The Yanacocha gold mine is currently operating on 26,000 hectares (about 63,700 acres), high above the city of Cajamarca in the Andes mountains of Peru. But that is just a small area: The government conceded a total of 282,000 hectares (690,000 acres, slightly , larger than the state of Rhode Island) to Minera Yanacocha, a company comprised of majority owners Newmont Mining of the United States and Minera Buenaventura of Peru. Yanacocha continues to be a significant part of Newmont Mining's global production, contributing about a quarter of the 5.3 million ounces of gold Newmont sold in 2007.
Minera Yanacocha is working aggressively to expand the mine. In 2004, the mine began exploring for gold on Cerro Quilish, a small mountain that comprises the top of the watershed supplying the city of Cajamarca and the rest of the valley. Dairy and potato farmers in the area and many others opposed to mining Quilish blocked the road to the mountain in 2004. There were weeks of violent confrontation between police and protesters. In the end, Minera Yanacocha stated publicly that it had underestimated the concerns of local people and asked the Ministry of Energy and Mines to revoke its permit to explore for minerals on Cerro Quilish.
The mountain remains in the mine's concession area. Many of the Quechua-speaking indigenous people in the area consider Quilish their apu, a mountain spirit, and a sacred place. "When the clouds gather above Quilish, we know it will rain," says Nelida Chilon, a 24-year old from Bajo Porcón, midway between the city and the mountain. "We want to protect Quilish, our source of water. The [mining] engineers tell us there is water, and no pollution, but we know the land does not produce as it used to, and there is less water than ever."
Local governments representing communities opposed to mining on Quilish also adopted laws to designate it a protected natural area. Other communities where the mine intends to expand have taken similar measures. Oxfam America's partner GRUFIDES is supporting efforts by local communities to protect their land, and provides training and other support to local people eager to learn about and defend their human rights and protect their water sources. With help from Oxfam America, GRUFIDES is also working with the regional government's environmental management agency to create a land use plan that would clearly designate areas for agriculture, human settlement, mining, and other activities.
Minera Yanacocha is disputing 12 local ordinances that prohibit mining, and plans to expand mining exploitation to these and other areas, including La Zanja, where one person was killed by police during a demonstration in 2004. The environmentally fragile high altitude wetlands of El Solitario, where there are 240 ponds and lakes, is another area of proposed expansion.
Minera Yanacocha is claiming jurisdiction in Lima where the company is officially located and where judges are not familiar with these local areas. Communities are hard pressed to be properly represented in the proceedings due to costs and distance (375 miles). "With that kind of trial you know who is going to win," says Marco Arana, one of the founders of GRUFIDES, Oxfam America's partner in Cajamarca. He added that when legal and institutional roads are closed to citizens, it leads to confrontation, and "adds to the social exclusion and asymmetry of power in Peru."
Oxfam America is supporting the work of GRUFIDES to help local communities defend their rights and create an appropriate land use plan for the region. Oxfam is calling on Minera Yanacocha to:
Thousands more abandoned their villages and the temporary camps in which some were sheltering when fighting intensified in late October around Goma, the capital city of North Kivu Province directly across the border from Rwanda. The violence culminated in an armed stand-off outside the city on Oct. 29, and CNDP's call for a ceasefire. By November 7, that ceasefire was no longer holding.
The crisis has left the longer-term peace process—and a January ceasefire between the government and 22 armed groups—in shambles. The CNDP has claimed that the January peace agreement, which had been violated numerous times, favored the Congolese government and its forces.
The latest fighting follows more than a decade of conflict in the eastern provinces and stems back to the 1994 Rwandan genocide. But many other factors contribute to the ongoing violence as well: weak state authority, the illegal exploitation of Congo's vast natural resources, and the free flow of arms across porous borders.
The result is disaster for the Congolese caught in the crossfire and suffering from the deprivation constant conflict brings. Humanitarian needs are escalating: The fighting forced some aid groups to suspend their operations, preventing life-saving help from reaching those who needed it. Since 1998, an estimated 5.4 million people have lost their lives to the conflict and the hunger and disease it unleashes.
In early November, Oxfam was already helping about 85,000 people, including 65,000 camped in four temporary settlements around Goma. The organization planned to help an additional 100,000 people in areas to the north and west of the city. Assistance has included the provision of clean water and sanitation services—essential in preventing the spread of waterborne diseases-- to those in the four camps. Oxfam has also been trucking water to 20,000 people in Kanyabayonga north of Goma.
Oxfam is calling for:
In the DRC, increasing violence has forced people to flee from their homes, and led to the deaths of almost 1,500 people a day. Though no other conflict causes that kind of death rate, Oxfam's workers hear similar stories of murder, rape, and displacement from men and women from Colombia to Sudan every day. Sixty years after the main Geneva Conventions enshrined civilians' rights to protection, they are violated in every current conflict.
Some states and non-state actors choose to kill civilians, or pursue strategies in which civilians are too likely to die. Some governments choose to protect their citizens: to keep them safe. Some do not protect all of them, or not well enough. There are, however, successful examples of protecting civilians that show what governments and others can do when they choose to.
