Joseph Russ

“They have no electricity… Wow.”

That’s what one of our visitors said after visiting the community of 30 de Abril (3oth of April) in El Salvador. It’s true, the residents have no electricity in their homes, which are primarily composed of sheet metal and tarps bolted to bamboo. There is no running water, and even the well water is severely contaminated. The only high school is miles away across the highway, a dangerous journey in the country with the most car accidents per capita. Yet these homes are on land they fought hard for, and they are proud to have won the land in a struggle with the local government.

Several years ago, a massive flood displaced a community of people who now make up 30 de Abril, leaving dozens of families homeless and with no other options. They pleaded for access to land from the local government, but they were met with silence. Without a home to return to, they squatted in a sugar cane field, living homeless and constructing shanties out of whatever they could find.

As the years went on, they began to organize as a community. They advocated for their right to safety and land, and finally, on April 30th, 2015, they negotiated their rights to the space with the local government. It was a struggle, but the success and satisfaction of this accomplishment is commemorated in the very name of the community. It is true, they may not have many amenities, but they have something invaluable: the skills to organize and advocate for their rights.

The next challenge is the struggle for clean water. Currently, the well water is undrinkable because of contamination from nearby agriculture and the toxic chemicals they use, such as pesticides and herbicides. The community board continues to organize the citizens in lobbying their government to ensure their access to clean water, but the fight continues. Their strength, perseverance, and organizing skills are inspiring as they persist, and they have a lot to teach all of us.

The visitor mentioned earlier came to learn from them. He wasn’t a tourist or a philanthropist who came to save the people of El Salvador, but a participant in a seminar on human rights and community development. This seminar, hosted by the non-governmental organization Cristosal, was an opportunity for U.S. citizens to come down and learn about the work the community is doing to advocate for their rights. It’s not an opportunity to marvel at the poverty and destitution before them, nor is it a chance to bring the solution to any problems. Here, participants learn from people doing some of the most amazing grassroots organizing under extremely difficult circumstances. These people have skills we need.

Especially at a time when cities like Flint, Michigan, lack access to clean water from their taps, and when oil pipelines have spilled into the water sources of thousands just in the past few months, the people of 30 de Abril have much to share. We are finally realizing just how many communities in the United States also lack access to clean water, something we often take for granted. We in the U.S. pride ourselves on our freedom and rights, but are victim to the same human rights violations many other countries are, even though it is difficult to conceive of the great America allowing such violations to exist.

When the participants say “Wow,” they are marveling not at the destitution before them, but at the accomplishments the community has achieved. They are amazed at how, without things we consider so basic, people continue to fight and win. They are inspired. They realize they have much to learn. This is the power of the human rights approach to Christian mission. It honors the true work of Jesus Christ in our world: a ministry and mission by the marginalized for the marginalized.

In this interaction is typified our relationship with Christ, that we learn to lead lives of love and righteousness from a man who was born on the margins and stayed there to teach. A man who spent his time with lepers, prostitutes, and tax collectors. These people we push to the edges are the ones from whom we can sometimes learn the most.

Joseph Russ

GMF International, Class of 2016-2018

Foundation Cristosal

El Salvador

#3022225

Adventure is an assumed part of being a missionary, and mine started right away upon my arrival at the airport in San Salvador. After getting lost in the terminal, stumbling my way through a conversation with the airport staff about one of my suitcases that hadn’t arrived, and being thrown headfirst into the local Spanish dialect, I finally exited the airport where I saw this smiling woman holding a sign that said “Joseph Russ.” I smiled and waved at her, but her expectant smile was replaced with utter confusion. I told her, to her surprise, that yes indeed I was Joseph Russ, from the United States, here to work for Foundation Cristosal. Apparently, this was my boss, and she took me to the house where I was staying.

It wasn’t until two days later, when she introduced me to her husband, that I found out why she had been so confused. Apparently, she had some different expectations about who I would be. She had been told I was a missionary from the United States, which she assumed to mean I was at least middle-aged, had a long beard, dressed in robes and was very serious. In reality, I’m twenty-two, have a short beard, and I wore a V-neck and jeans on the day she picked me up. And for those who know me, they know that being serious is something with which I have serious trouble.

Despite a slightly awkward arrival, my adjustment to life in El Salvador was fairly smooth. On my fourth day, while touring the city center, I visited El Rosario, a beautiful church near the Catedral Metropolitano and the Central Market. Outside this church was a statue of Christopher Columbus, in honor of him bringing the Christian faith to the New World. When I went home I looked at my prayer card with Junípero Serra’s image, the patron saint of missionaries and the Americas, a “shining example of Christian virtue and the missionary spirit.” I reflected on these two figures, revered for their missionary work, for bringing the gospel to the Christless land, and for bringing salvation to those who didn’t realize they needed saving. Their legacy reminded me of the pride my home church in El Segundo, California expressed on my final Sunday when the congregation expressed their high expectations for me to change the world during my missionary work.

A few days later, I was staying at a co-worker’s house and joined her roommates for dinner. We chatted about our lives, and they asked what brought me to El Salvador. When I told them I was a missionary, there was an awkward pause. They glanced at each other. There was another awkward pause. One asked me how I feel about the history of oppression, genocide, and forced conversion at the hands of missionaries. And if the name “missionary” is so tainted why would I use it, (clearly referring to the legacy of people like Columbus and Serra, known for evangelism by way of the whip and sword). I had the dual opportunity to explain what missionary work means to me AND to practice my Spanish language skills.

It may be easier in English:

As I understand it from my training, missionary work is no longer the thing many assume it to be. It is not just for middle aged or retired people, and though I sport a modest beard, they aren’t required. The robes might make me seem distant, and I have found one of the essential qualities for making friends, integrating into the community, and coping with the struggles of missionary life is a sense of humor. And definitely not taking things too seriously.

The legacy that past missionaries have left behind is polarizing, seen as either heroes for introducing the indigenous peoples to Jesus, or as monsters for decimating populations and stripping away traditions, religions, and cultures of the Americas. I do not intend to be either of these things I don’t have the hubris to suspect that I am bringing something earth-shaking, or that I am a savior of sorts, come to fix problems and show people the ways of which they are blind. I don’t want to be celebrated as such, especially in the tradition of Columbus and Serra, whose atrocities history glazes over in favor of recognizing the “blessings” they brought to the Americas. In many ways, it makes me uncomfortable to see these missionaries, especially those who have perpetrated such heinous acts, celebrated as having fixed something. Nor do I want people to see me and my fellow missionaries as ruthless imperialists here to impose our values on others.

To me, there is nothing more special in missionaries than in anyone else. I want to help the communities I serve however I can, but I want them to tell me what they need, because obviously they know their struggles better than I do. I want to learn from the people who surround me so I can understand other cultures and bring some of that understanding home. I want to see the ways God’s spirit of love, justice, and redemption are already at work. It’s not to fix or shame, to be the hero or the villain. It’s to be as we are. Human.

Joseph Russ