CHAPTER 1
Do You Believe in God?
Make an island unto yourself, make yourself your refuge; there is no other refuge. Make truth your island, make truth your refuge; there is no other refuge.
— Gautama Buddha
Unexpected ... Weather
Chills ran up and down my spine; my soaking wet sweater and my flowing Norma Kamali skirt now clung to my cold, trembling hips and legs. The torrential rain poured and poured; the water dropped on me, then dripped from me. Relentlessly the wind tossed, lashed my face with freezing strands of my own hair. I silently pleaded, No open wounds, please! Already I had six too many scars on my once beautiful face. And squashed inside my fashionable Lauren boots, my numb feet felt like two blocks of ice. That is it! I'll take whatever cab comes along, and God, Goddess, help me.
Just then a VW Bug sailed alongside, "Disponible" (available) on the sign. Automatically my hand waved to the cab. The door opened; I took a deep breath, quickly glanced at the driver through the downpour, than decisively dove inside. His plump brown face looked honest enough as I peeked again. My body collapsed onto the seat, but a sting arose in my belly. Breathlessly I uttered directions to my apartment in Colonia Condesa. He nodded reassuringly. As we drove on, the sharp sensation subsided.
More comfortable, I wondered why I hadn't looked for the fact sheet on the window. Why didn't I check his ID? But I was desperate. Should I ask him now? I debated with myself. Well, it is a little late, and he did look okay. And I am so relieved to be out of that downpour. It was so cozy inside the cab. I switched my thoughts. Remember positive thinking, Mira, I reminded myself — part of my own cognitive retraining. When I get to the apartment, I'll change, get my file and art materials out for my last session with Jose ... I organized my thoughts. Then out for some fun — dinner to celebrate my success. The turnout for my first workshop with Mexican mental health professionals on art and image in psychotherapy had been phenomenal. I had been compensated well over $20,000 pesos, roughly US$2,000. This was the first of many workshops I planned.
At seven o'clock in the morning when I had left the apartment, the weather was nice, brisk and sunny; but it had changed dramatically in the late afternoon and become a stormy eighteenth of October, 1998. I had waited at least half an hour in the arched doorway of Liverpool, an elegant department store, after picking up a new linen suit and stopping for coffee. With my new purchase and my professional portfolio in hand, still perked up by my delicious treat of cappuccino and concha (Mexican puff pastry), I had stood there patiently. Normally, people walked about leisurely; but they were darting about today, struggling with their umbrellas. Polanco, a chic business and residential district of Mexico City, seemed chaotic as the wind raged and water flooded the streets. In spite of it all, including the rumors that this city was the kidnapping capital of the world, I was still enamored with it, and happy to be living there.
But it had been an hour or more since I first stepped out, when I had immediately asked the doorman for a cab. His response, with upraised hands, had been one of futility. "Impossible — llubia." (Rain.) After a while he looked at me again, still waving his hands up in the air. My thought was, You could do better. I trudged over to the curb. I'll flag one down myself. Loaded with my portfolio, my trendy bag, and a wallet stuffed with $20,000 pesos, I had felt empowered — but I was getting tired. It had been a full day, from seven o'clock in the morning to now four o'clock. I had waited and waited as the stream of secured sedan cabs passed, all occupied; only the VW Bugs displayed the Disponible sign. What was preventing me from taking a Volkswagen cab were recent reports that some of these were illegitimate — that the drivers were caught in kidnapping crimes.
Finally my vitality had become sapped, and so had my patience. I needed to get home, get out of the wet clothes, and prepare for my final session. I also looked forward to a short nap, then a nice evening dinner with my good friend, Lorenzo. We had planned to dine at a gourmet vegetarian restaurant, El Bistro. Lorenzo was a graphic designer; he both worked and lived in his spacious apartment, which he generously shared with me. It was a great location in the artsy community of Condesa, only minutes from Polanco, Centro Historico, and all the shops, boutiques, theaters, museums, and yummy restaurants.
"What a relief," I muttered as the cab driver pulled up in front of my apartment building. I paid him, and he reached over and opened the door to let me out. The rain had subsided. I gathered my belongings and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Seconds after my feet touched down, a huge shadow came over me. Three men jumped in front of me, barred me from going farther. They pushed and stuffed me right back inside the cab. Two squeezed themselves in the back with me; the third jumped in the front alongside the driver and commanded him to speed away, yelled out directions. Reflexively my mouth opened, I began to let out a scream, than a large hand slapped over my mouth.
The men snarled at me, "No gritas! No gritas!" (Don't shout!) My eyes searched out through the windows, hoping to catch someone's attention on the street or in another vehicle to signal for help, but my effort was useless. Quickly, two of these swarthy thugs bound my feet and wrists while the third directed the cabbie. Stinking of perfume, the one on my right grabbed me by the throat. His icy fingers and sharp nails dug into my flesh. He pressed so deeply into my neck that he almost choked me. I gagged, couldn't breathe. He saw me struggling for air and slightly released his hold. I took small, imperceptible breaths to keep myself alive — conscious yet frozen with fear.
