A Review of Bernardo

I don’t interrupt my writing to read my reviews, but—at the end of the day—I read them.
John Irving

Just last week I discovered this review of Bernardo and the Virgin. It appeared in the January 2006 issue of Today’s Catholic. The author’s comments have assured me that the novel succeeded in an area that was important to me: to portray Catholics and Catholicism realistically, yet with respect.

I confess that I enjoyed this review, immensely. But as Amy Tan once said—quite sagely, I think: “If you get this kind of review then you worry about what’s going to happen with the next. So there’s never any comfort point.”


Bernardo is Testament that God Works in Mysterious Ways
Reviewed by York Young

The cold calculation that publishers employ when evaluating books nowadays is way too much about money and often only negligibly considers the quality of the writing. That may be even truer when it comes to fiction. And the way in which the book industry handles new writers without that guaranteed bestseller marginalizes both writers and readers. Therefore, anytime a minimally marketed book turns out to be a gem, or perhaps a book from a small publishing house (which has its own limitations), it’s basically left up to the readers to spread the word.

Northwestern University Press—outside the mainstream of fiction publishing—has launched a new series, Latino Voices, featuring fiction as well as some literary nonfiction, all written in English. Northwestern’s most recent release is Bernardo and the Virgin, by Silvio Sirias, which is a fictional account of goings-on around the real life Bernardo Martinez, who was visited by the Virgin Mary in 1980 on several occasions.

Sirias is straightforward and honest with his readers on his intentions for putting this story in fictional form: “In striving to accurately describe the sublime nature of Bernardo’s experience (in biographical form), I would have inevitably overreached and toppled into the absurd.” Despite embracing the novel as his medium, many of the incidents described occurred, albeit with Sirias’s deft touch of emotion and importance.

The beauty of Bernardo and the Virgin is Sirias’ seriousness in his approach to the subject matter. He takes the apparitions and surrounding tales—including miracles reported—at face value. And he imbues these tales with the faith and love one would expect from a visionary without degenerating into pietistic platitudes.

How Bernardo lives his faith and affects the faith of those around him is awe-inspiring and unsettling at the same time for those of us trying to live Christ-like lives in the First World lap of luxury. As Nicaragua deteriorates into civil war and the conflict between Sandinistas and their opponents create havoc all around them—and friends and acquaintances of Bernardo become involved in the chaos in a variety of ways—the saintly tailor keeps the focus on exactly what the Virgin has relayed to him: love others, pray for the conversion of souls, follow her Son.

Yes, the happenings at Cuapa seem, at times, questionable—Bernardo seeks answers from the Blessed Mother on particular, seemingly trivial requests that some of his friends and others have prompted him to ask, and she answers—but the reported miracles and conversions may be evidence of veracity. The Nicaraguan Catholic Church has named the cow pasture where the apparitions took place a holy site. (Caveat: Catholics are not required to believe, as a matter of faith, in apparitions, even those officially approved by the church.)

The novel is enjoyable for its unsensational presentation of the faith, an enlightening look at how Latinos revere the Virgin and the Catholic faith, and its welcome lack of bad language and sex scenes that are too often overplayed in contemporary fiction.

God works in mysterious ways. Bernardo, in real life or in fiction, is testament to that.

A Pleasant Surprise

The only thing that should surprise us is that there are still some things that can surprise us.
Francois De La Rochefoucauld


I’m glad I wasn’t eating toast at the time because I might’ve choked.

Yesterday morning I was engrossed in my daily ritual of reading La Prensa while having breakfast when, on the cover of the “Vivir” section, I saw a blurb that mentioned Bernardo and the Virgin. I was stunned beyond words.

Every Tuesday La Prensa publishes the column “¿Qué está leyendo?” In it, the reporter Carolina Proaño Wexman asks someone—usually a young, educated, and upwardly mobile person—“What are you reading?”

I never fail to read this column because, as a literary being, I’m always interested a person’s reading taste. (Also, “¿Qué está leyendo?” appears next to Paulo Coelho’s weekly column, which I never miss.) But, honestly, never in a million years did I expect Bernardo and the Virgin to be mentioned in “¿Qué está leyendo?”

There are several English-language reading clubs in Panamá City. One, in fact, recently selected Bernardo. (That group meets tonight and I’m their special guest.) And although I’ve met a couple of members of the circle, I’ve yet to meet Emily Zhukov—the reader interviewed for “¿Qué está leyendo?” I want, then, to take this opportunity to thank Emily for the wonderful comments she made about Bernardo and to thank the group for taking a chance on my work.

The article, which follows, is, of course, in Spanish. For those who may have trouble reading the language, I summarize: Ms. Zhukov, a sculptor, states that writing is something unimaginable to her because it’s intimate, personal, and intellectual. Sculpting, on the other hand, is more of a physical outlet. Emily says that her work leaves her with little time to read and that joining the book club has obliged her to make the time. That’s how Bernardo and the Virgin came to her attention. Although the novel didn’t hook her immediately, Emily says she now can’t wait to finish it. She then gives a summary of the plot, and the column concludes by stating that Emily has lived in Panamá for twelve years.

