Américas Volume IX by Américas: The Johns Hopkins University Journal of Latin American Studies

volumeÂ ix

amĂŠricas The Johns Hopkins Journal of Latin American Studies

Byulorm Park/ Miranda Bain / Katie Colidron / Barae Hirsch Eduardo da Costa / Shelby Drozdowski / Eillen Martinez

AmĂŠricas The Johns Hopkins Journal of Latin American Studies Volume IX 2020

Published By The Johns Hopkins University Program in Latin American Studies Baltimore, Maryland

AmĂŠricas: The Johns Hopkins Journal of Latin American Studies, was established in 2005 by students and faculty at the Johns Hopkins University under the endorsement of the Program in Latin American Studies. Our mission is to provide a multi-disciplinary form for students and scholars to present and discuss articles pertaining to Latin America, its issues and its diaspora.

Our website is available at http://americasjhu.org

AmĂŠricas: The Johns Hopkins Journal of Latin American Studies Published by The Johns Hopkins University Program in Latin American Studies 3400 N. Charles St. Baltimore, MD 21218 United States of America

Table of Contents Acknowledgement and Journal Staff……………………………………………….1 Letter from Editor in Chief……………………………………………………........2 Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami: The Occurrence of Calques in Cuban-American Spanish Byulorm Park……………………………………………………………………….3 What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises? Miranda Bain……………………………………………………………………...28 Tesoros Tejanos: How Spanish and Mexican Objects Tell the Story of Texas at the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History Katie L. Coldiron………………………………………………………………….48 Building One Corner of a New World: Understanding Puerto Rico as a World Leader in Collective Organizing Barae Hirsch……………………………………………………………………....69 Uma comparação entre sistemas universais de saúde no Brasil e na Espanha Eduardo da Costa …………………………………………………………………96 “Unintended Consequences”: Conflicts of Emergency Care on the United States-México Border

Shelby Drozdowski…,……………………………………………………...……109 Rabbit, Rabbit Eillen Martinez………………………………………………………………......133 About the Authors……………………………………………………………….144

Acknowledgement We would like to thank our talented group of editors for investing their time and attention into each piece. Without them, this publication would not have been possible. We would also like to thank our contributing authors, who worked closely with the Américas staff over a period of several weeks to ensure their work was of the highest caliber. We would like to thank them especially for remaining committed and responsive during these extraordinary times of the COVID-19 pandemic. Finally, thank you to the Johns Hopkins Program in Latin American Studies for its financial and programmatic support during the publication process.

Journal Staff Editor in Chief

Nicole Muehleisen

Director of Communications

Austin Cardona

Director of Marketing

Stephanie Ruiz Torres

Editing Team

Osmel Alvarez Alex Chavez Juan Gomez Gabriela Hubner Campbell Knobloch Melanie Pillaca-Gutierrez Sabrina Rainsbury

Cover Image

Alfredo Ramos Martínez, Zapatistas c. 1932 Oil on Canvas San Francisco Museum of Art, San Francisco, CA

Faculty Advisor

Eduardo González

Letter from the Editor in Chief Dear Readers, This year, I am proud to present you the ninth volume of Américas: The Johns Hopkins Journal of Latin American Studies. After several months of generous time and dedication from both authors and editors, without whom this would not have been possible, I am incredibly proud to present the finished product. We begin with a piece by Byulorm Park on the sociolinguistic consequences of growing up Cuban in Miami and the emergence of linguistic calques over generations. Then comes a piece by Miranda Bain, who looks at the issues facing women and girls throughout the world and in Venezuela, where sexual and reproductive healthcare are especially challenged during times of crises. The following piece by Katie Coldiron follows Park by looking at the intersection of identity between Latin America and the United States. She does this by studying artifacts within the Bob Bullock museum in Texas; through these objects, she explores the stories that we tell and pass on and the rare intersection of all these stories within Texas. The next piece by Barae Hirsch is a powerful perspective on the unique situation of Puerto Rico, a country at the crossroads of forces such as capitalism, colonialism, and climate change. While showing how these forces overlap and have affected Puerto Rico, Hirsch argues that they have also placed Puerto Rico in the forefront against these issues, helping it become a world leader against such forces. Next, we include a piece in Portuguese, written by Eduardo da Costa and Noah Naparst. It is an important study on the differences in health systems between Brazil and Spain and the distinct issues that each system creates within the countries. Shelby Drozdowski’s piece follows, presenting a poignant analysis on the issues of healthcare along the US-Mexico border. Like Bain and da Costa, she continues the theme of rights to health and the strain placed upon these rights from so many conflicting agendas. The last piece is by Eillen Martinez. It is a story about suffering, resiliency, and a child’s understanding of the world in times of uncertainty. Together, I believe these stories help represent the breadth of Latin America in its history, its issues, and its diaspora. They contribute to Américas’ emphasis on being a multi-disciplinary forum for articles pertinent to Latin America—from emergency care along the border to Venezuela’s refugee crisis. I am especially glad to include both the first piece in Portuguese and first fiction story within the journal’s history in this volume, and I hope readers enjoy this expanding representation of Latin America. Best, Nicole Muehleisen Editor in Chief May 2020 2

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami: The Occurrence of Calques in Cuban-American Spanish By Byulorm Park ABSTRACT: Since the first post-revolutionary exodus of Cuban migrants to the U.S., CubanAmerican Spanish has undergone profound linguistic change. One particular element that distinguishes the Spanish of the younger generation from that of the older is the increased use of calques, Spanish terms that acquire, or are replaced by, an English significance. This paper traces the sociological roots of calques in the younger generation of Cuban-Americans in Miami-Dade County, the children and grandchildren of the Golden Exiles who arrived in the U.S. from 1958 to 1962. The study argues that the older generation’s expectation of the destruction of Fidel Castro’s government and prompt return to Cuba forged an attachment to a cultural politics of preservation. The older generation advocated bilingualism and disapproved of English monolingualism, expressing a more negative response to Americanoriented acculturation. The reluctance to submit to American influence peaked in the 1980s as the English-only movement compelled the older generation to intensify its resistance to the prioritization of English proficiency in the Miami-Dade public schools attended by younger Cuban-Americans. With the rise of anti-bilingualism and the English-only movement, Spanish was no longer guaranteed a significant portion of the school curriculum. Previous works on the Cuban-American speech in Miami-Dade County have described calques characteristic of the younger Cuban-American generation. The study presents that this trait stemmed from bilingual instruction in the 1980s that sought to change the Cuban-American students’ dominant learning-language from Spanish to English. The development of original calques that formed as English meanings transferred onto Spanish is thus situated as sociolinguistic phenomena rooted in 1980’s Miami social and educational policy.

Introduction Bilingual education in Miami-Dade County has undergone profound change since the first Cuban exodus in the 1960s up to the English-only movement in the 1980s. Cuban parents stressed learning English while retaining Spanish and sent their children to bilingual schools, where they could learn U.S. culture while preserving their heritage.1 Nonetheless, as return to Cuba

Von Beebe and William Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience (Florida: Institute of Interamerican Studies, 1990), 65

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increasingly seemed improbable, and animosity towards the Spanish language intensified, these schools became the strongest forces of acculturation. English soon became the language the second-generation Cuban-American children spontaneously utilized, and these English-dominant children began to incorporate words and phrases that deviated from standard Spanish into their speech. While English influenced the speech of both first and second generations, indeed, CubanAmerican Spanish is not uniform among all generations: scholars have observed a greater use of calques in the second generation.2 Yet, specific underlying circumstances that have engendered this distinction remain unclear. Through consideration of the sociolinguistic background of the Cuban exiles, this paper attempts to reason the predominance of different lexical innovations in each generation. In particular, the post-revolutionary policies of the early 1960s, bilingual programs in Miami-Dade County, and the English-only movement incited in the 1980s are analyzed. Cultural trauma characteristic of the first generation engendered partiality for language maintenance, while bilingual schools attended by the second generation provided an environment where learning English was prioritized. These distinct social conditions are analyzed as they considerably impacted exiles’ attitudes towards language acquisition. I. Political Exiles in 1960s Miami: Initiating Creation of Bilingual Programs Post-revolutionary changes in Cuba have induced a massive exodus of 215,000 Cubans to the United States in the first migratory wave, creating a unique Cuban situation of trauma and

Ricardo Otheguy, Ofelia García, and Ana Roca, “Speaking in Cuban: The Language of Cuban Americans,” in New Immigrants in the United States: Readings for Second Language Educators, ed. Sandra McKay and Sau-ling Wong (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 182. A Calque is a Spanish expression adopted or influenced by English. Ibid. 2

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami

exile.3 These exiles, who emigrated from January 1958 to October 1962, have been widely described as the “Golden Exiles” due to the demographic character of the wave: professional and managerial elites from the middle and upper classes, in spite of a few groups with blue-collar jobs and lower social status.4 This attribute, unparalleled by other Latino émigré communities, aided the first exiles in achieving a reputation of a “model minority” and in establishing enterprises even without fluency in English in the U.S. Economic losses after the Agrarian and Urban Reform Laws indeed took part in propelling the first migratory wave,5 but political abuse distinguished the first exiles from subsequent waves and other Latino communities in the U.S. Those who questioned the Castro regime were jailed, condemned as Batista supporters, or subjected to public tribunals.6 For this maltreatment, the Cubans of the first wave defined themselves as political exiles forced to leave, rather than immigrants eager to leave.7 Observing the haste in the revolution and U.S. government’s efforts in eradicating Castro’s communist party, exiles believed their stay in the U.S. to be short and thus focused on conserving their culture, including their language.8

Thomas Boswell and James Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience: Culture, Images, and Perspectives (New Jersey: Rowman & Allanheld, 1984), 43 4

Francisco Vázquez and Rodolfo Torres, Latino/a Thought: Culture, Politics, and Society (Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield, 2002), 293; Otheguy, García, and Roca, “Speaking in Cuban,” 170 5

Geoffrey Fox, Working-Class Emigres from Cuba (California: R&E Research Publications, 1979), 31; Thomas Leonard, Castro and the Cuban Revolution (Connecticut: Greenwood, 1999), 16 6

Ibid., 20. Of the exiles from the first migratory wave, 20% stated their reason for leaving as imprisonment, another 20% as persecution, and 37% as disagreement with government policies. Boswell and Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience, 44. The elites refused the idea of allying with the Soviet Union, merging patriotism with unconditional loyalty, and eliminating private property to serve social justice. Marifeli Pérez-Stable, The Cuban Revolution: Origins, Course, and Legacy (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), 94 7

Miguel González-Pando, The Cuban Americans (Connecticut: Greenwood Publishing Group, 1998), 88

Manny Diaz, Miami Transformed: Rebuilding America One Neighborhood, One City at a Time (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 12. Numerous U.S. Presidents attempted to pressure Castro out of power. Under President Kennedy, the CIA undertook a failed military invasion at Bay of Pigs in April 17-19 of 1961. The Cuban Embargo was made official in 1962 and supported by President Johnson and following presidents, who worked to oust Castro by isolating Cuba economically and politically. Patrick Haney and Walt Vanderbush, The

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Traumatic experiences of undergoing post-revolutionary changes and severing from their homeland, where they had matured and shaped their integrity, created a fragmented, isolated, and dissociative identity.9 One response the exiles had to this trauma was to reestablish their identity by forging a “Cuba” in the United States, in Miami. The neighborhood Little Havana in Miami, vibrant with Cuban traditions and lifestyles, reflects an attempt to replicate the Havana in Cuba. Reconstruction was a result of cultural trauma, a struggle to alleviate the anguish by realizing recollections into concrete artwork, food, and games. Living in this makeshift Cuba, the exiles retained their Cuban identity as “refugees,” evading total acculturation and expecting to send their children back to Cuban schools. Conservation of standard Spanish was yet an essential focus.10 A small percentage of marriages were interracial: a mere 3.6% of married Cuban exiles had Anglo-American spouses.11 The low percentage did not result solely from the fact that there were relatively few Cubans fluent in English or North Americans fluent in Spanish. Establishing a family in the U.S. would have represented a consent in possibly living as an exile for the rest of one’s life and an acceptance of the spouse’s anglophone culture. As debates over national allegiance and naturalization spurred in the 1960s, a remarkable number of exiles denied North American citizenship.12 Many believed that naturalizing would signify forging a new identity and renouncing allegiance to their homeland,

Cuban Embargo: The Domestic Politics of an American Foreign Policy, (Pennsylvania: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005), 12. Laurie Vickroy, “The Traumas of Unbelonging: Reinaldo Arenas’s Recuperations of Cuba,” MELUS 30, no. 4 (2005): 109 9

Miguel De La Torre, La Lucha for Cuba: Religion and Politics on the Streets of Miami (California: University of California Press, 2003), 37 11

Sean Buffington, “Cuban Americans,” World Culture Encyclopedia. 2006

Vázquez and Torres, Latino/a Thought, 296

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heritage, and people.13 To promote and preserve Cuban culture and language, the ethnic enclave established fourteen bilingual schools in the 1960s.14 A private bilingual school founded in 1961 emphasized teaching the native language so that children of the first exiles would resemble resident children and adapt easily to the classes back in Cuba after return. 15 The common practice of sending children to bilingual schools exhibited the will to impart Spanish to their children, which spoke of the high value of the language and the faith in returning to the island. Operation Peter Pan brought more than 14,000 unaccompanied Cuban minors to the United States, providing a need for English education to these predominantly Spanish-monolingual children and ultimately kindling the flicker of bilingual education. The 1961 Cuban Literacy Campaign not only portended loss of parental rights to raise their own children but also created an anxiety to preserve pre-revolutionary cultural backgrounds free from communist propaganda.16 In response, Father Bryan O. Walsh, the Director of Catholic Welfare Bureau, organized Operation Peter Pan that enabled 14,048 children to travel to the U.S.17 The majority of these children were of the middle or lower-middle class and lacked English proficiency.18 To resolve this problem of incompetence in English, the Church sent the children who stayed in orphanages or foster homes

Ibid., 296

Ofelia García and Ricardo Otheguy, “The Masters of Survival Send Their Children to School: Bilingual Education in the Ethnic Schools of Miami,” Bilingual Review 12, no. 1 (1985): 6-9 14

García and Otheguy, “The Masters of Survival Send Their Children to School,” 10.

Boswell and Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience, 39; Rosemarie Skaine, The Cuban Family: Custom and Change in an Era of Hardship (North Carolina: McFarland, 2003), 89; Danay Nedelcu, “Cuban Education between Revolution and Reform,” International Journal of Cuban Studies 6, no. 2 (2014): 209 “The Cuban Children’s Exodus,” Operation Pedro Pan Group, accessed December 20, 2017. The Cuban Literacy Campaign required students of age 14 to 25 to work in the fields and instruct rural workers with teaching materials supporting Castro’s political views. Ibid. 17

Rozencvaig in discussion with the author, 20 December 2017. Private bilingual schools were primarily attended by children of upper class families. Children from families that did not have the certain economic luxury attended public schools that did not have as strong of an English instruction. While Operation Peter Pan at first aimed to assist children of parents who publicly opposed Castro and were in danger of incarceration, it later assisted all children of families that opted to leave Cuba. Ibid.

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to English classes in Catholic schools and restrained them from speaking their native language at the orphanages.19 This approach of English acquisition resembled the English as a Second Language (ESL) instruction, in which participants received approximately 45 minutes of English instruction two to five times a week.20 This early ESL program on its own was unsuccessful in the 1960s: the English taught in these classes didn’t help Cuban children meet immediate communication needs or understand other academic subjects in school. In fact, the impartation of education in an unfamiliar language aroused confusion because children were learning school material in a language they could not understand yet.21 While the proposal of the ESL program was to develop language skills in both English and Spanish, the result was “half-lingual” or “non-lingual” children that were uncomfortable speaking or thinking in either language. Founded in 1963 Miami-Dade County, Coral Way Elementary School, the first public bilingual school after World War II, sought to resolve the pedagogical flaws of the ESL program by prioritizing a balance between Spanish and English instruction. Nearly equal numbers of English-speaking and Spanish-speaking children attended the school, which set its goals as making the students as proficient in their second language as their first and leading them to operate in either culture easily.22 Students received morning instruction in the first language and afternoon

Maria Anderson, “Pedro Pan: A Children’s Exodus from Cuba,” Smithsonian Insider. 11 July 2017; “The Cuban Children’s Exodus”; Iraida Iturralde in discussion with the author, 1 January 2018 19

Diego Castellanos and Pamela Castellanos, The Best of Two Worlds: Bilingual-Bicultural Education in the U.S. (New Jersey: New Jersey Department of Education, 1983), 66. 21

Ibid., 66

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 68; D. Castellanos P. Castellanos, The Best of Two Worlds, 72

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami

instruction in the second language, which reinforced the same concepts taught in the morning. 23 Hispanic and Anglo cultures were incorporated through interactions during recess, lunch, music, and art, where students were free to choose the language to communicate with, in a relaxed, nonclassroom environment.24 This ensured that the children of both communities form connections of the acquired second language abilities and conceptual development, while mutually understanding each other’s cultural characteristics. The high participation rate of both Anglo and Hispanic children was attributed to the interest in foreign language studies sparked in the U.S. and the Cubans’ desire for their children to learn English while retaining Spanish. The Soviet Union’s launch of the Sputnik 1 and the National Defense Education Act influenced Anglo parents to send their children to programs that focused on Spanish, which was believed to be a crucial skill for future entrepreneurs in Miami as thousands of Cubans reached the U.S. shore.25 Cuban parents complied with the concept of bilingual programs because it gave their children an opportunity to learn English and the cultural background of the United States while preserving Spanish and their own cultural heritage. 26 As public schools without a thorough bilingual program were unsuitable for maintenance of Cuban culture,27 they embraced bilingual schools that put equal weight in Spanish and English. The reinforcement of curriculum content in Spanish by Hispanic teachers, usually of Cuban origin, led

Ibid., 73; Perla Rozencvaig in discussion with the author, 16 December 2017

D. Castellanos P. Castellanos, The Best of Two Worlds, 72

“Our History,” Center for Applied Linguistics, accessed December 20, 2017. The Soviet Union’s launch of the Sputnik satellite in 1957 evoked the notion that the U.S. was dragging behind the Russians in the field of aerospace, mathematics, and foreign languages. Ibid; García and Otheguy, “The Masters of Survival Send Their Children to School,” 10 25

Rozencvaig in discussion with the author, 16 December 2017. Bilingual schooling was not unfamiliar to Cuban parents; private bilingual schools or public schools with a strong English component existed in Cuba. Ibid. Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 65 27

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 50.

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children to steadily develop their Spanish skills.28 Bilingual education offered a means of preserving their ethnic language while learning the majority language, and thus Cuban children thoroughly learned standard Spanish and maintained full proficiency of the language in the 1960s.

II.

Diffusion of Loanwords in the Speech of First-Generation Exiles:

Upon arrival to the United States, Cuban exiles were exposed to a new lifestyle that their native language could not express. They encountered challenges in expressing ideas of the North American culture solely in Spanish.29 Linguistic innovations emerged in Spanish to compensate for these hardships by creating certain words and phrases initially nonexistent or cumbersome to express in the original language.30 The area in which these innovations appeared closely reflected the dynamic social background in Miami-Dade County. For instance, unfamiliarity with U.S. banking terminology in the Spanish language led to greater amounts of lexical adoptions in that field.31 Furthermore, loanwords served as neutralizers that did not favor one dialect over another but rather allowed all Spanish speakers to understand each other’s dialects without misinterpretation.32 The vital need for clear and straightforward expression called for lexical

García and Otheguy, “The Masters of Survival Send Their Children to School,” 7-8. As the Cuban influx constituted of professionals— not only doctors, lawyers, and accountants but also teachers— employing Cuban instructors in bilingual schools was not a hard task. Ibid. 28

Otheguy and García, “Diffusion of Lexical Innovations in the Spanish of Cuban Americans,” 209

Ibid. For example, the single word taipear, to type, replaces the phrase escribir a máquina. Roberto Fernández, “English Loanwords in Miami Cuban Spanish,” American Speech 58, no. 1 (1983): 17 Isabel Castellanos, “The Use of English and Spanish Among Cubans in Miami,” Cuban Studies 20 (1990): 55. Most formal internal business, written documents, and staff meetings were conducted in English. In contrast, Cuban families principally utilized Spanish at home context as the older members were usually fluent only in Spanish. Ibid. 31

Ana Celia Zentella, "Lexical Leveling in Four New York City Spanish Dialects: Linguistic and Social Factors," Hispania 73, no. 4 (1990): 1100. Confusion with dialects of other Latino groups was another factor: guagua signifies “bus” in Cuban dialect, but phonologically identical wawa signifies a wild animal, hypothesized as a prairie dog,# in Colombian dialect or a small child in Chilean dialect. Ibid.; Rozencvaig in discussion with the author, 20 December 2017

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami

innovations in Spanish. Lexical innovations classify into two groups: loanwords and calques, which further subdivide into word and phrasal calques.33 Loanwords are imported whole from the source language, such as un part-time. Because it deviates from the Spanish morphology, loanwords are least accepted as a true part of Spanish but are nevertheless used the most frequently throughout all generations of Cuban Americans because of their efficiency and preciseness. Word calques are Spanish terms that acquire, or are replaced by, a new English significance.34 Phrasal calques originate from literal word-to-word translation. Each Spanish verb, noun, or preposition correspond to the English ones but, combined together, constitute a phrasal calque that significantly differs from the standard phrase. 35 The notable difference between the first- and second-generation speech is in the predominating type of innovation and the social background that engenders this distinction. To communicate American concepts indescribable in Spanish, Cuban exiles had to either accept linguistic innovations in Spanish or learn the English language. Whether the former or the latter resulted depended on the language proficiency of the speaker. The first-generation Cuban exiles grew up in Cuba, learning and speaking Spanish dominantly. These first exiles emigrated as adults and did not attend schools in the U.S. Except for those who attended bilingual private schools in Cuba or worked extensively with U.S. companies, English was not a language they could proficiently use. Although English was a major promoter of socioeconomic advancement

Otheguy and García, “Diffusion of Lexical Innovations in the Spanish of Cuban Americans,” 212. Distinct from loanwords, these calques are viewed as a more natural part of the language because the words had already existed in traditional Spanish. Ibid., 219. 33

Ibid., 212-222.

Fernández, “English Loanwords in Miami Cuban Spanish,” 18.

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and secure white-collar employment,36 few programs for learning English were available to adults, compared to children, and most Cuban exiles did not have leisure to learn English. Cuban exiles in the U.S. often held several jobs to make ends meet.37 In the first years of exile, the majority of Cubans struggled in low-class occupations, working as busboys, dishwashers, house cleaners, or factory workers, receiving very little pay.38 Eventually, the exiles, who used to be skilled entrepreneurs in Cuba, utilized their business experience, to create lucrative enterprises within the Cuban enclave even as monolingual Spanish-speakers with limited English skills.39 English proficiency was not an absolute requirement for economic advancement in the Cuban enclave because the community provided the entrepreneurs with networks of employment opportunities. For this reason, learning English was not an immediate first concern for the first exiles. Wealthy elites from the first wave who had invested money in American banks during the revolution then invested that capital in new business ventures.40 Once secured in banking positions, Cuban entrepreneurs provided character loans or offered employee positions to their compatriots to encourage involvement in business.41 Some did so because they had experienced hardships of finding a job and empathized with other discriminated Hispanics, and others possibly because they preferred familiar environments with Cubans who shared cultures, experiences, and opinions.42 With favorable assistance and ambience, where many enterprises even existed primarily or even

I. Castellanos, “The Use of English and Spanish Among Cubans in Miami,” 57

Diaz, Miami Transformed, 15

Ibid., 16-17

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 30; I. Castellanos, “The Use of English and Spanish Among Cubans in Miami,” 56 39

Vázquez and Torres, Latino/a Thought, 294

De La Torre, La Lucha for Cuba, 38

Vázquez and Torres, Latino/a Thought, 294

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solely for Spanish-speaking customers, English was not a mandatory prerequisite for obtaining a job opportunity. As anti-communist professionals with light skin, the first Cuban exiles were relatively welcomed into the U.S. and struggled less in establishing businesses, compared to other Latino groups.43 Hence the Cuban exile community is referred to as the “model minority.” Ninety-four percent of the first immigrants were white, and most were considered educated elites living in urban areas.44 Not only Cuban business networks but also American departments such as the CIA facilitated the Cuban exiles’ socioeconomic success, providing funds and employment opportunities. The JM WAVE, a U.S. operations and intelligence gathering station in Miami, employed thousands of Cubans in 1962 and was indeed recognized as one of Miami’s greatest employers in that decade.45 The U.S. used a significant portion of the budget on relocating the Cubans, providing sanitary services, and educating Cuban children, and this active support bolstered the first exiles in achieving upward mobility in society.46 The lack of absolute need to learn English and the limited opportunities to pursue learning the language led the first-generation exiles to adopt loanwords into their speech rather than master a second language, which requires tremendous effort and time. While the young quickly learned English, for the elderly, learning a new language was far from a priority.47 In fact, English was an obstacle that could potentially estrange the first from the second generation: the first exiles felt a language barrier that broadened

Andrew Lynch, "Expression of Cultural Standing in Miami: Cuban Spanish Discourse about Fidel Castro and Cuba," Revista Internacional De Lingüística Iberoamericana 7, no. 2 (2009). 44

De La Torre, La Lucha for Cuba, 34

Ibid., 40

Rozencvaig in discussion with the author, 20 December 2017

González-Pando, The Cuban Americans, 87

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the cultural gap.48 Many feared “losing” their children or grandchildren to the American mainstream culture.49 The first exiles had a great sense of pride for their Cuban culture, which was developed based on the desire to preserve their language, roots, and nostalgia.50 The pride Cubans had for their heritage partly stemmed from the “model minority” concept. In the Cuban exilic community, the parents taught the children that they are different from other Hispanic communities in the U.S. such as Mexicans or Puerto Ricans.51 Sociodemographic profile, migratory characteristics, and race or class composition differed among all three groups. Data on language attitudes illustrates that Mexicans and Puerto Ricans did not associate Spanish with ethnic pride or behavioral commitment but rather stress because they were aware that Spanish was not a prestigious language in the American mainstream.52 On the other hand, CubanAmericans tended to hold onto cultural traditions and language; families kept past traditions, such as a celebratory reunion at the end of the year, and cultivated them in the U.S.53 The notion of Cuban-Americans as the “model minority” was derived from the relative economic success and language maintenance. Cuban exiles received an average of 11.9 years of education and had the highest income ($32,417) among Latino groups, and 89% of the exiles spoke Spanish at home.54

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 42

Ibid.

González-Pando, The Cuban Americans, 97

Vázquez and Torres, Latino/a Thought, 128

Joshua Fishman and Gary Keller, Bilingual Education for Hispanic Students in the United States, (New York: Teachers College Press, 1982), 255-256 53

Skaine, The Cuban Family, 129

Ibid., 120; Otheguy, García, and Roca, “Speaking in Cuban,” 170-171

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami

When return to Cuba seemed improbable, the motivation to conserve culture and language shifted from “because we will go back” to “so that our children are proud of us.”55 Living as a political exile carried a responsibility of not only defending their identity and heritage but also continuing to fight for Cuba’s liberty, depicted in frequent funds for the antiCastro movement and the first exiles’ relative support for the Republican party, which was believed to be more aligned to anti-communist and anti-Castro sentiments.56 A general consensus that the destruction of Fidel Castro’s communist regime is probable was reached by numerous Cubans in the community of Miami-Dade County. This conviction was expressed in linguistic forms, through short or verbless fragments such as “[Castro] needs to die” and “not now… after Castro.”57 The relative conservativeness on linguistic and political aspects and the greater proficiency in Spanish resulted in few calques embedding themselves into the speech of the first generation in comparison to the second generation. Loanwords, which are adopted by both the first and second generations, are characterized as an exception to this linguistic conservativeness because they are the most effective transmitters of English messages. The origin of loanwords in the speech of the first Cuban exiles date back to the Republican Era, when prominence of English was observed in the press. During this period from 1902 to 1959, Cuba depended economically and politically on the United States.58 As the demand of Englishspeaking personnel increased, the correlation between English fluency and socioeconomic

González-Pando, The Cuban Americans, 87

Ibid., 92; Boswell and Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience, 7

Lynch, "Expression of Cultural Standing in Miami," 24. The Platt Amendment of 1901 obliged Cuba to provide land for the U.S. military base in Guantanamo Bay and allow the U.S. intervene in Cuban affairs. Ibid. 58

Haney and Vanderbush, The Cuban Embargo, 12

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advancements became evident.59 Respectively, private bilingual schools like Ruston Academy and academias were developed.60 Numerous periodicals and dailies aiming at the middle and upper social class— such as La Lucha, La Discusión, and Diario de la Marina— converted into a showroom of loanwords that assimilated into Spanish.61 Of a set of extracted anglicisms, 82.7% were non-adapted loanwords while only 6.3% were calques.62 As aforementioned, this high level of adoption of loanwords were characteristic of newspapers aimed at the upper social class. Consequently, at the end of the Republican Era, and the rise of Fidel Castro’s Era, the “Golden Exiles” that consisted of a more learned population of higher social status would have brought these loanwords with them during the first migratory wave from Cuba to the U.S. Thus, an identical pattern is extracted from the first generation in Miami-Dade County in Southern Florida: large amounts of loanwords in comparison to scarce amounts of calques.63

III.

