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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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