Una semana más... (pt. 1)

Events from early July 2011 One of the most frustrating parts about the posts saga (see last entry) was that when it started, I knew that in a couple of weeks there would be a church group of about 25 youth who would be visiting us for a few days to help out with the project in Rivadavia. I was desperately scrambling to get materials together to be able to take advantage of the presence of extra hands to get the fence done more quickly. Furthermore, if I wasn't going to have those materials we would have to be a bit more creative about what small projects they could do—and feel accomplished about—given the short amount of time they would be on-site.

I would be lying, however, if I said that those preparations were my main concern about the group. Often I find that in my mental processing, philosophical problems and complications create more interference and stress than practical roadblocks. In this case, I was extremely—perhaps excessively—concerned that our visitors would be more interested in religious evangelism than in humanitarian work. Ever since my arrival in Argentina, and especially after my “ADRA” trip to Chile (have yet to write about that.. sorry), this concern has been on the forefront of my mind when considering ADRA's relationship with its founder and largest supporter, the Seventh-Day Adventist church, a partnership that is both delicate and complex (this is a topic about which I could write at GREAT length. Indeed, it has been the subject of many interesting, intense, and sometimes frustrating conversations here in Argentina. I'm going to stick to the local issues, so I apologize for not giving the full and proper context this issue deserves). In cases like this one, where the church wants to be directly involved with ADRA's work, big yellow “CAUTION” lights begin blinking in my head. Based on previous experiences (of which I also must write), church members and leadership in Argentina almost inevitably have a hard time understanding—or even realizing—that there is, and should be, a difference between the work of evangelism and the work of humanitarian development and relief agencies like ADRA.

ADRA Argentina's mission statement translates something like this: “To help those in poverty and affliction, creating positive changes for a better and more just life, by the use of responsible actions both internally and in conjunction with other institutions.”

The church's mission statement reads as follows: “To preach the eternal gospel in the context of the three angel's message of Revelation 14:6-12, bringing them to accept Jesus as their personal savior, uniting them to the church and preparing them for Jesus' soon coming.”

It is not difficult to see that these missions are very different. But let me be clear. Difference does not imply that one is better than the other, nor that they are completely incompatible. I am simply suggesting that the work done by each institution, if they are to follow their respective stated missions, will and must be distinct. In Rivadavia, the issue is not just a philosophical one. Real and significant dangers to ADRA's progress could arise were we to give even the slightest notion that our true goal was to evangelize to and convert the communities we work in:

1. Perceived lack of respect for the Wichí culture. In order to help any group of people, you must first understand and respect their customs and traditions, that is, their culture. Religion is fundamental to understanding the Wichí worldview. In the late 1800s the Wichí were in danger of being wiped out by violent conflict, and in their minds it is the Anglican missionaries who acted as intermediaries for them, and ultimately protected them from destruction. In this way, they were “saved” both literally and figuratively. As a result, the Wichí see themselves as profoundly Anglican—much in the same way Jews are Jewish—regardless of actual religious practice. Even though the music is often Pentecostal and the theology Evangelistic, they still identify as Anglican. One element that they all share, however, is the rejection of carved images as idols. Religiously, this puts them at odds with the majority of their neighbors, who are deeply Catholic, and also politically: Argentinians are typically anti-British, considering them to be foreign oppressors (especially in the context of the continuing Falklands/Malvinas debate), a sentiment not shared by the Wichí, who see them as a kind of savior.

Thus, evangelizing to the Wichí could be seen as being disrespectful to their strong cultural ties to Anglicanism, and would likely make them wary of, if not completely opposed to, working together with ADRA on any kind of project. Indeed, some of the community members I have spoken to label Jehovah's Witnesses and other Evangelical groups as demonic. At the very least, we would be creating an unnecessary confusion in a community where we already have enough complications in delivering a unified and understandable message.

2. Conflict with existing religious institutions. This is certainly the most obvious problem we face, particularly with the local Catholic church. The priest of the diocese of Rivadavia is a bit of a hothead, prone to abrasive political and social commentary. After learning of our presence in Rivadavia, he did some “online research” about us, and didn't like what he found. He was, and likely continues to be, convinced that we had ulterior motives, that we were not upfront about our real objective. Surely we must be evangelists, he thought, even if we specifically state that we have no interest in changing people's religion, rather we want to help them change their lives for the better. (Even if he believed us on that point he would have preferred that we leave. He insisted that helping the Wichí was futile and immoral, saying that it was better to let them die from hunger, because that way they would be truly motivated to rise up in arms—as in guns and knives—against the oppressive government.) He almost always refuses to speak with us, yet speaks at liberty about us publicly—even in mass—telling his parishioners to be on their guard, to not allow their teenage children to be drawn into our “sect”. (My personal favorite is that he has on “good authority” that I have been teaching Wichí children that the Virgin Mary is satanic. Nevermind that they already believe that because of their Anglican upbringing, or that he chooses to be willfully ignorant of my actual belief in the matter).

