Judith Torrea:

Reporting from Mexico’s Murder

Capital

JAN | 11

S A M P S O N I A WAYSOANDRY DEL RIO | CHENJERAI HOVE | BRIAN CHIKWAVA | JUDITH TORREA

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Can’t Stop Won’t StopBy Joshua Barnes

Soandry del Rio and

Hip-hop Cubano

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Fists pump the air. Flashing lightsdance across the jostling crowd, anda rapper steps out on stage. His deliv-ery is smooth: he is a virtuoso withrhyme schemes and tightly packedwordplay, and the crowd respondswith cheers. But while his music willseem familiar to any American hip-hop fan, this musician isn’t fromNew York or Los Angeles. He’s fromHavana, Cuba.

Soandry del Rio in front of a mural on Pittsburgh’sNorthside designed by Dan Wintermantel as a project of the Central Northside Neighborhood Council.

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Soandry is a rapero, a socially conscious rapper from the grow-ing Cuban hip-hop scene. After being included on the 2002 compilation“Cuban Hip-Hop All-Stars: Vol. 1,” he became more widely known inCuba. He was also featured in the 2006 documentary “East of Havana.”

In late October, he had his American debut at the New Hazlett Theaterin Pittsburgh, as part of a residency sponsored by the Mattress FactoryMuseum, which is currently hosting the exhibition Queloides: Race andRacism in Cuban Contemporary Art.

Soandry is tall, with a cloud of black ringlets and a row of gold teeth thatcan be seen on the rare instances when he smiles. He speaks with anuncommon intensity, whether rapping on stage or talking off-stage aboutthe history of Cuban hip-hop.

He described why American rap was so poignant to Cuba's youth sinceits beginnings: “Hip-hop resonates with people who need hope, people

who don’t identify themselves with any of the rhythms that were availablebefore hip-hop came.” When Soandry heard American rap for the firsttime, it was a revelation: “Suddenly there were guys like me, making musicwith language like mine, with struggles and experiences like mine.”

Hip-hop first came to Cuba in the 1990s via pirated radio from Florida.During that decade, illegally taped copies of the show Soul Train started tocirculate underground. Albums from artists like Notorious B.I.G., TuPac,N.W.A., and Public Enemy were passed from hand-to-hand by impover-ished Cuban youth.

“You need to have good lyrics to make people stop dancing and think.”

Guitarists known as trovadoresrambled the country playingsongs about social problems andtelling real-life stories.

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According to Soandry, at the beginning of Cuban hip-hop even ambi-tious raperos couldn’t make complicated tracks. There were no CDs, nomixers, no multi-track recorders available on the island. The only way tomake a track was to record the last few instrumental bars from the end ofa pirated song onto a cassette and loop it for three or four minutes to makea beat. Using a dual cassette recorder, artists would record vocals ontoanother tape while the loop played in the background. With time, record-ing equipment was brought into Cuba from the States, but the processremains incredibly slow. Even today, Pablo Herrera, the biggest hip-hopproducer in Cuba, operates out of his apartment.

Because of these technological limitations, Soandry believes that someof the best lyrics in the world are coming out of Cuba right now: “Throughspeech we have to compensate for the lack of quality that we have musi-cally. We also have to grab the attention of a population that is already abig consumer of salsa and reggaeton. You need to have good lyrics to makepeople stop dancing and think.”

Soandry’s songs, like much of Cuban hip-hop, are inflected with a socialconsciousness that comes from a long tradition of Cuban music. One of theearliest forms of popular song in Cuba was Trova, which originated in thelate 1800s. Guitarists known as trovadores rambled the country playing songsabout social problems and telling real-life stories. “They were a crucial partof the Revolution; they questioned capitalist ideas. As raperos we are alsoquestioning things both inside and out of the island; we are making a newkind of revolution,” Soandry explained.

Though raperos draw on traditional Cuban music, the influence of Americangangsta rap on Hip-Hop Cubano is unmistakable—the driving beats, aggres-sive vocal delivery, and complex rhyme schemes are direct descendants of theAmerican movement. However, it is unwise to perceive Hip-Hop Cubano as

“Through culture and words you can do more than through politics.”

“They were a crucial part of theRevolution; they questioned capitalistideas. As raperos we are also ques-tioning things both inside and out ofthe island; we are making a new kindof revolution,” Soandry explained.

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“The Black Cuban wants to be white. He is fed Cloroxsince his childhood. He makes racist jokes aboutblacks who are in a worse condition than him.”

Soandry del Rio from his song “Negro Cubano”

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simply on offshoot of American rap. While American groups are free to writesongs calling for the takedown of the American government and its institu-tionalized racism, Cuban rappers don’t have the same freedoms of speech.

Cuba consistently rates at the bottom of Reporters Without Borders’ PressFreedom Index, and the rappers are not excluded from censorship. The rapgroup Los Aldeanos was considered “too critical” by Cuba’s authorities and,as a result, were banned from Cuban radio stations. Their albums still can’t besold in stores on the island.

Other rappers have encountered obstacles because of their lyrics. “Thereis not a single record label which dares to record us; we depend on clandes-tine studios,” says Raudel, a rapper from the group Escuadron Patriota.Soandry chose not to comment on the Cuban government’s tight restrictions.

Nevertheless, censorship and limited possibilities for public performancehave united the underground hip-hop community. “There used to be an EastCoast / West Coast type rivalry between the cities of Alamar and Havana,”Soandry explained. “But, because of the scarcity of opportunity to play ourmusic, everyone comes together.”

Recognizing the power of the music, the Cuban government has also takensteps to encourage and promote rap for some performers. In 2002, authoritiescreated the Cuban Rap Agency and established a state-sponsored recordlabel, Asere Productions. A musician sponsored by the agency is guaranteedthe ability to perform, and given access to recording equipment. However,sponsorship comes at a price: state-sponsored raperos must conform to thegovernment's music standards.

