The Reconquest of Recuperated Land

THE RECONQUEST of RECUPERATED LAND

By: Mary Ann Tenuto

The farm truck pulled off a dirt road into the ruins of an old and very large former plantation. It parked on the expanse of crumbling tile patio. Twelve of us, plus the driver, climbed out and entered a building painted rust and turquoise for a meeting with members of San Manuel's autonomous council, staff of the Compañero Manuel Grocery Warehouse and two municipal education promoters.

The former plantation, or finca, was claimed by indigenous rebels belonging to the Zapatista National Liberation Army (EZLN) during their January 1994 Uprising. The rust and turquoise building was just one end of the plantation owner's jungle mansion, now used as a grocery warehouse by the Zapatistas of San Manuel autonomous county. A new farming community called Nueva Arena has been established on the land. The Zapatistas refer to the land claimed in 1994 as "recuperated land." Chiapas NGOs estimate that campesinos from several organizations recuperated between 250,000 and 300,000 hectares of land in 1994. That translates into somewhere between 600,000 and 750,000 acres of recuperated land.

It is precisely this recuperated land that is now in dispute between the government (fronting for corporate interests) and the Zapatistas. This was the dominant theme throughout the time I spent in the state of Chiapas, Mexico from March 16 to March 30, 2012, coordinating a delegation of twelve people.

"It's all about territory"

Once all the delegates arrived, we began to receive educational briefings from non-governmental organizations (NGOs) working in Chiapas. Our first talk was at the Center for Economic and Political Investigations for Community Action (Ciepac, its initials in Spanish). The Ciepac analysts focused on how one part of the current counterinsurgency strategy is aimed at re-claiming the land recuperated in 1994. The government wants the land back in order to implement the Mesoamerica Project, a development plan stretching from southern Mexico to Colombia, which proposes a re-colonization of the land by transnational corporations. "It's all about territory," one analyst told us. An example used to illustrate one method of reclaiming land is that of February 20th (20 de Febrero) community.

February 20th is located in The Canyons region of the Lacandón Jungle, in Ricardo Flores Magón autonomous Zapatista municipality. Its inhabitants belong to different organizations. Some belong to the EZLN and they occupy 100 hectares of land. Others belong to the Organization for the Defense of Indigenous and Campesino Rights (Opddic, its initials in Spanish). Still another group belongs to the Association of Rural Collective Interest (ARIC, its initials in Spanish). Opddic and ARIC members jointly occupy 130 hectares. The folks who occupy the 130 hectares went to the government's Agrarian Reform agency and said they occupy all 230 hectares of land. The government gave them title to all 230 hectares for a new ejido called Nuevo Oxchuc. Why? Because they agreed to enter the ejido into the land-titling program called PROCEDE, a program for privatizing ejido land titles so that individuals can sell, or otherwise alienate, their land. Prior to the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), ejido land could not be alienated (sold, or taken by a bank for default on a loan). According to Article 27 of the Mexican Constitution, ejido land was communally owned, a result of the Mexican Revolution of 1910. Article 27 was changed in preparation for NAFTA so that ejido land could be privatized.

The Zapatistas refuse to enter into PROCEDE and they are defending the 100 hectares in question in February 20th with an occupation by supporters from other communities.

Something similar is happening now in Bolom Ajaw, a community with land adjacent to a virgin waterfall that connects to the Agua Azul Cascade tourist area. Bolom Ajaw is a Zapatista community on recuperated (untitled) land. A former ranch, it was claimed as a result of the 1994 Zapatista Uprising. Approximately 200 Zapatista support bases have occupied Bolom Ajaw since 2001. They have been continuously harassed and attcked for the past four years or so by PRI members from the adjacent Agua Azul ejido. On January 21, 2010, 57 PRI members invaded Bolom Ajaw land, carrying pistols, machetes and radios. They began to construct 3 cabins. That was just the beginning.

Several weeks later, on February 6, PRI members from Agua Azul ambushed a group of Zapatistas in Bolom Ajaw. The Chiapas Attorney General reported 1 PRI member dead from a bullet wound and 11 injured by bullets. The Zapatista Junta in Morelia reported 1 Zapatista shot and gravely injured, while the Fray Bartolomé de las Casas Human Rights Center (Frayba) reported 3 Zapatistas injured by bullets. The PRI members are suspected of still belonging to the Organization for the Defense of Indigenous and Campesino Rights (Opddic), a paramilitary group, although they claimed having left that paramilitary grouping in a much-publicized media show more than a year ago. The state Attorney General believes the Zapatistas fired weapons, thus violating the 15-year truce. The Zapatistas are claiming that they were not armed and say that the PRI death and injuries were caused by friendly fire. According to a detailed report now available from Frayba, PRI members were in several parts of Bolom Ajaw and were shooting from different positions. It states that some PRI members were caught in the crossfire and injured by the flying bullets, as were 2 Zapatistas. The government has responded by heavily militarizing the area around Bolom Ajaw, thus protecting the PRI members who remain on the property. The intent of the PRI members from Agua Azul is to take over Bolom Ajaw's recuperated land (which becomes more valuable every day), privatize it, and then sell it to resort developers.

An elaborate plan to convert the Agua Azul area into a "world-class resort destination" shows the importance of the Bolom Ajaw property. The government plan includes a Boutique Hotel, a European 5-Star Hotel, a Conference Center with golf course, and a Lodge overlooking the waterfall on Bolom Ajaw's property. But of course, one would have to helicopter into the Lodge due to its remoteness! (The Lodge has a helipad.)

Norton Consulting, which advises governments on the market possibilities for resort and real estate development in North and Central America, South America, the Caribbean and Europe, actually has photos of the spectacular Agua Azul Cascades region on its web site (See, http://www.nortonconsulting.net). Norton advised the Mexican government's National Fund for Fomenting Tourism (Fonatur) and collaborated on these very elaborate plans with EDSA, an architectural firm in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Simply stated, the Mexican government wants to turn the Agua Azul region into a world-class resort destination as part of the Mesoamerica Project and the Zapatistas of Bolom Ajaw are in the way.

The San Cristóbal-Palenque Toll Road

The key to Agua Azul's development as a world-class resort destination is the San Cristóbal-Palenque Toll Road. Absent a super-highway between San Cristóbal, Agua Azul and Palenque, the Boutique Hotel, 5-Star European Hotel and the Lodge with helipad will all be empty. However, the toll road has become a flashpoint of conflict between pro-government communities (in favor of the toll road) and pro-Zapatista communities (opposed to the toll road) located along its anticipated trajectory. Although no road construction is yet visible, the controversial project has already generated two deaths, numerous injuries, political prisoners, death threats, displacement and torture.

One of the communities taking paramilitary abuse because of its militant stand in opposition to the toll road is Mitzitón, an ejido that borders on both the current highway to Agua Azul and the Pan American Highway between San Cristóbal and Comitán. The highway to Comitán is being widened and that construction, also part of the Mesoamerica Project, is well underway. Mitzitón's ejido assembly voted to join the EZLN's Other Campaign and also voted to resist the passage of the toll road through its land. Other Campaign members in Mitzitón have experienced non-stop paramilitary activity, including murder and torture. It would not surprise me if an attempt were made to take their ejido land by fraud, with government complicity.

We were in the offices of the Fray Bartolomé de las Casas Human Rights Center as yet another chapter in the Mitzitón saga unfolded. One of the ejido's council members, Manuel Díaz Heredia, had been detained the night before and taken to a state prison by the Mexican equivalent of the FBI on old and false charges. The ejido assembly voted to hold 2 state police and 3 state government employees as hostages in response. They also voted to put up a roadblock on the Pan American Highway demanding their compañero's release. Frayba staff members were in Mitzitón, where negotiations with the government were taking place, as well as at the state prison checking up on the ejido authority's situation. The Frayba Center has decided that it will accompany communities in their decisions as to how they want to deal with situations of conflict. If the community wants the Center's participation in negotiations or conflict resolution, then they will help resolve situations in accordance with traditional justice. If a community decides to mount a militant response to a conflict situation, the Frayba Center will accompany them in that decision and its consequences. Manuel Diaz Heredia was released from prison the following day after a judge ruled there was a complete lack of evidence against him.

The Jungle

Our delegation also received a presentation from Miguel Ángel García Aguirre and Moisés Hernández of Maderas del Pueblo del Sureste, an NGO that emphasizes ecology with social justice and focuses on La Selva (The Jungle) and its several parts: the Montes Azules Biosphere Reserve, Las Cañadas (The Canyons), the Lacandón Community and Marques de Comillas. The Lacandón Jungle is an important "lung" for carbon exchange in North America. It is also enormously rich in biodiversity. In fact, Mexico ranks fifth in having the most biodiversity in the world. Mexico ranks sixth in the world for cultural diversity, having a population approximately 40% indigenous. Corporations covet land in the Jungle for: genetic material, spectacular beauty, vast expanses of land, plentiful sources of sweet water and its oil.

In between the Highlands (los Altos) in the east central part of the state and the Montes Azules are a proliferation of lower mountains, foothills, rivers and valleys, a region referred to as Las Cañadas (the Canyons), a beautiful and fertile part of Chiapas. Everything slopes gently downwards toward the Montes Azules and the Usumacinta River, the eastern boundary of Chiapas and Mexico.

The re-occupation of recuperated lands is also happening in the Jungle, but the tactics vary by region. February 20th community, where PRI members obtained title by fraud, is in the Canyons region of the Lacandón Jungle. In the Montes Azules Biosphere, under the guise of "conservationism," a cabal from Profepa (the federal environmental prosecutor's office), the state police and various federal police agencies are green-washing the forced displacement of indigenous peoples. Not only do they remove them from their lands and homes at gunpoint, they burn their houses, crops and belongings, leaving them with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Any money found in homes or community stores is stolen. Harvested crops are confiscated or burned. The most recent of these forced displacements occurred on January 21 and 22, 2010 in the communities of Laguna San Pedro and El Suspiro (also known as El Semental), both in the Montes Azules. I cannot erase the photo of police setting fire to the humble thatched-roof house in Laguna San Pedro from my mind!

