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The border and its wall

‘The U.S. - Mexican border es una herida abierta where the Third World grates against the first and bleeds. And before a scab forms, it hemorrhages again, the lifeblood of two worlds merging to form a third country — a border culture.’ — Gloria Anzaldúa, Borderlands/La Frontera

Ambos Nogales (both Nogales) refers to the southern border towns of Nogales, Arizona and Nogales, Mexico. Once a binational border region characterized by frequent movement back and forth, the two towns are now starkly divided by the steel monstrosity that is The Border Wall. Ambos Nogales also happens to be the place where I had my first encounter with this notorious North American landmark.

Hailing from Minnesota, the Southwest is in and of itself a somewhat foreign concept to me: rugged mountains protruding from barren landscape, scorched earth miles and miles from the nearest lake or river, plants that flourish despite intense thirst. As my boyfriend and I drove south from Tucson, I found myself lost in the captivating scenery, with no sense of place or time. I am loathe to admit that I’m not much of a geographer, but arriving in Ambos Nogales really threw me for a loop: I could not fathom that I was at the southern border. The border between the United States and Mexico. The infamous border that has been the topic of so much conversation and frustration and misunderstanding and pain. This was it — the place I had always heard of but could never conceptualize. The place I had always envisioned but was not ready to see. Prior to my current position, I had worked with immigrant communities hailing predominantly from Central America, had heard briefly their stories of travel and migration. Most shared their reasons for heading north but kept quiet about the particularities of crossing the border. A few folks spoke about hiring a coyote or guide to help them along the perilous journey, but, again, evaded details about the act of crossing. The border was a mystery to me then, a very real but seemingly esoteric physical space between what is there and what is here.

The violence that is the border really began to materialize for me once I started working with detained immigrants. In part, this is due to the nature of my work: I have the privilege of listening to peoples’ stories on a regular basis with the mutual understanding that I will keep any information shared with me confidential. I am therefore privy to intimate details about many, many aspects of their lives. One of the principal facets of screening someone for eligibility for counsel with his or her immigration case is a detailed discussion of migration history, and specifically of entries and exits to and from the United States. As I listened to more and more stories, I started noticing patterns and trends amongst those who crossed the southern border: most migrated from Mexico, followed by Guatemala and El Salvador, then Honduras; many came alone to join family or to send support back to family that remained, while some journeyed with siblings or parents or friends; some paid coyotes or guides to accompany them throughout the journey, others had support at certain points along the way, and many traveled without any guidance; some were apprehended by immigration officials at the border, and of those some were sent right back from whence they came, while others were arrested and detained or held within four walls for days before release on orders of supervision; others evaded detection at the border altogether and entered without inspection, forging their paths in the United States best they knew how in a country where the citizens demanded their labor but were not sure if they belonged. Despite the variations in their migration stories, these individuals had all undergone one pivotal experience: crossing the southern border between Mexico and the United States. And the outcome of that singular shared experience set the course for each and every one of their lives.

Needless to say, I was somewhat overwhelmed as I approached the imposing steel structure that I had heard mentioned so frequently, that towering symbol of division where “enforcement priorities” take precedence over basic human rights. Ian (my boyfriend) was eager to tell me facts about the wall’s history, to highlight landmarks and points of interest, to experience the border with me. But as I stood peeking through the 4-inch spaces between the steel posts that comprise the wall at Nogales, Mexico — the other Nogales, the othered Nogales — I fell silent. I had no words to say, and I could not receive any. I felt strange standing mere feet away from people going about their daily lives as I peered into their world from higher up on a small precipice that gives way to Mexico, from behind a hideous structure my government had built specifically to keep them out. I felt ugliness and cold standing there, division and sadness. The houses behind me looked no different than the houses I was looking at on the other side. The loud cries of hungry dogs resounded just as loudly in Nogales, Mexico as in Nogales, Arizona. I pressed my face against the steel, putting all my weight against its unmoving mass. Its existence felt foolish, embarrassing even. As Ian explained, The Border Wall is policy. Nothing more, nothing less — just policy. An enormous, ugly policy. And the Border Patrol agent that drove frantically over to us as we stood peacefully at the wall was simply a manifestation of that policy and its ubiquitous presence in this space.

We returned to Ambos Nogales the next day so Ian could teach me more about The Border Wall. A different Border Patrol agent was parked in the same place along the wall, waiting for something that most likely wouldn’t come. We walked along the rusting steel while Ian taught me about underground tunnel systems for transporting extrajudicial goods across the border, bi-national community gatherings in solidarity at the wall, and the historical use of metal runways from the Vietnam war for its construction. Once that part of the tour concluded, we hopped in the car and drove along a winding road that twisted its way up into a vibrant neighborhood with houses built into the contours of the terrain. At the end of the paved road, we turned onto a dusty dirt road that felt like some place we shouldn’t go. It paralleled the wall for miles and miles, and the only vehicles in sight were Border Patrol cars parked at regular intervals along the way. We drove for quite a time, rising and falling with the rolling landscape. Ian pointed out low points in the wall at which gates had been built to release debris accumulated during periods of heavy rainfall. Floodlights were haphazardly placed at intermittent points along the way, another eyesore in what was otherwise a gorgeous valley of trees and shrubs and gold and green.��

The Border Wall, which had been so imposing and obstructive between the two inhabited towns of Nogales, Arizona and Nogales, Mexico, suddenly seemed an entirely unnecessary thing. Not that it was necessary anywhere, but out there in that wide open, tranquil setting, it seemed especially ridiculous. In town, it was obvious what the wall meant to keep out: human beings. Out there, in the silence of rolling hills and gentle winds, the wall’s futility was highlighted. As I stood looking over at Mexico from atop a high point on an Arizona hill, I was even able to ignore the wall’s presence for moments at a time: in several places, the steel structure dipped below sight line between two parallel apices flagging the border.

The wall’s architecture prevented it from conforming aesthetically and harmonically to the landscape that is served to divide. Perhaps this was intentional, an obvious reminder of its presence. Regardless, I couldn’t help but pity the hideous thing — the rigid steel palings stood erect in direct opposition to the gentle fluidity of the terrain. A blemish on what would otherwise be a perfectly beautiful and bucolic setting. 

Our “border tour” ended with an event that sums up and exemplifies well the utter foolishness of the thing. Let me preface what happened by explaining that, in my rushed panic to make my flight out of Atlanta on time, I had forgotten my passport in my car. Naturally, I assumed this meant that crossing over to Mexico and returning without issue to the United States was an impossibility. However, Ian and I decided to give it a go. I had my driver’s license on me, so we went to the sanctioned Customs and Border Protection (CBP) crossing in Ambos Nogales and asked the first CBP agent we saw about the possibility of crossing sans passport. I was ready for a swift and stern “no.” However, the agent, who happened to be one of the friendlier and most reasonable people I’ve spoken with, told me that, with the driver’s license, re-entry shouldn’t be an issue. I was surprised, to say the least, and we followed the signs pointing to Mexico in red type. 

We spent a few hours wandering around the highly trafficked pedestrian zoo that is the Nogales, Mexico border crossing zone. As we waited in the long line to return to the United States later that afternoon, I thought about what it would feel like to be in that same line without the guarantee of entry. I found myself feeling nervous about potentially encountering an issue — perhaps the agent that processed me for re-entry would take a different stance than the friendly agent with whom I’d spoken earlier — but I couldn’t fathom the terror I’d feel if I had made a long and arduous journey to this place with absolutely no way to predict the outcome of my attempted crossing. 

There were many folks in line with us, some hauling luggage, others shopping bags, and others nothing. Some people had children and partners with them, others stood alone. Some waited patiently in the line, chatting and laughing, and others shifted weight nervously in anticipatory silence. Some people did not wait at all, passing the line altogether and presenting themselves in an urgent way at the iron revolving gate that stands between Mexico and the United States. It was overwhelming to think about the many different emotions and circumstances that co-existed in this border space: fear, excitement, privilege, disadvantage, loss, gain, separation, reunion. As I moved into the CBP office and approached the desk, I was relieved to see the same agent that had advised me before entering Mexico. She greeted me with a smile, glanced quickly at my license, and nonchalantly permitted me entry into the United States. It was so easy for me. So unbelievably easy to move from Mexico to the United States, to exist in that border space, to “pass” — for me. But this exact same scenario plays out for so many hundreds of thousands of people in such drastically different and life-altering ways all the time. Or, what’s more, people do any and everything in their power to avoid this line and attempting entry at a CBP station. All too often, such evasion comes at extremely high costs, including trafficking, family separation, theft, and even death. 

As we walked back to the rental car parked only feet from The Border Wall, I wondered why we all couldn’t be welcomed to the United States by a friendly, smiling agent who assured us entry with ease. I wondered why we thought a steel barrier made us safer, and I wondered why we were taught to feel unsafe at all. Why a divisive structure instead of a welcoming walkway? I wondered if The Border Wall had truly been erected in response to a perceived threat, or if its construction had subsequently fomented fear, danger and violence. Maybe the mere existence of The Border Wall itself was the true enemy. As I left Nogales, Mexico and crossed into Nogales, Arizona, I just wondered.

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A day in the life

It had been a great week: We had our first round of volunteer attorneys from Foley Hoag LLP on the ground with us in Ocilla, and we were in the detention center for hours and hours each day conducting screening interviews with detained people, following up with clients, and building our access case. 

Late Wednesday afternoon, a colleague based in Atlanta asked my team and I to visit Adolfo, a detained immigrant at the detention center. His email suggested that this was a time-sensitive and urgent visit due to the possibility of imminent deportation. The email also mentioned that his wife has a brain tumor and that Adolfo is her sole care provider, so, in addition to the emotional devastation her husband’s deportation would cause her, she would be unable to undergo necessary medical surgery in Adolfo’s absence. 

Areta, one of the four incredible attorneys volunteering with us this week, went immiediately to the detention center to meet with Adolfo. Areta conducted a brief interview with him to fact gather and build his case file while I interpreted. Adolfo had been arrested for driving without a license. After spending time in county jail, he was picked up on an Immigration and Customs Enforcement hold to be brought to this detention facility some five hours from his ailing wife and home. 

What struck me most about that meeting with Adolfo was not the thick pane of glass purposefully separating him from Areta and I; it was not the irritating and distracting fuzzy sound on the phone that I used to speak with him; it was not the stark contrast between the lackadaisical behavior of the staff and the desperation experienced by the persons detained at the facility. What struck me most about that meeting with Adolfo was Adolfo -- his gentleness in a harsh environment, his smile in sadness, his kindness and honesty with complete strangers. As we gathered up our things to head back to the office to process Adolfo’s case, he put his hand up to the glass. Areta and I put our hands up to his, and, for a brief moment of joy and beauty in a cold and isolating environment, we felt an unbreakable connection. 

It just so happened that the ICE field officer was at the detention center as we were on our way out, and Areta was able to speak with her regarding Adolfo’s situation. The officer didn’t give us much information, but did confirm that ‘all the boxes were checked’ and Adolfo was ‘ready to go.’ We asked if that meant tonight, and the officer responded that it most likely wouldn’t be tonight, but in the next few days. Areta explained that Adolfo’s wife suffered from brain cancer and asked if ICE would please consider this as they moved forward with Adolfo’s situation. 

