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March 25, 2021
Current Issue
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Honduras Amid the Maelstrom
Delphine Schrank
<https://www-nybooks-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/contributors/delphine-schrank/>
The Central American nation has become a terrifying case study in what
results when climate change, government failure, gang violence, and
natural disaster collide.
March 17, 2021
Wendell Escoto/AFP via Getty Images
The aftermath when the Chamelecon River burst its banks because of
Hurricane Iota, La Lima municipality near San Pedro Sula, Honduras,
NY Review of Books, November 21, 2020
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They had been told to look for the body in an abandoned lot that
straddled an unmarked frontier between gang territories. The area sat on
the southeastern edge of the city of San Pedro Sula, the industrial
heart of northern Honduras. It was December 9, days after rivers and
canals coursing through the city had twice burst their banks during
back-to-back hurricanes in early November.
For about an hour, Pastor Daniel Pacheco, an evangelical minister, and
Victor Ventura, his guide, had lurched through knee-deep mud, stopping
to sniff the air for the telltale stench of decomposing flesh. But their
noses were poor guides—everywhere in this barren field a smell of rot
drifted over expanses of pooled floodwater, among the household detritus
marooned in the brush—a burst mattress twisted against a tree stump, a
soiled doll, the wooden skeleton of a chest of drawers.
Even for a country accustomed to violent death, it was hard to know
whether the missing cadaver, unclaimed and unidentified, was a victim of
drowning in the catastrophic floods that followed the hurricanes or of
gang killing. In this sprawling sector of La Rivera Hernandez, the rival
gangs Barrio-18 and MS-13, and at least two smaller criminal groups,
staked out control block by block. The official national death toll from
the hurricanes was just under a hundred, though the government
acknowledged that this could be an underestimate (both because the
post-disaster chaos made reliable data hard to collect and because
widespread mistrust of the authorities meant people often avoided
reporting disappearances). In comparison, the police registered 3,496
homicides in 2020; in previous years, at least a third of murders
involved criminal groups, including gangs, according to Honduras’
independent National Observatory of Violence.
Ventura was a carpenter whose mud-blasted house and workshop across the
road from the field looked like they had been dynamited. It had taken
him fifteen years to build up his small business, to purchase his
carpentry tools, while striving to keep his two children in school and
out of the clutches of the gangs.
Since the waters had receded, he’d spent all his waking hours rummaging
through the muck in his house for anything salvageable or scraping out
bucketloads of filth from his elderly mother’s place, a few doors down.
With no savings, he could not hope to even repair the car he’d bought
his son months earlier, an investment to keep the boy fixed on a future
at university. Ventura would have to break it down for parts. As for
what to do next, “We’ll have to start from zero,” he sighed.
Next was not meant to include searching for the dead. The tip about a
body came from a grocer, via a farmer, who’d stumbled upon it when
fording the still partly flooded field to check on the sorry state of
his corn crop.
No one had called the police. To call the police would invite calamity
upon calamity, they all said. The gangs had their spies on every corner.
“Hear nothing, see nothing, say nothing” goes the refrain in Honduran
barrios. And despite huge recent purges of officers, many on suspicion
of drug-trafficking and extrajudicial killing, no one trusted the force.
As far as the residents of La Rivera were concerned, the local police
were all too likely to “solve” a case by pinning the blame on the first
available witness—meaning, often, the person who reported the crime.
Instead, Ventura phoned his friend Pastor Daniel, who, as a man of the
church, enjoyed relative protection from both gangs and police. Between
his Sunday sermons, Pastor Daniel was a neighborhood peacekeeper who had
on occasion persuaded gang members to release a hostage. He surely would
know how to honor unidentified dead souls, reasoned Ventura.
