The issue of reparations to the victims of the internal armed conflict is one that I have been meaning to write about for a while, being transversal to many of the themes that are part of my daily orbit here in Lima: memory, justice, reconciliation, development. Following my last trip to Ayacucho and a recent decree promulgated by the Peruvian Supreme Court, I feel now is an appropriate time to tackle the issue. A word of warning, though:  since I have done a fair bit of reading on this topic lately, this post is a bit lengthy, and has a more academic bend. You will have to forgive me just this once!

In 2003, the final report of the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission recommended the creation of an Integral Plan of Reparations as part of a state policy that would allow for the material, moral, mental and physical recuperation of the victims of the armed conflict and restore their rights.

The necessity of reparations in post-conflict situations is widely accepted, as states have a legal duty to acknowledge and address widespread or systematic human rights violations, in cases where the state caused the violations or did not seriously try to prevent them (for instance, the UN’s Basic Principles and Guidelines on the Right to a Remedy and Reparation explicitly recognize reparations as a right). But above and beyond a legalistic perspective, it is also nearly undisputed that reparations are a necessary condition in the process of reconciliation.

Local women in Huamanquiquia

As part of the transitional justice process, reparations should serve a double purpose. The first is to recognize the harms suffered by the victims, and publicly affirm that victims are right-holders entitled to redress. The second goal is to provide actual benefits to the victims, whether in symbolic or material forms, providing the conditions for future relationships based on the mutual recognition of the equality and dignity of all.

In theory, then, reparations should both compensate for the losses suffered, helping to overcome the consequences of the violence; and be future-oriented, helping to eradicate the underlying causes of the violence and victimization. In a country like Peru, where historical marginalization, discrimination and injustices against Andean and native populations preceded and in a certain sense gave rise to the internal conflict and the massive violations of human rights that came along with it, the second goal is particularly important.

What it implies, however, is not always well understood. To begin, it implies that a transitional justice restoring the victim to the original situation before the gross violations of human rights occurred can hardly be called justice, when the original situation included blatant violations of economic, social and cultural rights. Thus, it also implies moving away from the notion of retributive justice and towards distributive and transformative justice. As stated in this briefing paper by the International Center for Transitional Justice—ICTJ: “When the causes and consequences of poverty are not seen as directly relevant to transitional justice, reparations programs … may only lead to frustration and resentment.”

Local woman in Huamanquiquia waiting for her RUV certificate

But back to the Peruvian case. The Toledo government realized important advances in the implementation of an Integral Plan of Reparations, as proposed by the Truth Commission. It promulgated a plan and the laws to regulate it, created a multi-sectorial commission to coordinate and monitor its implementation, and formed a Council of Reparations in charge of defining the beneficiaries and policies of reparation. The Program of Economic Reparations is a component of the Integral Plan of Reparations, along with other measures such as reparations in the areas of health, education, access to housing, etc.

Contrary to its predecessor, the outgoing government of Alan García has advanced little on the agenda of reparations. The only reparation program that has seen any substantial progress has been the program for collective reparations. To date, this program had benefited 1,672 communities affected by the violence.

While collective reparations do represent an expression of recognition of the state’s responsibility as well as an effort by the state to fulfill its obligation to compensate the victims of the internal armed conflict, successive evaluations of the implementation of the program by APRODEH and the ICTJ (the second and third evaluations are available online) found serious limitations to their reparative effect. They showed that, in practice, collective reparations were used as a way of compensating for the lack of basic services and infrastructure in the population, and were often not understood those affected as related to their status as victims of the internal conflict.

Local women in Huamanquiquia sharing their concerns over the RUV with Renzo

Collective reparations project are decided upon through participatory consultations with the affected communities. Given the depth and breadth of unmet basic needs in those communities, the chosen project are most often infrastructural in nature. In this context, the link between the harms suffered from the violence by the community and the chosen projects is not always clear. The communities simply do not have the luxury of identifying the project of reparation most symbolically appropriate to acknowledge and make up for the damage suffered; their immediate development needs and priorities win over.