If we were to begin preaching the SDA message, we would not only be proving the priest right. We would also possibly lose the support of many devout Catholics in Rivadavia, many of whom are important friends and collaborators—hospital staff, government workers, the Justice of the Peace, and the director and teachers of the Wichí school. It is irresponsible, perhaps even impossible, to execute a project like ours without that support.

3. Misinterpretation of mission by partnering institutions. ADRA Argentina's work depends not only on the support of locals but that of provincial, national, and even international institutions. Some of those organizations, like Caritas and the SDA church, are religious, and others, like INTA and Civil Defense, are not. It is crucial that we be perceived as serious and professional by these partners, religious or otherwise. Thus, in order to fulfill our shared goals, a certain degree of public abstinence from particular religious leanings is necessary, even as each individual can and should hold dearly to his or her own beliefs. For example, if the government were to entrust us a large sum of money for our administrative costs because they know that we are a humanitarian organization that works to improve the lives of their constituents, we could not then turn around and use that money for religious evangelism, just as we could not use it to advance a certain political party or promote a private business. It is simply not our role, and it would be unethical to act otherwise.

...believe it or not, I could probably go on for much, much longer about this, but I will try to stop boring you...

As the week of the group's arrival approached, I became more and more afraid of these potentially disastrous possibilities. After all, the group's typical activities were door-to-door Bible studies and public evangelistic series, and they were led by a pastor who had never worked with ADRA before. Would they be able to understand the difference between their way of doing things and ADRA's, and why I was so emphatic about that distinction?

To make matters worse, Beatriz was not going to be here. Beatriz, with her amazing people skills and her experience working for the church before switching permanently to ADRA, has a knack for negotiating just these kinds of situations. Two of our other team members had left to go back to college, so I felt pretty alone and afraid. Fortunately, Beatriz was able to help me some, even at a great distance, by preparing me—and the youth group—as much as possible beforehand. She was also going to send Graciela, a woman about Beatriz's age and a veteran ADRA volunteer who could help me traverse the torrid waters of leadership in a region where I would be “in charge” of people twice my age. Even though Beatriz was confident in my abilities to manage the group, I was far less sure...

... to be continued in part 2

Los Postes (y otras injusticias triviales)

Events from June/July 2011

I would love to say that after that day—when eight people came—the community started participating more, that the group of workers got bigger, and that things got easier. Unfortunately, that would be dishonest. Even when I would take them a small breakfast every day, and a snack for the afternoon session I had started for those who said they couldn't come in the morning, seldom did more than four or five people come at a time. Sometimes I was the only one—those were particularly depressing days. Even so, the work did continue on, and after about three weeks the main area of what would eventually be the main garden was clear (well... seemed to be clear. More on that later...).

As long as I'm being honest, though (and I try to be as much as possible here), I must admit it would be unfair to place full blame on the community for the slow pace of work. As I have stated before, it would be unreasonable to expect the Wichí to simply trust and have faith in us—or anyone—given all the failed projects and unfulfilled promises they have seen and suffered over in the not-too-distant past. But that is only one of many systemic hurdles and hoops to be jumped over and through here in Rivadavia. Nothing comes easily.

One of those things I had thought would be an “easy part” was anything but: the fence. There are three different kinds of fences that are commonly used in Rivadavia:

enramado (thorny branches)

PROS: Materials are already on-site. Easy to make.

CONS: Not as durable against animals. Needs frequent maintenance and repair.

Alambre tejido (wire fence)

PROS: Quick and easy assembly.

CONS: Costly. Prone to destruction by children. Hard to repair.

“San Martín” (planks stacked next to each other)

PROS: Relatively durable. Mostly local material.

CONS: Time consuming to find and transport planks.

In the community meeting in the church there had been a general agreement that the best option would be the “San Martín” fence, which meant that we would need to A. find or buy posts, B. find or buy planks, and C. buy the wire.

As a general principle, ADRA Argentina always looks for local solutions to local problems, especially in regards to materials. We believe that it promotes community participation in the project, reduces our impact on the environment, and, of course, saves us money. Getting the materials for the fence, however, presented a number of difficulties.