English-only Movement of the 1980s: Emerging Animosity towards the Spanish Language

Contrary to the first exiles’ expectation, Fidel Castro’s rule was entrenched in the Cuban government by the 1970s, and very few signs suggested its eradication. Weakened faith in return

Louis Pérez, On Becoming Cuban: Identity, Nationality and Culture, (North Carolina: The University of North Carolina Press, 2008), 150 José Sánchez Fajardo, “Anglicisms and Calques in Upper Social Class in Pre-revolutionary Cuba (1930–1959): A Sociolinguistic Analysis,” International Journal of English Studies 16, no. 1 (2016): 36 60

Ibid., 35. Words in the area of technological inventions, pastimes, and society columns were heavily borrowed. Ibid., 41 62

Ibid., 42

Otheguy, García, and Roca, “Speaking in Cuban,” 182

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami

curtailed demands for evading assimilation and preserving standard Spanish.64 As a result, increasingly more exiles opted for U.S. citizenship. During the 1975 Cubans for American Citizenship Campaign, the percentage of Cuban-Americans with U.S. citizenship in Miami-Dade County more than doubled, from 25% to 55%.65 The changing atmosphere in Miami-Dade County also affected Cuban businesses as English became a near prerequisite for secure success. A number of Anglo-Americans criticized Cuban entrepreneurs who only spoke Spanish, indicating that they did not hire American workers and served primarily Hispanic customers.66 The ubiquity of Hispanic-targeted Cuban companies, end of character loans, and the economic regression from 1973 to 1975 compelled younger Cuban entrepreneurs to adopt American management techniques and compete for the non-Latin market in order to survive.67 Thus English, a necessary skill to serve Anglo customers, became an indispensable promoter of socioeconomic advancement, of securing a white-collared profession from the mid-1970s. The second generation Cuban-Americans— who either emigrated at a very young age or were born in the U.S.— attended schools in Miami-Dade County and observed drastic changes in bilingual programs from the 1960s to the 1980s. The bilingual education movement reached its peak with the Lau vs. Nichols case in 1975, which legally obligated schools to provide children of limited English proficiency with special programs.68 In 1973, a local survey presented that 70% of residents in Miami-Dade County supported bilingual education programs for both English and

Vázquez and Torres, Latino/a Thought, 298. While 60% of the Cuban community desired to return in 1973, only 25% did so in 1979. Ibid. As aforementioned, desire to conserve cultural and language persisted even after return seemed improbable; it is the insistence of standard Spanish that has decreased. 65

Ibid., 297

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 30; Diaz, Miami Transformed, 48

De La Torre, La Lucha for Cuba, 38; Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 30

García and Otheguy, “The Masters of Survival Send Their Children to School,” 7

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Spanish students.69 However, a few years later, bilingual education experienced a rapid downturn in 1980 with the Mariel Exodus and the press intensifying anti-bilingual attitudes. The Mariel Exodus of April 21, 1980 released 125,000 Cuban residents of sociodemographic profiles distinct from those of the first exiles and provoked sudden cultural, social, and political change. These Marielitos consisted of social undesirables: offenders, mental patients, homosexuals, or prostitutes.70 The FBI claimed Miami to be the most crime-ridden city of the U.S. and reported that 70% of all marijuana and cocaine in the U.S. came through South Florida.71 As negative impacts of the newcomers became apparent, citizens started to question the effectiveness of the immigration policy.72 The public opinion favored reducing immigration of Cubans, and even Cuban-Americans who had already settled in the U.S. worried that the Marielitos would harm their reputation as the “model minority.”73 Consequently, the Refugee Act of 1980 and the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986 hindered the entrance of Cubans into the U.S. Animosity towards Cubans transferred to the Spanish language, emerging in the form of the first anti-bilingual ordinance on the ballot. The Board of Commissioners had foreseen potential economic benefits brought by the Spanish language and passed a resolution that declared MiamiDade County as bilingual and bicultural in April 1973.74 Nonetheless in November 1980,

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 136

Boswell and Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience, 52. Of the 125,000 Cubans who left through the Mariel boatlift, 26,000 were criminals— of which 5,000 committed serious offenses. Ibid. 71

Diaz, Miami Transformed, 7

Ibid., 76. Additional perceived effects were unemployment, housing shortage, and government expense of a billion dollars. Ibid. 73

Boswell and Curtis, The Cuban-American Experience, 56

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 137; Diaz, Miami Transformed, 48

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami

approximately 60% of voters approved the anti-bilingual ordinance, by 71% of Whites, 44% of Blacks, and 15% of Hispanics.75 Opponents of bilingual ballots previously had mentioned the costliness of multilingual elections, but the English-only ordinance extended over concerns regarding the national budget.76 This first act on the English-only movement sought to make English the official language of Miami-Dade County, impeding government funds from being spent on programs conducted in Spanish, restricting bilingual education in schools, and mandating that all signs be written in English.77 In reality, the only government-related function affected by the ordinance was Miami-Dade’s Office of Latin Affairs.78 However, the power of the Englishonly movement was portrayed in the strong message it sent out to the exiles: an animosity towards the continued influx of immigrants and the dominating usage of Spanish. The proposed English-only policies engendered negative responses to acculturation in the first generation exiles. In midst of the controversial Cubans for American Citizenship Campaign, numerous exiles had warned that Cuban traditions and values they took pride in would die in the U.S.79 In 1980, the English-only movement unveiled imposing forces of acculturation initially filtered by the ethnic enclave; the hypothetical situation was becoming a reality. The emergence of English-only policies evoked a rise in discrimination complaints in formerly bilingual workplaces that then imposed English-only requirements and practices.80 English-only policies were, in fact, leveraged as a convenient way to keep Cuban immigrants out of the workplace by

Otheguy, García, and Roca, “Speaking in Cuban,” 175

D. Castellanos P. Castellanos, The Best of Two Worlds, 127

Diaz, Miami Transformed, 47-48

Ibid., 48

Vázquez and Torres, Latino/a Thought, 297

Samuel Cacas, "The Language of Hate," Human Rights 22, no. 1 (1995): 30

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screening out job applicants and firing employees for alleged language barriers.81 Furthermore, the opposition noted that numerous legislative and judicial decisions— such as Title VI of the 1964 Civil Rights Act, the 1968 Bilingual Education Act, Section 1703(f) of the 1974 Equal Educational Opportunity Act, the 1974 Lau vs. Nichols Case, and the 1975 amendments to the 1965 Voting Rights Act— mandated the use of Spanish in voting materials and education and approved the use of “minority languages” without discrimination.82 Thus, deprivation of this freedom fomented civil discontent and linguistic conflict instead of encouraging monolingual unity.83 The English-only campaign gave Cuban-Americans, who previously regarded themselves as the “model minority,” a conscious sense that they were indeed an unwelcome minority in the U.S. and provoked CubanAmericans to develop mechanisms of self-preservation.84 The first-generation exiles, a more conservative group on linguistic issues, responded more adversely to the English-only legislation than the second generation: 85% of the Latino population in Miami-Dade County voted against the legislation in 1980.85 The voters would have represented principally the first-generation Cuban adults who were over the minimum voting age and politically active in supporting bilingualism. This is not to say that the second generation did not hope to preserve their native language. 96% of Cuban high school students surveyed in 1975 stated Spanish as a necessary language and

Ibid., 31

Nancy Hornberger, "Bilingual Education and English-Only: A Language-Planning Framework," in The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 508 (1990): 17-18 83

Maritza Peña, "English-Only Laws and the Fourteenth Amendment: Dealing with Pluralism in a Nation Divided by Xenophobia,” The University of Miami Inter-American Law Review 29, no. 1/2 (1997): 362; Gregory Guy, in Language Loyalties: An Official Source Book on the Official English Controversy, ed. James Crawford (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 452-459 84

García and Otheguy, “The Masters of Survival Send Their Children to School,” 6

Wayne Santoro, "Conventional Politics Takes Center Stage: The Latino Struggle against English-Only Laws," Social Forces 77, no. 3 (1999): 893

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami

an important component of cultural heritage.86 Nevertheless, only 30% preferred to use Spanish over English, and nearly no behavioral implementation or commitment towards Spanish maintenance was shown beyond at home: only 20% of the respondents utilized the Spanish media, and even so only as supplementary sources to the English media.87 Another survey analyzing Cuban-Americansâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; attitudes towards Spanish and English reports that while 16.3% of the firstgeneration Cubans agreed that English is unattractive, none of the second-generation Cubans thought so.88 Accordingly, it would be reasonable to conclude that second-generation CubanAmericans spontaneously employed English despite the positive attitudes towards Spanish. Many second-generation students lived a Cuban life at home and an American life at school, where the most powerful forces of acculturation existed.89 This language shift was principally induced by the change in bilingual programs in public schools and have subsequently led to the genesis of calques.

IV.

Diffusion of Calques in the Speech of Second-Generation Exiles

A series of events in the 1980s undermined support for bilingual education in the United States and instead encouraged monolingual English instruction. The English-only ordinance weakened the Office for Civil Rights, which was charged with monitoring schoolsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; compliance with the Lau requirements.90 Fairfax County Public School and Montgomery County Public School were cited for noncompliance,91 but the Office for Civil Rights had to withdraw threats in

Fishman and Keller, Bilingual Education for Hispanic Students in the United States, 259

Ibid., 260 and 264

Humberto Morales, Los Cubanos de Miami: Lengua y Sociedad, (Florida: Ediciones Universal, 2003), 107

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 42

Hornberger, "Bilingual Education and English-Only," 23

D. Castellanos P. Castellanos, The Best of Two Worlds, 233

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1980 at the end of a years-long argument. Mass media played a role in emphasizing that “miraculous success” was achievable with a simple English language immersion program and persuaded the people that bilingual education is unnecessary.92 President Ronald Reagan’s speech in 1981 supported this notion as he proposed that bilingual programs are misguided attempts, “against American concepts,” to preserve immigrants’ native language instead of helping them learn English.93 This public opinion that bilingual education is “anti-American” existed since the early 1970s. Some English-speaking monolingual residents believed that the exclusive use of English for instructional purposes in schools is one of the crucial factors in the success of Americanization.94 However over a decade, the handful of residents proliferated into the majority of the county advocating the end of bilingual education. As federal funding and enforcement of the Office for Civil Rights devalued, the bilingual education movement lost substantial momentum. Negative attitudes towards bilingual education and expired beliefs of returning to Cuba prompted Miami-Dade County Public School goals to shift from permanent and literate bilingualism to transitional bilingualism. The objective was to change the students’ dominant learning-language from Spanish to English.95 While maintenance bilingual programs in the 1960s consisted of instruction in Spanish for half a day and in English for the other half, transitional bilingual programs had instruction in Spanish stop as soon as the students with limited English proficiency were capable of following regular classes in English.96 Public schools taught reading

Ibid., 234

Ronald Reagan, “Remarks at the Mid-Winter Congressional City Conference of the National League of Cities” (speech, Washington, March 2, 1981) 93

Beebe and Mackey, Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience, 135

Ibid., 54

García and Otheguy, “The Masters of Survival Send Their Children to School,” 7

Sociolinguistic Consequences of Anglophone Education Policy in 1980s Miami

in English at the expense of reading in Spanish or even postponed the latter until the second or fourth grade.97 With the adoption of transitional bilingualism, English was clearly assuming a larger portion of school instruction. English was acquired naturally and surely for Hispanic children living in the United States: Spanish monolingual kindergarteners spoke English perfectly by the second grade, and children who spoke chiefly in Spanish during recess and lunch communicated exclusively in English by the fifth grade.98 Thus, in an environment where Spanish was not given a privileged place in the curriculum, the second-generation Cuban students became English-dominant bilinguals or English monolinguals with a limited proficiency in Spanish. For these Cuban children, English became the more comfortable language in which they spontaneously thought and spoke. English was the language used at school, conversing with teachers and peers, and Spanish at home, with grandparents who often had limited English proficiency. The English-dominant students formed semantic connections between the English phrases they regularly used with Spanish and unconsciously gave rise to calques as they used Spanish with an English sense. While convenient loanwords were used by both the first- and second-generation CubanAmericans, word and phrasal calques were present in higher levels specifically in the speech of the second generation. Word and phrasal calques were derived from an English model, expressing American ideas or messages,99 and engendered by the Cuban students themselves. The firstgeneration Cubans do not share the same characteristics because they had been taught standard

Ibid., 15

Ibid.

Ricardo Otheguy and Ofelia García, “Diffusion of Lexical Innovations in the Spanish of Cuban Americans,” in Research Issues and Problems in United States Spanish: Latin American and Southwestern Varieties, eds. Jacob Ornstein-Galicia, George Green, and Dennis Bixler-Márquez (Texas: Pan American University, 1988), 216 99

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Spanish in Cuban schools, in an environment where students were not as exposed to English. While Cuban bilingual schools such as Ruston Academy offered extensive English instruction, most public or private schools offered only an auxiliary English class.100 Therefore, as expected, firstgeneration exiles were fully proficient in traditional Spanish grammar, syntax, and lexicons, and thus did not need to utilize word or phrasal calques; they already knew the correct, standard phrases naturally and without difficulty. In fact, hearing calques from their children or grandchildren, the first generation would have already known these to be â&#x20AC;&#x153;improper Spanishâ&#x20AC;? that have been influenced by foreign elements. Thus, differing levels of familiarity with standard Spanish resulted in the diffusion of particular lexical innovations into the speech of the first- and second-generation Cubans.

100

Rozencvaig in discussion with the author, 16 December 2017

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Conclusion The transformation of bilingual instruction in Miami-Dade County from the 1960s to the 1980s reflects the impact bigoted sentiments have on language acquisition of minority children, ultimately creating a unique intergenerational divergence in Cuban-American speech. Scholars have long ago noticed a classic two- or three-generation model of language acquisition, from a Spanish monolingual generation to an English monolingual or English-dominant bilingual generation. Nonetheless, specific English influences seen in the Spanish of different generations as well as links between policies directed to Cuban-Americans in Miami-Dade County and linguistic innovations were previously obscure. The first-generation exilesâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; cultural trauma fomented by the revolution and exilic experience instigated linguistic and political conservativeness. The economic success of early exile years diminished the need for English proficiency, and linguistic conservativeness impeded penetration of calques in their speech. The second-generation Cubans, in contrast, had neither profound personal connections with Cuba nor as much pressure to conserve standard Spanish in the U.S. as the first generation. Instead, forces of acculturation in schools facilitated conversion of the studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; dominant language from Spanish to English. Taking into account the socioeconomic role of Spanish in Miami-Dade County, the cultural value of the language for Cubans, and the continuing trickle of Hispanic immigrants, Spanish will most presumably persist in Miami-Dade County and continue to acquire linguistic innovations. This paper elucidates the unprecedented influence of language and educational policies on the Spanish spoken in Miami-Dade County and provides insight for further studies to analyze how the newly acquired linguistic innovations reflect current social conditions of Miami

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Bibliography Beebe, Von, and William Mackey. Bilingual Schooling and the Miami Experience. Florida: Institute of Interamerican Studies, 1990. Boswell, Thomas, and James Curtis. The Cuban-American Experience: Culture, Images, and Perspectives. New Jersey: Rowman & Allanheld, 1984. Cacas, Samuel. "The Language of Hate." Human Rights 22, no. 1 (1995). Castellanos, Diego, and Pamela Castellanos. The Best of Two Worlds: Bilingual-Bicultural Education in the U.S. New Jersey: New Jersey Department of Education, 1983. Castellanos, Isabel. “The Use of English and Spanish Among Cubans in Miami.” Cuban Studies 20 (1990). Chávez, Ernesto. Emigración Cubana Actual. La Habana: Editorial de Ciencias Sociales, 1997. Diaz, Manny. Miami Transformed: Rebuilding America One Neighborhood, One City at a Time. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012. De La Torre, Miguel. La Lucha for Cuba: Religion and Politics on the Streets of Miami. California: University of California Press, 2003. Fernández, Roberto. “English Loanwords in Miami Cuban Spanish.” American Speech 58, no. 1 (1983). Firmat, Gustavo. Life on the Hyphen: the Cuban American Way. Texas: University of Texas Press, 2012. Fishman, Joshua, and Gary Keller. Bilingual Education for Hispanic Students in the United States. New York: Teachers College Press, 1982. Fox, Geoffrey. Working-Class Emigres from Cuba. California: R&E Research Publications, 1979. García, Ofelia, and Ricardo Otheguy. “The Masters of Survival Send Their Children to School: Bilingual Education in the Ethnic Schools of Miami.” Bilingual Review 12, no. 1 (1985). González-Pando, Miguel. The Cuban Americans. Connecticut: Greenwood Publishing Group, 1998. Grenier, Guillermo, Lisandro Pérez, and Nancy Foner. The Legacy of Exile: Cubans in the United States. Pearson Education, 2002. Guy, Gregory. In Language Loyalties: An Official Source Book on the Official English Controversy. Edited by James Crawford. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992. Haney, Patrick, and Walt Vanderbush. The Cuban Embargo: The Domestic Politics of an American Foreign Policy. Pennsylvania: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2005. Hornberger, Nancy. "Bilingual Education and English-Only: A Language-Planning Framework." In The Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 508 (1990). Leonard, Thomas. Castro and the Cuban Revolution. Connecticut: Greenwood, 1999. Lipski, John. Cuban Spanish in the United States. Washington: Georgetown University Press, 2008. Lynch, Andrew. "Expression of Cultural Standing in Miami: Cuban Spanish Discourse about Fidel Castro and Cuba." Revista Internacional De Lingüística Iberoamericana 7, no. 2 (2009). Morales, Humberto. Los Cubanos de Miami: Lengua y Sociedad. Florida: Ediciones Universal, 2003. Nedelcu, Danay. "Cuban Education between Revolution and Reform." International Journal of Cuban Studies 6, no. 2 (2014). 26

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Otheguy, Ricardo, Ofelia García, and Ana Roca.“Speaking in Cuban: The Language of Cuban Americans.” In New Immigrants in the United States: Readings for Second Language Educators. Edited by Sandra McKay and Sau-ling Wong. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Otheguy, Ricardo, and Ofelia García. “Diffusion of Lexical Innovations in the Spanish of Cuban Americans.” In Research Issues and Problems in United States Spanish: Latin American and Southwestern Varieties. Edited by Jacob Ornstein-Galicia, George Green, and Dennis Bixler-Márquez. Texas: Pan American University, 1988. Peña, Maritza. "English-Only Laws and the Fourteenth Amendment: Dealing with Pluralism in a Nation Divided by Xenophobia." The University of Miami Inter-American Law Review 29, no. 1/2 (1997). Pérez-Stable, Marifeli. The Cuban Revolution: Origins, Course, and Legacy. New York: Oxford University Press, 1993. Reagan, Ronald. “Remarks at the Mid-Winter Congressional City Conference of the National League of Cities.” Speech at the Mid-Winter Congressional City Conference of the National League of Cities, Washington, March 2, 1981. Romaine, Suzanne. Language in Society: An Introduction to Sociolinguistics. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994. Santoro, Wayne. "Conventional Politics Takes Center Stage: The Latino Struggle against EnglishOnly Laws," Social Forces 77, no. 3 (1999). Skaine, Rosemarie. The Cuban Family: Custom and Change in an Era of Hardship. North Carolina: McFarland, 2003. Vázquez, Francisco, and Rodolfo Torres. Latino/a Thought: Culture, Politics, and Society. Maryland: Rowman & Littlefield, 2002. Vickroy, Laurie. “The Traumas of Unbelonging: Reinaldo Arenas’s Recuperations of Cuba.” MELUS 30, no. 4 (2005). Zentella, Ana. "Lexical Leveling in Four New York City Spanish Dialects: Linguistic and Social Factors." Hispania 73, no. 4 (1990).

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises? By Miranda Bain Introduction The right to sexual and reproductive healthcare (SRH) has been enshrined in international conventions, but its provision remains contested and challenging. Developing from the declarations made in the International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights, the Inter-Agency Working Group on Reproductive Health in Crises (IAWG) define SRH thus: ‘Sexual and reproductive health is a state of complete physical, mental and social well-being (not merely the absence of disease and infirmity) in all matters relating to the reproductive system and its functions and processes.’1 Elaborated, best practice SRH enables everyone full access to safe and legal services, driven by each individual’s personal agency and autonomy over their body. However, the 2018 Guttmacher-Lancet Commission found that annually in developing regions: 45 million women have inadequate or no antenatal care; 25 million unsafe abortions occur; 30 million women do not give birth in a health facility; and nearly one in three women will experience intimate partner violence or non-partner sexual violence.2 Globally, unsafe abortions account for approximately 10% of maternal deaths, 99% of which occur in developing countries.3 Overall, almost all 4.3 billion people of reproductive age worldwide will have inadequate SRH services during their lives.4 Thus, despite such international standards the reality falls far short for many women, particularly in developing countries.

“Inter-Agency Field Manual on Reproductive Health in Humanitarian Settings,” Inter-Agency Working Group on Reproductive Health in Crises, 2018, 1. 2 Ann M. Starrs et al. “Accelerate progress - sexual and reproductive health and rights for all: report of the Guttmacher-Lancet commission,” The Lancet 391, no. 10140 (2018): 2642-2692, 2642. 3 “Inter-Agency Field Manual,” Inter-Agency Working Group on Reproductive Health in Crises, 145. 4 Starrs et al., “Accelerate progress,” 2642.

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises?

However, SRH access in refugee crises is even more challenging, in particular for women and girls. Not only are refugee populations confronting the numerous barriers to accessing SRH faced in stable environments, but their refugee status compounds certain vulnerabilities. At the outset of a crisis, the priorities of humanitarian responders can often be on services such as access to food, water and other healthcare services; SRH and issues impacting women and girls more generally are not a key focus of institutional efforts or agenda-setting.5 Although there are often limited resources at the outset of a humanitarian crisis, the IAWG outlines the severe consequences of neglecting SRH needs in such situations: preventable maternal and newborn morbidity and mortality; preventable consequences of unintended pregnancy such as unsafe abortion; preventable consequences of sexual violence such as unintended pregnancies; the increased acquisition of Sexually Transmitted Diseases (STDs); increased transmission of HIV; and mental health challenges such as depression and trauma.6 Although these consequences can occur in non-refugee contexts, they are exacerbated by several key factors: the general breakdown in societal infrastructure creating additional obstacles to accessing healthcare services; the heightened risk of sexual violence preponderating; the enhanced likelihood of displacement and the unpredictability that fosters, in terms of both knowledge regarding and equity of access to healthcare services; and the lack of resources specifically allocated to the needs of women and girls during crises.7

This paper will firstly analyse the specific vulnerabilities of women and girls in refugee contexts and how their access to adequate SRH can be impacted. It will then outline international frameworks for SRH provision in such contexts and the core challenges to implementation, as posited by such international actors. Once these international perspectives

“Facts and figures: Humanitarian action,” UN Women, last modified May 2017, “Inter-Agency Field Manual,” Inter-Agency Working Group on Reproductive Health in Crises, 17-18. 7 Ibid, 1; “Facts and figures.: Humanitarian action,” UN Women. 6

Miranda Bain

have been established, this paper will examine the Venezuelan crisis as a case study, firstly by describing the broader crisis itself and then the SRH challenges faced by women and girls both in Venezuela and as refugees in Colombia. It will explore the concept of structural violence to argue that the problems women and girls face in crisis are deep-rooted and relate to pre-existing conditions, and thus that any policy recommendations for improving SRH for refugees requires addressing health systems in general, rather than response mechanisms alone.

Context: women and girls during a humanitarian crisis No humanitarian crisis is gender neutral, women and girls have often become particularly vulnerable to certain abusive practices. During a crisis there is usually a breakdown in law and order, which heightens the risk of gender-based violence (GBV); meanwhile, survivors have limited support resources. Moreover, in conflict situations GBV can systematically be used as a weapon of that conflict.8 When women and girls become refugees, UNHCR note their specific vulnerability to sexual and physical abuse and exploitation, as well as to sexual discrimination in the delivery of goods and services.9 In addition, child marriage can increase as parents seek to gain protections for their children against an increased environment of sexual violence, hoping that marriage will ensure that they will be cared for. 10 Across a society enduring crisis, people often lose their livelihoods, educational opportunities, homes and other assets; many women can also face the disintegration of both their families and their social networks.11 Alongside the aforementioned risks of GBV, the Guttmacher Institute note

“Sexual and reproductive health and rights in conflict and emergencies,” Irish Family Planning Association, 2016. 9 “Guidelines on the Protection of Refugee Women,” UNHCR, July 1991. 10 “Sexual and reproductive health and rights in conflict and emergencies,” Irish Family Planning Association. 11 Sneha Barot, “In a State of Crisis: Meeting the Sexual and Reproductive Health Needs of Women in Humanitarian Situations,” Guttmacher Institute, 2017.

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises?

women’s particular vulnerability to mental and physical illness, malnutrition, disease, longterm disability and poverty.12

Within this unstable context, women’s SRH needs are particularly pronounced during a refugee crisis. In 1994 an organisation now called the Women’s Refugee Commission published a landmark report positing that reproductive health in crisis should be prioritised. Later, in the UN conferences in Cairo in 1994 and Beijing in 1995 it was established that women displaced by conflict or crisis have the same right to reproductive health that all women do. 13 Despite such declarations, SRH risks remain exacerbated during crises. A general health system collapse, for instance, can cause interrupted access to contraception, thus increasing the risk of unwanted pregnancies, unsafe abortions, STDs including HIV, and ultimately maternal illness and death.14 These risks are not only rooted in lack of access to effective health systems, but in wider societal conditions making women more susceptible to trauma, disease and malnutrition; these also contribute to the increase in risky pregnancies. Indeed, in 2015, UNFPA found that the estimated number of maternal deaths in 35 countries afflicted by humanitarian crises or fragile contexts comprised 61% of maternal deaths globally.15 Furthermore, the increase of STDs in a refugee crisis is related not only to the limited availability of contraception, but also the increased incidence of GBV.16 Collating data from numerous studies, a 2013 WHO report emphasises that GBV increases the incidence of STDs, given that women are unlikely to have control over contraceptive decisions in the context of non-consensual sex. Moreover, the report notes that perpetrators of GBV have a greater tendency to display HIV-risk behaviours, such

Ibid. Ibid. 14 Ibid.; “Sexual and reproductive health and rights in conflict and emergencies,” Irish Family Planning Association. 15 Luisa Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019: Women’s Rights in the Face of the Worsening Complex Humanitarian Emergency in Venezuela,” Equivalencias en Acción, May 2019, 7. 16 “Sexual and reproductive health and rights in conflict and emergencies,” Irish Family Planning Association. 13

Miranda Bain

as engaging with multiple sexual partners and frequent alcohol use.17 In a humanitarian crisis, the risk of GBV contributing to STD incidence increases. A study on internally displaced women along the Congo River basin in the Democratic Republic of Congo found that, while HIV prevalence amongst overall study participants was the same as national estimates, prevalence amongst female IDPs was over two times higher;18 it further found that a history of sexual violence against female IDPs during the conflict was significantly correlated with HIV infection.19 This is one case in which displacement, GBV and STD prevalence converge to create an extremely challenging SRH environment for women and girls. Given these numerous challenges, the IAWG emphasises that the ‘timely provision of SRH services can prevent death, disease, and disability’ related to the aforementioned risks faced by women and girls in crises.20 The benefits of providing SRH during a crisis extend beyond pure fulfilment of rights obligations and carries a lasting impact for the wellbeing and lives of women, girls, and subsequently society at large.

Frameworks and challenges: SRH delivery during a crisis The IAWG plays an important role in the establishment of international norms regarding the fulfilment of SRH needs during humanitarian crises. It was formed in 1995 following commitments made by over 50 governments, UN agencies, and NGOs, and in 1999 they released their first Field Manual.21 Deriving technical guidelines from the World Health Organization (WHO) and other expert bodies, the Manual has been revised several times to

“Global and regional estimates of violence against women: prevalence and health effects of intimate partner violence and non-partner sexual violence,” World Health Organization, 2013, 21. 18 IDPs: internally displaced persons 19 Andrea A. Kim et al. “HIV Infection Among Internally Displaced Women and Women Residing in River Populations Along the Congo River, Democratic Republic of Congo,” AIDS and Behavior 13, no. 5 (2009): 914-920. 20 “Inter-Agency Field Manual,” Inter-Agency Working Group on Reproductive Health in Crises, 2. 21 Ibid, 2.

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises?

adapt to rights and healthcare developments. An integral component to the Manual is the Minimum Initial Service Package (MISP), intended for use principally by SRH coordinators and health program managers when a crisis breaks. In their 2018 MISP, the priority objectives identified were: to ensure that the health sector identifies an organisation to lead implementation of the MISP; to prevent sexual violence and respond to the needs of survivors; to prevent the transmission of and reduce morbidity and mortality due to HIV and other STDs; to prevent excess maternal and newborn morbidity and mortality; and to prevent unintended pregnancies.22 Access to safe abortion is further identified as a standalone priority activity, although only â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;to the full extent of the lawâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; which is restrictive in the majority of countries. 23 These objectives are wide-ranging even within the realm of SRH, and thus they promulgate three priority activities to be instigated at the outbreak of a crisis (ideally within the first 48 hours):

1. Ensure the availability of multiple long-acting reversible and short-acting contraceptive methods at primary healthcare facilities, such that contraceptive demand can be met. 2. Provide information, education, and communications (IEC) materials, and contraceptive counselling that emphasises informed choice and consent, effectiveness, client privacy and confidentiality, equity, and non-discrimination. 3. Ensure that all members of a community (of all genders) are aware of the availability of contraceptives.24

The IAWG do not just provide guidelines for SRH priorities but also describe how implementation should be conducted. This includes a range of recommendations for

Ibid, 18-19. Ibid, 19. 24 Ibid, 4. 23

Miranda Bain

programmers and service providers, such as the forging of respectful partnerships with communities while remaining aware of any violence or power dynamics that may act as structural barriers to a patient’s decision-making ability.25 The IAWG framework for SRH provision during a humanitarian crisis thus provides a comprehensive outline of how SRH actors can respond to the needs of refugee women and girls and seeks to be applicable to any humanitarian situation.

However, major challenges remain to the delivery of the MISP and the international standard of SRH in a crisis. Although the Women’s Refugee Commission emphasise that ‘implementing the MISP is not optional: it is an international standard of care that should be implemented at the onset of every emergency,’ these goals are ambitious even in peacetime or stable contexts.26 The Guttmacher Institute notes that SRH services on-the-ground fall far short of both patient needs and established standards.27 They attribute the barriers to implementation of effective SRH as fourfold: i) cultural, manifested in cultural norms and ideological opposition to SRH; ii) research, with logistical and security obstacles preventing capacity to conduct research and collect data; iii) financial, as needs far outpace funding generally in a refugee crisis, which is compounded for SRH services (in particular where the US is a major but inconsistent funder); iv) and systemic, whereby the strength of a health system prior to crisis is an important indicator to how it can respond to a humanitarian crisis.28 Regarding financial barriers, a systematic analysis related to SRH in humanitarian crises found that 34.5% of health and protection proposals between 2002 and 2013 were relevant to reproductive health, with funding needs met totalling $2.031 billion USD in contrast to $4.720 billion requested. Moreover, of SRH

Ibid, 13. “Minimum Initial Service Package (MISP) for Reproductive Health in Crisis Situations,” Women’s Refugee Commission, 2011, 101. 27 Barot, “In a State of Crisis.” 28 Ibid. 26

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises?

components for the 2009-2013 proposals, maternal newborn health was allocated the largest proportion at 56.4%, whereas family planning only comprised 14.9% and proposals dedicated to HIV/STDs decreased during this period. In addition, just 5.6% of reproductive health proposals met MISP standards, thus even where proposals are introduced, they do not meet the minimum standard of care propagated by international norms.29 Overall, the four barriers to implementation of SRH are largely rooted in pre-existent norms, rather than arising from a crisis. Many of them are not specific to SRH alone but to the entire humanitarian response to a refugee crisis. Indeed, the IAWG notes that in order to plan and deliver SRH services, a community requires protection, health, nutrition, education, water, sanitation and hygiene, and community service personnel.30 This provides another challenge, as it demonstrates that the ability to provide adequate SRH services is not the responsibility of stakeholders within this field alone, since it demands coordination across the humanitarian space.

