Activistas hondureñes protestan por el “estado de excepción” que suspende los derechos civiles

Resumen: Les activistas* dicen que la medida — implementada como parte de una “guerra contra la extorsión” — en realidad equivale a la criminalización de la pobreza.

To read this article in English, originally published at Truthout, click here.

Activistas forman un plantón contra el estado de excepción el 14 de enero 2023 en Parque Finlay, Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Tienen tambores, y sus mantas dicen ¡No se combate la violencia criminalizando la pobreza! y La policia militar es femicida y trans-odiante.
Activistas forman un plantón contra el estado de excepción el 14 de enero 2023 en Parque Finlay, Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Foto: Karla Lara.

En Tegucigalpa, Honduras, un grupo de activistas se reune regularmente los sábados por la mañana para oponerse a una de las nuevas políticas populares de la presidenta Xiomara Castro: el estado de emergencia que suspende parcialmente varios derechos constitucionales fundamentales. La medida, también conocida como estado de excepción, pretende ser una parte clave de la “guerra contra la extorsión” de Castro, un problema importante y estructural en Honduras. Les activistas antimilitaristas, sin embargo, dicen que no se puede avanzar con más militarización y que el estado de excepción equivale a la criminalización de la pobreza.

Al igual que sus contrapartes abolicionistas en los Estados Unidos, estes activistas antimilitaristas a menudo son atacades en las redes sociales cuando invitan a la gente a sus actividades. Les comentaristas les acusan de apoyar la extorsión o incluso de ser mareres. Criticar al nuevo gobierno conlleva el riesgo de ser tachade de derechista, dijo una miembro del grupo, Sofía (seudónimo), que pidió el anonimato por temor a represalias de la policía. Las medidas son populares, dijo Sofía, a pesar de que “se atropellan los derechos humanos”, porque “la gente quiere venganza”.

“Y es entendible también”, agregó. En Honduras como en los Estados Unidos, la violencia es una respuesta popular para enfrentar la violencia.

Siguiendo los pasos de El Salvador

En enero de 2022, Honduras eligió una nueva presidenta, Xiomara Castro. Castro, cuya campaña fue apoyada por muchos de los movimientos sociales del país, es la primera mujer presidenta del país y la primera en ser elegida por un partido no tradicional (LIBRE). La elección de Castro marcó el fin de la narcodictadura que se impuso después de que su esposo, Mel Zelaya, fuera destituido con fuerza de su cargo en 2009, y representada por Juan Orlando Hernández, quien fue presidente por dos periodos.

El período de 12 años posterior al golpe del 2009 se caracterizó por una mayor militarización, debilitamiento de las instituciones civiles, altos niveles de violencia contra activistas, colusión con los narcotraficantes en los niveles más altos del gobierno y la policía, y el saqueo de fondos públicos. En medio de todo esto, los índices de violencia han sido extraordinariamente altos en Honduras y la gente común, especialmente aquellos que viven en áreas controladas por poderosas pandillas o sindicatos del crimen organizado, se ha visto profundamente afectada.

El control de las pandillas y maras en los vecindarios a veces se extiende hasta el punto de decidir por les residentes dónde pueden y dónde no pueden trabajar (básicamente en lugares controlados por una pandilla rival) y controlan otros comportamientos de la vida diaria. La pena por la desobediencia es a menudo alta y violenta.

Entre los efectos de este nivel de control de las maras están los “impuestos” o “cuotas” que deben pagarse regularmente. Según una encuesta reciente (la extorsión casi nunca se denuncia a la policía), les hondureñes pagan alrededor de US$737 millones en “cuotas” anualmente. Este tipo de extorsión, que afecta en particular a personas que trabajan en el sector del transporte como taxistas, es el principal objetivo por el cual se dio el estado de excepción.

Castro originalmente impuso la medida por 30 días, empezando el 6 de diciembre de 2022, incluyendo a más de 200 barrios y colonias de las dos ciudades más grandes de Honduras. Desde entonces, el estado de excepción ha sido aprobado por el Congreso de Honduras y extendido dos veces (el actual vence el 20 de abril), y ahora incluye 17 de los 18 departamentos del país.

En virtud de la orden, se suspenden seis artículos de la constitución hondureña, lo cuales se refieren a la libertad de circulación, el derecho a la libre asociación y reunión, y la inviolabilidad del domicilio. Igualmente, las fuerzas de seguridad pueden realizar arrestos sin órdenes judiciales o procesos judiciales de causa probable, las personas pueden ser detenidas por períodos más prolongados y sus hogares pueden ser allanados y registrados por la policía sin los mismos controles judiciales de un estado de derecho. Poco menos de 20.000 oficiales de múltiples agencias, incluida la Policía Militar (PMOP) creada por el régimen anterior, se han dedicado a este control.

