Essential Afro-Latino/ Caribbean Current Events

[Yehuda]

80 Years On, Dominicans And Haitians Revisit Painful Memories Of Parsley Massacre'

October 7, 20178:20 AM ET

MARLON BISHOP | TATIANA FERNANDEZ

A boy cools down near a waterfall in Loma de Cabrera, Dominican Republic, near the border with Haiti. Local legend has it that Haitians hid in the caves behind the waterfall during the 1937 massacre. Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Even before Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo carved it in blood, the 224-mile border dividing the island of Hispaniola between Haiti and the Dominican Republic was complicated. Tensions between the two countries stemmed back to a 19th century war. But in many ways, the border, which existed mostly on paper, was a notably seamless site: Children crossed back and forth freely to go to school on one side and home on the other. Sprawling cattle ranches spanned the divide, and Dominicans and Haitians mingled and intermarried frequently.

That ended on Oct. 2, 1937, when the Dominican military, under Trujillo's orders, began to execute Haitian families as well as Dominicans of Haitian descent. The killings, many of which took place in the border region, were mostly carried out by machete to help sell the regime's official account that the massacre was a spontaneous uprising of patriotic Dominican farmers against Haitian cattle thieves.

The killing lasted between five and eight days. Afterward, there was a moratorium on newspapers covering the massacre, and Trujillo refused to publicly admit his government's role or accept responsibility.

After the dictator was assassinated in 1961, researchers began to investigate what had been an off-limits subject, conducting interviews, digging through documents and putting together the pieces of what happened. Estimates of the number of dead still vary widely — from less than 1,000 to 30,000. Mass graves were never found.

Commonly known as the Parsley Massacre — Haitians and Dominicans pronounce the Spanish word perejil differently and, according to a popular though unconfirmed story, this was used as a litmus test of their origins — the killings are now acknowledged by Dominican society at large and taught in schools. But in many ways, the massacre remains a historical footnote, seen as an uncomfortable reminder of a brutal past.

Eighty years after the Parsley Massacre, survivors and descendants of those who lived through that time shared their stories with a team from NPR's Latino USA.

Still scared

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Francisco Pierre, 90, was born to Haitian and Dominican parents in Loma de Cabrera, a Dominican town near the border with Haiti. He was 10 when a neighbor stopped by his house and called out, "Jump up and go across to Haiti right now, because they're killing people in the village."

Pierre remembers filling a calabash with rice, loading up the family donkey and fleeing with his grandmother toward Haiti. Along the way, they passed the corpses of those who didn't make it. He lives in Ouanaminthe, Haiti, and has only returned once to the Dominican Republic — to visit a hospital when he was seriously ill. "I was scared of Dominicans," he says.

A 'Massacre River' to safety

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

The Massacre River — named not for the 1937 killings, but an earlier massacre — marks the border in the northwest of the Dominican Republic. Many Haitians fleeing Trujillo's army crossed this river to reach safety in 1937. These days, Haitian merchants buying agricultural products in the Dominican Republic cross the river daily to avoid customs officials.

Starting from scratch

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

"My father worked the land," recalls Germéne Julien (right), 83, born in the Dominican Republic. "He left behind a huge garden of yucca, rice and many other things." She was 3 years old when she fled with her parents and remembers they crossed the border in the afternoon. "Many members of my family were traveling from Montecristi and died on the journey," she says.

In Haiti, where she lives today in a simple, mud-walled house (left), they had to start from scratch. "If we had known this would have happened in advance, we could have brought over the things we lost," she says.

'I will fix this'

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Across the street from this park in Dajabon, Dominican Republic, is the site of what used to be a government building where Trujillo, on a tour of the border area, is said to have told supporters about the massacre on Oct. 2, 1937. He claimed falsely that Haitian marauders were attacking Dominican farmers. According to a contemporary account, he said, "To the Dominicans who were complaining of the depredations by Haitians living among them thefts of cattle, provisions, fruits, etc., and were thus prevented from enjoying in peace the products of their labor, I have responded, 'I will fix this.' And we have already begun to remedy the situation."

'He hated us'

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Under pressure from the United States, Mexico and Cuba, Trujillo paid an indemnity of $525,000 in 1938 (equivalent to about $9 million today) to the Haitian government, which used a portion of the money to set up colonies for refugees from the massacre. Survivor Gilbert Jean, 93, (left) lives in Dosmond, one of those colonies. He says his family was friendly with local officials, who warned them about the coming massacre so they could flee before the soldiers caught them. "Trujillo did it because he hated us, because he didn't want to see black people in his country. It was in his roots to be racist," he says.

Willy Azema, president of the Dosmond colony and a descendant of survivors, points (right) to a list of refugees and the land apportioned to them. "Our relatives came here with nothing but the clothes on their back," he says. He points out the poor housing and lack of a medical clinic and drinkable water in the colony. "Look around, we aren't living the way a human being should live, and it's the fault of the people who committed the massacre," he says.

A complicated history

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

The Dominican Republic has the peculiarity of celebrating its independence not from a colonial power, but from Haiti, which ruled the entire island of Hispaniola for 22 years in the early 19th century. But the Dominican Republic won independence a second time — in 1865, after the Dominican Restoration War, in which Haiti helped the Dominican Republic fight Spain. A monument near the border, in the Dominican town of Capotillo, celebrates the start of that war.

Encouraging dialogue

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Regino Martinez, a Jesuit priest based in the Dominican border city of Dajabon, believes that dialogue about the 1937 massacre would help Dominican-Haitian relations — which remain tense today. He is involved in an annual commemoration of the massacre in Dajabon called Border of Lights, organized by a group of international scholars and activists, including many Dominicans and Haitian-Americans.

'Dominicans and Haitians fell in love then, just like today'

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Paulina Recio, 84, keeps a portrait of her and her late husband in her living room in Restauración, Dominican Republic. Paulina is half-Dominican, half-Haitian. "Dominicans and Haitians fell in love then, just like today," she says. When she grew up in Restauración, she says, it was a completely Haitian town. "Dominicans didn't live here, it was Haitians."

Part of Trujillo's "Dominicanization" process after the massacre involved bringing new Dominican settlers and infrastructure to towns on the border. Another was replacing place names, which often were in French or Haitian Creole, to patriotic-sounding names in Spanish. A new province in the Dominican northwest was named Liberator.

