The Digital Resistance
Young activists, organized via social media, led the fight to defend Peru’s elected president last fall. Photo by Joseph Moreno M via Shutterstock
A push for democracy in Peru went viral because of a global, tech-savvy network of activists. A Peruvian emigre goes behind the scenes to show how young people seized the day in Lima and around the world
University teaching assistant Jefferson Vallejos was grading tests this fall when he learned that Peru’s Congress had voted to remove President Martin Vizcarra. He wasn’t surprised to see social media light up with calls for street protests and questions about what would happen next.
Videos of a young man punching a legislator during a Nov. 9 press conference on the impeachment decision became a call to defend Peru’s democracy.
“After seeing the public uproar, I dropped everything and went to the protest,” said Vallejos, a 28-year-old Lima resident who has been quick to join political demonstrations in the heart of the city. He hurried to Centro de Lima not yet knowing that it would be the start of a historic week filled with confrontations -- sometimes deadly– between national police and people clamouring for democracy.
Vallejos was one of millions protesting de facto president Manuel Merino, who abruptly assumed leadership even as Peru struggled with a coronavirus pandemic that had left the country with the second-worst COVID-19 death rate globally and the world’s deepest economic recession in the second quarter.
Like the 2020 protests in Chile, Thailand and the United States, millennials and Gen Zers played a starring role in the popular reaction in Peru that forced Merino out of office after only six days. Young Peruvians rallied in all of the country’s major cities. And young expatriates protested against Merino outside of United Nations buildings in New York and Geneva, and at Peruvian consulates from Los Angeles to Paris.
Their collective impact has been so significant that in Peru, these young activists are being hailed as “La Generación del Bicentenario” (the bicentennial generation) -- a reference to the celebration of 200 years of independence this year, and the activists’ emerging role in politics.
But the fight for political and social change is never-ending. Peru’s young activists are still in the streets, demanding rewrites of the Peruvian Constitution, and justice in the deaths of two protesters at the hands of police.
In this Generación del Bicentenario, four activists, in Peru and in the United States, stood out as pivotal to the Peruvian resistance’s “going global” in this age of borderless social struggle.
What Happened in Peru?
The Andean country is no stranger to political crisis and uprising. Similar to its regional neighbors, Peru has seen recent protests condemning violence against women, corrupt politicians and inhumane labor conditions. Yet the protests that began in November were the largest and most violent uprising in the country since the Marcha de los Cuatro Suyos -- the March of the Four Directions. In 2000, that protest opposed a third consecutive term for then-President Alberto Fujimori, whose time in office had been marked by corruption, human rights violations and devastating economic measures that led to the country’s largest mass emigration.
Peruvian protesters hold a vigil for two activists killed by police in the November 2020 uprising. Photo by Joel Salvador via Shutterstock
The November 2020 protests erupted in response to Congress’ decision to vote Vizcarra out of the presidency over allegations of bribery dating back to his time as regional governor. That followed a congressional attempt to remove Vizcarra because of his ties to a minor celebrity who had won questionable government contracts.
Vizcarra had been pushing corruption reforms, but faced strong opposition from a Congress that has 68 members facing criminal investigations for everything from money laundering to murder. Although bribery is commonplace in Latin America, Peru has moved to do something about it, prosecuting government officials for corruption. Every living former president of Peru today faces charges of corruption, many for ties to the Odebrecht scandal that involved high-ranking officials from 10 Latin American nations.
Because the vice president had resigned months before, congressional leader Manuel Merino was next in line to replace Vizcarra. Merino had won his congressional seat with a little over 5,000 votes in 2020. He belongs to the Acción Popular political party, which overwhelmingly supported Vizcarra’s impeachment.
For thousands who rushed to the streets in protest, this wasn’t an honorable impeachment trying to rid Peru of a corrupt president. It was seen as a parliamentary coup. In fact, the Organization of American States voiced its concern about the political crisis, and refused to recognize Merino as Peru’s legitimate president.
After a week of unrest and the police killing of Inti Sotelo and Bryan Pintado, Merino resigned. Congress elected a legislator, Francisco Sagasti, as interim president -- until an election scheduled for July.
Neutralizing Tear Gas Bombs
After watching videos on how protesters defended themselves against tear gas canisters in Hong Kong and Chile, Jefferson Vallejos believed he could do the same. While he didn’t expect he’d have to sprint, the passionate amateur runner wore his special running shoes to the Nov. 14 protest at Centro de Lima. He caught up to and neutralized many tear gas bombs at what turned out to be the largest demonstration in Peruvian history – and the most vicious confrontation in a week of bloody protests.
