Memories and marimba
Mayari De Lión runs Proyecto Luis de Lión in her village of San Juan del Obispo to promote musical education and to memorialize her father.
Mayari De Lión stands in her garden that sits behind her school/museum. Mayari grew up in the same place she lives today, a common thing in the village of San Del Obispo. | Photo by Savannah Heeren
By Matt Teigland
Mayari De Lión took another scoop of dirt, tenderly patting it around a bed of flowers in a black plastic box on a January day. De Lión plants flowers when she is stressed. She continued to add more dirt and roots around the stem with her fingers as she recounted her day. From a broken phone to a COVID-19 booster appointment that fell through to a plumber who may be ripping her off.
“Look at my garden,” she said as she motioned toward her array of flowers and other fauna, all
popping with reds among the greens.
The garden sits in the backyard of her home, built directly on top of a museum dedicated her father, the author and political activist Luis De Lión.
“Look at my garden,” she said, “and look at all of my stresses.”
De Lión stretched her short frame to maximum height and set her box of flowers on a chain link fence. Inside the fence sits a personal zoo full of
rabbits, turtles, ducks, parrots and doves. Sometimes, when her daughter Stephanie comes over after long weeks working at her medical residency in Hospital General San Juan De Dio, they pretend the animals are people. They create funny and dramatic scenes as they mosey throughout the yard.
In 2005, when she moved back to her hometown to start Proyecto Luis de Lión, she could never have predicted where she is today: a single indigenous mother, or vilomah, living in a country that killed her father. She said she tries to instill dreams into the more than 700 children in her after school programs in San Juan del Obispo. Proyecto Luis de Lión works to inspire and give students positive memories through musical education, painting and musical therapy.
Proyecto Luis De Lión, in a yellow building covered by its namesake’s poems, was founded in March 2004. However, Mayari De Lión celebrates the anniversary in May, the month her father went missing in 1984, abducted by the army intelligence or the government of Guatemala.
When De Lión arrived in San Juan del Obispo from Guatemala City with her daughter Stephanie 17 years ago, she says she was shunned by her community for a combination of reasons. For one, she was a single mother, frowned upon by the predominantly Catholic community. Secondly, the status of Luis De Lión as a communist supporter generated criticism, even a decade after a brutal civil war in Guatemala.
Few children showed up for her first classes. For the first five years, it could be in the single digits. Sometimes none. But attendance was far from the biggest struggle.
Luis De Lión was born in the same small wooden house that is nestled in De Lión’s backyard garden surrounded by the walls of Proyecto Luis De Lión. His father, Mayari’s grandfather, was a police officer but also painted and worked in theater. His mother was a Katchiquel woman who worked in agriculture and took care of the kids at home. They struggled to make ends meet. Two of his older brothers died from the inability to purchase necessary medication for their ailments.
Mayari De Lión was his eldest child, and their relationship was composed of the many stories that Luis would tell to her for entertainment, as his job as an elementary teacher in San Juan allowed little room for the luxuries of toys and television. They were very close, she says, and her father taught her how to write and read in a time when literacy among women was low in Guatemala. UNESCO reports female literacy has improved from 13% in 1994 to more than 90% in 2015. De Lión recounts how her father told her that abundance of food and health are the most important things in life. Material possessions come second.
Luis spent most of his young adult life in San Juan, teaching for free at times, intent on providing accessible education to all individuals. He started a library with a group of friends in 1962 that his daughter would end up reviving. His most famous work was “El tiempo principia en Xibalbá,” or “Time Commences in Xibalbá,” a story of a man who returns to his village after serving in the military. It won the Juegos Florales de Quetzaltenango, a Guatemalan literary award that has been recognized since 1916.
Luis taught literature at the University of San Carlos during Guatemala’s civil war. He became a member of the communist Guatemalan Party of Labour. Anti-communist sentiments ran rampant amongst the Guatemalan officials at the time, his daughter said, and he became an instant target. As she tells the story, in 1984, on his way to work, he was pulled over by a group of men lacking official military markings and forced into a van. A replica of the gray sweater he was wearing the day he went missing hangs in one of the rooms of Proyecto Luis De Lión, along with texts he buried in the garden that were illegal to possess during the war. His daughter was 17 years old when her father was kidnapped. Her mother immediately filed a case against the government, but with no evidence for the family to present, they simply ignored her.
