![\"\"](\"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/05\/IMG_7205.jpg\" "\\"IMG_7205\\"")
<\/a><\/p>\nEscucha aqu\u00ed:<\/strong> EJ\u00c9RCITO ZAPATISTA DE LIBERACI\u00d3N NACIONAL. 2 de mayo del 2015.<\/p>\n Introducci\u00f3n.<\/p>\n Buenas tardes, d\u00edas, noches tengan quienes escuchan y quienes leen, sin importar sus calendarios y geograf\u00edas.<\/p>\n Las que ahora se har\u00e1n p\u00fablicas, son las palabras que el finado Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos hab\u00eda preparado para el homenaje a Don Luis Villoro Toranzo, mismo que se realizar\u00eda en Junio del 2014.<\/p>\n Supon\u00eda \u00e9l que estar\u00edan presentes familiares de Don Luis, particularmente su hijo, Juan Villoro Ruiz, y su compa\u00f1era, Fernanda Sylvia Navarro y Solares.<\/p>\n D\u00edas antes de que se celebrara el homenaje, fue asesinado nuestro compa\u00f1ero Galeano, maestro y autoridad aut\u00f3noma, quien form\u00f3 y forma parte de una generaci\u00f3n de mujeres y hombres ind\u00edgenas zapatistas que se forj\u00f3 en la clandestinidad de la preparaci\u00f3n, en el alzamiento, en la resistencia y en la rebeld\u00eda.<\/p>\n El dolor y la rabia que sentimos entonces y ahora se sumaron, en ese mayo de hace un a\u00f1o, al lamento por la muerte de Don Luis.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Listen here:<\/strong> ZAPATISTA ARMY FOR NATIONAL LIBERATION May 2, 2015.<\/p>\n Introduction.<\/strong><\/p>\n Good evening, good day, and good night to those who are listening and those who are reading, whatever your calendars or geographies may be.<\/p>\n What we will now read publicly are the words that the late Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos had prepared for the homage to Don Luis Villoro Toranzo in June of 2014.<\/p>\n He had imagined that the relatives of Don Luis would be present, specifically his son, Juan Villoro Ruiz, and his compa\u00f1era<\/em>, Fernanda Sylvia Navarro y Solares.<\/p>\n Days before this homage was to take place, our compa\u00f1ero<\/em> Galeano was murdered. He was a teacher and autonomous authority who was and is part of the generation of indigenous Zapatista women and men forged in the clandestinity of our preparation, in the uprising, in resistance and in rebellion.<\/p>\n The pain and rage that we felt then and now over what happened that May one year ago, added to our sorrow over the death of Don Luis.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Se dieron as\u00ed una serie de eventos, uno de los cuales fue la decisi\u00f3n de dar muerte a quien fuera hasta entonces el vocero y jefe militar del EZLN. La defunci\u00f3n del SupMarcos se concret\u00f3 la madrugada del 25 de mayo del 2014.<\/p>\n Entre los pendientes, como decimos nosotros, nosotras, zapatistas, que dej\u00f3 el finado supmarcos est\u00e1 un libro sobre pol\u00edtica, comprometido con Don Pablo Gonz\u00e1lez Casanova a cambio de una caja de galletas pancrema, una serie de textos y dibujos inclasificables (varios de ellos se remontan a sus primeros d\u00edas como insurgente del EZLN), y el texto de homenaje a Don Luis Villoro al que dar\u00e9 lectura en unos momentos.<\/p>\n -*-<\/p>\n Cuando, en la comandancia general del EZLN, con el subcomandante insurgente Mois\u00e9s platic\u00e1bamos sobre lo que ser\u00eda este d\u00eda antes y hoy, nos d\u00e1bamos cuenta de que, al hacer el balance de una vida, junt\u00e1bamos pedazos que no alcanzaban nunca a completarse.<\/p>\n Que siempre qued\u00e1bamos con una imagen inconclusa, rota. Que lo que tenemos y ten\u00edamos, nos urg\u00eda a buscar y encontrar lo que faltaba.<\/p>\n \u201cFalta lo que falta\u201d, decimos obstinadamente las zapatistas, los zapatistas.<\/p>\n No con resignaci\u00f3n, nunca con conformismo.<\/p>\n S\u00ed para recordarnos que no est\u00e1 cabal la historia, que le faltan piezas, nombres, fechas, lugares, calendarios y geograf\u00edas, vidas.<\/p>\n Que muertes y ausencias tenemos muchas, demasiadas.<\/p>\n Y que deb\u00edamos agrandar la memoria y el coraz\u00f3n para que no faltara ni una, s\u00ed, pero tambi\u00e9n para que no fueran inmovilizadas, para que fueran completadas una y otra vez en nuestro paso colectivo.<\/p>\n As\u00ed que imaginamos que este d\u00eda, tarde, noche, madrugada siempre, bien podr\u00eda ser un intercambio de piezas para seguir tratando de completar la vida de quien ustedes conocieron y conocen como el doctor Luis Villoro Toranzo, profesor de la Facultad de Filosof\u00eda y Letras de la UNAM, fundador del grupo Hiperion, disc\u00edpulo de Jos\u00e9 Gaos, investigador del Instituto de Investigaciones Filos\u00f3ficas, miembro del Colegio Nacional, presidente de la Asociaci\u00f3n Filos\u00f3fica de M\u00e9xico, y miembro honorario de la Academia Mexicana de la Lengua. \u201cMaestro, padre y compa\u00f1ero\u201d, tal vez as\u00ed diga su epitafio.<\/p>\n Hay compas, mujeres, hombres y otroas quienes tienen un lugar especial entre nosotros, nosotras, zapatistas del EZLN. No ha sido un regalo o un donativo. Ese lugar especial lo ganaron con un empe\u00f1o y dedicaci\u00f3n que est\u00e1 lejos de reflectores y templetes.<\/p>\n Por eso, cuando se marchan irremediablemente, no hacemos eco del ruido y el polvo que suelen levantarse con su muerte. Esperamos. Nuestra espera es as\u00ed un homenaje silencioso, sordo. Como silenciosa y sorda fue su lucha a nuestro lado.<\/p>\n Dejamos entonces que el ruido se apague, que otra moda suceda a la que simula consternaci\u00f3n y pena, que se asiente el polvo, que el silencio vuelva a ser sereno reposo para quien nos falta.<\/p>\n Tal vez porque respetamos esa vida ahora ausente, porque respetamos su tiempo y su modo. Y porque esperamos que, andando ya el calendario, su silencio tendr\u00e1 lugar para escucharnos.<\/p>\n Para all\u00e1 afuera, lo digo como se\u00f1alando un hecho, no como reproche, el doctor Luis Villoro Toranzo fue un intelectual brillante, una persona sabia a la que tal vez s\u00f3lo se le pueda reprochar la cercan\u00eda que en vida tuvo con los pueblos originarios de M\u00e9xico, particularmente con aquellos que se alzaron en armas contra el olvido y que resisten m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de modas y medios.<\/p>\n Para quienes no conocieron en vida al doctor Luis Villoro Toranzo, hay y, espero, habr\u00e1 mesas redondas, reediciones, an\u00e1lisis en revistas especializadas y no.<\/p>\n Nuestra palabra de ahora no ir\u00e1 por esos caminos. No porque no conozcamos su obra hist\u00f3rica y filos\u00f3fica, sino porque estamos aqu\u00ed para cumplir un debe, saldar un pendiente, cumplir un encargo.<\/p>\n Porque ustedes, all\u00e1 afuera, conocen a Luis Villoro Toranzo como un pensador brillante, pero nosotras, nosotros, zapatistas conocemos como\u2026<\/p>\n \u00bfC\u00f3mo?<\/p>\n Sabemos que tenemos s\u00f3lo una de tantas piezas.<\/p>\n Y hemos venido aqu\u00ed, a este homenaje, para entregarle a quienes compartieron y comparten sangre e historia con \u00e9l, una pieza que, creemos, no s\u00f3lo no ten\u00edan, sino que tal vez ni siquiera imaginaban.<\/p>\n La historia ac\u00e1 abajo, del lado zapatista, tiene muchos cuartos cegados. Compartimentos estancos en los que vidas diferentes se cumplen con aparente indiferencia, y en los que s\u00f3lo la muerte derrumba los muros para que miremos y aprendamos de la vida que ah\u00ed transcurri\u00f3.<\/p>\n Y hagamos, \u00bfc\u00f3mo decirlo?, \u00bfuna permuta?, \u00bfun intercambio de lugares?<\/p>\n Al abrir el compartimento, al derribar el cuarto muro, al asomarnos dentro, hacemos un cambalache: esta muerte al museo, esta vida a la vida.<\/p>\n \u201cCompartimentos estancos\u201d, he dicho. Nuestro modo de lucha implica esta cuota de anonimato que, s\u00f3lo para algunos de nosotros, es deseable. Pero tal vez despu\u00e9s haya oportunidad de volver sobre esto.<\/p>\n Ya escuchar\u00e1n al Subcomandante Insurgente Mois\u00e9s hablarles a nuestras compa\u00f1eras y compa\u00f1eros de las comunidades zapatistas una parte de lo que fue Don Luis Villoro Toranzo en nuestra lucha.<\/p>\n La inmensa mayor\u00eda de ellas y ellos no lo conoc\u00edan, no lo conocieron. Y as\u00ed como \u00e9l, tenemos compa\u00f1eras, compa\u00f1eros y compa\u00f1eroas de los que se ignora su existencia.<\/p>\n Este s\u00fabito saber que tuvimos compa\u00f1eros y compa\u00f1eras que ni siquiera sab\u00edamos que exist\u00edan, hasta que ya no existen, es algo que no es nuevo para nosotras, nosotros, zapatistas.<\/p>\n Tal vez es nuestro modo que, al nombrar la vida de quien falta, lo hacemos existir de otro modo.