Sobre el tema: La Tormenta y el Día Después

Décima parte:  LA SALUD SEGÚN LA DOÑA JUANITA.

  No es hoy el día después.  La doña Juanita muele el maíz que luego será tortilla nueva en la mesa donde, después de la práctica, los promotores comerán.  La doña Juanita me confiesa que, a la hora de repartir la comida, les sirve más a las promotoras de salud.  Porque son sanadoras, dice, y necesitan más fuerza para que su cabeza aprende y enseña.

  Hablamos.  Más bien, habla ella y yo escucho.  Dice de una tierra lejana que está ahí nomás, al otro lado de la sierra que extiende su falda en nuestro suelo; nuestra tierra que antes fue de los extraños, los de afuera, los de dinero y muerte; suelo que libre se hizo por nuestra lucha.

  Está contenta la doña Juanita con la lucha.  Contando historias del pasado, cuando el finquero y el gobierno mandaban, anima a sus nietas, las exhorta, les advierte: “No dejes la lucha nunca, busca tu lugar y pelea para defenderlo.  Si lo pierdes, de balde murieron nuestros muertos y te van a venir a jalar las greñas.  Y yo te voy a agarrar a patadas.  Aunque esté yo muerta, en la noche llego”.

  “La sistema sólo nos enseñó a mal morir”, dice mientras atiza el fogón.  “Y la lucha nos enseñó a vivir.  Difícil seguir el camino de la muerte, y más difícil caminar la vida.  Pero más alegre la lucha, porque te hace que miras lejos.  Por ejemplo, de la salud.  Antes la enfermedad sólo terminaba con la muerte, y nuestra medicina sólo retrasaba un poco que somos difuntos.  Ahora hay muchas formas de salud.  Empezando desde abajo, así como se levanta una champa.  Bueno, eso pienso yo.  Así dice mi cabeza.  Por eso es bueno que las jóvenas aprendan de la salud.  Porque ese camino es largo y es de vida.  Pero que no sólo de plantas medicinales, porque hasta yo sé de eso.  Es de cosas nuevas, de laboratorios y esos aparatos raros que oyen lo que dice tu tripa.  De abrirle la panza a un hermano, sacarle el mal y remendarlo como se remienda la nagua.  Yo creo que el finquero nos quería enfermos para que rápido morimos y no estamos dando lata.  Como quiera el Mandón trae gente de otro lado a servirle.  La lucha es buena porque no es sólo de matar o morir, es de vivir.  Yo lo quiero ver eso de que le meten cuchillo a un cristiano, pero buen cuchillo porque no mata, sino que cura.  Es muy otro eso de la salud.  Creo por eso una no lo dice cuando se enferma.  No es por valiente y que no quieres hacer bulla.  Es porque tienes miedo del cuchillo que cura.  Imagina que ves en tu ojo como el machete llega en tu panza.  ¡Ay diositillo!”, dice la doña Juanita mientras se persigna repetidas veces.

  Revisa el frijol la doña Juanita.  Me dice que, en esa otra tierra, cercana -aunque lejos-, viven pueblos hermanos que a esos suelos llaman “Palestina”.  Dice que la destrucción y la muerte siguen sembradas allá, aunque ahora otra guerra en otra geografía sea la noticia que oculta su noticia.  No llora la doña Juanita cuando habla “Palestina”.  Su mirada brilla, sí, pero no hay pena.  Hay rabia, coraje, vergüenza.

  “No conozco, pero me imagino que a esos pueblos todos quieren decirle lo que deben hacer.  Así fue con nuestras comunidades, que llegaban a ordenarnos qué debemos pensar, vestir, comer, rezar, hasta quieren decirnos cómo hablar.  El Mandón no siempre llega con cara de finquero.  A veces llega con cara de buena gente, que te viene a ayudar, que te da su limosna, que te acaricia.  Pero lo que quiere es mandar.  Viera que no luchamos, hoy estaríamos igual, viviendo una vida que no es la nuestra.

  No tendríamos conciencia nuestra y seríamos lo que la mirada de otros quiere que seamos.  No sirve así, porque sólo te dejan la muerte.  Tu vida es la vida que dicen ellos y no la tuya.  Es buena la lucha porque no manda, sino que obedece”.

