As a consequence of the international blockade of the Gaza strip, underground contraband with Egypt has grown into a real industry. The traffic employs an army of workers, who are ready to put their lives at risk in exchange for a few banknotes.

(Translated from French)

Rafah, Benjamin Barthe, special correspondent

On this August evening, the heat is muggy and intoxicating. A makeshift streetlight sheds a feeble halo of light on an alley of the Shaburah refugee camp, in Rafah, Gaza’s dead end. Hossam and Mohamed Kak, two twenty year-old cousins, are hurrying toward the Egyptian border. After many penniless years, these two young fathers have struck it rich. For the past week, they have been working in the contraband tunnels dug beneath the coils of barbwire and the brick wall that separate the narrow strip of Palestinian territory from the Egyptian Sinai. This activity lures an army of workers, all of which have lost everything because of the blockade of Gaza. They are ready to risk it all in exchange for a few banknotes. “We hadn’t received our salary yet, says Mohamed, a hefty fellow with bulgy cheeks. But the owner of the tunnel had promised to give us a share of the benefit from that night’s load. At $100 per night, we were going to make a nice amount of money.”

On the premises, the Kak cousins meet two colleagues, Youssef, 17 years old, and Mahmoud, 43 years old. Their task is to carry hundreds of bags to the surface. The bags are filled with food destined to the grocers of Rafah, who are anxious to fill up their shelves, as it is the eve of Ramadan. “I asked the boss whether he had checked if the Egyptians had gassed the tunnels, as they had been doing more and more often, claims Mohamed. He answered me that he had gone down there for a smoke and that everything was OK.” Mohamed is the first to enter the pipe. Hossam and the two others follow him, with a ten meters interval between each of them. After twenty minutes in the tunnel, they sense a strange smell. Mohamed yells “gas”, but it is too late. His three companions are paralyzed. He runs back a few meters, and collapses. The rescuers retrieve four victims, out of which he is the only one to be revived. “Thank God he was saved”, says his father, Abdallah. The scene takes place three weeks later, and Abdallah is sitting in the courtyard of his little family house. “The others were less lucky. But I curse the tunnel owners who take advantage of our misery. And I also curse the Egyptian government, which kills our children and doesn’t send out warnings. If they want to stop contraband, let them open the Rafah border.”

“Anfaq”, the tunnels in Arabic… The word fires the imagination of all of Rafah’s damned, and it fuels the legend of this frontier city. Ever since the Israeli army’s withdrawal from Sinai in 1982, Rafah has been divided in two parts, one Egyptian, and the other Palestinian. The first tunnels appear at that time, as if to mock History’s diktats. A conduit dug into the sand, a pulley system, a basin to store the merchandise, and that does the trick. The border zone is so narrow, that a length of a few hundred meters is enough to reach the other side. The entrances to the tunnels are hidden beneath rugs on the ground floors of refugees’ shanties. As the trafficking exclusively involves everyday consumer goods, the Israeli soldiers who are stationed in the Gaza strip are inclined to be less vigilant. Thanks to cigarettes, soap, cheese and clothes, a few cunning Bedouins become rich.

It all gets more complicated when the second Intifada begins in October 2000. The big-wigs of the Palestinian security services confiscate some tunnels to improve their militia’s arsenals. In turn, the armed groups, especially Hamas, follow suit. Underground, Rafah’s transforms itself into a giant gun fair, with Kalachnikovs, antitank rockets, explosives, and even, according to the Israeli secret services, a few Stinger surface-to-air missiles. Tsahal bulldozes hundreds of houses along the border, to no avail. In the summer of 2005, contraband increases all the more that the Israeli army withdraws from the Gaza strip, and, as a consequence, from the Philadelphia corridor that runs along the border. When Hamas seizes power in June 2007, Gaza is quarantined, and the trafficking gains even more momentum.

The number of active tunnels is currently estimated to be approximately 300. The border being 12 kilometers long, one finds a new entrance every 40 meters. The amateurism of the early days has been replaced by a semi-clandestine industry, which yields over $10 million in taxes, collected by Hamas. “If ever there is an earthquake in the area, it will be a disaster, because Rafah’s subsoil is full of holes”, says Abu Mohamed, a grocer who gets all his supplies from the traffickers. “It is the Palestinians’ response to those who want to strangle them”, he adds, standing on the sidewalk in front of his street stall, named Al-Attabeh, after Place Atabeh, in Cairo, where the Egyptian black market flourishes.

At the beginning of the summer, the United States and Israel voiced concern over breaches to the embargo and pressed Egypt to intensify its fight. In a few weeks, with the help of specialized American engineers, approximately thirty tunnels were destroyed. They were dynamited, or sealed with concrete, or else flooded by diverting existing water pipes. Officially, Egypt denies the use of gases and blames fumes that would emanate from the gasoline cans that are transported by the traffickers. Since the beginning of the year, about thirty Palestinians, often young, have died underground in the Rafah area, either by accident, or because of Egyptian repression.

Mohamed, 18 years-old, looks rangy and juvenile, but his eyes are full of arrogance. He is one of these adolescent daredevils who are obsessed with the tunnels. His uncle, a high-profile trafficker, introduced him to the job a few months before the Israeli withdrawal. “In those days, we always worked at night, because we were afraid of army patrols. We had to be perfectly silent; we didn’t even have the right to cough. Nowadays, nobody hides anymore. There are tunnels all over the place”. About two hundred meters from an Egyptian watchtower, a house in ruins shelters Mohamed’s own tunnel. It opens onto a twenty-five meters deep metal conduit. A cradle, which is attached to a portico and activated by an electric winch, takes you all the way down. The pipe is 180 centimeters high and about 400 meters long, and it is built for comfort. It is equipped with lamps, but also a network of intercoms to communicate with the surface. A compressor ensures adequate oxygenation. “When I started to dig, I was afraid, says Mohamed. Now, it has become as natural as taking a shower. With a good team, it takes me just a month to open a new pipe.”

Over the last three years, the list of products that the young tunneller has imported into Rafah is longer than any supermarket’s inventory. Bottles of oil, gasoline cans, wheels of Gouda cheese, scooters, computers, bras, cell phones, car tires, sandals, cigarette cartons, Viagra tablets… His most surprising deal involved a batch of lion cubs and macaques for the Gaza zoo! Or maybe these “four Russian women” who wanted to be reunited with their Palestinian husbands, whom they had met during their medical studies in Moscow… “I have the best pay in the whole Gaza strip, mutters Mohamed, like a satiated professional. At the beginning of the year, at the peak of the cigarette shortage, I made $35 000 in a month. Back then, there were less active tunnels and you could earn up to $1000 a night. With the money, I bought a small piece of land where I will build my house.”

Abdel-Hadi Abu Amra perfectly knows these mavericks that have grown up too fast. He teaches English in a middle school which is built alongside the border. He believes that around one fourth of the institution’s 300 students work in the tunnels. He notices that they are often absent, that they look tired, and that they flaunt the most recent cell phones during recess time. “It’s like drugs, declares the teacher. Once they have tried the tunnels, they can’t stop anymore. I try to talk them out of it, but it’s useless. They answer that their father hasn’t earned a penny in years, and that their only option is to become criminals.” Mohamed the tunneller agrees and smiles knowingly. Every night, he goes up to his room and pretends to go to bed. When he hears his father’s snores, he gets out of bed and opens the window. Then he sinks into the night. The border, the land of imagination, has cast a spell on him.

Using data from the Global Integrity Index, we put a U.S. court's recent order to block access to anti-corruption site Wikileaks.org into context. In summary: The Wikileaks.org shutdown is unheard of in the West, and has only been seen in a handful of the most repressive regimes. Good thing it doesn't work very well.

Starting in 2007, Global Integrity added specific questions about Internet censorship to the Integrity Indicators, which are a set of 304 questions addressing the practice of anti-corruption in national governments. We have always held that a free and critical media is an essential component of good governance; adding an analysis of Internet censorship was an overdue refinement.

We asked our local research teams to investigate two questions:

1. Are Internet users prevented from reaching political material on the Internet?

2. Are content creators prevented from posting political material to the Internet?

The results of this work are generally encouraging. In examining a diverse group of 50 countries, a majority earn a full score on both counts. Freedom of speech is a widely held right. Moreover, Internet censorship is difficult and is often ineffective in suppressing political activity. Most governments, aside from targeted libel restrictions, don't bother regulating online political speech at all.

The Many Flavors of Internet Censorship

A few countries, however, are deeply committed to trying to make censorship work. On this list in 2007 are Algeria, China, Egypt, Kazakhstan, Russia and Thailand. Each has it's own flavor to the repression of online speech -- Internet censorship is still in an experimentation phase, and even the most aggressive approaches don't seem to work very well.

Algeria has no firewalls or filters, but outlaws hosting content critical of the government, and monitors chat rooms for political speech. [source]

China is home to 1.3 billion people and has a highly scalable technological approach based on extensive content filters known satirically as the Great Firewall of China. China also uses technology to discourage content creation, deploying cute animated police characters (pictured above) to remind Internet users they are being watched. [source]

Egypt has limited technical means to discourage content creation, so it relies on an old-fashioned technique -- harassment, beatings and arrests. Hala Al-Masry used to publish in a blog entitled "Cops Without Boundaries" until the government harassed her, "unknown people" beat her father, and she and her husband were arrested and signed a commitment to shut down the blog. Similar techniques have shut down websites of opposition parties. [source]

Kazakhstan has little Internet capacity. The government uses this to mask censorship -- rather than block sites, it slows them down, frustrating the users of political content into looking elsewhere. The KNB (formerly the KGB) has a special program called Bolat, which slows down, but does not stop, access to sites of terrorist organizations. Popular opinion holds that it is used to slow opposition party sites as well. [source]

Russia has a mixed bag of state persecution and neglect, allowing a rare opening for free expression in a country with highly restricted media. However, the sophistication of the attacks that do occur is frightening, with hackers singling out individual online targets. For instance, the website of Ekho Moskvy, a liberal Moscow radio station critical of the Kremlin, was brought down by a DDoS attack last year. [source]

Thailand's military junta moved aggressively to shut down message boards and the formerly-ruling party Thai Rak Thai website after taking over the country in 2006. But the junta's censorship cops work to keep the thinnest appearance of tolerance -- message boards were allowed to reopen under the condition that they did not "provoke any misunderstandings." Message received. [source]

So how does the United States fit into this picture?

The court order that muzzled Wikileaks.org (covered here) was prompted not by the government but by a bank registered in the Cayman Islands. The bank used American courts and a compliant domain registrar to scrub the wikileaks.org URL from the Internet. It is extremely unlikely that this decision will stand up in an appeals court, but the larger point is that there is no reason this case should even be fought. Wikileaks should not need a legal team to explain to the courts that the First Amendment requires freedom of speech.

The whole event seems to encapsulate the constant criticism of governance in the United States: that the government has been captured by corporate interests, and that the world-leading rule of law and technocratic mechanisms in place can be hijacked to serve as tools for narrow, wealthy interests.

Online Censorship: Sounds good, but it never works.

While there is much diversity in the style of Internet censorship among the world's worst offenders, one common thread unites them: Internet censorship doesn't work. Cut off one site, and a thousand more pop up. In China, censorship online is sparking criticism that off-line censorship has rarely seen.

So Wikileaks.org went offline, but Wikileaks mirror sites hosted overseas hold the same content, and the original site is still up and running from Sweden (http://88.80.13.160) without its easier-to-type URL. As it turns out, shutting down Wikileaks-the-website has focused our attention on Wikileaks-the-idea, which is spreading at the speed of light.

…EVEN A DOG WON'T BARK IN HIS DEFENSE…" – CZECH NEWSPAPERS SAY ABOUT A MIGRANT WORKER FROM TRANSCARPATHIA

Czech public came to the defense of a wrongly convicted Ukrainian, and after almost five years in prison his term was reduced for one third

(translated from Ukrainian) 

Yaroslav GALAS "FACTS" (Uzhgorod)

The story of Petro Terpay, a migrant worker from Maly Rakovets mountain village in Transcarpathia, is hardly typical. In Czech Republic the Ukrainian got sentenced to seven years in prison for a crime he never committed. Our compatriot was looking at serving the entire sentence, but to his defense suddenly came… the prison chaplain.

Now Petro is back home with his family, while his friends in Czech Republic are collecting money to buy a tractor that the Ukrainian had lost during his ordeal in foreign jails.

Why a tractor – that became clear at Maly Rakovets where Petro Terpay lives. As a journalist I had a chance to drive frequently around this entire region, but nowhere else have I seen such roads. In the center of the village the streets have a more or less decent asphalt surface, but at the outskirts the roads are paved with elongated stone blocks surviving from the times of Austrian-Hungarian Empire. It took us 45 minutes to drive three kilometers of this road in our off-road four-wheeler! No wonder that residents of Maly Rakovets use 'Niva' jeeps, tractors or horses as their regular means of transportation.

Petro's small hut sits at the very edge of the village. Its owner, 37, meets me in the front yard and invites inside. Rooms with well-built furniture are clean and cozy; icons are hanging on the walls. The very environment and the host's behavior make you doubt unwittingly that he is capable of the crime for which he spent almost five years in jail.

Petro's pre-trial bio is no different than life stories of most of his townsmen. In mid 1990s the young man was working on a collective farm; and after the farm fell apart, he lost his means of subsistence. He had to bring food to his wife and two sons, so the head of the family moved to Czech Republic in search of work. A "client" (in Transcarpathia this is the term for people who find illegal jobs for migrant workers), who came from the same village, found Petro a job of an excavator operator in a sand quarry in Lysa nad Labem town about 50 km from Prague, collecting one third of earnings as a reward for his services.

- I worked in this sand quarry from 2000 to 2002, - Petro Terpay says. – I was sending money home regularly, and when my visa expired, I would go back to Ukraine for a few months to get a new one. One of my periods of stay in Czech Republic was ending in June 2002, so I was about to go back home again. I was going to take an intercity bus, but the "client" recommended me to travel with his friend, another fellow villager, who was driving back home with his nephew. We agreed on the price, and on June 22 drove to the Polish border (back then transit through Poland did not require a visa). But at the border checkpoint our Ford Mondeo was directed away from the common line of cars, and in a few minutes eight cops approached the car, handcuffed and detained us. After three days in a cell the cops informed us that we are suspects in a hold-up of a post office.

The crime with which the Ukrainians were charged took place five days prior to their arrest, on June 17^th, in Smecno village near the town of Kladno. In the morning two armed robbers broke into the post office and stole 104,850 korunas (about four thousand dollars) and shot a cashier through her arm. The police had some leads to detain the Ukrainians. Six days before the crime a man about thirty came to the post office, carefully examined the room, bought three postal stamps, and left. Postal workers found his behavior suspicious; he spoke with strong Russian accent; so they noted his car license plate number and notified the police just in case.

After the hold-up the police first of all started looking for the car with that license plate. It happened to be the very Ford Mondeo where Petro was riding with his townsmen. After their arrest, the Ford driver explained that indeed he was passing through Smecno six days before the crime with a friend who did buy stamps at the post office, but he has nothing to do with the hold-up. As for Petro, all that time he was working in the sand quarry all day long, and he met his companions for the first time only on the day of their departure for home. But the police were not satisfied with their testimonies.

Since there were just two robbers, the driver's nephew was released soon, but two other detainees were charged with armed robbery. The main evidence of the Ukrainians' involvement in the crime came from the line-up arranged for three women postal workers and a chance witness who happened to stop by the post office and seen the robbers.

The identification went as follows. The chance witness did not recognize either Petro or his companion, and picked up a police officer from the line-up instead, identifying him as a robber. The first postal worker pointed at Petro who, she said, was standing by the window and shot her colleague with a pistol, and at the Ford driver who took money from the money box. The second woman identified one of the cops in the line-up as one of the criminals. The last witness pointed at a cop and also at Petro who, she claimed, took money from the box. After that the first woman said that she made a mistake, and in fact it was Petro who took the money, while the Ford driver shot her colleague. Despite two witnesses identifying no one, one woman picking up just one of the suspects, and another one contradicting herself, the cops considered this evidence conclusive.

- We were transferred to a detention facility in Prague, - Petro continues. – I was put in a cell with three foreigners: a Russian guy for whom that was not his first arrest; an employee from an embassy of an African country accused of raping a Czech girl (he was reading the Bible all the time and kept swearing that he raped no one, it was consensual), and a Polish guy who was soon transferred to a camp. The driver of ill-fated Ford was kept in the same facility but in a different wing. We saw each other again only at the trial. They started interrogations and other investigative procedures. I was amazed from the beginning with the cops' arrogance. They treated me dismissively as a third-rate person. There were plenty of Ukrainians in that detention facility, who were there for a reason. But is it fair to tar everyone with the same brush? I kept arguing that on the date of the hold-up I was 110 km from Smecno working on my excavator, and that many people can confirm that. They were simply writing down my statements… 

I tried to get help at our embassy, I sent a letter there. The reply was: "The Embassy personnel have no right to influence the investigation procedures. We advise you to have your lawyer summon to court the witnesses who can confirm your innocence".

Investigation went on for almost a year. First I was called for interrogation almost every week, and later I could be waiting my next interrogation for up to several months. We were taken out for a walk in the courtyard for just one hour daily, and spend the remaining 23 hours in our cell. I was reading the Bible most of the time.

The Ukrainians went on trial in April 2003. Nine witnesses for defense testified in Petro's favor: the father of the sand quarry owner; his daughter-in-law; five workers; and two more people who happened to be in the sand quarry. They all confirmed that on that date Petro spent the entire day at his workplace. One of the workers testified that at the moment when the robbery was taking place he was standing next to the excavator talking to the defendant; another one recalled that when he heard the news on the radio about the hold-up allegedly committed by former Soviet Union migrants on that date, he even teased Petro – what if he had a hand in that. The Czechs had no interest in defending the Ukrainian; on the contrary, they were risking to be fined for illegally hiring an alien. Nevertheless, they all unanimously confirmed his alibi.

"Terpay was my best worker, - Miroslav Coubal, father of the sand quarry owner, told a Czech newspaper. – It was his second season working for me; he was never absent from the sand quarry; I could rely on him completely. And on that day too he was working there since 7 am. I hired many Ukrainians, but all of them I had to fire after a while. And such workers as Terpay are very rare. I am certain that he never committed that crime, this I why I came to his defense…" However, the court ignored witnesses' testimonies and on the basis of controversial identification line-up sentenced each of the Ukrainians to seven years in prison. The Czech "Tyden" weekly would write later: "The court could not care less about witnesses' testimonies. They had a Ukrainian in their hands – an ideal criminal, in whose defense even a dog won't bark…"

The court of appeal left the sentence unchanged. Petro tried to get justice at the European Court of Human Rights, but the ECHR refused to take the case. It turned out that first he had to go to the Czech Republic Supreme Court, but by that time he missed the deadline for lodging an appeal...

After the sentence was enacted, Petro got transferred to Vinarice maximum security prison (near Prague). This deeply religious Ukrainian who prayed every day in the prison chapel behaved so differently from other inmates, that he attracted attention of the prison chaplain Pavel Kocnar. The chaplain got interested in Petro's case, carefully studied the charges, visited the sand quarry and met its workers. Realizing that Petro was convicted unfairly, he turned to the media. Unexpectedly Petro Terpay's case provoked tremendous response in Czech Republic. It was covered in national newspapers; discussed on the national radio; popular Nova TV channel has even produced a whole program about the Ukrainian with a kind of investigatory experiment arranged by journalists who, getting police permission, tried to drive at the maximum speed from the sand quarry to the crime site and back in 15 minutes (that was the longest that Perto could have been absent from work according to the witnesses). After that experiment, the journalists concluded: Petro would not be able to commit that crime even if he flew a helicopter. He had a hundred percent alibi.

Religious organizations, NGOs, even the Czech Helsinki Committee rose to the defense of the wrongfully convicted Ukrainian. A petition was sent to President Vaclav Klaus asking to pardon Petro Trepay. Helas, everything was in vain. This is what the "Tyden" weekly wrote: "Public organizations approached the Ministry of Justice; however, justice was not interested in a Ukrainian. Appeals were made personally to Petr Necas (Czech Minister of Justice – Author's note). He said that he is convinced of Terpay's innocence, but did nothing to help him. Ivan Langer (Czech Cabinet member – Author's note) and other top officials were approached too. They did nothing. Eventually, Terpay's predicament could be eased by Presidential pardon, but President Klaus denied it. Pardon a Ukrainian? That would be a very unpopular move…"

However, all the appeals in Petro's defense did produce a certain effect – he started being treated differently in the prison camp. The Ukrainian has been permitted to work – to grow vegetables on a land plot within the camp grounds, and then he was transferred to a facility for soon-to-be-released inmates. That was something of a hotel within the prison. Thirty inmates there had to themselves a common kitchen, a bathroom with automated washing machines, and even a living room with two TV sets. But most importantly, Pavel Kocnar arranged for the prisoner a long-awaited meeting with his family.

