Submission, discipline and dedication!

There is a strong tradition of powerful, militant women throughout the history of Bolivia. In times of conflict the fairer sex often took up position next to their male counterparts in battle. Bartolina Sisa, the wife of famed rebel Tupac Katari, was instrumental in the indigenous uprising of 1781, which held the Spanish forces in La Paz for 184 days. The patron saint of the armed forces is the figure of the Virgin del Carmen, whose annual festival celebrates the 1809 revolt against the Spanish in La Paz. More recently, Lidia Gueiler Tejada, the president of Bolivia from 1979 to 1980, battled against a right-wing military coup to try and maintain democracy. One of Bolivia’s more successful warrior women was Juana Azurduy de Padilla, who was born in what is now Sucre in 1780. Despite losing four children and her husband to the wars of independence, she continued to live a militant life and at the height of her power was in control of an army of roughly 6,000 men.

It is this remarkable figure who inspires Lia Yesenia, a 19-year-old student at the Colegio Militar in La Paz. In her third of four years, Yesenia is a dedicated and enthusiastic student who is clearly very proud of her decision to join up with the armed forces. Her father was in the army, and she explains that ‘it was through his military training that he learnt his moral code.’ Although this is still a largely male-dominated field, with roughly 100 female students to the 800 male students at the college, strides are being made to close this gap. Women have officially been part of the armed forces since 1981, but until recent years both political and practical obstacles hindered their absorption into the military. However, since 2008 measures have been taken to help ease the transition into this profession. Colonel Louis Anachuri, one of the leading figures at the Colegio Militar, explains how practical issues such as accommodations for women at the academy have been addressed in the past four years. The entry exams and physical and academic training at the academy are the same for men and women, although with some of the physical activities more is expected of the men. The only limitation recognised by the colonel is that of human nature, and he is keen to stress the value he places on his female students. Colonel Anachuri and Yesenia both agree that women’s representation in the military is essential. ‘It is very important,’ explains Yesenia, ‘as women can be a lot stronger than men. Not necessarily physically, but in certain exercises, such as parachuting, they are much better than men.’

The influence of militant women from the past can still be felt today, the legacy of Bartolina Sisa being one such example. The ‘Bartolina Sisa’ National Confederation of Indigenous Campesina Women of Bolivia is a leading organisation for indigenous women’s rights in Bolivia. Sisa’s name is also put to a variety of other modern creations, such as parks and radio stations. Despite her bloody end at the hands of the Spanish, who tortured her and mutilated her body before publicly hanging her, the repercussions of this warrior woman live on far beyond her death.

Exuding a quiet confidence, it is clear that Yesenia is a mature and capable young woman, thriving in a regimented and challenging environment. ‘Being in the military is more than just a job,’ she says, ‘it is part of who you are.’ However, despite the comfort in her surroundings, it is clear that she is entirely at the command of her male superiors. When asked what she considers the most important attributes of a cadet, Yesenia replies, ‘Submission, discipline and dedication.’ Her ambition is evident, and it is easy to imagine that her aspirations of becoming a specialist in her field, either in the cavalry or infantry, will be realised. Currently, however, the power structure in this institution is almost exclusively male, and it will take a number of years for there to be true equality in the Bolivian army.

'We need women who are fighters, who are more enterprising. They must not be submissive'

'The only thing I can be is Claudia Balderrama. Nothing else. That is it.’ Claudia Balderrama speaks softly, barely audible, staring straight ahead without making eye contact. Her bearing belies the sincere force behind her words. This year Claudia is one of just fi ve Bolivian athletes travelling to London to represent her country in the 2012 Olympic Games. Her uncanny marriage of confidence and reserve is an expression of an extraordinary personality who has fought her way out of poverty to our interview today in the Hernando Siles stadium in La Paz.

Claudia will represent Bolivia in the sport of race walking, in which contestants walk as fast as possible without breaking into a run. Walking, for these purposes, is defined by striding with one foot always touching the ground, and with the back leg remaining straight. Claudia will race 20 kilometres in the London Olympics. She discovered the sport due to a chance accident three years ago when she ran a marathon in Bolivia. She had entered the race without proper preparation: having trained at distances of 12 kilometres, she found herself running 42 kilometres, and she damaged her foot. She couldn’t run for some time after that, and took up race walking. Now, she’s going to compete in that sport in the world’s premier athletic games.

coach in Bolivia, and they are supported by a trainer from the Mexican race walking team, Raúl González Rodriguez, an Olympic gold-medal winner in 1984. His team of two male race walkers trains regularly at altitude near Lake Titicaca and Chacaltaya, and as a gesture of support to its host country, the Mexican team has taken Claudia under its wing. Together they train on the highway to Copacabana, walking about 130 kilometres a week (about 35 kilometres a day split into two sessions, with Sunday as a day of rest). Claudia speaks of González as an inspiration to her to achieve highly, and González jokes that training with men has pushed Claudia to walk faster. Thus far she has had mid-range results, and González believes that this year she can aim to achieve a ranking in the top 16 Olympic participants.

Race walking is a little known in Bolivia, and Claudia says that ‘people here don’t understand what an Olympic event means, no one is interested . . . It’s very hard.’ It is no wonder Claudia hankers after recognition from her countrymen: she has come a long way to be here today. Born in Potosí in 1983, the fourth child in the family, she grew up in the industrial city of El Alto, outside La Paz. Although her father was a sports teacher, she says she never felt any pressure to compete, and her father supported her in everything she wanted to do. Nevertheless her path here has not been easy. In Bolivia, Claudia could only receive state support once she started winning, which meant that like her father, she had to work as a physical education teacher to support herself. Since last year she has been receiving US$1,000 a month from the International Olympic Committee, in addition to a smaller contribution from the Bolivian government. But Claudia remembers days when she went hungry as she trained, attended university and rushed home to care for her small nieces, whose mother had left to seek better employment in Argentina. Due to her level of physical activity, she needed to eat more than the other family members, but because there was no food around they all ate the same amount. Up until two years ago she did not even own proper running shoes. Her eyes glisten as she recounts: ‘I have suffered, but I know I’m not the only one, there are many others like me . . . I have been very lucky to meet people that could support me without asking for anything in return, and I am here thanks to them.’