I have to admit that seeing Bernardo and the Virgin mentioned so prominently in La Prensa was a delightful way to start the morning.


LITERATURA. DE MILAGROS Y GUERRILLAS.

¿Qué está leyendo?

Emily Zhukov: arte, idioma y las historias que la han hecho identificarse con el ser centroamericano.

POR: CAROLINA PROAÑO WEXMAN

La idea de ser escritora la asustó. Para Emily Zhukov, escribir "es un trabajo tan personal, tan íntimo, muy mental. La escultura, en cambio, tiene una parte más física, es un desahogo".

Sus esculturas y actividades culturales no le dejan mucho espacio para leer, práctica que realiza con gran entusiasmo, porque es de esas lectoras a las que les gusta un libro sólo por "la tapa dura, la imprenta grande y las páginas sedosas".

Su entrada a un círculo de lectura "me obligó a hacerme el tiempo. En estas reuniones, donde discutimos y hablamos de libros, he podido leer cosas que yo no hubiera tomado en cuenta sola".

Es así como llegó a Bernardo y la Virgen, del autor nicaragüense Silvio Sirias.

"Al principio no me enganchó, pero ahora estoy que quiero leérmelo todo", cuenta.

¿De qué se trata?

"Se basa en una historia real, del siglo XX, en la época de los contras, los sandinistas en Nicaragüa y un campesino que vio una aparición de la Virgen en su potrero. La Virgen le pide que se dedique a difundir la fe, pero él tiene preocupaciones más importantes y terrenales".

Para Zhukov, "lo interesante del libro es que está escrito en inglés y en español y pasa de un idioma al otro sin traducción, de la misma manera en que hablamos muchos: puertorriqueños, panameños, cubanos. Es un libro para los bilingües, o para los que han vivido en Centroamérica". Y a pesar de desarrollarse en Nicaragua, la historia "también es sobre Panamá", su país de residencia desde hace más de 12 años.

The Return of the General

Tyranny follows the tyrant. Woe to the man who leaves a shadow that bears his form.
Victor Hugo

Each man is his own prisoner, in solitary confinement for life.
Robert A. Heinlein

He craved for power and became a tyrant. He craved wealth and became a criminal.
R. M. Koster


These days, many politicians in Panamá are feeling uneasy, particularly those in the governing Partido Revolucionario Democrático (PRD). That’s because the prodigal patriarch may soon be on his way home.

The United States Federal Bureau of Prisons recently posted on its website that September 9, 2007 is the projected release date—with time off for good behavior—of one of the world’s most notorious felons: Manuel Antonio Noriega, former Panamanian strongman.

In December of 1989, the US invaded Panamá with the expressed purpose of bringing the dictator to trial on assorted charges, including drug trafficking. And in 1990, at the age of 51 (although some claim that Noriega is five years older than his officially given age), the General was sentenced to forty years in prison (later reduced to thirty).

It appears that most Panamanians assumed that Noriega would not live out his sentence. Even the members of the PRD—the party he helped found and once led—seemed relieved that he was behind bars in a foreign country. But what has surprised quite a few people here in Panamá—although the possibility of his 2007 parole has been known ever since his sentence was revised—is that the United States will indeed set Manuel Antonio Noriega free after only serving seventeen years.

If he returns to Panamá things will certainly get messy.

The day the General leaves his Miami prison cell for good he will be sixty-nine years old. While incarcerated, Noriega became a born-again Christian and he suffered a minor stroke. Still, in spite of being a debilitated and repentant senior citizen, the prospect of his homecoming is making the nation’s leaders nervous.

I moved to Panamá in 2003. At the time it was impossible for me to envision that only thirteen years earlier this nation had been living in the ironclad grip of a military dictatorship. And that thought continues to challenge my imagination.

But since I’ve been here I’ve also noticed that many citizens—from all walks of life—are indebted to the General. What’s more, a few of them continue to have considerable political influence. Because of this, the approaching shadow of Manuel Antonio Noriega is making them uncomfortable.

Undoubtedly, Martín Torrijos, Panamá’s current president, stands the most to lose with Noriega’s return. Torrijos’s party, the PRD, is Noriega’s former party. Among its ranks are persons who were once subserviently loyal to the dictator. And it’s conceivable that several of them may be secretly relishing the return of their former master.

President Torrijos has been tightlipped about the General’s impending release. He has limited himself to stating that Noriega’s return is not a concern of his government, but of the judicial system. But as of today there are no signs that Panamá will solicit his extradition.

On the other hand, in two appointments that have been highly controversial, Martín Torrijos awarded positions in Panamá’s diplomatic corps to Noriega’s daughters. And even with the President’s assurances to the contrary, it very much looks like he is paying back old debts.

A few possible scenarios concerning the General’s fate upon his release:

—Panamá can request his extradition. He was tried here in absentia and sentenced for a number of crimes.