Areta and I ran back to the office and handed off our interview to my lead attorney, Elizabeth. She explained that we were going to file a stay of removal. Our comrades in Atlanta agreed to file the stay the next day, and I left the office around 7:00 pm feeling energized, hopeful, and ready to wake up early to prepare the documents for the request. 

I arrived at the office the following morning at approximately 7:30 am, and I noticed that one of the forms for the stay required Adolfo’s signature. Luckily, we are right down the street from the detention center (that’s intentional), so I ran over to meet with him. When I asked the front desk attendant to please send Adolfo to the visitation room to sign a document, she looked him up in the system and responded casually, ‘Adolfo? He’s gone.’ My heart skipped a beat. ‘Gone?’ I asked. ‘You mean, he’s not here?’ She looked at me with an irritated look and said, ‘Says here he’s gone. You can’t see him.’ I couldn’t process. I asked once more if that meant that he was not in the facility, and I was given the same answer. 

I walked out of the detention center in shock. Overcome by emotion, I leaned against my car and wept. I cried harder than I anticipated, heavy, convulsing sobs. I felt helpless, ineffective, frustrated, beaten down by a system that systematically deports people in the blink of an eye, ignoring their stories in order to comply with inhumane policies as efficiently and swiftly as possible. Fourteen hours earlier I had been conversing with Adolfo, smiling with him, holding my hand up to his -- now he was gone, whisked away to be flown back to Mexico. I thought about Adolfo, subject to the will of a hostile system, fearing for his wife’s well-being and unable to do anything with immediacy for her. I thought about Adolfo’s wife, and how scared and concerned she must be. I thought about how I would feel if my life partner were taken from me and deported to a country I didn’t know, that he or she didn’t know. 

I returned to the office and reported the news to my team. Though it was a somber moment, Elizabeth had the wherewithal to go forward with filing the stay request -- at this point, we had nothing to lose. She explained that we could still submit without Adolfo’s signature, and we sent the completed documents along to Atlanta, where our incredible comrade Laura filed the stay with the local ICE office. 

We kept ourselves busy at the office with screening interviews and follow-up visits all throughout the morning and early afternoon. Our volunteer attorneys were enthusiastic about the work to be done despite the difficult start to the day, and I was almost able to take my mind off Adolfo for portions of the day. At one point, Elizabeth received a phone call from the Assistant Field Office Director for ICE to inform us that the stay of removal had been received and was under review. This did little to quell my sadness for Adolfo, however: As far as I knew, he was on a plane back to Mexico, whether ICE was reviewing his stay or not. 

The afternoon passed quickly, and we had come to the end of week wrap-up with the volunteers. Everyone was gathered in our central office space when Elizabeth got a phone call. The office fell silent as we all tried to overhear the conversation and glean any insight we possibly could as to who she was speaking with and about what. I was standing in her doorway, waiting. Waiting. Elizabeth hung up the phone and swiveled around in her chair. She had a smile on her face. 

‘That was Adolfo’s wife on the phone... Adolfo was PULLED OFF THE PLANE!’ she exclaimed.  

Everyone screamed and began cheering. A wave of utter elation swept over the office, and I felt tears of joy welling up in my eyes. Adolfo had been taken off the deportation flight to Mexico and was brought back to the detention center. All because of communication between our offices; because of our proximity to this isolated, rural detention center and our subsequent ability to quickly meet with detained persons; because of decisions that were made and efforts that were dedicated. Because Adolfo should not be deported. Because Adolfo should not be flown back to Mexico against his will. Because Adolfo should not be away from his wife. 

Areta and I ran over to the detention center to meet with Adolfo and check in with him. He was smiling but confused. As I expected, no one had explained to him why he had been pulled off the plane, why he was back at the detention center after being rounded up at 4 am that same day and driven to the airport. We explained that we had filed a stay of removal, and, though we couldn’t promise anything, that the request was under review and that we planned to supplement it. We told him we would be back in touch as soon as we knew anything. As we left our meeting that day, Adolfo thanked us profusely with his gorgeous smile, and, once again, we raised our hands to the glass in solidarity with our brave friend. 

The stay of removal for Adolfo is still under final review, and we are diligently working to supplement it and make it as compelling as possible. 

If you or anyone you know are interested in joining this fight, please sign up to volunteer with us. We are actively seeking interpreters and attorneys! More information and to sign up can be found here: https://www.splcenter.org/our-issues/immigrant-justice/southeast-immigrant-freedom-initiative

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Every “dog” has his day in Lumpkin

Removal of shoes and blazer, presentation of valid identification, passage through a security checkpoint — these were amongst the various standard protocol I had anticipated upon arrival to the Stewart Detention Center (SDC) in Lumpkin, Georgia. Though it was my first official visit to this infamously horrific place, I thought I had watched my fair share of Law & Order and true crime documentaries to have a vague notion of what such a place may look like on the inside and to be prepared to observe the obsequious behavior required of visitors. Needless to say, I was wildly underprepared for what I experienced that  Tuesday morning. 

I had gone to witness a custody re-determination hearing (during which the judge either grants or denies release on bond), filed on behalf of a detained client who was being defended by two volunteer attorneys for the Southeast Immigrant Freedom Initiative (SIFI) where I work as project coordinator at the Ocilla, Georgia site. A part of my desire to attend a historically dry and tedious procedure like a bond hearing was to offer support to the attorneys who had just arrived the previous night in Lumpkin from San Francisco (talk about culture shock) and to quench my curiosity about the state of, well, things at the notorious detention center.  

Prior to this court visit, everything I knew about SDC had been acquired viva voce: Bleak, destitute, and desolate were just a few of many adjectives I’d heard used to describe the geographically isolated detention facility that has been flagged for closure due to mismanagement and corruption but remains very much open. A privately managed, for-profit detention center, Stewart was cited as one of — if not the — largest and busiest of its kind in the country, with capacity to hold over 1,700 detained persons. It was for the aforementioned reasons that SDC was selected as the launching site for SIFI. Large swaths of human beings in removal proceedings move in and out of the center without adequate access to legal representation and subjected to various violations of due process rights. SDC has a reputation as a deportation pipeline, with the vast majority of detainees denied bond and/or parole only to face long, drawn-out detentions until they are scheduled for deportation. It is not a hopeful place. 

Percentage of detainees deported at Stewart Detention Center and Irwin County Detention (in Ocilla, GA) as compared with national averages 

The particular court session I attended included three different bond hearings for three different detainees. As I settled into the uncomfortable wooden pew at the back of the tiny court room, I felt hopeful — maybe these incredibly talented attorneys with ample experience in removal defense and pro bono litigation in the San Francisco jurisdiction could convince the presiding judge who was infamous for quickly and emotionlessly denying bond requests to release our client on bail. Maybe her denial rates were so egregiously high because most attorneys didn’t show up in person to represent their clients and, today, with not only one but two bodies present in the courtroom, she would be moved and persuaded to grant the request. Maybe she hadn’t previously been able to separate detained individuals’ quality of character from their circumstance, and our excellent attorneys would enable her to see them in a more humane light and adjudicate accordingly. How naive I was. It didn’t take long for me to realize what we were up against, what all these detained individuals were up against. 

The first observation I made upon entering the court room was its physical arrangement: A wooden gate clearly divided the space allocated to the presiding judge seated at her bench and the government attorneys (note use of the plural here, it will be relevant shortly) seated at a wooden table from the rigid pews offered to removal defense attorneys and detainees. It felt to me as though the room was structurally designed in favor of those presenting accusations against the detained — the government appointed attorneys —whose mere proximity to the immigration judge (IJ) suggested preference. 

As our group of six wimmin clad in blazers, pencil skirts, and heels descended upon the small courtroom, it was obvious that the three detained men dressed in orange and blue prison scrubs with hearings scheduled that morning were not expecting to see such a large group of attorneys congregated in that space. Their interest was also undoubtedly piqued by seeing so many womyn in a place that exclusively holds men and trans women, and their responses fluctuated from shy smiles to bold stares. It was clear to me that they were desperately seeking some connection — anything — from us, the free. 

Given its isolated location and the financial hardships faced by many of the detained at Stewart, lack of on-the-ground representation is indeed common. The first respondent (same as a defendant in a criminal case), for example, was summoned and sat by himself at a table facing the judge. His attorney was called on a speakerphone with shoddy connection, as was an interpreter provided through a phone service. No less than fifteen minutes passed, however, before a single word of the procedure was interpreted and relayed to the undoubtedly nervous and confused respondent. The interpreter seemed pretty damn good, but she was interpreting for an ill-prepared attorney who was offering wish-washy and, quite frankly, weak representation to his client from a distance in one of if not the most hostile immigration courts in the country — not a recipe for success. 

In addition to receiving sub-par representation, the respondent was also insulted and chastised by the judge for driving without a license in order to go to his job at McDonald’s each day. In a display of incredible antipathy for undocumented folks who try to hold jobs, this judge not only asked the respondent “why he thought it was okay to drive without a license” but took it further by going on to calculate the number of times he had probably done so throughout the course of his employment at the fast food franchise — “over 6,000 times” he had “dared” to drive to work without a license according to her mathematical wit.

Did this individual break the law by driving without a license? Yes. Have I driven without a license? Oh yes. Have you driven without a license? Probably at some point. Is it utterly unfathomable that he did so in order to make a living? Absolutely not. This judge, however, went above and beyond the necessary means to make her point, displaying an utter lack of empathy for undocumented persons contributing to our economy by working unskilled labor posts. What's more, she seemed to question his moral integrity both as a McDonald’s employee and as a person when she asked him “if McDonald’s — which serves food to children — had any idea that it had employed an illegal alien?” Was she insinuating that his status as an unlawfully present person made him likely to poison food served to children? It certainly seemed so. 

Needless to say, she denied bond on the grounds that the respondent had “everything to gain and nothing to lose by disappearing into this country.” It was all but heart-wrenching to watch this man guilty of nothing more than driving without a license and speeding — something I myself have done countless times — dressed like a criminal in burnt orange prison scrubs walk dejectedly back to the pew where he had been seated before the course of the next many months or possibly even years of his life were determined. 

Next up was a teenager who looked like he belonged in the hallways of a high-school with his silly haircut and perma-grin rather than a detention center locked up like a hard criminal. Much like the first respondent, this young man was represented telephonically by an attorney who sounded drastically underprepared to represent her client. Court proceedings were relayed to the detained youth with significant lapses in interpretation, and the judge breezed through the case without so much as feigning interest in even considering the respondent’s bond motion. Bond was swiftly denied on the aforementioned grounds (”everything to gain, nothing to lose...”), and the boy walked back to his seat with a look of shock and embarrassment. Our eyes met and I could feel his need for a human connection, for me to signal to him that, though I could never truly understand what he was going through because I was free, I did recognize the insane injustice taking place. 

Then something powerful happened: The third respondent was called up, and while he made his way to the front of the courtroom, two of our volunteer attorneys who had been hard at work on his case back at the crammed little office in Lumpkin rose to represent him. The mere presence of two living, breathing humans from the “outside” in that bleak courtroom was notable — the fact that those bodies happened to belong to two talented, compassionate attorneys with significant removal defense and pro bono experience was downright moving. 

