The Nine Fatalities of the 2022 National Strike

 

The nine fatalities of the 2022 National Strike

by journalist, Adrián Tarín Sanz

 

(translated & edited by Andy Taylor)

 

28th of September 2022

 

In 2022, the Indigenous Movement of Ecuador called the longest general strike in recent history. Nine people died, six in clashes with security forces. Who were they? How did they die? Who killed them? This extensive investigation attempts to answer the unknowns behind the systematic repression that surrounds the indigenous and popular uprising.

In October 2019, Ecuador came to a standstill in response to the decision of Lenin Moreno, then president, to liberalize fuel prices. For an agrarian country like this, gasoline is an essential means of production for farmers. So, hundreds of thousands of farmers, transporters and other urban workers paralyzed the country for a week and a half. 

Three years later, with a change of government, the situation had not improved: the price of gasoline and diesel had not stopped rising. Only 34% of Ecuadorians receive the basic minimum wage or more. They had exceeded 2,000 murders in 2022, the highest number in their history. The health system lacked medicines, investment in education has been reduced and the sale of state assets that began in 2017 had not been reversed.

On the first day the strike was not massively supported. At least, not compared to the previous strike. However, that morning indigenous leader, Leonidas Iza, was arrested for an alleged "flagrant crime of paralyzing public services", a detention that lasted for almost a day, with little transparency about his whereabouts. That contributed to adding other sectors to the mobilization, who had previously been hesitant. 

The rest is history. 18 days of general strike left hundreds of injured and nine dead. Two of them were strikers who were murdered by scabs. Francisco Guashco Poago was hit on the head with a blunt object while he was on a picket line, and Juan Carlos Vargas Chango, 33, was run over by the son of a landowner. The third death was that of Infantry Sergeant José Chimarro Quishpe.  

The other six cases go beyond a common crime and could constitute a state crime, although, so far, the courts have not determined any responsibility. These six are the protagonists of this report.

 

JHONY FÉLIX MUENALA

Five days of strike had passed and there was no turning back. The country's main arteries were closed and supermarkets suffered from shortages of some basic products. Ecuadorians lived within a whirlwind of stones, shields in a turtle formation, drowned in chemical dust and many people were wounded. On the ten points of the indigenous movement, not a word. Leonidas Iza described this as “lack of public responses,” so the organizations calling for the strike decided to stop acting exclusively in their communities and advance on Quito.

On Sunday, June 19, a mass of protesters left from Guachalá, in the Cayambe canton, about 60 kilometers north of Quito. An unaffordable journey in a single day, so they decided to divide the march in two sections, spending the night in San Miguel del Común, the terminus of the metropolitan outskirts.

 

In the middle of the journey, in the town of Guayllabamba, another group joined the Cayambeños. Together there were more than 5,000 people who, upon resuming their course, found the four lanes of the Panamericana Norte road blocked by debris at the height of a bridge. 

Behind the mounds of stone and sand, there were about 400 police officers divided into widely spaced lines. Leading the operation was Colonel López who, along with another colleague, left his unit to meet the protesters. On the indigenous side, the leaders Hatari Sarango, Agustín Cachipuendo and Leandro Aules came to negotiate. It must have been 4:45 p.m.

The colonel promised them passage as long as everything remained peaceful. The only stipulation was compliance with the Traffic Law, that sanctions the use of vans to transport passengers in their trailers. The protesters barely had vehicles, so they agreed to use them only as storage for supplies from the camp they planned to set up in Quito. Both parties agreed to a limit of 45 minutes to begin crossing the bridge. After shaking hands, Hatari addressed the Colonel directly with a dry comment: “Don't be treacherous and keep your word.” 

Ambush on the Guayllabamba River

More than 20 minutes and no progress. The spreading sense was that it might be a maneuver to buy time. In an hour and a half it would be dark, and there were still three kilometres left to walk to San Miguel. Almost no one was prepared to spend the night on the asphalt, so a small group began removing rocks from a lane to make way for the trucks. The first line of riot police moved forward a little, creating more concern. 

The two leaders met again and agreed to clear the debris to pass. with their word - after all, they said, they had assured them passage -, emphasizing that this did not constitute any violent act. The officers, however, this time were more lukewarm in guaranteeing them the route. There were still several minutes left until 5:30 p.m., the agreed deadline, so the Kayambi agreed to continue waiting. 

While Agustín, megaphone in hand, addressed his people to explain the situation, the line of riot police advanced, causing a small and disconcerting stampede of protesters. From a second speaker, Hatari shouted that they were doing nothing, but another voice overrode his: “What a shame, police and military officers! "You owe it to the people, not to a group of corrupt politicians." 

The strikers sounded their horns and beat the bridge railings with their batons in a chaotic metallic chorus. Without another word being said, before the agreed deadline, the first tear gas bomb crossed the sky.