- When in June 2002 Petro did not return from Czech Republic to renew his visa, I went to see a mini-bus driver who often brought deliveries from Czhechia, - Petro's wife Oksana Terpay says. – He told me that my husband was supposed to come back two weeks ago, and he advised me to go to the "client". The "client" knew what happened, but he decided to conceal the truth. He told me that Petro moved to work somewhere near German border and cannot be reached. After a few days, worried and confused, I went to a nearby village to see a seeress. She told me: "Petro is alive but kept in confinement. Wait for a message from him". And in a few weeks a letter came from my husband. (Petro wrote to his family immediately after the arrest, but the letter was kept for security check by police for a long time. – Author's note.) Learning of what had happened to my husband I got sick and spent three months in hospital. And meanwhile rumors started in the village that my husband left us and found himself another family abroad…

- All these years my children and I lived in misery, - Oksana Terpay continues. – My disabled brother received a pension of 220 hryvnias, and that is what the four of us had to live on through winters. And in the summers children and I would pick up wild mushrooms and berries and sell them on the farmers' market. I finally saw my husband again only after three and a half years. Chaplain Pavel Kocnar sent us money to get me a passport, buy tickets, and in June 2005 he invited us to Czechia. Petro was sick then, he even got appendectomy. We were granted a three-hour visit. Children and I were taken into a room where they then brought my husband. And here he was, thin as never before, standing in the door and looking at his sons who had grown up so much, and he could not say a word. We were standing like that maybe for 15 minutes looking at each other silently. I had a lump in my throat, and tears were running from my eyes…

After this visit, Oksana and children spent another week in Prague. Pavel Kocnar placed his guests in a hotel, organized tours for them every day, gave them presents. Next year, in the summer of 2006, the chaplain arranged for Petro another meeting with his family. This is how a Ukrainian family that lost their only breadwinner for several years, found support from a complete stranger.

And eventually Pavel Kocnar's appeals brought some results. In February of this year, the District Court of Usti nad Labem city, after hearing Petro Terpay's case, decided to reduce his term in prison for one third and release him with immediate deportation and exclusion from the country for indefinite time.

- I spent my last six months in a minimum security camp near German border, - Petro says. – On the day of my release they gave me 500 korunas (about 25 dollars) and ordered me to leave Czech Republic within seven days. I called Pavel Kocnar from a bus station, and he came right away to pick me up, and had me as his house guest for several days. He helped me with the papers and put me on the Prague-Hust intercity bus that passes on the highway at two kilometers from my home village…

Now Petro enjoys living with his family, occasionally going for work to other Ukrainian regions. Alas, in his own village there is no work for him. Before his imprisonment, Petro had a tractor which he received after the collective farm had been dissolved, but during the years the vehicle that could help the family to earn some living had disappeared somewhere. Knowing that, Pavel Kocnar organized a collection in Prague at the St. Prokop Church to buy a tractor for the wrongfully convicted Ukrainian.

- Pavel and Mirek – a Czech who was my cellmate – came to visit me at the end of the summer, - Petro says. – Their trip was not uneventful; the visitors got their Ford fuel tank punched (!) on our country road. Despite that they loved Transcarpathia. We travelled around the entire region, visited several castles, had a vacation in the famous Valley of Daffodils…

Pavel Kocnar told me that my case is not closed yet, it must be heard by the Constitutional Court. If I am acquitted and the exclusion from the country cancelled, I will be able to go there again to work.

I had enough time during my years in prison to think about it. I hold no grudge against anyone. I have met people in Czechia who helped me. And I will remember that as long as I live… 

In the past 10 years, the AUC has abducted more than 1,000 people – several of whom have disappeared.

(Translated from Spanish) 

RAÚL ALEJANDRO RIAÑO RUBIANO, a cadastral engineering student at the District University who worked with his family's cargo transport company, was kidnapped by the AUC (Colombian United Self-Defense Groups) on 25 August 2005 at the corner of 30^th Street and Primero de Mayo Avenue in Bogotá. At that time, the paramilitaries had already declared a cessation of hostilities.

Rubiano was 25 when he was abducted. His family received news from him one month later when an uncle got a phone call. The hoarse voice on the other end told him:  "Raul says hello and to please do everything you can to put together 5 billion pesos to give to them. For now, we are asking for a 50 million peso advance to send you proof of life and to keep him alive."

Raul's sister, Sandra Riaño, tells the story. His family always feared the guerrillas because the FARC (Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia) came calling in 2000 to extort them. "They never did it again and we were at ease," she says. "Imagine our surprise when we learned that the kidnappers were from the paramilitaries!" They notified the Gaula (Unified Action Groups to Rescue Kidnap Victims) to ask for support and a few days after the phone call, they got an ID and some documents as proof of life. "The police told us that the calls came from Villavicencio," Sandra said as she gazed at her brother's most recent photo. "In Villavicencio they found the black pickup truck that he was driving the day they took him – which led them to think that this could have been the work of the Centauros (paramilitary) bloc, which did not demobilize. But we didn't rule out another bloc. The problem is that they haven't called back."

Since then, the Riaño family knows nothing about Raúl. Still, despite the captors' silence, Sandra is not losing faith. The same cannot be said of his mother, Carmenza Rubiano, who could not endure her son's kidnapping and died on 18 February 2007. "My mom began to deteriorate, her defenses were all down and that sped up her pulmonary hypertension," Sandra says. "Before dying she told us that she felt Raul was dead, that she would not see him again and that there was no use fighting anymore."

Sandra had posters and T-shirts made with her brother's picture and name for a 6 March demonstration against the paramilitaries and in tribute to their victims. "I hope that my case will at least resonate in the hearts of the kidnappers," she said. "Even though we're not prepared for the worst – to receive a body – we need a signal that he's alive...or dead."

On 27 July 2001, men from the AUC operating under the command of "Gato" summoned several residents of Cabuyaro (Meta Department) to a meeting at a farm on the La Embajada trail. The residents were to arrive on the 28^th at 8:00 a.m. Wiliam Hernando Murad Sánchez – a 51 year-old municipal employee with two sons – was among those summoned. His wife Leonor remembers that he was very pensive that night:  "William told me:  'He who owes nothing fears nothing; it'll be worse if I don't go because they'll come for me." That is why he got up early, took his daughter's bicycle and headed for the appointment at the farm that the paramilitaries had seized months ago and which they used as a base. He was the only resident of Cabuyaro who decided to go to the meeting.

His relatives say that they asked around and were told that nobody heard screams or gunshots and that there was no torture on the farm. Since then, his mother and sister joined the search. They met with AUC bosses from the region, including Gato. He told them:  "We didn't summon anyone around here; don't ask about him."

But the two women continued asking from farm to farm and then went to the police, who refused to go to the site. William's sister, Aydée, recalls that "the only lead we have is the testimony of Emilio – the owner of the farm. He told us that William left there alive; that they kept him at night and gave him food, and then Gato took him to the school and also held him there." William's mother, Teresa, interrupts to add a detail to the story:  "Don Emilio said that Gato kept my son's watch."

The two women believe that William was kidnapped. For that reason, they hope that the depositions of paramilitary bosses who have laid down their arms will provide some clues. "We know who he went to, but it's going to be seven years and they still haven't returned him," Aydée says. "As an attorney, I have gone through all the possible legal channels but nobody tells me anything," she says. Even more serious, Teresa got a phone call at her home in Bogotá:  "They told me not to go back there and to stop asking so many questions, then they hung up." The search has been suspended since then.

Meantime, rumors were circulating in Cabuyaro that William was "departed" and that he had been thrown into a lagoon full of piranhas. Still, Aydée pays that no mind and continues waiting for the conclusions of the Prosecutor General's report. "As long as there is no body, he is not dead," she says. The sister adds:  "I'm going to fight this battle; especially because I have dreams about him and he tells me:  'You idiot! Why aren't you doing anything for me? Why aren't you looking for me?'"

On 11 May 2002, two men and one woman from the AUC took Pedro Octavio Franco Bernal – a 36 year-old father of two sons – off a bus belonging to the Macarena bus line that was traveling from Bogotá to Vistahermosa, where he worked as a technician for the Agriculture Secretariat. His mother, Marina, says:  "They took him and they still have not called." "I say he's kidnapped because I see no other motive; but I got a message that they held him for some time, killed him, and threw his body in the Lagoon of the Dead – there in San Juan de Arama. The people at País Libre insist that he could have disappeared because there hasn't been a single phone call in six years."

There are many more stories like those involving Raúl, William, and Octavio; but relatives do not disclose their names out of fear. The wife of a businessman told Cambio magazine:  "We paid the ransom and they already told us he's dead." "They haven't given us the body," she added. Another victim said:  "Some people from the Central Bolivar bloc kidnapped one of our uncles. They asked for the farm and two apartments that we were renting out. Who could stand up to them?"

Kidnapping is, in general, associated with guerrillas; but according to the National Fund for Personal Freedom (Fondelibertad), which compiles kidnapping statistics from intelligence agencies, the AUC abducted 1,163 people between 1996 and 2996.

The AUC, then, are not only guilty of murder, massacres, forced disappearances, atrocities, displacements, and seizure of land; they are also guilty of kidnapping for extortion, for political reasons, or to extract favors from relatives of their victims. Even for purposes of forced recruitment of children – 99 in the past 10 years, according to authorities – and for sexual exploitation.  

One of the most publicized political kidnapping cases was that of Victor Ochoa Daza, a political leader from Cesar Department.  In February of 2007, he testified before the Colombian Supreme Court that he was abducted by Jorge 40 in January 2002 as part of a strategy to change the regional electoral map. According to Ochoa, Senator Alvaro Araujo – currently under arrest for suspected ties to the paramilitaries – instigated the plot. "My 80 days in captivity were part of that deal with the Devil that made Alvarito Araujo into the foremost electoral force in Cesar," Ochoa said. He was kidnapped on 13 January 2002 as he was inspecting his farms. The Prosecutor General subsequently dropped the kidnapping charges against Senator Araujo.

Ochoa recalls that it was 8:30 a.m. when a member of an armed group stepped out in front of him and told him:  "I have to take you; orders from the 40^th Command." Danilo, the first man responsible for his captivity, warned him to prepare for a long stay. "This is a political matter and you probably already know that the 40^th Command does not back down from anything," he told him. At that moment, Ochoa recalled that on 3 January, Jorge 40 had forced the leadership of the Valledupar City Council to resign and that his men had spread the story that the list of Congressional hopefuls would require his blessing.

This story touched off a scandal that led to the resignation of then Foreign Minister Maria Consuelo Araujo, sister of the senator, today under house arrest, and daughter of Alvaro Araujo Noguera – a fugitive from justice in connection with the same case.

Salvatore Mancuso admitted to other kidnappings in a deposition:  those of Leonor Palmera -- sister of Simon Trinidad – taken hostage between 1996 and 1997, Hilda Rodriguez – sister of Nicolas Rodriguez Bautista (AKA "Gabino"), head of the Army of National Liberation (ELN), and who was abducted with her husband Libardo Acevedo in 1997 and subsequently killed together with him, and of Senators Zulema Jattin and Juan Manuel Lopez Cabrales, kidnapped in 2000.

Colombians also remember the kidnappings of Senator Piedad Cordoba on 21 May 1999 in Medellín under orders of Carlos Castaño. The senator was freed in Necoclí on 4 June 1999. Similarly, former Senator Jorge Eduardo Gnecco was taken hostage in Magdalena Department by the Northern bloc on 27 June 2004 and released three days later because the case jeopardized the AUC demobilization process.

The only public kidnapping for extortion was that of Venezuelan Richard Boulton, son of aviation executive Henry Boulton. The younger Boulton was abducted on 15 July 2000 and freed in 2002 following the payment of a USD 4 million ransom.

Until now, few have been able to tell their tale, because as Mancuso coldly told a prosecutor from the Peace and Justice Commission in Medellín in January 2007, "we didn't keep hostages. Most of those held were taken out." He justified the killings with the argument that the victims were guerrillas or aided the guerrillas. The truth will never be known.

And where are the rest – which, according to Fondelibertad total 254? Fondelibertad Director Harlan Andres Henao says:  "It is not known if they died or if they are somewhere (alive)." That answer does not please the relatives who will not rest until they know the fate of their loved ones. If they are alive, they want them returned. If they are dead, they want to be told where the bodies are to bury them and mourn.

Henao is confident that the Justice and Peace Law will help ascertain the truth about those who have been kidnapped and/or disappeared, and that testimony will provide some clues. And that has been the case:  until now, demobilized bosses have confessed to 39 kidnappings. It is still necessary to check whether the names coincide with those on Pais Libre's and Fondelibertad's list of 254.

Most of the abductions took place in areas marked by heavy paramilitary presence. Authorities say that the numbers may be underreported, because for every case that is publicized, it is estimated that two never are. Gaula managed to rescue 187 of the 1,163 hostages. Thirteen captives escaped, and 129 families received a body – in some cases after paying a ransom.

According to the País Libre Foundation, "there was negligence during the demobilizations when it came time to ask about those hostages." Mancuso himself acknowledged in an interview with transitional justice expert Natalia Springer that he never checked on the situation of the more than 550 individuals – according to him – who are registered as "kidnapped by the self-defense groups."

Nevertheless, little is mentioned in Colombia about those abducted by the AUC. Most families keep silent out of fear that they will be identified as having links to the guerrillas or that they will suffer retaliation from members of that armed organization. The sister of a hostage missing for nine years and who waits to at least be told where the body is, tells Cambio:  "In this country, they stigmatize people like us who have somebody abducted by the paramilitaries." "We know who took him and why, but at this point we do not know why they haven't returned him," she adds.

She blames the Northern bloc of the self-defense groups, which is under the command of Rodrigo Tovar (AKA "Jorge 40") and warns:  "Regrettably, we have had to feel the silent commentary that if they took him it was because he owed them something; there is a certain complicity with the paramilitaries on the part of society."

Olga Lucía Gómez asserts:  "There cannot be top-tier and second-tier victims. Kidnapping is despicable, regardless of who perpetrates it. Our concern is for all the hostages – of the guerrillas and of the paramilitaries – so that the situation of those families who don't know what to expect can be resolved."

The Office of the Prosecutor General has registered 306 reported victims of kidnapping by the AUC; 113 of whom are being held for ransom. According to investigators, it will be difficult to find any of them alive because demobilized paramilitary chiefs have, in testimony, confessed to having killed those who were "retained." For example, Freddy Rendon (AKA "El Alemán"), former head of the Élmer Cárdenas bloc, admitted that Jorge Yabur Espitia and his brother Rodolfo were abducted and killed in Dabeiba (Antioquia Department) on 29 April 2005.

Juan Francisco Prada Márquez (AKA "Juancho Prada") former AUC boss in southern Cesar Department, revealed that his men kidnapped and murdered former Administrative Department of Security (DAS) agent Henry Ancízar Vanegas on 16 December 1994. One of Prada's men disposed of the body.

Arley Hernando Benítez, a demobilized member of the Cacique Nutibara bloc, recounted that the order was to kill those who had been kidnapped. He added that Hernán Eusebio Tovar and Joana Janeth Mosquera were kidnapped in San Félix and El Bosque near Medellín and that the order was that the two be executed.

By Imam Shofwan

(translated from Indonesian)

DILI and VIQUEQUE - She is said to have been breathtakingly beautiful, and even now, decades later, there are traces of what had made her so attractive to men: an oval face, cleft chin, eyes that slant upwards just so, and hair that is thick and wavy. When she was younger, her skin was also a smooth golden brown, her body slim yet full in the right places.

These days there are wrinkles around her eyes, but it is the weariness in her face and the slump in her shoulders that betray her age of 49 years – and what she has been through. Then again Lalerek Mutin, a small community east of the Timor Leste capital, isn’t known as "widow’s village" for nothing.

"My husband was kidnapped and killed by three soldiers when I was four months pregnant," she tells me. "My child died of hunger. Now I raise my two kids from two of the three soldiers who committed sexual acts on me."

I had picked her out at random from among the 8,000 witnesses who testified before the Commission of Acceptance, Truth, and Reconciliation of Timor Leste or CAVR, its acronym in Portuguese. The testimonies were given voluntarily. Later, these were compiled in a 2,500-paged book entitled "Chega!" or "Enough!" in Portuguese, where the identities of the witnesses and their alleged abusers were concealed behind code names. The woman I would meet in Lalerek Mutin went by the code name "MI" in the book, which lists crimes against humanity committed in East Timor from August 1974, more than a year before the invasion and occupation of Timor Leste by Indonesia, to 1999, when the Indonesian forces departed after the U.N.-sponsored referendum.

The witnesses came from the 13 districts across Timor Leste. They told of the human-rights violations they experienced or had seen, where and when these happened, who were involved. The atrocities enumerated in Chega! range from detention to torture, to rape and sexual slavery, to murder. In all, some 183,000 people are estimated to have died in East Timor during the 25 years of Indonesian occupation.

Most of the victims were East Timorese. Some of the alleged perpetrators, meanwhile, were from militia formed by local political parties like Frente Revolucionaria de Timor-Leste Independente (Fretilin), Uniao Democrattica Timorense (UDT), and Associacao Popular Democratica (Apodeti). But majority of those said to have committed the crimes belonged to the Indonesian Armed Forces and the militia they themselves had formed. I felt scared when I learned that most of the crimes were being blamed on members of the Indonesian military, which had also been a constant presence while I was growing up in Rembang, studying in Semarang, and later working in Jakarta.

According to Aniceto Guterres Lopes, former head of the National CAVR, the idea to create the Commission practically rose from the wreckage that was Timor Leste after the 1999 referendum. Majority of the people voted for independence, and for that buildings were razed to the ground and half of the population was forced to flee their villages. Those who did not want to leave or were suspected to be pro-independence were killed by the Indonesian military or its militia.

"That time we really needed reconciliation," says Guterres Lopes. "And this reconciliation could only be reached by revealing the truth."

"The purpose," explains Agustinho Vasconselos, former commissioner of the National CAVR and current head of the post-CAVR Technical Secretariat, "is to record the crime, so that people can learn from it and do not commit it again."

Yet not one of the recommendations put forward by the Commission had been acted upon up until the time he is saying this to me, in May 2007, or two years after CAVR had wrapped up its official activities. Indonesia itself had already refused to have its officers in Timor Leste face an international court of justice, although it promised justice for those wronged by its soldiers. There was actually a group of officers brought to court, but no one was convicted. From General Benny Moerdani and General Wiranto, who were in command of the Indonesian Armed Forces in East Timor, way down to the military rank and file -- not one took responsibility for the deaths that occurred here during the Indonesian occupation.

When I try to ask Xanana Gusmao, then the outgoing president of Timor Leste, about what had happened to CAVR’s work, he declines to comment. "I think this is not the time for the interview," he tells me. After all, I have caught up with him while he is in the thick of giving and attending farewell parties.

But I can’t help thinking that it had been under Gusmao’s leadership that CAVR was formed. He had also been active in gathering support for the Commission, including its funding. CAVR is estimated to have consumed some $25 million in total. In November 2005, it completed its work with the release of Chega! Copies of the report were distributed to members of the National Parliament and made available to the general public. Another version was sent to then President Gusmao; unlike Chega!, it contained the real names of both the victims and the alleged perpetrators.

Activists had been pleased with the CAVR report, which aside from detailing human rights-violations committed in Timor Leste from 1974 to 1999, also recounted how U.S.- and British-made planes and weapons were used to commit crimes towards civilians. The report recommended that a court of justice be formed for all crimes committed, as well as reconciliation and pardon for light crimes. Among the demands in Chega! was that some countries, including Indonesia and Australia, provide reparation for the victims.

The release of the groundbreaking report, however, was soon overshadowed by a political crisis that eventually led to the resignation of then Prime Minister Mari Alkatiri. Recalls Francisco Branco of Fretilin, the biggest party in the national legislature: "At that time, Parliament had other priorities, besides examining and reading the results of CAVR’s work."

But by May 2007, this infant country’s lawmakers still had not done much regarding Chega! – even though many of them had been instrumental in crafting together the legal basis for the Commission’s work.

Some of the parliamentarians I meet say they simply have not yet received the report. "I only received the short version of the report. Not full and complete," says Vincente da Silva Guterres, a legislator from the Timorese Resistance National Council, which is more popularly known by its Portuguese acronym, CNRT. It is also Gusmao’s party.

Mario Sabino Lopes from the Democrat Party admits having a copy of Chega!, but says the "process" on what to do with the testimonies and recommendations was at a standstill in Parliament. He also points out that the legislature had been busy with campaigns – and then somehow found it necessary to note that his party was a minority in parliament "and does not wield enough votes".