Collective reparations, in these cases, rather than representing the implementation of a right that dignifies the victims, end up being mere attempts at satisfying a necessity. But the problem runs even deeper: by acting as substitutes for basic services that the state should be providing anyway, they negate the dignity and the rights of the population to these services.  Needless to say, the opportunity to restore the status of full-rights bearing citizens to the affected individuals is lost in the process.

As opposed to the Program for Collective Reparations, the process of individual reparations (which is what many of those affected are waiting for – see for example Karin Orr’s video “Request for Reparations in Putis”) has precariously moved along, dogged by a lengthy and bureaucratic process of registering the victims into the Registro Único de Víctimas—RUV, budget cuts, and  likely a lack of political will.

EPAF staff handing out certifications of registration to the RUV

On June 16, 2011, while I was away in Ayacucho, Decree N° 051-2011-PCM on individual economic reparations was promulgated by the Supreme Court. The Decree establishes the amount to be granted to victims on the armed conflict that have been duly registered on the RUV and sets a conclusion date to the process of inscription onto the RUV. Given its contents, it was immediately and unequivocally rejected by organizations of people affected by the violence and defenders of human rights (a press conference held by various NGOs demanded the derogation of the Decree; also read EPAF’s official position on the matter).

The Decree states that on December 31^st, 2011, the process of determination and identification of the beneficiaries of individual reparations will close. However, given the complexity of the process, the high number of victims that still have not been registered to the RUV, and the isolated location of many of those affected, it is difficult to justify such a closing date. During our last trip to Ayacucho, EPAF exceptionally accepted to distribute certifications of registration to the RUV on behalf of the Council of Reparations in the communities we visited. In the process, it became obvious how much confusion, misunderstandings, and expectations there are about what the RUV is, who can register, how to register, etc. It is, to put it simply, absolutely impossible for all of those eligible for reparations to be registered to the RUV by December 31^st, 2011.

The amount of 10.000 soles per victim offered is another major cause for concern, as it demonstrates a not only a disregard for international principles and standards on reparation, but also for the suggestions made by the affected regarding what may be an acceptable amount. Yet another contentious aspect of the recent Decree is that to be currently eligible, affected relatives of victims of enforced disappearance or execution must be over 80 years old, and victims of sexual violations must be over 65 years old—the latter being rather ironic, given the fact that victims of sexual violation were almost always young women, who would not have reached 65 years old today.

Lady posing with her certificate of registration to the RUV

What does all of this say about the commitment of the current administration to justice and the dignity of the victims of the armed conflict? It is a vicious circle of victimization; a violation of the right of victims to receive reparation for previous violations of their rights.

As I mentioned in my last post, seeing the difficult conditions in which individuals affected by Peru’s internal conflict continue to live, and becoming aware of the linkages they themselves see between their experience of the violence and their conditions of poverty and exclusion, has made me reflect lately on the concept of justice. Justice undoubtedly involves compensation for the harms suffered.

But what might constitute appropriate compensation? The reality I am witnessing in communities like Huamanquiquia, Sacsamarca, Hualla and Putis, is that long-standing cultural, economic and social conditions, combined with weak public policies that at times could be mistaken for virtual absence of the state, continue to violate the basic rights of the population.  In this context, it is difficult to see how a reparation program limited to the one-off construction of an infrastructural project or individual monetary compensation that may or may not come depending on such arbitrary factors as one’s age may restore the dignity of victims and their status as full-rights bearing citizens.

I highly doubt that the legacy of the armed conflict is a debt that can be settled by any specific action or measure; it requires the affirmation and recognition of the dignity and rights of the victims on a continual basis. The Truth Commission understood this when it proposed an Integrated Plan that would provide for simultaneous measures in health, education, housing, etc. Unfortunately, this plan was only partially implemented by the successive governments. The coming change of government presents an excellent opportunity to revisit the policy on reparations, and hopefully follow more closely the recommendations of the Truth Commission on this matter.