A granddaughter makes amends

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Nancy Betances' grandfather Rafael Enrique Betances was a Dominican military officer stationed in Loma de Cabrera during the massacre. "He had to participate and kill," she says. Now she tries to make amends by helping Haitian immigrants. More than 660,000 Haitians and their descendants live in the Dominican Republic, according to a U.N. census in 2012. Not everyone in town appreciates Betances' efforts. "People say that [my grandfather] defended the country," she says, "and that he'd be rolling over in his grave if he knew what I was doing."

A cross-border pastime

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Playing dominoes is a passion shared by people on both sides of the border. In the Haitian border town of Ouanaminthe, residents relax with an afternoon game. Eighty years after the massacre, tensions between the Dominican Republic and Haiti remain high, in part because of the large numbers of Haitian immigrants who come to the Dominican Republic to work for low wages in fields like construction. One right-wing Dominican politician has suggested building a wall on the border to send a message to migrants. Yet in the border region itself, where Haitians and Dominicans interact in markets, schools and other places every day, people mostly get along well.

People walk down a street in Loma de Cabrera, Dominican Republic. In many ways, the Parsley Massacre remains a historical footnote in the country, seen as an uncomfortable reminder of a brutal past. Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA


Marlon Bishop, a producer for NPR's Latino USA, traveled to the Dominican-Haitian border region with Dominican freelance photographer Tatiana Fernandez to find survivors of the Parsley Massacre and document their memories. A Latino USA radio special commemorating the 80th anniversary of the 1937 killings aired this week on NPR stations.

80 Years On, Dominicans And Haitians Revisit Painful Memories Of Parsley Massacre'

 

[Bawon Samedi]

80 Years On, Dominicans And Haitians Revisit Painful Memories Of Parsley Massacre'

October 7, 20178:20 AM ET

MARLON BISHOP | TATIANA FERNANDEZ

A boy cools down near a waterfall in Loma de Cabrera, Dominican Republic, near the border with Haiti. Local legend has it that Haitians hid in the caves behind the waterfall during the 1937 massacre. Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Even before Dominican dictator Rafael Trujillo carved it in blood, the 224-mile border dividing the island of Hispaniola between Haiti and the Dominican Republic was complicated. Tensions between the two countries stemmed back to a 19th century war. But in many ways, the border, which existed mostly on paper, was a notably seamless site: Children crossed back and forth freely to go to school on one side and home on the other. Sprawling cattle ranches spanned the divide, and Dominicans and Haitians mingled and intermarried frequently.

That ended on Oct. 2, 1937, when the Dominican military, under Trujillo's orders, began to execute Haitian families as well as Dominicans of Haitian descent. The killings, many of which took place in the border region, were mostly carried out by machete to help sell the regime's official account that the massacre was a spontaneous uprising of patriotic Dominican farmers against Haitian cattle thieves.

The killing lasted between five and eight days. Afterward, there was a moratorium on newspapers covering the massacre, and Trujillo refused to publicly admit his government's role or accept responsibility.

After the dictator was assassinated in 1961, researchers began to investigate what had been an off-limits subject, conducting interviews, digging through documents and putting together the pieces of what happened. Estimates of the number of dead still vary widely — from less than 1,000 to 30,000. Mass graves were never found.

Commonly known as the Parsley Massacre — Haitians and Dominicans pronounce the Spanish word perejil differently and, according to a popular though unconfirmed story, this was used as a litmus test of their origins — the killings are now acknowledged by Dominican society at large and taught in schools. But in many ways, the massacre remains a historical footnote, seen as an uncomfortable reminder of a brutal past.

Eighty years after the Parsley Massacre, survivors and descendants of those who lived through that time shared their stories with a team from NPR's Latino USA.

Still scared

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Francisco Pierre, 90, was born to Haitian and Dominican parents in Loma de Cabrera, a Dominican town near the border with Haiti. He was 10 when a neighbor stopped by his house and called out, "Jump up and go across to Haiti right now, because they're killing people in the village."

Pierre remembers filling a calabash with rice, loading up the family donkey and fleeing with his grandmother toward Haiti. Along the way, they passed the corpses of those who didn't make it. He lives in Ouanaminthe, Haiti, and has only returned once to the Dominican Republic — to visit a hospital when he was seriously ill. "I was scared of Dominicans," he says.

A 'Massacre River' to safety

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

The Massacre River — named not for the 1937 killings, but an earlier massacre — marks the border in the northwest of the Dominican Republic. Many Haitians fleeing Trujillo's army crossed this river to reach safety in 1937. These days, Haitian merchants buying agricultural products in the Dominican Republic cross the river daily to avoid customs officials.

Starting from scratch

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

"My father worked the land," recalls Germéne Julien (right), 83, born in the Dominican Republic. "He left behind a huge garden of yucca, rice and many other things." She was 3 years old when she fled with her parents and remembers they crossed the border in the afternoon. "Many members of my family were traveling from Montecristi and died on the journey," she says.

In Haiti, where she lives today in a simple, mud-walled house (left), they had to start from scratch. "If we had known this would have happened in advance, we could have brought over the things we lost," she says.

'I will fix this'

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Across the street from this park in Dajabon, Dominican Republic, is the site of what used to be a government building where Trujillo, on a tour of the border area, is said to have told supporters about the massacre on Oct. 2, 1937. He claimed falsely that Haitian marauders were attacking Dominican farmers. According to a contemporary account, he said, "To the Dominicans who were complaining of the depredations by Haitians living among them thefts of cattle, provisions, fruits, etc., and were thus prevented from enjoying in peace the products of their labor, I have responded, 'I will fix this.' And we have already begun to remedy the situation."

'He hated us'

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Under pressure from the United States, Mexico and Cuba, Trujillo paid an indemnity of $525,000 in 1938 (equivalent to about $9 million today) to the Haitian government, which used a portion of the money to set up colonies for refugees from the massacre. Survivor Gilbert Jean, 93, (left) lives in Dosmond, one of those colonies. He says his family was friendly with local officials, who warned them about the coming massacre so they could flee before the soldiers caught them. "Trujillo did it because he hated us, because he didn't want to see black people in his country. It was in his roots to be racist," he says.

Willy Azema, president of the Dosmond colony and a descendant of survivors, points (right) to a list of refugees and the land apportioned to them. "Our relatives came here with nothing but the clothes on their back," he says. He points out the poor housing and lack of a medical clinic and drinkable water in the colony. "Look around, we aren't living the way a human being should live, and it's the fault of the people who committed the massacre," he says.

