By Edgard Garrido

Days before last Christmas, city authorities initiated a program of voluntary disarmament for citizens encouraging them to swap their pistols, revolvers, guns and the occasional 60mm mortar round for bicycles, tablets or cash. Thousands flocked to the swapping stations set up in different neighborhoods by the police and military.

Some weapons were destroyed on site but I wondered where the rest of the collected weapons would land. So, I decided to issue a formal request to the Mexican Secretariat of National Defense (SEDENA) asking if I could access their storage facilities to take pictures.

The military is in charge of storing and destroying weapons, not only those handed in by the civilian population sometimes including those inherited from an ancestor who might have fought in the revolution but also the weapons confiscated in the six-year-long, ongoing drug war that has so far killed some 70,000 people. Those are generally larger calibers than great-granddad’s Winchester Rifle from the early 1900s. They confiscated everything from custom-made, gold-plated Colt Super 38 Automatic to rocket-propelled grenade launchers and lots of Kalashnikov AK-47s, the narcos’ weapon of choice.

After some months the Reuters’ office received a very formal phone call from an army sergeant inviting me to be on April 17th at 1200 hours at Gate 8 at the Military Field #1.

An officer received me at the gate and accompanied me throughout my visit. He walked next to me, sat next to me, drove with me in the car and was there when I was taking photographs. He was my own shadow. They frisked me for security reasons at least 15 times, and checked the interior of the car, my photographic equipment and my clothes.

A (cuantas estrellas) general welcomed me when I arrived at the storage room; he was with other officers from the PR department and another three or four soldiers who were functioning as security. To my surprise from that moment on, the general and the PR officers had to undergo exactly the same security checks as those that were performed on me.

“You got a lot of patience to go through all this repeatedly” my “shadow” said. I replied “there are thousands of confiscated weapons here, I really don’t mind…”

There were three tables set up outside the storage room. Arranged on display were probably the most eccentric weapons confiscated from the narcos: gold plated guns, some decorated with movie characters like Chucky or the “generous bandit” “Jesus Valverde”, better known as the narco-saint.

The general stood up on a small lectern and declared “from 2007 until now, 107,450 weapons have been stored at this facility. 95% have been destroyed and the rest have been put on display in museums or remain with the military after the due legal process but most of the confiscated weapons are stored in other State security institutions.”

“And now you can take pictures.”

After a while the general glanced at his watch telling me very politely that he still had other issues to attend to and if I could kindly wrap it up. I told him that I would do my best because I was heading to a soccer match between Argentina’s Boca Juniors and Mexico’s Toluca later on. “I visited the Bombonera (the stadium in Buenos Aires where Boca Junior plays its matches)”, the general said. “I thought it would be bigger.”

I smiled and said that it would be of great importance if I could actually enter the storage room.

He agreed and asked a soldier to put his finger on the fingerprint door lock to open the door. I was not allowed to take pictures that would show the entire area or pictures of the soldiers who were working inside. The place was one huge warehouse divided by metal shelves, some empty and others full. I had very little time so I started taking pictures of everything I saw, I could feel that my presence inside the storage room made the soldiers nervous.

Once back outside they guided me to the area where the weapons were being destroyed. I saw several officers, almost robotically, dismantling and destroying weapons. Some did the register; another stood on a small ladder to take pictures of guns arranged on a white background on the floor, others took off the wooden parts and screws of each weapon.

The wooden pieces were burnt on a grill normally used for barbecues. Another group of soldiers removed the firing pins from each weapon, then they cut them up to leave them inoperable. In between, the weapons were counted again and again.

One of the soldiers said to me, “You’re lucky, we do this only twice a year and only after we receive the judicial order to destroy the weapons.”

As I walked out I picked up my cell phone which I had left at the entrance and once in the cab I saw a soldier jogging. He was wearing a T-shirt with an image of late Argentine rebel hero Ernesto “Che” Guevara and beckoning me to stay away… the soccer match, Juan Roman Riquelme (player of Argentina’s Boca Juniors), la hinchada (Boca Junior’s fans) and Boca Juniors were waiting for me.

By Edgard Garrido

The truth is that there are lots of viewpoints, myths, interests, ignorance and bigotry when it comes to bullfighting. It’s undeniable – beyond being against or for it – that bullfights are a historical and cultural event, and a reality that I couldn’t ignore as a photographer in Mexico.  During a month this past Mexican summer I photographed bullfights, ones that in the end were not particularly bloody for the toreros but certainly were for the bulls and, I have to admit, for my emotions as well.

Stepping into the world of toreros was easy and difficult at the same time. Easy because the people are friendly, and difficult because it was, and still is, an unfamiliar world to me.

I went to the Plaza Mexico, the largest bull ring in the world, to get permission to photograph a bullfight. Indoors there were photographs, sculptures, capes, muletas, and swords, and outside there was the arena. Everywhere was the smell of animals. On the day of my first bullfight I found myself standing in a hallway in front of a horse dressed in yellow padding, banderilleros, matadors and monosabios (workers who pick up the dead bulls).

I was instructed, “You have to stand in the back and you have the right to photograph two bulls, later you must go to the gallery.”

I could feel the fervor, including from the other photographers. It was certainly not my place. I knew I didn’t belong there, and I sensed that others were uncomfortable with my presence as well.

The bull was now in the arena and I observed it through a 300mm lens. Its breath was pure saliva and it immediately gored the protective wall I was standing behind. It jumped with power and speed inside the arena. The picador on horseback jabbed his lance into the bull’s spine but the public jeered at him; they thought he was jabbing the animal with excessive force and taking too long. Later the banderilleros stuck the banderillas in the neck of the bull with the mission to wear it down.

Bull and bullfighter were face to face as the public cheered and a band of trumpets and percussion recreated Spanish songs. The matador, who really was still a “novillero” or aspiring torero, was completely outclassed by the bull. He tried again and again to stab his sword to kill the animal but he failed. An assistant finally granted the seriously injured animal the coup de grace, before the bull was dragged from the arena to the slaughterhouse.

Two more matadors came into the arena. The public continued to hoot and one of the toreros, Cesar Ibelles, finished with an injured eye and a broken nose, but he also finished with the bull. By then it had started raining and the rain continued when I stepped into a bar on Zaragoza Street. I had been invited to get to know more about the world of bullfighting. At the bar I met toreros, former toreros, photographers of whom some were former toreros, agents of toreros, tailors of toreros, and musicians who only play or sing songs related to bullfighting. Surprisingly they were all drinking only coffee, coca cola or water.

The photographers took pictures of the reunion and sold others of previous reunions to the patrons.  I sat down with them and started to ask them questions about the rules of bullfighting. The first was Roberto Morales nicknamed “Gironcito,” who was the most famous Venezuelan torero of all times, had retired and become a tailor for matadors.