The confrontation lasted for almost an hour. Some protesters, sheltered in the mounds, tried to resist with stones, but confronted by tear gas, they retreated 50 meters. Some cartridges were fired at the group, attacking a group of journalists who had taken refuge in a ditch. 

The strikers managed to cross under the bridge, so the police ended up retreating and leaving the way clear. Once they had gone, the cloud of smoke continued to cover the platform. Sitting on the curb of the walkway, a young man of 22 cleaned his face with a solution of vinegar and water to curb his asphyxiation by cleaning his face with a solution of water and vinegar. His name was Johnny Félix.

The young man managed to recover and cross the bridge with the others. The brawl had reduced the marchers to a few thousand. After walking three kilometers, just before a roundabout with two exits—one toward Quito and the other toward the airport, a new attack occurred. Night had fallen. 

Kevin Farinango, Youth leader of the Confederation of the Kayambi People, explains to me that:

“The police and military were waiting for us, who we believed had withdrawn permanently. And they began to fire tear gas at us excessively.”

Make it look like an accident

In that stretch, the Panamerican road sinks between high cement slopes that protect the road from landslides, leaving the summit exposed. From there, the police and the army were waiting for the protesters to try to stop them again. Others blocked the paved road in a disciplined horizontal row.

This time there was no negotiation. 

As soon as they met, the confrontation occurred, even more harshly than back in Guayllabamba. 

The bombs were not only thrown from the road, but also from the plateaus. As there were hardly any places to cover themselves, most of the protesters stayed a safe distance from the front line, seeking shelter on the shoulders and getting used to the idea that they would not reach San Miguel that night. Even so, a small group of between 25 and 40 people ventured up the cement ramps and tried to go around the fence. Among them, Johnny Félix.

Contrary to expectation, climbing the mountain did not help them protect themselves. Upon seeing them, police and soldiers directed their shots towards the plateau. A handful of uniformed men also went out in search of the fleeing men, shotguns and flashlights at the ready. It was 7:30 p.m. and there was no longer a ray of sun left in Ecuador.

Knowing they had been spotted, two dozen protesters left the summit, sliding in disarray down the inner side of the slope, the opposite of the cement slope. 

At night, and with the smoke, they thought the space was flat. They were trapped between the police and a cliff edge – a forty metre drop.

The smoke canisters continued to fall among the rocks, and the agents were getting closer and closer to those hiding. Crouching, they could see the flash of the torches approaching. The police coaxed them, asking them if they were afraid and daring them to come out of hiding. Some of those who surrendered reported torture. A relative of Jesús, as he explains to me, was captured and handed over to the Armed Forces, who beat him and forced him to do military exercises in the rain. Along with the rest of the detainees, he was released at 5 a.m. on Monday the 20th in Tumbaco, 33 kilometers away from this site.

To avoid being arrested, several protesters continued to grope their way down. Wilmer Lachimba recognized Jhonny, who, when dazzled by a spotlight, ran towards the precipice, stopping for a moment on the edge. A police officer shouted at him “Stay or we will kill you!”, and the young man ventured towards the gorge. 

Other testimonies, however, ignore this dialogue, and affirm that he simply slipped away from the place where he was hiding. What they all agree on is that they heard his cries for help, and that the police ignored them. 

The news spread like wildfire among WhatsApp chats. Finally, firefighters recovered the body of Johnny Félix during the early hours of the morning, who possibly lay dying for minutes without receiving help from the authorities.

The next day, the National Police issued a brief statement in which they regretted the death of a person after falling into a ravine. 

Asked about this matter, former Minister of the Interior Patricio Carrillo considered Johnny's death an accident, which is why today he does not appear in the official count of victims. 

Augusto Félix, his father, does not agree:

“I consider it a murder, but I do not have the resources to pay for a lawyer.” 

And he continues: “If they throw gas at me from all sides, I'm going to run and look for a place to hide. He speaks slowly. You can feel in his timbre his sorrow and his humility. The silences that he often leaves between sentences are filled by the crowing of one of his roosters. He tells me that Johnny had just become a father, so he was dedicated to taking care of his seven-month-old son. 

That Sunday, Father's Day was celebrated in Ecuador. 

 

BYRON GUATATUCA VARGAS

The main media focus of the protest was in the capital, Quito. Yet, several kilometers away, in the green and humid Amazon, the national strike reached a brutal intensity. 

The community members of this region, the furthest from the large urban centers and, therefore, the least accessible, blocked 30% of the roads and took control of more than 900 oil wells. 

It was there, in the eastern continent, where they shot Sergeant José Chimarro Quishpe to death, precisely on a mission to escort diesel tankers to make up for the fuel deficit. 

It was also there, on the edge of the longest river in the world, where Byron Guatatuca was murdered.