A complicated history

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

The Dominican Republic has the peculiarity of celebrating its independence not from a colonial power, but from Haiti, which ruled the entire island of Hispaniola for 22 years in the early 19th century. But the Dominican Republic won independence a second time — in 1865, after the Dominican Restoration War, in which Haiti helped the Dominican Republic fight Spain. A monument near the border, in the Dominican town of Capotillo, celebrates the start of that war.

Encouraging dialogue

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Regino Martinez, a Jesuit priest based in the Dominican border city of Dajabon, believes that dialogue about the 1937 massacre would help Dominican-Haitian relations — which remain tense today. He is involved in an annual commemoration of the massacre in Dajabon called Border of Lights, organized by a group of international scholars and activists, including many Dominicans and Haitian-Americans.

'Dominicans and Haitians fell in love then, just like today'

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Paulina Recio, 84, keeps a portrait of her and her late husband in her living room in Restauración, Dominican Republic. Paulina is half-Dominican, half-Haitian. "Dominicans and Haitians fell in love then, just like today," she says. When she grew up in Restauración, she says, it was a completely Haitian town. "Dominicans didn't live here, it was Haitians."

Part of Trujillo's "Dominicanization" process after the massacre involved bringing new Dominican settlers and infrastructure to towns on the border. Another was replacing place names, which often were in French or Haitian Creole, to patriotic-sounding names in Spanish. A new province in the Dominican northwest was named Liberator.

A granddaughter makes amends

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Nancy Betances' grandfather Rafael Enrique Betances was a Dominican military officer stationed in Loma de Cabrera during the massacre. "He had to participate and kill," she says. Now she tries to make amends by helping Haitian immigrants. More than 660,000 Haitians and their descendants live in the Dominican Republic, according to a U.N. census in 2012. Not everyone in town appreciates Betances' efforts. "People say that [my grandfather] defended the country," she says, "and that he'd be rolling over in his grave if he knew what I was doing."

A cross-border pastime

Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA

Playing dominoes is a passion shared by people on both sides of the border. In the Haitian border town of Ouanaminthe, residents relax with an afternoon game. Eighty years after the massacre, tensions between the Dominican Republic and Haiti remain high, in part because of the large numbers of Haitian immigrants who come to the Dominican Republic to work for low wages in fields like construction. One right-wing Dominican politician has suggested building a wall on the border to send a message to migrants. Yet in the border region itself, where Haitians and Dominicans interact in markets, schools and other places every day, people mostly get along well.

People walk down a street in Loma de Cabrera, Dominican Republic. In many ways, the Parsley Massacre remains a historical footnote in the country, seen as an uncomfortable reminder of a brutal past. Tatiana Fernandez for Latino USA


Marlon Bishop, a producer for NPR's Latino USA, traveled to the Dominican-Haitian border region with Dominican freelance photographer Tatiana Fernandez to find survivors of the Parsley Massacre and document their memories. A Latino USA radio special commemorating the 80th anniversary of the 1937 killings aired this week on NPR stations.

80 Years On, Dominicans And Haitians Revisit Painful Memories Of Parsley Massacre'

A good start.

 

[Yehuda]

Afro-Peruvians awaken through memory

Susana Baca poses in front of an advertising poster with a picture of her holding a Grammy. (Giancarlo Aponte/Archivo de Susana Baca)

By Carmen Grau
9 October 2017

An Afro-descendant woman with a child in her arms and a drum by her side symbolises the emancipation of enslaved people in Peru. This monument stands in Zaña, once a colonial city in the north of the country and home to a slavery complex that now pays tribute to memory with an Afro-Peruvian Museum. With this background it is no surprise that – a first in the Pacific coast – last September UNESCO named Zaña a “Site of the memory of slavery and of African cultural heritage”. It is not however the only place where memory and identity are making a breakthrough in the country.

Diverse artistic, political and human rights testimonies take us on a journey uncovering the awakening of a community marked by discrimination.

Susana Baca is vitality personified. She is an artist and a symbol of the rights of vulnerable peoples. A Peruvian of African descent and a Grammy Award-winning singer of international renown, as well as a researcher into the Afro-Peruvian roots in music; she smiles and her eyes light up when she talks about the Cultural Centre for Memory, her home and project next to the Pacific Ocean, 150 kilometres south of Lima, in the province of Cañete.

She and her husband, sociologist Ricardo Pereira, are also building the inclusive “Negrocontinuo” (black continuum) music school, where children and youngsters can train in Peruvian sounds. “The constant in contemporary Peruvian music is the black undercurrent, hence the name. Music is the pretext for affirming identities,” explains Pereira.

Baca’s warm image and her position as a renowned Afro-descendent brought her into contact with the most diverse causes during her time as Minister of Culture, in 2011, within the Ollanta Humala administration. Finally, art prevailed over politics, but she oversaw the creation of a public office that attends to the needs of Afro-Peruvians in a country where no body of this kind existed. The office is now giving visibility to this community in Peru.

“We, who were enslaved, give art back to the world,” she says regarding the recording of her next album, Conjuros, in Nigeria. She has travelled with her music from Peru to Africa, a journey back to her origins, to fuse the two worlds. It is not her first journey in search of black identity. For the book El amargo camino de la caña dulce (The Bitter Path of Sugarcane), in 2013, and for the second time, she went on a pilgrimage across her country in search of all things Afro-Peruvian, visiting the most representative Afro-descendant communities.

The history of the Afro-descendants in Peru begins with the arrival of enslaved African people to the sugarcane plantations. Uprooting and forced migration - dictated by the imperialist powers of the 16th century and beyond - and discrimination, exclusion and the violations of their rights throughout the centuries.

The liberation process in Peru did not trigger radical change. Despite achieving independence in 1821, it was not until 1854 that the abolition of slavery was decreed and, even under the Republic, equal rights were not granted to the Afro-descendant or the indigenous peoples.

The inequalities persist to this day, as illustrated by the official data in the Specialised Study on the Afro-Peruvian Population (EEPA), showing that they are disadvantaged relative to other Peruvians in terms of living conditions, education and health, especially in rural areas.

Although late compared with other countries in the region like Brazil and Colombia, Peru is currently engaged in a process of giving recognition and visibility to the Afro-Peruvian community. There are no official figures regarding the size of this community, and no precise information on its socio-economic situation.

