Enduring Violence. Cecilia Menjívar
for those involved and increased power inequality in couples. Although the physical separation was a source of the women's insecurities and worries, the indefinite and uncertain nature of these separations presented a serious burden in their lives. And one must note that the nature of these separations is itself related to multiple forms of exclusion and violence that immigrants, especially those without documents or with uncertain legal statuses, face in the United States. With the militarization of the southern U.S. border and stiffer immigration laws, seasonal visits and regular physical encounters have become elusive, creating and exacerbating conditions of distress for the migrants and their nonmigrant relatives (Menjívar 2006a, 2006b).
Furthermore, in contrast to most of the literature examining the effects of male migration on the lives of women who stay, the women with whom I spoke in San Alejo did not seem to have “gained” much in terms of equality, power, or their roles. Often their movements were more closely monitored, and they did not appear to have expanded their areas of control (see chapter 3). The women still lived in a context in which orthodox patriarchal norms and few opportunities for paid employment existed, and men found themselves in contexts in which they had relatively more access to resources. As such, geographic location intensified gendered power asymmetries; men's position as breadwinners and primary decision makers was amplified and women's subordinate position exacerbated (see Menjívar and Agadjanian 2007). Thus structural violence curtailed the ability of many to find well-paid jobs, and political violence, bound up with structural violence, was the motivation for the emigration of many others. Symbolic and gender violence coalesced to create conditions in which migration emerged as a “natural” response that normalized women's pain and sacrifices and power inequalities. In turn, the consequences of migration exacerbated and created new forms of suffering that often left those involved ambivalent and wondering about the benefits that migration was supposed to bring.
My second example, moneylending, further demonstrates how multiple forms of violence come together in women's lives. Often I heard the women (and the men) complain about the poverty in San Alejo, about their inability to make ends meet, causing the women to borrow money to cover a variety of household expenses, most of them associated with their children. Given my general interest in reciprocal exchanges in different structural contexts, I asked women if under such difficult economic conditions others were likely to lend a hand, if friends, family, and neighbors would assist those in need. Similar to what I observed in the United States (see Menjívar 2000), this was not the case in Guatemala. As in the United States, I would hear of people not having enough to help others in need, as in the case of Gracia María. “No, how can people help one another if we don't even have for themselves?” she noted with a chuckle. “Imagine, people come to borrow money from me! Look at my situation! I tell them I can help with other things but not with things that involve money because I don't have any. I think many people in this town, even if they appear to have something, are in my situation.” The amounts women borrowed were very small, usually around Q.50 (about U.S.$10 in the late 1990s). Also, the life of the loans was often very short—one week, one month—highlighting the urgency of the situation. So, I asked the women, do people lend money to one another as a form of help? Gracia María laughed and said, “Oh no, not to help others, but to help themselves! Cecilia, look, the only way to borrow money is to go through someone who does that for a living. You don't believe me [she laughs]! You'll be even more surprised when you find out who they are, who lends money for a living. You'll realize that it's unscrupulous people lending at high rates and taking advantage of those in need. Around here, it's the great majority who are in need, so those people take advantage.” As I learned more about moneylending, it seemed that the interest rate varied in direct relation to the urgency of need. Although Estrella recognized that the interest rates were a function of how desperate people were, in contrast to Gracia María's view, she did not view moneylending as exploitation. “Well, it is a form of help, no?” she said. “Even if it's with a high interest, it's help. Well, that's how I see it.”
As I began to pay attention to the issue of moneylending, I noticed that indeed there was quite a bit of it going on, but one had to dig a little deeper. An entry in my field notes reads, “Moneylending. Note it. It's very common here. High interests in moneylending are common.” However, as Gracia María indicates, what needs to be noted is not just the moneylending but the high interest rates and the exploitative nature of the enterprise in which the vulnerable hurt one another, for that is what encapsulates the multiple forms of violence. Gracia María continued: “Those people that you've been talking to, yes, those. They seem so nice and kind, right? You should see, they lend money at such high rates, they're like leeches. Yes, the polite ones, those. They live off desperate people who need to take a kid to the clinic, or who need to pay rent; people feel like they're suffocating so they turn to moneylenders. Sure, they go to mass and church, you have seen them, and they beat their chests and all that, but behind all that they are the worst sinners because they are merciless.” Like migration, moneylending too generated and exacerbated different forms of suffering; both practices were normalized responses to the conditions women (and men) faced. And both were nonphysical forms of violence.
I decided to pay a visit to the women in town who were known for lending money at high interest rates to hear their perspective. I was surprised to find that these women were not members of the well-off families in town and that in fact they were not much better off than those to whom they were lending. When I inquired about this, a nurse and a physician in San Alejo mentioned that the better-off families were less likely to lend money because renting their land remained more profitable (though equally exploitative). When I brought up the topic of moneylending with the women known for engaging in this business, they limited themselves to commenting that they had heard that some people in town “alquilan dinero” (rent money). But I had heard enough from others, including those who had borrowed money, about how it worked. One of the lenders, Isabel, owned a small store in the living room of her house, which was near the center of town and was not as well appointed as those of her relatives. Her husband worked in the United States and sent remittances regularly. Isabel would put the money to work by lending it to others in small amounts, sometimes at an interest rate of 25 percent. One of the women who had “hired money” from Isabel commented that it made more sense for Isabel to lend the remitted money than to put it to other uses, because “the profits are higher when people do business at the expense of those who are desperate.” Two other women echoed this view in a slightly different fashion. Mirna said that it seemed “natural” that the poorer people would fare worse in these monetary transactions, for they would “normally be taken advantage of.” “If you look poor, humble, then it's worse. Sometimes you really need money because a child is sick and you need to buy medicine, and because men are not there to help, you need to borrow money. But the poor are unlucky, the unluckiest people on earth, I tell you. ‘Al perro más flaco se le pegan las pulgas’ [The skinniest dog gets all the fleas].”
Like some of the other women, Hortencia added a specific gendered angle: “Well, for one, as a woman, the disadvantage is worse because if you borrow from men, then they expect you to pay back through other means, you know, like doing things with them. Respect is lost, so it's better not to have any money dealings with some men.” Moneylending can be, as in Estrella's view, a form of help, but often it turns into outright exploitation and thus reflects the structural and symbolic violence in which the vulnerable exploit one another. I heard similar stories in the
Altiplano. Some women there said that the only help from others came in the form of loans, which, as in San Alejo, were for small amounts and for short periods. For instance, Lita lamented how difficult it was for her to survive, and she described the kind of help she sought from those close to her. When two of her children were sick and she had not received any money from her husband who was working in Guatemala City, she turned to her brother for help.
He said that if I gave him the small plot of land that my father left me [as an inheritance] he could help me, he could give me Q.100 [about $20] a month, but he only gave me Q.100 once, and then nothing. Ah, the land? When the boy got out of the hospital I told him that I would give him back his Q.100. I told him that I would even give him the interest. But he said no, that I had already transferred the land to him, and he didn't accept the Q.100 back, and he didn't want to give me the land back. So I lost