Leaving already...

Puchica vos!

I have always felt that my eventual return to Antigua would serve as the death knell for the trip. It came earlier than expected.

I found out today that the bus that goes to Guate is a night bus, its leaving in 9 hours. If all goes well, I'll wake up safe and sound with all my belongings in the Guate terminal...then hop on a microbus straight to Antigua. From that point on, I'll dig in back at El Hostal, and brood about the impending end of the trip, and probably pick up some knick-nacks for the fam jam.

I had lunch with Raul for the last time. I started with an order of grilled meat, but he had a different idea. He suggested the only thing on the menu which I had never heard of. I had avoided it because I had no idea what it was. He said "Its like a food, it a meat, from a local animal. Its meat is very unique." Not the most appetizing of ways to describe something, but I thought, "why the hell not?" It was delicious. Its really too bad that I couldn't remember what it was called. Forever to be shrouded in mystery.

Maria should be here in about 15min. We're going to go to the photo-lab and get some photos developed. These photos are going to be a parting gift to the family of Maria Margarita. Aside from the personal belongings that she left behind, her husband and children have nothing by which to remember her. Its not much, but its the least I can do.

I'm going to spend the rest of the day around El Estor, roaming around, soaking it in a bit more before my time is up. I'll leave the article writing and photo organization for tomorrow. tic-toc-tic-toc

p.s. I've figued out what food i'm looking forwards too most. Oatmeal with the works.

Another story from Polochic

I got a call from Raul around 7:30pm. He told me that he finally had heard from the leaders from Los Recuerdos. The meeting was on for the next morning. It was about an hour later than we expected by the time everybody had arrived. And there were more people than we originally expected. Mirralvalle and Recuerdos were both represented. To my surprise, the women that had come were the family of Antonio Beb Ac, a young man who was killed during a violent eviction in March of this year. His wife Marta and her mother had both come to tell their stories. They had another meeting planned in El Estor that day, but agreed to come by the hotel we could have a chat.

We were going around the circle, presenting ourselves to the group. I spoke first, and then Benancio from Miralvalle went next. When it was Martha’s turn, she took a deep breath and began to speak in Q’eqchi. Within a few words, she was sobbing, choking back tears, and wiping her eyes with her guipil. The tone of her voice was pained, but that can only begin to describe it. I didn’t know what she was saying, but I already new the story. The woman before me had a huge part of her life taken away four months ago - her home, her crops, her clothes and her husband. All that she has from her life before the evictions are her three children. The translation confirmed all of this:

“No one wants to loose their family. My children ask for food, but I have nothing to give. I try to grow food but I have no land. If there is anybody out there, if there is anyone that can support me, I would gladly accept, as I have received almost nothing from anyone.” Her mother added “If there are any organizations that can support us through this time, we need their help. We live with almost nothing.”

She wants the company to take responsibility for the loss of her livelihood, as well as the death her husband. There is a criminal investigation into killing, and an arrest warrant has been issued, but the suspect is still at large. Only time will tell what justice the case will produce. In the mean time, she is struggling to feed here children. She has three children to support, with a home and with food. She is struggling to do either. She is looking for support from who ever and where ever she can find it, be it an organization or an individual.

Where does the company stand in all of this. For the companies representatives, they feel they are doing the state a favor, meeting at the First Lady's behest. For the companies lawyers in regards to the land struggle, there isn't anything to talk about and nothing to compensate. In this type of 'invasion', the company holds themselves as the plaintiffs, fighting to uphold the state-protected institution of private property. Dealing with death of Marta's husband, and the loss of the rest of the community is the last thing on their agenda. In the words of Mr. Widmann [owner of Chabil Utzaj SA] during an interview, “Who, after all, would care about simple Antonio Beb Ac?”

Beware the Road: First Installment

I’ve taken to a habit recently. Whenever meeting with a group, or even with an individual, I try to sit with my back to the road. This saves them the trouble of twisting and shifting in their seat as they check every passing vehicle.

Fearing that I was being overly dramatic, or reading too much into their body language, I broached the topic one morning. Raul, Maria and I had just finished talking to some leaders from Recuerdo and Mirralvalle and the mood was somber. Although the leaders had since left, Raul and Maria remained, and our conversation was winding down. I felt that now was just a good a time to ask as any other. I turned to Maria, and asked, “How do you feel about roads?”

The meeting table

As the awkward Spanish left my mouth, I knew I had a lot to explain. I just started talking, “When I think about roads, I feel freedom and independence as I ride my bicycle. I feel familiarity when I pull up to the driveway of my home, I feel connected to places I want to go, and people I want to see. I can’t imaging roads make you feel the same...”

