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<h1><font size=4><b>“They Ordered Me to Lay My Head In a Pool of
Blood”</b></font></h1><font size=3>
<a href="http://www.narconews.com/Issue41/article1802.html" eudora="autourl">
http://www.narconews.com/Issue41/article1802.html<br><br>
</a></font><h2><b>A Letter from Valentina Palma, Chilean Anthropology
Student and Filmmaker Who Was Beaten, Tortured and Deported After the
Violence in Atenco<br><br>
<br><br>
</b></h2><h3><b>By Valentina Palma Novoa</b></h3><font size=3>May 12,
2006<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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
<a href="http://www.narconews.com/Issue41//otroperiodismo/">the
situation</a>.<br><br>
<img src="http://www.narconews.com/Issue41/images/mazahuapatada1.jpg" width=350 height=233 alt="[]">
<br>
<i>Photo: D.R. 2006 Ratón Maicero<br>
</i>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.<br><br>
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.”<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.”<br><br>
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.”<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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!”<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.”<br><br>
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.<br><br>
There were four of us: Cristina, María, Samantha, Valentina. A fifth
person then joined us: Mario.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
“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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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
<a href="http://narcosphere.narconews.com/story/2006/3/23/83950/4628">
World Water Forum</a>? Did you meet other foreign prisoners?” and so
on.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.”<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
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.<br><br>
2. After everything that I have told you, I would like to make clear my
indignation, anger and complete opposition to:<br><br>
<ol>
<li>The use of physical, psychological and sexual violence used as a form
of torture and coercion against women.
<li>The police brutality to which all prisoners were subjected,
regardless of nationality.
<li>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.
</ol><br>
3. Given this, we are working with our lawyers to carry out actions aimed
at:<br><br>
<ol>
<li>Reinstituting our right to continue our studies in Mexico, through
measures taken with both the Chilean and Mexican governments.
<li>Taking measures on the diplomatic level against the Mexican Embassy
in Chile.
<li>Filing a complaint against the police for the crime of assault.
<li>Filing a case against the government of Mexico for illegal
deportation.
</ol><br>
No to rape, no to the use of women and men as objects! No to brutality
and torture! No to the justification of violence!<br><br>
Valentina Palma Novoa<br><br>
<b><a href="http://www.narconews.com/Issue41//otroperiodismo/en.html">
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