Other Libraries / Bibliotecas Ajenas

by Cayre Alfaro Fonseca

Cayre Alfaro Fonseca, editor of the independent Peruvian publisher ‘Personaje Secundario’, has been running the bookstore ‘Espacio Secundario’ since the end of last year. Before thinking about opening a bookstore, he imagined a questionnaire about books he’d like to have from libraries he’s visited. “Other Libraries” talks about three books he wishes he had, as well as the impossibility of arranging a bookshelf, of fixing a library.

Author Cayre Alfaro Fonseca

Other Libraries

An Argentinian bookshop has a questionnaire that asks writers how they arrange their personal library. It also asks for a picture of it. “I don’t send a photo of my library because I think it looks like all the others”, replies Santiago Venturini, who prefers sending a photo of the light he’d mentioned in a previous question about the most beautiful colour he’d ever seen.

Every library has its own order. And its own disorder, too. I think of the photos of libraries I’ve seen: overflowed, excessive, inhospitable. I believe in those photos. Bookshelves organised like a military parade, ideal for Zoom backgrounds or backcover pictures, are a fiction. There’s real photos of publishing offices, journalistic studios or admired writers’ libraries which justify their own chaos. In fact, I have yet to order my own library after returning from a trip with a couple of suitcases full of books. There’s no way to order a library without disordering it. Or giving it a new order, in any case.

A Mexican bookshop, for its part, records writers’ libraries. I remember a writer who, intending to take excessive care of his image, would turn his books so that, instead of their spines, one could only see paper sheets. That way, he prevented anyone who’d visit his library from learning his tastes and influences — and also from them asking to borrow any books. In any case, in the Mexican bookshop’s videos, writers stop at certain books, be it for antiquity, affection, or both.

Most libraries are impossible to photograph, or to record, especially if they’re our own. There’s no distance with one’s own library. We usually value our friends’ libraries, and get surprised when they get excited over our books — rarities that we normalise and treat as if they’d always been there. In other libraries, on the contrary, we search for titles that we don’t have, in order to desire them, to make a mental list of books that we don’t but should own, in order to flirt with the idea of borrowing them, without, of course, intending to give them back. If I had a bookshop, I’d make a questionnaire asking readers which of their friends’ books they’d steal — or borrow without intending to give back. Because I don’t have a bookshop, I play the game and think of three books I’d choose from libraries that I’ve seen, that I’ve visited.

Before moving to the United States, my friend Ivana invited me to her house to select the books I wanted from her library. The only one that was out of bounds was a hand-made edition, rubber-bound with a coloured bond paper jacket. I was struck by how scholarly the edition was. I tell her this. The term scholarly is not derogatory, but true. It was a book her younger sister made for her as primary school homework. I don’t remember the title, but I do remember the cover had the word “sister” written on it. It was a manual for enduring having an older sister, for coping with being the younger sister. Against her sister, but in support of sisterhood. It was both a cute and cruel book at the same time: children’s literature in its pure state. That’s the familiarity I’m interested in: the conflict of coexistence, the tragicomedy of transiting other lives, and having others transit our own life.

On the birthday of my friend Ramos’s father, who is also called Ramos, but isn’t my friend, I stay to one side of the party talking with him all night, as if we were friends. After midnight, his wife approaches us and says, more as an affirmation than a question: You’ve become friends. No, he replies, and she, perhaps to break the tension of a denied friendship, asks him whether he’d told me the Borges anecdote. No, I reply this time. And the story begins, with a certain familiarity that becomes confusing. Apparently his father, my friend’s grandfather, who, of course, is also called, or, in this case, was also called Ramos, worked as a secretary in the Universidad de Buenos Aires. Amongst other tasks, he was in charge of the academic timetables when Borges gave classes at the UBA. In gratitude for giving him the best schedules, Borges gave him books at the start of each term, which he read during the year, and, at the end of the course, asked Borges to sign. Of all of those books, two arrived to Lima — my friend’s father brought them from Argentina to show them to his son, to tell him about his grandfather, about his job, about his books. After the conversation, after that emotional moment that my friend had in fact already told me about — right before asking me for a Borges book of short stories which he never gave back — both books were abandoned on some shelf of the Ramos family library. More abandoned than what they’d imagined, apparently, because every so often, when they looked for them to show them to a reader friend, they couldn’t find them. Until Ramos father’s second wedding, when Ramos son’s cousin gave both books signed for Ramos grandpa as a wedding present. The surprise was moving — which did not mean, however, that that family member was allowed back into the family library. The story ends, the party continues and the possibility of friendship remains in the drinks, in the stories, in the books to come, to be lent, to be returned.

My best friend spent months writing countless versions of a book for his girlfriend. The anniversary present he dreamed of giving to her. He organised a trip to give it to her on the date when everything begun. But the book didn’t make it out of print on time. So, he had to give her the printed mock-ups with marks and corrections. That’s the book that I’d like to receive, that I’d like to read, that I’d like to have in my library. A book made against time, unfinished, imperfect. An accident. After returning from the trip, my friend gave her the official version. Because of the delay, the print shop should have given him a few more copies. But they didn’t, so my friend had to look for another place to print more books. A few months later, he published a version for the public: hundreds of copies that do not compare to that unique object resting in another library. In the end, the relationship ended, but the book survived, survives on anonymous bookshelves that they don’t know of, that they ignore. Perhaps that’s what we do when we write, when we edit, when we read: we build other libraries.

