First 101 Days March 14, 2023
Cynics call them “normalistas” because it happens so often. As part of the Women’s Day events yesterday, angry feministas with rocks and pipes vandalized a row of businesses in broad daylight, breaking the windows of a pharmacy, and generally wreaking havoc on El Llano, Oaxaca’s biggest park. This is reported to be a statement against femicide, which is so rampant as to become a leitmotif in Central America. Already in 2023, 38 women have been murdered in the state, at least according to unreliable sources, and 109 have gone missing [Oaxaca Post].
Graffiti on the subject is painted everywhere, as it was in San Cristobal, particularly around churches and other gathering spots. During the mayhem at El Llano, a young girl in a torn pink dress stood beside the vandals as they painted their demands on the walls, holding a cardboard display of candy and gum, watching the masked women as she worked the crowd for a few coins.
Downtown, Calle Colon and Calle Bustamante are secured today by National Guard troops and State Police with assault rifles, all to welcome an esteemed guest—Adán Augusto Lopez Hernandez, Mexico’s Secretary of Interior (Secretario Gobernacion). Lopez Hernandez is AMLO’s righthand man and possible successor in 2024 (although Capital Mayor Claudia Sheinbaum might have something to say about that). Like his boss, the Secretario hails from Tabasco. I am not sure if all Tabasqueños have four names, but the pattern does suggest that one of those names has to be Lopez.
The Secretary is a guest of Governor Salomón Jara Cruz, who has assembled dignitaries from across the state on the Zocalo to mark the first 100 Days of his administration. The celebration seems a bit premature (more on that later); nevertheless, it is the biggest crowd I have yet seen on the Zocalo. These are the true believers, and there are many (recent nationwide polls give AMLO’s party 60% support), hopeful that Morena lives up to its name as the MOvement of NAtional REgeneration.
So far, Salomón can cite aspirations more than accomplishments. The Triqui encampment has been evicted from the Zocalo, city water and garbage collection are still a mess, crime is rising, affordable housing is scarce, and the streets outside my place are still packed with tents of student-teacher-protestors.
However, none of the surrounding chaos shall burden the Governor on his big day. Wearing a pressed white guayabera with embroidered flowers, he speaks passionately about the so-called 4th Transformation, as coined by the Morena founder. His biggest announcement is that agreement has finally been reached with recalcitrant stakeholders to clear the way for Oaxaca’s highway to the coast, a 20-year-old project that AMLO promised would be finished last year. So, I suppose, promises are kept, eventually. Ahorita.
After Salomon Jara’s speech ends (“Viva Oaxaca! Viva Mexico! Viva Andre Manuel Lopez Obrador!”), and “the next President of Mexico” is escorted to his armed motorcade, a rain shower commences, the first we have seen in more than 3 months. For the admiring crowd this is certainly a sign, because, for believers, signs are everywhere.
If only there was enough rain to wash away the stink, or to put out the fires. On the 101st Day, young activists representing “Generacion de Egresados 2018-2022”, or the Generation of Graduates, leave their tents on Calle Guerrero and present their rebuttal to Morena’s State-of-the-State on the very same steps of the Palacio Municipal. While a masked woman screams her grievances into a microphone, a ring of gasoline and charcoal is lit ablaze.
Molotov cocktails are then hurled at the historic edifice, although, fortunately, the Cantera Verde does not burn. Nevertheless, every glass window is shattered, causing Sunday-strollers to flee to safer quarters near the Gazebo. Many, with phones raised, rush toward the disturbance to bear witness. Meanwhile, as if by design, a dozen masked men suddenly storm through the Zocalo waving homemade baseball bats, chasing away persons unknown.
Unlike 24-hours earlier, there is not a single cop to be seen. Maybe this is because it is Sunday, or maybe this whole anarchic performance is more coordinated than I can possibly understand. Unfazed by the choking black gasoline smoke, the one-armed rhinestone crooner continues to sing his lonesome song of love, which I can only take as a sign—Que Normal.