From San Cristobal de las Casas we drove an hour up through the highlands of Chiapas towards the Zapatista Caracol of Oventik. We wound back and forth through a Mexico few have ever seen or heard of. Slender mountain peaks jutting above blankets of soft mist surrounding small plots of squash, beans and corn. Women carrying bails of alfalfa for their sheep, wrapped in wool shawls to protect against a chilling breeze.
On the way our professor told us that should we be stopped by the police, we should all forget that we speak spanish, for it would be best if we just didn't speak at all. We were, afterall, going to a community that explicitly denies the authority of all external governing bodies associated with the state of Mexico. Upon arrival at the caracol ("snail" in spanish) we were welcomed by a sign that reads "Zapatista Autonomous Rebel Teritory: Here the people rule and the government obeys". We were asked to surrender our passports ans step out of the van into a dimly lit little room in which three Zapatista authorities sat, faces covered with either a black ski-mask or a red bandanna. After taking down some information we were directed to another room where the process was repeated.
Our dorms are rustic cabins with wooden-plank bunks (think shelves for humans), adorned with beautiful murals all celebrating the Zapatista message and spirit. In fact, every building in the Caracol is nearly covered in beautiful mrals, painted by visitors from all over the world.
"Caracol" is the spanish word for snail. Oventik is called a caracol because it is a center for government, health, education and culture for many surrounding Zapatista Communities. The only people who live at the caracol itself are about 150 secondary school students and their ten or so "promotores". The caracol is one of five in Chiapas, and serves as a point of encounter and intersection between the Zapatistas and the world at large. Thus the image of the spiral shaped snail shell is not an accident. We are fortunate enough to be staying at the language center, which holds classes in spanish and the mayan language Tzotzil.
My first morning there I awoke to the sunrise and a thick mist retreating from the valleys. It was the 15th of September, the first day of celebration of Mexican Independance from Spain. The caracol celebrated by having a basketball tournament, followed by a parade, assembly and dance.
Eight of the girls in our group, including myself, formed a team, "las rebeldes", and entered the tournament. We were royally dominated by five little girls. They were shorter, faster and all wearing cheap plastic sandals. One even played in her traditional long, colorful skirt. They wore us out running up and down the court- though to our credit we were not used to the 7,200ft elevation.
After lunch the parade begain. Dark clouds rolling in eluded to violent weather to come, but the parade would go on despite. Students of all ages, from four to twenty four, marched in groups, all wearking masks or bandannas. The skies unleashed and they continued to march through the pouring, cold rain behind their flag, which was accompnied by the Mexican national flag. They chanted the names of those who fought against the Spanish, against dictators and against neoliberal globalization. They chanted viva Mexico! Viva Chiapas! Viva el EZLN! Viva los caracoles! Viva los municipios Autonomos! Viva Ramona! Viva Zapata! Viva!
For over an hour they marched and chanted, through the mist and chilling rain, reminding us all of the sacrifices which must accompany any struggle against a dominating world system.
After a class on Marxism and then dinner, we all headed up to the suditorium where a masked woman recounted the struggles for liberty, justice and land of their fore-fathers, starting with the war for independance gainst the Spanish conquistadors. She recounted the subsequent struggle of the indigenous, and how they were largely if not completely forgotten. She told of Pancho Villa and Emiliano Zapata's popular struggle for land and justice. Even though they were able to wrestle power out of the hands of the oppressive dictator, he was replaced by an equally power-hungry ruler, and the poor and indigenous peoples Mexico continued to be ignored and forgotten.
But then they began to organize against their oppressors, with many movements culminating in the surprise uprising on 1/1/94 when the EZLN took back the land that they needed to survive. The masked woman reminded us that the struggle continues to this day, and that it is up to the Zapatista youth to follow in the footsteps of those before them in the struggle for humanity and against neoliberal globalization.
One of the most poignant things I have heard during my brief stay there was this: The Zapatista resistance is not something new. It begain the day that Christopher Columbus landed in the Americas, and it will continue on until we live in a world where everyone can live lives of dignity.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
San Cristobal de las Casas (poem)
San Cristobal de las Casas
A lingering Struggle
Hangs like the fog
In the morning air.
It’s hard to see
Or hear
For there are no more bombs falling
Or boots marching.
Hunched and wrinkled indians sell figurines
Of their liberators
The EZLN.
Here one can purchase
Their own little piece
Of the revolution.
25 pesos for a beer at Café Revolucion
on Avenida Insurgente
across from the Burger King.
A lingering Struggle
Hangs like the fog
In the morning air.
It’s hard to see
Or hear
For there are no more bombs falling
Or boots marching.
Hunched and wrinkled indians sell figurines
Of their liberators
The EZLN.
