Troubled Mission: Fighting for Love, Spirituality and Human Rights in Violence-Ridden Peru

By John Wagner

What happened when, after a life-changing study-tour of Peru, a successful US attorney abandoned his law practice to volunteer with a religious organization and travel to Peru to fight for human rights in the midst of a culture of violence and terror?

Not what he expected.

In his sometimes romantic, sometimes terrifying, always inspiring memoir, John Wagner searches for love, spirituality, and the chance to fight against injustice and oppression in a country not his own, while working for a religious organization he could not trust.

Wagner lives under a death threat from the fanatical Sendero Luminoso terrorist organization that he must keep secret from his religious community. He develops an on-and-off love affair with Bella, a beautiful but mysterious Peruvian teacher. He faces dramatic betrayals. He accidentally travels into the heart of the drug capital of the world. Day by day, he sees the increasing violence in Peru and overnight, he sees Peru’s president become a dictator, shredding the rule of law. After a terrorist attack in a small town, he confronts Peruvian Army officers head-on to gain access to the scene. Then he must help prepare for burial the bloody, ravaged, body of a Campesina woman killed in that attack.

Wagner skillfully interweaves his inner struggles, including coming to grips with a new language, a new culture, a lower station in life, and a new perspective on his native Catholicism. Finally, he stumbles into what would become a landmark human rights case, stopping the Peruvian government from persecuting human rights lawyers.

Ultimately, Troubled Mission is the story of human redemption. Many people seek personal change only to find unexpected obstacles. Troubled Mission shows how we can find redemption—or redemption finds us—in so many unexpected ways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Wagner
• Release date: Jan 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9780996248556

John Wagner

John Wagner was a successful lawyer with a prominent U.S. law firm in the 1990s. A frequent adventure and spiritual traveler, his life changed dramatically during a study tour on the history and culture of Peru, including studying Sendero Luminoso, the violent terrorist group. He gave up everything, and risked his career and his life, to join a mission organization to work for human rights in Peru—in the face of a death threat if he did so. In Peru, he deepened his spirituality, worked on a landmark human rights case, and fell in love with Bella, a local teacher.After his work in Peru, he returned to the U.S., resumed his legal career, and married Bella. He holds degrees from Western State Colorado University, the University of Chicago, and the University of Wisconsin Law School. An early Baby Boomer, he has been a civil rights and antiwar activist, a disc jockey (loving rock n roll, jazz, and opera), a world traveler, and a motorcyclist. He is now retired from practicing law and lives with Bella in Sacramento, California, near their children and grandchildren.Find out more at www.johnpwagner.com.

Book preview

TROUBLED MISSION

Fighting For Love, Spirituality, and Human Rights

in Violence-Ridden Peru

John Wagner

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright © 2016 by John Wagner

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Kelly House

Sacramento, California

www.JohnPWagner.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2014 BookDesignTemplates.com

Book Production by AuthorFriendly.com

TROUBLED MISSION / John P. Wagner. −1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-9962485-5-6

Smashwords Edition January 20, 2016

Other Editions

Hardback 978-0-9962485-4-9

Paperback 978-0-9962485-0-1

FOR MY LOVECITA —

without her, this story would not exist.

There Is No Path. We Make The Path By Walking.

―ANTONIO MACHADO¹

Act like a good Catholic for 15 fucking minutes. Is that too much to ask?

―THE SOPRANOS²

Foreword

Much of what was going on in Peru when I was there was heavy and unsettling. That may make some of this book very hard to read. I was there during the height of terrorist violence and the most repressive time of Peruvian governance, when the corrupt President of the country (who would later be jailed) had no qualms about being seen as a dictator. At the time, and still now, I see it as part of my mission to report back on those events.

I hope this is more than a what happened book. I’ve tried to use my story to dig deep, to show the kernels of love, spirituality, and justice and, above all, the potential for personal transformation even under the worst circumstances. This is in no way a history of Peru during my time there. I’ve tried to write my story about my attempts to find love, transform myself spiritually, and do human rights work while I happened to be in the midst of these terrible historic events. I’m not a Pollyanna and don’t always agree there is hope underneath every incident. I’ve tried to write honestly about that. This is a story of self-discoveries, even though some of the discoveries were negative.