Byron lived in Puyo, Pastaza province, one of the most populated towns accessing the jungle. He was 42 years old. He worked as a manual labourer, a bricklayer and a sawmill operator. He worked as much as he could, always paid daily, with no contractual protection. He came from a humble family, dedicated to agriculture. In addition to his unemployed wife, he left four young people orphaned, two of them minors. One of his sons, Juan, had the misfortune of witnessing the murder.  

Byron, of Kichwa nationality was active in the community. He was part of the San Jacinto del Pinto commune, a collective led by his cousin, Milton Vargas, that integrates 37 communities and some 7,000 indigenous people. 

With faces masked with soot, and armed with their characteristic spears, the Amazonians led by Milton were stationed on the 15 de Junio bridge located at the southern access to the city. This blockade, however, was flexible. The protestors let traffic pass, distributing fliers of a timetable showing when the blockades would be open to traffic. Emergency traffic flow was enabled at all hours.

The Governor of Pastaza, Stalin Ramos Calles, ordered the clearing of the roads and a state of emergency declaration was requested. Milton noticed unusual activity in the WhatsApp chat that he shares with other community leaders. There was talk of a possible death in Puyo, whose identity was not known. At first a name emerged, but no. Milton unwrapped the confusion when he saw the image of the corpse. It was Byron, face up and with his head smoking after a tear gas bomb had blown up in his face. 

The exception as the norm

Kankuana Canelos, is a journalist for La Voz de la Confeniae and, despite having also experienced the 2019 protests, she does not remember an episode like the one that ended Byron's life. 

Like other days, she went to the closure of the bridge over the Pindo River, at the southern end of Puyo, on the residential Tarqui Avenue. 

“I am 1.50 meters tall, and I saw how one of the bombs was at the height of my chest. "They shot at the body, not at the air."

Before Kankuana had to dodge the gas cartridges, the concentration was experiencing a tense calm. The declaration of the state of emergency raised fears of eviction, an omen that became flesh when, around 5 p.m., fifty riot police showed up at the scene. 

Led by Commander Paúl Aguirre, they remained for almost an hour in front of the protesters, armed and in formation, at a distance of 15 or 20 meters. The minutes passed and the police presence, with some agents trying the triggers of their shotguns, heated up the atmosphere. Shortly before 6 p.m., several strikers threw stones at the riot police. They were few and small, no more than 20, but enough for the unit to set back and look for a more favorable position, retreating 200 meters to the wide Alberto Zambrano Avenue. Emboldened by the retreat, the protesters advanced, but the indigenous guard quelled their intentions by placing, at the head of the march, their spears in a horizontal position as a barrier. 

The most shouted slogan was “No to violence.”

After half an hour without the slightest confrontation, a rumor began to circulate among the protesters that a military contingent was approaching from the nearby parish of Shell, named after the oil company camp based there since 1937. A part of the concentration broke away from the core and took up positions facing the other end of the avenue, oriented towards where they believed the soldiers would arrive. 

Taking advantage of the dispersion, at around 6:30 p.m., the first tear gas bomb exploded. And after this, several dozen more. The amount of gas was such that it penetrated the homes and businesses in the surrounding streets. So, not only the strikers, but also the observers from the sidewalk and the passers-by in the sector, ran in all directions: some along Alberto Zambrano Avenue itself, others along the perpendicular Seslao Marín Street. A last group returned to the bridge, on Tarqui Avenue. Among these were Byron and his children.  

“One more protester”

Byron Guatatuca managed to cross the entire bridge and take cover behind the first corner he found, on Anturios Street. There he took shelter behind a two-story white house, with a staircase with metal treads without a partition. 

He is described as a man who was:

“…very accessible, very understandable. He was not a leader. He was just another protester. He told jokes, he was very happy and calm.” 

Perhaps that was why he had gone out into the street without stones or spears. He also didn't carry any shield, that could have saved his life. 

As Jessika Delgado, president of the Human and Nature Rights Council in Pastaza, explains to me, Byron poked his head through the stairs to find out if the police were still chasing him when a smoke grenade exploded in his face. 

The blow was so savage that the pod penetrated his eye, broke his skull, and crushed his brain. He immediately fell to the ground, while irritating gas emanated from his head, like a human flare. One of his companions approached Byron to assist him, and tried to remove the capsule, but it was impossible. An image that his cousin, Milton Vargas, describes as “very humiliating.” In video footage of that moment, several protesters urged the riot police to come and help Byron, but the recording was abruptly interrupted when, 20 seconds later, another device exploded so close that it made the camera vibrate.

It must have been 6:40 p.m. when Kankuana Canelos, who was on Tarqui Avenue, just 300 meters from Byron, heard for the first time that there was a seriously injured person. The journalist had walked away from the bridge asphyxiated by the gas, and she had to be helped by another woman, who sprayed her with milk to heal the tear irritation. 

“At that moment I couldn't get closer to see because of the smoke, but after a while a man took me to the place where the murder had happened.” 

