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By Laura ZĆŗniga

Another environmentalist murderedā€™ it says, and as the daughter of a mother murdered for defending the Gualcarque River, the news tastes of the recent past and of defeat. Yet another family that will live with the violence of the absence of justice. Once again, communities mourn the loss of a companion in the struggle, of a leader.

On September 14, 2024, on the eve of the 203rd anniversary of the independence of Honduras, we received the news of the murder of Juan Lopez. Juan was a defender of the Guapinol River, a councilman for the municipality of Tocoa for the Libre (Free) Party, an active member of the church and a strong voice against the violence imposed by the mining company on the communities in resistance. Juan was active on many fronts, but most of us knew him from the longstanding defense of the river.

Before seeing the headlines of the news, I saw the photo where his familiar face stood out, the same face that met us when we arrived at the community of Guapinol the day we went to accompany a meeting. Ā The same face that we met in the streets, in the protests, that face now appeared next to the headline that another environmentalist has been murdered in Honduras.

Honduras hurt us again, and we hurt on top of a still-open wound. We donā€™t want to see parades celebrating an independence that exists as a function of impunity for those who–in the name of development–stain our rivers with blood, water our land with fear. ā€˜Another murdered environmentalistā€™, it says, and as the daughter of a mother murdered for defending the Gualcarque River, this news tastes of the recent past and of defeat. Yet another family that will live with the violence of the absence of justice. Once again, communities mourn the loss of a companion in the struggle, of a leader.

Honduras hurts us and as of September 14, 2024 we will miss Juan. We walked with the comrades of Juan Lopez when he was criminalized for defending the river, just as many also walked with the comrades of my mother. These parallels break my heart, they freeze my chest.

On the way to Juanā€™s burial, we met many comrades. We whose paths cross often in the struggles, but the joy of seeing each other was mixed with the bitterness of the moment. The effusiveness of the greeting made us make the same mistake over and over of asking ā€œHow are you?ā€, knowing that the answer was ā€œbadā€, disappointed, outraged, angry–an answer that was disguised with the always polite ā€œWell, thank you and you?ā€ because our mouth gets dry and our eyes flood with tears when we want to talk about everything behind this murder.

In the midst of the stupor caused by the crowd and the humid heat of Tocoa, the Mass was a protest and a platform to denounce the murderers and honor Juanā€™s life. There were banners demanding justice and the green handkerchiefs as a symbol that the struggle continues. It touched my heart in a special way to find my mother’s face on the T-shirts worn by the people of the Civic Council of Popular and Indigeous Organizations of Honduras (COPINH) who attended. Their faces shown with indignation faces and understanding much more than one would like about the pain of this loss. Yes, Berta CĆ”ceres would be here, she was well known in this region of Aguan, yes, we too are here in her name.

The walk to the cemetery was long and like at the burial of my mommy, raindrops accompanied us. When we got there it was hard to articulate words between us, we could only embrace each other and commit ourselves once again to justice.

We will have to rebuild the heart of this people through struggle, mobilization, solidarity and, above all, rebellion against the system of dispossession and death. As the poet Urondo used to say: ā€œThe memory will burn until everything is as we dream it should be, yes my friends, they will burn in our memory.ā€

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