<\/p>\n Como si fuera nuestro modo de traer al colectivo al ind\u00edgena zapatista Galeano antes, a Don Luis Villoro ahora.<\/p>\n Nuestro modo de apurarlos, de apremiarlos, de gritarles \u201c\u00a1Eh! \u00a1Nada de descanso!\u201d, de traerlos de vuelta y que sigan en la lucha, la chamba, el jale, el trabajo, el camino, la vida.<\/p>\n Pero no es una vida la que les voy a relatar. Tampoco, es cierto, se trata de una muerte.<\/p>\n Es m\u00e1s, no les vengo a contar nada. Vengo a dibujarles un contorno, m\u00e1s o menos definido, m\u00e1s o menos n\u00edtido, de una pieza de un rompecabezas gigantesco, terrible, maravilloso.<\/p>\n Y lo que les voy a contar les sonar\u00e1 fant\u00e1stico.<\/p>\n Tal vez mi hermano bajo protesta (bajo protesta de \u00e9l), Juan Villoro, adivine despu\u00e9s en mis palabras apenas una hebra de una madeja absurda y compleja, m\u00e1s cercana a la literatura que a la historia. Tal vez le sirva luego para completar ese libro que no sabe a\u00fan que escribir\u00e1.<\/p>\n Tal vez Fernanda intuya la irrupci\u00f3n de un concepto que parec\u00eda ausente, se\u00f1alando un hueco cuya satisfacci\u00f3n dar\u00eda un vuelco te\u00f3rico a todo un pensamiento. Tal vez le sirva luego para iniciar la reflexi\u00f3n que ahora no sabe que emprender\u00e1.<\/p>\n No lo s\u00e9. Tal vez \u00e9l, ella, quienes no est\u00e1n, simplemente lo archiven en la carpeta de la \u201cH\u201d, de \u201chomenaje\u201d, de \u201cherida\u201d, de \u201chumano\u201d, de \u201cHidra\u201d, de\u2026<\/p>\n \u201cHab\u00eda una vez\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Debo ser, por razones de seguridad, propositivamente impreciso en la geograf\u00eda y el calendario, pero era madrugada y era el cuartel general del EZLN.<\/p>\n Tal vez una breve descripci\u00f3n de la comandancia general zapatista desilusione a m\u00e1s de uno, una, unoa.<\/p>\n No, no hay un mapa gigantesco con luces policromadas o alfileres de colores, cubriendo una de las paredes.<\/p>\n No, no hay modernos equipos de radiocomunicaci\u00f3n con voces en muchas lenguas.<\/p>\n No hay un tel\u00e9fono rojo.<\/p>\n No hay una moderna computadora con m\u00faltiples pantallas empe\u00f1adas en cifrar y descifrar la vertiginosa est\u00e1tica de la matrix cibern\u00e9tica.<\/p>\n Lo que hay es un par de mesas, dos o tres sillas, algunas tazas con restos de caf\u00e9 fr\u00edo, papeles mal arrugados, cenizas de tabaco, humo, mucho humo.<\/p>\n A veces hay tambi\u00e9n un taz\u00f3n de palomitas rancias, pero s\u00f3lo en caso de que se requiera un trueque con alg\u00fan ser ins\u00f3lito.<\/p>\n Porque no lo van a creer, pero lo que en otros lados se llama \u201cJuicio por Combate\u201d, ac\u00e1 se llama \u201cAt\u00e1scate que hay lodo\u201d.<\/p>\n No me extender\u00e9 en este peculiar modo de resolver las disputas judiciales entre seres que est\u00e1n m\u00e1s que alejados de la jurisprudencia real o de ficci\u00f3n. Baste decir que el taz\u00f3n con palomitas rancias tiene su raz\u00f3n de ser.<\/p>\n Puede haber, no siempre, es cierto, una computadora port\u00e1til y una impresora. No dir\u00e9 ni marcas ni modelos, baste decir que la computadora trabaja a base de insultos y amenazas, y que la impresora tiene un peculiar sentido del albedr\u00edo pues se niega a imprimir lo que no le parece digno de ir m\u00e1s all\u00e1 de la pantalla.<\/p>\n Cierto, suele haber en la pantalla de esa computadora, invariablemente un procesador de textos y un escrito que no termina nunca por alcanzar el punto final\u2026<\/p>\n \u00bfVirus? Los \u00fanicos que pueden llegar a trav\u00e9s del bejuco que le sirve para conectarse a uno de los t\u00faneles de la red. O sea ara\u00f1as, o bichos que huyen de las susodichas mientras una lucecita parpadea alarmada.<\/p>\n Pero dejemos que la imaginaci\u00f3n de cada quien complete el mobiliario.<\/p>\n Podr\u00eda adornarme y decirles que esa madrugada estaba yo leyendo alg\u00fan tratado de filosof\u00eda hel\u00e9nica, o las F\u00e1bulas de Higinio, o el tratado Sobre los Dioses de Apolodoro de Atenas, o Los Doze Trabajos de H\u00e9rcules, s\u00ed, con \u201cz\u201d, de Enrique de Villena, el Astr\u00f3logo, pero no.<\/p>\n O podr\u00eda decirles, y presumirme de moderno, dici\u00e9ndoles que estaba yo, en la red alterna, tomando un curso en l\u00ednea con un, una, unoa hacker an\u00f3nimo. Iba a poner famoso, pero si es an\u00f3nimo no puede ser famoso. \u00bfO s\u00ed? O tal vez es un colectivo organizado: \u201ct\u00fa dale click al reload, t\u00fa oprime la tecla control, no, no toques la letra \u201cz\u201d porque se hace un desmadre y acabas chateando con un ser incomprensible en las monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano\u201d. En fin, un nickname y un avatar, casi los equivalentes a un nombre de lucha y un pasamonta\u00f1as, que, pacientes, explican los fundamentos de un terreno de lucha. Como en cada lengua nueva que se aprende, lo primero que hay que conocer son los insultos. Y as\u00ed saber que \u201cnoob\u201d es el equivalente a una mentada de madre.<\/p>\n O podr\u00eda contarles, y reiterar el clich\u00e9, que estaba yo en una re\u00f1ida multipartida de ajedrez interoce\u00e1nico con el colectivo llamado \u201clos Irregulares de Baker Street\u201d asentado en la rubia Albi\u00f3n.<\/p>\n Pero no.<\/p>\n Lo que en realidad estaba yo haciendo es tratando de poner un punto final a un texto que lleva ya 20 a\u00f1os pendiente, pero\u2026<\/p>\n Entonces apareci\u00f3 en el dintel de la puerta la posta, el guardia, el centinela, el vig\u00eda o como le quieran decir:<\/p>\n -\u201cSup, hay quien te quiere hablar\u201d-, dijo lac\u00f3nico despu\u00e9s del saludo militar.<\/p>\n -\u00bfQui\u00e9n?- pregunt\u00e9 casi por tr\u00e1mite porque supon\u00eda que ser\u00eda la insurgenta Erika con alguno de sus complicados acertijos de amores y esas cosas.<\/p>\n -\u201cUn Don Luis, dice. Ya de edad \u00e9l, de juicio\u201d-, respondi\u00f3 el insurgente.<\/p>\n -\u00bfDon Luis?, no conozco ning\u00fan Don Luis-, dije con enfado.<\/p>\n -Subcomandante \u2013 escuch\u00e9 su voz, y su figura se recort\u00f3 en el umbral.<\/p>\n El guardia alcanz\u00f3 a balbucear: \u201cse meti\u00f3 sin avisar, le dije que esperara, no obedeci\u00f3\u201d,<\/p>\n \u201cAj\u00e1, no obedeci\u00f3, como de por s\u00ed. D\u00e9jalo\u201d, le dije al vig\u00eda y nos dimos un abrazo con Don Luis Villoro Toranzo, nacido en Barcelona, Catalu\u00f1a, Estado Espa\u00f1ol, el 3 de noviembre del a\u00f1o 1922.<\/p>\n Le ofrec\u00ed una silla.<\/p>\n Don Luis se sent\u00f3, se quit\u00f3 la boina y se frot\u00f3 las manos sonriendo. Imagino que por el fr\u00edo.<\/p>\n \u00bfDije ya que hac\u00eda fr\u00edo esa madrugada?<\/p>\n Hac\u00eda de por s\u00ed, como de por s\u00ed cuando no hay una luz que entibie la sombra, como hoy. Es m\u00e1s, el fr\u00edo mord\u00eda las mejillas como amante obseso.<\/p>\n Don Luis no parec\u00eda tomar nota de ello.<\/p>\n \u00bfHace fr\u00edo en Barcelona?, le pregunt\u00e9, un poco como saludo de bienvenida, otro poco para distraerlo mientras discretamente apagaba yo la computadora.<\/p>\n En fin, guard\u00e9 la port\u00e1til, ped\u00ed caf\u00e9 para 3 y volv\u00ed a encender la pipa, rellena como estaba de tabaco usado y h\u00famedo.<\/p>\n No recuerdo ahora si Don Luis respondi\u00f3 a la pregunta sobre el clima en Barcelona.<\/p>\n S\u00ed que esper\u00f3 pacientemente a que terminara yo de darme por vencido, y dejara de tratar de avivar las brazas de la cazueleja.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfNo tendr\u00e1 tabaco de casualidad?\u201d, le pregunt\u00e9 anticipando con desilusi\u00f3n su negativa.<\/p>\n \u201cNo recuerdo\u201d, dijo, y sigui\u00f3 sonriendo.<\/p>\n \u00bfSe refer\u00eda al fr\u00edo en Barcelona o a si llevaba tabaco?<\/p>\n Pero no eran \u00e9sas las principales preguntas que se me acumulaban en la cazuela apagada de la pipa.<\/p>\n Antes de preguntarle al doctor en filosof\u00eda Luis Villoro Toranzo qu\u00e9 diablos hac\u00eda ah\u00ed, pues dejen les explico\u2026<\/p>\n En esas fechas, el cuartel general del EZLN era el \u201cCama de Nubes\u201d, nombrado as\u00ed porque se encuentra en lo alto de una sierra y, fuera de los pocos d\u00edas de la seca, se mantiene de continuo cubierto por nubes. Aunque de por s\u00ed la comandancia general es trashumante, a veces se aposenta ah\u00ed, aunque con m\u00e1s brevedad que las nubes.<\/p>\n \u201cEl Cama de Nubes\u201d.