Journal, November 19

Last weekend, CEDEMUNEP received a distressed phone call from Carmen, the young rape victim who we have been accompanying over the last few months.  Through her tears, Carmen explained that on Wednesday, she was to participate in the Reconstruccion de los Hechos (Reconstruction of the Facts), and she was in urgent need of emotional, legal, and political support.  In Peru, the justice system requires that the victim be reunited with the accused in a meeting with their lawyers, in the physical location where the crime took place, in order to tell their respective versions of the story.  The lawyers press both parties for details, while the interrogated try to deliver convincing narratives (sometimes complex webs of lies) with no contradictions within or between them.  This is obviously an incredibly traumatic event for the victim, as s/he must come face-to-face with his/her offenders, usually for the first time since the crime was committed, and watch them deny all responsibility for their actions.  I was shocked that Carmen, or any victim of sexual violence, would have to endure this, and I agreed to travel with my co-workers to Ica to accompany Carmen through the process.

Although I have studied Conflict Resolution at the University of Waterloo, and have some knowledge of the criminal justice systems in Canada and the United States, the concept of the Reconstruction of the Facts was new to me, and I certainly was not prepared for what I encountered in real life.  What took place at the Municipal Building in Ica on Wednesday was strange and horrific, and if it was painful for me, it was much worse for Carmen and the friends and family who had come to support her.  Although Carmen entered the meeting in a remarkably calm state, she fled the building hours later and sobbed in her father’s arms, while a crowd of cameramen and photographers surrounded her, and her supporters hurled biting insults at the municipal officials as they ducked into their cars. 

While I am a strong proponent of Restorative Justice, which helps to bring together victims, offenders, and the community to engage in a process of healing and restoration, I believe that it should be a voluntary process.  From what I observed on Wednesday, forcing the victim to confront his/her attackers in a situation in which both parties are primarily concerned with “saving face,” rather than building relationships,  pits both sides against each other, and causes community members to take sides, escalating the conflict and nearly eliminating any chance of future reconciliation.  As a student of Development, I am deeply concerned by the immediate emotional harm, and the long-term social harm that this process does to individuals and communities that are required to participate.  Who is the justice system serving, if not those who have been affected by crime?  Must victims be re-victimized by the criminal justice system?

In light of Restorative Justice Week, which begins today, I have been moved to envision what a true Reconstruction could look like.  What if the government established victims’ assistance programs that ensured that low-income victims like Carmen had the legal representation, and mental, physical, and social support they needed to recover from violent experiences and navigate the justice system?  What if there was a professionally-mediated space in which the mayor and his cronies could express remorse, and Carmen could talk about the pain that she has experienced?  What if, instead of leaving “justice” up to the state, the victim and offender worked together to create their own solution, and the community created a circle of accountability and support to facilitate long-term development?  While it seems like Peru is impossibly far away from achieving these ideals, I am inspired by the knowledge that what is now a worldwide Restorative Justice movement began in my own hometown of Kitchener-Waterloo, with folks like me who just wanted to do things a little bit differently.

Journal, November 5

Last Tuesday, theory met practice at the Afro-Peruvian Roundtable’s discussion on “The Afro-Peruvian People and their inclusion in the Political Constitution of Peru.”  I was excited that my supervisor had invited me to attend, as the theme of the discussion was directly related to my INDEV 474 research paper on the collective identity and rights of Afro-Peruvians.  I looked forward to learning more about a topic that I had already researched extensively, and hearing from Afro-Peruvians themselves, rather than North American academics’ perspectives on Afro-Peruvian issues. 

 I arrived early at the Afro-Peruvian Museum, where the event was to be hosted, and so I had the chance to wander through the exhibits while I waited for the discussion to begin.  Historical drawings of African slaves waiting on their Spanish colonial masters gave me a glimpse of Afro-Peruvians’ long history of humiliation and exclusion from society, while rooms full of percussive music and videos of traditional dances filled me with a sense of their cultural richness and strength as a people, despite centuries of hardship.  After reading about their incredible political achievements in recent years, including the government’s 2009 Historic Apology, I entered the meeting with a feeling that Afro-Peruvians were riding a tide of success, and that there was much hope for their future.

However, as four o’clock came and went, and the small group of eight Afro-Peruvian civil society leaders realized that no one else would be coming to the event—not the congressmen who had confirmed, nor the Minister of Culture—the feeling of humiliation and exclusion became real.  The discussion was moved from a large event hall to an actual roundtable, at which I even had a seat.  At first, the discussion had a fairly negative tone, as the group felt somewhat defeated before they had even begun.  However, they soon turned to constructive conversation on the rights of Afro-Peruvians and strategies to realize them.