I had some stories that she had told me in mind, ultimately leading to this: The first time I arrived at her house, she greeted us from inside, and told us to pass inside. She graciously opened her house up to us to host the visiting community members. After that meeting wound down, she showed me around her chunk of land on the corner piece by a dirt road. She surprised me with the first story. About a month ago or so, a truck showed up late at night. The driver took a long pause at the intersection before making his turn, headlights sweeping across Maria's house. As the strange truck started to pull in front of her house, it slowed right down. Her son Nestor noticed, and let his mom know. She peered out of the house as the truck crawled past.

The intersection outside her door

A few minutes later, the headlights were back, slowing as they passed the house. The truck started to turn, but this time towards the house. It was right at her front door, waiting, idling. She came outside, but the truck didn’t lower its window, nothing from inside. She started to get nervous, as it seemed that whoever was in the truck wasn’t looking for directions. She said “What are you doing here, what do you want?! This is my house!” Still, there was no response from inside the truck, only the rumble of the engine. As she came closer to the window, the driver shifted gears and started to roll backwards, picking up speed as the truck flicked back onto the dirt road. Hard brake, a change in gears, then another long pause. Maria stood firm, standing in the glare of the high beams. The driver stomped on the accelerator, kicking up dirt and pebbles, and the truck careened off down the road into the night. Maria was shaken, she didn’t sleep at all that night.

Then, she told me her second story. Another time, as she was doing some afternoon chores, she heard a moto pull up, and the engine shut off. She came around the corner of her house to get a better view. There were two strange men, dressed in dark clothes waiting beside their bike. They were outside her house, although not directly in front. It seemed like they were waiting for someone. She kept an eye on them as she ushered her kids into the house. She went right out side, asking them if they needed directions. The shook their heads, silence. She said “Are you going to just sit here with your arms crossed, or, are you going to tell me what you want?” After more silence, one of the men spoke up. He said that they were looking for someone and that they were not going to leave before they founder her. They asked Maria if she knew where she was. All she had to say to them was that they were talking to the wrong person. She said it was best that they move on. They exchange a few more words, and they decide to leave. They have not been back since, but she still keeps watch because there is no way to be sure they won't.

So there we sat, hanging on the previous words. As I diverted my eyes to the rings of condensation on the table, I finally resolved to spit the question as directly as possible. "I cant imagine roads make you feel the same...So, what I'm trying to ask is: when we meet, do you prefer being able to see the road?" Almost before I was done asking the question, Maria was nodding vigorously, palms grinding into the table top. "Yes, yes, yes, every time. I always prefer it." Although I had an inkling, it surprised me how strongly she expressed it.

La Osita Negra de La Union

I followed up with a question to Raul. "When you check the road, how many of the vehicles that you see do you recognize?" he said, without hesitation "Nearly every single one."

"En Serio?!" I asked. He started to break it down for me. Little did I know...

Looking towards the Fall

The more I think about my grad program, the more unsure I get. I'm getting some hardcore cold-feet.

When people find out I'm going to grad school, they usually ask "OHHhhh, and what are you studying?!" I reply "It's the 'Complex Emergencies' stream of the International Studies MA at SFU."

Most times, they just say "Ahhhhh" and move on. Other times, I've also heard "WTF does that even mean, complex emergencies?" One one or two occasions, I've heard "Thats pretty specific!"

Wide range of responses, with good insights all round. It proves that while some are perplexed, few really care. Of those that do, it seems to strike them as being unclear and obscure, much in the same way as I think about toxipharamcology. To be perfectly honest, I'm still trying to figure out what it means, and if it is TOO specific. So I decided to email the Dean of Graduate Studies in my department. This should be interesting...

Hi Professor Xxxxx,

I am planning on attending SFU in the fall for the MA-IS program. I sent Xxxx some questions about the program and she subsequently referred me to you. I have a big question that is both difficult and challenging to answer concisely, so any pertinent readings would be helpful and greatly appreciated. I'm going to pose the question up front because it lies at the heart of my qualms and it is therefore important to keep in mind. From a practical standpoint, I am more interested in the answer to the second question?

According to the School for International Studies, what constitutes a complex emergency?

