Por Nicole Tirado, Paula Gamboa, Tatiana Valenzuela, Yuliana Aborda, Roxanna Barrera y Diana Carolina Ortiz
Nuestra profesor de historia dice que los ciudadanos del siglo XXI ya no se mueven por partidos políticos; ahora los mueve la reflexión de conceptos y narraciones que los constituyen como sujetos políticos, ciudadanos con voz y derecho. En este orden de ideas, hablar de reflexión implica hacer conciencia y esta permite no olvidar que en la historia colombiana el miedo ha habitado el territorio como un ciudadano más. Parte del origen colombiano ha sido la violencia y con esta el miedo; lo sabemos los que reflexionamos y también los que gobiernan. Por eso actualmente vivimos un Paro Nacional con el lema del miedo. La historia que se está entretejiendo de este hecho no es otro que la repetición de la historia colombiana: miedo a la muerte; los desaparecidos cuyas madres lloran su ausencia; cadáveres sin responsable; y discursos que aprueban la violencia por parte de la fuerza pública que defiende el bien público, pero no al público, el cual es su mismo pueblo.
By Nicole Tirado, Paula Gamboa, Tatiana Valenzuela, Yuliana Aborda, Roxanna Barrera and Diana Carolina Ortiz
Our history teacher says that, in the twenty-first century, citizens do not engage with political parties because what moves them now is the analysis of concepts and narratives that shape them as political subjects—as citizens with voices and rights. This implies awareness and the memory that, in Colombian history, fear has lived with us as another citizen. Part of Colombia’s origin has been violence, and with it comes fear; we know this, as do those who govern us. For this reason, nowadays we’re going through a national strike whose main slogan is fear. Current events are nothing other than the repetition of Colombian history: fear of death, missing people whose mothers mourn their absence, corpses that cannot be identified, and speeches that endorse violence by armed forces, who profess to defend the public good but not the public, not the people of their own country.
Como en gran parte del mundo, la pandemia de la violencia contra la mujer también ha azotado a Puerto Rico. En enero de 2021, el gobernador de Puerto Rico, Pedro Pierluisi, declaró un estado de emergencia para responder. En mayo de 2021, los puertorriqueños se tomaron las calles para protestar después de que dos feminicidios ocurrieran. Andrea Ruiz fue asesinada por su ex-novio, Miguel Ocasio, después de que no pudo obtener una medida cautelar, y Keishla Rodriguez fue asesinada por el boxeador Felix Verdejo después de confesarle que estaba embarazada de él. La indignación frente a la violencia de género ha llegado incluso hasta Bad Bunny, el artista puertorriqueño de música trap, y cuyo video musical “Solo de mi” muestra a una mujer cada vez más llena de moretones y sangre a punto de salir del escenario, lo que hace presumir al espectador representa el abandono de su agresor. Pero para muchas mujeres en Puerto Rico, hay pocas opciones o protecciones para aquellas que desesperadamente tratan de escapar. De acuerdo con NBC News, las cortes de Puerto Rico han negado el 68% de las medidas cautelares requeridas en los últimos nueve meses.
This article was originally published here on Human Rights Pulse on April 21, 2021.
“If I become President, there will not be another centimeter of indigenous land [demarcated].”
This statement and statements like it—including several where “centimeter” was replaced by “millimeter”—cropped up frequently in the campaign rhetoric of Brazilian president Jair Bolsonaro. Bolsonaro’s far-right populism and militaristic disregard for minority groups—including Indigenous nations, Black Brazilians, and LGBTQ+ people, among others—have made him immensely popular. It has also made him one of the greatest dangers to environmental conservation and the advancement of Indigenous rights. His presidency has seen large-scale destruction of Brazil’s Amazon Rainforest and encroachment on Indigenous lands by mining and logging companies. Yet, the centrality of Indigenous groups to Bolsonaro’s anti-environment campaign makes them key stakeholders in any effort to protect the Amazon. Since Indigenous rights and conservation are so closely interlinked, it is crucial that conservationists recognize the invaluable knowledge of Indigenous leaders.
Like much of the world, Puerto Rico has been plagued by the epidemic of violence against women, and in January 2021, Puerto Rico’s governor Pedro Pierluisi issued a State of Emergency in response. In May 2021, Puerto Ricans took to the streets in protest after two femicides occurred. Andrea Ruiz was murdered by her ex-boyfriend Miguel Ocasio after being unable to obtain a protective order, and Keishla Rodriguez was murdered by boxer Felix Verdejo after confessing to him she was pregnant with his child. The outrage over gender violence has reached even Bad Bunny, the Puerto Rican trap artist, whose video for “Solo De Mi” shows a woman growing progressively bruised and bloody before leaving the stage in what the viewer assumes is her leaving her abuser. But for many women in Puerto Rico, there are few options or protections for those desperately trying to leave. According to NBC News, the courts in Puerto Rico denied 68% of protective orders requested in the last nine months.
Barbara Crane Navarro is a French artist, author, and activist who currently lives near Paris. Over a period of 12 years, she spent the winter months with the Yanomami people in Venezuela and Brazil, an experience which has inspired her artistic practice and her decades-long effort to draw attention to the devastation of the Amazon Rainforest. From creating burning art installations to writing and illustrating a children’s book series, Crane Navarro is a prolific artist who has the power to instill a sense of urgency, responsibility, and connectedness in all those who interact with her creations.
We spoke with her about her biggest inspirations, what she is currently working on, and what makes the rainforest invaluable.
The following photos belong to Barbara Crane Navarro and have been republished with her permission.
Thisarticle was originally published hereon The Atlantic Council’s blog, the New Atlanticist, on March 23, 2021.
The 110th International Women’s Day, celebrated this year, hailed the achievements of women. It encouraged people to raise awareness about gender-based issues and call for further action toward gender parity in a post-COVID-19 world. There is one group of women, however, that has been left behind in these conversations: trans women.
Gender and sexual minorities remain among the most vulnerable groups worldwide, and this is particularly true for trans women. Three hundred and fifty trans and gender-diverse people were murdered globally in 2020, a 6 percent increase from 2019, according to data gathered by Transrespect Versus Transphobia Worldwide (TvT)’s Trans Murder Monitoring project. That continues the trend of year-over-year increases in murders since 2008.Nearly all, or 98 percent, of those murdered were trans women or trans feminine people. Eighty-two percent of all those murders happened in Central and South America. Forty-three percent happened in Brazil alone.
But anti-trans violence is not contained to any single region and often coincides with belonging to another marginalized group. In 2020, 79 percent of the 28 trans people murdered in the United States were people of color, and 50 percent of the 11 trans people murdered in Europe were migrants. As TvT has explained, it is impossible to estimate the number of unreported cases because most countries fail to collect systematic data and authorities, families, and the media often misgender victims. To begin to address the gamut of challenges and threats trans and gender non-conforming people face, countries will have to promote and protect trans rights globally as well as advocate for and support increased trans political representation.