Almost 40 years since the turbulence of the armed internal conflict descended upon Ixil country. This video looks at today’s societies of Nebaj, Cotzal, and Chajul.

Matamoros, Tamaulipas, Mexico, October 7, 2019.  

       Over a hundred perhaps, two hundred or so, men, women, and children seeking asylum camp out on the Mexican side of the US/Mexican border, their cramped clusters of round multi-colored tents hugging the right side of the border. Most of them are from one of the Northern Triangle Central American countries, Honduras, El Salvador, and Guatemala, and all are asking the United States to hear their asylum claims even though they are technically supposed to ask Mexican officials for the same request – first. 

My report is based on a brief, two-day visit, as a volunteer advocate and intent on providing assistance to the migrants, mostly in the form of information as they navigate the legal and social trajectories of asylum seeking. Upon my entry into the unrestricted camp area, my list of mental questions quickly expanded in scope and complexity. As I perused the literature posted around the building of the Mexican immigration office, the Instituto Nacional de Migración (INM), I realized that most information involving process and procedures was disseminated by word of mouth. I turned toward a young woman, a survey taker with clipboard in hand and wearing a name tag. As I approached her I noticed another young woman, a mother with two young children standing nearby. The survey taker wanted to know if I was a “visitor” and what was I doing in Matamoros. The young mother wanted to know where she could claim asylum since she had just arrived from Honduras. The survey taker replied that she didn’t know and I responded that neither did I but that I would help her get the information. Thus, began my friendship with Marisa and her two children: José, age seven, and Miguel, age two.*  Eventually, I learned that Marisa’s decision to leave her home was sudden and swift although she had thought about it for a very long time. She told of her violent relationship with her partner and that he was also hurting the children. It became clear that her decision to leave was largely hinged on the violence that he committed against her children, that he had crossed the line and she would have to move in with her cousin in New Jersey where for sure he wouldn’t be able to hurt her and her children. She felt he would eventually kill her or her children if he found them. Her story is not atypical of the cases of each migrant in the asylum seeking camp. Generally speaking, the migrants are here because they feel that they have no other option; each one led to a dead end, and their only escape was to leave their country. Additionally, if they returned to their country they would be subject to the same violence and lack of protection from state authorities that they had experienced before leaving, except that having attempted to leave places them in further danger of retaliation from which they would not be able to evade. (For additional information, please see articles in this blog)

Recognizing the need to register her application for asylum, Marisa looked for the offices of the INM. The only person available, a custodian in a classroom style room, informed Marisa that she had to find the “right” person so she could submit her identification papers and formally request her claim. Marisa asked one official-looking man the question and he in turn asked what she wanted to do. She responded, in Spanish, of course, that she wanted “assistance, asylum.” No response. After asking about five other people that “looked” official with white shirts/blouses and light khaki pants, one of them, a female staff member, accepted her papers and without another word took them to her upstairs office. I waited with Marisa and her children virtually all day long, watching the stairwell carefully, for the woman to return her papers. At around 4 P.M., Marisa notices a man coming down the stairs with her papers, which she recognized because of the pink plastic cover. She approaches him, he hands her the papers and tells her simply to be here (pointing at the porch areas of the building), tomorrow at 8 A.M. 

The next morning, one of the male staff members tells Marisa that he would walk with her to the United States (across the bridge) to begin her application for asylum process. She was escorted by three male staff members, two were with INM and another one whose role was unclear although he wore a dark green uniform. I didn’t hear from Marisa again until the following evening.

When I returned to the INM camp site the next morning I was approached by one of the staff members who told me that “my friend” would return later in the day. She and her children had spent the night at the Border Patrol Headquarters. She would join the others at the camp and wait to attend her mandated court appearance, most likely scheduled for early next year. I drove back to my home in Central Texas and Marisa sent me a text message later that evening, indicating that she and the children were safe.

Upon her return to the camp, Marisa and her children will have to find a corner somewhere in the chaotic tent settlement to basically camp out with the barest of necessities until they can procure donated items, such as a change of clothing, diapers, blankets, and a tent. The INM staff member had told me that she will have to keep an eye out for the donation vehicles since he doesn’t know when they come around. 