Without getting into the twisted history of land ownership in the Montes Azules, let us simply say that the government gave title to the Montes Azules and a surrounding area known as the Lacandón Community to a group of 66 indigenous families whose origins are in dispute and called them Lacandóns for convenience. In their most recent request, the Lacandóns asked for the eviction of 8 communities and the government has agreed. Laguna San Pedro and El Suspiro were the first two. The plan is to develop eco-tourist facilities on these lands to become part of the Ruta Maya, a mega-tourist project within the Mesoamerica Project. The Ruta Maya (Maya Route) is a plan to connect archaeological sites and places of natural beauty throughout Mesoamerica by developing roads and lodging for tourism. We're talking massive tourism here! While in San Cristóbal, one can see the huge tourist buses packed with folks from other parts of Mexico, or from Europe or Japan. Some say that the Palenque airport, currently undergoing a major expansion, will accommodate direct flights from Europe when completed.

I spoke with a man from a community just outside the Montes Azules, but in the deep jungle nearby. He said his community feared an eventual eviction because of oil exploitation. While that has not yet started, the government has already expropriated lands for that purpose on the edge of the Montes Azules, in sharp contradiction to its conservationist rhetoric. Another contradiction is found in the use of land in the Jungle for mono-crop agriculture: growing trees for bio-diesel fuel and African Palms for cooking oil.

Co-existence of Autonomy and Counterinsurgency

The Ciepac analysts described the construction of Zapatista self-government (autonomy) in 38 autonomous municipalities (counties) and the 5 regional Good Government Councils. The development of autonomous government implies developing schools, education promoters, health promoters and health programs, clinics and income-producing projects to support the new government structures and institutions. Although sometimes difficult to conceive, the construction of autonomy is taking place amidst the resistance to counterinsurgency. This was dramatically driven home during our meeting inside the rust and turquoise Compañero Manuel Grocery Warehouse.

The Grocery Warehouse was an economic development project in which the Chiapas Support Committee participated, as did several organizations from Italy. Its purpose is to bring grocery items from the city and make them available to residents of the outlying rural areas. By purchasing in large quantities and having a place to store the items, they can buy at wholesale prices. The warehouse then sells to the little community stores for a small profit. The community stores raise the price a little and rural farmers still save money because they don't have to pay for transportation into town to buy their needed items. Profits from the Warehouse support the functioning of the municipal government. It has been very profitable at times and modestly profitable at others. A government warehouse now competes with it.

The warehouse staff explained to us that the warehouse was supplying free food to the rotating guard in Casa Blanca, a disputed piece of recuperated land that campesinos belonging to the PRI would like to take over. In September 2009, PRI members from an adjacent ejido attacked Casa Blanca in an attempt to take it over. They were armed with guns, machetes and clubs. In the confrontation that followed, one PRI member was killed, 8 Zapatistas were injured, 8 Aric members were injured and 7 Zapatistas were taken prisoner. Those taken prisoner were brutally tortured for 36 hours. After this attack, San Manuel mounted a plantón (occupation) with 250 Zapatistas to guard the land. That guard has now been reduced to 25. The problem this presents to the warehouse staff is that there is no money from sales to replenish their stock. They are looking for a way to expand the line of products carried by the Warehouse in order to compensate for the counterinsurgency's drain on its profits.

It is not clear what the government wants with Casa Blanca. It is located in the Las Tazas Canyon, which is the valley of the Upper Jataté River. At one point, as a project within the Plan Puebla-Panamá (before it was renamed the Mesoamerica Project), the government had plans to dam up the river and convert the corn farmers into fish farmers. But archaeologists raised a fuss (there are remnants of archaeological sites scattered along the river) and it seemed like those plans were dropped. Perhaps those plans were not cancelled, just put on the back burner until the fuss died down. What is certain is that the government wants something in this canyon. It has fostered and protected paramilitary groups for at least the last eight years and there were once 4 military camps guarding just this one canyon. There are only two military camps now. The other two pulled out when they believed that they had trained enough paramilitaries to keep the Zapatistas under control.

The Jataté River is a white water river, perfect for kayaking and rafting. It is beautifully portrayed in Sacred Monkey River, a book by Christopher Shaw describing his kayaking experience on the Jataté. Perhaps the Las Tazas Canyon is wanted for tourism. A brand new two-lane highway to Monte Líbano is currently under construction. It passes by the turnoff for the Las Tazas Canyon. On the other hand, perhaps the canyon is coveted for its abundance of sweet water (unpolluted fresh water). In addition to the river, there are natural springs, aquifers and, according to some, an underground river, making it very attractive to corporations that monopolize water sources so they can bottle water for a profit. Thus it's hard to predict whether corporations envision a Jataté Hilton Lodge and Kayaking Club in the Las Tazas Canyon or a Ciel bottling plant. (Ciel bottles and sells purified water in Mexico. Coca-Cola owns it).

Rural Cities?

As the counterinsurgency continues its efforts to re-conquer land recuperated by the Zapatistas, it would seem appropriate to ask where the indigenous people will go if the government is successful in obtaining this land for corporate exploitation. The government and the World Bank have just the answer: Sustainable Rural Cities (SRC). Remember the "model cities" in Guatemala and "strategic hamlets" in Viet Nam? The Chiapas version of these counterinsurgency mechanisms is already under construction in Los Altos. The SRC of Santiago El Pinar is being built on the slopes of a mountain, right next to San Andrés Sakamch'en de los Pobres, the autonomous Zapatista municipality in which the Caracol of Oventik is located. Another SRC is planned for the Jungle and a third in the Northern Zone. They are intended to compete with the Zapatista Caracols and their eventual result, if successful, will be to remove the indigenous peasantry from its territories and disrupt its way of life and production, thus giving indigenous land to corporations and making the peoples dependent on those corporations to maintain a new urban way of life.

Virtually unreported in the mainstream press, human rights abuse and repression go unpunished in this low-intensity war to re-conquer Zapatista lands and displace the indigenous peoples. Some analysts with whom we spoke stated that the Lacandón Jungle was the starting point for the Mesoamerica Project, which will then affect Central American countries and Colombia. Throughout the continent and the entire world, megaprojects involve the four wheels of capitalism: plunder (theft), repression, scorn and exploitation.

__________________________________________________________

Chiapas Support Committee

http://www.chiapas-support.org

cezmat@igc.org [OR] enapoyo1994@yahoo.com

April 10, 2010

Los Otros Estados Unidos: represión, marginación y resistencias de base en EEUU

Alejandro Reyes - Radio Zapatista (www.radiozapatista.org)

