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.
No comments:
Post a Comment