by Dennis James
The young chief and two men come aboard, carrying a defunct outboard motor that he wants to take to Nelson’s village to be repaired. I take this opportunity to interview the chief about his job. He is surly but agrees, with Rodrigo translating. His job description includes assigning men and women to hunting, fishing, and construction tasks; inspecting the condition of the shabono’s interior and exterior; inspecting rooms, tools, and weapons; heading off violent confrontations among the villagers and mediating disputes; and assuring safe and adequate water supply.
The position is not hereditary. Chiefs are chosen by consensus of the adult males. At this point, he abruptly terminates the interview and goes to sit by himself in the prow of the boat.
On our way to San Carlos, our last stop, we drop off the chief and Nelson at Nigal. Everyone dives into the river for a swim. I express concern about getting to San Carlos in time to get lodging for the night before our flight back to Ayacucho the next morning, but Rodrigo says not to worry. “There will be plenty of options.”
There are no options. We sit in the boat, roasting slowly in the afternoon sun while León and Rodrigo try to find shelter. The place is a ghost town, neat rows of houses, almost all empty—another victim of the economic chaos. I have visions of sleeping in the town square under a tree.
Finally, after two hours, Rodrigo returns. “We have a place.” I ask if it has a roof. He replies, “It has a roof and is funny.”
He is right. It is a former tavern, long since abandoned, on the bluff of the river. The menu is still on the wall, and the place is decked out with pennants, banners, and a mirrored disco ball hanging from the ceiling. Next door is a chicken coop full of chickens, separated from our quarters by thin wire mesh. But we are happy to have the shelter, and we set up our cots and hammocks to the sound of our neighbors’ clucking and flapping.
It is four in the morning and dark as death outside. This does not deter the roosters next door from offering their screechy welcome to the coming dawn. Within minutes, everyone is awake, fumbling with pants and shoes, some proposing fried chicken for lunch. León brings breakfast from the boat.
We leave the no-name café and slouch through the deserted dust-blown streets to the airstrip. A civilian wearing a government agency photo ID joins our procession. The next time we see him, he is sitting behind us in the Cessna.
And so, here we are in the terminal in Puerto Ayacucho, without our passports, without a translator, and without a guide, at the disposal of a Commandante who must be very angry that things have not gone the way he had planned. But suddenly, a National Policeman hands back our passports and nods toward our backpacks. “Let’s get out of here,” I say. We head for the door and see Rodrigo waving. He grabs us in an embrazo and hustles us over to Señor Hermoso’s SUV. We think the Commandante figured we were just dumb gringos who unwittingly provided cover for someone else’s scheme. Which may well have been the case.
The next morning, as we are waiting for our flight to Caracas, we have a much more delightful experience in the Puerto Ayacucho airport: in a video promoting tourism, with Cerro Autana in the background, we see Lewis, smiling, holding one of his palm leaf creations.
We spend two days in Caracas with a boundlessly cheerful and enthusiastic Caracan named George who speaks perfect English, loves his city, and drives like a madman, which, in Caracas, is the only way to get anywhere.
The city is beautiful, nestled in the easternmost ridge of the Andes, a few kilometers from the sea. The tonier districts, in particular embassy row, are thick with boulevards, shops, and restaurants. There are long stretches of streets closed to autos in the old colonial central city, allowing relaxed pedestrian traffic. The heart of the city is Bolívar Square, which features an equestrian statue of the Liberator, as does almost every town square in Venezuela. Simón Bolívar is a virtual deity. He rests in an enormous mausoleum, a sort of secular cathedral, complete with a changing of the honor guard every two hours.
With the elections looming, the square is filled with banner-waving supporters of the various candidates and parties. The largest group is from the government party, the PSUV (United Socialist Party of Venezuela), whose leader is President Nicolás Maduro, Chávez’s handpicked successor. Various booths promoting single issues on the environment, spousal abuse, and community organizing line the cobblestoned streets. One booth displays the combined electronic and manual cross-check method of voting used in Venezuela that is designed to keep the vote count honest. Fingerprint and photo identification is required. No hanging chads here. One-on-one debates proliferate, some rancorous, most good-natured. It is raucous democracy in action.