After reading many different perspectives on the matter, I became concerned with how the department evaluates whether-or-not potential cases qualify as a complex emergency. Two more questions stem from this first broad question and my concerns therewith. What is the lowest acceptable scale for a case to be considered a humanitarian disaster? What makes one humanitarian disaster more of an emergency than another considering that some of the worst situations have been building over decades? To try and frame my concerns in a more concrete way, consider a painfully limited comparison between Colombia vs Mexico:

Colombia has suffered 50 years of internal conflict. As a result, 3,5 to 5 million live as IDPs, with hundreds of thousands of dead, and tens of thousands disappeared. A harrowing conflict, still unresolved in many ways. It is easy to see why Colombia qualifies uncontroversially as a complex emergency.

In Mexico, around 40,000 people have been killed in harsh and brutal violence since 2006. As a result of this violence [in addition to the 1994 Chiapas Conflict], 120,000 people live as IDPs and about 6400 with refugee status [noting that Mexico's population is twice that of Colombia's]. Depending how the illegal migration issues are interpreted, the total number of people displaced could be much higher. Furthermore, it is unclear if Mexico can resolve its internal security issues without more hands-on involvement from the international community, and many international organizations are currently at work dealing with issues of development, poverty, displacement and abuses of human rights.

So, to refocus the question:

According to the School for International Studies, could parts of Mexico's troubles be considered complex emergencies? If Mexico does not meet the criteria at the moment, then when would it qualify?

That is my main question, the answer to which is quite important to me. I've taken the liberty to continue on writing about why that is. I've been working with a human rights organization in El Estor, Guatemala. The two community leaders that I work with were deeply impacted by an assassination in Parana. Although this was the death of one person, in a community that most people will never hear of [or care to know about] the circumstances of this one death are just as informative as hearing about hundred. Many conventional complex emergencies, like in Colombia, are made up of countless other stories just like her's. So how many deaths does it take to create an emergency? I'm no fan of Stalin, but he summed it up well.

Although I digress, my concerns remain. A place like Central America may not be plagued by full blown humanitarian crises, but to pass them by would be a crisis in humanitarianism (quip-credit). If there is NO room for this level of analysis in the discourse of the MA-IS: Complex Emergencies program, I might need to think long and hard about pursuing this masters come September.

P.S. To maximize both our efforts, perhaps a conversation would be best. I’m back in Canada on the 23^rd of June. Perhaps we could discuss the answers at a later date on the phone or via Skype.

Thank you for taking the time and best regards,

Mark Romeril

If you read all that...I'm impressed. The worst part is, I cut a two other paragraphs out...I started rambling. So I decided to make my point about Stalins quote, and then move on. I'm sorry the links don't work, but I couldn't be bothered to reconnect them all. Because you've made it, I'm going to share some more pics

This is the view from my office.

This is my office.

This is the full moon last night. Simply beautiful.

Please, Do Not Touch The Router. Thanks.

I almost forgot that I owe a funny story.

Before I get into it, the moral of this story is that if you treat people like idiots, they will do idiotic things. With this in mind, I’m going launch into it.

When arriving at a hostel or a hotel after along day on the road, or even a short one for that matter, it seems that most people reach for a computer or smart phone right after they drop their bags. Check the mail, check FB, check the news and check the scores. Compulsive use of technology seems to be pervasive, and I am one of the many technology addicts. Few things can draw out the dependency like deprivation.

I arrived at Iguana Azul alone (Copan, Honduras). It was very clean, quiet, and had a nice living room with complementary wi-fi. After 10h on the bus, I wanted to go for a stroll, get some fresh air and stretch the legs a bit - after I check my mail. I flipped open my computer and I had a connection for about 5 seconds before it went to the no service page. There was only one network, which has full bars and was unlocked, yet impossible to browse. Mysterious.

I should have taken a picture of the chair with the router on it. There were three signs: one taped to the router, and two taped to the backrest of the chair:

PLEASE, DO NOT TOUCH OR ADJUST THE ROUTER. THANKS

My first thoughts were: Wow, they really don’t want anybody to touch this router. I guess it must happen a lot if they need three signs. I wonder why you can’t touch it? I gave up trying to connect for the time being. I actually went on that walk I wanted to take in the first place. After the walk, I tried again, no success. After dinner, I had to move away from the living room with the router because it was frustrating me. My book offered little distraction. I started getting pangs, “I wonder if I have any notifications? New mail?”

When I went back to the computer, there had been a development. A page had loaded in the browser, it was asking for a username and password. HOPE, Hells Yeah! I sleuthed down the list in a few seconds, and I had plugged in the first combo that I found. It worked! Unfortunately, I only had about 3 minutes of good surfing until it was back to indefinite white pages. Chrome started suggesting things to me: reloading, talking to my net admin, checking DNS settings among other things and…

Reboot any routers, modems, or other network devices you may be using.

