In an industrial corridor of Peru's capital, a dingy stairwell leads to a second-floor safehouse. Dozens of Quechua and Aymara activists lie on mattresses strewn on the floor, resting up for more anti-government demonstrations as volunteers cook a breakfast of donated rice, pasta and vegetables. Among the makeshift refuge's occupants is Marcelo Fonseca. The 46-year-old watched as a a friend was shot and killed in December as they battled security forces in the southern city of Juliaca. Within hours, Fonseca joined a caravan of demonstrators that descended on the capital, Lima, to demand the resignation of interim President Dina Boluarte. “Our Andean blood burns when we become furious,” Fonseca, whose native language is Quechua, said in a halting Spanish. ”It runs faster. That’s what brings us here.” Two months into Peru’s angry insurrection, emotions have hardened. While the unrest has barely disturbed the late-night revelry in Lima's beachside enclaves, roadblocks still rage across the countryside, scaring away foreign tourists and leading to shortages of gas and other staples. The tumult, which has left at least 60 dead, was triggered by the impeachment in December of President Pedro Castillo. To Peruvians like Fonseca, the leftist rural teacher was a symbol of their own exclusion, while Boluarte's ascension to power from the vice presidency in cahoots with Castillo's conservative enemies in Congress is seen as an unforgivable class betrayal. The impasse has given a jolt of self-confidence to Peru's Indigenous movement. Unlike neighboring Bolivia, where Indigenous groups were emboldened by Aymara coca-grower Evo Morales' election as president in 2006, or Ecuador, where ethnic groups have a long tradition of toppling unpopular governments, Peru's Indigenous groups had long struggled to gain political influence. Although Peruvians of all backgrounds take pride in the history of the Inca Empire, the country's Indigenous population is often treated with neglect and even hostility. Little is done to promote Quechua, despite its being spoken by millions and being an official language since 1975. Not until the 2017 census were Peruvians even asked whether they identify with any one of 50-plus Indigenous groups. Tarcila Rivera, a prominent Quechua activist and former adviser to the United Nations on Indigenous issues, attributes the disdain to systemic racism stretching back to the Spanish conquest. “Despite the two hundred years since the founding of our republic, the reality is that those of us who come from pre-Hispanic civilizations haven't obtained our rights, nor are those rights taken into account,” said Rivera. The current turmoil has also unleashed a torrent of racism. One lawmaker from the floor of Congress disparaged the rainbow-colored Wiphala flag, which represents the native people of the Andes, as little more than a “chifa tablecloth,” using the word for a cheap Chinese restaurant. Another urged security forces to send protesters to Bolivia with a big “kick.” Rivera says the crackdown has radicalized younger protesters. Meanwhile, the spread of smartphones and the Internet during the past few decades of economic stability has made Indigenous Peruvians more aware of their rights, the country's gaping inequalities and the sacrifices of previously unheralded Indigenous heroes, whose achievements contrast with narratives of perennial victimhood. “All our kids are ever been taught is that we're losers, miserable souls who were conquered without a fight," Rivera said. The current protest movement is centered in the southern Andes, where Indigenous identity is strongest. The area is the source of much of Peru's mineral wealth and is home to archeological jewels that attracted more than 4 million tourists a year before COVID. Its peasants are also among Peru's most neglected. Those inequalities were on vivid display this month at a roadblock near Cusco, where a group of campesinos sat vigil for hours over a roadblock of tires, tree trunks and boulders. As the line of stranded vehicles grew, tensions flared as motorists complaining that they had family emergencies. “Don't yell at me when I'm speaking to you with manners!” barked one motorist who faulted the protestors for voting for Castillo, who lived in an adobe home in one of Peru's poorest districts before winning the presidency. “Don't let shameless politicians, who are often from the same community, trick you," he said repeating a false narrative held by elites that Castillo's victory was the result of bribes, fraud and chicanery. Eventually, the demonstrators yielded to the pressure and briefly opened the road, after a harangue against the “millionaires" and powerful interests blamed for driving their community to desperate actions. Back in Lima, the safehouse is a hive of activity as another day of demonstrating awaits. Hand-written signs list daily chores to keep the cramped quarters safe and clean. Dozens more activists from Cusco are expected soon and need to be lodged in one of the few dozen homes, apartments and businesses across the capital that have opened their doors, like clandestine rebel bases. Discretion is a must. Like Fonseca, many of the demonstrators were already detained when security forces firing tear gas last month stormed a university campus at breakfast and arrested hundreds for trespassing. As a result, occupants are encouraged to leave the safehouse one or two at a time, turn off lights early and immediately report any police intrusion to two human-rights attorneys on permanent standby. The windows are covered with newspapers and dog-food bags to block out would-be snoops. But more than fear, the mood is one of hope. “No matter what happens, I dare say we've already won,” said Victor Quinones as he stuffs a wad of coca leaves into his cheek. At 60, Quinones is one of the group's veterans. He says the past few weeks in the capital have strengthened his resolve to push forward and no longer accept the status quo — or futile standoffs with police back home as the best way to change it. “We broke the barrier. We've started our long march — and look at all this support we've garnered along the way," he reflects. "We've won because, now, the world knows.”