El medio de comunicación independiente hondureño Contra Corriente destacó que el estado de excepción aumentará drásticamente las tasas de detención en un momento en que el sistema penitenciario de Honduras ya está enjaulando a casi el doble de personas para el cual fue construido para albergar.

La idea del estado de excepción sin duda viene del vecino El Salvador, donde desde hace poco menos de un año se renueva un programa similar implementado por el presidente Nayib Bukele, y los hechos son preocupantes. La evidencia sugiere que la vida cotidiana en El Salvador ha mejorado notablemente, incluso dramáticamente, y los residentes se maravillan de las formas en que ahora pueden circular libremente en público sin obstáculos por la violencia, pero estas mejoras tienen un alto costo. Hasta el momento, 64.000 personas han sido encarceladas, según cifras gubernamentales, más del 2 por ciento de la población total del país, y se ha construido una nueva “mega prisión” para albergar a la masiva población encarcelada.

Un informe de Human Rights Watch afirma que al menos 90 personas detenidas han muerto en El Salvador durante el estado de emergencia, pero el gobierno no ha investigado ninguna de estas muertes y abundan los casos de abusos y detenciones de personas inocentes. Les defensores públicos dicen que, en el entorno político y jurídico actual, es casi imposible lograr la liberación de alguien, sin importar su caso o circunstancias.

El modelo salvadoreño es tan popular en Honduras como lo es en El Salvador. “Es normal que la gente se sienta tranquila cuando puede salir de su colonia porque el estado de excepción ha barrido a la gente, pero ¿qué se ha escondido debajo de la alfombra? Lo que no se ve es que gente inocente ha sido detenida, y algunos de ellos no han salido con vida”, dijo la legisladora Claudia Ortiz al medio independiente El Faro, sobre los cambios en El Salvador. “Es impactante saber que tu tranquilidad o la mía se logró a un precio inaceptable”.

Una manta se seca durante un plantón antimilitarista el 10 de diciembre 2022 en Plaza La Merced, Tegucigalpa, Honduras. La manta dice "la policia no te cuida, te roba, viola, asesina."
Una manta se seca durante un plantón antimilitarista el 10 de diciembre 2022 en Plaza La Merced, Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Foto: Karla Lara.

Cuestionando la normalización de la violencia

Desde el inicio del estado de excepción en Honduras en diciembre pasado, un grupo autoconvocado de antimilitaristas ha organizado plantones periódicamente en barrios que están afectados por la orden. Su propósito, dijo Sofía, es “visibilizar el carácter clasista del estado de excepción”. Su compañera, Suli Argentina, dijo que también utilizan estos espacios para compartir los testimonios de todas las formas en que las personas han sido afectadas por la militarización, para que la gente vea que, si bien la extorsión daña a la comunidad, la militarización también causa mucho daño.

Estos eventos han tomado diferentes formas, pero todos han sido en un espacio público como una plaza o un parque donde se reúne la gente de la comunidad o donde se puede ver al grupo facilmente. Muchos de los plantones han tenido actividades artísticas colectivas. En el primer evento, que se llevó a cabo el 10 de diciembre del 2022, trabajaron con miembros de la comunidad para pintar mantas, las misma que se utilizan hasta ahora en los plantones.

Una actividad aparentemente simple como pintar una manta colectivamente puede generar un diálogo sobre el militarismo y el patriarcado, dijo la cantautora popular feminista Karla Lara. Por ejemplo, el grupo pintó una manta en honor a Keyla Martínez, una estudiante de enfermería que fue asesinada en la comisaría en febrero de 2021 tras ser detenida por violar un toque de queda decretado por el coronavirus.

Mientras el grupo trabajaba en la manta, intentaban decidir de qué colores pintarla. Lara recordó que una persona sugirió que la manta se pintara de rosa. Otros participantes entablaron un diálogo, preguntando por qué pensaban que el rosa sería efectivo para humillar a la policía, y finalmente llegaron al punto de que el rosa solo “humilla” porque está asociado con la feminidad. En otras palabras, usar rosa para humillar es, en el fondo, una idea misógina.

Otros eventos han incluido presentaciones de música y talleres de grupos como Batucada AntiCistemica (un grupo que afirma la identidad trans que toca los tambores y tiene un juego de palabras con “cisgénero” en su nombre). En otra ocasión, el grupo antimilitarista se instaló en una plaza central con menos tráfico peatonal pero con alto tráfico automovilístico y colgaron las mantas para que pudieran ser vistas por más personas.

Para la gran mayoría, dijeron las activistas, el punto es crear un espacio en los barrios para cuestionar el militarismo como la solución a los problemas que vive la gente. Al mismo tiempo, dijo Sofía, se ejerce mucha cautela en la forma en que se diseñan los eventos debido a la sensibilidad de los temas y el riesgo de ser tachado del Partido Nacional y de la derecha. “Tratamos de hacer actividades lúdicas”, dijo, “para que tampoco provoquen violencia”.