The Venezuelan crisis: context and SRH provision The Venezuelan crisis is useful for a contemporary analysis of SRH in a humanitarian context as it is an ongoing crisis, in which the SRH situation for women and girls is currently being reported. Additionally, it is unfolding in a region where SRH access has historically been severely lacking, but concurrently there are several stakeholders within and outside Venezuela seeking to assess and address the SRH challenges faced by Venezuelan women and girls. The humanitarian crisis in Venezuela began fully escalating in 2014, induced by economic policies, high levels of corruption, diminished income, and low investment in infrastructure and basic services.31 In 2019, the International Monetary Fund projected the inflation rate rising to

Mihoko Tanabe et al. “Tracking humanitarian funding for reproductive health: a systematic analysis of health and protection proposals from 2002-2013,” Conflict and Health, 9, no. 1 (2015). 30 “Inter-Agency Field Manual,” Inter-Agency Working Group on Reproductive Health in Crises, 2. 31 Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019,” 7.

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10,000,000%.32 Much government data has not been published since 2015 and thus it is difficult to gain an accurate assessment of the dimensions of the crisis, but it has brought about a collapse in healthcare and education, alongside increased unemployment rates and extrajudicial killings. As Venezuelan SRH network Equivalencias de Acción argue, the State’s ability to deliver services including healthcare has collapsed, which has dire consequences for Venezuelans accessing their fundamental rights.33 Reflecting on this humanitarian crisis, UNHCR has designated the majority of Venezuelans as entitled to refugee status.34 As of October 2019, an estimated 4,486,860 Venezuelans have fled their country, although this is a likely underestimate.35 Additionally, Colombia is by far the highest receiving country of Venezuelans, hosting over 1.4 million Venezuelans in August 2019; a number of Colombian returnees are also included in the mixed migration flow.36 Catholicism is the dominant religion in Colombia and Venezuela, and with the Church’s institutional opposition to certain SRH services including abortion, challenges for Venezuelans accessing SRH are multi-faceted not only at home, but in the primary receiving country to which they flee.

Venezuelan women and girls have historically had limited access to SRH, which has only been augmented by state collapse. The nation’s 1915 Penal Code, reformed in 2005, prohibits abortion in its various forms except when intended to save the life of the woman, and it also diminishes the penalty when carried out to safeguard honour.37 Thus, its abortion laws are very strict and fail to comply with various international agreements it has signed, such as the

“República Bolivariana de Venezuela,” International Monetary Fund, October 2019. Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019,” 7. The group was formed in 2016 and comprises the following organisations: Asociación Civil Mujeres en Línea, Asociación Venezolana para una Educación Sexual Alternative (AVESA), Centro de Justicia y Paz (CEPAZ) y el Centro Hispano-americano de la Mujer FREYA. This research scrutinises five city contexts, but is intended to be relevant for the wider Venezuelan context. 34 “Majority fleeing Venezuela in need of refugee protection – UNHCR.” UNHCR, May 21 2019, 35 “Portal Operacional: Situaciones de Refugiados y Migrantes,” Respuesta a Venezolanos, 2019, 36 “Colombia: Situational Report – August 2019,” Respuesta a Venezolanos, 2019. 37 Ibid., 39. 33

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises?

Montevideo Consensus on Population and Development. Prior to the crisis escalating, Venezuelans had access to contraception through private pharmacies without major restrictions, and in a minority of cases some had access through public bodies.38 In 2016 however, the Pharmaceutical Federation of Venezuela reported family planning methods shortages of approximately 90%. In a 2019 study of five cities in the country, Equivalencias en Acción found contraceptive shortages ranging from 83.3% to 91.7%.39 In an environment where abortion is restricted yet so is access to contraceptive methods, the SRH needs and options of women and girls are severely restricted. Indeed, surgical sterilisation – a permanent procedure – has been part of a National Surgery Plan since 2014 and is the primary form of state-provided birth control.40 The use of this method was already prominent before the crisis, but has escalated as other contraceptive methods have suffered drastic shortages. In an investigation conducted by The Intercept, one doctor in Guárico state noted that in his hospital women initially had to be over 35 and with three or more children to receive the procedure, but these guidelines quickly collapsed with women aged 18 or 19 being sterilised for life.41 For many women, it is seen as the only solution to avoiding risky or unwanted pregnancies. One 28-year-old woman stated, “I am a bit afraid of getting sterilized, but I would rather do that than having more children. Having a child nowadays means making [them] suffer.”42 In this unstable and inadequate SRH environment, maternal mortality has surged, with an estimated increase of 66% between 2015 and 2016, after which no official figures have been released.43

Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019,” 21. “Sexual and reproductive rights in contexts of humanitarian crisis: Venezuelan women at risk,” Women’s Link, September 24 2019. 40 “Sexual and reproductive rights in contexts of humanitarian crisis: Venezuelan women at risk,” Women’s Link. 41 Lou Marillier and Daisy Squires, “Lacking Birth Control Options Desperate Venezuelan Women Turn to Sterilization and Illegal Abortion,” The Intercept, June 10 2018. 42 Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019,” 30. 43 “Sexual and reproductive rights in contexts of humanitarian crisis: Venezuelan women at risk,” Women’s Link. 39

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The SRH and wider context in which practitioners are operating in Venezuela is highly complicated and has numerous deep-rooted barriers to achieving adequate SRH. Not only are there shortages of medical supplies but of medical professionals themselves.44 This is symptomatic of the fact that in Venezuela, as in many refugee crises, the first people to leave were highly-skilled and upper class individuals. This exacerbates the problems of those left behind, as not only are there fewer societal resources, but they are of a lower socio-economic status and thus with fewer personal resources to support themselves. In March 2019, the InterAmerican Commission on Human Rights (IACHR) granted protective measures for one of Venezuela’s most renown public hospitals, Maternidad Concepción Palacios, finding that inadequate services and access to resources led to a severe emergency constituting discrimination and violence against women.45 Indeed, Equivalencias en Acción concluded that the risk of dying from pregnancy-related complications is high in Venezuela, while following qualitative interviews with Venezuelan women, Amnesty International concluded that poor SRH services were a major factor forcing women to flee the country.46 This maternal mortality includes unsafe abortion attempts, with hospitals observing practices that had not been witnessed in quite some time, such as the insertion of sharp, puncturing objects, the use of herbs and homemade beverages and the introduction of substances of various natures, including soapy substances.’47 Given restrictive abortion laws, women are also reticent to seek medical support if a clandestine abortion goes wrong, fearing that doctors will report them to the authorities. Medical practitioners themselves attributed increasing maternal mortality as falling within the four-delay model of UNFPA Guatemala:

Ibid. Ibid. 46 Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019”; “Exodus of Pregnant Women,” Amnesty International, 2018. 47 Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019,” 42. 45

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises?

1. First delay: lack of knowledge by women, families and communities regarding dangers during pregnancy, labour, postpartum and of the newborn; 2. Second delay: the woman recognises signs of danger, but gender inequality prevents this turning into action and independent decision-making, with decisions made by their partner or close family members; 3. Third delay: relating to existing limitations such as lack of access to roads or means of transport to reach health services; 4. Fourth delay: inadequate and untimely institutional care due to numerous factors, principally lack of competency (knowledge, skills, abilities and attitudes) from health providers, and also a lack of supplies, medicine, and proper equipment.48

The ability for the remaining medical professionals – and incoming ones from international organisations – to provide adequate SRH is effectively non-existent in this crisis. Although UNFPA posit that they are improving conditions with “dignity kits” providing essential hygiene supplies, as the recent findings from Equivalencias en Acción reveal, the situation for women in the country remains stark.49

Although the regional response to the Venezuelan crisis has been unprecedented in its show of solidarity, the skyrocketing movement of Venezuelans across borders is stretching the capacity of host countries. This is particularly pronounced in the primary receiving country, Colombia. Venezuelans have myriad unmet needs on arrival relating to health, food, employment, education and housing. Colombian NGO Profamilia stress that these factors directly impact

48 49

Ibid., 44. Liliana Arias, “Amid economic exodus, left-behind women begin to feel safe in Venezuela,” UNFPA, 2019.

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SRH needs, especially of women and children.50 65,000 healthcare services were provided to refugees and migrants during 2018, which has created challenges for the availability, quality, and accessibility to basic health services; this consequently detrimentally impacts the attainment of the intermediate universal health coverage goals in SRH, ‘equity in resource distribution, efficiency and transparency, and accountability.’ Of the Venezuelan women arriving in Colombia that were consulted for the Equivalencias en Acción report, 56.04% of them noted their last gynaecological check-up was over a year ago, while 66.1% of Venezuelan women arriving in Colombia had children, with a quarter of those with two children. 51 By September 2018, Profamilia had provided 6,589 SRH services to Venezuelan immigrants, 165 of which were voluntary pregnancy termination. Overall in Colombia, the average number of births per month to Venezuelan mothers has drastically increased from 5.5 in 2015 to 136 in 2018.52 As discussed, women and girls confront specific dangers as refugees, and that displacement enacts particular risks for SRH needs. Data from Colombia’s National Health Institute shows that in the major border crossing of Cúcuta in 2018, 83% of perinatal and neonatal mortalities were reported in Venezuelan migrants, although in August 2018 there were just two documented cases of Venezuelan maternal mortality.53

Profamilia and the International Planned Parenthood Federation (IPPF) conducted assessments based on the application of the IAWG toolkit for evaluating the availability of the MISP during crises within four border cities with prominent Venezuelan populations. They sought to assess ‘health institutions that provide services to the Venezuelan migrant population, key

“Evaluation of the unmet sexual and reproductive health needs of the Venezuelan migrant population in four cities on the Colombia-Venezuela border: Arauca, Cucuta, Riohacha and Valledupar,” International Planned Parenthood Federation and Profamilia, 2019, 15. 51 Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019,” 66. 52 “Evaluation of the unmet sexual and reproductive health needs of the Venezuelan migrant population,” International Planned Parenthood Federation and Profamilia, 44. 53 Ibid., 55.

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises?

respondents on sexual and reproductive health, gender-based violence (GBV) and HIV; and focus groups with Venezuelan migrants and Colombian returnees.’54 It was the first time such tools had been applied in a Latin American context, which the authors contend posed challenges in terms of their translation, adaptation and approach in Colombia, where SRH approaches are more liberal than Venezuela but remain nonetheless limited for the population at large.55 They found that despite the capacity of Colombian institutions, this was not translated into effective or timely access to comprehensive SRH owing to numerous factors. These include Venezuelans being rejected from healthcare services, funding deficits, xenophobia, and a lack of knowledge, training and implementation of the MISP, which in turn translated into a lack of coordination between different national and international organisations.56

For example, of the 23 service providers interviewed in the study, only two had heard of the MISP and just one received training for its implementation: ‘when asked to identify the sexual and reproductive healthcare goals and priorities in an emergency situation, one respondent was able to identify all aspects covered by the MISP.’57 Furthermore, only two of 23 respondents mentioned international agencies and NGOs responsible for HIV management during migration crises.58 In addition, four of five of the hospitals in Cúcuta analysed offered some form of contraception, but uptake was low, with only one hospital documenting access of more than one contraceptive method, ranging from male or female condoms to injectable contraceptives.59 Focus groups pointed to widespread xenophobia and discrimination but

Ibid., 16. Ibid., 16. 56 Ibid., 16. 57 Ibid., 42. 58 Ibid., 43. 59 Ibid., 56. 55

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nonetheless praised the quality of healthcare services provided when accessed. Although health services have capacity to treat incidents of sexual violence against the migrant and refugee population, people often fail to seek care in the first 72 hours following an assault due to fears of deportation, misinformation, and rumours.60 Moreover, although the authors emphasise that the MISP should be comprehensively implemented across Colombia, especially in mostaffected regions, this is unachievable given inadequate preparedness and regulation from such receiving countries as to broader refugee and specific SRH needs.61 The MISP was also conceived primarily for urban contexts, where refugees are normally concentrated, but Venezuelans are spread throughout Colombia in such a way that healthcare facilities are not necessarily located nearby.62

Such challenges – of inadequate SRH provision and international frameworks – speak to the deeper nature of problems facing refugees from Venezuela and around the world. As discussed previously, unsafe abortions account for approximately 10% of maternal deaths, 99% of which occur in developing countries.63 Meanwhile, over 80% of all refugees are hosted in developing countries, with one third in the Least Developed Countries.64 In 2014 the WHO declared,

“Human rights are guaranteed in international and regional treaties, as well as in national constitutions and laws. They include the right to non-discrimination, the right to life, survival and development, the right to the highest attainable standard of health,

Ibid., 58. Ibid., 1. 62 Ibid., 20. 63 “Inter-Agency Field Manual,” Inter-Agency Working Group on Reproductive Health in Crises, 145. 64 “Global Trends: Forced Displacement in 2018,” UNHCR, 2019. 61

What are the core challenges to providing sexual and reproductive healthcare to women and girls in humanitarian crises?

and the rights to education and to information. These rights have been applied… to a wide range of sexual and reproductive health issues…”65

However, despite these “guarantees” there are immense gaps between such declarations and their implementation. This is symptomatic of structural violence, defined by Paul Farmer as ‘suffering [that] is “structured” by historically given (and often economically driven) processes and forces that conspire-whether through routine, ritual, or, as is more commonly the case, the hard surfaces of life-to constrain agency.’66 Poverty, and myriad factors that contribute to it including gender, ethnicity and political enfranchisement, informs the risk levels of individuals to suffering. This suffering is measured in metrics such as life expectancy and, in the case of Farmer’s research, HIV. Such analysis can be extrapolated to the SRH refugee experience in Venezuela and across the world. As seen in Venezuela, those at greater risk of inadequate SRH are of a low socio-economic status. Refugees are also overwhelmingly represented in developing countries with fewer resources to provide an international standard of SRH services. Despite the attempts of international organisations to address unmet needs, huge resource gaps remain, with, for instance, UNHCR Colombia facing a 62.2% funding deficit to deal with their response to the Venezuelan crisis.67

Conclusions Many of the inadequacies in SRH provision faced by refugees in Venezuela and elsewhere are rooted in a damaging combination of pre-existing conditions and fresh challenges brought about by the context of crises. Indeed, the Guttmacher-Lancet Commission notes that broader

Quoted in Kislinger et al. “Women on the Edge 2019,” 20. Paul Farmer, “On suffering and structural violence,” in Pathologies of Power, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005) pp. 29-50, 40. 67 “Colombia: Situational Report – August 2019,” Respuesta a Venezolanos. 66

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progress in SRH requires confrontation of barriers in i) laws, ii) policies, iii) economy, and iv) social norms and values, particularly regarding gender inequality.68 Bettering SRH is possible with such mechanisms and developing stronger response resources and expertise at an institutional and community level. However, as alluded to by the Guttmacher Institute, SRH challenges faced by refugees are systemic and pre-date crises. They should be addressed in every country in order to strengthen the capacity of any context to respond to a crisis; this is nonetheless more difficult and a longer-term goal for countries that are already systematically underdeveloped due to structural violence. The key challenge with the implementation of crisis-specific recommendations is that they cannot prove fully successful until the structures in which they operate fully support SRH. Without meaningful addressing of gender inequality in healthcare and wider societal systems – and how those power dynamics can manifest in an international context – effective, safe SRH is unachievable for everyone, especially refugees.

Nonetheless, there are forms of management that can mitigate already challenging conditions during a humanitarian crisis. In the case of refugee crises, the Guttmacher Institute posits that the majority of funding focuses on response rather than prevention, preparedness and resiliency. They also argue that SRH must be included in primary healthcare systems and national plans.69 UN Women note that only 4% of UN inter-agency appeals were targeted at women and girls in 2014, while just 1% of all funding to fragile states – and most impacted by disasters – was dedicated to women’s groups or women’s ministries in 2015.70 At a local level, Profamilia and the IPPF make various targeted recommendations for the successful implementation of MISP that encompass institutional response monitoring, information-

Starrs et al., “Accelerate progress,” 2642. Barot, “In a State of Crisis.” 70 “Facts and figures: Humanitarian action,” UN Women. 69

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spreading, and enhanced resource allocation and barrier-removal for migrant populations. Greater prioritisation of SRH in a humanitarian response would enable the diminishing of barriers that women and girls face during crisis, as they would confront fewer inconsistencies and less miscommunication in terms of understanding what SRH is available. Once SRH is institutionalised as a core component of crisis preparedness and response, women and girls will be better able to manage the wider problems perpetuated by crises and enhance their capacity to recover from the uncertainty and danger of crises.

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Bibliography Arias, Liliana, “Amid economic exodus, left-behind women begin to feel safe in Venezuela,” UNFPA, 2019, https://www.unfpa.org/news/amid-economic-exodus-left-behindwomen-begin-feel-safe-venezuela. Barot, Sneha, “In a State of Crisis: Meeting the Sexual and Reproductive Health Needs of Women in Humanitarian Situations.” Guttmacher Institute, 2017, https://www.guttmacher.org/gpr/2017/02/state-crisis-meeting-sexual-andreproductive-health-needs-women-humanitarian-situations. “Colombia: Situational Report – August 2019,” Respuesta a Venezolanos, https://r4v.info/es/documents/download/72042. “Evaluation of the unmet sexual and reproductive health needs of the Venezuelan migrant population in four cities on the Colombia-Venezuela border: Arauca, Cucuta, Riohacha and Valledupar,” International Planned Parenthood Federation and Profamilia, 2019, https://profamilia.org.co/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/Evaluationof-the-sexual-and-reproductive-health-needs.pdf. “Exodus of Pregnant Women,” Amnesty International, 2018, http://amnistiaonline.org/SalidadeEmergencia/Default/Exodo/. “Facts and figures: Humanitarian action.” UN Women, May 2017, https://www.unwomen.org/en/what-we-do/humanitarian-action/facts-and-figures. Farmer, Paul, “On suffering and structural violence,” in Pathologies of Power. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005, pp. 29-50. “Global and regional estimates of violence against women: prevalence and health effects of intimate partner violence and non-partner sexual violence,” World Health Organization, 2013. “Global Trends: Forced Displacement in 2018,” UNHCR, 2019, https://www.unhcr.org/globaltrends2018/. “Guidelines on the Protection of Refugee Women.” UNHCR, July 1991, https://www.unhcr.org/3d4f915e4.html. “Inter-Agency Field Manual on Reproductive Health in Humanitarian Settings.” InterAgency Working Group on Reproductive Health in Crises, 2018. Kim, Andrea A. et al. “HIV Infection Among Internally Displaced Women and Women Residing in River Populations Along the Congo River, Democratic Republic of Congo,” AIDS and Behavior 13, no. 5 (2009): 914-920. Kislinger, Luisa, et al. “Women on the Edge 2019: Women’s Rights in the Face of the Worsening Complex Humanitarian Emergency in Venezuela.” Equivalencias en Acción, May 2019, https://avesawordpress.wordpress.com/publicaciones/mujeres-allimite-2/mujeres-al-limite-2019-version-en-ingles/. “Majority fleeing Venezuela in need of refugee protection – UNHCR.” UNHCR, May 21 2019, https://www.unhcr.org/en-us/news/briefing/2019/5/5ce3bb734/majorityfleeing-venezuela-need-refugee-protection-unhcr.html. Marillier, Lou and Daisy Squires, “Lacking Birth Control Options Desperate Venezuelan Women Turn to Sterilization and Illegal Abortion,” The Intercept, June 10 2018, https://theintercept.com/2018/06/10/venezuela-crisis-sterilization-women-abortion/. “Minimum Initial Service Package (MISP) for Reproductive Health in Crisis Situations.” Women’s Refugee Commission, 2011. “Portal Operacional: Situaciones de Refugiados y Migrantes,” Respuesta a Venezolanos, 2019, https://r4v.info/es/situations/platform. “República Bolivariana de Venezuela,” International Monetary Fund, October 2019, https://www.imf.org/en/Countries/VEN#countrydata. 46

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“Sexual and reproductive health and rights in conflict and emergencies.” Irish Family Planning Association, 2016, https://www.ifpa.ie/app/uploads/2018/05/Sexual-andReproductive-Health-and-Rights-Conflict-Emergenices.pdf. “Sexual and reproductive rights in contexts of humanitarian crisis: Venezuelan women at risk,” Women’s Link, September 24 2019, https://www.womenslinkworldwide.org/en/news-and-publications/press-room/sexualand-reproductive-rights-in-contexts-of-humanitarian-crisis-venezuelan-women-atrisk. Starrs, Ann M. et al. “Accelerate progress - sexual and reproductive health and rights for all: report of the Guttmacher-Lancet commission.” The Lancet 391, 10140 (2018): 26422692. Tanabe, Mihoko. et al. “Tracking humanitarian funding for reproductive health: a systematic analysis of health and protection proposals from 2002-2013,” Conflict and Health, 9, 1 (2015): https://doi.org/10.1186/1752-1505-9-S1-S2.

Tesoros Tejanos: How Spanish and Mexican Objects Tell the Story of Texas at the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History By Katie L. Coldiron ABSTRACT: This paper looks at a selection of Spanish and Mexican objects currently on display at the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History in Austin, Texas. The objects are placed within a taxonomy created by the author and informed by the curators of the respective exhibits. This taxonomy includes "Colonial Spanish" and "Uniquely Mexican" objects. Also included under the umbrellas of these two categories are objects representing Race, Religion, Treasure, and Expansion in Colonial Texas/New Spain, as well as the Texas Revolution and charrerĂa. The objects are discussed in detail and contextualized within the different parts of the story of Texas that they help tell. In the conclusion, the future of Spanish and Mexican objects at the Bullock is discussed.

Introduction In their second edition of Spanish Texas: 1519-1821, Chipman and Joseph conclude with a final chapter in which they note the many present "legacies" of Spanish and Mexican dominion in what is now the U.S. state of Texas. These legacies range from law and music to the many Spanish-named towns, counties, and streets in the state. Their impact is best summed up in the following quote: "...Hispanic Texans and their descendants have played and will continue to play a major role in Texas history. Understanding their past is a vital component of the state's collective experience and remembrances. Even though not all Spanish

influences affect the day-to-

day lives of Texans, they are important enough to deserve more recognition than that traditionally given to them in histories of the Lone Star State" (Chipman and Joseph 2010, 275276). Within the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History in Austin, Texas, the state's Spanish and Mexican heritage is ever present. On the first floor of the three-story museum, within the pre-Columbian, Native American, African, and French stories, are also those of early colonization efforts undertaken by the Spanish. It is important to note that the Native American, French, African, and Spanish stories of what is now Texas during the colonial period are not mutually exclusive; rather, all of these groups interacted and had their lasting impacts on each other. For example, much like in the rest of Spain's colonial holdings in the Americas, the 48

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Spanish constructed in Texas misiones, or missions, with the stated purpose of converting resident Native American groups to the Catholic faith, and in turn "Hispanicizing" them (Chipman and Joseph 2010). On the second floor, the museum tells the famous story of the Alamo, as well as those conflicts between the Anglo settlers and Mexican authorities that led up to the conflict. On the third floor of the museum, there are some Tejano stories mixed in with others about Texas business, culture, and history from 1936 onward. Within this essay, I examine some objects currently on display at the Bullock Museum with Spanish and Mexican origins. I place these objects within the context of past, current, and future exhibition projects at the museum. Like at the Bullock, these objects for me are the means by which I examine how the museum tells the stories of Spanish and Mexican influences in Texas during the past and present. I classify the objects into 2 categories: Colonial Spanish and Uniquely Mexican, as well as into narrower categories depending on what part of the Texas story that they tell.1 More specifically, those objects dating to the existence of New Spain will be classified as colonial, while those from 1821 and after will be designated as Mexican. In order to define and limit the scope of this paper, I focus on objects within the time frame of the colonial period to the Mexican American War, with the exception of one object that is, in my perception, timeless.2 Additionally, the Bullock's status as a non-collecting institution, or one that does not own any of the objects it displays will also be taken into consideration. The curators of these exhibits were also crucial for my research, and their input will be utilized throughout the paper as well as in the upcoming background section.

Background on the Bullock and its Curators In the course of my research, I had the opportunity to interview Franck Cordés and Kathryn Siefker, two of the three main curators at the Bullock Museum. Cordés focuses on the first floor of prehistoric Texas to Mexican Independence, while Siefker picks up the story at Mexican Texas and the later Texas Revolution all the way to the year 1936. They both also contribute to different exhibits on the third floor of "modern" Texas exhibits, with Cordés having 1

In order to limit the scope of this paper, I only work with those objects that are within the "permanent" exhibits. As of the writing of this paper, there is a temporary exhibit showing the collection of Ted and Sharon Lusher, which contains some Spanish and Mexican objects. Additionally, not all objects in the permanent exhibits with Spanish and Mexican origins will be highlighted. 2 The charro outfits from the 3rd floor exhibit on ranching in Texas, as exhibited, are independent of any particular time period. Rather, they are representations of Spanish/Mexican influences in Texas from the past and present.

Katie Coldiron

curated the current exhibit "Cowboys in Space and Fantastic Worlds," while Siefker curated the semi-permanent "Ranching in Texas" exhibit. Both have unique backgrounds: Cordés is of French descent and grew up in Washington D.C., while Siefker is a native Texan, which may contribute to their unique views on the museum and its collections. Cordés originally came to the Bullock Museum to work on the La Belle exhibit and ended up curating the entire "Becoming Texas" first floor exhibit. He has been working at the Bullock for approximately 3 years, and for him, the greatest challenge when it comes to exhibit creation at the museum is funding. Siefker has been at the Bullock for about 11 years, and has the arguably most controversial exhibit in the museum to display: that of the Texas Revolution.3 She also cites the existence of objects as the most challenging when it comes to creating exhibits at the museum. Latin American subject matter, and more specifically that of Mexico, was not a specialty for either of them initially. Nonetheless, like any good curator, they have undertaken the research on the history, and the objects in existence to display a both accurate and informative look at how Texas came to be. Interestingly enough, neither cited the museum's non-collecting status as the major hindrance to their work. For Siefker, it is merely a fact of life for newer museums, and can even help keep older ones in survival. For example, in our interview she mentioned to me that when the Bullock Museum was first announced, many museums in Texas feared that it would mean the end of their collections because everything would be absorbed by the new museum. For Cordés, it was something that was simply in place during the museum's creation and that has not changed. In 1978, the American Association of Museums, or AAM, ruled that non-collecting institutions like galleries could be considered museums because they displayed, preserved, and took care of objects while not necessarily having ownership of them (Heumann Gurian 1999). While the objects are without a doubt necessary for creating the type of exhibits that the Bullock features, having ownership of them is not necessary for survival. Rather, it is the existence of the objects, having sufficient funds to acquire them, and maintaining contacts with collectors and other museums. As will be shown in the upcoming sections of this paper, Texan and non-Texan collectors and other institutions have been essential in creating exhibits about Spanish and Mexican Texas.

As mentioned at the beginning of this paper, for many Texans their history begins at the Alamo. The way that the Alamo and the Texas Revolution are viewed tends to differ among Anglo Texans and those of Mexican descent.

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Colonial Spanish Objects: Treasure, Religion, Race, and Expansion Introduction: Spanish Intentions The Spanish arrival to Texas begins at the Bullock with objects symbolic of a typical conquistador: a silver Morion helmet with an embossed image of Christ, rapier swords, and currency in the form of gold bars, a silver disc, and silver real coins from New Spain. As Cordés puts it, the strategy for displaying the colonial Spanish presence in Texas was to start with Spanish intentions for being there in the first place. In other words, the Spanish were in Texas looking for treasure. As any scholar of Latin America knows, this purpose was uniform throughout Spain's vast colonial holdings in the Americas, and more successful in some places than others. Additionally, to justify these treasure hunts, the process of evangelizing Native Americans was also deemed a priority throughout Spanish America. Ultimately for the Spanish, there were no riches in Texas at the same level as those found in their other colonial holdings. Thus, much of the interior territory went unexplored until the arrival of the Frenchman René Robert Cavelier, sieur de la Salle (Chipman and Joseph 2010). After the presentation of the Spanish gold and weaponry, Cordés decided to direct the exhibit towards La Salle and his colonial experiment in East Texas, with the star artifact being the illfated ship La Belle, as well as some of the treasures it carried. An introduction panel with an interesting title follows the detour into French expansion efforts in Texas territory. More specifically, it refers to the Texas territory as "Spanish in Name Only." This refers to Spanish efforts to settle Texas that were spurred by La Salle's expedition, and that while the territory had been a part of New Spain for more than 200 hundred years, it was largely controlled by Native American groups. The coexistence, or often lack thereof, between Spanish and Native American groups in the Texas territory is presented through the mix of artifacts from both groups in the remaining exhibitions on the first floor of the Bullock.

Colonial Religious Objects As stated previously, one of the professed goals of Spanish exploration in the Americas was the evangelization of the native groups. Therefore, it is no surprise that most of the religious objects featured at the Bullock are from the colonial era. Additionally, many of these objects came from the San Antonio area, where the establishment of the mission San Antonio de Valero 51

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and the presidio, or military base, San Antonio de Béxar would destine the settlement to be the most important in Spanish Texas (Chipman and Joseph, 2010). San Antonio de Valero Mission would later be known as the Alamo. One of the first religious artifacts to catch the viewer's eye is the santo statue of Saint Francis. Known as San Francisco in Spanish, this figure dates to the late 1700s-early 1800s, and was found in a San Antonio mission. With the permission of the diocese in San Antonio, Cordés was able to commission a new robe made for the figurine for its display in the Bullock. Like other objects in the Bullock, it is a temporary display, on loan from the Archdiocese of San Antonio and the National Parks Service (Bullock Museum of Texas State History 2019). The 5 missions originally established at San Antonio were all Franciscan, and within these missions the friars sought to establish self-sufficient, predominantly Native American pueblos in which to facilitate evangelization. However, what resulted was mixed, Hispanicized communities that merged into San Antonio de Béxar (Hinojosa 1991). This artifact is what is left behind from this era of evangelization: an artistic representation of the Franciscan friars' patron, and one that could transcend language barriers to convey the Franciscans' message.

Figure 1: Santo de Saint Francis statue. Courtesy of the Bullock Museum of Texas State History.

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Figure 2: The Santo de Saint Francis as it is currently displayed in the Bullock. Photo taken by author.

In relation to the Franciscans' evangelization efforts in Texas, the Bullock also currently holds a processional cross. The item is from the 18th century, and comes from the collection of Red McCombs, a San Antonio-based collector. In the words of Cordés, the McCombs collection is vast, but does need some organization and care. This object is another example of using visual aids to cross language and cultural barriers to spread the Catholic faith. Catholic missionaries often carried crosses like this during their expansion missions in the Americas. In his search for La Salle's colony, the Spanish explorer Alfonso de León had the opportunity to explore East Texas and meet the Hasinai Caddo tribe, whom he reported expressed interest in having missionaries sent to them for religious instruction (Chipman and Joseph 2010). De León wrote that upon his first meeting with the Caddo tribe, "I delivered to the tribal governor a staff with a cross, giving him the title of governor of all of his people...that he should make all of his families attend Christian teaching" (Bullock Museum of Texas State History 2019). This would set the stage for further Spanish expansion and development in East Texas.

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Figure 3: Spanish processional cross. Courtesy of the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History.