British Prime Minister Boris Johnson battled to remain in office Wednesday, brushing off calls for his resignation after three Cabinet ministers and a slew of junior officials said they could no longer serve under his scandal-plagued leadership. Johnson rejected demands that he step down during a stormy session of the House of Commons amid a furor over his handling of sexual misconduct allegations against a senior official. Later in the day, a delegation of some of his most trusted allies in the Cabinet paid a visit to the prime minister at 10 Downing Street to urge him to go, but he remained unmoved, Britain’s Press Association reported. The prime minister turned down suggestions he seek a “dignified exit” and opted instead to fight for his political career, citing “hugely important issues facing the country,” according to the news agency. It quoted a source close to Johnson as saying he told colleagues there would be “chaos” if he quit. The 58-year-old leader who pulled Britain out of the European Union and steered it through the COVID-19 outbreak is known for his ability to wiggle out of tight spots, managing to remain in power despite allegations that he was too close to party donors, that he protected supporters from bullying and corruption allegations, and that he misled Parliament about government office parties that broke pandemic lockdown rules. Also Read: Political foes revel in Boris Johnson’s woes in Parliament He hung on even when 41% of Conservative lawmakers voted to oust him in a no-confidence vote last month. But recent disclosures that Johnson knew about sexual misconduct allegations against a lawmaker before he promoted the man to a senior position pushed him to the brink. In holding on to his office, Johnson is attempting to defy the mathematics of parliamentary government and the traditions of British politics. It is rare for a prime minister to cling to power in the face of this much pressure from his Cabinet colleagues.  “He is now besmirching our democracy, and if he doesn’t do the right thing and go of his own accord, then he’ll be dragged out,” Scottish National Party leader Ian Blackford told the BBC.   Many of Johnson’s fellow Conservatives were concerned that he no longer had the moral authority to govern at a time when difficult decisions are needed to address soaring food and energy prices, rising COVID-19 infections and the war in Ukraine. Others worry that he may now be a liability at the ballot box. On Wednesday, members of the opposition Labour Party showered Johnson with shouts of “Go! Go!” during the weekly ritual of Prime Minister’s Questions in the House of Commons. Labour Party leader Keir Starmer mockingly said of the resignations surrounding Johnson, “Isn’t it the first recorded case of the sinking ship fleeing the rat?” More damningly, members of Johnson’s own Conservative Party — wearied by the many scandals he has faced — also challenged their leader. “Frankly … the job of the prime minister in difficult circumstances, when he’s been handed a colossal mandate, is to keep going,” Johnson replied with the bluster he has used to fend off critics throughout nearly three years in office. “And that’s what I’m going to do.” Former Health Secretary Sajid Javid, who helped trigger the current crisis when he resigned Tuesday night, captured the mood of many lawmakers when he said Johnson’s actions threaten to undermine the integrity of the Conservative Party and the British government. “At some point we have to conclude that enough is enough,” he told fellow lawmakers. “I believe that point is now.” Under party rules, another no-confidence vote cannot be held for another 11 months, but party members can change the rules. The 1922 Committee, a small but influential group of Conservative lawmakers, could decide as early as Monday whether to do that. Javid and Treasury chief Rishi Sunak resigned within minutes of each other over the latest furor. The two Cabinet heavyweights were responsible for tackling two of the biggest issues facing Britain — the cost-of-living crisis and COVID-19. In a scathing letter, Sunak said: “The public rightly expect government to be conducted properly, competently and seriously. … I believe these standards are worth fighting for and that is why I am resigning.” The resignations of some 40 junior ministers and ministerial aides followed on Tuesday and Wednesday. A third Cabinet official, Welsh Secretary Simon Hart, quit late Wednesday, saying “we have passed the point” where it’s possible to “turn the ship around.” As Johnson dug in, critics accused him of refusing to accept the inevitable and of behaving more like a president than a prime minister by referring to his “mandate.” In Britain, voters elect a party to govern, not the prime minister directly. Former International Development Secretary Andrew Mitchell said late Tuesday that Johnson’s time is finally up. “It’s a bit like the death of Rasputin: He’s been poisoned, stabbed, he’s been shot, his body’s been dumped in a freezing river, and still he lives,” Mitchell told the BBC. “But this is an abnormal prime minister, a brilliantly charismatic, very funny, very amusing, big, big character. But I’m afraid he has neither the character nor the temperament to be our prime minister.” The final straw for Sunak and Javid was the prime minister’s handling of sexual misconduct allegations against Conservative lawmaker Chris Pincher. Last week, Pincher resigned as deputy chief whip after complaints he groped two men at a private club. That triggered a series of reports about past allegations leveled against Pincher — and shifting explanations from the government about what Johnson knew when he tapped the man for a senior job enforcing party discipline.