Time to Heal Back Home in Panama

When I returned to Panama in December of 2006, ten years had gone by. I came home with a bachelor’s degree from Spelman College, a law degree from the University of Virginia, and a career as a visual artist, activist and consultant.

Since my return, I have been amazed by how my country’s history parallels my personal history.

I have also been mourning the loss of the Panama I loved and the girl I was when I left.

When I look back, my country appears to have difficulty setting boundaries, establishing and enforcing laws and agreements that will protect it. So have I.

I see the devastation caused by being used without permission, of being devalued and overlooked, of being occupied and invaded. I mourn the Panama that was because it is being bought and sold at an unhealthy pace. I mourn the girl I was because at 16 I was sexually assaulted by an acquaintance.

Looking back, I also see innocence and resilience in my country and myself. And I am stunned by the changes in both this land I love and in me.

The Panama I remember is both alive and well and gone forever. In much of the city, the sky is being chiseled away by high-rise apartment buildings. At times, if you look in any direction you can see four or five in construction at a time. The “growth” is exponential, and little thought seems to be going into analyzing whether the city’s infrastructure can actually support all these new people, new SUVs, new light bulbs and new water faucets.

I worry about who is being displaced as they renovate Casco Viejo, the colonial section of the city, and as they sell off chunks of Bocas del Toro, a beautiful cluster of rural islands, at astronomical prices few Panamanians can afford. I worry that those who are moving here are unconcerned with who they are displacing: a predominantly Afro-Panamanian population that has occupied those properties for generations, but often have no legal documents to protect them from eviction.

At its core, my country is defined by the undying optimism of its people. So, these conditions have lead to a surge in art and activism. I am surrounded by exhibits of art focused on social change, and reassured by the growing number of organizations aimed at protecting our communities and defending our rights.

Meanwhile, my 17-year old self is both alive and gone forever. When I was raped, I found myself alone, wandering from place to place searching for help and finding no one. There were no crisis centers. There were no hotlines. There were no support groups.

As a result of this void of help, I was forced to grapple with defining and processing my experience on my own. I had no one to explain the impact: the sleeplessness, jumpiness, loss of appetite, trust issues and the complete disconnect from my body that resulted from the assault.

As life became a movie that I watched from a distance, I opted for silence, and later found my way to healing through writing and painting. I found my way virtually alone.

That 17-year-old still finds freedom in dancing. She still protects herself by working through her experiences internally before verbalizing. And I know that her silence grew from a commitment to self-preservation. She was clear that what happened should not have, and never intended to muddy that clarity with the criticism and judgment of a community that has not been properly educated on the impact of sexual violence.

I am clear that I processed alone so that others will not have to, and so now I am empowered to help address this issue, to help transform and empower my community.

Primarily, I approach this work using my creativity. At my last art exhibit, guests were invited to write anonymous notes as “witnesses,” because in cases of sexual violence the victim is often the sole witness and her body is the crime scene. Today, those brightly colored notes dangle along the wall in my studio. The string uniting them represents our connection: what happens to me impacts you, what happens to you impacts me.

From a pink note, “Gracias Marta, thank you Marta por alzar tu voz, for raising your voice, soy testigo de mi historia, I am witness to my own history... fui abusada a los 6 y a los 13 años, I was abused at age 6 and age 13. No me he cansado de cada dia dar gracias por encontrar mi camino a sanación con mis amigas. I have not gotten tired of giving thanks each day for finding my path to healing with my friends.”

From an orange note, “La violencia sexual corta la libertad de las mujeres, la limita, la destruye.” Sexual violence cuts into women’s freedom, it limits it, it destroys it.

A yellow note exclaims: “El silencio es otro victimario. ¡No Cayes! Por ti, por las que no lo han vivido, y por las que quieren superarlo.” Silence revictimizes. Speak Out! For you, for others who have never lived through this experience, and for those who want to heal from it.

Through my art, I have captured the experience of my 17-year-old self, collected these memories, dumped them into a format where they can no longer hurt me. And now I project them out as a source of hope for others. My life is linked with the lives of those around me, with the life of the country I live in.

In this land I love, I find myself living with the past, while advocating for a better future. There are still no crisis centers and no hotlines. But I am starting a support group for sexual violence survivors and plan to facilitate workshops to educate and empower my community. There are others who are working to raise awareness, to make changes to our current sexual education programs, to establish and defend sexual and reproductive rights.

I see parallels between my survival and Panama’s survival. Each day there are more organizations working to assert and defend our rights, and there is an ever increasing number of people forming artists’ alliances and collectives, empowering themselves to creatively voice their perspectives.

I know that my vibrant culture—art, community, music, dance—have been essential to my survival. I have learned that coming together, finding honoring and loving all parts of myself, is essential. Also essential is establishing boundaries, demanding respect, and only allowing the people who respect and cherish me into my space.

While I know these steps are only reducing risk and won’t guarantee a life free from violence and injustice, they make it so much easier to live with the past, while advocating for a better future.

And each day I find it easier to relax, breathe deeply, and enjoy the moments in between.

Marta L. Sanchez is an artist, poet and activist based in Panama City, Panama. Visit www.poetryandart.org for more information.