Waiting for the Election Results
The most recent presidential elections were held in November 2017 in Honduras. Our family had arrived on posting from Canada only two month earlier. Generally, people expected things to unfold smoothly. The days and weeks after the election – while we waited for the official results to be announced – were anything but calm. I do not wish to comment on the democratic process or the subsequent results, but instead I will share what it felt like as a diplomat’s wife from North America to live through this political crisis in a foreign country with two young children and how social media heavily influenced our day-to-day lives.
Election Day: Setting the scene
We live in a gated community and the church building adjacent to our backyard did not celebrate services on the Sunday of the elections as the President had banned all religious ceremonies in order to encourage people to go out and vote. The government imposed a no carrying of firearms policy for civilians during the two days before and three days after the election. As well, a ban on all alcohol sales for two days before and two days after the election was ordered in an attempt to keep the peace in the streets. We actually walked by the incumbent President’s house on the day of the elections. The streets were quiet, empty and calm. Eerily quiet as events subsequently unfolded…
It was not until a few hours after the official closing of the polls that the unrest started. Two days after the elections, there were still no official results and the winner of the vote had yet to be announced. Both the former leader and the opposition leader immediately claimed victory. Due to supposed computer glitches and several recounts, it took several days for the electoral commission to officially announce the final results. Meanwhile, both sides were unhappy with the slow vote counting process and called for their partisans to participate in protest marches in the streets of the capital. Allegations started to fly left and right as the nation waited with rising unease to learn who would be the leader of their country. My WhatsApp application filled up with warnings of organized protest marches and potential uprising in different parts of the city (blocked roads, burning tires, sabotage of banks and commerces.) At that time, I was just starting to have a mental map of the city. It was not always easy to understand how close the “hot areas” were to where we lived. Since these protests could easily escalate and become violent, for our safety, we were ordered to stay at home and leave the compound only for essential outings.
Quite quickly, the scenery around our home changed. Small groups of soldiers in full camouflage uniforms were posted beside large yellow metal barriers at three different intersections near our house. The imposing band of soldiers wore full protective and combat gear: bullet proof vests, plastic arm and leg protectors, hard helmets with visors, loaded weapons and hefty plastic shields. Some days they were dressed in blue for the Police force. Other days they were wearing green Army camouflage uniforms. The men and women were stationed at road intersections and appeared prepared to push back at the slightest sign of protest marchers and potential violence. As a Canadian, seeing so many soldiers in full combat gear is not something that is easy to get used to. I know they were there in principal to protect us and the other politicians and diplomats who live nearby by setting up blockades – but I never really felt comfortable seeing so many armed soldiers and policemen stationed so close to where the children and I slept at night.
A Week Later
The uncertain results of the election led to protests in the streets which quickly turned violent as thugs took advantage of the chaos to loot and pilfer shops, commercial centers, fast food restaurants and banks. The buses went on strike which meant people couldn’t go to work and the city came to a standstill. Even the police went on strike! We received a video on WhatsApp showing a group of thugs break into a donut shop (!?) by smashing the windows. The security video footage showed a half dozen people run into the store to load up with armfuls of donut boxes while the nervous teller hid behind his cash register. The local television stations were running amateur videos of rocks being thrown into department store windows and banks being robbed at gun point while the security guards hid nervously in a corner. I’d ask myself: Who is in control here?
The potential for chaos in an already volatile and violent country are very real. Honduras has one of the highest per capita homicide rates in the world. This was the perfect opportunity for violent reprisals and increased gang activity. While on a return trip from the airport -which normally takes about 10 minutes but took over two hours as the driver of the armored embassy vehicle tried to avoid traffic, road closures, and random burning tires- my husband was witness to thugs dropping large cement blocks from an overpass onto the cars passing below, this was not part of protest, but pent up frustration, being released in the streets.