That was the seed [open in new window for ambiance]. The temptation was biblical. At that moment, I started having flashbacks, a long history of amateur wireless network troubleshooting. From the blur of memories came the tried and true “reset then retry”. Unfortunately, resetting involves touching. Little did I know…

Despite having ultimately disregarded the chair-signs - I got our Internet to work. It was fast too! I became the mini-hero of the hostel.

The next morning, the Internet was not working again. The network had changed to ‘dead’. This was odd, as well as inconvenient. Luckily I had a day of roaming planned, so I figured I could swing by an internet café and get my fix that way. During my roaming, I stopped at two restaurants and three internet cafes. None of them had Internet. They said the network was down over the whole valley, and that they hope to get it operational by evening. Later that day, I met a kiwi girl from the hostel, she said that she had just come from a place with working internet. It made it my next stop, and it was indeed working fine. So I wonder what the deal was with the Internet in the other places?

When I got home, I was going to check the Internet at the hostel. 5min after I sat down, a truck pulled up. A stout, husky American guy hopped out with a laptop in hand. He took a seat on the couch.

“What networks can your computer detect?” he asked.

“I see two, the first is called ‘dead’” I replied.

“HA! Are you connected to that one, or the other one?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah I’m connected to ‘dead’” I said.

“Son-of-a-BIITCH!” he said, almost shouting.

He was the I.T. guy. He launched into a rant about IP, DHCP and TCP. Long story short, our hostel had the only D-link router in town. I learned that, through computer wizardry, over 50 other routers sharing our connection. To set this up, he has to give each other router a number that’s assigned to our D-link. If the D-link resets, the number the OTHER routers need to be included in the network changes, but they never get the memo. The result, resetting the hostel router cuts off 50 other routers.

I wiped out Internet in Copan for almost 24h. He had just spent his entire day going around trying to figure out WTF happened to his network. He asked me if I reset the router. I said yes [IDIOT! Plead Section 11(c) of the charter!]. He was understandably furious. I felt like an ass, ashamed and embarrassed.

After he fixed the Internet, it no longer worked.

Constructive suggestions: 1. Move the router. Out of sight, out of reach, out of mind. If the whole town’s Internet is feeding off this one router, it should be stored more securely, especially considering its implicit track-record of meddlesome gringos. Three-signs worth! 2. IFF its impossible to move the router, then at the very least, explain why to not touch it. The signs offer no justification - only categorical prohibition. If I had known what I know now, there is no way I would have touched the router. Instead of adding a fourth sign saying NO, perhaps they should post a brief explanation of WHY. Treating people like children encourages them to act like children.

A Special Message...

Before I forget. This is a letter written by Maria, one of the women that I work with. She wanted to share, in her own words, a bit about what we have been doing with those that read my blog. Sorry if your spanish is rusty, google should get it to a point where you can limp through:

Se saluda la OSITA NEGRA, desde el ESTOR, saludos para uds.

Agradecemos el apoyo al compenero RAUL CAAL COC, en un momento enviare un pequeno resumen del trabajo que hemos realizado con el apoyo de ustedes. Con el caso de la CICIG no se que decirles porque ANGELICA dice que se encuentra muy ocupado en su trabajo. Creo y pienso que llevar estos casos y este trabajo es de mucho analisis, el trabajo nuestro es muy arriesgoso ya no vivimos como antes, hay mucha persecusion, temor y por otro lado nuestra familia nuestros hijos DONDE QUEDARAN Y QUE VERAN EN EL FUTURO. El companero MARC ha visto lo riesgoso del trabajo. Muchos compeneros de las distintas comunidades siguen clamando sus voces para que alguien los escuche. Veremos que tenemos que hacer, necesitamos descanzar y acomodarnos la vida que nos han puesto en el camino siento que hemos vuelto en el CONFLICTO ARMADO porque tenemos que escondernos. HAY QUE SEGUIR CAMINANDO, SIRVIENDO Y LLAMANDO A LOS DEMAS AUNQUE CUESTE SACRIFICIO, PERO ESTE ES NUESTRO JUICIO.

14 de febrero del 2008 capturan a mi hermano RAMIRO CHOC, PRESO POLITICO DEL ESTADO.