  Suspira la doña Juanita.  Apila las tortillas y los recuerdos, y me cuenta una historia que le contó su abuela hace 30, 50, 100, mil años.  Ya es de edad la doña Juanita, pero es otra vez una niña cuando repite la historia que su abuela le trajo de sus más anteriores:

  “Después del principio los seres que empezaron a hablar, y así caminar, mucho peleaban.  Querían tener.  Quien tenía poco, quería mucho.  Quien no tenía nada, quería tener. aunque sea un poco.  Quien tenía mucho, quería tenerlo todo.  No era su modo de por sí.  Ese modo lo trajo el que es del color del dinero, el de ojos fieros y manos de muerte, el Dzul.  Mucho sufrían los anteriores.  Y mucho entre ellos peleaban.  Y con las peleas, las enfermedades para todos: para las crías, para las madres, para los padres, para los campos, para los animales.  Enfermaban también las plantas y se enfermaban las aguas y los cielos.  Antes de los dineros, había salud y la enfermedad de más querer tener no existía.  Había el común.

  Los Dzules, los extranjeros, los de afuera, les enseñaron a los nuestros que, para dominar un pueblo, había que dominar a las mujeres.  Y que, si no se dejaban, había que matarlas.  Porque matando mujeres, decían los Dzules, mataban rebeliones futuras.

  Pero las mujeres tenían una más sabedora, más grande de edad y de rango.  Ixchel es su nombre y su trabajo es la salud de todo.  De día se esconde, pero de noche hace la guardia para ver si todo está cabal.  Es luna pues, la Ixchel.

  A las mujeres que luchan, Ixchel les dio la fortaleza interna de corazón y cuerpo.  Grande hizo su corazón para que en él cupiera la semilla de la vida.  Por eso las guerras del opresor buscan dañar a las mujeres que luchan.  Desde pequeñas son atacadas.  Porque en ellas va la vida, va el mañana.  Rebeldes las hizo.  Inconformes.  Sabias las creó.  Vista lejana tienen.  Miran vida más allá de donde los demás sólo ven muerte.  Y cuando se embravece la Ixchel, ahí sí, olvídate de que muy machitos y mandones.  Por eso nuestro trabajo como mujeres que somos, es resistencia y rebeldía.  Porque sólo así se sana una tierra mancillada con bombas, industrias y máquinas.  Sólo así puedes curar la muerte.  Luchando pues”.

-*-

  Ahora me doy cuenta de que la doña Juanita, cuando expresa “Palestina”, dice “niña, mujer, anciana”.  Y por eso la doña Juanita, que fue y es niña, mujer y anciana, cuando habla “Palestina” dice “rabia”, sí, pero también dice “mañana”.

  Y eso es lo que decimos las comunidades zapatistas cuando decimos “Palestina”.

Vale.  Salud y pues eso: salud.

Desde las montañas del Sureste Mexicano, casi esquina con Medio Oriente.

El Capitán.
Noviembre del 2024.

Imágenes de Los Tercios Compas y Música «Sobreviviré» con Panteón Rococó

Eighth Part: P.S. WHAT YOU HAVE TO READ TO KNOW WHAT IT’S ABOUT.

Legend has it that, in the times when time did not matter, rain and night covered the House of Beings. Then the power went out. Everything was darkness. Women, men and ‘otroas’ were stumbling and crashing with each other. For this reason, they argued and fought between brothers and neighbors. They didn’t even recognize each other, even though they were family members and acquaintances, because it was very dark. They scolded each other a lot.

The first gods, those who created the world, were lazy, lying in their hammocks, telling jokes and stories. But all the noise coming from the House of Beings reached them. “Whose noise is this?” asked one. “Who knows,” said another. Ixmucané, who was the mother goddess, said: “Let’s see what the noise is about,” but when she got out of the hammock, she fell and her face landed on the ground and it looked like it was dented, that is, like it had cracks. Ixmucané got up from the ground and did not swear because swear words had not yet been invented. She dusted herself off. She raised her skirt a little and ran towards the House of Beings.

The gods looked at each other and said nothing, but they thought, “Are we going to let a woman beat us?” and they got down from their hammocks, but carefully, and ran to catch up with Ixmucané. But it turns out that, since they had been lazy, they had not made or cleared path and there was a lot of bush. Pure ‘Acahual’, you see. There was an abundance of tzaw ch’ix (thorns), dry branches, sharp grass (which is also called gezau h’ak) and ch’oox tz’an, which is a vine with thorns. But there they went running and jumping as best they could and complaining on the way, those gods, because they were not going to allow a woman to beat them. They later arrived at the House of Beings, all scratched and dented on their faces and hands. But no one looked at them and noticed that they were all beaten up, because there was no light. That is why it is believed that the gods do not have wounds.