Translation by Patricio Ghezzi Novak

BIBLIOTECAS AJENAS

Una librería argentina tiene un cuestionario donde preguntan a escritores cómo ordenan su biblioteca. También piden mandar una imagen del lugar. “No envío una foto de mi biblioteca porque creo que se parece a todas las demás”, responde Santiago Venturini, quien prefiere mandar la luz que había mencionado en una pregunta anterior, referida al color más hermoso que vio en su vida.

Hay un orden propio en cada biblioteca. Y también un desorden. Pienso en las fotos de bibliotecas que he visto: desbordadas, excesivas, inhabitables. Creo en esas fotos. Los libreros ordenados como desfile militar, ideales para tener en el fondo de Zoom o en la foto de solapa, son una ficción. Hay fotos reales de oficinas editoriales, de estudios periodísticos o de bibliotecas de escritores admirados que justifican el caos propio. Tengo pendiente, de hecho, ordenar mi biblioteca, luego de volver de viaje con un par de maletas llenas de libros. No hay manera de ordenar una biblioteca sin desordenarla. Darle un nuevo orden, en todo caso.

Una librería mexicana, por su parte, graba libreros de escritores. Recuerdo un escritor que pretendía cuidar demasiado su imagen y volteaba los libros para que, en lugar del lomo, se vean las hojas de papel. De esa manera, evitaba que los eventuales visitantes a su biblioteca supieran sus influencias, sus gustos. Y de paso que le pidieran libros prestados. En todo caso, en los videos de la librería mexicana, los escritores se detienen en ciertos libros, ya sea por antigüedad o por cariño o por ambos.

La mayoría de las bibliotecas son imposibles de fotografiar o de grabar, sobre todo si es nuestra. No hay distancia con la biblioteca propia. Solemos valorar las bibliotecas de nuestros amigos y sorprendernos cuando ellos se emocionan al ver los libros que tenemos, rarezas que normalizamos y damos por sentadas, como si siempre hubieran estado allí. En las bibliotecas ajenas, en cambio, buscamos títulos que no tenemos para desearlos, para hacer una lista mental de ejemplares que nos faltan, que deberíamos tener, para tantear que nos los presten sin ninguna intención de devolverlos. Si tuviera una librería, haría un cuestionario para preguntarle a los lectores qué libros robarían —o pedirían prestados para no devolver—. Como no la tengo, hago el ejercicio y pienso en tres libros que escogería de los libreros que he visto, que he visitado.

Mi amiga Ivana, antes de mudarse a vivir a Estados Unidos, me invitó a su casa para que seleccione los libros que quería de su biblioteca. El único que no estaba en oferta era una edición artesanal, encuadernada con goma y con una sobrecubierta de papel bond a color. Me llamó la atención lo escolar de la edición. Se lo digo. El término escolar no resulta despectivo, sino cierto. Fue un libro que su hermana menor le hizo para una tarea de primaria. No recuerdo el título, pero sí que llevaba la palabra “hermana” en la tapa. Era un manual para soportar tener una hermana mayor, para sobrellevar ser una hermana menor. En contra de su hermana, pero a favor de la hermandad. Era un libro tierno y cruel al mismo tiempo: literatura infantil en estado puro. Esa es la familiaridad que me interesa: el conflicto de la convivencia, la tragicomedia de transitar la vida del resto y que el resto transite nuestra vida.

En el cumpleaños del padre de mi amigo Ramos, que también se apellida Ramos, pero no es mi amigo, me quedó con él, a un lado de la fiesta, hablando toda la noche como si fuéramos amigos. Pasada la medianoche, su esposa se acerca a nosotros y dice, afirmando más que preguntando: Ya se hicieron amigos. No, responde él, y ella, acaso para romper la tensión de una amistad negada, le pregunta si ya me contó la anécdota de Borges. No, me toca responder a mí, esta vez. Y la historia comienza, con cierta familiaridad que se torna confusa. Resulta que su padre, el abuelo de mi amigo Ramos, que, cómo no, también se apellida o, en este caso, se apellidaba Ramos, trabajó como secretario en la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Entre otras labores, era el encargado de ver los horarios académicos, cuando Borges dictaba clases en la UBA. En agradecimiento por darle los mejores horarios, Borges le regalaba libros al inicio de cada ciclo, que él leía en el transcurso del cuatrimestre y, al terminar el curso, le pedía que firme. De todos esos libros, dos llegaron a Lima, traídos desde Argentina por el padre de mi amigo para mostrárselos a su hijo, para hablarle de su abuelo, de su oficio, de sus libros. Luego de la conversación, de ese momento emotivo del que mi amigo sí me había hablado —antes de pedirme prestado un libro de cuentos de Borges que nunca me devolvió—, ambos libros terminaron olvidados en un estante de la biblioteca familiar. Más olvidados de lo que pensaron, al parecer, porque, cada tanto, cuando lo buscaban para mostrárselo a algún amigo lector, no los encontraban. Hasta el segundo matrimonio de Ramos padre, cuando el primo de Ramos hijo dio los libros firmados para Ramos abuelo como regalos de bodas. La sorpresa fue conmovedora. Lo que no evitó, sin embargo, que ese familiar no vuelva a entrar a su biblioteca. La historia termina, la fiesta sigue y la posibilidad de ser amigos se mantiene en los tragos, en las historias, en los libros por venir, por ser prestados, por ser devueltos.