27 DE SEPTIEMBRE DEL 2009 MATAN A MI CUNADO ADOLFO ICH CHAMAN, barrio la union el estor.

16 de marzo 2011 asesinan al companero ANTONIO BEB AC MIRALVALLE, PANZOS A.V.

21 de mayo 2011 asesinan al companero OSCAR REYES de la cooperativa SAMILA PANZOS A.V.

4 de junio 2011 asesinan a una buena amiga y excelente lideresa, de la comunidad de PARANA PANZOS A.V. a eso de 11:45 pm en el interior de su casa, ella es MARIA MARGARITA CHUB CHE, cuanto mas tenemos que ver y recoger para ayudar a mi pueblo indigena atropellado por las injusticias de los terratenientes. Es todo lo que nos tiene enfermos y temerosos nos siguen despojando de nuestras tierras. DONDE MAS NOS REFUGIAREMOS.

ESPERAMOS QUE TODAS Y TODOS LOS GUATEMALTECOS RECUPEREMOS LO NUESTRO. LES ESCRIBIO LA OSITA NEGRA DEL BARRIO LA UNION DE EL ESTOR IZABAL.

Beware the Roads...

I'm working on a big blog post, but it's not ready yet. I hope to have it up day after tomorrow.

The work over the past two days has had me talking to survivors, elders and other members of the communities around El Estor and Panzos. I'm starting to get a much clearer picture of what is currently going on, mainly through a deeper understanding of the complexities of what HAS been going for many years. Which is great considering my writing goals. So, I need to start on this history of Lote 8 article, as there is a lot of info to get through, and there will probably be more information to try to find.

In other news, we had another meeting today were we discussed the potential trip to Guatemala City. The details are still up in the air and I'm still waiting eagerly to find out if I can go or not. I will hopefully have a better idea come tomorrow afternoon. In the meantime, i've been doing photo work. Mostly organizing, and small edits. My iPhoto library was to big to import into Aperture in one go...so I had to do it manually, which is obviously a bit more time consuming, but the final organization is ALOT cleaner. This is going to be a huge time saver when it comes to making presentations and some DVDs down the road. In fact, I hope to have some photo-DVDs out by mid-July, and maybe do an informal talk and screening somewhere in Guelph with some friends...too far away at this point.

In other news, I may do the Summer Solstice 24 this year! Thats two days after I get back, and I don't even own a MTB. We'll see how that goes.

Lightning Storm!

I personally dislike text-heavy blogs, and I LIKE reading, so I'm always trying to up the photo content. After all, if people wanted to read a book, well...that is why books exist. So, without any more text, here are some pictures of a storm that I was chasing from the comfort of my terrace.

At the time, the power was out, so i put some candles out for some mood lighting.

With the same settings, tried to capture the lightning strikes. It was pretty bright!

As the lighting streaked across the wind night sky, thunder-rolls shook my chair.

All in all, taking pictures of lighting is bloody hard. I'll try manual focus next time, and maybe a $3000 camera, and then I might get captures like this...

Mind the Shipwrecks

I was reading Open Veins again during breakfast, when the wind stole my page. As I began to leaf my way back, I was grabbed by a title a bit later on. It was the header of the next section.

Part II: Development is a voyage

with more shipwrecks than navigators

Upon reading this, I was taken back to my development econ class with (retired) Professor Southey. Now this old man is sharp as a tack when it comes economics. On a sabbatical year during his youth, he went to Harvard to sit in on the lectures of Amatya Sen, only to act the gadfly by challenging and questioning Sen at every turn that he was able. I recall him saying something to the effect, “[Sen] might have even docked me one if he wasn’t such a perfect gentleman.”

During one of his first lectures to us, he had a memorable little speech. This is a paraphrase: “In all my years, in practice or in study of economics, there was never once was a time where I was able to do something that was good. However, there were countless times where I helped stop something that was thoughtless, ill-formed, unfounded and otherwise terribly stupid from being allowed to go forwards. That has been, and continues to be, the source of my greatest satisfaction...”

This echoes some thought I’ve been thinking about politics and development. A great deal of what I study as a student of political science is the long history and current developments of a region, punctuated by important moments and events, which are products of the avarice and barbarity fostered between nations [or within a nation]. That is, colonialism, neo-colonialism, coups, invasions and occupations. In regard to development studies, I’ve noticed that it is often the case that an initiative or program may have had positive intentions, but it often lead to negative consequences. Case and point, USAID food programs. So...

So perhaps, I guess what I'm trying to say is, any optimism that I may have once had as to making positive net gains have been chilled. Instead of jumping in and trying to make the world a ‘better place', perhaps its better to try to stop conditions from getting any worse. I may not be a navigator, which is probably for the best, but I sure hope I get a chance to avert a shipwreck at some point or another.