The facts in this memoir are true to the best of my memory, which of course is imperfect, especially after more than twenty years. I’ve changed the names of many people, institutions, and places to avoid offending anyone, and I’ve changed the time line of some incidents. I don’t claim word-for-word perfection in the quotations but they reflect the discussions to the best of my memory.

Ultimately, this story is about failure and redemption. I failed in many things I tried to do. Yet I found redemption in so many unexpected ways, despite my failures and in some cases maybe because of my failures. Above all, this is a story of love, loss, life, and the human search for meaning and spirituality.

CHAPTER ONE

Who Am I and What on Earth Am I Doing?

January 1991 Sacramento, California

It was the first workday after the New Year’s holiday. I stood in front of the closet in my underwear, suddenly realizing I wouldn’t be putting on a suit. I’d showered my forty-four year old, six foot two, basically thin but with a little pot gut, white, blue-eyed and glasses wearing, mostly bald but with some sketchy brown hair, self. No need to put on a suit and tie, no need to carry my well-worn briefcase either. Most of the furniture was gone. Shortly I would give away the remaining items, microwave, air mattress, and small TV, to friends and that would be that. The food in the refrigerator was thinning down. I knew where I was of course but I wasn’t sure who I was.

I was off to start a new life, doing human rights work in Peru with the lay (not ordained) program of a Catholic order, St. Joseph. I’d be leaving soon on a cross-country road trip from Sacramento to Boston, home of the St. Joseph headquarters. I’d been working on this plan for almost two years, since visiting Peru, and everything was now happening.

Yet for the moment, I had no social definition, no role in society. I did know I was risking everything. I was walking away from a successful partnership at a prominent law firm. Once you do that, even if for noble reasons, if you want to come back some time later, the firm isn’t going to want you unless you have a book of business to deliver, paying clients you will bring to the firm. Coming from doing human rights work in Peru, I wouldn’t have any such book. My firm had been very gracious. They gave me a nice going-away party and put together a wonderful scrapbook for me of some of my more famous cases. But there was no getting around that I had chosen to leave them. No law firm, or any organization, is going to like that.

I knew a bit about what I’d be getting into in Peru, especially the growing violence of the fearsome terrorist group, Sendero Luminoso, The Shining Path.³ I’d even received a strange death threat from a Senderista (member of Sendero), although it seemed more about jealousy than any political reasons. I didn’t feel I’d be in danger but I knew there was always the, wrong place, wrong time, possibility.

I’d asked some friends and relatives to store some possessions, given away many others to charities and friends, and had even held a one-man garage sale that wasn’t worth the work involved—try moving a sofa out to the driveway all by yourself! I’d arranged for a property management company to rent out my house, a mid-century modern—the style would later become in—an easy drive from downtown. I hadn’t felt wearing a suit daily had been a chore, it had become a routine part of my weekday life, and, I now realized, part of my self-definition. I knew that, once I was at St. Joseph, I wouldn’t wear a suit and not think twice about it. But for now, I felt disoriented. Why was I giving up my life as I’d come to know it, a life I was happy with?

* * *

For starters, I was a middle-aged, divorced-with-no-kids, non-practicing Catholic. My divorce was more than ten years ago, my ex-wife had remarried back in Wisconsin and we weren’t in contact, and I dated when I could. I saw myself as crusty and cynical, spiritual but unaffiliated, not buying into any organized religion. I knew I’d become the classic workaholic, anxious to please my clients, eager to succeed. I was a workhorse, staying at the office late into the evenings and most weekends. I’d gotten used to loneliness and a poor sex life. I knew I wasn’t good looking—bald and too professorial. I didn’t have the light touch that creates immediate likability, and felt that many dates probably found me boring. At least I didn’t bore myself. I saw myself as passionate and energetic, with a variety of fascinating interests. As a lawyer working long hours, I didn’t meet many available women and, often when I did, I could sense they either weren’t interested in me or they were focused more on my checkbook than on me. Or the physicality, including sex when we got that far, just didn’t work out.

I thought back to the evening I’d finished the legal brief for my first (and what would be my only) US Supreme Court case. I went to a popular singles bar to celebrate and mentioned the case to any women who would listen.