The government's censorship of social content in the lyrics and the pres-sure to hybridize Hip-Hop Cubano with traditional Cuban music like Salsahave left a bad taste in the mouths of edgier raperos like Soandry. “We are notpolitical, but we must keep the energy of the streets,” he said.

If not explicitly political, los raperos’ lyrics are certainly polemical. Theytake on subjects that the government media tries to hide: hunger, racism, classdivision, and the Cuban youth’s desire to re-organize Cuban society. Soandryis outspoken about these topics, but he rarely approaches them in a straight-forward way. He sees racism as a kind of cancer in Cuba society, but he does-n’t simply blame the government or the white population. Instead, he rapsabout how Afro-Cubans have internalized racism. In his song “NegroCubano” he raps: “The Black Cuban wants to be white. He is fed Clorox sincehis childhood. He makes racist jokes about blacks who are in a worse condi-tion than him.”

In his songs Soandry also expresses and celebrates his African identity.“Through culture and words you can do more than through politics,” he added.

Photos: Laura MustioLeft, Soandry in front of the MattressFactory museum.

“I have a map without a treasure...”

Like many of los raperos, Soandry maintains a degree of Cuban pride whilerapping about problems in Cuban society. His song “Tengo” is based on apoem of the same name by Nicolás Guillén, the national poet of Cuba.Guillén’s 1964 “Tengo” extols the virtues of Castro's Revolution, butSoandry’s adaptation shows a more complex picture. Written during a timewhen over 30% of the Cuban population was unemployed, the song alternatesbetween pride and frustration for Cuba:

I have a flag and a coat of arms.I have a map and a palm tree without a treasure.I have aspirations without having what I need.The years go by and the situation stays the same.

Despite the sentiment in the last line, Soandry feels hip-hop has broughtnew hope to the island. When asked how hip-hop has changed Cuba, his eyeslit up before his normally serious face returned. “We have rescued so manyyoung people from the bad life—the hustling life. If you don't have any direc-tion, you get stuck and wind up on the street,” he said. “Hip-hop helps youto find your own direction.”

The future of hip-hop in Cuba remains uncertain; the government is noto-riously tight-lipped about its plans, and, despite constant political coverage onstate-sponsored radio and television stations, its citizens are routinely kept inthe dark about the policies that will affect their future. President BarackObama plans to relax restrictions on American travel to Cuba and ease thetrade embargo may mean a thaw in relations between the two nations.However with the recent mid-term elections giving control of the House tothe Republicans, the fate of these plans remains in doubt. Still, in the past tenyears, Cuba has hosted American hip-hop groups like Dead Prez, Black Star,and Common, and recently allowed artists like Soandry to leave the countryto perform. This might mean that the government is growing increasinglyopen to the genre.

Soandry is interested in these tectonic changes, but more focused on howhip-hop can change individuals: “Hip-hop is the best way for people to under-stand that we have to respect each other. We bring the sounds of a non-vio-lent revolution, new beats of freedom, and the chance to change the way wesee each other.” SW

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Chenjerai Hove (left) and BrianChikwava, two Zimbabwean writers in exile, discuss government censorship and repression via Skype.

Just last November, Zimbabwean policelaunched a manhunt for an editor accused ofpublishing a false story during the 2008 elec-tions. Are hopes fading for greater press free-dom in the country? Two exiled writers dis-cuss President Robert Mugabe’s ongoingrepression of speech.

You Must Face the Consequences.”“

The Price of CommittingJournalism in Zimbabwe.

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By Elizabeth Hoover

In April 2008, New York Times correspondent Barry Bearak was arrested inHarare, Zimbabwe, for the crime of “committing journalism.” The PulitzerPrize-winning reporter had been covering the elections, but, when the resultsweren’t what President Robert Mugabe expected, the secret police startedrounding up reporters.

Mugabe has kept his grip on power since 1980 with vote-rigging and intim-idation. However, in 2008, he found himself in a run-off with opposition can-didate Morgan Tsvangirai. In response, Mugabe deployed militias to beat sus-pected opposition supporters, kill resisters, and arrest journalists. “Electionscan be held in Zimbabwe, as long as Mugabe wins,” Bearak explained toSampsonia Way via e-mail.

Press freedom has been brutally suppressed since 2002, when legislationsdestroyed the independent newspapers and gave Mugabe control over themedia. Knowing how the secret police monitors journalists, Bearak had beencareful, but the demands of filing stories daily forced him to work in the open.“Necessity numbed my own caution,” he wrote in theNew York Times in 2008.

He would spend 72 hours in jail, swatting cockroaches, trying to keepwarm, and getting an “insider’s perspective” on the archaic and arbitrary jus-tice system. “Mugabe likes to maintain this veneer of legality; the courts canapply the law unless he decides otherwise,” Bearak said via e-mail. He securedhis freedom with the aid of human rights lawyer Beatrice Mitta, who has sur-vived multiple beatings by police. According to Bearak, a police officer toldMitta they wanted her to experience the brutality she protested.

It turned out “journalism” was no longer a crime. “The magistrate consid-ered the charges a bit laughable,” Bearak said. After he was released, he fledacross the border, but has been unable to return since new charges against himhave been concocted. Because of this, he preferred not to comment on thecurrent situation inside the country.

“This exclusion from Zimbabwe is very painful for me,” he said. “I amunable to report on a story that I considered then, and continue to considernow, the most compelling in the region.”

The elections eventually resulted in a power-sharing deal with Mugabe aspresident and Tsvangirai as prime minster. Under that agreement, the govern-ment pledged media reforms and independent newspapers have resumed pub-lishing. However, Reporters without Borders calls the situation “fragile.”After their publications hit the stands, editors and journalists are arrested,threatened, and accused of leaking state secrets. On November 30, 2010,Nevanji Madanhire, editor of The Standard was arrested for publishing an arti-cle that was “prejudicial to the state,” a charge that carries a 20-year prisonsentence.