Their systemic invisibility is confirmed in a study conducted by the Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean (ECLAC), Social Panorama of Latin America (2016), which estimates that approximately five per cent of the population in Peru (between 110,000 and 600,000 people) is Afro-descendant.

Owan Lay began the fight for human rights 20 years ago. He is an activist, like his parents before him, and has led organisations for young Afro-descendants, but it has been the role he took on in 2012, managing public policy for his community, that has allowed him to see some progress: the need for change had to be tackled within the framework of the state.

He worked on the National Plan for Afro-Descendant Policy, the first roadmap discussed in seven regions of the country with organisations, public officials employees and other actors, which provides the community with a tool they can use to continue fighting for their rights.

“Three hundred and fifty years of enslaved invisibility and 150 years of republican invisibility, marginalisation and exclusion cannot be resolved in a few years,” he points out.

“It’s not everything, but it is all we have to fight for our rights. It wasn’t easy to have it approved, because state officials don’t understand cultural diversity,” says Susana Matute, director of policies for the Afro-Peruvian population within the Ministry of Culture, and the visible face of these policies.

The plan envisages a new census that will include ethnic identification, which Matute describes as a milestone: “It is the first exercise being done to identify us in 70 years. It is an exercise of the right to visibility and social and citizen mobilisation.”

Politician and former mayor Antonio Quispe explains that he recognised that he was Afro-Peruvian as of that date, since that fight had not existed up until that point. Originally from San Luis de Cañete, a humble town of 15,000 inhabitants, he descends from a small farmer, trade union and labour leader on his father’s side: “My family made great sacrifices to be able to send me to university, to exercise leadership. I am a kind of beacon of hope.”

As a student in the 1970s, he lived through the fight for the trade union rights of labourers and miners: “But there was no fight for Afro-Peruvian rights, because the Afro-Peruvian movement did not exist as a mobilising entity. Nor did it exist in my home town, although everyone was black in my neighbourhood,” he says.

He sees the new policies as a pathway, but does not think they alone will translate into an improvement in his community’s very poor conditions.

“Nothing will change unless funding is allocated by the state. Education in rural areas or in the urban periphery is the first thing that needs improving. With the historic apology extended by the government of Alan García in 2008, the nation’s debt towards the enslaved people was recognised. The starting point should be to turn that into explicit, numerical recognition.”

Another voice that thinks that the policies towards Afro-Peruvians need attention from the state as a whole, at every level, to bridge the equality gap, is that of Rocío Muñoz. A journalist and Afro-feminist, her fights are informed by a gender perspective. Her reference point is the artist Victoria Santacruz who raised the issue of discrimination against women in the 1970s with her autobiographical poem, “Black! They Yelled at Me”.

“The setting is different, but her poem is still relevant today,” she points out. Concerned by the discrimination affecting women, she investigates the stereotypes of Afro-Peruvian women and how they are represented.

Skin colour is still one of the most powerful elements of exclusion and her findings confirm the data published in the EEPA, which reveals higher levels of discrimination in urban areas such as Lima, where this group continues to face discrimination on public transport, for example:

“The women are more insulted than the men in public spaces. We are more vulnerable and we are over-sexualised. In Peru, symbolic racism, such as ridicule, has become normalised and when we protest, as women, we are not allowed to ask for fair and equal treatment.”

“We need to recognise that this is a racist country,” insists Muñoz.

“And that way discrimination and racism can be fought head on, by educating and nurturing intercultural citizens, to make them aware that there is a body of knowledge and identities of different origins in the country,” she concludes.

This article has been translated from Spanish.

Afro-Peruvians awaken through memory

 

[loyola llothta]

Haiti - FLASH : Record transfers from the Diaspora exceed 30% of Haiti's GDP

07/10/2017 09:59:38

According to a World Bank note on migration and development, after two consecutive years of decline, remittances of the diaspora throughout the world saw an increase in 2017 that should expect +3.9% by the end of the year.

With 2.4 billion dollars of transfers from its diaspora (31.2% of its Gross Domestic Product), Haiti ranks 2nd in the Top 5 countries where transfers represent the largest proportion of their GDP. Comparatively, the Dominican Republic received $ 5.7 billion, which represents 8% of its GDP

Haiti - Economy : Competitiveness, Haiti last of the Latin America and Caribbean Region

At the regional level, Haiti is far ahead of Honduras (18.4% of GDP), Jamaica (17.4%), El Salvador (16.7%) and Guatemala (12.2%).

In addition, the World Bank mentions the existence of new migrant flows of Haitians in the region of Latin America in Brazil, Chile and Venezuela.

The World Bank projects that in 2018, in a context of improving the global economy, diaspora remittances are expected to rise again by 3.5%.

SL/ HaitiLibre

Haiti - FLASH : Record, transfers from the Diaspora exceed 30% of Haiti's GDP

Do not take anything from haitilibre ..that site is anti haitian and was balant cosigning the UN occupation of Haiti. Its also own by the higher ups of the Haiti mafia family. Anybody that really know haiti know that Haiti is going to shyt by the help of the U.S controlled Haitian Government that was installed in 04

Now on the topic:

the haitian government is shaking they own people out of money for last seven years . Not only taxing haitians outside of haiti but Haitian poor in haiti. The last past months haitians been protesting and boycotting. Haitian leaving Haiti by the boat loads is not something good or to be proud of. Brazil(leader) and chile was part of U.N force that suppress the people.

 

[Poitier]

“Blacks don’t buy”…Really? By the end of 2017, black Brazilians will have moved more than $1.6 trillion reais

Family of journalist Noemia Colonna (Photo: Anderson Benjamin)

Note from BW of Brazil: The title of today’s article is based on the myth that Brazilian advertisers use whenever asked why they don’t feature more black people in their ads. The industry is quite obvious in the ways it chooses to portray black Brazilians. They either feature them in various stereotypical depictions, feature them in a group of white people, in the background or not at all. And these advertisers are quite blatant about not even wanting to see black people associated with their products. They are ignoring a huge potential market of consumers as black Brazilians are projected to have spent more than $1.5 trillion reais by year’s end, quite a figure for people who are believed not to consume. It is also impressive considering when this blog started back in 2012, black Brazilian buying power was $673 billion reais.

But my concern is this. Great, black Brazilians make up a huge spending base of buying power, but where are they spending their money and with whom? Does the money they spend benefit the black community? I already know the answers to this, because, although there many black entrepreneurs, they remain highly represented in the small business market and are far from competing with the huge stores, computer-oriented businesses and supermarkets, etc., where the real money is found and made. And in the end, if our money is not being circulated within our community, the spending power really means nothing. As I wrote a recent article, it is only when we can begin to pool our resources to benefit ourselves that we will begin to see the power of “Black Money”.

