[News] Mexico - They Ordered Me to Lay My Head In a Pool of Blood

[Anti-Imperialist News]

“They Ordered Me to Lay My Head In a Pool of Blood”

http://www.narconews.com/Issue41/article1802.html


A Letter from Valentina Palma, Chilean 
Anthropology Student and Filmmaker Who Was 
Beaten, Tortured and Deported After the Violence in Atenco





By Valentina Palma Novoa

May 12, 2006

My name is Valentina Palma Novoa. I am 30 years 
old, and I have spent the last 11 years of my 
life in Mexico. I am a student at the National 
School of Anthropology and History, currently in 
my fourth year studying Cinematography at the 
Center for Cinematographic Study. I have an FM 3 student visa.

I would like to share with you the events that I 
witnessed during the violent incidents that 
occurred in the town of San Salvador Atenco on 
Thursday, May 4, 2006, which ended with my unjust 
and arbitrary expulsion from the country.

1.- On Wednesday, May 3, after seeing the news on 
television and learning of the death of a 
14-year-old boy, I was moved by the death of this 
small child and, as an anthropologist and 
documentary filmmaker, decided to go to San 
Salvador Atenco to assess 
<http://www.narconews.com/Issue41//otroperiodismo/>the situation.

[]

Photo: D.R. 2006 Ratón Maicero
I spent the night in the town, documenting the 
patrol posts that the people of the town had set 
up, and interviewing the guards. It was cold. I 
drew closer to the small fires that the people 
had built and continued to take pictures. The 
light of dawn announced a new day: Thursday, May 4.

It must have been about 6am when the church bells 
of San Salvador Atenco began to ring – bong, 
bong, bong, over and over again – while a voice 
shouted over the loudspeaker that the police were 
surrounding the town. Bicycles hurried past in 
every direction. The bakery to one side of the 
church had already opened its doors and the warm 
smell of recently baked bread filled the street, 
together with the comings and goings of farmers 
on bicycles. The man who sold atoles told me to 
be careful, that the police who were coming were “real bastards.”

I headed towards one of the patrol posts, where 
the farmers were looking in the direction of the 
pack of police who could be seen in the distance. 
I zoomed in with my camera. I saw that there were 
many of them and that, covered by their shields, 
they were advancing with small and nearly 
imperceptible steps. I was afraid. There were 
many of them, heavily armed, while the farmers 
were few and unarmed. In the screen of my camera 
I saw one of the police point and shoot a 
projectile towards us; when it landed next to me, 
I could smell and feel that it was tear gas. More 
and more tear gas quickly began to overpower the 
warm smell of the recently baked bread and 
transformed the narrow alley into a battle field.

The air was no longer breathable and I went to 
the plaza as the church bells began to toll even 
louder. Down various streets, I could see the 
police in the distance, coming nearer. The little 
resistance that there was from the farm workers 
disappeared in the face of the attack that the 
police suddenly launched against the people. I 
turned my camera off and ran as fast as I could 
alongside everyone else. In front of the church, 
there was a public building with its doors open 
and I went inside to wait in vain for the 
turbulence to pass. There were two young men also 
hoping in vain to shield themselves from the 
attack. The three of us all looked each other in the face, anxious and fearful.

Cautiously, I got up to look at the street and I 
saw five police officers, devoid of any 
compassion, kicking and using their clubs to beat 
an old man who lay strewn on the ground. I became 
more afraid. I went inside and told the two young 
men that we needed to hide in a better place; 
where we were was too exposed. Mistakenly, we 
went up to the roof and laid down on our backs, 
looking up at helicopters that buzzed like 
hornets in the sky, while the sound of shots 
became part of the town’s landscape of sound. A 
man’s voice yelled violently, “Come down here, you bastards on the roof.”

First, the two young men went down. I watched 
them being beaten from above. I was panicked and 
didn’t want to come down from the roof; then a 
police officer yelled up to me, “Come down here, bitch. Come down here now.”

