State of Fear: The Truth about Terrorism Directed by Pamela Yates
2009; Wiley; Volume: 25; Issue: 1 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1111/j.1548-7458.2009.01023.x
ISSN1548-7458
Autores Tópico(s)Violence, Religion, and Philosophy
Resumo2005 , 93 minutes, color. Distributed by Skylight Pictures Inc. , 330 W. 42nd Street, 24th floor, New York, NY 10036 , http://www.skylightpictures.com Pamela Yates, Peter Kinoy, and Paco de Onís' State of Fear: The Truth about Terrorism is among the best documentaries regarding the political violence that scarred Peru in the 1980s and 1990s. Based on the testimony of the 17,000 Peruvians who participated in the public hearings of the Peruvian Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), the film offers a broad historical, cultural, and political survey of the conditions that enabled the twin tragedies of Peru: the rise of the Maoist Sendero Luminoso (Shining Path) and the brutal military reaction of the Peruvian state, particularly the authoritarian regime of Alberto Fujimori. The filmmakers usefully remind viewers that Peru is not only Lima, as we are taken to the Andes and the Amazon to meet victims of and participants in this war. State of Fear is at its best in allowing viewers to hear from a broad range of voices. We hear and see a faithful follower of Abimael Guzmán, the Shining Path leader, who helps us understand why Guzmán was nicknamed "Shampoo"—because he "washed your brain." We also hear testimonies of a former marine, indigenous child soldiers, highland farmers, human rights activists, truth commissioners, and others. While all stories are harrowing, one that stands out is that of a young student who is kidnapped before even beginning classes at the university, tortured, and gang-raped, which results in her becoming pregnant and giving birth in jail before being sentenced (by hooded judges) to 20 years in prison. We meet her and her daughter, and can only begin to imagine the potential impact of this terror on not only the immediate victims, but also on the younger generations who grew up in the midst of this war. These generations are both survivors and, as in this case, the very products of Peru's decades of violence. Like all documentaries, however, State of Fear provides a particular set of interpretations from a particular set of vantage points. Despite the film's multivocality, this is a view of Peru seen from the perspective of Lima. This is telling and perhaps even fitting given the overwhelming importance that is given to the capital city in national political life generally and to the work of the Peruvian TRC specifically. I do not mean to imply that the TRC limited its work to Lima, as it was the first Latin American truth commission to hold televised, public audiences throughout the departments and provinces of the country. Nevertheless, despite the TRC's finding that 75 percent of the victims of the violence were indigenous Peruvians, not a single member of the commission is indigenous. While not minimizing the TRC's Herculean efforts and its final report (which can be accessed at http://www.cverdad.org.pe/), there is a danger in representing this, or any other, single interpretation as the authoritative "truth" about Peru's violent history. Viewers of this film will not be aware of alternative readings of the TRC's work and of differing opinions about the importance of "memory." Who is being asked to remember and who would rather forget? One never learns of the often clumsy choreographies of provincial audiencias in which urban, Spanish-speaking commissioners directed the testimonies of Quechua or Asháninka survivors. The film also does not provide viewers a sense of local (mis)understandings of the TRC, of desperately poor family members who in many cases thought that the TRC would offer some material assistance to those who offered testimonies. Necessarily perhaps, the film offers a limited and partial view of societal responses to violence. A striking omission is the lack of any mention of rondas campesinas, peasant self-defense organizations, who scholars agree were central obstacles to Senderista campaigns. This may be due to the very ambiguity around ronderos who fall somewhat uneasily between victims and agents of warfare. The elision of this kind of ambiguity is a missed opportunity for the film to explore the gray zone of violence that is not simply between democrats and terrorists. There is also something misleading about the periodization of this film, which, to be fair, follows closely that of the official Peruvian TRC. By emphasizing the war in the past tense, and focusing on a peaceful future, the very goal of the TRC—which in theory is to contribute toward rebuilding society after terror—ignores increasing violence against indigenous populations on the part of the state, guerrillas, and paramilitaries. This blindness is especially significant as the global "war on terror" continues to allow for the blatantly opportunistic reframing of opposition to the state as "terrorism." While the criminalization of protest