I didn’t have as much trouble getting up before 4am as I expected. We tumbled onto the bus in various states of consciousness and stopped to pick up Corie, Ale and Saúl, a MADJ organizer, before heading off into the night.
We meandered through the darkness, cruising along highways and wending our way through small towns. The lights of houses and gas stations revealed nearly empty streets. Activity didn’t pick up until the night began to recede.
It was light out by the time we stopped at a gas station for a bathroom break. There were some women jogging along the road. I was surprised, because it was the first time I’d ever seen (apparently) working-class folks jog.
The last hour or so we were climbing into wooded hills. The road began to wind through mountains. We turned off the highway and followed dirt roads to the Tolupán encampment in San Francisco Locomapa (or “St. Francis Crazy-map,” which I found amusing; it refers to the area’s confusing geography).
I couldn’t sleep on the bus, but I didn’t think I would, so it wasn’t a great disappointment. Just sitting there in various awkward positions with my eyes closed seemed to provide enough rest. I felt alright by the time we got there at 7:30.
We pulled up to a hardscrabble collection of wooden shacks. This was one of the makeshift villages set up to prevent logging of the mountains. Gathering under an open-air tent on wooden benches, we listened to the locals tell us their stories.
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| Lisa, me, Raúl, Emily, Diana, Corie, Betty, Meg and Ale at the first village |
The Indigenous Tribe of San Francisco Locomapa is part of the 26 Tolupán tribes based in the department of Yoro. (Honduras is divided into departments, instead of provinces or states.) The Tolupán have been around for 5,000 years.
In 1864, the Locomapa tribe was given an ancestral title to 232 acres. But, on Dec. 16, 2009, the government authorized the cutting of 7,394 pine trees on Tolupán land without the tribe’s consent. The logging has divided the community between those who oppose it and those who support it.
In 2010, a business owner filed charges against several community members for “obstructing the execution of” the logging plan. The defendants had to sign in at a courthouse every 15 days and were prohibited from visiting establishments that sell alcohol or psychotropic drugs.
MADJ appealed the resolution against the defendants, or “the Tolupán 8,” as they came to be known, who are also members of MADJ. This resulted in the complete dismissal of charges.
In 2012, a business owner filed new charges against Locomapa community leaders. The court dismissed these charges, and the Honduran state conceded the tribe’s right to protest under the International Labour Organization’s Convention 169.
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| José María Pineda |
In 2013, three community members were killed by two men. On April 5, 2015, Luis Reyes Marcia was murdered. His wife, Vilma Consuelo Soto, was granted protective measures by the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights. Erasio Viedo Ponce was killed July 18, 2015.
One perpetrator of the triple murder in 2013, Luque Varela, was brought to justice and is serving a 45-year prison sentence. The other killers remain at large.
Under the tent, the people also told us about the violence they’d suffered at the hands of state security forces. There’s a nebulous web of collaboration among the government, big business and criminals that allows the first two groups plausible deniability and the last group impunity.
As if to drive the point home, a pickup rolled by that said “Policía Nacional” (“National Police”) on the side with a man sitting in the bed and two in the cab.
Thence we drove to another camp nearby. There was a soccer field on a flat space with short grass. A mob of kids chased a ball around between the metal pipe goals. A schoolhouse loomed above the field. We stood in the shade of a tree across the field from the schoolhouse. The locals stood a few feet from us. Others sat on the slope above and behind them.
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| By the soccer field |
As one delegate noted, fear was close to the surface. But the people’s hope endures. “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of freedom,” said one. “I want my children to grow their crops on their free land,” said another, expressing the community’s resolve.
Of course, this is a group for whom mere survival is an act of resistance. As indigenous people, they’ve mainly been thought of as an impediment to “progress,” a speed bump on the road to economic development and cultural “improvement,” ever since the European conquest of the Americas.
Once they were deemed unsuitable to enslavement, they were forced onto the least desirable land and abandoned. Now that the Capitalist machine has exhausted all the best land of profitable resources, it has turned its eyes hungrily to the indigenous communities, since they have the only exploitable “undeveloped” land left.
Martín Fernández of MADJ, José María Pineda of Locomapa and others spoke, as well as the schoolteacher, a man who appeared to be in his 20’s.
A group from Europe joined us to observe and listen. One woman wandered around taking pictures. Another of their group, a man from Ireland, added some words of support, hope and encouragement.
The community is planning a radio station for the top of the hill. The state security forces have threatened to burn it down if it’s in the encampment.
Thence we drove to a road the bus couldn’t negotiate, so we got out and walked. It was a hilly gravel road. We walked by meager homesteads. There was smoke rising from forest fires below. The loggers would burn the areas they logged, apparently to cover their tracks, even though they have permits.
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| Logging roads and smoke from a forest fire |
As the guests of honor, we were served first. We ate on the front porch while kids lined up along the fence, shyly watching us and waiting their turn. Their shyness was matched only by us first-time delegates. Corie, Ale, Meg and Meredith mixed more easily with the locals.