Interview with a Centenarian?

I'm coming up on the half-way point of this trip, and I've still got so much to write about.

I was in Cahaboncito this afternoon for a sit-down with some community elders. This was a big deal for me because for some of these communities, the only claims they have to their lands is through oral history and the memory of those that came before them. When I heard that the meeting was a go-ahead, I was excited to hear what they had to say.

Don Pedro looked incredibly old, but acted like a man 3/4 of his age. When I asked him how old he was, he couldn't remember...so he pulled out his papers.

Puchica Vos! It says 18 calculado 1920! A debate ensued: I though this meant he was born in 1920, and he was 18 when then back calculated his age. Although no one was certain, many thought this meant that he was 18 years old IN 1920, which would then make him born in 1902. The third perspective was that it wasn't exact either way, so we shouldn't spend to much time talking about it. I found it hard to explain my reasoning in spanish, so we decided to move on. Regardless of who was right or wrong, the man was somewhere in between 90 and 108 years old. I can only guess as to what some of the things those eyes have seen.

Among his stories included his survival of the Panzos massacre of 1978. Community leaders and citizens of Panzos were called to meet in the town square to hear a decree by the mayor and the regional head of the military. When the mayor gave a signal, the military surrounded the square and opened fire. The exact number of dead is still unknown, some reports place it at 58, although Don Pedro swears it was in the hundreds. Neither the intellectual or the material authors of this crime have ever been brought to justice. So it goes.

Their stories will hopefully be going into a feature article about the history of Lote 8, and the claims that they are making of the land from which they were driven.

More to come...

Limits of Empathy?

Raul tried to call me just after 5:30am on the morning of July 5. I got another call from Grahame in the mid-morning. And I had been able to get through to Maria by the early afternoon. We decided to have a meeting around in the evening.

When I heard that she had been killed, I was stunned. I thought to myself ' There is a dead woman in Polochic', but on another level it never really registered, it still seemed so distant. My thoughts were set into a flurry: That explains the call in the early morning... I wonder if Maria is OK?...Are we still going to Polochic?

As planned, I got to meet with Maria and Raul after things settled down. My attention was almost totally focused on Maria, as I heard that she was most shaken. She was composed, but spoke very quietly. I asked her how she was holding up, “terribly” she said in a long sigh as she started to walk to the table.

We took our seats and Raul was the first to speak, launching quickly into the few known details. Maria was looking through the table, a blank stare. She had never struck me as one to fidget, but she was spinning her phone around incessantly. Raul continued to talk, describing where he was and what he had been doing during the morning and afternoon. Maria checks over her shoulder, then with deep sigh, sinks deeper into her seat. The question of ‘What must she be feeling and thinking right now?’ was constantly running through my head. I scribble down a question in my notebook: What are the limits of empathy?

As I make sense of it, empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another. But how much can we really know about someone else’s suffering without experiencing the same loss, or the same pain associated with it? I think the answer is obvious…I couldn’t even come close. At the same time, I started to realize that maybe that is not what empathy is about...

After hearing the news, I was feeling most upset for Raul and Maria. I was worrying most about their thoughts, their worries and their fears. As a bit of time passed, the scope of my concern widened and I started to think about the fears and pains of the husband and the children that she left behind. Wider still, about the disturbance this would have created in her community. My empathy wanes for every increase in the broadness of its scope, until there is little feeling or understanding left in my thoughts.

It is of little wonder that many people seem to able to process international news so casually. “Earthquake in Haiti you say?! Thousands dead?! That’s a bloody shame that is, my goodness.” Later that morning, the focus might have moved to something more trivial and lighthearted, such as Weiners’ Weiner or hating on Rebecca Black. Is this quick slide away from the darker news of the day inexcusable, or is it a necessity? Should we be dwelling and longer, and more seriously, or should we move on as soon as we are able?

Consider the opposite of cavalier - Imagine if each tragic event we hear about was to move us on a profound level – to strike our hearts down to the depths of our spirits. I can only imagine that it would be hard to get through a single day without a breakdown. The emotional and mental stress would be crippling, most certainly producing some unpleasant physical symptoms like hypertension or insomnia.

