Journalist documents displaced indigenous communities in Guatemala amid violent land disputes
That night, as the wind lashed through fragile shelters, I thought of those children. I pictured the 16-year-old reading stories to her siblings, crafting a world where learning was possible. But reality hit hard: they faced a future repeating their parents’ history of dispossession, poverty, and invisibility. The most painful truth is the indifference that allowed an entire generation to grow up voiceless and without options.
- 1 day ago
December 14, 2024
Alta and Baja Verapaz are regions in Guatemala, where indigenous and peasant communities face significant legal insecurity regarding land ownership, leading to a high concentration of violent evictions. | Photo courtesy of Neida Solís
BAJA VERAPAZ, Guatemala — As a community radio narrator in Guatemala, I dedicated myself to uncovering the harsh realities of the agrarian conflict. One photograph stands out vividly in my memory—a displaced family in a barren landscape. It drove me to act, ensuring their voices would not be silenced.
Each broadcast became a platform to amplify stories of human rights abuses and indigenous resistance. I highlighted evictions, the persecution of peasant leaders, and the voices of families torn from their land and left with nothing. Their struggles resonated deeply, shaping my mission to bring their stories to light.
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Community radio: narrating stories of human rights and indigenous resistance
I grew up in a modest home, surrounded by stories echoing the mountains and fields. In the city, my grandparents recounted their youth in rural communities, describing the land they worked yet never owned. Their voices carried both longing and sorrow, captivating me and planting questions I could not articulate.
My mother, a schoolteacher, filled our afternoons with books about history and human rights. Her stories brought revolutions and acts of resistance to life, painting vivid pictures of people fighting injustice. Those moments, surrounded by worn books and her steady voice, stirred my curiosity about power, inequality, and the intrinsic value of every person. She taught me that stories could change perspectives, instilling in me a lifelong desire to understand why some lives seemed to matter more than others.
This foundation led me to community radio, where I narrated stories of human rights and indigenous resistance. Initially, I focused on preserving culture, protecting traditions, and advocating for rights like education and health. However, I quickly discovered a deeper truth: land lay at the heart of every issue. The lack of land, the fight to defend it, and the constant fear of eviction united these struggles, shaping the fabric of rural life.
While mainstream media vilified these communities as usurpers, I found dignity in their voices and resilience in their stories. Their strength left a lasting impression, deepening my commitment to an issue that defines not only rural life but also Guatemala’s social fabric. Listening to their struggles inspired me to act, turning my curiosity into a mission to amplify their voices and advocate for justice.
Sharing Guatemala’s unheard stories of resistance
As a journalist, I felt a profound responsibility to share stories revealing the human face of suffering and resistance. Leaders in village communities approached me one day with an urgent plea: “The world only sees fragments of our truth. If you truly want to understand, come and see for yourself. It will not be easy, but it is necessary.” Their request resonated deeply. Mainstream media often distorted or ignored their struggles, leaving their voices unheard. I knew I could not turn away.
At dawn, we left Guatemala City, the glow of streetlights fading into the horizon as the mountains emerged. The road ahead twisted and turned, reflecting the complexities of the journey. Concrete gave way to dirt, which grew wetter and muddier, slowing our vehicle’s progress. Each jolt and bump of the ride underscored the weight of the inequality we sought to document—an inequality no longer abstract but visceral.
Finally, the vehicle stopped, unable to move past the mud and stones blocking the road. This was the farthest wheels could take us. From there, the trail ahead vanished into dense forest, barely visible beneath the undergrowth. We continued on foot, navigating the uneven terrain. Each step felt like peeling back a layer of illusion, exposing a reality the world preferred to ignore. With every kilometer, the voices of the leaders echoed louder in my mind, urging me to bear witness to the truth. The path into the forest felt like a descent into the heart of a struggle that demanded to be seen and understood.