When she talks to me about it, her voice still shakes. Next to the stairs she found a huge, dense and flowing pool of blood, with remains of pulp scattered on the floor. 

“For me it was a very hard experience. It is still difficult for me to return to that moment,” she concludes. 

For his part, Nicolás Méndez, who also went to the scene, described the same scenario to me:

“It was a horrible scene, because you could see the blood on the floor, the bomb casing and, I suppose, pieces of the skull… brains. “It was all scattered there.”

Although firefighters were in the area, they did not act. It was a neighbor who took Byron to the Puyo General Hospital, located less than two kilometers from the place. The driver of the van said that, although he was still alive, he had “his head shattered and his eye hanging out.” Inexplicably, his heart was pounding when he arrived at the medical center. “Byron does not die instantly. He died a very slow death, although it was practically impossible to save him,” Nicolás tells me, that at 8 p.m. he was at the hospital trying to gather information.

Death in a straight line

Upon learning of the death, the National Police issued a statement stating that Byron Guatatuca had died "as a result of the handling of an explosive device", a version that was quickly denied by an autopsy that evidenced the police origin of the projectile. The Prosecutor's Office investigation must therefore resolve whether the detonation was accidental or intentional.

The witness asserts that he saw the cartridge fly in a straight line. 

According to the United Nations Guidelines on the Use of Less Lethal Weapons in Law Enforcement, “irritant projectiles” should not be fired at people, certainly not at the head or face, since the violence of the impact can cause death or serious injury.

As stated by Jessika Delgado, who also has criminalistic experience since she served as a prosecutor, “these weapons are used to disperse demonstrations, not as projectiles, so they cannot be shot directly at the body or from less than 30 meters away.” 

Milton Vargas, Byron's cousin, was, before being an indigenous leader, a soldier, and due to his injuries he estimates that Byron must have received the impact "between 15 and 20 meters away, directly and not at the recommended 45 degrees, with the nose of the rifle parallel to the ground.” 

In his opinion, “it was intentional, it was to kill, and they fulfilled their ambition.” 

Jessika adds that it could not have been an accident when loading the bomb, since for this maneuver the shotguns must be oriented towards the ground, not forward. “We have solid indications that he was hit by the police. “It was not an accident; it was an overreach or an extrajudicial execution.”

Despite everything, the Guatatuca family receive not consolation in their claims to receive some reparation. At the moment, the investigation is being carried out for a common crime, something that Jessika believes is doomed to failure because “it will not be possible to locate the specific person who shot.” Her hope is, therefore, to change the criminal offense to that of a State crime, and for the case to be transferred to a specialized human rights section. 

 

 

MARCELINO VILLA ROMERO

Cuenca is, after Quito and Guayaquil, the third most populated city in Ecuador and one of the wealthiest. Being the economic engine of its province, Azuay, in the southern mountains, its paralysis left the surrounding communities deprived. Likewise, and after a blocked week, the main companies in Cuenca suffered a difficult loss of sales.

At dawn on June 21, several police and military detachments left Cuenca with a mission: to clear any barricades they found on the Panamericana Sur road. Or, at least, in the 160 kilometers that lead to the city of Machala. The action was intended to facilitate the transit of around thirty vehicles, including Ministry of Transportation vans, buses and cargo trucks. The latter, it was said, were carrying “humanitarian supplies”, such as food, butane cylinders and sanitary products. However, the NGO Yasunidos warned on social networks that the expedition was actually intended to distribute merchandise from the Eljuri Group, owner and shareholder of more than 180 companies and whose owner appears on the Forbes list in Ecuador. 

Journalists and protesters corroborate with me that, although they were not able to observe the logos on the carriages, the rumor that spread that day was that the operation was intended to protect the commercial interests of large Cuenca corporations.

After a photographic and audiovisual scan, and despite the low resolution of the materials consulted, it seems certain that one of the trucks belonged to Piggis sausages, another to Prime Pet pet food, and two more to Nutri, from the dairy sector. The rest were unidentified or belonged to generic transportation companies, such as Mamut Andino. 

None of these brands have responded to my interview requests. I wanted to know how they got a military escort to protect their business needs.

The most logical route crossed Tarqui, a small rural parish near Cuenca. There, although the community members maintained strict control of the northern access, another “humanitarian corridor” opened along a secondary road, lengthening the journey by about 30 minutes. No one can confirm that the security forces escorting the procession were aware that, through that detour, passage was safe. Be that as it may, whether they knew it or not, the convoy used the fast route, the most intuitive, the one that required dismantling the barriers that the protesters had placed. There were riots. The deployment was such that, Radio Kimsakocha journalist Efraín Álvarez assures me, the military almost exhausted their supply of tear gas. Reporter Daisy Masapanta, who recorded the passing of the vehicles from her house, said that the soldiers were “shooting at everyone, not caring if there were children.”