Unfortunately, the beautiful moment was tarnished with a ridiculous request by the judge — she rudely demanded that one of the attorneys return to the pews because “in her courtroom, only one attorney sits” as counsel. (There is no legal basis for denying co-counsel if all requisite forms have been submitted, which they had in this instance. And remember, there were no fewer than two attorneys permitted to sit and present arguments against the respondent.) Baffled by the unexpected rule, one of the attorneys wisely asked what the legal grounding for disallowing co-counsel was and, naturally, the judge had no legitimate response. Instead, she replied that she “wouldn’t have them whispering to one another about her during proceedings.” After a brief discussion, the younger attorney with less experience practicing removal defense returned to the pew while the other sat beside the client to represent him.

The sour note the hearing started on only became more bitter as it proceeded: The judge began to cite the respondent’s history and reprimanded our attorney for “arguing” when she asked a clarifying question about the information being recited. When the judge proceeded by mentioning the respondent’s home country as Honduras, our attorney interjected to say that he was not in fact from Honduras, but Guatemala. Only then did the judge smugly shuffle through the paperwork and documents to verify, ultimately admitting that she had erred and was looking at the wrong case. The remainder of the hearing continued with the judge looking disinterested and denying bond on — take a guess — the grounds that the respondent had “everything to gain and nothing to lose by disappearing into this country.” Our attorney laid her hand on the client’s shoulder in consolation, and, as quickly as it had begun, court was adjourned. 

A short, timid man with a heart-breakingly sweet smile, the respondent walked back to the pew to process the ruling and its repercussions. His stature and gentle shy nature reminded of the Guatemalans with whom I had lived and studied during my three month Anthropology program in a rural Mayan village years ago. The destitute poverty and lack of access to economic opportunities brought about by rampant racism and hostility towards indigenous persons in Guatemala made it perfectly clear to me why someone like our client would seek to make a life elsewhere, somewhere like the United States. That desire for change, to seek opportunity, to leave a stagnant and oppressive system behind didn’t make him a criminal — yet here he was, locked up with basic freedoms stripped of him, simply for pursuing that which I have been gifted without so much as lifting a finger by the mere circumstances of my birth. 

Our client was not granted bond that day, which, statistically speaking, was no surprise: Only an average of 5.2% of detained immigrants at SDC are released on bond and, even when they are, bond is set at some of the highest rates in the entire country, exceeding $13,000 on average. Though I had been somewhat aware of these statistics before attending court that day, I was entirely unaware of the systemic strength of the deportation machine that is Stewart Detention Center, that is Irwin County Detention Center, that is the Atlanta immigration court system, that is the immigrant detention business in rural America conducted with little to no oversight. Only after witnessing the callousness with which human beings guilty of civil infractions are treated simply because they hail from countries outside the United States and dare to be present here without documentation was I aware of what detained immigrants in removal proceedings are up against. And that is precisely why I am here in Ocilla, one member of a team of individuals dedicated to breaking this system, this machine. Dedicated to offering adequate counsel and defense to human beings victimized for the color of their skin, for the origin of their birth, for pursuing their inalienable human rights of life, liberty, and happiness. 

If you or anyone you know are interested in joining this fight, please sign up to volunteer with us. We are actively seeking interpreters and attorneys! More information and to sign up can be found here: https://www.splcenter.org/our-issues/immigrant-justice/southeast-immigrant-freedom-initiative 

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Outside the door

I arrived in Lima, Peru on the last day of December 2016 on a research fellowship to study gender violence. An absolutely overwhelming subject, I dove in head first, devouring academic articles on the subject, perusing daily newspapers, attending relevant art exhibits and lectures, watching Peruvian documentaries and films, and arranging meetings with anyone involved in the women’s rights movement and the fight against gender violence, from human rights lawyers to photographers to self-proclaimed feminists.

As much progress as I had been making in my research, I still felt like an outsider nearly two months in, an observer on the periphery of the gender violence phenomenon taking place all around me. I’d even had some unbelievably good luck, like casually sitting next to the former General Director of Gender Equality at the Peruvian Ministry of Women and Vulnerable Populations on public transport. Not only that, but she graciously offered to meet me at a cafe so I could pick her brain. Throughout our hour-long conversation, however, I struggled to figure out what my goal was in meeting with her. My questions failed to spark the awe-inspiring discussion I had envisioned, and she responded in truisms and platitudes about gender discrimination (i.e., “Gender violence awareness must be a focal point in the Peruvian agenda to building a more democratic and inclusive society”). I left the interview frustrated that I had squandered such an important opportunity and feeling anxious at the prospect of failing to take advantage of my time in country, on the ground, having face-to-face conversations.

My greatest fear in this process has been and always will be failing to tether myself to lived reality on the ground: all too often, our experience of countries as foreigners only skims the surface of a region’s essence. The most obvious example of this happening in my case was the mere fact that I decided to rent an apartment in Miraflores, considered to be one of if not the wealthiest district of the bustling capital city. Walking around Miraflores felt notably different than walking around, say, Bloomington, Minnesota, my hometown – but walking around Miraflores was also notably different than walking around other districts of Lima.

Another aspect of my research I was grappling with was the feeling that I was intruding on a sensitive socio-cultural issue that wasn’t pertinent to my life. Often, when asked what I was doing in Peru by Peruvians, I received looks of confusion and puzzlement followed by an iteration of the same question: ‘But why are you studying that here?’ Even I began to wonder, to doubt myself, my research, and my purpose for moving 4,000 miles away from home. Sure, Latin America is a region notorious for high rates of femicide and rampant machismo, and Peru ranks among the most conservative and patriarchal of the region’s countries. Yet I still felt like I was dipping my toes where they didn’t belong with disappointing results – until Sunday, February 12, that is.

Around 8 pm that evening, I was in the middle of a dance drills video, giggling at my neighbor’s boyfriend’s expression when he caught an accidental glimpse of what I was doing from the street below. All of a sudden, his demeanor completely changed: he stood at attention, alert, and then took off in a sprint, screaming words in Spanish too rapidly for me to decipher their meaning. I leaned out of my bedroom window to see what it was that had spurred this sudden outburst. At the end of the street, a young woman was leaning against a wall, rubbing her neck. She seemed to be upset and in a great deal of pain. My neighbor’s boyfriend (we’ll refer to him as “boyfriend”) ran right past her in pursuit of a young man that appeared to be walking away from the scene. They moved out of my line of sight, so I ran upstairs to alert my sister, Maria (who had been visiting me in Peru) that something was happening on our street. She had just finished preparing dinner and, for some reason, I grabbed a plate before ushering her down the stairs and out the door. Once outside, I noticed we weren’t the only ones whose curiosity had been aroused by the noise: most of our neighbors were leaning out their windows to get a glimpse of the spectacle.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that a violent dispute had taken place. Boyfriend had successfully retrieved the young man he was pursuing and brought him back over to the vehicle where the girl was now sitting in the passenger seat with the door open. Boyfriend was loudly accosting him, and though I was only able to catch bits and pieces of what he was saying, it was obvious that he was chastising him for harming the young woman, who sat dejected with her head in her hands.

‘Go see what’s going on,’ Maria urged me. ‘Make sure the girl is okay.’

I felt slightly uncertain as I approached the scene: was it was my place to intrude with questions? Did the girl want me, a foreign stranger, asking after her well-being at such a vulnerable moment?

I felt foolish as I interjected, clad in ballet slippers and wielding a plate of steaming pasta. ‘Que ha pasado aqui? / What’s happened here?’ I demanded, feigning strength and assertiveness.

Boyfriend had calmed down a bit, and he began to recount the details of what he had witnessed. I’ll admit, my ability to fully comprehend his adrenalized, rushed account of the occurred was slightly compromised by limitations in my Spanish language skills. As I understood it, he had been standing outside of his girlfriend’s house, waiting for her to let him in when, all of a sudden, he saw a young lady jump out of a parked vehicle at the end of the block and rip off one of its wing mirrors. Then a young man exited the vehicle and came after her aggressively, pulling her by the hair and grabbing her neck as he threw her against a nearby wall. This is what motivated boyfriend to take action: he beckoned the perpetrator back to the vehicle and laid into him, instructing his own girlfriend, who was still standing in front of her home just down the street, to phone the police.

This is the point at which I approached the group. The young man, who appeared to be about twenty years old at most, was leaning against the car, arms crossed, expressionless, as though nothing had happened. The girl was standing up but crumpled into herself, arms folded with hands tightly clasping her elbows. She rocked back and forth as a stream of tears slowly rolled down her cheeks, brusquely wiping her eyes as though forcing herself to quell her distress. Boyfriend had finished recounting the details of what he had witnessed to me, and we all stood in silence, waiting for the police to arrive. Maria, who doesn’t speak any Spanish, offered to take my plate of food back into the apartment so I could speak with the girl and offer her some sort of assistance.

I leaned against a light post, unsure of what to do. Here I was, at the scene of an assault not unlike the many I had been reading about in daily newspapers and government reports. Here was a living, breathing woman right in front of me that put a face to the statistics I had read, an individual that comprised a portion of the alarmingly high rate of 37 percent of women that experience domestic violence during their adult life in Peru. I knew I had to do something, but it was unclear to me what my role should be.

I decided to start by asking the young woman a question that I immediately knew was ridiculous the moment I verbalized it: ‘Estás bien? / Are you okay?’

Obviously this person was not okay – she was the victim of a physical assault that had taken place mere minutes before. But I was at a loss for words. She looked at me, forcing a sad smile, and thanked me feebly for asking. Boyfriend asked where she lived, and if she had anyone she could call for support. She explained that she lived in a faraway district on the outskirts of Lima, that her boyfriend – the same one who had just choked her – had rented the car and she had no way home to her mother and daughter who would be waiting for her. The assailant had also shattered his girlfriend’s phone during the attack, leaving her without the means to access her contacts. She regretfully informed us that she didn’t know any phone numbers by memory. Boyfriend let her use his phone to send a message on Facebook to one of her girlfriends so that someone knew her whereabouts and could ultimately relay this message to her mother and child.

As we waited for the police to arrive, I felt extremely uncomfortable and awkward: boyfriend, this young girl who was clearly in pain, and the young man who had violently assaulted her all stood within an arm’s reach of one another, avoiding eye contact. The weight of what had just happened was palpable and hung thick in the air between us.

A car pulled up suddenly, and a young man approached the scene. He appeared to be the friend of the aggressor, greeting one another with a handshake and a pat on the back. They spoke in Spanish too quickly for me to comprehend, but I could see they were not taking this situation seriously. After exchanging some words they both broke out laughing.

I was furious: we were at the scene of a violent assault, and the perpetrator was openly laughing while the victim stood rubbing her bruised neck, tears streaming down her face.

‘Que no se ríen’, I found myself saying to the pair of boys, shaking my head incredulously side to side. Whether my Spanish verb conjugation was entirely correct or not I’m unsure – but my tone of voice and facial expression got the point across. They stopped laughing immediately and hung their heads, whispering in hushed Spanish. Surely they were speaking about me, mostly likely making fun of the foreigner attempting to speak Spanish in a quavering voice. No matter: they had ceased to blatantly disrespect the gravity of the moment.

