How My Wife Remembers Growing Up in Peru During the Era of Terrorism

Reflections on the Japanese Embassy hostage crisis of 1996

My wife grew up in Peru when there were active terrorist groups such as the the Shining Path (Sendero Luminoso) and the Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru (MRTA). This took place in the 80s and 90s.

Her father was in the Navy. She was 5 years old when the attacks began, but they were limited mainly to the jungle and the mountains. The violence seemed far away from the city where she lived. But as the years went by and the attacks became more frequent, the fear of terrorism became a regular part of her daily life.

Peru has been relatively free of this kind of violence for the last few decades. I was in Peru in 2002 when a bomb went off near the US Embassy that killed nine people. Over the years, I’ve become familiar with the Embassy. I’ve had to go there for things like passport renewals, and to apply for my wife’s visa.

The Embassy is a fortress. It has an impenetrable outer wall and it’s difficult to gain entry even when you have a US passport in hand. The 2002 bomb didn’t do much to the building, but I remember watching the notifications on the news. I remember the chill that went through my body.

Americans of my generation can recall watching the attacks on September 11th. My experience with the bomb in Peru felt different. It was a car bomb. Every time I went for a walk and passed a parked vehicle, I recalled the twisted aftermath of the explosion I’d seen on the news.

I was in my mid-twenties when I had to process this, and there were never any more bombings.

My wife became burdened with this type of trauma at age 5. She had to watch news reports as the terrorist activity inched closer and closer to her neighborhood.

She’s told me about sitting with her father and mother to discuss safety measures. This became a regular part of her family life. They took a moment even during Christmas dinner to have their regularly scheduled terrorist briefing for the security of the family.

Her father’s position in the Navy allowed her to go to a Navy school. They soon realized that their distinctive school uniforms might turn the children into targets. Nobody in the military wanted to have their children identified, so they discontinued the use of the uniforms.

“We don’t want you to be kidnapped, held for ransom, or tortured.”

Children don’t always obey without question, but in this instance, my wife’s compliance was absolute. The warning terrified her. She remembers the armed guards that used to sit in the front and back of her school bus.

“There was so much uncertainty,” she said. “Every day when we left for school, or dad and mom left for work, we wondered if it would be the last time we’d see each other. You just didn’t know.”

I’ve seen the pictures of my wife when she was that age. Her parents still live in the same house where she grew up. I know the streets and the park where she used to play. I’ve been married to her long enough that I see in her expressions flickering glimpses of the person she used to be. I’ve reflected on her stories as I’ve explored the neighborhood of her youth. I think some of the fear she felt then somehow got soaked up into the concrete.

I’ve sensed it.

One of the most significant terrorist attacks came in 1996, when the MRTA invaded the Japanese Embassy and took 600 people hostage. The crisis lasted for five months.

Her recollection is that the terrorists breached the Embassy by cutting through a wall in an adjoining house. This allowed them to neatly circumvent the security measures of the building. It happened during a grand celebration, and the hostages were mostly people with strong political connections.

I can picture my wife as a young woman watching the chaos unfold. Too often, I think we’re inclined to think of acts of violence, or terrorism, or war as paralyzing to a society. But the truth is, life goes on for anyone not directly involved in the conflict. Food is still delivered to grocery stores. Products are still manufactured. People still clock in for a day of work.

My wife would have been teaching English at the time. I imagine her leaving her house, walking the eight blocks to get her bus, and riding to work. All the while, people at the Japanese Embassy were huddling in undeserved captivity.

This is not something that you can fully understand in a few minutes of contemplation. Imagine having to deal with those thoughts and fears every minute of every day for five straight months. Imagine having to wonder if today would be the day that terrorists would break into your place of work and take you hostage.

There were often blackouts after 9PM, and she was constantly aware she had to get home while the streets were lit or it wouldn’t be safe. She remembers having to run the 8 blocks to her house because the bus had dropped her off late and she feared being outside alone in the dark.

The hostage crisis became the narrative of the time. She’d get home and watch for updates. There were issues with medications, sanitation, and food. Most of the hostages were released as part of ongoing negotiations. On April 22nd, 1997 President Alberto Fujimori ordered a raid that left all the terrorists dead. Two police officers and one hostage were also killed.

My wife was watching television when news broke of the raid. Her siblings were outside playing and a neighbor warned them to seek shelter inside the house. They came inside and they all sat down to watch the coverage.

In the time I lived in Peru, I was often stunned by the graphic content that was commonly shown on the news. On more than one occasion, the footage included the bodies of the deceased.

Their parents called while they were watching, “Lock the door. Do not open it for anyone.”

The image seared into my wife’s memory from that experience came at the end of the broadcast. When all the hostages were freed, the officers came out of the Embassy and burned the terrorists’ flag. Even decades later, when she told me about this, her eyes began to glisten with emotion.

“They began to play the Peruvian National Anthem,” she said. “We immediately stood, and came to attention, and sang along as loud as we could with tears running down our faces. Then we hugged each other and there was this enormous sense of release. The crisis was finally over. Our life was no longer on pause. We had regained our freedom.”

During the course of our marriage, my wife and I have navigated our share of adversities. I was at her side during the birth of our children. We’ve been through both triumph and tragedy together. I can imagine her standing in her parents’ home, surrounded by her family, overcome and confused. It makes sense to me, that they would all stand and shout their anthem together. There’s pride and relief to be found in patriotism.

Sometimes emotions are so overwhelming, you just have to put them somewhere. Once you’re done crying and shouting and hugging each other, once you’ve endured the tidal wave of emotion, life can resume.

Perhaps the great tragedy of our age is that we’re overly focused on complaint rather than appreciation. Even in the best of times, the challenges of living can seem like too much to overcome. We are inclined to dwell in a misdirected sense of grievance. How easily we forget that things can quickly get worse. Then they can get worse again.

True tragedy leaves you too exhausted to be angry.

My wife’s experience of growing up during Peru’s area of terrorism taught her to better appreciate any fleeting moment of prosperity and peace. I often rely on her to guide me when I forget to be grateful for the little things that we fail to value until they’re taken away.

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