Three days before, I had arrived in the town of Palenque from the city. I had arrived hoping to do a little community
service during my vacation. I curiously
noted the small town and its humble people. The
streets were clean and the townspeople were very cordial. The children rode tricycles around the plaza
and the old men played dominoes in the park. I
realized that even in its humility, Palenque was a happy town. I soon found the parochial house, where I would
be staying for the rest of the week. I
rang the doorbell and a robust man with white hair and a lined face opened
the door.
“You’re Xavier?” asked the priest.
“The very same,” I answered,
smiling. I was sure that he was
Basque.
“Well, welcome! I am Father Joaquín and
this is Aitor,” the priest said.
At the back of the house I met a tall man with green eyes
who said with a smile, “Welcome to your house, Xavier.” I immediately thought that this man was also Basque. After introducing
myself and thanking Joaquin and Aitor for their
kindness, I withdrew to unpack my things.
The Palenque police station was located
on the other side of the town. The
neglected station consisted of four badly painted walls and a rusted tin
sign that said “National Police: Palenque.” Sitting in the office, Captain Torres was recruiting
officers over the telephone for a special operation called the “La Yuca Eviction.” By
promising 25 hectares to each collaborator, he had recruited 200 officers
from around the province by the end of the day. Captain
Torres smiled and seemed pleased with his ability to organize everything
so rapidly and efficiently. Finally,
he called his intendant over the radio and proudly
said, “Send me the vehicles and the arms. The evictions will begin tomorrow.”
The following morning, I woke up early and in a bad mood
because the parish rooster had begun crowing at 4
am. I waited until 8 am to go eat breakfast, when I met Aitor. We talked for
an hour while we ate scrambled eggs. I
was curious to know what kind of work was done in Palenque and soon found out about
the Communities program. These Communities
were organized by the parish in the entire area around Palenque.
“They are the basis of our work,” Aitor explained. “The
Community consists of a group of farmers from a common area who help one
another. The priests, doctors, and volunteers are charged
with teaching basic things to the farmers, like how to wash themselves
well, properly prepare their food, save wisely, etc.”
“I would like to see what you
all have done,” I said.
“Let’s go then!” said Aitor quickly. We
rose and started off towards the Community of San Jacinto.
When we arrived at
the town of San
Jacinto, the first thing that I noticed was
a chapel under construction.
“That chapel is being built thanks
to your uncle,” said Aitor. I was proud of the work that my uncle had done;
it was he who had motivated me to do community service in Palenque. In the town there was a large rice processor,
a tractor, and various stores with basic products. Aitor told me that
all that I was seeing had been bought with the backing of the Community. The farmers of San Jacinto had been following Aitor’s advice
for a couple of years and had been able to buy several machines, such as
the processor and the tractor that were helping all of the farmers in the
area. Meanwhile, I talked with a
man from the town who helped me to understand the immense help that the
Communities were providing the farmers. After meeting the other townspeople, I realized
that with the limited education that these people had, they appreciated
their jobs, their town, their neighbors, and their values more than anyone
else I had known. Returning to Palenque, a bitter feeling of guilt
overwhelmed me. I was impressed
by the nobility of these humble people.
“They take care of each other
and the Community has helped them a lot,” I said to Aitor in
the car. “With the Communites, these people can now learn to save and have no
danger of starving during the winter,” he responded.
That same afternoon,
after three hours of driving, we arrived at a place called Santa Marta. It was
the first time that someone from the parochial house had been there. Aitor wanted me to
help organize the area into a Community.
“We are going to split up and you’ll visit the houses around the marsh,” said Aitor. “And
what should I say to everyone?” I asked.
“Tell them about everything that you saw in San Jacinto,” said Aitor, as if
it were obvious. Still
unsure of what I was going to say, I accepted the job. At the end of the day, I had visited various
houses and in each one I had been offered food and gifts. I didn’t understand how a family that lived
in desperate poverty in a house made of cane without electricity or even
a stove could offer me food. I
had eaten lunch six times, and only six times because I couldn’t eat
anything else. I was holding nine containers of rice and seven
containers of peanuts that they had given me. All the families that I visited had agreed
to form a Community
Even though my first
day of work went well, I was quiet and thoughtful on the return trip
to the parochial house. When we
arrived, I ate and then went to spend the rest of the night thinking
in my room. I had never seen such poverty and misery, yet
despite all that, I had found the people incredibly friendly and generous. In my innocence, it was difficult to believe
that someone could be so happy living in such misery. Nothing relieved
the painful feelings of guilt and powerlessness that I felt at not being
able to do anything. In a fury,
I grabbed my pen and started to vent in my notebook.
“We’re going to start in the southern area of La Yuca,” said
Captain Torres, who that same night was planning the eviction with the
two hundred police officers. Armando
Miranda, the governor of the province, entered the station unannounced. Miranda was a short man with glasses and a
smile like a clown’s. He was accompanied
by a tall, well-dressed middle-aged woman. She
was looking around unpleasantly.
“Good day,” said the governor. “I’d
like to introduce Mrs. Ana Maria Freire. She is the owner of La Yuca hacienda
and she has generously offered you 25 hectares each to help her get it
back.” Many police officers applauded
and whistled in honor of Mrs. Freire, who turned
towards the door and without another glance said “Let’s go, Armando.”