All these have left activists like Edio Saldanha Borges very upset. Saldanha Borges had quit the Human Rights Association shortly after Chega!’s release and established an alliance for international justice. According to him, all members of parliament had copies of Chega! and if some claim that they haven’t, they are lying. "It is an outright lie," he says angrily, "because, according to the Constitution 162, year 2002, CAVR is responsible to the Parliament."

He also confesses to feeling bad towards Gusmao, who is a respected and much admired figure among the Timorese. But Saldanha Borges apparently cannot accept that the same man who was instrumental in starting the CAVR later created the Commission on Truth and Friendship (CTF) with Indonesian President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. Gusmao even took most of CAVR’s members to join CTF and sit in its various committees.

Saldanha Borges is scathing in his remarks about CTF and its creators: "After taking statement from the victims, they then create a friendship commission whose aim is to pardon the perpetrators. This is a betrayal of the victims."

It’s a view shared by many human-rights advocates from New York to Dili. Since CTF was formed in March 2005, it has been seen by many as a "sham". To those like Saldanha Borges, the CTF contradicts CAVR’s mission to reveal truth that will eventually lead to reconciliation; instead, they say, it hides the truth in the guise of friendship.

Human Rights Association head Jose Luis Olivera says that Gusmao’s decision to help form the CTF only showed that the ex-resistance leader was just "playing" with the victims of human-rights violations in Timor Leste. Says Olivera: "By supporting the creation of CAVR, Xanana wanted to be regarded as supporting human rights. But actually, he was not serious, as proven by his creation of (CTF)."

The creation of CAVR had posed a lot of challenges because of the wide variety of human-rights crimes to be handled and the large number of people involved, some of whom were still occupying high-ranking positions. On the East Timorese side, the more prominent personalities included Gusmao, who had been the leader of the resistance movement, and Fretilin’s Francisco Guterres Luo’lo, who wound up the president of the National Parliament. Recalls Guterres Lopes: "A lot of people were pessimistic of our mission to document all the crimes committed in the last 25 years. At that time most people were focusing on human-rights violations in 1999."  

Which were themselves horrific, thus explaining why they became the subject of several investigations, including one by the United Nations. Indeed, Geoffrey Robinson in East Timor 1999 concluded that crimes against humanity in East Timor after the UN-sponsored referendum here had been systematic and widespread. Yet even these were not enough for those like Guterres Lopes – or MI, for that matter -- to forget what had happened during the previous years.

The local organizations named in Chega! as being among the perpetrators of the atrocities -- UDT, Fretilin, and Apodeti -- all trace their beginnings in mid-1974, sometime after a government change in Lisbon, which led to Portugal suddenly pulling up its stakes in most of its colonies across the globe. In East Timor, which had been under Portuguese rule since the mid-16^th century, debates soon broke out over where the territory would go next. UDT wished for Timor Leste to remain under Portugal, while Fretilin wanted sovereignty. Apodeti, the smallest party, lobbied for integration with Indonesia next door. But all their arguments became moot with Indonesia’s invasion of Timor Leste in December 1975, with support from the United States and Australia.

It took a little longer for members of the Indonesian armed forces to reach MI’s village. She says they arrived in Lalerek Mutin in late 1983, when she was already married. MI’s young husband survived the initial Indonesian military onslaught, which seemed to have been aimed at cleansing the area of Fretilin guerrillas and sympathisers. Many men in the village were killed. By then, other communities elsewhere had already suffered a similar fate, with some enduring far worse. In Krakas village, Viqueque, the slaughter was said to have been indiscriminate, with the sick and elderly among those who were killed.

MI remembers clearly that it was a few months after the Krakas massacre that three Indonesian soldiers came and took her husband away. It was the last she would see of him.

It now takes 10 hours to get from Dili to Viqueque by public bus, at a cost of $10. Viqueque is 100 kms east of Dili, and Lalerek Mutin is approximately 15 kms from Viqueque. During the Indonesian occupation, Viqueque, Baucau, and Los Palos were known as the bases of Fretilin, the group fighting for independence. By the time I get to Lalerek Mutin, Timor Leste has had more or less seven years of being free.

I had been able to figure out who MI was and where she came from by consulting the Audience Record of the National CAVR, 28-29 April 2003. During this period, 14 women gave their testimony on the sexual violation they experienced; all of their real names and some other details were put on record. To tell which one was MI, all I had to do was find the match for her story in Chega!

But there is obviously nothing in the Audience Record or in Chega! that speaks of the beauty of much of Timor Leste’s countryside. From Dili to Manatuto and then to Bacau, the beach appears and disappears from view as the bus traverses the mountainous roads. The beach is not wide, but it is long, and its sand looks like brushed white paint separating the cool blue of the sea from the vibrant green of the hills.

Still, there is no avoiding the evidence that this country has been through a lot. For example, along the road from Dili to Motaain, bordering Indonesia, most of the buildings have either been burned down completely or left with only half their structure still standing. In late 1999, when more than 260,000 East Timorese were forced to move across the border to the western part of the island in the post-referendum chaos, the road we are on must have looked like scorched earth.

There is no public transportation to be had to Lalerek Mutin, and my bus ride stops at Viqueque. I contact Mario Pinto, a Timor Leste radio journalist, and he comes to help me out. He is friendly and smiles often. There is a motorcycle we can use, but I would have to drive it myself since Pinto doesn’t know how.

To reach Lalerek Mutin, we traverse a teak forest, the Viqueque market, a coconut plantation, the Waituku River, and a former military barracks. It is already dark when we finally arrive there, and there is no electric service. Small huts with palm leaves as roof and the earth as flooring serve as homes in Lalerek Mutin. Dogs and pigs wander around freely, as do children covered with dust and not much else.

We proceed directly to the home of Jose Gomes, the village head. Gomes was also among CAVR’s witnesses. We talk about the Krakas massacre for a bit, and I learn that most of the survivors (majority of whom were women) had moved to Lalerek Mutin in 1984. Pinto and I ask for permission to visit MI, who lives near Gomes’s house, and then we excuse ourselves.

We find MI sitting in what looks like her terrace. She is hard at work on a big pan of dough, and a makeshift oil lamp fashioned out of a soda bottle is her lone light. Besides farming, MI sells Portuguese hard bread each morning. Each piece of pao, which she makes from scratch, nets her five cents. "If I sell all, I get two U.S. dollars," MI says. The U.S. has replaced the Indonesian rupiah as the currency in Timor Leste.

"A lot of people come here to ask me about the rape that I experienced," she says, the words sounding almost like a rebuke. "Some months ago an Australian came and asked me to tell the story."

The village children now gather at her terrace, their curiosity piqued. A few bare-chested women with babies clutched to their breast follow suit, inching closer to our group. MI suddenly looks uncomfortable. "Halae, halae, halae (Disperse, disperse, disperse)!" she shouts, shooing the children away.

She later says that she did not immediately talk to people from the CAVR who had visited Lalerek Mutin a few years back. It took four tries before they were able to persuade her to give her testimony. "I trusted them," says MI, "because when the priest came, he was accompanied by CAVR staff."

If the CAVR staff proved persistent, that may be partly because of the sheer effort it had taken just to form the body. Indeed, there had been strong public pessimism regarding the initiative, but as Guterres Lopes had told me back in Dili, "the support of the international community at that time made us strong".

Since the 1990s, this kind of commission has been created in post-conflict countries, mostly in Africa and Latin America. CAVR is the 21^st such body, following a similar one set up in Sierra Leone. "I think (CAVR) is the first truth commission in Asia," Jose Estevao Soares, a former CAVR member, had also told me in Dili.

Local and international human-rights advocates, Roman Catholic Church leaders, former political detainees, pro-integration representatives, and the United Nations Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET) discussed the commission’s creation in a June 2000 workshop. CNRT head Gusmao received the signal to create a "truth commission", and he put the topic on the table during the popular party’s first congress. As a result, one of the recommendations of that congress was the formation of the CAVR.

And so a lead committee was put together, consisting of representatives from various political parties, as well as those from religious, military, and international groups. Its task was to consult the people on their views about the proposal. It was confirmed that the public on the whole wanted justice even as people also sought "reconciliation".  

The National Council, under Gusmao’s leadership, submitted the final blueprint for the commission to Sérgio Vieria De Mello, transitional administrator of Timor Leste. He approved the proposal on 13 July 2001.

The CAVR advisory board was made up of prominent figures in Timor Leste society: Jose Ramos-Horta, Bishop Carlos Felipe Ximenes Belo, Bishop Basilio do Nascimento, Madre Zulmira Osorio Soares, Pastora Maris de Fatima Gomes, and Ana Pessoa Pinto. In addition, there were four international advisers: Vieira de Mello, Ian Martin, as well as Saparinah Sadli and Munir from Jakarta.

Those who became advisers to the CAVR National Commission included Guterres Lopes, Padre Jovito do Rêgo de Araujo, Maria Olandina Isabel Caeiro Alves, Jacinto das Neves Raimundo Alves, José Estevão Soares, Rev. Agustinho de Vasconselos, and Isabel Amaral Guterres.

MI says, though, that the CAVR was not first to have sought her testimony regarding what she went through during the Indonesian occupation of East Timor. "During the Indonesian era I gave information to an informal audience from the Church," she says. "I gave information again during the CAVR era."

MI, who says she has endured being called "bihu" or spy by some of her neighbours, tells me the names of the three soldiers who had taken turns in forcing her to become a "battlefield wife". The first, she says, took her even though she was still mourning the death of her 14-month-old son. She soon got pregnant again, but she miscarried and lost the child. She has not heard from the soldier since he was reassigned shortly after her miscarriage.

Then, she says without much emotion, "in 1991, M___ from Nanggala had sexual relations with me, resulting in a child who is now in the first year of junior high school. In 1993, S____ from Battalion 408 fought to get me, made me pregnant, and left the child with me."

MI says M___ finished his tour of duty and returned to his mother unit without waiting for her to give birth to his child. "I could not work after giving birth," she says. "My neighbours and relatives gave me food."

MI says that each time she is asked what she wants most, she says her answer has always been the same: a carabao. It’s a very simple wish, but she says having one would be a great help in her farm. She has said this to those who have repeatedly ask her about her experiences in the hands of Indonesian soldiers, but no carabao has been brought to her doorstep.

We talk with MI until late at night. I start panicking when I see dark clouds covering the stars in the sky.

We thank her and bid goodbye. Drops of rain begin to fall as we journey back to Viqueque, and the dirt road soon turns into slippery mud. We meet groups of people, some pushing cars, others with machetes in hand. "They just came back from the market," Pinto says reassuringly.

Our ride becomes better once we reach the Viqueque market, where the road is asphalted. But then our motorcycle’s headlight chooses that moment to die, and we spend several minutes in darkness. Fortunately, a truck comes and Pinto asks its driver to beam its light on the road to help us see our way up to a village, which is also pitch black. "Here the electricity is one day on and one day off," says Pinto.

Soon I am back in Indonesia, where I try to find M___ and S_____. I meet Col. Ahmad Yani Basuki, the head of the army’s Public Information Service in Jakarta. He asks me to submit an official request for information. I do so the very next morning; I have yet to receive a reply.

I go to Battalion 408 headquarters in Sragen, near the city of Solo, to seek S_____. Lt. Col. Ahmad Bazar, the battalion commander, meets me at the Widoro Kandang shooting range. We talk as soldiers around us go through rounds of exercise. "If it’s about the war preparation of Battalion 408, I can talk," he says. "But for human-rights issues, you have to get permission from the Regiment Command. We are just field officers." Our conversation lasts 15 minutes, maybe less.

The following day I contact the Warastama Regiment Command 074 in Solo. Lt. Col. IGK Wicitra Wisnu, the chief of staff, tells me, "This is not under my jurisdiction. We have a supervisor. Rather than give you a wrong answer, it’s better you get permission first from the Information Unit of the Regiment Command." I feel like a ping-pong ball being thwacked back and forth.

I decide to board near Dormitory 408. I even ask help from fruit and ice-cream vendors to find S_____, to no avail.

I do have an opportunity to meet the wife of someone I know was assigned with S____ to Timor Leste. But she turns angry once she learns what I am after. She screams, "If I make a report about you to the police or to the army, you will be arrested."

Livid with rage, she tells me I am lucky her husband and two sons – one "a graduate from the Military Academy in Magelang" – are not around. Otherwise, she says, I would surely end up behind bars.

I am still trying to find S_____ and M_____ to give them MI’s message that they have children in Timor Leste who are now going to school.

As for MI and other Timorese like her ever getting a taste of justice, all I keep hearing in my head are these words uttered by Timor Leste President Jose Ramos Horta in his inaugural speech: "I am satisfied with the work results of the Commission on Truth and Friendship and I will continue what had been formed by my predecessor."

I see people now as strange. If this is heaven, which kind of heaven am I in? Because I ran away from heaven. I ran away from my life.

Let me ask you, in your country, the person when he died in the street, nobody cared about him? In your country, the people die because they carry a hundred dollars? In your country, a person is killed because you have a good car? Or because you are a manager? A doctor? Or because you are happy? Happy in your life? In my country, you don’t know who your friend is; you don’t know who your enemy is. You walk in the street and you don’t know what time you will die and for what reason? Every morning we start our day, we go to work and we say goodbye to our family and we leave the house and they are sure, the family is sure that you may not come back. And so they say «be careful». Everyday they remind you to be careful. The problem is you don’t know - be careful from what? Your friend is dead. One call and your friend is dead. Is this possible in your country? Your friend is dead, your cousin is kidnapped, and they say you or your neighbor is a spy. Your friend is dead. For me this day is finished. Do you know the first time I heard my friend, a friend is dead? How many times alone, I stayed alone? I try to forget, the people around me say this is normal, people here die everyday. But there is a first time, a first friend and for me this is the first person I know he is dead. It takes me three days, after three days, I come back to the life again. I come back to the life because my area has been attacked. The area where I work and live has been attacked. I want to see, to see what happened, I go to work to see what happened to the people I know. To the people I knew. No day is the same from the other.

They took Ahmed today. I watched, he cried, I stood and watched. I stood against my car and I watched. People come and go and I don’t know what to do. Maybe they think I know him, this is dangerous, but for me he is a normal person. I don’t know why they took him. I’m just looking. I want to hear something, some reason. I keep looking at his store - they come out, men with guns - he’s a man and they carry him like a baby. They throw him like a plastic bag into their car.

He cries to anyone who will listen, but no one listens. His eyes are locked onto me. I don’t know how much time passes. Time is not important. They took Ahmed today. The day finished, the next day, they find him, they find the body of Ahmed in the morgue. Ahmed was 25 years old, not married. He worked in the market to make good money, to marry; he had a dream to have a house, a family. For three days, the market is quiet; nobody has a mind to work because we don’t know who is next. That’s what happened one time.

Freedom, we cannot change any letter from this word. Now I sleep with­out fear, now I sleep like a normal person. I’m not scared, no one will come and break my door to steal from me or kill me with my family for no reason. The police won’t come to catch me or my neighbor to gather us together, to question you or to take you. So I can sleep. I close the door and I take off my clothes, and I sleep naked. I smile because I feel light. It’s a nice feeling, I didn’t feel it before.

I stand in front of a red brick immigration building in Stockholm, Swe­den. I’m wearing all of the clothes that I brought to heaven, I shaved. What do I tell them? Who am I? What will happen to me when I go inside this building? Who will I be? Or what, to them?

I know my truth, but how many times have they heard the truth from thousands before me and not believed them. What truth are they looking for? All I know to be true is that my life was no life but I am not alone in this.

I follow a woman from immigration to a storage closet of mattresses, blankets, pillows, some clothes (second hand), shoes, she hands me a blanket and pillow and a blue plastic bag. I still have this blue plastic bag. Somewhere under a bed you’ll find this bag, it’s the first sign, first mark that we are refugees, that we are strangers. I don’t know why no one throws it away, they keep it, it’s a memory, a first memory of living outside of your country. Something changed, my life changed when I accepted this blue plastic bag.

We Iraqis, we are foreigners in our own country and now we are foreign­ers in exile.

In my room in the refugee camp there is Hussein who is a Kurd from Baghdad, who refuses to say he’s Kurdish, he says, «I’m Arab». To the Swedish, he’s an Arab. Hussein cannot speak Kurdish well and his ac­cent in Arabic is not good either. If he speaks with Arabs, they think he’s Kurdish and if he speaks with the Kurdish, they think he’s an Arab. He lost who he was somewhere along the road to Sweden, maybe we all have.

In Iraq you can’t save yourself, you can’t save your son, so you send them away. You cannot save your child. In my own family, my cousin’s 12 year-old daughter slept alongside her parents, on the roof one unbear­ably hot summer night to escape the heat of Baghdad. There was no elec­tricity, no air downstairs so the family slept on the roof. In the summer, you sleep on the roof or in the garden. This is what we do. On this night, a bullet came from the sky and found a place to settle deep inside her skull. The little girl made a sound, they say like a cat and the family woke. They woke to check on her and this sound. Blood stained her face. She made no more sounds. Her family carried her down the stairs to the car and drove to the nearest hospital. At first, they thought the blood was coming from her nose, they didn’t know at first that there is a bullet in her head. At the hospital, her head was shaved and they find a hole in her head. She died within two hours. Before one day, she told her mother, «If I die, give the people Pepsi and bananas». During the three days of mourning, our tradition in Iraq, we make lunch and dinner for the people. During these three days, food was prepared and her mother served Pepsi and bananas. Why she died, we don’t know. A bullet came from the sky.

Do you know loss? Loss that takes everything, every sense is assaulted, everyone is a victim, do we ask to be victims? No, we ask for our lives. It’s no simple matter to leave your country, to leave your life, your family and friends. We are Iraqis, we are proud of being Iraqi, we don’t leave our families, we don’t give our families to stay alone without us. Now, if we stay, our families are more in danger, more in danger if we stay than if we run away. This is how we keep them safe.

In your country, are the police kidnappers and kidnapper’s police? In your country, when you see a man in a police uniform, driving a police car and there’s a checkpoint, a police checkpoint and you stop, you stop for the police does it ever occur to you that you’ll be kidnapped? That the police aren’t the police, aren’t who you believe they are? That the police in your country, are the kidnap- pers, aren’t who you think they are, will never be who you think they are, never to you, never again? You’ll never trust a uniform, never trust your neighbor, never trust your country, that it will keep you safe, know that it can’t keep you safe. Where do you go from there, knowing this? Living this? Where do you begin again, can you begin again, can you trust again or will it be in the back of your mind? For how long? When will we have back our country? Our lives? Our families?

At some point, we all run, you too would run. Maybe you would run before the troubles, or after they’ve broken, your body or you learn to live in fear and you wait. You wait inside your home behind locked doors and drawn curtains and dim candlelight, you wait in the heat, a murderous heat. You listen to each sound outside your door, each whisper can throw you in panic. We spend a lot of time learning our sounds, we memorize sounds. The sound that the front door makes or a car door, how one drags their feet or searches for their keys. We know the sounds of our own footsteps, how each one approaches the home. The women of the house know these footsteps. Your never late to come home. If your late they watch the door for some sign they recognize pulled from the endless days they wait by the door. Then they cry, they cry because they know you won’t be coming home. Our women they know these things. Hold these images. But now do you understand, now do you begin to see, there is no safe side, no one is who they say they are. Once we were normal. Remember, once we were normal. I too was normal, I’m not sure anymore.

I’m from Baghdad, I was. I believe in the Holy Koran, which says, If you don’t feel or you don’t find your life in this ground go to search for your life on another ground. When your country doesn’t want you anymore, why should you want her? In my country, I saw death too many times to face her again. I faced my own death as I lay bound hand and foot in the truck of a car. I was scared, I tell you, I’m still scared. So, I ran.

April 28, 2007. I was kidnapped today. Eat. Sleep. Wait. This is my life, my new life. I watch others watch TV. I watch others watch me. The television sits in the middle of the apartment. It’s always on. We stopped talking with one another, the television speaks between us. It speaks for us. We watch the news of Iraq as if we are in a theatre, an audience sitting quietly with no attachment to what they see before them. Life in a camp, a refugee camp is boring. There is money, but not enough to do more than feed you. We receive money every month. In another country, the money would go farther. In another country, one could go farther. But here in Sweden, I live in a country, which for Europeans is expensive but what about for a refugee? I cannot take a bus to the next town less than 30 kilo- metres away, it is too expensive to travel. I cannot buy bread in the local supermarket, it’s too expensive. So, we bake our bread and we smoke cigarettes from an Arabic shop nearby where a pack is less than half the money than in a Swedish store. I am not complaining, I have no right to complain. I only wonder, what life will I find here in a country that is too expensive for Europeans and impossibly expensive for me and others like me. You see, the last four months, I have not moved from within a one kilometre circle and I have walked this same circle daily, to change the air I breathe. But the Swedish do not speak to us, they have seen enough of us pass through their small town. The others have been here longer than I. The others eyes are out of focus, they stopped going to Swedish classes long ago, they never go outside except once a month to a local disco where they stand on the edge of the dance floor and look at the blonde haired Swedish girls who they know will never speak with them. You learn this quick here that if you have black hair, the locals do not talk with you, it is that simple. Everything’s simple really, black and white. We are black, they are white, our hair is black, theirs is white.

