COCHABAMBA, BOLIVIA — When I first arrived in Bolivia
in 2006, I found it easy to meet political activists. At the cantina Co-Café
Arte, amid posters of Frida Kahlo's monkey and Picasso's Guernica panorama,
I fell naturally into the sea of debates. Caracol was another hotbed. Filled
with the smoke of Cuban Habanos and the songs of Mercedes Sosa, its tiny rooms
were vibrating with urgency.
I happened upon Jorge Bayro Corrochano at the Caracol in
2012. When I walked in, I spotted Fernando 'Boxer' Machicao nursing a drink at
the bar. Boxer was one of the most committed urban supporters of the indígenas who
were fighting the government's global-economic plan to cut a superhighway
through their constitutionally-protected territory, the traditional lands where
they still practiced hunting-gathering; also home to the nation's richest
biodiversity. Boxer had made both three-month protest marches from Trinidad to
La Paz and was forever traveling from the reserve to the city to raise funds,
sell videos, and speak on the radio. He stood up and, with his old compañero Jorge
Bayro, moved us to a table in the back. Bayro immediately launched into a rap
on the significance of insurgency. He was one of the few survivors of the
now-largely-forgotten guerrilla revolt known as Teoponte.
Teoponte was conceived as proof to the world that the
anti-totalitarian movements in Bolivia had not been crushed just because Che
and his band of rebeldes had been gunned down. It was 1969-70, and
this new guerrilla — the Ejército de Liberación Nacional (ELN)
— was made up of some 70+ budding fighters referred to as 'the sons of Che.'
They were Christians, Communists, and Trotskyites: the majority middle class,
many students, while a few were obreros or campesinos [workers
or peasant farmers]. With heroism pumping through their veins, on 18 July 1970
they took their boots, jungle fatigues, and Uzis to the selva [jungle]
not far from La Higuera where Che had been shot dead in a schoolhouse and then
transported by helicopter to Vallegrande.
Just as with Che's army, though, there were not enough of
them, they didn't have enough armaments, and they didn't know the terrain. But
perhaps the most significant factor in what happened was the cocky
self-importance of Bolivia's bellicose jefes [folks] due to
their recent triumph in doing away with the most notorious revolutionary in the
world. The military was gung-ho to squelch this nascent uprising; their orders
were, “Not one wounded, not one prisoner, all dead.” The first to be captured
were forced to dig their own graves before being machine-gunned into the holes.
Near the end the army mounted more than 1000 soldiers against the dwindling
cadre of starving rebels, using internationally prohibited napalm. By 1
November they had perpetrated the deciding massacres — with only nine survivors
escaping the carnage.
To talk about Teoponte, Bayro and I met on the patio of one
of Cochabamba's old hotels in February 2016. Over ice tea he revealed details
about his life that he had never before divulged.
JORGE BAYRO Back in the 1960s, Cochabamba
was a small town where everyone knew each other. Our friends belonged to upper
middle-class families, and we didn't have any kind of real relationships with
those below our class. Then something happened. Through music and books new
ideas arose. "There's more to life than this!” chimed the new voices. We
started to challenge the establishment. It may seem ridiculous nowadays, but it
was serious then: letting your hair grow long. It wouldn't matter if you were a
good student or led a conventional life, some policeman would show up and drag
you to a barber shop! Can you imagine that?
The experience of Che's battle and the rising of Latin
American literature by authors like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Jorge Luis Borges,
and Julio Cortázar influenced us. Early in the '60s, my eight brothers and I
were entering adolescence. It was a hard time in Bolivia. We had grown up with
our family's memories, inherited from our parents and grandparents who had
lived through the Revolution of 1952. Most of them held a negative view of that
achievement; they were its enemies because their land, farms, houses, and indígenas were
taken away.
CHELLIS GLENDINNING They owned people?
JB Sure they did. The system was called pongo.
