Honduras: Day 5

From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective's delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."

Pictures of lost migrants at COFAMIPRO

It took us a while to get going that morning. There were some more videos to shoot and pictures to take. I think the delegation was reluctant to leave Martín with the specter of death hanging over him. Each delegate got pix with him and some group shots, of course, before we finally rolled out around 11.

Even I posed for a photo with Martín. He probably knew I wasn’t fully emotionally invested in the experience. But I knew that, once I snapped out of the detachment, I’d wanna look back on this without regrets. I wanted him to know that I would value this experience, if not at the time, then later.

I’d complained about the number of visits before, but then I also complained about schedule drift, which seems contradictory. If I objected to the frequency of visits, then why would I object to them lasting longer?

Because I was detached, and I was afraid of getting wrapped up in these people’s lives. What could I really do for them? Precious little, it seemed. Why should I get to know them and all their troubles when I was just going to leave in a few days and rejoin my life, already in progress? How could I help them when I couldn’t even help myself, with all my privileges and advantages?

My comment on Day 2 about wanting to go everywhere the American Empire’s tentacles extend was an unconscious cop-out. I didn’t wanna get too close to the Hondurans because I was afraid that, if I failed to help change their circumstances, if their situation didn’t improve, I wouldn’t be able to handle the pain.

I suppose it’s easier to take a high-level view. I can follow all the news of the world without feeling the need to commit to any specific cause for the long haul. It keeps me from getting emotionally invested in any specific movement, so I don’t have to experience its failures as personal defeats.

I didn’t wanna prolong the visits, because any attachments I made were limited. I felt uncomfortable in those places. I felt guilty for not opening up to those people. Prolonging the visits prolonged my discomfort and guilt.

I could’ve spoken to them, but I was shy and afraid. I was afraid making deeper connections would deepen my guilt or throw into greater relief the yawning privilege gap between us, the class chasm. But keeping my distance made the gap more obvious and uncomfortable than almost any conversation could have.

From La Finca, we drove back to Progreso and stopped at Radio Progreso, a Jesuit-founded station, passing through a motorized gate in the wall around the studio. In a building behind the studio, the Committee of the Families of Disappeared Migrants of Progreso (COFAMIPRO) was having a meeting in a large classroom.

We stood in the back, and the presenters introduced us. The people gave us a round of applause while we smiled awkwardly. I also waved a little, unsure if that was appropriate. Raúl, Ale and Emily went to the front of the room to explain the reason for our visit.

Raúl, Ale and Emily

A young mom let her baby crawl on the counter next to me. The baby was very cute and happy, crawling toward me with a big smile on their face. I smiled back and said, “Hey.” The mom smiled too.

We picked up Rosa Nelly Santoros, COFAMIPRO’s president and coordinator, and went to their office in a commercial district of the city. She and some other women introduced themselves as the mothers of migrants who’d disappeared.

Since 2000, the group has led caravans to the US-Mexico border looking for their lost family members. They hang pictures of the lost people around their necks and ask locals along the route if they’ve seen them. 290 people have been found alive. 79 have been discovered in prison. The remains of 85 have been returned to Honduras.

A lack of jobs was cited as the main driver of emigration. They pointed out that emigration helps the Honduran government by relieving them of poor people. It’s a valve that releases pressure and lets the government off the hook. It means fewer poor people for the government to worry about. Also, the remittances the emigrants send back home provide a large share of the nation’s wealth.

The mothers’ stories were heartbreaking. One told of finding her daughter in the US, but she was trapped in an abusive marriage and couldn’t get out. Even more moving were the songs they sang. They have a song to celebrate the reunion of a mother and her child. We were all at least misty-eyed listening to them sing.

Thence we drove to Barracón Digital (“Digital Barrack”) in a suburban residential neighborhood. The collective takes its name from its headquarters, a barrack built decades ago for bananeros. The building was raised several feet off the ground by wooden posts. We sat at tables underneath it.

Barracón Digital's mural

BD is composed of 4 women and 2 men. Two of the female members were our hosts. It isn’t an official organization but rather a 6-person collective. They’re prevented from attaining legal status by a lack of funds for payroll. But they do receive grants and donations, which they keep in a personal bank account.

They offer information technology and cybersecurity support for social justice groups. They also provide gender education, film screenings and a book club. There’s a strong feminist focus in their work. They said it’s customary in Honduras for women to leave the formal workforce in their mid-20’s.