Once they had passed Tarqui, the trucks traveled another 50 kilometers without problems until they reached the Santa Isabel parish. There, the community members had surrounded the town with long vehicles parked on the road. With hardly any ammunition, police and military adopted a more conversational approach, although without results; The roads remained blocked. The only way out they found was, therefore, to return to Cuenca. As it had already dawned, they thought it would be best to wait for another dawn to return. 

If they had retraced their path immediately, perhaps none of this would have happened. Although during the afternoon and night the Tarqui several hundred strikers gathered, by early morning there were barely a dozen left. The majority of Tarqueños live from agriculture, and when the sun rose, they left the closure to take care of their lands. 

Instead, they believed that by catching them off guard the trip would be easier. Or, at least, Efraín tells me something similar: “They thought there would be no media since it was early morning and, since they had managed to get through the night before, they wanted to carry out the same action.” Certainly, no one expected two nights in a row of battle, much less directed from the rear.

With the streets still full of spent tear gas canisters fired the night before, 3:30 a.m. struck, dark and rainy, on Wednesday, June 22. About a hundred protesters stood vigil between lit bonfires to keep warm. At that moment, the convoy escort appeared from the south and, in a coordinated manner, some 300 riot police and motorized police, according to Patricio's calculations, entered through the entrance to Tarqui, in the north. The strikers were thus surrounded.

 

David Fajardo is a lawyer and collaborates with the Alliance of Human Rights Organizations of Ecuador, and his group commissioned him to document the violations that could occur in the province of Azuay. As a result of his field work, he tells me that the security forces showed up without prior notice and without intentions of dialogue. 

“They arrived to tell [the protesters] that they had to leave and, since they did not want to, they began to launch tear gas and other projectiles.” 

Efraín, the journalist, conveys a similar opinion to me:

“I could see that people were predisposed to dialogue. In previous days they had allowed ambulances to pass through. “In that group there were people who were leading the protest and who could be identified in case [the police] wanted to negotiate.”

Thus, the stillness of Tarqui was broken by the backfiring of the shotguns and the whistle of pellets. Trapped, the protesters fled across the countryside, toward the hills and residential areas. The riot police cleared the road and chased some people, getting so close that they could use their batons. Physical contact, Efraín tells me, also occurred with the tear gas canisters. 

“They made illegal and indiscriminate use, shooting at point-blank range and without taking into account the consequences.” He recorded the moment when the caravan of vehicles was returning to Cuenca, a grenade hit the ribs of a protester, who fell to the ground and was dragged by his companions to a safe place.

Marcelino Villa, 39, took any work available, mostly agriculture. “He knew how to bring money into the house,” his wife tells me. He had started attending the road closures the previous Monday, convinced that the best thing for his country was for the national strike to succeed. He was not accompanied by his son, a 19-year-old student; or Diana, who preferred to stay at home. He was, she tells me,

“a good, calm man, who got along with everyone in the community. He was also responsible at home.” 

It is difficult to recreate Marcellin's death. His family is convinced that he was attacked by the police, either with clubs or with ammunition, and that later, badly injured and immobile, he suffocated with tear gas. 

Other versions suggest that he tried to recover from his injuries by lying down in a hut, falling asleep and became affected by the smoke. After all, Efraín tells me, during those nights it was common for some strikers to spend the night outdoors on the shoulders, so no one was surprised to see Marcelino lying on the ground. 

At around 4 a.m., with the trucks passing the parish, the police and soldiers disappeared. Protester, Patricio Zhingre, took the opportunity to return to his community, an hour's walk away. He left knowing that there were several injured, some even hospitalized, but he would never have imagined what he would hear a little later. When he arrived at his house, he turned on the radio and, at around 6:30 a.m., they announced the news of a new death. 

Apparently, at dawn a striker tried to wake up Marcelino. In vain. He was lying on the side of the road that leads to Tarqui, in a stretch that has several food stalls on its banks. They found him in one of these tiendas, with his clothes torn and muddy, with a powerful bruise that extended from his abdomen to his chest, and with a tear gas canister between his legs. His head rested on an overturned wooden stool.

Marcelino’s body was laid on the road, on a table and under an Ecuadorian flag. It was raining, so they covered him with plastic. The community members refused to hand over the body to the police until the wake was over. They demanded the presence of the governor of Azuay to come and acknowledge the dead man. Finally, and after many discussions, the body entered the freezer of the van of the National Service of Legal Medicine and Forensic Sciences. None of those present trusted the autopsy that the Prosecutor's Office was going to perform.

Two days later, the provincial prosecutor of Azuay, Leonardo Amoroso Garzón, reported to the media that Marcelino Villa had died from acute respiratory failure, caused by pulmonary edema. This edema, he said, was related to liver cirrhosis. Reading the forensic report, the prosecutor explained that the external examination of the body showed a yellowish color and that, after examining his organs, it could be concluded that the liver was “extremely enlarged.” 

