23 de Enero

(Extract from "made in Venezuela" - working translation by Liyat Esakov and Raul Zelik)

The way into the inner city is like an excursion to another planet. The color of the people’s skin changes, the clothing, the way of moving – pictures that can’t be seen on private TV, unless it’s a program about murder and crime. I move around the stands with difficulty, it smells of rancid oil, exhaust fumes and garbage. Kids beg for money, curs scuffle for leftovers, the slogans don’t read anymore “Chavez must go”, but “deepen the revolution”. I feel as if I had passed during the 15 minutes subway-ride between Altamira and Capitolio a longer distance than between Europe and Caracas-Chacao.

I like it.

In ‘Diamond Age’, Neal Stephenson outlines the vision of de-territorialized states which consist of patches that are distributed all over the planet. The Anglo-Saxon-Victorian state, for example, is constructed by neighborhoods in Shanghai, New York, London, Cape Town and so on. These neighborhoods are connected to each other, but between the districts of one city there are more borders than connecting lines. Nanotechnology provides the barriere that deny the access to non-authorized persons in an invisible way. Nanotechnology - or clothing, money, codes of behaviour, private security.

I walk the last stretch. Near the subway station of Caño Amarillo, there is a place where the city seems to contract into a collage: some new barrios; the metro line that resembles a space station and divides the city in the North-South direction – subterranean in same areas, here over ground; abandoned buildings from the first decade of the 20th century that hardly can hide the influence of the colonial period; the white presidential palace of Miraflores on the top of the hill; and, on another elevation, the military museum that looks like a small castle. In front of me, there are horses on a dusty empty lot: every movement of the animals raises a cloud. And behind that, in the southwest, there are the blocks of 23 de Enero. They sit on the hills like fortresses, as a menace and / or promise. Their appearance conveys a mixture of defiance and pride. The 23 de Enero is like a ‘counter concept’ in a double meaning: social housing programs and appropriation. Dictator Marcos Pérez Jiménez commissioned the most famous Venezuelan architect of his period, Carlos Villanueva, in the 1950s to build a huge housing project; The ranchos near the government zone of Caracas should be replaced by social houses. Fifty big blocks of 15 floors and as many small ones of 4. If you watch pictures from that time, you can’t believe that these are the same buildings: sterile, functional low budget buildings with huge parking spaces, some shopping areas and basketball courts. Deserts of control architecture, but not uncomfortable. The apartments are spacious, bright, and well ventilated. Void of the typical Villanueva concepts: no experiments, no freely floating forms, no integration of art into the public space. Just cheap, practical forms.

But before the buildings are entirely occupied, riots shake the country. Marcos Pérez Jiménez who came to power by fraud the 2nd of December 1952, coudl no longer hand over the neighborhood, initially baptized „2nd of December“. The 23rd of January 1958, the masses overthrew the dictatorship. For some months, Venezuela became the revolutionary epicenter of Latin America – overshadowing even Cuba. Socialists and communists (and not a hardly defined nationalist movement as on the Carribean island) were the strong force of the revolt.

The people start to squat the apartments in 23 de Enero, at that time still carrying the name 2 de Diciembre. They, the most rebellious parts of the movement, appropriate the deserts of control architecture and turn them into a place of steady movement: re-interpretation of the formal. In the next years, the 23 de Enero, is a subversive bastion. There are no protests, no riots in Venezuela that don’t meet with response in the neighborhood. On the free spaces between the blocks, the barrios grow. Rancho settlements constructed of unfinished brick walls that turn into a regular neighborhood after a time. However, in a part of the city where the new arrivals can fall back on the structures of planned areas. Some 50 thousand persons live today in the blocks, some 8 times more in the barrios between the buildings. The 15 floor blocks rise like towers above a brickcolored sea.

I meet Miguel and Pibe. I knew Miguel in 2000. He is the speaker of one of the oldest community organizations. The press says he had formerly been in the underground. The police searched his apartments a record 48 times, but they were never able to sentence him. Pibe is Argentine, in his mid-twenties. He traveled around the continent and was held up first in Cuba, then in Venezuela. He is married on the island, in Caracas he has got a girlfriend. We stroll through the neighborhood walking up its slopes. The superblock above the subway station Agua Salud is considered to be a difficult area; drug dealing. The separation lines between the areas of influence are clearly defined. „Formerly, this was the <block of the seven machos>” says Pibe. Seven brothers, seven narcotraficantes. “But now, just one of them is still alive.” The conflicts in the neighborhood are settled between the community organization on one hand and drug dealer and the police on the other.

“Drug dealers and police?”

“Drug dealer and Metropolitan Police” Pibe answers. “That of mayor Peña.”

Mayor Peña is a leader of the opposition. I am not surprised. I know from Columbia that authorities use gangs and drug dealers to destroy social organizations. Economic interest and the delegation of control mix up with each other. The informal state, so to speak.