Some of her family’s questions were answered in 1999, when a 74-page intelligence record listing 183 people executed by the government was leaked to a human rights organization. This document, known as the Diaro Militar, ended up at George Washington University, where De Lión flew out to analyze them. In this record, one of the 183 people listed among those executed by government forces between 1983 and 1985 was Luis de Lión. In 2004, De Lión and her family went toe to toe with the Guatemalan government in a human rights court to force officials to claim responsibility for the murder of the activist. The De Lión family won.
Luis De Lión‘s picture in the Diaro Militar, a Guatemalan government record of executed citizens. De Lión was the first person the Guatemalan government posthumously admitted to kidnapping and executing during the country’s civil war, his daughter said. | Photo from The Dario militar
Luis De Lión was the first missing person during the 36-year Guatemalan Civil War the government would take responsibility for. Military members remain under investigation by several human rights organizations to this day to be held accountable for the disappearance of political figures, but the government itself puts few resources into any internal investigations, she says.
For the De Lións, the wrongful murder recognition proved that Luis’ ideas did not make him a criminal. The school and museum, De Lión said, is a symbol of their courage and willingness to not be afraid of tyranny.
The government promised to give scholarships to the grandchildren of Luis De Lión and fund a library in his honor. That promise, she said, was never fulfilled.
In January, Stephanie recounted how her mom was probably the only mom in the world who was upset when her daughter decided to pursue medicine at one of the most prestigious universities in Guatemala. Instead, De Lión wanted Stephanie to study music.
A rebellious cello player, Stephanie did not follow the encouragement of De Lión and Juan Noé Rajpop, a mentor and teacher at the school, to play the
marimba, Guatemala’s national instrument, professionally. Stephanie, however, still can play the marimba, as she was one of the first students of the school that opened up on the museum grounds in 2008. Noé, a marimba teacher for 11 years, tells of how Stephanie’s class used to give him the biggest headaches.
Proyecto Luis de Lión Director Mayari stands outside Proyecto in the street in San Juan del Obispo. The walls are covered in poetry from Luis de Lión, her father. Many of his poems were intentionally destroyed, along with some of his manuscripts during the Guatemalan Civil War, but De Lión still finds some here and there. One of these poems was hidden in a book her father had in his public library a couple blocks away. | Photo by Savannah Heeren
A poem on the wall of Proyecto Luis de Lión
I was on the stone
It was not a dew
It was a tear
And since no one said it was his.
The stone said it was hers.
Estaba sobre la piedra
No era un rocio
Era una lagrima
Y como nadie dijo que fuera suya.
La piedra dijo que era de ella.
by Luis de Lión
Noé said that when they practice their timing in rhythm, the younger children will often be too eager to jump into the beat with mistimed strikes on their marimbas. Noé is easily frustrated. He makes his money as a member of the Presidential Marimba group, accompanying the president of Guatemala to foreign countries, such as Italy or the United States, playing marimba and covering popular local music as a diplomatic gesture.
When Noé heard marimba being played at Proyecto Luis de Lión, he could not resist his curiosity and knocked on the door to investigate. According to Noé, De Lión slammed the door on his face. Years later, in need of a new marimba teacher, Noé was suggested to De Lión by a friend. Noé was hesitant to agree, but did so anyway out of respect for marimba, he said.
His start in the Proyecto had its hiccups. Rambunctious classes like Stephanie’s drove Noé to the edge and he submitted a letter of intent to quit. De Lión refused to read it, worried about the contents inside. Noé went to work the next day, expecting to have some sort of exit interview. Instead it was business as usual, and now Noé has worked with the Proyecto going on 11 years.
De Lión sees in Noé and the marimba the same passion her father showed for literature and education. This passion, she notes, is the main contributor to the success of the project.
“We try to make true little dreams and hopes with all of our love, because life needs to continue,” De Lión said.
In San Juan del Obispo, little dreams are incredibly valuable to the poorly educated youth of rural Guatemala, where the average years of schooling sits at 6.5, according to the United Nations Development Program.
De Lión said the goal of the Proyecto isn’t to change students’ economic or social standings, but to change the way they view themselves in those contexts. Most importantly, De Lión believes that children’s dreams are meant to be protected.
“Life is hard,” she says, “but you can dream what you want to face those hard things.”
Control is something De Lión wished she would’ve had in 2005, when life gave her one of its hardest punches.
In the wooden house where her father grew up, figurines crafted from a myriad of materials lay on the ground in a nativity scene. De Lión expressed frustration as she picked up a wooden doll, its foot having fallen off.
“This is art,” she said.
She grabbed another off of the ground.
“My son,” she said as she set the straw figure with a miniature hat back on the ground.