En Estados Unidos se vive un momento histórico muy particular. Por un lado, la guerra en Irak se ha transformado en un caos genocida al cual no se le ve fin. Escándalos de corrupción resquebrajaron la confianza en el gobierno y el sistema. El mercado inmobiliario sufrió una caída estrepitosa que forzó a mucha gente a perder sus casas y llevó a muchos más a la bancarrota, anunciando el inicio de la peor crisis financiera desde la década de 1920 y un resquebrajamiento del sistema capitalista global. Al mismo tiempo, casi siete años de una política de “seguridad nacional” llevaron a una alarmante pérdida de las garantías individuales y a la institucionalización de la tortura. La crisis y el miedo llevaron a una postura antiinmigrante cada vez más virulenta y a una militarización de la frontera sin precedentes. En este contexto, la elección de Barak Obama como el nuevo presidente demócrata de los Estados Unidos fue recibida con escepticismo por mucha gente cuya realidad permanece prácticamente invisible, a pesar de que sin duda han sido los más afectados: los pobres y la “gente de color”, minorías raciales que, en muchos casos, no son minoría.
La vida en los barrios más pobres de Estados Unidos es sumamente difícil y tiende a empeorar. Es el caso del barrio Sur Central de Los Ángeles, con una población hoy mayoritariamente latina. Fue ahí que, en 1992, surgió una de las rebeliones más importantes de los Estados Unidos, cuando los policías que golpearon al taxista negro Rodney King fueron absueltos por un jurado blanco en su casi totalidad. La rebelión fue la respuesta de la población desesperada ante la violencia policial, pero también ante una situación que en el momento parecía insostenible y que hoy sólo ha empeorado: altos niveles de desempleo, un patrón de salarios cada vez más bajos, sobrepoblación, escasez de vivienda y rentas muy caras, segregación racial, pandillerismo, drogadicción, un sistema educativo desastroso, pésimos servicios de salud, altos índices de obesidad y desnutrición debido a la falta de alimentos saludables.
Pero fue justamente en este barrio que, durante más de 14 años, floreció la granja urbana más importante de Estados Unidos: casi seis hectáreas cultivadas por más de 300 familias pobres, en su mayoría de origen latino. La Granja Sur Central constituía no sólo una alternativa de independencia económica, sino una fuente de alimentación de alta calidad a bajos precios. Además, los campesinos preservaban antiguas tradiciones de cultivo, conocimientos de medicina natural y semillas ancestrales. La granja era un lugar de convivencia lejos de la violencia, las drogas, las pandillas y el racismo, un refugio donde los niños podían jugar sin miedo, donde se realizaban fiestas y ceremonias tradicionales. Muchos de los campesinos eran adherentes a la Otra Campaña.
Pero una compleja trama de intereses políticos y económicos resultó en la destrucción de la granja, en junio de 2006, por el gobierno del alcalde latino y demócrata Antonio Villaraigosa, a pesar de la formación de un amplio movimiento social. Las soluciones orgánicas a los problemas de salud, alimentación, educación, drogadicción y criminalidad poco interesaron a los políticos y empresarios deseosos de lucrar con ese terreno cuando un nuevo corredor ferroviario aumentó los precios inmobiliarios. Hoy un pequeño grupo de campesinos sigue organizándose y preservando el sueño de la granja en tierras fuera de la ciudad.
La granja fue destruida con la intención de construir una bodega para la empresa textil Forever 21. Esta es una de las empresas combatidas por el Centro de Trabajadores y Trabajadoras de la Costura, quienes la acusan de violar los derechos laborales de sus empleados, en su mayoría inmigrantes. Esta organización, que funciona como un sindicato autónomo y horizontal, opera en el centro de Los Ángeles, en el corazón de la pujante industria textil. Aunque es bien conocida la industria maquiladora mundial, que se desplaza de país en país en busca de menores precios de mano de obra, poco se discute la industria maquiladora interna, que se aprovecha de la precariedad de la mano de obra inmigrante (miedo, desconocimiento de las leyes, dificultad con el idioma, persecución por no tener papeles, amenazas y abusos constantes) para reducir costos sin tener que desplazar la producción a otros países. El Centro de Trabajadores y Trabajadoras de la Costura se organiza para combatir estas prácticas, en el contexto de una creciente criminalización y hostilidad hacia la inmigración.
En los últimos años ha habido un recrudecimiento severo de legislaciones antiinmigrantes. Esto ha resultado en la expulsión de alrededor de un millón de inmigrantes en los últimos tres años -con un promedio de deportaciones tres veces mayor que hace una década. Al mismo tiempo, ha provocado una precarización de las condiciones de vida de los migrantes, facilitando la explotación. Pero los números no logran dar cuenta de la realidad cotidiana de millones de personas que ahora viven bajo constante terror. Abundan las historias de los niños dejados atrás cuando la migra (autoridades migratorias) se lleva a sus padres. Las historias de las familias aterrorizadas cuando agentes entran a sus casas pateando puertas, amenazando con armas y llevándose esposadas a personas cuyo único crimen es trabajar. Las historias del terror de perder todos los bienes y encontrarse deportada en alguna ciudad de la frontera sin un centavo. Las historias de los meses o años de detención, las inyecciones forzadas de fármacos antipsicóticos peligrosos, en violación a legislaciones de derechos humanos internacionales, los procesos legales manipulados, los maltratos y humillaciones por las autoridades migratorias. Y abundan, también, las historias de los cientos de personas que mueren cada año tratando de cruzar una frontera cada vez más militarizada.
En este contexto, organizaciones como la muy zapatista Tierra y Libertad, en Tucson, Arizona, se organizan desde abajo para resistir. Se trata de combatir circunstancias específicas, como las redadas de la migra que mantienen a las comunidades en un estado de terror, pero sobre todo de crear una conciencia colectiva a través de la educación y la participación organizativa. Por eso, a la campaña de información sobre derechos se le añaden proyectos de autosustentabilidad comunitaria, de arte rebelde (RebelArte) y de educación colectiva. Se trata de alternativas autónomas, desde abajo, por parte de comunidades que ya no creen en soluciones provenientes del gobierno o los partidos políticos y que deciden tomar las riendas de sus vidas en sus propias manos.
Otra organización interesante en ese sentido es el Kilombo Intergaláctico, en Durham, Carolina del Norte. El Kilombo es un centro social en el que "comunidades de color", migrantes, trabajadores y estudiantes buscan soluciones para los problemas de su vida cotidiana y al mismo tiempo se vinculan a movimientos anticapitalistas del mundo. El Kilombo está inspirado en la lucha zapatista pero también en los piqueteros argentinos, en los Panteras Negras y los Young Lords estadounidenses y en los palenques o quilombos de la América colonial (comunidades en resistencia de esclavos cimarrones, indígenas y mestizos). Al estilo zapatista, sus ejes de organización y de lucha son la asamblea, el encuentro, la autonomía, el territorio, el conocimiento y la palabra. El Centro tiene programas educativos (clases de inglés, español, alfabetización, computación, talleres de lectura) y deportivos, biblioteca, talleres sobre derechos, un proyecto de radio, huerta comunitaria, clínica de salud, un proyecto de vivienda de bajo costo y una editorial independiente.
Uno de los problemas más graves que afectan a las comunidades pobres y "de color" es lo que en inglés se llama gentrification: la elitización de los barrios en aras del "progreso", la especulación inmobiliaria y los intereses comerciales. Se trata de un proceso en el que participan inversionistas particulares, empresas multinacionales y políticos locales, estatales y federales, y que resulta en el desplazamiento sistemático de poblaciones pobres, alejándolas de sus fuentes de ingresos y destruyendo el tejido comunitario. Es el caso, entre muchos, del Segundo Barrio en El Paso, Texas, que el Plan Paso del Norte pretende destruir para construir un gran centro comercial. Como explican los organizadores de la resistencia (miembros de la Otra Campaña), el Segundo Barrio es no sólo el barrio más antiguo de El Paso, sino una comunidad viva, mayoritariamente de origen mexicano -un verdadero sistema de sobrevivencia que le permite a esa población excluida resistir con su cultura, su lenguaje y su condición económica.
En Nueva York, El Barrio, en el Este de Harlem, sufre el mismo problema. Uno de los principales agresores actuales es la empresa Dawnay, Day Group, basada en Londres, que en 2007 compró 47 edificios y que intenta desalojar a sus inquilinos para desarrollos de lujo. Pero el problema empezó mucho antes, y en diciembre de 2004 residentes de cinco edificios amenazados se organizaron y formaron el Movimiento Por Justicia en El Barrio, que por medio de campañas mediáticas, demandas legales, manifestaciones y acciones directas luchan contra el desplazamiento. Con la publicación de la Sexta Declaración de la Selva Lacandona, el Movimiento por Justicia en El Barrio decidió unirse a la Otra Campaña y adoptar formas de lucha zapatistas. En 2006 realizó La Consulta del Barrio, un largo proceso en el que los miembros de la comunidad decidieron sus prioridades y estrategias de lucha. En octubre de 2007, realizaron el primer Encuentro de Nueva York por la Humanidad y contra el Desalojo Neoliberal, en el que participaron organizaciones de toda la ciudad que luchan contra gentrification. En marzo de 2008, el Movimiento lanzó una Campaña Internacional en Defensa de El Barrio, con la intención no sólo de fortalecer la resistencia sino de motivar la vinculación de esfuerzos en otras partes del mundo.
Otra constante en las comunidades de color es el abuso y la violencia policiales. Este pasado 1 de enero, el joven negro Oscar Grant fue detenido por un grupo de policías (blancos) en Oakland, California, en una estación del metro (Bart). Mientras sus amigos y un número de personas protestaban desesperadas, los policías lo tumbaron al suelo boca abajo. Uno de ellos lo inmovilizó con la rodilla en el cuello mientras otro sacaba la pistola y le disparaba por la espalda, asesinándolo. El incidente se volvió público al ser presenciado por muchos testigos y grabado en dos teléfonos celulares, resultando en violentas manifestaciones. Pero la brutalidad y el racismo de las fuerzas policiales contra las comunidades de color en todo el país es la norma. Como respuesta, organizaciones llamadas CopWatch (vigilantes de la policía) han surgido en muchas ciudades. Sus miembros patrullan las calles con cámaras de video, alertan a los residentes de retenes y redadas y organizan formas de defensa comunitaria. En Los Ángeles, CopWatch L.A., con inspiración zapatista y de otros movimientos autonomistas, es parte de un proyecto más amplio de autonomía comunitaria llamado Comunidades Autónomas Revolucionarias, que incluye granjas comunitarias, guarderías y otros proyectos.
La violencia policial está acompañada de formas jurídicas de criminalización de la juventud. Por ejemplo, las leyes antipandillas prohíben que los miembros de ciertas pandillas se reúnan en determinadas áreas geográficas. Pero la determinación de quién es parte de una pandilla se hace de manera muy arbitraria, de manera que jóvenes, pertenecientes o no, se vuelven criminales por el simple hecho de platicar con amigos en público, andar en bicicleta, usar ropa de ciertos colores o hablar por teléfono celular. Las historias de arbitrariedades abundan. En Nueva York, un joven de 16 años lleva ya varias estancias en la cárcel: por pasar de un carro a otro en el metro, por no registrarse al entrar a un complejo habitacional.
Estos son los jóvenes que supuestamente tienen derechos. Pero los migrantes indocumentados ni si quiera aspiran a tanto. La inmigración "ilegal" se ha criminalizado en los últimos años, de manera que hoy el "delito" resulta no sólo en la deportación, sino en la detención por períodos que pueden durar años. En septiembre de 2008 se realizó la mayor redada de la historia estadounidense en Postville, Iowa. Trescientas personas fueron arrestadas, acusadas no sólo de inmigración ilegal, sino de robo de identidad, un cargo con penas muy severas. La acusación no hubiera resistido el escrutinio en un tribunal, pero las presiones y amenazas, el miedo, el desconocimiento de las leyes y la ausencia de abogados hicieron que la mayoría de los detenidos se declararan culpables a cambio de sentencias supuestamente más cortas de hasta dos años de prisión.
¿Pero, por qué esa criminalización? Parte de la respuesta se encuentra en las políticas de "seguridad nacional". El antiguo Servicio de Inmigración y Naturalización (INS) es ahora parte del Departamento de Seguridad Nacional (Homeland Security) bajo las siglas ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement). Desde que ICE es parte de Homeland Security, su presupuesto aumentó a 5 mil millones de dólares anuales, asumiendo funciones de "lucha contra actividades terroristas y criminales". Es evidente que el reducido número de detenciones anuales de "terroristas y criminales transnacionales" difícilmente podría justificar un presupuesto de ese tamaño. La respuesta, por lo tanto, es presentar a trabajadores migrantes como criminales capaces de amenazar la seguridad nacional.
Pero un factor quizás más importante es la privatización de las prisiones, en lo que se ha venido a llamar el "complejo industrial carcelario", una industria billonaria que obviamente necesita "clientes". Los Estados Unidos tiene el mayor porcentaje per cápita de presos del mundo. La privatización de las prisiones no sólo resulta en lucros directos por medio de fondos del Estado. Mucho más lucrativo resulta el trabajo esclavo de los prisioneros, permitido en la 13ª Enmienda Constitucional. Los presos, que para el capitalismo estadounidense son "excedentes sociales", representan una formidable fuente de mano de obra. Hoy, numerosas empresas utilizan el trabajo de prisioneros que reciben aproximadamente 25 centavos de dólar por hora.
Lo que se percibe en todo esto es un complejo mecanismo de aprovechamiento de millones de personas que ya no caben en el sistema. En este contexto, las luchas autonomistas juegan un papel fundamental. Para muchos, el sistema es tan complejo y perverso que no hay manera de cambiarlo desde arriba. Las reformas de la administración de Barak Obama, por más saludables que sean comparadas a los horrores del gobierno anterior, serán incapaces de reestructurar el sistema en sus bases. Para las comunidades de mero abajo, la única alternativa viable es la organización comunitaria autónoma y la vinculación con otras luchas en el país y en el mundo.
(*)NOTA: El autor es escritor y periodista alternativo, miembro del colectivo Radio Zapatista y doctorando en literatura latinoamericana.