I came down from the roof slowly, terrorized by 
the sight of the boys being beaten in the head. 
Two police officers took a hold of me and pulled 
me forward while others beat me on the chest, 
back and legs with their clubs. My cries of pain 
increase when I heard the voice of someone asking 
my name for the list of arrested. I responded, 
“Valentina
Valentina Palma Novoa,” while a police 
officer ordered me to shut my mouth and another hit me in the chest.

A man’s voice ordered the officers to cover me 
with shields so people could not see how badly 
they had beaten me. They paused to one side of 
the church and ordered me to join the rest of the 
arrested, then forced me to kneel and put my 
hands behind my head. They continued to beat us. 
My cell phone rang and a voice ordered me to turn 
over my bag. In that moment, I was separated from 
my video camera, my cell phone and my small purse 
containing my identification and fifty pesos.

They pulled me up by my hair and said, “Get in 
the truck, bitch.” I could barely move but they 
demanded that we move incredibly quickly. They 
tossed me on top of other wounded and bleeding 
bodies and ordered me to lay my head in a pool of 
blood. I didn’t want to put my head in the blood, 
but the black boot of a police officer forced me 
to do it. The truck started and began to move. 
Along the way, I was groped by the hands many 
police officers. I just closed my eyes and 
clenched my teeth, hoping that the worst would not happen.

My pants were down when the truck stopped and I 
was ordered to get off. I got down awkwardly and 
a female police officer said, “Leave this bitch 
to me,” then hit my ears with both of her hands. 
I fell, and two police officers took me through a 
line of police who kicked us as we moved towards a bus.

Once on the bus, another female police officer 
asked me my name, while two male officers grabbed 
my breasts violently and threw me on top of the 
body of an old man whose face was nothing more 
than a crust of blood. The old man cried out in 
pain when he felt the weight of my body on top of 
him. I tried to move but a kick to the back 
stopped me. My own shout made the old man scream 
out again, asking for God’s mercy.

A woman’s voice ordered me to move to the back 
stairway of the bus. I did as she said and, from 
there, I could see the bloodied faces of the rest 
of the prisoners and the blood spreading across 
the floor. Although I was not bleeding, my hands 
and clothes were spattered with the blood of other prisoners.

I stayed still, listening to the groans from the 
bodies by my side, and heard them continue to 
bring more prisoners onto the bus, asking their 
names amidst beatings and shouts of pain. I do 
not know how much time passed before the bus 
closed its doors and began to move. The trip 
lasted about two or three hours. The torture 
began again and whatever small movement we made 
garnered more blows. I closed my eyes and tried 
to sleep, but the moans of the old man next to me 
kept me awake. The old man was saying, “My leg, 
my leg
¡God, have mercy, please have mercy!”

I wept bitterly. I thought the old man next to me 
would die. I moved my hand and tried to touch him 
to calm him a little. A club came down towards my 
hand, but I begged for compassion with a gesture 
to the police officer, who then backed off from 
beating me. Wanting to show the old man a little 
love, I stroked his leg and he was quiet for a few moments.

I asked him his name and he responded. “If I die, 
do not cry; please have a party instead.” I cried 
silently, feeling alone in the company of so many 
other beaten bodies, thinking the worst – that 
they would take us to who knows what place and 
kill us; that we would be disappeared.

For a moment, I fell asleep. But the smell of 
blood and death awoke me. Upon opening my eyes, I 
saw the wall of a jail. The bus stopped and a 
voice ordered us to get off through the back door.

They ordered me to stand up and, as the door 
opened, my uncovered, crying face looked up to 
find a line of police officers. I felt another surge of fear.

 From below, a voice ordered the door of the bus 
closed and ordered the prisoners to come off with 
their faces covered. A police officer covered my 
head with my jacket and the doors reopened. From 
outside the bus, a police officer grabbed my 
pants with one hand and kept my head down with 
the other. The line of police began to kick my 
body and the bodies of all of the other prisoners who formed a line behind me.

The door of the prison opened and they moved us 
through narrow hallways while beating and kicking 
us. Before arriving at the registration desk, I 
made the mistake of raising my head and looking 
into the eyes of a police officer, who responded 
to my gaze with a hard punch to the stomach that 
knocked the air out of me for a few moments.

