Honduras: Epilogue

UPDATE: As one should expect, the situation in Honduras has deteriorated since the onset of the COVID-19 global pandemic. Corie has written about this for the Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective’s blog, noting that the US continues to deport people to Honduras in the midst of this crisis. On Facebook, Emily posted a link to an article on the MADJ website and a translated excerpt by the Honduras Solidarity Network:

From the Broad Movement for Dignity & Justice: "The Tolupán People in Honduras are about to die of hunger

“The measures imposed by the Honduran government to prevent the spread of #COVID has been a form of death sentence for indigenous communities, as the classist and elitist nature of the government does not take into account the socio-economic realities of these populations...

“MADJ cites the high levels of poverty in these communities as well as the state-led dispossession of indigenous peoples from their lands for mining, dams, and logging projects. This has threatened their livelihood, land control, and food sovereignty.”

Suffice it to say that things are getting worse for the people we met there. I encourage everyone to donate to the Witness for Peace Solidarity Collective to help them weather this storm.

Ya know when ya get that one comment on your blog that confirms all your worst fears about yourself, as a writer and a human being? Well, I got one of those recently. It was submitted to the Day 6 post:

“This is painful to read. I wonder what your colleagues think about your condescending attitude and constant judgement towards them? Maybe you are trying to portray yourself as vulnerable, but it reads as whiny and entitled. You need to sincerely consider why you are doing this blog as well as why you shouldn't.”

I don’t know if I should exalt this one anonymous comment to earth-shattering status, but it sounds so thoughtful that I find it impossible to ignore. I could say that it doesn’t really matter. The commenter didn’t bother to leave any identifying information, so it seems a rather cowardly pot shot in the dark. But it’s so biting and incisive that I can’t just dismiss it.

I initially deleted it, being too upset to think rationally. When you’re as socially isolated as I am and have as much emotionally invested in your writing as I do, a comment like that is devastating. But then I decided to post it, because I didn’t want to be scared of some fucking anonymous blog comment. And I wanted to deal with it instead of sweeping it under the carpet. Yes, I was devastated, but, if I deal with it head-on, I could get over it and, hopefully, become stronger, so this shit won’t keep punching me in the gut every time.

It’s also a source of energy for me, engaging with my fear and pain. If I try to avoid thinking about it, that energy gets redirected in harmful ways. I told my parents about it and nearly came to tears. They empathetically told me that I shouldn’t let it get to me. That helped a lot. Obviously, the comment isn’t the problem; it’s just the trigger for another round of fear, shame and self-flagellation.

After I decided to post it, I was hoping for a torrent of good comments to drown it out. But that didn’t happen. This was the only comment submitted to my blog for the Honduras series. I was disappointed by that, so I checked to see how the comment looked on the page. To my shock, it was almost impossible to notice. There’s just a little link for comments at the end of each post. For most readers, it would’ve been easy to miss. Until this post, I may’ve been the only one who saw it.

But it brings up a point worth addressing. If my fellow delegates or colleagues found that my account treats them with a “condescending attitude” or “constant judgment,” I apologize. That wasn’t my intention. I hold so much in that, when I finally let it out like this, it’s often messy, overheated or ill-conceived (or all 3).

Since I started posting this series, I’ve been worrying that it was hurting the very people I wanted to celebrate. I only revealed my thoughts and feelings in the hope of purging my grief and bringing attention to the plight of WFP’s partners in Honduras, not to shame or embarrass anyone.

When I questioned why Corie and Ale were “waxing rhapsodic” about Power Chicken, I didn’t understand the value of their seemingly silly devotion to a fast-food joint. But they were coping with despair on a daily basis. In order to keep from being overwhelmed by it, they had to take advantage of any opportunities for joy, no matter how trivial.

It was only my bourgeois, soul-dead perspective that found this behavior improper. But, over the course of the delegation, I began to understand the importance of embracing both the silly and the sublime, the horrible and the hilarious.

After learning of the evil that undergirds my First-World way of life (about 16 years ago), I became wary of joy, thinking it a selfish indulgence. But this prevented me from grieving. As a result, I got stuck in a rut of self-pity that blotted out the sun and kept me from seeing the joy and beauty in the world.

Rather than processing the sorrow, I tried to avoid it. But this only stopped the flow of all emotions, and I became like an old house: moldy, dusty and empty. The more I withdrew from the world, the more my emotions curdled into resentment and bitterness.