The Other United States: repression, marginalization and grass-roots resistance in the US

Alejandro Reyes - Radio Zapatista (www.radiozapatista.org)

The United States is going through a very particular historic moment. On one hand, the war in Iraq has turned into a genocidal chaos with no end in sight. Corruption scandals have shaken the public’s trust in the government and the system. The real estate market suffered a precipitous collapse that resulted in many people losing their homes and many more going bankrupt, and that announced the beginning of the worst financial crisis since the 1920s and a fracture of the global capitalist system. At the same time, nearly seven years of “homeland security” policies have led to an alarming reduction of civil liberties and the institutionalization of torture. The crisis and fear led to increasingly virulent anti-immigrant postures and to an unprecedented militarization of the border. In this context, the election of Barak Obama as the new Democrat president of the United States was received with skepticism by many people whose reality remains practically invisible, despite the fact that they have undoubtedly been the most affected—the poor and “people of color,” racial minorities that, more often than not, are not a minority.

Life in the poorest neighborhoods of the U.S. is extremely difficult and tends to get worse. Such is the case with South Central Los Angeles, today a mostly Latino neighborhood. It was here that one of the most important rebellions in the United States took place in 1992, when the police officers who had brutally beat Rodney King, an African-American taxi driver, were acquitted by an almost all-white jury. The rebellion was the people’s desperate response to police violence, but also to a situation that at the time seemed untenable and which has only gotten worse: high unemployment levels, increasingly lower salaries, overcrowding, scarcity of housing and expensive rents, racial segregation, gangs, drug addiction, a disastrous educational system, abysmal health services, high obesity and malnutrition rates due to the lack of healthy food sources.
But it was precisely in this neighborhood that, during more than 14 years, flourished the most important urban garden in the U.S.: 14 acres cultivated by over 300 poor, mostly Latino families. South Central Farm was not only a creative alternative for economic self-sustainability, but also a source of high-quality foodstuffs at affordable prices. In addition, the farmers preserved ancient farming traditions, knowledge of traditional medicine, and ancestral seeds. The farm was a place for conviviality away from the violence, drugs, gangs, and racism, a refuge where children could play without fear, where traditional celebrations and ceremonies took place. Many of the farmers were members of the Zapatistas’ Other Campaign.
But a complex mesh of political and economic interests led the government of Antonio Villaraigosa-a Latino and a Democrat-to destroy the farm in June 2006, despite the formation of a broad social movement in its defense. This organic solution to the health, food, education, drugs, and crime problems of the community meant nothing to the politicians and entrepreneurs eager to profit from the land when a new freight train corridor made the price of real estate skyrocket. Today, a small group of farmers continues organizing and preserving the dream of the farm in lands outside the city.
The farm was destroyed in order to build a warehouse for the clothing company Forever 21. This is one of the businesses combated by the Garment Worker Center (GWC), which accuses it of violating workers’ rights of its employees, most of them immigrants. The GWC, an independent, community-based, horizontally-driven organization, operates in downtown Los Angeles, at the heart of the thriving clothing industry. Although much has been said about the global maquiladora industry, which hops from country to country in search of ever cheaper labor, little is talked about the internal sweatshop industry, which takes advantage of the precarious conditions of immigrant workers (fear, ignorance of labor laws, difficulties with the language, harassment for being undocumented, threats, and constant abuse) in order to reduce costs without having to take production offshore. The Garment Worker Center organizes with sweatshop workers to combat these practices, within the context of an increasing criminalization of and hostility toward immigration.
In recent years there has been a significant increase of anti-immigrant legislation. This has resulted in the deportation of over a million immigrants in the last three years-with a deportation rate three times higher than a decade ago. At the same time, it has seriously affected the living conditions of migrants, which facilitates exploitation. But the numbers can hardly speak of the everyday reality of millions of people who now live in a state of constant terror. A reality portrayed by the frighteningly common stories of the children left behind when immigration authorities take their parents away. By the stories of terrified families seeing heavily armed agents enter their homes kicking doors, threatening them with their weapons, handcuffing and dragging away people whose only crime was to work. By the stories of the panic of losing all material possessions and finding oneself deported in some border town without a penny in one’s pocket. By the stories of the months or years of detention, of being forcefully injected anti-psychotic drugs, in violation of international human rights legislations, of manipulated legal proceedings, of abuse and humiliation by immigration authorities. And also by the stories of the hundreds of people who die each year trying to cross an increasingly militarized border.
In this context, collectives like the very Zapatista Tierra y Libertad in Tucson, Arizona, organize from below to resist. Their objective is to combat specific issues, such as the immigration raids that maintain communities in a constant state of fear, but above all to build collective awareness through education and participation in organization. Because of that, in addition to an informational campaign on civil and immigrant rights they develop community self-sustainability projects, "rebel art" workshops, and community educational projects. The point is to create autonomous alternatives from below by communities which no longer believe in solutions from the government or political parties and who decide to take back control of their own lives.
Another interesting organization along those lines is the Kilombo Intergaláctico in Durham, North Carolina. The Kilombo is a social center where communities of color, migrants, workers, and students look for solutions for their everyday lives while connecting themselves to anti-capitalist movements around the world. The Kilombo is inspired by the Zapatista struggle but also by Argentinean piqueteros, the Black Panthers and Young Lords of the United States, and the palenques or quilombos of colonial times in the Americas (communities in resistance of runaway slaves, indigenous people, and mestizos). In Zapatista style, their strategies for organization and struggle are centered on assemblies, encounters, autonomy, territory, knowledge, and communication. The center has educational and sports programs (English, Spanish, literacy, computing, reading workshops, capoeira), a library, rights workshops, a radio project, a community garden, a health clinic, an affordable housing project, and an independent publisher.
One of the most serious problems affecting the poor and people of color communities is gentrification in the name of "progress," real estate speculation, and commercial interests. It is a process that involves private investors, multinational companies, and local, state and federal politicians, and which results in the systematic displacement of poor populations, distancing them from their sources of income and destroying community ties. Such is the case, among many, of the Segundo Barrio in El Paso, Texas, which the Paso del Norte Plan intends to destroy in order to build a large shopping center. As the organizers of the resistance (members of the Zapatista’s Other Campaign) explain, the Segundo Barrio is not only the oldest neighborhood in El Paso but, most importantly, a live community with a population of mostly Mexican origin-a veritable survival system that allows that excluded population to resist with its culture, its language, and its economic condition.
In New York, El Barrio, in East Harlem, suffers the same problem. One of the main aggressors currently is the London-based Dawnay, Day Group, which in 2007 bought 47 buildings and which intends to evict the residents for the sake of luxury developments. But the problem is much older than that, and in December 2004 residents of five threatened buildings organized themselves and formed the Movement for Justice in El Barrio, which through media campaigns, legal actions, demonstrations, and direct actions struggle against gentrification. After the release of the Sixth Declaration of the Lacandon Jungle, the Movement for Justice in El Barrio decided to join the Other Campaign and adopt Zapatista forms of struggle. In 2006 they organized the "Consulta del Barrio," a long process whereby community members determined their priorities and strategies for struggle. In October 2007 they organized the First New York Encounter for Humanity and Against Gentrification, with the participation of organizations from all over New York and other cities that struggle against gentrification. In March 2008 the movement launched an International Campaign in Defense of El Barrio, with the purpose not only of strengthening the resistance but of joining forces with struggles in other parts of the world.
Another ever present issue in communities of color is police violence and abuse. This past New Year’s Eve the black youth Oscar Grant was detained by a group of BART police at a subway station in Oakland, California. While his friends and a number of people protested desperately, two (white) policemen threw him face down on the ground. One of them immobilized him with a knee on the youth’s neck, while the other one withdrew his gun and shot him in the back, murdering him. The incident became public because of the many witnesses present and because it was captured on video on two cell phones, resulting in violent demonstrations. But police brutality and racism against communities of color is the norm throughout the country. As a response, CopWatch organizations have been created in many cities. Their members patrol the cities with video cameras, alert residents of checkpoints and raids, and organize community self-defense. In Los Angeles, CopWatch L.A., with Zapatista inspiration as well as other autonomist movements, is part of a much broader community autonomy project called Revolutionary Autonomous Communities (RAC), which includes community gardens, nurseries, and other collective projects.
Police violence is accompanied by legal mechanisms that tend to criminalize youth. For example, gang injunction laws forbid members of certain gangs to get together in certain geographical areas. But the ways in which authorities determine who is a gang member are very haphazard, which results in many youths, gang members or not, being criminalized for things as simple as getting together with friends in public, riding a bicycle, wearing clothes of certain colors, or using a cellular phone. The stories of abusive repression of youth of color are plentiful. In New York, a black 16-year-old has already been in jail several times-for passing from one subway car to another, for not signing up when entering a housing project.
These are the youths who supposedly have civil rights. But undocumented migrants cannot even aspire to that much. "Illegal" immigration has been severely criminalized in the last several years, so that today the "crime" of immigration results not only in deportation, but in detention for periods that can last years. In September 2008 the largest immigration raid took place in Postville, Iowa. Three hundred people were arrested, accused not only of illegal entry into the country, but of identity theft, a Class C felony with long prison sentences. The accusation was likely to have been dismissed in court, but pressures and threats, together with fear, ignorance of the laws, and unavailability of legal counsel led most of those detained to declare themselves guilty in exchange for supposedly shorter sentences of up to two years in prison.
But, why this criminalization? Part of the answer is found in the post-9/11 shift toward "homeland security" policies. The former Immigration and Naturalization Service (INS), which was part of Justice Department, was dismantled in March 2003, with most its functions transferred to the Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), now under the Department of Homeland Security. With a budget of almost 6 billion dollars, ICE’s scope has been redefined to include the fight against terrorism and national security threats, a function that has been significantly played up in ICE rhetoric. However, the minute number of terrorists and "national security threats" detained (114 out of 814,073 between 2004 and 2007) is obviously insufficient to justify either the budget or the hardline rhetoric. The answer, therefore, is to present migrant workers as criminals capable of threatening national security.
But perhaps a more important factor is the privatization of prisons, in what has come to be termed the "prison industrial complex," a multi-billion dollar industry that obviously needs "clients." The United States has the largest prison population per capita in the world. The privatization of prisons not only results in direct profits from state funds. Much more lucrative is prison slave labor, permitted under the 13th Amendment of the Constitution. Prisoners, who for US capitalism are "social surplus," represent a formidable source of cheap labor. Today, many companies use the labor of prisoners who are paid approximately 25 cents per hour.
What all of this shows is a complex mechanism to "reuse" millions of people who no longer have a place in the system. In this context, autonomist struggles play a fundamental role. To many people, the system is so complex and perverse that there is no way to change it from above. The reforms undertaken by the Barak Obama administration, however healthy they may be compared to the horrors of the Bush government, will be incapable of restructuring the system in its foundation. For communities at the very bottom of the social scale, the only viable alternative is community and autonomous organization and the creation of networks of resistance with struggles in other parts of the country and the world.
(*) NOTE: The author is a writer and alternative journalist, member of the Radio Zapatista collective and a doctoral candidate of Latin American literature.