Questioned about this fact, he told me that “since the death naturally complies with the medical-legal autopsy protocol, the fact does not constitute a crime and there is no prior investigation.” Case closed.

“To what extent,” asks lawyer David Fajardo, “if you are enveloped in a cloud of tear gas, can it be determined that this is unrelated to acute asphyxiation?” 

So far, no one, other than the Prosecutor's Office, has been able to access the detailed autopsy report, not even his widow Diana. This documentation is crucial to clear up any doubts, as it should include more precise information. 

 

 

HENRY QUEZADA ESPINOZA

It had only been a few hours since the national police had abandoned the headquarters of the House of Ecuadorian Culture (CCE) when Henry Quezada, 39, was killed. The house of mirrors, as it is known for its reflective glass exterior, is the usual resting place of the indigenous movement when they mobilize in Quito. The police occupation of the facilities was, therefore, controversial and, in the words of its president, Fernando Cerón, “very painful.” 

The day that Commander General Fausto Salinas Samaniego notified that the building was going to be requisitioned to “serve as a shelter and collection center” for the riot police, Cerón declared, sadly, that tyranny and terror had won over joy. 

“The last time the CCE was taken over by the police,” he continued, “was 46 years ago, in a dictatorship.” It was also Inti Raymi, the sacred festival of the sun.

The afternoon of the proceedings was on June 23, on the eleventh day of the national strike. Henry had joined the protests since their beginning, as he also did in 2019. According to what his cousin, Vladimir Cruz, tells me, this involvement in social causes was born in his adolescence, while he was studying at the Mejía Institute in the capital. Those students have earned a certain rebellious reputation, since they don't usually miss any “noise.” In each strike, the blue and yellow flags of the “patrón”, as they affectionately call the school, fly along Vargas Street, one of the earliest to see the burning tire barricades. In those classrooms he learned about metal, the music that would provide the soundtrack to his life. His straight hair was a witness to the romance with electric guitars and guttural voices.

Vladimir saw his cousin's death online. That Thursday afternoon, the hashtag “national strike” was flooded with a photograph of Henry's ID and a message claiming that he had just been shot by the police. After some calls, Vladimir went to Parque del Arbolito, the exterior garden of the CCE, where they assured him that the body was found. When he arrived, the body was beginning to pale.

Everything indicates that the shooting occurred at approximately 4:10 p.m. The metadata of his last living photograph on his phone was state it was taken ten minutes earlier. He looks like he is holding a stone with his left hand, while he covers the movement with his right shoulder. There are clouds of smoke around him. 

Ángelo Chamba, a photojournalist, was at the scene. He did not directly see the shot, so he does not know where it was fired from, but he did hear the detonation. The noise made him focus his eyes on a group of protesters who were carrying, almost in their wings, an injured person. 

They started from the road that borders the Comptroller's Office and headed towards El Arbolito. Once in the park, Chamba tells me, the victim, who he later learned was Henry, fainted. He fell on the grass and was treated for a few seconds by fire department paramedics. In the video at 4:12 p.m., between the screams and a chaos of backs entering and leaving the frame, Henry can be seen on the ground. They are cleaning a trickle of blood that runs down from his mouth. There are voices asking for a stretcher to arrive soon.

The paramedics transported Henry as quickly as they could to the Arts Pavilion, still inside the park, a small wood and glass construction that acted as an improvised field hospital. They laid him on a table, but he was already lifeless. His torso was riddled with small black holes, and his face was a shadow. Even so, a medical assistant insisted on performing resuscitation maneuvers. Henry didn't answer.

To date, no direct witness to the murder has been reported. According to Vladimir, someone has provided him with audio in which an unidentified voice claims to have clearly witnessed him being shot by the police, but it is impossible to verify the legitimacy and authorship of the recording. What is known is that all the impacts received were frontal, and that they were distributed between the abdomen, thorax and head. 

Two days later, the San Diego cemetery, located on the slopes of the Virgen del Panecillo, a monumental sculpture and symbol of Quito, was packed to receive the remains of Henry Quezada. The ceremony was martial. Like soldiers in dress uniforms, several members of Mejía guarded the coffin to the sound of the war band, a small orchestra that solemnly accompanies school events. The coffin, covered by the Ecuadorian flag, was lowered into the grave during the homilies of those gathered. Someone, an anonymous hand, placed a red carnation on the box. At that moment, Henry's mother let out a heartbreaking howl. 

The autopsy concludes that Henry Quezada died from “acute internal hemorrhage,” due to a “lung laceration resulting from the penetration and passage of multiple firearm projectiles.” The Minister of the Interior, Patricio Carrillo, was quick to deny that his men had used this type of pellets.

“Just because the police deny it doesn't mean it didn't happen.” Replied David Cordero, lawyer for the Quezada family.

