por David Bacon
Indigenous Triqui women, men and their children march through the streets of Oaxaca city, to protest against a wave of killing in their home community of San Juan Copala in Oaxaca. (PHOTO BY DAVID BACON)
OAXACA, MEXICO – Just before Christmas, the women and children who’d spent 17 months living on the sidewalk outside the governor’s palace in Oaxaca announced they were going home. In the spring of 2010, these refugees abandoned their homes in San Juan Copala, the ceremonial center of the Triqui people. Many houses were burned after they left.
Stringing tarps and ropes across the palacio’s outdoor colonnade, they set up their planton, an impromptu community of sleeping and cooking areas across the sidewalk from the zocalo, the plaza at Oaxaca’s heart. It looked hauntingly similar to the settlements of the Occupy protesters that spread across the United States last fall, but rather than fighting to remain in their tents, the Triqui families in the planton were fighting for the right not to live there, for the right to go home.
Finally, this December, they announced an agreement with representatives of Gabino Cue, elected governor last July, who promised to protect the families if they returned to San Juan Copala. Still, many question whether they can really go back safely. Even more importantly, they ask what can bring an end to the violence that has claimed the lives of at least 500 people over the last two decades.
This question is not just debated on the sidewalk by the zocalo, or only in Oaxaca. It is asked, albeit in whispers, by migrant farm workers in Baja California and Sinaloa, in northern Mexico, and in Hollister and Greenfield, in California’s Salinas Valley.
Mixtecos have been leaving Oaxaca for decades, driven mostly by the endemic poverty of the Mexican countryside, says Gaspar Rivera Salgado, a Mixteco professor at UCLA and past coordinator of the Binational Front of Indigenous Organizations. Yet for many years the Triquis, who were equally poor and live in the same region, stayed put. Their migration only began when the violence in their communities made life unbearable.
Once displaced, they began to migrate within the Mixteca region, then within Oaxaca, and then within Mexico. They traveled north, following other Oaxacans to San Quintin in the 1980s, and then in the 1990s, to California.
Triqui migrants might have escaped the violence, but not the political presence of the groups they were fleeing. Wherever they went, the Movement for the Unification of the Triqui Struggle (MULT) and the Social Welfare Group of the Triqui Region (UBISORT) sent agents, requiring people to pay monetary quotas and participate in mobilizations.
In the 1980s, Triqui activists organized MULT. “It was a grassroots organization to fight the caciques (rural political bosses) overcontrol of land, forests and other natural resources,” says Rivera Salgado. “The caciques were so violent that MULT members had to arm themselves. Eventually, those armed men became a paramilitary group. The caciques were overcome, but what began as a grassroots organization became something different. There was no transition to a civil society form of organization.”
Eventually MULT itself fractured into factions. One faction became UBISORT, which began fighting MULT for political control of Triqui communities. Oaxaca’s repressive state government used the conflict to enhance its own control. UBISORT was organized with the support of then-governor Jose Murat, and became a political support base for Oaxaca’s old governing party, the PRI (Party of the Institutionalized Revolution). MULT organized its own political party, the Popular Unity Party. But behind the parties were the guns.
“A civil war went on between them,” Rivera Salgado says. In 2006, Raul Marcial Perez, a leader of UBISORT, was assassinated. Then in October, 2010, Heriberto Pazos, the founder of MULT, was gunned down in the streets of Oaxaca city.
In the only municipio that remained in Triqui hand, San Martin Itunyoso, Antonio Jacinto López Martínez, a MULT leader, was elected president in 2004, but then couldn’t take office because of threats, and fled to the nearby city of Tlaxiaco. Last October, as he was crossing the street there with two members of his family, a gunman shot him in the head. Many others were killed in years of violence and retribution.
The High Cost of Migration
For Triquies, migration has had a high cost – they’ve had to fight for survival wherever they went.
“They faced tremendous racism and prejudice,” Rivera Salgado charges. “They’re always the outsiders, treated like savages.” Over the course of some 25 years, so many have fled the political murders plaguing their homeland that they’ve formed towns like Nueva Colonia Triqui, or New Triqui Town, in Baja’s San Quintin Valley. In that colonia, or in California’s Triqui neighborhoods, people ask whether peace is possible, and if it were, would they go home too?
“People left looking for a better future, but they worry about the safety of their families at home,” says activist Elvira Santos (whose name has been changed), pointing to the fear that many Triquis share of reprisals for speaking publicly not only against themselves, but also against their families in Oaxaca. “They’ll think twice before going back because the conflicts and the same armed groups are still there.”
In north Mexico, migrants found farm labor camps with dirt floors and no electricity. When they wanted homes for children and families, Triquis and other indigenous migrants had to mount land invasions, building houses on Federal land, and then awaiting the police sent to evict them.