La Policía Comunitaria de Guerrero: el México olvidado se hace presente

por Alejandro Reyes - Radio Zapatista (www.radiozapatista.org)


En un amplio patio de un pueblo en la sierra de Guerrero, rodeado de montañas y bosques, cientos de campesinos forman filas con sus armas en alto. Hay entre ellos muchos jóvenes y no pocos viejos. Sus armas con muy sencillas, su equipo, precario, pero su mirada es firme y llena de dignidad. Se trata de la Policía Comunitaria, uno de los proyectos de autonomía indígena más importantes de México, que el 14 y 15 de octubre celebran su 13er aniversario en esta comunidad de Tilapa, municipio de Malinaltepec, acompañados de comisarios y representantes de la Coordinadora Regional de Autoridades Comunitarias (CRAC) y algunas decenas de visitantes: activistas, investigadores, miembros de medios alternativos y de organizaciones solidarias.

A 13 años de su fundación, la Policía Comunitaria, que junto con el sistema de justicia representado por la CRAC es una de las más importantes experiencias de autonomía indígena de México, tiene razones de sobra para celebrar. La inseguridad y la violencia que en los 80s y 90s asolaban a la región hoy están bajo control. Pero, sobre todo, hay una conciencia de que las comunidades pueden resolver sus propios problemas sin tener que esperar que las respuestas vengan de fuera.

La sierra de Guerrero es una región con una larga historia de rebeldía. Esta es la tierra de los movimientos guerrilleros de Genaro Vázquez y Lucio Cabañas y de una larga tradición de organización indígena y campesina. Es, también, tierra de una de las más brutales campañas de represión del México moderno. La violencia contrainsurgente desatada en la década de 70 provocó una profunda inestabilidad social que dio origen a una situación descontrolada de inseguridad: abigeato, asaltos, violaciones sexuales, asesinatos. Ante la violencia, la desesperación de los habitantes se topaba con la indiferencia de las autoridades, cuando no su complicidad con los delincuentes.

Fue como respuesta a esta situación que, el 15 de octubre de 1995, las comunidades decidieron crear la Policía Comunitaria, formada por voluntarios que sirven a los pueblos sin recibir ninguna remuneración. Hoy, son más de 800 policías de 73 comunidades y la delincuencia ha disminuido en más del 90 por ciento. El padre Mario Hernández Campos, que participó en la experiencia desde sus inicios, cuenta cómo fue el proceso:

“Ante ese clima de violencia e inseguridad en el que vivíamos, el pueblo respondió asumiendo un papel que hasta entonces no había asumido: el ser sujetos. El tomar conciencia de que la solución no viene de fuera. Pero para eso se tuvo que hacer mucho trabajo, muchas asambleas en muchas comunidades. Cuántos de ustedes participaron en los brigadeos, visitando pueblo por pueblo. En esas reuniones que se terminaban a las 3, 4 de la mañana… Cuántas señoras haciendo las tortillas, cociendo los frijolitos, los señores que acarreaban la leña, la cooperación de los vecinos. Así fuimos aprendiendo que somos sujetos y que somos los responsables por las soluciones que buscamos.”

Esta conciencia también fue la causa de que la Policía Comunitaria no se pensara de forma aislada, sino como parte de un proyecto mucho más amplio para resolver los problemas más urgentes de los pueblos: las vías de comunicación, la educación, la justicia. De estos esfuerzos han resultado importantes victorias. La exigencia de los pueblos resultó en la construcción, aunque deficiente, de la carretera Tlapa-Marquelia hace cuatro años (los letreros que pregonan las bondades del gobierno que “sí cumple” están intactos; la carretera está destruida). Muy significativamente, el 12 de octubre del año pasado se inauguró la Universidad Intercultural de los Pueblos del Sur (Unisur), una universidad autónoma cuyo objetivo es la formación de intelectuales arraigados en sus comunidades, y que hoy cuenta con cuatro unidades académicas: Santa Cruz del Rincón, Cuajinicuilapa, Xochistlahuaca y Xalitla. Y durante el evento en Tilapa este 15 de octubre se bautizó formalmente la radio comunitaria “La voz de los pueblos”, que desde hace dos meses está transmitiendo desde la comunidad de Espino Blanco.

Durante los primeros años de su existencia, la Policía Comunitaria detenía a los delincuentes y los entregaba a las autoridades. Pero cuenta Cirino Plácido, uno de los fundadores, que la corrupción de las instituciones oficiales hacía que en pocos días los detenidos estuvieran nuevamente libres. “La inseguridad es un gran negocio para el Estado”, afirma. “El policía quiere dinero, el abogado quiere dinero, el juez quiere dinero.” Esta realidad llevó a la decisión de fundar, en 1998, la Coordinadora Regional de Autoridades Comunitarias, que es el órgano encargado de la procuración de justicia. Es la Coordinadora Regional quien se encarga de recibir las quejas, analizar las denuncias, expedir las órdenes de aprehensión y presentar a los detenidos a la asamblea comunitaria, donde, de acuerdo a los usos y costumbres, es el pueblo quien determina el castigo.

Los delitos no se pagan en forma de multa o cárcel, sino de lo que ellos llaman la reeducación. Ésta consiste en trabajos comunitarios, como pavimentación de calles, construcción de infraestructura o cualquier otra cosa en beneficio de la comunidad. Muy importantes en ese proceso de reeducación son las pláticas por parte del consejo de ancianos, reunidos regularmente por el comisario, que ayudan al detenido en el camino de la concientización. Así como la sentencia, la liberación se realiza ante la asamblea comunitaria, donde ésta se compromete a no tratar al detenido como un delincuente sino como un miembro de la comunidad en proceso de reeducación. O sea, la justicia se entiende como algo que involucra directamente a todos los miembros de la comunidad.

Ante esta experiencia de autonomía comunitaria la respuesta del gobierno ha sido la confrontación y la criminalización. Más de 40 autoridades y policías comunitarios tienen hoy órdenes de aprensión por los supuestos delitos de privación ilegal de la libertad, usurpación de funciones y abuso de autoridad. Paradójicamente, lo que más molesta al gobierno no es el hecho de que exista un cuerpo armado al margen de las instituciones oficiales, sino la impartición de justicia de acuerdo a los usos y costumbres. Esta oposición demuestra el desencuentro entre la “legalidad” de un sistema que para las comunidades no es legítimo, no sólo debido a la corrupción sino porque no refleja la realidad de los pueblos, y la legitimidad de una experiencia autónoma que no cabe en las leyes impuestas por ese sistema.

Para el antropólogo Guillermo Bonfil Batalla, México no es uno solo, sino dos: los que el llama el “México imaginario” (basado en la cultura occidental) y el “México profundo” (basado en la cultura indígena). Algo muy similar afirma Cirino Plácido: “Dicen que hay un solo México pero no es cierto. Está el México de allá, pero es nomás venir aquí que se encuentra otro México, el México olvidado.”

Entre los murales de Diego Rivera que cubren los muros del Palacio Nacional en la ciudad de México, hay uno frente al cual se detienen todos los visitantes. En él encontramos la imagen de una mujer indígena (con rostro de Frida Kahlo) cargando en su espalda a un bebé moreno de ojos azules. “El primer mexicano”, dice el guía de turistas. O sea, el producto del encuentro entre la civilización occidental y la indígena. Un encuentro sin duda terrible, pero que supuestamente engendró la gran Raza de Bronce, la nación mestiza por tanto tiempo negada y que la Revolución logró liberar de las ataduras de la historia, al enaltecer el glorioso pasado prehispánico como parte constitutiva de lo que hoy somos: un México unido, homogéneo, mestizo. Pero, en esta visión ¿dónde quedan los pueblos indios?

En una pequeña fonda en el camino de regreso de la sierra guerrerense rumbo al DF, en plena mixteca poblana, se escucha un cuento dramatizado en el radio: Una estudiante de antropología estadounidense viaja a Chiapas para estudiar a los indios tzotziles. Sus costumbres y sus condiciones de vida la horrorizan, y el radioescucha no puede más que concordar: supersticiones, pobreza, falta de higiene, primitivismo. Pero cuando ella decide nombrar su tesis “La condición salvaje de los indios de México”, el nacionalismo mexicano levanta la cabeza indignado: ¿qué se cree esa gringa racista? Una indignación difícil de conciliar con la conclusión previa de que sí, ni modo, los indios son primitivos. Afortunadamente, un sencillo médico mestizo, que viaja de pueblo en pueblo, llega para salvarnos del dilema. Cando el doctor humildemente cuestiona el título de la tesis, la estudiante le dice: “¡Pero los indios viven al margen de la civilización!” El médico entonces responde: “Sí, es cierto, pero eso no es culpa suya. Es culpa nuestra, de todos nosotros.” Moral de la historia: los pueblos indios de hoy no son más que un remanente desafortunado de un pasado destruido, y es deber y obligación del México mestizo civilizarlos para integrarlos a la nación.

Bonfil Batalla propone que no, que la cosa no va por ahí. Que de lo que se trata es de dos civilizaciones desencontradas (la occidental y la indígena), y que la historia de México no es sino la historia de ese desencuentro: de los intentos, por parte de la civilización vencedora, de negar y destruir a la civilización vencida, y de los mecanismos de resistencia que ésta última ha sabido usar para sobrevivir más de quinientos años. La ideología detrás de la nación mestiza representada por ese “primer mexicano” del mural de Diego Rivera no es más que un nuevo intento de genocidio hacia los pueblos indios, del cual éstos se defienden con el arsenal milenario de su civilización.

El desencuentro entre las dos civilizaciones y la imposición violenta de una sobre la otra es evidente en la experiencia de la Policía Comunitaria de Guerrero. En sus 13 años de vida, ésta ha logrado lo que el Estado no ha podido hacer en ninguna parte del país: controlar la inseguridad en una región particularmente violenta. Una de las mesas de trabajo en Tilapa se enfocó en la situación nacional de seguridad y justicia. En ella se hizo un balance de la coyuntura actual: una explosión sin precedentes de la inseguridad y la violencia, militarización del país, sistemas policial y de justicia con una severa crisis de legitimidad, una política del miedo vehiculada por los medios de comunicación y la criminalización los movimientos sociales. El Estado no sólo ha fracasado rotundamente en el combate a la inseguridad, sino que cada día quedan más evidentes sus vínculos con el narcotráfico y el crimen organizado. Siendo así, resulta lo mínimo paradójico que el Estado, en vez de coordinar esfuerzos con esta organización exitosa y promover su extensión en otras partes del país, insista en criminalizarla.