They loved Power Chicken because you have to embrace it all, the absurdity, beauty and horror of Life, if you want to do good. I may not have written this series in a humble-enough voice, but I have the utmost respect and admiration for them. To do what they did while preserving their sanity was a herculean feat.

From the start, I was worried about centering myself in the narrative over our Honduran partners. But I found it impossible to engage with others’ pain without addressing my own. I also thought it might engage fellow First-Worlders who, like me, struggle to relate to people in the Third World. This seems to have been borne out by the blog’s pageviews. As of this writing, the Prologue has 42 views, and no other installment has more than 25.

It took me about 3 weeks to get over the sadness when I returned home, but I was able to let myself grieve. I didn’t feel the need to hide it at work, in public or in front of my roommates. That felt like a big step. I’m not even sure why I was sad though. The detachment obscured the connections between my emotions and their causes.

I think it had more to do with leaving the delegation than with what I’d seen. But maybe I should just let myself be sad without questioning my motives so much. Maybe I really do care about those people in Honduras. Do I really need to beat myself up over it? I don’t know.

Once the sadness passed, I was able to start writing the blog. The first draft was done within 2 months of the trip (which is fast for me), but I kept procrastinating on the revisions. I think I was afraid to finish the blog because I didn’t want to close the book on that experience. It would force me to say goodbye to my fellow delegates again.

That made it hard to finally post it the last 2 weeks. But that’s what I’m doing now, saying goodbye to the experience and trying to move on. Now I have to find the next project, the next group of people I can vibe with, and that’s the really scary part, because I don’t know if I can find another experience and group like that. But that’s life. Those of us with abandonment issues just have a harder time dealing with it.

I shouldn’t be so worried. The Oaxaca delegation was great, and the Honduras delegation was even better. If I keep taking those chances, doing what I believe in, I should be OK. There’ll be stumbles along the way, but the more (reasonable) risks I take, the stronger I become. The more I push myself (again, within reason), the better able I am to handle the pitfalls.

Of course, this is all obvious, cliché bullshit that anyone with half a brain understands intuitively. So why do I have such a hard time with it? Besides the aforementioned emotional issues, I think it may have to do with the Western concept of history as a March of Progress.

I used to subscribe to this belief, common in the West, that history is leading either to a techno-utopia or apocalypse. But now I know that history is cyclical. Some things get better, some things get worse, and then the process is repeated, just with different variations. There will never be a Reckoning when all these conflicts are resolved, so there’s no point in waiting for the Rapture when you’ll be proven right, because it’s never gonna happen.

You’d might as well just work for your idea of justice while you’re alive, because there’s no Great Scorekeeper in the Sky who’s gonna come down and proclaim a winner based on who’s the most virtuous or righteous or whatever. The meek shall not inherit the earth; they aren’t gonna inherit shit until they get their act together and stand up for themselves. And even then it’s a long shot.

There will be no ultimate defeat of Evil and no ultimate victory for Good. There will always be pain, suffering and injustice. These are immutable features of the human condition. In one of the articles in our delegation binder, it mentions a popular protest chant in Latin America: ¡Adelante! ¡Adelante! ¡La lucha es constante! “Forward! Forward! The struggle is constant!” I would amend that to: La lucha es eterna. “The struggle is eternal.” (But then it wouldn’t rhyme.)

So you’d better enjoy the journey, because there’s no guarantee you’ll ever reach your destination. That’s what makes it so hard for me to keep fighting, because my journey has fucking sucked. My inability to get my personal shit together has kept me from fully committing to the struggle. I’ve tied my happiness to the success of the fight for social justice, and that just doesn’t fucking work.

I have to accept failure as an option and the limits of my ability to change the world. Being able to process emotions healthily should help a lot with this. I have to grieve for what’s been lost so I can let it go and move on to the next fight. And I need to be able to revel in the victories so I have enough hope, strength and courage to carry me until the next victory.

But the good news is that I’m making progress on that front (all this self-absorbed navel-gazing notwithstanding). In the past year, it honestly feels like I’ve developed new muscles in my cheeks for smiling. My smiles feel bigger, better and more convincing (at least to me).

My brain seems to be rewiring so I can feel greater empathy and joy. I didn’t even start to like kids until my late 20’s. However, since I became an uncle almost 4 years ago, I’ve been thoroughly enamored of my nephew. I’m more delighted by him every day and less concerned about his future.

