In The Community
The world has seen countless inspiring women rise up to fight for justice and equality, particularly for marginalized and oppressed communities. Their tireless advocacy has brought much-needed attention to issues such as women's and Indigenous rights, environmental justice, and preserving Indigenous knowledge and culture.
Despite their challenges and obstacles, these women serve as powerful role models and reminders of the transformative potential of grassroots activism.
Take a closer look at their extraordinary lives and legacies:
Comandanta Ramona
Photo by bastian (Heriberto Rodriguez) on Wikimedia Commons
Comandanta Ramona, born in 1959 in a Tzotzil Maya community in the highlands of Chiapas, Mexico, was a founding member of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN), based in the same region. She served as a spokesperson for the group and came to represent the Indigenous resistance movement.
But Ramona's impact extended far beyond her leadership role within the EZLN. As a woman in a male-dominated organization, she challenged gender norms and fought tirelessly for gender equality. She spoke out against gender-based violence and worked to empower women in Indigenous communities, advocating for their participation in decision-making processes and establishing women's cooperatives.
Ramona's contributions to the Zapatista movement were groundbreaking. She helped establish the Revolutionary Law of Women, recognizing women's contributions to the struggle for Indigenous rights and granting them equal rights. She paved the way for women's leadership within the movement through her efforts.
Ramona's legacy as a feminist and Indigenous leader continues to inspire activists and social justice movements worldwide. Although she passed away in 2006 after battling cancer, her spirit lives on in the struggle against oppression and discrimination.
Rigoberta Menchú
Rigoberta Menchú, a Nobel Peace Prize laureate and K'iche' Maya woman from Guatemala, has dedicated her life to advocating for women's and Indigenous rights. Growing up in a family of Indigenous peasants, Menchú experienced firsthand the discrimination and poverty that Indigenous communities face.
Menchú became involved in social justice movements at a young age and joined the Committee of Peasant Unity. This group fought for land rights and the empowerment of Indigenous communities. During Guatemala's civil war, she spoke out against government-sanctioned violence and human rights abuses, becoming a prominent voice for Indigenous women's rights.
Menchú's groundbreaking book "I, Rigoberta Menchú," published in 1983, chronicled her experiences growing up as an Indigenous woman in Guatemala and the struggles faced by her community. The book became an international bestseller, spotlighting Indigenous issues and women's rights in Latin America.
Menchú's advocacy and activism earned her numerous accolades, including the Nobel Peace Prize in 1992. But her work is far from over. She continues to fight for the rights of Indigenous people and women, advocating for issues such as access to healthcare and education, and raising awareness about domestic violence and sexual assault.Aura Lolita Chávez Ixcaquic
Photo by Paula López Reig on Wikimedia Commons
Aura Lolita Chávez Ixcaquic, a K'iche' Maya woman from Guatemala, is a prominent voice in the global fight for environmental and Indigenous rights, defending their land and natural resources against exploitation and destruction.
But her activism has not come without challenges. As a woman in a patriarchal society, Chávez Ixcaquic has faced discrimination, violence, and even death threats for her tireless efforts to promote justice and equality.
But despite these challenges, she has worked to raise awareness about Indigenous women's obstacles, including gender-based violence, discrimination, and lack of access to healthcare and education. She was a finalist for the prestigious Sakharov Human Rights Prize and was awarded the Romero Human Rights Award for her environmental and Indigenous rights activism.
Chávez Ixcaquic's leadership has been crucial in promoting greater participation of women in decision-making processes and leadership positions within Indigenous communities. She has served as a mentor and role model for young Indigenous women, inspiring them to become activists and advocates for their communities.
Guadalupe Vázquez Luna
Photo by koman ilel on Wikimedia Commons
Guadalupe Vázquez Luna is a Mexican activist, artisan, and councilwoman who represents the Tzotzil people in the National Indigenous Congress and is a survivor of the Acteal massacre.
Despite the devastating impact of losing her parents and five siblings in the Acteal massacre, Guadalupe persevered with tenacity and determination. Despite the rampant machismo in her community trying to hold her back, she completed her elementary and secondary education.
Her activism aims to achieve justice for her people, fight against so-called "death projects," and bring attention to the region's problems. On International Women's Day 2018, Vázquez Luna led a group of women from Las Abejas in a protest against the military presence in their communities. She confronted soldiers at the military barracks in Majomut, Chenalho, with a powerful message of unity and respect.
