The Story of Starting the Saemaul Movement in South America (3)

While five hundred trainees were still in the thick of learning tobacco farming in the village of Santa Maria, Eugene went before the nation and announced the Saemaul Movement.

Stripped to its essence, the address said this: we will modernize the villages you live in. In return, give us your strength.

The tobacco farms had not even proven themselves a success yet. He had thrown out the bait in advance all the same.

Soon after, civil servants fanned out to every last corner of the country and began pasting up wall posters.

That notice was a nuclear bomb dropped on the countryside of San Marcos.

These were people who, every rainy season, watched water sheet through roofs woven of wood, whose dirt floors turned to mud and crawled with insects. To them, a slate roof that did not leak and a solid cement floor were the stuff of dreams.

Before long, competition had broken out from village to village.

"I heard the next village over already finished their road and got cement and bricks to build a community hall."

"Over the mountain they're all working together to cut into the hillside, apparently."

"The village down the valley already dug irrigation channels. We can't just sit around like this."

Villages across the country stirred and seethed. The success of the next village over — a place that had been in exactly the same straits — was a stimulant no one could bear.

"Let's get our cement too! Chief, file the application with the Interior Ministry right now!"

At six o'clock every morning, without fail, the Dawn Bell Song poured from the loudspeakers, and the villagers came bursting out of their houses.

These were people who, not long ago, had slept in, finished their work late in the afternoon, and gone to bed when the sun went down. Now they were starting earlier than anyone. Those who wrapped up their own labor by midday joined forces in the afternoon and began to remake the village from the ground up.

The rutted access roads were packed flat. Farms were laid out for tobacco. They hauled gravel, cut trees from the hillsides, and picked the rocks from the soil.

The young men had been almost entirely swept away to the highway construction. What remained in the countryside were the women, the elderly, the children, and those whose bodies would not let them go.

It would be a lie to say it was not hard. And yet the light in people's eyes burned. The hope that they could do it if they tried, and the raw desire to live better than the next village over, had scraped away the indolence so often called a Latin American trait.

And at the heart of that vast transformation, the most powerful and most secretive organization in the history of San Marcos was being born.

The Women's Association.

"The National Saemaul Women's Association…"

Eugene tilted his head as he read through the proposal Isabella had submitted.

"The Saemaul Movement seems to be running well enough at the village level. Do we really need to organize the women's associations nationally?"

The point was a sharp one, but Isabella's gaze did not so much as flicker. She had an answer prepared.

"It is absolutely necessary, Your Excellency."

"And why is that?"

"To ensure the sustainability of the Saemaul Movement."

"Hmm. I think I'm going to need you to explain that."

Eugene set the documents down and folded his arms.

"I do ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠not believe, Your Excellency, that you launched the Saemaul Movement merely to revitalize the countryside. It was also a means of turning those who have lived as unregistered outlaws, beyond the reach of civilization, into true citizens of this country. Am I correct?"

"That's part of it. I wanted to build a sense of common purpose across the whole population."

"That is precisely why the Women's Association is required. Illiteracy is still the majority in the provinces, and a great many households have neither television nor radio. If central policy is to be transmitted quickly and accurately, it must travel by word of mouth — and specifically by the mouths of the mothers, who are the center of every household."

Isabella turned a page of her briefing charts, her expression carefully grave.

"Take, for example, the hygiene education that began alongside the Saemaul Movement. There are still people in the countryside who do not understand why they should wash their hands, or why they should boil their water. That is why infant mortality remains so high."

"That's a serious problem, I'll grant you."

"Male civil servants going door to door to teach it produces a great deal of resistance, and it takes far too long. But if the women of the village step forward and spread the word — wash, for the sake of my child — the policy will reach every last corner faster and in more detail than any broadcast ever could."

"Ah. When you put it that way, it makes sense."

Eugene nodded. She was right. Raising the quality of people's lives required enlightenment in the small habits of daily life every bit as much as it required grand investments in infrastructure.

