An Interview with No Estamos Todes Pt. I
Juanpi, a member of the anti-carceral collective "No Estamos Todes", explains the current situation of the prison system in Chiapas, Mexico
The following article is part one of a two part series where we have translated an interview that was previously posted on our Substack. During translation, it was decided that a few words should be left in the original language for purposes of clarity; these words are outlined in the glossary at the bottom of the article.
Welcome Juanpi! Thank you for coming. How are you doing?
I’m doing very well, and thank you both for this space to talk.
Can you tell us a little bit about yourself, your story, and how you got involved in this type of work?
Well, I’m originally from Mexico City, and I’ve lived in Chiapas for 17 years now, however, I’ve been close to or inspired by the fight of our Zapatista compañeras, compañeros, and compañeroas since ‘98 when I started doing activist work. And well, I’ve spent 20 years coming to Chiapas, and 17 living here. From the enrichment and inspiration that we’re received from the EZLN’s fight, the collective No Estamos Todes arose.
How did the collective get its start?
So, this collective was born from very serious repression by the Mexican state. During 2006, it started to assist compañeras y compañeros belonging to la otra campaña, adherents of the sixth declaration of the Lacandon Jungle. In 2008, first we launched the campaign, “Our prisoners first”. And well, in 2010 the collective was founded, and from there we’ve started to work.
What is a normal visit to the prison like?
Let’s see, it needs to be made very clear that for whichever prisoner, whether they be a political prisoner, a person imprisoned because of the struggle, a prisoner of conscience, or a common prisoner, isolation is a part of the system of punishment and punitivism, where they don’t only punish the prisoner, but also their family. So, prisoners become isolated, and there is a phenemenon that presents itself with time, where it becomes increasingly difficult for family members and friends to go to visit prisoners for a thousand reasons.
And well, they stay isolated from the world, a matter that is no different for our compañeras y compañeros y compañeras who are political prisoners, prisoners of conscience, or people imprisoned because of the struggle. And in this case, well, the visit turns into raising awareness for our compañeras in solidarity, nationally and internationally, so that they understand a little bit more about the carceral situation, specifically in the state of Chiapas, but also so that they can understand a little bit more about the carceral situation in general, and why we don’t only fight for the freedom of our compañeras but also for the abolition of prisons, and the search for a system of justice where punishment and punitivism are not the central axle, but instead a system that seeks to repair the damage that has been done, and that looks for true justice.
It must be taken into account that many people deprived of their freedom, not only in the state of Chiapas, but in Mexico, and in many parts of the world, are innocent, and these people are regularly the ones that the state sees as preferential victims of the justice system, and have multiple things in common, right? Racialization, impoverishment, illiteracy, they probably aren’t speakers of the main language in the place where they live. It happens a lot in the global north to people on the move, they call them migrants. Here in Mexico they are people from pueblos originarios1, but also many, many people that are on the move and who are trying to get to the northern Border of this country so that they can cross in to get to the United States.
And who usually goes with you on these prison visits?
Well, there’s all types, there are people from organizations that we have been allied with for many years, but also there are people just interested in providing support. And well, I think that it’s a supportive embrace. To me, it’s a very noble gesture when compañeras come, listen, and open their heart. In some way, even though it is only an instant in their lives and in their fight, it’s very gratifying for our compañeros. It’s a gesture saying, you weren’t alone, you aren’t alone, you are missed, and you’re in our hearts, and well, even though we are separated by great distances, we are united with you.
What is the entrance process like?
Well, there isn’t a prefferable way in. Prisons generate certain regulations based on the idea of re-education or social reintegration of prisoners. There are many checks so that prohibited items don’t enter, for example, illicit substances, weapons, and others, as well as darker clothes or clothes that are similar to those of the authorities or police. And well, there are also other things as well, like regulations against earrings, and very tight clothing. Also, there are some fruits that aren’t permitted, some food that isn’t permitted, which sometimes largely reduces the chances of entry.
It’s worth emphasizing that in the state of Chiapas, much of the traditional clothing worn by our compañeras is dark. Right? So there is also an element of racial bias, one that isn’t small. At least on the Tsotsil side, many of their skirts are dark which often impedes the compañeras from visiting their families. And often, when their family members are locked up these regulations aren’t explained to them, and I think that aside from visits from internationals, that there also has to be thought put into the visits from people that sometimes don’t have these privileges of those who fight and come from the global north.
For example there are many people that come to visit a family member, and well, that entails one or two or three days of your salary, and leaving your children in the care of others in the best of cases. And well, also covering the costs implied with a person deprived of their liberty, that well… How do we share this with the people that don’t know what the carceral situation is like in the global south, which can include both Asia, Africa, The Middle East, and Latin America, where the state doesn’t comply with the minimum standards of care or protection towards its prisoners?
The prisoners and their families have to cover everything, all of these necessities, toilet paper, and all types of items for personal hygiene, clothes, and medication. So, sometimes inside of activist circles there are certain necessities that we can cover, we can’t cover all cases, obviously, but in the cases of common prisoners, well, it is very difficult, and from there, there is is a lot of abandonment from families which leads to isolation.
During your visits, what activities do you do with them? What is the most important thing for those you’re visiting to receive during these visits?