Imagine I’ve come from a prison and now I’ve found that I didn’t escape the prison, I’ve only moved into another room in the prison without my knowing it at first. Each day, my mind narrows, each day I watch the others around me and see their blank faces, they lost their expression months ago; they have been here to long. Here too long without family, without something familiar to hold to, it’s become too expensive to call home to Iraq, we lose a lot of money on the telephone. We lose a lot on the telephone. Boredom deadens you; it has deadened those around me.

I am sure one day it will deaden me. Everything is strange to me here, everything. Every street, the language, the people how they look and act, how they react to me. I see people now as strange.

Where do I begin? Every time I face the West, I find myself facing my own self ... upon my first encounter with Western literature as a teenager, I created a heroine who lived in a cor­ner of my soul, a heroine who was a collage of all the heroines I had met upon the pages of books, with unique characteristics from all the female protagonists from the Western novels I read. I don’t know when I made her, nor where, nor why, but she contained all the coincidental mistakes, games and fears of an adolescent who dreamt of a far-away, unattainable world. I don’t know why my mind has not glazed over the details, and on winter nights in Berlin a month ago, the thought would cross my shivering mind that I was going to meet her, perhaps in a dark bar, or a nearby restaurant, or even at a café, and in the dim lights I would feel the fantasy transformed into a cold, cruel, loneliness, and feel that a childish entertainment that had popped up in my imagination while I read had transfor­med my life into something of a sorry mess, exiling my great hopes into nothingness, not because I will never find that woman, but because I haven’t found the place where I wanted her to be.

This woman is more responsible for my upbringing than the environment I grew up in. She is the one who’s always watching me and critiquing my behavior, and I see her at all times standing in front of me picking out my clothes, helping to brush my hair and making me into someone different. This difference, perhaps this difference alone, has led me to feel this oppressive misery, and to escape from many of the questions that confront me about my own identity.

This is not because my behavior, life or thoughts developed in an environment totally different from the one I found myself in, and belong to the long-lasting hours of reading and dreams rather than the reali­ty that I existed in, but it’s that I found myself after a while participating in creating a history that exi­sted despite my wishes, having to belong to a society where I was already a stranger and an exile. I had dreamt of a place that would change and become one of the most civilized and developed of the world’s metropolises, stable and unchanging, and I find myself here in this place that is constantly agitated, and I must carry a weapon, be a soldier and fight, I must be a part of a society that I was always escaping from into books, hours of reading and dreaming of a woman who was simultaneously there and not there.

Baghdad collapsed a long time ago, ceasing to be a global center, but its wounded narcissism caused this country to create perceptions of itself that far transcended reality. This desolate place, which used to be a center of a world that stretched all the way to the Great Wall of China, has succeeded in attracting the world’s attention once again. The fact that it has found itself in a position that doesn’t match with its historical role has created an adolescent who breaks plates just to gain others’ sym­pathy, and made him stray on the streets committing destructive acts. This is perhaps one way to see this unceasing movement, this constantly moving soul that rushes through Iraqis at a dizzying speed: it is a kind of feeling of being in the wrong place, a feeling of the collapse of an old empire and the sorrow resulting from great poverty and destruction. I was looking out from the river onto this city that is rotting in its darkness and gardens and buildings fading from dirt and rust and filth, thinking to myself again and again how unfair it was for me to be in this place, and to live in this corner of the world, in this patch that breathes destruction and is being destroyed by its sadness and feelings of marginalization, insisting on remaining buried under the ashes. I wondered about this fate that never changes, about this fate that makes me be like this in this place, feeling just a little angry and rather worried when I read, shuddering, about incredibly beautiful and wealthy capitals, or about Baghdad when it was the unmatched metropolis of the world beaming its rays of science and literature across the world, unstoppable.

A real mental confusion has occurred in Iraq as the result of the revolutions, hesitations, break-ups, and splits. It is the desperation of a murderer who no longer has any hope of receiving a logical trial, since politics is the only yardstick; an option of resentment, cruelty and hatred that has imposed degenerate values upon a society that no longer distinguishes between the ethics of politicians or gangs. It has imposed breakdowns and unending abuse as well as confrontations ruled by nothing except the deification of chaos, irrationality and perversity. It has imposed an incredible reverence for the forces of instinct and mysterious blood. Saddam Hussein was a my­sterious current toyed with by the spirit of revenge and violence and brilliant cunning, and his insanity could only be materialized through the picture of the eternal enemy, first the commu­nists, then the Iranians and after that, the Westerners. Iraq as an existing nation and entity was only defined through its enemies, which is how he changed it into a vessel that moved without caring where it was going, a blind force that rolled about aimlessly before collapsing into the abyss of certain destruction, a force of insane speed. The west was pushing it into battle after bat­tle, from invasion to invasion, in order to create the empire of malice and opportunistic masses who would go on to eat up the nation, the nation, the future and the past, leading to this massive distortion of reason, this madness, and unlimited violence and ceaseless, unstoppable, motion.

Life became, not recently, but a long time ago, rather Dostoyevskian in its harshness, reminding me of an event that has remained in my mind from a while back whenever I see the scenes of terror, damage and destruction in Baghdad: Saddam Hussein mentioned three times that he had read Dostoyevsky as a young man, claiming that he had read him while spending time in prison in the 1960s. I didn’t know then whether or not Saddam Hussein had loved Dostoyevsky’s characters and spaces. The only time I saw him was when I was awarded the badge of courage following the Basra battles against the Iranians. Fate alone allowed me to see him up there, his tanned face infused with a specific shade of yellow. I was not a hero, and was more interested in the enormous bookshelf behind him than in the person himself. The shelf was stacked with numerous magazines, and my eyes kept returning to an expensive red leather-bound volume until I made out with some difficulty the name Dostoyevsky on the spine. The name was a key, and after the ceremony, I went to the Semiramis Bar on Sa’adoun street with a friend of mine for a beer and a chat, and there I wondered whether Saddam Hussein was so passionate about Dostoyevsky’s characters that he wanted to create fates for the Iraqi people si­milar to those of the great Russian author, this brutality mixed with a special tinge of cruelty, and an attraction to everything violent and crazy which gave the Iraqis the same excessive emotional range as Dostoyevsky’s characters. An unbounded propensity for extreme hatred, and love that leads them to dumb submission. Upon following it, one finds a resemblance between the narrative of Saddam and his victims and Dostoyevsky’s plots, he leaves them to their own choices, submitting them to humiliation and insults in utter sadism and cruelty, sparing them only to be able to chase them down again later, or else exterminating them ruthlessly only to cry passionately over them afterwards. Even as Saddam stood at the gallows a few months back, I recalled the scene that Dostoyevsky had written of his fake execution.

I stood there, unable to explain this extremism of rancor, malice and hatred, sometimes unable to explain this terrible cruelty without finding it in the past, or in the Islamic heritage of state-formation. But this extremism is also present in the Western nation-state model, and modern Iraqi culture was very much influenced by Western culture... It is true that there was a tangible slide into an Islamic-influenced state with the rise in ethnocentrism, sectarianism and tribalism which stunted social-class formation and led to the creation of power legacies and a regime which used the military as a crutch and distributed rank and privilege to its entourage, but the Western model was always present for in­tellectuals, politicians, the educated elite, artisans and the Baghdad middle classes; thus you find that politicians attempted to emulate western models of forced integration, such as the Bismarck model, and intellectuals tried to imitate Western cultural models in all their phases. The Bismarck model’s failure to produce a nation was doubly painful for Iraqi intellectuals; on one side, there were constant accusations of betrayal of their nation and on the other there was a particularly strong attraction to Western culture dictated by the historical position of the West and its culture. You are aware that the first conception of an intellectual was developed in Baghdad during the Abbasid reign, a model that the West only developed in the modern period. However, Islam in its imperial context proved incapa­ble of melding the philosopher-intellectual, poet, author, historian and critic with the man of the cloth, as happened during the Christian era in the west. Thus, the intellectual was doubly confronted caught between the preacher on one end and the sultan on the other.

Allow me to tell you about Bab Touma, the neighborhood I currently live in, in Damascus: Bab Touma is the Christian area of old Damascus, characterized by the ancient architecture of its buil­dings, its smells and its way of life. It is my favorite place in this area, and this isn’t due to the fact that my home looks like an ancient Roman convent, or to the fact that the place is Christian in an Eastern way. No, it’s - maybe - because it’s crowded with Europeans… Europeans enchanted by the East, as you described them in your letter. You can see them wandering around with their backpacks, wearing simple clothes, walking the streets day and night. This is a neighborhood of narrow, winding streets that intertwine; there are no straight roads, all the roads fold in upon each other in strange ways. These Europeans walk around these narrow winding streets as if they’re looking for something that they can’t find. They roam these labyrinthine streets constantly, and when they get tired they sit in one of the small bars that dot the place, bars that have no equal, since they are a bizarre mix of rowdy Eastern bars and dark European ones. To me, the thing that makes this neighborhood magical are those peo­ple who rent out small rooms in houses with large inner courtyards and fountains: Christian Syrians, refugee Iraqi artists, and Europeans who have come here to search for parts of themselves that they still have not discovered.

We Iraqi artists here in Damascus seek out Westerners naturally, and this is crucial - Easterners love Westerners more than the West, whereas Westerners prefer the East to Easterners. I said this to a Fren­ch friend of mine, who had asked me frankly why Arabs flocked to Pigale, Paris’ red-light district. As I drummed my fingers upon the table, I told her that Westerners like the East as a place, as desert, water, architecture, and ruins, wanting to forcibly remove the people who inhabit it. Westerners come to these places - I’m not saying “our” places - and don’t even glance at the people there. They stare impassively at the places where people live and at the people themselves with blank faces that become animated as they look at stones and ruins. They look to the left at an old building, and turn their heads right to look at another one, and erase those who inhabit them from their vision; or, they take folkloric pictures of these people - but these pictures are cold, sterile and ancient. On the other hand, Easterners are fascinated by Westerners, and because they can’t get to them personally, they take the easy route and interact with the West through Western women, which is why they crowd Pigale!

I am sure that those who come from Europe to Bab Touma are not after our oil, or seeking to oc­cupy our land - the our here is important, since we are talking about us and them. I don’t believe that people in general believe that they really own things on earth. The our and theirs is important as long as Europeans speak of culture and say our culture, and speak of modernity and say our mo­dernity. Even if we only witnessed Western modernity at the end of the 19th century as the Ottoman Empire weakened, you should know that the struggle over moderni­ty was bitter; brilliant intellectuals paid heavy tolls for it. An enthusiastic elite fought for what they saw as dignity and life, and were dragged into a bloody fight with the religious establishment and the political authorities. Some went to the gallows for this, feeling that a true enlightenment was coming from the West. But they were shocked by the second-rate treat­ment they received at the hands of Westerners, and the humiliation they were forced to bear. Did you know that the bloodiest revolt against colo­nialism in Iraq was not over petrol, but over dignity - the 1920 revolt in Iraq against the English, the largest in the colonies, took place because a British officer had slapped an Iraqi man held in high esteem by his family. I have never felt that I own something on this earth. What makes me oppose the West is not the petrol that we don’t own, and not the land that we don’t own either, but disappointment. The Iraqi intellectual is like the intellectual in your countries, feeling that culture has a role to play. Western culture, from Gramsci to Sartre, is planted in the heart of every Iraqi intellectual, and intellectuals here use the same discourse as intellectuals there: semio­tics, sign, image, simulacrum. Western culture is a treasure trove of ideas that intellectuals here plumb ceaselessly. Our intellectuals have entered a new era with the West, don’t think that the majority of them are still looking for something in Western culture: they know full well that the anthologies of the past have collapsed, and are gone for good, and that the return to re­ligion, or the Islamic awakening as you in Western newspapers call it, was caused by the West itself, which has really brought us up against a wall.

The Islamic movements in Iraq were supported, and sometimes even crea­ted, by the West to fight communism, and this has led to us being massacred with their swords these days. We paid a really hefty price because the West doesn’t want any genuine intellectuals in Iraq, and did not respect those who hungered for the spirit of independence, freedom and justice, since these values and principles did not coincide with interests of large corpo­rations. We were being shoved towards the West, which - as we imagined - was the source of reason and enlightenment, and these great humani­stic values naturally stoked our enthusiasm. But the Western support for Islamist movements, reactionary regimes and foul dictatorships gave our consciousnesses multiple personality disorder. Was the continent of reason - which is what we called Europe at the time - truly reasonable? We shouted as loudly as we could: Faust! Faust!

We were famished for the Faustian values, wanting to free our societies of the Holy and we wanted to liberate our societies with Justice and Law. But, on the other end, we came up against the Western wall, which was supporting all those movements that glorified the blood instinct, which murdered us with Western weapons. Our societies are experiencing so­mething akin to the terrifying explosion of the forgotten vows of history, and those of us who had lived a sort of cultural hybridity in Baghdad, due to the intermingling cultures and meanings, now have all developed multiple identities. And, what a disappointment it was when we found the continent of reason treating us despotically with extreme bigotry, showing only one face to us: either Saddam Hussein and stories of him blotting out an entire nation or the news of Islamists, who have become the true representatives of Iraq’s people, with their immensely rich and diverse culture. We - this latest generation of Iraqi intellectuals - realized after it was too late that the West does not want real intellectuals from this country, but what it really wants are servants and shoeshine boys. The war here, is a war of values, and as you see religion is invading Iraq, but don’t believe that Iraqis believe in absolute Truth. This is more a search for objective parameters to balance their lives, since some of the magic of the world they used to inhabit has gone. Iraqi intellectuals were sturdier, due to their sturdy relationships with their culture, but their relationship to Western culture distanced the magic of their culture and their surroundings. And this is why you can see, despite his high culture, the Iraqi intellectual has begun to suffer from a spiritual void. He lives in two separate minds, his present mind deprived of modernity and his other mind that is issued from the modern world - and, I wonder, how can this void be filled? Gilles Keppel’s statement that all Islamists want to get re­venge for their gods does not apply to them at all, but I believe that some of them - at least, some of the intellectuals I know - do not want to stand midway. In the beginning, there was a strong trend towards modernity, or a certain idiosyncratic type of modernity, and when they hit the Western wall, some decided to return to religion in its most primal form, which is impossible, since the world has totally changed. I am certain that they will soon come around.

Under-age and trafficked out of Iraq, girls as young as 11 and 12 are sold as dancers in nightclubs and casinos, virgin brides and as prostitutes to the illegal sex markets in The Gulf, Yemen, Jordan and Syria. Organized criminal networks operating in the sex trade further jeopardize the precarious financial state of Iraqis at home and living abroad.

When the body of her sister was dumped at the door of her Baghdad home, the life of Aishiq, changed forever. It was 2003, she was 12.

Prior to the war in Iraq, she lived with her mother, sister, and brother. The family lived in a simple two-room traditional Arabic style home in the eastern part of Baghdad. Her father died two years prior from natural causes. The loss of the head of household dealt an emotional & financial blow to the family. The future now uncertain, their home falling into disrepair, the remaining members of this small Shiite family moved from their Baghdad home to a $200 a month rental apartment in the holy city of Kerbala. Aishiq’s brother first found work as a day laborer in Kerbala and the family relied on the charity of Shiite and Sunni neighbors for any essentials not covered by the boy’s income. «After the death of my father we were very poor and even with my brother’s money it was not enough. We spent a lot of time without good food. My sister suffered from bad headaches, my mother begged neighbors to feed us.» Financial struggles and stress complicated the mother’s health, dying one day of heart failure while praying in the Imam Hussein Ibn Ali’s mosque in Kerbala. The three siblings, without parents, managed to survive on the sole income of the son. With the aftermath of the war in Iraq, Aishiq’s brother found new work. It is one of the most dangerous civilian jobs in one of the world’s most dangerous countries: translating Arabic for the U.S. military in Iraq. Late one night, Aishiq found the body of her brother, shot in the chest, slumped against the door of their family home, murdered by Wahabeen (foreigners). «There was a noise at the door, I opened it and found my brother shot in his chest. His eyes were open, I closed them.»

Her sister would shortly suffer a similar fate. First beaten, raped, then murdered, the body dumped at the family door, this time by five local men. She was 15 years old. «They kidnapped her in front of our house. My sister told me she was going to study. She was at the front door and five guys came and took my sister - her voice starts to break. She knew the men who killed her sister - these guys take pills.» Scared for her life, Aishiq fled her family home to an uncle living in the same city. Yet, her uncle’s wife refused to take the girl into their home. Without family, a home to return to and her own life endangered Aishiq joined a multitude of Shi’a pilgrims congregating outside of the Imam Hussein Ibn Ali mosque in Kerbala. It was the first night of Ashura, the anniversary of the martyrdom of Imam Hussein, a time of mourning and religious observation for Shi’a Muslims. Exhausted and with few options before her, she lay down on the pavement alongside the mosque and fell asleep. She wouldon’t remain asleep for long. A woman shook her awake, «Aren’t you the daughter of Umm Saddam? Aren’t you Aishiq?» The girl nodded, yes. Kissing both her cheeks, she told her «come home with me.» In the women’s home were two young Iraqi girls orphaned in the aftermath of the war. They told Aishiq that they were living in a Baghdad orphanage when this same woman and a man posed as prospective parents looking for children to adopt. Aishiq explains, «If someone goes there (to the orphanage) and says my wife doesn’t bring children they will give the child. They don’t know how the children will be used.» She is visibly saddened when remembering the two young girls, she describes as thin, one with green eyes, the other with hazel. They girls 11 and 12 years old at the time. The threesome would soon be trafficked out of Iraq. Aishiq sent to work as a dancer in a Dubai nightclub and the two girls would be married off to men in the United Arab Emirates. In the coming months Aishiq would be brought in and out of Dubai three times on trips to and from Syria where the woman’s family was living on the outskirts of Damascus in Sitt al Zeinab. On the return trips to Syria, she worked as a dancer in nightclubs and casinos as she did in Dubai. «There were a lot of girls - But she says she was the youngest - The others were older 16, 17, 18, 20…»

This work did not last long, however as these places are regularly checked by the Syrian police for girls working under the age of 18. The woman who first trafficked her out of Iraq and would today be the go between for prostituting Aishiq decided to sell her most valuable commodity: the girl’s virginity. Living in Damascus, an elderly Saudi man entered into a temporary contract marriage with the young girl. Contract marriages, also commonly called pleasure marriages are permitted in Shiite society but there are conditions: «The girl must be an adult, must have agreement of the mother and father, and cannot be a virgin must be a widow, it must be because of war or other things like that.» The woman sold her off to the Saudi. The man paid 200,000 Syrian pounds (4,000 USD), the going price for a virgin. «When I married I had no period, I was 12. I was a virgin.» The Saudi gave her gold bracelets and earrings, she says he took good care of her and she became fond of him. Yet, it wasn’t long after the woman had the money for Aishiq in hand that she calculated how to get the girl back under her own roof. One day while shopping in a local market in Damascus, two of the women’s sons kidnapped Aishiq. «They put their hands over my mouth and forced me into a car» she says.

After the kidnapping, a doctor was brought to repair the girl’s virginity by reattaching her hymen. «I was crying, it hurt too much - she says. Aishiq goes on to explain that - men want virgins.» Following her kidnapping, she was once again whisked away to Dubai alongside of the woman. The girl was put to work as a dancer once again in a casino. While working she met a young Emirati man, she says they fell in love. The woman again arranged for a contract marriage between the Emirati and the girl. Aishiq lived with this man for 3 or 4 months. Yet, it wasn’t long before the woman who contracted this second marriage again soon realized that if she lost the girl, she also lost income. The woman threatened the young man that if he didn’t return the girl she would call his family in the Emirates. The shame and dishonor would be too great to bear, he agreed to return Aishiq. The young girl was sent back to Syria and forced this time into prostitution In Syria, she lives with the woman who first trafficked her out of Iraq, the women’s two daughters both prostitutes, one of the woman’s sons and his wife. The woman, now Aishiq’s pimp, has two other sons who live in a separate apartment nearby; one of the boys is the girl’s minder and accompanies her when she is sent to a client. She says she sees the second son every three days when he comes to force sex upon her. «One time I refused and he struck me, blood came out of my nose and mouth.»