Journalist witnesses resilience and loss in Guatemala’s Río Cristalino community
As we moved deeper into the forest, communities carved the only paths, soaked in humidity and shaped by small, improvised streams. The lack of infrastructure reflected generations of exclusion but also highlighted their unyielding resistance. After half an hour of walking through mud and rocky trails, we arrived at the community of Río Cristalino. The sound of a nearby river greeted us, and the thick, humid air enveloped us.
Juan, an older man with a sun-tanned face, led me to the spot where the community’s homes once stood. “Here stood our kitchen, and over there, the place where my grandchildren slept,” he said, gesturing toward the ashes and rubble. His family had cultivated the land for generations, but greed turned it into a barren wasteland. Overnight, they slept in the forest, enduring the silence of a cold dawn chilling them to the bone. His words carried a weight too heavy for language to fully convey.
We walked further to a new area where families rebuilt their lives, their makeshift shelters of canvas and wood standing fragile against the heavy rains. Darkness descended quickly. In the shadows, Maria, a young mother, softly sang to calm her baby. “I do not know if we will still be here tomorrow,” she whispered, her words barely piercing the vast quiet of the night. Her voice carried no resignation, only resilience and a profound connection to the land she protected.
The wind stirred the leaves and carried with it the murmurs and stories of generations determined to remain rooted in their history. The land seemed alive with their defiance, echoing through every rustle and whisper of the forest.
Peasants share stories of violence and resistance in land struggle
Pedro, a peasant barely able to walk, shared the first story. Sitting on a makeshift bench, his leg encased in a cast and bruises marking his face, he recounted, “They beat me, three of them,” his gaze fixed on the ground, as though he still felt the sticks breaking his ribs. Pedro had tried to defend his plot when an armed group arrived to evict him. “I did not want them to burn my crop. IT was all I had.” In the end, he abandoned his land, watching helplessly as flames devoured his corn.
In another community, Rosa clutched her body tightly, as if shielding herself from invisible pain. During a nighttime eviction, assailants dragged her by her hair while she fought to pull her children from their burning house. “I thought I would not survive,” she admitted, her arms bearing scars of the brutality she endured. Tears welled in her eyes as she spoke, but her voice held steady. Rosa, like many women, endured not only physical violence but also humiliation. Yet, she persisted, planting roots in land that rejected her at every turn.
The third story struck me differently. On an abandoned plot, I stood where weeks earlier the body of a peasant leader had been discovered. He was shot in the head for organizing his community to demand land titles. His body fell among the crops he cultivated, a stark symbol of the cost of resistance. “They killed him because he had courage,” his brother told me, his voice tinged with pride and grief. The leader’s death left a profound void in the community, but his legacy endured, inspiring others to continue the fight for justice.
Living in fear: drones as symbols of control over peasant communities
The tragic stories left me with a lingering sense of helplessness I could not shake. Violence did not just cause physical beatings and loss; it tore across generations, uprooting not only their land but also their dreams. As I listened to their testimonies, I could not help but wonder how many of these stories would fade if no one told them.
Each journey to the communities carried a mix of anticipation and tension. This time, nothing changed. After hours of navigating dusty roads and trails buried under mud and overgrowth, I finally reached another community. Faces worn by time greeted me: eyes deep-set with history, hands roughened by labor, and bodies marked by endurance. The heavy air of uncertainty struck me as if the mountains bore the weight of what had happened in those lands.
Fear lingered in every corner of the families’ lives. Every unfamiliar sound disrupted their daily routines, but the buzzing of drones had an especially devastating impact. The locals said that farmers or armed groups sent these devices as constant symbols of control. It felt as if someone always watched them. Elena, a 38-year-old woman holding her youngest son, said, “The children cry when they see them. We don’t know if we are safe in our own homes anymore.” Her words sounded resolute, but her voice trembled with fear.
Communities stand firm in the face of oppression
In another corner of the settlement, I met Don Roberto, a farmer who lost everything during a recent eviction. He showed me what remained of his home: a space filled only with ashes and charred remains. “They destroyed everything. They burned my crops and even my grandchildren’s toys,” he said, trembling as he relived the loss of his former life. His eyes revealed desperation, yet his resilience stood out. “I am not leaving here. This is my land, even if they deny it.”