Mi mejor amigo pasó meses escribiendo incontables versiones de un libro dedicado a su novia. El regalo de aniversario que soñaba darle. Organizó un viaje para entregárselo en la fecha donde inició todo. Pero el libro no salió de imprenta a tiempo. Entonces, le tuvo que regalar las pruebas de impresión con las marcas y correcciones apuntadas. Ese es el libro que quisiera recibir, que quisiera leer, que quisiera tener en mi biblioteca. Un libro hecho contra el tiempo, inacabado, imperfecto. Un accidente. Luego, al regresar de viaje, mi amigo le regaló la versión oficial, salida de la imprenta que, por el retraso, le debió dar al menos un par de ejemplares más. Pero no, mi amigo tuvo que cambiar de lugar para hacer más libros. A los meses, sacó una edición abierta al público, cientos de ejemplares que no se comparan a ese objeto único que descansa en una biblioteca ajena. Al final, la relación terminó, pero el libro sobrevivió, sobrevive en estantes anónimos, que ellos desconocen, ignoran. Acaso eso hacemos al escribir, al editar, al leer: construimos bibliotecas ajenas.

Cayre Alfaro Fonseca (Lima, 1997) studied Hispanic Literature at Pontifica Universidad Católica del Perú, where he currently teaches, and is taking the Art History and Curatorship masters degree. He has published the books of poems _Hay un animal entre nosotros_ (2019) and _Quince minutos de receso_ (2022), amongst others. He has also written for theatre, stories and essays. This year, _Historia personal del baño_, his book that parodies autofiction novels, will be released. He currently runs the independent publisher ‘Personaje Secundario’ and the bookstore ‘Espacio Secundario’.

Cultural Celebration or Economic Exploitation: Indigenous Identity in Peru

Source: https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/apr/04/peru-indigenous-names-public-records

By: Clarice Benney*

DISCLAIMER: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the KCL Latin American Society or El Cortao'.

Peru’s geographical diversity is typically summarised in three words: sierra (mountainous Andean region), selva (the tropical Amazon rainforest), and costa (coastal cities, towns and villages). Travel companies often capitalise on this diversity, marketing it as an ideal holiday destination for the variety of environments, however this presentation often idealises the situation and fails to nuance how regionalisation can have a negative impact on individual experience. This article will explore how indigenous and Hispanic identities intersect to form Peru, with regard to economic generation, cultural exploitation, linguistic diversity and political representation.

Source: https://portal.andina.pe/edpespeciales/2018/diversidad/index.html

The mountainous Andean region, home to the cities of Cusco and cultural site of Machu Picchu, is also home to many of Peru’s Quechua communities. 60% of land in Peru is in the Amazon basin, and when looking at the demographic makeup of the Amazonas and Loreto provinces, there are a combined 32 indigenous groups. The coastal area is where the majority of Peru’s cities are based, but when looking at Peru’s entire coastline, the presence of indigenous communities decreases, as shown in the map to the right, and aside from some Quechua communities in Ancash there is no presence at all within 50 kilometres of the coast.

Source: https://www.minem.gob.pe/_publicacion.php?idSector=1&idPublicacion=557

Peru’s three largest industries are mining, fishing, and tourism. When considering how these industries ‘map out’, as shown in the map to the left, mining is being undertaken and explored in areas that seem to follow the spread of Quechua communities: in the Andean region from Arequipa to Ancash. For tourism, I would argue that it is more useful to understand why tourists come to Peru than where tourists go. In 2017, a survey found that the top four motives for visiting Per were to see the nature and natural landscape (60.7%), to see Machu Picchu (60.4%), for the Peruvian cuisine (59%), and to visit Cusco (55%). Machu Picchu is an archaeological site of an Incan settlement, built into the mountains and so remote that it survived the destruction of the Spanish conquistadores, and Cusco is its nearest city, and a popular destination for hiking and its impressive landscape. When visiting for gastronomy, the capital city of Lima is home to many good restaurants, but not the only place to take advantage of Peru’s rich culinary culture.

In terms of the residential population distribution in Peru, about 40% lives in the costa, 36% live in the sierra and 12% in the selva. Almost one third of the population lives in the Lima and Callao Metropolitan area. With this in mind, it does make sense that there would be a centralisation of resources in the Lima area, however the extent of the centralisation of resources appears somewhat exploitative, given that the industries which finance it are linked to the sierra and indigenous culture. However, it is not just about economic resources and recognition; when considering the importance of indigenous culture to tourism, Peru’s institutions often exclude and disadvantage indigenous communities.