They have an interest in protecting civilians, because mass atrocities fuel the conflicts that, in an interdependent world, create security threats that cannot be contained. And an increasing number of governments have a "moral interest" too, because their electorates expect them to help prevent, not just condemn, the atrocities they see beamed around the world through modern information technology.
To do so, they need to make four key changes.
CEJIS went on to say that the attack was similar to others inflicted recently on four other civil society organizations in the area, all of which have been working in the region for many years in defense of the rights of indigenous peoples and peasant communities in Santa Cruz.
Oxfam America's South America regional office expressed concern and sympathy regarding the attack. "CEJIS has been working with Oxfam America in Bolivia for several years now," declared Raul Ho, Oxfam America's coordinator for sustainable livelihoods and environmental programs. "CEJIS has played a key role in obtaining land titling for the Chiquitano indigenous peoples," said Ho.
CEJIS has 30 years of experience working on the deepening of democracy, social justice, human rights, and the democratic freedoms of indigenous people, peasants, and civil society. The organization reaffirmed its commitment to continue working on development of the region and throughout Bolivia despite such attacks and intimidation. This is the second firebomb attack on CEJIS' office since November 2007.
This attack occurred two days before an indigenous peoples' celebration of the historic March for Territory and Dignity held in Beni on August 15, 1990. This march marked an opening of the pathway to justice and equality, as new agrarian reform laws have allowed the Chiquitano people of Santa Cruz and other indigenous groups to claim their right to communal lands in Bolivia.
"Oxfam America expresses its solidarity with CEJIS" added Raul Ho, "and conveys its concern in regards to acts of violence and disrespect for this social organization and its headquarters. We also trust that the authorities will prosecute and punish those responsible as required under Bolivian law," he said.
]]>The two agreements, together with recommendations from the Conference on Peace, Security and Development in North and South Kivu organized by the government in January 2008, form the basis of the Congolese government?s peace program for eastern Congo, known as the Amani Program, led by the national coordinator Abbé Apollinaire Malu Malu. The agreements provided an important foundation for peace. The signatories agreed to a ceasefire and committed to protect civilians and respect international humanitarian and human rights law.
In July 2008, a group of local and international non-governmental organizations established the Congo Advocacy Coalition to track progress on these commitments and focus attention on areas where improvements are urgently needed. Specifically the coalition decided to track six key commitments related to protection of civilians. These include:
Attacks against civilians and their property occurred at an alarming rate in the six months following the signing of the various peace agreements. Assessments conducted by different organizations in eastern Congo indicated that the civilian population continues to experience widespread attacks, sexual violence, looting, and forced labor.
More than 200 civilians were killed in indiscriminate firing by armed groups or as a result of summary executions in North Kivu, particularly in Masisi and western Rutshuru territories.
Sexual violence against women and girls has continued at its previous horrifying rate since the peace agreement was signed. Women and girls were raped by combatants of all armed groups and soldiers of the Congolese army, as well as by civilians. Over 2,200 cases were registered in June 2008 in the province of North Kivu. One community in Rutshuru reported over 150 cases of rape in April alone.
Fighting and targeted attacks on civilians led to the displacement of nearly 100,000 civilians in North Kivu since January 2008 with another 50,000 displaced in South Kivu. The UN estimates a total of 1.1 million people are currently displaced in both provinces, including those who fled previous fighting. Nearly half of the newly displaced people in North Kivu fled from the Bukombo administrative area in Rutshuru. New displacements have also been registered in Masisi and southern Lubero territory, all areas that have been subject to fighting.
Many displaced people expressed a desire to return to their villages if security permitted, but very few have been able to do so. Those who have returned often spend the night in the forests surrounding their villages as a protective measure. Some returned only temporarily, fleeing again days or weeks later.
There has been little return of refugees from Rwanda, Uganda or Burundi into North and South Kivu. The Congolese government and the Office of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR) have not yet signed tripartite agreements with Rwanda, Uganda, or Burundi to facilitate the return of Congolese refugees from these countries. In July a working group was created to put in place the tripartite agreement with Rwanda and plan returns when the security situation permits.
Recruitment of combatants, both voluntary and forced, amongst a range of armed groups in North and South Kivu, continued despite the ceasefire and intensified during the past three months. Some of these groups were largely dormant before the peace talks. Former demobilized soldiers and combatants have been targeted for re-recruitment, raising concerns about the effectiveness and sustainability of previous demobilization programs.
While there are no reports of large-scale recruitment of children since the signing of the Goma agreement, sporadic recruitment by some armed groups has continued. Moreover, there has been limited progress on the demobilization of the estimated 2,500-3,000 children who remain in the ranks of armed groups and in some units of the Congolese army. Child protection agencies began screening troops for children in mid-April, but their activities stalled due to coordination issues between UN agencies, and only restarted in early July. Following two joint missions, a total of 47 children were separated from armed groups. Outside of these missions, at least a further 507 children have been demobilized since January. In June, the government launched a national program of ?zero tolerance? for the recruitment and use of children by armed groups and committed to taking further action on demobilizing all associated children.
