Paz

I stare up at the fence surrounding the mural.

A sign of organized destruction.

A symbol of Salvadoran erasure.

“Well, this is new.” I mutter under hot breath after a longass drive.

My mother used to climb trees in El Salvador and I climb fences in Melbourne (I’m an Aries rising – what?). This is my second visit to the mural.

The colours of the mural contrast against a lifeless, shell of a building - like a heartbeat after time of death. I imagine a bulldozer charging at me while I stand my ground in protest.  

I sit in the front of the mural and ask it to please speak to me. It responds in a language I understand, but can’t speak very well.

PAZ CON DIGNIDAD. LIBERTAD O MUERTE. Peace with dignity. Liberty or death.

Paz. Paz. Paz. Peace. I understand but I don’t understand.

This is what Paz looked like to these Salvadoran youths. They painted simple pleasures; a park, a fruit stand, bebidas, tortillas, a maca —

Joyful, joyful, joyful; while a crowd at the edge of the park protest the civil war.

My parents rarely speak of home, but when they do their words are heavy with a weight I’ll never understand.  All the people in their murals have migrated around the world. They call them on Whatsapp and catchup on Facebook.

My eyes dart around this painting like a curious kid trying to find out who they are and where they come from. Where’s Waldo comes to mind but it’s just me asking Adonde esta Andrea? over and over.

For me, being first generation feels like being two halves of a whole and never being enough of either. Witnessing something so historically Salvadoran here and now in Melbourne, a story with SO many authors, feels like I’m understanding my other half in a big way.

The family I never met.

The country I never knew.

Or can’t remember.

This was where my entire generation of family lived. This was the language they spoke. This was where they lived and where they died.

Home is not a big enough word. A life communally lost. A life these kids and their families had to leave behind.

We should question what’s behind fences more. And who decides what is or isn’t.