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Olonadili bore her husband's child. The moon was full on the night when she spoke to the Kuna community: "I am called Olonadili," she said, "and I come from up there," pointing with her finger to the heavens, where the stars twinkled. "There is a great river up there, swollen with water; on its banks there flourish plants of every color, great and small."

Her listeners wept with the tenderness born of the words of Olonadili. "We, the daughters of the stars, come down to visit you in the middle of the night when you are asleep. Up there, we sing to our sons and daughters, who from their infancy grow up hearing our counsel --- we are taught to defend our land, even as you also must do."

She taught them to sing to their children, to create verses and melodies for the songs, to teach them through song. She also taught them to weep for the dead, to lament, to recount in their grief the history of the departed, the joys and sorrows of the path followed by the deceased in this life. So she sang and sang to them. Her voice rose and fell as the maraca and the cords of her hammock whisperedmurmured. She taught them to feel more deeply the pain and the happiness of others and their own pain.

One day something terrible happened. The child of Olonadili became gravely ill and died.

Olonadili sang her dolorous verses. "My little faun, you flee from my side like a tiny bird that flies in and out of the clouds. My little son, with love I raised you, and I gave you my breast, and you went from me. You leave me in pain --- Paba Nana (God) will receive you as a tiny dove. My little one, you leave me immersed in this pain."

The old women who kept her company sobbed uncontrollably under the shade of the palm trees, the breadfruit trees, and the cacao. The months passed and Paba Nana (God) gave Olonadili the joy of another child, an enchanting daughter. Her lays took on different hues, and became joyful.

The grief, the hope that sprouted with Olonadili became a strong web that protected the community. That is why the smile, the sweetness, and the charm of women are the valiant song of the community. The light created by Olonadili created the seeds of god in the people, and made the seed flourish.

There is within every woman an Olonadili. What would we be without them, wives, companions, mothers? I confess that it is hard to view them as equals to men. Sometimes it is easy to get carried away, and say that her value is less that that of the man because she is different. We confuse machismo with manhood.

Olonadili said it clearly in her song: we are like the flowers that grow beside the rivers, giving strength to the roots of the trees, that enrich the soil. We cannot live in submission to men, we are their companions. So were we created by Paba Nana.

Olonadili dressed in the cotton cloth she herself wove, and she displayed her mola; flowers were her perfume. She taught the care of the home, the care and defense of children, the work of the hands and the education of mothers and grandmothers.

And there are the children; Paba and Nana are the owners of the children and we merely care for them, but we may not abuse that privilege. We must lift them by the waist, not by their tiny arms; we must not punish them, but rock them in the hammock and put them to sleep as Olonadili taught, and say to them "may your road be covered with flowers, and take you straight to the high places." Teach them to live as men and women, not how to die like animals."

How many are the children who roam the streets of the city looking for food in the garbage pails, risking their lives at the stoplights to sell trinkets, abandoned by their parents, sleeping in alleys and prostituting themselves. How many children see their mothers beaten by their husband? How many children are beaten, insulted, or abused, bearing the marks throughout their lives. How is it possible that there exist people whose insides do not turn over when they see such things?

Paba Nana sent Olonadili to wind us in a web that is delicate but very strong, to protect all of the Kuna. It is the web of tenderness and valor taught to us by the young woman who came from the shining stars. It is the ability to express the sentiments and the coherencies of our life. How often do we rend this web? How often do we tear it to pieces with our indifference and selfishness?

The web is woven from day to day, and if it is neglected it unravels. It is a web in we must all wrap ourselves, and we must find its threads inside each one of us. It is not easy. That is why in the most difficult moments, I turn my face to the stars, even sometimes in the daytime, and when I see my mother, my wife, my daughter, or one of them surfaces in my memory, I remember Olonadili and the stars shine in their eyes.

(Tale inspired by the Kuna tradition.)



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