Here one can purchase
Their own little piece
Of the revolution.
25 pesos for a beer at Café Revolucion
on Avenida Insurgente
across from the Burger King.
San Cristobal de las Casas
San Cristobal de las Casas is a city of staggering beauty, anciently complex history and exploding political tension. Wandering her streets one will find all on the same block barefoot elderly Mayan women selling handcrafts, a Burger King, a makeshift bike-powered taco stand, a man selling lychees, a bakery and a bar called “Café Revolucion”. Buildings are painted brightly and illuminated by lights at night. The local fare is delicious and cheap.
I can see why so many “politically minded” foreigners flock here (myself included). This city is the cultural center of the state of Chiapas, where in 1994 the Zapatista National Liberation Army came down from the mountains and reclaimed land for thousands of indigenous peasants. The city is home to a fleet of NGOs who are working with the Zapatistas to ensure their longevity and continued liberation. The sense of change, of reclaiming dignity, of revolution, is enough to lift you off your feet and carry you away at times. Enough to make you never want to return to your life at the university or behind a desk at an NGO. Here things are happening… right now. Things that awaken in us all the affirmation of life and freedom and dignity and the rejection of all that limits and oppresses us.
The smell of hard-won liberation wafts through the air, so that one can’t help but want to be a part of it. It’s everywhere- Indigenous women’s collectives, radical info-shops and an independent cinema. Marcos T-shirts and EZLN commando boots. The tourist market is filled with beautiful handcrafts being sold by mostly indigenous women and men adorned in their traditional colorful dress.
But a small scratch under the surface reveals an entirely different world. The city is wrought with racism. Those who are sympathetic to the rebellion are equally matched in number by ultra conservative evangelicals sympathetic to the PRI, which also runs the local government. The tourist market is dominated by one specific indigenous community that has very close ties to the PRI, and those who have stalls there are the most wealthy even of that community. Most of the items for sale there are not handmade by the vendors but shipped from Guatemala where they were produced in factories. There is a reason why one will only find tourists and hustlers at Café Revolucion.
Revolution is seductive. We all feel the inherent idiocy and destructiveness of the current system for the few and against the many. We all know in our hearts that “to be” is much more than just “to have”. We all feel the alienation from our work, our neighbors, ourselves. We all feel that there must be something of value other than gaining for gaining’s sake.
But what is there to do?
I have come here, like hoards before me, to attempt to answer that very question. The answer is not at café Revolucion nor the infoshop selling Marcos shirts. It’s not even in books like “Pedagogy of the Oppressed” or Marx’s “Capital”. Perhaps I will find some clues at my next destination: The Zapatista Caracol at Oventik.
I can see why so many “politically minded” foreigners flock here (myself included). This city is the cultural center of the state of Chiapas, where in 1994 the Zapatista National Liberation Army came down from the mountains and reclaimed land for thousands of indigenous peasants. The city is home to a fleet of NGOs who are working with the Zapatistas to ensure their longevity and continued liberation. The sense of change, of reclaiming dignity, of revolution, is enough to lift you off your feet and carry you away at times. Enough to make you never want to return to your life at the university or behind a desk at an NGO. Here things are happening… right now. Things that awaken in us all the affirmation of life and freedom and dignity and the rejection of all that limits and oppresses us.
The smell of hard-won liberation wafts through the air, so that one can’t help but want to be a part of it. It’s everywhere- Indigenous women’s collectives, radical info-shops and an independent cinema. Marcos T-shirts and EZLN commando boots. The tourist market is filled with beautiful handcrafts being sold by mostly indigenous women and men adorned in their traditional colorful dress.
But a small scratch under the surface reveals an entirely different world. The city is wrought with racism. Those who are sympathetic to the rebellion are equally matched in number by ultra conservative evangelicals sympathetic to the PRI, which also runs the local government. The tourist market is dominated by one specific indigenous community that has very close ties to the PRI, and those who have stalls there are the most wealthy even of that community. Most of the items for sale there are not handmade by the vendors but shipped from Guatemala where they were produced in factories. There is a reason why one will only find tourists and hustlers at Café Revolucion.
Revolution is seductive. We all feel the inherent idiocy and destructiveness of the current system for the few and against the many. We all know in our hearts that “to be” is much more than just “to have”. We all feel the alienation from our work, our neighbors, ourselves. We all feel that there must be something of value other than gaining for gaining’s sake.
But what is there to do?
I have come here, like hoards before me, to attempt to answer that very question. The answer is not at café Revolucion nor the infoshop selling Marcos shirts. It’s not even in books like “Pedagogy of the Oppressed” or Marx’s “Capital”. Perhaps I will find some clues at my next destination: The Zapatista Caracol at Oventik.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
