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Isabel

Isabel Resistant like rigor mortis, her hands scrunch as I try to open palms to place a few coins, enough for an empanada or adobo soup. Resistant, she whispers gracias and unlocks her fingers to accept my help— a blind woman with a baby bundled in her lap. Resistant, because she did not choose to be poor in this crowded Peruvian city, sleeping on steps in the winter's dry cold. Resistant at first, she spoke slowly, saying her life had ended after the Shining Path burned her fields and alpacas in the high altitude farms of Cancapa: flaming animals ran screeching into the night, under the blackened sky. Resistant, she did not tell me what I later learned, that her husband's neck was sliced by the rusted machete of his brother, who continued by cutting out her eyes. Resistant for the sake of the baby cradled in the folds of her skirts, her orphaned grandson. Silent in the night, she cowers in this shopkeeper's door, her days spent selling the fruit of the cactus that leaves her fingers pricked and swollen, stained by the red nectar of sweet slices. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png JAMA American Medical Association

Isabel

Abstract

Resistant like rigor mortis, her hands scrunch as I try to open palms to place a few coins, enough for an empanada or adobo soup. Resistant, she whispers gracias and unlocks her fingers to accept my help— a blind woman with a baby bundled in her lap. Resistant, because she did not choose to be poor in this crowded Peruvian city, sleeping on steps in the winter's dry cold. Resistant at first, she spoke slowly, saying her life had ended after the Shining Path burned her fields and...
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Publisher
American Medical Association
Copyright
Copyright © 2006 American Medical Association. All Rights Reserved.
ISSN
0098-7484
eISSN
1538-3598
DOI
10.1001/jama.295.2.139
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Resistant like rigor mortis, her hands scrunch as I try to open palms to place a few coins, enough for an empanada or adobo soup. Resistant, she whispers gracias and unlocks her fingers to accept my help— a blind woman with a baby bundled in her lap. Resistant, because she did not choose to be poor in this crowded Peruvian city, sleeping on steps in the winter's dry cold. Resistant at first, she spoke slowly, saying her life had ended after the Shining Path burned her fields and alpacas in the high altitude farms of Cancapa: flaming animals ran screeching into the night, under the blackened sky. Resistant, she did not tell me what I later learned, that her husband's neck was sliced by the rusted machete of his brother, who continued by cutting out her eyes. Resistant for the sake of the baby cradled in the folds of her skirts, her orphaned grandson. Silent in the night, she cowers in this shopkeeper's door, her days spent selling the fruit of the cactus that leaves her fingers pricked and swollen, stained by the red nectar of sweet slices.

Journal

JAMAAmerican Medical Association

Published: Jan 11, 2006

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