Argentina dice que espera que el grupo pueda ayudar a la gente a ver “por qué la militarización no necesariamente resuelve el problema desde sus raíces, y así para que la gente empiece a entender que no estamos en contra de medidas para garantizar la seguridad de la población, sino mas bien proponemos que se tomen medidas que realmente aseguran la erradicación de este tipo violencia”.

Les activistas antimilitaristas pintan una manta diciendo "los uniformados matan" el 10 de diciembre 2022 en Plaza la Merced, Tegucigalpa, Honduras.
Les activistas antimilitaristas pintan una manta diciendo “los uniformados matan” el 10 de diciembre 2022 en Plaza la Merced, Tegucigalpa, Honduras. Foto: Karla Lara.

Poner fin a la violencia requerirá mayores cambios en la calidad de vida de todos

Los barrios y las colonias bajo el estado de excepción sufren altísimos índices de pobreza y desempleo. A las personas que están en ellos se les ofrecen fuerzas de seguridad; pero no así atención médica, ni abundante comida saludable, ni arte ni escuela. No solo ha aumentado el tamaño de las fuerzas armadas a lo largo de los años de la dictadura, dijo Sofía, sino que este año también aumentó el presupuesto de seguridad con el nuevo gobierno en detrimento de otros servicios públicos.

Los abolicionistas a menudo han enfrentado pedidos de más policía que hacen las propias comunidades afectadas por el sistema policial. En su libro No More Police, las organizadoras sociales y abolicionistas Andrea Ritchie y Mariame Kaba escriben que entienden estos llamados como “respuestas a lo que se percibe como una amenaza de quitar el único recurso que ofrece el estado para responder a una multitud de problemas”. En cambio, argumentan, la abolición se trata de ofrecer a las comunidades tantos recursos como sea posible, en lugar de la violencia policial igual para todos. El sistema policial es el único recurso que ofrece el estado ante el peligro que experimentan estas comunidades en un contexto de abandono organizado, peligro que es creado y sostenido por la desigualdad y las condiciones sociales.

El mismo estado de excepción “está enfocado en los barrios más pobres… donde la falta de recursos es parte del día en día”, dijo Argentina.

Argentina y otros en el grupo de activistas antimilitaristas enfatizan fuertemente la forma racista y clasista del estado de excepción. Dicen que centrarse solo en los barrios históricamente marginados es clasista, ya que el estado de excepción no afecta a todos por igual, y destacan que la extorsión tampoco se limita a estos barrios y colonias. Además, dijo Lara, limitar la medida a dichos barrios es “instalar la idea de que la pobreza es criminal al implicar que los extorsionistas están en estos barrios”.

Al suspender los requisitos como orden judicial antes de detener, registrar o arrestar a las personas, el único criterio que la policía puede usar es quién les parece “sospechoso”. “Es puro prejuicio”, dijo Sofía. Pero el arresto de jóvenes pobres y de clase trabajadora, dijeron les activistas, también estigmatizará la pobreza ya que sus arrestos conducen a la confirmación de la presunción de su culpabilidad.

Las autoridades hondureñas afirman que no había denuncias de derechos humanos durante el estado de excepción. Las entrevistadas por Truthout confirmaron que tenían conocimiento personal de los abusos policiales, incluyendo la detención de personas inocentes, como resultado del decreto. Una contó la historia de una persona que fue recogida por la policía y dejada en un barrio extraño mientras la amenazaban, en lugar de llevarla a una comisaría.

Las personas con las que habló Truthout no se sorprendieron por la falta de denuncias oficiales. No es razonable, dijo Sofía, esperar que la gente va a la misma comisaría de la misma policía que las ha atacado para presentar una denuncia formal de abuso policial, particularmente dentro de una cultura de gran desconfianza hacia la policía que surge desde la dictadura o incluso de antes.

Estes activistas también dijeron que temen represalias por su trabajo de organización contra el estado de excepción. Si bien no han enfrentado ningún ataque físico por parte de la policía hasta el momento, los miembros del grupo son muy conscientes de que cuando critican el militarismo en Honduras, están provocando a las mismas instituciones poderosas que conservan el poder ilimitado para cometer abusos.

El estado de excepción no ha cambiado fundamentalmente la estructura de violencia, extorsión y narcotráfico en Honduras, según estes activistas, en parte porque la policía y el ejército son una parte importante de dicha estructura. A juicio de Lara, “La cultura abusiva de la policía es la de siempre. Por mucho que digan que estos son los policías del gobierno socialista, que ha habido una depuración, que ha cambiado la dirigencia, al final los policías siguen tan violentos como siempre. Diría aún más. Porque el estado de excepción les da impunidad total”. Además, agrega, todos saben quién controla realmente las drogas en el barrio: la policía.