Despite ongoing recruitment, 1,200 combatants in North Kivu responded to the call to lay down their weapons. From January to May 2008, according to officials in Goma, 282 CNDP combatants, 800 Mai Mai and PARECO combatants, and 156 Congolese combatants from the FDLR surrendered. Some were sent to army retraining (known as brassage) centers, but others, such as 334 Mai Mai Mongol combatants in the town of Bambu, were left for months without any assistance. Programs to assist demobilized combatants are not fully operational, contributing to serious delays in demobilizing combatants. A number who surrendered were sent to the military intelligence prison in Goma rather than being directed to demobilization programs. Many were detained for months without charge and were subjected to cruel and degrading treatment; a number were tortured.
Efforts have continued to encourage the remaining 6,000 FDLR combatants in eastern Congo to disarm and return to Rwanda. Since January, 301 FDLR combatants were demobilized. After talks with the Congolese government in Kisangani in late June, the FDLR splinter-faction, Rally for Unity and Democracy (RUD), agreed to demobilize 400 troops and repatriate to Rwanda, with the option of temporary relocation for some combatants within Congo.
Civilians are not allowed to move freely and often encounter improvised road blocks erected by armed groups or the Congolese army where they are subject to various forms of extortion. Civilians are forced to pay money or a percentage of their produce, sometimes called ?taxes?, either at such road blocks, when they go to the market, or as they return to their fields. Army soldiers and armed groups also confiscate electoral cards (which also serve as identity cards in Congo), and demand money in exchange for the return of the card.
At least 36 attacks on humanitarian workers were recorded in North Kivu since the signing of the Goma agreement, the majority being ambushes at gunpoint on main and remote roads. A total of 15 humanitarian workers were injured in these attacks. Two humanitarian staff were caught in the crossfire and wounded by bullets when an armed group attacked the Kinyandonyi displacement camp in Rutshuru territory. Humanitarian activity is temporarily suspended in certain areas following a number of attacks.
Despite the ongoing clashes some previously inaccessible areas are now receiving emergency assistance. However, other areas remain inaccessible, particularly around front lines and buffer zones. The picture is not a static one and generally the degree of accessibility changes according to the level of military or criminal activity which flares up along ever shifting axes.
Since mid-June access from Goma to Masisi town is severely hampered following several armed robberies of humanitarian staff on the main road. An estimated 186,000 people in Masisi are not currently receiving assistance, including 33,000 displaced persons in camps and thousands others who have sought refuge in host families.
In Rutshuru territory, several enclaves within the Bwito area, west of Nyanzale, are particularly unsafe and problematic to access. The civilian population there is often too scared to sleep in their villages and instead hide in the surrounding forests at night.
Impunity for human rights abuses is widespread in eastern Congo. Since January only a small number of perpetrators have been arrested for crimes of sexual violence and only a small number of Congolese soldiers and policemen have been tried and prosecuted for their crimes. Many women do not seek justice for the crimes they have suffered because they are afraid that the perpetrators will target them again should they escape from prison. Those who live in remote areas frequently have no access to judicial services.
No high ranking officials have been held to account for the serious crimes they or soldiers under their command have committed.
The Congo Advocacy Coalition makes the following recommendations to the parties to the peace agreements, the international facilitators, coordinators of the peace process and international donors:
But it wasn't until an 80-year-old woman from Walikale in North Kivu was brought to Masika that the full weight of what was happening became clear, galvanizing her resolve. In the war that was sweeping the region, rape was being used as a weapon not only to degrade women, but to humiliate their husbands and whole communities, too. Masika realized the women and girls of eastern Congo needed organized, pro-active help—and Synergie des femmes pour les Victimes de Violences Sexuelles was born.
Its mission, says Masika, its director, is threefold: to raise awareness about sexual violence toward women, to take care of those who have been sexually abused, and to push for the perpetrators to be brought to justice. Since 2003, the organization, an Oxfam partner, has worked with 7,018 women—women like the one from Walikale, who so desperately needed help and for whom there was none available. Raped and left dumped in a field, she was rescued by a hunter and eventually brought to Goma, the capital of North Kivu. But she was penniless, and despite her serious injuries, the hospital would not treat her. And there she died.
Hers is just one of too many stories of sexual abuse and abandonment—of violence that is still rippling through the remote hills of the eastern provinces, that continues to torture its victims with shame, and that now, in a newer twist, has begun to corrode the core of traditional communities, too.
In a small mudbrick building propped on the edge of a dirt road in Kilungutwe, a crowd of villagers has gathered. It's dark and sweltering inside, but every inch of every bench is taken, and more people crowd at the door and window. They have come to discuss the troubles in their village—the extortion they face at the hands of soldiers, the difficulty they have in getting enough to eat—and now the talk has turned to sexual violence.
