Finally. I know I was supposed to do this series a long time ago. Nevertheless. As many of you know, I was a part of a political delegation to build solidarity with Afro and Indigenous Colombians back in 2019. Honestly, I haven’t known what to say. Or rather, nothing I write is good enough. I have sat down at my desk to write this so many times over the past two years and by the end I scrap it all each time. I didn’t have much faith that anything I wrote would get through to anyone.

Two years ago I had been directly involved with movements for three years and already witnessed just how many people outside of the work do not give a shit. I know many people still treat our movements like trends or like nothing at all, but I am hoping that maybe with all that has occurred during the pandemic some people will have truly awakened to the extent of injustices we face and understand the importance of really fighting them, in real life.

The thing is, Colombia taught me so much more than instagram posts could possibly allow me to discuss. This has never been my preferred medium for activism. I could never keep up with posting all of my work here nor do I believe it all belongs on here. I am also a naturally long-winded writer and that does not usually do well on this platform. But I will try to share some here anyway because maybe a few people will read what I have to say.

Previously, I have started writing this series in the middle of the story. I realize now that I, of course, have much more context to the events leading up to, during, and after my time in Colombia than those who I am trying to reach. This is simply a prologue for the purpose of not jarringly launching readers into the deep end. I also felt an explanation for my delay was in order. I have decided this will be a six-part series to share as many details as this platform allows. It still will not cover everything I would like to say, but I will write a full length recount one day on a different medium.

One of many aspects that I loved about this delegation is the amount of care we gave for each other. The leaders held space every night to sit together and digest the events of the day. We cried and mourned and cleansed and planned and ate and cleaned and sang and laughed together. We listened heavily during meetings and danced heartily during breaks. I felt a love and hope in the movement that I had never before felt here in the states. A love and hope that I then realized is very lacking in american-based/focused groups.

A translation:

“Que es la resistencia, ¿si no somos capaces de bailar? La gente, nos salva.” - What is the resistance if we are not able to dance? People save us.

I wrote this poem at the end of the video inspired directly by words Charo Mina-Rojas said on our last night there after we chanted and cheered to the movement, to liberation.

Most of the activists we met with were not famous at all. Most activists in general are not. Instead, they are community members who are willing to put their lives on the line for justice, for their people. But Charo Mina-Rojas is a name you can google and see the work she has done, and I recommend doing so.