Dear Martyrs,

What a name, what a title, what a story to be told.
I knew nothing of you when I first arrived in El Salvador. I didn't know where you came from, what you did, and most importantly what they did to you. I saw your clothes, stained in blood. The roses planted where you bodies once rested. I was sad and it made me angry but I was naive and tired and it didn't yet make much sense. But then I heard stories of the war, shared tears with the ones I loved, attended masses, sang songs...all in your honor. And it hit me. Despite the typical sense of sadness brought with death yours came with a celebration of life. Life reflected in the candle I held in my hand, paralleled to the millions of stars in the sky. I've never met you, I've never had the chance to hear your homilies, you never laid your hands upon me  and whispered a sweet, soft prayer. But you have strengthened me. And like Monseñor, you have resurrected in the Salvadoran people. In Angelica and Omporo as they struggle to feed their children, and Froilan as he holds a megaphone demanding respect for his land and his people. You are resurrected in the women that sells Quesadilla by the bridge each day and the man that picks coffee more than he sees his own family. You have been resurrected in me, and my friends. You showed me strength and determination and showed me it's okay to fight. To fight with peace, without weapons or machines, but rather with education and solidarity. You taught me to walk with a purpose, arm-in-arm with the ones I love. And tomorrow as I reunite with my friends in honor of you all I thank the people I've never met...that somehow shaped the person I have become.
Sinceramente, Linsita