The officers left,
ready to spread disgrace. They arrived arround midnight at La Yuca. Their first victim was the family of Pedro
Roman. With brute force they pulled
out Pedro and his family. They
burned the house and the majority of his belongings, and as if this was
not enough, they burned the harvest that Pedro had saved for the harsh
winter months. Pedro, ignorant of the cause of such misfortune,
went with his family to Palenque. He knocked
on Father Joaquín’s door and told him everything. I
was preparing for bed when I heard the voices and the cries of children
in the house. I went downstairs and found Pedro and his family. I
listened to his story and we all tried to console Pedro’s children. Aitor and Joaquín were confused
about this terrible event as there seemed to be no legal cause for the
displacement of Pedro – he had been the owner of the house which was
now a pile of ashes. Fortunately,
Pedro’s wife had been able to grab the property title before she was
thrown out of her home. Aitor said
that in the morning he would go to the police station to discuss what
had happened. Joaquín said
that Pedro and his family were welcome in the parochial house. That night, I shared my room with Pedro’s children
and for the first time, I understood the true power of sadness at the
sight of children crying over the pain they felt, pain that came from
knowing that this night was not a terrible nightmare, but rather the
cruel and unjust reality.
The morning was
full of worry. Aitor and Joaquín started
to make calls to the police and the Palenque mayor’s office. The police alleged
that their methods were necessary and totally legal. They said that they had the support of the
governor and possessed the eviction orders for the residents of the La Yuca area. Full of
anger, Aitor yelled into the telephone and
insulted the police. Seconds later,
he hung up the telephone and angrily said, “The jerks hung up on me and
didn’t explain anything.” Meanwhile,
Joaquin talked to the mayor. He
soon hung up and said angrily, “The eviction order came from the governor’s
office -- the mayor can’t do anything.” No
one was able to understand the reasons behind the evictions and, even
worse, the shameless violations of human rights. Soon,
the doorbell rang and the house became filled with even more pain. Three more families had arrived in search of
help. Their stories were the same
as Pedro’s. They had been evicted
by the police, but this time, they had been treated somewhat more humanely – they
had been given time to pack up their belongings before their homes were
burned.
“This has to end!” Father Joaquín yelled. “Aitor and Xavier, call and write letters to every newspaper that you
can. We have to publicize the
situation so that people know about these outrages.” I
hurriedly dedicated myself to calling the Guayaquil newspapers. In
the middle of all this, a better idea occurred to me. I decided to call my uncle, who was a well-known
lawyer. I told him the story and
asked him to help in whatever way he could. My
uncle put his law office to work on the case. In one day, all the details of the evictions
and the arguments in favor of the police action were secured. It turned out that everything was illegal and
that there was no law that backed the Freire family’s
petition for the La Yuca area. The true reason behind their petition was not
a “legal inheritance of land” as the family claimed, but rather an excuse
to get land, and, consequently, money. Aitor was able to reach several newspapers in the city, as
well as two Spanish papers and an Argentinean paper. Many sent reporters to cover the events, but
the police impeded the entrance of all lawyers and members of the media
from coming to La Yuca. The
only people allowed to enter were the armed police and the only people
to leave were the dislocated families. That
day, the most tragic (but also the most decisive) incident occurred. Joaquín arrived
at the house cursing, looked at Aitor and me
with desperation and said, “They burned the school! They threw all of the children from their classes
and they burned La Yuca’s school!”
But luckily, the
efforts of the volunteers brought some success. The
papers printed news of the eviction, humanitarian groups demanded justice,
and the lawyers from my uncle’s office presented formal complaints before
the governor’s office. I had to
gather most of the evidence, including photos and testimony from the
victims, to send to my uncle’s office in order to make the legal complaints
valid. In a couple days, the events in La Yuca had reached the ears of the Minister of Agriculture
through a letter from my uncle. The
Minister took measures immediately. First,
he contacted Father Joaquín, who explained
everything to him with detail and gave him the names of some of the victims
of the atrocities. The president
was also informed. He had actually
known about the situation for several days, but coincidentally, it was
only when the Spanish and Argentinean governments sent letters expressing
their worry about La Yuca that he decided to
act. With efficiency and authority, he released
Governor Miranda and Captain Torres and started an investigation about
the events in La Yuca. The
police officers were arrested and the illegally occupied land was returned. Nothing
was done to Mrs. Freire. Apparently,
the law couldn’t touch her. With
those orders, the authorities had stopped a week of misery in a single
day. All the victims were given funds with which
to reconstruct their homes and coupons for food so that they could survive
until they could replant their crops. The school of La Yuca was reconstructed and improved, and the government
obviously assured that the media was present for the inauguration of
the new school. If nothing else,
the atrocities had ended and justice had prevailed.
For the first time
during that week, I slept peacefully in the parochial house. The next day I had to return to Guayaquil. The
ten days that I had spent in Palenque seemed very unreal. In those few days, I had lived and learned
more than I usually would have in a whole year. I
was forced to see cruelty and human misery in person. When I saw the rest of the houses burned down,
the ashes, and the mountains of burned wood, my innocence seemed to die
as if it had been burned along with the houses. I
returned to Guayaquil disillusioned, surprised, and changed into a
new person. Before, I would never
have thought that in the 21st century, such shameless violations
of human rights like those that I had seen in La Yuca were
possible. My return home was sad,
but also somewhat optimistic. I
had met people that truly lived to fight injustices like these and I
was comforted by the fact that I had contributed a little bit to the
solution and had helped bring about justice. In
La Yuca and its people and in the Communities, I saw more solidarity
than I had ever witnessed. I
would always remember this vacation; the experience of briefly living
in Palenque has had a strong impact on my life and on my
values.
“Goodbye Joaquin, goodbye Aitor; many thanks for
everything,” I said as I left.
“We will expect you next year,” replied Aitor.
“Expect me for the next twenty years,” I said, smiling. I closed the door and went home to the city. I
would never be the same person again.
