"Other Loves" in the "Other Campaign"- Oaxaca's Queer Community Looks for Common Ground with the Latest Phase of Zapatista Struggle

By Mark Swier

from Narco News

On his "Other Campaign" stops through Mexico, Zapatista
Subcomandante Marcos regularly invites the participation of
workers, farmers, indigenous peoples, women, youth and
elders in constructing a national anti-capitalist campaign,
"from below and to the left." But perhaps alone among
nationally-recognized political leaders he adds gays and
lesbians -- what he frequently refers to as the community of
"other loves" -- to the list of people who fight for a new
Mexico and who the Zapatistas seek to ally with in a larger
struggle. He has been met along the campaign trail by a
broad spectrum of the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender
and Queer (LGBTQ) community, a vital sector of allies who
have shown support both organizationally and individually to
the "Other Campaign" and its goals.

In fact, the EZLN has a long history of drawing connections
between the struggle for dignity and survival of indigenous
people in Chiapas and movements for liberation around the
world. There are plenty of beautiful words that stand as
evidence. The poetics of Marcos have referenced queer
movements at different times for the past 12 years, last
year even challenging Italian soccer giant Inter Milan to a
match, claiming that the Zapatista squad would be
representing with a lineup of queer and transgender players.

However, even in the "alternative media" very little
attention has been paid to the relationship between the
Mexican queer community and the Zapatista struggle. The
Other Journalism decided to begin our coverage of "other
loves in the other campaign" in the majority indigenous city
of Juchitán, Oaxaca, where Marcos visited on February 6, and
where a visible and very "out" queer and transgender
population has long played a significant role in the city's
social, cultural, economic and political life.The Isthmus

Sexual diversity in Juchitán has been a noted topic for some
time, and the area has become a hot-spot for anthropologists
and gender enthusiasts of all types. It is a colorful,
passionate and mystifying place for its diversity and
difference, and there is a lot to show for the decades of
work by queer and transgender community members.

In any community, the words people use to describe
themselves depend on who is asked, but all are meaningful
marks of identity and history. Queers in Juchitan use words
like puto and gay to describe male same-sex attraction, and
embrace words like travesti to describe gender variance
through cross-dressing. But no other word symbolizes
Juchitán's diversity like the word muxe. The word is said to
be an adaptation of the Spanish word "mujer," for "woman."
Many have described muxes in English as effeminate gay men
or transvestites. Muxes are seen as male at birth, but given
the social space to choose muxe identity during childhood,
to identify with characteristics traditionally seen as
feminine and experiment with gender presentation. Muxes are
involved romantically with men, and publicly present a
gender spectrum ranging from effeminate masculine to living
fulltime as "female."

However, muxes have their own unique cultural and historical
characteristics that non-indigenous understandings of gender
-- which often only recognize two expressions: male or
female -- tend to lose sight of. Muxes represent a third
gender, and are only one example within an ancient history
of indigenous, other expressions of gender and sexuality.
That history in the Isthmus is a rich and complex one, and
the large visibility of muxes there provide an inspirational
example of queer struggle for dignity against the homophobia
and transphobia of so much of the world.

A great deal has been written about this other-gender
visibility, to study and share this community with other
parts of the world, but a lot of the writing has failed to
place this work in a broader context of movements for
justice and change. There is a history of studying the
experiences of muxes as purely cultural phenomena, and of
de-politicizing and under-emphasizing the role of the
"simple and humble people who fight" in shaping this
history. Academics, who have been willing to pay for
interviews, have often been interested more in making a name
from the cultural "interestingness" of others than building
trust and links between movements.

This project of the Other Journalism had to deal with that
history. It wasn't as simple as showing up in Juchitán --
the Isthmus region's queer epicenter -- and finding trannies
and queens walking the streets in "EZLN" embroidered ski
masks (although that came later).

Getting to know community members in the days before the
arrival of the Other Campaign delegation to Juchitán
reinforced the importance of building relationships,
recognizing the complexity of social, cultural and political
realities, and of letting peoples' stories speak for themselves.

elebration Culture

The huge range of perspectives on social and political
issues in the queer Juchiteca community reflects the depth
of an area that has benefited from many decades of queer
organization. Velas, community celebrations of neighborhood
patron saints, have been a venue for acceptance and
visibility for queer Juchitecos and Juchitecas for decades.
The organization of velas has evolved to include the gay and
muxe communities at all levels.