“Blacks were those that most contributed to the growth of the middle class in recent years” – “More than half of blacks are in the middle class. 53 million people” – “75% of the people that ascended to the middle class in the last decade are black”

In 2017 black Brazilians will move more than R$ 1 trillion

By Silvia Nascimento

“Companies prefer to be racist rather than capitalist.”

This comment is by Raphaella Martins, Account Managers of J. Walter Thompson’s agency, during the II Fórum Sim a Igualdade Racial (II Yes to Racial Equality Forum), held last October 5 in São Paulo, seems to be an explanation above the reasonable to explain the lack of representation of blacks in Brazilian advertising.

The premise that “negro não compra” (blacks don’t buy) is easily belied by numbers. According to the Instituto Locomotiva de Ricardo Meirelles (Ricardo Meirelles Locomotive Institute), which was also in the event promoted by ID_BR, by the end of 2017, the black Brazilian community will have moved approximately R$1.62 trillion reais.

“Black Brazil would be the 11th country in the world in population and the 17th in consumption. If blacks formed a country they would be in the G20 of world consumption”

Other data from the survey show that blacks represent a group of 20 million people intent on buying home furniture, 12 million intending to buy a TV and 10 million planning to buy a Smartphone in the next 12 months.

There are many entrepreneurs losing business opportunity by not thinking about strategies that dialogue with the black community. And that goes beyond the black face in advertising. Honest purposes embrace your audience also with social actions, as we see great brands supporting projects for women.

The vision of black advertisers

Vagner Soares, art assistant at Artplan and his agency colleague, media analyst Letícia Pereira, spoke during the event about their professional experiences where they were always the only blacks in the agencies.

“I feel now that the changes are happening, they are small but very significant,” Leticia commented.

Photo: Vagner Soares, art assistant, and Letícia Pereira, media analyst at Artplan São Paulo (Credit: Divulgação)

She and Vagner made a “manifesto” called Dear Artplan People to raise awareness of their work colleagues on racism and their nuances in a didactic way, taking into account that most are white and probably never reflected racist attitudes they commit on a daily basis without noticing.

“The white people do not think about doing us harm, the vast majority are unaware of the social issues in the country,” said Raphaella of JWT, one of the people responsible for implementing the 20/20 Program that selected a group of 20 black interns at the agency.

Consensus during the debate, which also included the adviser of Youtubers Egnalda Côrtes, was the fact that the presence of blacks in charge of power makes all the difference. Racist campaigns, such as the Dove campaign in the US, are signs that black casting doesn’t always show a real concern for diversity.

Source: LinkedIn/SilviaNascimento

“Blacks don’t buy”…Really? By the end of 2017, black Brazilians will have moved more than $1.6 trillion reais

 

[Yehuda]

Buenaventura: From “Social Catastrophe” to General Strike

How organizers in Colombia’s biggest port city shut it down for 22 days, winning major concessions from the national government

By JULIANA VELEZ ECHEVERRI and ISAIAS CIFUENTES OCTOBER 18, 2017

OVER 22 days in May and June this year, the Afro-Colombian city of Buenaventura went on a general strike. Residents of the city surrounding Colombia’s main Pacific port had previously mobilized in 2014, against the soaring levels of violence, neglect, and privatization they had suffered since the 1990s. But despite government promises to provide basic infrastructure like sewage and potable water systems, the “social, economic, and ecological emergency” continued unabated until Buenaventura took to the streets. After three weeks of mass marches, roadblocks, and bloody clashes with militarized riot police, an agreement to end the strike was reached.

Juliana Vélez Echeverri spoke to Isaías Cifuentes, a social and political activist and member of the Students and Graduates of the National Service of Learning Committee (COES) about how the general strike was born and how Buenaventura sustained it. The conversation has been translated, and edited for length.

JULIANA.— What were the strike’s specific demands?

ISAIAS.— At first we were demanding that the national government declare a social, economic, and ecological emergency. In economic terms we wanted the reactivation of productive sectors such as fishing, which at one time employed more than 100,000 people in our territory. We also wanted a sewage system, an aqueduct, high- and medium-level hospitals, and a higher quantity and quality of housing.

[As a result of the agreement with the national government] there will be a 1.5 billion Colombian peso Autonomous Fund for Buenaventura to begin the first phase of the sewer-system master plan. In this context we will determine where the money will go, and form a 10-year development plan to solve all these problems. The idea is to start with solving the urban and rural aqueduct problem, solving health care through the creation of a hospital complex, the first phase of the sewer system master plan, and the construction of 40,000 houses. Then 1.5 billion Colombian pesos will serve to boost the fishing industry and reduce the unemployment rate.

JULIANA.— There were 114 organizations that were members of the civil strike committee. What kinds of groups were involved?

ISAIAS.— There were many community organizations. One of the strongest is the Proceso de Comunidades Negras (Black Communities’ Action), an organization that has been in Buenaventura for many years and is recognized at the regional and international levels. It has been focused on ethnic struggle, struggle for territory, and the claims of Afro, black, Raizal, and Palenquero people. Another organization is the Diocese of Buenaventura; the Catholic Church has not only made our problems visible but also participated directly in the street mobilizations and participated in the negotiation spaces with the national government. Then there are student organizations, such as COES, to which I belong; artistic and cultural groups such as the Pro & Paz and Tura Hip Hop foundations, the Rostro Urbano Foundation, made up of young people and concerned with reconstructing the fabric of our society. There are also unions of public-service workers, workers in the port sector, and teachers. Finally, neighborhood groups and Communal Action Boards¹ participated.

JULIANA.— There’s a long history of struggle in Buenaventura—how would you tell that story to an audience who isn’t familiar with it?

ISAIAS.— I think that the social catastrophe we are living in Buenaventura started in 1990—with the opening of Colombia’s economy. I was part of the generation that lived through the deepening of poverty and violence. The armed conflict intensified in our territory after 1998 with the arrival of the paramilitaries. They dismembered ² whole families, stole our lands, displaced people from one neighborhood to another, one comuna³ to another, or one city to another. They threatened men who had long hair or wore earrings; nonnormative sexuality was an object of repression. The port companies used increasingly sophisticated technology and built more road infrastructure to transport containers. These projects were prioritized ahead of the lives of people in Buenaventura, where poverty is at approximately 80 percent and unemployment is at 64 percent. There is no drinkable water, there is a critical housing shortage, and there is no medium- or high-level public hospital. These realities present a stark contrast with the projects that are developed in our territory for wealthy companies, especially those related to port activity.