Race and Mestizaje in Colonial Texas Upon one of my earliest visits to the Bullock Museum, the painting De EspaĂąol, y Negra, Mulato by Francisco Clapera immediately caught my eye. It is a painting I had previously seen in books and other museums in Latin America, and I was pleasantly surprised to find it at the Bullock. While I learned later that what is on display currently at the museum is a facsimile of the original, it nonetheless is a thought provoking piece that fits well into CordĂŠs vision for the first floor of the Bullock.4 Clapera was a Spanish painter who worked in Mexico, and was one of the artists famous for producing casta paintings: a way of representing the miscegenation taking place between the three main demographic groups (Spaniards, Africans, and Indigenous peoples) in 18th century New Spain (Pierce 2015). In the work, a white man of Spanish descent is depicted with an African woman, presumably enslaved, and their child, the mulato, or mix of European and African descent.

The original painting was present for the opening of the first-floor exhibition, but had to be returned to the Denver Art Museum.

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Figure 4: De Español, y Negra, Mulato by Francisco Clapera. Courtesy of the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History.

Accompanying this painting is a 1783 census of Béxar, now San Antonio. In this census, it states that at this time 739 Spaniards, 383 Indians, 93 Mestizos, 294 Mulattos, and 11 enslaved people were living in Béxar (Bullock Museum 2019). The census, like many other documents in the museum, comes from the Dolph Briscoe Center for American History at nearby UT Austin. From my conversations with the curators, the Briscoe Center, and specifically the Bexar Archive, contain numerous materials that are applicable to the museum's exhibits.5 Additionally, the Briscoe has such an abundance of materials that many of them are loaned indefinitely to the Bullock. In order to remind the viewer that not all of those in Texas at this time period were here willingly, Cordés makes the choice to include wrist shackles, ankle shackles, and a neck chain that would have been used on enslaved people in the Americas. All of these items date to the 1800s, and come from the Austin collector Lance Banks (Bullock Museum 2019). The accompanying caption reminds the museumgoer that by the year 1625, approximately 475,000 enslaved Africans had been brought to the Spanish Americas and Brazil. While not necessarily Spanish-made, these items nonetheless fit well into the category of Race and Mestizaje in Texas during the colonial period.

Throughout the museum, a variety of Briscoe materials are featured.

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Figure 5: Slave wrist shackles. Courtesy of the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History

Expansion in Colonial Texas: Military Efforts and Ranching Within the Spanish settlers that came to Texas during the colonial period, there were quite a few men who had military duties. The presidio military bases, first constructed around the year 1570, were the start of a large campaign to secure the roads and communications of the Spanish Borderlands, and were accompanied by defensive towns and military outposts (Chipman and Joseph 2010). Like other histories of colonialism in the Americas, this strategy of increased militarization to inhabit and protect lands originally stolen from indigenous groups was common. In the case of Texas, this approach often failed, with the case of the Spanish and Chichimeca War in the later 16th century (Chipman and Joseph 2010). Warfare is integral to the story of Texas and the rest of the Americas, and it is shown through a collection of colonial Spanish military weapons and uniforms. I already mentioned the sword and helmet at the beginning of the Becoming Texas first floor exhibit, and the juxtaposition between these objects and the gold. The sword and helmet come from the collection of the late Sam Nesmith of San Antonio, which includes mainly military-related objects. Nesmith's story was particularly interesting for me, as he was not a very wealthy person like many other donors. Rather, he was the director and curator of the Texas Museum of Military History in San Antonio, and he developed a passion for collecting military materials from a young age (Dignity Memorial 2018). The Spanish weapons on display currently in "Becoming Texas" are the aforementioned rapier sword, an espada ancha broadsword, a silver dagger, a signal gun, a lance blade, and a 56

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miguelet pistol. The broadsword dates to the 1700s, and is from the collection of Jim Jeter of Santa Barbara, California. The silver dagger is ornate, dates to approximately the year 1775, and comes from the collection of Sam Nesmith. The signal gun, dating to 1799 and fired every day at noon in the presidio plaza of San Antonio, is also from the Nesmith collection. The lance blade, the most common weapon for a presidio soldier, comes from the Jeter collection. Finally, the miguelet pistol is elaborately decorated, dates to the 1750s, and also comes from the Jeter collection.

Figure 6: Spanish miguelet pistol. Courtesy of the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History.

As important as the weaponry in showing Spanish expansion by force in Texas are the uniforms that would have been worn in the time period. The aforementioned conquistador helmet embossed with the image of Christ provides the museumgoer from the start with a complex view of Spanish intentions. While converting indigenous peoples to Christianity was the "official" goal, the unofficial but more important goals were expansion and treasure hunting. 6 Further on in the Becoming Texas exhibit, one finds the uniform armor of the typical Spanish

In a 1492 letter to Luis de St. Angel, Christopher Columbus writes the following in regard to the indigenous peoples he encountered in the Caribbean: "...and gave a thousand good and pretty things that I had to win their love and to induce them to become Christians, and to love and serve their Highnesses and the whole Castilian nation, and help to get for us things they have in abundance, which are necessary to us" (Columbus 1492). From this quote, it can be interpreted that the most "necessary" goal of the Spanish colonial projects was these things "in abundance."

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soldado de cuera, or leather soldier. It is a heavy piece that comes from the Jeter collection. Accompanying this armor is a rabbit fur hat, used by presidio soldiers in the 1700s. This piece comes from the Nesmith collection. Finally, the uniform pieces conclude with a Spanish adarga shield that dates to the late 1700s. On the shield one can find painted the letters "BAVIA" for a presidio founded in 1774 in Coahuila, Mexico. This piece also comes from the Jeter collection.

Figure 7: Soldado de cuera armor. Courtesy of the Bob Bullock Museum of Texas State History.

In curating the Becoming Texas exhibit, CordĂŠs sought to portray daily life for a presidio soldier, more specifically that it was not a glamorous job. Along with the gold in the opening exhibit of Spanish Texas, he also decided to include two real coins, which would have been the monthly salary of a typical presidio soldier. Additionally, he mentions in the captions for the uniforms and weaponry additional facts about who would have used each item and other relevant information. For example, mentioning that the soldado de cuera armor was heavy and hot would no doubt make the museumgoer think of wearing it in the sweltering Texas heat. The more ornate weapons are also said to have belonged to higher ranked or wealthier military men in the presidios. It is a thought-provoking balance to display the intentions of becoming rich for many in the Americas alongside the difficulties of actually living in the territory. Beyond the numerous colonial military objects I have mentioned, there are also a variety of colonial ranching objects on display within the first floor of the Bullock. Ranching is also, in my interpretation, a means of expansion. The practice itself requires large amounts of land, and the Spanish introduced cattle and horses to their land holdings in the Western Hemisphere. Also of consideration is the charro, a Mexican traditional rancher role, which will be explored more in 58

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depth later on in this paper. The charro finds its origins in the "self sufficient Spanish conquistador-rancher-hacendado who brought the wild new land of America under his control, who branded the cattle and horses and made them his, who (far separated from Madrid and Ciudad Mexico) made his own laws and enforced them" (Texas Folklore Society LIX 1992). In this quote, one will see the themes of colonization and control, key in Spanish expansion efforts in the Americas. The ranching-related objects featured on the first floor include such things as spurs, cattle brands, and other objects associated with the practice. One such object is a pair of wooden stirrups with faces carved into them. As told to me by CordĂŠs, while these stirrups were found in the Mexican Borderlands, they were more common at the time in Brazil. He cites these stirrups as an example of trade during the time period, which rebuffs notions that people did not travel as much in the past as they do now. The wood material also suggests a shortage of iron in New Spain during the time period. This object comes from the Jeter collection.

Figure 8: Wooden stirrups. Photo taken by author.

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Another object featured in this first-floor exhibition is an iron brand shaped like a cross. The brand dates to the early 1800s, and would have been used by a mission or presidio to mark their cattle. The practice of branding animals is European in origin. This particular object comes from the collection of Red McCombs.

Figure 9: Cross-shaped cattle brand. Photo taken by author.

Colonial Spanish Objects: Conclusion The colonial Spanish objects, the vastest subgroup of Spanish and Mexican objects currently on display at the Bullock, are a crucial introduction to the Spanish legacy and Latin American roots of Texas. It is a thorough, fair, and accurate look at life in the Tejas province of New Spain. However, most impressive about the objects is how they fit into the entire Becoming Texas exhibition. The objects are seamlessly integrated into a much larger story of French, Native American, African, and Spanish presence in the Texas territory. Beyond the objects I have mentioned, CordĂŠs makes a "timeline" wall, accompanied by mainly written objects that document the struggles between these different demographic groups. CordĂŠs concludes his exhibition with the Mexican Revolution, and an 1820 letter authorizing Moses Austin to settle 300 American families in Texas. It is from here that Siefker picks up the story with the second60

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floor exhibition, "Building the Lone Star Identity," specifically with the efforts of Stephen Austin to bring American settlers to what will now be Mexico.

Uniquely Mexican Objects: The Texas Revolution and CharrerĂa Introduction: Cultural Struggles On the second floor, Siefker takes on the task of telling the history of Texas from 1821 onward. The story begins with the influx of Anglo-American settlers into Texas, now Tejas within the country of Mexico after it won its independence from Spain in 1821. These settlers were brought in through the efforts of individuals called empresarios, literally meaning businessmen, and were part of a program with its origins in colonial New Spain. Moses Austin, the father of Stephen Austin, received a land grant from Spain to settle 300 families in the Texas territory. After falling ill, Moses bequeathed the duties of settling these families to his son Stephen. When New Spain won its independence and became Mexico, Austin was able to convince the Mexican government to establish a program granting land, citizenship, and other privileges to Anglo settlers. It was within this wave of Anglo settlers that such individuals as Sam Houston and William Travis would emerge, and later on in the 1830s provoke rebellions among these Anglo citizens of Mexico, who were culturally more North American than Mexican or Spanish (Bullock Museum 2019). These struggles between the Anglos and Mexican authorities take center stage on the 2nd floor of the Bullock. This struggle, a climatic point in history for many Texans being the Battle of the Alamo, is for many where the history of Texas begins. However, as evident at the Bullock Museum, this is a preposterous notion. The Texas territory existed in the prehistoric era, was the home of multiple Native American groups up until the arrival of Europeans, and was part of the Spanish Territory of New Spain, and later the independent Mexico, long before this celebrated battle. As evident at the Bullock Museum, there is more than one way to look at the history of Texas, more specifically a manner outside of the dichotomies of positivist stories of historical "winners" and constructivist stories that are put to credibility tests later on (Trouillot 1995). Additionally, of importance on the second floor is the aftermath of this conflict: for Texas, Mexico, and the United States of America. As shown in the second-floor exhibits, the loss of Texas and subsequent loss of what is now the American Southwest was a blow to Mexico, and one that severely affected the popularity of Mexican leaders like General Antonio LĂłpez de 61

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Santa Anna. With Texas becoming closer and closer to the United States with the influx of more Anglo settlers, many Tejanos faced discrimination, so much so that Juan Seguín, the most famous Tejano hero of the Texas Revolution, felt the need to return to Mexico. Regardless of this darker side of Texas history, the influences of Spain and Mexico live on in the state, and how the museum illustrates that phenomenon through objects will be explored in the coming sections.

Objects of the Texas Revolution The Texas Revolution is a story found in not just the Bullock, but also in other sites around Austin and the state of Texas. In the Texas State Capitol, one will find the painting The Surrender of Santa Anna by William Henry Huddle. At the Susannah Dickinson Museum in downtown Austin are such objects as a quilt signed by descendants of the surviving Alamo defenders and fragments of Dickinson's first-hand account of the battle. In San Antonio, the Alamo Mission, repaired and given its parapet between 1849 and 1850, is the ultimate symbol of the Texas Revolution as the site of the famous Battle of the Alamo (Texas Historical Commission 1992). Near the Alamo, in San Antonio's San Fernando Cathedral is a box purporting to hold the remains of Texan heroes William Travis, Jim Bowie, and Davy Crockett. In the Bullock Museum, there are many objects on the second floor that commemorate this battle. However, I am focusing solely on those with Mexican, rather than Anglo, origins. Across from the mannequins depicting Anglo rebels at the 1835 Battle of Gonzalez is a metal case with a variety of weapons, mainly of Spanish and other European origins. They are a part of the exhibit called "Sent to Stop a Rebellion 1835," in which López de Santa Anna's military efforts to end Anglo rebellion in Tejas are described. Among this variety of weapons is a shako insignia, which would have been worn on the hats (shakos) of Mexican Army lancers. The imagery on the insignia is similar to that of the Mexican flag: an eagle with a snake in its mouth, situated on top of a cactus. The piece comes from the collection of the late Enrique Guerra at his San Vicente Ranch in Linn, Texas. Guerra was a twelfth generation Texan; the ranch he owned has been in his family since the colonial period. He collected many Spanish colonial pieces and had loaned many to the Bullock Museum and other museums around the state (Kriedler Funeral Home 2016). Guerra has been described as the "last of the old-world dons," and in April 2016 was posthumously inducted into the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum’s Hall of

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Great Westerners (Soodalter 2016). With his death, the continued ability of his collection to be shown at the Bullock has been in question.

Figure 10: Mexican insignia worn on a shako. Photo taken by author.

Right after the replica of the Alamo Mission is the bed said to have been used by General Lรณpez de Santa Anna when he was traveling. An American soldier claimed the bed not during the Texas Revolution, but during the later U.S.-Mexican War. The piece comes to the museum from the Alamo Collection in San Antonio. In its caption, the object is linked to one used by Napoleon Bonaparte, specifically in its material and ornateness. In this way, the object shows Lรณpez de Santa Anna as both the military leader and supreme ruler, similar to the role occupied by Bonaparte in France.

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Figure 11: Santa Anna's traveling bed. Photo taken by author. Near the traveling bed is an encased medal, labeled the "Medal for the Defense of Texas, 1840." The piece is one of many that was commissioned by Mexican president Anastasio Bustamante, and it would be given to an individual who "combatiรณ por la integridad del territorio nacional," or "fought for the integrity of the national territory," or fighting to keep Tejas as part of Mexico. The piece is a 5-point star hanging from a laurel wreath, and includes the colors of the Mexican flag: red, green, and white. As the exhibit caption points out, Bustamante was, at the time of this medal's issuing, frantically trying to hold onto power, and only a year later Santa Anna reclaimed the presidency via a coup (Bullock Museum 2019).

Figure 12: Medal for the Defense of Texas, 1840. Photo taken by author. 64

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Overall, these pieces fit into the Texas Revolution exhibit as representations of the Mexican side of the conflict, coupled with letters and manuscripts. The conflict is portrayed as having multiple sides: that of the Texas Anglo settlers and their Tejano supporters, that of Mexico and its government/troops led by Santa Anna, and that of the United States, interested in potentially having Texas as a state. For example, in the replica Mexico City jail cell of Stephen Austin, one will find panels labeled "Texas' View," "Mexico's View," and "America's View." It is an attempt to balance the conflict between a heroic Anglo Texan account in which rebellious heroes stand up for their rights, and a disappointing Mexican one in which the country begins a course of losing almost half of its national territory to the United States.

Uniquely Mexican Objects After the Texas Revolution and the Mexican-American War exhibits, the stories of Texas' link with Mexico largely end on the second floor of the Bullock. For my final exploration of Spanish/Mexican objects in the Bullock's permanent exhibits, I go to the third floor of the museum. The floor is largely a "business" floor, with exhibits including, but not limited to, the following: Texas' oil industry, space exploration, Austin City Limits, and a space for revolving temporary exhibits, which is currently inhabited by "Cowboys in Space and Fantastic Worlds." In a far corner away from these exhibits, one will find the semi-permanent exhibit on ranching, in which usually only the artifacts will change. The first exhibit panel is entitled "A Spanish Legacy," and details the Spanish origins of ranching, or ganaderĂa, in Texas. As told in the exhibit, much of the equipment associated with ranching, such as spurs worn on boots, originate with Spanish vaqueros, or cowboys. The exhibit features a variety of spurs, knives, branding irons, and other objects associated with ranching that have Spanish origins. To further illustrate ranching's vaquero roots, Siefker decided to display two outfits typical of the charrerĂa, or those traditions and skills of the Mexican charro, or horseback riding cowboy. More specifically, these outfits, one male and one female, would be used in the charreada, or roping and riding competitions that are the precursor to the modern Texas rodeo (Texas Folklore Society LIX 1992). The female outfit is an example of an Adelita dress, which owes its name to a legendary female soldier of the Mexican hero Pancho Villa (Texas Folklore Society LIX 1992). The outfit on display consists of the dress with bodice, a sombrero hat, and 65

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the rebozo (shawl) tied around the waist for performing. The male outfit is a charro work suit, complete with a short jacket, sombrero, bowtie, fitted pants, and leather boots.

Figure 13: Male and female outfits associated with charrería. Photo taken by author.

The outfits are from the collection of Marisú González, the great-granddaughter of Gumaro González, a charro and landowner from Northern Mexico who began the collection in the 1800s (Sumner 2011). González and her husband, Gabriel Caballo, manage the collection, and are the only Mexico-based collectors represented within the Bullock's objects currently on display. When I went to talk to both Cordés and Siefker, one of the first questions I asked was about collaboration with Mexican collectors and institutions. The answer I got from both was that it is something that is desired, but the costs and complications of bringing objects across international borders make it difficult. The objects from González's collection were part of a traveling exhibit called Arte en la Charrería, which stopped at the Bullock in 2011 (Sumner 2011). Therefore, with the objects already at the museum and in the United States, Siefker asked González for permission to display these two outfits in the third-floor exhibit. According to Siefker, the objects will be in the Ranching exhibit until February 2020.

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Conclusion: The Future of Spanish and Mexican Objects at the Bullock In my meeting with Franck Cordés, I noticed a white board with what looked like brainstorming for a future exhibit. These were Cordés preliminary thoughts for an exhibit about the links between Texas and Mexico. As I hope I have shown in this paper, this would not be the Bullock's first representation of the subject of Texas' Hispanic heritage. From the hosting of the Arte en la Charrería exhibition to the inclusion of objects from colonial New Spain, it is evident that the curators at the Bullock care about the inclusion of the Spanish/Mexican stories that made Texas what it is today. In 2016, the museum also had a temporary exhibition called "Life and Death on the Border: 1910-1920," in which the stories of Texans of Mexican descent were crucial. Nonetheless, there is always room to do more, and one of the hopes with this potential exhibition is to bring in a curator of Mexican descent to work on it. In the words of Kathryn Siefker, when the curators find something extraordinary the money will usually be found to finance it. Therefore, perhaps in this exhibit objects could be brought in from museums in Mexico or Mexico-based collectors. In a place like Texas, the sky is the limit in terms of Spanish/Mexican cultural elements to showcase. I formally conclude this paper with a question depicted within the second-floor exhibits, more specifically at the beginning of the Republic of Texas: Who can be citizens of the republic? As said within this caption, Tejanos, including heroes of the Texas Revolution like Juan Seguín and Lorenzo de Zavala, faced increasing prejudice in their own land by the influx of Anglos arriving after the revolution. Many Tejanos, including Seguín, were forced to flee to Mexico during the 1842 invasion of San Antonio due to suspicions from the Anglos about their loyalties. While we are now almost two centuries past the Texas Revolution, prejudices still abound in Texas for Tejanos and others of Mexican/Latin American descent. With its duty to inform the public, the Bullock has had, and will continue to have, the obligation to tell the story of how Texas came to be, which cannot be told without the efforts of Spaniards, Mexicans, and Tejanos.

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Bibliography Bullock Museum of Texas State History. 2019. “Artifact Gallery.” https://www.thestoryoftexas.com/discover/artifacts Bullock Museum of Texas State History. 2019. Exhibits. Chipman, Donald E., and Harriet Denise Joseph. 2010. Spanish Texas: 1519-1821. 2nd ed. Austin: University of Texas Press. Columbus, Christopher. 1492. “Letter of Christopher Columbus on His First Voyage to America, 1492.” National Humanities Center Resource Toolbox: America’s Beginnings: The European Presence in North America, 1492-1690. 1492. Dignity Memorial. 2018. “Obituary: Samuel Presley Nesmith Jr.” 2018. https://www.dignitymemorial.com/obituaries/san-antonio-tx/samuel-nesmith-8029481. Heumann Gurian, Elaine. 1999. “What Is the Object of This Exercise?” Daedalus 128 (3). Hinojosa, Gilberto M. 1991. “The Religious-Indian Communities: The Goals of the Friars.” In Tejano Origins in Eighteenth-Century San Antonio. Austin: The University of Texas Press. Kreidler Funeral Home Inc. 2016. “Enrique E. Guerra Obituary.” 2016. https://www.kreidlerfuneralhome.com/obituaries/Enrique-Guerra-2/ - !/Obituary. Pierce, Donna, and Denver Art Museum. 2015. “De Español, y Négra, Mulato.” Online Collections, Denver Art Museum. 2015. https://denverartmuseum.org/object/2011.428.4. Soodalter, Ron. 2016. “Last of the Dons: The Man Who Saved the Breed That Defined the West.” American Cowboy. 2016. https://www.americancowboy.com/people/dons-53141. Sumner, Jane. 2011. “Bullock Museum Exhibit Celebrates Rodeo’s Roots in the Pageantry and Horsemanship of Mexico’s Charrería.” Austin 360 : The Austin American-Statesman. 2011. https://www.austin360.com/article/20110319/ENTERTAINMENT/303199796. Texas Folklore Society LIX, Julia Hambric, Bryan Woolley, and Francis Edward Abernathy. 2002. Charreada: Mexican Rodeo in Texas. Edited by Francis Edward Abernathy. Denton, TX: University of North Texas Press. Texas Historical Commission. 1992. “San Antonio and South Texas.” In A Guide to Hispanic Texas, edited by Helen Simmons and Cathryn A. Hoyt, 1–67. Austin: University of Texas Press. Trouillot, Michel-Rolph. 1995. “The Power in the Story.” In Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History, 1–30. Boston: Beacon.

Building One Corner of a New World: Understanding Puerto Rico as a World Leader in Collective Organizing By Barae Hirsch I.

Introduction While the extremely powerful forces of capitalism, colonialism, and climate change

shape our economic, social, cultural, ecological, and emotional conditions, they can sometimes appear abstract and removed, overwhelming and intractable. Despite the very present impacts, colonialism can seem far in the past, capitalism can seem natural and climate change a doomsday mystery. The Caribbean island of Puerto Rico presents a modern-day, concrete manifestation of the intersection of these systems. As a current colony of the world capitalist hegemon (the United States), long exploited for the enrichment of the U.S. while remaining disenfranchised at the national level and devastated by recent natural disasters intensified by climate change, Puerto Rico has experienced some of the most harmful effects of the colonial capitalist system that rules our world today. Puerto Rico has also long demonstrated a revolutionary impulse, with many Puerto Ricans participating in radical activism related to issues including their debt crisis, their colonial status, and, especially after the devastation of Hurricane MarĂa, organizing to support the needs of their communities who were abandoned by local and federal governments. This paper will address these structures of capitalism, colonialism and climate change as interconnected parts of a whole, an integrated and extractive system in which Puerto Rico is situated as a nexus point. After 500 years of capitalist colonialism, climate change-related disasters like Hurricanes MarĂa and Irma as well as recent and continuing earthquakes have made unavoidably explicit the fundamental injustice of the structures shaping Puerto Rico, and have exposed the necessity for a sea-change in the way Puerto Rico is organized. It is clear that the current systems are not intended to support the people of Puerto Rico. In the wake of these clear 69

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and devastating systems failures, Puerto Ricans have had to build grassroots, collective autonomy that emerges from and serves the people themselves. In this paper, I examine Puerto Rico as a frontline for anti-capitalist organizing and collective autonomy, a radical leader for a world in the midst of economic, climate, and social crisis. Within this framework of positioning Puerto Rico as a world leader in collective organizing, I refer to the Zapatistas as a potential guide for mounting anti-capitalist collective resistance in Latin America. The Zapatistas are an indigenous, socialist political-militant group based in southeastern Mexico who have also experienced over 500 years of imperialist oppression. The Zapatistas’ struggle against capitalism, colonialism, and the comprehensive effects of climate change – the same issues facing Puerto Rico – can inform methods of autonomy building, anticapitalist ideology, and collective organizing structures in Puerto Rico. Upon closer examination, I find that many of the conclusions reached by organizers in Puerto Rico echo those of the Zapatistas, pointing to opportunities for further global solidarity as well as mutual learning. The Zapatistas organize with the intention of building a new world, “a world where many worlds fit.”1 This objective means celebrating the different knowledge, wisdom, practices, and histories of different peoples, honoring the autonomy and dignity of each. The organizing happening in Puerto Rico is one local manifestation of a global anti-capitalist struggle. I first look at Puerto Rico’s colonial history and present, understanding the island’s longstanding position as a site of extraction for the enrichment of the United States and experimentation ground for many U.S. policies. I then turn to the underlying structure of capitalism at the center of Puerto Rico’s subordination in the world economy, characterized by “Sexta Declaración de la Selva Lacandona,” Enlace Zapatista, EZLN, 2005, enlacezapatista.ezln.org.mx/sdsl-en/. 1

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exploitation, austerity, dependence and precarity. Capitalism functions by rationalizing, individualizing, and commodifying the world around it, forcing austerity and immiseration of the people through the privatization of social services, dismantling of communities and emphasis on individual responsibility over collective support. I situate these issues of capitalism and colonialism as interconnected systems of domination. I then explore the extensive crisis of climate change and its specific effects on Puerto Rico, highlighting an unequal experience of the crisis and one worsened by the insatiable profit-motive and control-seeking of the U.S. capitalist colonial state and the fossil fuel industries with which it cooperates. Climate change, though devastating â&#x20AC;&#x201C; especially for poor communities of color and those in vulnerable geographic areas â&#x20AC;&#x201C; can also point to a potential antidote to individualism, since sustainability and transformation in the face of the global climate crisis likely requires autonomous, community-based alternatives premised upon renewable resources and new methods of living. I then take up the solutions emerging from below in terms of collective organizing in Puerto Rico, in conjunction with the diaspora and organizers abroad. In the wake of the clearsighted systems failures consolidated by Hurricane MarĂa and intensified by succeeding political incompetence, corruption, and unrest and severe earthquakes, Puerto Ricans are, in this moment, constructing the beginnings of a new world based on justice, decolonization, and ecological sustainability. Their struggle affects us all, and to build meaningful solidarity we must understand the ways in which our histories, present realities, and futures are intertwined -- and must be, if we wish to mount effective and revolutionary resistance. As the interconnected crises of capitalism, colonialism and climate change continue to converge and increase in severity and scope, the organization of Puerto Ricans actively building community, autonomy, political

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awareness, sustainability, and solidarity can provide an important framework for the rest of the world. II.

Modern-day Colonialism As Roberto Ramos-Perea states in the bilingual anthology Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-

Hurricane María, “Puerto Rico is one of the last colonies in the Americas, if not the last one.”2 As an unincorporated territory of the United States since 1898, Puerto Rico has continually been subjected to the laws and political-economic decisions of the imperial core. The Merchant Marine Act of 1920, commonly known as the Jones Act, requires that any products imported to or exported from Puerto Rico be conveyed by ships built, owned, and operated by the U.S. 3 Consequently, goods in Puerto Rico consistently cost 20% more than they would in the U.S. or other Caribbean islands.4 In addition to being a captive market for U.S. goods, Puerto Rico has routinely been used as a site of experimentation for U.S. foreign and domestic policy. Beginning in the late 1940s, Puerto Rico embarked on an economic development program known as Operation Bootstrap that prioritized investment from mainland U.S. investors, in industries like pharmaceuticals and petrochemicals, through tax breaks and incentives for U.S. corporations as an engine for economic growth, further integrating Puerto Rico into the U.S. economy.5 As James L. Dietz writes in Economic History of Puerto Rico: Institutional Change and Capitalist Development, even before Operation Bootstrap, “within Puerto Rico’s capitalist and colonial structure, the dominance of private U.S. capital was virtually guaranteed,” despite Puerto Rican policy makers’

Roberto Ramos-Perea, “A New Dictatorship Has Been Installed in Puerto Rico.” In Voices from Puerto Rico: PostHurricane María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 48. 3 Joel Cintrón Arbasetti, “A Storm More Severe,” The Indypendent, October 17, 2017,. 4 Ibid. 5 James Dietz. Economic History of Puerto Rico: Institutional Change and Capitalist Development (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 1993), 206-210. 2

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initially purported goal of state-owned production with the aim of less-dependent industrialization.6 But with the concerted implementation of Operation Bootstrap, a “program of ‘industrialization by invitation,’” it was “clear that the intent of the new policy was no longer social justice, even narrowly defined. Growth of output, achieved on the basis of orthodox economic principles of behavior, was the new goal.”7 Consensus around this policy was built upon a resultant improvement in living and social conditions. But these gains were due not just to the successes of Operation Bootstrap, but rather “the particular interventionist role of the government in Puerto Rico and the nature of the colonial relation, which have permitted an improvement in living standards without a concomitant advance in institutional adaptation that could make such improvement permanent.”8 Thus, efforts to promote economic development in Puerto Rico were driven by and served colonial interests, exploiting the resources of the colony for the enrichment of the empire and actively underdeveloping Puerto Rico. The limited and subjective ‘success’ of policies like Operation Bootstrap was utilized by the U.S. as a promoter for its development model to other developing countries, especially during the Cold War.9 As Marisol LeBrón writes, “throughout the mid-twentieth century, Puerto Rico was mobilized as an example of the progress that could be achieved through economic and political alignment with the United States.”10 But the economic well-being of Puerto Rico itself was never the true objective: when the North American Free Trade Agreement was signed in 1992, new markets and labor sources developed in other parts of the world. Puerto Rico’s further integration into the U.S. economy brought the expansion of national regulations, and U.S. capital

Ibid., 207. Ibid., 210. 8 Ibid., 209. 9 Marisol LeBrón, “Puerto Rico’s War on Its Poor,” Boston Review, December 12, 2018, 10 Ibid. 7

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abandoned the island to exploit other, cheaper labor and less-regulated locations.11 The experiment of developing Puerto Rico was never intended to build a sustainable economy, but rather to expand markets and profit potential for the U.S. Because the trickle-down logic of Operation Bootstrap was directed towards filling the coffers of U.S. investors rather than benefiting the people of Puerto Rico in the long-term, its successes were short-lived. In the 1990s, Governor Pedro Roselló “went on a loan binge, increasing the public debt by over ten billion dollars,” and “privatized state companies, reinforced law-and-order programs and negotiated loans for public works that benefitted major companies linked to his party.”12 Succeeding administrations continued to rack up debt. By 2000, the tax breaks that had attracted U.S. investors and corporations to the island were reduced, leading to the closure of many factories and decreased employment and tax revenue. In an effort to compensate for this unemployment and economic decline, Puerto Rican governments increased public spending. Puerto Rico found itself in a crippling debt crisis, defaulting on its debt in 2015.13 This situation stems directly from Puerto Rico’s colonial status. As Saqib Bhatti and Carrie Sloan of the Action Center on Race and the Economy write in their report on the Puerto Rican Debt Crisis, “Broken Promises,” “Puerto Rico’s inability to determine its own economic policy or access financing from international organizations like the IMF have left it vulnerable to predatory Wall Street schemes.”14 In June of 2016, the U.S. Congress passed the Puerto Rico Oversight, Management, and Economic Stability Act (PROMESA), creating a Fiscal Control Board in charge of Puerto Rico’s finances, known as “la Junta” because of its undemocratic

Ibid. Carlos Marichal, “After the Default: A Neoliberal Debt Solution for Puerto Rico,” NACLA, August 18, 2015, 13 Ibid. 14 Saqib Bhatti and Carrie Sloan, “Broken Promises,” Action Center on Race and the Economy, August 2017, pp. 10 12

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nature.15 PROMESA has implemented extreme and violent austerity measures including cutting pensions, school and university funds, minimum wage, public infrastructure and disaster readiness, and sustainable energy projects, with no elections or input from Puerto Ricans themselves.16 As a result, Puerto Ricans are experiencing extremely widespread poverty and the end of any illusion of sovereignty, with their fate once again determined by a colonial authority interested in its own profit rather than the well-being of the people.17 This neoliberal approach to debt crisis is another example of the U.S. using Puerto Rico as a test site, with debt restructuring and PROMESA acting as an experiment for bankruptcy in individual states in the U.S.18 Another experiment on the colony came in the form of public housing privatization and increased criminalization and militarization of the poor, a policy known as Mano Dura Contra el Crimen that acted as a model for the U.S. tough-on-crime laws of the 1990s and the War on Drugs.19 While the Puerto Rican government privatized public housing and and tried to fight drug-related violence and crime, they also utilized the police and National Guard as a form of colonial militia in “one of its longest ‘peacetime’ deployments in U.S. history” to occupy spaces where poor people lived and where drug activity was suspected.20 Mano Dura was not the first of this type of militarized, privatized tough-on-crime programs, but as LeBrón writes, “as much as Mano Dura served as a policy model, it was also an expression of larger transformations that we now recognize as key components of the neoliberal common sense of our times, under which poor people of color routinely find themselves gentrified and surveilled

Ibid. Catalina de Onís et al., “Puerto Rico’s Seismic Shocks,” NACLA, January 15, 2020, nacla.org/news/2020/01/14/puerto-rico-earthquakes-renewable-energy; Angel López Santiago, “Decolonize the Caribbean,” NACLA, October 19, 2017. 17 Mark Weisbrot, “Puerto Rico’s Botched Disaster Relief, Unsustainable Debt, and Economic Failure Linked to its Colonial Status,” Common Dreams, June 1, 2019. 18 Bhatti and Sloane, “Broken Promises,”; Mary Williams Walsh, “Puerto Rico’s Bankrupty Plan is Almost Done, and It Could Start a Fight,” The New York Times, July 14, 2019. 19 LeBrón, “Puerto Rico’s War.” 20 Ibid. 16

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out of their neighborhoods with the help of police who have been trained and equipped as a domestic military.”21 Through the unfolding of policies like Mano Dura and their impact on the people of both Puerto Rico and the mainland U.S., we can understand the role that Puerto Rico has played as a disposable, second-class colonial laboratory for the imperial core, and how the social, political, economic, and physical infrastructure of the island has been weakened and systematically underdeveloped through its colonial relationship with the U.S. As José Atiles-Osoria writes for NACLA: “The colonial and neoliberal design of the state provides the conditions for the colonizer and local/global elites to profit from colonial territories, while the racialized, gendered, and impoverished colonized subjects struggle with multiple dimensions of inequality, social harm, and structural violence—including the violence of austerity.”22 These instances of experimentation, exploitation, and externally-determined decisions about the future of Puerto Rico exemplify the capitalist colonial history and reality of Puerto Rico.