González notes that for women in Bolivia it is more difficult to get involved in sport than in his native Mexico, and he’s proud of Claudia for what she has achieved. Claudia’s message for her fellow Bolivian women: ‘We need women who are fighters, who are more enterprising. They mustn’t say they can’t do things because of their husbands . . . They must not be submissive.’

Targets of gender-based violence gain legal protection

On 13 March 2012, the body of councillor Juana Quispe was found near the Orkojahuira River in La Paz, seeming to have been strangled by a belt. Still unresolved, Quispe’s murder has proven to be a wake-up call for Bolivia to address serious obstacles facing its female politicians.

Quispe was the town councillor of Ancoraimes, a small municipality on the Lake Titicaca side of the La Paz department. Before her murder, Quispe had been trying to help female Bolivian politicians fi le complaints dealing with sexual, physical and psychological harassment, and she was one of the main proponents of a law to protect female politicians from violence and harassment. At the time of her death, Quispe had claimed to be a victim of this herself and was in the process of fi ling legal complaints against Felix Huanca and Pastor Cutili – the mayor and council head of Ancoraimes, respectively – for preventing her from carrying out her duties as councillor. But the political harassment experienced by Quispe was by no means an isolated case: most recently, on 19 June 2012, another concejala, Daguimar Rivera Ortiz, was found shot in Guyaramerin, Beni department; like Quispe, Rivera had been investigating allegedly corrupt political practices in her municipality.

According to data from the Association of Female Councillors of Bolivia (ACOBOL), an organisation which promotes women’s participation in politics, in the past eight years there have been over 4,000 complaints of harassment from female Bolivians involved in politics. So why is political harassment such a problem? Hostility towards women in the workplace could derive from the expectation in Andean culture that women should be productive (helping with agriculture), reproductive (producing children) and community-minded (helping in local councils), rather than pursuing careers. While the Andean principle of chachawarmi (mutually beneficial roles of men and women) suggests that these gender roles aren’t oppressive to women, Julieta Ojeda of Mujeres Creandos, a women’s centre in La Paz, argues that in practice it is not so, because ‘in Aymara communities where they supposedly apply chachawarmi, there isn’t a correlation between this idea and the reality,’ and that Andean machismo is still present ‘in every area’. Her view is supported by ACOBOL’s findings, which show that reported cases of political harassment are most common in cities with large Aymara and Quechua populations: 51% of female councillors in Chuquisaca department have reported harassment, and 48% in La Paz department.

Over the last century, changing legislation has reflected changing attitudes towards women. A law created in the nineteenth century stipulated that a woman had to be hospitalised or in convalescence for 30 days before she could file a legal complaint against her husband. A century later, after of the growth of the women’s rights movement, Law No. 1674 was passed to address domestic violence by installing police patrols in areas where it was particularly common and raising awareness of the problem through media. Most recently, in 2009, the new Bolivian constitution guarantees – at least on paper – that women have a right to be free of ‘physical, sexual or psychological violence’, and that all citizens have the right to participate in political power ‘under fair and equal conditions for men and women’.

Yet although in the past century Bolivian attitudes towards women’s rights have improved, the process has been slow and is by no means complete. While 35% of ministers are currently female (with the government publicly acknowledging a goal of 50%), Paola Gutierrez, a legal services social worker at Mujeres Creando, argues that these statistics only ensure ‘a biological presence and not necessarily real or active participation from women’. Quispe, for example, had an official government position, but was prevented from carrying out her duties properly. Additionally, Bolivian women’s late start in the workplace has left them at a disadvantage: for instance, only 60% of contemporary female politicians have a high school education, which means that they are often under- qualified for certain jobs.

According to Janaina Coutinho of the Coordinadora de la Mujer (a women’s rights NGO), the murder of Quispe was key to improving women’s rights, as it not only exposed the reality of political violence that Bolivian women face but also ‘showed the urgency of demands for better protection for women at an international level’. On 21 May 2012, two months after Quispe’s death, the Bolivian Senate and Chamber of Deputies unanimously passed the ‘Law Against the Political Harassment of Women’ after 12 years of it being stuck in the legislature. This new law carries a two-to-five-year sentence for political harassment and a three-to- eight-year sentence for any kind of physical, sexual or psychological aggression against female politicans.

So now that both this law and the 2009 constitution have ensured that women are protected on paper, is this the reality? While the deaths of Quispe and Rivera have raised awareness of the issue, the fact that two outspoken female politicians were murdered in three months could intimidate others into keeping quiet and suffering in silence. Furthermore, these cases suggest that although Bolivian legislation purports to support gender equality, culturally the country has some way to go to meet that goal. ACOBOL’s research shows that while half of all reports of political harassment are made in La Paz, ‘you have to take into account the cases [that are] not reported, not registered and not supported’, mainly in rural areas where women’s rights organisations have less outreach and where cases of sexual harassment are less likely to be reported. Thus organisations like ACOBOL, the Coordinadora de la Mujer and Mujeres Creandos need to work with the Bolivian courts to ensure that the law is properly implemented both in La Paz and other departments, and continue both to raise awareness of the issue and provide support for victims of political violence.