El expresidente Juan Orlando Hernández enfrenta actualmente un juicio en los Estados Unidos por cargos de utilizar su puesto para facilitar el tráfico de más de 500 toneladas de cocaína. Es un asunto de registro público que su gobierno estaba profundamente enmarañado con el narcotráfico, y se ha establecido, en parte a través de la condena de su hermano, que usó millones de dólares del sistema de salud del país, ahora en crisis, para financiar su campaña de reelección, que fue posible como resultado de un golpe judicial que encabezó. Estos años de corrupción, abandono organizado y la desintegración de la mayoría de las instituciones son una parte importante de la historia de las causas profundas de la violencia en las calles de Honduras.

Aunque el estado de emergencia es popular, este grupo de activistas antimilitaristas no es el único que se opone. El Consejo Cívico de Organizaciones Populares e Indígenas de Honduras (COPINH), la organización fundada por la mártir defensora Berta Cáceres, también se ha pronunciado en contra. Su declaración enfatiza que las raíces de la violencia estructural que enfrentan los hondureños no se encuentran en los barrios precarios enumerados en el estado de excepción sino en las instituciones financieras, entre otros actores de élite, y entre las fuerzas de seguridad.

Puede que no haya mejor evidencia de que la estructura subyacente de violencia en Honduras sigue sin ser controlada por el estado de excepción —”que la militarización no sirve para mejorar las condiciones de vida de las personas”, como dijo Argentina— como lo evidencia la racha de asesinatos contra defensores de derechos humanos y de la tierra durante el período de emergencia. Desde fines de diciembre del 2022, asesinaron al menos ocho personas involucradas en movimientos sociales. Además, tres mujeres garífunas fueron asesinadas en enero en Puerto Cortés, zona que se encuentra bajo estado de excepción.

A les hondureños, al igual que para las personas en los EE. UU. y en muchas otras partes del mundo, se les vende un tipo específico de seguridad. Esta seguridad se puede comprar rápidamente poniendo a miles de policías y militares más en las calles, pero requiere aumentar no disminuir el nivel general de violencia, en la medida que la definición de violencia incluya el abuso policial, las redadas y el encarcelamiento.

Kaba y Ritchie escribieron que los abolicionistas deben “confrontar las historias que nos cuentan sobre el sistema policial y la seguridad que no cuadran”, incluida la forma en que “la policía coloniza nuestra imaginación”. Lara menciona, también, que “aprendimos en las series de televisión que la policía hace cosas importantes. Vemos en ‘Chicago Fire’ que además de eso son guapos”. Esto tiene que cambiar, dijo. Pero el trabajo de crear alternativas al sistema policial es lento y no tan fácil de explicar.

Constantemente se vende a la gente soluciones militarizadas y violentas al “crimen”, a través del aumento de las fuerzas policiales y de seguridad en las calles, a través de los programas de televisión y a través de los discursos de los políticos. Muy poco se representan las alternativas complejas, locales, multifacéticas y de cambio de sistema.

“Lo feo [de esta militarización] es que la gente cree que está bien que hagan eso, y que te llevan a creer que está bien eso”, dijo Lara.

Por eso es tan crítico, dicen estes activistas, crear un espacio público para cuestionar la militarización. “Como parte de la comunidad de diversidad sexual y como mujer, tengo muy claro personalmente, que no confío en la policía”. Haciéndose eco de una consigna del movimiento, agregó que la policía “no nos cuida, nos asesina”. Sin embargo, Argentina dijo: “Vamos a seguir luchando por una apuesta por la vida”.


Utilizando un lenguaje inclusivo, he optado por el uso de “e” para eludir las palabras en femenino o masculino.

ICYMI – new article out on collective care in the era of COVID

Last week I published an article in Truthout about the lack of institutional guidelines and support for keeping ourselves and each other safe during the ongoing COVID pandemic. The main thrust of the article is about how good boundaries and better practices of consent can be used as helpful tools to negotiate safer situations and help people take care of each other given the larger failures in which we find ourselves. Dr. Connie Wun, the co-founder of AAPI Women Lead, who I had the pleasure of interviewing for this piece, helped me realize that this is a focus on “collective wellness.” In the process of writing the piece, I was particularly inspired by many of the ideas I heard from the people I interviewed about how possible it is to, as the People’s CDC says, have safer in-person gatherings. I hope you all will find something helpful and useful there too.

There is also an update in the Wendy Howard case that I wrote about in July. Victoria Law published a piece just yesterday at Truthout outlining the details; Wendy’s trial ended on Oct. 21 and she was acquitted on all charges but one. The jury deadlocked on the last charge, of “voluntary manslaughter.” The details are here. Wendy Howard’s Defense Committee is continuing to call on DA Zimmer to drop all the charges and to fundraise for Wendy’s defense.