<\/p>\n Llegar ah\u00ed no es f\u00e1cil. Primero se deben cruzar potreros y acahuales. Malo si lluvia, malo si sol. Despu\u00e9s de unas 2 horas de espinas e insultos, se llega al pie de la monta\u00f1a. De ah\u00ed se eleva un estrecho sendero que faldea el contorno del cerro de modo que siempre hay un abismo a la derecha. No, no fueron consideraciones pol\u00edticas las que decidieron ese trazo en espiral ascendente, sino el corte caprichoso de ese pico monta\u00f1oso en mitad de la sierra. Aunque uno no paraba de subir hasta que estaba casi a las puertas de la champa de la comandancia general del ezetelene, se hab\u00edan realizado algunas obras de ingenier\u00eda militar de modo que el puesto del vig\u00eda tuviera tiempo y distancia para un avistamiento oportuno.<\/p>\n De ah\u00ed, el caminamiento de acceso al cuartel era propositivamente dif\u00edcil. A la rudeza de la monta\u00f1a, hab\u00edamos agregado palotadas puntiagudas, zanjas y espinas, de modo que s\u00f3lo era posible transitar por \u00e9l de uno en uno.<\/p>\n Cuando yo era joven y bello, con carga promedio -digamos unos 15-20 kilogramos-, hac\u00eda yo unas 6 horas desde la base del cerro. Ahora que s\u00f3lo soy bello, y sin carga, me toma de 8 a 9 horas.<\/p>\n Nuestro empecinado premodernismo y nuestro desprecio a las campa\u00f1as electorales impiden que tengamos helipuertos en nuestras posiciones. As\u00ed que s\u00f3lo se puede llegar caminando.<\/p>\n Con estas referencias, era l\u00f3gico que la primera pregunta que aflorara fuera:<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfY c\u00f3mo lleg\u00f3 hasta aqu\u00ed Don Luis?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00c9l respondi\u00f3: \u201cCaminando\u201d, con la misma tranquilidad que si hubiera dicho \u201cen taxi\u201d.<\/p>\n Don Luis se ve\u00eda completo, sin agitaci\u00f3n visible, su boina intacta, su saco oscuro con apenas unas hebras de bejucos y ramas, su pantal\u00f3n de pana apenas manchado y s\u00f3lo en el bies, sus zapatos mocasines de una pieza. Todo completo. Si acaso hab\u00eda algo que notar era su barba de d\u00edas y el evidente absurdo de su camisa clara, con el cuello almidonado abierto.<\/p>\n A m\u00ed esa subida me toma al menos 3 remiendos de la camisola, 4 del pantal\u00f3n, un refuerzo en ambas botas, y un par de horas tratando de recuperar el aliento.<\/p>\n Pero Don Luis estaba ah\u00ed, sentado frente m\u00edo. Sonriendo. Aparte de un ligero arrebol en sus mejillas, se podr\u00eda decir que, en efecto, se acababa de bajar de un taxi.<\/p>\n Pero no. Don Luis hab\u00eda respondido \u201ccaminando\u201d, as\u00ed que nada de taxi.<\/p>\n Estaba a punto de soltarme con una larga retah\u00edla de reconvenciones sobre la salud, los calendarios hechos achaques, la imposibilidad de que, a su avanzada edad, tratara de hacer cosas absurdas, como subir una monta\u00f1a y apersonarse, de madrugada, en la comandancia general del ezetaelene, pero algo me detuvo.<\/p>\n No, no fue el hecho incuestionable de que ah\u00ed se encontraba ya.<\/p>\n Fue que la sonrisa de Don Luis se hab\u00eda tornado nerviosa, inquieta, como cuando no se teme preguntar, sino tener respuestas.<\/p>\n Entonces hice la pregunta que habr\u00eda de marcar esa madrugada:<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfY qu\u00e9 es lo que quiere Don Luis?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cQuiero entrarme de zapatista\u201d, respondi\u00f3.<\/p>\n No hab\u00eda en su voz rastro alguno de burla, sarcasmo o iron\u00eda. Tampoco duda, temor, inseguridad.<\/p>\n Ya antes me he enfrentado a que un ciudadano o ciudadana declara as\u00ed su intenci\u00f3n, (aunque no con esas palabras, porque m\u00e1s bien lo suelen hacer con consignas incendiarias y frases rimbombantes donde hay mucha muerte y poco o nada de vida), aunque, claro, no pasan del potrero.<\/p>\n Me atragant\u00e9, y ni siquiera estaba encendida la pipa para fingir que era por el humo. Resignado ante la falta de tabaco seco, me limit\u00e9 a mordisquear la boquilla.<\/p>\n \u201cQuiero entrarme de zapatista\u201d, dijo. Don Luis hab\u00eda usado una expresi\u00f3n verbal m\u00e1s propia de la cotidianeidad en las comunidades zapatistas, que de la Academia Mexicana de la Lengua.<\/p>\n Segu\u00ed el protocolo en estos casos:<\/p>\n Le detall\u00e9 las dificultades geogr\u00e1ficas, temporales, f\u00edsicas, ideol\u00f3gicas, pol\u00edticas, econ\u00f3micas, sociales, hist\u00f3ricas, clim\u00e1ticas, matem\u00e1ticas, barom\u00e9tricas, biol\u00f3gicas, geom\u00e9tricas e interestelares.<\/p>\n A cada dificultad, la sonrisa de Don Luis perd\u00eda algo de nerviosismo y ganaba en seguridad y aplomo.<\/p>\n Al terminar la larga lista de inconvenientes, el rostro de Don Luis parec\u00eda haber recibido un asiento en el Colegio Nacional, en lugar del \u201cNO\u201d diplom\u00e1tico que le hab\u00eda endilgado.<\/p>\n \u201cEstoy dispuesto\u201d, dijo despu\u00e9s del crujido del \u00faltimo pedazo sano de la boquilla de mi pipa.<\/p>\n Intent\u00e9 disuadirlo mencionado los inconvenientes de la clandestinidad, el ocultarse, el anonimato.<\/p>\n \u201cAdem\u00e1s\u201d, a\u00f1ad\u00ed con displicencia, \u201cya no hay pasamonta\u00f1as\u201d.<\/p>\n Era evidente que no estaba yo haciendo el mejor papel. Por m\u00e1s que me reacomodaba en la silla y mov\u00eda nervioso los cosas sobre la mesa, no encontraba cu\u00e1l era la explicaci\u00f3n l\u00f3gica al absurdo de la situaci\u00f3n.<\/p>\n Don Luis se acomod\u00f3 la boina sobre el plata de su rala cabellera.<\/p>\n Pens\u00e9 que se iba a despedir pero, cuando me incorporaba para llamar a la guardia para que lo acompa\u00f1ara, dijo:<\/p>\n \u201c\u00c9ste es mi pasamonta\u00f1a\u201d, dijo se\u00f1alando su boina.<\/p>\n Cuando le argument\u00e9 que el pasamonta\u00f1as deb\u00eda ocultar el rostro de modo que s\u00f3lo la mirada permaneciera, me refut\u00f3:<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfNo se puede ocultar el rostro sin cubrirlo?\u201d<\/p>\n En ese momento agradec\u00ed dos cosas:<\/p>\n Una, que en el continuo mover las cosas sobre la mesa, hab\u00eda encontrado una bolsita de tabaco seco.<\/p>\n La otra, que la pregunta del doctor en filosof\u00eda Luis Villoro Toranzo, me daba tiempo para tratar de acomodar las piezas y entender de qu\u00e9 iba todo eso.<\/p>\n As\u00ed que, me resguard\u00e9 detr\u00e1s de las palabras para pensar mejor:<\/p>\n \u201cSe puede, Don Luis, pero para lograrlo tiene que modificar como quien dice el entorno. Hacerse invisible es, entonces, no llamar la atenci\u00f3n, ser uno m\u00e1s entre muchos. Por ejemplo, se puede ocultar a alguien que perdi\u00f3 el ojo derecho y usa un parche, haciendo que muchos usen un parche en el ojo derecho, o que alguien que llame la atenci\u00f3n se ponga un parche en el ojo derecho. Todas las miradas ir\u00e1n sobre quien llama la atenci\u00f3n, y los dem\u00e1s parches pasan a segundo plano. De ese modo, el tuerto real se vuelve invisible y puede moverse a sus anchas\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cDudo que usted pueda lograr que en el medio acad\u00e9mico y universitario todos usen boina negra o que alguien que llame la atenci\u00f3n poderosamente la use. Por ejemplo, si usted logra que Angelina Jolie y Brad Pitt usen boina negra, bueno, entonces s\u00ed, no se ofenda Don Luis, ni quien se fije en usted\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cAdem\u00e1s la boina remite m\u00e1s al Ch\u00e9 Guevara que a la filosof\u00eda idealista de la ciencia. Ya sabe usted, aunque es una selva, el instituto de investigaciones filos\u00f3ficas no es precisamente un centro de subversi\u00f3n, que digamos\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPero\u201d, interrumpi\u00f3 \u00e9l, encajando sin dificultad el calambre, \u201cotra forma de no llamar la atenci\u00f3n, es decir, de pasar desapercibido, es no modificar la rutina, seguir vistiendo lo de costumbre. Al mirarme con la boina negra, no ver\u00e1n nada extra\u00f1o. En cambio, si me pongo un pasamonta\u00f1as, pues eso ser\u00eda una modificaci\u00f3n radical. Me ver\u00edan. Llamar\u00eda la atenci\u00f3n. Dir\u00edan \u201ces el profesor Luis Villoro con pasamonta\u00f1as, ha enloquecido, pobre, tal vez oculta alguna deformaci\u00f3n reciente, o las huellas de la vejez, o la enfermedad, o un crimen inconfesable\u201d. Y, mutatis mutando, si se deja de hacer algo rutinario o de costumbre, llama la atenci\u00f3n. Por ejemplo, Subcomandante, si usted deja la pipa, llama la atenci\u00f3n. Si se pone un parche en el ojo, otro ejemplo, se fijar\u00e1n m\u00e1s y empezar\u00e1n a especular si lo ha perdido o si lo tiene amoratado por un golpe\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cBuen punto\u201d, dije y discretamente tom\u00e9 nota.