During my time at the camp I was able to converse with a few migrants about their experiences, and accumulated their information with my observations. The living conditions at the camp are extremely dire, for everyone, but especially for the most vulnerable such as the young children and those with certain illnesses such as diabetes. Some of these problems have already been documented by others, some of which have persisted for years without any effort by the authorities to ameliorate the mental and physical effects on the migrants. But, this outdoor camp in the Matamoros-Brownsville border has specific challenges unlike other detention centers. 

• All of the migrants I spoke with on this question (about a dozen) said that they do nothave access to legal representation/counsel;
• Fulfilling court demands are difficult without legal counsel, and one migrant said that he had to reschedule his court appearance twice, due to the absence of the judge;
• Most of the migrants I spoke to had been there for weeks; one for an entire month; some have a court date as late as January. These individuals feel that they don’t have another option but to wait it outin the camp.
• The sanitation conditions are extremely dangerous: the camp has no running water; some migrants have resorted to bathing or cleaning up in the river (Rio Grande or Rio Bravo); they sleep inside cramped nylon tents (designed for two adults) and on the bare ground; their belongings were taken away by US agents at the time they made their asylum claim, so they don’t have a change of clothes or money; they don’t have blankets which are necessary as the evening gets quite cold; there are many small children without any toys or books (except a soccer ball or two), they are particularly vulnerable to extreme exposure to illnesses; there are no medical professionals available; there is no security – two women reported that men under the influence (locals, not migrants) harassed them in the evening hours, sleeping in their area; meals are brought in styrofoam containers and migrants stand in very long lines to receive their food and bottles of drinking water. There are about three portable toilets for everyone. 
• They shared with me their experiences while in custody of the Border Patrol and the US immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE). Particularly disturbing were the stories about how the staff from both agencies treated them – as if they were “animals” and joking about their miserable conditions; in undignified, certainly unprofessional ways; they were purposely kicked by the agents at night as they slept on the floor in the freezing cold “hielera,” as a cruel, inhumane tactic; all of their belongings were confiscated, even their money, which were never returned to them. These are practices that have continued to persist for years despite the outcries and pleadings by human rights representatives and activists to stop the “torture.”    

The migrants seem to live in a state of eternal purgatory; they seem to want to stay positive and hopeful. But one of the migrants, a man in his thirties, told me he was ready to go back to El Salvador with his fifteen year-old son. 

* The names of Marisa and her children are not their real names.

Images of the Matamoros INM migrant camp. The top image, on the other side of the cyclone fence, is the bank of the Rio Grande River (Río Bravo). 

Food lines – long and tedious; the bottom right image is a group of women from San Benito, TX giving out sandwiches to migrants. These donation groups are extremely helpful but their schedule visits are irregular. 

Children and adolescents create their own games and spaces to live at the INM camp. They lack games, toys, books, etc. It’s particularly hard on mothers with babies and toddlers; there are no chairs, benches, or tables. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images of the Gateway International Bridge (above) and the surrounding areas.

Left image of window inside Garcia’s, the popular tourist restaurant, overlooking the INM camp area (right image).

Several factors are at the heart of Honduran asylum seekers’ decision to migrate to the United States. According to Brenda Ramirez Calix, a 24 year-old employee at a downtown hotel in San Pedro Sula, the majority of the migrants are in their late teens and twenties and their main goal is to find employment. Life where agriculture is the mainstay leaves youth with very few options to create a sustainable and productive livelihood. Their decision to leave weighs heavily on every aspect of their lives, and most of the time the process includes the initial attempt to start a new life in the urban areas. But finding work in the cities of San Pedro Sula or Tegucigalpa, capital city of Honduras, is difficult and frustrating.  

But Brenda insists that she will avoid the pressure of leaving her country by staying on course. “No tuve una niñez (I didn’t have a normal childhood),” she says, referring to the rural community where she lived until the age of fourteen. Her family relied on subsistence farming for survival; her father, a campesino, toiled the land like his family, the traditional way of life for generations. Brenda, her mother and two younger brothers, carried out their duties and responsibilities in all aspects of agricultural life in a mountainous region in the neighboring state of Yoro. When she had completed the highest level of educational program in her community, she made the decision to pursue certain educational goals. Her plan was to eventually complete a university degree, procure a long-standing professional career, and assume the financial responsibilities of her family. “My father is a hard-working campesino; he has inspired me to work just as hard,” responds Brenda to the question on what motivates her to continue her studies and pursue a career. “He works the land in a small finca, cultivates coffee, corn, beans, and bananas.” “It’s very small,” she says, “but sufficient to sustain us.”