Aishiq’s body is a roadmap of torture. A knife cut across her chin paired with a deep slice in the base of her thumb. Punishment by her minder. Her arms and hands are riddled with scabbed punctures to her skin. Some old, some new.

«This family when they punish me brings nails and heats them, tie me and stick the nails on my hands and arms», she says. We ask, «When do they punish you?» «When I ask for money, the money I’ve earned, they become angry and punish me. They won’t give me money.» Aishiq sleeps in a small space between the bathroom and the kitchen on a thin mattress. «They provide me with a little food and a place to sleep. The woman sends my money to Iraq to build a house in Kerbala.» She then pulls down her t-shirt and bares her scarred chest, mutilated by cooking oil thrown at her after she asked to buy a cream to sooth her itching skin. «They were cooking fish and threw the oil on my chest.» In the past when her injuries were too severe to treat at the home, she was taken to the hospital. In the hospital she was threatened that, «if you say something, we will kill you.»

Without economic rights, slums move billions

Carla Rocha and Dimmi Amora

(translated from Brazilian Portuguese)

At least one in each four Rio residents lives in a lawless, wild capitalism, outside the state. Such parallel market, which boils at the city's slums, has generated businesses which increased their price so much in recent years that, in an imaginary stock exchange, their shares would be disputed under the most deafening screams of a trading session. Far from the laws enforced in the asphalt, pulsates a rich, dynamic and, in some respects, chaotic market, which reaps more than R$ 3 billion per year. Fighting for a chunk of that little known fortune, are formal, informal and illegal activities, in a heterogeneous environment that extends from small grocery stores to banks, from drug trafficking “firms” to the militias [paramilitary groups formed generally by current or former policemen, who take traffickers out of slums and take over with their own violent methods]. The residents form a mass of potential consumers estimated at something between 1.3 million and two million people, with annual income reaching somewhere between R$ 5 billion and R$ 10 billion. In spite of statistical differences, those figures make dollar signs clink in the eyes of any entrepreneur. Whether in retail or in bulk, official or parallel, the holding company Favela, Inc. makes a few rich, explores thousands and swindles the State.

O GLOBO followed the money trail to try to measure such emerging economy, despite the few data available, and publishes, a series of reports that will reveal who profits from these businesses. The mass of salaries was obtained updating Census data which showed a family income of R$ 634.50 in those areas, according to the Pereira Passos Institute, at the city hall. The turnover in trade was calculated from estimates by entrepreneurs from many industries and by public officials, in addition to a census conducted in 2000 in 44 slums included in the Favela-Bairro program [an urbanization program for favelas, enterprised by the Rio city hall], which showed an average of 91 businesses per shantytown, with average annual revenues around R$ 15 thousand. These are R$ 3 billion, which do not include the billionaire and still unknown profits obtained from trafficking.

This X-ray shows that, contrary to the government, which has not yet been effectively present there, the market has appropriated the dynamics of slums and made them a powerful machine to generate wealth. Such phenomenon has left behind some old concepts and a romantic image of shantytowns. The social inequality and lack of popular housing projects are no longer sufficient to explain them. Today, slums concentrate one fourth to one third of the population of the capital and, contrary to self-fulfilling assumptions, they are no longer the stronghold of the miserable.

Pereira Passos Institute estimates that 5% to 8% of the slum residents are the so-called middle class, with incomes between R$ 1,064 and R$ 4,051. The calculation was based on 2000 national census, the latest major survey with data on slums. In 2000, only one third of Rio's poor population lived in slums. The rest was in the formal part of the city. With the growth of income among the lower classes in the past three years, economists believe the participation of people of middle and upper classes is now much bigger in slums – and lower the number of poor and miserable.

Without freedom to express politically and under constant threat, as O GLOBO revealed in 2007 in the series "The Brazilians who still live under the dictatorship," residents of these areas also do not have full freedom to enjoy the growth in the local economy and their income. It is common that criminals catch hold of businesses, charge tolls and fees. On the other hand, with the informality, most businessmen and residents avoid spending on some items they’d have to pay in the formal city: taxes and fees for water and electricity.

-- These are very entrepreneurial areas, but the trafficking and militias act as predatory economic agents. These criminal groups appropriate the profits of virtually every business in slums – says sociologist Paulo Magalhaes, who represents Caixa Econômica Federal [a national state-owned bank] and monitoring the construction works in the Program to Accelerate Growth (PAC, in the Brazilian acronym). -- It is a kind of wild capitalism that enhances all the bad that happened in the Brazilian economy in recent years.

The desire to own a house won’t account for all the occupation of shacks in slums. In 2000, 12.2% of the buildings in these areas were rented. And the trend for those figures is to increase. Studies show that, on average, almost 30% of real estate transactions in the slums are rentals, a percentage that is increasing. This informal market created real estate "sharks", former residents who now live in the luxury condominiums. In the shantytown, they left roughly built buildings and still continue to pour hundreds of two-room apartments to be rented.

Slums are very different among themselves. Even though a few still are, as they all were in the past, small cities where workers only go to sleep, Rocinha [the biggest favela in Brazil] has already three bank agencies – among them, one of Bradesco and one of Itau, the largest private banks in the country – restaurants, gyms, tuck shops, big stores, cybercafes, bars, grocery stores, minimarkets and supermarkets. In Rio das Pedras (Jacarepaguá), a factoring company exchanges future claims for cash, like any other in the financial market. But it has a competitive advantage: the payment is guaranteed by the strong arm of the militia, where defaulting means to be under a death threat. In the Complexo do Alemão, stores from big chains are just a few meters away from drug dealing hotspots.

The removal of slums is no longer part of public policy. Since the Favela-Bairro program, the government has prioritized infrastructure work to integrate shantytowns to formal neighborhoods. These works, however, have not yet managed to integrate shantytowns to the city in the political, social and economic aspects. A sign of this is the fact that the state has been replaced by the action of populist politicians, who also profit from Favela, Inc. The vote market is also profitable and promotes, in some cases, the association between politicians and organized crime. Sociologist Marcelo Burgos, a professor at PUC-RJ, has no doubt that the economic strengthening of the residents of these areas will also generate social change:

-- The old system, which has always been successful in the slums, which have "owners", is in agony. I have no doubt that there will be a radicalization of democracy in such areas with the economic development.

A professor at the Institute of Economics of UFRJ, Ronaldo Fiano remembers that the modern economy is characterized by anonymous relationships between dealers, granted by clear laws, which does not happen in the slums. According to him, negotiations in those areas always need the support of the "owners" – which means higher costs and affect the business.

André Urani, director of the Institute for the Study of Labor and Society (IETS), wrote a study based on 2006 data from the National Survey of Sample Households (PNAD), from the national statistics bureau – partially covering the slums in the Metropolitan Region of Rio – and found out that the quality of life improved more in the formal areas of the city than in the informal ones. For him, informality and crime may be behind the result.

The slower pace in improving the quality of life is also noticed in practice by those who live in slums. A member of the Rio Forum, an entity which aims to reduce informality in the city and stimulate development, Cezar Vasquez, a director of the Sebrae-RJ [a reference center for small entrepreneurs], noted in interviews that traders and slum leaders considered informality as an obstacle to their activities:

- Historically, it was as if our society, which went through a process of shrinking in the last three decades, had told those people: "go about however you want." Now, we need to develop an appropriate model to bring formality to those areas. But nothing can be done without solving, first, the problem of violence.

The militia in Campo Grande neighborhood drained economically everything it could from the area’s slums. Investigations showed that the militia controlled the sale of kitchen gas and the distribution of pirate cable TV signal, as well as influenced in public transportation, sometimes acting as entrepreneurs, sometimes as public officials – charging fees or deciding who may or may not operate a service. The ownership made it possible for them to elect a councilman and a state legislator. In the same fashion as in the actions to combat the mafia, the police understood that it could only beat them through breaking their businesses, which began to be done. The first action, last June, was a sting in a huge illegal warehouse of kitchen gas in Campo Grande, which delivered gas cylinders to slums across the city and had reaped R$ 970 thousand in only ten days.

Understanding what happens in the rich and diverse market of slums, which is continually growing despite the poor infrastructure and absence of state, may be the way to integrate them in fact to the city – politically, socially and economically. After all, everyone remembers the famous quote said by marketer James Carville, in 1992, while pointing out the engine that actually moves the world and could make then presidential candidate Bill Clinton win the election:

-- It's the economy, stupid!  

At least 12% of the houses in slums are not owned by their residents

Carla Rocha and Selma Schmidt

(translated from Brazilian Portuguese)

Every day, Antônio, 70, works for 12 hours watching more than 40 buildings. He is not a guard. For 30 years, Antonio (fictitious name) builds and keeps houses for rent – with great profits – at the Maré complex. Building "condominiums" where the owners at the same time explore and have to ensure the integrity of property and tenants is one of the peculiarities of the dangerous activity of construction in poor communities of Rio. Profits are fat, especially in the South of the city, in slums like Rocinha, where the verticalization industry provides for the emergence of new-rich. Yesterday, O GLOBO initiated the series of stories about who profits from the business in so-called Favela, Inc.

This informal market in slums moves at least R$ 107 million a year in rents. The estimate comes from economist Ib Teixeira, based on the 2000 Census, which revealed the existence of 35,500 leased houses (12% of total) in slums.

Ib estimates that the real estate assets of 307,500 buildings in Rio slums is worth R$ 7.3 billion. A gigantic sum, which doesn’t include the favelized housing projects and irregular lots. Just to illustrate, the figures represent more than 6% of Rio’s GDP and 67% of Rio's city hall budget for this year.

This reality is very different to the faded idea that all the problems of slums have a social origin. The market for buying and selling in these communities is enough to overcome the prices of real estate in the “asphalt” (slum slang for the legal city), often curiously devalued by conflicts in slums.

-- At Tijuca, a house with 30 square meters in the Morro do Turano can be sold for R$ 60 thousand, while in the asphalt a larger apartment can cost little more than half of that – says Ib

Whoever adventures himself constructing in slums knows the risk. Mr. Antonio can’t remember how many times has been called into drug dealing places to answer questions, and he says there were times in which he had to scare bandits off the ceiling of his tenants’ houses:

-- When the traffickers invade the houses, I have to defend my tenants, sometimes physically.

The lack of rules and verbal contracts affect the residents, who stay without legal protection, at the mercy of the will of the owner, be it traffickers or militiamen. In slums, contracts can be canceled without any reason, as it was possible under a law enforced by the military dictatorship between 1964 and 1979 – the “empty complaint”.

-- What happens in the slums is worse than the old “empty complaint”. It is the law of the jungle. Those who can rule will rule, and those who have reason will obey – says Arnon Velmovitsky, chairman at the Real Estate Law commission at the Rio de Janeiro Bar Association. He remembers the empty complaint was reinstated in 1991, but subject to a 36-month contract.

Even without being a great builder, Maurício (fictitious name), 33, decided to leave the Barreira of Vasco, where he maintains business and a rented house, afraid of trafficking:

-- No one can do anything, become an entrepreneur or earn money in a slum without the approval of trafficking.

Manoel Grova is a successful trader: he has two furniture stores at the Maré and one in Rio das Pedras, as well as two in the asphalt, in Taquara and Madureira. He spends R$ 3 thousand a month to rent his branch at Roquete Pinto, at the Maré – a store with 3,000 square meters. That’s more expensive than what he pays for his branches in the asphalt.

-- It’s worse in Rio das Pedras, where I pay R$ 2,100 for 150 square feet – he tells.

Despite Manoel’s complaint about costs, his financial situation improved greatly since she started to invest in trade in slums, 12 years ago. Four years ago, he moved from the slum to a house in Taquara.

In slums, residents' associations act as notaries, to give the appearance of legality to real estate transactions, charging fees that can reach 10% or a fixed value when the deal is closed. That’s more expensive than the 2% charged by city hall in the tax for transfer of ownership.

Flavio Minervino, president of the Center for Support of Residents of Santa Teresa Slum, shows that Morro dos Prazeres charges 5%. Residents of Vila Esperança, in Gardenia, say the association keeps R$ 100 from the seller and R$ 100 from the buyer.

In Rio das Pedras, the real estate business spread to Orkut [a Facebook-like social network website, owned by Google and very popular among Brazilians]. In one ad, Allan Farias, 21, tries to attract not a simple candidate to buy his house, but investors who are interested in making money from rent. Claiming that a property bought for R$ 30,000 can be rented out for R$ 400, he says the buyer will have a salary for the rest of his life, in a violence-free area near Barra.

-- We sell 80% of the apartments to investors – says Allan, over the phone, without knowing he was talking to a reporter.

During the conversation, Allan reminds the potential client that he will not pay taxes for the construction or water fees:

-- All the communities reached by Favela-Bairro are exempted from paying for water – he says, adding that, in contrast, the tenant has obligations. -- If you do not pay in ten days, you have to leave. If you do not leave, we’ll go there and take you out.

In Rio das Pedras, a stand displays models of buildings under construction. One of them, which is already under construction, will have 10 floors, including a penthouse.

According to residents, militiamen are behind the real estate business in Rio das Pedras. On the road to Jacarepaguá, at the Curva do Pinheiro, apartments are being sold in three buildings under construction, on invaded land. Two of the four owners – colonel Geudo Gomes de Moraes and lawyer Rolim de Abreu – went to court claiming reintegration of possession. The other owners allegedly were police inspector Felix dos Santos Tostes, murdered in 2006, and Washington Luiz de Souza, who is missing. Despite the dispute, there is a sign at the site with a phone to contact the brokers of the property. Ricardo Ramos da Silva, a settler who’s 75 years old, owner of a stretch of land alongside that lot, also went to justice, having seen his restaurant demolished. Now, he only has a workshop left:

-- I walk with God and I have no fear - he says.

Group that operates at the Gardênia Azul is investigated for exploiting child prostitution

Sergio Ramalho

(translated from Brazilian Portuguese)

At 13 years, Maria (fictitious name) is very thin and has the body of a child, still showing no signs of adolescence. The lack of physical attributes led her to the “queue of the infants”. The phrase is common in meetings organized by members of the militia that operates in the Gardênia Azul favela, in Jacarepaguá. In a house on Canal do Anil Avenue, the militia selects children and teenagers, between 9 and 14 years old, which will be negotiated in wild nights of drinks and drugs. After taking over slums with a “shock of order” marketing, attracting residents with the promise of putting an end to the drugs trafficking, the militia is being investigated by state prosecutors for the practice of one of the most cruel of all crimes: the exploitation of child prostitution.

Since Sunday, the series Favela, Inc. has shown who profits with business in poor communities of Rio. The militia now discovered that sexual exploitation of children and teenagers may be another niche. Previously, cases of child prostitution happened in dens of trafficking, being common in “funk” dances.

The investigation of the state prosecutors is based on a document of the Center for Support to Promoting Children and Youth. In it, there are reports by relatives and by victims lured into orgies. The first complaints were pressed in August last year. Last week, prosecutors were beginning to identify the militia, so they can be criminally punished. The accused may be charged with operating child prostitution – which leads to sentences of four to ten years in jail – and rape, which is classified as a heinous crime, because there is presumption of violence, as the victims, at the time, were less than 14 years old. With this, the maximum penalty can reach 15 years of incarceration.

About the practice of such crimes in slums, attorney Helio Bicudo says the exploitation of child prostitution, historically, tends to be more intense in poor areas:

-- The poorer the place, there are more cases of exploitation of child prostitution. Although that is not classified as a heinous crime, Brazilian judges usually opt for the maximum possible punishment when determining the sentence. It is a tradition in the courts - explains the lawyer.

For anthropologist Alba Zaluar, the proposed shock of order offered by the militia to conquer the slums is a trick to lure the local population. She points out that these paramilitary groups are involved in a series of crimes, from economic fraud to murder:

-- Militiamen present themselves as enforcers of order and morality, but we know that they commit all types of crimes, they attack, they humiliate, they kill. And the worst part is this: the militiamen belong or have belonged to the very institutions of the state that should enforce the law. From a social point of view, exploiting of child prostitution and rape is a crime that can’t be forgiven. It’s so unforgivable that, when those who are convicted for these types of crime reach the prisons, they are punished by other inmates.

The luring of the girls was revealed by a testimony, in August 2007, by the mother of Ana (also a fictitious name), age 12. According to the woman, her daughter ran away from home one night to be part of the "queue of infants". The girls selected by militiamen were paid one real to participate of the orgies.

Ana's mother said she had discovered the existence of orgies on the night her daughter and a friend of hers, Maria, came home dirty. Maria had hemorrhage, because she had had sex repeatedly. The girl told her she had received R$ 1 after making sex with 23 men – without condoms. At the time, Ana's mother said that she would press charges with the police, but the girls said they would deny everything. According to testimonies at the juvenile justice and at the Center of Support to Prosecutors of Children and Youth Issues, the girls showed a certain pride in having been chosen by militiamen.

The paramilitaries would give preference to girls aged under 14. The older, according to reports, began to work as prostitutes for a woman identified only as Beatriz. In such cases, they were carried in the trunk of the car to motels in the region, being paid R$ 20 per appointment. To avoid drawing the attention of receptionists, Beatriz and the client pretended to be dating so they could enter the premises. In the garage, the girl was removed from the trunk. In their testimonies, some girls said the "work" with Beatriz was better because they earned much more than at the "queue of the infants".

The seriousness of the complaint made by Ana’s mother resulted in the admission of two girls into a shelter, where they are receiving medical and psychological care. Three administrative cases are under way in a court specialized in child issues at Cascadura. The cases are being investigated under secrecy, such as is established by the Statute of the Child and Adolescent (ECA), and the mothers can lose the guard of the girls.

No operation was made so far to curb child sexual exploitation in Gardênia Azul. The testimonies were not even taken to the police station or the police branch which investigates crimes committed against young people. Contacted by O GLOBO, prosecutors Marcia Velasco and Christiane Monnerat confirmed that there is an ongoing investigation, but said they could not comment on the case because it involves children.

Despite the anger they feel, the mothers of sexually exploited children rarely press charges against the criminals. In one of the cases mentioned at the juvenile justice office, the mother told her daughter escaped at night to take part in the "queue". For many of the girls, being one of the militiamen’s chosen ones is a sign of power and status. In one occasion, a mother assaulted one of the exploiters, whose sons are members of the militia in the region. Police was called – but, despite the evidence against the man, they told the woman she would be arrested for assault. Afraid, the girl's mother withdrew from pressing charges.

The mothers are not alone in facing difficulties in combating this crime. The investigation by the prosecutors shows that professionals like social workers, psychologists and members of the juvenile justice offices classify sexual exploitation of girls at Gardênia Azul as an epidemic. Little they can do to inhibit the action of exploiters. The justification is emphasized in a document attached to the research. "Would like to help in investigations, so that the gang can be arrested, but also fears for its own safety and for the continuation of its work in the community, since it must have the endorsement of the bosses of the area, which is known to be ruled by a militia," says the report about a professional.

Trafficking and militias were born, grew up and remain in the slums of Rio based on the same fact: the absence of the rule of law in these areas. The monopoly of force and the planning of social and economic practices in those territories, which are essentially roles of the state, were taken over by criminal gangs.

-- The state gave up its sovereignty in the slums. The only kind of public policy at these sites has always been the contention of trafficking by force, to isolate it. Investments in health or education are rare – examines geographer Fernando Lannes, coordinator of the Observatório das Favelas (Observatory of Slums).

The absence of the rule of law is a major reason for the fact that, today, at least 66% of the Rio slums are dominated by armed groups, according to a research made by the Department of Public Safety in 326 communities. The oldest gang of traffickers occupies 26% of the slums, such as the Complexo do Alemão. The other two factions together have 20% of them in their hands, the same share the militias have.

In three years, the militias were able to expand enough to approach the same amount of slums controlled by the oldest faction, which exists for three decades.  

MONDAY, 28 July 2008

Al Rabih Ould Edum

(Translated from Arabic) 

She is the youngest divorcee on record at human rights organizations in Mauritania…Smart, and well-spoken, she knows how to express what had happened to her…

When we arrived at her parents' humble home, she was sitting with her peers… a group of girls, not a group of women… Upon first meeting her, it was hard to believe that this is the same girl who got married in Saudi Arabia, the girl who carries in her small purse a triple divorce certificate… It was hard to understand that behind her dreamy eyes, innocent face and slender form lay the tragedy of a child that had joined the divorcee club even before she had practiced fasting in the month of Ramadan, not once, not even for a try.

We hesitated for a while at the door of the house she sat in… Um El Kheyr would not let us enter immediately… She had wanted to cover her head, since we were, after all, "foreigners", as the child described.

