Reflections Before a Shrine

Forms change and pass; bodies disappear, but spirits linger, to consecrate ground for the vision-place of souls.
Joseph L. Chamberlain


What acts are capable of consecrating ground?

Miracles; sacrifices; tragedies.

On October 23, 2006, in the capital of the Republic of Panamá, a crowded bus caught on fire.

Eighteen persons—children, women, and men—burned to death.

The tragedy stunned every Panamanian as the vast majority of people who live in Panamá City use this form of public transportation.

In September of 2003, I wrote the article “In Praise of Public Transportation,” which appeared in The Panama News. Having recently moved here from Nicaragua, my wife and I were delighted with Panamá’s superior public transportation. At the time, many of the capital’s buses had air-conditioning, and having come here from one of the poorest nations in the hemisphere, these vehicles did indeed seem luxurious.

But in the three and a half years since, the capital’s public transportation has deteriorated, and alarmingly so. Although my wife and I still take taxis, riding on buses now frightens us—the conditions of many of the buses, and the way they are driven, can unnerve even the hardiest of souls. Only a few days before the tragedy, as the car I was riding in waited for the light to turn green, I glanced at the bus next to us and was startled to see the dreadful shape of its rear tires.

“That’s a tragedy waiting to happen,” I said to my wife.

Sadly, these words turned out to be prophetic. But never, even in my worst nightmares, could I have foreseen a tragedy of the magnitude Panamanians witnessed on their television screens and in the photographs that were published the following morning in the front pages of their newspapers.

The site of the tragedy is along the route I take to work every day. On the sidewalk nearest to where the eighteen deaths occurred, an impromptu shrine has been created, and candles burn there at all hours.

A few days ago, I visited the memorial to light a candle and say a prayer for the victims and their families.

Up close, the first thing I notice is the colorful display of artificial flowers. But many bouquets—both fresh and withered—have also been lovingly placed among the bright replicas. The surrounding sidewalk is covered with a thick layer of wax from the thousands of candles that have been lighted in honor of the victims. And planted in the heart of the swelling mound—as if honoring bravery on a battlefield—many small Panamanian flags stand motionless on this hot, humid, and breezeless day.

Taking the cellophane off of my candle, I place it in an empty glass container, and light it. I then take a step back and say brief a prayer.

Once finished, I stroll through the site examining the offerings. There is a small teddy bear, the heart shaped pillow in its arms says, in English, “You’re Special.” Dozens of small plastic children’s toys—robots, dogs, cows, cars and, startlingly, buses—are among the flowers.

The predominant offerings are angels. There are angels everywhere. One angel in particular catches my eye: against the wall of the nearest building sits the largest angel of all. The plaster cherub has the face of a child; his beautiful wings are partially open, as if he has yet to learn how to fly, and his clear gaze is sad, lost somewhere in distant, sorrowful thoughts.

Other offerings include large posters with prayers, small prayer cards, and a bible in a sealed plastic bag, its pages open and the words beginning to fade after several days under the sun’s harsh scrutiny.

As I begin to leave, I see a newspaper item taped onto the wall of a neighboring cement trash bin. Photographs of the eighteen victims stare back at me. Most of these are studio portraits, and the faces of those who are now dead smile for the camera. This is the moment that most touches my heart.

Saddened beyond words, I leave, crossing the street by way of a nearby pedestrian overpass. But the view at the center of the bridge, high above the traffic, staggers me. On the day of the tragedy, those up here had a horrifying vantage point of the accident. Although the entire nation saw the images of the burning bus on television, we were spared the heat, the screams, and the smell of burning flesh. But at this instant, and from this spot, those moments of terror become real, and I struggle, but fail, to fight back the tears.

At present, the bus driver, his brother (who owns the bus), and the mechanic who repaired the electrical system—the cause of the fire—are under investigation. Admittedly, they are directly responsible for the senseless calamity that took place on that wretched day. But Panamá’s Transportation Department also needs to bear much of the guilt. Their lack of attention to the failing state of Panama’s public transportation borders on negligence.

In the news, the families of the victims have repeatedly stated that they do not want the deaths of their loved ones to be in vain.

And on that Sunday, during my visit, I also prayed that the deaths of eighteen children, women, and men result in something that redeems their sacrifice, that gives this tragedy a noble meaning.