I've never had to deal with a death on a first hand basis. My great grandpa died when I was young, but I didn't cry, I barely knew him. I've been fortunate to have this as the only death in my family. But the result is I'm pretty inexperienced when it comes to mourning, and comforting those in mourning. Near the end of our conversation, we were all staring off into the distance in silence. During my efforts to feel my own sense of pain from Maria's death, I was confronted by my own strangeness to the situation, the reality of being a transient presence with a return flight to Canada. So I tried to feel even more upset to compensate, which could have seemed petulant in retrospect. I was afraid I would seem callous if I was not impacted...

Raul broke the silence. “So, The question is ‘what are we going to do?’ We can sit here with crossed arms, or we can chose to continue on. I say, we figure out what we are going to do tomorrow.”

That snapped me out of it. I may not have been as deeply impacted by the death of Maria Margarita as others in the community, but that is only natural. I can certainly say that I was impacted most by Marias’ and Rauls’ strength and character. As Grahame had said near the beginning of this experience, that they are great examples of people who are working to change their world, one day at a time. And often times, from what little I’ve seen so far, the hardest part of that work is to get up in the morning, dust off the shoulders and keep working, just keeping on trying to move things forwards.

Sure enough, three days later, we went into Polochic valley. I saw their trip as an act of defiance, flying in the face of the companies tactic of fear and repression. I saw my trip as a way to not get lost, trying to empathize in suffering, and that empathy also can strengthen feelings of solidarity, and the drive to keep going.

Here's to moving forwards, an! Adelante!

June 5, 2011 gets even bloodier...

In the same article as the last post, I came across two developments that occurred shortly after the assassination of Maria Margarita.

At dawn on June 5, 2011, guards, police and members of the army attacked the campesino Enterprise, La San Isidro, on land for which procession is legally disputed by Miguel Facusse...At 10 in the morning the same day the campesinos José Recinos, Genaro Cuestas, and Joel Santamaría, were assassinated. They were traveling in a vehicle near the palm fields in Suyapa where they were ambushed and their lives ended.

For those keeners seeking more detail, there is a feature article here.

What was going on in Aguan?

My mind has been drifting back to Honduras, but it had been a while since I had followed the developments or news. As I was brushing up on what has been going on in Honduras in the meantime, I came a cross a great article that was but up a couple of days ago. It is a denunciation created by the FNRP, put up by FIAN in regards the the violence and repression that has been experienced throughout the Aguan region over the last several months.

You can access the full article here.

This provides great detail as to exactly what was going on during our group visit to the area. we arrived in Tegucigalpa on the May 15, then to Trujillo on May 19. The trip ended on May 25, 2011. It should be mentioned that another campesino was killed in Aguan four days prior to our arrival in Teguc. Furthermore, the May 18 killing of Sixto Reyes should be familiar to readers as our group visited his community on May 22, 2011.

3. On May 15 of this year, the campesino, Francisco Pascual Lopez, of the campesino movement of Rigores, disappeared; his 10-year-old son who was with him testified to the community that the security guards from the plantation of Miguel Facusse fired at his father. The assassins sent a photo of the assassinated peasant to the Web but his body has still not been found in Aguan.

4. On May 18 the compañero campesino, Sixto Ramos of the MCA was assassinated when he walked to his work in the fields; he was fired on from a double cabin, black vehicle with armed men wearing ski masks, with high-caliber weapons.

5. On May 19, 2011, peasants traveling in a vehicle from the community of Honduras , Aguan towards the municipality of Sonaguera were followed by a grey vehicle loaded with security guards and elements wearing the uniforms of the Cobras, the National Preventative Police, ending when the vehicle of the guards overturned on the side of the road. As a consequence, one of the Cobra police fractured a leg.

6. On Sunday, May 21 of this year, 2 campesinos disappeared: Olvin Gallegos, 17 years old, of the campesino group, Despertar of the Authentic Revindicative Campesino Movement (MARCA) who was on his way to the plantations of Reinaldo Canales and Rene Morales, together with the campesino Secuindino Gomez, 48 years old. Only the bicycle on which they had been traveling was found. To date their whereabouts is unknown.

As I kept reading, I came across some more news about June 5th, 2011 that makes that day even more tragic...

More on Maria Margarita

Forgive the lack of posts, it hasn’t been for lack of material. I have my hands more than full enough with what is going on, on a daily basis.

At the most basic of levels, the violence and unrest ongoing in Polochic is the product of almost 500 years of pillage and oppression. As throughout history, the current state of affairs situates indigenous communities on one side, opposed by large industry and landholders on the other. Through trickery or force, many communities have been divested of ancestral lands. In recent times, when they challenge this marginalization, they are met with bullets and machetes of private security forces, which seek to wipe them out. Meanwhile, the State looks away, or worse, lends a helping hand to these landed interests. Although this is indeed an oversimplification, it is with these same broad strokes that many histories throughout the Americas have been painted in kind. I need only leave my hotel room and venture into communities around El Estor to see this reality.