We rebelled, saying “It doesn't have to be like this.” We were a bunch of kids
searching for truth. We distrusted just about everything. We read history, but
now with a critical eye. You've got to keep in mind we were not in touch with
miners, factory workers, or farmers, yet we were catching a glimpse — in our
hearts. Even though the conversion mainly happened though books, we got to
understand their struggles, what they were going through, like persecution and
massacres.
Something similar was happening in politics. Newly organized
parties made their appearance like the Communist Party (CP), while the earlier
leftist parties were decaying. The CP grew, and Trotskyite participation was
strong. We started questioning religion — in the sense of its role as a partner
in crime with injustice. Small youth groups blossomed at universities, as well
as those organized by rebel Dominicans, Augustinians, and priests from the
Company of Jesus. They would say, “One's got to rebel. The Church is wrong.”
CG Liberation Theology?
JB That would arrive later in 1968-69 when
some important groups made their appearance. The most popular, I think, was
FRUC.
CG What does FRUC stand for?
JB Frente
Revolucionario Universitario Cristiano. It was organized by priests. A
more potent group was Partido Demócrata Cristiano, a social-democracy party
that continues today. My brothers and I started traveling during holidays, but
it wasn't the old journey into nature to have fun anymore. I went to the mines.
This began when my parents passed away.
CG When was that?
JB In 1960 and 1961. That's when my brothers and
I began to rebel. We decided to live alone — without adults. It was a scandal!
Everyone looked down on us and whispered, “This can't bring any good.” But we
did it anyway. Ours was a libertarian home. We had respect for the culture we
were crafting. We put away the fancy, classical furniture and made our own out
of wooden crates that we got for free. The older siblings would take care of
the youngest. The house was spick-and-span. Whenever one entered, one had to
take his or her shoes off. It didn´t matter who you were. At the front door was
a small piece of furniture that we built. Guests would take their shoes off
there like the Japanese do because we cared about the labor of the person whose
job that week was to clean the floor. It was a matter of values and respect.
CG Anarchy?
JB Yes. And a time came when 40-50 people a day
would drop by the Bayro household. Do the math: nine brothers times five
friends. The house was like a cauldron where something was always brewing.
CG One brother, José, is now a well-known
painter and sculptor in Mexico.
JB Carlos was a promising artist, too. By the
age of 14, he already painted well, and his work brought art into the house,
not classical religious art but a broader culture of art. Before he was hunted
down, tortured, and murdered, he was also a dirigente [leader]
in the Movimiento de la Izquierda Revolucionaria (MIR). We had a library.
Marxism, Leninism, el Che, Latin authors. All of it forbidden stuff. I remember
reading For Whom the Bell Tolls when I was 12. An old lady asked
“What do you read?” and so I showed her the book. She started yelling “Shame on
you!” and called a priest to explain how serious the matter was.
CG I imagine that these experiences laid the
ground for becoming a guerrillero . . .
JB For sure! The great strategist Inti Peredo
returned to Bolivia from Cuba in 1969 to re-organize Che's war which, as we all
know, came to an abrupt end in 1967. The Cubans didn't agree with this new
plan, but helped us anyway. A wing of the Liberación Nacional (LN) party of
Chile, of which Salvador Allende was a member alongside some of Che's
militants, also sent support. By 1969 we were well-equipped, our storage houses
full of ammo and armaments, our logistics fine-tuned. We had boots, bags,
up-to-date weapons and communication equipment. We could launch a long-term
resistance, and when the urban repression started, we fought back.
CG So there was armed warfare not just in the
mountains, but in the cities?
JB That's right. Especially in La Paz,
Cochabamba, Oruro, also in Santa Cruz. We lost our storage houses. And
Inti was murdered. Our leader! Dead!
CG In the city?
