Tingo Maria is a mystifying place. Just two and half hours from Huánuco, it is the entrance to the Amazon Rainforest, with iridescent butterflies, cascading waterfalls and underground caves. Situated behind the center of town is a backdrop of lush mountains forming the perfect silhouette of a woman laying on her back. “La Bella Durmiente” as she is called, or “Sleeping Beauty,” watches over the humid overcrowded city.
While the city speaks of progress with a large university and booming tourist industry, it remains in a time warp in terms of gender equality. Machismo, as it is referred to in Peru and much of Latin America, is widespread. It is a mindset and behavior that considers women as inferior and deserving of mistreatment in the form of physical, sexual or psychological abuse.
This can range from whistling cat-calls on the street to more detrimental acts such as refusing to accept any form of contraception and creating a dynamic of power and control within marriage where sexual relations are rarely consensual.
While the city speaks of progress with a large university and booming tourist industry, it remains in a time warp in terms of gender equality. Machismo, as it is referred to in Peru and much of Latin America, is widespread. It is a mindset and behavior that considers women as inferior and deserving of mistreatment in the form of physical, sexual or psychological abuse.
This can range from whistling cat-calls on the street to more detrimental acts such as refusing to accept any form of contraception and creating a dynamic of power and control within marriage where sexual relations are rarely consensual.
However, women are not the only victims. Machismo and other reflections of patriarchy also damage men. By limiting men to a one-dimensional expression of masculinity, fathers and husbands are deprived of individuality, originality, and imagination. And to pass this shallow sense of manhood down to one's son, is a destructive inheritance.
On our visit to Tingo Maria, we continued the base-line work of interviewing local leaders on the prevalence of domestic violence. I’ve become the unofficial photographer, which allows me an ideal vantage point of observer. Just as I noticed in Chinchao, the women who are invited to be interviewed arrive promptly and with obvious commitment to the cause.
In having access to some of the more remote and isolated communities outside of Huánuco, I am becoming aware of how endemic the oppression is and how desperately some seek to maintain it, including those preaching from the pulpit.
We interviewed the pastors of two local churches, one of which oversees a notably conservative denomination. While I was somewhat prepared for the narrow-mindedness of his theology, it was still shocking to hear his comments.
“Have you participated in any activity that seeks to protect women’s rights?” we asked. The pastor, lounging on a tabletop propped against a dusty stained glass window replied casually, “I don’t believe in rights. I believe in responsibilities. We all have our roles to play. And when we don’t follow through with our duties, well…”
Fortunately, my co-worker, a sociologist, took a diplomatic approach and graciously thanked the pastor for his opinion and moved on without debate. I sat anxiously to the side recording the interview and observing the arrogance before me wondering what century I had regressed to. All I could think of is how far we still have to go.
Aside from my role as photographer, I have been asked to attend roundtable discussions of local leaders and social service professionals on the topic of women’s rights. During these discussions, I have been asked to note the reactions of the participants in response to various questions. I look for obvious or subtle mannerisms or emotional responses that might express what has not been explicitly said. In essence, read between the lines and search below the surface.
During these focus-group discussions, I have noticed female local officials who crumble in the presence of their male counterparts. However, I have also observed extremely articulate advocates for women’s rights who are slowly but surely changing norms in their communities.
The men who have been present including governors, security guards and farmers, range from disinterested and confused to visibly committed to empowering their wives, sisters and daughters. Needles to say, there is a range of opinions and a hesitant openness to the idea of gender equality.
In the smaller pueblos between Huánuco and Tingo Maria, I have felt a strange stillness in the air. Initially, these small towns come across as such peaceful, sleepy villages, nestled behind fields of corn fields with flowering trees cascading over mud brick walls. But I can feel the tension in the air, or at least my own personal tension, knowing that behind those walls, under the surface and under the covers, is physical and emotional abuse.
As we drove home from Tingo Maria, we passed wood huts without electricity fading into darkness as the sun set behind the mountains. Women were picking laundry off clothes lines and a young girl sat gazing out at the horizon chewing on a blade of grass. I looked out the window as we drove beside the massive mountain outline of the Sleeping Beauty. And while La Bella Durmiente may appear to be sleeping, like so many women here and around the world, I doubt that she will be able to close her eyes at night in peace.
Domestic violence is here in Peru and it is at home in New York. It is a violation of humanity that cuts across of all economic levels. And the worst we can do is to not talk about it.
On our visit to Tingo Maria, we continued the base-line work of interviewing local leaders on the prevalence of domestic violence. I’ve become the unofficial photographer, which allows me an ideal vantage point of observer. Just as I noticed in Chinchao, the women who are invited to be interviewed arrive promptly and with obvious commitment to the cause.
In having access to some of the more remote and isolated communities outside of Huánuco, I am becoming aware of how endemic the oppression is and how desperately some seek to maintain it, including those preaching from the pulpit.
We interviewed the pastors of two local churches, one of which oversees a notably conservative denomination. While I was somewhat prepared for the narrow-mindedness of his theology, it was still shocking to hear his comments.
“Have you participated in any activity that seeks to protect women’s rights?” we asked. The pastor, lounging on a tabletop propped against a dusty stained glass window replied casually, “I don’t believe in rights. I believe in responsibilities. We all have our roles to play. And when we don’t follow through with our duties, well…”
Fortunately, my co-worker, a sociologist, took a diplomatic approach and graciously thanked the pastor for his opinion and moved on without debate. I sat anxiously to the side recording the interview and observing the arrogance before me wondering what century I had regressed to. All I could think of is how far we still have to go.
Aside from my role as photographer, I have been asked to attend roundtable discussions of local leaders and social service professionals on the topic of women’s rights. During these discussions, I have been asked to note the reactions of the participants in response to various questions. I look for obvious or subtle mannerisms or emotional responses that might express what has not been explicitly said. In essence, read between the lines and search below the surface.
During these focus-group discussions, I have noticed female local officials who crumble in the presence of their male counterparts. However, I have also observed extremely articulate advocates for women’s rights who are slowly but surely changing norms in their communities.
The men who have been present including governors, security guards and farmers, range from disinterested and confused to visibly committed to empowering their wives, sisters and daughters. Needles to say, there is a range of opinions and a hesitant openness to the idea of gender equality.
In the smaller pueblos between Huánuco and Tingo Maria, I have felt a strange stillness in the air. Initially, these small towns come across as such peaceful, sleepy villages, nestled behind fields of corn fields with flowering trees cascading over mud brick walls. But I can feel the tension in the air, or at least my own personal tension, knowing that behind those walls, under the surface and under the covers, is physical and emotional abuse.
As we drove home from Tingo Maria, we passed wood huts without electricity fading into darkness as the sun set behind the mountains. Women were picking laundry off clothes lines and a young girl sat gazing out at the horizon chewing on a blade of grass. I looked out the window as we drove beside the massive mountain outline of the Sleeping Beauty. And while La Bella Durmiente may appear to be sleeping, like so many women here and around the world, I doubt that she will be able to close her eyes at night in peace.
Domestic violence is here in Peru and it is at home in New York. It is a violation of humanity that cuts across of all economic levels. And the worst we can do is to not talk about it.
