The heart of Q'eqchi' culture: "ma sa laa ch'ool?" Are you happy in your heart? "Sa lin ch'ool." Yes, I am happy in my heart.

War doesn't just disappear with the signing of a peace treaty and the onslaught of reconstruction efforts. To understand the true cost of any armed conflict, we must first consider the lingering effects of war one, five, ten, or twenty years from its official end.

THE MULTICOLORED VILLAGES of Chicaja and Maribach adorn the verdant Guatemalan hillsides that overlook the merging of the Chicaja and Cahabon rivers. Even before I arrived and met the thirty families that lived there, the exquisite greeting used by the Q'eqchi' people captivated me. Language is like a mirror: a reflection of culture and lifestyle formed by the nuances of syntax and semantics. "Words only cover the experience of living:' author Barbara Kingsolver wrote, and the pure poetry of the few Q'eqchi' phrases I had already learned intimated the wisdom and insight of the people I would soon meet.

As the bustling cobblestone streets of Cahabon faded into the distance, we were moved to silence as we walked. Lush jungle trees formed a thick canopy above the footpath that was woven even tighter by the proliferation of tropical foliage and airplants growing in every imaginable crevice. Being familiar with the edible and medicinal qualities of plants native to my northern latitude, I was struck with the wealth of invaluable resources this diverse rainforest could surely provide its residents. We wound deeper into the low mountains, crossing the streams and rivers that divided the landscape until we came to the modest thatched roof hut of our hosts, twenty-four-year-old Candelaria, her husband Ramon, and their four young children.

My husband and I traveled to Chicaja and Maribach in 2001 to meet with Julia Weidmann, an international human rights witness with the Guatemalan Accompaniment Project. Guatemala's civil war was perhaps the longest and most unspeakable war of modern times. Many events contributed to the start of the war, among them the native people's insistence that their native lands not be sold out from under them to insatiable multinational companies. For thirty-seven long years villages were pitted against each other--the indigenous people were terrorized by their neighbors who themselves were threatened into participating in a conflict that, in many ways, had little relevance to the sustenance of their way of life. The war's impact became increasingly personal for the villagers: shattering families, forcing children into early adulthood, and sending unknown numbers of refugees away from their lands forever. The war officially ended in 1996 but the wounds of a decades-long war don't heal with the mere signing of a paper. Atrocities continue even today, hence the need for international witnesses.

Early in our visit we noticed that the population of the twin villages was significantly skewed towards the younger ages--there were very few elders. Candelaria described how she had become a chaq'na, or little mother, at age seven when her parents were massacred in the war, leaving her as the primary caregiver for her young siblings. She recounted the tales of threats and fear that drove other families north into Mexico and the United States. For many surviving older adults the spilling of so much innocent blood on their native lands had forever altered them. When the war finally ended they didn't return to that haunted place as those who had been younger during the most intense fighting did.

We quickly learned that the steamy jungle mid afternoons were fit for little more than seeking shelter inside the hut and performing low-energy chores such as shucking corn and playing with the babies. We practiced our Q'eqchi' with Candelaria, and she asked us to teach her some Spanish words and phrases. We laughed together as we tried to make our tongues produce the foreign cadence of unfamiliar languages. Candelaria's youngest child Aura toddled around the inside of our circle and cooed at our efforts.

"You like my baby?" Candelaria asked Weidmann.

"Yes, how could I not like her?" Weidman's response was genuine.

"You can take her home with you." Candelaria's eyes pleaded.

"Home?" Julia wasn't sure she had understood the message. She leaned forward to clarify.

"Home to America."

An expression of surprise rushed across Weidmann's face. "I couldn't raise her. I can't speak Q'eqchi' well enough to teach her her own language."

"I don't want her to learn Q'eqchi'. I want her to speak Spanish."

Our hearts were heavy as the aim of her request became clear to us. Candelaria wanted a better life for her child, not the difficult life the village entailed. And speaking Spanish was a key that opened up many opportunities in the mountain towns and allowed individuals to stand up for their rights.

The Q'eqchi' communities were quickly eroding and becoming more isolated with each passing year. And each year it became more essential for the indigenous population to learn Spanish. Yet with the death of any language also comes the passing of a culture. And the thought of removing this beautiful way of life from the pages of history was more than we could bear.

Our days in Chicaja and Maribach were shaped by the vibrant colors of the Mayan culture. The women wore traditional woven skirts with patterns depicting the life-sustaining corn plant and Mayan gods. Women and men alike used a narrow sling of fabric over their heads to transport everything from ebony-haired babies to canvas bags full of black beans. A few women still wove colorful strips of fabric using traditional backstrap looms. Spicy red chilies were spread across sheets of corrugated metal to wrinkle in the sun until they were dry enough to store.