JULIANA.— So do you think the arrival of violent armed groups in Buenaventura favored the expansion of port activity?

ISAIAS.— Of course! There is a report from the Center for Historic Memory titled Buenaventura: un puerto sin comunidad (Buenaventura: a port without a community) that explains how the rise of armed groups and the big port-expansion projects happened at the same time. Territorial control is related to the control of drug-trafficking routes. Buenaventura’s location on the Pacific coast of Colombia opens the doors to the global economy, but it is also a strategic territory for drug traffic.

JULIANA.— The port of Buenaventura used to be public, but in the nineties it was privatized. Do you think that before the privatization, people from Buenaventura were more involved in the activity at the port?

ISAIAS.— When the port was public it was no paradise, but the general social and labor conditions were better. There was a larger flow of money [to the community], workers had different working conditions, they had access to a pension, in general families had a better quality of life. Higher education was more accessible; most of the professionals we have now went to university during the period when the company was public. When the port was privatized, many workers were fired, and they were rehired by contractors. This was illegal, because people should be hired directly and have job stability. The privatization of Colombian ports generated serious poverty and violence in our communities.

JULIANA.— How would you describe the presence or absence of the Colombian state in Buenaventura? Not just in terms of labor outsourcing but also in terms of the lack of public services and access to security, health, water, etc. . . .

ISAIAS.— The national government transfers money to Buenaventura to finance health, education and basic sanitation—these transfers should be audited by a separate national entity. But resources sent to Buenaventura have not been invested. In 2011, more than 10 billion Colombian pesos were set aside to build aqueduct infrastructure, but the aqueduct remains obsolete. Where is the justice? Where are the entities that make sure the money is spent on the projects it was set aside to fund? The Colombian state has abandoned Buenaventura, but we cannot forget another statistic—that 90 percent of the population in Buenaventura is afrodescendant. We ask: Why is this population neglected by the Colombian state? The answer is structural racism. It’s outrageous that we have more than 11 watersheds and yet there is no drinkable water in our homes. For context, Buenaventura contributes an average of 5.7 billion Colombian pesos per year to the national treasury.

Out of the 42 municipalities in the Valle del Cauca area, Buenaventura is the most unequal. On February 9, 2014, we had a massive mobilization to defend our rights, and the national government made 30 promises in response, but they didn’t deliver on most of them, or only completed them halfway. We have a saying: “Un estado a medias es una verdad a medias y eso parece más una mentira que una verdad.” [Roughly: a half state is a half-truth, and a half-truth is less of a truth and more of a lie.”] Buenaventura needs structural solutions, and this failure of the state to keep its promises motivated the civil strike this year.

JULIANA.— Can you describe the process of convening the strike? Were there meetings and public debates?

ISAIAS.— The idea of a civic strike is not new. Core communities have been discussing the problems of Buenaventura, with the idea that the main instrument of resistance should be a civic strike, since 2013. But many of us did not expect such an overwhelming and determined response from the communities. We never lost faith in our people, who constantly go out to protest and demand access to water, but we did not expect the river of people that overflowed into the streets of the city. The clumsiness of the mayor’s office was a factor: They challenged our communities by saying that the strike would not last more than three days because many people in Buenaventura live on earnings from the informal economy. Indignation grew because on the one hand the government was talking about human rights, and on the other hand they were beating us with sticks in the street. Also, the participation of the Catholic Church in Buenaventura was very important: Its representatives brought to light the casas de pique—where bodies were dismembered—and mass graves. So far, the church has been committed to strengthening the rights of Buenaventura’s population.

JULIANA.— Did the strike have problems maintaining momentum? If people usually earn money from informal work—like street vending—how did they manage to live for almost three weeks without working? Were there communal kitchens? If so many people were out in the street protesting, who was taking care of the children, the sick, and the old people at home? How did people integrate the strike into their daily lives?

ISAIAS.— With or without a civil strike in Buenaventura, many families cannot afford three meals a day. The strike didn’t dramatically change the conditions in which most people live in the city. However, before the strike began, some families in better economic circumstances than the others bought extra food for the coming days. The networks of solidarity present in the communities of Buenaventura were what maintained the strike. Due to the socioeconomic conditions in which we live, people are used to sharing food; when you do not have enough to eat, you can go to your relatives and friends, who give you a plate of food, and that’s what we have always done. This solidarity is what has maintained our strength in the face of the state’s neglect. The strike generated very harsh conditions, even for me, but not eating three times a day is not so devastating when the community is so indignant.

JULIANA.— What is the relationship between the strike and other Afro-Colombian struggles in the country, in the past and the present?

ISAIAS.— During the civic strike, black people were fighting not only in Buenaventura but also in Chocó and Cali. It is clear that the state has historically been racist, and has racist public servants in its institutions. The struggle of the black people of the Pacific coast—Buenaventura, Chocó, and Tumaco—has been very important, and has made visible the historical problems that we have faced as a people. The government has learned that there are real people in these territories who eat; who need water, housing, work, health; who have a culture of our own, a way of understanding things and living things. The indigenous communities in Buenaventura also participated in the strike, and this has been an important link between peoples in the face of violent and brutal attacks from the national government.

JULIANA.— In the context of the agreement, what are your hopes and expectations for what comes next?

ISAIAS.— My expectations of the people are positive; in relation to the government, I am pessimistic. We expect the government to comply, in spite of what they demonstrated during the civic strike—that trucks are more important to them than the people of Buenaventura. In the early hours of the morning, ESMAD [riot police] were sent with tear gas and bullets to force people to move from various places where they had peacefully assembled, in order for 20 or 30 trucks to pass.

It is important for us to be able to guarantee that the projects are implemented, and that resources are directed toward real solutions to the problems we have. We continue to meet every eight days in the assemblies, and we have an executive committee that represents us before the national government. But we are also going to go out to the streets and neighborhoods of Buenaventura so that people continue to defend what has been agreed with the government.


1. Organizations that were created by a law to facilitate the relationship between communities and the state.

2. Dismemberment here also refers to a specific type of violence used by paramilitary groups—people were dismembered and the body parts were buried in different locations to hide evidence.