<\/p>\n Don Luis continu\u00f3: \u201cSi me pongo la boina, cualquiera que me vea no dir\u00e1 nada, pensar\u00e1 que sigo siendo el mismo\u201d.<\/p>\n Entonces, agreg\u00f3 como conclusi\u00f3n l\u00f3gica:<\/p>\n \u201cY mi nombre de lucha va a ser \u201cluis villoro toranzo\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cPero Don Luis\u201d, rechac\u00e9, \u201csi de por s\u00ed \u00e9se es su nombre\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cCorrecto\u201d, dijo levantando el \u00edndice derecho. \u201cSi me pongo ese nombre de lucha, nadie va a saber que soy zapatista. Todos pensar\u00e1n que soy el fil\u00f3sofo Luis Villoro Toranzo\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfNo dijo usted que al cubrirse el rostro los zapatistas se mostraban?\u201d<\/p>\n Asent\u00ed sabiendo a d\u00f3nde iba.<\/p>\n \u201cAh\u00ed est\u00e1, con la boina y el nombre me muestro, es decir, me oculto\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfNo era esa la paradoja?\u201d<\/p>\n Hubiera dicho \u201cTouch\u00e9\u201d, pero estaba tan desconcertado que mi franc\u00e9s qued\u00f3 en el ba\u00fal de los olvidos.<\/p>\n El resto de la noche-madrugada la pas\u00e9 argumentando en contra y \u00e9l contra argumentando a favor.<\/p>\n D\u00e9jenme decirles que, hay que reconocerlo, su razonamiento l\u00f3gico era impecable, y con gracia y buen humor sorteaba una y otra vez las trampas falaces con las que suelo hacer tropezar a los m\u00e1s renombrados intelectuales.<\/p>\n S\u00ed, estoy siendo sarc\u00e1stico, as\u00ed que nadie se llame a ofensa.<\/p>\n El caso, o cosa, era que Don Luis Villoro Toranzo, aspirante a zapatista cuyo nombre de lucha ser\u00eda \u201cLuis Villoro Toranzo\u201d y que, para ocultarse mejor, mejor se mostrar\u00eda con una boina negra como pasamonta\u00f1as, fue deshaciendo uno a uno los obst\u00e1culos y reparos que, con cierta necedad, le fui poniendo.<\/p>\n \u201cLa edad\u201d, le dije como postrer argumento y casi desfalleciendo.<\/p>\n \u00c9l remat\u00f3 con: \u201cSi mal no recuerdo, usted, subcomandante, alguna vez se\u00f1al\u00f3 que el l\u00edmite era un segundo antes del postrer suspiro\u201d.<\/p>\n La luz del amanecer ya delineaba los garabatos del horizonte cuando decid\u00ed asumir la mejor posici\u00f3n en estos casos: alegu\u00e9 demencia.<\/p>\n \u201cMire Don Luis, si por m\u00ed fuera, claro, ser\u00eda un honor, claro, pero no a m\u00ed me corresponde, claro, aceptar o rechazar una solicitud de alta en el EZLN, claro. Yo soy, claro, digamos que el sinodal, claro, pero quien califica es otro, claro. Adem\u00e1s de ah\u00ed sigue el responsable local, claro, el regional, claro, el comit\u00e9, claro, la comandancia general del ej\u00e9rcito zapatista de liberaci\u00f3n nacional, claro. \u00bfPor qu\u00e9 mejor no se va usted a su casa y ya le avisar\u00e9 cuando sepa algo\u201d?<\/p>\n Pero\u2026 cuando estaba yo diciendo eso, entr\u00f3 a la comandancia general el otro ind\u00edgena que nos completa a Moy y a m\u00ed.<\/p>\n \u201cAh\u201d, dijo, \u201cveo ya hablaste con \u00e9l\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cS\u00ed\u201d, dije, \u201cpero est\u00e1 necio en que quiere ser zapatista\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cBueno\u201d, dijo el otro, \u201cen realidad le estaba hablando al compa Luis Villoro Toranzo, no a ti\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00c9l ya hab\u00eda hablado conmigo, le dije que como quiera pasara contigo para que revisara sus argumentos\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cPero ya est\u00e1: lo tengo ya dado de alta en la unidad especial. Ahora es para nosotros el colego Luis Villoro Toranzo\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cYa le expliqu\u00e9 que, por nuestro modo, le diremos s\u00f3lo \u201cDon Luis\u201d, as\u00ed que creo que s\u00f3lo falta darle la bienvenida y asignarle su trabajo\u201d.<\/p>\n El ya compa\u00f1ero zapatista Luis Villoro Toranzo se puso de pie y, con admirable prestancia, en posici\u00f3n de firmes salud\u00f3 al oficial.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfY cu\u00e1l ser\u00e1 el trabajo que se le asignar\u00e1?\u201d alcanc\u00e9 a preguntar en medio de la bruma de mi confusi\u00f3n.<\/p>\n \u201cPues el que le toca de por s\u00ed: la posta\u201d, dijo el otro y se march\u00f3.<\/p>\n Casi podr\u00eda aventurar que Juan, Fernanda y quienes ahora me escuchan y me leer\u00e1n despu\u00e9s, han recibido estas palabras como una m\u00e1s de las fant\u00e1sticas historias que pueblan las monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano, remontadas una y otra vez por escarabajos, ni\u00f1os y ni\u00f1as irreverentes, fantasmas, gato-perros, lucecitas titilantes y otros absurdos.<\/p>\n Pero no. Es hora ya de que sepan que Don Luis Villoro Toranzo se dio de alta en el EZLN una madrugada de mayo, har\u00e1 ya muchas lunas.<\/p>\n Su nombre de lucha fue \u201cLuis Villoro Toranzo\u201d y en la comandancia general del EZLN lo conoc\u00edamos como \u201cDon Luis\u201d por razones de brevedad y eficacia.<\/p>\n El lugar fue en el cuartel general \u201cCama de Nubes\u201d, donde dej\u00f3 guardada su camisola marr\u00f3n para los regresos en los que incurri\u00f3 varias veces antes de fallecer.<\/p>\n \u00bfQu\u00e9 m\u00e1s puedo decirles?<\/p>\n Cumpli\u00f3 a cabalidad su misi\u00f3n. Como centinela en uno de los puestos de guardia de la periferia zapatista estuvo atento a lo que ocurr\u00eda, con el rabillo del ojo del pensamiento cr\u00edtico se percat\u00f3 de cambios y movimientos que, para la inmensa mayor\u00eda de la intelectualidad autodenominada progresista, pasaron desapercibidos.<\/p>\n Producto de la alerta del caracol a su cargo, ustedes escuchar\u00e1n, y algunos m\u00e1s leer\u00e1n, en estos d\u00edas, las reflexiones que sobre esos cambios y movimientos hemos hecho.<\/p>\n Fue otra madrugada. Don Luis, el entonces Teniente Coronel y hoy Subcomandante Insurgente Mois\u00e9s, y yo hab\u00edamos iniciado la pl\u00e1tica como a las 1700 hora del frente de combate suroriental. Como a las 2100 el ahora SupMoy se disculp\u00f3 porque ten\u00eda que retirarse a checar las posiciones circundantes.<\/p>\n El modo de debatir de Don Luis ten\u00eda su particularidad: donde otros manotean y alzan la voz, \u00e9l sonr\u00ede con vaga ausencia. Donde otros argumentan consignas \u00e9l dice un disparate -\u201cS\u00f3lo por darse tiempo\u201d, me dec\u00eda a m\u00ed mismo.<\/p>\n Por lo regular esas pl\u00e1ticas semejaban a encuentros de esgrima. Aunque sobre decirlo, las m\u00e1s de las veces me vi derribado. As\u00ed sucedi\u00f3 cierta vez. Don Luis entonces r\u00edo y solt\u00f3: \u201c\u00a1Derribado, pero no destruido!\u201d Yo me reincorpor\u00e9 con palabras, haci\u00e9ndole ver que ser\u00eda mal visto que un fil\u00f3sofo neopositivista, cite, queri\u00e9ndolo o no, la segunda carta del ap\u00f3stol Pablo a los Corintos. Y \u00e9l, sonriendo taimado, \u201cy se ver\u00eda peor que un jefe zapatista identificara la cita\u201d. Entonces se puso de pie y recit\u00f3 dram\u00e1tico: \u201cQue estamos atribulados en todo, m\u00e1s no angustiados; en apuros, m\u00e1s no desesperados; perseguidos, m\u00e1s no desamparados; derribados, pero no destruidos\u201d y luego dirigi\u00e9ndose a m\u00ed: \u201cy me extra\u00f1a que no haya se\u00f1alado que se trata del cap\u00edtulo IV, vers\u00edculos 8 y 9\u2033.<\/p>\n A\u00fan adolorido por la paliza argumentativa, repuse: \u201csiempre he pensado que ese texto m\u00e1s parece comunicado zapatista describiendo la resistencia, que parte del Nuevo Testamento\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00a1Ah! \u00a1la resistencia zapatista!\u201d, exclam\u00f3 con entusiasmo.<\/p>\n Y luego: \u201c\u00bfSabe Subcomandante? Ustedes deber\u00edan abrir una escuela\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cNo una, muchas\u201d, le dije.<\/p>\n Deben haber sido los a\u00f1os 2005-2006, a\u00f1os antes Don Luis se hab\u00eda dado de alta en nuestras filas y las Juntas de Buen Gobierno se empe\u00f1aban en las necesidades de salud y educaci\u00f3n en las zonas, regiones y comunidades.<\/p>\n Don Luis precis\u00f3 entonces: \u201cNo, no me refiero a esas escuelas. Claro, hay que abrir muchas de ellas, ni dudarlo. Yo hablo de una escuela zapatista. No una donde se ense\u00f1e zapatismo, sino una donde se muestre el zapatismo. Una donde no se impongan dogmas, sino que se cuestione, se pregunte, se obligue a pensar. Una cuyo lema sea \u201c\u00bfY t\u00fa qu\u00e9?