—He could be extradited to France, where he faces charges for money laundering.

—He could be allowed to live quietly in exile; most likely in the Dominican Republic, where his eldest daughter lives.

—Martín Torrijos could pardon him, which would clear the way for his unencumbered return to Panamá.

The smart money is betting that, once released, Manuel Antonio Noriega will be on a plane to the Dominican Republic.

Nevertheless, even this outcome would create problems for the current government. There are growing voices of concern—ranging from politicians of the opposition to average citizens—who are demanding that Noriega serve out the sentence assigned to him by Panamá’s judicial system. These clamors will not die out, and the opposition, with their chants for justice, will undoubtedly make Torrijos’s last couple of years in power uncomfortable.

(Surprisingly, several Panamanians have told me that they would welcome Noriega’s return to power because the General would restore order to a society that they believe has gone soft on street crime.)

Regardless, two things are certain: first, the United States does not want the General back in Panamá, for his presence will undoubtedly bring chaos in its wake; and second, the ruling Partido Revolucionario Democrático, although beholden to the General—or perhaps because it is in his debt—would be better off if its former leader goes into exile, permanently.

Yet the question remains: once released, where will Manuel Antonio Noriega go?

The Cloak Removed

I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me.
Ralph Ellison

We’ve come together to say that we are workers, not criminals; that we work hard, we pay our taxes, we live by the rules, and we want this great America to take us into account.
Antonio Villaraigosa, Mayor of Los Angeles

Very impressive rallies.
John Kasich, Anchor, Fox News


I grew up thinking that, as a boy living in the United States, I was invisible. I speak not of H.G. Wells’s invisible man—which, incidentally, might have been a lot of fun—but of Ralph Ellison’s: someone rendered invisible because of his or her ethnicity.

In the Los Angeles of the late 1950s and early 1960s, Latinos and Latinas were everywhere. Yet the government and the media ignored us. It was as if we didn’t exist. And mainstream USA never discussed—much less acknowledged—our contributions.

I can still recall how excited I was my first day in fourth grade when the teacher announced that, for the entire school year, we were going to study the history of California. This was a subject that has always interested me, passionately so. As a boy, two of my favorite places to visit were the Museum of Natural History and Olvera Street. At the Museum, I could spend hours looking at the dioramas of Los Angeles’s first settlers—who had migrated from Los Alamos, Sonora, México. And whenever I visited the cobblestone lanes of Olvera Street, the historical contributions of Latinas and Latinos to California became undeniably real.

Because of this, in fourth grade, I expected to become visible. I fully expected the curriculum to discuss our presence, our ways, and our qualities. But the teacher, although well meaning, closely followed a text that barely touched upon the indigenous people who lived in California prior to the arrival of the Franciscans. The book exalted the work of Fray Junipero Serra, the Italian founder of the missions, for bringing European values to what was then the farthest northwestern outpost of the Spanish Empire. The Californios, the settlers who founded Los Angeles and other prominent cities in the state, were cursorily mentioned. But for everyone’s enjoyment there was a sidebar explaining why California’s most important communities had Spanish names and what these meant.

That was it. According to our text, the history of California started with the Bear Flag Rebellion and the westward expansion of the United States.

I was crushed and, if anything, the authoritative weight of what was taught in the classroom reinforced my feelings of being invisible.

It wasn’t until my family moved to Nicaragua—when I was eleven—that my exposure to the richness of our history and culture really began. And it was during those adolescent years, while living in Central America, that I started to feel great pride in my heritage.

But while I was away, things had begun to change in the United States. When I returned to California to attend college, in 1972, I immediately detected a small tear in the invisibility cloak: in some political and cultural forums there were actual discussions about our existence. The Chicano Movement—the Mexican-American Civil Rights struggle whose rise I had missed—was in large part responsible for this aperture.

And gradually, over the ensuing years, the threads of the cloak started to dissolve, and Latinos and Latinas, with great sacrifices, carved out spaces for themselves in every endeavor, including my favorite—literature.

Astoundingly, the members of the House of Representatives slept through all this. How else can one explain the passing of such a hard-core anti-illegal-immigration bill as HR 4437? Congress, without a doubt, underestimated the resolve of Latinas and Latinos to fight for our right to be visible.

But after the rallies of Saturday, March 25, the entire United States—as well the rest of the world, for it became a major international news item—has taken notice. And what especially moved me were the photographs of the enormous crowd—half a million strong and all dressed in white—that attended the Los Angeles protest.

We’ve ceased being invisible.

Unquestionably, the issue of immigration still has to be dealt with. But now representatives from the entire political spectrum of the Latino and Latina communities will be included in the dialog. (This had not happened before.) And those in a hurry to close down the border will have to wait patiently until a consensus on a humane immigration policy has been reached.

The past couple of weeks, the US press has commented that a “sleeping giant” has been awakened.

But we’ve never been asleep. Not really.

I believe it would be more accurate to say that we’ve finally cast off the cloak.