That night, the wind blew through the makeshift huts, carrying the sounds of insects and the river, blending with the deep silence. Doña Clara, the mayoress, sat next to me by the campfire, telling me how armed forces arrested her husband while he defended the community’s land. “They left us with nothing, but we are still here. We have no choice,” she said. Her voice carried the calm of someone who endured pain as a constant companion.
Undoubtedly, the journey scarred me. I realized it was not just the stories but the atmosphere—the land, the people, and the echoes of generations that refused to vanish. In those communities, people didn’t just feel fear; they lived it.
In Dos Fuentes, I saw children running barefoot through the mud. Occasionally, their laughter faltered, replaced by looks that, despite their youth, carried an unexplained weight. Dozens of them shared one painful reality: none had ever stepped inside a classroom. Sadly, the wet, slippery ground became their playground and only classroom.
Barefoot children carry dreams of education amidst state neglect
Suddenly, a 16-year-old girl cradling her younger brother approached me. Her voice, tinged with hope, whispered, “I always wanted to learn to read, but I know it will never happen.” Though she never read a book, her eyes sparkled with the dream of teaching her siblings. Her words, fragile and determined, stayed with me, highlighting the abandonment these children faced.
The absence of schools imposed a harsh sentence, trapping these children in a cycle of neglect where opportunities vanished like smoke. Amid the mud and makeshift shelters, the youngest played with stones and branches, creating better worlds while their reality stripped away any chance of a future. Their bare feet sinking into the mud symbolized a childhood without roots, displaced before they could belong. The absence of education silently dismantles their culture and community.
The lack of hospitals added to the despair. A woman shared her grief after losing her baby during childbirth. The nearest clinic sat five hours away, and the area’s only doctor had abandoned his post. “Here, you either heal yourself or you die,” she said, her bitter smile carrying pain beyond words.
In some communities, makeshift schools emerged despite the odds. Children gathered under trees, taught by a 16-year-old boy barely older than them, who shared the few letters he had learned. Sunlight filtered through the leaves as they repeated each letter, a fragile act of resistance. Even amid overwhelming hardship, education persisted—a quiet defiance against despair. These moments of hope, though rare, revealed a powerful determination to preserve dignity and dreams, even in the face of systemic neglect.
Dos Fuentes: a community’s resilience amid generational struggles and lost infrastructure
These communities endure constant violence, deprivation, and dispossession. Yet, I saw resilience in the women’s eyes and the children’s determination. “We are still here,” a mother said as she fed her child a handful of corn. Her simple words carried profound strength, reflecting their fight not just for survival but for a future. They dream of daughters walking freely, sons learning without interruption, and hospitals and schools within reach.
That night, as the wind lashed through fragile shelters, I thought of those children. I pictured the 16-year-old reading stories to her siblings, crafting a world where learning was possible. But reality hit hard: they faced a future repeating their parents’ history of dispossession, poverty, and invisibility. The most painful truth is the indifference that allowed an entire generation to grow up voiceless and without options.
In Dos Fuentes, the system imprisoned children, stealing their ability to imagine a better tomorrow. Walking along the dirt paths, I stopped in front of a little girl with unkempt hair and a fixed, empty gaze. That night, as the jungle’s sounds surrounded me, I walked in the shadows of a stripped community.
Violence against women loomed as an unspoken specter. Along stone and mud trails, women whispered stories of abuse and fear, their voices barely above the rustling leaves. An 18-year-old girl, clutching a baby, locked eyes with me and described how armed men stormed her community and destroyed homes. “We are nothing more than war trophies to them,” she said, her voice heavy with anger and resignation. Her words laid bare how dispossession dehumanized those living on the land, reducing lives to mere collateral in a relentless fight for power.