In my view, the only acceptable reparation to the victims would not only compensate for the violence suffered, but also allow victims to overcome the consequences of their historical marginalization. By empowering them to take control of their own future and providing them with adequate conditions for the full exercise of their citizenship, it would establish equal relations among all Peruvians.

From this perspective, it is difficult to see where reparation as such ends, and where “development” begins. A program designed to correct the consequences of historical marginalization could include the implementation of preferential measures in the areas of education, agriculture and productive development, housing, health, etc. But if reparation is to take these forms, the way and context in which it is provided  is key to deliver the message that society acknowledges and values the dignity of the victims, and to differentiate reparation from social or development policies, making it clear to the population exactly what they are being compensated for.

Huamanquiquia, Sacsamarca and Hualla. These are the names of the three communities of the Pampas-Qaracha region of Ayacucho that I visited that week, along with EPAF staff and a delegation of Canadian professors from the University of Northern British Columbia. In prevision of a future collaboration between UNBC and EPAF, the professors were there to learn about the history of the armed conflict in the region, as well as obtain a better understanding of the current post-conflict situation in the different communities.

Musical performers in Huamanquiquia

Despite the long hours of driving separating them, and their distinctive clothing and musical styles, Huamanquiquia, Sacsamarca and Hualla have a lot in common. In fact, like the majority of conflict-affected communities in Peru—many of which are to be found in this region as it was the main location of the confrontation between the Shining Path, the Peruvian Armed Forces, and self-defence groups—they share similarities that far outweigh their differences.

Huamanquiquia locals

The three communities are part of an on-going  EPAF project to empower the relatives of the disappeared to become the main promoters of the search for their loved ones, through the recuperation of memory, psychosocial counselling, and support and juridical assistance in the organization of associations of victims’ relatives. One of the main reasons for our visit was to sign agreements with local authorities to formalize the collaboration between EPAF each of the communities.

Sunset in Sacsamarca

As I am becoming more immersed in this work and the more of these communities I visit, certain patterns are becoming hard to miss. This time around, I was particularly struck by two elements that came up again and again, whether in official speeches and discussions or in conversations with local people. First was how much people were moved by the interest showed by outsiders—whether they EPAF staff or visiting Canadian professors—in learning about their stories.

Sacsamarca locals

These are remote, extremely isolated communities that were deeply wounded by the internal conflict, and they have had to live with the weight of their memories ever since. The overwhelming impression I got was that communities feeling abandoned—abandoned by the State, and abandoned by a Peruvian society that cares little about the horrors that took place in this part of the country during the 1980s and 1990s. But also of people feeling trapped with their memories, their suffering and their wounds—and being thankful for any kind of outlet. Memory can be a burden as much as a liberation, and I have a feeling that some level of external recognition is crucial in the transition from one to the other.

Huamanquiquia locals and EPAF

The second thread that seemed to crop up again and again was that of the various linkages between the history of violence and the present difficulties in the communities. Local people clearly understand their present as the logical continuation of the past, and many associate their current state of poverty as the consequence of the violence suffered in the 1980s and 1990s. For instance, people in Hualla repeatedly emphasized the progress achieved by the community before the conflict.  When violence came, it was reduced to a fraction of its population when the majority had to flee to cities—Huamanga, Ica, Lima—to preserve their lives.

Woman watching EPAF staff at work

The fact that people themselves associate what I would broadly call “development” issues with their memories and lived experiences of the violence has many possible implications, which I will be sure to take up in future posts. For now, I will focus on one:  the limits of memory and the true meaning of justice. What does justice mean for the relatives of victims of enforced disappearance? Surely, establishing the truth over what happened and recuperating the remains of their deceased loved ones is a step in the right direction.

Members of AFAVIPOSS

But what happens after the truth has been established, after the dead have been returned and properly buried? The collective memory of what happened may live on, but the people directly affected by the violence still remain as poor and marginalized from society, preventing any real possibility of a full reconciliation. This directly feeds into questions over reparations for the violence and losses suffered. What sort of reparation is appropriate in such cases? What is the responsibility of the government in this matter? I will address this issue in my next post, as I believe it is quite fitting with what I have witnessed on this recent trip, but also with recent events in Peru.