JB Inti fell at a safe house. He was defending
himself when a grenade thrown through the window blew him to shreds. Despite
all the obstacles, the ELN made the decision to continue, a decision that is
criticized in retrospect. Yet we were under pressure regarding our
responsibility to Che, Inti, the organization's history, and what was going on
throughout Latin America. It was a time when dictatorships were taking over
governments everywhere, and that alone justified taking action. To my mind it
was a mistake. But we gathered all sorts of ammo and weapons from those who
were helping us. Like, for example, imagine you were there, Chellis, you would
have helped us. Nobody would know, but you'd be committed to the cause and
along with you, some of your more radical and trusted friends.
CG So then . . .
JB I got my first gun in 1969 — a .45. I was
already being hunted. A “MOST WANTED” poster even featured my mug! I didn't
live with family anymore; I was in hiding. My orders were to stay in the city
so I had to say farewell to my comrades on their way to the mountains. I
remember I handed my .45 to a friend because he would need it more than I did,
and he said, “But you can't go around unarmed.” So he gave me a grenade.
Picture me carrying around a grenade!
CG What was your job?
JB We were organized in a vertical fashion like
the military, but clandestine because we were being pursued. It was for that
reason that you didn´t necessarily know who the others were. Each team had its
specific tasks. Our first-and-always comandantes were Che
Guevara and Inti Peredo. About five people were on the central team, some of
whom were well-trained personnel who had been involved in the planning and
organization of Che's activities at Ñancahuazú. Then there were the squads.
Below them came the new recruits undergoing training. Those who were
experienced would have their own gun; the others went unarmed. Different
degrees of enrollment existed. Those tasks of greatest risk were assigned to
the inner-most circle.
CG Are there any survivors of that central
group?
JB Yes, but they are too few, and it's hard to
get to see them. Maybe I could arrange that you meet one of them. But you
need to know: the personal stories of those who survived
are tragic. I mean, it was war, and wars leave deep scars. Also, some
people change over time; those closest to you can harm you. It's not easy
to survive, or be a survivor.
CG What was your role in the structure?
JB When I entered the ELN, I was 18. I had been
trained already. I had studied at a university in Chile.
CG What did you study?
JB I studied footwear at the Tech Institute
Bata. It's a shoe brand called Manaco in Bolivia. They still have that
institute in Chile, next to the factory. I had left home in search of expanding
my boundaries. Cochabamba had become a small world. In Chile my revolutionary,
anti-imperialist commitment became clear. I was becoming aware of reality, and
I was dedicated to building a socialist world, as was the slogan back then. I
met friends from Cochabamba who also studied at Chilean universities. Some
studied social sciences, mostly sociology. I hung out with them. At the time
Chile was Latin America's most democratic model. A lot of healthy debate went
on. And demonstrations. Inti Peredo showed up on his way from Cuba to Bolivia
and invited us to re-initiate revolutionary activities. One by one, we started
coming back. Chileans from LN were sent to join us, too. Others came from
abroad.
We organized ourselves in small groups. The most urgent
matter was formation. I was the youngest so the elders put their efforts into
educating me. I distinguished myself with my commitment, decision-making, and
combat skills. I became an explosives expert. A gun expert too, as one thing
leads to another. Along with two comrades — both of whom died in Teoponte — we
crafted all the explosives to be used in the mountains, and we made more for
our urban troops. The place looked like a gun store where you could find all
sorts of armaments, guns, grenades, and anti-personnel weapons. We crafted
everything guided by Vietnamese craftsmanship, and we made it all with recycled
trash, tin cans and the like. When our depots were eventually taken down, we
started to make sleeping bags, hammocks, raincoats, everything that would be
needed.
CG I guess your Bata studies paid off.
JB Even more important were my studies at Saint
Augustine School in Cochabamba. There they taught not just math, languages, and
philosophy but also handcraft skills like woodwork. All that helped. Besides
crafting all that would be needed, actions were taken. Like stealing money.
CG What do you mean?
JB We referred to it as “expropriation.” Stores,
banks — this is a common method among Latin American revolutionary movements.