From what I understood of the rapid and intense discussion, the main issue regarding Afro-Peruvians’ inclusion in the Constitution is that they self-identify as a distinct racial and ethnic group, needing special civil and political, as well as economic, social, and cultural rights.  They do not, however, fit into the state’s definition of an “indigenous people” that would be guaranteed these rights, and so they do not receive the special protection that indigenous groups do.  My research paper explored the justification for their claims to racial and cultural group identities, and found that they were, in fact, justified in claiming both.  I wanted to go further in my analysis and make recommendations for policy changes; however, I struggled to determine which definitions of racial and cultural groups were of significance to Afro-Peruvians.  At this roundtable, I learned that the important definition is that of the International Labour Organization, which states that an “indigenous people” is one that was present during the period of conquest or colonization, or when the state’s borders were established.  Clearly, this definition excludes groups that are original to Peru, but that developed after the state was established.  This leaves no path for Afro-Peruvians to claim the kinds of rights they need for protection against past and present discrimination, and the preservation and development of their unique culture.  I now know that for Afro-Peruvians to be included in the Constitution, this definition needs to be expanded.

The Roundtable discussion was necessary for clarifying the group’s goal of modifying the state’s definition of a “people.”  However, it may be a struggle for the group to gain the political leverage needed to accomplish this, as government leaders clearly do not care enough to sit down and work together.  The vision for the Roundtable is to be a space for dialogue between the political administration and civil society, but it remains to be seen whether or not the political administration shares this commitment.    

Journal, October 22

                From the moment that I arrived at the office last Tuesday morning, I felt welcomed into the CEDEMUNEP family.  I was greeted by my two new co-workers with warm hugs and kisses, and I took my place by their sides, working hip-to-hip in our tiny apartment-office in Lima.  Over the last two weeks, we have learned to communicate across the language barrier and work together effectively.  As it is my first time working internationally, and their first time hosting an international volunteer, it is a learning experience and an exercise in patience for all of us.
          When I first arrived last Tuesday, I sat down with my co-workers for tea and conversation about their current projects.  As a civil society organization that is highly responsive to the needs of the community, CEDEMUNEP is engaged in many diverse activities, ranging from a clothing drive for a town devastated by an earthquake, to summer education programs for youth in Lima.  They are also currently providing legal and psychological support to a young woman who was raped in June of this year, and whose case is being ignored by the judicial authorities.  My supervisor explained that the woman, Carmen, was working as secretary to the mayor of a nearby town, when she was drugged and raped by the mayor with the complicity of several colleagues.  Because of the political nature of the case, and because Carmen is Afro-Peruvian and poor, the authorities are trying to sweep the incident under the rug.  CEDEMUNEP was asked to get involved, and so we are working to break the silence and put pressure on the judicial authorities to issue a court ruling.  Cecilia explained to me that we would be writing a letter to the crown attorney, which would be sent out to organizations in our regional, national, and international networks for them to endorse.  I thought it was a great idea, until I realized that the “we” she was talking about was me.  I would be writing the letter—in Spanish.  
           I awkwardly tried to explain that my Spanish writing abilities were fairly basic, but my speaking ability was also poor enough that I did not quite communicate this critical point, and a few minutes later, I found myself staring at a blank Word document with a pile of confusing papers in my lap to work from.  It was one thing to write a paragraph about women’s issues in Spanish class—it was quite another to feel that the future of Carmen’s case rested on my ability to write a grammatically-correct, and even convincing letter that would achieve the endorsements of hundreds of civil society leaders and eventually be read by the crown attorney.  Talk about responsibility.  Despite my lack of confidence, I told myself that I had come to Peru to help in any way that I could, and that I should at least try.  After hours of untangling the messy details of the case, I finally began to grasp what had happened, and outline a letter.  With much assistance from a dictionary, I was able to complete the letter one day later.  My co-workers were thrilled and I was proud, and together we made some final corrections and began to mail it out.
         When I had the opportunity to meet Carmen and her mother the next day, and listen to her talk about the challenges she has faced over the last few months, I was completely humbled by her courageous and relentless pursuit of justice—not just for herself, but for all victims of sexual violence in Peru.  When I gained a little perspective, I saw that my own challenges in writing a letter paled in comparison to her struggles with the entire government system.  Not only that, I grieved that my inarticulate letter could have more political power in Peru than her own voice.  When she looked me in the eye and thanked me for my help, I finally realized that the responsibility that I had been entrusted with was no longer something that I wanted to run away from, but rather something that I wanted to fulfill to the best of my ability.  Like my friends at CEDEMUNEP, I hope that I may have the courage and strength to fight for justice until the very end. 