\u201d.<\/p>\n En realidad la idea de Don Luis no era original. Ya antes la hab\u00edan esbozado, con enunciados distintos, Pablo Gonz\u00e1lez Casanova y Adolfo Gilly.<\/p>\n Pero nuestra idea no era ni es ense\u00f1ar, tampoco \u201cmostrar\u201d. Sino provocar. El \u201c\u00bfy t\u00fa qu\u00e9?\u201d no buscaba recibir una respuesta, sino incitar una reflexi\u00f3n.<\/p>\n En fin, prosigo:<\/p>\n La discusi\u00f3n pas\u00f3 a ser pl\u00e1tica, de la misma forma en que un torrente alcanza una planada en su serpenteo y se convierte en un pl\u00e1cido fluir. Pl\u00e1cido, s\u00ed, pero imparable.<\/p>\n Ya era madrugada. La guardia nocturna nos avis\u00f3 que Moy segu\u00eda ocupado y nos ofreci\u00f3 caf\u00e9. A mi mirada Don Luis respondi\u00f3 con un gesto afirmativo. No s\u00e9 realmente si Don Luis tomaba caf\u00e9 siquiera, siempre dej\u00f3 su taza sin tocar. Entonces lo achaqu\u00e9 al calor de la pl\u00e1tica. Ahora se me ocurre que nunca le pregunt\u00e9 siquiera si acostumbraba beberlo. Uno podr\u00eda suponer, claro, fil\u00f3sofo, claro, \u201ccaf\u00e9\u201d es para un fil\u00f3sofo como un apellido indeseable. O tal vez lo tomaba. Estamos en Chiapas, pues. Venir a Chiapas y no tomar caf\u00e9 es\u2026 como ir a Sinaloa y no comer chilorio, como ir a Hamburgo y no zamparse una hamburguesa, como ir a La Realidad y no toparse con \u00eddem.<\/p>\n El asunto es que, sin darnos apenas cuenta, est\u00e1bamos hablando de regalos.<\/p>\n \u201cImagine cu\u00e1l ser\u00eda el regalo perfecto\u201d, propuso.<\/p>\n \u201cEl m\u00e1s sorpresivo\u201d, respond\u00ed sin pensar.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, el que no pudiera ser agradecido.\u201d, revir\u00f3.<\/p>\n \u201cO el que no fuera regalo\u201d, contra ataqu\u00e9.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfC\u00f3mo?\u201d, pregunt\u00f3 intrigado.<\/p>\n \u201cComo por ejemplo un enigma, o una pieza de rompecabezas. O sea, un regalo sin raz\u00f3n de ser. Si no hay una raz\u00f3n, aumenta la sorpresa\u201d, dije.<\/p>\n \u201cCierto, pero para quien lo da, podr\u00eda ser un regalo el no poder ser agradecido por el regalo\u201d, dijo como para s\u00ed mismo.<\/p>\n Conforme se hac\u00eda m\u00e1s revuelta la argumentaci\u00f3n l\u00f3gica, m\u00e1s pensaba yo que Don Luis se estaba cansando. Pero no, estaba animado y ten\u00eda la mirada brillante, como si\u2026<\/p>\n Me levant\u00e9 y le toqu\u00e9 la frente. No dije nada, s\u00f3lo me dirig\u00ed a la puerta y le avis\u00e9 a la posta: \u201cQue venga la compa de sanidad\u201d.<\/p>\n Don Luis ten\u00eda fiebre. La insurgenta de sanidad recomend\u00f3 antipir\u00e9tico, un ba\u00f1o de agua fr\u00eda y mucho l\u00edquido. Don Luis no se opuso a nada. Pero en cuanto se retir\u00f3 la compa\u00f1era, me dijo \u201cbasta con un poco de descanso\u201d y se durmi\u00f3. 2 d\u00edas estuvo as\u00ed, apenas despert\u00e1ndose para comer e ir al ba\u00f1o.<\/p>\n Ya repuesto del todo, me dijo que deb\u00eda retirarse, me recomend\u00f3 que releyera sus informes de vigilancia y se despidi\u00f3.<\/p>\n Antes de cruzar el dintel de la puerta, sin voltear a verme y m\u00e1s bien para s\u00ed, murmur\u00f3: \u201cEso, un regalo que no se pueda agradecer. Ser\u00eda muy zapatista\u201d. Se coloc\u00f3 la boina, me dijo algo m\u00e1s y se fue.<\/p>\n Ahora, a m\u00e1s de 12 lunas de su ausencia, puedo contar lo que me dijo al despedirse esa ya ma\u00f1ana, con el sol levantando luces y sombras.<\/p>\n \u201cCompa\u00f1ero subcomandante insurgente marcos\u201d, me dijo cuadr\u00e1ndose con notable vitalidad.<\/p>\n \u201cCompa\u00f1ero Luis Villoro Toranzo\u201d, le dije siguiendo mi vieja costumbre de indicar as\u00ed que estaba listo para escuchar.<\/p>\n \u201cQuiero pedirle algo\u201d<\/p>\n No se me escap\u00f3 el abandono de la informalidad, pero lo achaqu\u00e9 a su nueva profesi\u00f3n.<\/p>\n \u201cNo vaya usted a decir nada de esto a nadie m\u00e1s, por el momento\u201d, demand\u00f3.<\/p>\n \u201cClaro\u201d, le dije, \u201centiendo. El secreto, la clandestinidad, eso, que la familia no sepa\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo es eso\u201d, me dijo.<\/p>\n \u201cQuiero que lo diga despu\u00e9s\u201d<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfCu\u00e1ndo?\u201d, le pregunt\u00e9.<\/p>\n \u201cUsted va a saber cu\u00e1ndo es el mejor momento. Para usar nuestro modo: \u201cde por s\u00ed llegar\u00e1n el calendario y la geograf\u00eda\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201c\u00bfY por qu\u00e9?\u201d, le pregunt\u00e9 curioso.<\/p>\n \u201cEs un regalo que quiero darle a mis hijos y a mi compa\u00f1era\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cHombre Don Luis, no chingue, mejor reg\u00e1lele una corbata verde con motas rojas a Juan, a Miguel una roja con motas verdes, o viceversa; a su hija Renata un jarr\u00f3n y a Carmen, un cenicero, o viceversa. Como quiera, como en toda buena familia, se van a pelear. A Fernanda un cuaderno de apuntes, de \u00e9sos de rayas. Son in\u00fatiles y horribles todos esos obsequios, pero lo que cuenta es la intenci\u00f3n\u201d.<\/p>\n Don Luis rio de buena gana. Ya m\u00e1s serio continu\u00f3:<\/p>\n \u201cCu\u00e9nteles mi historia. O bueno, esta parte de mi historia. Entonces ellos y ellas entender\u00e1n que no me escond\u00ed de ellos. S\u00f3lo lo guard\u00e9 como regalo. Porque el encanto de los regalos es que son una sorpresa. \u00bfNo cree usted?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cD\u00edgales que les regalo este pedazo de mi vida. D\u00edgales que se los ocult\u00e9 no como se esconde un crimen, sino como se guarda un regalo\u201d.<\/p>\n \u201cMire Sup, muchas cosas se dir\u00e1n de mi vida, algunas buenas, algunas malas. Pero esta parte, creo, les desarreglar\u00e1 todo, pero no con pena y dolor, sino con la alegre travesura de ese viento fresco que tanta falta nos hace cuando la pena de la ausencia y los grises de la seriedad, la formalidad y los nombramientos, se convierten en piedra y epitafio.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cEst\u00e1 bien, Don Luis\u201d, le dije, \u201cpero no descarte lo de las corbatas, el jarr\u00f3n, el cenicero y el cuaderno de apuntes\u201d.<\/p>\n Se march\u00f3 sonriendo.<\/p>\n As\u00ed que Juan, Fernanda, familiares de Don Luis Villoro Toranzo, durante a\u00f1os guard\u00e9 como secreto este pedazo del amplio rompecabezas que fue la vida de Don Luis.<\/p>\n No esa vez, sino despu\u00e9s, cuando la rabia y el dolor nac\u00edan del cuerpo masacrado del compa maestro zapatista Galeano, fue que entend\u00ed el por qu\u00e9 de retener esa pieza de su vida.<\/p>\n No era que \u00e9l se los ocultara porque le diera verg\u00fcenza, ni porque temiera que lo delataran con el enemigo de mil cabezas, o porque as\u00ed evitara que trataran de disuadirlo.<\/p>\n Era porque quer\u00eda darles este regalo.<\/p>\n Una pieza que provoca, que alienta, que agita, justo como su pensamiento hecho viento travieso en nosotros.<\/p>\n Una pieza m\u00e1s de la vida de Don Luis.<\/p>\n La pieza que se llam\u00f3 Luis Villoro Toranzo, el zapatista del EZLN.<\/p>\n Cay\u00f3 y call\u00f3 en el cumplimiento de su deber, cubriendo la posici\u00f3n de centinela en este mundo absurdo, terrible y maravilloso que es el que nos empe\u00f1amos en construir.<\/p>\n S\u00e9 bien que dej\u00f3 un legado de libros y brillante trayectoria intelectual.<\/p>\n Pero tambi\u00e9n me dej\u00f3 estas palabras para que, hoy, yo se las dijera:<\/p>\n \u201cPorque hay secretos que no averg\u00fcenzan, sino enorgullecen. Porque hay secretos que son regalos y no afrentas\u201d<\/p>\n Ahora y s\u00f3lo ahora, cuando les entrego estas hojas, podr\u00e1n leer c\u00f3mo se titula este texto en el que viene envuelto, con mis torpes palabras, la pieza del rompecabezas que se llam\u00f3:<\/p>\n \u201cLuis Villoro Toranzo, el zapatista\u201d.<\/p>\n Vale. Salud y reciban de todos y todas nosotros el abrazo que les dej\u00f3 guardado con nosotros el compa zapatista Don Luis.<\/p>\n Desde las monta\u00f1as del Sureste Mexicano, y ahora bajo tierra.<\/p>\n Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos. A series of events then played out, one of which was the decision to put to death the person who had been the spokesperson and military leader of the EZLN. The death of SupMarcos was finalized in the early morning hours of May 25, 2014.