, your mother and I believe that is unjust. We’re fighting for a world where man’s exploitation of man will be a thing of the past. Do you understand me?” “I don’t understand the word ‘exploitation.’” “How shall I put it? That means when a person takes advantage of another. Like the way rich white Peruvians abuse the Indians and let them live in poverty when it doesn’t have to be that way. We want a government run by the peasants.” “And you need a war to fix that?” asks the young Abimael. “I don’t think the Lord would like it. If war means throwing rocks at a naked man until he dies...” “Jesus was a great man. I won’t disagree with that. But He was also the first true Communist. Just like Presidente Gonzalo is a true Communist. In the first Christian communities, everything was shared. The rich Christians gave their wealth to the poor, and the poor gave to those who were poorer.” “So why not just do it that way?” “Over the years, people forgot His true message, son. Many Christians follow the letter of the law, but not its spirit. And it’s gotten so bad that it’s not enough just to ask people to give alms to the poor. We need a world where there are no longer a few rich people on the one hand and millions of desperately poor on the other. With time, you will understand. Is that enough for today, my son?” “I love you, Papi.” As the young Abimael is leaving, Comrade Carlos calls him back. “Son,” he says. “What?” responds Abimael. “Don’t talk about all this with your mother. And please never tell her that Winnie has been teaching you about Jesus or about religion in general. I know how important Winnie is in your life.” “Why would it make a difference?” “Well, your mother at some point in her life was very Catholic. And she’s sort of rejected all of that. Now she has very strong feelings against religion. So she might tell Winnie to leave if she hears that she’s been teaching you anything about Jesus. Sometimes it’s best just to keep mum.” * * * If anything, the young Abimael is more loving toward his parents in the week after his father’s explanation of the stoning than he has ever been before. He gets up early and sometimes serves them breakfast in bed, and when they come back home at night, he’s usually waiting for them, ready to give them a hug. His father responds in kind and tells him, “What’s up, champion?” His mother, on the other hand, averts her face as the young Abimael attempts to kiss it. “You don’t need to slobber all over me,” she tells him, surprised by the sudden new display of affection. “It’s not as if I’ve just come back from a long trip or been killed or something. And you don’t have to call me Mami. You can just call me Juana, as you always do.” And the young Abimael is surly when he interacts with Winnie. He refuses to speak with her as they share lunch and dinner, no longer sits with her as in the past when she watched her telenovelas on television. Finally, one day after she has served him a plate of aji de gallina – one of his favorites – he explodes in anger. “I don’t want to eat,” he cries out. “You know I hate your chicken dishes and everything else you cook!” “What’s wrong?” Winnie asks him. “Sit down and eat your dinner. You’ve already missed lunch this morning.” The young Abimael takes the plate of aji de gallina and throws it against a window. The yellow stew drips slowly down the glass as Winnie shakes her head, not knowing what is happening. “Now why did you do that, Martin? You’ve never behaved this way before.” “I did it because I felt like it. I’m not hungry. And don’t call me Martin. My name is Abimael, and it always will be. It is the name of a great man.” “Eat your dinner right now! Let me serve you another plate. Sit down, young Martin.” “Get away from me, you dirty zamba!” he says with pent-up rage. Winnie pulls him by the ear and forces him to sit at the table. “Where have you learned to be so disrespectful?” “Leave me alone!” he cries out as he begins to bawl. “You think God hates my parents!” “Where have you gotten such an idea? I’ve never said anything like that. Of course God loves both your mother and your father.” “Don’t you understand they’re in a war? That is why they have to do mean things. Haven’t you told me the story of Tupac Amaru, how his arms and legs were attached to four horses in order to kill him? All because he had killed some Spaniards. Didn’t he also do mean things because he was in a war?” “It’s complicated, Martin. Come, sit on my lap. You don’t need to cry. I see why you are so perturbed.” “Didn’t you tell me Tupac Amaru was a hero? My father says he is like Tupac Amaru, that all he wants to do is help the poor people. That is why he threw a stone against that naked man in the plaza.” And with those