III.

Capitalism As a colony of the world capitalist hegemon, the aforementioned elements of Puerto

Rico’s colonial experience are inextricably tied to the underlying structure of capitalism. As Marisol LeBrón writes, “Puerto Ricans are living through a humanitarian crisis created by colonial capitalism.”23 Capitalism is an inherently unequal system: in order to generate the wealth of a few, there must be exploitation and extraction of the many. Puerto Rico has borne the brunt of the dark side of capitalism. As Naomi Klein writes, “for 500 uninterrupted years, the role of Puerto Rico and Puerto Ricans in the world economy has been to make other people rich,

Ibid. José Atiles-Osoria, “The Anti-Corruption Code for the New Puerto Rico,” NACLA, May 7, 2019. 23 Marisol LeBrón, “Puerto Rico, Colonialism, and the U.S. Carceral State,” Modern American History, 2019, 169. 22

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whether by extracting cheap labor or cheap resources or by being a captive market for imported food and fuel.”24 The specific role of Puerto Rico in the world capitalist system as a site of exploitation has long been shaped by its position as a tax haven for wealthy U.S. citizens, with local laws like Act 20 and Act 22 of the federal tax code allowing a 4% corporate tax rate, zero capital gains tax, and zero federal income tax on any income they earn in Puerto Rico -- none of which is available to Puerto Rican residents.25 These laws, which were passed in 2012, lend yet another meaning to Klein’s concept of “disaster capitalism,” or capitalizing on the chaos and desperation of postdisaster/crisis situations to implement neoliberal measures like privatization of public services, austerity, dispossession and other forms of exploitation and deepening of wealth inequality, a “shock doctrine” that hits people when collective trauma is too severe to allow for effective resistance.26 In this sense, the tax breaks created by the Puerto Rican government were a way to rescue the debt-mired Puerto Rican economy, and the wealthy U.S. investors utilizing these selective loopholes to better hoard their money are the disaster capitalists. Post-María, with the island desperate to attract capital and assure investors that business is secure in Puerto Rico, disaster capitalists are fueled both by the hurricane and the economic crisis. As Klein describes in depth in her book The Battle for Paradise: Puerto Rico Takes on the Disaster Capitalists, a new wave of colonizers are arriving on the island to indulge in resort-like lifestyles while cashing in on tax breaks and establishing a home-base for cryptocurrency mining, a confusing and energy-intensive industry that essentially allows people to create their own money.27

Naomi Klein, “There’s Nothing Natural About Puerto Rico’s Disaster,” The Intercept, September 21, 2018. Yarimar Bonilla and Marisol LeBrón, Aftershocks of Disaster: Puerto Rico Before and After the Storm (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2019), 8; Naomi Klein, The Battle for Paradise: Puerto Rico Takes on the Disaster Capitalists (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2018), 17-19. 26 Klein, “There’s Nothing Natural.” 27 Klein, The Battle, 15-21. 24 25

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This post-disaster, open-for-business Puerto Rico, presented as a resource not yet fully exploited, represents the epitome of modern capitalism. Neoliberalism, the current iteration of the world capitalist economic system, is fully-fledged in Puerto Rico. As Carlos Marichal writes, “responses to Puerto Rico’s debt crisis entail privatizations and the application of neoliberal solutions as if they were elements of a magic recipe for a most complex situation. In this case, neoliberalism and neocolonialism appear to have much in common.”28 This commonality is characterized by the privatization of infrastructure like energy and public housing, austerity in the public sphere to finance private debt, and seeking technocratic solutions – like privatized, militarized housing complexes – to structural problems, ultimately resulting in a concentration of poor people of color into deeper pits of exploitation, poverty, displacement and discrimination.29 The outcome of all this neoliberal logic is an anemic society. When Hurricane María hit, the social, political, and economic infrastructure of Puerto Rico was so systematically dismantled, the island so conscripted into its colonial position that the U.S.government utterly failed to take adequate recovery measures. Thousands of Puerto Ricans were forced to leave the island, as conditions were untenable for many, especially those with medical needs.30 Of these botched recovery plans and drawn-out trauma, Klein asks, “is this all a masterful conspiracy to make sure Puerto Ricans are too desperate, distracted and despairing to resist Wall Street’s bitter economic medicine?” referring to increased austerity and attempts to lure private investors over prioritizing the needs of residents.31 Klein answers her own question: “I don’t believe it’s anything that coordinated. Much of this is simply what happens when you bleed the public

Marichal, “After the Default.” LeBrón, “Puerto Rico’s War.” 30 Klein, The Battle, 58. 31 Ibid., 60. 28 29

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sphere for decades, laying off competent workers and neglecting basic maintenance.”32 As Klein writes, for Puerto Rican attorney and climate justice activist Elizabeth Yeampierre, the “‘biggest fear’ is that the [post-María] evacuation will be a prelude to a massive land grab. ‘What they want is our land, and they just don’t want our people in it.’”33 The concrete upshot, whether wholly intentional or not, is a tropical paradise with much fewer people living on it, more amenable to business interests than ever. Land sovereignty is essential for anti-capitalist resistance and cultural sustainability. For the Zapatistas, land is central to their resistance efforts, not only in protecting their resources but in reclaiming ancestral land as the centerpiece of their anti-capitalist autonomy. The Zapatistas distill the workings of capitalism into “four wheels”: exploitation, dispossession, repression, and devalorization.34 Using this framework, which was developed from a Latin American understanding of capitalist colonialism, we can further understand the current reality of Puerto Rico, both pre- and post-Hurricane María, as an outcome of a violent process of capitalist domination and a nexus of history, current reality, and possibilities of the future. These four wheels are intertwined, but their expression is strikingly evident in Puerto Rico. Exploitation has come in the form of resource and labor extraction; economic, environmental, social, and political experimentation; trade restrictions; and tax breaks for outsiders. Meanwhile Puerto Rican residents pay $3.5 billion per year in taxes yet still don’t receive adequate services, especially when it comes to disaster relief.35 Dispossession occurs through the privatization of public resources, the resortification and selling-off of the island to host wealthy tourists and

Ibid., 60. qtd. Klein, The Battle, 58. 34 Subcomondante Insurgente Moisés and Sup Galeano, “300.” EZLN, August 22, 2018. 35 Klein, The Battle, 31. 33

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businesspeople causing displacement of locals, and the austerity measures that have forced many residents to flee the island for lack of resources and sustainable livelihoods. Repression is evident in Puerto Rico’s lasting disenfranchisement, the imposition of the Junta, the criminalization of poverty, and the corruption present in the government. Recent issues like the intentional withholding of unused hurricane aid point to both ineptitude and callousness of the colonial Puerto Rican government and its overseer, the American state.36 Exemplified by Trump’s paper towel-throwing incident as a symbol of U.S. disaster relief, the devalorization of the Puerto Rican people is extremely evident in the utter absence of U.S. resources, respect, and self-governing capacities directed toward and allowed on the island, both pre- and post-María. The racism experienced by Puerto Ricans, primarily those of indigenous and Afro descent, both on the island and in the mainland U.S., and the continuous experimentation on a people shoved to the margins and deemed disposable, strengthens the neoliberal conviction that wealthy mainland Americans are worth more and have more right to the land and resources of Puerto Ricos than Puerto Ricans themselves. Such is the way of capitalism: dehumanization, individualization, and commodification, a steamroller that uproots everything in its path until there is nothing left to destroy -- unless it encounters a big enough obstacle to spur collective rerouting. IV.

Climate Change Climate change is just the latest form of disaster to hit Puerto Rico. As Naomi Klein

writes, Hurricane María was “not just a storm, but a storm supercharged by climate change slamming headlong into a society deliberately weakened by a decade of unrelenting austerity layered on top of centuries of colonial

Vanessa Romo and Adrian Florido, “Political Unrest In Puerto Rico After Discovery Of Unused Hurricane Aid.” NPR, January 20, 2020, www.npr.org/2020/01/20/797996503/political-unrest-in-puerto-rico-after-discovery-ofunused-hurricane-aid. 36

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extraction, with a relief effort overseen by a government that makes no effort to disguise its white supremacy.”37 Again, Puerto Rico puts our world’s biggest crises on display. As Klein notes, warmer oceans and higher tides are increasing the severity of so-called “natural” disasters, provoked by the capitalist economy’s toxic addiction to fossil fuel extraction.38 Despite Puerto Rico’s high potential for renewable energy production in the solar, wind, and tidal industries, the island’s energy sources are 62% petroleum, 18% natural gas, 17% coal and only 3% renewables -- adding up to 97% fossil fuel-generated energy.39 These fossil fuels are mostly imported to Puerto Rico, causing high energy prices and high fossil fuel dependency.40 Puerto Ricans have long experienced the consequences of climate change, environmental degradation, and mismanaged energy access. Drinking water has long been contaminated and frequent power outages occur on a regular basis, with severe outages lasting nearly a year after María.41 These dynamics constitute what Catalina de Onís calls “energy colonialism,” an “extractivist system and discourse” that “marks certain places and peoples as disposable by importing and exporting logics and materials to dominate various energy forms, ranging from humans to hydrocarbons.”42 Centering Puerto Rico in the discussion of energy colonialism and climate change is important because, as de Onís writes: “(1) it makes the unsustainability of our hydrocarbon frenzy feel urgent, and (2) it evinces that energy transitions must consider the role of energy colonialism in shaping contemporary realities and how to grapple with, and ultimately uproot, relationships grounded in extractivism.”43

Klein, “There’s Nothing Natural.” Ibid. 39 Catalina de Onís, “Energy Colonialism Powers the Ongoing Unnatural Disaster in Puerto Rico.” Frontiers in Communication, January 29, 2018. 40 Ibid. 41 de Onís, “Energy Colonialism”; Klein, The Battle; de Onís et al., “Puerto Rico’s Seismic Shocks.” 42 de Onís, “Energy Colonialism.” 43 Ibid. 37 38

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Thus the crisis of climate change lays bare the crippling injustice of Puerto Rico’s status and role in the world economy, a reality created by and at the intersection of capitalism and colonialism. The crisis of climate change also points to an opportunity for reorganization, for policies and infratructure to serve the people in a decolonial and just, collective framework. As a Caribbean island, Puerto Rico was already vulnerable to storms and earthquakes, but the devastation wreaked by María was ultimately due to the island’s centralized, privatized and unsustainable energy systems, and drawn-out austerity leaving outdated infrastructure, reduced disaster readiness and few job opportunities for locals to build community resilience.44 Energy is transported from large fossil fuel plants (mostly coal and methane/natural gas) in the south of the island across mountains and forests to the north, all along transmission lines that are precarious and unreliable.45 These plants, such as the Aguirre Power Complex and Applied Energy Corporation System, “are the primary sources of toxic emissions in Puerto Rico and disproportionately impact some of the poorest communities in the southeastern part of the island.”46 This forced dependency on fossil fuels over available cheaper and more sustainable alternatives is not only unreliable and dangerous, in daily life as well as during extreme weather events, but contributes directly to the intensification of these weather events as well as the aftermath. This profit-driven dynamic is intimately tied to Puerto Rico’s position as a capitalist colony: as Arturo Massol Deyá writes,

de Onís et al., “Puerto Rico’s Seismic Shocks”; Klein, The Battle; Angel López Santiago, “Decolonize the Caribbean.” NACLA, October 19, 2017. 45 Ruth Santiago, “The Necessary Transformation of the Puerto Rico Grid.” Voices from Puerto Rico: PostHurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 98-101. 46 Ibid. 44

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“perpetuating energy dependence is perpetuating the colony as well, keeping the island as captive consumer of a fundamental economic line item, while limiting our capacity to produce our own energy and wealth.”47 Even when renewable energy development is proposed, it is often in a centralized, top-down colonial approach that continues to deny Puerto Rican communities control and selfdetermination over their energy sources and futures.48 But other proposals are emerging, focusing on community-controlled and decentralized renewable energy grids, especially rooftop solar panels at points of consumption, in conjunction with sustainable and autonomous food and land management systems. The necessity for these types of alternative energy structures in Puerto Rico has been made even more apparent by the severity of and damage caused by recent earthquakes. Seismic activity is common in the region, but earthquakes have also been linked to methane gas combustion, a rapidly growing industry in Puerto Rico.49 Methane gas plants were damaged during the earthquakes and, just like during Hurricanes Irma and María, power outages and crumbling infrastructure were experienced throughout the island.50 The precarity of Puerto Rico’s centralized and fossil fuel-dependent power grid has been demonstrated over and over again, but meaningful changes have yet to be implemented. This neglect, as well as the lack of recovery resources distributed to the island by both the federal and local governments, illustrates the exacerbated experience of disaster for colonized people. As Puerto Rican scholars de Onís et al. write, “as more individuals and groups express concerns about increased build out of methane

Arturo Massol Deyá, “Our Energy Insurrection.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 93-97. 48 de Onís, “Energy Colonialism.” 49 de Onís et al., “Puerto Rico’s Seismic Shocks.” 50 Daniel Whittle, “The Federal Government and PREPA Must do Better for Puerto Rico.” Environmental Defense Fund, January 8, 2020; de Onís et al., “Puerto Rico’s Seismic Shocks.” 47

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gas infrastructure, we hope the language of ‘natural’ will be avoided.”51 “Natural,” here, refers both to efforts on the part of the methane industry to portray methane as a “natural” energy source despite its many harmful effects, and to the underlying oppressive power dynamics in Puerto Rico which have long been presented as the only solution. By moving beyond the label of “natural” disasters, we refuse to see these events as natural and inevitable, and therefore to absolve these power holders of responsibility for imposing this long history of colonial extraction and oppression. By understanding the human and structural factors behind these crises rather than deeming them simply “natural,” we also acknowledge that moving in a new direction will not just happen naturally, but will require concerted organizing by the people on the ground in Puerto Rico. V.

Collective Organizing, Autonomy, and World-Building The consensus among organizers and residents of Puerto Rico, as Yarimar Bonilla and

Marisol LeBrón write, seems to be that post-María, people must “demand more than a mere recovery, if by recovery we are to understand a return to a previous state of affairs.”52 That is, the injustice of the colonial basis of Puerto Rico that was fully revealed in all its dysfunction during and after Hurricane María must be used as a point of transformation, an opening to build new systems and a new world rather than patch up the old ones. This is exactly what many Puerto Ricans are doing. In the immediate aftermath of the storm and in the absence of official aid, already-established comedores sociales, or community cafeterias, that had provided meals for low-income college students began cooking hot meals for residents who couldn’t access food otherwise. Initially spear-headed by the Centro para el Desarrollo Politico, Educativo y Cultural

de Onís et al., “Puerto Rico’s Seismic Shocks.” Yarima Bonilla and Marisol LeBrón. Aftershocks of Disaster: Puerto Rico Before and After the Storm (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2019), 15. 51 52

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(CDPEC), many of the comedores sociales turned into Centers of Mutual Support (CAMs).53 In the words of Giovanni Roberto, the director of CDPEC, the CAMs “used the ‘three donations’ model to invite people to ‘not only receive a meal but to construct something long term,’” with each individual providing whatever materials, service, or other talents they could.54 CAMs provided food to people in dire need of it, but always held the objective of building community, solidarity, and self-determination.55 As such, CAMs “wanted our initiative to have as little governmental intervention as possible,” and therefore operated by volunteer labor and centered the practice of listening to the people and communities at the base.56 Ultimately, the CAMs are raising political consciousness, strengthening social ties and establishing centers of resistance and autonomy. Another need that was absent following Hurricane María was communication. As nearly all phone lines were down, one of the only means of communication on the island was WAPA Radio, the only network still broadcasting. Puerto Ricans from all over used the radio station to communicate with family and loved ones on and off the island, as well as to communicate desperate situations and calls for assistance.57 Reporters at WAPA worked around the clock to get everyone’s messages on the air, sleeping at the station, volunteering their time, and constantly traveling throughout the island to check that the stations’ antennas and generators were working.58 The reporters said they “had a strong ethical commitment to help people and report the news,” and consistently “asked hard questions that government officials couldn’t or Juan Carlos Dávila, “A People’s Recovery: Radical Organizing in Post-Maria Puerto Rico.” The Indypendent, October 18, 2017. 54 Giovanni Roberto, “CAM and Strategies for Change.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 69-72. 55 Ibid. 56 Ibid. 57 Sandra D. Rodríguez Cotto, “WAPA Radio: Voices Amid the Silence and Desperation.” Aftershocks of Disaster: Puerto Rico Before and After the Storm, ed. Yarimar Bonilla and Marisól LeBrón. (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2019), 21–37. 58 Ibid. 53

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wouldn’t answer.”59 In this way, WAPA both provided the needs of the people and answered to them, taking on an autonomous character as another center of resistance and solidarity building. Journalists from the Center for Investigative Journalism (CPI) organized themselves in the midst of chaos and almost non-existent internet or power to “establish a whole new editorial agenda, which ended up focusing on two issues: the death toll and the hurricane’s impact on Puerto Rico’s colonial debt.”60 As a result, the CPI became one of the only credible news sources for what was actually happening in Puerto Rico, especially as official reporting drastically underreported the death toll.61 CPI became “a point of reference, providing dozens of US and international news outlets the context to improve their stories and acknowledge Puerto Rico’s systemic problems.”62 Other organizations like El Llamado, Brigada de Todxs, and Brigada Solidaria del Oeste organized and continue to coordinate relief efforts with aid from inside and outside of Puerto Rico, as assistance from FEMA and the U.S. government was woefully inadequate.63 All of these organizations operated outside of governmental frameworks and by local residents themselves. They share a long-term goal of building community, autonomy, and localized systems that actually work for them, while raising political consciousness and empowering people to work collectively in a system that has deemed them disposable. In the short-term, they are providing for people’s basic needs in their own communities, apart from exploitative governments or NGOs. Through this process, these collectives are building a social movement, showing residents that they are capable of organizing themselves. Historically, this is 59

Ibid. Carla Minet, “María’s Death Toll: On the Crucial Role of Puerto Rico’s Investigative Journalists.” Aftershocks of Disaster: Puerto Rico Before and After the Storm, ed. Yarimar Bonilla and Marisól LeBrón. (Chicago: Haymarket Books, 2019), 73-79. 61 Ibid. 62 Ibid. 63 María del Mar Rosa-Rodríguez, “The Brigada de Todxs.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 61-67. 60

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how social movements become powerful, effective, and dangerous to the status quo: the Zapatistas provide health, education, and governmental services to marginalized indigenous communities; the Black Panthers provided free breakfast programs, education, and safety measures to neglected Black neighborhoods.64 If a movement can provide for people, the people no longer need their oppressive government. This strategy continues to grow, with the potential to become even bigger, more transformational, and more revolutionary. This possibility of radical reimagining is the window of opportunity opened by Hurricane María. As Christine Nieves, co-founder of the Proyecto Apoyo Mutuo Mariana in the southeast of the island and co-director of the Asociación Recreativa y Educativa Comunal del Barrio Mariana, writes, “we have been born anew… because when all systems collapse, we have time to think who did we give this power to, and when?”65 As CDPEC writes on their website, “the perspective From Below puts the emphasis on the necessity of development from the people ‘from below.’ We believe that the crisis is at the same time a great opportunity to do things in a different way.”66 This language echoes that of the Zapatistas, who commit to a politics “from below and to the left” as the necessary path forward, listening to the needs of the most marginalized people and following their lead.67 Puerto Ricans are using this moment of disaster and clarity to move towards other, more collective and more just social structures, rather than resuscitate the unjust ones that ruled their lives for centuries. Despite the centuries of violence intended to keep Puerto Ricans from their power, they are now taking it back.

Darryl Robertson, “The Black Panther Party and the Free Breakfast for Children Program.” AAIHS, February 26, 2016. 65 Christine Nieves, “Puerto Rico is Birthing a New Heart.” Medium, October 8, 2017. 66 “Desde Abajo” (Barae Hirsch, Trans.), Proyectos, CDPECPR, www.cdpecpr.org/desde-abajo. 67 “Sexta Declaración,” EZLN. 64

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One structure Puerto Ricans are reimagining according to their own needs is the energy system. Arturo Massol Deyá, co-founder of Casa Pueblo de Adjuntas, which focuses on sustainable development, education, and conservation, says of the need to radically transform the fossil fuel-reliant, precarious and rapidly-privatizing centralized power grid, “this re-engineering cannot consist of the substitution of one dependency with another.”68 Rather than follow the methane gas-oriented energy transition plan of the Puerto Rican government, Massol Deyá claims that Puerto Rico needs an “energy insurrection.”69 By this, he means that a reconfigured energy system must not only be based on renewables, especially rooftop solar panels, but that the grid must be decentralized and community-controlled. Decentralized does not necessarily mean individualized, but rather energy systems that are self-determined and managed by the people whom they serve and who produce the energy. Decentralized energy grids allow communities deciding the future and infrastructure of their own communities versus having their needs and strategies dictated to them. Along with Casa Pueblo, many organizations are working to outfit homes with rooftop solar panels as a means of energy production at the site of consumption, allowing people to affect what is within their reach: their own homes.70 People are doing this collectively, under the organization of groups like Coquí Solar (which led the island-wide effort to draft the community solar-oriented platform Queremos Sol), Iniciativa de Ecodesarrollo de Bahía de Jobos, and the National Institute for Energy and Island Sustainability, to name a few. These are all community solar projects, meaning they are using solar power for more than just electricity, including

Building One Corner of a New World

economic and decolonial efforts.71 Rooftop solar has many advantages, including better resilience during hurricanes and earthquakes, as well as using existing infrastructure and leaving other land undeveloped.72 According to engineering studies, “it would suffice to place solar panels on fewer than 65% of our existing roofs to generate 100% of the energy demand at peak hours where it’s needed.”73 Yet the local and federal government still refuse to invest in the kind of drastic reconstruction needed in this moment of unprecedented climate change. All of these efforts to install community solar in a decolonial, collective and autonomous fashion are being initiated and implemented by citizens themselves, mobilizing from below. This is one example of Puerto Ricans not only responding to disaster but growing from it, providing an important example of building energy sovereignty even within a colonial reality. By building out these different forms of sovereignty -- food, communication, energy -- Puerto Ricans are actively decolonizing Puerto Rico.74 Other forms of sovereignty and solidarity are being constructed as well, such as the difficult but all-important areas of economic and political sovereignty. After 2019’s summer of protests over governmental corruption that led to the ousting of Governor Ricardo Roselló, Puerto Ricans are organizing people’s assemblies to channel the momentum of the summer’s protests into deep, collective reflection, discussion and action for Puerto Rico’s next steps.75 The people’s assemblies “have taken different shapes, but all through an organic process where the focus is the collective,” identifying interconnected socioeconomic and political concerns such as the enormous illegal debt burden and la Junta, Melanie La Rosa, “Step by Powerful Step, Citizens Lead Puerto Rico into its Solar Future.” NACLA, September 19 2019. 72 Ruth Santiago, “The Necessary Transformation of the Puerto Rico Grid.” Voices from Puerto Rico: PostHurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 98-101. 73 Massol Deyá, “Our Energy Insurrection,” 93-97. 74 Angel López Santiago, “Decolonize the Caribbean.” NACLA, October 19 2017 75 Jacqueline Villarubia-Mendoza and Roberto Vélez-Vélez, “Puerto Rican People’s Assemblies Shift from Protest to Proposal.” NACLA, August 20, 2019. 71

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crumbling infrastructure, privatization of necessary utilities, and the island’s colonial status as priorities.76 For many of the people and groups present at the assemblies, “there is a consensus... that the colonial status of Puerto Rico as at the core of the whole situation,” referring to the island’s political and economic difficulties.77 These people’s assemblies demonstrate Puerto Ricans’ agency and vision for their own future, and their willingness and capacity to think creatively and work collectively to create a decolonized reality. On January 20, 2020, Puerto Ricans staged protests expressing anger at the government’s mismanagement of disaster relief after the recent earthquakes, as well as the discovery that unused disaster supplies from Hurricane María were kept hidden from the people.78 This demonstration exhibits that the fiery, revolutionary impulse beating in Puerto Ricans has not burned out. People are building rage and capacity, struggling together and reclaiming their homeland. This struggle is articulated in the Manifesto of Emergency and Hope written by JunteGente, a coalition of organizations resisting capitalism and “fighting for a just, solidary and sustainable Puerto Rico.”79 Other resistance strategies include mobilizing the diaspora and leveraging specific diasporic knowledge, both of Puerto Rico and in solidarity with other diasporas as well.80 The fight extends far beyond the borders of the island, both because the issues Puerto Ricans face are global and because, as CDPEC states,

Ibid. Ibid. 78 Vanessa Romo and Adrian Florido, “Political Unrest in Puerto Rico After Discovery of Unused Hurricane Aid.” NPR, January 20, 2020. 79 JunteGente, “Manifesto of Emergency and Hope.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 112-116. 80 López Santiago, “Decolonize the Caribbean.” 77

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“part of our decolonizing work has to connect us to the best traditions of liberation and critical thinking in the world. Our people should have the opportunity to get in touch with all kinds of training, and return to share their growth with the country.”81 This language of international solidarity resonates deeply with that of the Zapatistas, who declare that they “are going to join together more with the resistance struggles against neoliberalism and for humanity...and we are going to exchange, with mutual respect, experiences, histories, ideas, dreams.”82 Both of these movements invite global solidarity and mutual support, acknowledging that resistance to capitalism, colonialism, and climate change cannot be achieved alone, but that collectively, we can build a new world. VI.

Conclusion It is not just that the people of Puerto Rico are extraordinarily resilient and industrious,

though they are, and it is not that they want to take over the responsibilities of the government. Rather, Puerto Ricans are tired of being neglected and have been forced to take on these projects of collective autonomy-building out of necessity. But they are accepting the unjust burden as an opportunity for radical change in the hopes that in the future, perhaps the people can be properly supported and listened to. Puerto Rican organizers’ framework echoes the Zapatistas’ in many ways, with an emphasis on asking and listening rather than imposing, on “allowing space for the birth of leadership emerging from those at the bottom,” on “political action without excluding the spiritual from the political,” on looking to work as a collective rather than as individuals, and on recognizing that “to speak is to do” -- working in collective to generate revolutionary change requires that we speak intentionally and act accordingly.83

“Rompe Insularismo” (Barae Hirsch, Trans.), Proyectos, CDPECPR “Sexta Declaración,” EZLN. 83 Ismael “Kique” Cubero García, “Listening, The Necessary Politics: How a Social Cafeteria Came into Existence in Yabucoa.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 49-55. 81 82

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Similar issues and similar resistance strategies are arising in different parts of the world, from Puerto Rico to Mexico and beyond. These converging approaches point to the effectiveness and necessity of mass movements from below, focusing on collective autonomy, decolonial and anti-capitalist organizing arising from global solidarity and a deep respect for the earth and its peoples. The rising up of Puerto Rico, even after centuries of destruction, reminds us that “wherever there is oppression, there is resistance and struggle.”84 Battered by the winds of hurricanes, the lash of colonial domination and the shock of earthquakes, Puerto Ricans truly are building a new world. We must all get behind them, work in solidarity to imagine and realize a different future and continue to transform our own realities.