“You had to be on the lookout for a shooting sound, then follow its trajectory, find the landing spot and then you had seconds to run and put the bomb in water with sodium bicarbonate,” he said. “It sounds like a really simple process, but it isn’t, especially with people falling around you. That day, I realized that I was useful, because not many people wanted to be doing what I was doing.”
Vallejos and other tear gas neutralizers risked their lives to protect demonstrators. Others who took on the same dangerous task were just “a group of strangers fighting for the same cause,” Vallejos told palabra. “I had never seen, in my entire life, such a level of comradeship and solidarity. Despite having to go through this awful situation, I’m glad to know that we can develop these sentiments.”
Vallejos had never seen police brutality like he witnessed the night of Nov. 14, 2020. He watched, horrified, as police shot tear gas in the direction of a woman walking in the street with two children.
“After seeing that level of violence… When I woke up, I had a panic attack,” Vallejos said. He rested a day and returned to the protests, feeling more energized. And, again, he spent the night chasing tear gas bombs, until he lost his gloves and could no longer handle the hot shells. A feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him as he saw many people injured. “I wanted to stay because I felt responsible for being there and felt guilty for leaving, but I was already broken inside.”
A few days later, Vallejos recorded an emotional account of what he had done and seen. The video went viral on Instagram. He had been inspired by the work of the Place of Memory, Tolerance and Social Inclusion, an exhibition space in Lima exploring the terrorism era in Peru, which compiled hundreds of survivors’ statements. For Vallejos, preserving the memories of this one crude week was crucial to moving forward and healing.
“We construct our identities from self-reflection on our own narratives and lived experiences,” Vallejos said. “I deemed it important to preserve an account of the political and social grievances but also, the stories of those who faced violence and terror.”
Protest taxis
Hillary Vilca remembers that when she learned of Vizcarra’s ouster, she felt like her hands were tied. As a 22-year-old college student, she was afraid of facing the police. She feared becoming infected with the coronavirus. Yet, she wanted to contribute. So when friends Cin Vasquez and Xime Izquierdo described their plan to provide safe rides from the rally sites -- an initiative they called “Taxi Protestas” -- Vilca was immediately on board.
“When I was younger, I didn’t go to the Pride Parade because I couldn’t afford a cab back home late at night once it was all over,” Vilca said. From her own experience, she knew there was a need for better options than public transportation for safe ways in and out of Centro de Lima. With that in mind, the three friends took to social media and their friend networks, and collected PayPal donations from Peruvians abroad. The funds covered rides in app-based taxis.
Big crowds of protesters took over the streets of downtown Lima, Peru, in November 2020 demanding that a suddenly appointed president step down and allow the democratically elected president to return to office. Photo by Joseph Moreno M via Shutterstock
In a week, @taxi_protestaspe got more than 11,000 followers on Instagram and 1,500 soles ($500) in donations. They were able to place some 100 people in taxis. With the help of 20 other volunteers, the Taxi Protestas team monitored the rides to make sure everyone arrived safely.
“My routine was classes in the morning, work in the afternoon and then starting at 7 p.m., calling passengers and monitoring taxis until 1, 2, 3 a.m.,” Vilca said.
After Merino’s resignation, protests diminished and the demand for rides declined, so Taxi Protestas began redirecting donations to support people injured in the uprising, food banks, and efforts to find missing protesters. New protests arose in December, demanding better working conditions for agricultural workers, and Taxi Protestas was back in action.
Vilca is unsure of the future of the social groups that emerged from the protests, but she’s determined to keep doing good. “We have such a huge platform now that we’re trying to make something cool out of it, promoting social causes and giving back to society.”
A social media battle cry
For multidisciplinary artist Xime Izquierdo, who uses they/them pronouns, the political turmoil in November was familiar. Their family had migrated to the United States in 2000 after Fujimori’s calamitous economic and political rule.
“I grew up seeing my father going to the protests and coming home with a gas mask,” said Izquierdo, who left Peru at age nine and moved back in 2020. “My father passed away a few years ago, but I feel like he would have been in the streets today.”
