Rekindling a Flame: On a Marvelous Endorsement

At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.
Albert Schweitzer


Joshua Berman is an accomplished travel writer. He is co-author of Moon Handbooks Nicaragua, unquestionably the best guidebook for this country. What first drew my attention to Joshua’s work was that, a little over a year ago, he wrote in his blog that he had just purchased Bernardo and the Virgin and was looking forward to reading it. Grateful for the plug, I sent Joshua an email thanking him.

In his response, he stated:

Dear Silvio,

Wow, ¡qué milagro! I’m in the middle of reading Bernardo and the Virgin (I hadn’t yet read it when I wrote the post about Nica reading lists on my blog), and I was planning on contacting you later this week. Incredible. Bernardo and the Virgin is not only one of the best books I’ve read on Nicaragua, but one of the best historical fictions I’ve ever read. So, felicidades for that. I plan on including your novel on the Suggested Readings list of the next edition of my guidebook on Nicaragua.

I’m looking forward to communicating more with you,

Josué

Joshua and I have since corresponded, but only briefly. Today, however, my spirit soared after reading the grand endorsement Joshua gives Bernardo and the Virgin in the most recent edition (Third edition, September 1, 2008, Avalon Travel Publishing) of Moon Handbooks Nicaragua. The following quote can be found on page 459, in the section titled Further Study. Bernardo is the first book mentioned.

Suggested Reading

A prodigious amount of literature emerged from the Sandinista years, when Nicaragua was the setting of the hemisphere’s most celebrated—and criticized—socialist experiment of the century. You’ll find more titles on Nicaragua in the used-book section than you will on the new releases shelf. Following is an extremely eclectic (and incomplete) list of your options.

Fiction

Sirias, Silvio. Bernardo and the Virgin. Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 2005. Bernardo stands head and shoulders above other books about Nicaragua for sheer originality, real-life texture, and ingenious use of voices and characters. This historical novel tells the true story of the Virgin Mary’s appearances to a campesino in Cuapa, while portraying a thick slice of Nicaragua’s past and present. If you only have time to read one book before your trip, this may be the one.

I would never dare to wish for a better review than that, especially from someone who has read extensively about Nicaragua.

Gracias, Joshué. Your message came at a time when I needed that extra boost.


To purchase your copy of Moon Handbooks Nicaragua, click here.

Or, for a copy of Bernardo and the Virgin, go here.

An Unforeseen Earthly Connection: On Santo Tomás, Chontales

Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Robert Frost


I heard the story of my family name from my paternal grandfather, José Vicente Sirias. According to his tale, in the latter half of the eighteenth century two brothers left their homeland in the Middle East and eventually settled in Nicaragua. My guess today—after researching historical migrations to Central America—is that they were part of a large wave of Catholics who came to this region from what today constitute Lebanon, Syria, Israel, and Palestine to escape economic hardship, as well as discrimination against non-Muslims, during the last throes of the Ottoman Empire .

The brothers settled in the town of Acoyapa, located in the cattle-raising province of Chontales. Their presence intrigued the residents of this region, but the local citizenry never learned to pronounce the immigrants’ surname. Instead, folks referred to the brothers as “Los Sirias”—an abbreviated form of "The Syrians"—and the brothers adopted the nickname. Sadly, both the original family name and their true land of origin have been lost to time.

This tale, as fragile as it is, is the only source I have that explains our uncommon last name.

Today, for the branch of the Sirias family I belong to, the locus of our heritage has shifted ten miles south of Acoyapa, to the town of Santo Tomás. This community—of 16,000 inhabitants and located 118 miles south of Managua—is the last outpost of civilization. (Many Nicaraguans would disagree with the term “civilization” being used for any Chontales community.) The heart of Santo Tomás lays on the eastern side of the road to Rama, a village where, after a long and exhausting boat ride, one can reach Nicaragua’s isolated Caribbean coast.

Santo Tomás is where east meets west. It is the wild frontier where the Afro-Antillean, the indigenous, the European and, in the case of the Siriases, the Middle Eastern heritages merge.