"Yeah, I’m a lawyer. Today I’ve finished briefing a case before the US Supreme Court!

Oh, that’s interesting, said a cute brunette, looking over my shoulder for better options. I wanted to talk more about my case, not in detail or technicalities but the general issues. No one asked. Neither my new status (I am litigating a case before the United States Supreme Court!) nor my looks aroused any interest. I came home alone to my empty house. Again.

I was interested in politics, concerned about the direction the US was heading (too much greed and I’m only out for me conservatism), having been involved in student politics in college. (I was class president one year but when I ran for student body president, I lost badly.) Politically, I was a progressive. During college and after, I’d protested for civil rights and against the Vietnam War. After I’d landed in Sacramento in 1983, I volunteered for several Mondale-for-President activities. I debated representatives of Ronald Reagan and Jesse Jackson in a mock candidates’ debate. I also drove a camera crew from ABC News around Sacramento when Vice President Mondale came to town and got to meet Mondale (he had a firm handshake and looked me right in the eye). I knew many radicals sneered at Mondale but I’d heard him give a moving and magnificent speech (on education policy of all things) and thought he combined a brilliantly analytical mind with the political grip and grin abilities needed to succeed and to create meaningful change. Maybe he did but the public never bought it. He went down fighting, though, not changing his beliefs to win votes, which I thought an important lesson. The real lesson for me, though, was that there was no way to seriously get involved in politics, at least in California, unless you had a lot of money or the ability to raise it. I didn’t have either and, except for helping on some local campaigns, didn’t do much regarding politics except complain.

I was also interested in music. During college in Colorado, I’d helped create our college radio station in Gunnison and during law school in Wisconsin, I’d put on special programs on our alternative, listener-sponsored, radio station in Madison. Later, in Sacramento, I helped found a similar alternative station, Sacramento Community Radio, where I applied for and got my own two-hour show late Sunday nights, Uncle John’s Jam.

I considered a jam, I told my listeners weekly, any style of music that took a theme and developed it and played with it. No three-minute songs here! Every Sunday night, I lugged my canvas bag full of albums—yes, LP albums, CDs were only starting to come in and the Internet didn’t exist yet—to our tiny station. Typically I played a lot of Grateful Dead, I was a Deadhead despite my straight looks. I also played jazz (Miles Davis, Charles Lloyd, and Thelonious Monk were favorites), spoken-word pieces (especially Yeats’s poetry and any antiwar poetry I could find), and even, now and then, classical works. One infamous night I played two hours of every version I could find of Dancin’ in the Streets. OK, those were three-minute songs but piled all together it was one long, incredible jam. I greatly enjoyed doing my show but I was usually so hyped-up afterwards I couldn’t get to sleep easily, hauling my bedraggled ass into work on Mondays feeling as though I had a hangover.

Travel was another interest. Prior to law school I hadn’t traveled much but, once established as a lawyer in Sacramento, I could afford to travel more often. I loved learning about foreign cultures and especially loved being in mountains.

In 1987, I’d taken a long trek in Nepal, going to the top of Kala Patar, a peak at 18,500 feet that overlooked the base camp for ascents up Mt. Everest. This trip set the stage for my life-changing trip to Peru a few years later. I enjoyed the Nepal trip immensely, especially hiking in those grand mountains. One morning I was walking near a high ridge and saw in the cold mist a line of what first appeared to be pots on top of that ridge. In the misty quiet, with only the crunch on snow of the boots of the other trekkers in my small group, it was a mystical experience. I was overcome with reverence: reverence for this place, reverence for the universe, reverence for life. This must be some kind of holy place, I thought. I later learned this was a memorial area, with decorative vases affixed to the rocks on the ridge, dedicated to climbers who’d died trying to conquer Mt. Everest.

I was disappointed with only one aspect of the Nepal trip, that I hadn’t been able to interact more with the Nepalese people, other than the few routine exchanges when buying food or souvenirs. This desire to interact more with local people led to my study tour of Peru, which would give me far more than I’d bargained for.