Brenda was fourteen years old when she moved in with her Aunt and Uncle in a community outside of San Pedro Sula so she could attend the high school. She managed to graduate from high school and attend the university for a couple of years. Lack of economic resources delayed her university degree, and at the time of the interview, she had opted to take a stint with the naval military to earn enough money to return to the university. 

How has she managed to stay out of harm’s way in an area dominated by gang violence and control?

Brenda learned how to avoid any encounters with gang members. “They used to live in the urban areas, but now, they’re everywhere,” she says. Her description of the “before and after” life in her small town provides clarity to how gang members have systematically dominated the lives of each member of the community. Her best strategy for staying alive was to avoid any potential contact with any person that may be associated with the gangs. She simply stayed away from socialization possibilities, which led to a life of social isolation. She couldn’t visit her friends anymore, certainly, she couldn’t go out at night. But, the entire social and cultural fabric of life in her community also changed – drastically. The traditional customs that the community boasted as being important and sacred radically disappeared. Even Christmas and Easter community events had to be suspended for fear of gang interference and violence.

The Risk Factor

Brenda believes that she is at risk of becoming a victim of gang violence each time she travels by public transportation, a necessity in order to make the 40-minute trip to her place of employment in San Pedro Sula. Bus drivers and/or their assistants in main transportation arteries are the prime targets by gang members who consistently demand extortion fees (“impuestos de guerra”). Sometimes the extortion fees become extraordinarily high, perhaps, because gang members feel pressured to steal more money at less intervals to avoid police arrest or stricken by violent reprisal from gang rivals. When their victims refuse to pay they are killed, mostly by fire arm. Gang members consistently disengage from the possibility of hurting or killing innocent bystanders. Brenda remembers friends and acquaintances killed by gang members just because they were at the wrong place, wrong time. 

The Honduran government’s lack of effective solutions to social, economic, and security problems has created a sense of distrust among its people toward the country’s leadership. Brenda describes the conditions of greed and complacency as “everything for me” (“todo para mi”), thus, the reason why there’s a lack of a serious, long-term comprehensive plan to substantially improve the lives of many impoverished people. An integral social and educational reform plan is long overdue, and the steps taken now toward a better future are possible, when and if the governmental leadership is willing to make the change.        

El agua del Río Choluteca

In this video, Freny Pineda Murillo points out that the residents along the River Choluteca use the water for all of their basic needs. This community, like many others, have been excluded by government agencies due to negligence and incompetence.

See related article, The Choluteca River is Drying Up.

See related article, The Politics of Making Drinking Water Accessible.

The following video is about the Tabaco, Café, y Chocolate Store in San Pedro Sula, Honduras. Michelle describes the products, locally developed and produced, which promote Honduras’ finest agricultural offerings: tobacco, coffee, and cacao. The store features their own chocolate business brand: NOM NOM. Michelle has been working with the company for six years.

Tabaco, Café Y Chocolate

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 The Honduran government and the maras (criminal street gangs) have sparred with each other since the Mara Salvatrucha (MS-13) and the Barrio 18 gangs solidified their bases in the early 2000s. About ten years earlier, in the 1990s, the massive deportations of thousands of gang members from Los Angeles, California, to their places of origins in El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras, would set the stage for a major conflict that some Central American veterans compare to the past armed conflicts (e.g., Guatemala, 1960-96; El Salvador, 1980-91), or worst. Unlike Salvadorans and Guatemalans, Hondurans dodged the armed conflict or civil war “bullet,” but the astronomical number of lives lost as a result of the continuing violence, especially amongst the youth, is tragic and abominable. Honduras, Guatemala, and El Salvador’s homicide rates have been ranked consistently as the highest in Latin America and even the world. In the peak year of 2011-12, Honduras was on top with 90 homicides per 100,000. Although the current 2017 rate is reported at around 40 homicides per 100,000, the violence has remained flagrant in the number and the manner by which homicides are committed, and where whole families are affected in one way or another. (Countries like the United States have a homicide rate of around 5 percent per 100,000 people.)