 

 

EDUARDO IÑIGUEZ CAMACHO

Henry Quezada was still in the morgue when, 20 kilometers away, a bullet pierced Eduardo Íñiguez's right lung. His was one of the 530,000 people who lost their jobs during the Covid-19 pandemic. In the months before his murder, he eventually found work in a small sandal manufacturer. He died at the age of 36 and left two children, aged ten and five, orphaned.

That morning of Thursday, June 23, Army Lieutenant Colonel Rashid Jiménez received the order to clear the blockades on the road that connects Quito with Nanegalito, a small rural region located in the Chocó Andino biosphere reserve. The distance between both towns is 70 kilometers, dotted with mounds of sand at the height of the parish of San Antonio de Pichincha, where tourists come to stand on both sides of the equator line.

San Antonio was blocked since the beginning of the national strike, becoming a bastion for the strikers. Its strategic importance lay in the fact that, with its closure, the entry of supplies to Quito from its northern gate was prevented. The two main areas of barricades were Avenida Manuel Córdova Galarza, a four-lane boulevard that runs through the town. Parapets were located at the so-called Maresa and Mitad del Mundo roundabouts. For this reason, Jiménez tells me, it was necessary to unclog the road and allow supplies to enter. 

The operation consisted of escorting a trailer and an excavator to open the way for several trucks with “humanitarian aid.” In the statement issued by the Joint Command of the Armed Forces, the shipment was identified as “food and others.” The fleet belonged to Hanaska, a food company owned by Corporación La Favorita, owner of the main Ecuadorian supermarkets and key player in the telephony and hydroelectric sectors. When I asked the company's communications director, Andrea Carrillo, if she could guarantee that all the cargo was for “the hospitals of Guayaquil” as they said in their promotional video, and nothing was to be sold on their distribution platforms, she stopped answering me.

As on other days, police riot units showed up at noon in Maresa and, after a skirmish with the protesters, they left the place. But when everything seemed calm, chaos began. Neighbors say that the sector was soon filled with a dense cloud of tear gas, whose bombs were even launched from a helicopter. 

At home, nearby, were Eduardo Íñiguez and his wife, Danny Coronel, whom he married in 2010. Neighbours say that the gas cloud also reached the Íñiguez family's patio, where their children were playing. After ushering them inside and cleaning their irritated faces, Danny went into the bathroom to take a shower, but Eduardo, already restless, decided to go out to check what was happening in the neighborhood. 

Operation Hanaska

120 soldiers advanced on foot, in seven trucks and in two minibuses, in addition to the Hanaska convoy and the machines to remove debris. At a slow but constant pace, the military procession overcame the first obstacles and entered the second section of the road. However, the protesters, instead of dispersing, retreating along parallel streets to regroup further back. 

Moments before, a “peace march” began confronting the protesters with sticks, machetes and other sharp objects, but the military advance made them give up and they called off the action.

Jiménez was surprised by the coordination of the protesters to gather at the successive checkpoints. This would demonstrate, he says, that the “violence was organized” by having arranged “different supply places” along the avenue. His statement is in line with the government's accusation that there were links between the national strike and organized crime, although, so far, the authorities have not provided evidence of this. Ecuadorian President Guillermo Lasso alleged that the protests had been financed with money from drug trafficking and the Foreign Minister reported that a gang of foreign drug traffickers called “Pikachu” had been responsible for what happened in San Antonio that day. 

Arriving at the Mitad del Mundo roundabout, the protesters made contact with those who were already closing that section of the road. At that point, Jiménez received the support of 60 other soldiers and his command, and the confrontation intensified. The military cleared the blockades on the roundabout at about 5.45, almost dusk. 

A witness heard a shot and Eduardo fell instantly on his face, hitting his head.  

"I tried to help him, I grabbed him and turned him around, I tried to revive him... I tried to get him to breathe, but he didn't react."

The caravan of vehicles was set on fire. 

His death was officially certified: “penetration, passage and exit of a firearm projectile, lacerating the right lung and causing acute hemorrhage.”

Also circulating through telephone messaging systems was a “news report” from the San Antonio de Pichincha health center, dated that day at 8:21 p.m., detailing the care of four patients for injuries from firearms and three for pellets. The center has refused to confirm its veracity.

Colonel Rashid Jiménez asserts that his actions were in accordance with international standards, that his unit did not carry lethal weapons, only riot control equipment. 

“I was surprised by what happened to him. In this regard, I rule out any intervention by the public force. Possibly it was the citizens themselves who attacked him." 

Eduardo’s widow, Danny, asserts that they shot her husband to death, and that he went outside because:

“The helicopters made a horrible sound, they dropped bombs and they didn't care that there were children…It was the military who ambushed the people."

 

The military operation ended with 17 soldiers injured, some seriously, three camouflage vehicles, an excavator and a trailer burned, as well as other trucks hit. Numerous protesters were injured. Danny demands compensation from the State for her children, who have been left without a father and without income. 

