Marg looked at the woman again and saw her for the first time.
“Yes,” Marg thought, “it’s her.”
Her skin, caked with filth and coated with dust, enveloped a loose bundle of bones that heaved and shivered as its occupant gasped for breath. Decades of faithful service among the Yanomamis of Venezuela testify to Marg Jank’s love for the people. Yet it was hard for Marg to recognize the person in the form huddled on the missionary’s back porch.
This was a woman, a woman who had been her friend. A smile danced in the rain of memories. Perhaps the memories were bittersweet now, but Marg tasted only the sweet.
She sat beside her old friend with excitement and anticipation.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked. The woman looked up. Marg was certain that at any second, she would smile and say, “Is it really you?”
The woman only stared.
“I’m Margarita,” Marg said. “Do you remember me?”
The woman’s expression didn’t change. She rasped, “Why didn’t you bring me some rice?” and snapped her face away.
Marg later realized she should have expected that.
Life is cruel for most tribal people, and especially cruel for Yanomami women. Marg remembered Yolando’s story of her life – a life of fear, suffering and abuse. “That’s why I’m always angry,” she said. “That’s why I hate everybody.”
That’s why Marg’s friend demanded rice; why Isabel the next day demanded clothing; why Ocomi feared that when she died, the men would forget to kill their enemies and make friends instead.
No person can soften hearts hardened by the forge and hammer of a difficult life.