Como las comunidades rebeldes zapatistas, la experiencia de la Policía Comunitaria es una evidencia clara de que ese otro México, el México profundo, olvidado, ignorado, es una fuente viva de alternativas capaces de enfrentar los problemas que más afectan a la sociedad. Y si el México del poder, siguiendo su tradición centenar de negar esa otra realidad, continúa rehusándose a reconocer su vitalidad y vigencia, la Policía Comunitaria continuará siendo una inspiración para todos los de abajo, de México y del mundo, y prueba de que sí es posible crear alternativas al margen del sistema, aprendiendo de esos pueblos que llevan cinco siglos resistiendo.

The Community Police of Guerrero: the forgotten Mexico speaks

by Alejandro Reyes - Radio Zapatista (www.radiozapatista.org)


On a large patio of a community in the sierra of Guerrero, surrounded by mountains and forests, stand hundreds of peasants with their weapons held high. Among them there are many youth and quite a few elders. Their weapons are very simple, their equipment, precarious. It is the Community Police, one of the most important projects of indigenous autonomy in Mexico, which, on October 14 and 15, 2008, celebrated their 13th anniversary in this town of Tilapa, municipality of Malinaltepec accompanied by commissioners and representatives of the Regional Coordination of Community Authorities (CRAC) and several dozen visitors: activists, researchers, members of alternative media, and organizations in solidarity.

Thirteen years after its foundation, the Community Police, which together with the justice system represented by the CRAC is one of the most important experiences in indigenous autonomy in Mexico, has every reason to celebrate. The insecurity and violence that in the 80s and 90s devastated the region is today under control. But more importantly, there is now a widespread awareness that the communities can solve their own problems without waiting for answers to come from the outside.

The sierra of Guerrero has a long history of rebellion. It is the land of the guerrilla movements of Genaro Vázquez and Lucio Cabañas and of a long tradition of indigenous and peasant organization. It is also the land of one of the most brutal repression campaigns in modern Mexico. The counterinsurgent violence of the 70s created a deep social instability which led to an uncontrollable situation of insecurity: assaults, robbery, rape, murder. In the face of this violence, the despair of the inhabitants met only with indifference on the part of the authorities, or outright complicity with the delinquents.

As a response to this situation, on October 15, 1995, the communities decided to create the Community Police, composed of voluntary members who serve their people without any remuneration. Today, there are over 800 policemen from 73 communities, and insecurity has diminished over 90 percent. Father Mario Hernández Campos, who participated in this experience since its beginnings, described the process:

“Given the violence and insecurity we lived, our communities responded assuming a role we had never assumed: that of being subjects. Becoming aware that the solution doesn’t come from the outside. But in order to get there we had to do a lot of work, we had to hold many assemblies y many communities. How many of you participated in brigades, going from town to town. How many participated in those meetings that went on till 3, 4 in the morning… How many women making tortillas, cooking beans, how many men carrying firewood, how many neighbors supporting us. Thus we started to learn that we are subjects and that we are responsible for the solutions we look for.”

This awareness also explains the fact that the Community Police was not conceived in isolation, but as part of a much broader project which aims at resolving the communities’ most pressing problems: communication, education, justice. These efforts resulted in some important victories. The demands of the communities led to the construction, albeit defective, of the Tlapa-Marquelia road four years ago (the signs that boast the kindness of the government that “does provide” are intact; the road is destroyed). Very significantly, on October 12 last year was inaugurated the Intercultural University of the Peoples of the South (Unisur), an autonomous university which aims at preparing intellectuals with deep ties to the communities, and which today has four campuses: Santa Cruz del Rincón, Cuajinicuilapa, Xochistlahuaca, and Xalitla. And during the event this October 15, the community radio that has been transmitting for two months from the community of Espino Blanco, was formally baptized “The voice of the people.”

During the first years of its existence, the Community Police detained the delinquents and handed them over to the authorities. But Cirino Plácido, one of the founders, explains that the corruption of government institutions meant that a few days later the delinquents would be free. “Insecurity is a great business for the State,” he says. “The policeman wants money, the lawyer wants money, the judge wants money.” This reality led to the decision to create, in 1998, the Regional Coordination of Community Authorities, which is in charge of administering justice. It is this body which receives complaints, analyzes denunciations, emits arrest orders, and presents the detainees to the community assemblies, where, according to traditional custom, it is the people who decide on the punishment.

This punishment is neither fines nor jail, but what they call reeducation. This consists of community service such as paving roads, building infrastructure or anything else that the community might need. An important aspect of this reeducation process are the talks given by the elder council, which gathers regularly upon the commissioner’s request. These talks help the detainee to become aware of his or her errors. As in the case of the sentencing, the liberation takes place in an assembly, where the community commits itself not to treat him or her as a criminal, but as a member of the community in the process of reeducation. In other words, justice is understood as something that directly involves every member of the community.

The government’s response to this experience in community autonomy has been confrontation and criminalization. Over 40 authorities and community policemen have warrants for their arrest for the presumed crimes of illegal detention, usurping functions, and abusing authority. Curiously, what most bothers the government is not the existence of an armed organization outside of official institutions, but the administration of justice according to traditional customs. This opposition reveals the conflict between the “legality” of a system that the communities do not perceive as legitimate, not only because of its corruption, but because it does not reflect their reality, and the legitimacy of an autonomous experience that does not fit in the laws imposed by that system.

According to anthropologist Gillermo Bonfil Batalla, there is not only one Mexico but two: what he calls the “imaginary Mexico” (based on Western civilization) and the “deep Mexico” (based on indigenous civilization). Cirino Plácido says something similar: “They say there’s only one Mexico but that’s not true. There’s the Mexico that’s out there, but you only need to come here to realize there’s another Mexico, the forgotten Mexico.”

Among the murals by Diego Rivera that cover the walls of the National Palace in Mexico City there’s one that all visitors stop to look at. In it we find the image of an indigenous woman (with Frida Kahlo’s face) carrying a dark-skinned, blue-eyed baby on her back. “The first Mexican,” explains the tourist guide. In other words, the product of the encounter between Western civilization and indigenous cultures. An undoubtedly terrible encounter, but which supposedly engendered the great Bronze Race, the mestizo nation for centuries denied, which the Revolution managed to liberate from the shackles of history by recognizing our glorious pre-Hispanic past as a constitutive element of who we are today: a united, homogeneous, mestizo Mexico. But, in to this vision, where do indigenous peoples fit?

In a small, roadside restaurant on the way back from the Guerrero sierra towards Mexico City, in the heart of the Mixteca sierra of Puebla, the radio plays a dramatized version of a short story: an anthropology student from the US travels to Chiapas to study the Tzotzil Indians. Their customs and their life conditions horrify her, and the listener cannot help sympathize with her views: superstition, poverty, poor hygiene, primitivism. But when she decides to name her thesis “The savage condition of Mexican Indians,” Mexican nationalism rears its head in indignation: who does this racist gringa think she is? A rather difficult indignation to reconcile, given the previous conclusion that yes, Indians are primitive. Fortunately, a humble mestizo doctor, who travels from town to town, comes to the rescue. When he politely questions the appropriateness of the title, the student says, “But Indians live outside of civilization!” And the doctor responds, “Yes, that’s true. But that’s not their fault. It’s our fault, all of us.” Moral of the story: indigenous peoples of today are the unfortunate remnants of a destroyed past, and it is the duty of mestizo Mexico to civilize them in order to integrate them to the nation.

Bonfil Batalla proposes that things are not quite that way. He claims that what we have is the clash between two different (Western and indigenous) civilizations, and that Mexico’s history is the history of this conflict: the attempts on the part of the winning civilization to negate and destroy the vanquished one, and the latter’s mechanisms of resistance which have allowed it to survive for over five centuries. The ideology behind the mestizo nation represented by that “first Mexican” in Diego Rivera’s mural is just one more genocidal attempt against indigenous peoples, from which they defend themselves with the centuries-old arsenal of their civilization.

This clash of civilizations and the imposition of one over the other is evident in the experience of the Community Police of Guerrero. In its 13 years of existence, it has managed to accomplish what the state has failed to do anywhere in the country: to control insecurity in a region that was particularly violent. One of the work sessions in Tilapa focused on the national situation of security and justice. In it the participants evaluated where Mexico is today: an unprecedented explosion of insecurity and violence, militarization of the country, a law enforcement and justice system with a severe credibility crisis, a politics of fear manipulated by the media, and the criminalization of social movements. The state has not only failed miserably in the war against insecurity, but its relations with the drug trade and organized crime have become increasingly evident. That being so, it is at least paradoxical that the state, instead of coordinating efforts with this successful organization and promoting its growth in other parts of the country, insists in criminalizing it.

Like the Zapatista communities in rebellion, the experience of the Community Police is clear proof that this other Mexico, the deep, forgotten and ignored Mexico, is a live source of alternatives capable of facing the problems that most affect society. And if the Mexico in power, following its centuries-old tradition of denying that other reality, continues refusing to recognize its vitality and relevance, the Community Police will continue to serve as an inspiration for all of those from below, in Mexico and the world, and proof that it is indeed possible to create alternatives outside the system, learning from these peoples who have been resisting for over five hundred years.

Atenco's political prisoners: the persistence of resistance

by Alejandro Reyes – Radio Zapatista

When the parents of Oscar Hernández Pacheco were told that their son would be free in late August or Early September, they were overwhelmed with happiness. At the prison of Molino de Flores, don Paco and other relatives of political prisoners — who since the violent repression in San Salvador Atenco on May 3 and 4, 2006, had faced uncertainty, fear, and indignation — celebrated the news. “You see, don Paco,” said the father of another young prisoner from the town of Texcoco, “the kids will soon be free, we just need to stick it out a little longer.” “We’ll celebrate back in our town,” answered don Paco.

But some days later, on August 21 this year, they heard the terrible news: their son, like all other political prisoners held at Molino de Flores, were sentenced to 31 years and 10 months in prison, accused of kidnapping, while Ignacio del Valle was given an additional 45 years, on top of the 67 which he had already been sentenced to.