“I could only fight bulls for two years. Bullfighting is a vocation for the rich and if you are not, you have to find a sponsor or do a lot of other things to get support, and that wasn’t something I wanted to do,” he said.

“There is a time limit for a bull to be killed during the fight,” another retired torero told me. “Have you ever been to a slaughterhouse?” he asked. “Have you ever seen under what conditions a bull is killed?  If I was a fighting bull, I would prefer to fight with honor for my life against a matador, instead of being hung on a hook by my legs. In a country where tens of thousands of people are shot and decapitated, it’s ridiculous to get all frantic about a thousand bulls getting killed during a year in the bullfights. And that people go out on the streets to protest against it!”

The noise in the restaurant grew louder with the opinions and conversations and I felt dizzy when I left.

The next day I went to a competition for aspiring novilleros, meaning hopefuls to become a future torero. They were very young novilleros, most of them under 14 years old, and from all over the country. The competition took place in a small but beautiful ring, next to a restaurant. The children got ready in the bathroom, along with others, among them a picador who checked the sharp point of his lance, while 20 or 30 statuettes of saints, neatly placed on a red plastic chair, seemed to observe him.

The young novilleros looked anxious to confront the bull, and without fear. They checked their muletas and said goodbye to their parents. A local TV station interviewed them while transmitting live. The public recognized their courage and applauded with enthusiasm.

The picaderos and bandilleros prepared the bulls and the outfits of the kids soon stopped looking crisp and elegant; they were now stained with the blood of the bulls and clouds of dust.

By rule they are not allowed to kill the bull, so they just pretended by touching the spine of the animal with one of their hands as if driving their swords into the flesh.

A man told me, “Animal rights activists are not like these children. They know nothing about our fiesta and traditions. They think that their love for animals makes them go out on the streets but in reality there are powerful political interests behind the abolition of bullfighting.”

When the corrida was over, the children waved goodbye and left the ring walking with poise  amongst flowers. The public looked pleased when they left the Plaza and the little toreros smiled behind their teeth braces. They were happy.

I sensed the same joy when I went to a training session. Some 20 people were working on their routines, some driving their swords into a bullfighter’s training bull. Others practiced with the muleta perfecting the movements of their wrists, hips and legs. All were in search of the perfect body aesthetics. They looked like ballet dancers.

A torero told me, “We have to prepare ourselves physically and mentally from very young, every day. There is so much technique to learn. The better you are, the less the bull will suffer. Our love for the bulls is immense. Matador, torero and bull, we are one. Some people say that the bulls are blinded and tortured before getting into the ring. What a big lie! A matador or torero would never accept a bull that runs like a fool. Nobody pays 1,500 or 2,000 U.S. Dollars for a bull that’s embarrassing. We all want a bull that can see perfectly well, react fiercely. The bull must be in its best condition. That is the only way a matador or torero can shine.”

“I respect the people who are against bullfights. But these animals are being raised for this, they are fierce animals and they are brought up for three of four years to be fierce. I’m sure other bulls, cows, lambs or chickens suffer more when they are being killed industrially by the millions in the slaughterhouses. A defender of animal rights should be coherent and stop eating meat, but can you imagine in a country where people only know how to eat meat tacos?”

Days later I met Mirafuentes de Anda, a 20-year old novillero. When I entered his hotel room, he was just coming out of the shower. Friends, godparents, family members and a tailor were with him. There was a little altar with a candle and an image of Mexico’s patron saint, the Virgin of Guadalupe. Everybody helped him to get dressed and everybody was giving his opinion about his looks. “Comb your hair,” one suggested while flamenco music played in the background.

Mirafuentes looked into the mirror and left for the corrida. People in the lobby were surprised to see him and he greeted them in passing. When he got to the plaza he went into a small chapel where he prayed for a brief moment. Before going out into the arena, he asked me to take some pictures of him and his family.

While the corrida was taking place I managed to get to the area where the dead bulls were being slaughtered. In a corner I saw hoses, hooks, chains, a wheelbarrow and lots of bull horns stacked in the corner.  A young man with white boots showed me from where the dead animals were being brought in. When I peeked through the opening I saw the torero greeting the public as “Don Juan,” as a dead bull was being dragged by horses into the slaughter area.

There were three or four butchers. One drove his knife into the belly of the animal and blood began to flow in a huge and rapid stream. As he stepped over and over again on the stomach of the dead animal in order to get all the blood out, another butcher took off the skin and I was asked to leave the area.

I went back to the corrida and took some more pictures. Another novillero fought another bull.

In the second round of bulls, torrential rain broke out and people started to leave the plaza. The arena was flooding and as the young novilleros discussed among each other how serious the rain was, the judge decided to call it a day.

I decided to leave; the last chapter of the bloody summer was closed.

What really happens when a man, or a woman, or even a child, abandons their home motivated by the idea of a better life? How do they imagine it? What do they wish for, what are they missing?

There is violence, overcrowded neighborhoods and gigantic infrastructure on the outskirts of Mexico City but there are also hundreds of thousands of people who walk day and night; different people every day and every night for weeks and months next to the train tracks, trying to jump on a train car filled with merchandise as the train passes. Fear is engraved in their faces and makes their feet heavy. Solitude, hunger, the cold and above all a painful uncertainty, are carried with them. They left behind their homes in a land without miracles and few joys, like the last of the deserts.

In Huehuetoca, 67 km (41 miles) from Mexico City:

Edgard: (photographer) “Hi, what’s your name? Where are you from?”
Carlos: (migrant) “Hi, I’m from Honduras, and you?”
Edgard: “From Chile”
Carlos: “From Chile! How are you Alexis (a reference to Chilean soccer player Alexis Sanchez), have you been to Honduras?”
Edgard: “Yes, I lived in Honduras for several years”
Carlos: “And you’re not afraid of migrants?”
Edgard: “No, why should I?”
Carlos: “Because people say we are thieves and gang members. That we rape girls and that we only do damage.”
Edgard: “But not all of them. From what part of Honduras are you?”
Carlos: “From Tegus… (the capital Tegucigalpa)”
Edgard: “What neighborhood?”
Carlos: “Did you get to know Little Hell?”
Edgard: “Behind the Basilica, going down the staircase. Are you a member of a gang?”
Carlos: “You’re definitely not afraid of migrants! You wanna have a beer?”
Edgard: “How far are you traveling?”
Carlos: “Well, up north, to Uncle Sam (laughs). I’ve been there and they have deported me nine times, but here I go again. I know the tracks like no one else. Come on, let’s have a beer.”

I’d been asked to cover the possible dismantling of a provisional migrant shelter in Tultitlan, on the outskirts of Mexico City. It was about to be shut down due to the innumerable complaints from neighbors. The official shelter had been shut down for just the same reason, complaints by the neighbors about thieves, drunks, robbers, rapists and drug dealers they see in every migrant.