I hung out at a local bar for an afternoon, where the
constant flow of patrons reflected the range of sexuality
and gender expression. I met and observed rich and poor
queers, straight macho men, travestis and muxes, but notably
few biological women who weren't serving drinks. Juchitan is
also well known for the autonomy and financial independence
of women, who control the local market-sector economy,
dealing in goods such as crafts, textiles and fish.

As I talked with Angel Vega Abregos, an elder muxe community
member, in the bar, he spoke about culture and leadership in
the community. "All the fiestas in our region have a gay
presence. Our culture of parties and celebration is
intertwined with social life, and their isn't a vela without
gays and muxes."

For Angel, the gains of the muxe community haven't
necessarily been political, although they have been fought
for and defended. He has been involved with Las Intrépidas
(The Intrepid Ones), the oldest muxe organization in
Juchitán, which started the Vela de las Auténticas
Intrépidas 30 years ago. "The Intrépidas didn't form to be a
political movement," says Angel "They wanted to strengthen
their culture, their presence, to have velas. We're not
getting help from political parties or the system. We're
trying to survive and have a good time while we do it,
building a community and defending it because we love it. I
love my pueblo; this is paradise to me."

But the relationship of political parties to the velas in
general, and the muxe community specifically, hasn't been a
hands-off one. Velas cost money, and lots of it. The local
Intrépidas vela every November 20 costs upwards of $10,000,
and backers include former mayor César Agosto of the
Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI in its Spanish initials).

Éli Bartolo is a widely respected activist, filmmaker and
educator who is also the principal at a local school. In
talking about the history and evolution of the LGBTQ
community, he is both hopeful and critical at the same time.
As the muxe community has gained visibility, the political
parties haven't wasted time in looking to cash in. Éli
recalled a vela in which muxes wore all-green traditional
indigenous clothing to signify allegiance to the PRI,
chanting, "Viva Ulises Ruiz!" (Ruiz is the current, corrupt
PRI governor of Oaxaca.)

Although there have been notable independent initiatives,
such as local muxe activist Amaranta Gomez's close but
unsuccessful 2003 bid for Congress, for people such as Éli
there are larger and more pressing concerns about how to
raise the consciousness of the broader community through
political education, about the motives of some traditional
leaders, and about how to develop stronger grassroots
leadership. Looking at some of the history helps to provide
the context for these concerns.

Over the past 40 years, the LGBTQ community itself has gone
through incredible change, as it has gained acceptance and
visibility. In the 1970s, when television became more widely
available, the queer community was exposed to a host of new
Western, non-indigenous ideas about sexuality and gender.
Some of the television fashion shows introduced new ideas
about queer expression. Before television there had not been
the same connection between muxe identity and travesti
expression -- presenting publicly as female. This created a
generational shift between older and younger muxes. Amaranta
Gomez writes that, "Chatting with muxe yoxho (adults over
50) friends they mentioned that for them cross-dressing is
quite a new issue, because in their time it would have been
seen as something too risky." In the 1970s muxes began
presenting publicly full-time as women.

Paradise Lost?

These changes didn't happen without backlash. Éli Bartolo
and other community intellectuals have been committed to
criticizing institutional homophobia in Juchitán; to
teaching community members not to mistake visibility for
liberation. "Here in Juchitán, homophobia is more subtle…
the middle class doesn't accept gender variance. This is in
part because of the process of westernization through the
school system. Furthermore, homophobia is a value external
to indigenous communities. It's an imposition of a system of
values and anti-values, and one of the anti-values of the
West is homophobia."

With all the vastness of the gay and transgender presence in
Juchitán, noticeably absent is the participation of queer
women not born as men. "The other thing we see in ALL of our
social spaces is hatred and fear of lesbians," said Éli.
"They are totally excluded, considered sick and incomplete.
And this of course also brings us back to the issue of
sexism. When we are talking about gender and sexuality and
liberation in the Isthmus, we are often talking only about
muxe and transvestite culture." Éli emphasized the need to
ally with women's groups and lesbian organizations as
fundamental to moving forward any vision of movement
building amongst the muxe community.