With anger still in his voice, Elisha Ezigobe, one of the local chiefs, describes the abduction of his 12-year-old daughter. A soldier took her for his wife—without Ezigobe's consent. As soon as he learned what had happened, he headed for the soldier's camp, dismissing any concern about the repercussions he might face in confronting armed men. He was determined to rescue his daughter.
"I took my girl and left," Ezigobe said through an interpreter. "I had my machete. I was going to fight back." His outrage scared the soldier off, and Ezigobe returned his daughter—unharmed—to their home.
But the man sitting next to Ezigobe was not so lucky. His daughter, too, was taken by a soldier. A night passed before he was able to find her and bring her home. Now, at 15, she is pregnant.
There are many stories like this, says Ezigobe, and some fathers are afraid to stand up to the soldiers.
But it's not just military men who are the perpetrators, say others in the roadside hut. Community members have turned into culprits, too—with few serious consequences for their crimes. If the abused girl is 17 or 18, the solution is often to have her marry the rapist. If she's younger, the local chief could order the man to make some kind of reparation—such as a goat—to the girl and her family.
Why is all of this happening now?
"They're asking themselves that question," says Jacqueline Tshilemba, a community educator for APIDE, one of Oxfam's local partners that is working with the people of Kilungutwe. "What they can see is this culture has happened since the war. It happens all over the place and no one gets punished."
At the root of the problem, says Josee Lotsove, is a society that views women as inferior. Lotsove is the coordinator for a local women-based organization called Association des Mamans Anti-Bwaki, or AMAB, an Oxfam partner headquartered in Bunia. Along with those traditional attitudes about women, she says, is the Congo's weak judicial system, which often fails to hold offenders accountable.
When perpetrators are arrested, adds Marie Kanyobayo, it's possible for them to pay a little money to the authorities and buy their freedom. Kanyobayo is the head of another women-based organization called Union des Femmes pour le Developpement, also an Oxfam partner.
It's at this foundation of impunity that Masika, the head of Synergie, is chipping away. Part of Synergie's work involves educating village chiefs and other local opinion leaders—teachers, pastors—about the nature of what has been happening to women, about the catastrophe that it has become, and about the importance of villagers accepting survivors back into the community fold.
But the work comes with great risk.
For speaking out about a problem that has devastated the lives of so many women, Masika and her family have themselves become targets. Last September, six military men came to her house in the early evening and tortured her two daughters, 22 and 20. Masika has since sent them to live in Nairobi, and an aid organization has paid to surround her house with barbed wire to protect her.
Masika admits that sometimes the challenges are so daunting that she's not sure she can continue with her advocacy. But she knows that her voice—and the voices of all the volunteers who work for Synergie—are essential in helping to protect the rights of women who cannot, or dare not, speak out for themselves.
In the Congo, the consequences of rape are far-reaching and affect whole families. Rape heaps shame upon its victims. Women often find themselves cast off by their husbands, and forced into complete self-dependence. Young girls who have been raped lose their chance for marriage and for having a family of their own—and the position of honor that being a mother brings.
At a medical center in Goma where Synergie carries out some of its work, women who are recovering from sexual abuse confront its ugly legacy: possible HIV infection and lives of hardship, including the need to find ways to support themselves. Here, they are learning to weave baskets from long strips of plastic, a skill that will help them earn a living when they are well enough to return to their villages.
But for some, the psychological wounds are so deep they don't want to leave the security and support in which Synergie has wrapped them. For others, the road home is crowded with obstacles that may prove insurmountable. One 36-year-old woman tells of in-laws who are trying to turn her children against her, accusing her of being promiscuous after she was abducted and held as a sex slave and later, in a second round of horror, raped and left pregnant by a government soldier.
For Amina, a volunteer who has been working with Synergie since its founding, the stories she hears from women and girls who have been abused weigh heavily on her. Many of them have become her friends, and she knows that Congolese culture will dictate the future they face—likely one of great difficulty.
Given how sweeping the problem of rape and sexual violence now is, might that culture become more understanding, and even forgiving?
Amina sits quietly for a moment before she replies. A weariness seems to frame her answer. Women are speaking out more, she says. In the past, they kept silent. But as for real change, she can't say when that will come.
]]>La Paz is a small collection of rustic shelters, on the side of the road 20 minutes from Lake Izabal in eastern Guatemala. It blends into the intense green hills, dotted with small corn fields and criss-crossed by footpaths. It is the scene of a struggle between indigenous farmers and an international corporation intent on exploring for minerals on the land the Q'eq'chi use for growing corn and beans.
Freddie Mo Qub, a young leader of the community, explains the situation: A mining company called Skye Resources has a license from the government of Guatemala to explore for minerals in the area. Property rights are not clear, and the company insists it has the right to charge them rent to farm on the 3,300 acres where they have lived and worked for many of years. Eventually, they are told, they will have to leave.
The people of La Paz have designated Mo Qub, 30, to learn about the plans for the mine, determine what dangers they face, and help them develop a strategy for the way forward. He has been participating in workshops run by the Association of Friends of Lake Izabal, or ASALI as it is known in Spanish. ASALI has also taken him to visit mine sites in the western highlands of Guatemala, as well as in Honduras.