Posts. The proposal seemed simple enough: take a chainsaw, cut up some fallen trees, and bring them to the garden. I started organizing a day with Demetrio to go to a place about 15 km away where he said there were enough fallen—and straight-trunked—trees to find a good amount of posts. I also spoke with our contact in the local government office to see if they would be able to help me bring the wood back with the municipal tractor and trailer. Everything was set to go, and then disaster struck. A few days before the planned trip, Demetrio received a notice of complaint in the mail threatening to sue him for having cut down trees on that person's private property last year. The posts we had been thinking of taking were along the road—supposedly public property—but he now feared that he would be putting himself in danger, more than he already was. I, too, worried about his legal quagmire, more so because of his hot-headed determination to fight the case, which he assured me he would resolve—with his fists, if need be. I also realized that our plan might have been too naïve. ADRA couldn't risk being involved with illegal activities either. We needed a new plan.

The alternative of buying posts was not at all desirable. Certainly it felt like a waste of money, given the amount of wood that was readily available for free, but it was even worse to think that in buying them we would be creating more demand for cutting down trees. We couldn't let our commitment to responsible agriculture descend into pithy lip-service. Indeed, planting trees is one of the primary activities of the project.

Fortunately, Rivadavia has not yet been plagued with the aggressive deforestation so tragically common in other parts of the Salta province. This is mostly because the poor quality of the roads makes it unprofitable to cut down and transport large quantities of trees, and because the arid climate is unfavorable to farming soy beans, the main reason why land is being cleared elsewhere. Due credit should also be given to the Department of the Environment of the provincial government for having laws in place against environmental destruction, and the police for enforcing them, albeit incompletely. The irony of these laws, however, is that in attempting to protect the forests that the Wichí need so desperately to survive, the same Wichí are frequently the first to be caught in illegal activity, and are the most severely punished.

For example, a criollo (dominant culture Argentinian) can go fishing in certain places because he has a fishing license. If the Wichí, to whom a fishing license is both foreign and costly, go fishing in the same place, they can be prosecuted. The criollo fishes for sport, the Wichí so he can feed his family, and yet it is the Wichí who is far more likely to face legal action. Another example. A criollo who owns a large piece of land can cut down trees to sell to carpenters or artisans and the police will turn a blind eye. If the Wichí cut down a few trees, however, for much-needed firewood or to make a house, they are charged with formal complaints or sued. This is what happened to Demetrio. He cut down 16 trees that he used as poles to allow for an electrical to run from the road to the community church, and was subsequently denounced. The criollo threatening him could cut down hundreds, even thousands of trees a year on that same property and not face a single complaint. Even on undesignated public property, the legal status of most land on which Wichí communities live on, they could be fined or even prosecuted for hunting, fishing, or chopping down trees, although fortunately that is far more rare.

Being here has allowed me to see that although protecting the environment is crucial both for the survival of our planet and of future generations, it is not an absolute principle. When environmentalist policies overlook, even actively work against, the lives of the current human population, those policies must be modified. When the enforcement of policy is exaggerated amongst the powerless and lax amongst the powerful, justice must be reinvented. And if that modification and reinvention seem to slow in coming, we must have patience.

Patience is a virtue, and it is one that I do not possess. I needed posts, and without them I was already scraping to find things for the workers to do. It was too risky and impractical to find them and ethically questionable to buy them. There was one other option available, but it seemed unattainable. Every day I would pass by the sports complex and see a pile of about 400 posts that the police had confiscated a few years ago. They just sat there, taunting me like a Holy Grail. I knew that somehow I might be able to get a hold of them, but by what avenue was utterly enigmatic. The police protected them, the municipal government had the keys to them, and they belonged to the provincial Department of the Environment.

I went to try to sort out the inch-thick red tape I was sure it would require cutting through with the local Justice of the Peace. He said it would be difficult, but we could present a note to the Department of the Environment, which would then send an order to the police, who would then borrow the keys from the municipality. Patience.

So that is what we did. Beatriz presented the request for the release of the posts, in conjunction with the provincial institute of indigenous affairs (IPPIS), and we waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Three weeks had gone by and it appeared that no progress had been made. IPPIS was swamped with other tasks and hadn't put pressure on the Department of the Environment, so Beatriz visited herself to apply some. The news wasn't good. First, they said they would need to make an in-person assessment of the posts in question, something they hadn't done in this region for over seven years. Second, they had to make sure the wood couldn't be used for something else, especially if it was made of palo santo—which of course, it was. We could be kept waiting forever, and even if someday they assessed it they might still turn us down. That was extremely frustrating. The Department claims that confiscated materials can and should be used to give back to the community, but there was so much bureaucracy it was hard to see how that could ever happen, even in cases like ours where it could actually produce a real benefit to people in need.

Apparently, Beatriz is even less patient than I am. Not content with the dim outlook presented by the Department's lethargy, she was determined to find a solution on her own. In the end it was relatively easy. The next time she was in Rivadavia she simply asked our contact in the local government to let us borrow the keys to the compound and take out the posts, assuring him that they could hold her personally responsible if any legal trouble ensued. He acquiesced, and an hour later we took out 60 posts in pick-up trucks. At the time I was furious with Beatriz. How could she put ADRA—and herself—at such a great risk? Weren't we essentially stealing? What about ethics?

