Saturday 17.04.04
ni por el MAS,
ni por el menos,
ni por el putas retrodeceremos,
On wednesday shortly after my arrival I was sat on bench under a large tree in the picturesque University Campus with Gabriel. We were discussing the near future while awaiting a lift home when we were informed by a colleague of the shooting of Raul Perea Zuñiga. As it happens, the 13 bullets which perforated his body actually had his brother’s name on them but the bullets, being as they are, rather undiscriminating characters, killed him anyway. He was 38. His older brother, Edgar Perea who escaped with just two bullet wounds is a Vice-president of SINTRAMENTAL YUMBO, the metal workers union of in Yumbo, Colombia.
The following day (15.04.04) at around 7pm in Cali, Carlos Alberto Chicaiza was also shot dead, age 41. He was a member of the board of directors of the Workers Union for Various Services (municipal cleaning etc.) SINTRAEMSIRVA. He had previously served as President, Vice-president, and Publicity Secretary during his 16 years working for the company and was a staunch defender of it remaining public against Government pressure for privatisation.
For me, things have been pretty quiet really. Ive been in a sort of limbo. Gabriel flew to Barranquilla the day after I arrived not to return till monday and Julietta, NOMADESC Director, Project coordinator for Human Rights training, and Head of the SINTRAEMCALI Human Rights Department) who was to organise with me what i would be doing has been tied up until yesterday with a report for War on Want who administer some of the funding for the projects in the Human Rights Department. As such Ive got to know the city a little walking progressively larger round the bustling streets. The office is in the centre of town in which different blocks tend to specialise in a certain type of shop. We are in the centre of large soundsystem district with some 25 shops selling fat speakers, lights and high power amplifiers which pump Dancehall and Salsa at high volume into the streets. The streets are lined with small stalls, wheelbarrows, and mats laid out on the floor from which people sell all from fruit n veg, drinks, hot n cold food, watches, mobile phones, pirate CDs to lottery tickets spread out along huge boards. There also seems to be an abundance of shops specialising in all sorts of outmoded secondhand technological parts which are piled up inside in such a way as to resemble a cavity in C3P0s small intestine. Its lively, busy and has a friendly feel. In the plaza..........., a central square shaded by a veritable folly of tall thin palms sit rows of shoeshiners with somewhat dishevelled yet no the less regal chairs raised above the height of the plebeian concrete park benches. At either side are two sunken semi circles with steps leading down to where vintage suited men sit under large parasols with mechanical typewriters offering secretarial services hopeful customers.
On friday, after a perusal of some inviting second hand bookshops behind the obligatory pigeon infested plaza, I met with Julieta. She is a small mid thirties worker bee, much friendlier than I had imagined, and is a kind of reference point for anyone doing anything and seems to know everyone. She offered me a room at her house, (and crucially, at the time, use of a washing machine) so I packed my bags. We were picked up by armoured, blacked out SUV and cruised through town to hers as friday night was beginning to kick off. I dropped my bags and were off again to meet some union people for a few beers. The discussion was intense, and though i struggled to follow at times, its urgency and passionate execution by the people present hit me again with the severity of the situation here. I felt well out of my depth.
The coming together of these people has not happened for over a year due to security reasons and upon leaving the bar we were surrounded by at least 15 armed, non-uniformed body guards and dispersed quickly. Julieta and finished the evening dancing salsa, something which Cali is famous for and upon which Calinos pride themselves. The standards were high. (note to self: learn to salsa).