ASALI's director Eloyda Mejía is at the meeting. She says the workshops, which are done with help from Oxfam America, are designed to help the indigenous people in the area learn about their rights, and the ways that modern mines operate. When Mejía addresses the meeting, she says, "we want you to learn, see for yourselves, and make your own decisions about mining."
Mo Qub says the ASALI workshops are an invaluable source of information. La Paz is now connected to different areas of the country where indigenous people are experiencing similar problems. "If it weren't for these workshops, we would not have any clear information about the effects of mining in our communities," he says.
He has seen that mining communities in Guatemala do not benefit much from the revenues from the minerals taken from their lands. While they may be relocated and lose their fields and water sources, they may or may not get a decent job at a mine site, which usually hires skilled workers.
Mo Qub says after seeing the effects of mining on other indigenous people in Guatemala, Las Paz is not in favor of the Skye Resources project. "Everyone wants the mine to leave," he says about La Paz. "The same way it came is the way it can go. Mines use a lot of water, they pollute the water, and will damage the agricultural potential here."
For the Q'eq'chi people, the situation is curious, and a bit infuriating. They pay to work land that has been theirs for many generations, and are being pushed to leave it altogether. "We are 100 percent Guatemalans," Mo Qub says. "How is it possible that a foreign company can accuse us of illegally occupying this land? The words they say to us are offensive, and deeply anger us."
The meeting ends with a prayer, just as it started. The farmers may pray individually, but afterwards a woman says they are working together to defend their small part of the world, where they have lived for centuries. "We are united," she says. "We know our children will have no place to go if we don't fight for our land now." Like many others, she is not eager to share her name with strangers.
As if to show they will remain here, several of the men sharpen their machetes, and start clearing the grass and weeds away from the entrance of the meeting place. They slice the grass with long graceful slashes. The machetes make a metallic ringing sound as the grass jumps away from the blades, which blur as they arc off to the side and back again.
]]>It is hard to reconcile the beauty of the lake with the violence along its shores. Mejía's work to defend the environment, and propose sustainable ways of living and working, has angered some who would prefer to rely on industrial mining for economic development in the region. A local citizen's organization has written a threatening letter to the Interior Ministry in Guatemala City, saying her work to educate community leaders about the risks of mining is unacceptable. She continues working, with international observers with her at all times to protect her.
Mejía first came here 10 years ago. She and her three children settled in the lakeside town of El Estor, promoting ecotourism and waging a series of campaigns to protect Lake Izabal from oil and mining projects that she says threaten the natural resources of the region—and won—t do much to benefit the local farming and fishing communities.
In 2002, Mejía and a handful of teachers, fisherman, environmentalists, a local physician and other citizens took on Shell Oil, which had a concession to drill right through the bottom of the lake. The small band of opponents founded the Association of Friends of Lake Izabal (ASALI) and succeeded in blocking the licenses for this project. ASALI then turned its attention to nickel mines along the sides of the lake.
There has been industrial mining in Izabal since the 1950s, but it has been in fits and starts as the prices of commodities have spiked and crashed over the years. But mining is now booming everywhere, so the Canadian company Skye Resources, which bought the mine in 2004, is now preparing to work a 100-square-mile concession it acquired in 2005. The area is home to 30 indigenous Q'eq'chi communities. None were properly consulted about the concession. This constitutes a violation of Guatemala's 1996 Peace Accords and international laws that protect indigenous people. The company is now engaged in talks with communities to convince them to go along with the plan to mine.
Skye Resources is now operating at a loss as it seeks financing so it can start mining in 2009. The company estimates it could get as much as 673,000 tons of nickel out of the mine. As part of its effort to clear people out of the concession area, the company and police forcefully evicted a number of Q'eq'chi communities in January of 2007, burning their humble shelters to the ground.
"We need a strong defense of the environment here," Mejía says at her home in El Estor. She has just finished a meal of traditionally prepared fish from Lake Izabal, and dines with visitors and two members of Peace Brigades International, who accompany her to ensure her safety.
ASALI is working in 29 communities to teach their leaders about mining: how much water is used, the chemicals, the transportation, and the rights of indigenous communities to be consulted. "We want every community leader to attend one of these workshops, and share their ideas and problems and work on them together," Mejía says. With help from Oxfam America, ASALI also arranges for these leaders to visit other mining areas in Honduras and in Guatemala's western highlands to see the effects of mining on indigenous people. "This is so they can see the consequences and talk to affected people," she says.
With the laws around land rights so unclear in Guatemala, indigenous people lack the required title and other official documents they need to defend their territory. Mejía says this needs to be addressed. "Through our contacts we have put the issue of land on the national agenda; it's been discussed in congress, so people are aware of the problems of land in mining concession areas."