The gods didn’t look at anything either. Everything was dark. Just by the sound you knew there were more people. “And now?” the gods asked themselves. Ixmucané did not wonder anything, but remained thinking. The male gods were always very boastful and began to say that you have to go for ocote. Another said that they had to invent the the lamp. Another one said that had to gather a lot of fireflies. And so.

Ixmucané thought: “We have to replace the light. But to replace it, we have to find it. And to find it, we have to know where to look for it. And to know where to look for it, we just have to know what happened.”

Ixmucané gathered the men, women and ‘otroas’ of corn. At that time there were only men, women and ‘otroas’ made out of corn, they came in many colors and everyone had their own way. There were no religions, no nations, no States, no political parties, nor everything that was born later as seeds of war. So, when Ixmucané said “come, little brothers and sisters,” guided by her voice, all the men and women arrived, and ‘othroas’ too – because they did not feel excluded.

So they met in an assembly. They didn’t look at each other because there was no light, but they could talk and listen to each other.

Ixmucané asked them “What are we going to do?” The men, women and ‘otroas’ did not look at each other – because there was no light – but remained silent. Until a voice said “Well, you tell us what we are going to do.” The applause was not seen, but it was clearly heard. Ixmucané laughed heartily and said, “Do you think I know. We don’t know as it is, but maybe gathered together, in an assembly and talking, suddenly some ideas emerge about what we are going to do.» They were all silent, wondering what they were going to do.

The only noise that could be heard was the noise of the male gods who were fighting among themselves, saying where the hell was the ‘ocote’, and whether someone had remembered to create the fireflies, and whether it was not me, and whether that was up to I don’t know who but he always plays dumb or acts like a duck, and someone asked what is a “duck”, because the ducks were not made yet. And so.

In the assembly they were already talking and proposing how to do it. First just a few voices, then more. Then they had to make a list in order to speak in turns and have someone write if there is an agreement. Since there was no light to write or read, there was only the spoken word, so they named Ixmucané, for her to keep in her head everything that is said, and then talks about it.

Many ideas and words were said, and they no longer fit in his Ixmucané head. Then she began to keep them in her hair and her hair became long, that’s why women have long hair. But then it wasn’t enough either, although she adjusted her hair and that’s when the “hair press” was invented, which, as its name indicates, means “grab ideas.” Ixmucané’s hair was already reaching the ground and they continued speaking ideas and words. Then Ixmucané began to keep her ideas in the wounds she had gotten when she fell and with the thorns and vines. She had wounds everywhere: on her face, on her arms, on her hands, on her legs. Her entire body was full of wounds, so she was able to save everything. That’s why they say that old people, that is, sensible people, who have many wrinkles and scars, means that they have many ideas and stories. That is to say they know a lot.

In another turn I will tell you what they agreed on in that first assembly that took place in the House of Beings, but in this one I will tell you what Ixmucané said: “Well, we already have, as it were, a plan to face this problem that we have. Since the world is just being born and we are giving a name to each thing, so as not to confuse ourselves, we are going to call this thing we did «in common», because we all participated: some giving some ideas, others proposing other ideas, and there are those who speak and there are those who keep notes of what is said.”

There was silence first. Heavy, strong was the silence. Then you could hear someone start to applaud, then another, then everyone applauded and you could hear that they were very happy. And they didn’t dance because you could see nothing at all. But they laughed a lot because they had found a new word called “in common,” which means “to seek the path together.” And it was not that the first gods invented it, those who created the world, but it came to be that it was men, women, and ‘otroas’ made of corn, who, in common, found the word, that is, the way.

-*-

Ixmucané was the most knowledgeable of all the gods and, as she was the first to arrive at the House of Beings, she had more wounds, from the fall and from the race she did in the ‘Acahual’, and thus she was marked with those scars. “Wrinkles” and “scars,” they were called. Since then, wrinkles and scars represent wisdom. More wrinkles and scars, more knowledge. Of course, back then there were no social networks and no one was wearing makeup and modifying their photos with a well-known virtual application. And then it happens that you see the profile photo and then you see reality, and you want to run away. No, the wrinkles and scars were a source of pride and not something anybody could have. Even young men and women painted wrinkles and scars, or simply went into the mountains so that the thorns and vines scratched their faces. Because it didn’t matter who was prettier, but rather who was more knowledgeable. Instead of “followers” ​​and “likes” they looked for who had the most wrinkles and scars.