<\/p>\n Among the things left pending, as we the Zapatistas tend to say, which the late Supmarcos<\/em> left behind, is a book about politics, promised to Don Pablo Gonz\u00e1lez Casanova in exchange for a box of pancrema<\/em> crackers [like Ritz]; a series of unclassifiable texts and drawings (several of them date back to his early days as an insurgent with the EZLN); and the text of the homage to Don Luis Villoro, which I will read in a few moments.<\/p>\n -*-<\/p>\n In the general command of the EZLN, with Subcomandante Insurgente Mois\u00e9s, we talked about what this day would consist of, then and now, and we realized that upon taking stock of a life, we were bringing together pieces that would never form a complete whole.<\/p>\n We realized that were always left with an inconclusive, broken image. And that what we had and have urges us to seek and find what was missing.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is missing is merely missing\u201d we the Zapatistas say stubbornly.<\/p>\n Not with resignation, never with conformity.<\/p>\n But to remind ourselves that history is not complete; we are missing pieces, names, dates, places, calendars, geographies, and lives.<\/p>\n That we have many deaths and absences, too many.<\/p>\n And that we must grow our memory and our heart so that none remain missing, yes, but also so that they not be immobilized but rather completed time and again in our collective step.<\/p>\n This is how we came to imagine this day, afternoon, night, and early morning, as an exchange of pieces seeking to complete the life of Dr. Luis Villoro Toranzo, whom you knew and know. He was a professor in the Philosophy and Letters Department of the UNAM, founder of the group Hiperion, disciple of Jos\u00e9 Gaos, researcher for the Institute of Philosophical Research, member of the Colegio Nacional<\/em>, President of the Philosophical Association of Mexico, and honorary member of the Mexican Academy of Languages. \u201cTeacher, father, and compa\u00f1ero<\/em>\u201d, perhaps his epitaph should read.<\/p>\n There are compas<\/em>, women, men, and otroas<\/em><\/strong> that have a special place among us, the Zapatistas of the EZLN. This does not come by gift or donation. This special place was earned with a commitment and dedication that is far from spotlights and stages.<\/p>\n So when they inevitably go, we do not echo the noise and dust that tends to rise with their death. We wait. Our waiting is a silent and voiceless homage. Just as his struggle at our side was silent and mute.<\/p>\n We let the noise fade away, let another way emerge to replace that which simulates consternation and sorrow. We let the dust settle so that silence once again becomes the serene repose for the one who is gone.<\/p>\n Perhaps this is because we respect that life which is now absent, because we respect his time and way of being. And because we imagine that, going forward along the calendar, his silence will be a place from which to hear us.<\/p>\n Apart from this, and I mention this as a fact and not as a reproach, Dr. Luis Villoro Toranzo was a brilliant intellectual, a wise person whom perhaps can only be reproached for the closeness he had in life to the originary peoples of Mexico, specifically those who rose up in arms against oblivion and who maintain their resistance far beyond what\u2019s in vogue or in the news.<\/p>\n For those who did not know Dr. Luis Villoro Toranzo in life, there are and I hope there will be, roundtable discussions, reprinted editions, and analyses in specialized and other journals.<\/p>\n Our word today will not go down those paths. Not because we don\u2019t know his philosophical or historical work, but because we are here to honor a duty, settle a pending task, fulfill a responsibility.<\/p>\n Because you out there know Luis Villoro Toranzo as a brilliant thinker, but we Zapatistas, know him as\u2026<\/p>\n How?<\/p>\n We know that we only have one of many pieces.<\/p>\n And we have come here to this homage, to give to those who shared and share with him blood and history, a piece that we believe they may not have known and perhaps may not have even imagined.<\/p>\n History from below, from the angle of the Zapatistas, has many blind quarters, watertight compartments in which different lives are lived with apparent indifference, and in which we only see and learn about the life that took place there when death crumbles the walls.<\/p>\n And so that we can make, how do you say it? An exchange? A trading of places?<\/p>\n Upon opening the compartment and toppling the fourth wall, upon finding ourselves inside, we make a swap: this death to the museum, this life to living.<\/p>\n \u201cWatertight compartments,\u201d I\u2019ve said. Our way of struggle implies a quota of anonymity which is only desirable to some of us. But maybe later on there will be a chance to come back to this.<\/p>\n You will hear Subcomandante Insurgente Mois\u00e9s speak to our compa\u00f1eras<\/em> and compa\u00f1eros<\/em> from the Zapatista communities about one aspect of what Don Luis Villoro Toranzo was to our struggle.<\/p>\n The great majority of them did not know him, had never meet him. And just like him, we have compa\u00f1eras<\/em>, compa\u00f1eros<\/em> and compa\u00f1eroas<\/em><\/strong> whose existence is not known.<\/p>\n The sudden knowledge that we had compa\u00f1eros<\/em> and compa\u00f1eras<\/em> that we didn\u2019t know existed until they no longer existed is not something new for us Zapatistas. Perhaps in our manner of doing things, naming the life that is missing is a way to bring it into existence in another form.<\/p>\n Just like it was our manner of doing things to bring the indigenous Zapatista Galeano to the collective then, and Don Luis Villoro now.<\/p>\n Our way of hurrying them, pressuring them, yelling to them, \u201cHey! No time to rest!\u201d to bring them back so that they can stay in the fight, the task, the grind, the work, the path, life.<\/p>\n But it\u2019s not a life I am going to tell you about. Neither is it about a death.<\/p>\n What\u2019s more, I\u2019m not here to tell you anything. I am here to draw you an outline, more or less defined, more or less clear, of a piece of a gigantic puzzle, both terrible and marvelous. And what I\u2019m about to tell you will sound fantastical.<\/p>\n Perhaps my brother under protest (his), Juan Villoro, will later discover in my words a thread from an absurd and complex plot, one closer to literature than to history. Perhaps it will later help him complete that book that he doesn\u2019t yet know that he will be writing.<\/p>\n Perhaps Fernanda will intuit a breakthrough concept that appeared elusive, filling a void which leads to the theoretical overturning of an entire line of thought. Perhaps it will later help her initiate the reflection that she does not yet know that she will undertake.<\/p>\n I don\u2019t know. Perhaps he, she, and those who are not here, will simply archive this in the \u201cH\u201d folder, for \u201chomage,\u201d \u201churt,\u201d \u201chuman,\u201d for \u201cHydra,\u201d for\u2026<\/p>\n \u201cOnce upon a time\u2026\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n I should, for security reasons, be intentionally imprecise about the geography and the calendar, but I can tell you that it was in the wee hours of the morning, and it was at the EZLN headquarters.<\/p>\n It may be that a brief description of the Zapatistas\u2019 general command center may disappoint more than a few of you.<\/p>\n No, there is no giant map with multicolored lights or colored pins covering one of its walls.<\/p>\n No, there is no modern radio communication equipment with voices speaking in many languages.<\/p>\n There is no red telephone.<\/p>\n There is no modern computer with multiple monitors dedicated to encrypting and decrypting the dizzying static of the cybernetic matrix.<\/em> <\/strong><\/p>\n There is just a pair of tables, two or three chairs, a few cups with cold, leftover coffee, crumpled papers, tins of tobacco, and smoke, lots of smoke.<\/p>\n Sometimes there is also a stale bowl of popcorn, but that\u2019s just in case we need to make a trade with some out of the ordinary being who pops in.<\/p>\n Because you may not believe it, but what in other places is called \u201cTrial by Combat,\u201d here we call \u201cGo ahead and get stuck, that\u2019s what all the mud is for.\u201d<\/p>\n I\u2019m not going to elaborate on this particular way of resolving legal disputes among beings who are so far removed from either real or fictional jurisprudence. Let\u2019s just say that the bowl of stale popcorn is there for a reason.