A police car arrived on the scene only minutes later, and I felt an immense sense of relief. Finally justice would be served: the perpetrator would be castigated, the young girl would be able to press charges against him, and she would never have to deal with her soon to be ex-boyfriend again. At least that’s what I assumed would happen.

At this point, I’d like to orient this narrative in some important context. As I’ve delved further and further into gender violence research, one theme seems omnipresent across all national, social, and cultural boundaries: anger at the phenomenon of widespread impunity in response to reports of assault. The slogan for the widely attended international women’s march last April, for example, was ‘No + violencia, No + Impunidad’ (‘No + violence, No + Impunity’); written in bold letters on the Ni una menos (Not One Less) Peru Facebook page is the exclamation ¡BASTA DE IMPUNIDAD! (ENOUGH WITH IMPUNITY!); a recent report published by Pontific Catholic University of Peru  entitled ‘538 Cases of Sexual Violence (and Many More) Given Impunity’ is merely one of countless official records that shines light on the horrific rates at which aggression is overlooked and even pardoned in the country.

Up until the evening of Sunday, February 12, I had been surprised and upset by these claims of impunity, but they had been mere statistics to me. I was appalled by them but removed from the problem, shocked but shielded from their ugliness. Then, in the course of twenty minutes, I saw the very headlines, numbers, rates, pie charts, bar graphs and percentages that I had looked over time and again – but for which I had no frame of reference – transform into a harsh reality right before me.

The police officer that arrived on the scene was a male who appeared to be in his fifties. It was immediately obvious to me that he had little to no training in handling a case like this. Knowing how to interact with someone in a fragile situation – and with a victim of intimate partner violence in particular – is certainly challenging and requires a level of empathy that cannot necessarily be taught. There are, however, basic protocols that can and should be followed by anyone in a position of authority responding to such cases.

For instance, this police officer first approached the male assailant, in a seeming display of deference to his version of the story. The victim, meanwhile, waited patiently until the officer and her attacker finished having what appeared to be a polite discussion. Only after the young man had been given space to speak was the girl acknowledged, and, even so, the policeman took an entirely different approach to his interaction with her. He was clearly uncomfortable and, just as she had begun to recount the details of what had occurred, he interrupted her with an accusation. Yes, that’s right – the officer pointed out that she had damaged property (the vehicle wing mirror) and informed her that this was inappropriate in what I suspected was an attempt to nullify the severity of her boyfriend’s violent reaction.

The girl was naturally caught off guard by the audacity and timing of the officer’s remark, but she managed to calmly explain that she had damaged the vehicle in the heat of the argument in order to get the assailant out of the car, where she would have been helpless to defend herself. How she maintained a respectful demeanor I’m unsure: I had suffered neither physical nor verbal assault, and I was downright indignant. What the hell was happening here? A perpetrator of physical violence was being treated like an old friend while the victim, bearing the physical marks of her abuse – a heavily bruised neck and bloody lacerations – was dealt with like an angsty teenager in need of a lecture on respect.

Absolutely flabbergasted by what I had just witnessed, I did what seemed most natural in that moment: I hugged the girl. I wasn’t sure if she wanted comfort from a stranger or someone else invading her personal space. But she hugged me back.

In that moment, I felt a powerful connection to this woman that transcended language, socioeconomic status, ethnicity, and lived experience. Support and solidarity are universal, and I told her, to the best of my ability in Spanish, that she did not deserve to be treated this way. That no one deserves to be treated this way.

Though she looked back at me appreciatively, concurring with a wan head nod, I think we both knew there was a serious possibility that this would not be the last time she would see her perpetrator. That this would not be resolved as cleanly and easily as it should be. That her abuser may very well walk free, though he had left raw scratch marks on her chest and bruised her throat. In a matter of minutes, everything I had read and researched about impunity for violent offenders and police force incompetency in handling domestic violence cases was validated. In a society that appears to value a man’s property, i.e. a vehicle, over a woman’s emotional and physical well-being, it is difficult to feel hopeful.

As we parted ways, I wanted to ask the girl for her contact information, but she didn’t have a phone and I had left mine in the apartment. Boyfriend had offered to drive her to the police station for processing (no, the officer did not offer to do so), and I hugged her goodbye. The young man who had assaulted her drove away in his rented vehicle, presumably to go to the police station as well. Or perhaps not. I wondered if that would be the end of their relationship.

It felt strange, almost wrong, to walk back into my apartment that evening, closing the door behind me. An intense sense of guilt swept over me as I heated up my pasta on the stovetop, picking up right where I left off before everything happened. The world inside the walls of my apartment felt small and simple in comparison with the world I had just shut out.

I looked at myself in the mirror that hangs in the entry way, bidding me farewell every time I head out the door and greeting me when I return. Usually, I’d describe my level of vanity as ‘healthy’ with an occasional dose of excessive narcissism. On this particular evening, however, I stood before the mirror longer than usual, examining each of the constituent parts that make up my privileged whole. I saw in my reflection much more than a twenty-seven year old with messy hair and sunburned skin: that night, I was a face bearing no scars, hair that has never been violently pulled, a neck that has never been choked, arms free of bruises and welts, a stomach with the power of choice, legs that open and close of my own free will. What was staring back at me was a living reflection of circumstance, socio-cultural norms, and institutional values.  

[lareporteragonzeauxblog]

Asking for it

A young woman was sexually assaulted while unconscious at Fuego nightclub in the Santa Anita district of Lima last October. The horrendous act was caught on tape and widely disseminated over social media months later, causing a storm of scathing criticism and backlash.

Compelled to learn as much as possible about what happened, I decided to watch the video footage of the assault. A quick internet search brought me to an article with the scene caught on tape and embedded in the story. I reluctantly clicked play and almost immediately regretted my decision.

The video, though pixelated and recorded on a low-quality cellphone camera, shows the perpetrator, recently identified as John Pizarro Coronel, approach the young woman, who has chosen to keep her identity a secret, while she is passed out unconscious on a sofa in the club. Loud music is blaring and strobe lights are flashing as Coronel pulls his pants down and mounts the girl. He proceeds to thrust while she lay unmoving underneath him, and, at one particularly horrific moment, he looks into the camera smiling. 

Image caught on camera of John Pizarro Coronel violating an unconscious woman at Fuego night club in Lima last October, 2016

The footage is truly disturbing, and I felt ashamed for even watching it. What I found most disgusting, however, was not the gross violation of an unconscious woman, nor the feverish appropriation of the survivor’s body by the gleeful looking perpetrator, nor the eerily triumphant look on his face as he stares directly into the camera. Don’t get me wrong  — this was an atrocious act of sexual assault carried out against a completely helpless individual. But what disturbed me most, beyond the repulsive violation itself, was the fact that it was recorded. On a cellphone. Which was being held by someone. Someone who was watching as an unconscious woman was raped. Worse yet: the individual who caught the assault on tape was not standing there alone. A small crowd had gathered around, watching  —  some even laughing and cheering  —  as an unconscious woman was raped. 

The backlash against Coronel was, as to be expected, severe. Groups like ‘Ni una menos Peru’ and ‘Paro internacional de mujeres,’ women’s rights watchdog groups, openly appealed to the Peruvian National Police to penalize the perpetrator, and scathing remarks about him poured into social media platforms. 

Unfortunately, closely mirroring criticism of the rapist was criticism of the young woman who was assaulted. As I scrolled through hundreds of posts on the ‘Ni una menos Peru’ Facebook page, I was absolutely shocked at the hatred and victim blaming I read. Someone even created a fan page for the rapist. 

Here are just a few among many posts that stood out:

For those readers that do not read Spanish, let me translate a few key lines (please note that these are my rough translations of mostly colloquial phrases):

“Whoever drinks that much should learn to take care of herself. I’m not defending this sicko, but women that go out all alone are asking for misfortune.”

“Why do these things happen? Because these women let it...”

“The only one responsible is the girl for going out and not heeding all the warnings out there about such cases... she should have been more cautious.” 

“One of the many examples of how excessive alcohol consumption makes one lose her dignity!” 

“This happened because women neither respect nor accept their parents’ advice.”

“To hell with her, what a stupid girl. How did she manage to drink so much? She’s obviously not aware of the world we live in.” 

“How disgusting! This girl should protect her image as a woman. Drink in moderation and don’t walk around like a slut in a place with so many nasty drunks...” 

Yep. Go ahead, take a moment to process. I’ve read these (and many other comments) multiple times and I’m still appalled. 

The Peruvian National Police cite sexual assault as the second most frequently committed crime in Peru after aggravated robbery. Yet, in the former, it’s the victim that gets blamed, while in the latter, it’s the aggressor. 

Said in another way, in instances of sexual assault, people who are raped bear at least some responsibility, but people that rape aren’t fully responsible because they were just doing what everyone expected them to do when there’s an easy target —  to rape. When we apply the same logic to other crimes, like aggravated theft, it seems ridiculous: the thief wielding a weapon isn’t totally at fault because people who get mugged were asking for it. Right? Just like the unconscious girl at Fuego nightclub was asking for it because she wore a certain outfit, because she drank too much alcohol, because she knowingly went out to the club with people who could take advantage of her. 

She was asking for it, and Coronel was simply there to give it to her. How could we possibly place all the blame on him when she was so obviously provoking such behavior? (I hope the sarcasm here is glaringly obvious.) 

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On an entirely serious note, I’ve been confronted with the notion of ‘asking for it’ time and again, especially living in Peru, a notably conservative country with high rates of violence against women and sexual assault. 

However, ‘asking for it’ was first acutely brought to my attention the weekend of the infamous yacht races on Mackinac Island in Michigan (a tourist destination where my sister Maria and I were working a season). A notoriously good time, the races never fail to bring out the rowdiest of behavior in everyone, and anyone who dares walk down Main Street past 9 pm will most surely find his or herself intoxicated by bar close. I had unwittingly gotten myself a bit buzzed (okay, let’s be real, I was drunk) at the Pink Pony, easily the island’s most popular locale where yacht racers flock in droves to quite literally pour liquor down their throats and to harass anyone who refuses a shot. Maria had convinced me to spend the evening on the island at her dorm instead of retreating to my private abode off island in Mackinaw City. 

We were having a great time, chatting it up with inebriated sailors, throwing back too many craft beers, and dancing to live music. However, throughout the course of the evening, I, dressed in a solid grey t-shirt that was anything but sexy and a pair of jeans that I’d retained since high school, couldn’t help but notice and feel irked by the attention Maria was getting. 

To be sure, my sister is quite a show-stopper: tall, curvaceous, and fashion conscious, it’s no surprise that she gets lots of looks and compliments, and it’s not as though I’m not accustomed to fielding inquiries about her relationship status or favorite pastimes. But on this particular evening, I was hyper aware of one specific type of attention she was receiving — creepy, blatant stares at and perverted comments about her breasts. 