In 2002, the cultural and linguistic diversity in Peru led to a law being passed that is commonly referred to as Educación Intercultural Bilingüe (EIB), which aims to promote indigenous languages and cultures, keeping the languages ‘alive’ by creating bilingual schools that teach in indigenous languages. In practice, this has led to the development of some schools that offer bilingual primary education. For example, in the Cusco region some primary schools give education in Quechua, the indigenous language in this area, but almost all secondary education is taught in Castilian Spanish. Whilst the motive behind EIB was good, it has created issues. For one, the ‘othering’ of non-Castilian speaking children, as EIB schools are seen as different and separate from non-EIB schools, which make up the majority. Additionally, EIB aside, there is a higher rate of leaving education between primary and secondary in indigenous communities due in part to the increased expense of accessing schools that are further away. This disproportionately affects girls, who are less likely to be given the opportunity if a family can only afford to send one child, and is choosing between a son and a daughter. What EIB can do is to heighten the risk of dropping out of education if a child is uncomfortable or unable to speak Castilian. To improve this situation would either require the development of EIB secondary schools or the inclusion of indigenous language and culture in the mainstream national curriculum in order to address the issue of marginalisation.

With regard to political representation of indigenous culture in Peru, until 1979 voting was only possible for those who could speak and write Castilian, and there have been a number of cultural conflicts in recent years. For example, in 2006, María Sumire had to repeat her ‘swearing-in’ three times, as she insisted on doing it in Quechua, her native language. In 2009, in what is now referred to as el Baguazo, Congress suspended 7 elected members, three of whom identified as indigenous, for supporting protests in favour of demands being made by indigenous communities. The demands came in response to a government move to loosen legislation regarding extraction of resources in the Amazon. The protests came to a head in a confrontation which saw both police and protestor casualties, but only the prosecution of protestors. The significance of removing these members of Congress cannot be overlooked, given that from 2001-2016 only 7 members of Congress identified as indigenous.

Peru’s diversity is part of its identity, and yet sadly this diversity has not yet led to the social equity necessary to avoid economic exploitation of indigenous people. The seeds are there in the form of the EIB and perception of Peru to outsiders, however in their current forms, neither of these potential factors for change are doing their jobs properly. As such, work to help restore this balance falls to individuals offering community services. I would like to highlight the work of three organisations operating in the Cusco area: Casa Mantay, Sacred Valley Project and Mosqoy. 

Casa Mantay provides a home for teenage mothers and their children and gives them the necessary support (both material and psychological) to continue their education, as well as giving them the opportunity to develop skills by working in their social enterprise, Taller Mantay, which produces artisan leather goods. Mantay has recently started having ‘Jueves de Quechua’ (Thursdays in Quechuan) for staff and girls, to recognise the importance of self-expression for those who speak Quechua as their native tongue, and to encourage non-native speakers to learn it. 

Sacred Valley Project provides dormitories in Cusco for girls from indigenous backgrounds to come during term time and receive support and community when they attend secondary school. Similarly, Mosqoy has dormitories for secondary students and they also work with mostly female-run weaving cooperatives in the Sacred Valley as part of the Q’ente Society Textile Revitalization Programme, to give them an outlet to sell to international markets. This connects women’s often unacknowledged labour with a fair income source, fostering financial independence in their families, greater provision for their children, and a central, respected place in the rural economy.

Clarice is a student studying Spanish at Cambridge University. She is currently on her ‘year abroad’ and working with the NGO Latin American Foundation for the Future (LAFF) as Communications Coordinator. LAFF operates in Cusco, Peru and so Clarice is particularly interested in Peruvian current affairs, as well as protest culture in Latin American and grassroots activism. 

*About LAFF:

Latin American Foundation for the Future (LAFF) is a UK registered charity operating in Cusco, Peru to increase access to quality education and personal development opportunities. LAFF believes that one of the best ways to create positive long term change is to support local grassroots organisations so that community leaders drive the change. To find out more about what we do, check out our website.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/laffcharity/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/company/latin-american-foundation-for-the-future

Testimony: Lost in the Amazon

Source: https://elpais.com/internacional/2018/11/27/america/1543344243_444001.html

By: Arianna Sánchez

DISCLAIMER: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the KCL Latin American Society or El Cortao.

Olivia was born in a tiny town, hours away from Iquitos, in the Peruvian Amazon. To get there, you need to not only trek but also travel a portion of the way by boat. As Olivia told me, “there was absolutely nothing to do, I had to leave”. During our lunches together, she would tell me about her main dream growing up – she needed to get out of that town. Olivia would take any chance available to travel to Iquitos even to work for free, any excuse to leave her cramped town. Even though she grew up in a loving family, she felt suffocated. In a place where everyone knows everything about everyone. She could not grow. 