Inside the barrack, we saw radical Leftist posters, one apparently depicting Angela Davis, a former Black Panther. There were pamphlets and books that would’ve been at home in any Leftist bookstore. As one of the women said with a smile, “The world is going down, so let’s be bad.”

A White Swiss woman showed up during our tour of the grounds. Our hosts said she taught yoga. She lived in the bunkhouse out back with some other folks. Like the barrack, the bunkhouse was raised almost one story off the ground.

Angela Davis?

While we toured the yard, the sun slid into the horizon. They had a garden with a cornstalk, cilantro and other edible plants. On one of their walls was a mural with Berta Cáceres.

Thence we returned to La Fragua. When we got back to our room, I told Raúl, “It’s good to be home.” He sleepily agreed.

Honduras: Day 4

From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective's delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."

I woke up early, per usual, but there was no early wake-up call. This was just gonna be a leisurely day, which I think we all needed.

My cabin at La Finca

Daylight revealed La Finca to be pretty much what I’d thought the night before: a revolutionary summer camp. There was a mess hall along with the cabins, a pool and a pavilion for outdoor meetings. But, like I said before, the accommodations were spartan. It was the nature that made it nice.

Martín in the mess hall

We had a breakfast of pineapple, papayas and store-bought muffins individually wrapped in cellophane. Someone mentioned that papayas can cause miscarriage. I had no idea they were so dangerous. I really liked the chocolate muffins with chocolate chips, despite my knee-jerk guilt about eating processed food.

Betty at the river

I went down to the river with Raúl. We watched the hundreds of little fish in the water. They swam around in schools, instantly changing direction in near-perfect synchronicity. We talked a little, but the beauty of the place was humbling and the serenity intoxicating after the emotional intensity of the last few days.

It was a long, languid day. We were just chillin’ for the morning. I think somebody took a dip in the river. There were 2 concrete pools painted blue slowly filling with water. It was hot, so I was looking forward to a swim. Lunch was served by Martín, his wife and sister(?).

As we ate, I told Ellen that the place reminded me of Jonestown, the jungle settlement in South America where Jim Jones got all those people to drink the poisoned Kool-Aid. I was half-joking, but I was also concerned about my fellow delegates’ seeming fascination with Martín.

Betty and Emily by the pool

I worried that they were being swept off their feet by his charisma and the romance of his cause. It would’ve been easy to get carried away in this place. It felt like we were staying at a rebel camp with the Che Guevara of Honduras (minus the militancy).

I knew the allure of such crusades. I’d drunk the Kool-Aid on Peak Oil in my late 20’s and nearly made some drastic, ill-advised, life-changing decisions as a result.

Meg and Ellen

But I was in no danger of falling under Martín’s spell. My heart kept everyone at arm’s length, even when I opened up to them verbally. I didn’t wanna get swept up in another quixotic quest, so I kept up my defenses.

Luckily, I guess, I hadn’t the guts to make those sweeping changes at the time I fell under the sway of Peak Oil. But, if I had, I might’ve fallen down some scary rabbit-holes IRL, rather than just online. I might’ve been led down the primrose path by some unstable and/or unscrupulous characters.

Martín, Emily, Ellen, Diana, me and Raúl

Ellen told me about her time touring with Up with People. I broke out in a big grin and chuckled. Up with People was a common punchline in the 80’s and early 90’s. The Simpsons parodied them a few times with a group called “Hooray for Everything.”

My amusement didn’t seem to bother her. She must be used to it. Some have compared it to a cult, she said, but she had fond memories of the group: busing around the country, making friends, doing service and performing songs. She even demonstrated the “swing clap” for which Up with People was known. (I don’t remember that part; I must’ve been too young to soak up that much of the lore.)

Carlos, our bus driver

We finally reconvened in the afternoon on the pavilion to discuss US foreign policy, the COBRAS, the police and other state security forces. We reflected, and I confessed my crankiness from the night before. They said they hadn’t noticed. “Because I’m an actor!” I said with a theatrical flourish.

The only projects for that day were 2 lengthy interviews of Martín: 1 video, 1 audio. We brainstormed questions for him. Ellen, Meredith and Diana prepared the audiovisual equipment. In the afternoon, they followed him around the camp with a camera. He explained MADJ’s plans for La Finca, parts of which were still under construction. He told them about the flora they’d planted there.

I hung back and kicked a little deflated soccer ball around a little field with little goals. Late in the afternoon, I retired to my cabin and attempted to write a poem. I’d been inspired by the one Emily shared with the group the day before.