Vázquez Luna's story and that of Las Abejas de Acteal are told in the documentary "Lupita. Que retiemble la tierra," directed by Mónica Wise and Eduardo Gutiérrez Wise in 2019, provides insight into different facets of her life, such as being a mother, a fearless activist, an orator, and a leader.Berta Cáceres
Photo by UN Environment on Wikimedia Commons
Berta Cáceres was a Honduran environmental and Indigenous rights activist who fought for the rights of women and Indigenous communities in Honduras.
As a member of the Lenca Indigenous community, Cáceres was a prominent leader in the struggle against large-scale development projects that threatened Indigenous lands and resources. She founded the Civic Council of Popular and Indigenous Organizations of Honduras (COPINH), a grassroots organization that advocated for Indigenous rights and environmental justice.
She advocated for the inclusion of women in leadership positions within Indigenous communities and called for greater participation of women in decision-making processes. Cáceres also supported the creation of women's cooperatives and other initiatives to empower women and promote economic development in Indigenous communities.
In 2016, unknown gunmen assassinated Cáceres in her home, sparking international outrage. Her death was widely seen as a result of her activism and the threats she faced for her work defending Indigenous and environmental rights.
Despite her tragic death, Cáceres continues to inspire activists and Indigenous communities worldwide to fight for justice, equality, and the protection of their lands and resources.Leydy Pech
An Indigenous Mayan beekeeper born and raised in the city of Hopelchén in Campeche, Mexico, Leydy Pech has become a leading voice in the global fight for environmental and Indigenous rights. Her tireless advocacy has brought much-needed attention to the importance of protecting the environment and the rights of Indigenous communities, especially women.
Pech's leadership has been instrumental in promoting the rights of Indigenous communities to control their own resources and determine their own development. She has been a fierce opponent of large-scale agro-industrial projects that threaten Indigenous lands and resources, such as the use of genetically modified crops.
But Pech's activism goes beyond environmental concerns. She has also been a vocal advocate for women's rights within Indigenous communities, raising awareness about the challenges faced by Indigenous women, including gender-based violence and discrimination.
As a beekeeper, Pech has also been a strong advocate for the conservation of bees and other pollinators, which play a crucial role in sustaining biodiversity and agriculture. She has promoted sustainable and community-based beekeeping practices that benefit both Indigenous communities and the environment.Years ago, during a Democracy in Color podcast appearance, I had a conversation with then-host Aimee Allison about my adolescent years growing up in a single-parent, low-income household and the challenges that came with it. My story is well-documented, having told it time and time again for almost a decade, but during this interview, it was different.
For the first time during an interview, Host Aimee Alison interrupted me when I was describing my time in the juvenile justice system.
Normally, in our sound-bite world, I try to get through that part of my life as quickly as possible while still keeping it substantive enough to make my point. The interviewers are happy to oblige the quick pace. But this time around, Aimee said to me, “I want to go back to those cinder-block walls.” For a moment, I was startled but then also hesitant.
At that point in my career, I had talked often about what it was like to be treated like just another number going through the criminal justice system, what it was like to be treated like discarded, worthless cattle to be identified, recorded, and cataloged. But I had never really talked about it, and surprisingly, or maybe not surprisingly, I found it profoundly difficult to do.
The School to Prison Pipeline
I was 12 when I was first tracked into the juvenile justice system — just a little girl, as Aimee pointed out. It started out with acting out behavior like ditching school, shoplifting, and running away as a result of not understanding what was going on at home. Not understanding why my dad beat my mom, and understanding, even at the age of 9 when this was happening, that she had to leave, but never understanding why she chose not to come back for us like she said she would.
I was a good kid. I got good grades. I was in gifted and talented education and even made 1st chair in the orchestra. But my young mind concluded that my mom simply didn’t want me, or my baby brothers, and I didn’t understand why. So I ran away from home. I cut classes. I shoplifted. I turned to the only form of stability that made sense at the time that was available to me— gangs.
The circumstances of my young life were less than ideal — and I say that from the perspective that even though I experienced trauma that no young person should ever know, I also recognize that there are hundreds of thousands of young people who have experienced and are currently experiencing, much deeper and troubling trauma than I ever did. Much like these kids who are growing up in environments that are over-policed and under-resourced, when I cut classes and ran away from home and was caught, the police could have taken me back to school, or done any number of things, but instead, they handcuffed me, threw me in the back of the police car, and took me straight to juvenile detention.
The staff at the detention center could have done any number of things, but instead, I was processed like everyone else was — from murderers to curfew violators, the process was the same. Every last point of contact in the justice system could have done something differently if, in fact, they thought of the children going through the system as young kids with their own stories instead of just files to process.