According to Éli, the idea many outsiders have of Juchitán
as some genderrific fantasy is just that -- fantasy.
Although the closet doors in Juchitán have been thrown open
in many ways, in the minds of Éli and other activists, the
reality of homophobia cannot be wished away. Certain velas
prohibit entrance to travestis. There are occasional
isolated cases of street harassment and violence, systematic
misogyny, homophobic and non-critical learning cultures in
schools. "The family can be extremely accepting, but in the
university, it's a homophobic atmosphere…and generally these
messages are spread from the top down, from the middle and
upper class." Save for a few exceptions, travestis and muxes
still experience an overall exclusion from the political
process and power structure. This underscores the importance
of building power outside of that system. "Paradise does not
exist," says Éli, referring to Juchitán's popular image as a
"queer paradise."

Work: "We Are Not Surviving"

There are other possible explanations for the higher degree
of travesti visibility and acceptance among poor and working
class communities. Debunking the common myth of the Isthmus
as a matriarchy where mothers simply enjoy having a muxe
around to "take care of them when they're older," Juchitecos
and Juchitecas described the role of economics in shaping
muxe identity and family structures.

Fellina Santiago Valdivieso is a well-known muxe AIDS
activist who helped found Las Intrépidas. She has her own
hair salon in Juchitán. "Many people, myself included, come
from a specific role in their family," she says. "We sell
things, we are relied upon to provide and add to the income
of our families. Muxes staying home and continuing to
contribute financially to the family is part of the
necessity of survival. This is part of the difference in
acceptance levels of other-gender identities between poor
families and middle or upper-class families."

Amaranta Gomez notes that acceptance of muxe family members,
although not always a smooth road, is a particular facet of
Zapotec indigenous culture. She describes the process as a
"collective discussion mechanism on 'delicate' issues" that
is taken on as a community and acts as a "supportive
structure that helps us resolve internal and external problems."

Fellina ties an analysis of economic shifts into her
understanding of what is needed to make change in Juchitán.
"Questions of production are really important to me and the
survival of my family because my father is a campesino
(peasant farmer). We are not surviving. On a wide scale,
farmers don't have access to the production of our own
resources . . . there is plenty of land, and enough people
are trying to produce food, to grow crops, but the economic
system forces people into selling their goods, exporting."

Her experience naturally informs her vision of a more
healthy community. "Communities that are well organized and
have worked to maintain their own production of food and
resources don't face the economic necessity of migrating to
find work in the United States. If I can work my land to
cultivate tomatoes for myself, well, I'm going to cultivate
them. But the government is giving no support to farmers to
work their lands, the economics are set up to serve someone
else, and so people have to buy their food at the
supermarket." Fellina's vision condemns neoliberalism in a
way that offers some clear opportunities for building ties
with the Other Campaign.

"An Expanse of Need"

The impact of AIDS on queer communities in the Isthmus has,
as elsewhere, been a site for a lot of organizing, and
creates possibilities for political and social mobilization.
Oaxaca's queer community rallied together to fight for its
survival and created institutions out of mutual concern.
Organizations springing up in the mid-90s have played a
vital role in advocating for more resources for AIDS direct
care, medications and treatment. Groups such as Las
Intrépidas Contra el SIDA (The Intrepid Ones Against AIDS),
Gunaxii Gundanabani (Love for Life), and the Binni Laanu
(Our People) Collective drew from already-existing networks
to provide AIDS prevention education. Las Intrepidas Contra
el SIDA started out of the larger vela community when a
group of muxes from the Intrépidas basketball team -- helped
by the Oaxaca City-based Common Front Against AIDS -- put
together an AIDS prevention-themed drag show that was warmly
received by communities around the state.

Out of this history comes a strong legacy of collective
work, which created queer social and cultural networks. But
there is also a history of inter-organizational and
interpersonal baggage, and Eli and others question what
long-term gains have been made in terms of political power.
In a community that has never had enough material resources
to begin with, in a state widely known as one of the most
corrupt in Mexico and which also bears the brunt of brutal
NAFTA policies, valuable organizations and networks have
been affected by competition.

When asked about the roots of local organizational problems,
Angel said: "We have a leadership crisis. We have leaders
with no conscience, people who try to benefit financially
from representing our community, people who have publicly
outed others who are HIV-positive." Fellina agreed, "I want
to see the development of grassroots leadership that doesn't
seek to benefit from the struggle of others." The divisions
that competition for organizational resources creates are a
barrier to the type of unity the Other Campaign proposes.

"For the past 20 years AIDS has divided and devastated our
community, directly killing our people and creating an
expanse of need that didn't before exist. But also, it
created indirect barriers like fights over organizational
funding and personal divisions," reflected Éli Bartolo.