Meg and Betty poolside

I went to a dark place. It felt like death was stalking Martín. Ale had said as much on a previous day. People were telling him to leave the country. The situation was especially worrisome with a baby on the way. (And what’s more romantic than someone dancing with Death?)

It was kinda hard just being by myself with the shadows lengthening, but I really wanted to write some poetry. (Talk about First World Problems. I’m lamenting the fact that I chose to be alone for an hour or so right after saying that Martín was in mortal danger. Well, some things never change. The Poor get more precarious while the Rich get more fragile.)

When I was done, I joined everyone in the mess hall. Diana and Emily were sitting nearest the door. They smiled at me and asked what I’d been up to.

If I weren’t so emotionally blocked, I probably would’ve dissolved in tears right then and there. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone had looked so happy to see me, especially people I’d just met. But I didn’t cry, no matter how much I wanted to. (Because I’m a Guy, and we don’t do that.)

I told them I’d been writing poetry after being inspired by Emily's poem. She was flattered, and they asked if I’d be sharing it. I said, “Sure,” but I didn’t think it was a good idea. It seemed too dark for sharing while we were still in-country, in the midst of all the sadness and fear. I didn’t wanna break the psychic barrier I’d erected to protect me from this especially gritty Reality.

After dinner, back in my cabin, I tried to read an article in the delegation binder and failed miserably. The rest of the evening was spent by the pool interviewing Martín with just audio recording equipment.

Despite the coolness of the night, Meredith, Ellen and I went for a dip. We’d missed our chances in the heat of the day. It took me a while to submerge fully in the cold water, but after that I warmed up.

I thought of the R.E.M. song, “Nightswimming,” which made me think of “Nightmowing,” the parody that I’d come up with when I lived with my cousin in Uptown Mpls. It seemed like every week in the summer we’d hear someone mowing after dark, at which point I’d start singing, and Andrew would join in: “Nightmowing deserves a quiet night…”

Everyone else was gathered around Martín poolside, listening intently. I hung back in the pool for a while before getting out and sitting on the concrete. Raúl was translating, but I couldn’t really follow.

I was more mesmerized by the scene: the contrast between the bright white outdoor lights and the black shadows, the sounds of insects in the forest, the water lapping the sides of the pool and the silence of all of us listening to Martín.

Why must we worship individuals? Martín fits the part. He’s ruggedly handsome and charismatic, serious but not too serious, and funny. But why should he be asked to sacrifice? Why can’t someone else pick up the gauntlet and give him a break?

Let him have a kid and start a family in peace. Hasn’t he done enough? Hasn’t he done his bit? We need to find another hero, another leader, another Che Guevara. The powers that be in Honduras have already taken out Berta Cáceres, but could the movement survive the loss of Martín too?

Martyrs can be inspiring, but adding another to the pantheon isn't the goal. Hondurans would probably rather believe that their heroes can escape the clutches of the government, big business and the gangs. They would probably rather believe that there is some justice in their country.

Ellen lent me some earplugs (which I’d forgotten to pack). Carlos’s snoring had kept Raúl up the night before, but it hadn’t bothered me. The earplugs were still helpful though, because I’m usually sensitive to noise when trying to fall asleep.

I was up late, writing. We had horchata after dinner. Maybe there’s caffeine in that. I’m never sure if it’s caffeine or psychological issues keeping me up.

I turned off the room light after it seemed to bother Carlos and kept writing in the patch of light the window left on my mattress. But there was no solace in it. It was just something to do while I waited for sleep to come and free me from my misery.

Honduras: Day 3

From March 25th to April 3rd of 2019, I was part of Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective's delegation to Honduras. The theme of the delegation was "Migration and Social Movements."

We got to sleep in a bit that morning. It had been a long time since I expressed anger that freely and openly, so I felt better, even though I could’ve used more sleep. I was chasing a sleep deficit, but that deficit was years old.

We hopped on the bus to visit 2 more MADJ encampments. But our first stop was a roadside comedor (“diner”) under a tent for breakfast. Ale and Corie were crazy about the Honduran breakfast specialty, baleadas, but they found the name problematic. It means “a woman who’s been shot.”

It was raining, which I really enjoyed, because it had been so dry. It was comforting just to know that it could rain there, that there was an occasional break from the arid heat.

Pajuiles

It took a while to get to Pajuiles, our first stop. The encampment was set up just off the highway in a small town. There was a shelter with a corrugated sheet metal roof and benches. That’s where we heard the stories. During our talk, the rain became torrential and pounded the roof.

