had reasons to suspect the hit men were hired by DESA, the dam construction company. DESA’s trumped-up criminal charges against her and other leaders of the Council of Popular and Indigenous Organizations of Honduras (COPINH) had failed to silence them. Was it now it was pursuing other means to stop the opposition?
Her sense of unease intensified on 12 February 2016. Douglas Bustillo, a thuggish former army lieutenant and DESA’s ex-security chief, messaged her COPINH deputy, Tomás Gómez Membreño, out of the blue, accusing Berta of cashing in on the Río Blanco struggle to win the prestigious Goldman Environmental Prize.
‘You don’t have the same support as before, it seems like you’ve sold out your conscience and ideals. And you’ve left the people of La Tejera [in Río Blanco] alone … you only used them for your boss’s prize and didn’t help them, not even with a maternity centre even though she got almost 4 million. Now the people have realized, and they’re not going to support you.’
Tomás forwarded the message to Berta, who sent it back to Bustillo, and then texted him:
‘You never tire of being a frontman for DESA … repeating everything they say.’
‘Hahaha. I’m no frontman, I’ve forgotten all about that company,’ Bustillo replied.
Four days later, driving out of Río Blanco, Berta’s car was shadowed by two SUVs carrying armed locals she knew were linked to DESA.
On 20 February, Berta led a convoy to the Gualcarque, a river considered sacred by the Lenca people, to make a stand against the company’s attempt to circumvent indigenous land rights by moving the dam across the shore. DESA was warned about the demonstration via its network of paid informants, and summoned its political and security allies to wreck the event. First, COPINH’s buses and cars were detained at a checkpoint where everyone was forced out and the men and women were separated, registered and photographed by police and military officers. Then, a small crowd threw stones and insults. ‘You old witch, you’ll never come back here!’ screamed the pro-dam deputy mayor at Berta.
As the crowd jeered, Sergio Rodríguez, DESA’s communities and environmental manager, politely greeted Berta before warning her to turn back. ‘There are armed men at the river, we won’t be responsible if something happens to you.’
‘We’re not leaving, we have a right to be here,’ retorted Berta, and marched on.
But the public road to the river was blocked by company machinery, so Berta set off on foot in the blistering sun towards the dam encampment. Waiting along the gruelling unshaded track were hired thugs and armed security guards and police officers, including some Tigres – an elite US-backed special weapons and tactics (SWAT) team trained for urban combat.
A drone buzzed overhead taking photographs as COPINH protesters threw rocks at the company machinery. DESA’s security chief, former police major Jorge Ávila, appeared with a grisly warning: ‘En unos días, ustedes van a comer el hígado de una persona’ (In a few days, you’ll be eating someone’s liver), he said.
Still undeterred, Berta continued with the exhausted group to the river, where they sat on the shady bank to rest and connect with the Gualcarque’s sacred spirit. When they finally left it was dark, and Berta’s car was pelted with beer bottles and rocks, smashing the rear window.
Less than a week later, around midday on 26 February, a double-cabin pickup truck with polarized windows drove up the narrow dead-end street leading to the COPINH head office in the city of La Esperanza. A tall man with a military-style haircut got out and asked for Berta, while the driver kept the engine running. When asked to identify himself, he jumped into the car and sped off.
These incidents made Berta even more nervous, and she arranged to stay at Utopía, COPINH’s bustling training centre in La Esperanza, so as not to be at home alone when Laura returned to university in Buenos Aires.
She also contacted her friend Brigitte Gynther, a researcher at the School of Americas Watch (SOAW), who catalogued threats against COPINH. ‘I need to talk to you,’ she wrote in a text message on 29 February. ‘I have news.’ Brigitte was working in rural Colombia, but they agreed to speak later.
On the morning of 1 March, Berta drove Laura to Toncontín airport on the outskirts of the capital, Tegucigalpa. ‘I’m proud of you,’ she said. ‘Enjoy life, make the most of it, but remember this is where you belong, in Honduras, fighting to make this a better place.’
Just before Laura went through security Berta hugged her youngest child one more time. ‘This country is fucked, but if anything happens to me, don’t be afraid.’
Laura assumed she was worried about being arrested again. ‘My mum was so well known that I really doubted anything serious would happen to her. I thought meeting the pope and winning the Goldman Prize would protect her.’
At 2:08 p.m., Sergio Rodríguez sent a WhatsApp message, using a group chat named Security PHAZ (Proyecto Hidroelectrico Agua Zarca). Addressing DESA shareholders and senior managers, among them company president David Castillo, a US-trained former military intelligence officer, he confirmed that Berta would be in La Esperanza the following day.
Laura’s plane took off just as Berta’s old friend Gustavo Castro, a politically astute Mexican environmentalist, was landing at San Pedro Sula international airport on the other side of the country. Berta had invited Gustavo to give a workshop on alternative energy for COPINH members. The pair, who went way back, hadn’t seen each other in several years and spent the evening catching up at Berta’s new house in Colonia Líbano, a gated community on the southern edge of La Esperanza.
Berta told him about the turmoil generated by the campaign to stop the dam, a construction project backed by members of one of the country’s most powerful clans, the Atala Zablah family, as well as international banks. ‘It was strange, as she never sent me any ideas for the workshop, just the ticket; but I had no idea how much pressure she was under,’ Gustavo would recall.
They were both tired, so Berta suggested calling it a night and offered to take Gustavo to his lodgings, but he was worried about her safety. ‘It’s so dark and isolated here, will you be alright driving back alone so late?’ he asked. ‘Cheque, hermano [Okay, brother], I’ll be fine. But why don’t you come and stay here with me from tomorrow night? I’ve got internet, so we can work here together.’
The next day, Tuesday 2 March, Berta opened the workshop in Utopía before heading to the outdoor kitchen area, carrying her three constantly chiming mobile phones and customary notebook and pen. She messaged Laura, telling her not to worry as Gustavo would be staying at the house. She also called her close colleague Sotero Chavarría, who’d gone to Tegucigalpa for medical treatment. ‘Hermano, I need you back here, come soon, I have to tell you something, it’s important,’ she said.
Shortly after, Sotero received another call: security chief Ávila and a dozen Río Blanco locals aligned with DESA were approaching La Esperanza in a dark Toyota pickup truck. What business did they have that day, were they coming to keep tabs on Berta? On his way back to La Esperanza, Sotero noticed the police checkpoint at the city entrance was unmanned. This was so unusual that he mentioned it to colleagues.
Later that morning, Lilian Esperanza, the COPINH finance coordinator, arrived at Utopía with a handful of cheques and a donor letter that needed Berta’s signature. ‘We need to change the signature,’ Berta said. ‘What if something happens to me? I could be jailed or killed. If you have problems accessing money, then what would happen to COPINH? I keep on reporting the threats, but no one takes any notice.’
‘Don’t
