WUNRN
COLOMBIA:
Displaced Women Build New Lives, Brick by
Brick
Gloria Helena Rey
CARTAGENA, Colombia, Aug 1 (IPS) - "The City of Women", in
the northern Colombian municipality of Turbaco, 11 kilometres from the fortified
walls of this tourist resort city, bears no resemblance to Federico Fellini's
1980 film by the same name, or to the similarly dubbed Buenos Aires
neighbourhood of Puerto Madero, where almost all the streets and public spaces
are named for famous women.
These Colombian women, in contrast, are
very real and still alive, and are making their own mark on the country.
Displaced by war, survivors of massacres and crimes, some were victims of the
paramilitaries, others of guerrillas or the state security forces. Colombia has
the world's second largest internally displaced population (after Sudan) -- at
least 2.5 million, according to government figures. Women account for 49 percent
of the displaced.
The new community in Turbaco was built on the hard
work of such women. Initially, eight founded the Liga de Mujeres Desplazadas
(League of Displaced Women) in 1998, to get forced displacement recognised as a
war crime, to seek humanitarian aid to improve their terrible health conditions
and poor nutrition, and to reclaim their own rights and those of their families.
"Seeing the terrible poverty in the streets was unbearable," remembers
Patricia Guerrero, a lawyer displaced by threats in 1997, mother of three
daughters and the driving force behind the Liga de Mujeres and this unique
village.
Around 100 women joined her to begin construction in 2003,
building their new lives brick by brick. They themselves manufactured the
120,000 cement blocks used in the 97 houses (78 square meters each), which now
house the 500 people that give life to the five-block settlement.
The
project, which included the cost of the land and the construction of the
dwellings, was negotiated with the owner for more than a year and a half.
Guerrero obtained 500,000 dollars from the U.S. Congress to kick-start
the process. Additional money came from the office of the United Nations High
Commissioner for Refugees, the World Food Programme, the Spanish government, the
Ford Foundation and other public and private organisations.
As soon as
more funds come in, construction of new houses will continue, says Héctor
Useche, administrative assistant director and Liga project coordinator.
Training is a key component of the initiative. Many of these women were
peasant farmers or domestics before coming here.
"It was hard to learn
how to make bricks, but I proved that women could do it," says Niris Romero, a
mother of five, and one of the 30 women trained in the skill. "I also worked on
the beams of my house, and helped mould each column and make the mix to cement
the blocks. I am happy -- I have a roof and a trade."
Some of her peers
were trained as bricklayers or in agriculture -- everyone received some kind of
training. Two hundred Liga members who did not receive state housing subsidies
underwent training and took part in productive projects and other activities
during the construction phase. All have carried their training further,
particularly in the field of human development.
"It was extremely hard
to get this project off the ground," says Guerrero, who, having secured the
initial funding, negotiated the purchase of the land.
"Later, we came
under attack: I was accused of doing it for personal gain, and people predicted
I would fail. During the construction process, we were threatened, people were
‘disappeared' and killed, and bodies were dumped on the surrounding land to
scare us. They wanted to drive us out, whatever it took," she remembers.
The husband of Simona Velásquez, 46, a mother of six who was displaced
by the war three times, was killed with a machete while he was guarding
materials used in the construction of the settlement. "They didn't steal the
materials, but the murder caused panic. Many of the women wanted to give up,"
says Guerrero.
But they did not, "because it would have been like
killing our last hope. That's why we stayed," says Nerlides Almansa, 48, mother
of six and current co-ordinator of productive projects for the Liga and "City of
Women".
The women have since been nominated for the National Peace
Prize, awarded to individuals or organisations that contribute to resolving
Colombia's four-decade armed conflict. The project's success story has been held
up as a model for other regions in the country.
The women's families
have also received training and awareness-raising classes. Guerrero describes a
youth league and explains that work on the concept of masculinity is done with
husbands. "We do not want abusive husbands, or children who will be drawn into
the war or prostitution. Our community is grounded in ethical values, and we
educate everyone on their citizen's rights."
The women have also laid in
water pipes and built a day-care centre, Mujercoop -- a co-op that encompasses
part of the community's brick manufacturing activity -- and a community
restaurant. In addition, they set up a credit fund to finance new
micro-enterprises and subsidise education. In July, loans were approved for 11
new businesses and shoe-making training, says manager Roselí Cardona.
Before arriving in Turbaco, the women had lost everything, and their
pride and dignity was in shreds. Many of them had been raped and had seen family
members killed.
"I don't like to dwell on the past. Today, we have
peace, a roof over our heads and a future," says Adelaida Amador, mother of five
and one of the first to move to the area. She owns one of the community's
grocery stores.
Like most of the women in the new village, she has found
the courage and strength to rise from the ashes of her old life.
"We are
proud of what we have done," says Marlenys Hurtado, a mother of three and a Liga
member. "We carry with us all the trials and wounds of this war, but we have
learned to look to the future, with dignity."
But this "is just the
beginning. We need to make our town and productive projects self-sustainable,
and to create an economy based on solidarity. We also need to resolve the
conflicts that will inevitably arise, and consolidate the community based on a
foundation of rights, equality, and opposition to war and violence," says
Guerrero.
It is harrowing to see children, husbands or brothers or
sisters murdered, or to discover the body of another relative, and then have to
flee to save your own life. It is an almost unimaginable task to overcome fear,
hunger, and social marginalisation and still pick oneself up and continue on.
But somehow, these women have managed to do it.
Isabelina Tapias, 71;
Doris Berrío, her husband and two children; and Ana Luz Ortega, and her husband
and seven children, for example, were displaced by paramilitaries.
Tapia's daughter was killed, Berrío and her family miraculously escaped
death, and Ortega and her family fled when the killings had become routine in
her community and her 12-year-old daughter was threatened with rape.
"We
fled the guerrilla killings. We left everything and got out," says Almansa.
Almansa now focuses her attention on planting corn, beans and vegetables
and the quest for resources to improve the community's crops. She gets her
strength "from the quality of the people who lead the project, those who support
them, and from within myself. This was the only dream I had."
>From
afar, the modest houses and tropical vegetation form a quiet, green, deep wine,
and yellow landscape, but the community itself has made some noise. It is a
powerful sound, and, "above all, a strategy of peaceful resistance to impunity,
violence against women and children, and murder," says Guerrero.
"It is
also a way to stand up to those who ‘disappear' people, steal land, or who, for
decades, have sown the seeds of pain and hunger in these regions."
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