Welcome to Sacsamarca

Before ending this post, I need to mention the incredible way we were welcomed in Huamanquiquia, Sacsamarca and Hualla. EPAF has managed to build a relationship of trust and respect with these communities, and this was evidenced by the extremely warm welcome we received. It is difficult to express the emotion felt after hours spent travelling on hair-raising roads to find an entire community waiting in the middle of the road to welcome your group with banners, music, and flowers. The hospitality of the people was truly humbling, and left many of us without the words to express our gratitude.

Post-ceremony group shot in Huamanquiquia

There would be much more for me to say about this trip to Ayacucho, but in the interest of keeping this post short I will simply say: “Tupananchikkama, Ayacucho!” (Quechua for see you soon, Ayacucho!)

Group pose at the highest pass of the trip

The rest of my photos of Ayacucho are available on my Flickr set.

This post is going to be a very short one, as things have been rather hectic these last few days. I came back from a wonderful, week-long trip to the Pampa-Qaracha region of Ayacucho on Tuesday, and will be writing a full report once I have had time to process all of the material that I collected.

In the meantime, since I have not posted in a while, I would like to share a short video that I filmed in one of the violence-affected communities that I had a chance to visit on this trip, Sacsamarca. It captures a moment that moved many of those of us who were present to the brink of tears, when three ladies from the Association of Relatives Affected by the Political Violence sang a traditional song entitled “Coca Quintu”. I have no doubt that much of the meaning and beauty of the song gets lost in translation (from Quechua to Spanish, then to English), but here is a rough translation of the fragments that the ladies Sacsamarca sang for us:

COCA QUINTU
Coca quintucha, hoja redonda
Coca quintucha, hoja redonda
Qamsi yachanki ñoqap vidayta
Patacruz patapi waqallasqayta;
Qamsi yachanki ñuqap surtiyta
Challwamayupi llakillasqayta.

Panteón punkucha, fierro rejillas
Panteón punkucha, fierro rejillas,
Punkuchaykita kichaykullaway
Kuyasqay yanaywan tinkuy kunaypaq,
Punkuchaykita kichay kullaway
Wayllusqay yanaywan tupay kunaypaq.

Rough translation:

COCA QUINTU
Little round coca leaf
Little round coca leaf
You know my life
How much I have cried in Patacruz
You know my fortune
How much I have suffered in Challwamayu
How much I have cried in Patacruz

Iron-gated cemetery
Iron-gated cemetery
Open your doors for me
So I can reunite with my husband
Open your doors for me
So I can reunite with my husband
So I can converse with my husband

Renzo, a historian that works in the memory area of EPAF and who travelled with us on this trip, explained to me that coca quintu are small and round “baby” coca leaves. In the Andes, the coca quintu are sacred, and it is believed that they can tell the future. For example, people will ask the coca quintu to tell them whether they will be in good health in the future, or to indicate whether something that has been lost will be found again. In this emotional rendition of the song, which the ladies adapted to include the names of nearby places, a woman is asking the coca quintu to indicate the whereabouts of her missing husband so she can meet and converse with him again. My thanks to Renzo for transcribing the song in Quechua and translating it to Spanish.

I am of the opinion that a disaster of tremendous proportions was avoided last Sunday when Ollanta Humala, a nationalist former military officer, defeated Keiko Fujimori in the second round of Peru’s presidential election. To me, a victory by Fujimori would have represented the vindication of Alberto Fujimori’s decade-long government and of the inexcusable human rights violations that took place during the latter; a clear case of impunity trumping memory and a cruel disregard for the dignity of the victims and families of victims of abuses committed.

My position, and that of many human rights activists here in Lima, however, is not synonymous with an uncritical support and acceptance of Ollanta Humala. As I have mentioned in a previous post, the future president has a questionable human rights record, having battled claims that he tortured civilians as a counterinsurgency officer in the early 1990s. His closing statement in the presidential debate, during which he asserted that regarding him there were only doubts, but regarding the Fujimoristas there were proven facts, was not quite as reassuring as it was intended to be.

