pered with its pebbly beaches, undercutting the dusty chfFsnwith the city on their edge. From the ocean, gray shadowsncame and ghded between the glass curtain-walls of OldnLima.nPterodactyls were flying over Lima. Pelicans, dignified,natavistic, and funny. They were sad because there was nonmore fish, and they were starving. Pesqueros were also sadnbecause there was no fish. They had overfished for years,nand ground the anchovies into fish flour, becoming millionaires,none and all. They were wondering, like thenpelicans, what was going on.nThe sky above the Andes was dark and immobile. Fromnits middle a sun shone—white and sharp and different fromnthe one we know. The mountain was endless, ordered; onnits sides eternal snows melted eternally, while the trainsncrawled along, full of people eating in panic. In the Andes,na man must be religious.nThe road to Sillustani was pure Third World: unpaved,ntreacherous, hard, like a tribute. In unearthly absence anlake existed, searingly blue, surrounded by reeds and waternplants which scattered catfle ate, standing halfway in thenwater.n”In Oregon,” said Campbell, an American biologist tonme, “cows don’t graze in water.” Campbell, his Scottish-nGerman-American eyes humorous, was as unlike BenjaminnLinder as a man could be, for he had come to Peru to work,nand be paid for it. Campbell knew Peru—he was the mannwho told me of Sillustani—yet, he never talked of thenIndios, whose fisheries he was trying to protect. WhereasnLinder was young and had started working as a circus artistnin Managua, Campbell was middle-aged, and for him thenRevolution meant clearing the ancient pre-Incaic irrigationncanals on the coast and letting the desert bloom, as it hadnonce before, out of anyone’s memory.nThere was a promontory in the lake, and it must havenbeen an island, once. On it, strangely unencompassable thenstone chulpas stood, base up, outside time, space, memory,neven the imagination. They were old.n”The chulpas are tombs,” said Campbell, knowing morenthan any man could. The gargantuan truncated conesncould have been telephone booths, for all I, or anyone elsencould argue. The stones were sculpted by someone HenrynMoore must have imitated—fairly regular, their jointsnformed thin, geometric lines, the only such I haven’t seennon paper. Some granite stones were lying around, like Legonblocks. The blocks were 20 feet long, 15 feet wide, 10 feetnthick.nThere is a past in Peru, as in much of the rest of LatinnAmerica. Whoever built Sillustani knew as much as mennever did or possibly will.nThere are worlds of different weight, and to know them isnto praise God—Garcilaso de la Vega, an Inca, came backnafter a long stay in Spain still an Indian, while Pizzaronremained forever a Spaniard. Today, Peruvians recognizenhim in bronze, on Lima’s Plaza de Armas. “Caballero sinncaballo,” an old Indian woman laughed after me at thenJuliaca fair, paying homage to my origins. BenjaminnLinder, on the other hand, was a victim, because he was angringo. The thousands of Chicanos congregating in Chicago’snLake Shore Park are not, nor will they ever be:nimpassive and stolid, they lift weights at the Y and speaknlittie. If their^ rivers in the Altiplano are carrying detergentnfoarn, they Icnow who’s to blame, for they have been taughtnwell, by the same people as Benjamin Linder. They knownthey have rights. In the land of the gringos, they search fornpeace, unwilling to forego anything.nPeoples ebb and flow—the Chicanos’ only obligationnmay be to reclaim North America that their cousins have letngo, in an unforgotten and an unforgiven past. The future,never so fickle and brief, belongs to those who would grasp it,nsinless and guiltless. When the Incas subdued the Mochicas,nthe Aymara and the Quechuas, or when the Aztecsnripped out the hearts of thousands of victims, history wasntheirs, regardless of who built the pyramids, the chulpas,nSacsahuaman, or Quenco. Octavio Paz, the blue-eyednEuropean Indian, was not on hand to lament anyone’s fate;nBenjamin Linder’s parents had no counterparts. The Indiosnthen probably stood the same as today; somber, sullen, theirnbare feet caked with mud, their enormous black toenailsnturned like talons.nDEMOCRACY AND THEnRENEWAL ornPUBLIC EDUCATIONnEncouriTERnSERIESnPaper, $9.95nIn five main addresses—by Richard A.nBaer, Jr., Charles L. Glenn, Rockne M.nMcCarthy, James W. Skillen, and Paul C.nVitz—and subsequent discussion, thenconference participants share their ideasnabout what is wrong with education innAmerica, and offer proposals for itsnrenewal. Paul Vitz’s essay includes ansummary of his recent and widelypublicizednreport on the depiction ofnreligion and traditional values in Americanntextbooks.nyour bookstore, or write:nWM. B. EERDMANSnlIVv^ PUBLISHING Co.n255 JEFFERSON AVE. S.E. / GRAND RAPIDS, MICH. 49503nnnENCOUNTER SERIES,nVOLUME 4nRichard John Neuhaus,nGeneral EditornThe Encounter Series presents the dialoguenof a diverse group of theologians, ethicists,nphilosophers, and public policy experts onnissues involving the relationship of politicsnand public affairs. In this newest addition tonthe series, leading educators and analystsnexamine the current status of the Americannpublic education system and propose waysnin which it might be made more democraticnand representative of our pluralistic society.npCBOCEACfnlEWEWALnE D * ^nlEOJffnAUGUST 1987/11n