Stock up the pantry
A short trip to the closest grocery store in order to stock up on essentials revealed the ongoing consequences of the recent events. The supermarket was packed with people frantically stockpiling goods out of fear that they might not be able to leave their house and would run out of provisions. There were very long line ups at the gas stations while people waited to fill-up their tanks. Same goes for the banks and drive-through cash machines.
We’re not in Kansas anymore
For our safety, we were instructed to remain in the compound and only leave in case of an emergency. My husband now worked from home. Our phones buzzed constantly with messages, information and warnings. I was so scared most of the time. Fear for myself and my children. Albeit an unknown and unseen enemy but the threat felt real. We were bombarded with conflicting messages on the news and WhatsApp messaging. It all happened so fast and the sheer volume of messages shared and received made it hard to remain critical. Having no time for an in-depth analysis of the information; my imagination often got the best of me.
In an attempt to stem the violence and establish control, the government imposed a 6am to 6pm movement curfew. Therefore, we remained in the house most of the time. We were lucky that our compound is comprised of a street of about 20 houses and an apartment building with two parks and a pool. Otherwise it would have felt even more confining. Suffice to say we started to hang out even more with the neighbors. The curfew did stop the looting and violence but unfortunately damaged the supply chain of the small producers who could no longer transport their fresh meat, fruits and vegetables to market early in the morning. A few days into the curfew, I returned to the supermarket to discover they were out of eggs and bananas (a Honduras staple), and the fresh meat choices quickly became scarce.
Life goes on
While the children play outside in our closed gated community, we are not immune to what is going on in other parts of the city. Sometimes, we hear horns honking and people chanting in the distance. Then we start to hear loud bangs which each time seem closer and more frequent. I am told that they are celebration fireworks but in the middle of the day, who can be sure? The protests seem to be coming from the large boulevard just a few streets over. Both political parties are claiming victory and encouraged their partisans to take to the streets and protest. Everyone hopes that this will be a peaceful march and only cause minor traffic disruptions. Meanwhile, the children stuff their faces with junk food and ride around blissfully on their scooters and bicycles.
Since we were all required to respect the curfew and stay home, a few women from the compound organized a bag wrapping evening. They own a small business which makes cloth travel bags. Somehow, I was roped in to help package their product for the next craft fair. And then I was drinking champagne, listening to the most recent hip Latin tunes and gossiping with the ladies next door. We were sitting and chatting in their backyard about which purse they wanted to receive for Christmas (Dior or Chanel) when a loud bang on plastic roof overhead scared us all. The light and airy conversation was immediately interrupted as everyone quickly came back to the reality of what was happening outside the compound walls and started to look at their phones. Shaken and afraid, I return home, turned on the TV and find out that not only is the “toque de queda” (curfew) renewed but Martial law announced and imposed by the army.
I quickly sober up and try to pack a “GO bag” just in case we are called on to follow an emergency evacuation order. But I am too wired and worried to think straight. I can’t sleep for thinking: what essentials do I put in an emergency size backpack? If I had to leave with only 30 minutes notice, what would I NOT want to forget? I am torn between choosing small things of sentimental value versus the bare necessities and essentials for a potential long wait in an airport or hotel room somewhere alone with two young children (diapers or favorite stuffed animal?)
Finally, our sea shipment, containing most of our clothes, books, dishes, photos and the children’s toys had finally arrived at Puerto Cortes in Honduras (3 months after leaving Ottawa.) It was “touch and go” whether it was safe to drive the container the four hours overland to the capital since the roads were being blocked sporadically and at times trucks were being robbed and burned. I was torn between wanting desperately to get our things and having nightmares of it all going up in flames in the middle of the highway. I know it is all just material stuff but it was also the memories and meaningful mementoes I treasured most. Eventually, a rough toothless man showed up at the gate and gregariously handed over the keys to a shipping container containing our things from home. He had braved the curfew and risked the roadside muggings to deliver his load. That day felt like Christmas had arrived early!
Peaceful Form of Protest?
