Dear community, This reflection follows a visit to a highway-side encampment in the town of Casillas, Santa Rosa. There we accompany the Indigenous Xinka resistance to one of the largest silver mines in the world. The mine is the Escobal mine––commonly referred to as the San Rafael mine––recently bought from Tahoe Resources (Canadian-American) by Pan American Silver (Canadian), and run by its Guatemalan subsidiary, Minera San Rafael. This short video highlights the mine’s devastating effects on the region: Over the past several years, the Xinka People have been engaged in a legal battle with the Guatemalan government, fighting first and foremost for recognition as an Indigenous group (as they are far fewer than Guatemala’s more widely recognized Maya population), along with recognition of their ancestral territory. This legal legitimization is important, since both the Guatemalan Peace Accords and the International Labor Organization (ILO) Convention No. 169, which Guatemala’s government ratified in 1989, recognize the right of Indigenous communities to give or withhold consent––often through community consultations––to policies impacting their lives and land. (Of course, this right is inherent no matter whether it appears in a legally binding document, but it helps if it does.) In an important victory last year, Guatemala’s Constitutional Court recognized the Xinka People as an Indigenous group with ancestral territory, ruling that their right to a consultation had been violated and suspending mining activity until that consultation takes place. However, this court-ordered consultation will be state-regulated rather than an autonomous process led by Xinka communities themselves, opening up loopholes to exclude the voices of those in resistance to the mine. Nevertheless, for now the Escobal mine is not in operation, and the highway-side encampments maintained by the mine resistance, like the one we visited, help ensure the continued suspension of mining activity until the consultation. (This article further explains the Constitutional Court’s decision, the history and significance of community consultations, and the future of mine resistance.) It was brutally hot the day we visited the encampment in Casillas. The open structure we gathered under provided some shade as we sat in a large circle talking about soccer, how the night had gone at the encampment, concerns about the upcoming elections, and Xinka structures of self-governance. As we talked, several young men from the group kept their eyes trained on the highway. Any time a truck approached, they would jump up and race out to the road, place down orange traffic cones, and check the truck’s contents to make sure the driver wasn’t transporting materials or fuel to the mine. There is another highway-side encampment set up on the other side of the mine, in the town of Mataquescuintla, blocking off all of the mine's access points. Communities from the surrounding area take shifts occupying the encampments around the clock. They have been doing so for over two years. The day we visited the encampment in Casillas, the shift on duty consisted of twelve people from a community three hours away. They are, in fact, the community that travels the farthest to reach the encampment. Their shift is comprised of community members of all ages, from the young men I mentioned earlier to several elderly people. I was struck by the coordination and dedication required of so many people to maintain numerous encampments, twenty four hours a day, for years on end. Just for a minute, pick a place that’s three hours away from where you live. I’m imagining Scranton, PA––just a few hours’ drive from Philly. Now imagine that there is some extractivist project there, like a mine, or a pipeline, or fracking––or even pipes leaking lead into the water, or a disaster caused by climate change lacking a full-hearted government response. Imagine something like this, threatening the environment and the lives of those who live nearby. But again, you live several hours away. And you’re busy, you have a job, errands to run, people to see. However, you feel somehow connected to the people affected by this threat. Maybe you even feel affected yourself. You feel you have a duty to oppose this threat. Maybe you even feel you have no other option. So every month, you travel three hours to this place, and camp out on the side of a highway in protest for twenty four hours. And then you travel three hours home. And you keep it up for two years straight. Then came a moment that shocked me. One of the organizers of the shift––who had been chosen as the Indigenous authority in his community, forming part of an even larger ancestral governance structure in the region––told us that when he fulfills his commitment to his community, he plans to seek asylum elsewhere. He didn’t specify exactly why, but over the course of our conversation, he mentioned violence in his community and two family members who had been murdered. I had a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that someone so dedicated to the protection of their home could feel even more compelled to leave it. There are many reasons why people migrate. Violence, poverty, and lack of opportunity, to name a few. Land defenders in particular face an array of threats as they fight the extractivist projects that destroy their homes. The short video below (accompanying this fantastic article) highlights the story of Teresa Muñoz, another land defender resisting the Escobal mine who is currently seeking asylum in the States: It is also important to note that the effects of climate change––unpredictable rains, rising temperatures, crop failures, and food insecurity––are a major driving force northwards. This article highlights the life and death of Juan de León Gutiérrez, a Maya Ch’orti’ 16-year-old, who migrated to the States due to the impoverishing effects of climate change, only to die in the custody of U.S. Customs and Border Patrol. Ultimately, migrants end up sandwiched between equally violent imperial forces. The graphic below helps me better understand this sandwich, illustrating how “U.S. militarism and economic policies push people north” while “U.S. domestic social policy ignores the root causes of migration.” At the encampment in Casillas, the afternoon clouds rolled in and the heat faded as we continued talking about migration. I thought about the graphic above. I contemplated what threats faced this land defender at home––not the least of which is a North American-owned silver mine, one of the largest in the world, threatening the physical health and social fabric of his village and larger Xinka community. And as I imagined the journey he would take seeking asylum, I reflected on the U.S. government’s response to migration––family separation, further militarization of the border, and economic warfare. As if such responses could possibly alleviate the conditions pushing this land defender to migrate in the first place.
A few weeks after visiting the encampment in Casillas, I spent the day at the Public Prosecutor’s office in Guatemala City accompanying the Xinka Parliment's lawyer, Quelvin Jiménez, and several members of the Escobal mine resistance as they denounced a recent surge of violence against them. Quelvin in particular has been the target of various threats and attacks. I invite you to act in solidarity with the Xinka land defenders who are tirelessly and bravely mobilizing to protect their communities and territory. You can take action by joining Amnesty International’s letter writing campaign to express your concern regarding Quelvin's situation, and urge Guatemala’s Attorney General to act. And related to themes of U.S. militarism and migration, you can also participate in NISGUA’s campaign in response to the alarming and increased presence of U.S. troops and Department of Homeland Security agents in Guatemala’s northern regions. Thank you! I also want to extend an enormous thank you for supporting me in the NISGUA May Match Campaign. Over the course of two weeks, we collectively raised $82,836! I am inspired and encouraged thinking about all the international solidarity work, horizontal exchanges, and educational opportunities made possible by this grassroots fundraising. Muchísimas gracias. In solidarity, Tal
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