Saturday we got up around midday, hungover but conscious. Julieta had to go into the office to do something to do with the last assassination. I didn't catch exactly what but thought it was the writing of denunciation report or something. I went along as I wanted to get online. We had breakfast in a corner self service joint about two blocks from the offices. It was hotter than it had been since my arrival and the air was filled with the relentless siren of large trucks sounding their horns. After eating we headed towards the union and also in the direction of the sound. A block away we encountered the streets gridlocked with huge municipal cleaning vehicles crammed with uniformed workers in some kind of demo. I saw two cars with flower bouquets on their bonnets and I felt for the unfortunate wedding party that had got stuck in the middle of the demo. It occurred to me that if they had a demo like this every time a worker got assassinated it would be a good way of denunciating the act. The thought evaporated. As we reached the union I began to notice that many of the trucks also had bouquets. There were loads of people round the building and we went into a function hall to the side of the of main door. In here there were also flowers and a small crowd toward the centre back with chairs surrounding and some people seated. I got closer and a man was shouting with terrorised desperation into an open wooden box in the centre of the crowd. The box contained the corpse of Raul Perea Zuñiga.
I sat down, part stupefied by my not having realised until that point what was going on and part shocked by the simple proximity of a reality normally a few comforting steps removed. After sitting a while I left the building and went next door to watch the procession from the balcony. There must have been 100 trucks, and buses for mourners stretching as far as the eye could see, all crammed with people, adorned with flowers and sounding their horns as they passed. The nearby streets were chaos and police on motorbikes zipped up and down with the futile motion of a fly at a window. It was moving to see such a potent demonstration of solidarity from the staff of the company for a fellow employee and deeply incredible that this continues to go on unnoticed. As the cask was carried out the crowd shouted with a tone not so much mournful as invincible:
Porque, porque, porque nos asesina? somos la esperanza de America Latina!
(why, why, why do they assassinate us? we are the hope of Latin America!)
When the last bus had joined the end of the procession towards the cemetery we got a taxi to a discreet location in an industrial part of town for the 20th anniversary of the CUT. It was outside in the truck park of a factory unit and consisted of a mix of powerful emotive speeches calling people to action, more subdued talks relaying information, films about the situation of public services and human rights abuses against workers, two immense cauldrons of stew, rice, beer, music and dancing. It was inspirational to see the people coming together in spite of it all and carrying on in this way. The atmosphere was both serious and hilarious, solemn and joyful, contrasts which and as is probably becoming obvious seems to typify this country.
ni por el menos,
ni por el putas retrodeceremos,
On wednesday shortly after my arrival I was sat on bench under a large tree in the picturesque University Campus with Gabriel. We were discussing the near future while awaiting a lift home when we were informed by a colleague of the shooting of Raul Perea Zuñiga. As it happens, the 13 bullets which perforated his body actually had his brother’s name on them but the bullets, being as they are, rather undiscriminating characters, killed him anyway. He was 38. His older brother, Edgar Perea who escaped with just two bullet wounds is a Vice-president of SINTRAMENTAL YUMBO, the metal workers union of in Yumbo, Colombia.
The following day (15.04.04) at around 7pm in Cali, Carlos Alberto Chicaiza was also shot dead, age 41. He was a member of the board of directors of the Workers Union for Various Services (municipal cleaning etc.) SINTRAEMSIRVA. He had previously served as President, Vice-president, and Publicity Secretary during his 16 years working for the company and was a staunch defender of it remaining public against Government pressure for privatisation.
For me, things have been pretty quiet really. Ive been in a sort of limbo. Gabriel flew to Barranquilla the day after I arrived not to return till monday and Julietta, NOMADESC Director, Project coordinator for Human Rights training, and Head of the SINTRAEMCALI Human Rights Department) who was to organise with me what i would be doing has been tied up until yesterday with a report for War on Want who administer some of the funding for the projects in the Human Rights Department. As such Ive got to know the city a little walking progressively larger round the bustling streets. The office is in the centre of town in which different blocks tend to specialise in a certain type of shop. We are in the centre of large soundsystem district with some 25 shops selling fat speakers, lights and high power amplifiers which pump Dancehall and Salsa at high volume into the streets. The streets are lined with small stalls, wheelbarrows, and mats laid out on the floor from which people sell all from fruit n veg, drinks, hot n cold food, watches, mobile phones, pirate CDs to lottery tickets spread out along huge boards. There also seems to be an abundance of shops specialising in all sorts of outmoded secondhand technological parts which are piled up inside in such a way as to resemble a cavity in C3P0s small intestine. Its lively, busy and has a friendly feel. In the plaza..........., a central square shaded by a veritable folly of tall thin palms sit rows of shoeshiners with somewhat dishevelled yet no the less regal chairs raised above the height of the plebeian concrete park benches. At either side are two sunken semi circles with steps leading down to where vintage suited men sit under large parasols with mechanical typewriters offering secretarial services hopeful customers.