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A map prepared by Sokwanele tracking the over 2,000 cases of political violence and intimidation in the 2008 election. View the map on their website:

“We have freedom of expression; what we don’t have is freedom afterexpression,” is how author Chenjerai Hove described the situation inZimbabwe. Currently, Hove is a writer-in-residence in the Miami: City ofRefuge, a project coordinated by the Florida Center for the Literary Arts atMiami Dade College with the financial support of the Knight Foundation.Hove is the author of four books of nonfiction, two plays, and four novels,including Bones, winner of the 1989 Noma Award for Publishing in Africa. Heleft the country in 2002 to avoid arrest after refusing government bribes.

By the time he left, Hove was considered a major voice in Zimbabwean lit-erature and admired by young writers, such as Brian Chikwava. Chikwava firstread Hove as a student in Zimbabwe and the two of them met after Chikwavamoved to London and established his own reputation as the author of the crit-ically acclaimed novel Harare North.

They came together with Sampsonia Way via Skype to talk about the situ-ation of writers in Zimbabwe. After facing technical difficulties, the conversa-tion was completed over e-mail. Here are the perspectives of two Zimbabweanexiles from different generations on Zimbabwe’s uncertain future, resilience ofthe writer under oppression, and the broken promise of liberation.

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Mapping the election conditions in Zimbabwe

http://www.sokwanele.com/map/all_breaches

What is the situation like forpress freedom in Zimbabwe?

CH: There is climate of widespread fear datingback to white minority rule. The fear hasgrown during Mugabe’s government and cre-ated a kind of viscous self-censorship.

During the 1990s I wrote my columns forThe Standard and people would always ask mea terrifying question: “Are you still out?” I’dsay, “out of what?” They meant the maximum-security prison. I was never arrested for thosecolumns but everyone assumed I would be.

BC: Chenjerai, when you were writing thosecolumns did you think the authorities wouldeventually become more liberal or did youthink they would come down hard on you?

CH: I knew it was considered dangerous, butthe small space that I was creating was neces-sary. Those in power have to develop thecapacity to face criticism. Silence creates realdictators in society.

Are artists censored in the sameway as journalists?

CH: We have freedom of expression; what wedon’t have is freedom after expression.

Once a police officer said to me, “You cansay whatever you want but you must face theconsequences.” Those consequences includeimprisonment, torture, or disappearance.

BC: That’s true, but the authorities don’tspend as much time on creative writersbecause most people can’t afford books. Ifyou’re a journalist, oh my god, the governmentreally monitors you. This government thinksthat you either work for or against the state.

The government will tell you they have balancefreedom of expression and the need to protectthe state from both internal and external ene-mies. However that balance is always tilted onthe side of the conservative elements.

CH: There are cases of artists being arrested.The painter Owen Maseko has been jailedbecause of his images of violence that the gov-ernment denies. If he is found guilty he mightgo to prison for over 20 years. Most of theartists’ organizations have been infiltrated bythe secret police, so they can’t defend Maseko.He is languishing alone.

Is there still a literary communityin Zimbabwe?

CH: They are trying, but the problem is thepublishing industry. In the 1980s, the publish-ing industry in Zimbabwe was the pride of thecontinent. Now, because of the economic dis-aster and the repression, they are unable topublish books. I was chairperson for the writersunion for four years and we had a very vibrantliterary community with events where youngwriters, like Brian, could meet experiencedwriters, hear readings, and participate in ourdebates. By the time I left, people were tooafraid to gather any more.

BC: There is still the Book Café, where cre-atives hangout, and people go for music, poetry,or theater. Nevertheless, in the audience therewould be agents wearing dark glasses, and theorganizers stopped them from running amuckby having nice words with them and givingthem drinks. When I left Zimbabwe, the num-ber of agents in the audience was growing.First it was two, then four, then six.

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CH: Those men in dark glasses follow peopleeverywhere—meetings, home, church. Forme, it was the worst torture. They used to keeptwo cars in front of my gate at all times.

Was the relentless surveillancepart of the reason you left?

CH: I went through some very frighteningexperiences—a secret police car smashed intomy car, my house was broken into. The laststraw came when I was the president of PENAfrica and the government offered me a lot ofmoney—I think close to $200,000—to takewriters from around the world to Victoria Fallsso they would exalt the country. Of course Irefused the money. Then the police accusedme of smuggling drugs illegally to Botswana. Ihave never driven to Botswana! My informersin the secret police told me I should find a wayto leave.

Brian, did you feel in danger aswell?

BC: No, I’ve always been a coward and neversaid anything that would offend the authorities.I left at the end of 2002 because I felt isolated.If your work feeds off the creative communityand that community starts to disappear, yourmind starts closing down.

That reminds me of Chenjerai’sidea of “internal exile.” What does that mean?

CH: Since I was unable to engage freely in mycountry, I felt I was already in exile. For exam-ple, I was raising money for a school library,but couldn’t enter the school because the

Ministry of Education didn’t approve it. Ateacher invited me to visit and was suspended.There is so much fear because the governmenthas infiltrated every organization, even fami-lies. There are families where the wife doesn’tknow if her husband is a government informeror not.

Mugabe claims that Zimbabwe is a liberated country. What isyour perspective on Zimbabwe’sliberation?

CH: I was heavily involved in the liberationstruggle. When I was teaching in the country-side, I saw how the people sacrificed by feed-ing soldiers when they themselves had nothing.Then the leaders of the revolution monopo-lized and personalized the struggle. They thinkthat people without guns didn’t contribute andthat it is their right to rule forever, but in ademocracy the right to rule is a privilege.Whenever you criticize the Mugabe govern-ment, they accuse you of not being grateful tothem for liberating you. But I was not liberatedby anyone. I liberated myself.