The provisional shelter was a giant tent set up underneath a bridge. Some 100 migrants were there when I arrived. Employees from the Mexican migration office were offering migrants the possibility to return legally to their home countries if they wished to do so. There seemed to be a lot of people wanting to go home. They were tired; they had been victims of kidnappers, extortionists and sometimes even of their own travel companions. Some were injured while trying to board the train in motion, others when they fell off.

Melquiades, a 36-year old Honduran migrant, told me that a “pollero” (people smuggler) had betrayed him “I paid him $3,000 U.S. Dollars in advance and now I can’t find him, but I know where he lives and I’m going to look for him. And then… I go back to Honduras.”

The other provisional shelter in Huehuetoca was set up in an abandoned house where the migrants were being looked after by volunteers and young students handing out donated food and blankets. The town itself looked dangerous and I could see bullet holes in a billboard that functioned like a fence.

“Not everybody likes us here,” a volunteer told me. “There is graffiti everywhere warning arriving migrants that there is no more shelter in order for the migrants to stay away. Now we leave the food next to the train tracks.”

Two migrants came walking and I lifted the camera to take some pictures but they ran away desperately when they noticed it. I whistled and made a friendly sign with my hand, and little by little they came back. They were Jesus and Roberto, one of them said he is from Guatemala, the other one tried to speak like a Mexican but he sounded more Guatemalan to me. They looked afraid. I asked them if they were hungry and they said yes. I called out to one of the volunteers and they got them some food.

While we were sitting under the ruthless sun, Jesus told me that a group of men had tried to kidnap them last night. “We were around 15, waiting for a chance to jump on the train that was just arriving, but suddenly a white pickup truck appeared heading towards us. The head lights blinded us and we started running all over the place. When the truck left, we gathered and realized that two men of our group were missing. We haven’t seen them since.”

When I drove back to Mexico City that same day I saw a man sleeping under the bushes, some 400 yards away from the shelter and the train tracks. I stopped and went over to wake him up. I asked him where he was from, and he said from Honduras and that he was hungry. He looked very tired. I told him about the shelter and showed him the way.

Some days later, I got a call early in the morning. I was told the tent shelter would be dismantled that day and I went back to Tultitlan. I asked the priest in charge of the shelter if he knew anything about this and he just said “I don’t know. I don’t need the press here. I want to help these people and you journalists don’t help.”

Some hours later the police and political authorities arrived. They had been given the order to dismantle the shelter. They took out the migrants, the volunteers, the food, the clothes, and the blankets. They worked very fast; they packed up the tent, the port-a-potties and put the migrants aboard four buses. Nobody knew where they were taking them. I suspected they were sending them to the other shelter at the abandoned house in Huehuetoca.

When I got there it was already dark and the migrants were nowhere to be seen. When I asked a volunteer he said that nobody had told them anything but apparently somebody saw the buses heading to the municipal dump. I headed to the dump and saw a new tent. Some of the migrants had arrived, and others were still on their way.

They got off the buses, carrying mattresses and blankets. The floor inside the tent was just sand. It was raining, everything was muddy and it was very cold. The place was completely fenced in, amid the desolation and gloom.

Juan, a 40-year old migrant from Honduras, told me that he had been going to the United States since he was 19-years-old. “I don’t remember how many times I’ve been deported. I always go back, but it used to be easier to enter the U.S. I have a 6-year-old daughter living there and I don’t want her to grow up in Honduras, it’s too bad there. I have to strive so she can have a better life. I’d rather go begging than take away her future. She was born in the U.S. My ticket is free either way,” he laughed.

I went on looking for migrants along the train tracks. I found six thirsty and hungry men who had tried unsuccessfully to board the “The Bestia” (what the train is known as). But the train was going too fast and the “garroteros” (men who travel with the train and are hired to make sure migrants won’t get on) asked for money to let them on — another attempt, another failure.

Another migrant told me that he had been stuck in Mexico for two months, and that he hoped to make it to the U.S. border this time, because the last time he was kidnapped. The kidnappers got in touch with his family but his father said “Just kill that bastard.” He said that he begged the kidnappers not to kill him and instead to call an aunt. They finally reached an agreement with her and she paid the ransom.

Suddenly, I found Steven. He was only six-months-old and traveled with his 18-year-old mother and his grandparents. They were from El Salvador and had been on the road for three months – half of his short life.

Steven was sound asleep as he lay on an old blanket on the floor. His grandmother Mirna told me that he was going to be baptized and some of the volunteers had offered to take him to the doctor. “He turns a bit violet in his face sometimes,” Mirna said. “We had to leave El Salvador. We didn’t make enough working at the market and kids from a gang wanted to extort money from us, but we had none and they threatened to kill us all.”

The next day Steven and his family went to the parish and everybody was in party mood. The volunteers bought an outfit for Steven and food to make “pupusas” (a thick, handmade tortilla, often stuffed with cheese or meat) to serve to the migrants at the shelter after Steven’s baptism.

We waited at the parish for the ceremony to start and Mirna suddenly said she never wanted to get back on the train again. “There was my sweet grandchild, on that train, wrapped in clothes and garbage bags. Only his little nose was sticking out. A garrotero saw us and I thought he wanted money but instead he was worried about the baby choking on the smoke of the train engine.”

Ovidio, the grandfather, was asleep while we were all waiting. Steven’s mother Vicky smiled only once during the ceremony.

After the baptism, Vicky and her mother prepared the pupusas. We all went back to the shelter and they shared the food with the other migrants. It was pouring rain outside, the interior of the shelter felt damp and as the dim light illuminated their shortcomings, silhouettes and shadows were seen resting under the trees outside. Steven drank his milk and slept between other migrants, his spot had been reserved for him.

Days later, the temporary shelter was officially inaugurated. Everybody had worked very hard and it looked much nicer. During the festive inauguration the migrants were invited to sit and participate. One of them cried inconsolably while actors represented a story about migrants.

A lot of people greeted me warmly. Strangely enough, I already felt a certain degree of belonging. When I was invited to share a meal with them, I asked about Steven and his family. It turned out that Steven’s mother and her parents split after a fight between them. The grandparents went back to El Salvador and Vicky took Steven and left. Nobody knew where she had gone.

Maybe the question I was asking myself at the beginning of this blog has a much simpler answer. We are all migrants, sometimes even if we have decided to stay in our place of birth. Sometimes it’s just about migrating to another state of mind.

Honduran government sources have documented the assassination of 34 gays, transvestites, and transsexuals in the past 18 months. Some of them were killed with great sadism and cruelty. Three days before Christmas, murderers tied Lady Oscar to a chair and set fire to her. A week earlier the body of Luis Hernandez was found in a ditch, her face beaten until it was unrecognizable.