My verbal filter dwindled with my sobriety, and I couldn’t help but ask her about it. I don’t recall exactly what I said, but it was along the lines of, ‘Why do you wear such low cut tops if you know drunken perverts are just going to stare at and talk about your boobs?’ 

To my utter shock and dismay, Maria began to cry. 

She looked me squarely in the eyes, composed herself a bit, and said, ‘I thought you were a feminist. How can you claim that title and then criticize me for what I’m wearing? Don’t I have the right to wear what I want?’ 

It was a damn good question that begged so many others: Why, in the face of invasive and unwelcome attention from strangers, did I immediately revert to blaming the target of inappropriate advances? Did my sister really have the right to wear whatever she wanted wherever she wanted in front of whomever she pleased? If not, at what point does one cross the boundary between what’s okay and what’s not okay to wear? Do certain outfits invite certain responses? Do I need to protect myself by wearing or not wearing certain clothing, by saying or not saying certain things, by drinking or not drinking certain quantities of alcohol, by frequenting or not frequenting certain places? 

I cannot answer these questions outright, nor do I seek to do so here. The feminist in me wants to say ‘Hell no we’re not responsible! We have the right to self identify in any way we please and we should not be afraid to do so.’ A huge part of me feels that way. 

Then there’s another part of me, perhaps a more pragmatic part, perhaps a slightly defeated part, perhaps a part that has seen too much to pretend that we are free. This is the part that speaks to me when I’m deciding what to wear before I walk to the grocery store alone, before I get on public transportation without a bra, before I head out late at night wearing a short dress  — the part of me that heeds the warnings and feeds into the fear mongering. 

These two parts of me, one large, one small, will continue to push against one another. For now, what I know is this: nothing anyone does, under any circumstances, makes that person responsible for getting raped. For being sexually violated while unconscious. For being too drunk to say no  — or to say anything for that matter. 

Nobody is asking to be raped. Nobody is asking to be violated. No outfit, no amount of drinks, no behavior asks for sexual assault. Nobody is asking for it. 

[lareporteragonzeauxblog]

The bathroom classroom  

This is really happening, and my privilege is glaring. 

Sitting at La Bodega Verde cafe in Miraflores, I suddenly felt the need to hit the loo after several cups of coffee. Pasted on the bathroom door was the above sign, informing me that I in fact could not use the restroom to relieve myself. I’ll admit, I panicked slightly. No bathroom for cafe dwellers, infamous for sipping cup after unnecessary cup of coffee simply in order to maintain WiFi access? It seemed ludicrous. 

An observant security guard near the locked restrooms must have noticed my awe-stricken expression as I read the sign, and he kindly informed me that the cafe kept a set of keys for paying customers to use in cases of emergency. I thanked him profusely and immediately begged my server for the coveted keys.

As I sat down to urinate, a sudden feeling of immense guilt overtook me — here I was, peeing into perfectly clean water in the midst of a water shortage crisis (a response to the devastating floods ravaging the country) and circumventing the only water regulation applied to this locale because I was convinced that I deserved to do so. A conviction that was validated by the cafe itself: if you can pay, you can pee. In other words, if you can afford it, convenience is available. 

I stepped out of the bathroom and began to walk back to the cafe, only to realize that I hadn’t locked the door behind me. As I turned back to do so in an effort to comply with the establishment’s wishes, I couldn’t help but think about what it was I was locking out of that bathroom. How many people are out there in Lima, in the outskirts of this giant city, in the rural areas of this country, suffering the consequences of unmet basic needs? How many requests for simple comforts  — a meal, a toilet, soap, running water — have been denied during this most recent natural disaster? How many times have I taken such creature comforts for granted? How many uncomfortable situations cannot be handled with a simple set of keys and an alternative set of rules for those with resources? 

For many years, I was a staunch advocate of the ‘If it’s yellow, let it mellow’ philosophy. Over time and caving to social pressures, I abandoned that mindset and began to flush at my convenience, with little to no thought given to the incredible privilege behind that behavior. Only now, with a water shortage crisis staring me in the face, am I finding myself obligated to embrace that doctrine once again. Perhaps it’s time to reevaluate even the seemingly mundane activities of daily life, such as using the restroom or washing our hands. 

There’s nothing quite like an extreme natural disaster to highlight glaring social inequalities: as a friend pointed out last night, there’s flooding all over Peru, but walking down a main street in bourgeois Miraflores, I feel almost completely removed from the devastation. 

Maybe it’s time to take small steps to protest the gap in resource allocation and relief response. Maybe it’s time to shower less and think more. Maybe it’s time to pee in the grass. 

[lareporteragonzeauxblog]

This is why I strike

I dress in black today to stand in solidarity with women striking across the globe for the first International Women’s Strike. 

Today, March 8th, 2017, marks the inaugural International Women’s Strike. Though I’m not technically striking because I’m not technically working today, I am taking the time to pause, reflect, and share, which is precisely what this organized movement aims to do: create a space for women to speak in order to bring awareness to the continuing struggles that are unique to our gender identity that we face on a local, national, and global scale. For me, then, striking means refusing to be silent. For other women, striking means taking the day off work. For others, it means leaving work for an hour or so. For others yet, it means wearing black or purple in protest. And for many, striking of any sort is not a possibility. 

I am in Huacachina today, a desert oasis seemingly light years away from any place I’ve ever been before. But, despite the overwhelming newness of this place, I was quickly reminded that the obstacles placed before women in our fight for dignity and an equality that respects our uniqueness are ubiquitous.

Sitting down to breakfast at our hotel, for example, I witnessed the male front desk receptionist come upstairs and greet the young woman preparing breakfast by saying, “Today is women’s day, isn’t it? But only for working women, not for idle women.” He chuckled as he said this, and the young lady in the kitchen replied with a wan smile as she continued to blend smoothies and brew coffee.  

The emotions that ran through me when I overheard this, the emotions that are running through me, that have been running through me for years, cannot and will not be silenced any longer. The following is my best attempt to capture in words what it feels like to be a woman and why I feel the need to express myself on this exciting and powerful day.

Today, I strike because: I identify as a woman. Because as a woman, I have features that comprise my physical body and cause me great discomfort. Not because I feel uncomfortable with them, but because society cannot handle them. I have hair that has been stroked without my permission. Hair that I’ve worn short by choice, but not without insult and criticism. I have lips that have been kissed without consent. Breasts that want to be freed from the constraints of an ill-fitting bra, but are subjected to uninvited stares and comments when I give them permission to breath. I have nipples that harden easily, and I am extremely conscious of their perkiness – me and everyone else on the public bus. I have armpits that grow hair, a biological phenomenon that seems to make a lot of people uncomfortable if I choose to forego shaving. Shaving, in fact, is something I struggle with greatly: to shave or not to shave is always the question. If I shave, I feel afraid that I’m conforming to an aesthetic that has been put in place by a patriarchal, capitalistic order seeking to sell me products to alter my appearance and urge me to embrace a look that defies nature. If I don’t shave, I am constantly fighting the little voice in my head that tells me it’s not sexy to have leg hair, or that I don’t deserve oral sex if my pubic hair is too ample. Because that’s actually something partners have said. 

I have a stomach that gets full when I eat food and bloats when I have menstrual cramps. 

Oh, yeah: I have a menstrual cycle. I bleed, I ache, I crave, and I embrace my body’s healthy expression of womanness. I wear reusable pads that I wash each menstrual cycle, pads that are stained with the blood of periods past. I have a pair of THINX underwear that is designed specifically to absorb a great deal of my menstrual blood. I’m not ashamed to bleed, and I’m even less ashamed to prevent unnecessary waste as a menstruating woman, though my choice to do so is considered ‘disgusting’ and ‘foul’ by many. I guess I should discard all evidence of my bleeding self, according to that doctrine. 

I have a back that has one tattoo, a part of my body that countless people have felt the right to trace or touch. I have an ass that has cellulite. An ass that many people have touched or slapped in passing, because they felt they had the right to do so. I have legs, strong legs that have supported this body, but legs that have elicited derogatory remarks such as ‘thunder thighs’ when I refused to give someone my phone number. Legs that have been opened against my will, and legs that, when opened according to my will, have been judged and criticized for doing so. I have feet that have taken me all over; feet that I’ve used to walk as quickly as possible down a street late at night when I feel afraid; feet that I’ve used to help me crouch and hide from perceived danger; feet that I’ve used to push somebody off of me or pull somebody into me. 

I have a body, and it is mine. Not yours or anybody else’s.

I strike because:  I’ve been traveling and living outside of the United States for over two months now, and I’ve met and spoken with more than one woman that has been physically and verbally abused by her intimate partner. Different women from different countries that have all experienced the same inexcusable violence and disrespect.

Because I saw a young girl with finger prints on her neck and bleeding scratch marks on her chest right down the street from my house, and I listened to the perpetrator laugh in her presence. And I watched the police accuse her of destruction of property (she had torn the wing mirror off his car during the struggle) as she cried silently, fearfully, knowing that her wounds came second to the value of his ego and his vehicle.

Because thousands of women were subjected to a brutally waged sterilization campaign in this country during my lifetime. And many of those same women had been violated or knew someone that had been violated during the years of violence in Peru, 1980-2000, by actors on both sides of the internal armed conflict. 

Because I have a sister who is living with me in Peru, and because she has told me that, some days, she prefers not to leave the apartment because she doesn’t want to face the cat calls and whistles and unwanted attention directed at her because she has a pretty face and a lovely body and likes to wear clothes that don’t suffocate her in the sweltering heat of Lima summer. 

As women we are often told to smile, to relax, to do anything that masks our discomfort with the current situation. 

Because that same sister has taken a taxi home late at night from a bar, and because the driver of that taxi began to ask her questions, personal questions, that he had no right to ask: Are you drunk? Are you really drunk? Do you have a boyfriend? Do you have sex with him? No? So you’re a virgin? Can I see if you’re a virgin? Because, while this experience is terrifying, it is not by a long shot unique to my sister: I, too, have found myself in a taxi with a driver that asks me deranged and unbelievably inappropriate questions.

Because my sister and so many other women feel the need to lie and say they have a boyfriend to protect themselves in such situations.  And because I often lie and say I have a boyfriend to protect myself.

Because when I do protect myself by expressing genuine emotions like stress, discomfort, or uneasiness, I am told to ‘relax’, ‘be chill’, ‘calm down’, ‘smile!’. 

Because I feel like I have to protect myself. Because I do.

This is why I strike.

[lareporteragonzeauxblog]

Intimate partner violence is real. People die every day at the hands of their partner or spouse. Many don’t die, but live day to day confined to the realms of an abusive space in which their voice is silenced or goes unheard. 

This powerful music video by Rebeca Lane captures the vicious cycle of abuse, apology, forgiveness. Putting an end to intimate partner violence means adopting a no tolerance policy. It is NEVER okay for your partner to push you, hit you, slap you, spit on you, tell you you’re ugly, tell you you’re useless, control who you spend time with and when. There is a fine line between natural jealousy and unhealthy possessive behavior. True love is born of mutual respect, not a hunger for domination. 