I got impatient as time dragged on. I wasn’t really chatting with anyone, and, rather than escape my comfort zone, I decided to stew in guilt-displaced anger and annoyance. Also, we White folks were mostly segregated from the Brown folks, so I felt guilty and uncomfortable about that.
After a while, I told Corie, “Time check: it’s quarter to 2.” She was surprised how late it was and acknowledged the urgency of leaving; they didn’t want to drive in the mountains after dark. But it still took a while to get goin’.
This was my main complaint: “schedule drift,” the way things got pushed back and visits extended. But the IT’s were interested in maximizing each “partner meeting,” especially in Locomapa, since they were so remote and rarely got visitors. Before heading out, Lisa and Emily were interviewed by María Dolores Cabrera for Radio Dignidad.
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| María interviews Lisa as Raúl translates. |
We left by truck, a bunch of us piling in the bed of a mini pickup that could handle the bumpy road. I initially tried to sit on the side, but was knocked onto the floor when we took off and decided to stay there. It may’ve bruised my masculine ego to sit like that while an old woman and man sat on the side, but I didn’t have the guts to copy them. I didn’t feel stable at all up there.
Those of us on the bed were jammed together like Tetris pieces. We kept bumping into each other due to the rough ride. We were only in there for 7 minutes, but it felt much longer.
Before hitting the road, we made one last stop. Juan Samael Matute and José Salomón Matute, Ramón Matute's father and brother, respectively, had been murdered recently, and we visited their grave by the side of the road.
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| The grave of Juan Samael Matute and José Salomón Matute |
After we got back to Progreso, Ramón called to say that, after we left, their murderer had been lurking around his house, threatening him.
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| Logging truck we passed on our way home |
Back at La Fragua, we saw a tarantula on the steps leading upstairs. Judiciously, we gave it a wide berth, although I don’t think tarantulas are actually harmful to humans. They’re just big, scary, hairy spiders.
That was the night Lisa snapped in the classroom. It shouldn’t have been so surprising, what with getting up before 4am and spending 7+ hours on the bus.
I think we were just reflecting on Locomapa, and Lisa angrily said, “I don’t know why you’re not angry!” and stormed out to smoke. I guess she’d been looking at Emily when she said it, because Emily said, “Was that directed at me?” I said, “No, I think you just got caught… in the crossfire.”
We tried to move on, but Emily was upset and left. Diana went up after her a few minutes later. The meeting broke up after that, when it became clear there was no point in continuing. We reconvened at 10 to resolve the situation.
The WFP staff started by obliquely addressing the incident, until Emily cut through the morass by saying, “Can I get real?” She addressed Lisa directly, apologizing for anything she might’ve done to offend her, but she didn’t think she deserved that treatment. Lisa was unaware that she’d taken it personally, saying it wasn’t directed at her and “I can be blunt, because I’ve had to be.”
Months later, it occurred to me that we in the middle class have the opposite problem. We tiptoe around difficult subjects because we have to. If you rock the boat too much, you’re liable to be thrown overboard, i.e., out of the middle class. Many times I’ve kept my mouth shut in order to maintain my comfy existence.
The whole experience seemed more immediate to Lisa. As a working-class indigenous person, she’s got skin in the game. The rest of us are protected from it. They talked about the “secondary trauma” of listening to survivors’ stories, but for Lisa it’s primary trauma. The rest of us get to “raise awareness” in our safe, comfortable homes. But she has to live with it. She doesn’t get to be a tragedy tourist.
I think this class difference created tension between Lisa and the rest of us that was finally released by her outburst. We used this session to vent our frustrations.
I expressed some anger over our “partners” asking us to return. “I don’t know if I’ll be back! In all likelihood, I won’t be!” I said that the tentacles of the American Empire extend across the globe, as does our complicity, so I wanted to go everywhere those tentacles exist.
The anger wasn’t directed at anyone. It was aimless, free-floating anger over my guilt and shame about feeling unable to help those people. The more I think about it, the more ashamed I am. I’m sorry, Ale and Corie, for making you the target of my misplaced anger. Why is it so often the people least deserving who bear the brunt of those feelings?
I mentioned how tough it was to meet these people, hear their stories and then get whisked off to the next stop. I think I called it a “whirlwind tour of tragedy.” Others brought up similar concerns.
Betty pointed out how many of our daily reflections sessions had been cancelled. She’d been put in charge of those and felt she’d been overruled by the IT’s. They apologized for that and acknowledged the need to process our feelings. Thereafter, Betty made sure we took time for reflections every day. She started putting her foot down, and I think we all benefited.
Ale tearfully apologized for the demanding schedule and said they’d been trying to change that for a long time. She promised that the rest of the delegation would allow more time for connecting with our Honduran partners and reflecting on the experience.
I don’t remember Corie speaking. I just remember her looking chastened.
We were pretty exhausted after that. It was a rough way to end a long day.
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