Hence this quest. Overhead, vultures circled, plunging in turns to pick
at a dead dog. But so far, no human corpse.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
<https://cdn-nybooks-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/9E8543DE-0F26-41DD-BFA0-7D9F17308362.jpeg>
Delphine Schrank
Pastor Daniel Pacheco following Victor Ventura in their search for a
body in a waterlogged field near San Pedro Sula, Honduras, December 9, 2020
*
A mere thirteen days apart, Hurricanes Eta and Iotahad slammed
<https://www.redcross.org/about-us/news-and-events/news/2020/red-cross-response-to-hurricane-iota.html>into
the isthmus of Central America on near-identical paths last year. In a
record-shattering Atlantic hurricane season, both Eta and Iota formed as
tropical depressions in the Caribbean and strengthened with
unprecedented speed before making landfall in Nicaragua and hurtling
counterclockwise from Panama to Belize, causing enormous rainfall,
deadly torrents, and landslides as they went.“They were some of the most
rapidly intensifying hurricanes we’ve ever seen for any time of year,”
said Jeff Masters, a meteorologist with the Yale Climate Connection.
Nowhere was the destruction more extensive than in the densely populated
industrial and agricultural heartland of northern Honduras. On November
3, Eta’s pummeling precipitation soon overwhelmed waterways’ banks and
levees in the region. The tributaries feeding the Sula Valley were
already saturated from higher than usual rainfall since May—a stark
turnaround after four years of drought, said Juan Jose Reyes, who heads
the early warning section of Honduran disaster relief agency COPECO.
Muddy river water rushed through alleyways and across highways, sweeping
away thousands of homes, whether wooden shacks or cinderblock houses.
Weeks later, vast stretches of the city were still a wasteland. In
street after street, the contents of homes lay in mud-slaked piles—the
hard-earned assets of people who had already been struggling to subsist
in a country with a poverty rate near 50 percent.
At 10:00 AM that day, in barrio Asentamientos Humanos, across the
Chamelecon River from the San Pedro Sula airport, another evangelical
pastor named Rosa Orbellina stood ankle-deep in her home, frantically
trying to bail out the rising water with a kitchen pan. It took a
daughter rushing in from her place down the road to rouse her from her
panicked trance. They hoisted her bed as best they could and waded out
as the waters rose to their knees, then hips, then chests. “If it had
been night, we would have all died,” Orbellina told me later.
By 3:00 AM that night, in barrio Cruz de Valencia, Kenya Alcantar and
Ismael Nunez had clambered with their two daughters, aged seventeen and
fifteen, from their home on the edge of palm and banana plantations to
the roof of a shack nearby. When the swirling waters threatened to carry
that structure away, they climbed to the branches of a giant tamarind
tree. They spent the rest of the night there with some fifty neighbors,
yelling at intervals to prevent the community’s children from falling
asleep and tumbling from the tree into the wild currents. Three children
did plummet down—but with linked arms and adrenaline-fueled ingenuity,
even using flotsam for rafts, the whole neighborhood managed to pull and
push each other to higher ground. Three weeks later, after the waters
had receded enough to allow Kenya and Ismael to return, all that was
left standing of the home they’d saved for twelve years to build was the
concrete foundation and a bright blue toilet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
<https://cdn-nybooks-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/1286772208.jpeg>
Yoseph Amaya/Getty Images
Aerial view of the San Pedro Sula–Progreso Yoro highway flooded after
Hurricane Iota, San Manuel, Honduras, November 20, 2020
The rescue teams had done their best. COPECO led the effort, together
with the army, police, firefighters, and the Red Cross. But the currents
were too strong for rescue boats in Cruz de Valencia. In Asentamientos
Humanos, people said they never saw any. COPECO workers, blamed for
their absences and suspected without evidence of stealing international
aid shipments, felt it safer sometimes to remove their bright orange
vests with the agency’s logo before heading out to help. Some received
death threats. Even the more trusted San Pedro Sula firemen had only
four boats to haul away people they estimated at tens of thousands. Via
USAID, relief workers sent location coordinates of stranded communities
to US military Black Hawk helicopters, which airdropped supplies of
beans, rice, and cooking oil.
The most vulnerable—and worst hit—districts were settlements along the
waterways themselves, populated mainly by trash pickers, tortilla
vendors, mechanics, and part-time construction workers. Gangs had long
ruled with impunity in these communities. Inevitably, a Barrio-18 crew
held up one of the boats that first critical night, forcing firefighters
to ferry to safety only their members and their relatives. “Sometimes,”
a firefighter told me, “one cannot comment on this type of inquiry
because [the gangs] investigate and dispatch you to the other world.”