CHAPTER TWO

GATE Peru Study Tour

March 1989 Lima, Peru

After my Nepal trek, looking for another trip that would involve mountains but that also would offer more interaction with local people, I found a study tour to Peru organized by Global Awareness Through Experience (GATE), a Catholic organization, that would include a trip to Machu Picchu, the high-altitude capital of the Inca Empire, and that would also explore the present day reality of third-world Peru, especially Lima. I went in the spring, 1989.

Life here isn’t easy, said Alberto Reyes, a professor at a Lima university and one of our GATE speakers. For the poor and for those who dare to denounce the government or the terrorists, it’s a fight, a bitter fight, every single day. On our study tour, speakers from Lima universities and from a variety of grassroots organizations taught our small GATE group about the history and economic reality of Peru. We visited poor shantytowns in the middle of Lima and even poorer pueblos jóvenes (literally, young towns, but meaning the poorest of the Lima shantytowns) springing up from pure dirt in the dry, dusty, desert east of Lima, typically with dirt streets, open sewage trenches, unfinished houses, and makeshift utilities utilizing dangerous-looking jumbles of wiring).

In a lecture on the political history of Peru, we learned how the people make fine racial distinctions (for example: not only white, mixed, and black, with the resultant personality and class stereotypes, but also a white that is a shade too dark (bad) or a mixed that is a shade lighter than expected (good)). We also learned how Peru had fought for its independence from Spain, then suffered numerous military dictatorships, and now was a fledgling democracy. The results aren’t in yet, Reyes contended, regarding whether the military would take over again. For most of its history, Peru has been a military state and in many ways it still is.

Sister Elizabeth, a US nun working in Peru, explained the changing role of the Catholic Church in Latin America, including controversial liberation theology, which pronounced that the Christian focus needed to be on liberation from evil and inhumane poverty in this world, as opposed to seeking a reward in an afterlife.⁴

Tim Hobbs, a St. Joseph priest working in a poor Lima barrio and also an academic who published many articles about the economic realities of Peru, explained the Peru government’s recent neoliberal economic austerity policies (reduced assistance to the poor, reduced education and healthcare costs, fiscal austerity, privatization, deregulation, etc.). He presented graphs showing that, as consumer buying power went down, infant mortality went up. These policies kill babies! he growled. His words, and his detailed critique of the US-imposed neoliberal economic policy, would stay with me, indeed would haunt me, throughout our study tour and for years after.

We met with leaders of women’s groups, youth organizations, Christian worker’s groups, human rights organizations, and other grassroots organizations. We visited spectacular Machu Picchu and toured nearby Cusco, high in the Andes.

Stephanie Lindsey, a modernized nun from Cincinnati—call me Stephanie, she said, not Sister Stephanie—led our GATE group. She seemed about my age, with light brown hair, sparkling green eyes, and a weathered, pleasant, relaxed, face. She always looked at you directly and intently with her twinkling eyes. She was almost always smiling but could speak seriously on just about any topic. She wore civilian clothes, as did all the US nuns I’ve since encountered in Latin America. (The only nuns there who wore habits any more were the locals.) Near Easter, as our study tour was winding up, Stephanie said that, for her, Good Friday was the day to go to a church service or a religious procession while Easter Sunday was the day to celebrate life. I remembered the strict nuns in grade school who had us practicing and practicing every detail of our First Communion as though we’d go to Hell if we made a mistake and now here was a nun saying it wasn’t necessary to go to Mass on Easter Sunday!

Stephanie offered us the opportunity to walk in a Peoples’ Way of the Cross on Good Friday—in El Augustino, the Lima barrio where she’d worked for over twenty years. Here, we joined hundreds of people in a procession to pray at designated homes decorated as particular Stations of the Cross. The people establish a committee to select the homes each year, she said. It’s quite an honor to have your house selected.

For Easter Sunday, Stephanie suggested an excursion to Pucusana, a small fishing village a few hours from Lima, set on the Pacific Ocean but with a small protected lagoon perfect for fishing. Our little group went fishing the way the locals did—in small boats, without rods and reels, throwing a baited, weighted, fishing line from the side of the boat. We actually caught some. (We brought them back to the convent, where the cooks happily cooked them up for us and others that evening.)