The cab came to a jolting stop on a deserted street where buildings staggered in various stages of demolition. Creeping along my arms were the two sweaty hands of the thug on my left — he groped and grabbed my body, found jewelry, snatched it off. I moved from side to side, squirmed, and struggled, but then he tightened his hold. Again a scream escaped from my gaping mouth. The burly hood in the front reached back, swung his huge hand over my mouth again, muffled my cry. God, oh Goddess, help me. Senora Guadalupe, ayudame, I silently prayed for help.
Soon I was thoroughly stripped of my jewelery, now in their hands. The probing violation of my body by those huge, sweaty mitts felt depraving, painful, and shameful. I asked myself, Why? What did I do to deserve this? They robbed me of all my precious adornments, including my blessed gold cross that my father had given me so long ago — his only little gift — and my little gold-and-turquoise turtle, a beautiful topaz-and-gold ring, my gold bangles from India, my favorite gold loop earrings. I continued my silent invocation: Now that they have all I have, oh Great Spirit, please don't let them rape me, or mutilate me Juarez-style. They shouted commands at the cab driver. He drove on, winding wildly around deserted, rundown neighborhoods. Helplessly I wondered, What next will they do to me?
The perfumed hoodlum on my right again eased his hold on my throat while the thug in the front grabbed my purse from my frozen fingers. Although I tried to stay perfectly still, my eyes opened wide. As my body became numb and rigid, I wondered, Am I going into shock? Still, I clearly saw those fat gristly fingers, which tore into my favorite purse, searched greedily inside. He grabbed the contents and threw my keys back on my lap. Then he exploded with excitement; he found my wallet, exclaimed to the others, "Aqui, aqui, mira." (Here, look.) He pointed and held up my wallet as if he had found a grand prize. He hurriedly pulled out the business cards, the change, and the cash.
The cab driver stopped for a moment at a light. I wondered if now they would let me out. I whispered, "Degame aqui." (Let me go here.) But they didn't even acknowledge me. No hope. I sat there shaking and sweating profusely, not knowing what to do. I thought, I am close to death. Definitely, these are my final moments. I felt my energy, my life force, drop to my feet; the sense of finality overcame me. This is the end; certainly, by the close of this day, these criminals will dump me on the outskirts of Mexico City after they shoot or mutilate me to death. Then they will leave me to rot, and no one will ever know what happened to me. My head throbbed violently with thoughts of death. My neck, throat, shoulders ached; my mouth, lips were parched as I tried to swallow.
Although petrified, I still felt anger and repulsion toward these thugs. How dare they violate me so; yet ... yet I am powerless! I can't do anything, nothing at all. I have to accept my fate, give in, and give up. Not since my childhood — not since the dreadful days of World War II, those long, frightening postwar years — had I been overcome with this same sinking sensation of certain death. My fate on this day was no longer a victory but a victimization.
The thug in the front seat, searching my wallet, yanked out all my money and counted the $20,000 pesos I had clipped together carefully. Then he found and pulled out my Bank One card and waved it in front of my face. Hysterically he yelled, "Su PIN, su PIN!" They all turned, glaring at me. "Comprende!" They wanted my PIN.
I nodded I understood; but I also shook my head from left to right, indicating I had none. I looked at them directly, one by one, and quietly replied, "No tengo. No tengo. No tengo."
For a second all was still in the cab; they were stunned by my response. The one on my right stirred, grabbed me, shook me by my shoulders, and snarled, threatening to kill me. "Vamos a matarte! Vamos a matarte!" Obviously they were not happy with the $20,000 pesos and the jewelry — they wanted more, demanded again, "Su PIN, su PIN, ahora!" They wanted my bank card number and now. I had none; because I worked in the city, I did all my banking in person with the tellers (and still do).
I tearfully pleaded to be released. "Por favor degame."
"Te matamos!" They yelled their death threat into my face. Like a pack of wolves, they barked furiously at me, gripping my neck and arms again.
There was nothing more I could give them. "No tengo, senores!" I softly and genuinely replied.
They looked at one another in disbelief. "La gringa no tiene mas!" (This gringa doesn't have any more money.) They were so confused by this turn of events that they halted their assault on me.
Suddenly, compelled by a strange, insistent inner voice, I seized the moment — I had nothing left to lose. Softly I spoke, "Creen en Nuestra Senora o en Dios?" I asked them whether they believed in the patron saint of Mexico, or God. Now, ensued a still longer pause; my question had distracted them, putting them on the defensive. Now their eyes opened wide, stared at me with disbelief or awe — as though they had been struck. I waited apprehensively, but calmly, suspended yet on alert, my eyes remained riveted on them.