Pansós’ community fights for dignity after man steals their savings
When I arrived in Pansós, resignation mixed with quiet resistance. Stories of betrayal echoed like whispers from the forest. The community had entrusted their hard-earned savings to a man who promised to secure their land, only for him to vanish with both their money and their hopes. Now, they face an unyielding legal battle against farmers claiming ownership of the land they have called home for generations.
Walking among their huts, I felt the weight of their struggle. For the people of Pansós, this fight extends beyond legalities. It embodies a battle for dignity, identity, and survival. Losing their land means losing not only their homes but also the culture and legacy tying them to this soil.
Amid the sadness lining elderly faces and the unease reflected in children’s eyes, sparks of hope emerged. A barefoot girl laughed while playing with a branch, her joy cutting through the despair. It reminded me of the critical need for roots and security in childhood. In the heart of Pansós’ hardships, their resilience stood unwavering, an unspoken testament to their enduring spirit.
Even under constant threats, families persisted in their quest for justice. They gathered for meetings, sought dialogue with government officials, and clung to the hope of being recognized as the rightful stewards of their land. In their darkest moments, a tireless energy flowed. Families strategized late into the night, women leaders meticulously documented plans in worn notebooks, and children played beneath the sheltering trees, their laughter serving as a fragile yet defiant shield against an uncertain future.
Defying oppression to defend ancestral land: “I saw no surrender, only resistance”
Despite everything, I saw no surrender, only resistance. During the meetings, their voices merged like a flowing river—some calm, others powerful like a torrent. “We will not leave. These are our roots, our dead rest here,” said a man with weathered hands. His words carried a profound determination defiying unjust laws and silenced bullets.
Before I left, an elderly woman with white hair and wrinkles shaped by decades of struggle grasped my hand. Her eyes, heavy with history, met mine. “Write about us, daughter. Do not let our words vanish,” she said, her voice firm yet gentle. As the sun set, I understood my responsibility—to amplify their voices, turning their plea into a cry that would echo far beyond these forgotten lands. Walking away, I promised to carry their stories with me.
Each photo I captured revealed the stark inequality defining their lives. Standing beside a burned-out house, I saw only ashes and a pair of soot-covered children’s shoes. A woman watching from afar asked, “What is the point of the photo?” Her question hit me. These images bore witness, exposing ignored realities and transforming them into undeniable truths.
Photographing in these spaces tested me. Children hid, and women avoided the lens, fearing retaliation. Yet, moments of connection emerged. A young man asked me to photograph his corn plot, his sole survival. “Maybe, if someone sees this, it will help us,” he said, hope in his eyes. His face and struggle became immortalized in the frame. Every photo became a silent voice pleading for attention.
A quiet strength emerges as communities fight for a life worth living
As I said goodbye, a lump formed in my throat. This fight extended far beyond land; it encapsulated their very identity. Walking along damp sidewalks and past makeshift homes, I understood the depth of the communities’ struggle. Faces etched with exhaustion also bore an unshakable resistance. Barefoot children, their piercing gazes full of unspoken truths, silently revealed lives no child should endure—marked by hunger, violent evictions, and an uncertain future. Among them, a 16-year-old girl’s resolve stayed with me. She dreamed of teaching her siblings to write, even though she had never held a book in her hands.
Traveling through roads of stone, mud, and rushing rivers, I uncovered deeper, invisible scars. Displacement had turned families into nomads, perpetually searching for safety under a sky that sometimes seemed to abandon them. Conversations revealed constant threats from armed groups and drones ominously circling their villages—modern instruments of fear and control. Yet, I also witnessed unyielding resilience. Women cultivated the land, children carved wooden toys, and communities united to reclaim what had been stolen.
Recent agreements between the government and peasant organizations offered faint glimmers of hope, but the path to dignity remained fraught with challenges. Decades of inequality and exclusion loomed over promises to resolve agrarian conflicts and ensure access to land. Still, the resilience in their eyes burned bright. These communities fight not merely for land, but for the freedom to dream and build a better future. While the past cannot be changed, they remain steadfast in shaping a tomorrow filled with hope and possibility.