Much of Mejía's motivation comes from her commitment to the people, all those who fish and grow corn on the fields near the lake. "When you come here and see the needs of the poor communities, you can see that people are not asking for much in life. But when you see the injustices and the way things are taken from them, it is so unfair that they are so poor and have so few opportunities despite the richness and national treasure here," she says. "This leads you to fall in love with this place. It makes you want to do something to contribute to changes here—and to denounce the injustice."
It is just this commitment that puts her at risk. Her Peace Brigade guardians are with her and several of her colleagues from ASALI, all of whom are working under threat. Mejía says they are not radicals."We want people to understand that there is another healthy and just way to develop this area, through rational use of the national treasures we have here."
"If at some time we no longer exist, we hope that we have sowed some seeds of awareness, solidarity, and respect to the environment. In this threatening climate for our work, our vulnerability makes us do what little we can—with all our hearts."
]]>"He insulted us and beat me up," she says, tears welling up with the memory. Ortiz recounts the ordeal in her dirt-floor house in the department of Ahuachapan, sitting on a simple wood chair, holding her four-year-old daughter Melissa—her youngest. "One of my children said to me, 'Mama, let's get out of here,' so we went outside."
That spring night, outside their blue concrete house, the threats continued. "He insulted me so much... saying I was worthless, I had no future, and that it was better for him to kill me and the children."
Ortiz had to take action because her husband was a police officer and had a firearm. The family took shelter at a neighbor's house, and Ortiz called the police. Her husband was arrested the next morning. She and her children were safe for the moment, but in his drunken rage he had burned all their clothes.
The hills in Ahuachapan are bright green after a rainy summer. Blue and yellow butterflies fly lazily among the coffee trees along the dirt roads, and the sun is warm and comforting. It looks peaceful, making the violent confrontation Ortiz describes seem out of place. But in this small country of six million, widespread violence tends to be particularly deadly for women.
El Salvador is still recovering from a 13-year civil war that saw 75,000 people killed and nearly 8,000 "disappeared." It is a politically polarized society, torn between a small business elite, which dominates commerce and the government, and the majority struggling in poverty. Socially, men are dominant: It is a machista culture that holds many women in submissive roles in the family, raising children and doing other work in the home. Roughly half of Salvadorans live in poverty, and women head about 25 percent of households, so the abuse of and discrimination against women contributes directly to keeping them poor and in their subservient role in society.
There is a paucity of data on violence against women in El Salvador, but what few details are available tell a brutal story: In a country about the geographic size of Massachusetts, the rate of "femicide" in El Salvador was 11.15 per 100,000 women in 2005, far exceeding Guatemala's rate (population nearly 13 million) of 7.96 for that same year, according to a 2006 report by the Inter-American Institute of Human Rights. The same report shows the numbers of women murdered in El Salvador inching up slowly from 2001, when there were 211 women killed, to 260 in 2004, before jumping to 390 in 2005. The 2006 total was 437, according to Yanira Argueta, director of the Association of Salvadoran Women. "The situation is critical," she says at a meeting in her office in San Salvador. "Public officials are not sensitive to the problem, and there is no good application of the laws."
Part of the problem is public perception. A 2006 poll by CS Sondeo found that only about 83 percent of people in El Salvador believe that rape is a crime—which means that more than 15 percent don't consider it a criminal act.
Whether rape, murder, assault, or even psychological abuse, violence against women is more than an injustice or a human rights violation: it is an investment in the social status quo that keeps men on top and women below them. And it prevents women from fully contributing to the two changes El Salvador desperately needs: an end to poverty and the building of democracy.
]]>Molina de Vasquez worked hard to get the group established because she wants women to have opportunities to work outside their homes so they can broaden their horizons. "So many women are mistreated by their husbands," she says. "They need to know about their rights and feel capable of doing things."
"I would like to get women to know about their rights and duties, and to increase their self-esteem. We can help ourselves and our families, care for our children, and earn income to change our lives."
When asked why helping other women is so important to her, she says, "Let me tell you a little about my own life; then you will know."
The details come spilling out; she's like someone who walks away from a serious car accident, describing how lucky she is just to be alive. Mistreated by her father, her mother abused, Molina de Vasquez was married at 14 to a soldier. "I thought it was a way to escape," she says, "but my life got worse." Her husband was violent, and his family "used to tell me that my job was to have children and take care of my husband." When she failed to deliver a child for the first three years of their marriage, "I was useless to them," Molina de Vasquez says with a sigh.
But others could see that she was a leader. When their first child went to kindergarten, she was chosen to be the president of the parents' board at the school. "When I told my husband, he was angry. He told me I was not capable of it. I accepted this; he always told me I was good for nothing. For 11 years it was like that."
Eventually they moved to a rural area and things started to improve. Her husband became an agricultural laborer. They had a son. But Molina de Vasquez wanted to do more activities outside their home, like joining a health training program. Although reluctant to allow her to participate, her husband said she could host training sessions at their home. As part of this training, one of Oxfam's partners, AGROSAL, taught the women about their rights and how to prevent domestic violence. It was part of the Vida Diferente campaign to prevent gender violence.