Maybe I was exaggerating a little bit, but it helped me to compare our situation to what Martin Luther King Jr. wrote from his Birmingham jail-cell about the true definition of justice: doing what is right is not always the same as doing what is lawful. Since there exists certain injustices inherent to the legal system, sometimes it is right to bend, even break the rules. We could have done the lawful thing and continued to wait an eternity for the Department to do their assessment (and we are still waiting, February 2012), but what would that have meant for the progress of the project? What if the people began to lose faith in our ability to help them because we were too slow to act? What if we had had to buy posts or cut down trees and thereby further damage the environment? In the end, we had acted upon the principle outlined by the Department of the Environment, rather than their methodology. Posts that would have otherwise rotted away went to good use for people that needed them.

And of course, I couldn't deny that I was personally extremely pleased to finally have, after more than two months, the infamous fence-posts.

Lento Pero Seguro

(events from June 2011)

Typically when people from the town of Rivadavia ask me how work is going in La Misión, it's somewhat of a trick question. Since most of them have the preconception that the Wichí are, at best, unresponsive—at worst, lazy—the response they are expecting from me is one of frustration and impotence. Seeing as this was indeed my general attitude for at least part of almost every day on the job, tweaking the truth was a necessary but subtle art. My typical response was that work was slow, but that there were a significant number of people that were truly committed to the project. I never exactly specified how many people justified my use of the word “significant”, and, conveniently, they never asked. Unfortunately, the number wasn't actually that significant at all, but if the people in the town started doubting us, that would add to the already existing doubt of the community—and indeed the ADRA team itself—which would probably have made work nearly impossible. In order to get through such conversations and still feel like I was being at least mostly genuine, I adopted a local phrase to explain the situation: “lento pero seguro” (slowly but surely).

The truth is that I really did believe in that phrase, not just out of necessity but because of a heartfelt notion that something, or someone, would at some point serve as a trigger to “wake up” the community from its' dormancy with relation to our project, and indeed their development in general. It was just a matter of finding out what it was and/or when it would happen.

The outlook on Monday appeared to be about the same as the week prior. Few hands, lots of work. I was certainly frustrated, especially since Beatriz had left again, but despite the general lack of participation, the first phase of the work—clearing the outer limits of the future garden in order to measure them—was going relatively well. I was also getting much better with the machete and ax.

Then there was Tuesday. I'm not sure how it happened. I don't know what I said, or what I did, or if it was even because of me, but eight people came. Davíd had arrived earliest, and both Demetrio and Luís had brought along some youth, which I felt was a very positive sign. Interestingly, there were also two older women amongst the group: Otilia and her best friend Rosa, Demetrio's mother. I scrambled to hand out tools and decide where to start, trying to hide my surprise and delight. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the work, myself included, but I was also busy observing their social interactions, hoping to discover some clues as to how to maintain, or even surpass, the size of the group that had come that day. After about an hour of slashing at reeds and raking them into piles, I found that almost everyone was working alone, and not talking much either. Since the Cocina Comunidad project not only focuses on but depends upon community involvement and participation (hence comunidad), this seemed to be a disappointing fact. If people were willing to work, but not work together, the project would never move forward.

When it seemed like it was about time to go home for lunch, I told Demetrio I wanted him to get everyone together so we could talk. He said a few words in Wichí, but they all just kept working as if he hadn't said a thing. I was stunned. Was this their community leader? Surely they could not be so engaged in their work that they hadn't heard. Least responsive of all was his own mother, who kept diligently hacking away with Otilia. Eventually, after about five minutes, a sort-of-circle had formed and I told them about how happy I was that they had come and how important it was for their families and their community at large. I also announced that from tomorrow on I would be bringing a small breakfast for them, an incentive we hoped would at least retain existing participants, if not attract more as well. I gave Demetrio a chance to say a few words, but he declined.

Nobody else seemed to have anything to say, so I brought the “meeting” to a close and said I looked forward to seeing them tomorrow. To my surprise, Otilia and Rosa asked me if they could borrow the machetes to keep on working on into the afternoon. Although I hesitated to encourage such long hours—especially for women—I didn't want to discourage their passion for the work either, so I reluctantly said that it was OK...

At last we were seeing some of the results of all of our community outreach of the previous month, the first signs of interest and commitment to what we were proposing. I still knew that it would be an uphill battle, but at least now it seemed “winnable”. A small number of community members were willing to believe, at least on some level, that we were honest and serious about working together to achieve food security, from the ground up—literally.