A purple and green image with a picture of a woman in the center. Text reads: Call: Kern County DA Cynthia Zimmer at 661-868-2340. SAY: My name is [xxx]. [If you are part of an organization, mention it.] I am calling to demand that you drop the charges against Wendy Howard. Survivors of domestic violence must be able to defend themselves when in danger, and they deserve more than being forced to choose between their lives and their freedom! As DA, you've pledged to protect survivors and we ask you to uphold that pledge and end the abuse-to-prison pipeline today. Drop the charges against Wendy!

the police just keep murdering people

the last time I sat down to write, I was trying to write about the police killing Black people, and about the widespread harm the police do in general. it was last Wednesday, and Daunte Wright was still alive.

my poet friend really described this best in “Next Black Murder

in an effort to spread ideas, hope, and care for each other, and to fortify our abolitionist networks, here are some things folks can do about the violence that is inherent to policing:

What Does It Mean to Feel Hopeful Right Now?

Mariame Kaba says “hope is a discipline,” and of course, as in most things, she is completely right. What makes me so devastated is that right now I see so many people (ahem white liberals! but others too) digging for and grasping at false hope. Yes, we absolutely must have some hope for better times ahead in order to get through tough situations, like the coronavirus pandemic we’re living through right now. But to me it is critically important to distinguish “hope” in the generic sense from the kind of hope that Mariame Kaba is talking about, or the kind that I embrace as I face the world anew every day. Irrational hope that things will just get better on their own; the mistaken but common belief that massive, systemic problems will resolve themselves through the simple passage of time (“history moves forward”); and false hope in bad solutions or ones that simply sidestep issues and create new and different systems of inequality – I can only see this hope leading to more cynicism, depression, anxiety, and hopelessness. Hope in *anything* just for the sake of *having some hope* doesn’t really seem like hope to me at all.

I do not feel any hope in a vaccination roll out that continues right down the genocidal and imperialist path we are already walking down. Seeing and hearing people more focused on how quickly we can fulfill our own desires than on how they can work with others to leave fewer people behind fills me with despair, not hope.

Hope, for me, comes from the visionary organizing of disabled people who have fought for priority access to the vaccine. Hope, for me, comes from learning how to design solutions to this pandemic that would actually work for most or all of the population by working collectively in struggle with the groups that are most affected by it, not by listening to some blowhard politicians that actually do not give a shit if people die. Actually what I mean is some politicians that are interested in killing people so they can profit off of it or, best case scenario, would not bother to help us even if they had the chance to cast a winning vote.

Hope comes to me in letters from prison and in messages from Honduras and in emails from long-lost friends. It says “they tried to separate us but they could not.” It says “they tried to kill our visions but they could not.” It whispers “they tried to tell us the sun would not rise unless we gave up everything that meant anything to us but they were wrong.” It reassures me “They tried to make us afraid to live with dignity but I’m not afraid if we do it together.” Turning to the discipline of hope, I can tell myself that there are many things that I might want to make my life more comfortable/relaxing/fun right now, but I can sit down, take a deep breath, and reach within my network and my imagination to find how can I meet that need in another way without leaving someone else behind. I have hope that my sacrifices are actually saving and improving lives, and that my work matters to someone.

I am deeply, deeply angry – I am in a rage a lot of the time. But I have a lot of hope too. I am inspired by the brave and visionary people all around me, and I learn constantly how to do a better job working to create a different and better world together with those people. This hope is not always easy. It requires work. But it is built on my real experiences and relationships, not lies. It is hard to let go of the easy, shiny promises and false hopes being hawked but I know I am not alone and I know these hopes are solid. I know that the only way to a future I want a part of is one that I take an active part in creating and understanding and in that, there is also hope.

Pink and gray images of a wrench with a heart in the middle. Text says "The virus is capitalism. A new world is upon us. Let's build it together."
art by Christeen Francis @ Justseeds Collective

Fiction I read in 2020

I believe that fiction, and art more generally, is never frivolous. Abolition, to give one potent example, relies heavily on the power of imagination because we must be able to imagine a world beyond cages, beyond borders, beyond policing of all kinds as we begin to build that new world. This work requires us to strengthen our imaginations, and part of the work of abolition is also recuperating imagination from capitalism, which is relentlessly working to kill and co-opt our ability to imagine things for ourselves. Capital (and capitalists) wants to show us things as it sees them, as it wants things to be; it wants to shape the world and sell it back to us. It does not thrive when we are able to imagine, shape, and reshape the world for ourselves. Human beings have powerful imaginations, but only when we cultivate them.

Fiction is critical just when things seem to be at their most serious, and, in that spirit, I share some food for your imagination.

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I strongly encourage anyone purchasing books to avoid Amazon in particular and other large chains in general (the library is also always an option). If you don’t have a particular independent bookstore or even if you do, you can order any of these books easily online at Bookshop and support independent bookstores.