It’s easier to celebrate others’ success now. I’m getting over my envy and starting to feel real happiness for them. This is because my life has improved thanks to the risks I’ve taken, and I’ve come to believe (for real this time) that my happiness is mostly up to me.

I didn’t write about my fellow delegates nearly as much as I wanted to. I was (and am) afraid of saying the wrong thing. (See anonymous blog comment and my emotional fallout.) But it should go without saying that they’re all really smart, highly principled and deeply caring people. I’m content to keep the rest of my memories of them and the delegation offline, which I will treasure always.

Honduras: Day 9

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 (natch) and did my Morning Pages writing exercise (3 pages of stream-of-consciousness writing, as prescribed in The Artist’s Way).

Meredith and I got to the dining room before breakfast. She playfully said I “ghosted” them the night before. She hadn’t been around for my midnight encore. I remained quiet throughout breakfast despite my eagerness to chat.

Meredith, Lisa and I took a Minnesota group shot on the front patio by the fountain. I left a bunch of my clothes behind so as to create more space in my backpack, which was the only luggage I’d brought. I hope the staff appreciated my underwear and socialist t-shirt.

The hotel had washed my underwear, and it felt a bit coarse, so I didn’t mind leaving it behind. I should’ve left my Honduran money behind too, because I didn’t spend or exchange it before I got home. Now I’m stuck with 240 lempiras (about $15) for the foreseeable future.

Finally, we hugged our goodbye’s. I really wanted to break down in tears then, but I just couldn’t let myself fall to pieces like that. I couldn’t show these people I’d just met how much they meant to me after just 10 days together.

Carlos drove Ellen, Lisa and I to the airport. When we got there, he helped us unload. With a big smile, he shook my hand and said he hoped I’d return.

This was Lisa’s first time traveling abroad, so Ellen and I tried to guide her through the process, but we got separated at the check-in stations. We were still looking for her in front of the security checkpoint when she swept by, saying, “Goodbye!”

She had to stop and come back though to get through security, so we went through together. (Ellen called it “security theater,” which I think is an apt name.)

Lisa’s plane was the first to board. Ellen and I hugged her before she left.

While waiting at the gate, Betty, Diana, Emily and Meredith showed up, so we chatted a bit with them. Another round of hugs ensued before Ellen and I took off for Houston.

Ellen was in first class thanks to her frequent flying. From my seat in coach, I could see the Mary Poppins Returns trailer playing in perfect synchronicity on the back of almost every seat.

I was back in the immaculately clean and orderly First World. But I was alone again. That’s the problem with the bourgeois lifestyle: It’s nice and neat, but lonely. I stuck in ear buds, but it didn’t feel good, so I took ‘em out after a few minutes.

I knew writing was the way to go, to deal with the sadness in lieu of talking, so I started working on this account of the trip. I looked at the young woman next to me. There was an empty seat between us, so I put my jacket there after she put something on it.

The Houston airport was a long series of lines to go through customs and security again. Someone thought breaking up the lines was their way of fooling us into thinking we were almost done when we got to the end of each one. I think it might just be their way to get Americans to do more walking.

Ellen texted me after I got to my gate, and I responded. That was our only interaction. The flight to MSP was fine, I guess. I took the light rail from the airport and got back to my apartment around 10pm, but I had to work the next day.

Of course, I was up ‘til midnight snacking, per usual. The trip hadn’t freed me from the sense that I was stuck in an endless rut. There wasn’t even a nice afterglow.

(Fear not, dear readers. I’m not gonna leave ya flat with an ending like that. There will be an epilogue.)

Honduras: Day 8

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 always stayed up later and woke up earlier than I wanted to, but such has been my fate for many years now.

That day saw us meeting in the hotel’s conference room with 2 journalists: Dina Meza and Jairo López. Dina had to take off early, so she only spoke briefly.

Dina Meza and Lisa

She addressed the state’s attempts to stifle free speech. In the capital, the press follows the official government line. Self-censorship is most journalists’ method of self-preservation. But alternative media have sprung up to counter the mainstream narrative.

In response, the government monitors these alternative outlets. They’ve also come under physical attack, with 75 journalists killed since the 2009 coup that deposed the democratically-elected president, Manuel Zelaya. (The Obama Administration endorsed his ouster after the fact.) They believe these attacks have been directed by the Ministry of Security or the President himself.