These tidbits whetted our appetites for deeper cultural teachings from our hosts. We asked the men, "What plants in the forest can the people harvest for food and medicine?" They shook their heads in response. "What plants should be avoided?" Again they indicated that they didn't know which plants. Weidmann, who had been living as a member of the village for nine months at that time, asked for permission to interview community members. When several of the women were assembled we asked them, "What are the lullabies that you sing to your babies?" They looked at one another with uncertain glances. "Do you tell your children the nursery rhymes and tales that your families passed down to you?" They couldn't name any. The Guatemalan civil war had not only decimated the few generations that had endured it but it had irreversibly interrupted the entire history of a culture and a way of life. It would take more than a peace agreement to stop the events that had already been set in motion.

Our interview with the village women continued. Weidmann gently asked what the reasons were for fighting the war. The war clearly had a greater impact on this community than any other single factor. The women turned towards each other and talked together in mumbled phrases and blank looks. They adjusted the babies at their breasts and seemed to wait for someone other than themselves to give an answer. Finally one spoke up and said, "We don't know" In that moment I felt in my stomach a surge of grief but, at the same time, my heart was filled with respect for these strong Mayan people holding fast and beginning anew despite an outside world that seems resolved to tear them apart. Certainly much of their history as a people had been taken from them but the ancestral strength and determination that runs through their veins can never be destroyed. Like the great Mayan temples of Tikal that still tower above the jungle in the north, the modern-day Mayan people will likewise endure.

Two years later I met with Weidmann again near her San Francisco home to reflect on our experiences in Maribach and Chicaja. Why does war most heavily affect the poor? Is it possible to separate language from culture? Can a culture once lost be restored? How does life persist in spite of intense suffering?

Surrounded by the lush gardens in Golden Gate Park we read to one another from Michael J. Caduto's book, Earth Tales from Around the World. In the introduction Caduto wrote, "stories are the heart and soul of many cultures. They tell us who we are and what we believe in." As we read to one another from the book of ancient tales we came to understand that stories also serve as a means to help us make sense of life's senseless situations. The following story, "The First Bats," as retold by Caduto, is from the Jakaltec-Maya (Guatemala and Mexico). It's a tale of the first mice, their discontent with a terrestrial existence, and how, as individuals, they either maintained their status or evolved and changed.

   "It is time," said the Creator. The mice
   began to chatter.

   "Anyone who can jump across this ravine
   and land safely on the other side will be
   given wings and the power of flight."

   One at a time, the mice ran to the edge of
   the chasm and leaped into the air. Many
   fell short and remained mice thereafter.
   Those who reached the other side grew
   thin wings of skin. Their tails fell off and
   the tiny claws grew long and curved.
   They flew away and began a life amid the
   dark caves in the mountains.

   When all of the mice had jumped, the
   Creator spoke to them one last time.
   "Now it is done. Those of you who are
   still mice will eat seeds and nuts. You
   can make warm nests and finish them
   with a soft lining. You can nest in the
   trees or wherever you find a good space
   for a home. From this day forth, the rest
   of you will now be known as Sotz,' the
   bats. The mouse's night will be your day.
   Some of you will eat mosquitoes, others
   will eat fruit and still others will drink
   blood. No longer will you live in cozy
   nests. By your sharp claws you will cling
   upside down from the roofs of the
   caverns, nchach'en."

   The mouse, Tx'ow, saw that Sotz', the
   bats, too, were not entirely pleased with
   their lives. That is how mice came to be
   content with the gifts they received when
   first created.

For the residents of Chicaja and Maribach, the transition struggle is far from over. Each community member will make a myriad of individual decisions that will ultimately affect the whole: they will determine which language or languages to learn and speak, they will embrace or separate from the dominant Latin culture, and they will arrive at the best land management decisions to protect their farmlands. These decisions belong to individuals but they will meld together to create a distinct flavor and form the backbone of the modern-day Mayan community. As we discovered in "The First Bats," regardless of a community's gifts there will also be feelings of discontent. But in spite of the choices that are made and the obstacles that present themselves, the extraordinary people of Maribach and Chicaja model a spirit of indescribable hope and determination--qualities that the rest of the world can only aspire to possess.

When not living abroad, Michelle Bargo resides in Cincinnati, Ohio. She is a freelance writer with a master's degree in Communication Sciences and Disorders.