LYRICS

Estos ojos son míos, este cuerpo es mío esta vida es mía, ni tus golpes ni tus palabras me lastiman, este vientre es mío estos pies son míos esta boca es mía ni tus golpes ni tus palabras me lastiman. Todo pareció una relación perfecta hasta que me prohibió tener amigos en la escuela, revisaba mis llamadas, mis mensajes controlada decía, que lo hacía porque a mí me amaba Y yo que me sentía tan enamorada no me percataba de que ya estaba encerrada, cuando me pidió que me casara acepte encantada pero creo que era el miedo de sentirme abandonada. Poco a poco me fui a acostumbrando, los golpes eran tanto los insultos a diario, llegue a pensar que todo esto era culpa mía, si yo fuera perfecta esto no sucedería, llora sangre, mi cuerpo llora sangre, en mi propio hogar de paz no encuentro un instante, tanto dolor no hay cuerpo que lo aguante si esto es amor por qué se siente tan pulsante. Estos ojos son míos este cuerpo es mío esta vida es mía ni tus golpes ni tus palabras me lastiman, este vientre es mío, estos pies son míos, esta boca es mía ni tus golpes ni tus palabras me lastiman. Cansada de llorar todas mañana de verme en el espejo y no reconocer mi alma, cansada del silencio y sentirme aislada, cansada de sentir miedo hasta en mi propia casa, no quise maquillarme las heridas en la cara, no quise aceptar llamadas ni disculpas banas, no quiero más heridas, quiero luchar por mi vida, quiero contar mi historia no quiero ser una cifra. Hay tantas mujeres asesinadas por sus parejas por sus novios y nadie hacen nada, hay tanta gente que nos echa la culpa y sin embargo tantas denuncias que nadie escucha, en esta lucha no queremos ni una mujer menos, sal del encierro rompe el silencio en contra el amor que está dentro de tu pecho en contra la guerrera que defenderá tu cuerpo porque... Estos ojos son míos este cuerpo es mío esta vida es mía ni tus golpes ni tus palabras me lastiman, este vientre es mío, estos pies son míos, esta boca es mía ni tus golpes ni tus palabras me lastiman.

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Today marks 25 years since the brutal assassination of María Elena Moyano, a social activist and vocal opponent of the terrorist group that would ultimately take her life, Sendero Luminoso. While her legacy may be relatively unknown north of the equator, she is honored and lauded in Peru as a champion of civil rights and the feminist movement.  

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Recollection and remains: the key components of Law 30470

Nicolasa Palomino Cardenas silently observes me as I approach the gallery showcasing Desaparecidos: Entre la búsqueda y la esperanza (Disappeared: Caught Between a Search and Hope), a temporary photography exhibit featured at LUM this year. I stop, arrested by the power of her patient stare. It is with her expression rather than her words that she speaks to me, inviting me to listen to her story. Weather-beaten skin decorated with lines attests to years of endurance and perseverance in the wake of the country’s twenty-year brutal armed conflict between government forces and Sendero Luminoso. The decorative floral pattern sewn into the neckline of her sweater is an emblem of the rural mountainous community from which she hails. She wears her long, graying hair pulled back into the ubiquitous braid donned by many of her fellow countrywomen. But none of these attributes, however revelatory they are, capture the essence of Nicolasa quite as much as the one hitherto unmentioned: her eyes.

Nicolasa Palomino Cardenas, 87. Photographed by Rodrigo Abd

Gentle yet fiercely powerful, these are eyes that have seen unspeakable things, eyes that have seen too much: too much pain, too much suffering, too much injustice. She seems to at once look at me and past me, as though she acknowledges my presence, but pays little mind to it. Nicolasa is searching for something far beyond me or anyone that attends the exhibit for that matter – she is searching for her son who disappeared in 1983, a victim of the widespread forced disappearances that took place during the country’s infamous years of violence from 1980 to 2000.

While Nicolasa’s story of loss is uniquely tragic in its own right, it is unfortunately only one of many. Sources estimate that anywhere between 13,000 and 16,000 Peruvians disappeared during the internal conflict at the hands of insurgent groups Sendero Luminoso and Movimiento Revolucionario Túpac Amaru, or as a result of military and police activity in areas of elevated violence (the Truth and Reconciliation Committee attributes 46% of disappearances to the former two groups and 30% to the latter). Per the definition of the government, a disappeared person is “toda aquella cuyo paradero es desconocido por sus familiares o sobre la que no se tiene certeza legal de su ubicación, a consecuencia del período de violencia 1980-2000 / any [individual] whose whereabouts are unknown by their family members or whose location cannot be verified legally, as a consequence of the period of violence from 1980-2000.” Officials claim that the special forensic division of the Peruvian Public Ministry has recovered approximately 3,202 sets of remains thus far, some 70% of which were found in Ayacucho in mass, unidentified graves. Of the recovered remains, only a portion – 1,833 – have been formally identified, and 1,644 of those identified have been returned to family members. While such identifications are praiseworthy forensic feats, they account for only a small fraction of the disappeared. Using the most conservative estimates, that leaves the whereabouts of over 11,000 Peruvians a mystery, and it leaves well over that amount of family members and loved one languishing in a state of emotional paralysis characterized by unanswered questions and futile searches. But the tides may be changing.

After nearly three decades, the Peruvian government formally recognized the need to address the suffering of so many of its citizens affected by this issue with the creation of Law 30470, known as La ley de búsqueda de personas desaparecidas, or the Law on the Search of Disappeared Persons. 

Enacted on June 22, 2016, the stated purpose of the law, in its own words (and my translation), is “the prioritization of a humanitarian focus in the search for persons that disappeared during the period of violence from 1980-2000, through the assembly and preparation of elements critical to the search for and recuperation, analysis, and return of human remains.” The stated intention of the law, then, appears to be twofold: first, expediting the historically sluggish process of exhuming and identifying human remains buried during the internal conflict, and secondly, emphasizing the humanitarian aspect of this process. The first part is straightforward – but what is meant by a “humanitarian focus” in the context of a project that, when carried out with the highest level integrity, is only able to hand over a box of bones to the afflicted?

In response to this very question, LUM organized a panel comprised of officials responsible for implementing Law 30470 and experts on the subject of disappeared persons, from forensic scientists to psychologists. The colloquium, which took place on January 24, was entitled Desaparecidos: Memoria, identidad, y estado (The Disappeared: Memory, Identity, and the State). During the course of the four hour plus panel, which featured three separate mesas or focus groups, it was Daniel Figallo, member of the United Nations Committee on Forced Disappearance (and a fairly controversial public figure in Peru), who was able to most concisely and eloquently explain what lies at the core of this piece of legislation. He said, “La búsqueda es la empatía / searching is empathy”, an unbelievably simple sentiment that encapsulates the mission of not only Law 30470 but the wider effort to simultaneously move the country forward from its dark past while paying due respect to its history. 

The aforementioned tension is what I see as the greatest challenge to Peruvian collective healing: striking an appropriate balance between cultivating cognizance of events past on a national level but at once turning a new leaf. Not only implementing but prioritizing a nationally sanctioned search for missing persons tackles this tension head on. It requires the government, an institution responsible for much of the death and disappearance, to take responsibility for its role in this tragic phenomenon. By providing the necessary tools to carry out searches for human remains in an efficient and timely manner, the government is at once acknowledging the past and paying homage to the courage of those who have lost someone while (finally) offering these afflicted individuals the chance to move forward, closing a long, painful chapter in their lives. The act of exhuming remains is a crucial physical step in the emotional healing process: one must re-open the wound – in this case, the grave site – in order for it to fully heal. Years of uncertainty and confusion have kept many Peruvians in a constant state of pathological suffering, without any hope of resolution. The widespread loss of life in conflict zones is an atrocity in and of itself, but the loss of those lives along with all circumstantial evidence adds yet another layer of horror to the situation. While it’s never easy to cremate or bury a loved one, it is a symbolic act of closure that permits one to begin the arduous process of mourning and, with time, moving forward. Depriving someone of this step in their journey to emotional recovery is synonymous with depriving them of a fundamental human right – the right to know in order to remember.

As Daniel Fugallo puts it, memory is human dignity, and all human beings have “el derecho a la memoria / the right to memory.” Or in the words of José Carlos Agüero, a historian featured at the colloquium whose father disappeared during the conflict, “La memoria recupera lo que un poder ha deshecho... Todos tenemos una identidad, y la memoria es constitutiva de esa identidad, lo cual es un derecho humano / Memory recuperates that which [systems of] power have taken away... We all have an identity, and memory is a constitutive element of that identity, which is in and of itself a human right.” The act of forced disappearance, then, is a direct attack on one’s ability to know the truth, and is therefore an attack on one’s right to remember. If Law 30470 wants to achieve its stated purpose of prioritizing a “humanitarian focus” in its implementation, it must make a concerted effort to reunite affected Peruvians with two stolen items, one incorporeal, the other incarnate: memory and human remains.

Cultural centers like LUM are playing their part by bringing these difficult issues to the public in a powerful yet accessible way. On its website, for example, LUM explains that its goal in displaying Desaparecidos is “sensibilizar al visitante, pero también visibilizar esta problemática aún vigente, para que se mantenga como un tema en la agenda principal del Estado, teniendo en cuenta que es uno de sus grandes pendientes / to bring awareness to each visitor, but also to visualize this prevailing problem so that it remains a top priority in the State’s agenda, keeping in mind that it is one of its most pressing issues.”

The language of Law 30470 is written on the wall at the entrance to the exposition, a stark contrast between the jet black script and the clean white wall. Six different photographers display their work in an effort to engage viewers with the subjects of these photos: black and white portraits of people whose sons, daughters, fathers, brothers, wives, sisters and neighbors have gone missing; haunting images of clothed skeletons lying side by side in graves; candid images of Asháninka people, a demographic that was heavily hit by violence during the conflict, as they go about their daily lives; an image of a young girl as she locates the remains of a family member at a cemetery.

Photography by Giorgio Negro

Photography by Nadia Shira

As I walk through the exhibit, I return again and again to Nicolasa. She is the living face of a past defined by death, a walking, breathing, thinking, feeling embodiment of a widespread effort to strip already marginalized people of their identities and to silence their voices. Law 30470 may at last provide her with some closure, but it’s much more likely that she will die bearing the weight of unanswered questions.

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Wisdom teeth, witless television

When I explained the content of this post to my sister, she asked me how it was relevant to the research I came to do in Peru. My response: everything I do here is relevant... right? Relevant or not, I blame this post on the physical limitations I’ve been under since Friday, the day on which I had my wisdom teeth removed. This is the result of a weekend spent in bed, eating ice cream and indulging in one of America’s favorite past times. 

Although my mother has worked as a dental hygienist for over thirty years at various reputable dental offices, I’ve waited until now, at the ripe age of 27, to get my wisdom teeth extracted by a maxillofacial surgeon that has no connection whatsoever to my mom. What adds to the irony is the fact that I’m currently living in Lima, Peru. Yep, that’s right: I declined several offers to have the unnecessary third molars extricated from my overcrowded jaw while living in the states with full dental coverage and, instead, opted for their removal at Peru Dental in the Miraflores district of the capital city with international student health insurance that may or not retroactively cover the procedure. This is in no way intended to discredit Peruvian dental care: the care I received was perfectly adequate (my wisdom teeth are no longer in my mouth!), and I especially appreciated the expediency with which the situation was handled from start to finish. In the United States, for example, this process can easily take months, from initial inquiry phone call to intake appointment to scheduling to surgery to recovery. Here, in Lima, it took a whopping total of four days. It began with a desperate email sent out in the wee hours of the morning on Tuesday complaining of extreme pain and inflammation at the site of my lower right third molar, and ended Friday at approximately 12:45 pm, when I walked out of the clinic with blood soaked gauze pads shoved into the empty sockets that once housed my wisdom teeth.