Once back ashore, I slipped away from our group’s picnic lunch—asking Stephanie for permission—and wandered around the village of brightly painted houses. Passing by one house, which was electric blue, I heard some men singing. One man—late 20s, dark-complexioned, wiry and tough looking—was sitting in front of the door, holding a bottle of beer, clearly on his way to getting blitzed. He noticed I’d slowed down to hear the singing.

Mister . . . friend . . . amigo, he called out. I didn’t understand the rest of what he was saying because it was in Spanish but knew he was inviting me to join him.

Oh no, I thought, trouble. I was nervous but walked over to him. Now I could see through the doorway a group of about six men inside singing, surrounded by plenty of now-empty beer bottles. They also seemed to be in their late 20s and all seemed as wiry and tough as the guy at the door.

Alberto, he said, introducing himself and then obviously asked for my name.

John, er, Juan, I said.

He insisted I come in and he introduced me to the others as, "Mi amigo, Juan." I wasn’t used to this kind of friendliness from strangers.

I said in English, with lots of gestures, I’d been walking by and heard the music. I was with a group that’d been fishing. My group would be wondering where I was.

You like our singing? I could tell someone was asking.

What did you catch?— Someone else began.

How many did you catch? another interrupted, smilingly.

One of the other guys produced a bottle of beer for me and they all insisted I drink it. I didn’t usually drink during the day but this didn’t seem like the time to make an issue of it.

Come, sing with us, Alberto seemed to be saying. Anticipating my objection that I didn’t know their songs, he also seemed to say, We’ll teach you.

And they did. I could feel the weight of my fears reduce as I drank my beer and we practiced a song. I had no idea what I was singing but it was great fun. We ended up running through the song together and sounding not half bad, I thought. I was feeling almost giddy with the happiness and adventure of all this. This would never happen in the US. Then I realized I’d been there well over an hour, which was how long Stephanie had given me.

I have to get back to my group, I said, with motions of going back out.

After the usual protestations of any leave-taking—you can’t go now, I thought they were saying—I forced myself to go and, contrary to my initial fears, absolutely nothing happened. Although I didn’t speak more than a few words of Spanish, we parted as great drinking and singing amigos. I caught up with my group, told them a bit of what a wonderful experience I’d had, but they looked at me like, why on earth did you do that? Stephanie just smiled.

* * *

Our study group stayed in a former Sacred Heart nuns’ convent in Chorillos, an affluent suburb of Lima, on grounds with carefully tended, magnificent, luminous, and fragrant gardens. The convent was on a hill over a beach, having a magnificent view of the Pacific Ocean. In its day, the convent had housed an elementary school—the kid-sized water fountains were still outside the classrooms—but now had become a retirement home for the dwindling number of Peru Sacred Heart nuns. To make some money, the nuns now rented out classrooms and dormitory rooms to educational groups. Our study group was staying there at the same time that a group of teachers from the Lima district of Fe y Alegría (Faith and Joy), the large Latin American chain of Jesuit elementary schools, was having a teachers’ retreat.

One evening in the dinner line at the cafeteria, I saw a stunning Fe y Alegría teacher in a green dress. She was chatting with some other teachers, who were hanging on her every word. She was tall, had a drop-dead-gorgeous figure, was brown-haired and brown-eyed, with strong cheekbones and an easy smile. The sweep of her shoulders stemmed effortlessly from her neck. Her face conveyed calmness, happiness, and vitality. She was the most graceful creature I’d ever seen. She reminded me of Sophia Loren, both in appearance and attitude. I knew that, as a teacher, she could not have much money, but she appeared royal, elegant, and proud. She also radiated a steamy sensuality.

Awakening the next morning, I couldn’t think of anything else but this captivating woman. I looked for her on the grounds before and after breakfast but didn’t see her. Then our GATE group was off for a busy day of activities in hot and humid Lima. When we got back, in late afternoon, we were free until dinner. I couldn’t wait to look for the wondrous teacher again. I was sticky and sweaty and needed to clean up first. The shower water hit my skin as I washed myself quickly, attempting to get out the door fast to look for her. The fragrant garden was the centerpiece of the convent grounds and I stood, drinking a Coke, in the crossroads of the garden paths.