The Tupamaros* would kidnap in order to get rescue money. To build
safe houses, one person would play-act “normal” to rent a place. The neighbors
would see him coming and going, leading a regular life, while we inside were
toiling away, building armaments, training, hiding the pursued.
CG How many people were working in the cities?
JB I might guess 200-500. By the time of the
Teoponte massacres, I calculate that we were 500 in the city and in
the field.
CG The end of the struggle happened in 1970.
What did you do then?
JB I left Bolivia. Most of my comrades were dead
or disappeared. Others fled. The largest group remaining went to Allende's
Chile. I have never requested political asylum or been a political exile. I've
just carried on fighting. My contacts in the highest rungs of the government
offered me Chilean nationality, scholarships, a job. I rejected all that in
order to keep fighting. The Junta de Coordinación Revolucionaria was just being
founded, including Uruguay's Tupamaros, el Ejército Revolucionario del Pueblo
Argentino, Chile's MIR, Bolivia´s ELN. I joined the junta. I fought in
Argentina. I went to Peru representing the junta. I traveled to places as an
international soldier and did many things. But I don't think this interview
needs that sort of information; it's wiser to keep certain things unsaid.
CG Point taken, my friend.
JB In 1976 my orders were to return to Bolivia.
Our people were being jailed or killed again. I went to the mines in Llallagua,
and there I chose not to hide out, but rather to become a miner. Wearing my
helmet and boots, carrying a lantern, I was disguised. I'd walk from my rented
room to get water, and I'd eat in single-men dining halls. Everyone knew me.
Such is one way for self-preservation, not hiding out in a pit waiting for the
enemy. Hell, no.
I found an unusual willingness to join the movement there. I
managed a column of miners called Juana Azurduy de Padilla. We got arms and
performed combat maneuvers. Then real combat. The police would search sky and
earth for us, yet in our miner's clothes we'd be right under their noses. They
couldn't figure out who were the ones they hunted. Meanwhile, the ELN decayed.
They destroyed us, killing comrades, jailing others. There was nothing for us
to do but start over. But by the time democracy made its way into Bolivian
elections in 1983-4, we were too few.
By now, decades have passed. These new generations don't
pledge themselves to the revolutionary call, and it has been silenced with the
entrance of globalization's unlimited access to internet information. People
have stopped reading, they've stopped thinking. If there is a wonderful
500-page book, they read a ten-page summary. I have stopped believing in hope
for a human way of life. We have fallen into oblivion. Our very history is
forgotten. But people can't exist without history.
CG I can't thank you enough for telling me your
history.
JB Until my last day I will be a living
testimonial to my comrades. I no longer give talks at conferences or
participate in demonstrations. I go unarmed. But I do my work mindfully. I
discuss, I fight. Ha! Just like a loco.
* A member of a Uruguayan Marxist urban guerrilla group of
the 1960s and 1970s.
JORGE BAYRO is still recognized on the streets of
Cochabamba and called by his revolutionary handle "Ramiro." He has
worked in hotel management, community organizing, and election monitoring and
was principle researcher for Gustavo Rodriguez Ostria´s Teoponte: La
otra guerrilla guevarista en Bolivia. He still watches his back.
CHELLIS GLENDINNING is
a psychotherapist specializing in recovery from trauma and the author of seven
books. These include My Name Is Chellis and I’m in Recovery from
Western Civilization and Chiva: A Village Takes on the Global
Heroin Trade. The latter won the (US) National Federation of Press
Women book award for nonfiction. Her latest is the book-blog, luddite.com.
Chellis' website is chellisglendinning.org.
__
De THE JOURNAL OF WILD CULTURE (Reino Unido), 25/06/2016
Fotografías:
Fotografías:
1 Che Guevara in Bolivia, 1967, not long
before he was assassinated.
2 Inti Peredo's
funeral, 1970.
No comments:
Post a Comment