words, the young Abimael buries his head in Winnie’s chest and begins to cry. “Tell me about Saint Paul,” Abimael says, “how he stoned a man, and God still loved him. How he was blinded on his horse because God wanted to convert him.” “That’s right,” Winnie responds, caressing the boy’s blond hair. “Saint Paul was blinded on his way to Damascus. God wanted Saint Paul to see how much He cared for him. And by making him blind, the Lord made him see for the first time, not with the eyes of his face, but with the eyes of his soul.” “Do you think God is going to blind my parents, to make them see it was mean to throw rocks against that naked man in the plaza?” “I don’t know, Martin. God makes His presence known in people’s lives in different ways. With Saint Paul, it was blindness. With others, it’s the birth of a child or a cure for cancer. All you can do is pray for your parents, that they recognize the Lord when He appears before them.” “I pray for them every night,” the young Abimael responds. “Even this week when I haven’t been praying with you.” “You have to be stubborn. Don’t ever give up on prayer. Ask Jesus to enlighten your parents. And perhaps God will respond with a miracle.” -- Read the second half of this story here. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2; Fiction, August 2022) The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 2 of 2; Fiction, August 2022)  After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google and other platforms. Listen to other Forecasts here. Poet and writing professor Jessica Walters describes her journey from a tradition that overemphasised external achievements, such as rote Bible memorisation, to a contemplative reintegration of scripture and personal involvement, faith and creativity, word and silence. One of her formative experiences was working in solitude as a medic in the forests of British Columbia. Illustrating her journey, she reads two of her poems, 'The Sunday Blues' and 'A Liturgy of the Wilderness'. Resource: Caring for Words in a Culture of Lies by Marilyn McEntyre Jessica Walters is a writer and professor of creative writing at Trinity Western University in British Columbia, Canada.
Jessica's other work on Foreshadow: The Sunday Blues (Poetry, February 2023) Josh Seligman is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast. By Miriam Riad In the distance, I see Promises making their way Toward me. They’re not running, like I thought They’d be. But I can see them, blurry, Arms raised, ready to greet. I hear them shout with jubilee, “We’re on our way—get ready!” I stand to my feet, hands stretched out Eagerly. Is it time? Have they arrived? And I hear a voice. It’s right next to me. Not off in the distance Like I thought it would be. You’re smiling, of course, Your hand reaching for mine, And you say, “I’m here with you now. Wait with me.” And I know I’ve already Been given What I need. I don’t have to worry: These promises will reach me. Miriam Riad is a public school teacher, writer and former book editor. Her work has appeared in Ekstasis Magazine, Ruminate Magazine and elsewhere. She is the author of 28 by 29: A Year of Writing, a short collection of essays and poetry.
By Noah J Craig Dear God, Don’t let us fall. Keep us strong by resting in Your peace, Without which we are suffocated by anxiety. Troubles on earth will not cease Until You come back in majesty So keep us strong, Don’t let us fall. Uproot the thorns that twist into my heart And destroy the arrows that pierce my mind. We have been Yours from the start, Hold us close even beyond the end of time. Keep us strong, Don’t let us fall. Hear the words that my mouth cannot utter, Interpret every tear that falls from my eye. Whatever the lot, let the will be done of the Father. Remember us in Your kingdom when we die. Keep us strong, Don’t let us fall. We have no strength to stand by ourselves alone And worry seeks to pull us into depths below. Prop us up by replacing the sand with stone, Hold us to resist the strength of the undertow. Keep us strong, Don’t let us fall. Deliver us from thoughts that we can’t control, Deliver us into the understanding of Your sovereignty. When the aching heart cries out in anguish, do console, And in Your pierced hands hold my soul when it’s hard to breathe. Keep us strong, Don’t let us fall. Amen. Noah J Craig is an author and a poet who hopes that his words will glorify the ultimate Author. Originally from New England, he currently lives in Henderson, Nevada. If he’s not writing, reading or drinking coffee, he is most likely halfway up a mountain wishing he had more storage space on his camera. You can visit him online at noahjcraig.com.
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