"It is also the best possible organization for promoting the government's childcare support and education policies. There is no louder megaphone than a mother's word of mouth."

"You've got a point. The problem is the budget, though…"

"It will not require a large budget. We intend to induce voluntary participation, and the benefits will be drawn from what has already been allocated to the Saemaul Movement."

"I like it. Go ahead and proceed."

"Thank you, Your Excellency."

Eugene signed the approval with a satisfied air.

He had not the faintest idea that what he had just signed was not the charter of a simple hygiene-education group, but the founding document of an organization that would come to hold rural public opinion in the palm of its hand.

That afternoon, in a quiet village about an hour's drive beyond the outskirts of Libertad — a place too settled to be called purely rural, too rustic to be called a town — a young woman was hanging laundry in the yard of a modest house.

Thwack. Thwack.

A flower-print apron, her hair bound up tight. Every inch the housewife — except the snap of her wrist as she shook out a wet shirt was anything but ordinary. There was a clean, economical precision in every movement as she hung the clothes. Her name was Maria Teixeira.

In her former life she had been a black-ops agent of the SIA, the elite operative Isabella treasured most — until the previous director forced her into retirement. She had married the moment she left the service, and had been living an ordinary life ever since.

Screech.

A black sedan eased to a halt in front of her house.

Maria did not stop hanging the laundry. She checked the car from the corner of her eye.

A government vehicle?

She turned slowly, thinking it through.

What is this about?

There was only one reason a high official would come looking for a woman living a quiet housewife's life beside a husband who ran a farm.

Recruitment.

An invitation to come back to the SIA, which was expanding its power at speed under Lucio's hand.

Maria had no intention of accepting. There had been a time when she had wanted, more than anyone, to climb as high as the ladder would go. The life she had now mattered more.

She was reaching, just in case, for the pistol grip in the pocket of her apron when Isabella stepped out of the car, removed her sunglasses, and walked into the yard.

"It's been a while, Maria."

"Team Leader!"

Maria let go of the gun and ran to her.

"How did you even find this place? Team Lead— no. Chief of Staff."

"How's married life? Managing?"

"I live for looking after my husband and raising the children."

"Is that so? You look at peace. That's good."

Isabella glanced at the white shirts on the line, then spoke as if the thought had only just occurred to her.

"Mm. I came because I have a favor to ask."

"If you're going to tell me to return to the SIA, I will refuse. I have been out of the field too long, and I cannot give up the life I have now."

"And if it isn't a return — if you could keep living exactly as you do now?"

"I would like to hear the favor first."

Isabella smiled, drew a document envelope from her coat, and held it out.

"A nationwide women's organization is going to be formed soon."

"What kind of organization?"

"The National Saemaul Women's Association. Housewives living in the provinces will be its backbone."

Maria opened the envelope, scanned the contents, and nodded.

"An organization that can hold information and public opinion in one hand."

Isabella felt a small flicker of admiration. The insight had not died after all.

"That's Maria for you. Yes. Public opinion begins in the home. Control the Women's Association, and you control rural opinion overnight."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Get into the organization. I've already put your name down as president of this village's association, so it shouldn't be hard. And then…"

Isabella took a step closer.

"Become the national president and take control of the whole thing. I'll make sure the pay isn't stingy. Well? Can you do it?"

"…I will."

A chilly smile spread across her lips.

"Will you? Shouldn't you at least discuss it with your husband?"

"It's fine. The children are growing, and I needed a side job anyway."

Maria untied her apron.

"When do I start?"

"I'll be in touch soon. I'll arrange things so you become the national president. You just take over the organization."

"Understood."

Watching the confidence in her, Isabella smiled with satisfaction. If Maria of all people was taking this on, it was as good as having that dark organization — the Women's Association — already in their hands.

The world is ruled by men. But in the end, it is women who rule the men.

Isabella looked toward the Presidential Palace.

Your Excellency. Please remain the shining sun. We will take care of the filthy work.