“Hey, it’s very dark here, I need a little light.”
Then he stopped talking and straightened the papers on the table. The lights went out. In the penumbra, illuminated just by the faint light of a video camera, he stood up.
He walked a few steps toward the rear of the stage.
Walking slowly, he crossed the threshold.
He began to go down the wooden stairs.
And he slowly faded into the darkness.
And he ceased to exist.
Then a silence spoke out charged with gratitude and so many other things from thousands of hands clapping in unison, and the faces holding back tears, and the hearts repeating: Farewell, Subcomandante. “One, two, three,” the voice of Comandante Tacho was heard talking on the radio. The lights went on again. And Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés, military leader and now also spokesperson of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, said: “Compañeros, compañeras, we are going to listen now to the voice of another compañero.”
From the speakers came the voice which until a few minutes ago, for the last twenty years, belonged to Subcomandante Marcos, now coming to life anew, mocking death. “Have a good pre-dawn, compañeras and compañeros. My name is Galeano. Subcomandante Insurgente Galeano. Is anyone else called Galeano?”
Thousands of men and women responded together: “My name is Galeano!” “We all are Galeano!” “We all are Galeano!”
“So that’s why they told me that when I was reborn, I would do it collectively. So be it then. Have a good trip. Take care of yourselves, take care of us. From the mountains of the Mexican Southeast. Subcomandante Insurgente Galeano.”
(Continuar leyendo…)