Their deep sighs surprised me, as all three nodded their heads in answer to my question. They whispered in deep, masculine tones, "Si, si creemos en el Dios y en La Virgen de Guadalupe." They acknowledged their belief in God and in the patron saint of Mexico, La Senora Guadalupe (also my patrona), whose medal they had grabbed from the chain on my neck.
Enormously relieved, I risked even further, cautiously ventured; a little more daringly, I asked why they were violating me. "Entonces, porque hacen eso?" Once again they responded, but looking away, avoiding eye contact with me.
"Necessitamos dinero para vivir. No hay trabajo." They explained they needed money to live, they were recently fired and there was no work. Cautiously, I continued to build rapport with them. I wished them to know that I was not a wealthy American tourist but a curandera, a healer; that my tools were art, images, breath work, meditation, and Yoga; and that I had come to Mexico to help people with my unique skills.
I urged them to open my portfolio. "Mira que hay en me maleta — soy una terapueta, no rica. Aqui en Mexico quiero ayudarlos ninos, y adultos tambien." I explained that I loved Mexico and came here to help children as well as adults, and that I did not make much money. (Today's seminar had been an exception, with an unusually good response.) The burly, excitable man in front unzipped my black legal-size portfolio. To my astonishment, he carefully examined the photos of my clients and their art: Mexican children, adolescents, adults, and families. I prayed he would understand the good my work did. He then turned to a newspaper article with an accompanying photo, and held it up so the others could see. They all looked at the headline — "Milagro: Andres Anda con Ayuda de Ms. Lazarevic" — about a little crippled boy who I had helped to begin to walk; for many years, I had worked with emotionally and physically challenged youth at Centro Creciemiento, a clinical school, volunteering my skills of art and Yoga therapy. They passed my portfolio around and then dropped it on my lap.
The man on my right turned to me. He spoke deliberately and clearly. It was good that I spoke Spanish, because his directions meant the difference between life and death. He said, "Te dejamos aqui. No vueltas, o te matamos." (We are letting you go. Don't turn around, or we will kill you.) Obviously they didn't want me to read or remember the cab's license plate. They directed the cab driver to stop at a desolate underpass then opened the door and ordered me out. (To this day I don't remember where it was.) The thug in front forced my medal of La Senora back in my hand. I don't know how I scrambled out to the street, but I held tightly to my medal, keys, and portfolio. I do recall distinctly how I stood there in the gloomy, deserted space, not believing, I am alive and free! Oh my God, oh my Goddess, I am so lucky, so grateful. It's over, it's over. Again and again, I murmured my gratitude, Thank you, Senora. Thank you, Great Spirit, God.
Weak and exhausted, I could barely stand. Sharp jabs sprung from my neck and throat. The fight for my life had taken every bit of energy out of me. My body swayed as my legs trembled. My arms were full of black-and-blue bruises with large welts. I tried to take a deep breath but gave up; it hurt too much. I tasted blood on my lips. I must have looked as bad as I felt. But I am still alive, I consoled myself. I dragged my wounded body slowly across to the other side of the bleak street. I felt like a martyr who'd been tortured in a car instead of on a cross.
I stumbled along until I saw some small stores, one with a light on. I stopped. I couldn't make my body move another step; my shoulder leaned against the windowpane of this little shop. Night was falling rapidly, it was dark on the street. But the bright light from inside illuminated the small sign, "Relojeria" (watch repair shop); it also illuminated the outside area where I stood. As I moved my head slowly, gazed inside, I noticed a white button next to my shoulder. I pressed my shoulder on the button, hoped it worked. It is ringing, maybe ...
Ah. The buzzer sounded back. I placed my hand on the door; it opened easily. Miraculously I was allowed inside. I lunged forward, almost collapsed, except for the elderly man who rushed toward me. He grabbed onto me, held me up, placed his arms under my arms, and step by step led me to a green chair. He sat me down, urged me to relax. "Relajate." He was slight but strong, dark skinned, gray haired, with kindly brown eyes. While he poured me a glass of water from the pitcher on the counter, he explained that he was the owner of the shop and introduced himself. "Me llamo Senor Santos."
I whispered, "Me llamo Mira; gracias."
The water sparkled in the crystal glass. He offered it to me. "Tomalo." (Drink.) Although I was thirsty, the touch of liquid stung my throat. Tentatively I sipped, letting it dribble down, hoping the moisture would ease my pain.
Senor Santos studied me, then lowered his voice and asked, "Crees en Dios?"
How strange. He posed the same question to me that I had just asked of the thieves. I was bewildered; then I nodded my head with wonderment. "Si, si."
I had a strong conviction in the existence of a force, be it Goddess, and God, but in my own way. And I had an awesome affinity to La Senora. He smiled and reassured me that I had nothing to worry about, he would take care of me. He explained a friend of his would drive us to my home safely, since he didn't own an auto. I sat back in the chair, sipping the water, while he dialed and then spoke with his friend. He locked some drawers, took watches out of the window, turned the alarm on, and prepared to close the shop.