Our bedroom window overlooks the parking lot of the adjacent church. which also happens to be the main entrance into the gated community where the incumbent president lives. The head of the election committee and several other high-ranking officials also live in the area. I watch from behind the curtains as pick-up trucks loaded with soldiers sitting in the back bed bring new recruits to take over their shift. They are followed by police men on motorcycles and a big school bus painted green with its red lights flashing. Several white bullet proof armored SUVs drive by in the middle of the night. At night, when worry keeps me awake I don’t know wether to feel safer or afraid at the fact that so many armed soldiers and policemen are stationed under our bedroom window.
I can still remember one particular evening, when the children had finally fallen asleep, I sat down with a book and cup of tisane. That night at around 8:30pm, I decided to leave the window open for some fresh air. Just as I was starting to relax a little, I heard loud bangs coming from outside. At first, I panicked and worried that they are gun shots being fired nearby. Then, as the intensity increases I realize they were fireworks being set off close by. This is only a slight relief since neither is it normal for fireworks to go off at 9pm on a regular weeknight. As the pyrotechnic display dies down, I then hear people chanting and cheering. This is followed by the faint sound of pots and pans being banged together which gradually becomes louder and louder. Add in some car horns, whistles, and more chanting. Due to the imposed curfew, a new form of more peaceful protest has emerged: fireworks and “caserolas.”
Twenty minutes later and the protesters are still going strong with the sounds of pots and pans being banged together now louder than ever. We can make out cheers and chants for each political party, accordion and drums playing. From the safely of my bedroom window, it even sounds a little festive. Alarmed by all the noise, T wakes up wondering what all the fuss is about and wanders into my bedroom. He asks to see the fireworks and wonders aloud what the people are singing about. I am at a loss as what to say to him. How do I explain a violent protest or even a peaceful protest to a toddler? Thankful he is too young to understand I hush him, close the window and we cuddle up in bed together. It reminded me of the students protests in Montreal when the city began singing each evening to the sound of banging pots and pans. Later, I am woken up by the sound of helicopters circling. It sounds like they are hovering overhead…
Did you hear?
Throughout all of this, social media and the propagation of false rumors play a big role in the rapid spread of fear which easily leads to a sense of panic. These stories are propagated by local media and by chats forums since it is very easy to post a video and cause consternation and chaos, I try to take a break and put my phone down for 20 minutes only to find that there are 50 unread messages and two missed phone calls! Honestly, it exhausting and nerve wracking to have to sift through the “fake news” in search of real news and the truth, or something that tells it as it is. The smart phone became an object of serious stress for me, and all those I came across. I noticed that I tend to believe and trust news reports from home more easily. I wonder if this is because they are familiar, written in my own language, or more neutral, and the chronology of facts and less opinionated? I must constantly remind myself to remain critical of each picture, official note and video I read on WhatsApp. News travels so fast that we don’t take the time to cross-check facts, ask for simple details such as date time, who took the video and why. The news on television seems too slow although there are at least 5 local stations to choose from. Most show few graphics and news host on a rudimentary set reading quotes from FB and Twitter on his phone, live on air.
One year later
One year later, only the occasional graffiti -still on the walls of abandoned buildings- remind us of the past political unrest and social turmoil. However, daily references to corruption, failed political dialogue, impunity, exacerbated by talk of migrant caravans, etc, still fill the daily news here in Honduras. I am no longer the person who was constantly anxious and on edge for two months while the legal and political fight raged on. I can only begin to imagine what it must feel like to live in a state under constant threat of unraveling, as the flowers bloom and the sun comes out, we slowly move on and forget the past. Still, living in the original Banana Republic, the threat of instability and uprising is always just beneath the surface. Despite our place here as resident outsiders, we still do dwell – probably daily – on why them and not us; but then these questions and thoughts fall away, and we once again focus on our lives’ ebbs and flows: such is the human experience one can suppose, but it does amaze me how I can be so close to it all, but remain so far away from what life in Honduras really is.
This is such a captivating read! I felt like I was there through it all. Well said.
Quite an experience very well written ! Good job Amy