Intimate Enemies. Kimberly Theidon

1980, on the eve of the internal armed conflict, only 4 percent of the rural population identified as Evangélico.² A mere decade later, the majority of people in the alturas of Huanta were hermanos and hermanas.³ While the Catholic churches lay in ruins, one of the priorities when people rebuilt their communities was the construction of one, two, perhaps three Evangelical churches. Some were Presbyterian, others Assembly of God, Prince of Peace, or the Pentecostal Church of Peru. However, when asked which church they belonged to, although people might point to a different rustic building, they uniformly replied they were “evangélicos.”

      Friends had told me Pastor Vidal still lived in Callqui, referring to a small barrio on the outskirts of Huanta. Callqui was unfortunately well-known, its notoriety dating back to the early 1980s. In October 1981, former president Belaúnde declared a state of emergency, and in December of the following year the entire department of Ayacucho was placed under the control of the armed forces as the government escalated counterinsurgency measures. Army general Roberto Clemente Noel, the first political-military commander, was sent to Ayacucho in January 1983, and he began the deadliest phase of state violence in the region. That same year the Marina established their general headquarters in the municipal stadium in Huanta, converting the structure into a detention and torture center. This was the context in which a group of uniformed men knocked on the door of the Evangelical Presbyterian Church at Callqui one evening in August 1984, selected six members of the congregation, and took them out back to kill them.

      I doubted I would find Pastor Vidal at home. In my previous experiences trying to locate evangelical pastors, I found they were almost always out preaching. I began with the church, but the padlock was closed and a peek through the cracks in the door confirmed no one was there. There were a few houses, but their calamina (corrugated aluminum) doors were also shut. Walking around, I realized there was a small store off the side of one of the houses and the door was open. As I approached, an elderly man in a red baseball cap and tennis shoes came outside, rubbing his unshaven stubble with the palm of his hand.

      “Hola,” I greeted him. “My name’s Kimberly. I’m looking for Pastor Vidal Trujillano. Do you know if he’s around?”

      A smile spread across his face as his eyes squinted to tone down the sun. “That’s me.”

      Pastor Vidal invited me into his store, introducing me to his wife, who was standing behind the counter. A glance around the store prompted me to compliment Pastor Vidal for having founded Snacker’s Heaven. He burst out laughing, adding that maybe there was a paradise here on earth. Small metal display racks were sitting upon the glass counter, bags of potato chips in various sizes and flavors hanging in orderly rows. Beneath the glass were stacks of cookies, candies, and soda crackers. The shelves were lined with cans of leche Gloria, bottles of Kola Real, plastic bags of sugar and rice, and packages of pasta. Pastor Vidal gestured toward an elaborate armchair of deep burgundy velveteen located in the corner. The chair was covered with thick plastic to avoid wear, and I immediately demurred. “Pastor Vidal, this is a throne fit for a queen!”

      He bowed deeply and his arm was my escort. “Of course … and here she is.” His face crinkled again as he laughed, displaying a sense of humor that punch-lined our hours of conversation.

      Pastor Vidal asked his wife to pass him two bottles of Kola Real to accompany the chaplas I had brought with me. I explained that I was an anthropologist and was living in several communities in the alturas of Huanta. “That’s why I was looking for you. People remember you and the Bible movies you showed them.”

      He nodded, clearly pleased. He suggested we go next door to the church so he could show me where so many things had happened. His wife handed him an old white shoelace tied through half a dozen keys, one of which opened the padlock on the church’s wooden doors. There was a small painted sign hanging above the doorway: Evangelical Presbyterian Church. We walked into a room filled with the light of a dizzying blue sky. The dirt floor was swept smooth, and six rows of wood slab pews lined each side of the aisle. Following him up that center aisle, I noticed a drum set, guitar, accordion, and amplifiers set up in the corner. It made me think of the children who said they went to church to dance.

      At the front of the church was a simple table with some flowers. What caught my eye was a series of laminated posters on the wall. Pink roses and an English countryside were hung alongside a chart titled “Clínica del Alma: Médico Especialista” (Clinic of the Soul: Specialized Doctor). Big letters detailed the services rendered and by whom.

Honorary Degree	Son of God
Doctor’s Assistant	The Holy Spirit
Field of Study	The Heart
Experience	Unfailing and Eternal
Doctor’s Office	Everywhere
His Power	Unlimited
Specialty	The Impossible
Prescription	The Bible
Illnesses Treated	All
Guarantee	Absolute
Hospital	Anywhere
Treatment Goals	Peace and Happiness
Cost of the Visit	True Faith
Attention	24 Hours a Day
Doctor	Jesus Christ

       Clinic of the Soul: Specialized Doctor

      We settled in around a small table, and Vidal asked if I planned to tape our conversation: “Most people want to record what I say. I’ve seen a lot of things.” Indeed, he was such a “practiced talker” that at times I felt I was listening to his testimony, much like the testimonies evangelicals give in church as proof of God’s work.

      “I’m interested in the history of these communities,” I said, “how people lived through the violence, and rebuild their lives now.”

      Pastor Vidal nodded, removing his glasses to rub his eyes. “I’m losing my eyesight,” he explained. He wore thick eyeglasses that made his eyes swim as though I was looking at him through a thick window on a drizzly day. But the glasses helped alleviate the horrible headaches he had suffered from. As he explained, prior to being fitted for his coke-bottle lenses, “I walked around weaving back and forth like a drunk.” We concurred that such swerving was incompatible with his evangelical position.

      “And when did you start preaching, hermano Vidal?”

      “Bueno, I’ve been preaching for over fifty years,” pausing to let those five decades sink in. “I have el don de predicar [a gift for preaching].”

      “And where did you learn about the gospel?” I asked, a question that led us to Vidal’s youth and his disenchantment with the Catholic Church.

      “I lived with the Franciscans in Lima when I was young. We studied every morning until noon, and then we went out to work. But they never showed us the Bible. Never! They had us read a few little books—dogmas, that’s all we read. Only they [the priests] had Hail Mary, the salvation of mass, and confession.”

      “Why didn’t they use the Bible?”

      “It was only for them.”

      I was perplexed. “But why only for them and not to show to everyone?”

      “Well, we [the Evangelicals] talk straight out about the