In addition to quickness of the whole ordeal, I was impressed with the nonchalant confidence of my surgeon: he worked with tact, precision, and a sprinkle of humor appropriate for the foreboding occasion. Sure, he was about twenty-five minutes late to the scheduled appointment time, but, rather than feeling annoyed, I found comfort in the way he walked into the clinic wielding an impressive leather suitcase on wheels and an air of unapologetic arrogance. This was clearly not his first rodeo. From the moment he covered my face with what seemed to be a medieval medical garment – a green piece of stiff cloth sporting a mouth hole – I knew I was in good hands. He applied a local anesthetic and, before I knew it, I heard (but luckily did not feel) crunching and ripping, indicative of a successful extraction. He asked how I was feeling as he casually proceeded to wash his hands.

“Ah, it’s pisco sour day tomorrow,” he lamented with a shoulder shrug and instructions to avoid spicy foods and jogging. As we parted ways, I thanked him profusely, sputtering drool and feeling for my lips, which were entirely numb. He winked at me coolly as he answered a call on his cell, and that was that. A lovely experience overall. My only complaint thus far is that I wasn’t prescribed something a bit more... effective for the pain. I had envisioned myself post-surgery lying prostrate in an OxyContin induced bliss, sucking down vanilla milkshakes and mango licuados. Instead, I popped 100mg of Ketoproteno, some nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory Brazilian drug that is about as effective at killing pain as those little pink sugar pellets girls take the week of their period are at preventing pregnancy.

The first three hours after the extraction were fairly miserable: my lips were numb, my gums were inflamed, and my mouth was full of bloody, viscous saliva. Additionally, my throat muscles were incredibly tender in the aftermath of all the aggravation, making swallowing quite uncomfortable. One glance in the mirror was enough to conjure images of horror film victims, as gooey crimson matter spilled from my lips into the sink, staining the porcelain red. Without adequate drugs, without the hope of consuming a delicious frozen beverage in the foreseeable future, with a mouth that felt estranged from my body and absolutely no desire to be in a vertical position, I concluded that the only recourse for such dire straits was mind-numbingly stupid television. Alas, after months of ignoring my sister’s rave reviews, I succumbed to the ridiculous pleasure of watching The Bachelor, Season 21, starring Nick Viall.

As a self-described progressive liberal feminist with a strong aversion to reality TV, I’ve seen more than my fair share of this show. My sister and mother are serious fans, and Monday evenings during “Bachelor season”, when new episodes are released to millions of eager viewers, play out in eerily ritualistic fashion in our household. It’s well understood that everyone, my father included, will gather in front of the big screen at approximately 6:57 pm to appreciate this paragon of pop culture. Talking is only permitted at commercial breaks, and meals are planned around the two hour viewing block from 7-9 pm. Assuming the role of disinterested-but-acquiescent-eldest-daughter, I sit in the leather recliner by the window, purposefully apart from the other members of my family who genuinely enjoy watching the buffoonery, whereas I pretend to hate every minute of the show and jeer at the disgracefully dimwitted banter of the cast members. I get immense pleasure out of blatantly counting the number of times the characters say “like” with my hands and openly criticizing the shallowness of the supposedly deep conversations held during one on one dates (i.e., “Like, I’ve never had anyone, like, open up to me so... much before” in response to one contestant’s scant account of a car wreck he was in as a teenager). It especially irks my sister when I interrupt particularly intense scenes with witty play-by-play.

Given my history with The Bachelor and its relatively low ranking on my scale of “things that are important and/or impactful in my life”, I was shocked to find myself utterly captivated by the current season (or at least by the first five episodes available on ProjectFreeTV). Perhaps it was the drug cocktail affecting my judgment, perhaps the fact that this was my first time watching the show alone, perhaps the content was suddenly inexplicably more interesting than any season prior – whatever the reason, I devoured episode after episode hungrily, paying undivided attention to every little detail.

Episode 1, for example, begins with a parade-like procession of all the Bachelor’s suitors stepping out of a limo and introducing themselves to him in creative – and often painfully embarrassing – ways as they vie for the coveted first impression rose (I felt a twinge of pride when Raven jumped out the vehicle squealing like Pig Sooie, paying homage to my former stomping grounds). Before Nick meets them, however, the viewers watch brief autobiographical clips about each contestant, in which she describes herself and her motives for being on the show. I was struck by the number of highly educated, working professionals on this season. Among the ranks are: an attorney, a neonatal nurse, a travel nurse, a special education teacher, several business owners, a mental health counselor, a doula, a plastic surgery office manager, a chef, and a dental hygienist, to name a few. Several of the women speak multiple languages and sought to impress Nick by wooing him with their polyglot skills fresh out the limo. While their careers and backgrounds vary greatly one to the next, it seems that most of the women on this season view marriage in a similar light: as the last critical ingredient in the recipe for happiness. Great hair plus good friends plus sweet career equals almost complete – secure a husband and you’re there.

As much as the aforementioned equation seems to reek of judgment, I have to admit, I was surprised to find myself identifying strongly with many of these women and their sentiments regarding life’s priorities. I, too, have always firmly believed that serious partnership and/or marriage should ideally come after one has developed a strong sense of worth and self, that only after one has expressed his or her ability to be an independent agent is that person capable of choosing an ideal partner. Basically, I prescribe to that equation (minus the fabulous hair) in that it emphasizes the timing and placement of serious romantic commitment in the series of life events. That being said, I have yet to secure a career, and I feel I have a long way to go in terms of cultivating my sense of self – but I’ve been in love before. I’ve even made serious decisions based on that love, choices that have altered the course of my life.

While I have absolutely no regrets about any of those experiences or the unexpected beauty of their outcomes, I’m quite certain that all my previous relationships have come to an end precisely because they broke from my “timeline.” Because I had fallen in love before having real direction or a sense of where/what/how/who I wanted to be, I felt constricted, guilty for being selfish, pressured to make decisions delineated by partnership boundaries. Whether those feelings were projected on me by former lovers or self-induced is impossible to determine: what matters is that I simply wasn’t ready to relinquish the utterly individual journey of cultivating me, a process that undoubtedly differs for everyone but, in my experience, is defined by a singular, uncompromising self-determination. Perhaps, then, it would be wise for someone with my mentality to approach partnership, cohabitation, marriage – deeper and more formal commitments that go beyond physical attraction, desire, or even love – as the last pieces of a puzzle that has mostly been solved. A sentiment which I apparently share with many of the contestants on Season 21 of the Bachelor.

Let me be clear: In no way am I claiming that The Bachelor has suddenly become a progressive, feminist, highly intellectual program – quite the contrary. In fact, it is due to the inherently ridiculous nature of the show that I find certain themes so compelling in this season. In seasons past, I have abhorred the obsession with marriage that defines the show. The objective of The Bachelor is to produce an engaged couple in slightly less than two months, after all. I blame the show for perpetuating and culturally cementing the idée fixe that romantic love must progress in a series of urgent symbolic displays: social media posts, a ring, a designer dress, a house, a dog, a pregnancy, a baby, etc. The first date Nick organized for the women on this season was a wedding dress photo shoot. Enough said.

Though there are several aspects of this round of The Bachelor that make it unique from previous seasons, such as the selection of a cast that actually includes non-white women and one contestant that openly identifies as bisexual, it still seems to extol traditional gender roles to an extent that makes me uncomfortable. While I understand that The Bachelor is a reality TV show and physical appearance is the first thing to grab viewers’ attention, I often feel as though the contestants – and the Bachelor himself – seem to prioritize and laud a brand of feminine beauty that is not only harmful but unrealistic: the women are always dressed in excessively fancy outfits that seem unfit for the occasion (a floor length evening gown for lunch?), sporting full make-up and long flowing locks to do something like scoop cow dung (yes, that happened in episode 5). In no way am I trying to police women and their freedom to express themselves however they please – sometimes it’s fun to curl your hair, put on some lipstick and rock a sexy mini skirt. But it’s alarming when every contestant feels pressured to adhere to one specific, narrowly defined set of beauty standards every time the camera is rolling, and it’s even more alarming when an individual expresses grief and stress in the face of “failing” to meet such standards – a feeling that has been expressed quite often on this season already. Quite honestly, I can’t see how it would be possible to be on a show like this and not feel the pressure to look “perfect” given that Nick almost always leads with a comment on how the women look, the most blatant example of which took place during initial introductions as he looked each contestant up and down before speaking to her, only to then comment on how “great” she looked or mumble “wow” while shaking his head side to side in awe. 

Despite these problematic elements, which are less specific to The Bachelor and more generally a symptom of our society’s ills, I felt inspired by many of the cast members who introduced themselves as empowered women proud of their accomplishments. Had they obviously been in hair and make-up for hours just moments before these introductions? Yes. So what. I appreciated their perception of marriage not as a goal in and of itself, but as a component of a much larger picture. As I listened to many of the women on Season 21 explain their desire to be on the show, it seemed that they genuinely viewed partnership as a supplement to rather than the essence of identity.

Is The Bachelor still full of shallow conversations and unbelievably petty gossip? Yes. Is the underlying premise still ridiculous and counteractive to cultivating realistic notions of what constitutes a healthy marriage? Mostly. Did it distract me momentarily from excruciating pain and even offer some fodder for larger conversations on female empowerment and autonomy in romantic relationships? Absolutely.

In conclusion, I decided to post this because I’m feeling incredibly humbled. Humbled by having my face momentarily deformed with swelling, humbled by the fact that I identify with contestants on a show that I have always ridiculed, humbled by the realization that my mind isn’t as open as I thought it was. Who knew reality TV could be so enlightening?  

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Bienvenidos a LUM

Enough slaughter. Time to harness those outgoing guts. 

It’s Saturday, just before 3 pm, and I’m sitting at a lovely little cafe in the heart of Barranco’s artistic district, where fauvist murals come to life on walls and I suddenly feel a twinge of inferiority for only sporting one tattoo. Though my camote waffleado  – a heavenly sweet potato pancake smothered in herbed sour cream – was cooked to perfection, I am feeling uncomfortable, a bit anxious even. It was approximately eight months ago that I was last tasked with compiling a concise, lucid piece of writing (if you consider 25 pages on duality and transformative discourse in Don Quixote concise, that is). 

As I write, I am seated in front of my laptop, with no less than eight tabs open, journal placed purposefully on the table, seemingly poised to spill brilliant revelations and well-researched conclusions onto the page. Alas, I have thus far managed to chat with a few friends on Facebook Messenger, ponder whether an Americano with cream or a cortado would be preferable, and creatively substitute an old napkin in my purse for toilet paper (which is a scarcity in 90% of Peruvian public restrooms, FYI). 