Two weeks after Eta, as Iota was gathering over the horizon, tens of
thousands of people were still sleeping around gasoline stations,
several to a mattress in the homes of distant acquaintances, in
makeshift tents down the highways, and, in one case, even among the
coffins of a funeral parlor. Health officials sent medical teams to
government shelters in schools and churches, aiming to isolate anyone
with symptoms of Covid-19, but they later admitted that these efforts
were largely in vain, as people resisted testing for fear of being
removed and losing their chance of having secure shelter. When the
second storm struck, the riverbanks, already gouged and breached, never
stood a chance; whole districts that had just begun to reappear vanished
underwater. Once more, scattered hamlets for miles around were cut off.
Carlos Madero, the minister charged with the government response, told
me the two hurricanes constituted the most catastrophic event in the
modern history of Honduras. Roving units of Doctors Without Borders
reported encountering mass depression: people’s losses, atop the
pandemic, atop the chronic violence, amounted to an “emotional bomb,”
said the group’s northern Honduras project coordinator, Juan Carlos
Arteaga. For some, it was a final sign that was there was nothing left
for them in this country.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
<https://cdn-nybooks-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/1229710036.jpeg>
Orlando Sierra/AFP via Getty Images
People, unhoused by the floods, sheltering under a bridge, San Pedro
Sula, Honduras, November 21, 2020
Even before this natural disaster, Honduras was most often the leading
national source of people who told US asylum officers they feared
returning home, according to monthly data from April 2018 through
December 2019 from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services. It was
from San Pedro Sula that the largest of the caravans to make
international headlines during the Trump administration departed in
October 2018, dubbed by its participants “the Exodus.” Since the floods,
plans for new caravans circulated on social media and word of mouth
among the fractured communities. The largest reached the border with
Guatemala in January with an estimated seven thousand people, but
Guatemalan security forces scattered its members with tear gas and
batons before they ever neared the barricades of National Guard troops
at the Mexican border. Hondurans say they will keep trying, in groups or
alone—and their redoubled urge to abandon Central America and head north
is already presenting a severe test of President Biden’s resolve to
reverse his predecessor’s hardline border policies.
For Ventura and Pastor Daniel, as for so many others who lived in the
areas savaged by the storms, the government’s capacity to help had
always been limited and fallible. It was even worse now: untold numbers
have had to rebuild their lives and livelihoods effectively from
scratch. By COPECO’s tally, at least 90,0000 people remained in shelters
a month after the storms, and the government was calling for
international aid and admitting it was having trouble even assessing the
full scale of the problem.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
<https://cdn-nybooks-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/1230589507.jpeg>
Orlando Sierra/AFP via Getty Images
A family setting off with the first migrant caravan of the year, fleeing
floods, gang violence, and economic crisis, and heading north toward the
United States, San Pedro Sula, Honduras, January 14, 2021
*
For Luis Da’ Costa, though, accountability for the failures exposed by
the storm damage was urgent. Da’ Costa is a hydraulic technician at a
small government agency called the Commission for the Control of
Flooding in the Sula Valley. His job includes checking and maintaining
the data from the early warning flood alert system, a system of
telemetric stations that measure the flow and height of the water along
the two great rivers, the Chamelecon and Ulua, that flow through San
Pedro Sula city and the surrounding alluvial plain.
Recent glitches had compounded long-standing infrastructure problems. Of
the twenty-nine alert stations meant to monitor water levels on the Sula
Valley riverbank, only four were functioning when the first hurricane
struck. Covid-19 restrictions limited field trips to check on them; they
hadn’t been verified since the spring. And that, said Da’ Costa, had
curtailed a perennial struggle against vandalism and robbery. The solar
panel charging each alert station could serve for a car or a house. Its
transmission device was worth around $16,000. The process of ordering
spares from cash-strapped government agencies was byzantine—Da’ Costa
had taken to chasing down parts himself.