Shortly after turning 20, she went to Iquitos to look for jobs to become independent. She knew her town would not provide her with what she wanted. She needed a way out,urgently. She found the best way to get out was to find a job and the closest city was Iquitos. Walking with her head down and ready to give up, Olivia found a brand-new poster stuck to one of the light posts, “Looking for people to work in the jungle, near Iquitos. Will pay 1,000 soles.” Olivia knew what she had to do. Her golden ticket out of her native town. 

Olivia did not hesitate and called the advertised number quickly. A couple picked up. They asked her to meet them at the main plaza where they would discuss the job in more detail. What they told her seemed too good to be true. She would get 500 soles right then, and the rest when she finished the job. If she recruited more people, she would even get a commission. Best of all, the place of work was an hour away from the main plaza, and she would get free transport. Olivia rapidly thanked them, carefully placed those 500 soles in her purse, and ran back to get on a boat before it got dark. 

When she arrived at her town, she decided she would break the news to her cousin first. Her cousin was a young single mother with a teenage son. When Olivia told her about the pay, her cousin quickly came on board. Both Julia and Mateo asked to be recruited too; Julia could pay for house refurbishments, and Mateo could start to save up for his dream of attending university. It was their golden ticket too, and they took it. Olivia’s mother was not on board. She feared her daughter was making an abrupt decision rather than one well-thought. But Olivia would not take it. And so, a few weeks later, the three had packed their favourite belongings and crossed the river towards their big break. They arrived at Iquitos with a bright new glow and headed to the plaza to meet with their new bosses to-be. They greeted each other, and as time went by people started to join them. Suddenly, the man said it was time to go. They got into a huge van and headed into the Amazon. This was when things started to go sour. 

Olivia stared out of her window and into the jungle, ruminating about her next steps. Sure, being inside the jungle for months would not be a vacation, but it was a small sacrifice with a life-changing reward. She drifted off to sleep. She woke up confused and asked her cousin how long it had been since they started driving. Her cousin let out a carefully silent “it’s been like 3 hours”. Olivia pushed away her hunch and decided this would be her ticket out. In just a few months, whatever happened, they would be out and with 1,000 soles in hand. She sat upwards and looked out the window as they went deeper into the Amazon. The bus stopped and demanded everyone to get out quickly. Olivia grabbed her belongings and stepped out of the bus filled with excitement and yet a lingering negative feeling would not allow her to enjoy what she had been waiting for. Julia, Mateo and Olivia followed the bus driver for around half an hour, as they walked through what the bus could not. Finally, they arrived, the bus driver said. Olivia told me she can only describe that moment as bittersweet; she looked up and saw this beautiful plantation, vast enough to make her question if it even stopped somewhere. This ethereal view was heavily contrasted with what she called “incredibly scary men treating you like a piece of meat”, and an arsenal of weapons enough to carry an army. She realised where she was in a moment of both acceptance and deep regret. Mateo, a mere 17-year-old boy, grabbed his mum by the wrist and asked, “They are going to kill us, aren’t they?”

Olivia kept quiet. She knew her nephew could see right through her lies, and, if she did not lie, she could worsen the situation by further scaring him. She told me she still did not have a grasp of the entirety of the situation at that moment, but she knew the job was not the one advertised. Another man showed the new people to their quarters, separated between men and women, as were the jobs. Women were told to meet in the morning by the entrance of the plantation, whilst men were told to meet by the common area. Mateo grabbed his belongings and, trying to seem as confident as possible to build a reputation amongst the mostly older men, walked into his quarters without a goodbye from Julia and Olivia. The two cousins walked into their quarters, where they were assigned a bunkbed, next to a dozen others. 

Around two weeks later, Olivia felt a constant ache in her arms due to carrying coca leaves to the main area and back all day. Her daily routine was almost as if robotic. Men would usually gather around to drink at night, so Olivia and her cousin tended to eat in their room. They would barely see Mateo, who was in charge of processing coca paste, and was dragged every night to the men’s nightly drinking-binges. They were tired but could not let anyone see, deciding to let their bodies run on autopilot and get it over with. Until the third week. Olivia and Julia were having dinner with some of their workmates in their room when they heard shouting outside. They dismissed it as it was extremely common to see drunk men making a fuss and starting fights every night. However, they stopped eating when they heard a loud gunshot. Julia did not even think twice and sprinted out of the room in an attempt to find her son. Olivia stared at her not knowing what to do – she froze. Julia came running with Mateo on her hand, trying to explain something to Olivia but unable to talk. Mateo told his aunt someone had been shot. With time not on their side, they decided to do what most were doing in a frenzy – escape into the jungle. 

Olivia told me the eight days she spent in the Amazon were the worst days of her life. The lack of clean water and safe food compounded with the constant paranoia of the drug traffickers finding them made these days a nightmare come true. They were following a stream of water trying to find a town, walking all day with an excruciating level of heat making them extremely dehydrated. However, the fear of being caught kept pushing them forward. At night, all types of insects would make sleeping impossible, and, by the morning, the three would wake up with wounds due to infected insect bites. But they had to keep going. 