Her journey had been long, and her experience deep… Her story was overwhelming… In just one year, this child's innocent soul, life-embracing and curious, had lost all innocence… Her papers had been forged… She had been coerced and tortured into marriage… She had been kidnapped, snatched away from her father who had been forced by adversity to grant his daughter’s custody over to his sister…as he searched for a sustaining livelihood… The girl had been through enough alienation, oppression and violation, that she had become dreamy-eyed, as though searching for an unknown haven to rest in.

She did not cry when detailing the hurtful story… More unnerving was that the wounds inflicted had robbed her from her childhood and left no place for reserve… The child recounted the rape in minute detail in the presence of her father, who was sorrow-riddled as he stroked his dignified white beard…saying that what had happened was a heinous crime committed against his daughter…confirming that he stood by her right.

"Um El Kheyr" is ten years old… Her father, Sayed Muhammad Ould EL Tijani, 42, is a travelling salesman… He says about the experience: "Last year, the mother of my daughter passed away… It was then that I decided to take her to the eastern states, to my sister in Nouakchott, the capital, so that she would supervise her education and upbringing…

But my sister Maymuna, he adds, had a different point of view. She took the girl to Saudi Arabia without my knowing it… to where her son and daughter lived. She took the child along with her daughter whom a Saudi had married and asked for her… So, there, in Saudi Arabia, was my little child, living with my sister's son, and my sister's daughter and her husband. The man would often take his new wife to a hotel, spending there most of the time, and my little child, who was not a day older than ten, would be left alone with her 25-year-old cousin… One day, the young man found himself alone with my sleeping daughter… He raped her, and there was no one to keep him from committing this evil act…"

Um El Kheyr interjects saying: "My cousin "Abd El Lateef" raped me in Saudi Arabia when we were all alone in the house… We would never usually be in the same room, but my married cousin [his sister] was not around… Afterwards, I tried to call my father, but I couldn't."

According to her father, he had received a call in Nouakchott from the father of the young man who had raped the child, telling him that he wanted them married… Um El Kheyr's father recalls: "I wasn't aware then about the rape…and I had actually agreed to the marriage, but I didn't believe that he meant then and there, I had thought that he wanted them promised to each other… I told him that the procuration should be in the hands of an honest person. He promised to contact two of my cousins in whom I trusted, for me to vest them the authority of overseeing my daughter's marriage at the time they see that she has become eligible to do so… When he was hours late to call me back, I contacted him that very same evening… I asked him what had happened concerning our conversation, and he said that what we had talked about was done and over with, that the marriage was contracted… I yelled at him, asking him who had given him permission to marry my daughter to his son, and where were the people whom we had agreed would be granted the authority over my daughter… He hung up on me, and since then he would not take my calls, and would arrange to be in Nouakchott only when I am in the central states."

As for the child, she comments the rape and marriage that had happened successively, saying: "After my cousin raped me, he told me that he had done that because he would marry me… So, I told him, and I told everyone, that I will not get married, that I did not want to get married, that I did not want to get married to that person in particular… But my opinion did not matter at all."

According to data from the "Mauritanian Housewives' League", the groom returned to the country with his young bride, who still played with children and loved candy… and had a hard time dealing with all that had happened… Her father was not contacted to tell him the news, and she did not know that he was in the capital where she had arrived, but thought that he was roaming the central states, trading as usual… In a matter of days, he found out, and his sons-in-law visited him, accompanied by the child… This visit only lasted ten minutes, during which the father asked his daughter why she had not called to say that she was coming… She told him that she did not know that he was in the capital, and that she did not have a phone to call him… So, he gave her one that he owned, and told her to call him often… He said that he had done it because he did not want to get into a fight with a young man of twenty-five, that he blamed his brother-in-law for what had befallen his daughter… and that with him alone, would he discuss the matter.

The child's husband would not talk to us, since, according to him, he saw no need to… But the divorce certificate he sent one day after a call made by her father, reveal part of his perspective on the subject… The certificate stated: "In the name of Allah, the all Merciful the all Compassionate and His prophet, peace be upon him. This is a letter of divorce…

I, Mr. "Abd El Lateef son of…" hereby bear witness in front of Allah, His prophet, and those who believe in Him, that I have divorced Um EL Kheyr, daughter of Sayed Muhammad, a triple divorce, due to the bad company of her parents, and the hypocrisy of their treatment, as Allah is witness to my words… Signed by the husband… Date: 14 March 2008."

The girl's father told Sahara Media that the scars due to torture were evident of his daughter's back, as she was, allegedly, whipped by the husband and his brother.

"My husband tortured me with a whip, after my uncle came to advise him against mistreating me and my father, and told him that keeping me from contacting my father was unacceptable… He and his brother threatened my uncle with a knife… They tortured me and humiliated my father."

The Child Hamza: My Brother Hung me on the Ceiling…

And Branded my Body with Searing Metal…

(Translated from Arabic)

Thursday, 31 JULY 2008

Al Rabih Ould Edum - Nouakchott

He is ten years old… A child like all other children in the world… He has the right to play, to have fun, go to school, and to learn… He has the right to learn new languages and go to parks… But as fate would have it, another life awaited him… a life that was anything but what it should have been.

This child who had dropped out of school some time ago… is caught between those people living around him and those who have a negative influence on the quality of his life.

His name is "Hamza Ould Kaynu", he was born in 1998. His mother, Aysha daughter of EL Mukhtar, 35, is a travelling ice-cream saleswoman… and his father, Kaynu Ould Amaran, 60, a porter… Hamza's family lives in the capital Nouakchott.

His elderly father lives on the sidelines… He does not understand modern times at all… He does not even hold an ID… His poor mother dreams of a brilliant future for her son, but all she can offer is what little money she makes and that barely covers the daily expenses of feeding her family. Life had been harsh, and she had been compelled to sell the cold drinks "Bisam"… His older half brothers are in no way role models for him; one had died serving time in jail, and the other has just been released… His two sisters are married, toiling through life with their prince charming.

Life had not been kind to three other brothers; it had dealt them poverty, crises, sickness and inadequate living conditions… They had passed away, and death seemed more merciful than carrying on in this losing struggle for decent living.

He has had a rough life, this shy young fellow… It would stir your emotions to see him walking barefoot in the streets of the capital.

His father had two children before marrying his mother… According to the mother, he had not raised them properly… So, they had grown up on the street, and acquired a violent and delinquent way of life…

His new wife gave birth to two girls, who in turn got married and moved out from the family home… She also gave him two sons, Muhammad, 11… and Hamza, 10.

Hamza's two brothers were jailed for committing crimes… One had died serving time last year (2007)… The other survived and was released, only to be interned again after two months… promising to change his life for the better… and swearing that he repented.

After a while, "Daoud" asked his step-mother to leave the two children in his custody, so he would teach them a trade that would do them good in this life and in the hereafter… He took them with him to where he lived, and got them started in car repair… The mother did not object to her sons going into this line of business, even though she had wanted them to go to school, she was illiterate and had wanted her sons to get and education.

Hamza was opposed to working in a garage… and told his brother firmly that he will not go into this business… That earned him punishment, in the eyes of his elder brother, and this punishment almost cost him his life… His brother had tortured him until he was on the brink of death.

His mother presented the case to the Prosecutor General at the Palace of Justice in the capital Nouakchott… She filed a complaint to the police… She contacted the media to draw people's attention to her struggle.

Today, Hamza's mother is with her sister… She cannot afford the 1500 ouguiya (USD 7) needed to get her son examined, and find out if his bones are broken or fractured… She cannot even afford the taxi fare… to travel… Her last few ouguiyas were spent on medicine for the child… She is now caught in a vicious circle… But she has faith in Allah; He does not forget those who worship Him.

Her husband stood by his son, she confirms… He told her that he was her son too even if she had not given birth to him… that filing a complaint against him was unacceptable… To this she answered that evil should not be harbored against others, the truth should be declared in public, and those with just claim should defend their right… He got angry with her… They have not reconciled yet.

"A month ago, my brother "Daoud Ould Kaynu" took me away from my mother to a garage owner in "Ksar" named "Obeid" to teach me to become a mechanic, but I would often skip going to work, so he started hitting me because of that… But I told him that I did not want to become a mechanic and that I will return to the "mahzara" (Quranic School)... So, he finally accepted to do as I asked.

The very same day he took me to the "Mina" market to buy some food items and carry them to the house of his "nephew", but I did not wait for him… I went to my mother's house is "Casablanca". When he returned to his house, he took me by the hand and led me to a remote place next to pole 6 in the "Mendez" neighborhood (a poor neighborhood on the outskirts of Nouakchott). He made me go inside a dark house and he closed to door. He went in after me carrying some rope. He then gagged me, took some charcoal and started a fire. He placed a nail in it and waited for it to become red hot, and started searing me, all over my body."

The child, who seemed shaken by the memories of physical and psychological torture, added:

"No one heard me screaming, because he had gagged me. As I was about to lose consciousness, he took some rope and he tied it around my hands and feet, and hung me on a beam in the ceiling of the house. He took a whip and beat me repeatedly. He left me a whole day in that place. Then in the evening, he untied me and ordered me to go to the "Souk Al Maghreb" to fix my brother's bicycle. I took the opportunity to go to my mother's house. I told her the story and showed her the scars of torture on my body… She cried and cried because of what had happened to me… Around the time of Evening Prayer, he came to my mother and told her that he was taking me away with him… She refused… He tried to snatch me away from her, but after some neighbors appeared he left our house. My mother reported the incident to the police… I am terrified; I expect to be tortured again by my brother…"

“I would have liked a happy life”

(Translated from Spanish)

Text and photos: Fátima Monterrosa, Special Correspondent

Acteal, Chiapas.- At the age of 10, Ernestina Pérez Luna became mother of two little girls. Her dolls, toys, friends, and school were all left behind. At her young age, she learned to cook beans, toss tortillas, wash clothes, gather firewood and plant vegetables and corn.

After 22 December 1997, she devoted herself to caring for her two little sisters, who were orphaned just like her: Zenaida, 4 years old, and Rosella, 2.

Ernestina’s studies were cut short in her fourth year of elementary school, where she only learned to draw a few doodles.

A radical change in her life, which made her sick with sadness in her heart.

“That pain marked me, and so far I have not been able to relieve it,” confesses this Tzotzil native who still lives in the Acteal Alto community.

Men carrying powerful weapons—R-15s, AK-47s, sawed-off .22-caliber rifles—who wore navy blue uniforms and covered their faces with red handkerchiefs, killed five members of her family: her father, Miguel Pérez Jiménez, and her mother, Marcela Luna Ruiz, as well as her brother Alejandro and her sisters Juana and Silva, respectively 15, 8 and 6 years old.

Of the Pérez Luna family, only Ernestina, Zenaida, who was left blind by a bullet shard to her head, and Roselia, who was grazed by a bullet in her mouth, survived. 

Ten years have passed since Ernestina took charge of them. Thus, she was forced to give up what remained of her childhood, of her adolescence.

“I suffered greatly. It was very difficult, because I didn’t know how to take care of the baby while by grandparents were taking care of my other sister in the hospital. I had to make an effort. My heart was sick. I had been orphaned.”

Now, at the age of 20, she is an expert in the kitchen and in fieldwork. Though ready for marriage, she is not interested in getting married; she has other concerns.

For Ernestina, there are no weekends or holidays. Every day is the same: she gets up at 4:00 in the morning, stokes the fire, tosses tortillas, heats the beans and prepares coffee in her house of wooden planks, blackened by the firewood that burns on the ground, where they cook on a grill and on very rare occasion eat chicken or beef.  She does not even know the taste of milk.

She tends to her sisters and then goes to work in the field, accompanied by her grandfather, Antonio Luna Santiz.

For Ernestina—fair skin, big brown eyes, long, straight hair that goes down to her calves because it has never been cut—the illnesses that have weakened her grandparents are a concern, since she has no money to buy medicines, much less to provide for Zenaida and Roselia. 

“We don’t know how we’re going to live in the coming years. We have no money or mom or dad. I don't know what I’m going to do with my sisters in order to feed them.”

“And you don’t plan on getting married?”

“I don’t plan on abandoning my sisters. I’m going to keep taking care of them. I’m not interested in getting married.”

“Do you think fate has been unfair with you?”

“I feel that life has treated me poorly. I would have liked a happy life with my parents, getting to be like other kids who walk and play with their parents. If my father were living, I wouldn’t work like a man in the field, and he would be in charge of us.”

Ernestina has a very vague memory of them. Of her father, she has only a small photograph that has started to fade, while of her mother she does not even have that.

“What goes through your head each day? What do you think about?”

“I worry about my grandparents, who are sick and don’t receive medical care. If they die, I’m going to be orphaned all over again.”

“Would you like to keep studying?”

“No, because I have to go to the cornfield and take care of my sisters.”

During the coffee seasons, Ernestina and her grandfather harvest up to 120 kilos, for which they are paid between 10 and 15 pesos per kilogram.

Ernestine’s heart grows even sadder when she hears what they will receive for their harvest. Barely 1,800 pesos to survive for an entire year.

* * 

Many Mexicans perhaps do not remember it. Still others have wanted to bury that part of our history. But the memory of Acteal will be difficult to silence. It remains there, still awaiting justice to be served for the murder of 45 Tzotzil natives shot down one December day ten years ago: 21 women, four of them pregnant, 15 children and nine men.

It happened on a cold and rainy morning on the 22^nd of December, 1997, nights before the celebration of the advent of the Son of God.

An armed, priista-affiliated group invaded that community of the Chenalhó municipality, in the heights of Chiapas, and attacked men, women and children while they were praying for peace in a chapel.

Dozens of native families held wakes for their dead on Christmas Eve and buried them on Christmas Day.

A decade has gone by since that vigil which abounded with children. Along with them, the future of those who escaped the killing was also buried.

They are the children of Acteal, today adolescents and youths who survive abandoned to their luck in poverty and marginalization.

The furrows of land that were bathed in native blood continue to call out for justice. The wound remains open, latent.

The victims who did not die, warn: “If Acteal remains in impunity, sooner or later another massacre may take place."

The growth of the paramilitary groups that intended to curb the presence of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation in indigenous communities, culminated in the homicide of 45 natives. Acteal was the population chosen by the Máscara Roja group to perpetrate its attack.

The men, who carried high-caliber weapons for the Army’s exclusive use, arrived at the community in three freight trucks. They descended stealthily, surrounded them and opened fire.

Everyone, regardless of age or sex, was grazed by bullets from AK-47s. And as if that were not enough, some received the coup de grâce, and still others were mutilated at the point of a machete.

The dead: 33 women, ranging in age from 65 to 11 months, four of them pregnant; four children between the ages of four and 15, and eight men between 25 and 68 years of age. Furthermore, a score of injured men and women.

“How did we survive? I was stranded after the gunfire and until everything was over. I saw how those who fired were lifting the skits of the women, dead or alive. They were laughing. Those who were alive, were crying,” recounted Erasto Ruiz Pérez three days after the paramilitary raid.

The 18-year-old youth had received a gunshot in the stomach and was convalescing in the San Cristóbal de las Casas Hospital. He had lost his mother and two-year-old brother.

The attack had been announced in advance in the media. And no authority stopped it. Weeks after the tragedy, armed civilians linked with the PRI (the Institutional Revolutionary Party) had expelled natives from their communities who sympathized with the Zapatista Army of National Liberation and formed part of the Las Abejas Civil Society.

They robbed them of their few belongings, burned their homes and took over the lands. “The priistas wanted to force me to burn my companions’ house, and I didn’t want to. So, I left my home in Quextic, went to Acteal and prayed,” explained Erasto, who fled his community for fear of being killed.

Like him, some 6,000 indigenous peoples took refuge in Acteal, X’oyep and Polhó, where they set up camp with branches, banana leaves and plastic remnants. They were barely sheltered from the rain and the cold.

The destination held hundreds of displaced natives, who had fled from the paramilitary groups.

Many were stranded in a muddy hollow in an attempt to save their lives. Today their bodies remain in the same place, but in wooden coffins.

Before the Acteal massacre, the acts of violence that had taken place in various communities of Chenalhó had left a balance of 62 dead, 42 injured and more than 6,000 injured, as documented by the Fray Bartolomé de las Casas Center for Human Rights.

* * *

The almond-shaped eyes of Zenaida Pérez Luna lost their glimmer, and her face lost its joy.

The shard from a bullet that was lodged in her head robbed her of her sight when she was four years old.

She is tiny, fragile and pale, condemned to live as an orphan, just like her two sisters who survived the bullets of an AK-47.

She cannot distinguish colors, only shades. She cannot see the stars, those diamonds that line the Acteal night and which make crickets and cicadas harmonize symphonies during the frozen twilight of winter.

Ten years in the darkness have turned her into a tormented, quiet girl. Zenaida is already 14 and has began adolescence, but still does not know, does not feel it; in her confusions, she continues to be a child.

She has great difficulty in the sixth grade at Vicente Guerrero Elementary School, where she struggles to distinguish a few scrawls on the chalkboard. She does not have three-dimensional vision. The teachers have been passing her because she has the hope of finishing school.

Her grandmother Catarina Ruiz Pérez became her guide: she takes her to school and returns her home, because Zenaida trips over things while walking.

No matter how much she strives to take part in household chores, she cannot embroider or make tortillas.

In 2008 she will turn 15, and fantasizes about three wishes: recovering her sight, that her grandmother heals from the illnesses she has acquired over the years, and that someone gives her a skirt.

For now, a worn and discolored skirt is her everyday outfit. Her slender body and ashen skin, tanned by the sun and mud, shiver with the cold that falls over these mountains.

There is no furniture or beds in her home. Only a few small circular benches that are used when they make tortillas.

At dinner time, along with her grandparents, sisters and cousins, Zenaida sits around a bonfire that burns on the ground. They share bean soup and a few tortillas. Six kilos of corn are enough for 12 people everyday.

At night, they use a few planks on the floor as a bed. They huddle their bodies to shelter themselves from the wind that slips in through the cracks of the wooden house.

They do not have drinking water or sewage.

They receive no minimal benefits from government programs: neither Progresa or Oportunidades, neither Seguro Popular or Procampo, neither Alianza para el Campo or support for the elderly or grants. Nothing of that kind.

Zenaida’s grandmother laments that the girls have ended up in destitution and do not receive the aid that authorities have promised. “They are suffering greatly… Who is going to take care of them, since I am already old and can no longer work? I am getting weaker and weaker, and I don't have money, and we hardly have enough to eat. We need someone to support us. Coffee leaves us with little, and the corn and bean crops are what we eat.”

Zenaida is hopeful that her eyes will recover sight, but she has no hope of escaping the poverty in which she lives.

* * *

After the mass burial, the Attorney General of the Republic implemented an ostentatious mechanism for detaining those responsible for the killings in the communities of Los Chorros, Puebla, La Esperanza and Quextic, considered to be bases of the priista paramilitaries.

Dozens of natives were detained, among them the mayor of Chenalhó, Jacinto Arias Cruz, accused of having distributed weapons to civilians linked to the PRI and the Cardenist Front, which were lead by Manuel Anzaldo Meneses and Juana García Palomares. Then-state governor, Julio Cesar Ruiz Ferro, tried to shirk from his liability, but against pressure from civil society and international organizations, he resigned from office 16 days after the massacre in Acteal.

The government of Ernesto Zedillo, for the purpose of confronting the scandal that has crossed borders, created the Special Prosecutor’s Office for Addressing Crimes Committed in Chenalhó on March 12, 1988.

This office began nine trials and issued arrest warrants against 135 suspects, 84 of which went to jail, among which were a mayor, a soldier and 12 state policemen. All were accused of homicide, injuries and bearing arms without a license.

Various arrest warrants remained pending and, for better or for worse, ceased to exist on April 17, 2000.

Jorge Madrazo, then-Attorney General of the Republic, affirmed that the massacre had three causes: historical confrontations, the illegal creation of the Autonomous Municipal Council of Polhó, and the non-existence of a state of law.

Twenty-seven natives received sentences of 35 years in prison; recently another 49 received sentences of 26 years. On the other hand, the public servants detained received a sentence only three and seven years in prison, and today they are free.

Five years ago, the Second District Court released six of the accused for lacking legal elements to hold them responsible. It ruled that the evidence contributed by the Attorney General’s Office lacked legality.

Two natives sentenced to 25 years in prison were released for reasons of humanity (for age and health). One of them just died.

No high-ranking official was punished, despite a recommendation from the National Human Rights Commission that indicated that several were responsible by omission. Among them was the then-Secretary of State of Chiapas, Homero Tovilla Cristiani.

Gonzalo Ituarte, at that time member of the National Intermediation Commission (CONAI), revealed that, hours before the armed group finished the massacre, the Secretary of State was notified of the violent events that were taking place in Acteal. The official answered that nothing was happening there.