But they did have accurate weather forecasts: “We knew the threat,” he
told me. On October 31, three days before Eta made landfall, Da’ Costa
sat watching his favorite YouTube meteorology channel as the hurricane
approached. Since then, Da’ Costa has not been able to shake the guilty
suspicion that others in the flood commission and senior government
officials knew, too. Alerted by the meteorological reports, they had
enough information to have warned people to evacuate, he said, and there
should have been better coordination between his and other government
agencies. He’d advised his boss about the threat, he said. He’d informed
an engineer at the Cajon hydroelectric dam. He’d spoken to colleagues at
the relief agency COPECO.
This was predictable: Honduran officials had long expounded, with the
backing of scientific consensus, on how the country—with its Pacific and
Atlantic coasts—was especially vulnerable to extreme weather events that
climate change would accelerate or exacerbate. And the country had
experienced disastrous hurricanes—notably with Fifi in 1976, and Mitch
in 1998. “Everyone expected [another] within twenty years,” Da’ Costa
told me.
But how had the Honduran government actually responded? Desperate to
kickstart a tourism industry paralyzed by successive pandemic lockdowns,
it encouraged people to celebrate the national holiday known as
Morazanica Week by heading to the beach. “Right as a tropical storm was
developing in the Caribbean,” said Da’ Costa, outraged. No one had
wanted to hear bad news before Eta struck, said Marvin Aparicio, head of
COPECO’s Incident Command System, noting that the agency had issued
warnings as the first storm approached. “People were tired, fed up,
saturated with the pandemic measures,” he said.
For Da’ Costa, that was no excuse. “The fact that one person dies,
already that’s a failure,” he said. “It shouldn’t have happened.” He,
too, had a home he’d been forced to abandon to the floods—in his case in
La Planeta, another humble, low-lying district that the local government
had long since surrendered to the rule of Barrio-18. His wife was on the
verge of divorcing him, he said, for failing to take time off work to
help his family rebuild.
Days after the flood, he trudged in rubber boots into the wreckage of
his neighborhood, surrounded by the same waterlogged mess of household
goods that had become a signature of the deluge: smashed television
frames, short-circuited stoves, broken crockery. Incongruously, a
child’s inflatable swim ring floated nearby. On one street, a private
security guard in uniform stood watch, but the looting of anything
electric and still functional began when residents who’d returned to
clean up left again for their temporary shelters after sunset.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
<https://cdn-nybooks-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/EPG5106.jpeg>
Encarni Pindado
Hydraulic technician Luis Da’ Costa checking the ailing Santiago River
flood alert station, Honduras, December 2, 2020
Having started a family in his early twenties, Da’ Costa never finished
his engineering degree but received certification under a
USAID-sponsored program after Hurricane Mitch. Furious at his own
agency’s failure over Eta, he had begun posting videos of the
destruction and spoke up in meetings, risking a reprimand or firing.
Over and over, he contemplated resigning. But he couldn’t leave: he
still had a mortgage—on his flood-damaged home. A greater weight was his
sense of mission. “We must go forward,” he said.
On another day, he drove his pickup down a bumpy road to one of the last
four functioning alert stations, in a town called Santiago. The water
level “goes down this hose, and the pressure that the water exerts is
registered, decoded, and transmitted to a satellite and received
worldwide,” he said, fiddling with a small black box next to the swollen
Ulua River. But the floods had torn away the hose. For days, the
Santiago station had been transmitting random data.
So now the flood commission was down to just three sensors—and
meteorologists were predicting more rain. Anyone returning to dig out
their homes faced the prospect of rebuilding next to burst riverbanks
that no one had yet begun to fix. Because of cost, the levees had never
been built to international standards. Instead of more resilient
geotextile materials, the banks were mostly just compacted earth—far
less resistant to erosion. Over time, informal settlement in areas long
since mapped as no-go flood zones had further degraded them. In many
places, people had taken to sowing and harvesting crops, including
yucca, a root vegetable. Even as they dug for food, they were
undermining the region’s already fragile flood defenses.
In Santiago, as elsewhere, when one river had overflowed, its waters
swiftly merged with those of a nearby canal. During Eta, “this place, it
was all one sea,” said Reynaldo Caballero, a water-level monitor at the
Santiago station. As the rains thundered down that first day, he had
waded through still-chest-high water to reach the site in time for his
shift. One more heavy rainstorm and it could all be one sea again.
