Issue 19 — Running Towards the Fire
I spent a good chunk of last year collecting data on violence against environmental defenders as part of my investigation for In These Times magazine. It was a task that consumed me for weeks at a time as I sat on my couch Googling names in Portuguese or Tagalog and trying to parse local news articles for any indication of who was responsible. I often went to bed with lingering images of beatings, torture, and dismemberment, of bodies thrown into ravines or stuffed into plastic barrels.
The sheer scale of violence — and I was only documenting a snapshot of it — was so disturbing that I always intended to send out a newsletter to highlight the brutality, sentence-by-sentence, case-by-case. If someone was forced to endure this, I decided, then the least any of us could do — especially in our comfortable, relatively carefree lives — is bear some kind of witness.
But as you will soon see, this newsletter is essentially the opposite of what I thought I would write.
In early August, while I opted out of the online world and spent a lot of time outside, I interviewed organizer, Scot Nakagawa, for Waging Nonviolence. We had a long, engaging conversation about anti-authoritarian movements but there was one anecdote that stayed with me:
I have a friend who sometimes reminds me when I get ahead of myself that most people, when there’s a fire somewhere, run away from it. Only certain people run to the fire thinking, “What can I do with my little glass of water?”
Nakagawa was talking about activism but it made me think of my own work. I am always running to the fire. But not everyone is following behind. As I continue to do the work I do, how can I better bring them, or you, along with me?
I am not one for corporate spin, greenwashing, false “solutions,” or any manner of bullshit that claims it can “change the world” so there won’t be any toxic positivity here. But through my work, through the time I spend in homes and communities around the world, I am constantly buoyed by the people who choose to speak with me. Their stories, their values, their lives, give me hope.
Maybe I don’t share that enough.
So, instead of repeating what these environmental defenders endured in their last moments, I thought this newsletter could focus on who they were. Turns out, it’s not that simple. Once I started going through my notes and research, I struggled to find facts about these sisters, uncles, friends, and partners that were not just about their deaths — and I understand why. Even as local, national, and global organizations collect data and produce reports, the sheer number of cases — many of which are barely documented — makes it difficult to show how a life was lived and not just how it was ended.
There is, of course, no sidestepping the fact that these environmental defenders, these people, were killed and it’s more than likely, no one will be held accountable. Despite that, I wanted to share a few specific, sometimes quotidian details of lives lived and lives taken in an effort to bring you along with me.
I hope you will choose to follow — a little glass of water is more than enough.
Sixty-one-year-old, Jover Lumisod, was attacked while feeding his chickens alongside his grandson, Rofil.
Social leader and mother, María del Pilar Hurtado, was killed in front of her nine-year-old son whose screams were captured on video.
M.Karthi was an ardent social justice advocate. The day he was killed, he told his mother he would be joining a protest.
Twelve-year-old Angel Rivas was a grade six student at an indigenous Lumad school. She was killed while harvesting abaca hemp with her brother, Willy and her sister, Leni.
Indigenous leader, Willar Alexander Oime Alarcon, was always working for the welfare of the Yanaconas people. “He fought against multinationals who want to finish us and our culture,” a community member said of Alarcon.
Jose Trinidad Baldenegro, an indigenous rights activist, fought illegal logging and mining in his territory.
Twenty-eight-year-old laborer, Maynul Haque, was killed beneath a sparsely-clouded sky in Assam. “We are devastated without him,” Haque’s brother said.
Nestor Martinez was an activist in northeastern Colombia whose work made him a symbol of the fight against coal mines.
Daniel Tejamo, a marginalized fisherman and activist, was married to Lorna and together, they raised seven children.
Carolina Arado was a farmer fighting against large-scale mining companies and human rights violations at the hands of the military.
Fifty-year-old indigenous Awá woman, Ana Lucía Bisbicús, was a mother and activist.
William Bugatti, shot and killed when a bullet pierced his heart, was a husband and father to three children. In Ifugao, the communities he served as a paralegal and activist considered him their son.
Ricardo Mayumi, shot and killed in his backyard, was a close colleague of William Bugatti. When Bugatti was shot, Mayumi was among the first on the scene and stayed with his deceased friend while they contacted his family.
After eating a meal with their family, Fermin, Eddie, and Licuben went to the pacalso — a hut used as a shelter for farmers and small-scale miners. They never returned. For days, their family searched for them.
Indigenous defender, Daniel Felipe Castro Basto, was shot and killed by police, leaving behind his young wife and their unborn child. In the wake of his murder, his community vowed they would continue to fight for the liberation of the earth.
Arnold Lokbere was a university student who returned to his home town in West Papua to work in construction and raise money for his tuition. He, Atis Tini and Kelemanus Nirigi, were killed while traveling to buy agricultural equipment.
Holmes Alberto Niscué, an indigenous Nasa person, met and married his wife, Awá, in Tumaco, Nariño — the same place he was shot and killed.
Land defender and Lumad school teacher, Chad Booc, was killed by the military in a massacre known as the ‘New Bataan Five.’ “He seemed to be the biggest threat to national security,” his friend, Lakan Umali wrote. “A lanky boy with a sunflower smile who taught and cared for Indigenous children.”
Thank you for reading this issue of Defender.
I’m currently working on a few projects, in varying stages, including one that will take me to central India later this month. I truly cannot wait.
As you probably noticed, I’m back on Substack. After taking a long hiatus from social media, something I cannot recommend enough, I realized I’d like to exist on the internet in some way I find healthy, comfortable, or at least not completely horrible. I’m not sure Substack is that place, maybe the internet isn’t that place at all, but this platform does allow for some kind of community beyond just an email arriving in your inbox. Maybe there’s something to that.
As always, you can follow me on Instagram or Twitter. Hopefully, though, I won’t be around so much.
Rage On. ❤️🔥