Raquela Delgado Valentín, “Blossoming into Freedom: Autoethnography.” Voices from Puerto Rico: PostHurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, ed. Iris Morales. (New York: Red Sugarcane Press, 2019), 56-60. 84

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Bibliography “Activist Organizations and Citizen Initiatives.” Puerto Rico Syllabus, puertoricosyllabus.com/additional-resources/activists-organizations-and-citizeninitiatives/. Arbasetti, Joel Cintrón. “A Storm More Severe.” The Indypendent, 17 Oct. 2017, indypendent.org/2017/10/a-storm-more-severe/. “A Small Puerto Rico Town's Makeshift Relief Center.” All Things Considered, NPR, 3 June 2018, www.npr.org/2018/06/03/616661110/a-small-puerto-rico-town-s-makeshift-reliefcenter. Atiles-Osoria, José. “The Anti-Corruption Code for the New Puerto Rico.” NACLA, 7 May 2019, nacla.org/news/2019/05/07/anti-corruption-code-new-puerto-rico. Bhatti, Saqib, and Carrie Sloan. “Broken Promises.” Action Center on Race and the Environment, Aug. 2017. Bonilla, Yarimar, and LeBrón Marisol. Aftershocks of Disaster: Puerto Rico Before and After the Storm. Haymarket Books, 2019. Cabán, Pedro. “The Summer 2019 Uprising: Building a New Puerto Rico.” NACLA, 21 Oct. 2019, nacla.org/news/2019/10/11/puerto-rico-political-future-protests. Carlos Dávila, Juan. “A People's Recovery: Radical Organizing in Post-Maria Puerto Rico.” The Indypendent, 18 Oct. 2017, indypendent.org/2017/10/a-peoples-recovery-radicalorganizing-inpost-maria-puerto-rico/. “Casa Pueblo Adjuntas PR.” Casa Pueblo • Puerto Rico, 6 Nov. 2019, casapueblo.org/. Cubero García, Ismael "Kique". “Listening, The Necessary Politics: How a Social Cafeteria Came into Existence in Yabucoa.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, edited by Iris Morales, Red Sugarcane Press, 2019, pp. 49–55. Delgado Valentín, Raquela. “Blossoming into Freedom: Autoethnography.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, edited by Iris Morales, Red Sugarcane Press, 2019, pp. 56-60. “Desde Abajo.” CDPEC, CDPECPR, www.cdpecpr.org/desde-abajo. Dietz, James L. Economic History of Puerto Rico: Institutional Change and Capitalist Development. Princeton University Press, 1993. “HOME.” Queremos Sol, www.queremossolpr.com/. “INESI.” Instituto Nacional De Energía y Sostenibilidad Isleña, Universidad De Puerto Rico, inesi.upr.edu/language/en/home-page/. “INICIO.” CDPEC, CDPECPR, www.cdpecpr.org/inicio. JunteGente. “Manifesto of Emergency and Hope.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, edited by Iris Morales, Red Sugarcane Press, 2019, pp. 112–116. Klein, Naomi. The Battle for Paradise: Puerto Rico Takes on the Disaster Capitalists. Haymarket Books, 2018. Klein, Naomi. “There's Nothing Natural About Puerto Rico's Disaster.” The Intercept, 21 Sept. 2018, theintercept.com/2018/09/21/puerto-rico-hurricane-maria-disaster-capitalism/. La Rosa, Melanie. “Step by Powerful Step, Citizens Lead Puerto Rico into Its Solar Future.” NACLA, 19 Sept. 2019, nacla.org/news/2019/09/19/step-powerful-step-citizens-leadpuerto-rico-its-solar-future. 93

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LeBrón, Marisol. “Puerto Rico, Colonialism, and the U.S. Carceral State.” Modern American History, 2017, pp. 169–173. LeBrón, Marisol. “Puerto Rico's War on Its Poor.” Boston Review, 3 Apr. 2019, bostonreview.net/class-inequality/marisol-lebron-puerto-rico-war-poor. LeBrón, Marisol. “The Protests in Puerto Rico Are About Life and Death.” NACLA, 18 July 2019, nacla.org/news/2019/07/18/protests-puerto-rico-are-about-life-and-death. López Santiago, Angel "Monxo". “Decolonize the Caribbean.” NACLA, 19 Oct. 2017, nacla.org/news/2017/10/19/decolonize-caribbean. Marichal, Carlos. “After the Default: A Neoliberal Debt Solution For Puerto Rico.” NACLA, 18 Aug. 2015, nacla.org/news/2015/08/18/after-default-neoliberal-debt-solution-puerto-rico. Massol Deyá, Arturo. “Our Energy Insurrection.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, edited by Iris Morales, Red Sugarcane Press, 2019, pp. 93–97. Minet, Carla, and Marisol LeBrón. “María's Death Toll: On the Crucial Role of Puerto Rico's Investigative Journalists.” Aftershocks of Disaster: Puerto Rico Before and After the Storm, edited by Yarimar Bonilla, Haymarket Books, pp. 73–79. Morales, Ed. “Puerto Rico: Belonging to, But Not Part Of.” NACLA, 29 Sept. 2017, nacla.org/news/2017/09/29/puerto-rico-belonging-not-part. Morales, Iris. Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Poshuracán María. Red Sugarcane Press, Inc., 2019. Nieves, Christine. “Puerto Rico Is Birthing a New Heart.” Medium, Medium, 8 Oct. 2017, medium.com/@MyThirstyBrain/puerto-rico-is-birthing-a-new-heart-437518acd7c2. de Onís, Catalina. “Energy Colonialism Powers the Ongoing Unnatural Disaster in Puerto Rico.” Frontiers, Frontiers, 11 Jan. 2018, www.frontiersin.org/articles/10.3389/fcomm.2018.00002/full. de Onís, Catalina de, et al. “Puerto Rico's Seismic Shocks.” NACLA, 15 Jan. 2020, nacla.org/news/2020/01/14/puerto-rico-earthquakes-renewable-energy. Roberto, Giovanni. “CAM and Strategies for Change.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: ghtPos-huracán María, edited by Iris Morales, Red Sugarcane Press, 2019, pp. 69–72. Robertson, Darryl. “The Black Panther Party and the Free Breakfast for Children Program.” AAIHS, 26 Feb. 2016, www.aaihs.org/the-black-panther-party/. Rodríguez Cotto, Sandra D., and Marisol LeBrón. “WAPA Radio: Voices Amid the Silence and Desperation.” Aftershocks of Disaster: Puerto Rico Before and After the Storm, edited by Yarimar Bonilla, Haymarket Books, 2019, pp. 21–37. Romo, Vanessa, and Adrian Florido. “Political Unrest In Puerto Rico After Discovery Of Unused Hurricane Aid.” NPR, NPR, 20 Jan. 2020, www.npr.org/2020/01/20/797996503/political-unrest-in-puerto-rico-after-discovery-ofunused-hurricane-aid. “Rompe Insularismo.” CDPEC, CDPECPR, www.cdpecpr.org/rompe-insularismo. Rosa-Rodríguez, María del Mar. “The Brigada De Todxs.” Voices from Puerto Rico: PostHurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, edited by Iris Morales, Red Sugarcane Press, 2019, pp. 61–67. Santiago, Ruth. “The Necessary Transformation of the Puerto Rico Grid.” Voices from Puerto Rico: Post-Hurricane María = Voces Desde Puerto Rico: Pos-huracán María, edited by Iris Morales, Red Sugarcane Press, 2019, pp. 98–101. 94

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“Sexta Declaración De La Selva Lacandona.” Enlace Zapatista, EZLN, 2005, enlacezapatista.ezln.org.mx/sdsl-en/. Subcomondante Insurgente Moisés, SupGaleano. “300.” EZLN, 22 Aug. 2018. Villarrubia-Mendoza, Jacqueline, and Roberto Vélez-Vélez. “Puerto Rican People's Assemblies Shift from Protest to Proposal.” NACLA, 20 Aug. 2019, nacla.org/news/2019/08/22/puerto-rican-people%E2%80%99s-assemblies-shift-protestproposal. Walsh, Mary Williams. “Puerto Rico's Bankruptcy Plan Is Almost Done, and It Could Start a Fight.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 14 July 2019, www.nytimes.com/2019/07/14/business/puerto-rico-bankruptcy-promesa.html. Weisbrot, Mark. “Puerto Rico's Botched Disaster Relief, Unsustainable Debt, and Economic Failure Linked to Its Colonial Status.” Common Dreams, 1 June 2019, www.commondreams.org/views/2019/06/01/puerto-ricos-botched-disaster-reliefunsustainable-debt-and-economic-failure-linked. Whittle, Daniel. “The Federal Government and PREPA Must Do Better for Puerto Rico.” Environmental Defense Fund, 8 Jan. 2020, www.edf.org/media/federal-government-andprepa-must-do-better-puerto-rico.

Uma comparação entre sistemas universais de saúde no Brasil e na Espanha By Eduardo da Costa and Noah Naparst ABSTRATO: Essa redação analisa as diferenças entre a estrutura e os resultados dos sistemas universais de saúde da Espanha e do Brasil. Fizemos uma comparação entre a estrutura e o resultado de cada sistema, com a hipótese de que as diferenças entre as estruturas de cada sistema conduzirá a diferenças nos resultados de índices de saúde, e esta tese foi validada após análise. Finalmente, a redação apresentará uma conclusão final sobre o estado dos dois sistemas de saúde e também alguns aspectos que o Brasil poderia incorporar do sistema Espanhol.

Introdução O objetivo dos autores nesta análise será delinear e explorar as diferenças entre os sistemas universais de saúde da Espanha e do Brasil. Subsequentemente, os autores analisaram como essas diferenças integrais entre os sistemas universais de saúde e seu impacto na saúde geral do país. O sistema de saúde do Brasil está dividido entre em três subsetores diferentes. Esses são: o Sistema Único de Saúde (SUS), o setor privado financiado por fundos públicos e privados, e por último o subsetor de seguro de saúde privado.1 Os três subsetores, públicos e privados, são entidades separadas, porém o povo Brasileiro pode usar os serviços dos três subsetores, “dependendo da facilidade de acesso ou sua capacidade de pagar ”.2 O sistema de saúde público do Brasil nasceu dentro da constituição de 1988, onde a saúde foi declarada “um direito universal e uma responsabilidade do estado”.3 Além disso, a criação da lei do SUS foi única porque não “foi dirigida por governos, partidos políticos ou organizações internacionais, mas pela sociedade civil

Paim J, Travassos C, Bahia L, Almeida C, Macinko J. The health system in Brazil: history, progress and challenges (O sistema de saúde brasileiro: história, avanços e desafios) Lancet. 2011. 11–31 2 Paim. 3 Elias, Paulo Eduardo M., and Amelia Cohn. “Health reform in Brazil: lessons to consider”. American journal of public health, vol. 93,1 (2003): 44-8.

Uma comparação entre sistemas universais de saúde no Brasil e na Espanha

e profissionais de saúde” e foi vista como um grande sucesso para o povo Brasileiro, e não para um partido político específico.4

Subsequentemente, o artigo 198 da constituição Brasileira

estabeleceu o Sistema Único de Saúde (SUS), que serve como um corpo descentralizado para o sistema de saúde universal brasileiro.5 Por outro lado, o artigo 199 da constituição delineia que as instituições privadas são legalmente autorizadas a operar no Brasil, embaixo do SUS ou completamente separado dele.6 Por causa das restrições mínimas dentro da constituição, o setor privado no Brasil pode crescer substancialmente através da “criação de clínicas especializadas em clínicas diagnóstico e terapêutica, hospitais privados e empresas privadas de seguro de saúde”.7 A Espanha, parecido ao Brasil, tem um sistema de saúde público que ministra um sistema de saúde pública aos seus cidadãos. Primeiro, o artigo 43 da constituição espanhola garante o direito à saúde para os cidadãos e também estabelece a responsabilidade do estado para fornecer saúde pública no país. O sistema de Saúde da Espanha nasceu da Lei Geral de Saúde 14 de 1986. Esta legislação estabeleceu os princípios fundamentais do sistema de saúde, especialmente: o financiamento público para o sistema de saúde; serviços de saúde gratuitos no momento da utilização, sem formulários de co-pagamentos ou pedidos de reembolso8; “Direitos e deveres específicos [enumerado] para os cidadãos e para as autoridades públicas”; a entrega da administração desse sistema para as Comunidades Autónomas (igual os Estados Brasileiros); a provisão da assistência médica “holística”, com controle de qualidade alta; e a consolidação do velho e o novo sistema de saúde em um só corpo - Instituto Nacional de Saúde (INSALUD).9

O'Dwyer, Gisele et al. “The current scenario of emergency care policies in Brazil” BMC health services research, vol. 13, 70. 20 Feb. 2013 5 Elias. 6 Elias. 7 Paim. 8 Socolovsky, Jerome. “What Makes Spain's Health Care System The Best?” NPR, NPR, 19 Aug. 2009. 9 “Spanish National Health System.” Spanish National Health System, Ministry of Public Health and Consumption, 2006. 4

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Os princípios e os objetivos do sistema de saúde Espanhol são típicos da maioria dos sistemas de saúde públicos, apresentando seu compromisso com os serviços de saúde de alta qualidade financiados por fundos públicos e acessíveis para todos os cidadãos. Porém, a estrutura financeira atual do sistema é única. Isso não é atípico, já que o financiamento e o provisionamento dos serviços de saúde geralmente é a área em que os sistemas de saúde da maioria dos países tendem a distinguir-se. O sistema da Espanha é descentralizado, com os governos provinciais e locais responsáveis pelo planejamento e pela administração da saúde pública.10 Porém, o governo nacional continua responsável por coordenar a estratégia da assistência médica do país, os assuntos internacionais de saúde, as política de drogas e a gestão da INSALUD. O financiamento para o sistema de saúde vem da tributação e está incluído no plano de despesas de cada Comunidade Autônoma. Todos os cidadãos pagam impostos de acordo com sua capacidade financeira (um sistema de tributação progressiva) e recebem os serviços sempre que precisarem. Dez por cento da população usa um sistema de saúde privado, mais comparado com o do Espanha não e tão relevante como no Brasil. Ao fim, o sistema de saúde Espanhol, comparado com o Sistema Brasileiro, é muito bem-sucedido na prestação de um sistema de saúde acessíveis e de qualidade para todos seus cidadãos, independente do status residencial.11

Resultados (Descobertas) Qualquer comparação entre a estrutura de dois sistemas públicos naturalmente nos leva a uma comparação de seus resultados. Portanto, vamos contrastar os resultados dos sistemas de saúde nos dois países, focando especificamente na qualidade do atendimento, a carga econômica da saúde, o estado de inovação e pesquisa e, finalmente, os aspectos políticos da saúde sistemas.

10 11

“Spanish National Health System”. Socolovsky.

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Também consideramos a qualidade do atendimento, a expectativa de vida ao nascer, o tempo de espera nas clínicas de atendimento, a mortalidade infantil, a obesidade, a mortalidade préoperatória e a densidade de leitos hospitalares e médicos compara com a população total. Os gastos com respeito a saúde serão considerados tanto per capita quanto como uma percentagem do PIB. Finalmente, uma análise sobre os elementos políticos envolvidos nos dois sistemas de saúde revelará certos fatores como a opinião pública a respeito da administração de saúde e a corrupção. Por décadas, a Espanha foi aplaudida por ter um dos melhores sistemas de saúde do mundo, e esse sistema está em sétimo lugar no mundo de acordo com a Organização Mundial da Saúde.12 Recentemente, a Espanha empatou por primeiro lugar na lista do Fórum Econômico Mundial dos países mais saudáveis do mundo.13 Claro que o critério para julgar essas classificações são subjetivo, mas independentemente, está claro que o sistema de saúde Espanhol merece um certo nível de reconhecimento. Em primeiro lugar, a expectativa de vida em Espanha é uma das mais altas na Europa, chegando aos 82,83 anos em 2016.14 A Fundação de Bill e Melinda Gates prevê que o país tenha a maior expectativa de vida do mundo em 2040.15 Por outro lado, também se pode dizer que o SUS foi historicamente um grande sucesso para a população Brasileira e tem melhorado significativamente a saúde e a qualidade de vida dos brasileiros nos últimos 30 anos. Porém, em comparação com o sistema de saúde da Espanha, o sistema atual do Brasil não chega perto da qualidade e eficácia em qualquer departamento. Por exemplo, a expectativa média de vida

Socolovsky. Kotecki, Peter. “The 16 Healthiest Countries in the World.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 17 Oct. 2018, 14 CO1.1: Infant Mortality.” OECD Family Database, OECD - Social Policy Division – Directorate of Employment, Labour and Social Affairs, 12 Nov. 2018 15 Kotecki, Peter. “People in Spain Will Soon Have the Longest Lifespans of Anyone in the World- Here Are Their Secrets.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 9 Nov. 2018, 13

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para um Brasileiro em 2015 foi 75,51 anos, o que é uma melhoria comparado com 61,98 anos em 1980, mas infelizmente ainda está um todo 7,32 anos atrás da média nacional espanhola.16 Tempos de espera nos hospitais na Espanha variam dependendo do tipo de serviços de saúde. A demora típica para ver um clínico geral é cerca de 15 dias, com as cirurgias eletivas tendo um tempo médio de espera de 61 dias.17 Quanto mais complexo for a cirurgia, maior o tempo de espera será. Por exemplo, de acordo com dados da OCDE, a busca de uma prostatectomia na Espanha deve durar na média 117 dias desde a designação de um especialista até o dia do tratamento.18 Em contraste, no setor privado de saúde do Brasil, o problema de longas esperas é quase inexistente, porém é um problema muito sério e emblemático dos hospitais e clínicas do SUS. De acordo com Dr. Carlos Lichtenberg do Hospital Santa Rita em São Paulo, um hospital privado que não se associa com o programa SUS, o setor privado no Brasil quase não tem tempo de espera, enquanto 25% de todas as mortes que ocorrem nos hospitais públicos do SUS são devidas a efeitos adversos que poderiam ser evitados com atendimento mais rápido.1920 Enquanto na Espanha os tempos longos de espera são vistos apenas em procedimentos altamente especializados, o sistema brasileiro regularmente vê mortes nas longos linhas de espera dos hospitais do SUS. Além disso, a Espanha também domina o Brasil em outros índices de saúde. Por exemplo,entre 1960 e 2017, a taxa de mortalidade infantil da Espanha caiu de 38,4 mortes por 1.000 nascidos para apenas 2,6, abaixo da média do OCDE de 3,9.2122 A mortalidade de mulheres

Piam. Healthcare in Spain: A Guide to the Spanish Healthcare System, 1. 18 OECD. “Health Care Utilization: Waiting Times.” Health Status, OECD, stats.oecd.org/Index.aspx?QueryId=49344. 19 O’Dwyer. 20 Lichtenberg, Dr. Carlos. Personal Interview. December 1, 2018. 21 “Infant Mortality Rate for Spain.” FRED, Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, 27 Sept. 2018, fred.stlouisfed.org/series/SPDYNIMRTINESP. 22 “CO1.1: Infant Mortality.” 17

100

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grávidas em 2015 foi 5 mortes por 100.000 trabalhos de parto, 9 pontos abaixo da média da OCDE de 14.23 Além disso, somente 16,7% da população poderiam ser considerado obeso na Espanha em 2015, quase quatro pontos abaixo da média de 19.5% da OECD.24 Por outro lado, o sistema Brasileiro tem visto algumas melhorias importantes entre 1985 e 2015, como na taxa de mortalidade infantil (de 69/1000 a 19/1000) e a taxa de fertilidade (4,35 a 1,86)” mais ainda assim esses índices são extremamente inferiores ao sistema espanhol.25

Além disso, a taxa de

mortalidade de mães maternas em 2016 foi 42,1 mortes por 100.000 crianças, e em 2018 o nível de obesidade no país foi de 35%, que em comparação com a estatística espanhola, é muito alta.26 Em relação à disponibilidade de profissionais médicos, a Espanha tem 3,8 médicos por 1.000 habitantes, acima da média, mas apenas 5,5 enfermeiros por 1.000 habitantes, o que é significativamente menor do que a maioria dos outros países.27 Isso esta relacionado com a estrutura do sistema de saúde na Espanha. As clinicas mias pequenas, aonde não tem tantos médicos, são suplementados por uma equipe de enfermeiros que não tem o mesmo nível de preparação. Em comparação, o Brasil tem cerca de 7.500 hospitais dos quais 2.812 são públicos, e o país tem cerca de 1,95 médicos para cada mil habitantes, mas esse número está em constante crescimento, especialmente em regiões mais rurais e menos acessíveis.28 Mesmo que esses números estejam crescendo, o sistema Brasileiro ainda sofre de uma grande escassez de médicos por que não tem médicos bem treinados suficiente para atender às necessidades de uma população

“Life Expectancy at Birth, Total (Years).” Literacy Rate, Adult Female (% of Females Ages 15 and above) | Data, World Bank, data.worldbank.org/indicator/SP.DYN.LE00.IN. 24 “Obesity Update 2017.” Health Systems - Obesity Update, OECD, 2017. 25 Ibid. 26 Ibid. 27 “Health Resources - Doctors - OECD Data.” OECD, OECD, 2017, data.oecd.org/healthres/doctors.htm#indicator-chart. 28 Piam. 23

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tão grande.29 Além disso, devido à enorme população e massa geográfica do Brasil, existe uma falta grande de infraestrutura necessária para proporcionar instalações de saúde adequadas. Com essa enorme massa geográfica, o Brasil somente pode província uma cama hospitalar por 468 pessoas.30 Em comparação, a Espanha tem três camas hospitalares por 1.000 habitantes, que já é um número baixo, mas ainda não tão baixo quanto o do Brasil. Os gastos com a saúde na Espanha são de $3.371 dólares per capita, em média, e o país dedica 9,2% do PIB para o sistema de saúde atualmente, um aumento do 6,8% que se gastava em 2000.31 Em comparação, o sistema de saúde do Brasil gasta cerca de 9,0% do seu PIB em saúde, que chega a cerca de $1.402 dólares per capita.32 Essa comparação parece insignificante, mas quando consideramos que a diferença de população entre Espanha e Brasil é de quase um a quatro, percebe-se que o Brasil não está apoiando seu próprio sistema de saúde com os fundos apropriados para funcionar adequadamente. O compromisso do governo Espanhol de proporcionar um sistema de saúde que cobre universalmente a população Espanhola resultou em um aumento nos gastos do governo com a saúde nos últimos 10 anos. Porém, não parece haver muitos limites políticos sobre os gastos dentro do sistema de saúde espanhol. Todos partidos políticos na Espanha, da esquerda e direita, prometem a construir novos hospitais usando o dinheiro dos contribuintes. Além disso, muitas tendências culturais recentes na Espanha podem ter contribuído ao aumento da popularidade do sistema de saúde. Primeiro, os resultados de saúde impressionantes e o reconhecimento internacional que a espanha recebeu por seu sistema de saúde tornaram-se uma fonte de orgulho nacional, o que reforçou a popularidade do sistema. Adicionalmente, o sistema da Espanha foi

Piam. Piam. 31 “Current Health Expenditure (% of GDP).” World Bank - World Health Organization Global Health Expenditure Database, World Bank, 2018. 32 Ibid. 30

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particularmente popular entre os entrevistados com mais de 65 anos, e esse grupo demográfico representa uma parcela cada vez maior da população total do país. Esse reconhecimento e orgulho forte da Espanha está em forte contraste com a recepção do sistema de saúde brasileiro, especificamente o programa SUS e a totalidade do sistema de saúde financiado pelo governo. Em junho de 2014, um estudo realizado pelo Conselho Federal de Medicina do Brasil mostrou que 93% da população brasileira acreditava que os sistemas de saúde público e privado eram medíocres, ruins ou inadequados. Um dos principais fatores para uma taxa de aprovação tão baixa é o fato de que cerca de 65% da população brasileira é coberta principalmente pela medicina de emergência.33

No Brasil, “apenas de 10,7% das clínicas

especializadas são públicas; 6,4% dos serviços diagnósticos e terapêuticos são públicos; 77,9% dos serviços de emergência gerais e especializados são públicos; e 31,9% de todos os hospitais são públicos.”34 Como a maioria da população brasileira que é usuária do SUS vem de uma baixa renda, os serviços de emergência tornam-se a principal opção de assistência médica confiável no país, causando filas de espera enormes, gerando grande ineficiência no sistema de saúde porque os hospitais estão lotados.35 Segundo o Dr. Carlos Lichtenberg, diretor do Hospital Santa Rita em São Paulo, outro problema que muitos cidadãos brasileiros e profissionais da saúde têm com o sistema de saúde, especialmente o SUS, é a de desonestidade e corrupção intrinsecamente envolvida no sistema.36

Dr. Lichtenberg revelou que seu hospital não participa mais dos

programas da SUS e o hospital tornou-se completamente privado devido à grande quantidade de

O’Dwyer. Ibid. 35 Ibid. 36 Lichtenberg. 33 34

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práticas desonestas dos funcionários públicos do SUS.37 O principal problema com os programas do SUS é que eles não reembolsaram os hospitais por certas cirurgias patrocinadas pelo SUS, forçando os hospitais a absorver todos os custos.38 Além disso, muitos médicos brasileiros tendem a inflacionar os custos de seus serviços e equipamentos só para poder receber alguma forma de pagamento porque os subsídios do SUS são incrivelmente altos, e dessa maneira eles deixam os hospitais com uma margem de lucro quase inexistente.39 Como resultado, há uma falta de “profissionais de saúde privados, especialmente médicos, que dividem suas horas de trabalho entre serviços públicos e privados”, já que geralmente eles se sentem roubados de sua remuneração no setor público.40 No final, a ineficiência e o atraso das instituições de atendimento de emergência, junto com a desaprovação da corrupção em torno do sistema de saúde financiado pelo governo, fez com que o SUS virasse uma instituição pouco popular entre muitos cidadãos brasileiros. Discussão O sistema de saúde da Espanha é diferente do brasileiro em termos de resultados, demonstrando uma superioridade geral em quase todas as categorias de saúde. No entanto, um dos fatores mais importantes para explicar essa disparidade não é qualquer linha política governamental que possa ser facilmente reescrita, mas o fato de que a Espanha tem uma população de 46,57 milhões e o Brasil tem uma população 4 vezes maior, de 209 milhões. Portanto, muitas das disparidades grandes entre os resultados da assistência médica brasileira e a espanhola poderiam ser atribuídas à diferenças no tamanho da população, e o fato de que para uma população menor e mais compacta, a organização de um sistema de saúde eficaz será mais fácil. Mesmo considerando tudo isso, não se pode ignorar as diferenças drásticas na qualidade do serviço 37

Ibid. Ibid. 39 Ibid. 40 O’Dwyer. 38

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prestado pelos sistemas de saúde espanhóis e brasileiros, e a evidência factual de que o sistema de saúde espanhol está superando o brasileiro por muito. Além disso, dado que o sistema de saúde da Espanha tem um desempenho melhor em comparação com nações de tamanho e riqueza semelhantes, o país ainda é um modelo a que se deve aspirar. O sistema de saúde da Espanha tem uma forte espinha dorsal na constituição, e foi eficientemente e holisticamente executado pelo governo espanhol com quase nenhum erro. Além disso, parece que grande parte da sociedade espanhola apoia a ideia de um sistema universal de saúde, prestando-se assim a um sistema que opera bem melhor. Similarmente, o sistema de saúde brasileiro também tem uma espinha dorsal forte em sua própria constituição. Porém, o sistema se desfaz na prática devido à falta de fundos, falta de infraestrutura e corrupção geral no governo. Além disso, parece que a população brasileira, por uma razão ou outra, não aceitou, como uma nação, a ideia de um sistema universal de saúde completo, já que mais de 25% de todos os custos médicos em 2008 foram pagos pelo seguro privado e dos bolsos pessoais dos cidadãos Brasileiros.41 Isso pode ser um resultado da falta de confiança da população brasileira na capacidade de seu próprio governo de proporcionar um sistema de saúde com um alto nível de qualidade. Além disso, há uma espécie de dependência do setor público de saúde no Brasil no setor privado, especialmente para serviços especializados, diagnósticos e terapêuticos, que possivelmente é o obstáculo principal para o verdadeiro sucesso do SUS. Em conclusão, se o estado não pode produzir um sistema de saúde melhor ou comparável em comparação com o serviço do setor privado, o conceito de saúde universal nesse sistema falhará, pois, o sistema “com fins lucrativos” será mais atraente para o investidores, médicos e outros profissionais de saúde.

Piam.

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Conclusão Baseado na nossa análise, podemos apoiar a hipótese inicial de que as diferenças nos sistemas da saúde brasileira e o sistema espanhol levam a resultados diferentes. Nós determinamos que a combinação de descentralização do sistema de saúde entre regiões autónomas, investimento em recursos adequados, excelente atendimento em pequenas clínicas, e o fato de ser um líder mundial em transplantes de órgãos contribuiu para o fato da Espanha estar ao topo dos países mais saudáveis do mundo. Em comparação, o sistema de saúde brasileiro ainda precisa se desenvolver e crescer bastante antes de poder ser adequadamente comparado com o sistema de saúde público espanhol. Futuras investigações poderiam ser feito nos países da BRIIC (Brasil, Rússia, Índia, Indonésia e China), usando as técnicas de econométrica para analisar seus resultados de saúde, incorporando vários aspectos dos sistema de saúde respectivamente de cada país. Também seria produtivo realizar uma análise mais detalhada dos países da OCDE com melhores resultados, para ver se que existem semelhanças entre os sistemas de saúde

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Biography Arantxa, Horga. Personal Interview. Aug. 2018. “CO1.1: Infant Mortality.” OECD Family Database, OECD - Social Policy Division – Directorate of Employment, Labour and Social Affairs, 12 Nov. 2018. “Current Health Expenditure (% of GDP).” World Bank - World Health Organization Global Health Expenditure Database, World Bank, 2018, data.worldbank.org/indicator/SH.XPD.CHEX.GD.ZS. Elias, Paulo Eduardo M., and Amelia Cohn. “Health reform in Brazil: lessons to consider” American journal of public health, vol. 93,1 (2003): 44-8. Escarpa, Laura. “Demand for Pharma-Related Advice Soaring as Sector Investment Tops €1.4bn - Iberian Lawyer.” Demand for pharma-related advice soaring as sector investment tops €1.4bn - Iberian Lawyer. Accessed April 10, 2020. http://www.iberianlawyer.com/news/news/8151-demand-for-pharma-related. Govan, Fiona. “How Spain Became the World Leader in Organ Transplants.” The Local, The Local, 15 Sept. 2017. Harvard School of Public Health and Fundació Biblioteca Josep Laporte, Trust in the Spanish Healthcare System, 2005/2006. “Health Resources - Doctors - OECD Data.” OECD, OECD, 2017, data.oecd.org/healthres/doctors.htm#indicator-chart. “Health Equipment - Hospital Beds - OECD Data.” OECD, OECD, 2017, data.oecd.org/healtheqt/hospital-beds.htm. “Health Resources - Health Spending - OECD Data.” OECD, OECD, 2017, data.oecd.org/healthres/health-spending.htm.\ “Infant Mortality Rate for Spain.” FRED, Federal Reserve Bank of St. Louis, 27 Sept. 2018, fred.stlouisfed.org/series/SPDYNIMRTINESP. Kotecki, Peter. “People in Spain Will Soon Have the Longest Lifespans of Anyone in the World - Here Are Their Secrets.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 9 Nov. 2018, Kotecki, Peter. “The 16 Healthiest Countries in the World.” Business Insider, Business Insider, 17 Oct. 2018, www.businessinsider.com/healthiest-countries-in-the-world-2018-10. Lichtenberg, Dr. Carlos. Personal Interview. December 1, 2018. “Life Expectancy at Birth, Total (Years).” Literacy Rate, Adult Female (% of Females Ages 15 and above) | Data, World Bank, data.worldbank.org/indicator/SP.DYN.LE00.IN. Martins, Mônica et al. “Hospital deaths and adverse events in Brazil” BMC health services research vol. 11 223. 19 Sep. 2011, “Maternal Mortality Ratio (Modeled Estimate, per 100,000 Live Births).” World Bank, World Bank, 2015, data.worldbank.org/indicator/SH.STA.MMRT. “Obesity Update 2017.” Health Systems - Obesity Update, OECD, 2017. OECD. “Health Care Utilization: Waiting Times.” Health Status, OECD, stats.oecd.org/Index.aspx?QueryId=49344. O'Dwyer, Gisele et al. “The current scenario of emergency care policies in Brazil” BMC health 107

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services research, vol. 13, 70. 20 Feb. 2013 Paim J, Travassos C, Bahia L, Almeida C, Macinko J. The health system in Brazil: history, progress and challenges (O sistema de saúde brasileiro: história, avanços e desafios) Lancet. (2011). 11–31. “Spanish National Health System.” Spanish National Health System, Ministry of Public Health and Consumption, 2006. “Spain's Health Care Efficiency Ranks First in Europe, Third in the World.” Marca España, España Global, 15 Oct. 2018, marcaespana.es/en/current-news/innovation/spains-health care-efficiency-ranks-first-europe-third-world. Socolovsky, Jerome. “What Makes Spain's Health Care System The Best?” NPR, NPR, 19 Aug. 2009. TransferWise. “Healthcare in Spain: A Guide to the Spanish Healthcare System.” USD to EUR – Convert US Dollar to Euro | USD to EUR Currency Converter - TransferWise, TransferWise, 14 Nov. 2017, transferwise.com/gb/blog/healthcare-system-in-spain.