De Lión gave birth to her son, Luis Alberto De Lión, in 1988, a few years after the kidnapping and execution of her father. Alberto was diagnosed with bone cancer when he was 13. De Lión recounted the story with tears in her eyes. When he was in the hospital, he had made a 10-year-old friend who was given a terminal eye cancer diagnosis. Alberto locked himself in his room for a day, and when he emerged he told his mother he wanted to take guitar classes and learn English, a testament to not giving up in the face of his own cancer. De Lión would secure a scholarship for him to learn English, but could never afford to give him the guitar lessons.
Students practice marimba together at Proyecto Luis de Lión for the first day of classes of the school year. The group often travels across Guatemala to play at various venues and hope to return to doing so this year if enough funding can be secured. “Dreams are important,” De Lión said. “The force of having a dream makes things move in the right way.” | Photo by Savannah Heeren
Now, when she supplies students with musical education at the Proyecto, she can never forget the lessons her son couldn’t receive.
At the National Pediatric Oncology Unit, the hospital where he was treated, her son would dance for the other children to cheer them up. When he was given his own terminal diagnosis, people didn’t know what he and his mother were going through. They focused on creating happy memories for themselves, getting ice cream, eating chocolate and basking in the warm Guatemalan air.
Due to government corruption, UNOP did not receive their usual federal yearly operations funding. This caused financial concerns for the De Lións. Alberto’s treatment would rack up a 14,000-quetzales ($1,808) charge. At the time, De Lión could only afford to pay 3,000 quetzales.
One day, the charge disappeared, paid off by a mysterious source. De Lión still is not sure how or by whom. For this reason, De Lión said, she believes in miracles.
Noé, teacher of marimba and member of the Presidential Marimba group, instructs the beginners marimba class. Among heavy COVID-19 lockdowns during 2020, he and Mayari would travel to students’ houses lending out marimbas and giving personal practice sessions. Noé is one of five teachers who are currently employed at the Proyecto. | Photo by Savannah Heeren
After a brief period of remission, Alberto died in 2005 while De Lión worked with officials to secure funding for the Proyecto. De Lión said he died smiling. His final wish was for his mother to provide a space for his sister Stephanie to grow and be friends with other children.
Stephanie says her time spent by her brother’s side at UNOP would be the catalyst for her career in medicine. About the Proyecto, she notes, “[It] is a memorial for my grandfather and brother, and that’s the reason why it works.”
This year, De Lión predicts more than 80 students will be attending the violin, drawing, musical therapy and marimba classes the Proyecto provides for the children of San Juan. De Lión collects tuition from parents, organizes classes and is still in charge of the library that sits outside the basketball court, its shelves filled with books in Spanish, English and the Mayan language of Kaqchikel.
Parents sometimes send their kids to the Proyecto as punishment for being a rambunctious child. De Lión remembers how a little girl with bad behavior at home was sent to her. De Lión was so occupied with the kids and their classes that she forgot to get lunch, so she took them out for ice cream. The parents came back to pick up their daughter from her punishment to see her eating ice cream and laughing with De Lión. They stopped sending their kids to the Proyecto.
De Lión tells the story of a bright 7-year-old who showed significant promise as a marimba player. She had a dream to join NASA. As time went on and the financial difficulties of her family caused by a sister with a disability caught up to her, she switched her dream to become a secretary to make money for her family.
This kind of tragedy is what De Lión and the Proyecto fight against.
“I have seen children’s hearts die,” she said. De Lión is aware that they cannot change the environment around them, but they can give them the tools and motivation to change their story.
De Lión looks for more opportunities for her students, such as performing outside of the country, getting pen pals from America for her students and buying as many books for them as she can afford.
Among the sounds of dogs barking, squawking parrots and cars and motorcycles zooming down the steep incline in front of the Proyecto pierces the flowing notes of the marimba. The students are spread out across the large marimbas, some holding three different rubber mallets to play the notes.
De Lión tells how so many of the kids have grown since last time she’s seen them. The group goes from playing a cover of John Lennon’s “Imagine” to the iconic marimba piece of “Bajo el Cielo Azul”. The group of 13 to 15-year-olds are happy to be together again and hope they can return to touring across the country, playing the marimba with professional groups such as the National Orchestra of Guatemala.
“I wanted to transform the world like my father did,” De Lión says in the garage where she hosts classes, a small stage in the back covered in marimbas. “We do not choose marimba. Marimba chooses us.”
(Additional reporting by Estefania Rosal.)