A little over two weeks ago I traveled to my hometown of Lima, Peru. My father, who is more than 80 years old, recently had an accident and I felt the need to visit him.
It was the first time I’d been able to travel to Lima and visit my family since February 2020 – just before the pandemic hit. We celebrated my mother’s birthday, and it was also a family reunion with the promise of seeing each other again that Christmas. Sadly, after the pandemic was declared, my mother was not able to receive medical attention for her cancer that affected her for 20 years, and she passed away in August. And none of us could be together at Christmastime.
I personally believe that the severe pain that afflicted her, and the impossibility of our gathering again as a family in December, ended her will to live.
With flights to Peru canceled and the pandemic wreaking havoc in the country, it was impossible for me to travel to my mother’s funeral and say goodbye.
A little over a year since my last opportunity to visit, I decided to brave the continued health risks and visit my father, make sure he was OK and take care of him. I wanted desperately to be able to look into his eyes again, as well as visit my sisters and cry with everyone. And as strange as it sounds, I needed to see for myself that my mother had died, that she was no longer part of this world though I feel that she is always with me.
Traveling during a pandemic is not the pleasant experience it was in normal times. If you have recently traveled, you know what I mean. There is a lot of tension, fear and suspicion about others’ behavior. There are thorough check-ups, exams before and after traveling, face masks, plastic face coverings, and an ever-present possibility of contagion. All of the health measures – while necessary and important – make the dream of traveling a nightmare right now.
But as uncomfortable as it was, my journey was nothing compared to what I found when I arrived.
Today in Lima, rich and poor alike die from COVID-19. The pandemic has democratized death.
People remain sick at home and are cared for by family members, as there is no space available at the hospitals. Without ICU beds, patients wander seeking to enter a hospital to try and save their lives.
There is no oxygen, as demand has far exceeded the supply. Relatives of those who are sick with COVID-19 wait with their empty oxygen tanks for days outside the plants that sell this essential supply for life.
With supplies of vaccines extremely limited, politicians and businessmen, people close to the government, take advantage of their relationships to jump ahead of the line and get vaccinated before doctors, nurses and front-line workers.
Meanwhile, a large sector of the population lives under a “curfew” between 9 p.m. and 4 a.m., without the possibility of working so that they can buy food and care for their families. Only a government stimulus check of just over $160 has been given out recently to help the most vulnerable.
I do not write these lines to complain. I want them to be a testimony of a people that strives to survive, that seeks without yet finding, that does not stop and risks everything to bring life to those they love – a people that, despite corrupt authorities and those who prey on the suffering of others, will rise up again and continue their lives.
There are already examples of it. The “ollas comunes,” popular kitchens organized by women living in the poorest areas of Lima, are feeding thousands of people.
This solidarity shown by the poorest is the face of hope amid this pandemic. Pope Francis, in his general audience on Sept. 2, 2020, said the word solidarity “is a bit worn out and is sometimes misinterpreted, but it is much more than some sporadic acts of generosity... It is not only a question of helping others, this is good to do, but it is more: it is about justice.”
And that is what Peruvians need: justice.
César Hurtado is the Hispanic communications specialist for the Catholic News Herald.