ONeill - Secure the soul : Christian piety and gang prevention in Guatemala

The streets were on fire. They were burning the devil. La quema del diablo. Every year, on December 7, at sunset, Guatemalans torch their trash. To purge the devil, some say. For spiritual purity, others add. Old newspapers, stained mattresses, and broken furniturethey set it ablaze in the streets, which is where I stood. Outside a small Pentecostal church, in an unplanned, undeveloped zona of Guatemala City, I stood with a pastor. The sun had set. Thick smoke gathered while dozens of bonfires cast shadows across otherwise unlit streets. He was on the phone with a young woman. Her sister had just been gang-raped on a public bus. The pastor struggled for answers. He offered prayers. He even promised to visit the very next day, on Monday; but for now, he said, he had a service to deliver, a congregation to minister. As he spoke, the flames grew closer. I turned away, only to find myself facing a red and black piata. Shaped like the devil, hanging from a post, by the neck, it had been lynched. His feet were on fire.

The church was modest. A metal roof balanced atop four cement walls, while oversized, overused speakers pushed Pentecostal music past the seats and out the door. The streets seemed to push it back. Inside the church, toddlers toddled and children ran while young men sat with young women, and old women sat with their daughters. Fire or not, the devil or not, it was Sunday night, and they were at church for a service. Men and women squeezed into the space while flames licked at the windows. The church had begun to take on smoke.

FIGURE 1. La quema del diablo. Photo by Benjamin Fogarty-Valenzuela.

A greeting, a prayer, and then another songthe pastor kept to the script. So too did the congregants. But then the pastor mentioned a guest. He mentioned an honored guest. He, not the pastor, would deliver the sermon. He, not the pastor, would share his testimony. This young man, the pastor insisted, would share his testimony with anyone who would listen. The thought of it brought a smile to the pastors face. Will you listen? the pastor asked. Will you really listen? Fireworks popped in the streets. Some turned to watch. Listen to the young man, the pastor pressed, because he is here to help you. He is here to save you. To save us. You need to listen to him. A stray dog poked his nose inside the church. A little boy kicked at it. The gangs are too much, the pastor continued. The violence in Guatemala is just too much.

Mateo, the young man, took to the pulpit. He was not tall, but he was obviously strong. He had broad shoulders, a thick neck, and a sturdy back. He could be mistaken for an athlete, a boxer perhaps, were it not for his gait. He walked like a gangsta. This is his word, not mine. He walked a little slower, a little more stridently than the average Guatemalan. Mateo had a kind of swagger that made him stand out. He knew it, and he liked it. The bald head, the baggy jeans, and the tattoos peeking out from under his collarit all signaled a certain kind of time spent in the States. His stunted Spanish was also a tell. Mateo was not from Guatemala. Everyone knew as much. But, of course, he was. Everyone knew that, too.

Mateo spoke softly. Thank you, he whispered, Thank you, brothers and sisters. Mateo always spoke softly, at least at first. It was a bit of trick. Get them leaning forward, he would tell me. Get them on the edge of their seats, he would say. Dont just yell at em. Make em work for it. They need to fuckin work for it. He motioned for everyone to take their seats. Sit, brothers and sisters. Please sit. As they sat down, Mateo stepped back. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the microphone and started slowly. The word of God touches me. It touches me so much. Im thirty years old. And I am alive by the grace of God. The whisper worked. It usually did. The young men and the young women leaned toward him. So too did the mothers and the fathers. The children still ran, and the toddlers still toddled, but the old women, the hardest of all to hook, shifted a bit in their seats. The word of God touches my heart deeply, he said, with a cough. The smoke thickened.

But let me back up, he said. I want to start from the beginning. Mateo always started from the beginning. When I was three years old, my dad and I left. We were here in Guatemala, but then we went to the United States illegally. He let that fact sit for a bit. We left for the United States without papers. You see, my cousin is American. He was born in Guatemala but his papers are American. And when I was young, when I was still really little, I looked just like my cousin. But I wasnt him. We just looked the same. So I used his papers to cross the border. Mateos pitch began to peak. He started to preach to the back of the room. I arrived illegally... because my dad thought he was going to find something better. He was looking for what a lot of Central Americans are looking for. It was a familiar story. When, really, this country, this Guatemala, is rich. Guatemala is blessed! Guatemala is a rich country! Mateo yelled that last part. He always yelled that last part.