            We know much more today than a decade ago about how the maras live and function as criminal entities. Investigative journalists, writers, photographers, artists, documentary film producers and writers, and social scientists and researchers have contributed diligently to a body of work that is extraordinary and revealing, yet, disturbing against the background of a complicated social problem of enormous proportions. The documentary film by Christian Poveda, La vida loca (2008), reveals the strange world of MS-13 (in El Salvador) that requires serious reflection and thought about how much we really understand life; InSight Crime (and the Asociación para un sociedad más justa) investigative reports (2016) open our eyes to the facts and reality of the pain and suffering among the victims and their families caused by gang violence. Social scientist investigations have compiled and organized invaluable information, such as Cantor’s article, “The New Wave: Forced Displacement Caused by Organized Crime in Central America and México” (2014), and the prolific work of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees on the “Eligibility Guidelines for Assessing the International Protection Needs of Asylum Seekers from Honduras” (2016). Finally, the Human Rights country reports are essential in their reporting of lesser known but significant violations against gang members committed by government and private agencies. 

            To the question of winning or losing the war, it’s important to analyze the case through a broad historical lens to understand how and why the problem of gang violence escalated so intensely. By the time the United States began the massive deportation of young males charged with criminal activity and presumably, were members of street gangs in the late 1990s and early 2000s, the first Barrio 18 gang was well established in the El Pedregal sector in the Honduran capital of Tegucigalpa. Dozens of other smaller street gangs worked the streets as deliquents in urban areas but most of their activity was petty and non-violent. The criminal, violent element of gang activity was brought to fruition by the hardened gang members of Barrio 18 and in 1991, the Mara Salvatrucha or MS-13, specifically, in the Bella Vista colonia in Comayagüela part of the Honduran capital. The national newspaper, El Heraldo, recently published a multi-media piece (“Viviendo entre las maras”) on the evolution of the two major criminal street gangs, pointing out that by 2002, the smaller street gangs in the major cities had been co-opted or pushed out by either Barrio 18 or MS-13. The two dominant criminal gangs brought experience and know-how from their rank and file while in Los Angeles, California, and then, during their incarceration period, until they were deported. 

            The statistical data (2011) from the Department of Homeland Security indicates that within a nine-year period, 2001-2010, about 117,000 imprisoned gang members were deported, for whom their immigration entry into the United States was illegal, and they had been convicted and sentenced for their crimes. Specifically, 13,000 prisoners were deported to El Salvador, 17,000 were deported to Honduras, and 21,000 to Guatemala. These young male gang members immediately proceeded to their respective home bases which had continuously expanded quite formidably beyond their starting points of El Pedregal and Bella Vista in Tegucigalpa. Clearly, the receiving countries were unprepared to transition and integrate the deportees into society.

            The social landscape in the urban areas of Honduras propelled the newly deported gang members into a survival mode which led them to consolidate and strengthen their gang membership. Employment opportunities were non-existent since the high rate of unemployment was dismal, and even though the rates hovered around 7 percent in 2002, 10.5 percent in 2004, and 9 percent in 2014, the numbers indicate employment for individuals that were looking for work, thus, excluding the majority of gang members since they refused to even register for possible employment. The country has a 65 percent poverty rate and a third of those employed are ‘underemployed.’ And, due to the encroachment of agribusiness and climate change, many families from the countryside gave up their farms and began migrating to the urban areas. Once their criminal activities landed them in prisons, the gang leaders realized a need to re-organize themselves. There were so many members incarcerated, and the prisons became seriously unhealthy and overcrowded. They needed money to hire lawyers, and they reached out to their base members outside the prison, a turn of events that had a huge impact on their modus operandi. Extortion became the life line for collecting money for imprisoned gang members, and then, for themselves. 