* * *

Seven bullets destroyed the life of Catarina Méndez Paciencia without killing her: they left her handicapped, unfit for marriage and unable to conceive children.

The bursts from the AK-47s also caught her mother, Manuela Paciencia Moreno, her sister Margarita, her sister-in-law Marcela Capote and her five-year-old nephew Vicente Méndez Capote.

Catarina is 30 today and has lost all hope of forming a family, like she used to dream of a decade ago.

Today, Catarina can barely walk. One of the projectiles that hit her pierced her hip, another pierced an ankle, another four pierced her right arm, and one more opened her left hand.

She was bedridden for more than five years. After multiple surgeries and rehabilitation sessions financed by civic organizations, she learned to take her first steps once again.

Her legs rapidly tire; as she cannot walk long distances, she does not go to the cornfield or the coffee plantations.

The plate and three screws she has in her ankle bother her; she feels as though they are burning her skin.

She tried to hide the scars that mark her body and soul with a large, navy blue skirt and a red blouse that she embroidered. But her face shows her despair, which cannot be hidden.

When she was 16-years-old, she rejected a marriage proposal; she did not want to get married before her two older sisters, Ana and Margarita. She begged her father, Antonio Méndez Hernández, not to force her to get married to the man who had set his eyes on her, because he had a bad reputation: he had abandoned a woman and liked to drink hard liquor.

Antonio handed over his firstborn. So it was that Ana gave birth to eight children with that man. The youngest of her children was born four months ago.

Luck did not smile on Margarita, either: the bullets of the paramilitaries cut her life short on December 22, 1997.

And that day Catarina became a woman who would find it difficult to find a husband.

Since then, she has been passed from hospital to hospital. Her situation keeps her from doing household chores, loading firewood and going to the field, as Tzotzil women customarily do. At the age of 30, it is impossible for her to compete with the young singles of her community.

Catarina asked the Virgin of Guadalupe to close all her wounds. The tragedy still hurts her as if it had taken place yesterday.

“What were you doing that day?”

“When the paramilitaries arrived, we were praying in church. We had been fasting for three days. They came firing, so I ran with my sister-in-law to a ravine. My mom and my sister left for somewhere else and, after a while, came out of hiding. They were maybe four meters away from where we were hidden, and I saw when they killed them… There was a boy with us named Ricardo; he was a year and a half old. He cried with fear. His cry gave us away to the armed men, who fired at us. That was when they injured me.”

The bullets knocked down the Tzotzil native. She crawled among the red clay and the thickets until she came across an injured woman and lay down beside her. Then she covered her face with her face with the bloodied clothing of her companion, who had just passed away.

“I pretended to be dead. I was very frightened. I tried not to move. My heart beat very strongly. The woman was bleeding a lot, and her blood was getting in my face. I was afraid that the men would see that I was alive and would finish me off.”

Three hours after the armed group had perpetrated the attack, Catarina was losing strength and prepared to die. One of the Red Cross ambulances that arrived at that moment transferred her to the San Cristóbal de las Casas Regional Hospital.

“What has your life been like all these years?”

“I have a lot of pain and fear. I’m afraid that the killers will return. Now nothing is the same. I remember when I went to cut coffee; now I can’t go anywhere, just to hospitals. My life isn’t normal. I can’t work like before.”

Catarina’s deep black eyes begin to tear up. She tries to dry her tears with her hands.

She wants to forget. But she smiles when I ask her if she wants to get married. Her thick lips allow a glimpse of a row of platinum teeth while she fixes her braided hair with green and purple ribbons.

Catarina lives in Quextic, three kilometers away from Acteal, amongst ravines, muddy hollows and streams. She shares a small wooden shack with her father, her sister Ana, Ana’s husband and her eight children.

The therapies she undergoes at the National Rehabilitation Institute have allowed her to walk again. She receives free medical assistance, but must pay for her medicines. On many occasions, she has stopped taking them because she does not have enough money to buy them.

The Ministry of Health pays for her transportation, food and lodging when she comes for rehabilitation in the Federal District. They examine her and write the prescription, but they do not provide her with the medications. Every time she is in the Federal District, she goes to the Basilica to entrust herself to the Virgin of Guadalupe and ask that she heal her wounds.

 * * *

The attack carried on for several hours. The natives who managed to flee hid themselves in a deep trench, without imagining that there they would be gunned down at point-blank range by the armed men.

“The priistas came dressed as soldiers. “They killed everyone who had hidden in the caves,” told Catarina Vázquez Gómez shortly after having escaped the massacre.

The Red Cross reported that the deceased suffered from gunshot wounds, dismemberment of legs, arms and other parts of the body due to machete strikes.

International organizations and civil society make an extreme effort with the Acteal community to assist the survivors.

Ten years after the tragedy, they have ended up alone. The aid slowly disappeared, just like the 35,000 pesos that the state government handed over to the family members of victims. That was the price that it allotted to the life of each Chiapaneco native killed: 35,000 pesos.

Ten years after the tragedy, ex-President Ernesto Zedillo stated from abroad his “sadness” for the 45 dead natives and defended the investigation carried out by the Attorney General’s Office during his term.

“I remember this event with great sadness, and I also remember that the Attorney General of the Republic carried out some serious investigations… But my conclusion is that it is something that should still sadden us and that all of us must continue to lament,” stated Zedillo in Madrid, Spain.

* * *

The majority of the victims were members of Las Abejas, an organization created by catechists of the diocese of San Cristóbal de las Cases in the municipality of Chenalhó in 1992.

Las Abejas define themselves as pacifists, defend human rights in communities and seek peace with justice and dignity. They have played an important role in recent years, upon extending their activities to the municipalities of Tenejapa, Chalchihuitán and Simojovel.

In February 2005, Las Abejas and the Fray Bartolomé de las Casas Center for Human Rights brought a complaint before the Inter-American Commission on Human Rights against the Mexican government for the Acteal killings. “Many years have gone by, and we have not found justice in this country; thus, this petition,” they indicated.

With support of donations, they built the Indigenous Ceremonial Center and the Open Ecumenical Chapel. A galley of iron and sheets that they mounted over the 45 graves.

They created the Mayavinic Coffee Producers Union, which exports its production abroad.

They founded a community radio station. From 4:00 in the morning until 8:00 at night, nine native presenters broadcast programs in Tzotzil and Tzeltal to promote the defense of collective and individual human rights. Radio Abejas Chapul Pom has other programs and broadcast traditional music of indigenous peoples, ranchera songs, cumbias and duranguenses. They send out messages of peace and tell Tzotzil stories. For its peaceful fight and defense of rights, it was awarded by the Republic of France.

* * *

José Alfredo Jiménez forms part of the Indigenous Communicator Network, which is in charge of giving community and popular communication workshops in rural areas. He made a documentary about the indigenous radio that secretly operations in the ravines, which was selected at three national and international film festivals. Currently, he is preparing a video with testimonies of the survivors of the Acteal killings.

José Alfredo personally experienced the violence of the paramilitaries, who attacked his community, Yibeljo, burning houses and beating the inhabitants. He took refuge with his family in the X’oyep camp for the displaced. They lived in exile for three years.

Saint Death protects little Efraín Gómez Luna. The same one who took away his mother and whom he forgave ten years ago.

He was two years old when he was saved from dying at the hands of the Máscara Roja group in Acteal.

Efraín survived because his mother, Irma Luna Pérez, who was five months pregnant, protected him with her body. She received the rain of projectiles. But a bullet reached the boy and destroyed his jaw.

The doctors gave him a plate and did little else to reconstruct that part of his face. A scar 15 centimeters long crosses from his chin down to his throat.

On his neck, near the injury, hangs a plastic medal with the image of Saint Death that he bought at a fair. And on his left hand he wears a wooden bracelet with the same image.

He is 12 years old, but he looks like a child of 8, on account of his stature. He is short and thin. And he no longer lives in Acteal.

Along with his father, his stepmother and his three new siblings, Efraín took a bus and arrived at Tuxtla Gutiérrez in search of better life opportunities. Eight hours of work in the field cutting coffee and cleaning corn only leaves them with 20 pesos a day. His father, Victorio Gómez Pérez, does not have enough to support his family.

In the capital of Chiapas, Efraín and his father sell chilies, sweets, peanuts and cigarettes wherever they can: park, cafeterias, and snack centers of the San José Terán district.

Efraín became a “little kangaroo,” as indigenous children who sell sweets in Tuxtla Gutiérrez are called.

When his father works as a construction worker, the small Tzotzil carries 15-kilogram wooden box that displays a great variety of candies. On other occasions, he shines shoes at five pesos per pair.

“I leave at 10:00 in the morning to sell sweets. I come back to eat around 4:00 in the afternoon. I leave again and get back to the room around 11:00 or 12:00 at night,” he tells.

The fact of the matter is that Efraín likes to earn money to contribute to supporting his family. “When it goes well for me, I get around a hundred pesos selling sweets, and then shining and polishing shoes, I earn around fifty pesos,” he says with enthusiasm.

Despite the fact that he cannot read or write, he gets by with ease in the city. He learned to speak Spanish very quickly.

“What do you like to do?”

“Work. Well, I also like to watch soccer and westerns on TV. As we can’t buy a television, sometimes I go to the man’s house who rents us the room, and he lets me watch TV with them.”

“What team do you root for?”

“I like the Pumas. I hope they win the championship.”

Efraín likes to sell in the cafeterias, because that way he can watch the games that are broadcast pay-per-view.

His family rents a small terrace room for 500 pesos a month on 2^nd Avenida Norte Oriente, number 299, in the Terán district.

In that same room, the owner keeps old and useless things that Efraín’s sisters play with. Another room is inhabited by eight youths, all relatives of victims of Acteal who also left the community to sell sweets and gum.

“It’s going well for us here, selling candy. It’s not much, but it’s enough to support the family in Acteal. It makes us want to leave for the other side,” remarks Juan Guzmán Gutiérrez, Efraín’s uncle, speaking of immigrating to the United States, “but they charge a lot, and we’re also afraid that the coyotes will abandon us in the desert.”

Efraín’s cheerful expression changes when he is asked about his recovery. He complains that he has not received rehabilitation in one year.

“I no longer go to the doctor. There is no one to help me. I want to go to Mexico City so they can see me, but nobody helps us. This piece of iron that they put in my mouth hurts me when I eat.”

The metal plate is already small for him, due to the fact that his bones are growing.

His memories of Acteal are few: “My mom is buried there. My house was locked up there, and it makes me sad, because they stole my bicycle.”

Nothing seems to have changed in the 3,650 days that have passed since the killings in this community in the heights of Chiapas.

Here, the future simply does not exist. Poverty is everywhere. And the government’s promises to tend to the most urgent needs of the indigenous people have never become reality. The carts full of resources that would arrive ten years ago, who knows where they went?

In accordance with the National Commission for the Development of Indigenous Peoples, the municipality of Chenalhó registers a very high index of marginalization. The statistic will remain there. Just like the nearly 30 collapses on the highway that connects San Juan Chamula with Chenalhó that cleanly cuts off passage. For years the highway has shown faults, and nobody bothered to repair it.

Last year, the National Commission on Indigenous Peoples announced the reconstruction of the 59.9-kilometer road. Today, the Tzotzil natives are still waiting on the repair of the only asphalt road that they have in the municipality.

The orphans and survivors of the massacre also keep hoping that government support will arrive.

During Pablo Salazar’s administration, the state government signed an agreement with the Las Abejas Civic Organization by which the authorities committed to support the victims of the massacre through education, medical assistance, housing and food.

Nothing has been accomplished.

And the wounds remain open.

--Concentrating some 60% of the national sugarcane production, São Paulo state doesn’t share the riches from the ethanol boom with its 135,000 cutters, who often live in precarious conditions

Mário Magalhães and Joel Silva

(translated from Brazilian Portuguese)

Sharply at 4:42, sugarcane worker Ilma Francisca de Souza leaves for work with her lunch box containing rice covered with sliced sausage. In Serrana, another neighborhood, even before the sun rises, Rosimira Lopes leaves for the sugarcane fields carrying rice with only one side dish: beans.

During the day, they will make use of the food, which will already be cold. Despite the noteworthy progress arising from ethanol plants with astounding technology, Brazil still does not serve hot meals to sugarcane workers.

The lunch box remains cold.

For two months, Folha investigated living and working conditions for sugarcane cutters in the state that has 60% of production in the nation which is the biggest producer on the planet.

People like Ilma and Rosimira.

In one of the steps for gathering this story, during 15 days we traveled 3,810 kilometers by car, the equivalent of nine trips between São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro. A map (see page 6) shows the location of the towns we visited.

For the first time in five centuries, since the samples of the crop were brought by Portuguese pioneers, in 2008 at least half of the sugarcane in São Paulo will not be collected by hand, but by machine. This is what the mills announced.

Just as it was at the turn between the 16^th and the 17^th centuries, when the country was the world leader in sugar production, sugarcane now offers immense opportunities to Brazil with the ethanol, for which cane is the prime material. Ethanol can be transformed into a commodity, with prices in international markets. The mills generate electrical energy.

The wealth of the ethanol industry, which must yield R$ 40 billion (R$ 25 billion) this year, didn’t reach the workers. In 1985, a sugarcane cutter in São Paulo earned R$ 32.70 per day on average (at current values). In 2007, they earned R$ 28.90. Their incomes fell, but the toughness of the work increased. In 1985, workers used to cut 5 tons of cane per day. In the current harvest, the average is 9.3 tons.

In 19 towns in the countryside of São Paulo State – at the capital, we spoke to an industry representative – the reporters sought to understand why, among nine agricultural products, sugarcane attracts the youngest workers.

It demands a great deal of physical effort: it is necessary to swing a machete 3,792 times and bend the back 3,994 times to collect 11.5 tons per day. In recent years, deaths of sugarcane workers have been associated with excessive work.

There is a case of an itinerant laborer who died weeks after collecting 16.5 tons. There is no parallel in any region to such huge profits.

On the highway, we saw rickety buses; in the fields, lacking safety equipment. We saw dwellings with no hygiene, workers who earned less than the minimum wage, communities of sugarcane cutters who depend on government food subsidies, migrants who try their luck and workers who want to get rid of the addiction to crack and other drugs.

Documents prove the existence of fraud in weighing sugarcane, hurting workers.

At the peak and decadence of the sugarcane cycle (16^th-18^th centuries), slaves worked the fields and put the mills to work. The startup of Brazil’s ethanol industry was set upon mostly by black workers.

As slaves were left out of the works of some historians, sugarcane cutters are a invisible species in the trade journals of the sugarcane industry. They show high-tech mills, but manual laborers in the countryside are hidden.

The similarity of the symbols of work today with those of pre-abolition is very impressive, when one’s traveling the world and underworld of sugarcane. An inspector in the mills is called a foreman (“feitor” in Portuguese).

Complaints about slave workers accumulate. It is a mistake to assume that accusations of degradation are far from the richest state in Brazil and limited to the “Deep Brazil”, the most remote areas.

One of them is narrated here. In São Paulo, they are found in Riberão Preto, a center of the sugarcane industry considered our “California.”

President Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva has been understating the reports about work in sugarcane farms. Last year, he said mill owners “are becoming national and world heroes because everyone has an eye in ethanol”.

The fear of retaliations is huge among sugarcane workers. No name was changed in these stories, but some people, by request, are identified only by their first names or not even that. The interviews were recorder, under consent.

Those anti-heroes are many: according to mill owners, there are 335,000 sugarcane cutters in Brazil, including the 335 thousand in São Paulo. On the state, the industry intends to abolish hand cutting by 2015, alongside with the burnings which make harvest easier.

Ilma and Rosimira are an endangered species. For half a millennium, the cutters – enslaved or hired – have lived through tough times. In the next years, it will not be different: with low qualification, they’ll have to look for other ways of survival.

All the unions see a drop in recruiting.

The sugarcane fields are not as distant as it seems: when one fills his tank with 49 liters of ethanol, he consumes one ton of cane; when he sweetens with sugar his coffee for breakfast, thousands of Brazilians are in the fields with their machetes in hand.

With production on the rise and falling wages, excessive work surrounds plantations

If money goes to money, as they say, then poverty goes to poverty – and tragedy forebids tragedy. Sought in Guariba to talk about her husband, who died after feeling ill in the sugarcane fields in 2005, Maildes de Araujo gets to talk about someone who died two weeks earlier: her brother-in-law, also a cane cutter.

José Pindobeira Santos was 65. He reaped cane until last year. "He complained of pains in the belly, of colic”, says his daughter Ivanir, a maid. He returned from the fields with pain in the groin. He never looked for treatment, and was not treated.

Pindobeira died of intestinal obstruction and bronchial aspiration. No one knows how far the toil in the farm affected his health. In the 1960s, he was already cutting cane on the outskirts of Guariba.

Maildes’ husband Antonio Lopes Ribeiro came into this world in July of 1950, three days before the supreme shame of this country’s soccer, the final of the World Cup in Rio. He migrated from Berilo (MG), a city in the extremely poor region of Vale do Jequitinhonha.

In the reporter accidents – and underreporting is considerably high –, the cleaver tore her leg and knee. Pains in right shoulder took him away from the ranch. He suffered with a headache. His efforts at work triggered cramps in his stomach, legs and arms. Suffering of Chagas disease, but he didn’t get a leave.

He worked at the Moreno mill. He collapsed on the field and was taken to the hospital. Cause of death: "chagasic uncompensated cardiopathy."

Lopes is part of a list with the names two dozen canavieiros who died in the countryside of São Paulo from 2004 to 2007 – the youngest among them aged 20. The list was prepared by the Pastoral Care for Migrants and Refugees. There are more deaths, but they haven’t been reported as deaths by exhaustion.

This list doesn’t include labor accidents – in 2005, out of each thousand workers in the cultivation of sugar cane, 48 suffered occupational accidents, according to University of São Paulo researchers Marcia Azanha Ferraz Dias de Moraes and Andrea R. Ferro.

That year, according to the Labor Ministry, 84 people died in accidents in the sugar and ethanol industry, which includes farms and industrial plants (which accounts for 3.1% of all deaths from labor accidents in Brazil). Labor prosecutors investigate the causes of death and their association with the tough nature of manual cutting.

A 2006 report by the Secretary for Inspection at the Labor Ministry lists dozens of irregularities in companies which had hired those farmers who died.

One of them is the non-compliance with an hour break for lunch. The cutters eat in 10 or 20 minutes, so they can once again wield the machete. They are paid by production. No files say the work was decisive for the deaths. It would be difficult to state that: out of the eight cases inspected by the ministry, only two had autopsies.

The report by the Secretary of Inspection says: “Sudden malaise, cardiorespiratory arrest and stroke, described in certificates as causes of death, are not sufficient to justify natural death, as the companies claim”.

There are indications about why the canavieiros die.

In 1985, São Paulo cutters reaped a daily average of 5 tons of cane. In 2008, the average is 9.3 tons – or 86% more. 23 years ago, a farmer received R$ 6.55 per tonne and R$ 32.70 per day. In 2007, cutting 1,000 kg of cane pays them R$ 3.29. Daily, they get R$ 28.90 (12% less).

Productivity went high up and the wages fell. With the mechanization of cutting and accelerated expansion of unemployment, only the most efficient stay. The man competes with the combine.

Figures for 1985 and 2007 come from the Institute for Agricultural Economics. Upgraded to August 2007 prices, they are mentioned in an article by researchers Rodolfo Hoffmann (UNICAMP) and Fabíola C. R. de Oliveira (USP).

Working since he was 13, former cane-cutting champion has, at 35, a hernia and his spine feels “locked”

 Valdecir da Silva Reis, the skinny man who consumes his days lying in bed to watch TV, was once a champion. No one had a chance near him. In the fields, he beat record upon record. 

On March 20, 2006, he cut 21 tonnes. On May 17, another 28. Eight days later, he tore 560 meters of plantation, cutting five lines of cane to be paid for only one line – that’s the law. Strictly speaking, he brought down 2.8 km of cane. 

The salary stub printed by his employer, Meia Lua, shows that day’s record: 52.47 tons. That was nearly one tonne for each kilo of his body, since he weighed 56 kg. Today, he says he weighs 49 kg. It seems to be less than that. 

The cutter who caused sighs of disbelief in his colleagues is now languishing in a house in Engenheiro Coelho city, where he lives with relatives. 

In the fields, he felt no pain. In 2006, though, his backbone "hung" and he did not return to the sugarcane field. At 35, he dreams of a day when he will return to the job where he became the hero of friends. 

As great as his will may be, he suspects he will not wield the machete again. The diagnosis shows problems in the lumbar spine, esophageal hernia and imbalances in the urinal signs. 

Valdecir complains of pain in his head, stomach, chest (he didn’t check his heart), scrotum, the right shoulder, arms, knees and legs; he complains of lacking of strength to lift a bottle of water; of feeling tired after walking 800 meters; of hearing badly in one ear. 