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“Unintended Consequences”: Conflicts of Emergency Care on the United

States-México Border By Shelby Drozdowski ABSTRACT: This paper examines the conflicts between emergency first responders, humanitarian organizations, and Border Patrol agents in regard to the health and safety of unauthorized migrants. Following the implementation of the Prevention through Deterrence program, thousands of migrants have been funnelled into the Sonoran Desert. At the mercy of its hostile terrain, border crossers are subject to a mixture of environmental and man-made hazards that cause serious injury and illness. This paper argues that physical risk and consequence is a tool of U.S. border policy and that deliberate barriers are in place to prevent migrants from receiving emergency health care. The challenges of medical first responders and humanitarian organizations will be examined through a study of primary and secondary sources and will illuminate the problems that medical personnel face while treating migrant patients.

Introduction A twenty-foot wall bisects the city of Nogales. What used to be a united community is now separated by Border Patrol checkpoints and steel bars, aimed at safeguarding the sovereignty of the United States of America from unauthorized migrants and refugees, or “nefarious actors,”1 according to United States Customs and Border Protection. Though the border wall spans nearly three miles, emergency responders, humanitarian agencies, and anthropologists have found that the majority of migrant deaths and injuries occur where the wall disappears. Between October 2000 and September 2014, 2721 bodies of border crossers were recovered in southern Arizona.2 This number hardly accounts for the immeasurable number of border crossers who suffered serious injuries or illness in the desert and were quietly apprehended, treated, and deported.3 Ieva Jusionyte, a trained Emergency Medical Technician

“2020 U.S. Border Patrol Strategy,” United States Customs and Border Protection, August 2019. Jason De León, The Land of Open Graves: Living and Dying on the Migrant Trail (Oakland: University of California Press, 2015), 29. 3 De León, Land of Open Graves, 6-7. 2

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(EMT) and anthropologist, worked as an EMT/Firefighter4 for a number of years in Arizona. Her research on the subject of trauma in the borderlands, conducted through interviews with fellow medical professionals and through firsthand experience treating undocumented migrants who had crossed the Sonoran desert, asserts that “emergency is routine on the border, but not due to an error… on the contrary, migrant injuries are its intended outcomes.”5 The border she refers to is more than just a twenty foot wall; it is a complex system of laws, policies, and obstacles that are intended not only to harm migrants, but to prevent them from receiving necessary, and in some cases life-saving, care.6 This paper will verify Jusionyte’s claim that migrant injuries are an intended consequence of current border enforcement policies, while also asserting that under the guise of ‘law enforcement,’ undocumented migrants are consistently denied emergency medical care due to their legal status. In order to provide a better understanding of the framework that allows for harm to undocumented migrants, this paper will first examine the origins of the dangerous “Prevention through Deterrence” policy currently in use by the United States government and the role that the terrain plays in injury and illness. Then, the paper will examine the politics of medical care, first through the work done by emergency responders, and then by assessing reports and firsthand accounts from a number of humanitarian organizations based in the borderlands. The Space of Exception and the Politics of Wounding

Many, if not all, EMS services in southern Arizona are integrated services, meaning that each responder is trained as a firefighter and as an EMT-A or paramedic. Of the communities I am looking at, all ambulances operate out of fire halls and are considered part of their respective fire districts. 5 Ieva Jusionyte, Threshold: Emergency Responders on the US-Mexico Border, (Oakland: University of California Press, 2018), 85. 6 This paper will focus solely on physical health and injuries of migrants. This is not meant to diminish the serious and often physical effects of psychological injury and mental health; mental health is a major concern that is only beginning to be tackled by humanitarian agencies. The psychological aspect of forced migration is difficult to study within a mobile population and is simply too large a project to undertake within the scope of this paper.

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Article three of the United Nations Declaration of Human Rights states that everyone has the right to “life, liberty, and security of person.”7 Advocacy groups such as Physicians for Human Rights argue that the right to life is inclusive of the right to access emergency health care; treatment of life-threatening injuries or illnesses generally results in prolonged life while withholding the same treatment often results in death.8 This right is commonly ignored when suffering migrants are discovered after walking through the desert to reach the American border. This is no accident; it is a deliberate act that is able to exist only within the liminal space of the borderlands. Many border researchers call upon Giorgio Agamben’s influential work Homo Sacer to make sense of the seemingly unjust policies surrounding the politics of space, state, and individual rights. Cultural anthropologist Jason de León applies Agamben’s “state of exception” to the border, renaming it a space of exception. Rather than the government declaring a nationwide state of emergency in order to suspend civil liberties, de León views border zones as “physical and political locations where an individual’s rights and protections under the law can be stripped away upon entrance.”9 This is an apt description of the southern border of the United States. A Physicians for Human Rights report on medical neglect states that “according to US government interpretation in the post-WWII period, basic constitutional protections are not fully applicable within 100 miles of the US border. 10 This exception emulates Agamben’s emergency measures: as a region that is geographically part of the United States but not considered as such, the borderlands exist outside of the laws and protections that are afforded to those that reside

UN General Assembly, Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 10 December 1948, 217 A (III), accessed December 10, 2019. https://www.refworld.org/docid/3ae6b3712c.html 8 Kathryn Hampton, “Zero Protection: How U.S. Border Enforcement Harms Migrant Safety and Health,” Physicians For Human Rights, Jan. 2019, 16. 9 De León, Land of Open Graves, 27. 10 Hampton, 4, 16.

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within the country. The space of exception belongs to no nation and is, therefore, exempt from the declarations of the United Nations. Anthropologist Miriam Ticktin also references Agamben in her work on humanitarianism in France, though she is critical of Agamben’s philosophical belief in “bare life,” or “life stripped of its political and social qualities.” Ticktin argues that we cannot know what “life stripped of all political and social features looks like, even theoretically.” In a social world, she believes, every life is inherently political.11 Her fellow anthropologist, Didier Fassin, agrees. In a study on victimhood, he wrote, “the body is the place, par excellence, on which the mark of power is imprinted. It is an instrument used both to display and to demonstrate power.”12 The bodies of migrants are marked with suffering in order for the state to exert power over them, as permitted in a region where regular laws do not apply and where suffering can be obscured within the deadly terrain of the Sonoran desert.13 The space of exception that de León describes exempts not only the legal rights of those crossing the desert, but also those tasked with enforcing it. De León wrote that migrant death and injury in the desert is especially dehumanizing because “the Sonoran Desert is remote, sparsely populated, and largely out of the American public’s view. This space can be policed in ways that would be deemed violent, cruel, or irrational in most other contexts.14 The defence from a 2010 report to Congress argues that the dramatic number of migrant deaths is an “unintended consequence” of Prevention through Deterrence, a statement which De León is critical of. He argues that lawmakers had access to evidence that would confirm that siphoning migrants into 11

Miriam I. Ticktin, Casualties of Care : Immigration and the Politics of Humanitarianism in France, (Berkerley: University of California Press, 2011), 14. 12 Didier Fassin and Estelle D’Halluin, “The Truth from the Body: Medical Certificates as Ultimate Evidence for Asylum Seekers,” American Anthropologist 107, no. 4 (December 2005): 598. 13 Ticktin, 15. 14 De León, Land of Open Graves, 28.

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desolate areas would result in increased fatalities.15 In other words, the policy implemented by the United States government was known to, and therefore intends to, cause harm. The desert was deliberately transformed into a geopolitical weapon that wounds slowly and silently, absolving Border Patrol of the responsibility for thousands of deaths and injuries that have occurred in the desert. Scholar Gaston Gordillo describes weaponized terrain as “a weapon unlike any other in a similar sense, for it pervades spatiality in its entirety and its existence exceeds any weaponization.”16 The desert has many weapons at its disposal: high temperatures during the day and low temperatures at night cause hyperthermia and hypothermia; lack of access to water leads to extreme dehydration; and difficult terrain causes injuries to the body and its organ systems. Gordillo judges the ‘power’ of terrain by how it affects other bodies, or, in this case, the bodies of those considered ‘other.’17 The desert, with its capacity to wound and kill, is a powerful weapon. The Effects of Weaponized Terrain on the Body Many migrants are left with no choice but to traverse the dangerous desert. De León conducted a study of materials left behind at migrant camp sites in the desert, reporting that “those who migrate across the desert generally recognize that the process will be difficult, dangerous and laden with various forms of suffering.”18 It is a journey not taken lightly, and evidence shows that it is impossible to carry enough supplies to escape the desert without some form of suffering, as evidenced from the supplies left behind. The most common discarded item

De León, Land of Open Graves, 34. Gastón Gordillo, “Terrain as Insurgent Weapon: An Affective Geometry of Warfare in the Mountains of Afghanistan,” Political Geography 64 (2018): 60, accessed November 6, 2019, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.polgeo.2018.03.001. 17 Gordillo, 56. 18 Jason De León, “Undocumented Migration, Use Wear, and the Materiality of Habitual Suffering in the Sonoran Desert&#38;nbsp;,” Journal of Material Culture 18, no. 4 (2013): 340. Accessed November 6, 2019. https://doi.org/10.1177/1359183513496489. 16

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De León found was water bottles, most empty, but some with evidence of having been filled from cattle tanks.19 Other items provided evidence that certain injuries are expected: discarded gauze wrappers indicate blisters and scrapes from plant life and barbed wire fences while empty bottles of pain relievers point to muscle cramps from prolonged walking and dehydration.20 Dehydration is unavoidable for those in the desert long enough to cross the border, but the extent to which further symptoms develop are dependent on individual experience and physical health. Kathryn Ferguson, a volunteer with Tucson Samaritans and co-author of the Samaritans-funded monograph, Crossing with the Virgin, recounted an experience where she advocated for a migrant named Aurelio to receive medical treatment after he was apprehended by Border Patrol. Aurelio was severely dehydrated, which caused him to suffer from severe nausea and hypotension: his blood pressure was recorded at 80/40 and he had no peripheral pulses. The minimum systolic blood pressure required to sufficiently perfuse the brain is 90 mmHg, while a lack of pulse at the wrist indicates that the circulatory system is compromised and oxygen-rich blood is not being sufficiently pumped to the brain.21 Raúl, a thirty-six year old migrant, brought only a single gallon of water with him during his crossing. He described his experience to Jason de León: “It thought I was going to die out there… I couldn’t take it. My heart was pounding and I started to see things. I was delirious. I was hallucinating. I was looking at the trees but I was seeing houses and cities all around me.”22 Not everyone is lucky enough to be found before the damage becomes irreversible. Former Border Patrol agent Francisco Cantú was tasked to guard a hospitalized migrant who had been lost in the desert for six days and 19

De León, “Undocumented Migration”, 340. De León, “Undocumented Migration”, 340. 21 Kathryn Ferguson, Norma A. Price, and Ted Parks, <i>Crossing with the Virgin</i> (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2010), 26-27 and John Campbell, International Trauma Life Support for Emergency Care Providers, 7th ed. (New Jersey: Pearson Education, 2012), 144-146. 22 De León, “Undocumented Migration, 332-333 20

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sustained acute kidney failure. After forty-eight hours without food or water, one of his companions had died, one was rehydrated in the hospital and discharged, and one was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit, comatose.23 Despite the risk, smugglers tend to walk when it is hottest “because [they] know the Border Patrol agents are in their trucks with the air conditioning on.”24 Some would rather avoid the heat, choosing to traverse the desert at night. This presents an entirely new set of hazards. Temperatures can drop low enough in the Sonoran desert that Arivaca EMS responds regularly to cases of hypothermia and heatstroke. Tangye, an Arivaca EMT-firefighter described the terrain as “very rough” and has responded to injuries caused by migrants falling off cliffs or tripping over rocks in the dark.25 Even when the sun is not shining, the need for water does not disappear. Despite an increase in warnings from migrant shelters south of the border, gastrointestinal problems resulting from drinking contaminated water meant for cattle are still common. Andres, a 43-year-old migrant, explained the risk he took when he crossed the desert: “We crossed with another man who was 62 years old. He couldn’t handle it. He drank some water from a cattle tank that made him sick. Well, we all drank it but he got an infection. The water had little animals swimming in it but we were so thirsty.” The 62-year-old man began vomiting and having episodes of diarrhea, both of which are symptoms that dramatically speed up the dehydration process. Andres made the choice to take the man back to Mexico, saving his life but ending his own attempt at crossing the border.26

Francisco Cantú, the Line Becomes a River: Dispatches from the Border, (New York, New York: Riverhead Books, 2018), 44. 24 Jason De León and Cameron Gokee, “Sites of Contention: Archaeological Classification and Political Discourse in the US–Mexico Borderlands,” Journal of Contemporary Archaeology 1, no. 1 (2014): 144, accessed 6 November 2019, https://doi.org/10.1558/jca.v1i1.133. 25 Jusionyte, 151-152. 26 De León, “Undocumented Migration”, 335.

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The most frequent injury besides dehydration is severe blistering of the feet. At the Tucson Samaritans aid station, Norma Price, volunteer and retired physician, would regularly see migrants assisting each other in walking because “blisters on the bottom of the foot can be like a severe burn.”27 Blisters usually result from ill-fitting or poor quality shoes and, coupled with the unsanitary conditions of the desert, can lead to infection.28 A teenager who had wounded his foot in Honduras developed a fever by the time he arrived at an aid station in Mexico, indicating that the wound had become infected. The infection had spread through his bloodstream and he was treated for early signs of septic shock. Infection can be caused by other injuries as well: barbed wire fences and cactuses are common sources of injury that open the bloodstream to bacteria.29 Though cactuses are a naturally occurring danger of the desert while barbed wire fences are tactically positioned, both are used as intentional weapons of the state against migrants. Law enforcement provides another of the major hazards that those crossing the desert face. In order to avoid detection and subsequent deportation, more dangerous methods are undertaken by human smugglers to avoid law enforcement. High speed car chases through the rough desert often result in rollover accidents, many of which kill migrants in the pursued vehicle.30 With the addition of more Border Patrol checkpoints outside Arivaca, the most popular smuggling route was eventually abandoned and the number of deaths from motor vehicle accidents decreased dramatically.31 Foot chases are still common, however, and the expanded technology that Border Patrol has access to has caused deadly results. Helicopters, SUVs, ATVs,

Ferguson, 70. De Leon, “Undocumented Migration”, 331-332 29 Sheri Fink and Caitlin Dickerson, “Border Patrol Facilities Put Detainees With Medical Conditions at Risk,” The New York Times, March 5, 2019, accessed December 3, 2019. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/05/us/borderpatrol-deaths-migrant-children.html. 30 Jusionyte, 155. 31 Jusionyte, 153-154. 28

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horses, dogs, and Tasers are deployed to pursue migrants travelling by foot and have been reported to cause serious injuries and death.32 Local humanitarian groups have identified drowning as another cause of death attributed to Border Patrol: migrants are chased into dangerous water crossings and there is little effort to locate those swept away by the currents. 33 Amidst the numerous methods of wounding that the desert presents, it is no shock that many migrants turn themselves in to Border Patrol or call 911 for medical assistance. Emergency Responders in the Border Regions Emergency responders in southern Arizona occupy the same exceptional space as migrants and Border Patrol. Ieva Jusionyte argues in her ethnography that because emergency responders are confined to a “legally interstitial space” between Mexico and the “real” Arizona, the distance from federal politics allows them to “notice how the government uses terrain to shape the kinematics of trauma in order to make trauma look like an accident.”34 She writes that the government viewed southern Arizona as an extension of Sonora, where, as stated earlier, constitutional rights could be suspended to protect the sovereignty of the nation.35 After working for two decades in this liminal zone, Victor, one of Jusionyte’s coworkers at the Nogales Fire Station, told her that for firefighters, the border does not exist: “The line is there, but when there is an emergency, it’s as if it weren’t,” he said.36 In the past, firefighters and emergency responders have easily moved through the border gate during major structure fires on either side of the border. When the Hotel San Enrique in Nogales, Sonora, caught fire in 2012, Border Patrol closed the port of entry to the public and Vicente, a Mexican bombero (firefighter)

Hampton, 7. Hampton, 7. 34 Jusionyte, 84. 35 Jusionyte, 84. 36 Jusionyte, 89. 33

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recalled that “all of those who were dressed up as firefighters could move from one country to another” without providing documentation.37 Border Patrol itself was involved in facilitating the free movement of firefighters and bomberos, indicating that the border is not simply a barricade, but a semi-permeable membrane that exists to exclude only those that are considered unwanted. Physical barriers may not exist for emergency responders, but they do for the patients they seek to help. Border Patrol’s dominance in the border region is often a major hindrance to EMS operations because its mission of law enforcement supersedes medical care. In northern Mexico, the nearest hospital equipped to deal with major trauma is in Hermosillo, located two hundred kilometres south of Nogales. The Tucson hospital located across the border in Arizona is much closer. For critical patients, time is the main factor in survival. 38 In these cases, if the patient has no passport or visa, the port director has the authority to provide “humanitarian parole,” which allows them to pass without documentation. Customs and Border Protection, however, has no rules regarding this policy, leaving the outcome of critical patients to the discretion of whoever is on shift at the time.39 Though it seems most, if not all, life-threatening injuries are allowed to pass through the border, there have been reports of ambulances from the Arizona sector who have been forced to abandon their Mexican patient at the border when Customs and Border Protection refused to grant entry to the patient for being unable to produce the proper documents.40 The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) has also documented several instances in New Mexico where ambulances in transit were stopped and searched by Border Patrol agents, impeding the emergency care of suspected undocumented patients. In one instance, the ACLU obtained evidence that a ten-year-old girl with cerebral palsy was arrested 37

Jusionyte, 94. Campbell, 33. 39 Jusionyte, 67. 40 Jusionyte, 67-68. 38

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by Border Patrol agents while she was in an ambulance headed towards the hospital to be admitted for emergency gallbladder surgery.41 This concerning evidence exemplifies one action that would result in serious disciplinary action if it occurred outside the border region: terminating medical care of a patient who requires additional attention is forbidden under medical negligence laws, as is the transfer of care to a person with a lesser level of medical training, such as from an EMT to a vast majority of Border Patrol agents.42 The space of exception exists to flout these serious laws; national security ranks above the right to life, even, it seems, in the case of children. This practice extends to the sparsely populated desert. Border crossers who are apprehended by Border Patrol, including those who have called for rescue or turned themselves in for medical treatment, are subject to law enforcement protocols first and medical care second. Agents are authorized to detain or deport without a medical examination if they deem it to be unnecessary, even though a small fraction of Border Patrol agents are medically trained. In December 2018, a seven-year-old girl apprehended in the desert was determined to be healthy by agents with no medical training; eight hours later she died from severe dehydration. 43 As knowledge of situations like this spreads, border crossers become less likely to turn themselves in to Border Patrol, even when they are in desperate need of medical attention. As an alternative, those with access to cell phones can choose to call 911, but even calling the emergency line is not without risk. Cell phone signals are often absent in the desert and when a caller does get through to 911 dispatch, dispatch systems rarely have the ability to accurately pinpoint the

Hampton, 8. W. Ann Maggiore, “Patient Abandonment: What It Is — and Isn’t,” Journal of Emergency Medical Services, September 30, 2007, accessed November 18, 2019. https://www.jems.com/2007/09/30/patient-abandonment-whatit-an-0/. 43 Hampton, 10. 42

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caller’s location. “Foundations of Borderlands Humanitarian Relief,” a statement written by three major humanitarian groups in the border area, addresses the discriminatory dispatch system, in which calls from suspected border crossers are forwarded directly to Border Patrol, while calls from those likely to be citizens are sent to local emergency responders.44 Callers are not informed when their call is transferred to Border Patrol, whether it be to the Border Patrol Search, Trauma, and Rescue team (BORSTAR), or to regular agents. 45 In counties where 911 dispatch and Border Patrol are separate entities, there is evidence that the lack of coordination between the two dispatch systems results in a majority of calls being dropped. As a result, no help is sent to the callers in the desert. Physicians for Human Rights reports that nearly 70 percent of callers referred to the Pima County BORSTAR team for rescue do not get through.46 When agents do arrive, migrants are arrested, detained, and deported once they receive help. Border Patrol agents can request an ambulance; however, as Foundations states, this is done “at the discretion of Border Patrol agents in the field who are tasked with prioritizing law enforcement,” most of whom do not have the medical knowledge or experience to determine the need for medical aid.47 Emergency responders themselves are mixed on what their role is in regards to reporting their patients to immigration enforcement. Reporting suspected undocumented migrants to immigration authorities raises the ethical question of whether it is appropriate to subjugate medical care to law enforcement, which has been the case in the borderlands since 2005. 48 Prior to this, Border Patrol agents were specifically instructed not to become involved with migrants 44

“Foundations of Borderlands Humanitarian Relief,” No More Deaths, 4. Accessed November 20, 2019, https://nomoredeaths.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/Foundations-English.pdf. 45 Hampton, 9 46 Hampton, 9. 47 Foundations of Borderlands Humanitarian Relief, 4. 48 Jusionyte, 166.

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that required medical care, instead calling 911 and transferring care to the local fire departments. In the shift towards terrorism prevention, this policy changed. Agents were asked to “establish the alienage of all migrants” and arrest all who had entered the country illegally, even those who required advanced medical care.49 The fire captain in Nogales bemoaned the involvement of Border Patrol in EMS operations. “The only reason we do it is so that we can get paid,” he said. One of the EMT-firefighters that worked under him had no qualms ignoring the financial impetus. When asked about his relationship with Border Patrol, he said, “we’ve gone out to places where people were in extremely bad shape and taken medical custody of them, knowing that we should have called Border Patrol… If I’m gonna mess up, I’m gonna mess up on the good side.”50 The Rio Rico Fire District did not have a rule regarding suspected unauthorized migrants. A veteran firefighter being interviewed said simply, “if the patient needs assistance, their nationality has no bearing on us.”51 His department chose to do the extra paperwork regarding billing rather than call Border Patrol to get the transport authorization request form required to reimburse the station. “We don’t hold any law enforcement title,” he said by way of justification.52 In the Arivaca Fire Department, many of those interviewed believe they are “bound by law” to report those suspected to be in the country illegally, though there are no legal documents to support this claim. Other Arivaca employees disagree and support the local humanitarian organizations and the right to medical care without involving immigration enforcement. Though personal opinions differ, most emergency responders agree that when

Jusionyte, 171. Jusionyte, 171. 51 Jusionyte, 171. 52 Jusionyte, 171. 50

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Border Patrol is called, it is for the practical reasons of money and safety rather than law enforcement.53 The reality of publicly funded emergency services means that each fire department and ambulance service relies on Border Patrol to continue operating. The chief of the Sonoita-Elgin fire district, Joseph DeWolf, explained in an interview that emergency responders must produce a transport authorization request, or TAR, in order to bill the federal government for services provided to an undocumented migrant.54 The TAR is provided by Border Patrol when the undocumented person being transported is in Border Patrol custody.55 Until 2014, each state had an alternate option in the form of Section 1011, which reimbursed ambulance services, hospitals, and physicians who treated undocumented migrants. Arizona ran out of Section 1011 money in 2014 and, starting in 2015, acquiring a TAR from Border Patrol became the only way for ambulance services to be reimbursed for the cost of the call, including fuel, equipment, medications, and time. For many small communities that sit in close proximity to the border, this is the only way to generate enough money to remain active. 56 First responders also rely on Border Patrol for safety reasons. Emergency responders do not carry any weapons, and though some counties do supply their staff with bulletproof vests, they are not trained to deal with violent situations as law enforcement personnel.57 With reported instances of violent smugglers and assaults in the desert increasing, responders often turn to Border Patrol for safety measures. Carmen, a paramedic from the Tubac fire district, works near Peck Canyon, an area known for violent attacks, including the murder of a Border Patrol agent in 53

Jusionyte, 166-168. Jusionyte, 168-169. 55 Jusionyte, 163. 56 Jusionyte, 169. 57 Jusionyte, 173. 54

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2010.58 Carmen explained that she calls Border Patrol when she feels unsafe on a call where she and her partner respond “at night, in the middle of nowhere” where there is no cell service. Tangye from Arivaca experienced an uncomfortable sense of danger after Border Patrol informed her that the patient she had transferred was a convicted criminal; once she discovered this, she yelled at the agents for failing to accompany her in the back of the ambulance. Medical personnel rely on Border Patrol agents to keep them safe, replacing the role of other law enforcement officials such as the police and the sheriff. In Joseph DeWolf’s sector, the sheriff is forty-five minutes away. Border Patrol agents are much more useful to responders when an troubling situation arises, whether they are providing traffic control during motor vehicle collisions or securing the scene of a domestic abuse call for the EMTs.59 Despite their conflicts, emergency responders and Border Patrol agents often work together due to simple necessity. The line between medical care and law enforcement blurs for reasons of money and safety, despite the question of personal ethics. The tense alliance between the two organizations has resulted in an increased role of the third major faction in the desert: humanitarian aid groups. Suspicious of the relationship between EMS and Border Patrol, humanitarian groups such as No More Deaths and the Tucson Samaritans have taken medical care into their own hands rather than risk calling the fire department and having Border Patrol become involved.60 While the distrust between volunteers and emergency responders creates a new conflict over care, both groups exist to help those who suffer in the borderlands. Humanitarian Aid Groups

Jusionyte, 172. Jusionyte, 169. 60 Jusionyte, 168. 59

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Faith-based humanitarian groups in southern Arizona operate as civil initiatives to prevent suffering and death in the desert through activities that range from building water stations deep in the Sonoran desert to holding conferences to discuss faith-based immigration reforms.61 The three major groups present in the borderlands—No More Deaths, the Tuscon Samaritans, and Humane Borders—are not granted the same protections as organized institutions such as fire departments and Border Patrol. Rather, humanitarian groups rely on protection under the Religious Freedom Restoration Act to defend their humanitarian actions against prosecution from law enforcement with purported “littering,” “harboring,” and “trafficking” charges. Under the Religious Freedom Restoration Act, humanitarians are able to defend their actions by claiming them as expressions of religion, explaining why successful groups are associated with local churches and religious groups.62 No More Deaths was formed in 2004 as a coalition of faith groups and has since evolved into its own organization associated with the Unitarian Church. Volunteers conduct activities such as documenting abuse, searching for the disappeared, leaving water and supplies in the desert, and employing harm reduction techniques in Mexican border towns. No More Deaths believes that human rights abuses “cannot be excused because of state laws,” a reference to the Nuremburg Tribunal following the fall of Nazi Germany.63 The Tucson Samaritans began in 2002 and assumes a more active role in the medical treatment of migrants in the desert. Many volunteers are doctors, nurses, or first responders who travel deep into the desert with the

“Faith-Based Principles for Immigration Reform,” No More Deaths, March 2004, accessed December 6, 2019. https://nomoredeaths.org/about-no-more-deaths/faith-based-principles-for-immigration-reform/. and “Water Stations,” Humane Borders, 2019, accessed December 6, 2019. https://humaneborders.org/water-stations/. 62 Ryan Lucas, “Deep In The Desert, A Case Pits Immigration Crackdown Against Religious Freedom,” NPR, 2018, accessed December 6, 2019. https://www.npr.org/2018/10/18/658255488/deep-in-the-desert-a-case-pitsimmigration-crackdown-against-religious-freedom. 63 “About No More Deaths,” No More Deaths, accessed December 9, 2019. https://nomoredeaths.com/about-nomore-deaths and Jusionyte, 185.