We arrive the upper part of the hill. From the Franciscan Church, you can see the whole Western city. In Caracas, the same thing can easily happens to you as in Bogotá. You move between North 20th and North 100th street and forget totally that there are 200 more streets south of 0 street. Just as what seems to be the west from the middle class areas of Altamira or Baruta, in reality is the centre from where you just start to understand the magnitude of the barrios. We stand in front of the church, and as far as the eyes can see, there are barrios. Miguel points at a school. I think he went to school there himself; He says that the Liceo Manuel Palacio Fajardo has the reputation to be particularly rebellious. In 1976, two pupils were shot here during demonstrations; demonstrations against the visit of US foreign minister Henry Kissinger to Venezuela. The coup in Chile was still fresh in mind. I am thinking about that when a garbage bag falls down from the 8th floor of the block. The buildings have tubes for the garbage. Outside, not inside as in better areas. Many of the tubes are rusted through, so the garbage comes down anywhere. But in this case, the bag was just thrown down from a balcony. It is funny if you enter the apartments in the blocks of 23 de Enero. Inside, the ambient seems to be middle-class: furniture, TV, DVD. „Many professionals“ Miguel says, „a lot of people with vocational training“. But outside the blocks, you have sometimes the impression of living in a slum, in a shabby social housing area. The street sweepers can’t keep up with their work.

“The street sweepers! We should erect a monument for them.” Rafael: another surprise. The man smiles. I watch his eyes. Light green, very striking. “If there is a roundtable with the public services in the neighborhood, we always have demands because of water and electricity. Concerning the garbage, it’s the other way round. At that point, they have the demands. We have really no culture in this aspect. There are two older men next to the block down here who clean up every morning and still there is always garbage next to the blocks.”

The tubes that serve as a garbage slide of the blocks, lead into a small open room on the ground level. Below the room there is a ramp on which the garbage can be pushed to a container. A strange system.

“Could be also a consequence of the system” I say. “Tube, ramp, container – that’s funny.”

“No, no.” Rafael shakes his head gently. “That’s our fault. The fault of the neighborhood.”

Rafael: a Franciscan who works here as a father. I like the Franciscan concept. Being part of the community, strengthening the solidarity, working on the collective. The missionary element is not too important, it reveals itself in the actions and not in the effort to convert somebody. Here, in 23 de Enero, the Franciscan cooperate closely with the community organizations, they are not afraid of political practice. Or expressed otherwise: the Franciscan community itself is part of the organization. Miguel and Rafael know each other for a long time. Miguel went to a catholic school.

“What are you doing exactly?” I ask.

Pibe met Alicia and stands some meters away in the shadow of a mango. I look over. Alicia is from a students’ organization. Her friend was expelled from university one year ago. They had occupied the rector’s office to force a reform of the educational system. Almost 80 percent of the students come from private schools, the society finances the free access to university for the people with higher incomes because only they can afford to pay the private school tuition.

“The normal church activities” Rafael answers my question. “As well as, all kind of projects which bring the neighbors together: parties, raffles, work with the youth. A lot of activities against drugs.” Drugs, always drugs as a synonym of social disintegration. “We have a cultural problem. I mean, of course not all things coming from outside are bad. But we observe here that the youngsters reject their own culture and try to copy imported models instead of that.” I think, how different a progressive discourse would be in Germany; Actually, the exact opposite. “It is a kind of self-hate”, gang culture, “that turns into aggressiveness. We try to tell the youngsters that their own culture has a value.” Their own culture. In Europe, I would shake my head about such an expression. But here, the community structures on one hand and the gang culture and consumism on the other really appear as something of your ‘own’ and something ‘forced’. Perhaps because domination, consumism and ‘American way of life’ here are so closely linked to each other.

“And the church activities? How is it working?” I just ask because I like the way this father talks. He has a pleasant soft voice. “We have a kind of solidarity center.” I nod, I know that from Berlin. You can leave cloths, furniture and food for those who might need it. “We also make discussions, bible discussions. In the neighbors’ houses, by turns.”

I ask if I can accompany him once.

Rafael nods. “Sure. We are not scared of anybody. Not even of the urban guerilla.” He smiles ironically at Miguel. Miguel smiles back.

When I say goodbye, we notice that we have common friends. Rafael’s practical training was with a few Columbian Franciscans that I met in spring 2002 in the countryside – in an area that is sealed by the army. The Franciscans try to organize the communities there that suffer from the military occupation. It creates always a feeling of nearness if you realize how the networks are tightened and that people you like are friends of your friends. When we go down the stairs in front of the church, we hear noises. As if they wanted to confirm Miguel’s remarks about the Liceo Manuel Palacio Fajardo, some pupils of the college have started fighting with the Metropolitan Police. But neither Miguel nor Pibe nor Alicia can explain what it is about.

Raul Zelik