"I started to listen to talks about preventing violence in the home," Molina de Vasquez says. "I learned about my rights." Since her husband allowed her to hold the meetings at their house, Molina de Vasquez took a risk: "I invited him to the talks and training sessions, and he became more sensitive." Together, she and her husband questioned the gender roles and attitudes in the machista culture in El Salvador, and they recreated their relationship. "Now my husband and I solve problems through dialogue, not violence," Molina de Vasquez says. He now recognizes how important it is for her to use her leadership skills. "If someone asks me to do something, I will do it because I know my husband will not say no."
Molina de Vasquez is committed to the new women's organization: "First I would like to get women to know about their rights and duties, and to increase their self-esteem." She says there are practical reasons for this, which leads to the second goal: "We need jobs for all the women. We can help ourselves and our families, care for our children, and earn income to change our lives." For Molina de Vasquez, respect for women and fighting poverty are part of the same struggle.
The changes in Molina de Vasquez's family are hard to compare to the earlier, oppressive days. "I have overcome it—so why can't I help other women? That is my goal: to help many other women."
]]>One of the goals of the campaign is to increase the number of women who understand their rights and can effectively defend them as Adelina Ortiz did. To help educate the next generation, the campaign developed a program for teachers and schoolchildren in 2007 that teaches young people about how to prevent gender violence and what to do if they are attacked.
"We used to talk about gender equity here," says Patricia Jovel. "But never gender violence." Jovel is the director of a school participating in this new initiative in El Progreso, a village perched on the impossibly steep Quetzaltepeque volcano outside San Salvador. The school, where 850 students from 6 to 16 years old attend classes in two half-day groups, is a collection of six cinderblock classrooms topped by metal sheet roofing on either side of a terraced concrete courtyard sloping down the mountainside. It is a beehive of activity after classes, as without any level area for a playground, the students play tag around the central courtyard in the brisk mountain air. Jovel says the young women who sometimes have to walk home in the dark after school are now better equipped to fend off the young men offering drinks and cigarettes to them. "Thank God there have been no rapes," she says.
The students have learned their lessons well: Karla Sanchez, 15, says it is a matter of her basic rights. "Everyone must respect our rights as children, girls, youth. We all have the same rights, and no one can violate them. And if something should happen, we know we can tell our parents, our teachers, or adults we trust. They are here to help us," she explains patiently. And if these people can't help, she knows where to go. She lists a number of institutions where she can turn for protection: the Human Rights Office; the National Police; and the Salvadoran Institute for the Advancement of Women, known as ISDEMU. As she leaves, Sanchez articulates one essential idea about reporting gender violence: "We should not be afraid of what people say."
In 2007, this pilot project in 53 schools exposed 25,000 students to the key messages of the campaign and trained 1,000 students and 1,000 teachers. The teachers now have incorporated violence prevention into their curriculum, and they work with the trained students. The pilot was supported by the Ministry of Education and was such a success that the minister decided to incorporate it into the public school curriculum nationwide.
Sustained pressure to change societal attitudes toward women is a slow process. One effective way to question long-held ideas and beliefs is to educate those entrusted with defending the rights of women, protecting them in the community, and helping them if they are attacked or injured. These include public officials like police officers, judges, public health officials and doctors, and social workers. The campaign organized a formal training program at the University of Central America (UCA) in 2005, and 45 people attended.
Maritza de Vasquez, a psychologist at the family court in the city of San Marcos, just outside San Salvador, says this training has helped her assist the many women who come through her office. De Vasquez says that women are hearing the messages of the campaign and are taking action to protect themselves. In the steady stream of domestic violence and divorce cases she sees, there is a different attitude. "Women take the opportunity to come here and talk about their situation they come here right away to denounce it," she says. "They are expressing their rights more openly now."
Back in Ahuachapan, Ortiz grows corn and raises sheep to support her children and grandchildren. He husband is in jail awaiting a hearing. "I'd rather see him in prison than anywhere else," Ortiz says. It was her participation in a sheep-raising program run by one of Oxfam America's partners, Association of Salvadoran Agriculturalists (AGROSAL), that exposed Ortiz to the human rights training that helped her defend her own life and protect her children. She points out that in all her training to become a health worker, no one ever educated her about domestic violence or how to prevent it. "The training taught me that women have rights and people are obligated to respect them," Ortiz says. "This made me act, to look for help, and thank God I found it."
]]>There can be no way forward for Darfur until all parties to the conflict stop fighting and stop attacks on civilians. Yet, at the moment, the violence continues, causing untold misery for millions of people—with thousands more attacked and fleeing their homes every week the conflict goes on. People across the world must let their politicians know that the suffering of so many Darfur citizens will be tolerated no longer. The international community must put greater sustained pressure on all parties to immediately cease hostilities and return to the negotiating table.
