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Belén Fernández: Life and Death Squads in the World’s Homicide Capital
Mon, 04/22/2013 - 10:07 — AP

Click title for original in *Jacobin* Magazine:

Life and Death Squads in the World’s Homicide
Capital<http://jacobinmag.com/2013/04/life-and-death-in-the-worlds-homicide-capital/>
by Belén Fernández
In a society ravaged by crime, radical ‘law-and-order’ forces end up being
at the root of the problem.
Schell

Illustration by Erin Schell

My friend Mariano runs a fruit and vegetable stand on a busy street in
Tegucigalpa, not far from the United States embassy. One after­noon in
2011, I stopped by to find that Mariano’s watermelon knife had been stolen
by an unkempt pedestrian, who was standing in the middle of a traffic jam
threatening motorists with it.

Eventually, all was resolved with the help of a metal baton hidden in a
pile of papayas. Assessing the situation afterward, Mariano reasoned that
the man was simply under the influence of paint thinner and that there had
been no real danger. This was the very same reaction he had had to a recent
incident when, sleeping under his stand to deter potential nighttime
thefts, he was shot at multiple times by a passerby with mercifully poor
aim.

I often wondered if Mariano’s “don’t worry, it’s only paint thinner”
attitude was just a defense mechanism for living in the homicide capital of
the world, or if specific instances of violence really do feel
insignificant in the context of mass disorder.

The June 2009 coup against Manuel Zelaya marked the beginning of the
current era of enhanced impunity in Honduras. Shortly afterwards, I
traveled to Tegucigalpa for a four-month stay that also was also a
psychological experiment in coping with a personal-security-free
environment. Despite never going outside with anything more than an
inconspicuous black plastic bag containing a cheap cell phone and some
small change, I was apprehended on multiple occasions and threatened with
death unless I produced something of value.

The first encounter ended auspiciously after I suggested to my would-be
assailant that we walk to an ATM. Our conversation en route saved me from
having to figure out what to do about not having a bank card, although in
exchange for not being robbed or killed it was decided that I would adopt
the man’s eighteen-month-old son, who was poorly cared for as a result of
his mother’s crack habit.

The second mugging ended with my being relieved of five dollars and a
decrepit alarm clock, though I was ultimately permitted to keep the clock.
This happened down the street from a swarm of soldiers and policemen
stationed around the Brazilian embassy, where Zelaya had taken up residence
after being smuggled back into the country in September 2009. The duties of
state security forces had expanded accordingly and now included not only
assaulting citizens opposed to the coup, but also preventing “dual-use
items” such as ballpoint pens, toothbrushes, shoelaces, tamales, vitamins,
and the Bible from entering the embassy.

The most harrowing event took place one night when I awoke to discover that
a man had gotten into my second-story pension room after cutting away the
screen and removing the glass window slats. My strategic response was to
scream maniacally, run into the hall in my underwear, and abstain from
sleep for another two years.

Of course, my privileged ability to extricate myself at will from Honduras
meant that I wasn’t forced to permanently adapt to the reality there. The
normalization of violence in that society — which became particularly
evident when Honduran friends phoned me to report, for example, witnessing
groups of schoolchildren step nonchalantly around a fresh cadaver — is
aided by media dissemination of gruesome homicide photographs, a practice
that also serves the morbid entertainment and fear maintenance industries.

In her book Working Hard, Drinking Hard: On Violence and Survival in
Honduras, anthropologist Adrienne Pine recounts an evening in a family home
in 2002:

[Ten-year old] Miguelito came in and sat down. “You know that girl who they
showed on TV who was killed last night?” he said. His tone would have been
no different had he been telling me about the results of a soccer match or
the weather. “She was from right down the street. That happened here.”
“Right here?” I asked him. “Did you know her?” “Yeah, I knew her. She was
ten years old. The other was three. They killed them both.” “Who killed
them?” I asked. “Some guys. People are always killing around here. Because
of the gangs.” He then saw my camera and, giggling, posed for a picture
with our smaller neighbor.

Crucially, the deaths of the two girls in this case are attributed to “el
carro asesino”, described by Pine as “a sort of ethnic (read: social class)
cleanser” and the heir to public terror techniques cultivated during the
1980s, heyday of the elite right-wing death squad Battalion 3-16 and its
benefactor John D. Negroponte, US ambassador to Honduras.

In a 2002 report on Honduras to the fifty-ninth session of the Commission
on Human Rights, United Nations Special Rapporteur Asma Jahangir called
attention to the strategic mentality of social cleansing as espoused by
politicians, business leaders, and journalists “who deliberately incite
public sentiment against street children.” Her conclusion: “In the end,
every child with a tattoo and street child is stigmatized as a criminal who
is creating an unfriendly climate for investment and tourism in the
country.”

By pinning the blame for Honduras’ violence on gangs, leaders have obscured
the state’s role in creating a climate where extrajudicial police execution
of tattooed people and other alleged potential gang members is relatively
common. Also obscured is the state’s role in overseeing the socioeconomic
deprivation that boosts gang membership.