3. Colombian cities are made up of comunas, with several neighborhoods per comuna.

Buenaventura: From “Social Catastrophe” to General Strike

 

[Bawon Samedi]

“Blacks don’t buy”…Really? By the end of 2017, black Brazilians will have moved more than $1.6 trillion reais

Family of journalist Noemia Colonna (Photo: Anderson Benjamin)

Note from BW of Brazil: The title of today’s article is based on the myth that Brazilian advertisers use whenever asked why they don’t feature more black people in their ads. The industry is quite obvious in the ways it chooses to portray black Brazilians. They either feature them in various stereotypical depictions, feature them in a group of white people, in the background or not at all. And these advertisers are quite blatant about not even wanting to see black people associated with their products. They are ignoring a huge potential market of consumers as black Brazilians are projected to have spent more than $1.5 trillion reais by year’s end, quite a figure for people who are believed not to consume. It is also impressive considering when this blog started back in 2012, black Brazilian buying power was $673 billion reais.

But my concern is this. Great, black Brazilians make up a huge spending base of buying power, but where are they spending their money and with whom? Does the money they spend benefit the black community? I already know the answers to this, because, although there many black entrepreneurs, they remain highly represented in the small business market and are far from competing with the huge stores, computer-oriented businesses and supermarkets, etc., where the real money is found and made. And in the end, if our money is not being circulated within our community, the spending power really means nothing. As I wrote a recent article, it is only when we can begin to pool our resources to benefit ourselves that we will begin to see the power of “Black Money”.

“Blacks were those that most contributed to the growth of the middle class in recent years” – “More than half of blacks are in the middle class. 53 million people” – “75% of the people that ascended to the middle class in the last decade are black”

In 2017 black Brazilians will move more than R$ 1 trillion

By Silvia Nascimento

“Companies prefer to be racist rather than capitalist.”

This comment is by Raphaella Martins, Account Managers of J. Walter Thompson’s agency, during the II Fórum Sim a Igualdade Racial (II Yes to Racial Equality Forum), held last October 5 in São Paulo, seems to be an explanation above the reasonable to explain the lack of representation of blacks in Brazilian advertising.

The premise that “negro não compra” (blacks don’t buy) is easily belied by numbers. According to the Instituto Locomotiva de Ricardo Meirelles (Ricardo Meirelles Locomotive Institute), which was also in the event promoted by ID_BR, by the end of 2017, the black Brazilian community will have moved approximately R$1.62 trillion reais.

“Black Brazil would be the 11th country in the world in population and the 17th in consumption. If blacks formed a country they would be in the G20 of world consumption”

Other data from the survey show that blacks represent a group of 20 million people intent on buying home furniture, 12 million intending to buy a TV and 10 million planning to buy a Smartphone in the next 12 months.

There are many entrepreneurs losing business opportunity by not thinking about strategies that dialogue with the black community. And that goes beyond the black face in advertising. Honest purposes embrace your audience also with social actions, as we see great brands supporting projects for women.

The vision of black advertisers

Vagner Soares, art assistant at Artplan and his agency colleague, media analyst Letícia Pereira, spoke during the event about their professional experiences where they were always the only blacks in the agencies.

“I feel now that the changes are happening, they are small but very significant,” Leticia commented.

Photo: Vagner Soares, art assistant, and Letícia Pereira, media analyst at Artplan São Paulo (Credit: Divulgação)

She and Vagner made a “manifesto” called Dear Artplan People to raise awareness of their work colleagues on racism and their nuances in a didactic way, taking into account that most are white and probably never reflected racist attitudes they commit on a daily basis without noticing.

“The white people do not think about doing us harm, the vast majority are unaware of the social issues in the country,” said Raphaella of JWT, one of the people responsible for implementing the 20/20 Program that selected a group of 20 black interns at the agency.

Consensus during the debate, which also included the adviser of Youtubers Egnalda Côrtes, was the fact that the presence of blacks in charge of power makes all the difference. Racist campaigns, such as the Dove campaign in the US, are signs that black casting doesn’t always show a real concern for diversity.

Source: LinkedIn/SilviaNascimento

“Blacks don’t buy”…Really? By the end of 2017, black Brazilians will have moved more than $1.6 trillion reais

Wow....

 

[BigMan]

So English speaking Caribbrehs, in light of the hurricanes and other environment issues faced by the nation, common heritage, and CARICOM, do you think the Commonwealth Caribbean should refederate into one republic. Republic of the Caribbean?
i'm starting to think so
there are some big issues but i think long term it will be beneficial.

i'm thinking this minus Haiti, although Belize and Suriname's inclusion would have to be up to debate

 

[Yehuda]

Cuba’s First Independent Urban Music Label Is Dedicated to Black Resistance

DJ Jigue. Photo by Ained Cala. Courtesy of Guampara Records

By Sara Skolnick | October 25, 2017 at 2:00 PM EDT

In Guampara, Havana’s sounds of resistance find a home. The studio and record label is a consistent force in unearthing ways to maintain and honor the connection with Cuba’s past and its interconnected history with Africa, while also creating content that’s relevant to today. As label manager Laura Catana puts it, “It’s about staying rooted in the past while looking forward towards the future,” a mission she pushes with label founder and owner DJ Jigüe.

As we recently covered, AfroRazones, Guampara’s landmark compilation project this year, was a “Cuban manifestation of black resistance in 2017,” as described by the project’s Executive Director Luna Olavarría Gallegos. By bringing together 12 hip-hop, R&B, and spoken word artists in the booth, the project offered a Cuba-specific sample bank and an archive of transnational-rooted rhythms. It was the culmination of three days of media literacy workshops aiming to build sustainability for each artist involved, and also for the project itself.

Niño Fony. Photo by Jono Matusky. Courtesy of Guampara

This aspect of education is an ongoing tenet for Guampara; in Catana’s own words, “The lack of Internet access leaves Cuban artists at such a disadvantage because they don’t have the same opportunities to be exposed to what their peers in other countries are producing…we’ve got some upcoming projects that will offer more opportunities like this for Cuban artists.”

Guampara’s mission is not centered solely on connecting outwards, however; the project maintains an emphasis on educating the country’s artists and fortifying its homegrown scene. As a participant in this local community as much also being an organizer, Jigüe continues, “Our mission is to support the development of the scene of urban music in Cuba…to create cultural products that help to maintain our legacy, with a local eye toward our own roots and cultural heritage toward the future, with a contemporary language that can reach youth.”