For five years the world has promised the people of Darfur that it will protect them from violence—yet there is still no peacekeeping force capable of giving civilians the protection they need and deserve. The new United Nations-African Union force, known as UNAMID, deployed at the start of 2008 but is still woefully under strength, with only a third of its 26,000 personnel on the ground and a lack of equipment, training, and political backing. The force urgently needs more international support. Getting UNAMID on the ground took 18 months of enormous political effort, but this will be wasted unless the force is made strong enough to actually protect people.
The humanitarian response in Darfur is among the largest in the world and has had an enormous impact on people’s lives. Early in the crisis, large numbers of people died of malnutrition and disease, but over time the mortality rates have been cut and people now have greatly improved access to vital services such as water, food, and healthcare. Yet daily targeted attacks on humanitarian workers are making Darfur an increasingly dangerous and difficult place to work. Oxfam’s staffers are still managing to assist over 400,000 people – but it is becoming ever harder to do so. The international community must ensure that all the many parties to the conflict respect international humanitarian law and allow aid to reach those who desperately need it.
Despite the vast humanitarian effort and the need for a stronger protection force, the only sustainable solution to the conflict is a political one. The peace process has stalled again recently and world leaders must provide sustained, coordinated leadership to reinvigorate efforts to unite the countless factions and bring all parties back to negotiations. Greater effort must be made to ensure such talks are truly representative of the people of Darfur, by increasing the involvement of civil society and marginalized groups, and reflecting the needs and concerns of all Darfur’s many ethnic groups.
While soldiers and militia fight, it is the ordinary people of Darfur who suffer. They want nothing more than an end to the conflict and to be able to get back to their normal lives – but they need our help to make this happen. People all over the world can help ensure their political leaders do not allow attention on Darfur to fade after five years. Darfur must not be allowed to become yet another “forgotten crisis.” To do so would condemn millions of its people to years more suffering.
]]>Paso suspected the reason for this neglect, and it became clear when one health official told Paso that he was not fit to wash dishes in their office because he was an indigenous Quechua speaker, an ethnic group at the bottom of the social order in the scenic region of Cusco. Paso was so discouraged that he almost believed him.
"I was lost," says Paso, now 37, married, and the father of three young boys. "I did not know what culture I belonged to."
Racism, and the discrimination it breeds, erodes the self-respect of the highland indigenous people of Peru. They turn away from their culture and slowly drop their traditional ways of living and working that are so well suited to the Andes. As a result, indigenous people are among the poorest in the country. Paso could see it around his village: farmers like him were not following their traditions of helping each other in their fields; they were poor and ashamed of their culture.
To get some perspective, Paso visited the Centro de Bartolomé de Las Casas, known by its initials CBC, because he had heard on the radio that it was running a bilingual education program designed to help indigenous leaders like him reconcile their place in Peru, learn about their human rights, and develop skills to represent their community with government officials. He joined the program and began learning to read and write in his own Quechua language as well as in Spanish, and he is now more confident in his ability to function in his own indigenous world and the official, Spanish-speaking culture of Peru.
With grants from Oxfam America, CBC had just finished a year-long consultation with Quechua-speaking community leaders and had jointly developed a curriculum designed to help young leaders value their own culture while operating in Peru's modern, post-colonial culture. "We have created a way to help people see they are part of one culture, but they recognize the other," says Nicolette Velarde, an anthropologist at CBC. She says this helps the community leaders create a "dialogue of respect and recognition of one culture with the other."
"Both are valuable," Velarde says. "I am different from you, you are different from me, but there is dialogue and respect."
After developing the curriculum, CBC is now in the midst of training its first group of leaders, which included Paso and 30 others from Cusco and Apurimac.
One of them is Guillermina Mamani Huamán, 53, a mother of four and grandmother of seven. She had a similar experience to Paso's the first time she visited the city of Cusco, 15 years ago. "It was the first time I ever left my village ... Every time I think of it I get emotional," she says, sitting at her loom, staked out on the ground on the banks of the Mapuche River rushing past her father and sister's house.
Huamán went to Cusco to ask a government agency for help in marketing artisan products, but, over the course of four days, she was repeatedly denied the courtesy of even a short consultation. She struggled to find her way in the city, unable to read the street signs, frustrated by her illiteracy, and discouraged by her confrontation with institutionalized racism.
Indigenous women get little help from government agencies whose mission is to assist them. And indigenous women have special problems, even within their own culture, in that men do not always respect the work they do in their homes, and artisan women find that their handicrafts do not fetch a very high price. Huamán intends to learn how to better promote indigenous artisanry and build respect for the work of women. "We need to value fairly what we produce," she says. "This traditional way of weaving is the fruit of our culture, and every weaving has its own character—each woman puts in the way she sees the world."
Paso and Huamán and all the other leaders are planning how they will use their newfound knowledge and leadership skills. Paso is planning to run for public office so he can better represent his community and ensure it gets the schools, health care, and clean water it deserves, without forsaking its cultural identity.
Huamán wants to continue her work to promote the handicrafts produced by women in her community so that they can be more financially independent. "I want to help women educate their children," she says while weaving next to the rushing river, "so they can read and write, and not face the discrimination that I have."
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