Thinking back to the case of Maria Margarita – why would something like this happen to a wife and mother of two in a small community outside of El Estor? By all accounts, she lived a life of service for her family, her community and the Q’eqchi people. Those that survive her suspect that it are these last two features that made her an identifiable target. Her role as a community leader extended beyond just Parana: because of the relative isolation of these areas, there is little national or international support. As a result, the affected communities need to rely on each other for resources, strength and support. This also seems to be a potential weakness that the company tries to exploit. If they can divide the communities, and created rifts inside and between them, they can further isolate them in a classic divide-and-conquer scheme. This was a killing that, as many suspect, was politically motivated, a move to further intimidate and divide campesino communities. Her death was not simply a murder, it was an assassination.

Business as usual in the Polochic Valley?

I got a call this morning at around 5:29am.

It was Raul, one of the community leaders in the El Estor region that I had been working with. Unfortunately, I wasn’t awake to take the call. I called him back shortly after 9:00am. He asked whether I had talked to the other community leaders, which I hadn’t. He said to wait for another hour, or for their call, whichever came first. But, no one was picking up, or calling. At 11:40am, I got a call from Rights Action. I was told that there had been a killing during the night, almost exactly 12 hours earlier.

Maria Margarita Che Chub was a 37-year-old Qeqchi midwife and community leader in Parana de las Sierras de las Minas, located in the Polochic Valley. After finishing some chores in the kitchen, she headed out to her pila to bathe. As she started to take off her clothes, she was shot in the back and killed. She is survived by her two children. The Ministerio Publico arrived in the late morning to retrieve her body.

I’m shocked, but not surprised. This assassination fits the broader campaign of fear and repression used against the campesino movement during their struggle, which has been ongoing for a long time in the Polochic Valley. All too recently, Oscar Reyes was assassinated, and three others severely wounded, on May 21st in a conflict with the Chabil Utzaj sugarcane company. I’m meeting later today the leaders from El Estor to discuss what to do next. We had been planning a trip into the Polochic Valley on Monday, but none of us imagined that it would be for a funeral…

Briefing on El Estor

Sorry for the lateness of this post,

According to my previous plan, I should’ve been back in Canada three weeks ago – but I’m still in Central America. After a few days in Copan Ruinas, I was ready to press on towards El Estor Guatemala. El Estor is where I will stay until late June... So, how did I end up where I am, and what the hell am I doing?

During the Guatemala semester, the class went on a delegation with Right’s Action, led by Grahame Russell, to visit a number of communities and sites throughout Guatemala. This was a no-holds-barred trip, starting with the FAGA exhumation process in Guatemala City, to the isolated community of Lote 8, and finally the community of Rio Negro. These sights and experiences combined to create a powerful cross-section of both the contemporary struggles and historical scars that have defined Guatemala. The other thing worth noting is, the resultant definition makes Guatemala both incredibly unique and at the same time, a classic archetype for the troubles that have, and continue to plague other countries throughout the Americas. This trip made Guatemala’s troubled existence real in a ways that reading an article never could.

After visiting Lote 8 with the class, I wanted to do more. At the time, I wasn’t sure what – or how for that matter. Just as in many countries around the world, the problems are discouragingly complicated, even more so when one is thousands of kilometers removed. So, if I was going to try to do anything, the best time to do so would be as I was present, living in it. With that in mind, I changed my plane ticket to buy more time. This allowed me to go on the delegation to Honduras during the end of May, and opened up almost another month after that to do what ever I could get organized through Rights Action.

Well, that covers the ‘how did I get here?’ part, but the ‘what am I doing here?’ part remains. As the Honduras delegation wound down, the final details were set for a placement in El Estor. The work is going to be a mix… part human rights observer, part protective accompaniment and part writer. As a human rights observer, I’ll be doing trips to communities that have been touched by violence and repression both past and present, such as in Polochic. As a accompanier, I will be in close contact with three community leaders from the El Estor region as they continue to organize in their ongoing struggle for land, dignity for themselves and a future for their children. As a writer, I’m going to try to keep up this blog, among more ambitious ventures.

Another basic question is of course the simple ‘why?’ – to that, I would answer ‘why not’. Stay tuned, funny story coming up next.