            The criminal street gang members live and die by their own rules. Their rebelliousness is manifested in the way they choose to live; free to act, speak, and treat others as they wish. Some of their rules are etched in stone, such as “respect the barrio,” or “ver, oír, callar,” (“see, hear, stay silent”) but various and capricious interpretations and exceptions are allowable. Some women (and children) play the worst and least important roles, usually as silent actors ordered to perform menial and dangerous tasks. Sometimes, the wife or daughter of a gang member is assassinated in retaliation for what the husband did or didn’t do as part of the gang’s rule. They live in poverty with money stolen from others; they live in the present as if there’s no future, and perhaps, there isn’t a future outlook in their worldview. They ruthlessly kill (or torture and kill) individuals or entire families who refuse to comply with their demands, regardless of who they were, whether they were family members or friends. Numerous, regular gun battles between and among the rival gangs, and the shoot-outs with police result in intended and unintended killings. In 2018 the homicide rate is at 40 percent, almost half from seven years ago, but which is still beyond the normal acceptable range. It is estimated that 1.8 millions guns are in circulation and only a fraction (around 600,000) are legally registered. Fear permeates throughout every part of society affected by gang violence: gang members are afraid of police; police are afraid of gangs, and people in the community live in constant fear that their children will be killed or recruited by the gangs, and they fear for their lives. Even if they move away from the affected areas, they fear for the family or friends they left behind. 

            The Honduran government’s response or solution to the violence and crime committed by the maras has been consistent and systematic. Clearly, their actions indicate their desire to end the problem as quickly and cost-effective as possible. The first step was to incarcerate the gang members and provide assurance to their constituents that the problem had disappeared. But they had to build enough prisons to house the continuously growing numbers of prisoners. Placing gang members in a mixed gang environment resulted in members killing each other’s rivals. So, the prisons were segregated by gang affiliation, which allowed them to establish their prison headquarters, and thus, organize and order criminal activities to be executed by their gang members in their territories.

            In 2010, the Honduran government began to deploy the military to the gang hotspots, engaging gang members in shoot-outs, allowing families with young children to witness or be part of the killings. This was part of the “iron fist” (“mano dura”) policy adopted by the government. In 2013 the Public Order Military Force (Policia Militar de Orden Público – PMOP) took control of enforcing the law in gang territories. Another elite military police unit trained by the United States, TIGERS, was also deployed into gang-controlled areas. Various reports point to the human rights violations committed by the military-style officers. Reports surfaced of extrajudicial killings as well as death squads and vigilante group attacks in gang territories. Between 2010 and 2013, the United Nation reported about 150 complaints of squad-style killings in Tegucigalpa and 50 complaints in the San Pedro Sula area, all of them executed by the government military.  Some members of the police enforcement, including the PMOP units, were reportedly charged with extortion and kidnapping of non-gang members within the local population. Private security guards hired by wealthy families were also part of the overall defense that identified the gang members as the common enemy. Among the approximately 70,000 armed private security guards in Honduras (double the amount of police officers in the country), the majority are unregistered with the government. 

            While the government flexed its military-style muscle against the maras, the response by the gang leaders followed quickly. For example: members of the enforcement units (police officers) were assassinated by gang members; gang territories were doubly secured so that everyone leaving and entering the territory was thoroughly checked; some of the entry/exit points became checkpoints to collect extortion money; gang members expanded their territories; families who resisted were pushed out and their houses became the property of the gangs; gangs did not allow some children to attend school; and some teachers were demanded to pay the extortion fees. The maras recruited more youngsters to work as look-outs and to carry informative messages through rival gang territory so they wouldn’t be caught off-guard when the PMOP set out to conduct surprise raids to kill or arrest them. And, of course, they continued to execute the “traitors.” (See “Honduras: Displaced People at ‘State of Emergency’ Levels.”)

            The government attempted yet another strategy to stop the maras: by passing laws. Between 2003-2005, the government started using the Anti-gang Law (Ley Antimaras, Article 332 of Penal Code) to arrest young males whom they suspected of being gang members, mostly because of their tattoos. The maras changed their rule of identifying themselves with ink and as of late, gang members are hardly recognizable since they dress like non-gang members. In 2015, the government passed a law penalizing gang leaders with fifty years of prison time. The maras maintain an organizational structure that identifies the leaders as “toros” or “palabreros,” who are serving prison time. Beyond the leadership, the maras vary in their hierarchical organization: some gang cells are more autonomous or independent than others. The traditional “leader” serving time in prison has become more of a figurehead, and quite possibly to ensconce the “leaders,” the actual gang members giving orders to commit criminal activities, thus, evading capture and arrest as leaders of the maras.  In 2015, a law was passed to increase the punishment against the gang members arrested for extortion, which was now defined as an “act of terrorism.” Perhaps, this may be the reason why the maras extortion methods changed, from demanding small amounts of money to exorbitant, one-time payments. Also, women in the maras have played a greater role in collecting extortion money, which may be another way for the male members to avoid capture and arrest. 