These issues are playing out in Juchitán and across Oaxaca,
and reflect the many relevant discussions among radical
movements worldwide about funding and the role of nonprofit,
often bureaucratic nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) in
social movements. The Other Campaign is raising questions
about what opportunities exist from outside, from below and
to the left of these standard modes of operation. Not that
NGOs don't have a role to play. But rather, the dialogues
are asking questions, such as, what resources do communities
have right now to build stronger movements, without looking
somewhere else?

Building Leadership

One thing that many people cited as necessary in Juchitán is
a long-range vision of developing critical consciousness and
leadership.

For Marina Meneses, a feminist intellectual, educator and
organizer who has been involved in social justice struggles
for decades, the goal of building self-determined
organizations is important. "We need to develop our goals
and objectives outside of the process of government funding
and development, to build alternative projects outside of
reliance on funders." Citing Zapatismo as an example that
"we don't need the government to create change," Meneses
said: "The PRI and PAN political parties are a hypocritical
monolith, and have built a culture of repression and
corruption that is deeply ingrained in our country and the
way we relate to one another." She stressed the need to
"move beyond the party system, support each other and build
a collective vision -- this is what the Sexta is about."
(The Sexta refers to the Sixth Declaration of the Lacondon
Jungle, which gave birth to the Other Campaign.)

She suggested this be undertaken through a process of
"seeking out the needs of other groups, collecting proposals
as to what they need, and then working to support them in
the development of consciousness and self-determination. It
means a process of accompaniment, to develop capacity and
create networks."

Maria's son Amilcar, is a 16-year-old student, musician and
media activist. He spoke of the importance of involving
youth in this process, the frustrating effects of the
generation gap, and offered some strategies for how to
engage. "I would like a stronger media alternative. There is
a leftwing political show on television, but you can only
get it if you pay to have cable. Developing consciousness
through political education is important for youth, but it
needs to be in a format that people will be interested in."
Amilcar spoke of the need for adults to listen more to the
concerns and ideas of youth.

Thinking of some of the five-hour assemblies that
characterized the Oaxaca City preparations for the arrival
of the Other Campaign, I wondered what kinds of
youth-oriented groups exist in Juchitán. "There are cultural
groups here that include media and art in their work," said
Amilcar." "CRECI (the Regional Ecological and Cultural
Council of the Isthmus) has put on some good community
forums." Another local cultural organization, Los
Galácticos, showed two excellent films in the Zócalo (city
square) later that night about Juchitán's vela culture and
struggles to defend forms of youth creative expression.

Many travestis like Julio Fuentes Martinez are committed to
child development and education work. "I am a pre-school
teacher, and that's my vision -- to be better at what I do,
to invest in the growth of the children here in the
Isthmus." Although he shared the analysis of every other
person I talked with -- that travesti social organization is
not specifically concerned or engaged in political work --
he was interested in the prospects for dialogue that the
Other Campaign represents. "Indigenous struggle for
liberation and respect, these are ideas that we share. But
we need opportunities to talk. We've been working for 30
years to build a community in which we can express ourselves
freely. We are defending our identity and have things in
common, but we don't have any relationships built up with
the Zapatistas."

After Marcos' speech in the Juchitán Zócalo, I asked one of
the muxes I had met the day before what he and his friends
thought about Marcos' uncharacteristic (and especially
notable here in the Isthmus) omission of any references to
"other loves."

"Well, Marcos is from Chiapas, and he was just speaking for
his community."

This response reflects the general confusion I encountered
in the streets about the goals of the Other Campaign, and a
general unawareness of the politics behind Marcos' fame.
Several people highlighted the depoliticized nature of
Juchitán queer culture. Quipped Julio, "Marcos' movement is
a struggle and a war. Ours is a struggle and a party."

It might seem easy to think that a struggle for indigenous
survival in adjacent Chiapas would immediately resonate in
Juchitán, where, according to the film Velas de Juchitán by
Los Galácticos, 50,000 of the 80,000 residents speak the
indigenous Zapotec language. However, the relationship
between regional affiliation and ethnicity is complex. Many
in Juchitán first identify as Juchitecos and Juchitecas
rather than as indigenous or Zapotec.

Among the people I spoke with there is an understanding that
queer folks' livelihood, safety, visibility and community
aren't due to the support of the PRI or "politics as usual."
The strength of the queer community in Juchitán has come
from social and cultural networks outside of political
parties. However, this has not necessarily translated into
organizing to expand these gains. There is a frustration
amongst some activists at the lack of critical political
consciousness amongst the community, but also an
understanding of the ways that queer identity has been
disconnected from an analysis of power and politics.