Although Caracas has a (probably well-deserved) reputation as one of the most dangerous cities in the world, no one harasses or otherwise bothers us in any way as we wander the streets. But the beauty of the setting and the grandeur of the wealthy areas cannot hide the favelas with makeshift houses lining the hills above the city center, a symbol of the poverty that still pervades the country despite its abundant natural resources.
Moreover, corruption permeates the social order, especially in the government. The trappings of an economy of scarcity, such as long queues for basic needs, hang incongruously on the beautiful capital of a country sitting on what is perhaps the world’s largest oil reserves.
The Chavistas claim corruption and scarcity is, in large part, caused by domestic and foreign oligarchs taking billions of dollars out of the country, by Saudi Arabia artificially holding down the price of petroleum, and by US funding of far-right parties that have engaged in violent street demonstrations. They claim the goal of the opposition is to undo all the social programs Chávez initiated—free schooling, free medical care, universal electrification, literacy, affordable housing—programs critical for a decent quality of life in the favelas and poor villages of Venezuela.
All of which is probably true.
The opposition claims that the social programs were unrealistically premised on the price of oil remaining above one hundred dollars per barrel. They state that the government’s monetary policy is absurd, that public monies are being siphoned off by corrupt officials, that the social programs are blatant unaffordable pork barrel, and that the government is using intimidation to silence criticism and dissent.
All of which is probably true.
It doesn’t help the Chavistas that, compared to Chávez, Nicholas Maduro has the charisma of a brick wall.
We drive up into the foothills where the American embassy compound is located, and park at an overlook above the grounds. The facility is vast, taking up a few hundred acres of the side of a mountain. It includes an exclusive golf course. Most of the nearby residents are embassy employees. If nothing else, the size of the diplomatic facility and the presence of hundreds of employees indicate more than a passing interest in Venezuelan affairs. And given the long and sordid history of US covert and overt interference in the affairs of Latin American countries, there is little reason to assume it is not occurring in Venezuela.
Back home in New York, friends and family ask about our Orinoco trip. “How was it?” We decide to use a one-word reply that is sufficiently descriptive and ambiguous: “Memorable.”
Epilogue
Summer 2016. Venezuela is in crisis.
After the opposition won almost two-thirds of the seats in the National Assembly in the December 2015 elections, the situation rapidly deteriorated. President Maduro dug in his heels, protecting his cronies and continuing disastrous policies.
As a result, public hospitals lack supplies, working equipment, and life-saving medicines. There are water shortages and electrical outages throughout the country. There is a long wait to purchase scarce basic goods. Inflation is rampant. The price of crude oil, on which the economy depends, continues to fall. The Venezuelan currency, the bolívar, is virtually worthless.
Government employees work only two days a week, and the political system has come to a standstill. The government has declared a state of emerg
ency, but nothing is getting done due to the conflict between the opposition and the president. They cannot even agree about whether to accept foreign aid to help them through the crisis. The opposition itself is fractured.
On September 2, 2016, hundreds of thousands of Venezuelans converge on the capitol, Caracas, to demonstrate their opposition to the government and call for a referendum that, if successful, would force an early election for the presidency. The government organizes counterdemonstrations, accusing the opposition of planning a coup and using violence against government supporters. Maduro refuses to resign. The economic crisis deepens.
Stunned and saddened by these developments, we think about the generous, kind people we met in 2015 and wonder how they are surviving in a society about to collapse. For a few weeks after our return to Brooklyn, we communicate with Rodrigo. However, since the elections, our emails go unanswered.
Meanwhile, in response to our complaint about being implicated in suspect activity at the Ayacucho airport, the director of the local travel agency initially claims that the “mystery passenger” was merely carrying money from remote villages to be deposited in the banks in Puerto Ayacucho. He apologizes profusely for our inconvenience.
