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Edited on Sun Jan-15-06 06:55 PM by CanuckAmok
(*not his real name)
I had a friend named Jorge, who was from El Salvador. His family were Leftists, despite being rather traditional Catholics, and they were allowed into Canada as refugees because there was a very real possibility that they would be "disappeared" if they remained in Central America. It was the murder of Archbishop Romero that finally forced Jorge's family into action.
So, in the summer of 1980, Jorge and his two sisters and his parents moved into my home-town. I was 13 at the time, and Jorge was in a couple of my classes in ninth grade, the first year of high-school.
There weren't many Hispanics where I grew up; mostly just the Mexican migrant workers who came up every spring and summer to plant and harvest fruit. Jorge's family were warmly received by the Spanish-speaking community, and by the Mennonite Church of Canada, who sponsored their immigration. But by the end of October, Jorge's family were pretty much the only Hispanics in the area.
Jorge and I became friends, and I helped him with his English. He tried to teach me some Spanish, but without much success (and not from a lack of his trying). We weren't inseparable, and the bonds of our friendship fluctuated as they do with all teenagers. I dated one of his sisters for a few weeks, one summer, and was surprised to receive the blessing of the usually very protective Jorge.
Jorge was quite small; even though he could already grow a full moustache and beard (but didn't) by tenth grade, he was only about 5'3". But Jorge, despite his very kind nature, could be formidable. Once, when he had been swarmed by racist Skins in Toronto, he picked one up and threw him into the others, knocking the thugs down like bowling pins. By the time the police arrived, three of the five Skins were unconscious and bleeding profusely. Jorge was at that time waiting for his Citizenship to be confirmed, so he was very nervous about getting into trouble. Luckily, the police officers didn't charge Jorge with assault, because the attackers were "known to police".
By the time we were 17, Jorge was working as a bouncer in a nightclub, even though he was two years too young to drink legally. Often, drunken fratboys would size Jorge up and challenge his authority, based on his small stature. They never made that mistake twice.
Also when we were 17, and once he had become a Canadian Citizen, Jorge joined the local Reserve Regiment, in which I was already a member, and we supplimented our part-time incomes with the small paycheques of Canadian Militia Privates.
In the Spring of 1985, we graduated high-school. I enlisted full-time in the military.
Jorge, however, had other plans. He and his family had been so moved by the assassination of Oscar Romero that they fled the only home they had ever known. And, against his family's protestations, Jorge intended to return to El Salvador.
It was on the night of our commencement, when a rather drunk Jorge (the only time I had ever seen him consume any alcohol!) told me, in confidence, that he was going back to El Salvador, to fight the "fascistas".
And, not taking him seriously, I encouraged him to "go Rambo" on them, to our dates' delight.
In July 2005, Jorge's father phoned me, and in his broken English, explained that Jorge had, indeed, returned to El Salvador, via Guatemala.
He had herd from Jorge only when Jorge phoned from San Salvador, saying that he had joined the Leftist FLMN Party.
Jorge disappeared shortly afterwards, and has not been heard from since. The FLMN collapsed in 1989 after a major offensive against the right wing government coalition of the Christian Democratic Party and the Nationalist Republican Alliance. And, as these things happen, I lost touch with Jorge's family in Canada, and have been unable to find them. Maybe that's for the best.
If he's alive, Jorge is 38 years old now. Maybe he's living in a comfortable villa in his native El Salvador, surrounded by his children and his new friends.
I wish I could believe he is.
Jorge, La Lucha continúa
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