If many of Juchitán's travestis have already "fought for
their right to party" and are apathetic about politics, Éli
Bartolo believes that is all the more reason to start early.
Like Julio Martinez and Marina Meneses, he has channeled a
majority of his energy into child development and critical
education. Early in his career Éli worked with philosopher
Mathew Lipman on developing his Philosophy for Children
program. He currently works as a principal, is finishing a
PhD, and is mentoring the professional development of three
muxe teachers -- former students of his who are now in their
mid-20s.

Many people I met in Juchitán cited the need for public
dialogue, creative expression of cultural identity, and
political education as vital to the process of linking with
the Other Campaign and building stronger grassroots,
queer-left liberation movements. Awaiting Marcos' speech in
Juchitán on Saturday February 3, the crowd was given a taste
of what that looks like in practice, all at once.

Miss América visits Juchitán

We were paid a visit by "Señorita América" a gorgeous drag
queen decked out in transparent plastic and gold pumps, made
up in the green, white and red of the Mexican flag with
matching sash, and holding a sign displaying the names of
Mexican political parties She ran through the crowd for
several minutes, tailed by photographers and cops and
capturing the fascination of all. The see-through mini left
nothing to the imagination, save for the adorning trademarks
of neoliberalism -- McDonalds, Pepsi, KFC and Coke -- which
were stuck to the exterior of the dress. Creating a
perfectly poignant spectacle, she moved quickly through the
crowd and disappeared.

Luckily, I had a chance to catch up with the Señorita the
next day, also known as Lukas, who described the goals
behind the action. "Part of the work for Señorita América is
to transgress public space, to use the body to create a
public discourse. First, this can have the effect of shock
and discontent. But afterwards, the hope is that it inspires
critical reflection around the contradictions between
nationality and neoliberalism, between identity and
exploitation. To force people to confront our reality and
ask 'Where is your Mexico?'"

Lukas is a member of Danza Gabiá, a regional collective
working "to listen to our traditions and respond creatively
to the challenges imposed by globalization, neoliberalism
and de-stabilization of our land." Using music, dance and
visual performance art as tactics, Danza Gabiá creates a
public dialogue bridging regional and ethnic culture, sexual
identity, generational change, and political resistance.
Lukas and other collective members were part of the crowd
during Subcomandante Marcos' visit to meet with political
prisoners at Tehuantepec Prison. Danza Gabiá's work
represents a creative and bold synthesis of identity,
culture and resistance, and the group plays many roles:
artists and performers, educators and organizers. Lukas'
work embodies the building of bridges between communities
and cultures, and is a sign of hope for things to come.

Oaxaca City: Back in Black (Fishnets and a Purple Wig)

Returning to Oaxaca's Central Valleys in advance of the
Delegate Zero's arrival to the state capital, I felt
energized and inspired by the broad range of people I had
encountered in the Isthmus. I felt hopeful about the work
being done, about the clarity with which people illuminated
their critiques, concerns and hopes, and about the
long-range vision of people to defend culture in the face of
empire. But I hadn't yet been able to tap into a discourse
between radical queers and Marcos directly.

Fortunately, I had met Leonardo Tlahui in weeks earlier.
Tlahui is a queer artist, writer and organizer who had been
active throughout the planning process for the Other
Campaign in Oaxaca City, and is one of the founders of the
Nancy Cardenas Sexual Diversity Collective in Oaxaca. Nancy
Cardenas was a pioneering freedom fighter for queer
liberation in exico, and was taken as the namesake of the
group in part to make visible the struggle of the country's
lesbian women. The collective uses art and performance,
media activism and education to promote sexual health and
fight institutionalized sexual and gender violence.
Colectivo Oaxhappen, a sister project in which collective
members are involved, hosts a weekly radio show, "Zona
Rosa," Thursday nights from 7 to 8 o'clock on Radio Planton
92.1 FM.

When I caught up with Tlahui and members of the Sexual
Diversity Collective, it was at the meeting with Delegate
Zero hosted by the "University of the Land" (a local center
for political education) the day after I returned from
Juchitán. The trio was in full drag, "reyna chula,"
presenting a mix of native clothing and radical chic-sexy.
They were fabulous, and the crowd of adherents, independent
media activists and caravanistas (participants in the Other
Campaign caravan) in the intimate space gave them a lot of
love. As members of the crowd took turns addressing Marcos
and the crowd, the vibe was electric.