The process can vary from place to place, bur normally, when you arrive at juvenile detention facility, you're placed in a holding area. Cinderblock walls and cold cinderblock benches line the room. Once someone is available, you're pulled out and taken to a desk where you're fingerprinted, photographed for your mug shot, and asked various intake questions. If you’re lucky and your parents can pick you up quickly, you sit in the holding room until someone picks you up.
I can’t remember a time when those rooms weren’t ice cold—and good luck if you got a blanket. Asking for some comfort never worked. It’s like the rooms were designed to be ice-cold torture rooms, and the staff were happy to carry out the mission. Most of the time my dad couldn’t be reached to pick me up, and when too much time passed, you were changed into an orange or tan inmate jumpsuit in preparation for a longer-term stay. That meant they had to inventory your belongings and strip search you.
The Trauma that Endures
I remember being strip searched. I was old enough to know that my body was private but not old enough to have much to be private about. Another cinder block room and cold floors. “Take off your clothes.” “Hand them to me.” “Do you have any contraband?” “Put these clothes on.” “We’ll be back to get you.” Metal fortified door slammed shut. The slam reverberates.
The process of being institutionalized does something to you. It chips away at your sense of self. Your sense of humanity. Slowly but surely your status begins to feel less than human. Some would argue that it’s supposed to be that way. Some would argue that it’s supposed to be uncomfortable and traumatic. Others would argue and demonstrate that harsh treatment and out-of-home placement of young offenders fails to produce positive outcomes for offending youth. In fact, decades of research prove that our tough on crime policies that produced a generation of felons and shot the U.S. to the number one global spot in prison population are actually costing usmore money and producing less societal benefits.
But statistics and policy aside, how much time do we spend talking about, and thinking about the day-to-day decisions that could possibly change the outcome of the lives of the people who are going through our system? How often do we hear about the prosecutor who treated the defendant like a human being with dignity instead of labeling them “bad guys” before they even got a hearing? How often do we think about the extenuating circumstances of offenders before we assume that all forays into the justice system are as simple as good choice vs. bad choice? How often does the media cover crime stories in the context of indicators that predict a child’s life outcomes? Not often at all.
Why? Because we live in a sound bite world. We live in a world where even my own story has been whittled down to a feel-good, pick yourself up by your bootstraps (a terrible saying, that by literal definition is impossible to do), good ‘ole American success story. A story where “personal responsibility” reigns supreme.
The Bootstrap Myth
In response to the potential for “personal responsibility” co-opting, I spend a lot of time highlighting the decision that my parole officer made not to revoke my parole and send me back into the system that chewed me up and spit me back out many times over. I spend a lot of time highlighting the resource and time investment that people made in me plusmy own desire to break the cycle I finally realized I was in.
I do that because it’s honest.
It’s also the situation that so many young people and adults are facing every day as they churn through our modern justice (or more accurately, injustice) system. Almost no one wakes up one day with no support, intervention, or mentorship and says to themselves, today is the day I become someone else.
We are in dire need of systemic change to our criminal justice system, but we are also in dire need of decent human beings who have the courage and compassion to treat arrestees (because yes, everyone is supposed to be innocent until proven guilty) and offenders like human beings. My parole officer had no idea that when she took into account my abysmal life circumstances and made the decision to give me another chance, she extended me another lease on life. She had no idea that I would end up writing this piece from a scenic waterfront cafe as I sip on coffee and contemplate my thoughts in the serenity of the flowing river and the cool passing breeze.
The coolness of the passing breeze couldn’t be more different than the harsh cold of the cinder block bench surrounded by the cinder block walls that once confined me - a memory that will plague me forever. How many others could also be in different situations if only someone had shown them some compassion and understanding, as my parole officer showed me? What might possibly become of this family after Judge Amber Wolf decided to let this defendant see his newborn baby while in court despite the no-contact order in place?
Time will tell, but if you asked my parole officer 25 years ago what she thought was going to happen to me after she decided to give me a chance, she probably wouldn’t have described my waterfront location or the list of honorifics that precede my name. "Inmate" would have been the likeliest guest by expectation standards. “Inmate” certainly would have been what most people I encountered would have guessed — and that's the crux of the problem.
We can expect more from our kids who are in troubled conditions when we meet our duty to change those conditions. Expecting change without this means we will just continue to let our children's futures waste away, creating a societal expense that's so vast it can't even be quantified.