In a country ruled by a ten-family oligarchy, where a president was
recently overthrown for raising the monthly minimum wage to $290 in certain
sectors and attempting to hold a referendum to rewrite a constitution that
sanctifies elite interests, it’s unsurprising that some citizens turn to
alternate support networks.

As is the case globally, an effective way to get people to support
government policies that fundamentally endanger them and their families is
to trot out a menace in need of vanquishing. In Honduras, the gang menace
and now the narco-menace have proved sufficiently reliable, though the
military did briefly revive the communist menace to discredit Zelaya.

In the section of her book on former Honduran President Ricardo Maduro’s
zero-tolerance policy on crime — inspired by none other than Rudy Giuliani
— Pine analyzes government exploitation of violence and fear:

[T]he language of war resonates with many poor people … who tend to forget
that they themselves will be the victims of a war on crime…. Poor people
are more afraid of their own neighbors than of the repressive neoliberal
state and industry, despite the fact that they are often themselves labeled
criminals by virtue of class and geography.

True to form, my friend Mariano the fruit vendor endorsed the initial
appointment of Oscar Alvarez, Maduro’s security minister and a proponent of
extrajudicial killings, to the same post in Pepe Lobo’s administration.
(Lobo was elected in illegitimate elections held under the post-Zelaya coup
regime). A symbol of continuity in more ways than one, Alvarez is the
nephew of the late General Gustavo Alvarez Martínez, School of the Americas
attendee and Battalion 3-16 commander.

According to Mariano, who acknowledged the collateral damage that
inevitably attended street-cleaning operations, a no-nonsense approach was
nonetheless necessary to combat “delinquents.” But there aren’t any
structural constraints in place to protect Mariano — who lives in an
impoverished neighborhood whenever he’s not sleeping under his fruit stand
— from posthumous conversion into a suspected gang member were he to be a
victim of police violence himself.

During my own time in Honduras, I started looking for safety in one of the
very causes of my insecurity. In the aftermath of the intruder’s appearance
in my room, I would catch myself attempting to coordinate my outdoor
movements with those of military and police deployments — except,
obviously, when they were firing tear gas, water-cannon-propelled pepper
spray, and other items at peaceful anti-coup protesters.

A decade after Jahangir’s report mentioning the allegedly detrimental
impact on investment and tourism of the ugly surplus of street children in
Honduras, the coup has paved the way for the establishment of aseptic
neoliberal enclaves called “special development regions” or charter cities.
These city-states will be severed from Honduran territory without the
consultation of the nation’s citizens and will be unaccountable to Honduran
law, governed instead by foreign corporate interests. Extricated from the
violent trauma of Honduras proper and from any pretenses to democracy,
capital will thus be free to flourish in fulfillment of Lobo’s pledge:
“Honduras is open for business.”

A bit of additional trauma is probably required to get the ball rolling,
perhaps involving the forced displacement of Afro-indigenous communities
living in supposedly uninhabited zones. The 2012 DEA-assisted murder of
four Afro-indigenous civilian canoe passengers — including a pregnant woman
and a fourteen-year-old boy — in the Mosquitia region underscores the
danger of increased US militarization of the country under the guise of
fighting narcotrafficking. A review of past US-Honduran partnerships such
as the Contra War–era alliance between the CIA and top Honduran drug lord
Juan Ramón Matta Ballesteros further calls into question US qualifications
for such projects.

The charter city concept, hailed as a visionary solution to poverty, has
meanwhile been greeted with such euphoria — at the New York Times, the
Economist, the Wall Street Journal, and Foreign Policy magazine — that one
might forget the whole sweatshop phenomenon and the fact that Honduras has
already functioned as a free-market oasis for quite some time.

Expanding on the utility of violence to the neoliberal adventure in the
country, Pine emphasizes that structural adjustment programs have amounted
to an assault on the population’s security, ensuring corporate enrichment
at the expense of public education, healthcare, and government oversight.
“At the same time,” she argues, “people have been distracted by the
extremely high levels of violent crime, often carried out by agents of the
state and private industry. Thus, many call for a different kind of
security than that offered by education and healthcare.”

Following the 2009 coup, agents of the state and private industry have had
their hands full in areas like the Bajo Aguán in northeastern Honduras,
where peasant farmers in pursuit of land rights have encroached on the
personal lebensraum of the country’s wealthiest man, biofuels magnate
Miguel Facussé. The task of countering this assault on prosperity and
development has fallen to the armed forces — endowed with various forms of
US support — and paramilitary actors, who assassinate and otherwise
terrorize farmers and their supporters.

One hundred people have reportedly been eliminated since January 2010. To
top it off, an October 2011 dispatch in the Nation by UC Santa Cruz
professor Dana Frank raises this red flag:

New Wikileaks cables now reveal that the US embassy in Honduras — and
therefore the State Department — has known since 2004 that Miguel Facussé
is a cocaine importer. US “drug war” funds and training, in other words,
are being used to support a known drug trafficker’s war against campesinos.

What Honduras really needs, of course, is a war on poverty aimed at
eliminating rather than criminalizing deprivation. It needs a war on the
crimes that are committed in the name of wars on crime. But, in the
meantime, paint thinner is a handy palliative.

   - AP's blog <http://quotha.net/blog/1>


[Non-text portions of this message have been removed]



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