Around day five, Mateo came running back from his daily food search to tell them he had heard people talking close by. What seemed like a golden opportunity to be saved, turned sour really quickly. Julia recognised the voices – it was a group of the drug traffickers. They realised walking would probably not be enough to lose them. They were severely dehydrated, and the other group did not seem so. If they tried to escape through land, they would get caught. Running out of options, the three decided their safest bet was swimming away. So, reluctantly, the three stepped into the cold river hoping it would lead them to safety. Olivia remembers the excruciating pain she would feel when she stepped out of the river. Leeches would be all over their bodies and taking them off by force was not an option. The only way to get them offwas urinating on them. 

A few days after, they felt overwhelming feelings of happiness when they found a small town. They were alive. Walking around the town, they recognised one of their fellow co-workers sitting on a bench alone. Mateo went running towards him, as the two had worked together for months. He told them he had escaped too and arrived at the town a few days prior to them. When he arrived, he found out the person that had been shot back in the plantation had told everything to the police for some money and legal immunity in return, and the traffickers had found out. The police and army raided the site during the night, and everyone who had not escaped was arrested on the spot. Most of the people that escaped were not seen again.

A few months later, the three were back in their small town, grateful to be there for the first time in years. However, their happiness was short-lived. Someone had given the police Mateo’s name, potentially in an attempt to reduce their own prison time. Mateo was arrested under charges of drug trafficking at 17 years old. He was sent to the capital, Lima, to become imprisoned in “Maranguita”, the only prison for young boys in Peru at the time. This meant his family could not even visit him, and the thought of hiring a lawyer from a capital was simply irrational. They could not afford it. Mateo spent 20 years in prison, without saying a word about Julia and Olivia, despite constant intimidation tactics by the police. Mateo was released last year, at 37 years old. 

Olivia has been diagnosed with PTSD. When she finished telling me her story, I cleared my throat and told her I did not know what to say. I did not know whether to tell her I was incredibly sorry or whether I admired her. She looked up at me and started laughing, and I thought she could see in my face my desperate attempt to find something to tell her. I asked what she was laughing at, to which she just replied, “I never even got paid the other 500 soles”

Arianna is a Peruvian 3rd Year Politics Student at King’s College London with a passion for Latin American politics and political risk-management.

“Hemos vuelto a la normalidad”: Peru in Protest

Source: https://ibb.co/pzCrp8Y

By: Clarice Benney*

DISCLAIMER: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the KCL Latin American Society or El Cortao.

“Hemos vuelto a la normalidad,” (“we have gone back to normal”) was the response of one of Peru’s most famous poets of the 20th century, Martín Adán, when asked about the 1948 coup by Manuel Odría. Adán was well known for his eccentricities, but now, 70 years later, do these words appear more perceptive and far-reaching than he was perhaps given credit for at the time?

2020 has been a tough year for Peru: they have had one of the highest death rates from Covid-19 in the world, and are now watching their political system implode. In September, Peru’s president of the congress, Manuel Merino, was given “leaked” audio files which allegedly revealed a conversation with the then-president, Martín Vizcarra, in which his aides discuss how to cover up a misuse of public funds. 

This might appear, on the surface, to be a clear cut case of right and wrong, but the political context makes it much harder to make this distinction. Vizcarra ran as Pedro Pablo Kuczynski’s running mate in the 2016 elections, when their party, Peruanos Por el Kambio (PPK, ‘Peruvians for Change’) narrowly defeated Keiko Fujimori, the Fuerza Popular party’s nominee. Kuczynski resigned in 2018 due to charges of corruption, and Vizcarra took his place.

Vizcarra enjoyed popular support with his anti-corruption agenda and vowed to not run for re-election at the end of his term in 2021, but he was consistently challenged by Congress, of which opposition parties made up the majority. In September 2019, Vizcarra dissolved the Peruvian Congress and issued a decree for a new election in January 2020, but the result of the new elections once again saw opposition-led parties making up the majority. When Vizcarra dissolved Congress, his popularity rating rose from 49 to 80%, and he was seen by many as being ‘thwarted’ by Congress in his attempts to fight corruption.

With this in mind, Congress voted on whether or not to impeach Vizcarra in September 2020, but the motion failed, with only 32 members voting in favour of impeachment. However, they voted again in November, and this time the result was 105 in favour, 19 against, and 4 abstentions. 

When Congress removed Vizcarra and replaced him with Manuel Merino, President of the Congress and a member of the opposition, Peruvians took to the streets to protest. And it is this detail, the national outcry and action, that challenges the idea of “[un] vuelto a la normalidad.”

This civil unrest shows that the idea of a ‘milagro peruano’ (‘Peruvian miracle’) had not just been put aside, but shattered. Alberto Fujimori’s time as president from 1990 to 2000 saw the introduction of neoliberal policies, as in many other Latin American countries. The impact on Peruvian life was that many informal sectors were legalized, and foreign investment saw China become the country’s largest trading partner. In this period, whilst Peru’s natural resources were exploited for foreign gain, the country experienced high growth rates and the national poverty rate was cut in half between 2002 and 2011.