The left side of his chest is more developed, with his left arm, he used to throw the cane at the “leira”, the hall opened in the land where sugar cane is harvested.

Even if the human rag who speaks low and puffing about his misfortune was the creation of a masterly and ultra-realistic stanislavskian actor, not even then it would be possible to make up a story with beginning, middle and end as his story – the reporters dug into the case with basis in plenty of documents and testimonies. 

Valdecir began to cut cane at 13. His employers awarded his prowess with gifts like a bicycle and a stereo system. 

After "locking" in 2006, he received aid from Social Security. Last May 5, though, a medical evaluation considered him fit for the job and the aid was cancelled. His income now is zero. 

He lives with a daughter from his previous marriage and his wife, Helen. A maid, she earns R$ 30 per cleaning. She cleans two houses per week. 

The job for which the INSS [the Brazilian social security system] does not see "serious problem" for Valdecir to exercise "is not comparable to that of a clerk," says a mill executive. Clerical positions are announced with a workload of 30 to 40 hours a week. In a similar time frame, a cane cutter in São Paulo state works, officially, 44 hours in six days. 

Clerks and cutters have to work for 35 years to be able to retire. Most of the cutters, though, work only during the harvest: eight active months a year. They never count 12 months of contribution in a row.

The performance of some of them is so exuberant that the famous Cuban champions of cane-cutting campaigns would be considered second-rate players. In 1965, Fidel Castro awarded five of them, who cut from 14 to 19.7 tonnes in one day. At the Meia Lua mill, which formerly employed Valdecir, a cutter hit 35 tonnes on June 20. The reporters tried to talk to the company, but did not find their address and telephone number. 

The champions, as the holders of the best performances are called in the field, tend to be lean and strong. Valdecir is 1.65 m tall. 

Samuel Gomes, 38, is one of the champions in Guariba. He’s 1.85 m tall. Barack Obama is 1.86 m. The U.S. senator weighs something between 77 kg and 82 kg. Samuel, with his 68 kg, tells he has cut to 27 tonnes in a day, this year, in a plant in São Carlos. 

With so much physical demand, there are nine men (92%) per woman in Brazil's sugarcane fields. In nine relevant agricultures, the workers with lower average age are those of cane: 35.5 years, according to data compiled by researchers Rodolfo Hoffmann (UNICAMP) and Fabíola C.R. Oliveira (USP).

The company’s buses pick the cutters at home between 5 AM and 6 AM. In the field, the journey begins at 7am. Many have their "lunch" before starting the harvest. There are entitled to ten-minute intervals in the morning and evening. By 10 or 11 AM, there’s one hour for lunch – but few of the workers use all that time. The journey ends at 3 or 4 PM, but there are excesses. Workers arrive to their homes between 5 and 7 PM. They sleep by 8 or 9, to wake up between 3:30 and 4:30 AM.

An ongoing ergonomic analysis research, funded by the Fapesp (São Paulo state support to research foundation) and coordinated by researchers Rodolfo Vilela and Erivelton de Laat, describes the movements of cutters. 

One of these workers, who reaped 11.5 tons, gave 3,792 machete blows in one day and bent his backbone 3,994 times. The machete weighs 600 grams. They strike the cane at the bottom, where the saccharose concentrates. A right-hander cutter hugs the beam of about ten canes with his left arm (or, stick by stick, with his hand), then he curves up and strikes with the right arm. With the left arm, he throws the cane in the “leira”, from where a machine will pick it later. 

In one group, the average heart rate at rest was 57.4 beats per minute. At work, the rate was 112 per minute – an excessive variation, say the researchers (the difference should be limited to 35). 

The activity of the cutters is compared to that of marathoners, with tiresome repetition of moves. Maria Zeferina Bandaia, champion at the Sao Paulo Marathon in 2008, was once a cane cutter in the countryside. "One thing has a lot to do with the other," she confirms. 

Unions of employees call for the reduction of weekly workload to 40 hours, with two days of rest. Cristina Gonzaga, a researcher at Fundacentro, a research foundation at the Ministry of Labor, advocates 30 hours, with five days of six hours per week. 

The companies reject the claims. 

That is the life Valdecir fancies to live again. He hides at home. "People see us on the street and say we’re bums. They don’t see what we have inside, what we feel.

REPORT 1 OF 2. PUBLISHED NOVEMBER 17, 2007

Chad. For the first time, a group of victims manages to bring an African ex-dictator to trial

(Translated from Spanish) 

Isabel Coello, Special correspondent to N’Djamena

Clément Abaifuta prays everyday that Chadian ex-dictator Hissène Habré lives. “I tell myself that it would be a great injustice if God allowed Habré to die before being tried.” Clément Abaifuta remembers perfectly the date of his detention and that of his release: “On July 12, 1985, they arrested me. My crime was having obtained a scholarship to study abroad. I was released on March 3, 1989.” And he remembers every detail of his captivity. “50 of us lived in 16 square meters at a temperature of 50 degrees, and we did our business there inside. I was in charge of burying my prison mates who died in custody; I buried thousands in mass graves, between seven and ten each day.” Today, Clément Abaifuta leads the Chadian Association of Victims of Political Repression, an organization that brings together 2,000 victims of the dictatorship of Hissène Habré and has achieved something unheard of in Africa: managing to get a trial against the Chadian ex-president to be prepared.

Habré ruled Chad by force between 1982 and 1990, when he was overthrown by the current president Iddris Déby. The dictator fled to Senegal, where has lived in exile ever since. A Truth Commission created after his escape accused Habré of 40,000 political killings and of systematically practicing torture.

In all likelihood, Habré counted on enjoying the same placid existence in Senegal that many African tyrants have lived after their escape abroad: Ugandan Idi Amin wanted for nothing during his exile in Saudi Arabia, where he died in 2003, and Ethiopian Mengistu Haile Mariam still lives comfortably in Zimbabwe.

The fact of the matter is that, unknowingly, Judge Garzón, calling for the extradition of Chilean Augusto Pinochet from the United Kingdom in 1998, ruined the plans of the Chadian dictator.

“When Judge Garzón requested Pinochet’s extradition, human rights organizations considered it an admonishment to many of the world’s tyrants that they could see what could one day happen to them. In reality, the Pinochet case actually meant a real wake-up call for victims associations, which realized that they could use international law to prosecute people who seemed to be beyond the reach of Justice,” explains Reed Brody, of the Human Rights Watch organization (HRW).

“Our lawsuit was inspired by the Pinochet case,” Jacqueline Moudeina, the attorney of the Chadian victims, admits with pride. With support from the HRW and the International Federation for Human Rights, 17 victims filed suit in January of 2000 in a Senegal court. They based themselves on the Convention against Torture, ratified by the country, which binds the signatories to prosecute any torturer in their territory.

So began the long struggle to bring to trial one of the Africa’s lesser known tyrants, but whose regime killed at least 1,208 people in jail and abused another 12,000, as shown by the 2,000 recently discovered files of the Documentation and Security Directorate, the secret police created by Habré.

Senegalese Justice got out of the way, and in March of 2001, the Court of Appeals confirmed that the courts of that country did not have jurisdiction over the crimes of which Habré was accused because the Convention against Torture had not been incorporated in domestic legislation.

The victims did not give up. “We went to Belgium and, using the universal jurisdiction law, which was in effect in the country at that time, we filed the lawsuit there.” There were already 20 plaintiffs, and three of them Belgian nationals of Chadian origin.

Belgian judge Francois Fransen investigated the matter for five years, travelled to Chad, visited mass graves and interviewed victims of all kinds. In 2005, he accused Habré of crimes against humanity and other abuses of human rights and asked Senegal to extradite him to Belgium to be tried.

Senegal arrested him, but its Justice ruled again that it wasn’t “competent” to rule on the request for extradition, and this time it passed the ball to the African Union (AU), asking it to decide which jurisdiction should try the case.

After appointing a committee of experts to analyze the mater, the General Assembly of the AU ordered Senegal to try Habré in its territory, after making the appropriate amendments to its national laws.

“That decision was already a milestone: that an assembly on which notorious tyrants like the president of Zimbabwe or the president of Sudan are seated would order Habré to be tried, knowing very well that one day it could be their turn,” remarks Brody.

Since then, Senegal has been preparing for the trial. It has changed its law, eliminated the jury, introduced the crimes against humanity and the possibility of appealing, in order to ensure that Habré has a fair trial. A mission from the European Union must soon travel to the country to study what the trial will cost and what financial aid it can give.

The Spanish Minister of Foreign Affairs, Miguel Ángel Moratinos, has shown in a letter “the full support of the Spanish Government for Habré’s trial,” a process that he deems “of great importance for the strengthening of the Rechtsstaat, the fight against impunity and the defense of human rights in Africa.”

If Habré comes to be seated on the bench, it will be the first time that the national courts of a developing country prosecute mass abuses against human rights. And unlike the case of other African dictators, like the Liberian ex-president Charles Taylor, who is being tried by the International Court of Sierra Leone, the victims themselves will have been the ones who have brought him to answer for his actions.

“The regime considered the victims to be subhuman. In order for them to regain their dignity, justice must be served,” says attorney Jacqueline Moudeina. She knows very well that there are many people who do not want to see Habré tried: in 2001, she suffered an attack that severely injured one of her legs. “Many people who were in positions of responsibility with Habré continue to be in power today,” Moudeina indicates.

But since she became an attorney, she wanted to lead this case and does not plan on abandoning ship. “Impunity makes the State disappear. Trying Habré would be showing that you can’t violate and kill as though it were nothing,” she insists.

Before the trial begins, Senegal will have to do its own investigation, whereby the process may easily be delayed another year.

“The problem is that time goes by and many victims are dying. If we wait much longer, I wonder how many victims will remain alive when the trial begins,” laments Abaifuta.

For many like him, the wounds of torture are far from having healed. “I saw Habré again in Senegal during his extradition sessions. I cried like a boy,” he recalls. “Only on the day I see him on the stand will I be completely healed.”

IN FIRST PERSON

Ginette Ndjarbaye

43 years old. Detained when she was two months pregnant, she was tortured and gave birth in prison

I was engaged in 1985. It was my fiancé who convinced me to study professional training, and I came to the capital to do secretarial work.

On January 16, they detained me. I was at home resting when they came looking for me. I was two months pregnant. I did not have any link with politics. They told me that they were taking me to the Documentation and Security Directorate to ask me a few questions, that it was not “anything serious.” When I arrived, I went in a room where there was a man. His shirt was covered in bloodstains. I asked him what I was being charged with. He told me that he was accusing me of having met with members of the opposition in Cameroon. I had only been to Cameroon once in my life, and it had only been to the market.

They brought me to a room full of instruments of torture. They tortured me for eight nights. Especially with electric shock. I still have the marks, like this one on my chest. They also raped me. I think it was three times, but I am not sure, because I lost consciousness, but when I awoke, I had semen on my underwear.

Then they transferred me to the prison. My daughter Annie was born there in September of ’86. I gave birth on the floor, helped by a woman. They released me on February 10, 1987. When he found out about my release, my fiancé came to see me. He told me that he had looked for me everywhere and thought that I had died. He had married another woman. I married another man, with whom I had another two children.

To this day, no one has ever told me why they detained me. 20 years have gone by, but I have not forgotten. It is unforgettable. It is not normal to arrest people at will; there is no justice in this country. Our fight is to get Habré to answer for his actions. What he did is inhumane. In the neighborhood, I still pass by the one who came to detain me; he looks the other way. Not the torturer, however; he died years ago. We want justice. Without justice, there is no forgiveness. I cannot forgive until they explain to me why they detained me. My hope is to see him tried.

Younous Mahadjir

55 years old. Accused of belong to a rebel group, he spent four months in prison, where he lost 30 kilos.

They arrested me on August 17, 1990. I was 30 years old, married with three children. I was a radiology technician. Two policemen came looking for me at the hospital.

I was a unionist, from the center of the country, where there was a rebellion against authority. They accused me of collusion with the rebellion and of preparing a conspiracy. I went to prison. They tortured me there. At night, they tied me up to ask me who my accomplices were. They put the wheel of a car on my stomach and make me drink water until I lost consciousness, while I was peeing myself all over the room. When you woke up, they would begin again. It continued like this until you confessed to being a member of the rebellion. I never did so, because I wasn’t. They tortured me this way twice.

Life in the cell was very hard; there were many people and it was very hot. I had no contact with my family. And we were dying of hunger. My dreams in jail were images in which I saw myself eating. Upon leaving, on December 1, 1990, when Habré fled, I weight 45 kilos; I had lost 30. I always thought that I should resist. I was convinced that the horror would end one day. The physical suffering goes away, but the mental damage…I will never forgive it.

The process for trying Habré is getting very long, and we are losing hope. We believe that the current Chadian system does not want him to be tried. It is hard to see the people responsible back then still in positions of command today. Habré’s accomplices remain in Chad. They are useful for the system. Meanwhile, no one is concerned for the victims. Last year one of the prisoners died who they ordered to make holes where they threw the people that they killed. He died of a mild liver ailment that is curable, but he did not have the means. In this process, I believe that, with our determination, we will win. For the health of Chad, for it to be greater as a country, it must be achieved. I am convinced that it will happen. But it must be done while Habré lives. The more time that goes by, the more likely it will be to say that he is ill or mentally incapable.

Kongarde Hawa

40 years old. Lost his father and brother. They were of the Hadjarai ethnicity, among the most persecuted by the regime

The military came at night. Several vehicles parked at the door of the house. It must have been in 1985; I do not remember it well. A civilian man came in the house. He said that he wanted to see Mamat, my little brother. He did not give us any explanation as to why they were looking for him. My brother was a student; he was twenty-something years old. That day he had gone to the hospital to see some people who were ill, and he was on his return from the hospital when they came for him. They took him away. I never saw him again.

During that time, when they came looking for my brother, my father was already arrested. He was military and died in prison. We know this because when Hissène was overthrown and fled the country, all those who were in jail and did not return home were considered dead, and my father did not return. He had been detained during the Hadjarai massacres; there were collective detainments. During the time of Habré, there were many deaths of that ethnicity, and many members of the association of victims of repression are Hadjarai.

I do not have the slightest hope of finding the bodies of my father and my brother. Later, the Documentation and Security Directorate (DSD, secret police of the dictatorship) published a few lists of people who had died, and my brother was on one of these, but they never told us where his body was. For us, it is difficult not to have been able to find them and give them a proper burial. We think of them every day. When I am eating, when I am walking, I think of them.

If they try Habré, it will provide us with a certain amount of relief. I want him to suffer like he has made our loved ones suffer. I would like to look him in the eyes and torture him. I would like them to crucify him the same way they crucified Jesus Christ. I am very pleased with the trial that is being prepared in Senegal. It is what I want. For him to be tried.

Chad is different today. My children move about the city and nobody bothers them. I do not think that something similar to what happened during the time of Habré could happen again today.

Abakar Ousman

37 years old. Recruited to the force by armed group opposed to Habré, he was a prisoner of war

I was arrested in 1983 as a prisoner of war, since I was a combatant of the FAP, one of the armed groups that had fought against Habré since 1979 in the north of the country. They had recruited us by force. I did not want to fight, because I am a believer and I know that killing is not right, but they forced us. There were more than 1,000 of us prisoners of war, and more than 150 were executed. They came one day and took away two or three that we never saw again.

The conditions of imprisonment were very harsh. We were beaten, interrogated and tortured, but the worst of it all was the hunger. Fifty-two prisoners died of hunger before us all. We ate the leaves of the trees. The International Committee of the Red Cross came to inspect the prison. After that visit, the situation improved. It is thanks to them and to God that I am alive today.

I was released by an agreement that Habré signed with the FAP in 1989. Many joined his army; I returned home and survived with something of a business. When I left, I was in very poor condition. I had lost my sight, and they had applied torture to my testicles. I do not even know how long the interrogations last. When you are suffering, you do not count the time. If they were happy with your answers, they left you alone; if not, they continued.

Today I live with normalcy, but I have friends that suffer and are in poor mental condition. Even so, I think about what happened every day. I want the trial to come. I do not mind making a statement as a witness. I am not afraid. Afraid of what? If God saved us from that, there is nothing to fear. I want to stand before Habré and hear what he says. I want to hear his reasons why he did what he did. That would relieve us. I would like them to sentence him to death like they did to Saddam Hussein, but if that does not happen, I will be satisfied with the fact that they tried him. We will continue with this process until the end. Justice is peace. Where there is justice, there is peace. Unfortunately, today in Chad there is impunity, even though it is in a more hidden form.

REPORT 2 OF 2. PUBLISHED JULY 27, 2008

Two years after the African Union ordered the country to prosecute Hissène Habré, almost no progress has been made

ISABEL COELLO, special correspondent - DAKAR

“I spent six months in a cell jam-packed with more than a hundred people. We lived among our own excrement, which was piled up in a corner. The heat was unbearable. Two or three people died each day.” Senegalese Abdourahmane Gueye never thought he would see the man who caused his suffering seated on a court bench.

 Abdourahmane Gueye, Senegalese victim of Chadian ex-dictator Hissène Habré, trusts that he will ultimately be tried.

62 years old, married with six children, this merchant is one of the two Senegalese victims who, 20 years ago, was detained without charges by the regime then in power in Chad. In command was a man named Hissène Habré. When he was deposed in 1990, Habré fled to Senegal, where he has lived placidly ever since.

“I was detained when I crossed from the Central African Republic to Chad. I was going to sell jewels to French soldiers who were stationed in Chad. They detained my friend and companion Demba along with me. I never saw him alive again,” Gueye recounts.

Gueye was lucky, and mediation from former Senegalese president Abdou Diouf led to his release. Thousands of Chadians, however, suffered torture and inhumane treatment in the prisons of Habré. Abandoned documents from the former Security Directorate and discovered by the Human Rights Watch organization (HRW) confirm the death of 1,208 people in prison. A Truth and Reconciliation Commission estimated the number of political killings at 40,000.

Today Gueye has the chance to dream of seeing his torturer appear before a court, a privilege that the majority of victims of abuses inflicted by African dictators have not had. Gueye forms part of the group of victims who have filed suit against Hissène Habré and, after a six-year struggle, got the African Union to demand that Senegal prosecute him in 2006. That was two years ago, however, and Dakar is not moving to prepare the trial at the speed that the victims would like.

“We are not at all satisfied. There is a lot of political grandstanding and few specific actions. Meanwhile, there are victims of Habré who die every day without seeing justice served,” Demba Ciré Bathily, the victims’ attorney, tells Público.

“We do not understand how it takes three years to carry out a minimal legal reform,” he says in reference to the Constitutional amendment, finally approved last Wednesday, to allow Senegalese courts to prosecute crimes against humanity committed in the past.

“We are wondering if Senegal has the political will to try him or if it is toying with the international community. Our impression is that they are stalling for time. In fact, in Habré’s camp, they do not believe there will ever be a trial,” Bathily complains.

“Senegal has perfected the art of delaying this case,” states Alioune Tine, of the African Assembly for the Defense of Human Rights. “This case is a test for African justice. Africa cannot complain that international justice is being baited with African leaders while it allows Habré’s case to languish in Senegal.”

If Habré is ever tried, it would be the first time that a lawsuit filed by African victims sees a dictator seated on the bench. Attorney Bathily insists on the importance of this process: “Africa has never fought against impunity. It is the only continent where dictators have escaped punishment and enjoyed a luxurious retirement, with the sole exception of the ex-president of Liberia, Charles Taylor [currently on trial before the International Criminal Court for Sierra Leone],” the attorney explains. “Therefore, this case would send a strong message to the world that Africa wants to put an end to impunity,” Bathily remarks.

“For two years, the process has moved very slowly,” agrees Reed Brody, of the HRW. “The Government inflated the budget for the trial: it asked for 66 million euros, when we estimate that it may cost 28 million,” Brody explains. A team from the European Union that visited Senegal last January to evaluate the financial needs stemming from the trial for the purpose of disbursing economic aid, asked Senegal to redo the budget.

“We remain cautious,” says Stéphanie Masure, in charge of the matter in the Delegation of the European Commission in Dakar. “In one way or another, we will support the efforts to try Habré, but we need to know what it is that we can or cannot support. Right now, the conditions for us to be able to request financial aid are not met,” she explains.

With the approval of the constitutional amendment last Wednesday, any obstacle to trying Habré has been eliminated. Now, at least, preliminary proceedings on the case may begin. However, at least another year may pass before this is completed and gives way to the hearing. There are other troublesome factors. The current Senegalese minister of Justice, Madické Niang, is Habré’s former attorney.

“The documents are there. The evidence is there,” Brody notes. “Delaying justice,” he concludes, “is to deny justice.”