At the registration desk, they asked me for my 
name, age and nationality, after which they put 
me into a small room where a fat woman ordered me 
to take off all of my clothes. She asked me to be 
quick when she saw my awkward, slow movements, 
which were the result of the beatings I had 
received. “Ma’am, I am beaten badly, please be 
patient,” I said. She searched me. I got dressed 
again and put my jacket back over my head. I left 
the room and they ordered us to form a line of 
women, to move single file and with our heads 
down into the patio of the jail, which I would 
later find out was the jail called “Almoloyita” in the city of Toluca.

It must have been about 2pm on Thursday, May 4 by 
the time we were inside the penitentiary. They 
brought us to a cafeteria and separated the men 
and women. In a corner, amidst sobs, we women 
began to tell each other the abuses to which we had been subjected.

One young woman showed me her ripped underwear 
and the open, bloody wound on her head. Another 
told of how they had taken her between two 
trucks, beaten her, abused her, and threatened 
her by saying, “We’re going to kill you, bitch.”

Another young woman told me that she might be 
pregnant. All while sobbing and squeezing each 
others’ hands in solidarity. The state of shock 
among the women was evident. In front of us, the 
men spoke amongst themselves while we observed 
their bloodied and deformed faces, the product of 
their brutal beatings. As we looked at the men, a 
woman approached us and began to list a few 
names, asking those named to separate themselves from the group.

There were four of us: Cristina, María, Samantha, 
Valentina. A fifth person then joined us: Mario.

We were the five foreigners who had been 
arrested. At that moment, a man came who I 
believe was the director of the jail and he told 
us that we were safe now, that nobody would beat 
us anymore, that what had happened before 
entering the jail did not have to do with him, as 
if we hadn’t also been beaten while inside the 
jail. We asked him to make a phone call, but our request was denied.

At this time, the most visibly wounded among the 
prisoners were taken to the jail’s medical 
center. They were not merely just one or two 
prisoners; of the hundreds of people detained, 
there must have been about 40 with very serious injuries.

One of the first to be taken out was the dying 
old man who had been next to me in the truck. I never saw him again.

Then it was our turn to be examined by the 
medical staff. I had bruises on my chest, back, 
shoulders, fingers, thighs and legs. The doctor 
recommended that my ribs be x-rayed because I was 
having difficulty breathing, which has never happened to me before.

The nurse who was taking notes and the doctor who 
examined me did so with total indifference 
towards both my self and my wounds. I left the 
medical office to wait for Cristina, María, 
Samantha and Mario to be examined. The pseudo 
medical examination ended and they took us to a room to record our statements.

Strangely, a lawyer appeared from who knows where 
and recommended that we not give statements, 
advice that contradicted the people sitting 
behind the typewriter in front of us.

“It’s OK if you do not want to make a statement, 
you have the right not to. But it would be good 
for you to document what happened to you,” a 
woman lawyer said to me. While we were making our 
declarations, many men in ties arrived and, while 
making jokes and being friendly, asked us who we 
were, how and why we had gone to Atenco, and if 
we knew how dangerous those people were.

It began to rain, and they took us back to the 
cafeteria with the rest of the prisoners. They 
made us sit down and forbade us to make any 
contact with the Mexican prisoners. If we wanted 
to go to the bathroom, we had to ask permission. 
Human rights officials came and took declarations 
and pictures of our injuries. They took our 
declarations dispassionately, mechanically.

We were fingerprinted. They took pictures of us 
from the front and both profiles. They told us 
that this was not to start a file, that these 
were necessary registration procedures, that it 
was very likely that we would be able to leave in 
the early morning and for that reason it was 
necessary to register us. Dinner was a pot of cold coffee and a box of rolls.

It must have been midnight when I lay down on a 
hard wooden bench to try to sleep a little. It 
was impossible
it was cold and I had no blanket. 
On the men’s side, a man with dreadlocks noticed 
my frustration with not being able to sleep and 
we began to talk, from across the room, using 
gestures and hand signals. We were in the middle 
of this when a guard arrived and called out the 
names of the five foreigners. We got up, said 
brief goodbyes to the other prisoners, and left.