<\/p>\n We may, although certainly not always, have a laptop computer and a printer. I won\u2019t mention the brand or the model, but suffice it to say that the computer functions through insults and threats, and the printer has a peculiar sense of agency, because it refuses to print that which it doesn\u2019t see as worthy of moving beyond the screen.<\/p>\n True, on the computer screen there is invariably a word processor open and a piece of writing that never manages to reach his final point\u2026<\/p>\n Viruses? Only the ones that manage to get through the reed that we use to connect to the network. That is to say, spiders, or the bugs fleeing said spiders, while a little light blinks frantically.<\/p>\n But we\u2019ll leave it up to you to imagine what the rest of the furniture looks like.<\/p>\n I could make myself look good and tell you that on that morning I was reading some treatise of Greek Philosophy, or the Fabulae of Hyginus, <\/em>or the treatise Apollodorus of Athens on the Gods<\/em>, or The<\/em> Twelve [<\/em>Doze<\/strong><\/em>] Labors of Hercules<\/em> (yes, with a \u2018z\u2019), by Enrique de Villena, the Astrologer,<\/em>[i]<\/a> but I wasn\u2019t reading any of that. <\/em><\/p>\n Or I could tell you, and make myself seem all modern, that I was there in the deep web taking an online course with an anonymous hacker. I almost said a famous hacker, but if they are anonymous then they can\u2019t be famous. Or can they? Or maybe it is an organized collective: \u201cclick the reload butten, press the control key, no, don\u2019t touch the letter \u201cz\u201d because it will create a chaotic mess and you will end up chatting with an incomprehensible being in the mountains of southeastern Mexico.\u201d In short, it\u2019s a <\/em>nickname <\/strong><\/em>and an avatar, something like a <\/em>nom de guerre<\/em> and a ski mask, that patiently explain the fundamentals of a terrain of struggle. And just like every time you learn a new language, the first thing you need to know are the insults. And that\u2019s how you know that a calling someone \u201c<\/em>newbie\u201d <\/em>is insulting. <\/em><\/p>\n Or, I could tell you, and repeat the clich\u00e9, that I was in a <\/em>multi-party<\/em>, inter-oceanic, hard-core game of chess with a collective called \u201cThe Baker Street Irregulars,\u201d located in that \u201cspeckled blonde\u201d Albion.<\/em>[ii]<\/a><\/p>\n But no.<\/em><\/p>\n What I was really doing was trying to finish the final point on a text that has been on hold for 20 years, but\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n In the doorway appeared the posta<\/em>, the guard, the sentinel, the lookout, or whatever you want to call him.<\/p>\n \u2013 \u201cSup, there is someone here who wants to talk to you<\/em>\u201d-, he said tersely after giving the military salute.<\/p>\n -\u201cWho?<\/em>\u201d \u2013 I asked almost as a formality because I was already assuming that it was insurgenta<\/em> <\/strong>Erika with one of her intricate riddles about love and that type of thing.<\/p>\n -\u201cOne Don Luis<\/em>,\u201d he said. \u201cHe is old and wise,\u201d- <\/em>responded the insurgent.<\/p>\n -\u201cDon Luis? I don\u2019t know any Don Luis,<\/em>\u201d- I said with annoyance.<\/p>\n -\u201cSubcomandante,<\/em>\u201d- I heard his voice and saw his figure fill the doorway.<\/p>\n The guard managed to stammer: \u201cHe slipped in unannounced, I told him to wait, he didn\u2019t follow instructions.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAh, he didn\u2019t follow instructions, typical. It\u2019s ok,<\/em>\u201d I said to the guard and I exchanged a hug with Don Luis Villoro Toranzo, born in Barcelona, Catalonia, in the Spanish State, on November 3, 1922.<\/p>\n I offered him a chair.<\/p>\n Don Luis sat down, took of his beret and rubbed his hands together smiling. I assumed because of the cold.<\/p>\n Did I already say that it was cold that morning?<\/p>\n And it was cold, as it usually is when there is no sun to warm up the shade, like today. What\u2019s more, the cold bit our cheeks like an obsessed lover.<\/p>\n Don Luis didn\u2019t seem to notice.<\/p>\n \u201cDoes it get cold in Barcelona?<\/em>\u201d I asked, in part as a welcome greeting, and in part to distract him as I discreetly turned off the computer.<\/p>\n In the end, I put away the computer, requested coffee for three, and re-lit the pipe, already filled with moist and used tobacco.<\/p>\n I can\u2019t remember now whether Don Luis responded to the question about the climate in Barcelona.<\/p>\n He did wait patiently for me to finish failing at what I was attempting to do, waiting for me to stop trying to relight the embers in the pipe.<\/p>\n \u201cYou don\u2019t have tobacco by any chance?<\/em>\u201d I asked him, anticipating his answer with disappointment.<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t remember,<\/em>\u201d he said, and continued smiling.<\/p>\n Was he answering about the cold in Barcelona or on whether he had any tobacco?<\/p>\n But these weren\u2019t the main questions that accumulated in the snuffed out bowl of my pipe.<\/p>\n Before asking the doctor of philosophy Luis Villoro Toranzo what the hell he was doing there, well, let me explain\u2026<\/p>\n At that time, the EZLN headquarters was in the \u201cBed of Clouds,\u201d so named because it was located high up in a mountain and except for the few days of the dry season, it was always under cloud cover. Even though the general command itself is nomadic, sometimes it stays there awhile, although never for as long as the clouds do.<\/p>\n \u201cThe Bed of Clouds.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n Getting there isn\u2019t easy. First you have to cross pastures and abandoned fields. It\u2019s bad in the rain and bad in the sun. After two hours of thorns and insults, you arrive at the foot of the mountain.\u00a0 From there, a stretch of the trail rises up, skirting the steep hill such that there is always an abyss on your right. No, it wasn\u2019t political considerations that decided this spiral ascent; it was the capricious shape of this mountainous peak in the middle of the mountain range. Even though you don\u2019t stop climbing until you are almost at the doors of the hut of the general command of the eezeeelen<\/em><\/strong>,<\/em> a few works of military engineering had been built such that the guard at their post would have the time and distance necessary to see people coming from far away.<\/p>\n From there, the kind of walking <\/em>necessary to access the hut was intentionally difficult. To the harshness of the mountains, we added pointy stakes, ditches, and thorns, such that it was only possible to pass one at a time. When I was young and beautiful, and carrying an average weight\u2013let\u2019s say some 15-20 kg\u2013, it took me about six hours to get there from the base of the mountain. Now that I am only beautiful, and without carrying anything, it takes me between eight and nine hours.<\/p>\n Our premodern<\/em> roots and our contempt for electoral campaigns inhibit us from getting helicopters at our camps. So you can only get there by walking.<\/p>\n Given all of this, it is logical that the first question that came up was:<\/p>\n \u201cAnd how did you get here Don Luis?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n He responded \u201cBy walking,<\/em>\u201d as calmly as if he had said \u201cby taxi<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n Don Luis appeared to be well put-together, not visibly agitated, his beret intact, his dark bag had just a few strands of roots and twigs hanging off of it, his corduroy pants barely dirty and only in the creases, his moccasins were in one piece. Well put-together. If there was anything worth noting it was his several-days-old beard and the obvious absurdity of his clean shirt, with its starched open collar. For me, this climb takes at least three shirt mendings, four for my pants, a reinforcement of both boots, and a couple of hours trying to catch my breath.<\/p>\n But Don Luis was here, sitting in front of me. Smiling. Apart from a slight flush in his cheeks, you could have said that he had, in fact, just gotten out of a taxi.<\/p>\n But no. Don Luis\u2019 response had been,\u00a0 \u201cby walking,\u201d so there had been no taxi.<\/p>\n I was about to let loose with a long list of reprimands about his health, the calendars having taken a toll on him, the impossibility that, at his advanced age, he should try to do such crazy things, like climb a mountain and present himself in the wee hours of the morning in the general command of the eezeeelen<\/em><\/strong>, but something stopped me. No, it wasn\u2019t the incontrovertible fact that he was actually there.