Restless in Mexico: A teaching abroad experience in Oaxaca turns chaotic as a political crisis escalates between activist protestors and the state government

By Anna Jolley
This article was printed in Abroad View magazine spring 2006

A letter to Abroad View:

The downtown area of the city is mainly affected in the wealthiest parts, where tourists have canceled their reservations. In some places, mostly around the zocalo , Oaxaca ’s town center, called the Plaza de la Constitución, each new wave of unrest brings more graffiti and signs of protest. It is almost like having everyone’s living rooms turned out onto the streets under bright tarps: women sew, children play, men read the paper for the latest political news.

Many citizens in the city, including my hosts, do not support the striking teachers because they have made a mess of the downtown area—Oaxaca’s pride and joy—with graffiti and paper mâché figurines of Governor Ulises Ruiz, labeled “ asesino,” or assassin. The conflict is truly between the maestros (teachers) and the government, and as a blond-haired, blue-eyed American female, I can usually walk through the encampments comfortably and, unless I’m told not to, I can ask questions and take pictures.

Some streets are full of rubble, and others smell like urine because there are not enough public restrooms. The government, whose main gubernatorial offices used to overlook the zócalo, is a virtual non-presence downtown. Oddly enough, the area remains one of the safest places to walk around and grab a beer at night; it is always busy until at least 2:00 or 3:00 a.m.

One of the negative effects of the protests has been the cancellation of city events, such as Guelaguetza, a two-week summer cultural festival and tourist trap, which was called off for the first time in history because of the political tension.

But day-to-day life goes on as usual. More than a month after the national elections, the situation in Oaxaca remains the same. It has become apparent that Ruiz will not leave the governorship until his term has officially expired, but the protesters haven’t given up.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Date: Fri, 22 Sep 2006 11:00:12 -0600

From: “Anna Jolley” <anna.jolley@gmail.com> Subject: Noticias from Oaxaca

Today I purchased a newspaper, the liberal rag, Noticias, now operating outside the city because of the current crisis. It says a march began in the town of Etla yesterday, as protestors walked the first 25 of the 500 kilometers to Mexico City, yelling, “This march is going to arrive in DF ( Mexico City)!” On the same page is a picture of lame duck Vicente Fox and president-elect Filipe Calderón, standing too far apart. Next, a picture of the “APPO” and the “ magisterio” parading around in matador costumes in a political cartoon. There are elaborately overstated opinions in the editorial section. Calls for peace. Calls to arms.

The news? There is no news. No one knows what’s going on. If you listen long enough, you’ll hear what you want. Everything’s going on. Nothing’s going on. It’s all happening at once. Ruiz is about to regain power. Ruiz is about to be assassinated. Rumors like this swirl around every day. They’re still deciding on how to end this, and there are no deadlines. Everyone’s just waiting.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Date: Sun, 29 Oct 2006 12:17:39 -0500

From: “Anna Jolley” <anna.jolley@gmail.com> Subject: Just another instance of nothing happening?

Friday began another three-day economic huelga (strike) by businesses in the city, and the APPO put up extra blockades By mid-afternoon we knew that something had come to pass that was wholly unexpected: local police had systematically, overtly, come to remove the barricades. In the resulting mayhem several people were shot, including Brad Will, a 36-year-old liberal journalist from the New York-based Independent Media Center, or Indymedia, who had arrived in Oaxaca three weeks ago to cover the events. He was one of four people to be shot by plainclothes policemen in a systematic raid of barricades, organized by the state government.

Saturday was shrouded in tension; we cancelled our Halloween party at the last minute as perhaps only four or five students showed up to each class, including the one I taught. The soft-spoken director of my school, James, an American who sympathizes with the APPO, interrupted class to call all the teachers together to organize a meeting for later that day. He was calm but clearly a little shaken.

That night passed uneventfully. Periodically, we looked up to see airplanes, but none of them were military. Loud, frantic wedding music blared into the twilight, and the evening resonated as it always did with periodic booms of Mexican fireworks. Nothing seemed amiss, except for the somber attitude of the city and the deserted streets.

When I woke up, everything seemed to be an ordinary Sunday, except for the thumping of helicopter propellers in the sky. Our boss arrived, announcing that there were new mentions of peace talks, a definite relief. We knew there were 3,000 troops in barracks in Etla and 200 poised to block the road to Mexico City.

Local police were still in plainclothes throughout the city, but it was the federal troops which could, when pressed, do real damage. They were armed with riot gear, tear gas, and everything else necessary for a very violent “nonviolent” intervention. That day though, nothing seemed to be in the works, and the only action was the neighbors flashing large mirrors into the sky to harass the two military helicopters still circling the southeastern part of the city.

As always, ready to go in case of emergencies, I had $200 stashed in my room next to my passport and my FM3 visa, and photocopies of all of my important documents, including credit cards and extra identification. My cell phone was stocked with emergency phone numbers—people with cars and safe places to stay. In the meantime, the owner of my school had a home in the hills that we could head to in the event of a personal crisis or the need to escape for a while, plus a house in Puerto Escondido in case we simply felt like taking a week off.

I was OK. The weather outside is fantastic, my instant coffee tastes good in spite of its cheapness, and the company of my friends is unparalleled in its comfort and honesty. I spent the afternoon, like so many other afternoons recently, listening to insurgent radio and watching helicopters do reconnaissance work over the city.