I meet them in the basement of a pool hall located in a dangerous neighborhood of Tegucigalpa. There, along narrow and dark stairways, are several rooms where Bessy, Patricia and Tiffany live.

“Today is Thursday, a good day to make some money,” they remark.

As they cross-dress before hitting the streets, I ask them about the violence. Patricia, a 24-year-old cosmetology student, answers, “On the street we’re insulted all the time. If we’re attacked, the police appear not to defend us but to join the attackers. We’re treated like dogs, not human beings. Last December attackers killed Riana, who lived here with us. Nobody has been accused, nobody. I don’t think this will change for the next 50 years.”

Little by little their new look, hair and face colors motivate me to begin photographing.

With bras and pants adjusted they parade inside the tiny rooms converted into a runway, a fashion runway filled with laughter and horror stories. We spend the next two hours in what becomes a backstage for what was to come. I can feel only praise for the way they hide their repressed fear.

“This is something that we do for money, and to denounce the machismo and cynicism that exists in the country. For sure many men who hate us when they’re with their families and friends will be among the six or seven clients we’ll attend to tonight.” After we get down from their luxury cars they point their fingers at us again, but then keep coming back.”

In spite of their photogenic looks and elicited empathy, it’s still difficult for me to work. There’s almost no room to stand, it’s nighttime and the room light is dim.

Tiffany, 19, an accountant who also studies cosmetology, tells me, “Our clients are all types. I’ve had some famous ones. There are mechanics, taxi drivers, young, old, poor, rich.” Tiffany practiced prostitution but left it after being run over, death threatened, and finally stabbed in the back. “I thank God for the support of my family, of my parents. They don’t want to see me on the street. They accept my condition and don’t want to hide it. They want to see me as a young, gay, decent professional. My father is going to help me open a beauty parlor. Nevertheless, the situation on the streets is terrible, and we don’t have to be prostituting ourselves to be attacked. They throw stones at us, ice cubes, beer bottles, and even darts with blood on them.”

Before we leave, Bessy pauses in front of religious icons adorning a wall. Patricia crosses herself, but Tiffany decides to stay home. She’s thinking that maybe the others won’t be back. Her tone of voice changes. Bessy comments, “These crimes in Honduras are out of hate. This is a lay country, and the religious aspect is important in the social reactions that we provoke.”

I accompany them in a taxi to another desolate, dark place, to a street corner just two blocks from the office where I work. Inside the taxi the radio is playing a song by Calle 13, “…The bullets are as cheap as condoms, there’s little education, many cartridges, when you read little you shoot a lot…” Between giggles Patricia says, “That’s true. I had to go to Guatemala out of fear and threats after a friend was murdered and they cut out her tongue for having made accusations. When I was 11 I told my siblings that I like men, and they beat me in front of my mother. At 13 I had my first relation with a man, a relative. After that they threw me out of the house and I ended up on the street as a prostitute.”

Once out of the taxi they introduce me to other transsexuals already there. I explain the story I’m working on and the majority accept to be photographed.

I begin to photograph and realize the risk I’m in at being seen by their clients. They probably will feel threatened, but my idea is not to photograph them or their cars. Their clients begin to arrive on motorcycles and in vehicles with tinted windows. My subjects get into the cars, step out, and back in again. The police patrol the area.

“Hey Bessy, don’t get mad but how much do you charge for your services?” I ask.

“No problem,” she says. “We charge 1000 lempiras (50 dollars) for two or three hours of full service, and half for oral sex.”

“And that is enough to live on, and maybe pay for implants?”

“Barely enough to live on, and almost nothing for implants,” she answers. “A buttocks or breast implant costs around 100,000 lempiras (5,000 dollars) in Honduras, but they do a bad job. Anyway for that you have to find a good client. I like to get it done in Spain.”

One transsexual of the group tells me, “Hey, you’re good at taking photos. You look like a photographer!” They all laugh. She begins to take off her clothes and tells me to photograph her, but only once she’s cross-dressed. Once in her underwear she looks at herself in a car mirror. The others laugh as they yell at her, “Hey! Didn’t you want to be photographed?”

They invite me to a protest demonstration they plan in a few days, and to visit the grave of a young gay activist who was murdered. “We protest on the 13th day of every month against impunity, in front of the justice ministry.”

Later, when we leave the street corner I say goodbye. One of them says, “Don’t put my name in quotation marks!”

I couldn’t help thinking of a recent magazine article about 800 expatriate soccer players in Europe and how, according to the author, their story might open doors for other foreign “workers” in this globalized world. It struck me that while many of those athletes were born in the slums of Latin America just like most of the 72 dead migrants, the difference was that their talent made it good business for them to cross borders.

At the same time any number of talented musicians from Peru or Bolivia, artists from Ecuador, craftsmen from Guatemala, farmers from Honduras, or laborers from El Salvador, either die while emigrating towards a better life in the U.S. or survive there with a feeling of well-being thanks to their material gains, but suffering the pain of having been uprooted. They are all migrants just like Carlos who go and return tirelessly, with the conviction that comes from having been propelled from their homes by failing economies. The enormous obstacles make me believe that they won’t have the same luck as those who entertain us with their passes and goals.

All these thoughts came to me while covering the story of Miguel Carcamo, another of the dozens who died with the brother of Carlos in Tamaulipas as they headed north in search of a better life. Miguel and his wife Marleny Suarez had four children, the eldest of whom is Isabel. Before emigrating north Miguel worked with his brother near home, carting sand in a wheelbarrow to sieve by hand and sell to brick factories.

To find them I first called Miguel’s sister Maria, who allowed me into her life in the unguarded manner so typical of victims of injustice whenever journalists appear. She told me to meet her on the corner “where they sell chickens,” and then led me up the side of a mountain to her home. That’s where I met her family and Marleny, without her four children. We spoke of their lives and they showed me photos of Miguel. In spite of their pain they treated me like a distinguished guest.

“Where are your children,” I asked Marleny. In tears, she answered that they stayed at home in El Guante, a village 70 km from Tegucigalpa. “We don’t have the money for them to come too.”

After seeing their family photos we all left in the same taxi to the foreign ministry. They had to sign papers to begin the repatriation of Miguel’s remains and I was looking for other photo opportunities to complete the story. Marleny’s deep sobs resounded inside the taxi. “My husband! Give me back my husband!”

Isabel, the eldest of their children, arrived days later in Tegucigalpa with her siblings. When the immigrants’ bodies arrived on September 1st the whole family was at the airport, including Isabel. Marleny and her four children mourned amidst the smell of 16 decomposing corpses. She had told me that she was just 13 when she met Miguel and that his mission was always to make a better life for them. I sensed at the airport that their children understood that the sacrifice had been for them. The times Marleny had asked him not to leave were always answered with, “I want to give them a better future.”