in Peru has become particularly pronounced in the policies of the current Alan García administration, the structural violence faced by millions of Peruvians is hardly new and has been largely untouched by the work of the TRC or any other Peruvian state actor. Another problem with the film's close following of the Peruvian TRC is that unlike many other cases, the state comes to the government-sponsored truth commission ostensibly having defeated the opposition, even if the regime that did so (the Fujimori regime) was discredited for other reasons. Amnesty laws (passed in 1995 by Fujimori) apply to state and paramilitary forces, but not to anyone deemed a "terrorist," even if he or she may have been falsely accused (as has been the case for hundreds of Peruvians). Moreover, military and paramilitary organizations are included in the TRC report's narrative of terror, but also—and primarily—praised for their contributions to the fight against terror. It is telling that while the makeup of the commission included no indigenous representation, one of the five members added after Alejandro Toledo took office was an ex-Air Force general (and President Alejandro Toledo's national security adviser to boot). Understandably, the film lionizes human rights workers and the doubtlessly valiant intentions of many of the members of the TRC. Nevertheless, it is important for students to wrestle with the ethical and political complexities that haunt even the best of intentions. Human rights workers, in an effort to avoid being labeled as terrorist sympathizers, often remained silent in controversial cases, a silence that ran the risk of adding to the presumed guilt of the many people who were rounded up by police and military forces. The film also casts a spotlight on the telegenic, conservative politician Beatriz Alva Hart, who chronicles her own transformative journey, from being skeptical about human rights critiques of the government to apologetic for her own blindness to the violence that was engulfing so much of the country. Although one perhaps should not be overly cynical about her changing views, the film never explores the possibility that symbolic apologies and the guilt of the upper classes can mean very little to those who suffered the worst consequences of the violence, a sentiment I have heard expressed often. These critiques notwithstanding, State of Fear raises precisely the kinds of questions that I expect my students to ask. I have used this documentary in anthropology and interdisciplinary classes about the politics of violence in Latin America, and I have found it a terrific pedagogical resource. It is an important complement to readings about both politics and political violence in Peru. In watching the horrific images of the impact of violence on women, children, and men, seeing a captured Guzmán on-screen, hearing and seeing Fujimori declare an autogolpe (self-coup), and watching excerpts from the Vladivideos, crucial moments come to life for students in ways not possible when they only read articles or books on the subject. In my experience, the documentary works best when paired with the work of scholars who develop underemphasized dimensions of the story (Orin Starn, Nightwatch: The Politics of Protest in the Andes, Duke University Press, 1999; "Justice in Transition: The Micropolitics of Reconciliation in Postwar Peru,"Journal of Conflict Resolution, 2006:433–457; Carolyn Yezer, AnxiousCitizenship: Insecurity, Apocalypse and War Memories in Peru's Andes, Ph.D. dissertation, Duke University, 2007; Ponciano del Pino, "Family, Culture, and 'Revolution': Everyday Life with Sendero Luminoso," in Shining and Other Paths: War and Society in Peru, 1980–1995, Steve Stern, ed., Duke University Press, 1998:158–192). The documentary also allows students to hear directly from leading scholars of the violence, most notably anthropologist Carlos Ivan Degregori, who also served as a TRC commissioner. Through the analysis of Degregori and others like journalist Gustavo Gorriti and human rights advocate Sofia Macher, students gain valuable insights for discussions about history, race, politics, and violence in Peru. In engaging the varying interpretations of this excellent film, students also are invited to undertake their own critical readings of representations of truth and power, politics of memory, and colonial legacies. Finally, it is telling of the filmmakers' intentions that the title of this valuable film, State of Fear: The Truth about Terrorism, contains no mention of Peru in particular, but rather seems to suggest that we situate Peru within a larger context of "wars on terror" that began long before September 11, 2001. Throughout the Americas and the world, countless societies have sought to move from bloody internal violence toward democracy, truth, and justice. The difficulty of these transitions in Peru and elsewhere remains as cautionary tales and useful lessons for U.S. audiences that may be less familiar with the long history of terror in the world.
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