[su_carousel source=”media: 34247,34248,34249,34250,34251,34252,34253,34254,34255,34256″ limit=”60″ link=”lightbox” target=”blank” width=”800″ height=”540″ responsive=”no” items=”1″]

Nestor Castillo

I’m not saying we invented solidarity, we just made it a thing. I say this not to start some controversy, or to play “woke” olympics, but because I’m genuinely in awe of the success we’ve had in building solidarity between communities in the U.S. and communities in Central America.

This has been happening for decades, especially in the Bay Area, starting as early as the mid-70s. Many of these networks were started by Central American migrants and U.S.-born Central Americans who sought to bring attention to human rights abuses and to challenge the intervention by the U.S. government. These networks not only achieved gains for migrants locally, such as the establishment of the now controversial sanctuary city, but also established links between movements and activists in the two regions that remain today.

Just this past month, both San Francisco and Oakland hosted events featuring Melissa Cardoza and Karla Lara, two bad-ass Hondureñas touring across the United States in honor of Berta Cáceres, the renowned environmentalist and leader of the Honduran resistance who was assassinated a little over a year ago.

Their tour consists of a performance based on stories from Melissa’s book, “13 Colores de La Resistencia Hondureña,” written after the 2009 coup d’etat and which was recently translated into English with a special dedication to Berta. Karla, the musician of the pair, incorporated musical aspects into the performance giving it a popular, almost teatro campesino-like feel.

I went to Oakland to check out the performance, with hopes of meeting and speaking with Melissa and Karla. When I arrived I wasn’t sure if I had gone to the right place. I stepped into SoleSpace, the boutique sneaker store where the event was held, only to find a juxtaposition of high end sneakers on display alongside art dedicated to the Golden State Warriors (the best team in NBA history for the record), and a mostly aging gringo crowd. One thing that should be mentioned about Central American solidarity is it tends to be associated with a certain demographic: older, white, and well-off financially. While this is important to recognize, this association usually downplays the role that Central Americans themselves have played in building solidarity with their compañeros and compañeras back home.

I dawdled with a certain consumerist guilt as I waited for Melissa and Karla to arrive, picking up a shoe every now and then and examining it from every angle. I greeted the other brown guy who had arrived auspiciously early like myself. “¿Hondureño?” he asked. “Salvadoreño” I replied. We both nodded as if saying, “close enough.”  Moments later, two women, sturdy as the trunks of ceiba trees, walked through the door. One of them walked over to the brown guy I had greeted before and gave him a bear hug.

The brown guy was Melissa’s brother, who has been living undocumented in the United States for about 25 years. Melissa explained to me the sad, yet familiar, story of wanting family reunification. She saw him for the first time after 16 years on a similar solidarity visit to California with Berta in 2015. “Se que es un derecho [migrar], pero también hay un derecho de vivir en tu país si es lo que queres” She says.  “Mi hermano, igual a otra gente, no salió porque quiso, si no porque fue obligado, por condiciones económicas, por condiciones de violencia, y eso hace que sea una situación muy conflictiva, muy dolorosa”.

I hung on to every one of her words. Melissa and Karla both have a way with words. When Melissa speaks each statement comes out clear and direct, but not in a rehearsed way. Karla’s way of speaking is more inviting and warm, making you feel like you’ve known each other for decades.

“[Con Melissa] ya hace algunos años hemos hecho algunas cosas juntas, algunas canciones, algunas campañas, sobre todo de derechos de mujeres y compañeras defensoras de derechos humanos” Karla says. “Y somos también, las dos, parte de una banda de mujeres, somos 10 mujeres, y nos llamamos Puras Mujeres”.

The band name has nothing to do with sanctity (although I’m sure there is some irony here), but is in reference to an expression commonly used in places like Honduras and El Salvador. For example, if I’d been asked, “Was the event full?” I would have said, “Yes, puras mujeres.” And the entire event could be described similarly, it was an ode to women—the emcee, the opening acts which were performed by local immigrant women, and of course the tribute to Berta Cáceres. Once their performance is underway Melissa and Karla are like an olympic duo. Melissa takes the lead with the dialogue while Karla provides character support and the musical transition between scenes.

“Para nosotras como hondureñas ha sido importante mirar desde otro lugar” Melissa says. “ Que también gente de este pueblo están haciendo luchas de resistencia, distintas y parecidas a las nuestras. Eso a sido el regalo de la gira hasta ahora” They both talk about doing solidarity differently than it was done in the past. Moving away from a “green” solidarity in which North Americans send money south, to a “horizontal” solidarity.

I left the event thinking about Berta. The strength it must have taken to dedicate oneself wholly to the resistance, to the point of giving your life. Horizontal solidarity is not only demanding justice for Berta and other rebellious women who have sacrificed for the cause, but also to learn from Berta, and give ourselves fully to the resistance here.