Miguel’s body finally reached their home in El Guante. The wake was held in a room adorned with plastic tablecloths. So much mud was treaded around that the floor inside merged with the ground outside.

The sound of church bells accompanied the funeral procession and Agua de Florida was abundant to revive anyone who fainted. A relative sustained Isabel, keeping her standing through one of innumerable fainting spells.

Then as I photographed Isabel during one of her spells I noticed several people run to help her, and the moment impacted me.  Her mother collapsed simultaneously a distance away. The women to whom Miguel meant so much were consumed by grief.

I moved well ahead of the procession as it advanced towards the cemetery, and suddenly found myself photographing butterflies attracted by the wild flowers growing around other tombs. Finally, Miguel arrived at his resting place next to his mother. His wife, Marleny, draped his favorite pants and shirt on the coffin, as a flag on a soldier’s casket.

Isabel and Marlene asked to see Miguel for one last time, but the rest of the family refused to open the coffin. I saw myself reflected in mirrors standing between the Carcamos, the only one without tears, and I left without disturbing them with goodbyes.

Maybe each of the 72 migrants was talented in some way. Some may have even been professionals. All were migrating for some reason. All had dreams motivated by something like material needs, or dreams of becoming competitive and successful. All of those dreams are now shattered.

View a selection of large format Reuters images on the immigration debate here.

Brazil’s representative to the Organization of American States (OAS) Lineu Pupo de Paula runs on the terrace inside Brazil’s embassy in Tegucigalpa October 11, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Zelaya appears outside his room and approaches us. “[De facto President] Micheletti says he will resign at 5 o’clock this afternoon if we choose a third person as president,” Zelaya tells us with a smile. ”I proposed Father Tamayo (the priest who accompanies him inside the Embassy) but Micheletti didn’t accept.” One more anecdote that I quickly write down along with so many others in my notepad.

Honduras’ ousted President Manuel Zelaya (L) attends a mass with priest Andres Tamayo inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa October 25, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

TO TAKE PICTURES OR NOT TO TAKE PICTURES, begins my Ode to politicians who confuse me with their million-dollar question. “And who do you support?”Some days ago Zelaya sent one of his guards to summon the photographers. We approach him as he is seated in front of a computer, reading a local newspaper with a photo of himself. He asks us, “Which of you took this picture?” One photographer admits, “I did.” In the picture, Zelaya is seated across from an empty chair. The feeling it gives is one of defeat. He had received calls from his supporters about it, and he urges us, “Let’s all practice solidarity with the people.” We respond, “We are neither for, nor against you. We’re here to report on what we see and provide a service to our clients.”

Honduras’ ousted President Manuel Zelaya receives his hat before a news conference inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa October 5, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

“A news photo is open to any variety of interpretations as much by the author as by the viewers, just as is a movie or a book,” I tell him. None of our answers satisfies. In the coming days we receive from him a variety of arguments about how to photograph, but nevertheless today he seems to have understood, overcome his doubts, forgotten, ignored or simply decided what is best.

Honduras’ ousted President Manuel Zelaya uses a news photographer’s camera to take pictures of his family at the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa October 25, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

In numerous past street demonstrations for Micheletti or Zelaya I’ve been asked the same questions. “Where are you from?” and ”So which side are you on?” That’s when I repeat the well-memorized phrase, “We are the world’s window for whatever you want to see or do. That’s why Micheletti has given us four or five interviews, just as have Zelaya and General Romeo Vesquez (head of the armed forces), all without protesting our reporting. We have also covered all their demonstrations in favor or against each other. We don’t do public relations…”

Honduras’ ousted President Manuel Zelaya smiles as he holds a turtle at the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa October 25, 2009. Talks between Zelaya and the country’s de facto leaders collapsed this week, throwing efforts to resolve a political crisis sparked by a June 28 coup back to square one. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

So for my story of the Embassy, this topic goes back to a time of persecution within and alleged spies posing as journalists, tiring explanations, persistent bad jokes, reporting produced on the inside but modified on the outside, local TV programs showing us as terrorists, and photos either considered wonderful and worthwhile or distasteful and damaging.I also noted some things to one day tell my (future) grandchildren:Presidential candidates, priests, negotiators, politicians and advisers cross paths while visiting the Embassy. The windows of the meeting rooms are covered with newspaper, cardboard and aluminum foil that Zelayistas (Zelaya’s supporters) use to protect themselves from the high intensity light aimed at the building by soldiers and police at night, and to stop an alleged interference cell phone scrambler.

Police officers look through binoculars outside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa where ousted President Manuel Zelaya has taken refuge with his wife and scores of followers October 9, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

As the days go by the fear of a possible invasion of the Embassy by soldiers diminishes, but at the same time another level of paranoia grows. The faces of animals and of important figures, like Fidel Castro, appear projected on the walls, and there is more suspicion of gas attacks and high-frequency sounds and infrared rays. I must say that I have noticed nothing of those since being inside.I have no ulterior motive for being here other than to take pictures. Apart from that I eat, sleep, check the internet and listen to the same music: Paco de Lucia, Los Jaivas, Joaquin Sabina, Los Cadillacs, Soda Stereo, U2, Ennio Morricone. They all help me fill the emptiness and forget my boredom. I look at the plastic sandals on my feet, my sleeveless shirt and my knee-length pants which I’ve been wearing since I entered here on September 21; it’s hard not to consider myself a prisoner.Journalists that have children on the outside already left the Embassy. There are only single colleagues and me, with my baby son awaiting me at home. A Sponge Bob balloon, sent to one of my colleagues, is released into the sky above and becomes a moment of near confraternity between journalists and soldiers as we watch it together.Mistrust and sectarianism dominate those of us who remain. There is Zelaya and his family, his security agents, close friends, followers and advisers, and us journalists. We eat different, sleep different and have different agendas. One of the Zelayistas says to me, “We’re all here. We represent all Hondurans.”

Honduras’ ousted President Manuel Zelaya plays the guitar next to his granddaughter Irene Melara during her visit inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa, November 1, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

The police prohibit someone from sending in a much-anticipated soccer ball, and gloom sets in. Then the news of renewed negotiations between Micheletti, the OAS and Zelaya restores our hope. Both sides declare 99% of their demands satisfied. We all get ready for the end. I prune my beard with scissors while others pack their belongings, fix their hair and prettify themselves for the glorious day, but alas it turns into nothing…Almost as if we had requested it, the Army celebrates its anniversary by blasting music at us all night from loudspeakers placed three meters from the outside wall. They included recorded sounds of pigs, cows and dogs, church bells and trumpets to keep us company until dawn.During those days Honduras lost their World Cup qualifying match against the United States, leaving their last chance to qualify for the final round. National player Carlos Pavon misses a penalty shot and Zelaya comments, “Pavon is an ally of Micheletti, because they both screwed seven million Hondurans.” (A week later Honduras would qualify for the World Cup in a match too tense for cardiac patients, but which we all survived.)