But by focusing on the positive statistics, issues surrounding political corruption continued. Alberto Fujimori may have generated economic prosperity, but he is now in prison on the grounds of human rights abuses for his role in the Grupo Colina death squad during his battle with leftist guerrillas in the 1990s. Following him was Alejandro Toledo Manrique, who was credited with ‘opening up tourism’, but is currently under house-arrest for corruption charges; then Alan García Pérez who comitted suicide when prosecutors came to his couse to bring him to face corruption charges; and Ollantana Humala Tasso, awaiting a corruption trial.

What we are seeing now on the news is a harrowing awakening: politics in Peru has reached a point where it cannot be ignored. In an already fragile democracy, a president and Congress working against each other was the ultimate destabilizing blow, but at this point a new guiding force has come into play: the people.

On November 16th it was declared that during protests, a violent reaction from the police killed two people, injured 100 and led to the disappearances of other protesters. The hashtag, “Merino no es mi presidente” (“Merino is not my president” that had flooded social media following his appointment was swapped for “El Perú está de luto” (“Peru is in mourning”). Merino resigned the same day.

Peru was faced with the same question once more: ‘whose turn next?’ For the moment it seems that the answer is Francisco Sagasti, a member of Congress from the ‘Partido Morado’. Sagasti was selected, as he was one of the 17 members of Congress who voted against Vizcarra’s impeachment for a second time in November, which acknowledges the people’s unhappiness with Congress’ decision to hold the vote at all, and their discontent towards Congress’ self-indulgent agenda.

When thinking about protest culture and examples in Latin America you might think of students in Chile protesting, triggered by an increase in the subway fare, people in Bolivia challenging political fraud, or women in Argentina demanding the legalisation of abortion. Until now, protests in Peru rarely made headlines. Do they not face the same issues? Are citizens really more satisfied with public spending and government in their country than others in the region?

The answer is no. Protests and strikes in Peru are not uncommon; it’s national protesting that occurs much more rarely. 40% of the newly formed middle class in Peru are in an unstable position. Mining has been a great driver of economic growth in Peru, but it simultaneously endangers the wellbeing of the communities it purports to benefit by contaminating water supplies and destroying environmental balance. The at-risk rural communities that fall into this category report feelings of even higher uncertainty for the future. Combine this with a lack of political representation and ever-changing parties and people, and you create an environment where protests are so constant that they lose their weight: turning up becomes apathetic. In order to restore activism in protesting there needs to be organization, and a sense of purpose. It is this presence in the recent political protests that singles them out and contests the ideal that ‘hemos vuelto a la normalidad’. With elections due in 2021, this could be the beginning of a new political era in Peru.

Note:

Jack Brian Pintado Sánchez, 22, and Jordan Inti Sotelo Camargo, 24, are young men who were tragically killed when participating in protests — my thoughts are with their friends and family.

Clarice is a student studying Spanish at Cambridge University. She is currently on her ‘year abroad’ and working with the NGO Latin American Foundation for the Future (LAFF) as Communications Coordinator. LAFF operates in Cusco, Peru and so Clarice is particularly interested in Peruvian current affairs, as well as protest culture in Latin American and grassroots activism. 

*About LAFF:

Latin American Foundation for the Future (LAFF) is a UK registered charity operating in Cusco, Peru to increase access to quality education and personal development opportunities. LAFF believes that one of the best ways to create positive long term change is to support local grassroots organisations so that community leaders drive the change. To find out more about what we do, check out our website.

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/laffcharity/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/company/latin-american-foundation-for-the-future

Protests in Peru: A Chronicle of a Death Foretold

Source: https://www.clarin.com/fotogalerias/impactantes-fotos-protestas-nuevo-presidente-peru-destitucion-vizcarra_5_ndMABbPBj.html

By: Arianna Sanchez

DISCLAIMER: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of the KCL Latin American Society or El Cortao.

The last piece I wrote for El Cortao’ regarded the socio-political consequences of Venezuelan immigration in Peru. It ended with hope that the 2021 elections would help unite Peruvians rather than separate us. Turns out that the government did help us unite –even prior than expected. However, it was not because of their good politics,  but because of an attempted coup. Our current interim President, Francisco Sagasti, seems to be setting a path towards fair and timely elections in April 2021–he, however, did not get into power effortlessly. It took two dead protesters, dozens missingand more than a hundred injured to reinstate democracy in Peru. These series of events signify, in my opinion, a paradigm shift in Peruvian politics. From the perspective of someone who experienced this from first-hand, this article will attempt to look into the events that drove us to a coup and how Peruvian people managed to take back the power Congress took from us.

Race to the bottom

The issue at hand is one of high complexity and nuance, however I will try my best to summarise the crucial events that led to this point. We could say that the series of events leading to the attempted coup started when Pedro Pablo Kuczinsky (PPK) renounced his presidency in 2017 after an attempted impeachment from Congress against him. Congress justified their move with a collection of allegations tying PPK with corrupt people and firms –Odebrecht being the most important amongst the group. PPK renounced presidency after a seemingly never-ending battle with his main political opposition, Fuerza Popular. Martín Vizcarra, PPK’s Vice-President, assumed presidency right after in 2018. This event was, as García-Marquez would put it, a chronicle of a death foretold.  