BC: There are young people, like the GreenBombers, who are very pro-government, butothers think the concept of a liberated countryhas been monopolized by a clique of people whohold power. This skepticism isn’t just among theyounger generation. When the liberation“hero” Welshman Mabhena died in October, hisfamily refused to bury him in the national ceme-tery. They said he didn’t want to be buriedamong dishonorable men and thieves.

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How would you describe theGreen Bombers?

BC: They are a group of young people whoserve as the foot soldiers of the government andintimidate opposition politicians to keep themfrom campaigning. They started as part of ascheme that the government said would giveunemployed people training while learning thehistory of the nation. These youths only gotbrainwashed.

CH: They are paid according to the damagethey inflict on government opponents. Theyhave been destroyed by the system and it will behard to reconstruct them into proper humanbeings with a sense of respect and dignity.

Moreover, they are part of a cycle of oppres-sion dating back to the colonial days andthrough the white rule. Those structures ofoppression, torture, violence, and intimidationhaven’t been dismantled. Ironically, theMugabe government kept the same hangmanwho hung members of the liberation army dur-ing the war. They increased the prison popula-tion to the point where there were more peo-ple in prison than in universities.

What are your hopes for the country?

BC: I hope out of the difficulties of the past 10years, people emerge with a greater politicalmaturity and can have a viable and self-sustain-ing democracy. Politics have turned out to beeverybody’s problem.

CH: I want opposition candidates to run with-out their friends and relatives being tortured,or their wives and daughters gang raped infront of them.

What can the international com-munity do to help change the situation in Zimbabwe?

CH: There are organizations like theZimbabwe Lawyers for Human Rights whohave the courage to defend victims of politicalintimidation and torture. They need financialassistance because they defend people for free.

How can writers like you createpolitical change in Zimbabwe?

BC: Independently minded writers have theear of the people who trust them over thepropaganda machine that claims the nation isalways under siege.

CH: Yes, writers also hold a mirror in front ofsociety. When the country gets ugly, theyrecord ugliness and when it gets beautiful, theyrecord the beauty. We celebrated Mugabe as ahero because we were starved for heroes andwriters must remind the people of the dangersof celebrating forever. I know one day I will goback to a truly liberated country, with therespect that every writer deserves. Then, as awriter, I’ll help people to say: We haven’t quitelost everything. As writers we can still sustainour vision and one day it will flower again.

Right: Chenjerai Hove © All rights reserved by Florida Center for the Literary Arts

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LISTEN TO CHIKWAVA READ AN EXCERPT FROM HARARE NORTH

LISTEN TO HOVE READ HIS POEM ‘FLOWER’

Above:Chikwava reads at the Time of the Writer Festival inDurban, South Africa.Courtesy of Time of the Writer Festival/ J Ragjopaul

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Under the Shadow of Drug

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“Have you ever asked yourself why the President Felipe Calderonnever tracked the moneylaundering in his so-called ‘war against drug trafficking’?”

g Trafficking

Judith Torrea: Reporting from Mexico’s Murder Capital

By Silvia Duarte

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Left: Luz María Dávila mourns her two sons. Photos: Courtesy of Judith Torrea

Judith Torrea is a Spanish journalist living in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, a citydevastated by battles between drug cartels and the “war” that PresidentFelipe Calderon declared against them in 2008. Ciudad Juárez has been calledone of the most violent places in the world: between 6 and 27 people are killedthere each day. “The danger there is to be alive,” Torrea told Sampsonia Wayvia e-mail.

Every time Torrea opens her mouth or writes a story, you wonder whichone of her many targets would like to silence her. “The Mexican President,Felipe Calderon, and the army are not fighting a war against drug trafficking.They are supporting the Sinaloa Cartel and its head, ‘El Chapo’ Guzman, todefeat the Juárez Cartel,” she says while looking directly into the cameras ofa Spanish TV program.

Torrea, 37, covers the devastation of the drug war on the ground fromCiudad Juárez with her blog Juárez en la Sombra del Narcotráfico (JuárezUnder the Shadow of Drug Trafficking), which was one of the finalists for the2010 Best of Blogs Award (the Oscars of the blogs) in the Reporters WithoutBorders category. She also received the Ortega y Gasset’s digital journalistaward from the Spanish newspaper El País, the highest recognition forSpanish-language journalists.

This reporter, standing 6 feet, 2 inches tall, is from Pamplona, a city in thenorth of Spain where a single murder is front-page news for a whole month.Now, living in Juárez, she covers at least 6 murders every day. Why did Torreaend up in Ciudad Juárez? Why did she leave New York City to report from aplace where more than 30 journalists have been killed or have disappearedover the past three years?

In 1997, she took a sabbatical from her post at Euronews TV in Lyon, Franceand moved to Austin, Texas to work with the Texas Observer. Six months later,the Spanish news agency EFE hired her to cover the American Southwest.

Death became one of the main themes of Torrea’s reporting when she cov-ered the policies of Texas’ then-Gov. George W. Bush, who presided overmore death penalty executions than any other governor in recent UnitedStates history. She ended up interviewing many prisoners sentenced to death,along with their relatives and the authorities. “If you are rich, you can avoidthe death penalty in the United States. If you don’t have the money, you can’tsave yourself from lethal injection,” she then reported. Torrea didn’t feel shecould thoroughly understand her subject until she attended an execution: shebecame the first Spanish reporter to witness an execution in the United States.Three years later Torrea published an exclusive interview with one of execu-tioners who said he regretted his participation.