Honduras’ ousted President Manuel Zelaya (C) celebrates with supporters after Honduras scored a goal in their World Cup qualifying soccer match against the United States, inside Brazil’s embassy in Tegucigalpa October 10, 2009. The United States won the match 3-2. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

We experience practically every emotion in the book from joy to disgust, in an atmosphere that switches in an instant from peace to cataclysm. We feel at once friendship and hatred, tolerance and suspicion. The slogan these days is, “No one for all, and everyone for himself.” It’s the full experience of life in just 40-odd days. It’s all of Honduras in 30 square meters, or my own impression of life inside a prison.THE BERMUDA TRIANGLEMy Reuters colleagues on the outside buy my supplies and bring them to the police checkpoint where human rights activists and United Nations reps receive them. Then they spend torturous hours of waiting until the police grant permission to carry them inside.One of my first experiences in receiving vital supplies from outside ended in tragedy when Father Tamayo distributed my food amongst the Zelayistas because I wasn’t standing in the doorway when the bags arrived. Only one of many stories of things gone missing inside Honduras’ version of the Bermuda Triangle.Within the 300 meters that separate the first checkpoint and the wall of the Brazilian Embassy everything strangely disappears – even shame. The only thing that remains intact is my dedication to clean journalism and resistance against becoming a prisoner inside an Embassy.Bags filled with food and clothing disappeared forever, as did cell phones, modems and ipods. Fights over a can of soda, a pack of crackers, or even Zelaya’s shampoo, were a part of our daily life. Journalists donated two extra mattresses to the Zelayistas, which turned up after the first night torn and full of holes.

A soldier stands outside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa October 23, 2009. Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya pulled out of talks with the country’s post-coup de facto leaders on Friday, throwing efforts to resolve a months-long political crisis back to square one. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

I tell my editor about all these incidents and she says, “Little house, big hell.” At that moment I remember another time that we spoke. It was September 29 and I told her, “My wife is already worried about our anniversary celebration on October 27, telling me, ‘I hope you don’t have to spend it inside.” My editor answered, “By that time there’s no way you’ll still be there.”

A police officer reads the notebook belonging to Maria Jose Diaz, a Telesur journalist, after she left the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa October 8, 2009. Diaz is one of only five journalists who have remained holed up inside the embassy with ousted President Manuel Zelaya and a group of his supporters since last September 21, and is the first to leave the compound. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Today is November 6, only a few days after my son learned to say “papa” over Skype. I asked a friend to send my wife flowers on October 27. And today I’m finally ready to leave the Embassy.Throughout the day Zelaya held meetings with his supporters. After a U.S. State Department agreement failed Zelaya told them,“From here on only God knows what will happen.” Some of them propose leaving the Embassy soon. Zelaya asks them to do so in small groups. I try to take a photo of this meeting and Zelaya insults me.I grab my belongings and leave my mattress and plastic sandals behind for one of the supporters. Outside I am processed by police, soldiers and immigration officials. Together with an attorney and a Brazilian journalist we walk away from the Embassy. My colleagues are waiting on the corner and carry out their evacuation plan, almost as if we were boy scouts, to guarantee my security and avoid the awaiting local press corps. I will never forget any of this.The city seems strange. Maybe I was a prisoner…

Reuters photographer Edgar Garrido leaves the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa November 6, 2009. Garrido and Fabiano Maisonnave, a journalist from Folha de Sao Paulo, and 4 supporters of Zelaya, who have remained holed up inside the embassy with ousted Honduras’ President Manuel Zelaya and a group of his supporters since September 21, have left the compound. REUTERS/Henry Romero

As a Reuters photographer in Honduras, I was one of the few reporters who managed to slip into Brazil’s embassy when Zelaya crept back into the country and sought refuge here, almost three months after troops toppled him and sent him into exile.

Two weeks after his return, Zelaya is still holed up inside the embassy, surrounded by hostile police and troops. And so am I, privileged to bring images to the world but struggling with food shortages, a lack of sleep and rollercoaster emotions.

Scoring an image of Zelaya asleep with his trademark white cowboy hat covering his face was a high point, and the picture has been used widely around the world.

But I’m tired of sleeping on the floor and being short of food, and my nerves have been shot by intimidation from the troops outside and the uncertainty about when this will end.

Honduras’ de facto leader Roberto Micheletti and Zelaya are edging toward negotiations to break the deadlock. But the leftist Zelaya insists he must be restored to power while Micheletti says he must face treason charges.

With both sides so far apart, it’s not at all clear when there will be an end to the crisis, or my unusual and uncomfortable assignment.

It began with a news flash that Zelaya had returned. I kissed my wife and son goodbye and rushed out so quickly that I forgot to put on my socks.

“Bye, see you soon!” I told them. Little did I know then.

After chasing a false rumor that Zelaya was in a United Nations building, a pack of his followers and reporters rushed to the Brazilian embassy, a modest two-story building. A crush at the door, and I was inside.

I was told Zelaya was in the next room, where he remains to this day. People entering and exiting the room confirmed his presence, but I needed to see him. A door opened and there he was. I snapped two photos and sent my first dispatch.

TENSIONS AT NIGHT

Zelaya decided to camp right where he was. His supporters celebrated and slept outside. With a cement floor as my mattress and a backpack as pillow, I got no sleep amid the screams and chanting.

The government responded quickly, with soldiers and police breaking up the pro-Zelaya demonstrations outside the embassy and turning on a high-frequency acoustic device to harass those inside.

Tensions rose, and we worried about a military operation to seize control of the embassy.

I slept with my finger practically on the shutter ready for what seemed to be an imminent intervention, ready to protect myself, ready to shoot.

After two days inside the embassy, there was no food, no telephone, no rest, no bath and no clean clothes.

At night, soldiers banged on their riot shields. It became a war of nerves. Stones hit the roof as Honduras’ national anthem was blasted out on powerful sound equipment nearby.

Then came allegations of a gas attack. Zelaya said he believed mercenaries were trying to force him out using toxic gas. Some in the compound had bleeding noses. Outside, officials said the odors were from a cleaning crew nearby. But it was unclear what was really happening.

Later at least the pressure tactics eased and I began to receive food, fresh clothes and an inflatable mattress from my colleagues on the outside, although part of one package was eaten by the police who had promised to pass it in.

Zelaya found out that my photo of him sleeping was being published around the world, and he called me over. He applauded the picture but we disagreed over how public officials can be photographed and the documentary value of images.

Two weeks into the standoff, we have developed new routines to get access to food, water and even the bathroom.

Zelaya, his family and closest friends have more comforts but there are just two showers for the other 70 people inside the embassy.

We now get food delivered to the embassy by friends on the outside but it can be chaotic. I have fabricated a spoon out of a plastic cup and I pay a Zelaya supporter to do my washing.