Dina helped found the Association for Democracy and Human Rights (ASOPODEHU), which provides legal assistance and self-defense and security training to journalists. They also monitor international treaties and pacts that Honduras has signed regarding freedom of expression, which it has violated. Pasos de Animal Grande is their online newspaper.

After Dina left, Jairo told his story. Until recently, he hosted a TV show called El Informador (“The Informer”), but he can no longer broadcast because no one will rent him a time slot. The government forbade advertising from being sold to run during his program.

Us with Jairo and his wife

This is thought to be retaliation for Jairo’s coverage of protests against JOH’s dubious reelection and other examples of government corruption. He exposed the scandal of teaching jobs being sold instead of being given to candidates based on merit. He also revealed the phenomenon of “ghost jobs,” no-show jobs given to the well-connected.

Jairo and his family have received threats against their safety. As a result, he has been placed under the “protection mechanism.” This is an Organization of American States (OAS) program that charges the Honduran government with providing around-the-clock security to individuals considered to be at high risk, mostly journalists and human rights defenders.

But the police providing this security were the same ones harassing him, so it was small comfort. As a “precautionary measure,” the government has prohibited him from leaving the country.

European organizations have offered to get Jairo out of Honduras, but they’re either unable or unwilling to do the same for his wife and daughter. His wife was with him. They got more emotional as the meeting wore on, though she remained quiet. He mentioned that the extreme stress of their situation has caused her and their daughter health problems.

He’d been brought up on charges. While awaiting trial, he had to check in at a courthouse far away twice a month.

Moved by the obvious torment Jairo and his family were going through, I promised to contact Ilhan Omar on their behalf. She’s my Congressmember and, as luck would have it, a recent WFP delegate to Honduras.

It was my last chance to make a face-to-face emotional connection with a WFP partner in Honduras, and their emotional distress compelled me to act. Also, by making a promise right to their faces, I hoped it would force me to follow through. But it had another effect as well: I began to feel personally responsible for their safety.

Thus ended the partner meetings. In the afternoon, we had a debriefing. Corie and Ale took us through some more issues in Honduras. There was hope that the Misión de Apoyo Contra Corrupción y Impunidad en Honduras (MACCIH), an OAS commission, could fulfill its mission of fighting corruption and impunity in Honduras.

A similar commission in Guatemala had resulted in the president being forced out. (Update: The MACCIH’s mandate expired after 4 years with little to show for their work.)

To demonstrate the corruption and impunity in Honduras, they discussed the elite Atala family, which is involved in the bank that funded Berta Cáceres’s murder. Penal courts are used to silence critics of the elite through defamation charges and convictions.

The newly-created crime of “illicit association,” which was meant to target organized crime, is being used against dissidents, like the political prisoners Edwin Espinal and Raúl Álvarez in La Tolva prison.

We formulated our Action Plan up on the 4th floor open-air lounge. Our dreams were big, but that was encouraged, so as not to arbitrarily limit our ambitions. Meredith and Ellen wanted to do a podcast series about the delegation. Lisa wanted to go on Democracy Now! I wanted to blog about it (like I did with Oaxaca) and give presentations around the Twin Cities.

I also offered to contact my favorite podcast, Chapo Trap House, with the long-shot hope of getting an interview or at least a shout-out. Originally, I assumed I would be the interviewee, but then I realized Corie or Ale would make more sense in that role. (Update: There’s been no response to my 2 emails. I should probably try a few more times.)

Lisa

This was followed with a final reflections session. Not surprisingly, a few tears shed were shed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite contribute to the pool. I may have gotten a little misty, but that was about it.

I thanked Corie and Ale for all their hard work, giving them “mad fuckin’ props” for reorganizing the itinerary on the fly. It’s pretty amazing what they did, given all the emotional weight of the work and their youth. It took me years after college to learn the truth about the American Empire. I’m still working on the emotional resilience.

That night, dinner was followed by a party in the lounge. Our Closing Ceremony Committee read a list of 10 lessons from the trip, some silly, some serious. ("1. Be bad because the world is going down. 2. Appreciate and protect the water you have.") Then we dug into the alcohol and food. Raúl showed up, as did Eduardo García from the previous day’s press conference.

 

I tried not to be a wallflower, but I kept falling into the cracks between conversations. The music playlist was compiled by Emily. I’d submitted a list of requests at dinner that night, but it hadn’t occurred to me to include any Latin music.