            In 2017, the Honduran president, Juan Orlando Hernández, announced that he had ordered the transfer of 2,000 prisoners, mostly gang members labeled as “the most dangerous prisoners,” to a newly built prison, EL Pozo II in Morocelí, in the department of El Paraíso. This was yet another transfer of prisoners to locations that were isolated and meant to curtail communication with their fellow gang members on the outside. Prior to the announcement, in another prison, El Centro Penitenciario de Tamara, 18 gang members from Barrio 18 escaped and since then, only four have been captured. Reportedly, the gang had paid millions in bribes to prison guards and administrators so they could walk out the front door.  

            The government authorities’ and maras’ games of “cat and mouse’ have not only failed to solve the problems, but served to worsen the conditions for the people, especially the poor, marginalized, and the most vulnerable – women, children, the elderly- that have been denied any semblance of protection. Thousands of people, especially in the urban areas, have been internally displaced due to the criminality of the maras and the lack of protection from the government. But, it appears that people can’t escape the violence, the ubiquitous fear, the absence of protection for themselves and their families, and their cry and clamor for help fall on deaf ears. 

History has a way of repeating itself, at least in some ways.

What the wealthy oligarchs did to the masses in robbing their lands, starving the poor, using their power against them to gain more prestige and wealth, killing those that stand in their way – basically denying the working people of the dignity they deserve  – has an uncanny resemblance to what the maras are doing to the communities that they control: they steal money and property from hard-working families, they murder those that stand in their way; they make up rules that benefit them, they bribe others to get their way. To many people in Honduras, the problem with the maras represent yet another form of corruption that has plagued the country for generations. 

How do you fix something when you can’t go back in time and change the chain of events? 

See Sonia Nazario’s article, “Pay or Die,” on the maras domination and corruption at the governmental levels.

The story of the consequences of replacing farming with cattle raising couldn’t have a more tragic and devastating impact on the peasant farmers and the environment than it did in Honduras, especially in Southern Honduras where agriculture is the reigning source of livelihood. 

The destruction based on human error is one of the most important narratives in the National Research Council book chapter: “Honduras: Population, Inequality and Resource Destruction.”  Poor decisions were made throughout the entire process of transforming the farming agricultural culture into a cattle industry, which could have been prevented, but unfortunately, and as a result, according to the experts the damages are irreversible. 

Reallocation of Land

Landowners cultivated cotton and grain, and peasant farmers cultivated their meager crops (e.g., maize, beans, sorghum) wherever they could mete out a piece of land. But landowners faced several events for which they had to make investment decisions: economically, agricultural commodity prices were not profitable enough; labor costs were proportionately too high; and rain was becoming scarce. However, they seized on the popularity of investing in livestock at the international and national levels and turned the fertile lands into pasture. Unfortunately, the farmers were cut off twice by the landowners: they lost their jobs as field workers, and their plots of land used to feed their families. Presumably, the big winners were the landowners for whom these livestock programs were like winning the lottery.   

The World Bank for agriculture and rural development in Central America brought loan funds that expanded the cattle industry. Between 1960 and 1983, 57 percent of the loan funds went to the landowners for their cattle businesses, and at the same the devastation on the environment began to take its toll. 

A Crack in the Delicate Balance  

Southern Honduras has the most fertile land in the country and its inhabitants depend on agriculture, not only for putting food on their tables, but as the bread basket for the regions. Over 80 percent of the Honduras is mountainous and 70 percent of its population depend on agriculture. Thus, any change in the reallocation of the land has an immediate impact on the population and the country’s economy. In the 1970s, 68 percent of Honduras was owned by 20 percent of the population. The gap of social and economic inequality widened as the rich became wealthier and the poor remained in a debilitating suppression for which generations of families have never recovered.    

Wealthy landowners took an aggressive stance against the peasant farmers and systematically forced them out of their lands, using unethical and even, illegal tactics, forcing the inhabitants to give up their ancestral landholdings. Then, peasant farmers had to submit to an onerous agreement whereby the owners would lease the land to them, pay an inordinate amount of rent each year, and when they couldn’t afford it, they were evicted. The farmers were forced to leave their lands as livestock production increased in the lowlands and the highlands. The Hondurans and Salvadorans became adversaries as they competed for the cultivable land that seemed to be gradually disappearing.     