The supporters eat whatever the United Nations sends. Zelaya eats his own food and I eat the Reuters food. We are envied for the air mattresses.

At the end of each day I get another phone call. My wife says, “Our son is fine, we’ll see you soon.”

(Editing by Patrick Markey and Kieran Murray)

Supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya gather after learning of his return, outside the embassy of Brazil in Tegucigalpa September 21, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Hundreds of his followers pack so tightly in the doorway that they seem about to asphyxiate themselves. The door opens and I push with all my might to within two steps of the entrance but the mob is too much. The door closes and I am being smothered until a local colleague pulls me free. A minute later I try again and manage to enter completely, gasping. I race inside as if I was returning home.Today, as I write this, it is that same embassy that I have been calling “home” ever since.Right now it is midnight, the best time to concentrate and write about my experiences – complex, joyful, exhausting, arduous, but above all inspiring.I keep running and running without looking back. I climb a staircase to reach a room that has since become my living quarters. I am told that Zelaya is in the next room, where he remains to this day. People that enter and exit his room confirm his presence, but I need to see him. A door opens and there he is! I take two photos and make my first dispatch.

Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya greets supporters inside the Brazilian embassy after his arrival in Tegucigalpa September 21, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Then comes the fiesta; Zelaya greets the masses by waving the national flag. Even though joy is everywhere, a cloud of uncertainly begins to form…

LEFT

Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya waves the Honduran flag inside the Brazilian embassy after his arrival in Tegucigalpa September 21, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

RIGHT

Supporters of ousted President Manuel Zelaya cheer as he arrives outside the embassy of Brazil in Tegucigalpa September 21, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

He decides to camp right where he is. His supporters celebrate and sleep outside. And I, with the cement floor as a mattress and a backpack as pillow, get no sleep amidst the screams and chanting. This atmosphere continues until we face a cloud of tear gas at 5:30 the next morning.A large company of soldiers and police use more gas than I have ever encountered before, even in my home country Chile, to clear supporters from the street. The gas hangs from my mask as I step outside to cover the clashes. I soon have to decide whether to stay outside and continue as the only photographer covering the gassing, or enter the building again. When I try to return into the embassy I find the door locked. I bang hard but I know nobody will open it with Zelaya inside.

TOP

Supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya are seen on a roof outside the Brazilian embassy after police fired tear gas, in Tegucigalpa September 22, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

BOTTOM

Supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya cover their faces as they react to the tear gas fired upon them by police, inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 22, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

The iron fence of a neighboring house turns into my best option to climb over into a long alley with a courtyard in the back. Then, I scale a wall to reach the roof of the house and jump down into the Embassy compound. I am “home” again.

In the middle of Zelaya’s first press conference to denounce the military operation, soldiers on the outside use a high-frequency acoustic device to disperse the crowd.

Soldiers put up a high-frequency acoutic device to disperse supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya, outside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 22, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

There is an atmosphere of great tension. We believe our hours to be numbered. I become worried and begin to think of my family. Some followers on the inside of the embassy are evacuated. An important photo of Zelaya sleeping across two chairs gives me a moment of joy, as if life were thanking me at that very moment.

Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya sleeps inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 22, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

It is to be a somber afternoon, and a night to forget. I sleep holding my camera, my finger practically on the shutter ready for what seems the imminent intervention, ready to protect myself, ready to shoot.Wednesday, after two days inside the embassy, there is no food, no telephone, no rest, no bath and no clean clothes. A day of meetings for Zelaya and the tension continues, even more so at night. Soldiers bang on their shields as they surround the building. It becomes a war of nerves. Stones hit the roof as the National Anthem is played on powerful sound equipment placed nearby. Inside there is fear, much fear.

Police patrol outside the Brazilian embassy as ousted President Manuel Zelaya remains a refugee inside, in Tegucigalpa September 23, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Nervous journalists pace back and forth while making contacts and all types of interpretations of the events. Zelaya calls a meeting of everyone inside, but without cameras. The meeting is disappointing from both the human and professional perspectives. Among us are supporters of all types, humble, fanatic and political, a combination that makes me nervous. I don’t believe any of them. I want to leave.Thursday comes along and at least I am able to receive food from my colleagues on the outside. Part of the package was consumed by the soldiers who promised to pass it in. Then comes an alleged toxic gas attack; it seems the end is near. Everybody runs, but no one knows what is happening. In the end it is nothing important, if it even happened at all.Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya holds a surgical mask over his face during a news conference in which he accused the de facto government of injecting “toxic gas” into the Brazilian embassy where he has taken refuge, in Tegucigalpa September 25, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard GarridoZelaya and his followers assume a strange attitude towards us. They become tense and don’t accept explanations. They become irritated by our photos of them sleeping, after seeing them published in the local media. The local press seems to have twisted the information to political ends. It makes me feel suddenly exhausted. They all speak, they all know, but none of them listen.Zelaya finds out about my photo of him sleeping that was published around the world, and he calls me over. He applauds the picture for reasons I understand but don’t agree with. For him, my presence should be limited to being a simple witness.I try to take more photos and get closer to the experiences of humble people that are chasing the dream of living with social justice. The class struggle continues tirelessly.

Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya speaks with the media as supporters sit around him at the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 23, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

For the first time in a week I receive clean clothes and I take a shower. We work out a system to share the bathroom among colleagues. Whoever is inside calls the other when he’s about to finish, and the other rushes in when the door is opened. There are only two showers for 70 people, except for Zelaya, his family and closest friends.Supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya practice daily hygiene inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 24, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard GarridoOnce again on the hard floor, I try to sleep. Tomorrow my colleagues will try to pass me a mattress, which I await anxiously. I search in vain for cardboard. My back aches, but the fatigue allows me to forget and sleep.I begin to get into the routine of waiting for my food at the door; everybody wants to eat. Two days earlier a policeman ate up the food that one of my colleagues had sent me. Yesterday the priest that is keeping Zelaya company handed my four bags of food to the supporters because I wasn’t around right when the package arrived. I fabricate a spoon out of a plastic cup. Then I begin to think about washing my clothes, and end up paying a supporter to do mine. The supporters eat whatever the United Nations sends in. Zelaya eats his own food and I eat the Reuters food. We are envied for the air mattresses. Groups are formed, the family is expanded, the house is established, and I continue living here.As the days go by the tension persists with helicopters flying continuously overhead. Tegucigalpa survives between the fear and the lies.

A soldier with a mask is seen through a window as he stands guard outside the Brazilian embassy where ousted President Manuel Zelaya has taken refuge, in Tegucigalpa September 27, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Another day, more shadows, more photos, more Micheletti on the radio, more politics, more ignorance, more opposing pride, more history, and me in the middle. At the end of the day another phone call. My wife says, “Our son is fine, we’ll see you soon.”