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  • The Plague – Albert Camus – Very cliché read, and yet I cannot say enough how many passages leapt off the page as if they had come out of the Washington Post. I thought this would be depressing and yet it was validating (and infuriating). The excitement in the air about the vaccine feels so much like the end of the book.
  • Loop – Brenda Lozano – A very apt book for right now. A book about waiting, and about nothing and everything.
  • The Death of Vivek Oji – Akwaeke Emezi — Powerful, affirming, sad book about nonbinary gender, but not as sad as I thought it would be.
  • Signs Preceding the End of the World – Yuri Herrera – A beautiful allegorical tale about the borderlands between the US and Mexico, recommended by many readers of Mexican literature as an alternative to Jeanine Cummins book (please don’t read that book)
  • The Deep – Rivers Solomon – Aching, haunting, powerful but not devastating. Perhaps one of the most beautiful books I’ve ever read.
  • The Shadow King – Maaza Mengiste – An intersectional tour de force on colonialism, class, gender, caste, and race, and maybe one of the most difficult books I’ve read for me personally, possibly because of the combination of the subject matter, format, and unfamiliarity with the history and region. A difficult read that was worth it.
  • Storm of Locusts — Rebecca Roanhorse – the sequel to Trail of Lightning which I loved last year. It did not disappoint!
  • Mildred Taylor’s Logan Family series  – This is highly recommended YA by the woman who wrote Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry. It turns out Taylor wrote a whole series of books around multiple generations of the family in that book, beginning with The Land. In August I disconnected from all electronic communication and hung out in my house to detox. During that period, I read five books, and in the end, The Land was the one I ended up recommending to everyone.
  • American Marriage – Tayari Jones – A really compelling and engrossing book about the effect of large social forces on one family.
  • Brooklyn Brujas series — Zoraida Córdova – YA about Chicana teenage witches. Do I need to tell you more, really?
  • The Distance between Us – Renato Cisneros – Part family memoir and part reflection on individual roles and responsibility? ignorance? innocence? in the midst of governmental terror, this is the true/fictional account of the son of a Peruvian general in the 1970s and 1980s, given to me by a close friend who lived through the same period and recently translated into English by the wonderful Charco Press.
  • The City We Became – NK Jemisin — If you are not yet reading everything by NK Jemisin, you may want to start. I am, so I will continue to recommend it.
  • Unpregnant – Jenni Hendricks and Ted Caplan – A very funny book about a serious subject (restrictive abortion laws). I recommend that this become a genre.

Especially good non-fiction:

  • Who Killed Berta Cáceres? – Nina Lakhani – A powerful investigative account of how the murder of Berta Cáceres was arranged and how the crime is embedded in larger forces of extractivism, corruption, and especially counterinsurgency tactics linked directly to the US. Some of the clearest writing I’ve read describing how counterinsurgency actually works inside communities.
  • Indigenous People’s History of the United States – Roxanne Dunbar-Ortiz – Should be required reading for every white and/or settler person in the United States. I had picked and chose chapters to read previously, but Dunbar-Ortiz’s thesis grows slowly over the course of the book and I appreciated the ideas much more deeply when I read the whole thing straight through.
  • Dead Girls – Selva Almada – Imaginative, powerful, and intimate book about femicide and machismo exploring the unresolved murders of 3 girls in the interior of Argentina in the 1980s and their ghosts. Just short enough and just the right tone to be read without quite breaking my heart completely.
an image relevant to the COVID era from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince

Neglect Fatigue Syndrome

Neglect Fatigue Syndrome
by Maurece L. Graham

I don't want to love no more,
I've loved all that I can
This ain't no march for Blake
I'm Black
I can walk til they name a street after me
legislate til they put my name on a plaque
get arrested til the system cracks
talk til I can't breathe
and still this place won't love me

I don't want to love no more
you equivocate every time I die
and only ask why
I kill myself too,
never acknowledging the arrows
pointed at you
I'm a talking point in your news
something that validates your views
of my death being justified no matter
how I died

No, I don't want to love no more
you mock my soulful pleas
snicker if I'm liberal
snub my misery
by listening to someone else tell my story
like my plight is a policy
able to change with a stroke of your opinion

I don't want to love no more
Dr. King loved much greater than me
John Lewis got beat much
worse than me
we've forgotten more of their love
than I'll ever have to give
why should I love anymore
when you've treated even them
like this.

This is a poem written by my friend and penpal of 4 years. I am honored to share space with an imprisoned Black poet. He wrote the poem; I chose and am responsible for the image/flyer content and everything else which accompanies it.

Next Black Murder

Next Black Murder
by M.L. Graham

Next Black Murder
is one too many
words, that is
because Black and Murder
together are a given
should have an apostrophe
make it a conjunction
that way there'll be less to
explain.

Again?
Daniel Prude was craazy
not for being naked in the sleet
that's American
craazy
for not running
for laying on the concrete
in front of police
like life is sweet.

I hear white lives matter
too, that they
die more than blacks
but instead of
protesting the police
they protest us
like they don't care
about their dead
only about diminishing ours.