While Guampara’s wheelhouse is musically rooted, it’s also extending into video documentation and videos, most recently fitted with a visual rendering of El Individuo’s powerful anthem “Mi Raza,” also from the AfroRazones project. The concept was developed by Eli Jacobs-Fantauzzi, who’s been a part of the Guampara team since its formation. Lensed by Cuban videographers Toussaint Avila Alvarez and Helman Avelle, and produced by Catana, the project was a collaborative effort, also integrating selections by El Individuo for the video’s religious imagery, like the palo fire rituals that were projected onto his skin during the shoot.

By wearing his pride quite literally, El Individuo’s message gets a visual accompaniment to the track’s mission of amplifying Black solidarity and reclaiming roots with pride. “This album is directed specifically toward the young Afro-Cuban audience, to show audiovisual codes as a way to translate a part of the message that’s within these linguistics,” Jigüe specifies. “The idea is to wake up the youth, to [direct them] towards the search of this information, to the search toward their roots, and to raise up the pride of being Afro-descendant in Cuban society.”

Team Guampara. Courtesy of Guampara Records

As director Jacobs-Fantauzzi explains, the complexity of an Afro-Cuban experience is difficult to melt down to one clip, but he was comforted by the final result. “We were able to create something that, whether the audience listens to the lyrics or speaks Spanish, they’ll be able to understand the message of the song and all of the sociocultural and political elements that are spoken about in ‘Mi Raza.’”

In strengthening this mission, Jacobs-Fantauzzi continues to innovate subversive ways to simultaneously educate and entertain audiences. He just finished editing the first cut of Bakosó, a project that Catana describes as “a documentary about the current day influence of Africa on Cuba, as seen through a genre of music that’s developing in Santiago de Cuba.” With DJ Jigüe’s influence on the national scene translated to a protagonist role in the documentary, the piece follows him as he travels to Santiago de Cuba to better understand the development of localized Afro-Cuban music traditions in a present-day context.

DJ Jigue. Photo by Jono Matusky. Courtesy of Guampara

While Guampara maintains a clear intention to support Cuba’s scenes and artists, the label’s artists have also been enjoying opportunities to connect with like-minded artists off the island, especially energized by the recent social media literacy workshops. Three of the AfroRazones artists, El Individuo, Positivo Siempre, and Amehel Missión Raíz recently linked with the San Juan-based artists of ÌFÉ, who similarly celebrate their Afro-diasporic roots. They heard the group’s recording of “Tres Mujeres,” a track that resonated with the Guampara crew immediately. The fruition of this virtual link translated as “Tres Mujeres Havana Remix,” published as an official rework on ÌFÉ’s SoundCloud page, the result of a collaborative writing process, live percussion, and vocals recorded in Guampara’s studio, and DJ Lapiz mixing the track.

As Guampara’s profile continues to grow, so do the opportunities to amplify the label and crew’s mission outside of their tight-knit networks. Jigüe and El Menor have been invited to play at the WOMEX music conference this October in Poland, and will soon be releasing new material to accompany the tour. Two other Guampara artists, Kamerum, and Niño Fony, will also be releasing EPs that are wrapping up soon with Guampara. Catana describes Kamerum’s sound as a “mix somewhere between what he calls Afro-Cuban trap, R&B, and Caribbean reggae,” and Niño Fony has “more of a raggamuffin, dancehall kind of vibe, and his voice and flow is out of control.”



In continuing to create a home for musical output as much as education, by early 2018, Guampara will be opening Guampara 165, an “Afro-Cuban house of music and culture” designed to be a hub for travelers that are also interested in plugging directly into to the music and art community in Havana. Guampara 165 will offer customized experiences like workshops, educational activities, and access to the recording studio, as well as more traditional offerings like dance and percussion classes. While hiring local artists and musicians through Guampara 165’s programming, the project will also be donating a percentage of proceeds to support the local community. As Guampara’s visibility grows, so does their capacity to give back to the communities that these artist-activists have grown from.

Keep an eye close to Guampara’s output on their Facebook page for future manifestations of Afro-Cuban resistance.

Cuba's First Independent Urban Music Label Is Dedicated to Black Resistance

 

[Bawon Samedi]

Brazil's Donald Trump?

Key part imo...

His racist, misogynist and anti-gay statements have been so violently over-the-top that the comparison to Trump – whom Bolsonaro sees as a role model – is almost unfair to Trump. He told a female fellow member of Congress that he would not rape her because she "did not merit it." He wants police to be able to kill more people, in a country where extra-judicial executions by police – especially of Afro-Brazilians – are already a serious problem. He claims that the 1964-85 military dictatorship was not a dictatorship.

https://www.usnews.com/opinion/worl...-jair-bolsonaro-become-brazils-next-president

@Yehuda @Afrodroid

@Poitier I remember you being the one saying the new leaders wanna harm Afro-Brazilians.

 

[Poitier]

Brazil's Donald Trump?

Key part imo...

https://www.usnews.com/opinion/worl...-jair-bolsonaro-become-brazils-next-president

@Yehuda @Afrodroid

@Poitier I remember you being the one saying the new leaders wanna harm Afro-Brazilians.

Yeah the new cabinet that was installed under Obama is overtly trying to roll back all of the gains Afro-Brazilians made in the last decade.

 

[Yehuda]

Brazil's Donald Trump?

Key part imo...

https://www.usnews.com/opinion/worl...-jair-bolsonaro-become-brazils-next-president

@Yehuda @Afrodroid

@Poitier I remember you being the one saying the new leaders wanna harm Afro-Brazilians.

Cac was calling quilombolas parasites the other day talking about they cost the country billions.

 

[Bawon Samedi]

Cac was calling quilombolas parasites the other day talking about they cost the country billions.

You imo Afro-Brazilians should to march for Economic power and self defense(i,e Panthers). Whats been happening to you guys is enough...

 

[Yehuda]

You imo Afro-Brazilians should to march for Economic power and self defense(i,e Panthers). Whats been happening to you guys is enough...

Ehh I don't believe in marching. For one people can stop voting for neoliberals.

 

[Bawon Samedi]

Ehh I don't believe in marching. For one negroes can stop voting for neoliberals.

lol. I dont mean marching literally. I mean strive for economy autonomy. Especially a place like Salvador.

No reason why all the leaders of thay region have been white(correct me).