They took us to a registration office. They gave 
us our few belongings and took us to a pick up 
truck, telling us they would bring us to an 
immigration office in Toluca. Outside of the 
jail, I heard familiar voices shouting my name. I 
went to the fence and saw many of my friends 
asking me how I was. I told them I was more or 
less all right, and that they were taking us to immigration in Toluca.

They told me they would follow, that they would 
not leave me alone. My aunt Mónica passed me an 
envelope that contained my immigration papers and 
María Novaro, my teacher and mother in Mexico, 
gave me a jacket for the cold. I got on the bus, 
the doors closed, and we sped off in the dark. We 
stopped at an office in Toluca to pick up a 
lawyer and then they took us to the special cases 
immigration office in Mexico City.

It must have been about 3am when we arrived at 
the immigration office. There, once again, a 
disinterested doctor recorded our injuries. We 
slept a little because we had arrived before the 
office opened, so there were not many officials 
around. At 7am, an assistant brought us cereal and milk.

Then they took my declaration, in an interview 
during which they not only asked my personal 
information but also asked me questions like, 
“Are you familiar with the EZLN? Have you been to 
University City [the National University (UNAM) 
campus]? Did you participate in the 
<http://narcosphere.narconews.com/story/2006/3/23/83950/4628>World 
Water Forum? Did you meet other foreign prisoners?” and so on.

I signed the declaration that they attached to my 
other immigration papers, which included a letter 
from the school where I was studying, a letter 
from my teacher María Novaro, my passport, my 
Chilean ID card, and my international student ID. 
As they were doing this, I received a call from 
the Chilean Consulate in Mexico, asking me for my 
name, ID number, and if I had any relatives in 
Mexico. The ambassador informed me that what he 
could do would be to make sure that the 
procedures followed all relevant legal guidelines.

I went back to giving my declaration, and the 
questions about the EZLN, Subcomandante Marcos 
and Atenco were repeated. At the same time, 
friends and family had gathered outside of the 
immigration office, but I was not allowed to 
communicate with them. I tried to do so by using 
hand signals and signs, but they would not even let us do that.

They took me to a room with three men who told me 
they were there to help me. They took photographs 
of me from the front and both profile views and 
recorded every moment of our conversation. They 
asked my name and if I had any aliases, if I was 
familiar with the EZLN, if I had visited the 
Lacandon Jungle; they asked for names of people 
who could testify to my background, and they 
asked what kind of documentaries I liked to make.

They told me that “my friend América del Valle” 
was worried about me, because she had lost track 
of me while we were trying to run away. Only when 
I arrived in Chile recently did I find out that 
this woman was one of the leaders who the police were looking for in Atenco.

When the interrogation was over, my fingerprints 
were taken with a very sophisticated machine that 
fed them into a computer. They took me out of the 
room and to another room where three visitors 
from the Commission on Human Rights were waiting. 
When the two Spanish women and I told them what 
we had experienced, they recommended urgently 
that we request a lawyer to seek protection in 
the face of possible deportation. The atmosphere 
had become tense, so I asked one of the human 
rights lawyers for a pen and paper to write to a 
note to “the lawyer,” which I showed to my 
friends through the window. At that moment, a 
lawyer from the immigration office entered and 
said, “Do you need a lawyer? I am a lawyer; what 
is your problem?” I told her that I wanted to 
file an order of protection and she told me that 
would be ill-advised because it would mean that I 
would have to stay in the immigration station for 
a month and that we would most likely be released 
soon anyway. The visitors from the Human Rights 
Commission argued with her and told her to let me 
speak to one of the people waiting outside.

The lawyer conceded and I was allowed to speak 
for five minutes with Berenice. I told her that I 
need to seek an order of protection, and she told 
me that it was already in place. I said goodbye 
abruptly as they took me to have my second 
medical exam since arriving at the immigration office.