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Torrea also reported on death from the other side of the border. One weekafter she arrived in Texas, she visited Juárez for the first time and reported onthe poor young women—women younger than her—who were being killed ina series of femicides that are still going on today. During that time, Torrea fellin love with the people of Juárez. “Its inhabitants are optimistic and hardworkers. They see life as a fantastic instant that can end at any moment,” shesaid. Since then, she would return periodically to live there and continue herreporting on other issues.

The inhabitants of Ciudad Juárez were on her mind even after she movedto New York City in 2007 as a political reporter and joined the exclusive groupof journalists in Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s daily press corps.

She later became a senior writer for the Spanish edition of PeopleMagazine, but still traveled to Juárez every other month as an independentjournalist. While trailing contemporary celebrities for a publication interestedin gossip, controversial quotes, and fashion, she saw connections betweencelebrity culture and Ciudad Juárez. “In New York I used to go to celebrities’parties, where people consumed the cocaine trafficked on the Mexican bor-der. The United States produces the most consumers—and guns—and Juárezthe most corpses,” she pointed out.

In 2009, she left People, moved to Ciudad Juárez, and decided to start theblog Juárez en la Sombra del Narcotrafico in order “to publish the stories of acity in a war without having to wait for an editor.” She added, “I couldn’t con-tinue living in the United States and watch from a distance, while the truthwas not told about what was happening in Ciudad Juárez. I’m a journalist whobelieves that her mission is to give a voice back to those who are voiceless.”

Despite the fact that many of her former sources were in coffins and that116,000 houses had been abandoned after a massive civilian exodus to El Paso,Texas (the second safest city in the United States), Torrea doesn’t plan to leave.She remains the only international journalist living in Juárez.

Some people may think she is imprudent for living there and some of herreaders fear for her life. It doesn’t matter where these readers are living—NewYork, Spain, or France—they know that events in Juárez are not only becom-ing more dangerous, but they are also turning bizarre. Just last September, aphotographer for the newspaper El Diario was killed. The newspaper ran afront-page editorial asking the leaders of organized crime: “What do you wantfrom us? Tell us what we are supposed to publish or not publish, so we know whatto abide by. At this time, you are the de facto authorities of this city because thelegal authorities have not been able to stop our colleagues from falling.”

READ MORE ABOUT THE PHOTOGRAPHER’S MURDER

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Left: Children burying children; Judith Torrea

An Independent Journalist

Torrea wakes up at 5:50 a.m., reads the newspapers, and leaves her home at7:00 a.m. to start her daily reporting. Until few months ago, she used to tuneinto the local police scanner to track what was going on in the city. It was nosurprise to Torrea that she and her colleagues were the first to arrive at thecrime scene, even before the police. “The queerest fact was that the scannerwas really easy to access and the drug traffickers used it as well. If one cartelwanted to celebrate a killing, it interrupted the scanner signal with narcocor-ridos—songs lauding the drug traffickers that evolved out of the traditional

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folk ballads,” Torrea said. The police scanner was finally changed, but Torrea andher colleagues still arrive to the crime scene before the police most of the time.

“I know about the murders thanks to my sources, but sometimes I’ll justdiscover another dead body in the road while I’m driving,” Torrea added.

Every day Torrea travels long distances to interview people and post theirstories on her blog or in one of the international newspapers and magazinesthat she contributes to. While Ciudad Juárez’s local newspapers cover thedaily news with headlines like “Three Severed Heads Discovered in IceBoxes,” Torrea uses people’s testimonies to show what causes the violence andits effects on people’s lives.

In Ciudad Juárez, 17,000 teenagersbelong to gangs and 10,000 childrenhave become orphans.

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Above: People gather in Juarez’s cemetery after the murder of eight people, including a 2-year-old child.Far left: Demonstration against violence. (Courtesy of Judith Torrea) Left: Ten thousand businesses have shut down in Ciudad Juárez. (Memo Leon)

Torrea illustrates various political positions, frustrations, and trendsthrough peoples’ quotes and anecdotes. For example, she writes in thePeruvian magazine Etiqueta Negra about a sexy bartender who would flirtwith and kiss any murderer, drug trafficker, lawyer, doctor, or marriedman—“even the fat and ugly”—but never with soldiers because, “theydon’t do anything, they just sit in the bar, while we (Juárez’s people) arepaying their incomes with our taxes.”

One of her profiles focuses on Luz María Dávila, the mother of twomurdered students, who confronted President Calderon at a public event.“Excuse me Mister President, I won’t shake hands with you. You said thatmy sons were gang members and that is a lie. My youngest son was in highschool and the oldest was in the university. They were only students,” themother stated. After attending the two boys’ funeral and interviewing themother, Torrea published an article vindicating the mother’s story andshowing that the president’s allegations were false.

In her blog Torrea also describes complex characters such as a soldier whorobs to eat, a confessed murderer who is free, and a chief of police who livedinside a jail for security reasons and just weeks ago was killed with his son.

Torrea, the independent outsider, also writes about murdered journal-ists and lawyers, as well as the doctors who continue to care for the victimsof violence despite the fear of consequences for aiding an enemy of one ofthe cartels.

“My blog came out of a need to tell the victims’ stories without censor-ship because in Juárez there is no freedom of speech,” she explained.

In Juárez, the local media fear reprisal from drug traffickers or corruptauthorities.

Torrea acknowledges her risks. In one of her blog posts, she gives herrationale for facing danger: “I don’t know if publishing the profiles of thevictims will help Juárez society, but I’ll be satisfied if some of my blog’sposts help people to reflect on Juárez society.”

Torrea’s blog is not sponsored by any institution. Her only incomecomes from her sporadic assignments from international newspapers andmagazines. “My blog is free; it doesn’t have any funding and I need free-lance commissions to eat and pay my bills,” she explained.

