“El Horno, Comayagua, Honduras. A small community of indigenous Lenca descendants. Located in the mountains in the area of Comayagua. A place that is difficult to get to, so no church was willing to go there. A pastor said one day ‘I have come to the end of the earth.'”
The most heartbreaking story of families split by border walls and U.S. deportation policies. And yet…hope.
In 2016, remittances sent to Latin America and the Caribbean were in excess of 70 billion dollars. The highest figure ever recorded.
The case of Honduras is an example of how important this flow of money is. In 2016, remittances amounted to more than $3.9 billion dollars. It was the primary source of income in the country, ahead of exporting coffee and manufacturing. More than 80% of that income is sent from the US, where more than a million documented and undocumented Hondurans live.
One of my favorite podcasts tackled faith and feminism in such a wonderful way: “The problem isn’t the Bible,” a queer feminist chaplain said. “The problem is whom we’ve allowed to read the Bible.”
I didn’t know at the time that “slum tourism” was what I was doing, but my first experience of this phenomenon was in 1993, at age 13, visiting various kinds of neighborhoods around San Miguel, El Salvador, with my uncle, who is Salvadoran. He wanted to impress upon me and my younger sister the vast disparities in lifestyles experienced by rich and poor in that country; we were very sheltered, relatively wealthy white kids. Our experience in El Salvador was life changing, and one of the reasons that I am an avid traveler, unafraid of going almost anywhere or meeting anyone, a former journalist, a seminarian, and a border dweller.
Some question the very premise of slum tourism, calling out the ethics of privileged people paying to witness others’ misfortune and suffering. Experts, however, point out that slum tourism, for better or worse, is almost certainly here to stay. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.