In lieu of crafting the incredibly thoughtful, meticulously researched blog post that I had envisioned this morning when I awoke, I’d like to simply introduce the impressive center that will serve as the domain for my investigation: El Lugar de la Memoria, la Tolerancia y la Inclusión Social (LUM), a project of the Ministry of Culture that first opened its doors in December of 2015. LUM is essentially a cultural museum dedicated to educating the general public about the era known as “the period of violence”, which spanned twenty years from 1980 to 2000 during the Peruvian internal armed conflict. 

LUM resides just off the bustling Avenida del Ejército, perched high above the sea with breathtaking panoramic vistas. Once approved by the shy security guard monitoring the foreboding iron gate at the main entrance, a sloped path leads to a viewing deck, where I spent a few glorious minutes looking out upon the vastness of the ocean, the seemingly endless coast line, admiring the organized chaos of Lima traffic.

In my own words, I’d say LUM strives to honor the individual experience of processing the pain and damage wrought by the era of extreme violence while at once encouraging collective healing through the dissemination of knowledge. Per its own mission statement:  

“Una de las premisas del LUM es constatar que las divergencias en las formas de ver y dar significado al pasado de violencia son parte de la realidad. No se pretende la uniformidad de todas las memorias o generar una unívoca. Lo que se busca desde el LUM es promover y aprender de estas memorias, de sus disputas y conflictividad, para crear nuevas formas de convivencia en el presente. Se asume el reto de tensar la diferencia, tomando su confrontación en el diálogo como punto de partida”.

“One of LUM’s principle premises is to recognize that divergences in processing and comprehending the recent violent past are a part of reality. The intention is not to unify all memories nor to generate a univocal coping mechanism. What LUM seeks is the promotion of these memories, of disputes and conflict, in order to create new forms of coexistence in the present. (LUM) assumes the task of fleshing out such difference, taking confrontation within the dialogue as a starting point.” (my translation) 

While I have yet to explore the museum’s exhibits in depth (that’s on the docket for Sunday, as it’s the last day of the current temporary exhibit), I can say this much: LUM is a powerful place. Physically speaking, it’s an absolute work of art. Its architectural grandeur, brainchild of Peruvian architects Sandra Barclay and Jean Pierre Crousse (of the self-titled firm Barclay & Grousse), has not gone unnoticed: the design won the Bienal de Arquitectura de Buenos Aires in October 2013 and the coveted Hexágono de Oro, considered to be the highest honor in Peruvian architecture, in December of 2014. 

LUM’s interior is as sobering as its exterior is impressive. Upon entering the museum, one is met with a conglomeration of artistic displays and cultural memorabilia: 

Strips of cloth bearing hand-written sentiments expressing grief about the past and hope for the future hang haphazardly all about; enlarged newspaper clippings emblazoned with devastating headlines and haunting photos are pasted onto the walls; a board strung with headphones and decorated with album covers invites visitors to listen to popular revolution songs; excerpts from letters written by military personnel reveal once classified tactics for suppressing counterinsurgency; plastic arts capture decades of complex history in tiny figurines. 

Ceramic figures by ceramist Rosalía Tineo Torres

It is an impressively diverse collection that captures our attention, wresting thoughts from the quotidian and placing the patron in the midst of this profoundly impactful event. As previously mentioned, I have only begun to explore the museum’s overwhelming content. However, it was one of the first displays that I encountered that impacted me most on this recent visit:

Picaflorcito, retablo de Edilberto Jiménez Quispe (Llaqta maqta ayacucho/chungui)

A fairly small, unassuming diorama, Edilberto Jiménez’s retablo stopped me in my tracks with its powerful imagery. On the left are seated representatives of six different Peruvian agencies: gobierno (the government), FF.AA (armed forces), congreso (congress), prensa (the press), judicial, and iglesia (the Church). The aforementioned appear to be engaged in intense dialogue, the backdrop of which is a series of colorful buildings that represent Lima. On the right, a crowd of campesinos in traditional Quechua dress wield charrangos (an Andean folkloric stringed instrument) and rifles. They are singing and dancing in the shade of what appears to be a Silk Floss tree. Hummingbirds hover just above the crowd, and though they seem but an afterthought in the display, their importance is signaled by both the title of the work – picaflorcito means “little hummingbird” in Spanish – and the words scrawled onto the two hinged panels flanking the diorama:

 Picaflorcito, picaflorcito, tu alita préstame, mi picaflorcito. Si me prestas tu alita, puedo entrar al pueblo de Lima, mi picaflorcito. Puedo entrar al palacio, mi picaflorcito. Entrando al pueblo de Lima, entrando al palacio de gobierno,   puedo conversar con el presidente, mi picaflorcito. Puedo conversar con el doctor Alan, mi picaflorcito. En allí, en allí, le diría, para alcanzar la justicia, mi picaflorcito.

 Vivo en pueblo lejano, vivo en pueblo de Chungui. Seguro por estar lejos, ni las periodistas llegan, ni las congresistas llegan. Dice, también llora el río de Qanchi, al no encontrarse con el río de Chungui. Así llora mi pueblo, cuando nadie se recuerda.    

Little hummingbird, little hummingbird, lend me your wing, my little hummingbird. If you lend me your wing, I will go to Lima, my little hummingbird. I can enter the palace, my little hummingbird. Once in Lima, once in the government palace, I can speak with the president, my little hummingbird. I can speak with Doctor Alan, my little hummingbird. Only then, once there, would I speak to him, to call for justice, my little hummingbird. 

I live in a faraway town, I live in the village of Chungui. Safe because it is far away, where neither journalists nor delegates venture. They say the Qanchi river, too, cries, because it does not join with the Chungui river. That is how my village cries, when nobody remembers. (my translation) 

As I crouched over the display, squinting to accurately transcribe the almost indecipherable script into my journal, I was struck by the simple beauty of the poem. The hummingbird serves as the interlocutor, a small, fascinating bird that is often portrayed as majestic for its elusive nature. The poetic voice is that of a peasant from the rural village of Chungui, pleading with the hummingbird to lend him its power of flight, necessary in order to make the long and treacherous journey to the capital. The contrast between Lima and the rural provinces is evident: Lima is the place of power and corruption, the axle around which Peru’s decision-making wheel turns, where political elites run the show (Doctor Alan is, of course, a nickname assigned to President Alan García, who ruled the country for a five year span at the height of violence, from 1985 to 1990 and again from 2006 to 2011) – a world entirely apart from the rural provinces, where “neither journalists nor delegates venture.” It is precisely this distance that makes such remote locales safe, according to the poetic voice. Ironically, it is only by making the trip to corrupt Lima that the peasant voice will be given the space to call for justice: the countryside is a place that is all too easily ignored, its people silenced by the physical distance from the power concentrated in the big city. 

While each line is decorated with puissant language, I find the last most moving: “Así llora mi pueblo, cuando nadie se recuerda/That is how my village cries, when no one remembers.” 

With that, I’d like to close this blog post, as memory and it’s place in post-conflict Peru will be the subject of my next entry. Signing off, La reportera gonzeaux. 

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A hauntingly beautiful song of yearning and gentle protest that I heard on one of my many bus rides across this fine country. 

LYRICS

Sombríos días de socavón Noches de tragedia Desesperanza y desilusión Se sienten en mi alma Así mi vida pasando voy Por que minero soy Minero que por mi patria doy Toda mi existencia Mas en la vida debo sufrir Tanta ingratitud Mi gran tragedia terminara Muy lejos de aquí Pre destinado a vivir estoy En el santo cielo Por eso a dios le pido morir Como buen minero Coro Minero cani y llajtaimanta Minero jina causakuni Manaimaiphiska thuhuanchu Suka thullaita sapeskairy Minero manta llullaykunki Minero jina causakusa Jihuancachari causajpari Wakharicuspa riscuscani

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So... gonzeaux?

If you’re reading this post, you’ve most likely noticed with your great powers of observation that the name of this blog is La reportera gonzeaux. 

“Yeah, cute, I like it, it’s so...avant-garde to mix languages and stuff. But seriously – what the hell does it mean?”  

Well, then, since you asked: An appropriate explanation of the title begins with none other than Hunter S. Thompson. The author has quite a presence on my blog thus far (a beloved quote of his and an image of the “gonzo fist” were among my first entries), as his writing style has inspired me to write more freely and less fearfully.

Thompson’s essay “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved” is generally considered to be the origin of what is known as “gonzo journalism.” After a bit of lackadaisical browsing on the interwebs, I (and many other under qualified and overly eager lit students) have concluded that the term “gonzo” has two potential origins: 1) It is purportedly a South Boston Irish slang term referring to the last one standing after a night of excessive drinking and general debauchery, or 2) it is a bastardization of the French word gonzeaux. 

While I find the Irish slang term charming,I have a strong inclination toward the latter. According to my personal favorite definition found on the web, gonzeaux “means, kind of, ‘shining path’” (thank you Gregg Fraley). 

Shining path, shining path... that rings a bell, doesn’t it? 

DING DING DING. Shining Path, more commonly known per its non-anglicized title as Partido Comunista del Perú - Sendero Luminoso, just happens to be a major player in the Peruvian internal armed conflict that I just happen to be studying for my Sturgis International research fellowship... 

Perhaps it’s mere happenstance that I was first introduced to the concept of gonzo journalism in Peru. I, however, prefer a more romantic vision, one of cosmic forces aligning just so to wield influence over the various forces at play in my life. 

“Living/working/writing gonzeaux”, then, seems to be an eerily perfect catch phrase for what I aim to accomplish during my time in Peru, which is: investigate a specific historical event (the Peruvian Internal Armed Conflict, 1980 - 2000, infamous for its employment of sexual abuse to quell counterinsurgency) through a feminist lens with a particular focus on gender violence as experienced by Peruvian women involved to some degree in the armed struggle and/or by women falsely accused of such involvement. (Whew, got all that?) 

As this conflict is already a fairly well-documented event in terms of hard facts and statistics, I am here to study the activity of Sendero Luminoso and the Fuerzas Armadas Peruanas in a deeply personal way: as a single woman, a survivor of sexual assault, a self-declared feminist, an activist, and a downright nerd, I seek to immerse myself wholly in the study of this event, with the ultimate goal of educating my readership and inspiring reflection. As Owan Lay, Director of the Lugar de la Memoria, la Tolerancia y la Inclusión Social, the center where I will be conducting much of my research, puts it, it is through “la reflexión crítica sobre nuestra posición en la sociedad" that we can “entender nuestro pasado y presente y tener una posición de cara al futuro.” 

La reportera gonzeaux, then, encapsulates perfectly the essence of what I want to do and how I want to do it. Thank you for joining me on this journey.  

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I learned a long time ago that reality was much weirder than anyone's imagination

Hunter S. Thompson 

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Image of the “gonzo fist,” employed by Hunter S. Thompson in his campaign for sheriff of Aspen. Four fingers and two thumbs grip a peyote button, a symbol that has come to represent gonzo journalism, which touts subjectivity, lauds the individual experience, and openly condemns rigid, statistic-laden reporting.