Photographers Blog

Repressed fear in a transgendered world

Edgard Garrido

Mar 16, 2011 17:34 EDT

“Even Obama cares about us! The last time a gay leader was assassinated in Uganda, Obama asked [President] Pepe [Lobo] to protect us and investigate the crimes against us in Honduras,” says Bessy, a 31 year-old transsexual who does volunteer social work with the homosexual community during the day. For the last 11 years, Bessy has also been working nights as a prostitute on the streets.

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.”

Seventy-two shattered dreams

Edgard Garrido

Oct 1, 2010 10:02 EDT

Carlos, a migrant and three-time deportee, commented to me, “I’ve been there and back, too. I’m a migrant and I want a better future.” Carlos’ brother is one of the 16 Hondurans whose bodies were repatriated on September 1st after being found among the 72 immigrants executed by a drug cartel in Tamaulipas, Mexico, as they neared the border with the U.S.

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.

Little house, big hell

Edgard Garrido

Dec 2, 2009 12:04 EST

November 6, 2009, Tegucigalpa Forty-odd days ago there were forty-odd days still to go, days of uncertainty…

Today we survive inside the Brazilian Embassy while the dialogue to reinstate deposed President Manuel Zelaya is dying. The afternoon ends and the footsteps of Lineu Pupo de Paula – Brazil’s representative to the Organization of American States (OAS) – jogging on the roof echo as the anxious heartbeats of Hondurans awaiting a solution.

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.

In exile with the President

Edgard Garrido

Oct 1, 2009 10:29 EDT

Urgent news flash! Ousted Honduran President Manuel Zelaya has returned to the country after 82 days in exile. I kiss my wife and son. “Bye, see you soon.” I rush out without a shower and without socks. The first information places Zelaya in the U.N. building in Tegucigalpa. It must be true.

Fifteen minutes later 50 supporters are cheering victory for Zelaya outside the building. His closest allies appear making gestures of triumph. Zelaya has returned, but it soon becomes obvious that he isn’t exactly there. The lie is a strategy to confuse the de facto state security that had blocked his previous attempts to return. Suddenly one demonstrator screams, “To the Brazilian embassy!” And I follow.

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.