“He was the one who brought everything home, he was the breadwinner, I took care of the home and he took care of us. They left me with nothing: without my head of home, without the father of my children, without my support… without my life partner.”

 

MANUEL SISLEMA MINTA

Manuel Sislema and his sons, Armando and Manuel jnr were part of an evangelical musical group called Emanuel.  His daughter, Margarita, told me that the family was very close, although sometimes we didn't have anything to eat. 

“Sundays came, when we ate meat - at that time fish - and it was very fun, very beautiful. At Christmas, we dreamed of having a tree and gifts and, although we didn't always have them, we were very happy.” 

On June 17, 2022, as a component of the National strike, several indigenous communities from Chimborazo met in Riobamba. A large influx was expected. 

Thousands of peaceful protesters arrived at Maldonado Park, located in front of the provincial government building. A handful of people, with masks and without ponchos, began to throw some objects at the police. The security forces responded with tear gas. 

According to statements by Colonel Rubén Ponce Barahona, the military operation, which consisted of 73 soldiers, intended to “protect the facilities of the Chimborazo governorate,” which is why they considered it a priority to clear the park of protesters and subsequently remain deployed there.

Throughout the day, riots occurred in different parts of the historic center. On the one hand, some strikers refused to give up their position in the park, while others, those who had moved, tried to return along the surrounding roads. It was a tough afternoon: protesters with open wounds, police beaten and businesses looted.

With this tug of war it became night. It is difficult to know what Manuel and Armando did that day, but we do know what happened around 6:30 p.m. The oldest of the brothers was at the intersection between Eugenio Espejo and 10 de Agosto streets, in a chamfer that makes up the Post Office building. It is a heritage property, columned, so it offers some coverage. This intersection is located one block south of Parque Maldonado. Armando, for his part, was on 5 de Junio ​​Street on the corner of Guayaquil. This route also leads, in a straight line, to the provincial government. It is, in fact, a parallel road to the Post Office. The Sislema were less than 200 meters away, but could not be seen since there was a block in the way.

Around 6.30 p.m. the streetlights were already on. A shotgun appeared at the corner of 10 de Agosto and 5 de Junio ​​streets, in the direction of the post office building. From that point, the shooter had a clear shot at both Manuel and Armando. The barrel of the gun had to be seen by some strikers, as they tried to protect themselves before a harsh hollow sound erupted. 

Video footage shows a young man in a blue sweatshirt limping along the opposite sidewalk and, when he finally took cover, he stopped walking. Several people picked up the boy and carried him to the market where an improvised health center had been set up. Manuel’s temple had already been blown off minutes before and he was waiting for the arrival of an ambulance. 

From the same corner as Manuel, but perpendicular, they shot Armando. In another video, he is seen sitting on the cobblestones, puffing, enduring the pain caused by the pellets lodged in his nose, chin, chest and belly. 

Manuel was in a coma for 49 days. He died on August 5, aged 36. 

Armando’s injuries affected his kidney and heart, causing internal bleeding and insufficient oxygen to the brain. He currently has half his body paralyzed and has lost his memory. His wife and his family take care of him from home. He will likely never recover. He is 26 years old and has two children, the oldest is eleven and the youngest is five. 

As with the murder of Henry Quezada, the national police and the army have denied that they used lethal weapons on the night of June 17. 

Manuel had taken out life insurance with the company Proassislife, who have denied him financial compensation. The refusal is based on the seventh clause of the contract, which establishes “active participation in strikes and riots” as an exclusion. The broker who sold the insurance, Diego Villota, did not want to answer my questions. Manuel and Armando's families are completely bankrupt.

The National Police have not responded to my repeated requests for interviews.

 

Adrián Tarín Sanz is a professor at the Loyola University of Andalusia (Spain) and, previously, at the Central University of Ecuador. In both places he teaches Journalism, a profession that he also practices as a freelancer. Precisely, as part of his journalistic work, he collaborates with El Salto, an independent and cooperatively owned media outlet, financed by subscriptions and crowdfunding.

 

Although he participated as an activist in the Ecuadorian “popular outbreak” of 2019, upon finding himself outside the country in 2022 he was only able to contribute to the social movement by writing an investigative report on the homicides of six protesters. Originally published in El Salto, it was later reproduced by La Voz de la Confeniae, the communication organ of the Amazonian indigenous movement.

 

A special acknowledgement is deserved for the courage of journalists and witnesses, particularly, Guayllabamba al Aire, Radio DJ Latina, Radio Inti Pacha, Radio Ecua Impacto, Wilmer Lachimba, Kankuana Canelos, La Voz de Confeniae, Jessika Delgado, The Human & Nature Rights Counsil of Pastaza, Yasunidos, Efrain Alvarez, Radio Kimsakocha, Fernando Ceron & Angelo Chambra.