In November 2012, a few days before the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, two women were killed in the rural highland town where I live, Nebaj. One of these women had become pregnant while her husband was in the United States; he paid a gang to murder her. The other, a woman named Feliciana, was the casualty of a botched home burglary. Local community members managed to identify and seize two of the culprits from the burglary, locking them up in someone's house. In Nebaj, even the police know that taking a suspect into official custody would result in a difficult and usually fruitless struggle with a weak, corrupt legal system. Instead, in their rage and grief, the community planned to take matters into their own hands and kill the two men that night in a public burning. As word of this plan spread, even police officers began to invite people to come and attend.
Unfortunately, none of these events are uncommon in this region. Guatemala has a startlingly high rate of crime and homicide, plagued by a combination of gang activity, drug trafficking, a violent history, and a lack of prosecution: the United Nations estimates that the conviction rate for murder stands at 2%. Many communities, in a desperate attempt to restore law and order, resort to public punishments like burnings and floggings to deter future criminals.
In much of Guatemala, the long and violent civil war has disrupted what existed of local governance. In their efforts to suppress the guerrilla movement, the Guatemalan army targeted anyone in a position of local leadership, regardless of political inclinations; any possibility of community organisation could be a challenge to their power, or eventually favour the guerrilla movement. As a result, individuals such as Catholic priests, Mayan spiritual guides, and even school teachers were singled out, threatened, tortured, and often killed outright, publicly.
Today, many communities have slowly begun to recover. Leaders are overcoming the fear of 'sticking out', of being held responsible, of being targeted merely for stepping forward, and communities in many indigenous parts of the country are now electing local councils, representatives, and an indigenous mayor.
The role of the indigenous authorities varies from place to place, and often exists alongside a parallel 'official' government; a town will have two town councils, two mayors, two municipal buildings; one elected in the national elections and the other chosen through a separate process, often specific to that town. In some regions of the country, the 'official' government holds almost no power at all, except their legitimacy in the eyes of the national government. In others, the indigenous authority struggles to achieve its goals of pluricultural governance and equal rights. In many towns the two groups are at odds. Often, the indigenous authority comes under fire for sanctioning the kind of vigilante justice that almost occurred in this case.
In the case of Nebaj, the new mayor elected last year proved willing to cooperate with the indigenous mayor. Following the morning's march for the Elimination of Violence Against Women, where hundreds of local women carried signs demanding justice, the mayor opened the official municipal meeting hall and held the meeting jointly with the indigenous mayor and his council. The mayor as well as local police forces had also signed a document legitimising the authority of the assembly, and agreeing to abide by whatever decision the group would eventually make. Small groups of 5-8 representatives from each neighbourhood in the urban centre of the town of Nebaj were present, around 200 people in total, both men and women In the course of the day, each group was given a chance to speak via a spokesperson. Over the course of nearly 6 hours of intense dialogue in Ixil (the local language), the council reached a decision: 50 years in prison for each of the convicted murderers and lifelong banishment from the Ixil region.