On friday, after a perusal of some inviting second hand bookshops behind the obligatory pigeon infested plaza, I met with Julieta. She is a small mid thirties worker bee, much friendlier than I had imagined, and is a kind of reference point for anyone doing anything and seems to know everyone. She offered me a room at her house, (and crucially, at the time, use of a washing machine) so I packed my bags. We were picked up by armoured, blacked out SUV and cruised through town to hers as friday night was beginning to kick off. I dropped my bags and were off again to meet some union people for a few beers. The discussion was intense, and though i struggled to follow at times, its urgency and passionate execution by the people present hit me again with the severity of the situation here. I felt well out of my depth.
The coming together of these people has not happened for over a year due to security reasons and upon leaving the bar we were surrounded by at least 15 armed, non-uniformed body guards and dispersed quickly. Julieta and finished the evening dancing salsa, something which Cali is famous for and upon which Calinos pride themselves. The standards were high. (note to self: learn to salsa).
Saturday we got up around midday, hungover but conscious. Julieta had to go into the office to do something to do with the last assassination. I didn't catch exactly what but thought it was the writing of denunciation report or something. I went along as I wanted to get online. We had breakfast in a corner self service joint about two blocks from the offices. It was hotter than it had been since my arrival and the air was filled with the relentless siren of large trucks sounding their horns. After eating we headed towards the union and also in the direction of the sound. A block away we encountered the streets gridlocked with huge municipal cleaning vehicles crammed with uniformed workers in some kind of demo. I saw two cars with flower bouquets on their bonnets and I felt for the unfortunate wedding party that had got stuck in the middle of the demo. It occurred to me that if they had a demo like this every time a worker got assassinated it would be a good way of denunciating the act. The thought evaporated. As we reached the union I began to notice that many of the trucks also had bouquets. There were loads of people round the building and we went into a function hall to the side of the of main door. In here there were also flowers and a small crowd toward the centre back with chairs surrounding and some people seated. I got closer and a man was shouting with terrorised desperation into an open wooden box in the centre of the crowd. The box contained the corpse of Raul Perea Zuñiga.
I sat down, part stupefied by my not having realised until that point what was going on and part shocked by the simple proximity of a reality normally a few comforting steps removed. After sitting a while I left the building and went next door to watch the procession from the balcony. There must have been 100 trucks, and buses for mourners stretching as far as the eye could see, all crammed with people, adorned with flowers and sounding their horns as they passed. The nearby streets were chaos and police on motorbikes zipped up and down with the futile motion of a fly at a window. It was moving to see such a potent demonstration of solidarity from the staff of the company for a fellow employee and deeply incredible that this continues to go on unnoticed. As the cask was carried out the crowd shouted with a tone not so much mournful as invincible:
Porque, porque, porque nos asesina? somos la esperanza de America Latina!
(why, why, why do they assassinate us? we are the hope of Latin America!)
When the last bus had joined the end of the procession towards the cemetery we got a taxi to a discreet location in an industrial part of town for the 20th anniversary of the CUT. It was outside in the truck park of a factory unit and consisted of a mix of powerful emotive speeches calling people to action, more subdued talks relaying information, films about the situation of public services and human rights abuses against workers, two immense cauldrons of stew, rice, beer, music and dancing. It was inspirational to see the people coming together in spite of it all and carrying on in this way. The atmosphere was both serious and hilarious, solemn and joyful, contrasts which and as is probably becoming obvious seems to typify this country.