Ellen, Meg and Betty

Everything on the playlist seemed to be recent Latin American pop. After a while, Emily played one of my choices, “Feel Good, Inc.” by Gorillaz. It came out in 2004, when I was 26, back when I was still hip and up on the latest in music and fashion (as I recall).

Lisa and Meredith

Emily and Diana liked that song, and I couldn’t help but "get down," which seriously cracked them up. Apparently, my dance moves haven’t aged well (if they were ever that good to begin with).

Diana, Emily and I

I guess I could see it as a point of pride, like when I made Q’orianka Kilcher laugh with my dancing at the CodePink party following the big anti-Iraq War march in DC in ’07. But back then it was intentional comedy, so, yeah...

Ellen and Ale

Diana was dancing, but she was usually the only one. The rest of us weren't as confident in our moves. Ellen struggled to open a wine bottle. Eventually, they found a corkscrew. There were many strawberries and other goodies to feast upon.

Corie and Ellen

I went to my room around 10, not bothering to bid adieu. It was a classic “Irish Goodbye,” but I was too sad. I couldn’t handle goodbye’s right then. My fear of crying in public, especially in the middle of a party, was stronger than my fear of hurting their feelings.

Raúl and Meredith

I lay on the bed and stewed in regret while watching a Pixies video marathon on VH1 (which, under normal circumstances, would’ve been awesome). After an hour-and-a-half, I returned to the festivities to try and tie up the loose ends.

There were a few people still chatting. I said I didn’t wanna leave with an Irish Goodbye, and Corie seemed very amused by that. (She, like me, is of Irish descent.)

I took off again at midnight or just before, saying my good night’s. Somebody gave me a hug. It must’ve been Meg. (They were the big hugger in the group.) I went back to my room and took a while to get to sleep.

Honduras: Day 7

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."

Honduras Solidarity Network press conference

We had a press conference at 11am to present our findings along with a delegation from Canada. Three speakers sat at a table: Corie representing Witness for Peace, Eduardo García of Alliance for Global Justice and Victoria Cervantes of La Voz de Los de Abajo. Those 3 organizations fall under the umbrella of the Honduras Solidarity Network.

We stood behind them in our WFP vests, as did the members of the Canadian delegation, wearing lanyards. Victoria read a statement detailing the violence and repression carried out by President Juan Orlando Hernández’s (or “JOH”) government since what she called the “fraudulent” election of 2017.

Protests erupted across the country following that vote, as the result seemed to have been rigged by the president. “Fuera JOH” (“Go away, JOH”) was a common graffito on our travels. The government violently repressed those protests and imprisoned many.

Victoria expressed the Honduras Solidarity Network’s support for the Berta Cáceres Act. This is a bill in the US Congress that would suspend US security aid to Honduras until the perpetrators of the violence against protesters during the post-electoral crisis are brought to justice.

They read the English version of the statement first, but only a few reporters were around for that and the TV cameras were still being set up. By the time the Spanish version started, the cameras were on and the press was there in force. The speakers took questions following the statement.

After the presser, we chatted with the group from Toronto, who had gone to visit 2 of the 3 political prisoners remaining from the protests that followed the 2017 election. Their names were Edwin Espinal and Raúl Álvarez. They were being held at the maximum-security La Tolva prison, 25 miles east of Tegucigalpa.

To her great amusement, Corie was interviewed by a reporter from a trashy TV show. She wondered if the footage would make it onto that day’s episode. The press conference was followed by a simple lunch for the attendees.

Thence we drove to Comayagüela, Téguz’s twin city, where most of the working and middle-class folks live. We were actually early for our next meeting, so we stopped at an indoor market with clothes, straw hats and other touristy wares for sale.

That’s where Diana was (mildly) attacked by a man through the window. I was walking near her when it happened. I heard what I thought was a cat screech. I asked her what it was. She said a guy had reached through the window and grabbed her leg and made that inhuman sound. The sidewalk along the street behind the building was 3-4 feet below the floor, putting his arm at the same height as her legs.

She was startled but amused. I was a bit horrified. This is what Capitalism does to people: We’re turned into animals.

Three kids in single digits(?), 2 boys and a younger girl, were watching the Cartoon Network in Spanish on a little TV. The animated program was Teen Titans Go!, one of the few TV shows of the past decade that I’ve actually watched enough to become a fan of.