When doña Francisca learned of the decision, she fell ill. At 63 years of age, both she and her husband suffer from diabetes, an illness which has worsened in these two hears of anguish. “My children didn’t want me to go to the prison because they were afraid for my health, but I went anyway. I was a bit calmer, but when I got there I felt like I was no longer myself. I felt very ill. The next day I went to the hospital and the doctor told me I had to calm down, or I would have to be hospitalized. But how? He’s 30 years old. In another 30, he will be 60. How can they do that to him? And with such young children… the girl is eight years old, the boy is about three.”
As most of the prisoners sentenced, their son did not participate in the confrontations on May 3 and was not even a member of the Peoples’ Front in the Defense of the Land (FPDT), the organization that in 2006 was defending the flower vendors of Texcoco from being evicted from their place of work.

In the municipal auditorium of San Salvador Atenco, on one side of the central plaza, a small group of relatives of political prisoners recount what they have lived through these past two years and their indignation with the sentences of August 21, while the preparations continue for the Independence day celebration, on September 15, 2008, organized by the FPDF. Doña Francisca continues:

“The day they captured him he was going to see a relative that was very sick. They stopped him on the highway. They beat him, they injured his head, his face. We have a picture where the police are beating him, and one officer has a piece of concrete block with which he’s hitting him on the head. I didn’t know anything because that day he’d been at home. We were having breakfast, eating pozole, which is his favorite dish, and he told me that he would pick up the girl and he would come back to eat some. When the troops started coming into the town, we locked ourselves up. At around 3 pm my sons knew they had arrested him, but they didn’t tell me because they were afraid for my health. But then I saw him in the news, and that’s how I found out.”

Something similar happened with Julio César Espinoza Ramos, son of Maribel Ramos Rojas. At the time Julio was 18 and he hadn’t even heard about the FDPT. He liked to play soccer, worked in sales at the town of San Pablito Chiconcuac, and helped his grandmother take care of the cattle. On May 3, 2006, Julio César was riding his scooter on the highway that goes by San Salvador Atenco. Near the gas station of Tocuila he was detained at a police blockade. There he was brutally beaten, and then taken to the police station, before being transferred to the high-security prison of Santiaguito, in Almoloya, in the state of Toluca.

Julio César doesn’t understand why all of this is happening to him. Why was he sentenced to so many years in prison, if he didn’t do anything? And why such a heavy sentence, while the true kidnappers, those who maim people, those who murder and rape, are free? “He had so many dreams,” says his mother, “and now those dreams are truncated, locked up behind those prison walls.”

Juan de Dios Hernández, the FDPT lawyer who defends Atenco’s political prisoners, argues that the sentence was made without convincing proof, through legal proceedings full of irregularities and contradictions. One of the relatives even claims that, when he questioned the judge about the harshness of the sentences, he answered that he didn’t have full control over it and that the decision had come from above.

The political motives behind the sentences are evident in the fact that they were announced the same day that a highly publicized meeting of the National Council on Public Security was being held at the National Palace. In this meeting one of the topics that most concerns Mexican society was discussed: the insecurity that is currently lived in the country. There, a National Security Agreement was drafted, through which police and judicial institutions will be strengthened, with a focus on fighting kidnapping, money laundering, and organized crime. Among other legal reforms is a proposal for a general law on kidnapping. The sentences against Atenco’s political prisoners, precisely for kidnapping, should be read by Mexican society as a sign of alarm, since they criminalize dissidence and the defense of basic rights, equating political activism to organized crime. “We’re indignant,” says Trinidad Ramírez Velázquez, wife of Ignacio del Valle. “How dare they compare someone who defends the land and his rights to someone who kidnaps, murders, mutilates, rapes, and so on.” One of President Felipe Calderon’s proposals is to apply life in prison to convicted kidnappers. The sentence of 112 years to Ignacio del Valle is nothing less than life in prison.

It’s important to note that, regarding insecurity, the wave of kidnappings that are increasingly the topic of front-page headlines, and the drug-related violence that plagues the country, state corruption and impunity are two of the main contributors. Practically all known kidnapper gangs have members who are agents or former agents of precisely the same police forces which are in theory in charge of combating them.

At the same time, while political prisoners are given these absurd sentences, those responsible for the blatant human rights violations committed in San Salvador Atenco enjoy complete impunity. The events of May 3 and 4, 2006, represent one of the darkest moments of state repression and violence in the history of modern Mexico: murders, mass sexual aggressions against women and men, breaking and entering without a warrant, destruction of property, beatings, torture, humiliations. The savagery committed in Atenco were not just the uncontrolled actions of unprepared police forces, but rather a premeditated act of state violence designed to provoke terror in the population and to set a precedent that serves as an example to other social movements. The sentences of August 21 are just one more ingredient of these politics of terror.

It is hard to describe the pain of the families. “I’m a single mother,” says Maribel Rojas. “My son is all I have, and I’m all he has. This has affected me a lot at work because I’ve had to miss many times and I’m afraid to lose my job, but I can’t leave him alone. It’s also affected my health because I have diabetes and I’ve been hospitalized many times. And of course, it’s been very hard economically. I have to take him food, there are many expenses, and if I don’t work, how am I going to get the money, especially being alone? It hurts me a lot seeing him there. The day he called after the sentence, he seemed strong because he didn’t want to hurt me. But when I went to see him, he seemed an entirely different person, he was entirely broken.”

Doña Francisca can’t hold back her tears when she speaks of her son. “I feel very bad when I can’t go see him, but it hurts me a lot when I go to the prison. Since he was in Toluca, I used to go see him. But I feel terrible when I see my son like that. That’s why he tells me, ‘Don’t come, mother, because I get very sad when I see you cry.’ And we both cry together. But God willing I’ll be able to go see him and I’ll be calm and I won’t cry.”

For don Paco, his son’s imprisonment has also been devastating. He is a farmer, he plants corn in Atenco. “These two years have been very difficult. There are times I can’t go see him, because I have to work. There’s no money. We have to take money and food to him, and we make every effort to do it. And we spend 500 or 600 pesos in just one day. Imagine that, and we have no money. So we go crazy trying to find a solution, because I can’t work like I should.” Doña Francisca explains: don Paco is also diabetic and he often falls ill for one or two weeks at a time.

For Trinidad Ramírez, these two years have been a veritable ordeal. Her son César was in jail for almost two years. Her daughter América is in hiding. And her husband Ignacio faces a sentence of 112 years in prison. Nonetheless, she seems strong, firm, decided. “I think about them,” she explains. “I think of Ignacio in jail, always so optimistic. I’m afraid of falling into a depression and not being able to get up to continue fighting. But love can do so many things.” She says that, despite the sentence, Ignacio holds his head up. “He is very secure in his beliefs, in his ideals, in his cause. That’s why when I say that Ignacio is doing well, it’s not because he is well being there, because the conditions in prison are very tough, but because he believes in his ideals.”

But the repression and especially the sentences, which were intended to provoke fear and to silence people, had another effect. Maribel Ramos knew nothing about the FPDT, she had never participated in any struggle, she had never expressed indignation against the injustices she sees.

“My vision has changed a lot,” she says, “because we used to be very shy about expressing what’s happening in our country, the repression we suffer. Because what the government is doing is repression. They want to use us as an example and tell people: if you rebel, this is what can happen to you, you can have the same fate as these people. But instead of intimidating me, that has made me stronger, and I think it’s really important for me to express my indignation as a mother, to defend my son, because he’s completely innocent, and to denounce all this injustice we’re living. It’s time to raise our voices. If they said, ‘You better be quiet,’ well, I don’t think so. We have to face them and denounce everything that’s happening.”

Doña Francisca and don Paco, like other relatives of political prisoners who had never participated in any struggle, have also approached the FPDT, joining forces to struggle together for their son’s freedom.

For Trinidad Ramírez, “all bad things have a good side.” The sentences reawakened indignation and gave a new impulse to the struggle, in Mexico and around the world. This September 15, the FPDT organized an Independence Day event in the main plaza of San Salvador Atenco, and on September 23 a march is planned from the Angel to Los Pinos in Mexico City. At the same time, the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) announced that the encampment in front of the Molino de Flores prison would be reinforced and that it would be transformed into a space of encounter for the Other Campaign. The EZLN also called for a renewal of the national and international campaign for the freedom of political prisoners.

For many people, demanding the release of Atenco’s political prisoners is an urgent necessity, because what is at stake, besides the lives of innocent people, is the right to resistance and the defense of basic rights. It is, in sum, a struggle for justice, democracy, and freedom in Mexico.

Los presos políticos de Atenco: la persistencia de la resistencia

por Alejandro Reyes – Radio Zapatista

Cuando a los padres de Oscar Hernández Pacheco les dijeron que su hijo estaría libre a finales de agosto o inicio de septiembre, no cabían de felicidad. En el penal de Molino de Flores, don Paco y otros parientes de presos políticos que, desde la violenta represión policial en San Salvador Atenco el 3 y 4 de mayo de 2006, enfrentaban la incertidumbre, el miedo y la indignación, ese día celebraban la noticia. “Ya ve, don Paco,” decía el padre de otro joven preso, procedente del poblado de Texcoco, “los muchachos ya pronto van a estar libres, nomás hay que echarle un poquito más de ganas”. “Pues se las festejamos allá en el pueblo”, contestó don Paco.

Pero días después, el 21 de agosto de este año, les dieron la nefanda noticia: su hijo, como los demás presos políticos recluidos en el penal de Molino de Flores, fueron sentenciados a 31 años y 10 meses de prisión bajo la acusación de secuestro equiparado, mientras a Ignacio del Valle le añadían 45 años a los 67 a los que ya había sido previamente condenado.

Cuando doña Francisca supo de la sentencia, estuvo a punto de ser hospitalizada. A los 63 años, tanto ella como su marido sufren de diabetes, condición que se ha agravado durante estos dos años de sufrimiento. “Mis hijos no querían que fuera al penal porque tenían miedo de que me pusiera mal, pero yo fui de todos modos. Estaba más tranquila, pero cuando llegué, sentí que yo ya no era yo. Me sentí muy mal. Al otro día fui al seguro y la doctora me dijo que me tenía que tranquilizar, porque si no me iban a tener que internar. ¿Pero cómo? Él tiene 30 años. Con otros 30, va a tener 60. ¿Cómo es posible que le hagan eso? Y sus hijos tan chiquitos… la niña tiene ocho años, el niño unos tres.”