MADJ has filed many complaints with the Public Ministry (MP in Spanish) about the humanitarian crisis on the Mezapa River, where Pajuiles is located. But they didn’t act until complaints came from the interests behind the dam being built there. The MP, the state prosecutors of Honduras, receive ample support from the US.

After more than a year of following official channels to denounce the construction of the dam and resulting contamination of the community’s only source of clean water, what choice was left but peaceful protest?

Ten community members were criminalized on Aug. 10, 2017. They must check in once a week with a judge in Tela and can’t attend public meetings. They’re known as “the Pajuiles 10.”

On Aug. 15, the community blocked machinery headed to work on the dam. Police escorted the next piece of machinery. The people demanded to see a warrant, at which point the police violently arrested an old man, a pregnant woman and a teenager. They fired tear gas into their homes.

The US Embassy blames a lack of law enforcement capacity for impunity in the justice system, but capacity isn’t an issue when elites are the complainants. The massive police presence that day casts doubt on the claim that security forces also have capacity issues. Charges stemming from that event were dropped against 3 encampment members and a general store owner.

Lisa, Pajuiles residents, Corie, Meg, Ale and Saúl

UMEP’s, National Police units directly funded, trained and supported by the US, are extolled by the US Embassy as a way to reform security forces. But in Pajuiles UMEP’s were working with COBRA’s, a state security force that has been involved in human rights abuses.

On May 3, 2018, heavily militarized police, including COBRA’s and US-backed TIGRES, prevented the camp from blocking heavy machinery. The day before, a judge had denied a government request for a police presence in Pajuiles and the eviction of the camp. The police escort was ordered by civilian authorities, not the judiciary.

The TIGRES are an elite commando force created in 2013 to combat narco-trafficking and gang violence. The US was deeply involved in their creation. The US tries to distinguish between “good” and “bad” Honduran security forces, but the TIGRES and the COBRA’s collaborate all the time. It’s impossible to keep them separate.

Me and Pajuiles residents

On August 4, 2018, all but a few members left the camps in the morning to protest their stalled court cases in front of the prosecutor’s office 30 minutes away in Tela. While they were away, around 100 individuals, who community members believe were paid off by Jason Hawit, owner of Hidrocep, S.A., the company building the dam, came down the mountain and destroyed and looted the camps.

As the rain poured down, the people at the Pajuiles camp told us how these events had turned their lives upside-down. They were literally fighting for survival every day. I couldn’t imagine the extreme insecurity of that kind of existence.

Feelings were building up inside me. I felt the need to speak up, to reach out before I busted. I couldn’t just sit back and listen without offering some words in return, some promise of action, of redress, of reconciliation.

I stood up and moved to what seemed like a good spot for pontificating. Before I could begin, I felt a drop on my head. I touched the spot on my head and moved over a step before starting, getting some laughs, which was reassuring.

I made a little speech saying that our wealth has been stolen from the Third World and indigenous people of the US, and we were there to right that wrong. l should’ve used more specifics. I should’ve said that support for the global economic system is waning in the First World, so there’s reason for hope. (For evidence, see the election of Trump and Brexit, two rabidly anti-establishment votes.)

But the words felt inadequate. Because they were. They were just words. Words without action are meaningless. One man in the crowd looked at me with what appeared to be skepticism, as if to say, “Yes, gringo, these are fine words, but we’ll see what happens when you get home. We’ll see what comes of these words.”

We had lunch there. A kitchen was attached to the shelter. There was also a TV showing the news.

Jilamito

Thence it was off to Jilamito, which required a long drive, eventually onto dirt roads. That encampment was out in the country amid rolling hills, a roly-poly sort of landscape. The shelter was set up over a road, with another corrugated roof and protest signs lining the canvas walls. Inside were bunk beds built from scaffolding.

Like in Pajuiles, they were fighting a hydroelectric dam project that threatened their water supply, the Jilamito River. There are fears the 14 megawatt dam could exacerbate water shortages, although Ingelsa, the company building the dam, has denied this.

One of the people who spoke was Magdalena (“Magda”) Díaz, whose husband, Ramón Fiallos, died on January 25, 2018, after being gassed and shot in the arm. He’d been protesting the controversial re-election of Juan Orlando Hernández as president.

His wound wasn’t immediately life-threatening, but he bled to death due to a lack of medical attention. This is believed to be punishment for helping found the Jilamito blockade and his many years organizing campesinos against land grabs by African palm conglomerates.