Journal, October 8

            It has been a quiet week in Lima.  With a four-day weekend last week, and now a three-day weekend, I have had a lot of time to rest and prepare myself to start work this week at CEDEMUNEP (the Center for Black Peruvian Women’s Development).  I have been looking forward to Tuesday ever since I visited CEDEMUNEP two weeks ago.  It is a small organization with only two full-time staff members, who will become like family to me.  They are very active in the community, running workshops almost every week for women and youth on topics such as health, domestic violence, and self-esteem.  They also work at the national and international levels to advocate for Afro-Peruvian rights, and fight against racial discrimination in Peru.  At the beginning, while I am still learning Spanish, I imagine that I will work mostly in the office, assisting with research on violence against Afro-Peruvian women, and helping to organize programming.  However, I hope that my Spanish will improve rapidly so that I will be able to begin working in the community.
          Having volunteered for the last few years as a student organizer, I feel that I have some experience in community social and environmental justice education.  However, my experience is mostly in working with highly-educated, English-speaking, middle-class people whose life experiences are similar to mine.  It is quite another thing to enter into a community that is not my own and pretend that I know anything about racial discrimination or domestic violence.  What is my role in this situation?
           I have spent some time exploring this question this week, and have found a lot of wisdom in the writings of Myles Horton, the founder of the Highlander Folk School, which works to promote education and development in Appalachia.  In his account of the Folk School’s beginnings, he talks about how the staff—young, idealistic, university graduates—made the mistake of thinking that they could take what they had learned in university and “tailor it” to the needs of the community.  In Horton’s (1998) words,

We still thought our job was to give students information about what we thought would be good for them.  Whenever they had a problem, we would try to figure out what in our bag of tricks would apply to that problem, and we would adapt it and make it fit the situation.  We ended up doing what most people do when they come to a place like Appalachia: we saw problems that we thought we had the answers to, rather than seeing the problems and the answers that the people had themselves (p. 22). 

He goes on to explain that the teacher’s role is to help people respect, analyze and learn from their own experiences.  Once they can do this, they will be able to solve their own problems (Horton, Kohl & Kohl, 1998).  This is an important lesson, and I hope to apply it in my work at CEDEMUNEP.  It is a relief to know that I don’t have to have all the answers!

 Horton, M., Kohl, J., & Kohl, H.  (1998).  The long haul: An autobiography.  New York: Teachers College Press, p. 22. 

Journal, September 24

I am certain that I have used up all of my nine lives in these past two weeks.  While I could have died nine deaths from the threatened traveller’s sickness, sidewalk attacks, air pollution, traffic accidents, yellow fever, typhoid, runaway parades, embarrassing moments, or sheer lack of sunlight, water, and soil, I have somehow been spared from all of them—at least for now.  Either I am a savvy traveller, have incredible luck, or the guidebooks were just wrong about Lima, Peru. 

My experience of Lima has been very narrow so far—limited to just three of the wealthiest districts—but it has surprised me in many ways.  The city that one website called “out of control” with violence and crime turns out to be tranquil, except at rush hour, and festive at the best of times.  In the past few weeks, I have learned to let down my guard, because this so-called “developing” city is not asking anything from anyone, except maybe recognition of its development.  In downtown Miraflores, the upscale district of Lima, I see fewer beggars than I did in Uptown Waterloo.  The streets are cleaner and the transportation is faster.  And yet the city begs to be seen as “modern.”  The word is everywhere—on signs for new high-rise residential buildings and in tourist brochures.  After decades of playing development catch-up and trying to forget its turbulent past, Peru wants to be counted among the big players, and yet plays on different strengths than most of the world’s powers.  At Mistura, now the second-largest gastronomic festival in the world, Peru boasted a world-class cuisine and showcased its incredible biodiversity, which one Peruvian called a “gift from God.”  Indeed, Peru has been blessed with many life-giving resources, but some, such as gold, are both gifts and curses.  Towering Scotiabank skyscrapers in San Isidro are beacons for international mining companies, which are received warmly by many for the economic development they bring to the country.  But anyone who reads the newspaper and follows the citizen protests in cities like Madre de Dios knows that this wealth comes at a cost to many rural communities that are involved in informal mining activities, or that want to preserve the natural environment.  But in districts like Miraflores and San Isidro, which only see the benefits of this economic “development,” these issues seem faraway and largely invisible.

My experience of Lima so far has been much like my experience of Spanish conversations.  I think I understand, but my knowledge is so basic that I cannot always distinguish between what I understand and what I cannot.  But in the case of Lima, I know that I am only seeing the clean, shiny surface and missing a lot of what goes on here.  It’s nice to feel comfortable in my guest house in San Isidro, but I am looking forward to starting work next week at the Center for Black Peruvian Women’s Development, where I hope I will begin to see a more colourful picture of Lima.