Who is it that
strangles the truth
like they strangled Acevedo
and Garner and Floyd?
Who blames cities for laws
that are passed by states
and blames us
for wanting real change
for wanting them to say our names?

Black lives do matter
saying so does respect all life
but you've rejected even that
simple statement
like "your" can't mean "our"
just this once
like the next black murder
will mean something different
to you.
Orange and black poster that says Abolish police!!! All power to the people. Disarm.  Dismantle. There is no justice for anybody before Black Liberation ... so fight for nothing less!
Image by Shiva Addanki at Justseeds Collective

This poem was sent to me to publish by a currently imprisoned friend and penpal of 4 years.

(He did not choose the graphic to accompany it however.)

GF 1619-2020

G.F. 1619-2020
by M. L. Graham

Ask
and ask
and then ask
why we can't breathe
why we can't see each other
in 'we'
at least not officially
why whenever we speak of history
it's dotted with caveats
inclusive I's
exclusive we's
narrating our story
while we can't breathe
ask why
grown men holler momma
eighteen months after she's passed
eight minutes before we do, too
which we know thanks to a seventeen
year old --
or so we're told
or so we're shown.
ask why
slave patrols kept their colors
their vicious dogs
their strikes like bloodhounds
unerringly cracking black spines
black kidneys
black arteries
until we can't breathe
Who's in control of the city?
Why we riot whenever we bleed?
Why we get asked to trust
those who've robbed our best,
robbed our breath?
Why black anyways,
isn't that the mark of a slave?
why not call me by my name?
There's nothing black about me
that wasn't left by brutality,
boots, batons, knees,
the hearts of those who refuse to hear my pleas.
ask, and ask why
ask until you hear your voice in
every preacher's cries
ululations, protestations,
hymns
parched and inflected
pitched and hoarse,
ask again
ask why you think riots
are uncalled for
when injustice is ringing
when the police who cleared the
streets
were still writing
false reports in our names
signed by the silent
coauthored by the medic
who backed our killer's tale
before they thought we knew.
I don't want your stores
or their windows
your streets strewn with broken glass
your loot,
we want to breathe,
like Eric Garner, Rodney King,
Philando Castile, Freddy,
Tamir, George, Brianna,
You & Me
Ask why
I had to write this
for 'We the People'
it's not for a cause
it's because 'it' happened again
and again
and again
and I'm not sure what 'we'
means anymore
they want prison for the perps
I want justice for all
they want harsher charges
I want a sweeter liberty
we can't have both
but we can have neither
ask why it seems that's what
we've got.
Ask why you think
peaceful protests are best
we had those three years ago,
at Trump's inauguration
at his appointment of Gorsich,
at the Kavanaugh hearings,
the Mueller findings
the Impeachment proceedings,
and yet Manafort is free,
as is Stone,
Sheriff Arapaio,
Giuliani & Co.,
and of course Trump is
still president
the glory of peaceful protests!
like flowers at a cancelled wedding,
like Floyd's nonresistence.
"Just be calm," he whispered
"I can't breathe," he replied
and peaceful crowds were dispersed
helicopters hovered
tear gas bursting in air
proof through the night
that they don't care.
Burn, New York!
Burn, Baltimore!
Burn, Louisville!
Burn, L.A.!
Burn, Seattle, Minneapolis, St Louis,
Houston, Oakland, Miami,
Burn! Burn! Burn --
with the flame of indignation,
the heat of reprehension,
the fire of compassion,
light up the skyline
with refrains
from Malcolm, Huey,
Angela and Martin
let your silhouettes flicker
to the tune of unrequited memorials
that ask why
through dead black throats
ask why
we can't keep our bowels from releasing
ask why
the EMT can't find our pulse
ask why
when your soul died you took my body
with it
ask why
our eyelids can't lift so we can
stare into the camera,
past the little girl holding it,
into your living room
He killed us!
His stare is still here,
we cannot convict him
he is us
ask why
convicting him is not suicide for you,
for all of you who didn't ask why
just repeated the lies
just retweeted the myths
covered the blows with words
hid the strangle holds behind
other breaking news,
concealed your broken face
behind 'my' facts
ask why
like you've never asked before
so you'll never have to ask again
ask
"Why can't you get in the car, George?"
and ask
"Why won't you be still, George?"
then ask again
"Momma!"
Why can't we breathe

This poem was sent to me to publish by my friend and penpal of 4 years who is currently imprisoned. I am happy to have a space to share with a Black poet, and am honored to call Mr. Graham my friend. Our letters have been a constant source of inspiration, intellectual exchange, and hope over the years. I would say a lot more, in less formal terms, about this poet and our friendship, but for his life being at the mercy of the ever watchful prison.

story from the protest

The cop came over to express concern.

About me getting run over by a car

While handing out flyers to stop the concentration camps

From the sidewalk.

Then he walked me through moving traffic back to safety.