 Martin Vizcarra truly did not expect the level of political and economic turmoil he would face in the upcoming years. Fuerza Popular, Keiko Fujimori’s political party and his main political opposition, was quick to use various events to develop antipathy towards Vizcarra amongst Congress and the general Peruvian population. The impeachment was based on the grounds that Vizcarra had been involved in different events concerning corruption, with allegations dating back to 2011. In the long run, however, it seems to me that Vizcarra’sdecision to dissolve Congress in 2019 and call for elections pushed these politicians to decide it was in their best interests to remove Vizcarra from presidency. Once he was gone, they were safe.

Peruvians strike back: The protests 

What the government did not seem to account for in their master plan was the level of protesting against them that would occur in the days following the impeachment. Neither did they expect the levels of police brutality these protests would bring with them. What would happen after Manuel Merino assumed de facto presidency acted as a strong wake up call for Peruvians, and these people in government were now the common enemy for us all. 

Peruvians started taking the streets to protest against Merino’s de facto presidency the day after it occurred –on the 10th of November. From the start, protesters were challenged by a repressive police force; tear gas asphyxiated protesters, whilst rubber bullets left several hurt. A source of anger, that further incentivised protesters to take the streets by the masses, was the lack of exposure of police brutality by the Peruvian media. Given the censoring by national media, Peruvians took the issue to social media, where platforms such as Twitter, Instagram and Facebook were flooded with evidence of the levels of police brutality faced during the protests.

However, the turning point had a very specific date: Saturday 14th of November 2020. The day started with tanks on the streets, police disguised as civilians and in every corner. This seemed to signal that Merino’s government was not willing to resign, but rather wanted to silence protesters through intimidation. What started as peaceful protests took an awfully dark turn towards the end of the day. The speed in which things took a turn for the worse led to information all over social media and the news. To say it was overwhelming would be completely undermining the speed and intensity in which events occurred on that night. The levels of police brutality protesters experienced that Saturday were astonishing. My own social media was full of either friends asking for help due to injuries or those documenting the actions of the police. 

Then the official news started flooding in. One protester had been killed. With no time for Peruvians to even attempt to process it, and with thousands still attempting to escape the repressive police on the streets, the second death was announced. Inti Sotelo and Bryan Pintado died at the hands of the Peruvian police that Saturday. Dozens more did not return home that day, with allegations of forceful disappearances carried out by the police. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

Reinstating democracy

After the events of that Saturday, Ministers assigned by Merino started to quit their posts. It started with the Minister of Women and Vulnerable Populations shortly after the news reported the deaths of two protesters and the disappearance of dozens more. It was clear that they had finally realised the extent to which they had infuriated the general Peruvian population with their ‘constitutional’ impeachment in the middle of a sanitary crisis. The continued protests and massive social media movement indicated that Peruvians were not about to be silenced. Moreover, the deaths of two protesters implied potential judicial investigations to be opened against them –this was not political opportunism for them anymore, it was political suicide. After around twelve Ministers had resigned, large social media platforms and politicians, who had not said a word before, started to heavily criticise the government in an attempt to save themselves from our anger. 

By Sunday morning, it was clear Merino had to resign as soon as possible to avoid further deaths and violence. He did not even have a cabinet anymore –there was virtually no choice. As people took the streets to pay tribute to the victims of the previous night, Manuel Merino finally appeared on our television screens. After a convoluted speech that showed an inability to assume responsibility for those injured and killed by the police, he finally said it: he resigned. On that same day, 15th of November, the attorney general of the nation, Zoraida Ávalos, filed a lawsuit against Manuel Merino, Prime Minister Antero Flores-Aráoz and Minister of the Interior Gastón Rodriguez for violations against human rights.

 With no President and no ministerial cabinet, we found ourselves on a limbo. Congress had to choose a new executive branch –the same government which betrayed us. After one full day of complex political manoeuvres behind the scenes,and the surprising rejection of the first candidate list, Congress allegedly promised to bring some political stability. They finally chose the new members of the executive on the 16th of November. With the families of Inti Sotelo and Bryan Pintado present in the ceremony, new interim-President Francisco Sagasti assumed presidency, giving an emotional speech addressing our fight for democracy and promising justice to those affected. Some hope was restored. 

Concluding thoughts

I want to end this piece on one main note: Peruvians did not take the streets to reinstate ex-President Vizcarra into power. Peruvians did not fight against exceedingly repressive policefor him. Peruvians fought to reinstate democracy and fought the police for ourselves. It has been decades of normalising terrible, exclusionary politics. Of normalising the advantage taken by those who claim to represent us. Of normalising the uncertainty of whether next year we could have anotherpolitical crisis. We learn from our mistakes, yet we have a long road ahead. now that we have finally opened our eyes, I hope we do not close them again.

Arianna is a Peruvian 3rd Year Politics Student at King’s College London with a passion for Latin American politics and political risk-management.