Magda

Magda’s resolve was inspiring. She said the government had taken everything from them, including their fear. Rather than cowering from the threats against them (as I would), being attacked by the police had emboldened her.

Another middle-aged woman spoke some inspiring words. As people spoke, children wandered around or lay with their moms in hammocks.

Raúl, Betty, me, Meg and Ellen

Carlos Hernández, the lawyer for the mayor of the nearby town of Arizona, was gunned down on April 10, 2018. The mayor, Arnoldo Chacón, was elected on an anti-dam platform and has been criminalized for his involvement with the blockade.

"They can kill the man, but his ideal will prevail."

After the meeting, we walked over to the river, some of us changing into swimsuits. The rain had cooled things off considerably, so I wasn’t in need of a dip. I took my shoes and socks off and waded in.

Meg, Emily, me and Diana

But just wading was enough of a struggle with all the rocks. My subpar sense of balance, combined with my fear of embarrassment, had me moving gingerly through the water.

Raúl

Diana was the only delegate who swam. She seemed to enjoy it, but the water felt rather cold to me. Some little kids waded in. One boy (maybe 12?) swam in the deep pool nearby.

Corie and Meg, with Meredith in the foreground and Raúl on the rock

Magda sat on a rock by herself. She seemed so alone and sad. I wondered how she was doing after losing her husband. But she smiled for a picture, so who knows how much I was projecting onto her?

Magda

A few young moms watched their kids. They smiled and laughed as the kids frolicked in the river.

Ale and Lisa with the locals

Even in this desperate situation, they’re still having kids and living their lives as fully as they can. A lot of people (myself included) wonder why, but they have no less right to have kids than anyone else. Life shouldn’t be a Vale of Tears. Save it for the goths.

That night, dinner got pushed back by schedule drift. We went to a radio studio in the town of San Juan Pueblo for Martín’s show at 7pm, everyone squeezing in a room. We took turns with a mic answering his questions live on the air. He asked us our impressions of what we’d seen and heard.

I was too nervous to follow closely what other people were saying. After several others had spoken, I took the mic and tried to answer the question. But then I said the bit I’d been preparing in my head. I sort of took the question and ran with it, like a politician. I said the global economic system that must be enforced by gunpoint in Honduras only needs political rhetoric to maintain support in the US.

That went for an hour. Then we drove to another part of town to Martín’s sister’s house. His sister, Elsa, had a store through which we passed to get to her house. We sat down at their dinner table as Martín’s pregnant wife prepared the meal.

By then it was 9, and I was far more in need of sleep than food. But, despite my lack of hunger, I managed to clean my plate and have dessert, after which Martín put his hand on my shoulder and said, “¡Campeón!” (“Champion!”) That got a laugh from the group and even a smile from me, in spite of my fatigue.

We milled around the house a while after dinner. I noticed a Spanish-language DVD of Fifty Shades of Grey in the living room. That amused me. I was getting cranky at this point, but I held it in like a good Minnesotan.

The living room could’ve been in any middle-class American home, with one crucial difference. In addition to the flat-screen TV, there was a video monitor showing live footage from the security cameras outside.

After a generous amount of socializing, we finally took off for the MADJ compound just outside of town called La Finca. We drove uphill and then got out of the bus to climb the last few blocks in the dark. Most of us turned on our cell phone flashlights to pick our way through the rocks and debris in the road.

There was a scorpion that someone shone a light on so we’d avoid it, but I couldn’t see it. We crossed a metal bridge over a creek to get to the compound. It was a complex of concrete cabins, like a summer camp for revolutionaries. I got the cabin with Raúl and Carlos, our bus driver.

I was decidedly nonplussed upon seeing our spartan accommodations. It reminded me of the village in Oaxaca on my other WFP delegation. I didn’t wanna hafta deal with it, especially at this late hour after a long day.

There was no room for me to vent in private. If I sulked about it openly, then Raúl and Carlos would know what a spoiled brat I am. But why couldn’t I even put up with this for 2 nights?

There was no light in the bathroom, which was only separated from the rest of the cabin by half-walls. There were people staying in the cabin’s other rooms, people I don’t think we ever met. They may have been the guys who were working on the camp during our stay.

There were also a little boy and his mom I could hear. I couldn’t see them, but I could see into their well-lit rooms. It was like watching a play from backstage.

Carlos snored, but it was anxiety keeping me up again that night.