Two people standing together in front of the sun. Poster says "Communities not Cages"
Art by: Rommy Sobrado-Torrico

communication through bars is revolutionary

Today I was reading about Mutulu Shakur, who has spent over 30 years in prison, when I came across the following piece of information: Dr. Shakur was denied parole in one hearing solely because he participated in a phone call on speakerphone with a professor and their students. In essence, the act of speaking to people in an educational context became the reason that he was seen as a danger to society.

photograph of Dr. Mutulu Shakur in the sun against a concrete wall

Dr. Mutulu Shakur, August 2016

Dr. Shakur is the stepfather of Tupac Shakur and has served 32 years in federal prison for his involvement in a bank robbery which resulted in the deaths of 3 people and involvement in the escape of Assata Shakur. Shakur was denied mandatory parole in 2016 (after serving 30 years as a peaceful prisoner) and has currently initiated a lawsuit against the federal government.

For the last 3 years I have met with other local people twice a month to write letters to people in prison. This work has many critical aspects, some of which are immediately obvious, and others which are less so. Perhaps another day I can write more about the importance of writing a letter in the spirit of solidarity to a person who is literally living in a cage, and about the important and meaningful friendships that have grown from those letters. What I’m thinking about this afternoon is the way this work keeps me connected to the many shocking injustices of the prison system, and how much I continue to learn from it.

It’s worth reading the whole list of horrifying reasons Dr. Shakur was denied parole put together by his support committee. Apparently a prisoner cannot refer to themselves as a victim of COINTELPRO, although it is indisputably factually correct, if they want to ever be considered for parole, because referring to their victimization by the FBI makes them likely to reoffend.

Regarding the public phone call, no one disagrees that Mutulu called a professor who placed the call on speaker phone so that other faculty and students could listen to his comments. The problem is that the prison and parole board have not ever cited a rule that was violated by such a phone call, nor was anyone ever informed of such a rule (and how heinous is the idea of such a rule?). From the support committee summary:

“The February 2013 brief phone call, fully monitored, was the sole basis for rejecting the Parole Commission’s Hearing Examiner’s recommendation that Dr. Shakur be paroled in early 2015. No one has ever explained why any rule was violated or shown that Dr. Shakur or any other inmate has been informed that allowing someone to place his or her phone on a speaker is a rule violation.”

In this case, the mere act of speaking to others outside the prison walls becomes reason enough for continued loss of civil rights. Even the apparent involvement of Danny Glover at the event was not enough public pressure to turn the tide (or perhaps that’s exactly what irritated the parole board enough to cause the retaliation). The message is that prisoners can and will be punished for communicating with people outside of prison in public ways. But even so, it’s shocking to see that the prison has so much control that it does not need to provide any justification for this, even in such a high profile case.

This case and details are not only a good lesson on how the prison works, but they touch close to the local work we do, too. I sent Mutulu a birthday card last year, and received a nice note back. I’ve participated in similar phone calls myself at public talks given on campus, as an audience member, and have considered organizing these kinds of events as well. And another reason for Dr. Shakur’s parole denial is one that we deal with regularly: how to close a letter.

“Mutulu often signs off his letters with the words ‘Stiff Resistance’ and this indicates he may once again engage in violent crimes if released.”

The Hearing Examiner stated:

“The Commission not only finds these statements incompatible with the goals and conditions of parole supervision, but also concludes they are evidence that you have not disavowed yourself from the same set of beliefs you had when you were convicted …”

What is noticeable here is that the Commission looked past literally volumes of public statements and writing made by someone that would clarify and provide clear context on what they are thinking, in this case an explicit disavowal of violence as a means toward social change, and instead focused on a two word salutation and decided to interpret it in a vacuum. They will, it seems from their own statement, accept nothing less than a disavowal of all the political beliefs Dr. Shakur had when he was convicted. In other words, they are not looking for him (or other prisoners) to disavow violence or certain actions, but rather to disavow political resistance entirely. They are looking for complete submission, even in letter salutations.

But prisoners also demonstrate their refusal to submit and their continued meaningful political resistance precisely through communicating with us. It’s a way of maintaining their selves, their dignity, and their humanity inside of an institution that is specifically designed to strip them of all of that. Mutulu uses “stiff resistance;” another friend of our group, Sean Swain uses “stay dangerous” and has mounted three campaigns for governor while on the inside. Communication beyond bars is a radical tool or it would not be punished so radically. And if this is the punishment that occurs in a high profile case like Mutulu Shakur’s, with a website, support committee, and some connection to Danny Glover, one should imagine much more arbitrary denials and worse repression that occurs among the rest of the prison population.

Prisoners take enormous risks in simply communicating with us. As people who walk freely on the outside, it’s essential not to forget, underestimate, or waste these risks, and to understand that they are precisely how we know our work is revolutionary and meaningful.

prison_birds_hearts