And that’s it.

-*-

Yes, I would also like to know what happened to the lost light. Maybe later, in another postscript, we will know. For now, we have to learn to walk and live like this in the dark. There is no other way.

From the mountains of the Mexican southeast.

The Captain
November 2023. 40, 30, 20, 10 years after.

Second Part: Do dead people sneeze?

October 2023

SupGaleano died. He died just as he lived: unhappily.

Of course, he took care, before passing away, of returning the name to the one who is flesh and blood inherited from Master Galeano. He recommended keeping him alive, that is to say, fighting. So Galeano will continue walking in these mountains.

In all other regards, it was something simple. He started humming something like “I know I’m piantao, piantao, piantao”, and, just before he expired, he said, or rather asked: “Do dead people sneeze?”, and that’s it. Those were his last words. No sentence for history, nor for a tombstone, nor for an anecdote told in front of a fire. Only that absurd, anachronistic, extemporaneous question: “Do the dead sneeze?”

He then remained still, his tired breathing suspended, his eyes closed, his lips finally silenced, his hands clenched.

We left. Almost as we left the ‘champa’, already at the doorway, we heard a sneeze. SubMoy turned to look at me and I at him, with a barely hinted “bless you.” None of us had sneezed. We turned back to see where the deceased’s body lay and nothing. SubMoy just said “good question.” I didn’t say a word, but I thought «he must surely be hanging with the moon walking down Callao.»

Then of course, we spared the funeral. Although we lost the opportunity for coffee and tamales.

-*-

I know that no one is interested in another death, and least of all that of the now deceased SupGaleano. In truth, I tell you this because he left that poem by Rubén Darío with which he began this series of texts. If we ignore the obvious hint to the Nicaragua that resists and persists – it could even be seen as a reference to the current war of the State of Israel against the people of Palestine, but, at the time of his death, the terror that overwhelms the world today had not restarted-, he left that poetry as a reference. More as a response to someone who asked how to explain what is happening now in Chiapas, Mexico and the world.

And, of course, as a discreet tribute to maestro Galeano –from whom he inherited the name-, he left what he called a “reading report”:

Who started it? Who is to blame? Who is innocent? Who is the god guy and who is the bad guy? In what position is Francis of Assisi? Who failed: him, the wolf, the shepherds or all of them? Why does the man from Assisi can only conceive making an agreement based on the wolf giving up being what he is?

Even though this happened months ago, the text sparked allegations and discussions that continue to this day. So, I will describe one of them:

It is a kind of meeting or assembly or some sort of roundtable. The best of each house is there: learned specialists in everything, militants and internationalists of all causes except of those in their own geography, spontaneous people with a PhD in social networks (the majority), and one or two who, upon seeing the noise, approached to see whether they were giving away buckets, caps or t-shirts with the name of whatever political party it was. There were quite a few who came near to find out what all the fuss was about.

“You are nothing more than an agent of expansionist and imperial Zionism!,” shouted one.

“And you are just a propagandist of fundamentalist Arab Muslim terrorism!,” responded another, furiously.

There had already been several outbreaks of quarrel, but it had not yet gone beyond a “meet you outside” kind of pushing and shoving.

That point was reached because they were analyzing Rubén Darío’s poem “Los Motivos del Lobo”.

Not everything had been an exchange of adjectives, jabs and bad faces. It started like everything else in those parts: with good manners, forceful phrases, “brief interventions” – which usually lasted half an hour or more –, and a great deal of quotes and footnotes.

Purely male, of course, because the debate was organized by the so-called “Toby’s Hipertextual Club”

“The Wolf is the good guy,” someone said, “because he only killed out of hunger, out of necessity.”

“No,” argued another, “he is evil because he killed sheep, which were the shepherds’ sustenance. And he himself admitted that “sometimes he ate lamb and shepherd.”

And another: “the bad guys are the people from the village, because they didn’t fulfill the agreement.”

One sitting over there: «it’s Assisi’s fault, who gets the agreement by asking the wolf to stop being a wolf, which is questionable, and then doesn’t stay to hold the pact.»

And one sitting over here: “But Assisi points out that human beings are bad by nature.”