Everyone here is anxiously waiting to see what direction the new government will take on human rights. Specifically, what will be its policy on the judicialization of human rights abuses committed during the internal war; on reparations for the victims and families of victims of the conflict; on the exhumation and forensic investigation of the more than 4,000 mass graves scattered throughout the country; on the fostering of a collective memory of the conflict? Each is an important dimension of the issue Peru’s disappeared.

Most would agree that the performance of the outgoing administration of Alan García on these issues has been disappointing to say the least. The 2008 annual report of the Coordinadora Nacional de Derechos Humanos (CNDDHH) denounced the administration’s distancing from and failure to apply many of the recommendations of the Truth and Reconciliation Commision, in addition to its passive attitude on the promotion of policies such as the National Plan of Human Rights and the Integral Reparation Plan.

Many consider that the García regime has been guided by a narrow understanding of development in which it is equated to economic growth largely based on the performance of extractive industries. They argue that this has resulted in a scenario in which human rights have been placed second, as evidenced in cases of conflict between local populations and extractive projects (the 2009 events in Bagua being an emblematic case, and protests in Puno a more recent one).

As we look to the future, there is cause for vigilance. Illustrative of the uncertain future of human rights, memory and justice in Peru are comments uttered on May 30 by Omar Chehade, who will be Second Vice-President under Ollanta Humala. While discussing the Madre Mía case—the very case for which Ollanta Humala has been suspected of having committed human rights violations—in an interview on the program “Prensa Libre,” he maintained that the victims were still terrorists and that they could well be alive and continuing their terrorist activities. Such accusations showed a clear lack of respect and sensitivity for the families of the victims of enforced disappearance, and an insult to the memory of the disappeared.

Although Chehade later publicly retracted his assertions in a letter to the CNDDHH and made a public apology to the memory of the victims of the case Madre Mía and their families, the incident is still a clear indication of the battle between impunity and memory that is currently being waged in Peru.

Now, more than ever, is a time for Peruvian civil society to be on its toes.

At last, I have found some time to put together a short video of the footage I filmed while in Putis. As I am going back to Ayacucho next week, expect more in the near future!

Today, armed with my faithful camera, I set out to capture the essence of the contentious battle between Keiko Fujimori and Ollanta Humala, to be decided tomorrow in the second round of Peru’s presidential election. This is what I found:

Propaganda and counter-propaganda

Flyer against Keiko Fujimori

Anti-Keiko sentiment in graffiti

Anti-Humala graffiti

Old lady and Keiko propaganda

Graffiti modified by a Keiko supporter

Boy and propaganda

Ollanta graffiti

Vandalized Fujimori propaganda

Propaganda and counter-propaganda

Derogatory sticker on a lamp post

Billboard featuring a magazine cover

Ollanta posters

On the way back from Putis, we hit a rock and the car went flying, bursting a tire as it landed—on the road, thankfully, as the precipice was unnervingly close. Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. If you couldn’t change the tire yourself, you’d call the CAA, a tow truck, a parent or a friend, who could come to the rescue. If all else failed, you might rely on the goodwill of a passer-by. Except that on the road to Putis, there is no phone signal, no passers-by at that time, and the walk to the nearest village with a phone would be at least 10 hours. To make matters worse, the road is known for violent assaults; not an ideal place to find oneself in after dark.

As Carlos, Erick, Nelson and Jesús, the EPAF staff I shared the car with, one after the other engaged in a battle of wills with inadequate tools and bolts that would not budge, I found myself thinking that the very isolation and marginalization that now made us vulnerable were also responsible for the vulnerability of countless communities in Peru during the internal war, and the cause of much of the suffering that ensued.

Putis landscape

Of every 4 victims of Peru’s internal war, 3 were rural, indigenous, and Quechua-speaking. The position of exclusion of the majority of rural indigenous communities in Peru exposed them to the violence wrought on not only by the Shining Path, but as exemplified by Putis, also by the brutal and mistaken response of state forces in their efforts to crush the insurgency. Moreover, it is this exclusion that permitted the horrors occurring in the countryside—particularly in the 1980s—to go largely unnoticed in Lima, the social and economic heart of the country. The victims were, for all intents and purposes, less than full citizens; little uproar was caused by the violation of their most fundamental rights.

