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In early April, during a quarantine that would drag on for several months, thousands of white flags flew from homes across Peru.
The families hung them up as a cry for help, a symbol that they had no more food.
What started in the slums of Lima spread to hundreds of communities across the country.
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A Creole hen against hunger in the Dry Corridor
PHOTO GALLERY |
White flags in Valle del Sol
Organized solidarity faces economic collapse in Peru
But in the town of Nueva Ciudad Inca, in the Peruvian Andes Mountains, it became a symbol of resilience.
With numerous white flags made of plastic bags and broomsticks raised in their community, six women joined forces and resources to organize a common pot, which they named Olla Solidaria.
“We made Turkish rice, but without meat or chicken, because we didn't have it,” recalls Marco (* 13 years old) when talking about the opening day, in May.
Marco, whose mother was one of the founders, helped knocking on doors to tell the townspeople that they could get a full meal for just one Peruvian sol (20 euro cents).
During the first months of the pandemic, the volunteers, mostly women, managed to feed more than 150 children and 100 adults every day.
They run the pot from a house given by a neighbor.
On the wall hangs a paper with the volunteers' shifts and the menu for the week: today, locro de zapallo;
tomorrow, bachelor of cheese.
A private company donated huge utensils and pots, which are on a disused kitchen.
The women cook outside with firewood because they cannot afford gas to cook inside.
When the food is ready, the pots are brought inside to serve the neighbors who have been queuing from noon.
During the first months of the pandemic, the volunteers, mostly women, were able to feed more than 150 children and 100 adults every day
The small community of Nueva Ciudad Inca is only a reflection of the Latin American reality.
An estimated 28 million people in the region live in extreme poverty, largely due to the deterioration of the economy as a result of the pandemic, according to the Economic Commission for Latin America and the Caribbean (ECLAC).
This means a significant setback in the rights of the child.
As in this community in the Peruvian Andes, their education and nutrition are at risk.
The quarantine left more than a third of Peruvians without food and many families are still struggling to recover.
As in Peru's economic crisis and hyperinflation of the 1980s, soup kitchens have emerged in response, organizing to eat in groups and share food.
The solidarity pot
As I photograph the cooks, nine-year-old Laura looks at my camera curiously.
She tells me that her mother takes weekly shifts with other women in the community to cook and shop.
"Although I see her less these days, I am proud that she helps other children like me not to go hungry," she says while carrying the container with food for herself, her mother and her little brother.
Mónica Bustos, the SOS Children's Villages family mediator, mentions that the daily number of servings varies and has decreased since they started, but looking at the daily queues, it is obvious that the need persists.
And the reality is that it is the children and adolescents who most depend on the community pot, while their caregivers go to work or look for some kind of income to take home.
For many like Laura and Marco, this will be their only meal of the day, replacing what they would normally receive at school.
Unfortunately, the board of directors of the pot can only afford one meal a day.
Choose between education or food
The new town of Nueva Ciudad Inca was seen as an opportunity for many to fulfill the dream of having a home of their own just 30 minutes from the city of Cuzco, with the promise that access to basic services would be improved.
But after the announcement of the quarantine, the landscape and the calm of the area have been overshadowed by the lack of light and water.
Marco visits his mother and his two younger brothers on the weekends.
After the closing of the schools, he has lived with a relative in Cuzco to be able to follow the classes online.
Without light and without a telephone signal, he had to go up to a warehouse at the entrance of the community, since it was the only corner that had light.
He paid two soles to charge the phone and then climbed a hill where he had a signal to receive his homework on WhatsApp.
“Here I am freer, I can run and play.
In the city I feel shut in, ”he tells me as he combs his hair and puts on his cap.
"But since I want to study engineering or law to help my mother and my community, I had to leave."
Families must choose if they eat or if they buy credit for the cell phone (or charge it) so that the children can follow the classes from a distance
Laura does not have the same option.
After proudly showing me her two puppies and telling me that she dreams of being a vet, she guides me back to the community pot.
He was with me all day, so I asked him how he kept up with his homework.
She claims her father takes the only cell phone to work Monday through Friday, so he can only do his homework on Sundays.
"Sometimes my aunt lends me hers, but I'm ashamed to ask for it too much."
Families must choose whether to eat or to buy cell phone credit (or charge it) so that the children can follow the classes remotely.
The so-called virtual education for girls like Laura is just one more term for an interrupted education.
"My mom told me my handwriting is ugly, so I'm rewriting everything from this year in a new notebook," she lets go as she jumps down the hill toward the pot of solidarity.
The school year ended in December and they now have two months of vacation, but compared to other years, Marco and Laura are looking forward to going back to classrooms in early March.
The first because he wants to return to live with his brothers and his mother;
Laura because she misses learning.
"In school I was feeling smarter and smarter, I want to go back."
A plate of food for each child
Today the women who run the Nueva Ciudad Inca community pot seek to formalize it in a community dining room, to receive a monthly budget from the local authorities, guaranteeing the continuity of the initiative.
But they tell me that it is all a bureaucratic procedure.
In the midst of a political crisis, thousands of community pots across the country are waiting for Congress to pass a long-overdue bill to speed up this process, in response to the emergency.
Despite this sad reality and the long wait for government support, a small community like Nueva Ciudad Inca has taken the reins, facing the crisis with solidarity and resilience.
As I talk to women, children and adolescents who are queuing outside the community pot, with empty bottles and containers to take their portions home, they all find a positive side.
They appreciate that they now know each other better, know the names of their neighbors, and can support each other.
Everyone agrees that, at least now, all children have something to eat.
(*) Names changed to protect privacy.
In response to the social and economic crisis of covid-19, SOS Children's Villages Peru supports 18 community pots and 17 soup kitchens nationwide, with a monthly budget of 700 soles (around 200 euros), for the purchase of food.
In addition, there is constant accompaniment and workshops to develop organizational and leadership skills on the boards of directors.
Alejandra Kaiser
works for SOS Children's Villages International in Latin America.
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