Como la mayoría de los presos sentenciados, su hijo no participó en los enfrentamientos del 3 de mayo y no formaba siquiera parte del Frente de los Pueblos en Defensa de la Tierra (FPDT), organización que, en 2006, defendía a los floricultores de Texcoco de ser desalojados de su local de trabajo.

En el auditorio municipal de San Salvador Atenco, a un lado de la plaza central, un pequeño grupo de familiares de los presos políticos relatan lo que han vivido estos dos últimos años y su indignación con las sentencias del 21 de agosto, mientras continúan los preparativos para la celebración del día de la Independencia, el 15 de septiembre de 2008, organizada por el FPDT. Continúa doña Francisca:

“El día que lo agarraron él iba a ver a un familiar que estaba muy enfermo. Lo detuvieron en la carretera. Le pegaron, le abrieron la cabeza, la cara. Tenemos una foto donde lo están golpeando, y un policía tiene una mitad de tabicón para pegarle en la cabeza. Yo no sabía, porque ese día él pasó a la casa. Estábamos desayunando pozole, su platillo favorito, y me dijo que iba a recoger a la niña y que más tarde regresaba para echarse un taco. Cuando empezaron a entrar los granaderos, nos encerramos. Como a las tres de la tarde mis hijos ya sabían que lo habían agarrado, pero no me dijeron para que no me pusiera mal. Pero entonces lo vi en las noticias, y fue así que me enteré.”

Algo similar sucedió con Julio César Espinoza Ramos, hijo de Maribel Ramos Rojas. En la época Julio César tenía 18 años y no había siquiera oído hablar del FDPT. Jugaba futbol, se dedicaba al comercio en el poblado de San Pablito Chiconcuac y le ayudaba a su abuela a cuidar el ganado. El 3 de mayo de 2006, Julio César conducía su motoneta por la carretera que pasa al lado de San Salvador Atenco. A la altura de la gasolinera de Tocuila, fue detenido en un retén de la policía federal. Ahí lo golpearon salvajemente, antes de trasladarlo a la procuraduría y, acto seguido, al penal de Santiaguito en Almoloya, Toluca.

Julio César no logra entender por qué le ha sucedido todo esto. ¿Por qué lo condenan a tantos años de cárcel, si él no hizo nada? ¿Por qué esa sentencia, mientras los verdaderos secuestradores, los que mutilan, matan, violan, están en la calle? “Él tenía tantas ilusiones”, dice su madre, “y ahora sus ilusiones se ven truncadas y todos esos sueños se quedan detrás de esos muros de la prisión.”

Juan de Dios Hernández, el abogado del FDPT que defiende la causa de los presos políticos, afirma que la sentencia se hizo sin que existieran pruebas plenas de responsabilidad de los acusados, en un proceso lleno de irregularidades y contradicciones. Inclusive, uno de los familiares atestigua que, al cuestionar al juez sobre la dureza de las sentencias, éste le respondió que él no tenía pleno mando y que la decisión venía de más arriba.

La motivación política de estas sentencias queda evidente en el hecho de que éstas fueron emitidas el mismo día en que se celebraba la muy divulgada reunión del Consejo Nacional de Seguridad Pública en el Palacio Nacional, en la que se discutió uno de los temas que más preocupan actualmente a la sociedad: la inseguridad que se vive en el país. Ahí se llegó al Acuerdo Nacional de Seguridad, mediante el cual se fortalecerán las instituciones policiales y de procuración de justicia, enfocándose en el secuestro, lavado de dinero y crimen organizado. Entre otras reformas legales, está la propuesta de una ley general del secuestro. Las sentencias contra los presos políticos de Atenco, justamente por el supuesto delito de secuestro, deben ser leídas como una señal de alarma para la sociedad mexicana pues criminalizan la disidencia y la defensa de los derechos, equiparando el activismo político al crimen organizado. “Estamos indignados”, dice Trinidad Ramírez Velázquez, esposa de Ignacio del Valle. “Cómo es posible que se atrevan a comparar a alguien que defiende la tierra y sus derechos con alguien que secuestra, asesina, mutila, viola y demás.” Una de las propuestas de Felipe Calderón ha sido aplicar la pena de cadena perpetua a los secuestradores. La pena de 112 años para Ignacio del Valle equivale, efectivamente, a cadena perpetua.

Cabe resaltar que, con relación a la inseguridad, a la ola de secuestros que cada vez más son tema de primera plana y a la narcoviolencia que asola el país, la corrupción y la impunidad son dos de los principales responsables. En prácticamente todas las bandas de secuestradores conocidas están involucrados agentes o ex agentes justamente de las fuerzas de seguridad pública que en teoría serían responsables por combatirlas.

Al mismo tiempo, mientras los presos políticos son sentenciados con penas absurdas, los responsables por las gritantes violaciones de derechos humanos cometidas en San Salvador Atenco han gozado de completa impunidad. Los acontecimientos del 3 y 4 de mayo de 2006 representan uno de los momentos más oscuros de represión y violencia estatal en la historia del México moderno: homicidios, agresiones sexuales multitudinarias a mujeres y hombres, allanamiento de moradas, destrucción de propiedad, golpizas, torturas, humillaciones. La barbarie cometida en Atenco no se trató de la actuación descontrolada de fuerzas policiales mal preparadas, sino de una violencia de estado premeditada para infundir el terror en la población y sentar un precedente que sirviera de ejemplo para otros movimientos sociales. Las condenas del 21 de agosto son un ingrediente más de esta política de terror.

Es difícil describir el sufrimiento de las familias. “Soy madre soltera”, dice Maribel Rojas. “Él es todo lo que tengo y yo soy todo lo que él tiene. Me ha afectado mucho en el trabajo porque he tenido muchas ausencias y me puede costar el empleo, pero no puedo dejarlo solo. También me ha afectado en mi salud porque soy diabética y he estado hospitalizada muchas veces. Y desde luego económicamente, me ha sido muy difícil. Hay que llevarle alimentos, hay muchos gastos, y si no trabajamos, no hay de dónde, sobre todo siendo una persona sola. A mí me duele muchísimo verlo allá. El día que me habló por teléfono después de la sentencia, parecía ser muy fuerte para que yo no me cayera. Pero el día que lo visité era otra persona, totalmente quebrantada.”

Doña Francisca no puede controlar las lágrimas cuando habla de su hijo. “Me siento muy mal cuando no puedo ir a verlo, pero a mí me hace mucho daño ir al penal. Desde que estaba en Toluca, lo iba a ver. Y me siento mal cuando veo a mi hijo así. Por eso él me dice: No vengas, mamá, porque me pongo muy triste cuando te veo llorar. Y lloramos los dos. Pero Dios quiera lo voy a ir a ver y me voy a tranquilizar y no voy a llorar.”

Para don Paco la prisión de su hijo también ha sido devastadora. Él es campesino, planta maíz allá mismo, en Atenco. “Estos dos años han sido muy pesados. En este tiempo hay veces que no puedo verlo, porque tengo que trabajar. No hay dinero. Se le tiene que dejar dinero, comida, y hacemos el esfuerzo para ir y llevarle su encargo. Y ahí son 500, 600 pesos que se gastan nomás en un día. Imagínese, y luego sin dinero. Y nosotros nos estamos tronando los dedos porque yo no puedo trabajo así, en forma.” Doña Francisca explica: don Paco también está enfermo, frecuentemente cae en cama y pasa una o dos semanas sin poder trabajar.

Para Trinidad Ramírez, estos dos años han sido un verdadero calvario. Su hijo César estuvo preso casi dos años. Su hija América se encuentra prófuga. Y su marido Ignacio enfrenta una pena de 112 años en el penal de máxima seguridad de Almoloya. Sin embargo, se le ve fuerte, firme, decidida. “Pienso en ellos”, explica. “En Nacho en la cárcel, siempre tan positivo. Tengo miedo de deprimirme, de caerme y no poderme levantar para seguir luchando. El amor puede tantas cosas.” Cuenta que, a pesar de la sentencia, Ignacio está en pie. “Tiene mucha seguridad en lo que cree, en sus ideales, en su lucha. Por eso cuando digo que Nacho está bien no es que esté bien allá, porque las condiciones en el penal son muy duras, sino porque cree en sus ideales.”

Pero la represión y sobre todo las sentencias, cuya intención es amedrentar y silenciar, tuvieron también otro efecto. Maribel Ramos no sabía del Frente de los Pueblos en Defensa de la Tierra, nunca había participado en ninguna lucha, nunca había expresado su indignación ante las injusticias que percibe.

“Mi visión ha cambiado mucho”, dice Maribel, “porque antes éramos personas tímidas al expresar lo que está pasando en el país, la represión que sufrimos. Porque es realmente una represión lo que está haciendo el gobierno. Quieren ponernos como un ejemplo y decirle a la gente: si ustedes se rebelan, vean lo que les puede pasar, pueden correr la misma suerte que estas personas. Pero esto, en lugar de intimidarme, me ha hecho más fuerte y creo que es importante expresar mi indignación como madre, defender a mi hijo, porque es una persona totalmente inocente, y denunciar toda la injusticia que estamos viviendo. Es hora de levantar la voz. Si dijeron, ‘Se van a estar quietos’, pues creo que no. No. Tenemos que hacer frente y denunciar y decir lo que está pasando.”

Doña Francisca y don Paco, como otros parientes de presos políticos que nunca habían participado en alguna lucha, también se han acercado al FPDT, uniendo fuerzas para, juntos, exigir su liberación.

Para Trinidad Ramírez, “no hay mal que por bien no venga”. Las sentencias despertaron la indignación y dieron un nuevo impulso a la lucha por la liberación de los presos políticos de Atenco, en México y en el mundo. Este 15 de septiembre, el FPDT organizó en la explanada de San Salvador Atenco un “Grito por la libertad”, y para el 23 de septiembre está planeada una marcha del Ángel a Los Pinos en la ciudad de México. Al mismo tiempo, el Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional anunció que se reforzaría el plantón frente al penal de Molino de Flores, convirtiéndolo en un espacio de encuentro de la Otra Campaña, y convocó a la renovación de la campaña nacional e internacional por la liberación de los presos políticos.

Hay, para muchos, una conciencia de que exigir la liberación de los presos de Atenco es una necesidad urgente porque lo que está en juego, además de las vidas de hombres inocentes, es el derecho a la resistencia y a la defensa de los derechos fundamentales. Es, en suma, una lucha por un México con justicia, democracia y libertad.