Thanks to her publications, her name shows up all over the Internet. Eachday, she receives dozens of e-mails from journalists who want to interviewher, researchers who want the contact information of her sources, and read-ers who want to show their support. “I answer everybody, but not immedi-ately. If I do that, I won’t have time to do my work,” she said.

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Torrea said some of the most poignant messages have come “fromyoung people who—after reading my blog—have realized how manymurders are needed in Mexico to enjoy a line of cocaine.” Torrea addedthat she is also compensated with hugs from mothers who have told herthe stories of their dead children. “Those mothers who I sadly meetagain at another funeral, come to hug me.”

By speaking out, these mothers—and Torrea’s other sources—couldbe making enemies among corrupt authorities or cartel members. Thesecriminals might feel attacked when Torrea’s sources’ quotes—andsometimes pictures—pop up on Juárez en la Sombra del Narcotrafico.Even though she doesn’t say it, Torrea could easily be labeled as anenemy as well.

Torrea didn’t answer questions about if she faces direct threats to herlife. She only emphasized: “I’m not afraid. If I was afraid I would not livein Juárez. I know I’m in danger and that the risks increase when youdon’t sell yourself to the drug traffickers or the authorities.”

During her interview with Sampsonia Way, she preferred to talkabout the problems of a city she has reported on for 14 years and hascome to call her own. She turned the conversation back to the enigmasof the president’s drug war: “Have you ever asked yourself why thepresident Felipe Calderon never tracked the money laundering in hisso-called ‘war against drug trafficking’?”

In her blog Torrea emphasizes that she has a Mexican heart. There isonly one thing she refuses to adopt from Mexico, the expression “nimodo,” which can be translated as “nothing you can do about that.”SW

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“Excuse me MisterPresident, I won’tshake hands withyou. You said that my sons were gangmembers and that is a lie. My youngest son was in highschool and the oldest was in the university. They were only students.”Luz María Dávila

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Entering East End Neighborhood Academy for the first time in months,14-year-old Aaron Jenkins was at ease. It was clear that he still felt athome in this private school of seventy students. It was a Friday, andAaron was wearing a white polo and khakis. In the hallway, he easilydeflected catcalls from friends and former classmates about his choice ofdress. “I’m getting my picture taken,” Aaron said. “I have to look nice.”

Staff and students at the Neighborhood Academy are well aware ofAaron’s accomplishments. Last spring, Aaron wrote his final paper forCivics and Language Arts class on City of Asylum/Pittsburgh writer-in-residence, the Chinese poet and human rights activist, Huang Xiang.When choosing his topic from a list of prominent figures that includedMalcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr., Aaron decided to avoid theobvious. “I wanted to go with someone I didn’t know,” he said. “I want-ed to learn more.”

Aaron went above and beyond the requirements. He took the initia-tive to meet with Henry Reese, director of COA/P, to hear aboutHuang’s life. He visited the house that Huang lived in for two yearswhile staying in Pittsburgh’s Northside.

After learning about Huang’s life, Aaron sensed that “most of it waspain but he made something of it. He didn’t let it get him down.” Huangis a survivor of the Maoist regime in China, where he faced imprison-ment in forced labor camps and government persecution for his activistwriting. His work continues to be banned in China. Aaron was inspired towrite the essay in Huang’s own voice. He also included original poemsbased on Huang’s experiences during China’s Cultural Revolution. Thework paid off. Huang was so impressed with Aaron’s piece that he men-tioned him in a lecture delivered in Spain this past summer.

Aaron’s piece surprised not only his teacher and classmates, but alsothe director of COA/P. “I was not prepared for Aaron’s level of imagi-native engagement or his sheer talent. Entering the house where HuangXiang lived, Aaron seemed to enter into his mind, experiencing therepression and censorship personally,” said Reese. “His finished poemis more mature than anything I would have ever expected.”

READ AARON’S WORK ON HUANG XIANG

Aaron Jenkins:Getting Stuff Off His ChestBy Jen Lue

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well as their interdisciplinary interests. “Hewrote about a lot of things I could relate to,”Aaron said. “Whether they were good or badhe would write about that.”

Turning PointsAaron started writing poems at the age ofeleven. He credits his mother for discoveringhis work and encouraging him to continue.“She told me, ‘You have a good mind. Youshould continue writing poems.’ That’s when Ireally started writing them and reading them,”he said.

Most of Aaron’s poetry deals with his expe-riences at home or at school. His subjects rangefrom tackle football to family confrontations.Aaron described writing as a way of workingthrough the problems in his life. “Without writ-ing, some people who don’t like to talk abouttheir feelings would just be so down all the timeand life wouldn’t be good for them,” he related.“Whenever I write about things it gets me tofeel better. It gets stuff off my chest.”

One of the most difficult subjects Aaron hasever written about is the death of his father, apolice officer who died in the line of duty. “Istarted writing about that immediately,” Aaronremembered. “It was just painful. I didn’t readover those ones. I didn’t edit any of those ones.I just wrote about it automatically.”

Aaron provided insight into his own writingprocess: “When I got angry I would just sit andwrite. Later I learned I would have to take timeand cool down because if I wrote right away itwouldn’t be as neat.” Poetry gave Aaron a wayto sift through the events in his life. “I was ableto think about it more. It helped me to under-stand things more, understand what was hap-pening and why it was happening,” he added.

Shout OutAaron’s project is the result of East EndNeighborhood Academy’s unique academicprogram. The Neighborhood Academy wasfounded in 2001 by Reverend Thomas Johnsonand Josephine Moore as a college-preparatoryschool for low-income students in thePittsburgh area. Their goal was to offer low-income families the means to provide studentswith a private school education that wouldenable gradautes to attend college. Its curricu-lum seeks to integrate academics with ele-ments of non-sectarian worship, counselingand career services, athletics, and the arts. Aspart of the school’s Arts Connection program,students have the choice of selecting fromactivities ranging from Photography to AfricanDance and Drumming.

