COVID-19

🎵 Don't freak out, but that means 
For the moment, we're in quarantine 🎶

(👆 Sorry, not sorry Dexys)

It's been quite the month, hasn't it, friends? I wanted to write a post re: all of the wonderful things people did to celebrate my birthday in early March, and maybe I still will. I did get a chance to put some pictures on my Facebook at least and know many of you saw that.

I don't know about y'all, but I had a week of reckoning this month. Mine was between the 10th and the 17th⁠—between those two Tuesdays, everything changed.

On the 9th, Pastor Isaías Flores who served a term as IEMH president about 30 years back and his wife Berta happened to be in town visiting their son Melvin (Mary's husband), so I spent the afternoon at their house interviewing Isaías, having cafecito, and meeting some of the other siblings who came over to say hi to their parents. On the 10th, there were still no confirmed cases in Honduras and I joked about the virus to Pastor Pedro Calix during our interview. He told me about his involvement in the movement to abolish obligatory military service in the early 90s. (I'm really excited to share that story with y'all btw... Refugee article is almost published and the anti-militarism story is next!)

My first "oh, shoot" moment was on the 11th, when the first two cases of COVID were confirmed in the country. Still, we weren't too worried and continued the rest of the week basically normally (except that Thursday was the last day schools were in session). On Friday, Pastor Oscar Dueñas came to the office and I was able to get his perspective for my next article, as he was the director of the Peace and Justice Project (PPyJ) in the early 90s.

Saturday, I biked to Beraca practice and was prepared to serve on Sunday morning, but before church I got the news that gatherings of over 50 people had been prohibited (which had actually gone into effect in the afternoon or evening on Saturday). That was my second moment: "uy, this is getting serious."

Later on Sunday, we heard that the borders would be closing at midnight. Jenny and Lars had been in Colombia for LACA meetings from the 1st through the 7th. Although Jenny had returned on the 8th, Lars had taken a week of vacation and his flight was supposed to be landing in Honduras around 9pm. We were worried he might not make it back in! But luckily his flight was on time.

Monday morning the text was more widely available of the government-issued proclamation that had gone into effect at 11:59 the previous evening:
1) Labor in the public and private sectors is suspended.
2) All events of any kind and with any number of people are prohibited.
3) All sporting, cultural and social activities are canceled.
4) Public transit is prohibited from running.
5) In-person religious celebrations are suspended.
6) All businesses must close including malls.
7) Air, land and sea borders are closed for the entire national territory.

There were some exceptions listed (including that citizens and residents⁠—that's us⁠—would still be allowed in, so losing our CPCer to migratory limbo wasn't quite as close a call as we'd thought). Basically, the things that would remain open included hospitals, pharmacies, gas stations, supermarkets and pulperías, banks, home-delivery or drive-through food service, and "publicly indispensable" jobs such as generating electricity.

I figured this meant that I would be trying to work from home that day. The reps confirmed this after a bit, and I started trying to install the work software I would need on my personal computer. But mostly I was just in a state of shock and lament.

Tuesday was similar... it was still sinking in that this will be our new reality for a while.

That evening, I heard that a curfew would be going into effect from 10pm to 6am.

In the morning, I asked my host parents to take me to the office so I could get some of my things. Jenny and Rudi actually went in as well, and we gathered up the things we would need to work from home indefinitely. Work computer, succulents, food from the fridge, and historical documents in tow, Gustavo and I headed home in the truck.

Later that day, I realized the curfew had actually been extended to an "absolute," or 24-hour, curfew. Technically people were only supposed to be out for reasons such as getting groceries, going to the bank, or sanctioned work activities. I suppose I could have truthfully said it was for work, but I'm pretty sure NGO work counts as some of the suspended public/private sector work. I'm just glad we didn't get stopped! There were actually a fair amount of cars out and about, but banking and grocery shopping could certainly account for the movement I was seeing.

But yeah, we've been under nonstop curfew since then. I think it was only in San Pedro Sula, Tegucigalpa, and La Ceiba at first, but since Sunday the 22nd (I believe) it's been the entire country. The supermarkets and banks aren't open normal hours anymore; you have to check the schedules and go during those hours. Thursdays at the banks are only for senior citizens, for example. The grocery store that the MCC team uses most of the time has a system where you bring your list and the workers pack it for you while you wait outside. (This means you have to make your list very specific or you might end up accidentally spending the equivalent of $20 on 4 jumbo boxes of Cheerios when all you wanted was one small box of 4-grain Cheerios⁠—as Rudi found out the hard way!)

As I said, Monday and Tuesday of last week were pretty much shot in terms of "productivity" and I was really giving myself a hard time about that for a while. What actually ended up helping my productivity later in the week was reminding myself that all the Zoom calls, WhatsApp messages, emails, and personal processing that was going on was a lot of emotional labor and that I shouldn't feel unproductive for tending to all of that.

Starting on Wednesday the 18th, I finally started to accept the new reality we're heading into. I think getting my stuff from the office, and seeing Rudi and Jenny in person, helped with a certain sense of "closure" of the "before-COVID" phase of my MCC term. Who knows, the rest of my term may well be in the "during-COVID" phase. It would be nice if there's an "after-COVID" phase, but I'm not holding my breath.

And for many SALTers, sadly, there was only a before-COVID phase. That same day, all MCCers received an email that we would be allowed to end our terms in good standing and go back to our country of citizenship if that were the right decision for our situation. For many SALTers, this has been a very heavy choice: to leave placements early or weather the pandemic in host communities, based on a personal judgement, with guidance from their reps and/or partner org, of what is appropriate in each individual's circumstances.

I’m feeling very blessed with the sense of peace I currently have regarding my own decision to stay in Honduras during this time. I feel like the government here is taking appropriate measures (much in contrast to the very delayed response in Colorado and the rest of the US). My host family makes me feel very welcome and has been clear that we’re in this together and for that I am very grateful, since some SALTers have faced xenophobia during this time. Of course it would be very difficult if anything were to happen to my family members back in the states, but I am so grateful for the technology that we have access to and how I have been able to stay connected with them. MCC’s amazing health care coverage for its service workers is another thing making me feel very secure right now, especially having just aged out of my parents’ health plan earlier this month. And of course, I am so lucky to have internet access at my host home and a placement I can continue to contribute to remotely—many SALTers’ work has been suspended indefinitely due to physical distancing measures.

Kara's teaching position at AFE, for example. My host siblings have been able to continue their classwork online, but the underprivileged students at AFE have no access to that kind of technology, so it was unclear whether she'd have any work for the rest of the term. She made the difficult decision last week and made it home this past Wednesday the 25th. I feel very fortunate to have been able to hug her goodbye on Tuesday (I know, I know, but I couldn't not!) after Rudi and Joél picked her up from the church where a private car (carrying a letter from the embassy granting special movement permissions) dropped her off after driving her and a couple ASJ workers up from Tegus.

Another thing many SALT workers have had to take into consideration is the possibility that border closures are getting tighter and restrictions may not have lifted by July. Some of them have plans to begin studies in August. I'm so grateful that I'd already adjusted my brain to picture myself staying here through October. A Messenger group that Lauren, another SALTer, started on the 19th has been very helpful for hearing others' decision-making processes and being able to pray for and support one another. By my count, just under 50% of the SALTers will be remaining in their placements.

Okay, I think this wall of text has dragged on long enough. Tomorrow I'll try to post some photos of how I've been entertaining myself in quarantine.