Where does that leave us, now that the conflict has officially been over for more than 10 years? The sad reality is that the exclusion continues, whether through the very real discrimination embedded in Peruvian society, or though the constant and mechanical reproduction of the conditions of marginalization and poverty facing rural indigenous communities, to say nothing of the sequels of the conflict itself. The exclusion continues, and it continues to impede the capacity of victims of violence and their families to have their voices heard and claim their rights. From my perspective in Lima, to say that the troubles affecting poor Quechua-speaking peasants is not part of the national psyche seems like a gross understatement.

Putis mother and baby

In this context, I can’t help but wonder about concepts such as post-conflict reconstruction, post-conflict reconciliation, etc. These concepts seem to imply the return to an original, desirable, situation yet I don’t think anyone would argue there is an original, desirable situation to return to in this case. And this is where memory comes into play. Memory of the mistakes made, memory of the lives lost; memory from which to learn lessons and move forward, not backward to the pre-conflict status quo.

EPAF believes that the way forward is the transition from victims to rights-bearing citizens through the full realization of civil, political, economic, social and cultural rights. The Paradero Esperanza initiative conducted in Putis lies squarely within this line of thought. The idea is to create a seed bank of native potatoes, with the objective of helping Putisinos develop a larger, better, and more varied production that can be inserted in regional and national markets. Socioeconomic empowerment can act as a form of reparation for the suffering occurred during the conflict—particularly in the absence of a process of integral reparation on the part of the State—and, it is hoped, prevent future eruptions of violence by eradicating the historical conditions that led to its emergence.

Putisinos harvesting potatoes

In 1984, the Peruvian military offered Putis as a safe haven for the inhabitants of nearby communities fleeing the Shining Path rebels. Villagers of all ages were convinced to dig a fish pond, only to be rounded up, executed, and buried in said “pond” on suspicion of having ties to the guerrillas. The families of the victims had to wait for more than 20 years before the mass grave was exhumed, allowing them to identify the remains and bury their dead in dignity. Today, the inhabitants of Putis continue to live in the same conditions of cultural, social, economic, and political marginalization that made it easy for both terrorists and State forces to violate their most fundamental rights.

If you are moved by the story of Putis, you should know this. Putis is not special; it is not an exception. There are thousands of Putis in Peru; the only difference is that their mass graves still lay undisturbed, their disappeared still missing. How much longer will their families have to wait to get answers? And equally importantly, how long will their victimization be allowed to reproduce itself inexorably?

Putis women

Getting to the centro poblado of Putis in the department of Ayacucho from Lima is no small feat. To begin, one must drive for around 8 hours to Huamanga, the department’s capital, first along the coast south of Lima and then up and down the broken terrain of the spectacular Andes, following dizzying roads carved into the mountainsides. From there, it is at least another 5 hours–and potentially much more, depending on the driver’s temerity and the condition of the road–to Putis, where the memory of a troubled past and the hope for a better future have merged into “Paradero Esperanza,” a sustainable development project started by EPAF in 2010 and described by former AP fellow Karin Orr here.

The road to Putis

EPAF’s involvement with Putis began in 2008 when it worked to recover 92 human remains from a mass grave located in the community, the largest yet to be exhumed in Peru. Ayacucho  was the epicentre of the violence during Peru’s internal conflict, and it is estimated that approximately 400 people died or were forcibly disappeared in Putis only. For more on Putis’ violent past, you can read the section of the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s final report on Putis (in Spanish). For a more personal take, AP fellow Ash Kosiewicz documented the exhumation process in his blog.

Putis girl in front of one of the potato fields

Last Friday, “Paradero Esperanza” bore fruit as Putisinos realized their first official native potato harvest (a small pre-harvest had been realized two weeks earlier). I, along with a sizeable group of EPAF staff, travelled to Putis to celebrate and document the event, along with local and international journalists.