Emily Carlson, Aaron’s eighth gradeLanguage Arts teacher, has brought poetry tothe fore. Her Shout Out poetry reading seriesbrings students together with local poets toshare each other’s work. Previous participantsinclude Terrance Hayes, Brian Francis, and ToiDerricotte. Carlson said that the aim of thesereadings is to “teach empowerment throughthe artistic expression of writing and readingpoetry.” Two students are invited to sharetheir work with the poet and the student audi-ence at the beginning of each session.

Brent Jernigan, Aaron’s academic advisor,praises the project. “It developed a differentdefinition of poetry—that poetry is more thanwords. It’s community. It was great to see howthese young guys were completely turned on topoetry at that time,” he said.

Aaron was drawn to the work of TerranceHayes. He read Hayes’ Muscular Music inJernigan’s advisory, where students areencouraged to talk about their coursework as

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‘The Lonely Boy’When asked to draw similarities betweenHuang Xiang’s life and his, Aaron emphasizedthat, like Huang, he has moved around a lot.“When I moved I would make close friends andthen I would have to move again,” Aaron said.“Some of it was good. Sometimes we wouldmove to better places.”

Aaron chooses not to dwell on the negative.In the case of Huang, he said, “Pittsburgh isthe land of chance and freedom. Coming herecould have gotten him a better job or made itworse. It got better.” The same sentiment goesfor the Neighborhood Academy. In a poemtitled “The Lonely Boy,” Aaron writes:

he also keeps them locked uphoping just one daythere will be a better placewhere he can let all his thoughts out,but three years later he is at a private school expressing everything he feels.

READ THE REST OF AARON’S POEM

About the differences between him andHuang, Aaron stated, “My life isn’t as tough ashis. I still have ups and downs and blockagesbut he had it worse.” Aaron sympathized withthe fact that Huang was unable to go to schooland write what he wanted to. “It was wrong,”Aaron said, about the persecution that Huangendured under the Communist regime. “Oncehe got here he had a little bit more to workwith. He got a better life, a little bit.”

Aaron currently attends high school atWoodland Hills, where he continues to writepoetry. After the interview, he could be seenwalking in and out of classrooms, laughingwith former teachers and students. Outside theeleventh grade lockers, someone claimed thatAaron’s “star is on the rise.” He smiled anddeflected the praise as easily as he shrugs offjokes. Aaron admitted that his feelings towardsthe Huang project were less than happy in thebeginning. “I thought it might be a wholebunch of work for nothing,” he said. “Towardsthe middle, I started to like it. In the end, Iwanted to do the best paper I could.” SW

Photos: Laura Mustio

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On a recent October morning, the Madwomen in the Attic poetry workshopbegan with an argument. A student shared a poem written by a man and someof her classmates took umbrage at its depiction of women. “He’s generaliz-ing,” a participant argued. “It’s lovely; men don’t usually celebrate womenthis way,” someone countered. “It’s sexist,” another woman disagreed. Onestudent balled up her copy of the poem and tossed it aside.

Women Who Don’t Bite their Tongues: Writing Workshop Celebrates More Than Thirty Years By Elizabeth Hoover

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“Alright, we have an issue we disagree on,” JanBeatty, the workshop's instructor, calmly said. The stu-dent who had balled up her copy smoothed it out, andthe class came back to the task at hand: the discussionof the craft of poetry.

The twelve women ranged in age from their earlytwenties to their late nineties. What brings themtogether—beyond their gender—is a commitment togood writing. The class laughed over shared jokes,good-naturedly lampooned poor word choice, and praised especially nice turns ofphrase. This was a typical day, according to Beatty, who also directs the program.

The Madwomen in the Attic started in 1979 at Carlow College, now CarlowUniversity. Writer Tillie Olsen had given a reading on campus and was mobbedafterward by students with questions. Recognizing the need for writing workshopsfor women, Dr. Ellie Wymard, now director of Carlow's MFA program, and fictionwriter Jane Coleman decided to start Madwomen in the Attic.

The program is housed at Carlow, but is open to the public. Currently, theyoffer six different workshops that meet throughout the week on Carlow’s campus.Sixty-four students are enrolled in the current twelve-week session and there is awaiting list for the next round. Students can choose workshops in poetry, fiction,and creative non-fiction.

Coleman and Wymard took the name from a landmark work of feminist liter-ary criticism: The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the NineteenthCentury Literary Imagination by Susan Gubar and Sandra Gilbert. The mad-woman in Gubar and Gilbert’s title is the wife Mr. Rochester keeps locked in theattic in Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Erye.

By and large, participants have embraced the name. For Beatty, the monikersaves time. “If you call yourself a Madwoman, you don’t have to be presentable,”she said. “You can just write what you want and make sure it’s good.”

Beatty came to the Madwomen in 1990, while still an MFA student at theUniversity of Pittsburgh. “Here I had the support of readers who had an under-standing through shared life experiences,” she said.

While the workshops are supportive, that doesn’t mean you can get away withbad writing. “If you bring in some poem about your grandkids with unicorns andrainbows, we’ll tell you it’s corny and it’s not working,” Beatty clarified.

According to Beatty there is a “serious hunger” among female writers forworkshops where they feel they are taken seriously. She has students who drive upfrom West Virginia or make a three-hour trip from Maryland. Other participantshave formed ancillary groups of Madwomen that meet in each other’s houses.

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Beatty started teaching at the Madwomen after receiving her MFA and strug-gled with teaching older students. “I have this thing about respecting my eldersand I was too cautious,” she recalled. One day she brought a poem to class andwarned them that it had some explicit language in it. Lucienne Wald, a student inher eighties, asked, “What do you mean?” Wald listed off words that would makea late-night comedian blush, then added, “Do you think that we haven’t lived?”Beatty said that it was a “turning point” in her teaching: She would no longerstereotype the older women.

