Zapatista Rising: The Ugly Truth Behind the Village Veil
In southern Mexico, a century-old war rages on, between the mountains and the sea, between the wealthy and the poor, between freedom and government oppression.
“In silencing our pain, we are preparing for its scream. Our word, comes from fire. In order to wake those who slept, to raise the fallen, to incense those that conformed and surrendered. To rebel against history. ”
By late morning, the heat stakes its claim on my state of mind. I'm thirsty, weak, defeated to the core. In the eyes of hardened men I do not belong, but my brittle ego urges me to prove them wrong.
Resting upon a clifftop perch, I discuss values with one of the few villagers who enjoys outside attention. This is not the most breathtaking view, but the galloping thick of jungle is foreboding, and offers the promise of self-discovery. As the mist dissipates and the ominous range unfolds before us, I understand our insignificance.
Pummelling another locally harvested coffee, I pause in conversation with my minder, Tico—not his real name. Together, we drift into the mirage of the stunning silence.
Silence.
To the Zapatistas of Chiapas, silence is too risky a commodity to invest in, and provides nothing more than a veil of deception. As Tico puts it, “Here, silence symbolises one thing: la calma antes de la tormenta.” The calm before the storm. “This is a war zone. The silence is lying to you.”
Tico, feigning for a moment that the conversation may redirect from radical banter, raises his right arm and gestures towards the southern horizon. "See over there? That's Guatemala."
“In Guatemala, like Mexico, the indigenous are treated poorly. They are never given a chance. A chance to rise, a chance to empower, a chance at freedom. Many turn to drug running and illegal border crossings. Indigenous horsemen cross the borders to commit robbery. Mostly they steal from those living on Maya land. This is their heritage too. They steal from their heritage.”
This is one of dozens of monologues Tico proffers over my three-day visit. I’ve learnt to listen without speaking. There's always a pertinent point.
“There is no structure among many indigenous communities. No drive or purpose. Here, we are different. We are organised and on a mission. Many outsiders have the wrong idea about Zapatistas. By nature, we are not violent. No one here wants to commit murder, but sometimes we must sin in order to gain virtue.”
Away from the mountain villages of Chiapas, the name Zapatista doesn’t garner much praise. There isn’t a lot of sympathy for the freedom fighters who, in the eyes of many, are using the lure of socialist revolution as an excuse to commit violence. Tico snaps a retort to my prickly question regarding ethics and morality.
“Of course I understand this attitude! Yes, there are soldiers that abuse their privilege and grow carried away with other activities. That’s all I’ll say on the matter.”
I must stress, the EZLN (Ejército Zapatista de Liberación Nacional) is not a slapped together throng of trigger-happy revolutionaries. This complex collective prove more focused than most on societal issues, particularly health and education. In equal measure, the focus on breaking the cycle of government oppression is paramount.
An abundance of Zapatista learning facilities dot the landscape of the Chiapan mountains, acting as alternative education centres for toddlers through to college level. Volunteers from the world over teach Spanish, English, mathematics, arts, and sciences, all of which are compulsory. Local teachers cover other important subjects such as social science and indigenous history.
Damon, from Australia, is one such volunteer who first trekked into the lakeside village of Venustiano Carranza in mid-2016. His intention was to explore the region with a vague notion of volunteering in a local community. He is yet to leave the area other than for luxury provisions in the nearby city of Tuxtla Gutierrez. Talking to a fellow Aussie in this tense part of the world seems a tad surreal.
“The people here are amazing. So generous despite the horrendous poverty. The mainstream media is forever portraying Zapatistas as bandits who hijack buses and pillage small towns. That may have been the case in the 1990s, but it isn't anymore. All that was during the uprising. Now that we have internet, background checks are performed. They crooks are weeded out easily.”
Monies donated to the EZLN are gathered and distributed in the socialist-driven equity of outcome philosophy. As opposed to a larger city, this ethos functions well within the confines of a small village. On the surface everyone seems happy and, judging by the classroom of robust students at the local escuelita, well-fed.
But dangers exist.
While it’s not illegal to be an EZLN member, political factions left and right are perpetually gunning for Zapatista blood and land—numerous soldados are killed every month fighting for sovereignty. Damon has plenty to say on the subject:
“It's akin to civil war here. Although I don't consider myself a Zapatista, I do realise what I’m doing is dangerous. The government aren't big on anyone fighting for independence, and whenever the troops are sent in all hell breaks loose.”
Anonymity among Zapatistas is of the utmost importance and upheld with pride. It's the strangest sight—to enter a classroom of elementary students and notice all faces covered by bandanas, as soldados stand guard with loaded assault rifles. This extreme measurement is necessary; harmony can be deceptive.
Raids conducted by the CISEN and Mexican Armed Forces may occur at any time.
The silence.
Surrounding the school perimeter are micro-armies of armed soldiers—wide-eyed teenagers keen to climb Zapatista ranks. Every guard carries two hand grenades clipped at each hip. Knives stashed handle-up make for an uncomfortable combat boot, a locked-and-loaded Russian AB-3 rifle scuffs the midriff. Rambo-style ammunition criss-crosses skinny chests in diagonals of valuable copper. The ironic cycle is all too real: the trembling hand of youth guarding future soldiers destined to bury those same protectors.
In the fields, senior officers plant additional artillery—land mines. By any means necessary. Tico explains:
“This is where things get serious, where the war is. We have plantation workers place mines in the fields, we line the ridges with explosives, and we sit back and wait. Injustice has brought us to this.”
Tico cranes to the heavens and crosses himself; even the EZLN has not escaped the octopus of the Catholic church. The lingering sadness in his worn face verifies the truth—he yearns for peace. But with truth comes cynicism, and Tico knows that without militance, peace can never be. And, as if to signify this truth, he crosses himself again, slumps against an evergreen Ash tree, and passes me a piece of Mayan chocolate.
“Sometimes I think we’ll never win this war. But I can’t give up. What sort of a father would I be if I did? All I’m living for is to ensure that once I’m gone, my children will be just that little bit more free. This is my purpose.”
Salivating over this meticulously constructed cacao, beside a man more man than I, an updated philosophy comes to mind: there is no human foe, only causal enemy. Just as love for the fellow man is a gift bestowed, so too is the right to bear arms and defend blood. The selfish gene. This is how we’re designed. Sacrifice unto ourselves, for the good of the genetic code. This doesn’t mean one should ingratiate himself to the cheek of violence, but as animals we must be prepared to defend.
Are Zapatistas wrong for fighting for liberty and culture? Why are they so misunderstood? Is it their general attachment to the dreaded establishment keyword, socialism? Or, is it the organisation’s willingness to stand up to the establishment in order to avenge an epoch of injustice? Whether right or wrong, an acceptance of those standing in the crossfire is crucial to the reversal of human decay. Until such a time occurs, let's eat some Mayan chocolate and not hold our collective breaths.
© Chuck Hagen