After two failed marriages—in which time my grandfather produced seven children, including my father, from his first marriage—he returned to his province of birth after a long absence and settled in Santo Tomás. There, he married again—at last successfully—and had eight more children.

Although my father and the Santo Tomás branch of the Siriases had different mothers and they didn’t meet until they were adults, they got along splendidly, caring for one another as if they had been together all of their lives. I’ve come to feel close to the Sirias-Vargas clan as well. (My father’s limb of the family tree is that of the Sirias-Burgos.) When I visit my uncles, aunts, and cousins in Santo Tomás I feel rooted. Admittedly, I find it strange to feel intimately connected to a community where I’ve never lived. But I believe that’s because when I’m in Santo Tomás I hear wondrous stories that make me feel close to my father and his three brothers—all of them now departed.

This is why Santo Tomás has become such an important part in the construction of my identity. That is why the community is mentioned prominently in Bernardo and the Virgin. It’s also why this Chontales town is the site of a key encounter in which my aunts and uncles briefly become fictional characters in Meet Me Under the Ceiba.

Santo Tomás is where I feel close to my paternal heritage. What’s more, I know that I shall always feel this way because, through a series of unpredictable events that now appear to have been steered by the more blessed forces of fate—too complex to discuss in a blog entry and, I confess, a little too personal—my father is buried there, next to his father.


For anyone interested in learning more about Santo Tomás, click here

And to learn more about Acoyapa, including the mention of several Siriases who played important roles in the town’s history, click here

The Magic of Antigua, Guatemala

I think that the ideal space must contain elements of magic, serenity, sorcery and mystery.
Luis Barragan


I first visited Antigua, Guatemala when I was fifteen years old. I had come to this country as part of a leadership conference for Central American Catholic youth. That experience marked me for life, in the best of ways. On our last day in Guatemala we were taken to Antigua, the spectacularly well-preserved original site of the nation’s capital. That brief visit became engraved in my memory as a magical incident, a day where ancient colonial walls spoke to me of the clashes and confluences of cultures, religions, beliefs, and people that took place here centuries ago.

I’ve just returned from my third visit to Antigua. This time, I accompanied a group of high school students from Balboa Academy to a leadership conference organized by the Association of American Schools of Central America. The experience was, once again, magical. Seeing the city through their eyes allowed me to relive a part of my life when the future was a vast ocean of possibilities, as limitless as the dreams of youth.

But what most marked me on this occasion was a trip to a state-operated home for elderly people who are destitute. I visited the institution to help supervise a group of students who went there as part of a community service project. I admit that when I first learned that I had been assigned to the old folks’ home I was quite concerned about what I would say or do with the residents. After all, I was a perfect stranger walking into their dwelling, uninvited, with the intent of becoming their friend.

My apprehension vanished, however, the moment I entered the home. While leading the students back into the dining room—our arms cradling small gifts and supplies—I said “Buenos días” to the residents seated along the long corridors of the elegant colonial home. They rewarded my greeting with warm, welcoming smiles.

That day I heard a dozen unforgettable stories: the ninety-two year old man who was grateful for his good health and for being able to have a roof over his head; the former jeweler, embittered after a car accident left him without the use of his legs and because his family, who lived only an hour away, had not visited him in over a year; the poet who had never written down a single verse yet could recite from memory all his compositions; and others.

My experience in soliciting people’s stories—part of my trade as a writer who bases his novels on actual events—came in handy. I could have spent several weeks at the home and still not heard every fascinating tale. I only wish I’d had more time to spend with these elders who so generously offered me intimate glimpses into their lives.

At the end of our visit, as we prepared to leave, my favorite resident, a small, mute woman, still not terribly aged, who communicated in sign language few could understand, held onto me, her arms around my waist, in gratitude for the time I spent trying to communicate with her. (In spite of the trouble I had understanding her, we laughed a lot together.) She didn’t want me to leave.

And as the young students filed out of the home, smiling in approval as my new friend clung to me, I knew then that I was living another moment that would become part of my reservoir of magical memories of Antigua, Guatemala.