Dressed in black fishnets and a dazzling purple wig, Tlahui
stood up and spoke about the history of queer revolutionary
struggle. "With the homosexual critique of society comes a
political struggle in the first person when one takes the
body as a space for struggle in defence of rights and
dignity. We have made desire into a space for autonomy."

Tlahui called to mind specific organizations and history,
and then called to task the Zapatista Subcommandante: "The
left, too, continues to have its own homophobia. From this
place, we ask for an explanation for what happened to our
compañero Octavio Acuña, assassinated in the city of
Querétaro. He was an activist, a psychologist, and a gay
man. And also here, in front of Delegate Zero, we ask him
that whenever he speaks of struggles that he be inclusive.
In this tour you have been on you have forgotten about us a
little. Here we are, and we are also of rebel spirit."

The cheers and applause were a tangible affirmation of the
courage and importance of the collective and its work, and
the timeliness of the message. According to Enkidu magazine
and other publications, Octavio Acuña was one of five queers
killed in homophobic crimes in Querétaro in the month of
June alone.

Later that night, in the main plaza in the center of the
city in front of a couple thousand more people, Tlahui again
repeated the call to recognize the existence and
contributions of queers in society and in the struggle for
freedom and liberation. After waiting through hours of men
speaking long and loud, Tlahui's speech came directly before
that of Delegate Zero. However, this time the applause was
better described as thunderous.

More than Words

Marcos responded directly to Tlahui's message, affirming
publicly a commitment to the continued struggle against
homophobia and alongside movements for sexual and gender
liberation. During his short speech he named constituents
and allies with whom he had been in dialogue during his time
in Oaxaca, and there was a humorous but revelatory moment as
Marcos referred to the community of "gays, lesbianas, and
transgénicos" -- switching the Spanish word for
"transgender" with the word for "genetically modified" --
and then corrected himself, laughing bashfully with the
crowd at his own mistake.

Names are important, but queer folks in Oaxaca are clear
that it takes more than just naming allies to build genuine
solidarity between movements. And real trust can't be built
without being vulnerable enough to make mistakes. Marcos'
simple error reflected the space that the Other Campaign
dialogue is opening up for Mexican movements, to listen to
one another, to learn from mistakes and move forward
together. More importantly, the vision and courage displayed
by Tlahui and the Sexual Diversity Collective that night in
the Zocalo in Oaxaca City marked a historic moment for the
queer community in Oaxaca.

In the invitation to take part in the Zapatistas' new Other
Campaign, in the plenary meetings this past Fall 2005, and
subsequently as the campaign has gotten underway, the
visibility and participation of gays, lesbians and "other
loves" has been noticeable. This has been significant not
only because the historic sectors of revolutionary movements
in Mexico (workers, students and campesinos) have excluded
or ignored queer liberation politics, but also because
beyond lip service, there hasn't been an opportunity
previously to build connection and dialogue in such a way.
One of the six points of the Other Campaign addresses this
directly. "These [traditional categories of left
organizations] remain important, but there are people who do
not identify with them but have the right to a space in
political organization."

The Zapatistas have always used words as part of their
arsenal against extinction. Marcos, in his position as a
media liaison, has worked to reach out to a broad range of
allies in this initial stage of the Other Campaign. He has
shown a willingness to listen and learn from the struggles
and suggestions of communities of "other loves." Beginning
next fall, a more in-depth process of movement and capacity
building will move forward the Campaign, as EZLN
representatives fan out across the country to build and
organize with different communities for months at a time.

Queer Oaxacans in the Isthmus and the state capital are
showing an investment in this process.

This commitment is manifest in ongoing critical analysis,
and in the identification of needs, resources and issues
around which people are organizing. They are using both long
and short-term strategies that can be linked with broader
national campaigns, including development of critical
consciousness and education; grassroots leadership and
organizing; working within the NGO structure to provide
vital resources to communities while criticizing that same
structure when necessary; building coalitions; developing
youth power and leadership; media activism; preserving
cultural identities and art forms to create public dialogue;
and politicizing already-existing cultural networks.

It is a commitment not just to fighting for recognition but
also to transforming society.

Mark Swier has been active as an organizer, educator, friend
and ally in different movements for social justice in the
United States and Mexico and has worked in the field of
sexual health for the past several years.