Lessons in Grief
By Melinda St. Louis, WFP Nicaragua

I missed the bus. I could have made it, but in the bustle and noise of the Mayoreo bus terminal, I was unconvinced that the men tugging at my backpack and urging me to board were telling the truth. As it pulled away, I realized that I should have been on it. So, I had no other option but to wait an hour for the next bus. I really was not in a huge hurry, and this was hardly the first time such an inconvience had happened to me since I moved to Nicaragua-but suddenly it seemed unbearable. I felt out of control and full of an inexplicable despair. Tears blurred my vision and a slicing pain pierced my chest. As I cried, clutching my bag on my lap to discourage pickpockets, I did not feel that comforting release that often comes from my tears.

And then she approached. First, all I saw was her shriveled brown hand, dirt caked under her brittle nails. She was one of many-one of thousands, one of millions-who must hold out her impoverished hand to those who have more, hoping to survive for another day. I shook my head no, but then raised my eyes to look at her through my curtain of tears. She had that amazingly wrinkled old face that we marvel over in National Geographics, two dangling teeth in her slack mouth, and black eyes whose expression quickly changed from a blank stare to kindness as soon as she saw my wet, blotchy face. She lowered herself onto the worn bench next to me and used her already outstretched hand to take a hold of one of mine.

"I'm so, so sorry about what happened in New York," she said compassionately, "All those innocent people didn't deserve to die." Her voice was almost a whisper and I had to strain to hear it. "War doesn't make any sense. We have lived war in Nicaragua. We are praying for your people and for peace."

Before she spoke those words, I hadn't understood where my despair was coming from, but suddenly I realized that she had guessed right. I could see in her eyes that grief and fear and vulnerability had passed through them on many occasions-and several times had taken up residence for long periods. Though she didn't speak it aloud, I knew she had witnessed and grieved innocent deaths and had feared that more would follow-if only for statistical probability for a poor old woman in Nicaragua. I couldn't think of how to respond, but I realized I didn't need to. She had given me permission to grieve. We sat in the silence of old friends, grieving our losses together, grieving all the loss of life and human potential through war, terrorism, poverty. After a time, she gave me a small smile and ever-so-slightly tightened her grip around my fingers. Many hand was soft, smooth marshmallow in her bony, stiffly calloused hand. "But life goes on, so we mustn't be weak." Her eyes struck me as so sharp and beautiful.

By then, my tears had dried, and we chatted about our families. My mom lives in Pittsburgh. She has a daughter who has lived for 30 years in San Francisco. I live in a house on the other side of Managua. She sleeps on the sidewalk next to the bus terminal.

The pain sliced at my chest again. This time I knew it was out of shame. What if the roles had been reversed? What if 15 years ago, during the height of the U.S.-financed Contra War in Nicaragua, where 30,000 civilians died in terrorist attacks, this old, latina woman sat in the Baltimore bus station crying? Or what if a younger woman, her daughter, sat crying at a terminal in San Francisco, thinking about her mother, one of thousands dying slowly because of lack of healthcare, food, shelter while their country is crushed by inhumane economic policies?

Would I have stopped to say "I'm so, so sorry about what is happening in Nicaragua?"