Corie was sitting in a chair by the little snack stand. There were some tents over the plastic tables and chairs, even though it was inside.

Outside, Carlos had locked the keys in the bus, which extended our stay at the market. There were some men sticking a long wire in the driver’s-side window. They climbed up on top of the cab, maybe trying to get in through the emergency hatch? It took a while, but they got it, and Carlos finally had a reason to be embarrassed. (Until this miscue, his job performance had been above reproach.)

We drove nearby to Arcoíris (“Rainbow”), a shelter for LGBT people, where we had stopped before the market, but no one was there at the time. So, instead of being early, we were late, even by Latin American standards. This time we went up to the 2nd floor lounge.

It was stuffy inside, but I managed to stay awake despite the heat and my fatigue. To be honest, I was uncomfortable with the muñecas (“transgender people”) and lesbians there. I resented having to focus on their problems when there were so many bigger issues afflicting almost everyone, primarily of the economic and geopolitical varieties. But I was ashamed of my reaction and tried to empathize.

The issues they focus on are health care, employment and education. It’s difficult for LGBT people to access all three. Homophobia and transphobia are common among health care workers. Discriminatory hiring practices are the norm, and many schools won’t accept homosexuals or trans people.

Religious fundamentalism is fueled by the media, leading many LGBT kids to be kicked out of their homes. This leaves them vulnerable to violence and exploitation on the streets. But the primary source of violence against their community is the police. They have no legal protection from discrimination.

Many feminists exclude lesbians and trans women from their movement. TERF’s (Trans-Exclusionary Radical Feminists) have caused a rift between the LGBT community and feminists.

For those trans people who attempt an identity change, economic hurdles come up that can prevent access to bank accounts, housing and even buying appliances.

Arcoíris’s current policy campaign is for marriage equality. They’re also lobbying to make May 17th a “Day against Homo-, Trans- and Lesbophobia.”

Following the meeting, we exchanged hugs. One person offered me their hand for a handshake, but I smiled and hugged them instead. A handshake would’ve seemed woefully inadequate.

We finished the visit by going to the roof and taking some group shots as the sun sank toward the horizon. On the bus, we had a mini-reflections session. A full-sized version happened in the evening.

Dinner followed at Cadetur. The hotel’s dining room was also a carport with a soaking pool. (It wasn’t big enough to be a swimming pool.) That may sound kinda trashy, but it was actually quite nice. I never noticed the car exhaust.

The Canadian group from that day’s presser was also staying at Cadetur. I saw them a few times meeting in the lobby or in the dining room, but we didn’t chat much.

That night Honduran VH1 had a marathon of AC/DC videos. Great band, not great videos.

I’d gotten toothpaste a few days earlier after going the first few days without. It was Colgate, but the baking soda in it was extremely abrasive. Some of it had dried onto the back of the toothbrush head and irritated my lips. I thought it was a cheap, Third-World version. Or is all Colgate baking soda toothpaste like that?

It reminded me how the Triscuits and Better Cheddars crackers I got at a grocery store in Beloit, WI, during college didn’t taste as good as the ones back home. I thought maybe those companies sent inferior products to Beloit because it was a poor city.

In my bathroom, there was a heater or something built into the shower head with exposed wires sticking out. Emily had mentioned that the same was true in her and Diana’s room. This convinced her not to turn up the water temperature for fear of being electrocuted.

I hadn’t had any trouble when I cranked up the water temp the first night, so I figured it was OK. (Spoiler alert: This may sound like foreshadowing, but I never got electrocuted.)

Honduras: Day 6

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."

Tegucigalpa

That morning we took off for the capital, Tegucigalpa (or “Téguz,” for short). The landscape turned drier. We passed a new airport under construction and a US military base. Nearby were new housing developments for the rich surrounded by walls, with security guards at the gates.

They were like gated communities in the US, but these gates were manned by seriously packin’ security guards. (At the time, I didn’t make the connection between the base, the airport and the gated communities, but now it seems obvious.)

We came down through mountains to a big lake (El Lago de Yojoa) surrounded by a greener landscape. There we stopped at a restaurant for brunch. I talked with Corie about my job and what I’m looking for. That was nice, but not nearly as substantive as I would’ve liked. I just skated across the surface of my anxiety, afraid to dip my toe in the well of regrets.

