1 2 3 4

Half-cocked liberation attempt

The rage of our captors surfaced midday when the anti-riot troops attempted to liberate us. About twenty antiriot troops had arrived at 10 am in the army helicopter. Ostensibly here to control the local violence of the previous days (San Antonio PACs using violence against pro-returnee members of the community) they parked themselves next to our hut once they learned that there were hostages.

Forty yards away from our hut, barefoot in borrowed jeans, I was buying toothpaste when I saw the troops, helmets on, shields up, and rifles at the ready, lining up in formation in front of the hut. Raul Martinez is standing beside me. Seeing what is going on he shouts out instructions for the townsmen to quickly gather around. By the time I get back to the hut, the shoving and shouting has begun. The police are outnumbered five to one by enraged townspeople showing no fear of their guns.

I gingerly step through the shoving and growing tension. My four colleagues have their bags on shoulders, ready for 'liberation.' We were clearly not going to make it out of the hut at this point. The townsmen, clubs in hand and anger in their eyes, pushed through the line of police to the Comisario who was trying to get out to lead his troops and us to safety. He confided to us later he wasn't sure to where he would take us. Two men pushed the Comisario to the ground at our feet, breaking down the door.

The men then brought in a prepared group of ten grandmothers, mothers and little girls, mostly barefoot, in hand-woven clothes, all bearing clubs of different sizes depending on the size of the bearer. As the pushing, shouting and shoving continued outside, and around our hut, the womenfolk had been given orders to get between the police and us, and guard us. And they did. One speaks to us in Kekchi, jabbing her hand and club at us. I look into the eyes of a 6 year old, determined, with her club ...

We sit on the ground, on cement bags, rickety chairs and the small bench. I was afraid that one shot might go off, which would lead to more; we stared quietly at the women and girls, faces of hatred, ignorance and rage.

Once the absurd liberation attempt was aborted, the women were hustled away by the men who brought our lunch, and sat quietly, asking us questions. I wasn't hungry. Time for another cigarette. An hour later I slowly relaxed and felt like continuing the halted card game from the morning.

The afternoon began slow, and slowed down as the sun beat overhead. It felt like a long, slow haul. As time slowed to a crawl, I lay on some sandbags, smoked, and thought: this is a serious political mistake the San Antonio community has made, capturing foreigners. Recent history shows that foreign governments almost only speak out about human rights violations in Guatemala when one of their nationals is affected. That is to say, Guatemalan security forces have killed and abused hundreds and thousands of their own, and there has been little outcry, and less pressure.

And I thought: even if this true, and there is all this international pressure that surely was building as we neared the end of day one, I was still captive to angry, poor, and abused club and gun bearing people. It wasn't a good feeling.

At 2 pm, the army specialist, who had arrived that morning in the army helicopter came in, to chat! We feel we are in a poorly thought out, well acted drama. Dressed casual, we talk a while of this and that -- he says little. We talk of Raul Martinez; he says: "I think I'll go and talk with him." Exit Mr. Especialista, who doesn't again appear.

The hours pass slow and slower in the afternoon sun. We never do get back to Oh Hell. Dan was winning so I don't mind.

It begins to rain. Torrents come down, like yesterday. I feel like it is raining inside me. The faces of the women and girl remain -- the faces of the divided and crucified poor in Guatemala.

Liberation!

3:30 PM

A turn of events. A group of men we had not yet dealt with enter the hut. After asking permission to speak with us, they ask: "So, what do you all think about what we are doing?" A long silence ensues; we look at one another. Our captors want our opinion about what they are doing to us. "You go first." "No you."

"Well," I venture, "I for one am very nervous about this situation, for my personal safety, for the safety of others. If violence breaks out many will get hurt. Having said that, and forgive me for saying this, you are only making your problems worse for yourselves by keeping us hostage." And so on from there. For three hours we negotiate, talking openly; they agreeing, understanding.

The rains stops. The non-grey is beautiful. I feel bone tired, and it has only been 24 hours, smoking, eating junk food, playing cards, smoking, feeling afraid, confronting their ignorance, fear and hatred, accepting their hospitality. How had this change come about? Someone (Mr. Especialista?) must have read the riot act to Raul Martinez, the master of ceremonies, who then directed the community to let us go.

At 6:30 PM they return one final time to say we were free to go, liberados, which was great. Of course we had no where to go, but to walk off into the dark night (all nights are dark in the middle of a jungle) and stumble one kilometer out of town, back to where the returnees were camped on the hill. Not a glorious hostage freeing situation. This is what we did.

After final discussions with the Comisario and leader of the FRI (Rapid Action Forces), we were escorted to the edge of town by armed patrollers and police. In single file, every second person with a bobbing flashlight, we left the milling crowd of townspeople and walk, slipped, tripped and carried ourselves to the bridge, between jungle and town. Here, the police, against their word, stayed behind. We walk, slip and slide in the dark on a path swamped in the past three days rain.

Of course, we got lost, temporarily, feel our tension rise (Have we been set up, to receive a bullet in the night, never to be proved who fired it?), and then get on track and join the ever patient and displaced returnees in the hill above San Antonio, bedding down for another sleepless night of rain and crying babies. It was a welcome return; though we slept in cruder conditions than last nights dirt floor, we slept better.

After a 5 am Friday bathe in the river, we are back to the San Antonio community, free, mediating negotiations between the returnees and the townspeople, our captors of yesterday. Twists of life in the Ixcan, amusing and sobering anecdotes amidst a region of much suffering, hatred, survival and hope.

Aftermath

Because of the international outcry, pressure was brought to bear on the government that then, only then, sent its officials to the region (in a helicopter; they did not hike in) to mediate a solution.

The solution? Returnees were given plots of land on the southeast edge of San Antonio's total area, home but not home, two hours hike from the town center of San Antonio. On July 20 they packed their belongings from their 'campsite' on the edge of San Antonio and hiked to their new home that they have named: Cimientos de Nueva Esperanza, 20 de abril (Foundations of New Hope, April 20). They are literally building a town in the middle of the Ixcan jungle.

Meanwhile, Raul Martinez has been publicly speaking in and around his feifdom of the Zona Reina, claiming victory, having kept the returnees out. He has gone to Xalbal (a small community just outside the Zona Reina) to warn them to prepare themselves again a possible return of the Veracruz returnees. The Veracruz returnees are getting set to march home, taking heart from the San Antonio returnees who could no longer wait for the government. Raul Martinez and his people are getting ready. Stay tuned.

Raul is right, he has won, in the short term. The long term: will the international community pressure enough for the Guatemalan government to order the military to capture their man in the Zona Reina, now with one more capture order out against him (the most recent being of course kidnapping)?

All returns are hard, this one is no exception. At the same time they are surprisingly very uplifting, just another apparent contradiction.

1 2 3 4