*
<https://cdn-nybooks-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/1286911846.jpeg>
Yoseph Amaya/Getty Images
A family salvaging belongings from the floods that followed Hurricane
Iota, San Pedro Sula, Honduras, November 21, 2020
The worst-hit house on one of the worst-hit blocks of barrio
Asentamientos Humanos belonged to Pastor Rosa Orbellina. The barrio’s
name means “Human Settlements,” and it, too, was built on a flood zone.
Part of the crime-ridden Rivera Hernandez sector, it was home to between
15,000 and 25,000 people, according to two nonprofit organizations. Yet
it was ignored by the local municipality, which failed to maintain the
roads, provide any amenities that might offer alternatives for the
district’s impoverished, gang-lured youth, or even lay a sewage system.
Pastor Orbellina had spent decades of her life here, at times appealing
in vain to the local mayor’s office for basic services for the expanding
community, as well as watching her children grow up and then helping to
raise her grandchildren. She counted some forty members in her
congregation. At least she had a receipt of payment for the patch of
land that was hers.
After Eta, she was forced to take refuge uptown in a more expensive part
of the city, sharing space on a giant mattress in a room that doubled as
the kitchen with her daughter, her daughter’s husband, and their two
children, and her son, his wife, and their two children.
There, too, her adored eldest grandson, now twenty, was hiding from
MS-13, which had repeatedly threatened his life for deserting the gang.
When the family’s temporary uptown lease ran out, Pastor Orbellina
parted ways with him, weeping. Under threat of reprisal from the gang,
he could not set foot in Asentamientos Humanos, nor any other of the
patchwork of zones they controlled. That barred him from vast stretches
of his own country, but his family could afford nowhere else.
By the time their lease ran out, there had been no progress in repairing
her house. She had no money to relay the floors, let alone raise the
structure above river level. Her relatives, their livelihoods lost, were
too busy hammering back together houses that had more hope of
restoration to help.
For now, the weather had held, and the river was flowing within its
banks again. “I’m not a knowledgeable person,” she said to me. “But I
say that if the banks had been made of rock and cement, the water would
not have broken through.” In the last hours before Eta, Orbellina’s
relatives had joined neighbors in a desperate race to pack sandbags
against the earthen levee, already fearing the worst.
On her first night back, Pastor Orbellina settled into her daughter’s
two-room concrete-brick bungalow, her mattress occupying a rare dry spot
on the mud-damp cement. Outside, her son-in-law was nailing together
slats of tin roofing for a makeshift toilet to replace their destroyed
outhouse. She sent her blessings to her congregants. “God was in control
of our emotions to overcome all this grief,” she said. “He strengthens
us when he tests us.”
Her deepest sorrow, though, she reserved for her now-absent grandson. A
day earlier, as the rest of the family packed up to return to their
wrecked homes in an MS-13-controlled district, the young man had
extracted himself finally from his grandmother’s long, rib-crushing
embrace, shouldered his backpack, and walked into his fugitive
existence, alone.
Even close family who lived in relatively safer zones had refused her
pleas to offer him shelter, terrified of harboring the wanted target of
a powerful gang. Their rejection had cut her to the bone. “Because of
the increase of wickedness, the heart will grow cold,” she said of them,
quoting Matthew 24:12. “Many errors and defects, my grandson, but you
cannot imagine how much I love him.”
He had tried to console her with the promise that he would somehow make
his way to the United States. For days, they had talked of his joining a
caravan. If he made it north, he would work hard and one day have enough
to rescue her, too. The idea had become his motivating dream.
But privately, they both had doubts—all too aware that he was just as
likely to end up among the lost, unclaimed in an abandoned field, one
more in a category of countless disappeared in Honduras yet to be
accorded the minimal dignity of becoming a statistic.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
<https://cdn-nybooks-com.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/wp-content/uploads/2021/03/1229699864.jpeg>
Orlando Sierra/AFP via Getty Images
A child’s toy caught on barbed wire after Hurrican Iota in the flooded
municipality of La Lima, near San Pedro Sula, Honduras, November 20, 2020
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