For a slideshow of Edgard’s work from within the embassy enter here.

Supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya gather after learning of his return, outside the embassy of Brazil in Tegucigalpa September 21, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Hundreds of his followers pack so tightly in the doorway that they seem about to asphyxiate themselves. The door opens and I push with all my might to within two steps of the entrance but the mob is too much. The door closes and I am being smothered until a local colleague pulls me free. A minute later I try again and manage to enter completely, gasping. I race inside as if I was returning home.Today, as I write this, it is that same embassy that I have been calling “home” ever since.Right now it is midnight, the best time to concentrate and write about my experiences – complex, joyful, exhausting, arduous, but above all inspiring.I keep running and running without looking back. I climb a staircase to reach a room that has since become my living quarters. I am told that Zelaya is in the next room, where he remains to this day. People that enter and exit his room confirm his presence, but I need to see him. A door opens and there he is! I take two photos and make my first dispatch.

Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya greets supporters inside the Brazilian embassy after his arrival in Tegucigalpa September 21, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Then comes the fiesta; Zelaya greets the masses by waving the national flag. Even though joy is everywhere, a cloud of uncertainly begins to form…

LEFT

Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya waves the Honduran flag inside the Brazilian embassy after his arrival in Tegucigalpa September 21, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

RIGHT

Supporters of ousted President Manuel Zelaya cheer as he arrives outside the embassy of Brazil in Tegucigalpa September 21, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

He decides to camp right where he is. His supporters celebrate and sleep outside. And I, with the cement floor as a mattress and a backpack as pillow, get no sleep amidst the screams and chanting. This atmosphere continues until we face a cloud of tear gas at 5:30 the next morning.A large company of soldiers and police use more gas than I have ever encountered before, even in my home country Chile, to clear supporters from the street. The gas hangs from my mask as I step outside to cover the clashes. I soon have to decide whether to stay outside and continue as the only photographer covering the gassing, or enter the building again. When I try to return into the embassy I find the door locked. I bang hard but I know nobody will open it with Zelaya inside.

TOP

Supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya are seen on a roof outside the Brazilian embassy after police fired tear gas, in Tegucigalpa September 22, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

BOTTOM

Supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya cover their faces as they react to the tear gas fired upon them by police, inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 22, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

The iron fence of a neighboring house turns into my best option to climb over into a long alley with a courtyard in the back. Then, I scale a wall to reach the roof of the house and jump down into the Embassy compound. I am “home” again.

In the middle of Zelaya’s first press conference to denounce the military operation, soldiers on the outside use a high-frequency acoustic device to disperse the crowd.

Soldiers put up a high-frequency acoutic device to disperse supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya, outside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 22, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

There is an atmosphere of great tension. We believe our hours to be numbered. I become worried and begin to think of my family. Some followers on the inside of the embassy are evacuated. An important photo of Zelaya sleeping across two chairs gives me a moment of joy, as if life were thanking me at that very moment.

Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya sleeps inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 22, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

It is to be a somber afternoon, and a night to forget. I sleep holding my camera, my finger practically on the shutter ready for what seems the imminent intervention, ready to protect myself, ready to shoot.Wednesday, after two days inside the embassy, there is no food, no telephone, no rest, no bath and no clean clothes. A day of meetings for Zelaya and the tension continues, even more so at night. Soldiers bang on their shields as they surround the building. It becomes a war of nerves. Stones hit the roof as the National Anthem is played on powerful sound equipment placed nearby. Inside there is fear, much fear.

Police patrol outside the Brazilian embassy as ousted President Manuel Zelaya remains a refugee inside, in Tegucigalpa September 23, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Nervous journalists pace back and forth while making contacts and all types of interpretations of the events. Zelaya calls a meeting of everyone inside, but without cameras. The meeting is disappointing from both the human and professional perspectives. Among us are supporters of all types, humble, fanatic and political, a combination that makes me nervous. I don’t believe any of them. I want to leave.Thursday comes along and at least I am able to receive food from my colleagues on the outside. Part of the package was consumed by the soldiers who promised to pass it in. Then comes an alleged toxic gas attack; it seems the end is near. Everybody runs, but no one knows what is happening. In the end it is nothing important, if it even happened at all.Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya holds a surgical mask over his face during a news conference in which he accused the de facto government of injecting “toxic gas” into the Brazilian embassy where he has taken refuge, in Tegucigalpa September 25, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard GarridoZelaya and his followers assume a strange attitude towards us. They become tense and don’t accept explanations. They become irritated by our photos of them sleeping, after seeing them published in the local media. The local press seems to have twisted the information to political ends. It makes me feel suddenly exhausted. They all speak, they all know, but none of them listen.Zelaya finds out about my photo of him sleeping that was published around the world, and he calls me over. He applauds the picture for reasons I understand but don’t agree with. For him, my presence should be limited to being a simple witness.I try to take more photos and get closer to the experiences of humble people that are chasing the dream of living with social justice. The class struggle continues tirelessly.

Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya speaks with the media as supporters sit around him at the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 23, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

For the first time in a week I receive clean clothes and I take a shower. We work out a system to share the bathroom among colleagues. Whoever is inside calls the other when he’s about to finish, and the other rushes in when the door is opened. There are only two showers for 70 people, except for Zelaya, his family and closest friends.Supporters of ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya practice daily hygiene inside the Brazilian embassy in Tegucigalpa September 24, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard GarridoOnce again on the hard floor, I try to sleep. Tomorrow my colleagues will try to pass me a mattress, which I await anxiously. I search in vain for cardboard. My back aches, but the fatigue allows me to forget and sleep.I begin to get into the routine of waiting for my food at the door; everybody wants to eat. Two days earlier a policeman ate up the food that one of my colleagues had sent me. Yesterday the priest that is keeping Zelaya company handed my four bags of food to the supporters because I wasn’t around right when the package arrived. I fabricate a spoon out of a plastic cup. Then I begin to think about washing my clothes, and end up paying a supporter to do mine. The supporters eat whatever the United Nations sends in. Zelaya eats his own food and I eat the Reuters food. We are envied for the air mattresses. Groups are formed, the family is expanded, the house is established, and I continue living here.As the days go by the tension persists with helicopters flying continuously overhead. Tegucigalpa survives between the fear and the lies.

A soldier with a mask is seen through a window as he stands guard outside the Brazilian embassy where ousted President Manuel Zelaya has taken refuge, in Tegucigalpa September 27, 2009. REUTERS/Edgard Garrido

Another day, more shadows, more photos, more Micheletti on the radio, more politics, more ignorance, more opposing pride, more history, and me in the middle. At the end of the day another phone call. My wife says, “Our son is fine, we’ll see you soon.”

For a slideshow of Edgard’s work from within the embassy enter here.