They reaffirm themselves on both sides. But it turns out that, if a poll were taken right now, the wolf would have a comfortable double-digit lead over the shepherd village. But a clever maneuver on social networks managed to get the hashtag “killer wolf” to be TT far above #deathtotheshpherds. So, the triumph of the pro-shepherd influencers over the pro-wolf influencers was clear, although only on social networks.

There were some who argued in favor of two States coexisting in the same territory: the Wolf State and the Shepherd State.

And some others for a Plurinational State, with wolves and shepherds, living under the same oppressor, sorry, I meant under the same State. Another responded that this was impossible, given the background of each party.

A man in a suit and tie stands up and asks to speak: “If Ruben (he said this, ignoring the Darío bit), followed the legend of Gubbio, then we can do the same. Let’s continue the poem:

The shepherds, using their legitimate right to defend themselves, attack the wolf. First by destroying his burrow with bombings, and then by entering with tanks and infantry. It seems to me, colleagues, that the end is set: the terrorist and animal violence of the wolf is annihilated and the shepherds can continue their bucolic life, shearing sheep for a powerful transnational corporation that makes clothing for another equally powerful multinational corporation that, in turn , owes an even more powerful international financial institution; which will lead the shepherds to become efficient workers on their own lands – yes, with all the legal labor benefits -, and will elevate that village to first world levels, with modern highways, tall buildings and even a tourist train where Visitors from all over the world will be able to appreciate the ruins of what once were meadows, forests and springs. The annihilation of the wolf will bring peace and prosperity to the region. Sure, some animals will die, no matter the number nor the species, but they are just perfectly forgettable collateral damages. After all, bombs cannot be asked to distinguish between a wolf and a sheep, nor to limit their blast wave so as not to damage birds and trees. Peace will be achieved and no one will miss the wolf.”

Someone else stands up and points out: “But the wolf has international support and inhabited that place in advance. The system cut down trees for pasture fields, and that altered the ecological balance, reducing the number and species of animals that the wolf consumed to live. And it is to be expected that the descendants of the wolf will take fair revenge.”

“Ah, so the wolf also killed other beings. “He’s just like the shepherds,” someone replies.

Thus, they continued, giving as good arguments as those indicated here, full of wit, a wealth of erudition and many bibliographical references.

But the restraint did not last long: it went from wolf and shepherds to the Netanyahu – Hamas war and the discussion escalated until it reached what heads this anecdote, postmortem courtesy of the now deceased SupGaleano.

But at that moment, at the back of the room, a small hand was raised asking to speak. The moderator couldn’t see whose hand it was, so he gave the floor «to the person who is raising his hand back there.»

Everyone turned to look and was about to shout out in scandal and disapproval. It was a girl who was carrying a teddy bear, almost equal to her in size, and she was wearing a white blouse with embroidery and pants with a kitten near her right ankle. Anyways, the classic “outfit” for a birthday party or something like that.

The surprise was such that everyone remained silent and kept their eyes on the girl.

She stood up on the chair, thinking that this way they would hear her better and asked:

“What about the kids?”

The surprise then turned into a condemning murmur: “Which kids? What is this girl talking about? Who the hell let a woman enter this sacred precinct? And worse, she is a girl-woman!”

The girl got down from the chair and, always carrying her teddy bear with clear signs of obesity – the bear, of course -, headed to the exit door saying:

«The kids. That is, the pups of the wolf and the pups of the shepherds. Their little babies, ‘pues’. Who thinks about the kids? Who am I going to talk to? And where are we going to play?”

From the mountains of the Mexican southeast.

Captain Insurgent Marcos.

Mexico, October, 2023.

P.S.- Unconditional freedom for Manuel Gómez Vázquez (taken hostage since 2020 by the state government of Chiapas) and José Díaz Gómez (hostage since last year), indigenous Zapatista bases imprisoned for that reason, for being Zapatistas. Afterwards, don’t ask who sowed what you reap.

P.S.- OTIS Hurricane: Collection center for indigenous peoples in the state of Guerrero: at the address of the “Casa de los pueblos ‘Samir Flores Soberanes’”, located at Av. México-Coyoacán 343, colonia Xoco, Alcaldía Benito Juárez, Ciudad de México, C.P. 03330. Deposits and bank transfers in support of these towns and communities in the account number 0113643034, CLABE 012540001136430347, SWIFT code BCMRMXMMPYM, BBVA bank in Mexico, branch 1769. In the name of: “Ciencia Social al Servicio de los Pueblos Originarios”. Phone number: 5526907936.