The view from the treehouse

There was a multi-story treehouse in front of the restaurant. A few of us climbed to the top of it and looked at the lake. I bought some Kleenex since the one handkerchief I’d brought was pretty gross at this point. I asked Corie if I should address the shopkeep (a young woman) as “tú” (the casual “you”) or “usted” (the formal). She said “usted.” It was a bit humbling deferring to a much younger person for expertise.

I actually felt threatened when Corie and somebody (Meg?) were talking about “false cognates.” I’d never even heard of them, and it was disconcerting to find myself lacking knowledge that a 20-something possessed on a subject I felt I should’ve had at least as good a grasp as her on, at least when it came to abstract concepts.

I can’t even remember the last time I felt intellectually threatened. Maybe it was because I was feeling so much more emotionally open than normal that I could feel the insecurity instead of glossing over it with envy or anger.

Raúl on the bus

We continued on to the capital, which was spread out over undulating terrain. The city overwhelmed the hills like a swarm of ants that had suddenly been seized by the need to put down roots. They hadn’t done much to alter the landscape. They were far more vulnerable to Nature’s whims than those of us in the First World. They seemed to live perpetually on the precipice, always in danger of being wiped out by a flood, earthquake or other natural disaster.

For lunch we stopped at a small restaurant. Meg randomly serenaded Ale with the “Olé” song that can be heard in soccer stadia the world over, changing “Olé” to “Ale.” Recognizing the song, I joined in. Ale’s bemused expression seemed to say, “Yeah, guys, I’ve heard it before.” It was the kind of face I try to make whenever someone sings me the “Mickey” song.

Cadetur

Our hotel was a small, 3-story building called Cadetur. As the only man again (Raúl had gone home.), I got my own room. I thought, “Hey, this masculinity thing is finally startin’ to pay off!” But, seriously, it was weird filling the role usually reserved for the woman in a group of men, getting that deference due to her supposed weakness, which is the basis of chivalry (or so I’ve always assumed).

But I was happy to have my own room, even though it felt a bit lonely. There was a painting of a ballerina, a window over the bed and a flat-screen TV perched high up on the wall.

Vienna Herrera of Contracorriente

We reconvened that afternoon in a conference room on the top floor to meet with Vienna Herrera of Contracorriente. It was my turn to introduce the group for this partner meeting. I’d written an intro at Barracón Digital after listening to someone else do the honors.

Of course, I stumbled right out of the gate, saying “Habitat” (as in “Habitat for Humanity,” my current employer) instead of “Witness for Peace.” That got a laugh, and I was able to enjoy it pretty well. Meredith even got a few pictures of my foible.

Lisa, Corie, Emily and I

Contracorriente was sparked by the Indignados movement in Spain in 2010. It’s a news organization with a feminist bent. They get funding from the Seattle International Foundation, Henrik Volk and Free Press.

She said being female makes it easier to interview women, such as victims of sexual violence. It sometimes takes days for them to deal with the emotional fallout of a difficult story.

I asked Vienna if she’d encountered any dangers in the course of her work. I assumed the answer was yes, but it wasn’t quite what I expected. She just talked about one region known for drug trafficking. I figured danger was inherent in her job no matter where she went in Honduras.

She’s worked as a “fixer” for foreign journalists, meaning she’ll translate, book hotels and manage security and transportation for them. She finds the Honduran media “sensationalistic,” but she didn’t mention any specific bias, which is what I was looking for when I asked her about it.

The whole gang (minus Meredith) with Vienna

After that, we met on the top floor on an open-air patio and did our reflections session on the plush couches and chairs set up there. Diana and Emily broke down over the murder of Ramón Matute’s father and brother in Locomapa. Diana said he was so young (23, the brother), the same age as them.

I envied their ability to emotionally absorb the deaths and grieve so openly. It’s one of the overlooked advantages of being (socialized as a) female.

There were more tears that day than before. The feelings were starting to leak out.

The food at the hotel was quite good, even if every meal included hamburger buns or plain white bread on a dish. We thought this was a result of the hotel management's stereotypes about Americans, that we love white bread. I wonder if they know that Wonder Bread isn’t nearly as popular in the US as it used to be.

There was an extremely Catholic Latin American movie from the 70’s or 80’s on TV that afternoon. I caught the end of it in my room. In the evening I discovered Honduran VH1, which is far superior to our version. They actually show music videos.