Less than a year ago my grandmother had a stroke. She survived but ended up paralyzed on her right side. Remarkably, she´s recovered almost completely and has most movement on her right side back. I decided to come to Honduras to see her with my mom because I knew deep down she was probably scared and may have finally realized she´s actually human — but those who know her might still disagree about that.
Her name is Bertha Flores. She´s known country-wide by Hondurans. She´s been a mid-wife, a mayor, and a governor. She’s also been a mother, grandmother, great-grandmother and godmother to hundreds of children — yes, hundreds. For decades people have come to her house in La Esperanza, Honduras (La Esperanza means Hope) seeking medicine, money, advice, or whatever, any kind of help. She always does what she can and people never forget it.
The indigenous population of Lencas who inhabit the town and surrounding region visit her the most. They are the poorest of the poor here and travel for miles to see her. I remember on one of my visits an indigenous woman brought a child to her for medical attention. She had walked for days down from the mountains. By the time she arrived at my grandmother´s house, it was too late. All my grandmother could do was place the child in a room, light a few candles and say a prayer for him. He died — literally — of diarrhea or more accurately, the dehydraresultingtling from diarrhea.
I could go on and on about her on this blog but will instead cut it up into various chapters, the brief paragraph above doesn´t even scratch the surface of her life or of my family’s in Honduras.