I think that the most important thing is that they don’t feel alone. Sometimes, well, the smallest gestures are the most valuable, having a chat, sharing a piece of food. Other compañeros that we’ve accompanied for many years, have said that we were their window to the outside world. So, being that window, we have to grant them that air, not of hope, but the air of resistance, the air of solidarity, and of mutual aid. And I think that’s the most valuable thing that we give, and they are the most tender gestures, those that can be given to those that find themselves deprived of their liberty.
Could you talk to us a bit more about what you bring to the compas in prison?
It’s important to highlight that this isn’t a paternalistic relationship. We faithfully believe in mutual aid, and in horizontality from our struggle towards other struggles. So we’re not coming to save anybody, and we’re not coming to help anybody. Many of us that have, and are, participating in the collective are anarchists and we faithfully believe in mutual aid and solidarity. So, beyond the things that are brought, it’s about mutual aid, it’s about the solidarity that comes from comradeship, from a place of accompaniment rather than a place of privilege towards anyone that finds themselves in a vulnerable position, and from a mutual struggle.
That’s why the sale of our compañeros’ handicrafts are important. It’s a dignified way for them to be able to obtain resources for their livelihood inside these spaces of confinement, and also a way for them to be able to support their families, which is a very important aspect of solidarity and of the struggle of those that decide to participate, and not only for this struggle, but also for other people that find themselves in some degree of vulnerability, where we have to emphasize dignity over all else, and not from a place of paternalism.
That’s why we also always emphasize the fact that this work means providing a service to the community, which is something we have learned a lot about here in Chiapas, where the same communities and the same people that belong to these communities or religious congregations or the diocese or anything else provide a service to the community. It’s an unpaid service, but a necessary one for the community. So we believe this is the logic of struggle and mutual aid. It’s not on a whim that we come to provide help, no, it’s a service to the people, right? And we will continue doing it while we still have air in our lungs.
What do they have to pay for? How does money work inside?
Well, they have to pay for everything. They have to pay for blankets, they have to pay for a place to sleep. Sometimes, if you want to eat something different from what you’re served, which isn’t always in the best condition, well, you have to pay for that too. Some medications aren’t in stock in the infirmary and you have to pay for them. So, there are many forms of work in prison and one of those is the making of handicrafts.
And well, we also believe that being able to show solidarity by buying a handicraft is a gesture that supports the prisoner’s dignity in themselves and in their work. It’s about their self-organizing inside prison, not based in this kind of “white savior” kindness, but instead from a place of recognition of the work they are doing, that they seek to do in a way with a fair price, which sometimes seems too cheap to me. But well, sometimes it is difficult for people on the outside to become aware of what this cost of living inside is like, and the value of a day’s work, and how much work goes into a purse that they sell you for 50 pesos (about 2,5 dollars). To me, it seems exceedingly cheap, but well, when people buy the handicrafts, everybody pays what they can, and what they see as fair.
And I also think that we can’t focus solely on what the state provides. I believe that we should also focus on our anarchist vision. We don’t want them to be nice prisons, because it doesn’t matter if the prison is in the global north or the global south, they destroy the people, and they destroy the victims of the system, it doesn’t matter if you are white in this place. Moreover, if you’re not read as white, and you’re a person that’s impoverished and illiterate, or a person with little education, you turn into a victim of the system, right? And it destroys you too, and isolates you, and you lose your connection to the outside world. So, there are many anti-carceral groups in the global north too that also participate greatly in the work of accompaniment, at least in terms of sending letters to prisoners, and I don’t think that perspective should ever be lost.
Could you explain to us how prison functions for the prisoners? What is a normal day like for them?
Well, they have schedules for when they can be in the yard, and they spend a good part of the day in their cells. And well, it depends on the prisoner. I don’t think there is something homogeneous that they all share. Everyone makes their own strategies for survival inside prison, some isolate themselves, others play a lot of sports, others make handicrafts, others… I don’t know, write? It all depends on the prisoner. Though one thing that has to be highlighted is the discipline of the body. And well, like Foucault said, the school, the prison, the army, the factory, they reduce and discipline the body in an instance of confinement. So this has to be taken into account, right? They have a schedule for waking up, they have a scheduled time for leaving their cell, they have a scheduled time for entering their cell, they have a scheduled time to eat, and also, well, this is what confinement is.
There was a compañero that spent multiple years in prison and after he left he asked us to go on a walk with the other compañeros that accompanied him during his time, and told us that he had spent 8 years without seeing the moon, 8 years without seeing a dog, 8 years without seeing a tree, and 10 years without seeing a river. And you know, sometimes, depending on the prison, they spend years without seeing a child.
So I think that awareness must grow from there, awareness that, probably, the mechanisms of confinement don’t reinsert you into society. What the system does is expel you from it, and afterwards, you’ll probably leave with more resentment than you entered with, right? Because of the injustice that occurs. And taking into account that prisons are designed for the poor, I mean, there aren’t rich people inside these prisons, or there will be one or two that come, but only to set an example, or so that society remains happy that “justice is being done”. However, prisons are always designed for the people who have less.
Thank you for reading part one of this two part series of “An Interview with No Estamos Todes”. Remember to share this article with the collectives you are connected with and all others involved in the struggle. And if you happen to come to Mexico or Chiapas, you can contact us to help accompany you with these visits to prison, as well as continuing the collective’s struggle on social media on Instagram at “gt_noestamostodxs”.
A term used in place of “indigenous” to refer to the first nations peoples of Abya Yala.