Crime, Law & Social Change31: 87–91, 1999.© 1999Kluwer Academic Publishers. Printed in the Netherlands.

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Book review

Robin Ormes Quizar,My Turn to Weep: Salvadoran Refugee Women in CostaRica(Westport, Connecticut/London: Bergin & Garvey, 1998), 216 pp, $55.00,ISBN 0-89789-540-1.

Robin Ormes Quizar’s bookMy Turn to Weep: Salvadoran Refugee Womenin Costa Ricais not a book about crime and lawper se, but it is a book aboutsocial change. It is a book which (implicitly) promises to explore some ofthe ways in which oppressed people (in this case Salvadoran women) createcounter-memories which oppose the “official” memories of state apparatusessuch as El Salvador’s. Unfortunately for this reader, however,My Turn toWeeppromises a lot more than it seems willing to deliver. And this apparentunwillingness seems to stem from the author’s fears that as an “American”(white?) woman in a Latin American setting she must not speak for others,but must instead allow others to speak for/from/of themselves. However, inher effort not to “speak for others,” it is this reader’s opinion that she ends upnot saying anything new at all. Paradoxically, Quizar ends up revealing moreabout herself through her silence than the “Salvadoran refugees” do throughtheir words and narratives.

In the introduction to her book, Quizar criticizes “mainstream feministtheory in the United States” because, she claims, it “assum[es]. . . that womeneverywhere experience oppression primarily from the gender roles that areculturally assigned to them” (xi). She goes on to assert, quite rightly, that“[t]his mainstream view of feminism remains skewed towards those who caneasily ignore their other status markers, such as race, class, religion, culture,or political opinion, and who can focus first and foremost on their genderstatus. . .” (xi). She concludes her introduction with the “claim that the refugeewomen’s lives represent a contrast to the struggles of U.S. feminists. . .” (xvi).It is unfortunate, however, that between this promising introduction and therest of the book there seems to be no connective thread. In fact, Quizar herselfstates that, because the refugee women “do not view themselves as ‘femin-ists’,” she will make “little reference to feminist theory within the text” (xvi).It is left to the reader to decide whether or not Quizar’s critique is relevant atall, or to imagine ways in which it might be.

The body of the text is composed mostly of thetestimonios(narratives) ofthe refugee women. The women’stestimonios, moreover, are presented, forthe most part, in the form of interviews conducted by the author herself. Inthis way, the reader is allowed access not only to the women’s stories but alsoto the interviewer’s questions and/or remarks. Presumably, by thus exposing

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herself throughout her work, the author “de-legitimizes” her voice by makingit one voice among many voices. The author seems to be acutely aware ofthe many contradictions which arise when a “gringa” (an American woman)decides to speak for the oppressed women of Latin America. However, theauthor does not seem to be aware of the problematical nature of thetesti-moniosthemselves, or of what I would call the “testimonial act”: the act ofconstructinga “believable, truthful”testimonio. At one point, Quizar revealsthat “Dona Ligia,” the director of the refugee center, “choreograph[ed]. . . thetestimonios. She knew – as I certainly did not – which of the women’s storieswould be most dramatic and compelling. She also knew which women weremost anxious to talk. These were the interviews she scheduled first, a factwhich had a profound impact on my research” (9). Beyond this, however,Quizar does not seem to be aware of the “choreographed” nature of thetesti-moniosthemselves, regardless of what order they follow. Memory, we havecome to know, is a “choreographed,”choreographingprocess. And in the actof telling themselves, of constructing themselves through their narratives, thewomen speak from the different identities (Quizar would call them “statusmarkers”) which continually cross them and of which they thus become theloci. This is not to say that their stories are somehow “false” (or “true” forthat matter), but simply to point out that the author does not seem to beaware of the many complexities involved in the narrative-making or narrative-constructing act, an act which is intrinsically linked to process of identityformation.

And these complexities will inevitably include her as well. After all, thewomen are aware of the fact that they are talking to the “enemy.” One of thewomen, “Mirabella,” for example, says at one point that “Duarte [the Sal-vadoran dictator] was chosen byyour government” (159; emphasis added).The interviewer/interviewee relationship is also complicated by the “fact” ofthe author’s perceived (by some of the women) favoritism toward “Alicia,”in many ways the central character of the book, at least in the later sec-tions. All these factors, and many others, influence not only what is saidbut how it is said, and, more importantly, for what purpose. I do not wishto imply, of course, that the women consciously manipulate their stories. Isimply wish to point out that the author does not seem to be aware of the“fact” that narration-making and identity-making are not entirely dissimilaracts-moments.

It is for these reasons – although many others can also be cited – that, al-though this reader sympathizes with Quizar’s overall design and intentions, Ifind that I cannot recommend this book. The book leaves too many questions,not simply unanswered, but unraised.The Pennsylvania State University William H. Castro