Shrimp Farming Opens Up More Social Wounds

Honduran investors added two more new export crops, cantaloupe and shrimp, to counter the decline in beef prices and its demand. But the big business in shrimp farming also means big problems. In the Golf of Fonseca, where the shrimp industry has grown exponentially since 1982, high levels of DDT pesticide have been detected in the shrimp larvae. Clearly, the runoff of pesticides is affecting not only drinking water but it threatens the health of many people, especially considering that the shrimp is an export product. 

The areas where shrimp farms have expanded were once public lands where locals made their livelihood by fishing and hunting. Like the farmers that were displaced due to livestock production, the poor families along the waterways were similarly forced to leave their homes. The investors fenced out the locals, hired armed guards to keep them away, and designated beach areas as private property. Recently, community leaders have been assassinated in their attempts to fend off encroachment of wealthy investors that threaten their means of survival. One such leader was Berta Cáceres.  

Berta Cáceres, a Honduran environmental activist and human rights defender, was assassinated in 2016 by persons associated with the development of hydroelectric projects that threatened the lives and livelihoods of inhabitants, mostly the indigenous communities. The case against her assassins and masterminds has not been completely resolved, but the movement that she led has been strengthened nationally and internationally, bringing attention to the corruption and greed of the Honduran government and foreign investors.

See next article: The Destructive Path of Oligopoly.

  Hondurans have rights, just not very many.

According to a report by the World Bank Group titled, “Modernizing the Water and Sanitation Sector Builds Resilience,” serious efforts by the Honduran government have resulted in considerable progress in making drinking water accessible to many but not all residents: the excluded and marginalized inhabitants who live in various urban and rural communities. 

Prior to the passing of the law in 2003, called Ley Marco, the Honduran residents in the municipalities that had access to drinking water enjoyed it for a few hours a week, some as much as three days a week. The Ley Marco established the mandate to making water more accessible by decentralizing the supply of water and transferring the provider responsibilities to municipal governments. With the assistance of a World Bank loan, the government pushed for the creation of autonomous municipal service providers. During this collaborative effort, the government succeeded in achieving many of its goals within a set timeframe, and finally, residents had considerable more drinking water, up to 24 hours a day in some areas. 

But the project ended in 2016, and many communities such as the one in the video were excluded, and in the final analysis, the government was faulted in several key areas. Ineffectiveness or incompetence amongst the governing entity led to the squandering of financial resources, essential for maintaining and upgrading the equipment, for policy development, and for lack of transparency. Making drinking water accessible to all residents became a political nightmare for local officials who sought to strike a balance between making water accessible to as many as possible and expanding a gratuitous service to the poor that could not afford it. But within the power grab exploits of greedy politicians, those that were excluded, the poor and voiceless, lacked the leverage to hold accountable the responsible parties.

It’s the same ploy used by the government to systematically take away the democratic rights of its people. Case in point: the Honduran educators and health workers are in a power struggle with the government to maintain their right to determine what is in the best interest of teachers and students, and the future of their educational institutions. 

The story of how residents lost their democratic right to make a reasonable demand on their government to make drinking water accessible is a good example of the strategy that the Honduran government and politicians have adopted for the purpose of monopolizing power and silver lining their pockets. The strategy of systematically diminishing the democratic rights and freedoms of the people by a government that practices a weak form of democracy include: maintaining control in decentralization, manipulation of votes and funds, using slush fund allocations to promote their political agenda and play political favorites, and weakening their opponents by lessening their power to hold those responsible accountable for corruption and/or incompetence.      

See next article: The Choluteca River is Drying Up

The means by which wealthy landowners have used to help themselves to the best and most productive resources can only be explained as greed and recklessness, or choosing to wear blinders and ignore the consequences of their actions. The patterns of oligopoly are evident in the exploitation of the land and the people, the decisions to enrich an elite few and impoverish many others, worsening the suffering of those affected, and risking the future of the country. The destruction, whether social or environmental, was an exorbitant price to pay in exchange for making a quick profit. 

Even though Honduras continues to lose its forest resources every year, cattle raising continues to increase. There’s scientific prediction that “the forest resource will be exhausted in a generation.” (USAID Agricultural Sector Profile; also see Honduras Landscape Analysis). 

See next article: Honduras is Losing the War With the Maras.