EPAF staff explaining the day's events to Putisinos

Having left Lima on Wednesday morning and spent the night in Huamanga, we left for Putis bright and early to confirm with local authorities the details and arrangements of Friday’s celebrations. The arduous drive took longer than expected, however, so that we missed our meeting time and arrived in Putis in the middle of a downpour to find, well, absolutely no one. Hoping we might find someone further down the valley in the village of Putis itself (where the 1984 massacre occurred), we began to make our way there, only to find the road blocked by a mudslide. After waiting around for an hour or two to see if someone might show up, we finally resigned ourselves to coming back extra early the following morning to make the necessary arrangements.

Putis woman warming up near the pachamanca

We spent the rest of the day in Santillana, a small village two hours away, recuperating from the previous two days’ long drives. At 5am on Friday morning, we left once more for Putis, this time to find the centro poblado bustling with activity, obviously aware and eager for the day’s events.  Nelson, an EPAF staff member based in Huamanga, coordinated the details of the days’ events in Quechua with local people—who would be in charge of killing the sheep for the pachamanca (a typical Andean meal, consisting of meat and potatoes cooked by the heat produced stones placed in the soil and pre-warmed with fire), where the events would take place, what time the journalists would arrive, etc.

Putis women sharing a laugh

After finalizing the preparations, we joined a group of Putisinos that were enthusiastically harvesting the potatoes to be used for the pachamanca. I was amazed by the number of different varieties present in the plot, all of which would be showcased later on in the day. Then musicians and local press arrived, followed by EPAF director José Pablo Baraybar and journalists from the New York Times, there to report on the events.

Putisinos harvesting potatoes

The day went as such: the potato harvest was realized (in a rather festive mood, as locals sang and joked around in Quechua—perhaps about the gringuita merrily getting her hands dirty?), then the musicians from Ayacucho performed a song written especially for the occasion. A showcase of each different variety of potatoes was done, after which it was finally time for the much-awaited pachamanca, accompanied by music and dancing. This was followed by comments by Nelson and José Pablo on the progress realized so far and the challenges to come, and words by Putis mayor Gerardo Fernández and other community members. Finally, we made our way to the village of Putis, where a local Putisino took us to the mass grave exhumed in 2008 and recounted to the journalists the horrific events that culminated in it.

Putisino posing with potato harvest

Putisinos listening to EPAF staff

This last item on the day’s agenda brought a sombre, but necessary, end to an otherwise festive day. It also made me realise the deeply enmeshed nature of the processes of memory, reparation, and development at play in post-conflict communities such as Putis. This will be the subject of a soon-to-come entry; a more reflexive take on my visit to Putis. In the meantime, feel free to check out my Flickr set for more photos of Putis.

Putis women chatting after the pachamanca

(A country that forgets its history is doomed to repeat it)

These words, a not-so-subtle warning expressed by the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission, have been echoing in my head since the day I set foot in Peru. With the second turn of the presidential elections soon coming up on June 5th, newspapers have unsurprisingly been dominated by the fierce battle being fought by the two candidates.  At it really does feel like history, quite literally, may be about to repeat itself.

Memory represents an important line of work at EPAF. The basic rationale is that allowing victims of violence and families of the disappeared to share memories of the past and reassert the truth over what happened during the years of the internal conflict can contribute to justice, help restore their dignity, and put an end to their victimization. But this leads me to wonder whether there can be such a thing as a collective memory in a country as divided as Peru. Is memory of the conflict not doomed to remain principally, if not exclusively, a weight on the shoulders of its most direct victims? Memory seems to have very little power over people determined to forget.

While there are notable exceptions, what I am currently witnessing in Lima is a striking lack of memory. How else to explain the first-turn victory of the two current presidential candidates, both more than a little problematic with regards to their human rights records? How to interpret the lack of any concrete proposal, by either of the candidates, to deal with the many sequels of the conflict?