The heat caused the cold bottle of Coke in my hand to sweat, dripping beads of water on the ground. I kept waiting. Soon it would be time to join the group for dinner and I’d almost given up. Finally, out of the corner of my eye, I saw her, coming toward the garden with a friend. The dark hair, the smooth cinnamon skin, the proud face and enchanting smile—there was something about this woman that made my heart beat faster and my palms sweat even faster than my Coke bottle.

"Hola (hello). Wait right here, I said and gestured. I’ll get a Coke for each of you, I said, pointing at the bottle and at each of them. I’ll get my phrase book," I said, which of course they couldn’t understand, as I didn’t have my phrase book.

Then I ran to get two Cokes, hurried to my room to get my Spanish phrase book, and raced back, hoping they’d still be there. They were. I gave them each a Coke and introduced myself. They offered their names in return, Bella and Eva. I tried not to exclude Eva in my broken conversation but I suppose it was clear I had eyes mostly for Bella. As we worked our way through the phrase book, they said they were teachers. They pointed at me, asking me in Spanish what I did. Without checking in the book, I blurted out the only foreign word for lawyer I knew, the German "Advokat."

What, Bella jokingly asked in Spanish, are you an astronaut?

Click. There are click experiences in life where you meet someone and, for no reason you can explain, you click. That’s what happened to me with Bella that instant.

Having gotten nowhere with Perry Mason, I was lucky that Stephanie happened by. I enlisted her help as translator to explain my profession and what our group of gringos was doing in their troubled country.

The GATE study tour schedule was fully packed so I wasn’t able to spend much time with Bella. We did manage to meet accidentally, not by accident, more and more often in the beautiful fragrant gardens. I began to make it a point to go to the gardens before breakfast and after dinner and Bella seemed to be doing the same thing. With the help of my phrase book, we were slowly getting to know each other through primitive phrasing.

What a beautiful view, I said. Did you grow up around here? I looked at her but she glanced away.

I grew up on the other side of Peru from Lima. In the jungle area near Brazil. It’s near the Amazon River and there are many beautiful species of birds. A lot of tourists like to go there. She finally looked at me.

That might be nice sometime. I looked back at her. But we’re not regular tourists. We’re taking lots of classes to learn about your country.

Hmmm. Why? Why are you interested in Peru? Now we were making significant eye contact.

Good question. I guess there are a lot of countries in the world to be interested in. A lot of countries in Latin America. It all started with wanting to see Machu Picchu. I had told her earlier we were going there.

Oh, you’ll love it. I used to be a guide there.

You tell me then. Why is it special?

Oh, I could tell you the details. It was the most sacred place for the royal Incas. It was the ‘lost city,’ never discovered by the Spaniards, and the Incas died out there. But wait ‘til you go there. You’ll feel it.

What does it feel like?

Mysterious. Magical. Holy. There’s a special energy there. The Incas believed there was energy within things, like energy within the rocks on the mountain.

Wow, I can’t wait ‘til we get there.

Try to absorb it. To feel its presence. I think you’ll love it.

Sold.

And I did love it.

Bella and I were also starting to know the physicality of each other, to being next to one another, to our ways of smiling and laughing. Even to watching the ocean together and not needing to say anything. Now, whenever I was near her, I felt a definite sexual tension. She was alluring. But I had a sense she was also somehow dangerous. Maybe more than I could handle.

One chilly evening in the garden after dinner, the fog was rolling in. We sat together on a bench in the convent’s glorieta (a small circular shrine overlooking the Pacific) behind the gardens. We could barely see the beach but we could definitely hear the mighty surf pounding in. Bella was wearing a reddish-orange dress with a demure neckline and over that a soft white sweater. What I noticed most was her Mona Lisa smile of wisdom or sensuality, or both.

I love your beautiful smile.

She smiled. No need to say anything, I thought.

She held a small pinkish-red geranium, which she had picked, in her hands. I put my arm around her. My heart was pounding. Could she sense that? I felt like I was back in high school. Could I sit right next to her? Yes, I had been doing that now for some time. Could I put my arm around her? Yes, I could! We talked softly, our faces closer and closer. We leaned around to look at the ocean. Then, after checking that no one was looking, I held her closer and kissed her