That day, incidentally, marked the conclusion of my fourth month in Mexico.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Date: Mon, 30 Oct 2006

From: “Anna Jolley” <anna.jolley@gmail.com>

My ears instantly perked up at an intensifying sound and I looked out of the window. The helicopters were circling alarmingly lower, and a billowing cloud of thick black smoke emerged from the city below. The base of the plume was buried behind trees to the southwest of the city in the direction of the road where the troops were stationed. I ran to the roof, exasperated, straining my eyes to get a better glimpse. The city is in flames, I thought, scarcely believing my eyes.

We turned on the university radio station and listened as they announced the entry of the Policia Federal Preventativa (PFP) into the southern part of the city with full riot gear and tear gas. It’s the federales. The APPO was standing firm, the radio announced, trying to prevent the military from removing the blockades, but this time they were up against seriously armed men, and what use are a few sticks and stones against assault rifles?

“Compañeros y compañeras,” the radio blared, “La PFP está entrando en la ciudad. The PFP is entering the city. This is not a pacifist movement, but do not respond in the same way. We urge you to block their passage physically if necessary, using your bodies. We will assemble in the zocalo.” No shots were fired, but the suggestion of tear gas and presence of guns sent shivers up our spines.

“Cerro del Fortin,” I said. “We have to see what’s going on.” Cerro is the site of the traditional summer festival, housed in a giant auditorium at the top of a long, steep set of stairs on the same hill as the Crespo house. From the road surrounding the site, you can see the entire city.

As we mounted the stairs, we were joined by vecinos (neighbors) from all different directions, each looking as perplexed as the next.

A giant plume of smoke came up from what we could only imagine to be the highway in the southern part of the city. Smaller clouds rose in a row behind it, marking the path of the troops entering from the southwest. When one fire seemed to dim, another cloud of smoke would appear further north in its place.

We heard on the radio that the military had taken several churches and important buildings, and that the zocalo would be next. The number of helicopters in the sky had increased, and they were circling in low swoops, guiding troop action below. A woman waved a white flag back and forth at the circling helicopters. People from all areas of the city shined household mirrors at them.

After a while, the sun sank lower and glared in our eyes; we shifted our feet and realized we were thirsty and sunburned. We determined that nothing more was going to happen for the time being, and that we should go home.

At the same time, a group of unfortunate tourists decided to do the same. As we rose to go, everyone else started to run. Someone shouted that the police were coming. People jumped into cars and sped away. Some considered the prospect of jumping downhill into hiding. It was sheer group mentality; in reality nothing had happened except that a few of us had decided to leave all at once. Everyone was on edge, and our instincts told us that being ready to run was a good thing in this situation.

Eventually, we got home. Nightfall brought a strange quiet to the city of Oaxaca. The smoke from the burning vehicles blanketed the city the way smog does in the Los Angeles valley, and we could smell it as it settled.

Everyone was drained. My eyes were starting to hurt from wearing my contacts for three days in a row and we all felt dirty and exhausted from being in the sun by the road all day.

John snuck down to the zocalo without telling anyone and came back with the report that the PFP had taken the town center and were camping out there, asleep on their body shields.

We watched the evening news, checked our e-mails and tried to make sense of it all. Among the relentlessly circulating media were pictures of a man throwing a rat at the federal police and public health officials drawing blood from APPO members for artful protests in the form of bloodied T-shirts. Among the looping footage on TV were stills of a 15-year-old boy killed by a tear gas canister that exploded at close range.

Depressed, we brushed our teeth and took showers, reluctant to go to bed but too tired and emotionally drained to do anything else. The next morning our e-mail inboxes were full with worried messages from home. I buried my head in my hands, not sure what to say, how to explain the situation or even begin to answer the questions that came at me from all directions. At the same time, I was thankful that there were so many people back in the States following my misadventures and willing to help get me home if need be.

Helicopters began circling again at 9:00 a.m., but we knew from the rumor mill that things were safe. We packed up for a trip to the store for supplies, and then to the zocalo to survey the damage.

The town center was blocked by military. Media representatives and local onlookers were swarming all over, taking pictures of burned buses and the austere line of federales guarding themselves with clear plastic shields. Their faces were youthful and soft behind the harshness of their masks, and they looked bored.

I saw two of them through my camera lens looking at me and trying not to giggle; they were about my age. Finally, I ventured, as I blatantly aimed my camera at them, “ ¿Como están? ¿Abburidos? Bored?” They giggled. “ Un poco,” one confessed quietly. We laughed, and I was struck with a strange desire to buy them a Coke or something: it was very hot, and they looked uncomfortable in their full, black riot gear and heavy masks.

The next intersection was more of the same: men of about my age standing behind shields, trying to remain calm as onlookers took pictures and shouted the occasional offensive comment.

Burned buses and cars lined the streets. What once served to blockade the city center against the military went on to protect the military from any potential APPO invasion.

We snapped pictures and walked the circumference of the zocalo, and I became braver in my questions, asking the federales how they were, and whether they were hot. Some did not respond. Others gave rigid, rehearsed, patriotic answers. A few confessed quickly, quietly, yes, they are a little bored, and yes, it’s a little hot. But all seemed to be controlled by someone larger, giving orders they did not understand. They spoke in hushed tones, lest their superiors should overhear.

Eventually, we had seen enough, and we went home. Helicopters came and went. We got up to eat and make our plans for the evenings. We called home, wrote e-mails. The plan had not changed, and we did not know what to say. We did not know what was going to happen or even what was happening right then. It was getting dark. But we were at home, and we were okay. For now, we thought, it’s more waiting.

Anna Jolley graduated from Clark University in 2006, where she majored in environmental science and minored in Spanish. She spent last summer in Oaxaca, Mexico teaching English with Lan guageCorps (www.languagecorps.com).