Newspaper stand in Miraflores

If polls are to be believed, the candidate currently leading the race is Keiko Fujimori, the daughter of former President Alberto Fujimori, who is currently serving a 25-year prison sentence for corruption and human rights violations. In addition to the crimes he has been prosecuted for, his regime has been blamed for the forced sterilization of nearly 300,000 indigenous women.

The support for Keiko Fujimori builds on the bases that remember Alberto Fujimori as the president who defeated the Shining Path after years of internal conflict and restored the country’s economic growth through neoliberal reforms. Many would also argue that she cannot be blamed for the crimes of her father; her opponents, however, are quick to point out her position as First Lady during part of her father’s presidency. Moreover, there is concern that her candidacy is being run by many of the same people that used to be part of her father’s government.

In response to the possibility of Keiko Fujimori becoming President, the Coordinadora Nacional de Derechos Humanos, an umbrella human rights organization, has initiated a campaign entitled “Fujimori Nunca Más” to ensure that electors do not forget the crimes committed by the ex-dictator on the day of the elections.

The story is complicated, however, by the fact that the human rights record of the second candidate, Ollanta Humala, is not much shinier: from a military background, he is suspected of having committed human rights violations during the conflict. He was also responsible for a 2000 aborted coup d’état, and has been accused of being linked to another coup attempt, led by his brother in 2004. His critics further decry his association with the Chávez regime, despite his efforts during the campaign to represent himself as closer to Brazil’s more moderate Lula da Silva.

Regardless of who is elected on June 5th, it will be difficult to consider it a victory from a human rights and historical standpoint. But the real test will come after the election: what will the winning candidate’s government do to address Peruvians’ claims for the truth, justice, and reparation? What will be its policy on the 15,000 disappeared of the internal conflict that have not yet been found?

Since my arrival four days ago, I have been catching up with the sights and sounds of Lima, which is everything I remembered, only better. On my first visit here a few years back, it was cold and grey—the humidity chilled me to the bone, the atmosphere was heavy, and ironically I remember being thankful I was only passing through such a gloomy place. Still, I did appreciate the charm of the old, sprawling buildings of Central Lima and their majestic timelessness.

Catedral de Lima at Dusk

This time around, I am staying in the posh neighbourhood of Miraflores, and to be honest I already feel quite at home. Of course, there are thousands of things I still don’t know (I have been told getting to the EPAF office is going to be a challenge—thankfully one of my co-workers is picking me up tomorrow for my first day!). What I mean is that I feel quite comfortable in my new surroundings. Here are a few things I just love about Lima: jogging on the malecón (a promenade overlooking the ocean shore), strangely exhilarating (and sometimes a little scary) taxi rides, not to mention the food (oh, the delicious food!). Yet, I can’t help but feel a tinge of guilt at choosing to spend my time in Peru in such an affluent neighbourhood; it is certainly not representative of the way the vast majority of Peruvians live.

View from the malecón in Miraflores

Yesterday, I completed a mandatory visit to the Yuyanapaq: Para Recordar photo exhibit of the internal conflict at the Museo de la Nación. I won’t say too much about the exhibit as former fellows with EPAF have already blogged about it (you can read their posts here and here), but I do want to make a few general comments. I remember visiting a similar type of photo exhibit on the conflict in the former Yugoslavia while in Dubrovnik many years back. The exhibit had a profound impact on me, and to this day it is the first thing I think of when I recall my visit to the Balkans. I have always been fascinated by photography’s power to convey messages and emotions, particularly when the stories behind the photos are so horrific that words could never do them justice.

Yuyanapaq: Para Recordar photo exhibit

Upon arriving, I was disappointed by the very small number of people who were present. Is it from a lack of interest, I asked myself, or perhaps a lack of awareness about the exhibit? But then more and more people began arriving, until the place was busy with foreigners and Peruvians of all ages. I was even surprised by the number of children present; many Peruvians, it seems, understand the importance of remembering the unpleasant past and are intent to show their children the horrors of the war to make sure it never happens again. I left the exhibit even more convinced of the importance and relevance of the work of EPAF—but more on that in a future post. It is with much anticipation that I start work tomorrow!

Yuyanapaq: Para Recordar photo exhibit