Shortly after, Beatty decided to change the program’s image. Shestarted by asking her students if they wanted to be seen as old womenwriters or as writers. “They all started banging on the table,” she relat-ed. “They were chanting ‘writers, writers, writers.’”

When longtime director Patricia Dobler died in 2004, Beatty steppedin to fill the role. She also edits the program’s nationally distributedanthology, Voices from the Attic. Over the years, she has heard countlessstories of women fleeing sexist teachers, receiving patronizing rejectionslips, or feeling unable to write with the pressures of being wives and moth-ers. “Sexism isn’t over,” Beatty remarked. “It’s especially poignant withwomen who come after their husbands have died because they feel like theycouldn’t write before that. They are limited by their traditional roles.”

Lucienne Wald:

Tragedy brought artist Lucienne Wald to writing. After her 29-year-old son Phillipdied in 1982, she could no longer paint. She saw an ad for the Madwomen work-shop and signed up for a fiction class, where she started her novel.

The book is loosely based on Wald's experience living in Japan in the 1950s withher husband, an Air Force physician who studies the effects of radiation. She is stillstruggling to finish the book, but has joined Jan Beatty’s poetry workshop andfound a vibrant community there.

“We get to know each other through poetry. It’s a different kind of family thana real family, but it is a family,” she said.

At 88, Wald isn’t the oldest Madwoman, but she is the student who has beenthere the longest. She plans to attend the workshops for the rest of her life. “It’slike going into a womb with the Madwomen. It’s a little enclave,” she said.

READ LUCIENNE WALD’S “KNOCK ON WOOD”

“Women’s problems aren’t men’s problems.”

Photos (top to bottom): Jan Beatty; at 97, Cay Hamilton is the oldest Madwoman; Lucienne Wald

Growing up in a family with ten children in Pittsburgh, Tess Barrysaw how people “catered to the boys.” As an adult, that became“deferring to the men.” Barry, 39, described herself as a “strongwoman who doesn’t take any shit,” but added that these cultural-ly ingrained attitudes are difficult to escape.

Barry attended New York University’s dramatic writing pro-gram, but finished her studies at the University of Pittsburgh to benear her family after her father died. She also has a master’s in lit-erature. She lives on the South Side with her husband and worksas the administrator of a legal mediation group.

When she started attending the Madwomen workshop, she wassurprised by the “level of commitment” from the participants.“The quality of writing is tremendous,” she added. In addition towriting poetry and fiction, Barry is collaborating with her husbandon a screenplay about street fighting in the 1960s.

Barry loves the intimacy of an all-women workshop and findsthe diversity of perspectives to be one of the most exciting aspects.In particular, she finds the mix of generations inspiring. “Cultureis geared toward celebrating youth, especially for women. Thesewomen defy that,” she explained. “They bring in poems aboutbeing 70-years-old and still enjoying sex. They constantly reinventthemselves.”

According to Barry, being a Madwoman means “accepting andloving yourself.”

READ TESS BARRY’S “SHAGGING ALBERT EINSTEIN”

“A woman is more than being 50 andpretending you’re 30.”

Tess Barry:

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“Get a life,” is Liane Ellison Norman'sadvice to young women who refuseto call themselves feminists. “If youcare about women, you’re a feminist.If you care about human beings,you’re a feminist.”

Norman, 73, is a retired litera-ture professor who founded thePittsburgh Peace Institute and ranfor Senate in 1982. It’s not justwomen who suffer from sexism,Norman believes, but all of society.

Liane EllisonNorman:

“There is always a masculine thumb on the scale.”

“When you diminish or repress a whole group of people, you losetheir talents. It’s stupid and it’s wrong,” she said.

Although she has been writing her whole life, she turned topoetry in 2003 when her daughter Emily, died of cancer. Shejoined the Madwomen shortly thereafter. Norman said theMadwomen help her “be brave,” and for this intellectual thatmeans exploring her emotions.

By the time she came to the Madwomen, Norman had alreadypublished a novel, Stitches in Air and a biography, Hammer ofJustice: Molly Rush and the Plougshares Eight. She credits theworkshop with helping her develop as a poet. She said her earlypoems were “embarrassing,” but the workshop has helped herbecome a more sophisticated writer. Since joining the Madwomenshe has published two volumes of poetry, The Duration of Griefand Keep.

READ LIANE ELLISON NORMAN’S “POOL”

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Sarah Williams-Devereux:

Sarah Williams-Devereux began her literary career at age of 3with a story called “Gonzo and the Thunder.” Now this 31-year-old visual artist is taking her writing to the next level in theMadwomen’s workshop.

She joined in 2003 and found that she could have conversationsthere that she couldn’t have with a man in the room. “With men,there’s another gaze and you realize that you are being watched,”she said. “You’re almost stepping outside of yourself to see your-self through that other person’s eyes.”

At the Madwomen workshops she found a “sanctuary.” Nowshe is the administrative assistant in the English department atCarlow and works closely with the women she called “brutallyand lovingly honest.” She is working on a chapbook, which shehopes to publish soon.

While hoping for a publication, Williams-Devereux drawsinspiration from working with older women, some of whom startedpublishing in their 70s. “Just because you come to the party late,doesn’t mean you can’t bring the best dish,” she added.

She was also quick to add that the workshop is also a lot of fun,even “bawdy.” According to her, Madwomen not only have a seri-ous commitment to poetry, but also an enthusiasm for literature,friendship, and immeasurable joy.

READ SARAH WILLIAMS-DEVEREUX’S “EXODUS”

FOR MORE INFORMATION:Sarah Williams-DevereuxCarlow University English DepartmentPhone: (412) 578-6346Email or visit their Facebook page

Photography: Renee Rosensteel

“These women will be damned if they will be silenced.”

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