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primary goal of witnessing “what happens on the roads and trails.”64 Often, Samaritan patrols come across migrants and provide food, water, and medical attention. The Samaritans also frequent migrant shelters to conduct medical assessments and provide treatment. 65 Similar to the others, Humane Borders has been operating since the early 2000s. Its main initiative is the establishment of water stations across the desert and the distribution of maps pointing to these areas in migrant shelters across northern Mexico.66 No More Deaths and the Samaritans operate under the co-written statement “Foundations for Borderlands Humanitarian Relief,” which states that they “collaborate with the individuals in need to provide medical support including: contacting emergency medical services, supporting access to care at area hospitals, and temporary and established relief stations, and providing medical care in the field.”67 The Tucson Samaritans are frequently invited to migrant shelters south of the border to provide assistance to migrants who are about to cross the desert. One volunteer, Ted, accompanied the Samaritans to a shelter in Altar where he handed out socks, shoes and hats to reduce the risk of serious blisters and heatstroke. The medically trained volunteers, meanwhile, bandaged blisters and offered pregnancy tests to those that wanted them at the shelter. When the doctor that accompanied the volunteers discovered that a young man with epilepsy had lost his medication during his previous crossing attempt, Ted accompanied the man to the pharmacy to purchase the medication for him.68 Though some assistance can be provided south of the border, any help in facilitating the movement of migrants northwards is strictly forbidden. No More Deaths established a camp 64

Humane Borders. “A Desert Trip,” Tucson Samaritans/Los Samaritanos, accessed December 6, 2019, http://www.tucsonsamaritans.org/go-on-a-desert-trip.html. 66 Humane Borders. 67 Foundations of Borderlands Humanitarian Relief , 6. 68 Ferguson, 88. 65

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south of Arivaca that provides border crossers with food, water, and medical care. The suffering that occurs between the shelters of northern Mexico and the refuge of the camp is great enough that migrants are often in poor condition when they are met by the No More Deaths volunteers. They “vomit blood, they are dehydrated; their feet are so blistered that they resemble raw meat;”69 grave conditions that often require advanced treatment. Though there is a tacit understanding between No More Deaths and Border Patrol that Border Patrol is not to enter the camp for enforcement purposes, volunteers are often reluctant to call 911 in case the ambulance is accompanied by Border Patrol for financial or safety-related reasons.70 As a general rule, volunteers do not call 911 without the consent of the patient, opening humanitarian operations to major critique. Emergency responders in particular claim that groups like No More Deaths ignore the medical needs of patients in order to protect them from deportation.71 Some citizens of border towns like Arivaca disagree, preferring to call the local humanitarian aid group instead of 911 when they find a migrant in need of medical care. Most callers were unsure about where the migrant is transported to, but they suspect it to be a camp such as the one south of Arivaca.72 Without the close working relationship between Border Patrol and fire departments, humanitarian volunteers are forced into competition with Border Patrol. Jusionyte observed this while working as an EMT-firefighter: “The Border Patrol and the Tucson Samaritans pass each other on Arivaca Road, perpetually competing in their quest to find unauthorized migrants. The former wants to detain and deport them; the latter hope to save their lives.”73 Occasionally, the competition to find migrants becomes a race. Samaritan Kathryn Ferguson recalled a traumatic

Jusionyte, 168. Jusionyte, 157-158, 168. 71 Jusionyte, 168. 72 Jusionyte, 168. 73 Jusionyte, 146. 70

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day where, on a routine patrol, a volunteer noticed a group of migrants hidden under a bridge near Arivaca. On their way to offer the migrants aid, a series of accidents—a spilled bag of supplies, the decision to walk to the bridge instead of drive—delayed them and a Border Patrol vehicle drove past, also detecting the group of men under the bridge. The agent “picked up a walkie-talkie as he put his right hand on his pistol” and the migrants panicked, running from the safety of the bridge into the river. As Ferguson wrote, she was forced to watch as “four men were hunted down like animals.”74 The competition continues, even when migrants have been apprehended and the Samaritans arrive to offer water and assess the vital signs of the border crossers in custody. Humanitarian volunteers are not given the same respect as uniformed EMTfirefighters and are generally seen as a nuisance. Volunteers from various agencies have reported that Border Patrol agents have threatened them with physical violence and arrest, and have brandished firearms at them when they attempt to offer necessary aid. 75 To curb the potential of abuse and promote transparency, Ferguson asserted when Border Patrol was on scene, their rule was to ask. She wrote, “No one really cared, yet we had to ask permission for every move we made… We are required to ask permission to give water. We ask to give food […] We ask for permission to move a man from sun to shade. We ask to carry a semiconscious man to a hospital.”76 When humanitarian volunteers arrive first and begin to provide lifesaving care, Border Patrol agents have been reported to “impede and criminalize volunteer first responders […] by arresting them and filing federal charges against them.”77 The dangers of actively providing care to migrants in the desert have led many organizations to focus on harm reduction measures such as leaving supplies in key positions 74

Ferguson, 169-170. Hampton, 8. 76 Ferguson, 30. 77 Hampton, 3. 75

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across the desert. Humane Borders’ water stations, though criticized by political officials for “facilitating illicit entry,” remain untouched by Border Patrol agents. They have a tentative alliance, with Humane Borders arguing that their water stations give Border Patrol “more time to achieve their objectives of deterrence and apprehension instead of spending time on search and rescue missions.”78 In exchange, volunteers with Humane Borders “provide an extra pair of eyes and ears” for the Border Patrol.79 Their willingness to cooperate with Border Patrol is not shared by No More Deaths. The founders of No More Deaths were active in the sanctuary movement of the 1980s, where multiple congregations of many denominations declared themselves ‘sanctuaries’, giving a safe haven to Central American migrants denied refugee status by the US government. Familiar with civil disobedience, No More Deaths exploits the “ostensible illegality of some of its practices to directly challenge legal truth.”80 It has made for a contentious relationship with Border Patrol that has led to multiple volunteers being arrested for “littering” while leaving bottles of water in a particularly deadly region of the desert.81 One such volunteer, Dr. Scott Warren, was arrested for providing food, water, clothing, and shelter for two migrants in the desert, allowing them to rest in a building used by No More Deaths. He was acquitted after making a defence on religious grounds.82 In 2018, No More Deaths issued a report that accused Border Patrol agents of vandalising food and water drops based on video evidence that they

James P. Walsh, “From Border Control to Border Care: The Political and Ethical Potential of Surveillance,” Surveillance and Society 8, no. 2 (December 19, 2010): 121, accessed October 14, 2019. https://doi.org/10.24908/ss.v8i2.3481. 79 Walsh, 121. 80 Walsh, 123, 126. 81 Rory Carroll, “Eight Activists Helping Migrants Cross Brutal Desert Charged by US Government,” The Guardian, January 24, 2018, https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jan/24/us-immigration-activists-arizona-no-moredeaths-charged. 82 Lucas. 78

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collected.83 Physicians for Human Rights also reports that between 2012 and 2015, over 3500 jugs of water had been found slashed with knives and emptied.84 The Border Patrol agents identified on the video evidence have faced no consequences, despite a statement that Border Patrol policy does not condone intentional destruction of food and water.85 The nature of the space of exception, however, obscures these policies just as it obscures the dire consequences for the people who rely on the supplies they allow to be destroyed. Conclusion As a volunteer with the Tucson Samaritans, Ieva Jusionyte found the medical care she provided had “no effect on the political and economic conditions that have forced people to leave their homes and put them in harm’s way.”86 Just as bandaging blisters and providing doses of painkillers may temporarily alleviate suffering, the work of emergency responders and humanitarian groups has no effect on the sociopolitical situation that has caused these wounds in the first place. The borderlands have become a deadly killing field; the desert has been cultivated to become a geopolitical weapon that wounds and kills while the lawless space that surrounds it deters help from reaching those who need it. The role of emergency responders and humanitarian volunteers is arrested by the politics of the borderlands. Migrants are wounded and harmed deliberately under the pretext of sovereignty, while first responders and humanitarian volunteers struggle to operate ethically outside the influence of US Customs and Border Protection. The border is policed by a combination of harsh, unforgiving terrain and a law enforcement agency 83

Rory Carroll, “US Border Patrol Routinely Sabotages Water Left for Migrants, Report Says,” The Guardian, January 17, 2018, https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jan/17/us-border-patrol-sabotage-aid-migrantsmexico-arizona. 84 Hampton, 7. 85 Hampton, 8. 86 Jusionyte, 200.

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that takes advantage of the interstitial nature of the area to obscure the intentional harm that is the purpose of Prevention through Deterrence.

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Bibliography “2020 U.S. Border Patrol Strategy.” United States Customs and Border Protection, August 2019. https://www.cbp.gov/sites/default/files/assets/documents/2019-Sep/2020-USBP-Strategy.pdf. “About No More Deaths.” No More Deaths. Accessed December 9, 2019. https://nomoredeaths.com/about-no-more-deaths. “A Desert Trip.” Tucson Samaritans/Los Samaritanos. Accessed December 6, 2019. http://www.tucsonsamaritans.org/go-on-a-desert-trip.html. Campbell, John. International Trauma Life Support for Emergency Care Providers. 7th ed. New Jersey: Pearson Education, 2012. Cantú, Francisco. The Line Becomes a River: Dispatches from the Border. New York, New York: Riverhead Books, 2018. Carroll, Rory. “Eight Activists Helping Migrants Cross Brutal Desert Charged by US Government.” The Guardian, January 24, 2018. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jan/24/usimmigration-activists-arizona-no-more-deaths-charged. “US Border Patrol Routinely Sabotages Water Left for Migrants, Report Says.” The Guardian, January 17, 2018. https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2018/jan/17/us-border-patrol-sabotageaid-migrants-mexico-arizona. De León, Jason. The Land of Open Graves: Living and Dying on the Migrant Trail. Oakland: University of California Press, 2015. “Undocumented Migration, Use Wear, and the Materiality of Habitual Suffering in the Sonoran Desert&nbsp;,” Journal of Material Culture, 18, no. 4 (2013): 321–45. https://doi.org/10.1177/1359183513496489. De León, Jason, and Cameron Gokee. “Sites of Contention: Archaeological Classification and Political Discourse in the US–Mexico Borderlands&nbsp;,” Journal of Contemporary Archaeology, 1, no. 1 (2014): 133–63. https://doi.org/10.1558/jca.v1i1.133. “Faith-Based Principles for Immigration Reform.” No More Deaths, March 2004. https://nomoredeaths.org/about-no-more-deaths/faith-based-principles-for-immigration-reform/. Fassin, Didier, and Estelle D’Halluin. “The Truth from the Body: Medical Certificates as Ultimate Evidence for Asylum Seekers,” American Anthropologist 107, no. 4 (December 2005): 597–608. https://www.jstor.org/stable/3567378. Ferguson, Kathryn, Norma A. Price, and Ted Parks. Crossing with the Virgin. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2010. https://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/ualberta/detail.action?docID=3411756 Fink, Sheri, and Caitlin Dickerson. “Border Patrol Facilities Put Detainees With Medical Conditions at Risk.” The New York Times, March 5, 2019. https://www.nytimes.com/2019/03/05/us/borderpatrol-deaths-migrant-children.html. “Foundations of Borderlands Humanitarian Relief.” No More Deaths. Accessed November 20, 2019. https://nomoredeaths.org/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/Foundations-English.pdf. Gordillo, Gastón. “Terrain as Insurgent Weapon: An Affective Geometry of Warfare in the Mountains of Afghanistan,” Political Geography 64 (2018): 53–62. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.polgeo.2018.03.001. Hampton, Kathryn. “Zero Protection: How U.S. Border Enforcement Harms Migrant Safety and Health.” Physicians for Human Rights, January 2019. https://phr.org/wpcontent/uploads/2019/08/PHR_Zero-Protection_How-US-Border-Enforcement-Harms-MigrantSafety-and-Health_Jan-2019-8.pdf. 131

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Jusionyte, Ieva. Threshold: Emergency Responders on the US-Mexico Border. Oakland: University of California Press, 2018. Lucas, Ryan. “Deep In The Desert, A Case Pits Immigration Crackdown Against Religious Freedom.” NPR, 2018. https://www.npr.org/2018/10/18/658255488/deep-in-the-desert-a-casepits-immigration-crackdown-against-religious-freedom. Maggiore, W. Ann. “Patient Abandonment: What It Is — and Isn’t.” Journal of Emergency Medical Services, September 30, 2007. https://www.jems.com/2007/09/30/patient-abandonment-what-itan-0/. Ticktin, Miriam I. Casualties of Care : Immigration and the Politics of Humanitarianism in France. Berkerley: University of California Press, 2011. http://ebookcentral.proquest.com/lib/ualberta/detail.action?docID=730041. UN General Assembly. Universal Declaration of Human Rights. 10 December 1948, 217 A (III). https://www.un.org/en/universal-declaration-human-rights/index.html Walsh, James P. “From Border Control to Border Care: The Political and Ethical Potential of Surveillance,” Surveillance & Society 8, no. 2 (December 19, 2010): 113–30. https://doi.org/https://doi.org/10.24908/ss.v8i2.3481. “Water Stations.” Humane Borders, 2019. https://humaneborders.org/water-stations/.

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Rabbit Rabbit By Eillen Daniela Martinez It was the night my parents got in a fight. Not that they don’t always get into fights. We were at our dinner table: me, my mom, and my dad each seated on a single side so that one side remained empty and I could see my reflection in the window ahead. The kitchen was a haze of pan smoke from my mother burning the arepas, even though she had made arepas every day of her life. With the front door open to let the smoke out, we could feel a whispering breeze trickle into the kitchen, a rarity so early into what is normally a stagnant summer. My mother, her long hair braided into a messy french, sat still at the end of the table, her wide eyes gazing at her crossed thighs. She wasn’t praying; we already did that. My dad chewed his chorizo-filled arepa with a force that spoke for him. I knew they had argued before dinner from their muffled Spanish, but I didn’t know about what. I just remember stepping into the living room from upstairs and seeing my mom standing stiff by the TV. The news had been on. A Venezuelan presidential address, streamed through a secondhand service. My mom had been standing in front of the paused screen, face to face with Maduro in his blue button up, the Venezuelan flag to his right. In the background: a portrait of horses running. My dad had called to her, “Ya, Milena, no le des más vueltas a ese plan conejo. Es todo un mal chiste,” as he piled three plates to set the table. With that, my mom jammed her finger into the power button of the TV and brought out the plate of arepas with the calm yet seething demeanor that only a mom can. My dad was still chewing. With my forefinger and thumb, I plucked a clump of grated white cheese off our single ornate plate, gifted by a friend of a cousin who visited once. The clock ticked like nails tapping on the window. My mother’s stomach growled. Mimi, our pet rabbit,

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shifted in her cage sitting on the windowsill. I sliced my arepa right down the middle and thought to myself I am like a surgeon. I stuffed the innards with cheese, grabbed the small burnt moon with both hands and swiftly moved it to my mouth, my elbow knocking a glass of water and shattering it across the kitchen floor. “Coño.” I stood up. My mother looked up, her eyes severe and glazed with a slimy film. She pointed her stare at my father in mid-chew, “She gets the language from you.” My father stood up, exciting Mimi since he is her feeder. Her cage was like the shake of a maraca urging the start of a primal dance. I cleaned up the glass like I was invisible as the yelling commenced in Spanish. Because you can only be really angry in your native tongue. “No sé cómo puedes comer,” my mother said. “Entonces yo soy el malo por trabajar tan duro para nosotros para que tengamos comida,” my father said. “Nuestra familia está muriéndose de hambre. Tu familia!” “Amor, tú sabes que hacemos todo lo que podemos para ayudarlos. ¿No crees que a mi me duele también?” My dad’s chin fell to his chest. “¿Entonces por qué los tenemos amarrados por una cuerda? Tú sabes que tenemos más.” “¿Quieres regresar? Dime, pues dime. I’ll buy you a ticket to Caracas if that’s what you want.” My dad jabbed the words at her. My mother’s mouth snapped shut. She ran out of the kitchen, thumped up the stairs and slammed the door. That’s when I noticed the little gate to Mimi’s cage was unlatched. The bits of hay trailed out the cage down to the floor and to the front door, ajar. My dad followed my gaze.

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“Coño.” My dad and I spent the next two hours whistling for Mimi, walking deep into the forest outside our house. Looking back, he was probably avoiding confrontation with my mom, but I knew he loved Mimi so I was glad for his company. We returned when the flashlights began to dim, the curls on our head deflated. My dad said she’ll come back, la condenada, because he feeds her. We cleaned the plates and both went up to bed. I fell asleep thinking about Mimi and how she was all alone in a forest that wanted to eat her. ---I jolted awake that night in a sweat. Looked at the clock by my bed. The green digits made a halo around my nightstand. 2:16 AM. I took a deep breath and heard it— the scratching at the door. Mimi. I hurled my covers to the ground, slapped my bare feet onto the hardwood floor, and leapt down the stairs not caring if I woke anyone up. The scratching was louder and I said, “Shh I am coming I am coming,” with a

smile inching onto my face, the nightmare dissipating. I nearly

ran into the door as I turned the lock, pulled

the handle too soon, tried

again and yanked the

front door open to find an empty deck. I whistled for Mimi but heard nothing. I knew she must be close so I closed the door, leaving it barely ajar, and sat on the rocking chair listening to the cicadas. I sighed and waited. The chair creaked like fingers cracking. I thought about my mother, her tired eyes, tired hair, tired bones. How it must feel to suffer a lonely kind of suffering away from her family, a family I never met. I know their stories of course. My mom would lie down next to me when I was little, the both of us like straight boards

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on a cushioned mattress. We laid there, my mom and I, her fingers—pruned from washing dishes— loosely intertwined in mine. She smelled like sweat and laundry soap, the green kind with the bald white man on the label. We looked straight up at the glow in the dark stars taped to my ceiling that my mom brought home from a garage sale once. She might say, “Talia, you know you have a cousin your age the only other girl cousin in our whole family. Her name is Rosa, Rosita, and she has the same eyes as you. She likes to make bracelets with colorful beads.” My mother twisted the bracelet on her wrist before continuing. “Rosa’s mamá is named Diana and that is my sister. My sister Diana has the same hands as me. She is a better cook though, she is opening a restaurant to sell arepas.” “Why?” I ask, “If you can make them for free.” My mom laughs and says don’t tell anyone. My mom got excited talking about her sisters and went quiet when finished. It was like she was filling in all the gaps in her head between now and when she left. Stolen time. My favorite stories were about my dad. He was always the tallest in a room—an ostrich man and so skinny that of course my mom, the smallest in any room, noticed him. And then I laughed because how is it possible that my father, with a belly so large you’d think he’s pregnant, was ever skinny. My dad would write poems for my mother but the kinds that make you cringe, like when you read that my mom is a grasshopper among garbage. “It’s lucky he was a good dancer,” said my mother. I learned from my dad that Rosa sells bracelets by herself on the street. Diana drinks too much and never leaves the house since the arepa stand never made enough money. I’ve never seen my parents dance. My dad told me it was better here to raise me and for our family too, because we could send them money and things like my clothes I grew out of. He says our life is good. But

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for my mom, it is as if she is always carrying ghosts with her. Like she was never home. Remembering my dad and his chin to his chest, I questioned how this could be as good as he always says. I looked at my hands. Unpruned, smooth. Time had passed and the cicadas were now silent. The forest was asleep. I inhaled, grasping the armrests of the chair, gaining momentum to stand up when I noticed one of Mimi’s paws by a flowerpot. I let go of the armrests and let my shoulders hunch. I exhaled, relieved. “Mimi, vamos, let’s go inside.” I whistled to call her, but no movement. Standing up, I shook out my legs that felt like they’d been fossilized. “Mimi, pendeja. You know how late it is?” Of course Mimi didn’t know how late it was. How long had I been sitting there really? I still don’t know. I whistled as I moved toward the pot, a shrill call that echoed amongst the trees. The sound petered out as I saw what lay behind the pot. I looked down and saw her paw. Nothing else. Mimi’s paw, severed. Strings of flesh shredded and strewn across the wooden deck. I released my breath in a shudder as a knot welled up at the pit of my stomach like a thick rope. I thought Mimi might still be alive and could have run away into the forest, so I planned to swerve inside, stomp my sneakers on, and grab one of the flashlights we’d left on the kitchen table. As I turned, I noticed that the kitchen light was on. Someone was in the kitchen. Stumbling in, I expected to find one of my parents. Someone was there, back towards me, perched on the top of the table crouched over something so I could only see a single messy braid swinging steadily as the body rocked back and forth. My mouth dry like someone had stuffed a towel into it, I managed, “Ma- mamá?” The head lifted.

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I replay each moment of that night in my head and I still can’t understand. Yes, this was the part when, slowly, she turned her neck and I saw her eyes. Bursted veins reddening her sclera, one eye moving down while the other drifted left, the pupils separating like diverging pin balls. Her cheeks maroon with blood, her widening smile a putrid black. Crouching, her armpits pressed over her knees, she shifted her weight so I could see what was left of Mimi on the table, her stomach gnarled out so I could see the spine. My mom raised her eyebrows high like she was proud. I remember in those times when my mom would tell me stories in bed, we would sometimes fall asleep after she got quiet. We would wake up to the sobered stars, translucent plastic shards in the daylight, like they knew that their resplendence was only temporary. My mom stopped telling me those stories when I asked to go meet our family. What are we like when we get pushed to the edge? My mother is silent. I screamed at the thing crouched at the table but couldn’t move. I remember feeling like my legs were not connected to my brain, processing that Mimi was a carcass, her blood covering that plate from a friend of a cousin in crimson. And then my dispossessed legs ran up the stairs into my bedroom and I watched my fingers lock the door. I grunted and huffed because I forgot how to cry. I shoved all my blankets and an entire bookcase against the door. The stuffed animals on the shelves came tumbling down. I grabbed a stuffed elephant, bit its head hard and screamed. I grabbed three more and began to pull the cotton out of them, using the stuffing to fill the cracks beneath the door. Not like that could keep away a monster. I couldn’t hear anything beyond my hyperventilation. My legs brought me to the ground and my arms dragged me beneath my bed. I lay there wheezing, paralyzed for what seemed like

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hours, staring at the shingles of my bed, the springs rusted over and curved towards my face, from years of bearing weight. --“Talia? Mija, are you ok?” My mom’s voice behind the door. Startled, I hit the top of my head against the bed shingles and bit my cheek to keep from wailing. The sunlight poured into my room. “Get away from me!” My voice was a rasp. “Uiii. Don’t use that attitude. I am coming in.” I could hear her jiggle the door, and then whisper to my dad who must have also been standing there, to get the key. My dad ended up opening the door which slammed against the shelf. “What the—” He tried again with more force and knocked over the shelf, flinging books across the room. So much for an obstacle. I saw my mom’s slippers approach the bed, little soiled bunnies with the beaded eyes missing. Her knees dropped to the floor. My breathing quickened. Her cheek pressed against the hardwood and my eyes met hers. Normal. Her face was clean, the single mole on her nose the only fleck of discoloration. And then her face contorted. “Hey, qué pasa! What are you doing, what’s wrong with you?!” The words struggled to leave my mouth.. “I-I think I had a bad dream.” “Well clean up your room! You know Rosita would kill to have stuffed animals like yours and here you are tearing them up like they cost nothing! Breakfast is ready!” I winced at the word kill. My mother huffed, bounced up to her feet and her slippers shuffled away out of the room. I noticed as she drifted away that two braids swayed against her back. I’d never seen my mom in two braids. My dad’s large veiny feet stayed at the foot of my bed.

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“Ven Talia. We made your favorite.” His feet turned to the shelf that had fallen to the floor. I watched his hands grasp at its sides and lift, sliding it against the wall before he walked out the door. I drew in a trembling breath. Just a dream. I peeled myself from the floor and rolled out from underneath my bed. Books were lying across the floor, the stuffed animals decapitated. I walked over the mirror hanging on my closet door to look at myself. Deep purple bags under my eyes made me look like a starving racoon. Drool dried on my cheek so I had to scratch the white flakes off. Just a dream, I thought to myself as I dipped my fingernail into the skin of my cheek. I tiptoed around the fallen books and stuffed animals and headed down the stairs. When I reached the foot of the stairs, I found my parents waiting at the kitchen table, food already on the plates. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, I inspected the floor and the table and the plates. The plate gifted from the friend of a cousin was pristine and centered at the table like a eucharist on an altar. My dad asked if I was okay. I said, “Sí papa,” and walked to the table, pulled the chair so that it made a grinding noise against the floor, and plopped into the seat. I stared straight in front of me at the embellishments on the plate: identical hens with red, blue, and yellow feathers bordering the edge of the dish, their talons brushstrokes one in front of the other like they were soldier hens following each other into cycles of eternity. Two hands appeared in my field of sight: my mother’s at my right and my father’s at my left. Time to say grace. I looked up to see my dad nodding at me like it was my turn. “Ahem. Mm. Aghh. Gosh, well. Thank you, Lord, for this, uh...FOOD. Yes. Thank you for uh…” I opened my eyes and saw the little hens painted on the plate. “Hens. Mm.” I hunched as my mother’s bony fingers squeezed tight against my palm.

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Tightening my eyes again, I

Rabbit Rabbit

remembered a line from the Our Father, “Oh and uh, forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Yes, yes. A-MEN.” I don’t think that’s ever used to say grace but what can you do. I quickly let go of my parents’ hands and shoved food in my mouth without tasting it, feeling every swallow like a handful of pebbles squeezing down the sphincters of my throat. I looked everywhere except my mom. That oily smile, the diseased eyes, fingers dripping with Mimi’s blood kept coming to mind. Examining the kitchen, squinting like I had x-ray vision, I noticed everything was the same as it had been my whole life, the only house I ever knew as home. My drawings from elementary school on the fridge, where the people had arms coming out of their heads because I guess I didn’t understand the concept of a torso, and the sky was a line across the top of the page as if it didn’t envelop the whole universe. Drawings of my family, always just the three of us, until Mimi came into the picture. My parents said they got her so I could have a friend. They thought I was lonely, but I was used to being by myself. I think they got her because they weren’t. My eyes moved over to the window and I noticed the one thing that was different. Mimi’s cage was no longer on the windowsill. “So uh, papá did you find Mimi last night?” My dad spoke with his mouth full so I could see the mush inside. “Aha. And who’s Mimi?” I stared straight at his face and gave him a smirk like ha-ha you are so funny papá. But he gave me a perplexed look back. “Papá! No jueges conmigo. It’s not funny, did you find Mimi, her cage is gone.” My mom decided to chime in with a my-husband-cannot-navigate-our-daughter’s anticsbecause-he-is-pendejo-but-I can-set-her-straight kind of attitude. Like only she can. “Talia. Stop messing with your father. Who is this Mimi you talk about? Tell me.”

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I finally brought myself to look at my mother, her eyebrows arched expecting me to say something. My mouth agape, I let out a scoff. “Mamá. Papá. Mimi! Our. Pet. Rabbit,” I enunciated each syllable, punctuating the words by tapping my palms on the table. “Pet rabbit? ¿Qué es eso?” My dad asked me, as if he had no clue. “You know! Mimi! She’s normally in her cage there!” I flailed my arms toward the window, knowing I was starting to sound crazy to them. “Last night she ran away and we went looking for her remember we got her because you were lonely or I was lonely or something and anyways she’s our baby Mimi and we love her and she’s probably still out there!” My father placed his large hands like pans flat on the table and drummed his fingers. “Hmm. Mimi mimi. You mean one of our rabbits out back? Did you make a friend, Talia?” My dad’s lips pulled back into a toothed grin. Not sure I wanted to know the answer I asked, “Rabbit-ssss? What do you mean out back?” My mother dropped her fork so it clanged on the plate. “Talia, por dios. Why are we playing this game. Go find your friend rabbit or whatever you mean and let me know how you want me to cook it for you.” “Excuse me. Since when do we cook rabbit.” “Mija, what do you think we prepared for you?” “Nononono. I don’t eat rabbit.” My dad added, “Then why did you beg us to buy a whole rabbit pen.” He chuckled like someone saying a pun at a golf game. “Talia we can’t keep—"

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I stood up, my chair toppling back, as I ran to the door on the other side of our kitchen that led to our backyard. Before I even opened the door, the warm smell of animal hit me. I opened the door and found, enclosed by a net of wire, a sea of fidgeting, plump, cottonwhite rabbits. I ran to the terminus of the wire enclosure and edged my face towards it, meeting the eyes of the animal breathing there, pushed against the cage, its furry skin a waffle against the wire that pressed against it. Its red eyes with no eyelids said terror, even though at that point I was probably projecting. So, it was an imagined terror that said I am trapped here with all my rabbit brothers and all my rabbit strangers, we are terrorized but we are happy, see here my fat, see here my white fur, we know that itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s better to suffocate here. One day you will understand.

End.

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About the Authors Byulorm Park Byulorm plans to concentrate in Chemistry and to pursue a certificate in Spanish at Princeton University. As a student researcher she has focused on Cuban music and literature since falling in love with Cuban culture in Little Cuba within her hometown, Seoul. Two summers ago, she pursued an internship with El Gabinete de Patrimonio Musical Esteban Salas in Havana, Cuba, a cultural heritage organization that works to preserve and promote Cuban music. Her ongoing research is on Alejo Carpentier’s conception of “barroquismo” and the social stimuli that initially compelled him to devise his theories on Baroque.

Miranda Bain Miranda is a second-year graduate student in Latin American Studies and International Economics at Johns Hopkins University’s School of Advanced International Studies (SAIS). This builds on her academic background at Cambridge University and work experience in the UK, India and Colombia. Beginning her education on Latin America over mate and alfajores with Uruguayan friends, she has developed an interest in human rights challenges in the region, especially pertaining to gender, migration and global health. Indeed, she is currently conducting research on immigration and refugee issues for both a Professor at SAIS and for a US-based NGO that focuses on women refugees.

Katie Coldiron Katie is an MS candidate at the University of Texas at Austin School of Information. She also holds an MA in Latin American Studies from the University of Florida and a BA in Anthropology/Sociology. Her research interests include migration, tourism, historical preservation, and US-Latin America relations. Katie has lived in Cuba, Colombia, and Mexico, and aspires to complete a PhD in cultural anthropology after completing her MSIS degree. She currently resides between Austin, Texas and Miami, Florida.

Barae Hirsch Barae Hirsch is a rising senior at Johns Hopkins University from Alaska majoring in sociology and international studies through the Global Social Change and Development program. She spent the Fall of 2019 studying social movements with the Zapatistas in Southeastern Mexico and spent previous semesters in Bolivia and Peru. She is interested in social movements and anticapitalist organizing throughout Latin American history and present, as well as international organizing movements around racial and economic justice. This summer she is working at the Centro de los Derechos del Migrante, a lowwage migrant workers’ rights organization based in Baltimore and Mexico City.

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Eduardo da Costa Eduardo recently graduated from Johns Hopkins University with a B.A. in Medicine Science and Humanities. He has studied the impact of the military dictatorship in Brasil, Brazilian Popular music in the 1960s and 1970s, and Modern Brasilian Hip Hopâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s effect on African Culture. He plans to go to to Mozambique to study Portuguese and the Effect of Brasilian Culture in other Portuguese Speaking nations

Shelby Drozdowski Shelby is in the final year of her B.A. History degree at the University of Alberta, Canada. She has previously trained as a Primary Care Paramedic/EMT-A and has worked with vulnerable populations in her hometown of Edmonton, Canada. Because of her background, she is interested in emergency health and medicine as it relates to migration across Latin America. Shelby is currently working on a project about mental health care in the early 20th century.

Eillen Martinez Eillen Daniela Martinez is a senior at Johns Hopkins University studying Medicine, Science and the Humanities with a concentration in Writing Seminars. Born in Valencia, Venezuela and raised in Orlando, Florida, Eillenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s interests in immigration issues developed further through her work with the Esperanza Center, a multi-resource immigrant center in southeast Baltimore. Exploring themes of displacement, family dynamics, and belonging in her writing, Eillen is heavily influenced by personal experiences and stories sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s encountered in her work at Esperanza Center. Next year Eillen will be conducting a Fulbright project in Pamplona, Colombia to bear witness to the Venezuelan migrant crisis by documenting the stories of migrants, Colombian community members, and humanitarian aid workers. Eillen hopes to be a writer, healthcare provider, and advocate in immigrant communities in her future career.

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