When I came out of the medical office, I saw one 
of the women from Human Rights and I asked her to 
tell my friends outside that I was about to be 
taken to another location. I asked a lawyer there 
to tell me where I was going to be taken and he 
told me that I was being taken to the main 
immigration office. They did not let me keep 
talking to him; I was taken to a private car 
where Mario, another Chilean, was already waiting.

I got into the car, followed by three police 
officers. The doors were closed and one of the 
police officers asked the driver to close all of 
the windows. We drove down the highway at more 
than 100km per hour, in the midst of snarled traffic.

I asked myself where we could be going and had no 
answer. Once on our way, I realized that we were 
headed to the airport and that there were two 
cars ahead of us: one with Samantha, from 
Germany, and another with María and Cristina, from Spain.

Facing an imminent unjust expulsion from the 
country at any moment, there was nothing I could 
do but close my eyes, clench my teeth and think: just another violation.

We arrived at the airport around 6pm. They took 
us out of the cars and put us into custody in a 
completely white room, where they detained us for 
an hour or more. Then they took us, under 
custody, to the waiting rooms inside the airport. 
The first plane to leave was Samantha’s. We kept 
waiting and I did nothing but cry. I felt ill. I 
stood up and tried to walk down the hallway. A 
guard approached me and told me I should be 
seated. “I feel ill,” I told her, “I will not escape, please let me walk.”

I kept crying and a police officer approached, 
saying, “Don’t be that way. That attitude is not 
helpful. If it consoles you, let me tell you that 
you are not being deported, that you are just 
being expelled from the country, but you can come 
back whenever you like.” Mistakenly, I let her words calm me.

They took us to a bar so that we could smoke a 
few cigarettes, because we were all very 
emotional. The Lan Chile flight, leaving at 
approximately 11pm, was announced. They called 
for Mario and me to board. We said goodbye to 
María and Cristina with big hugs. We got in line and boarded the plane.

On the plane, one of the passengers approached me 
and handed me letters that my friends had sent as 
they tried to do everything possible to stop this 
unjust expulsion. Tears fell down my cheeks; I 
cried because I knew I was not alone. The guard, 
who was seated next to me, asked me what had 
happened. I told her that I had been living in 
Mexico for 11 years, that my life is in this 
country, that they never told me what was 
happening, that the entire procedure had been 
illegal, and that I had been beaten and abused by the police.

She told me that she had only been told 30 
minutes before boarding that she was going to be 
flying to Chile. She said that they had not told 
her anything, but that she had noticed 
irregularities in the proceedings, because 
usually before someone is deported they spend a 
month at the immigration station, and that it 
must have been an order that came from above.

Finally coming to terms with my expulsion, I 
began to chat with her and I told her which 
places in Santiago to visit during her short 
stay. The exhaustion and feeling of powerlessness 
were too much. I slept. When I woke up, the 
mountains of the Andes had appeared in the plane 
window. We landed. We were taken to the office of 
the international police, where they took our 
declarations as to why we had been deported and/or expelled from the country.

Outside, my family was waiting. Sobs, kisses, 
hugs. We went to the hospital to document my 
injuries and, quickly, we put together a press 
conference for radio and television, during which 
we denounced the illegality of our expulsion and 
the police violence to which we were subjected.

2. After everything that I have told you, I would 
like to make clear my indignation, anger and complete opposition to:

    * The use of physical, psychological and 
sexual violence used as a form of torture and coercion against women.
    * The police brutality to which all prisoners 
were subjected, regardless of nationality.
    * My deportation, for two reasons: all of my 
papers were in order and valid, and the order of 
protection that was presented for me was rejected 
with the claim that I was not in the country 
when, in fact, I was still in Mexico.

3. Given this, we are working with our lawyers to carry out actions aimed at:

    * Reinstituting our right to continue our 
studies in Mexico, through measures taken with 
both the Chilean and Mexican governments.
    * Taking measures on the diplomatic level 
against the Mexican Embassy in Chile.
    * Filing a complaint against the police for the crime of assault.
    * Filing a case against the government of Mexico for illegal deportation.

No to rape, no to the use of women and men as 
objects! No to brutality and torture! No to the justification of violence!

Valentina Palma Novoa

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