- “No Sabo” is a Slur, Fight Me On It ›
- Ana Basaldua Ruiz's Death Sparks Outrage: Ongoing Problem of Sexual Harassment in the Military Continues ›
American Tourists Aggressively Stop Locals in Durango, Mexico from Watching Eclipse in Public Space
On April 8, many in parts of the United States and Mexico were gearing up to watch the total solar eclipse. In the city of Durango, Mexico, residents were particularly excited because they would enjoy the most visibility of this rare phenomenon. People gathered in public spaces, including one of the most popular spots, the lookout of “El Cerro de los Remedios,” which offers panoramic views of the city. However, residents’ excitement turned sour when a group of U.S. tourists claimed to have rented the entire front area of the public space, keeping everyone else from accessing prime area with the best vantage point.
Video by mxespaciolibre on Instagram
As reported by Espacio Libre, a local news and media website that planned on transmitting the eclipse, some of the U.S. tourists were blatantly disrespectful toward locals, claiming that they were having a “private event.” The tourist group was accompanied by the assistant secretary of “Planificación y Desarrollo Turístico” (“Tourism Planning and Development”), Olivia Margarita Fernández, who was seemingly involved with the U.S.-based travel agency, “Betchart Expeditions.” Fernández supported the group of what seemed to be mostly American tourists by claiming that the area was only accessible to those who had paid to be there. When asked who they paid, she provided no answer.
Video by mxespaciolibre on Instagram
As reporter José G. Martínez and his cameraman asserted their right to be there; they were met by the entitled attitude of one of the women from the tourist group, later identified as tour guide Tanya Deyoung. In the video shared by Espacio Libre, Deyoung is seen mockingly saying “goodbye” and “adiós, ahora” as she waves them away dismissively. When Martínez refused to leave, she yelled “no” in his face and physically blocked him from entering the area that the foreigners appropriated as theirs.
Video by mxespaciolibre on Instagram
As the confrontation continued, Deyoung claimed that the tourist group had a “contract” with Fernández for the private use of the space. Martínez and his cameraman didn’t back down, and neither did the residents, who also started to speak up. Among them was a young girl who defended her right to be there. She said, “They won’t let us in, they’re blocking us. They’re not respecting the rules. We have priority because we live here. When we go there [to the U.S.], they kick us out. They’re acting as if this is their city.”
Video by mxespaciolibre on Instagram
Before the girl could continue, Deyoung interrupted and silenced her, screaming very close to her face, “Please leave our private event!” Then, she continued mockingly saying “adiós” and waving them away.
Video by mxespaciolibre on Instagram
Eventually, Martínez approached assistant secretary Fernández, asking to see the alleged permit that allowed the foreigners to claim a public space. Espacio Libre was shown a document that turned out to be a request, not a permit. The request was addressed to the Director of “Ferias, Espectáculos y Paseos Turísticos de Durango” (“Fairs, Shows and Sightseeing Tours of Durango”), asking for the space to set up a group of “specialists in various fields to observe the eclipse” from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m.
Martínez noted that the group didn’t have any specialized equipment with them, and the request didn’t specify what kind of specialists they were. Moreover, they were seen dancing, led by Fernández, an activity usually practiced for entertainment, not scientific observation.
Video by mxespaciolibre on Instagram
Video by mxespaciolibre on Instagram
Espacio Libre’s investigation revealed that they weren’t a group of specialists at all and that the travel agency charged 6,390 USD per person. There were at least 50 people in the group, according to Martínez, which adds up to around 319,500 USD or 5,400,000 MXN. Martínez wondered how much of that money was pocketed by the government of Durango to allow the group of foreigners to appropriate the most privileged spot to watch the solar eclipse.
Video by mxespaciolibre on Instagram
When Espacio Libre shared clips of these deplorable actions on social media, Durango residents and people all over Mexico and the U.S. were outraged. The video quickly went viral as more and more Latinos reproached the vile attitude of white Americans, who, even in foreign countries, feel entitled to claim any space as theirs. Moreover, many took to Yelp to leave scathing reviews calling out the racist behavior of Betchart Expeditions’ staff. Currently, the travel agency's website and Facebook page are temporarily down.
It’s speculated that the Department of Tourism Planning and Development carries some of the responsibility by allowing Fernández to rent out a public space. It’s not just illegal to do so, but it also violates an essential human right–the freedom of movement. In response to the allegations, the Department of Fairs, Shows and Sightseeing Tours of Durango issued a statement, claiming, “At no time was space rented to foreign tourists at this sighting point. Only a small space was delimited to protect the technological equipment of foreign astronomers."
Many perceive these actions as discriminatory against Mexicans, and the fact that it happened on their own soil, seemingly backed by their own government, makes the situation even more shocking. Below is the full video from Espacio Libre TV on Instagram for the complete story.
Note: the video is in Spanish, no English captions are available on Instagram.