Later, however, he states that the stranger was a “duly identified official in charge of the elections” to whom the pilot was obliged to offer “urgent service.” No one was authorized to examine his baggage. Allegedly, the official had waited for military transport, but none was available.
But all of us had seen an enormous military transport plane on the tarmac in San Carlos taking on passengers while the mystery man stood around. And no one has explained why eighteen National Police were waiting in Puerto Ayacucho to surround and search our plane and our luggage and strip-search our guide.
We think we were caught in a minor episode of “business as usual” in Venezuela. We will probably never know the whole story.
State of Palestine
MISSION TO GAZA
The terms Israel and Israeli in this narrative refer to the Government of Israel and/or the Command of the Israeli Defense Force (IDF). Many in Israel, both Jewish and Arabic, actively oppose the militarist policies of their government, the occupation of Palestinian land, and the violation of Palestinian civil and human rights.
Prologue
In April 2009, we hear from a friend that Code Pink, a women-led antiwar organization founded to protest the Iraq War, is organizing a delegation to Gaza at the invitation of the United Nations Relief and Works Agency (UNRWA).
We have been active in antiwar, civil rights, and social justice issues, including Palestinian causes, and have traveled extensively in the Middle East. Barbara and I decide to join the delegation.
The Gaza Strip is a narrow piece of land bordering the eastern Mediterranean Sea. It is twenty-five miles long and approximately three to seven miles wide, with a population of 1.5 million in 2009. A larger number of Palestinians live in the West Bank, a landlocked territory that shares borders with Israel and Jordan. It is generally recognized by the International Court of Justice, the Israeli Supreme Court, the UN General Assembly, and other international bodies that the West Bank is Palestinian territory under military occupation by Israel. The Israeli government deems the West Bank to be a “disputed territory” and has allowed and even encouraged Jewish settlers build communities there in violation of international law.
The day-to-day governance of the Palestinians is divided between two major political parties, Hamas and Fatah. Fatah was founded by and remained closely associated with the revolutionary movement of Yasser Arafat, who died in 2004. In parliamentary elections held in 2006, Hamas, based in Gaza, defeated Fatah, based in the West Bank. Fatah refused to accept the results, and armed elements of the party attempted to oust the Hamas leadership. The coup failed. Fatah retained control of the West Bank. Gaza is governed by Hamas.
There have been discussions about uniting the two parties, but, as of now, the factions are barely on speaking terms.
To the extent that there is any recognition of Palestinian political autonomy, Fatah is supported by Israel and the United States. Despite being the victor in an election certified as fair, Hamas is regarded as a terrorist group. And, ultimate control of both Gaza and the West Bank remains in the hands of Israel.
The Gaza Strip was occupied by Israel until it withdrew in 2005, but in 2007 Israel and Egypt imposed a land, sea, and air blockade, restricting, if not banning, imports of food, medicine, construction materials, and other consumer and industrial goods. With rare exceptions, Gazans are not permitted to cross the border, even to obtain medical treatment or visit their families.
From December 27, 2008, to January 18, 2009, the Israeli Defense Force (IDF) conducted Operation Cast Lead, a continuous air, sea, and land assault on the Gaza Strip. Fourteen hundred Palestinians (mostly civilians) were killed and six thousand injured. The IDF also destroyed most of the civil and industrial infrastructure, as well as large residential areas. The IDF’s casualties were thirteen killed, eight by friendly fire.
Why did Israel attack Gaza? The underlying reasons are a matter of speculation and dispute. A cease-fire had been in effect for several months. At some point, the IDF conducted a raid into Gaza to seize an alleged terrorist, and some Gazans retaliated with a few ineffectual rockets. What is not in dispute is that Hamas then offered to reinstate the cease-fire, and the Israeli government’s response was to launch Operation Cast Lead.
Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch found massive violations of international law in Israel’s conduct of Operation Cast Lead, including, among other breaches: disproportionate violent reaction to minimal provocation; use of banned or partially banned weapons; and deliberate or reckless attacks on civilians and civilian targets, such as schools, hospitals mosques, houses, and ambulances. The blockade has also been deemed to be in violation of international law.
We traveled to Gaza about six months after the end of Operation Cast Lead. Nothing we encountered in our travels (or our lives) prepared us for the devastation we witnessed there. We had seen the pictures and read the reports of the destruction of lives and property. But these do not do justice to the physical and emotional damage we encountered.
The cold numbers do not convey the human story.
Cairo, Egypt
May 28, 2009
The group meets for the first time with the Code Pink leadership at the Pension Roma, a hotel in Cairo. We gather in a small conference room barely able to contain all sixty-six of us, some of whom are squatting on the floor and sitting on the windowsills. Everyone is in good humor, but serious about the mission. We eat meze and fruit and go around the room introducing ourselves. While there is much laughter and badinage, the meeting is well run by Medea Benjamin and Anne Wright, founders of Code Pink. They brief us on logistics and discuss the chances of actually getting into Gaza—about fifty-fifty. We are traveling in two buses, plus an additional truckload of playground equipment. If the Egyptians won’t let us cross the border at Rafah, we will camp at the Rafah crossing and set up the play equipment to get the attention of the international press. T-shirts, buttons, and cups are passed around. Then, as often happens during this journey, the group breaks into song.
Cairo, Sinai Desert, Al Arish, Egypt
May 29
We assemble in a downtown parking lot next to two big tour buses. Two carloads of Egyptian Internal Security Officers stand silently nearby, watching us and occasionally murmuring into their cell phones. We mill around for half an hour, waiting for stragglers. Tighe Berry, who calls himself “The Propman,” is in charge of the playground equipment. He is everywhere at once, climbing on top of the buses, lashing down the equipment, assuaging nervous bureaucrats on his cell phone, and negotiating with the Internal Security agents. Meanwhile, we sing. Finally, we mount up and move out in a convoy, followed by Internal Security and Tourist Police with AK-47s in pickups and officers in unmarked cars.
Everybody on the trip is interes
ting. Most are political activists, some are religious pacifists, and others radical leftists. Several are retirees, veterans of antiwar, civil rights, gay rights, feminist, environmental, and other struggles. A number are Jewish. Medea Benjamin has a long history of progressive activism and has worked tirelessly to promote peace efforts and human rights. Ann Wright is a former Lieutenant Colonel in the US Army and former diplomat who resigned because of her opposition to the Iraq war. There are other public figures such as Norman Finkelstein, a professor denied tenure at Hunter College and DePaul University because of his criticism of Israel, and Roane Carey, Managing Editor of The Nation. Phil Weiss, creator of the blog Mondoweiss, joins us later.
By late afternoon, we arrive at Al Arish, an Egyptian coastal town near the Gazan border. We bed down here, as there are no hotels in Rafah, and will attempt entry tomorrow. A group of us wander through back alleys to get to the beach. Trash swirls in the offshore breeze. Most of the hotels and beach homes are empty, victims of a downturn in tourism. I plunge into the Mediterranean in an uncrowded stretch of beach and discover why it’s uncrowded. I’m covered with seaweed; it’s like swimming in minestrone. I move down the beach to join crowds of locals cavorting in clearer water.
Rafah, Egypt, and Rafah, Gaza
May 30
In the morning, the buses leave our budget hotel in Al Arish (complimentary cockroaches) for the short trip to the Rafah crossing, accompanied by our armada of uniformed Egyptians. There are two checkpoints to clear. The first is supposed to be the toughest. Denial of entry has been quixotic and arbitrary. Prior delegations have spent days trying, unsuccessfully, to cross the border. An earlier Code Pink delegation waited for two days and was granted entry on the coattails of a British MP.