Izquierdo noticed a lack of international news coverage of the November political crisis. They knew of the proven censorship of the national news channel TV Peru. So Izquierdo took on the matter: “We were literally going through a media blackout and it was terrifying because you were like, ‘wow, like, they could kill us and no one will find out,’ ” they said. “I had police beating me, pushing me with their shields. They literally brought a huge water tank into the street and hosed us down. Then we were gassed and I couldn’t breathe. It was really scary and the most scary thing is that I felt really unprepared.”
A photo by Izquierdo posted on actress Isabela Merced’s Instagram account. The mural reads “No Hay Evolución Sin Revolución” (There is no evolution without revolution).
So Izquierdo began sharing videos and photos of the protests, especially those focused on police attacks on participants from the queer and trans communities. On Instagram, poet Alan Pelaez Lopez opened up his page to Izquierdo for a social media takeover, and access to his more than 37,000 followers. “I've been afraid to be so visible because the intimidation here (in Peru) is just on level 300,” Izquierdo said. “But I was thinking, I can either be totally invisible to protect my identity and myself, or be ultra-visible and in that way I could also protect myself.”
Motivated by the support they were getting online, Izquierdo looked for a larger platform to amplify their reach. “I thought about Isabela (Merced) because growing up in the U.S. as a Peruvian immigrant, I never saw any Peruvian people that I knew of on any kind of media, and seeing Isabela these past few years, it's been exciting, not only that she's doing all these things, but also that she's very vocal about being Peruvian.”
Izquierdo asked their followers to tag the “Dora and the Lost City of Gold” star in their posts and in a couple of hours, Merced reached out. After a long phone call getting to know each other and sharing family stories, Merced agreed to share her 3 million-follower Instagram account. Izquierdo borrowed it to share photos and videos from the street action of Nov. 14. “It was a really difficult day, the internet (connection) was trash and we were sure that the police were using blockers, so for a huge portion of the day I couldn’t send content,” Izquierdo said. Despite the challenges, they were grateful for the chance to share the stories of thousands of Peruvians from marginalized groups amid the crisis.
“I feel like queer and trans folks, black and brown people, are the most vulnerated by the state, but we are often the ones in the front lines,” Izquierdo said. “I want to live in a country where people's gender identity is respected in their ID, and all those changes need to happen from the root. If we're not out there fighting to not have a dictatorship again, we can't make all these other changes.”
The New York vigil
Despite his more than two years of experience organizing community events (it’s part of his job at the New York City mayor’s Office of Immigrant Affairs) Sandro Stefano Navarro couldn’t sleep the night before the political vigil he led outside U.N. headquarters in Manhattan. “This was something completely different to what I had done before because it was affecting me at a personal level,” Navarro said. The 31-year-old Peruvian migrated to the U.S. 16 years ago, and despite being far from his motherland, he felt a duty to support the pro-democracy movement back home.
More than 300 Peruvians gathered outside the U.N. building in midtown Manhattan. Photo courtesy of Sandro Stefano Navarro
New York City requires notice weeks in advance before allowing large-scale rallies. So Navarro decided to instead host a vigil, which is normally a calmer and lower-profile demonstration -- more like an informational gathering.
“I made a quick flyer, shared it on social media, and thanks to the connections that I have in the Peruvian community here, the call exploded,” Navarro said.
Sandro Stefano Navarro holding a sign condemning Merino’s regime outside of the UN building in Manhattan.
With help from fellow Peruvians Guillermo Estrada and Vanessa Ponce, the call went out across the region. More than 300 Peruvians attended the vigil on Nov. 15. “After seeing so many people, I didn’t feel alone anymore,” Navarro said. “I told myself ‘this is no longer my event,’ and started giving the mic to all those people who came to be heard.”
Peruvian music moved dancers and chants filled Ralph Bunche Park, across from the U.N. building in Midtown Manhattan. Demonstrators washed the Peruvian flag -- a ritual started in the early 2000s to symbolize a cleansing to eliminate corruption -- and held a minute of silence to mourn the deaths of young protesters in Lima.
Navarro continues to closely follow the situation in Peru, now more confident that he can play a role in change, even if he’s thousands of miles from his native land. “The Peruvian congress and president shouldn’t think that we [Peruvian-Americans] are an insignificant voice, because our voices can be heard in the legislative and executive branches of a country (United States) that can achieve great pressure anywhere in the world.”
---
Alejandra Arevalo is a Peruvian multimedia journalist who graduated from New York University’s Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute.