Paco Ortíz, a Definition of Struggle
From Tokata (September 1, 2011):
Note from TIOJ: Our resistance is peopled with countless heroes who fight and die in obscurity. One of the purposes of This Is Our Job is to eradicate that obscurity by bringing their stories and voices to light. One such hero is Paco Ortíz.
Born in Antequera, but cosmopolitan, thrown into the world. His trade: repo man of surplus value, bank robber feared by the Civil Guard and other zombie hordes. To stop him, they once shot 114 bullets into the vehicle he was traveling in. By sheer luck, only one of the two people inside was injured. Paco, unscathed, heard the Civil Guard pricks coming, heard them ask: “And if we finish them off?” As well as a fighter, a strategist. The two successive Puerto I rebellions were coordinated by him and another outstanding Paco (nom de guerre: B——).
With a record of 117 “miscellaneous staff” taken hostage, who years later gave him a smattering of applause: “If we’re ever held hostage again, we hope it’s by you, since you’re a gentleman.” The truth is that they wanted to cut certain guards to pieces.
During an escape from Málaga, he took down a pig who had managed to lodge a bullet in the roof. That pistolero fucked up. If a gun is pointed at you, it’s best to not act like an imbecile. Another time, during a spectacular rebellion at Ocaña, the guard posts were attacked with Molotovs. One of the guards was hogtied. A pack of pigs got caught (with many guards taken hostage). The warden had to come negotiate and they almost trapped him as well.
Constant demands, hunger strikes, self-mutilations. Hundreds of formal complaints that went nowhere. Years and years of the special FIES regime without giving up the fight.
At fascist Valladolid they tried to gas them. Someone woke up at 2:30 a.m. and there was a hellishly toxic odor in the air. Thankfully he was able to wake his comrades, who made such a racket in the prison that the vile fascists couldn’t stay hidden. “No, you see, it appears some solvent fell into a heating duct.” Such bullshit.
He escaped from Cartagena by jumping off a 12-meter-high outer wall. He had no rope, and when he landed he fractured his ankle and most of his tibia. Nevertheless, he managed to escape and recover. Pity that such a serious injury would cause him pain for many years. Absolutely more stoic than a ghost, he never complained about it. Before his death, in an attempt to escape from Valencia, he managed to stick a “missile” (a rather large shiv used for self-mutilation and making demands) into his own heart during a rebellion there.
Finally, in deed and word he fought for freedom. A great comrade, friend to his friends, and very much enemy of “the enemy.”
Ideologically, he was in the ranks of the Idea.
He paid 23 years. Tired, alone, hopeless, he wrote to us, his comrades, apologizing and saying goodbye.* Another state crime.
I’M SURE THE EARTH IS BEING GENTLER WITH YOU, FRANCISCO ORTÍZ JIMÉNEZ!!
—José María Pirla Oliván, CP Albolote, M5
*Posthumous letter from Paco Ortíz:
Badajoz; July 18, 2003
I’ll try to make this letter short, concise, and above all posthumous. As most of you know, I have paid 20 consecutive years of prison, almost 17 of which were spent in either solitary confinement or, since 1991, under the FIES 1 RE regime. After a brief six-month interval of freedom during which I got married and my wife had an abortion, which led to our separation, I have currently been a prisoner for 3 years and 13 days, blatantly under the FIES regime from day one in Málaga, Alicante, Picassent, Huelva, Jaén, and right now Badajoz.
I am an anarchist, out there and in here, because I use reason, and that’s what I have fought for on the streets as well as in prison—to leave behind a grain of sand and change whatever I can about the current state of constant violation by a most fascist and savage capitalism. Due to circumstances (23 years in exterminating dungeons), my fight has been strongest in prison (even though on the streets I also struck a number of sabotage “blows” to the enemy, which I won’t get into because of a lack of space and to protect others).
In 20 years, there hasn’t been a single year of rebellion in which I didn’t directly intervene, in all aspects: ideology, strategy, and direct action. And as is well known, we kept an entire government in check for over a decade, despite brutal repression. But what’s happening now? After three years, the only one’s left out of so many are Claudio [Lavazza], Gilbert [Ghislain], and me, and they are literally silencing us. I’ve enjoyed a few small victories over those dogs, and I, Francisco Ortíz Jiménez, directly contributed to the firing of general directors from Central Prison Administration, wardens, big-shot guards at a number of prisons, and many subordinate employees. That said, nil opportunity for action, even though where I am there is harmony among the prisoners and we hit back here and there. All in all, 99% of prisoners—and I’m talking about FIES prisoners (although the rest are more or less the same)—are generally “asleep” thanks to daily does of pills, and against that it’s not worth the daily grind of educating them one at a time to stop taking the shit that keeps them passive. Asleep! Although they walk and talk. And it’s not worth it because if “Big Brother” sees you making progress, they transfer you, and then it’s back to square one. Rationally, in an intimately personal way, and without caring about the contrary opinions of absolutely anyone else (which opinions I’m not asking for), over the past few years I have come to the decision (I actually decided a long time ago) to cease existing. I tried to kill myself several times without “success,” and each time (I am completely healthy and strong, and I look fine, with no antibodies whatsoever—a young-looking 43-year-old) I left behind letters demanding freedom for terminally ill prisoners and an end to FIES and prisoner dispersion, as well as accusing Central Prison Administration and that whole gang of swine in blue—including the examining magistrates—of inducing suicide by action or omission (the therapy for each suicide attempt is punishment).
The prison—Madrid—tried to assert, I say, that I did what I did because I wasn’t in my right mind. They required that I be examined by an outside psychologist in Huelva, and then by a psychiatrist and a psychologist—both “experts”—at the hospital in Jaén. And the results were a real disappointment to them (I’m attaching the report, literally transcribed from the original). Whatever happens, I am going to die because I have decided to do so, freely and willingly. And I will do it not by chance, but with a grand overdose of the pills they give us. I know it won’t catch on, I hope, but I would love if people reflected on it even just a little bit. And in any case, I am not dying “alone” because “I want to” (I LOVE LIFE AND I WANT TO LIVE), but because I can’t live this way any longer—like a wild animal caged in what appear to be military secret service headquarters. Where the guard dogs, under orders from their superiors, flout their own laws as decreed by the suit-and-tie vipers who govern in the name of the usual crowd. Where they don’t acknowledge any dignity other then what you assert on your own, individually. Where most of the time you have no possible “defense” other than your Luciferian voice, which they smear you with to substantiate the wild animal that you are (I’m attaching four reports, four small examples of defending your dignity alone and facing the consequences with total integrity, which integrity, courage, and loyalty I NEVER lacked). In the end, I DIE for myself, for all my comrades, for the dignity of all human beings, and for a free world of AWAKE men and women, without prisons. I love you, compas.
Defiance! Insurrection! Anarchy, freedom, and dignity!
An embrace, as huge as it is anarchist.