<\/p>\n It was that Don Luis\u2019s smile had become nervous, restless, as if fearful not of asking questions but of having the answers.<\/p>\n And so I asked a question that would mark that dawn.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd what is it that you want Don Luis?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI want to become a Zapatista<\/em>,\u201d he responded.<\/p>\n His voice did not hold a trace of mockery, sarcasm, or irony. Nor did it hold doubt, fear, or insecurity.<\/p>\n I had already seen city people declare their intention in this way (although not with those words, because they usually do so with incendiary slogans and bombastic language, a lot about death and little to nothing about life), although of course, they don\u2019t get past the pasture.<\/p>\n I choked, and the pipe wasn\u2019t even lit so that I could pretend it was because of the smoke. Resigned to the lack of dry tobacco, I had been merely nibbling on the mouthpiece.<\/p>\n \u201cI want to become a Zapatista<\/em>,\u201d he had said. Don Luis had used an expression that was more a part of the daily life in Zapatista communities then it was part of Mexican Academy of Languages.<\/p>\n I followed the protocol for these cases:<\/p>\n I explained in detail the geographical, temporal, physical, ideological, political, economic, social, historical, climatic, mathematic, barometric, biological, geometric and interstellar challenges.<\/p>\n To each difficulty that I detailed, Don Luis\u2019 smile lost some of its nervousness and gained security and composure.<\/p>\n By the time I got to the end of this long list of inconveniences, Don Luis was smiling as if he had gotten a seat in the Colegio Nacional<\/em>, rather than the diplomatic \u201cNO\u201d that I was dishing out.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m prepared,\u201d <\/em>he said, as I crunched down on the last solid bit of the mouthpiece of my pipe.<\/p>\n Trying to dissuade him, I explained the inconveniences of clandestinity, of hiding oneself, of anonymity.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd,\u201d <\/em>I added dismissively, \u201cwe\u2019re out of ski masks.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n It was clear that I wasn\u2019t doing the best job. As much as I shifted in my chair and nervously moved things around the desk, I couldn\u2019t figure out a logical explanation for the absurdity of the situation.<\/p>\n Don Luis adjusted the beret on his thinning silver hair.<\/p>\n I thought that he was about to say goodbye, but when I got ready to call the guard to accompany him he said:<\/p>\n \u201cThis is my ski mask,\u201d <\/em>pointing to his beret.<\/p>\n When I argued that a ski mask should cover the face so that only the eyes were showing, he disagreed:<\/p>\n \u201cYou can\u2019t hide your face without covering it?<\/em>\u201d In that moment, I was grateful for two things:<\/p>\n One was that, in continually moving things around on the desk, I had found a little bag of dry tobacco.<\/p>\n The other was that the question from the doctor of philosophy Luis Villoro Toranzo had bought me time to try to arrange the pieces and understand what this was all about.<\/p>\n So, I hid myself behind some words in order to be able to think things through.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can, Don Luis, but to be able to do so you have to change, as they say, your surroundings. To make yourself invisible is, then, to not call attention to yourself, to simply be one more among many. For example, you can hide someone who has lost their right eye and wears a patch, by having everyone wear a patch over their right eye, or by having someone who gets a lot of attention put a patch over their right eye. Everyone will look at the person who gets a lot of attention and the rest of the patches will just become secondary. In this way, the one who really only has one eye becomes invisible and can move around easily.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI doubt that you could get everyone in the academic and university world to wear a black beret, or get someone very much in the limelight to use one. For example, if you got Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt to wear a black beret, well, then sure, but don\u2019t be offended Don Luis because nobody will notice you.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n \u201cAnyway, the beret is more a referent for Ch\u00e9 Guevara than for the idealist philosophy of science. You already know, though it may be a jungle, the institute of philosophical research is not exactly a center of subversion, as we say.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut,<\/em>\u201d he interrupted, absorbing the shock without much difficulty, \u201canother way to not call attention to oneself, that is to say, to go unnoticed, is to not change the routine, to continue dressing as usual. Seeing me in a black beret won\u2019t seem strange to anyone. But, if I put on a ski mask, well that would be a radical change. People would look at me. It would attract attention. They would say, \u2018It is professor Luis Villoro with a ski mask, he\u2019s gone crazy, poor guy, maybe it\u2019s covering up some recent deformity, or the signs of old age, or illness, or an unspeakable crime.\u201d And <\/em>mutatis mutando, if one stops doing something routine or customary, it attracts attention. For example, Subcomandante, if you stopped smoking a pipe, it would attract attention. If you put a patch on your eye, as another example, they would notice and start to speculate whether you had lost it or had a black eye from a punch.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGood point,<\/em>\u201d I said and discreetly took note. Don Luis continued: \u201cIf I wear the beret, anyone who looks at me won\u2019t say a thing, they will think that I continue being the same.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n And so, he brought his argument to its logical conclusion: \u201cAnd <\/em>my nom de guerre will be \u2018Luis Villoro Toranzo.\u2019\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cBut Don Luis,<\/em>\u201d I reproached him, \u201cthat is actually your name.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCorrect,<\/em>\u201d he said, raising his right index finger. \u201cIf I take this <\/em>nom de guerre, no one will know that I am a Zapatista. They will all think that I am the philosopher Luis Villoro Toranzo.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cDidn\u2019t you say that the Zapatistas cover their faces in order to be seen?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n I sat down, now seeing where this was going.<\/p>\n \u201cThere you have it, with the beret and the name I show myself, that is to say, I hide myself.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cIs this not the paradox?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n I would have said \u201cTouch\u00e9,<\/em>\u201d but I was so disconcerted that my French got stuck in the trunk of forgetfulness.<\/p>\n I spent the rest of the night and early morning hours arguing against the idea while he argued in favor of it.<\/p>\n Let me say that, I had to admit that his logical reasoning was impeccable, and with grace and good humor he dodged one false trap after another of the kind with which I can usually trip up the most renowned intellections.<\/p>\n And yes, I am being sarcastic, just so nobody takes offence.<\/p>\n The case, or the thing was that Don Luis Villoro Toranzo, aspiring Zapatista whose nom de guerre<\/em> would be \u201cLuis Villoro Toranzo\u201d and who better hid himself with a black beret than with a ski mask, was dismantling one after another of the obstacles and objections that, out of a certain necessity, I was putting up.<\/p>\n \u201cYour age,<\/em>\u201d I lobbed at him the last argument that I had, nearly at the point of collapsing.<\/p>\n He knocked that one down with, \u201cIf I remember correctly, you, Subcomandante, once said that the last possible moment was one second before one takes their final breath.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n The light of dawn was already beginning to outline the edges of the horizon when I decided to assume the best position in cases like these: I pled insanity.<\/p>\n \u201cLook Don Luis, if it were up to me, of course, it would be an honor, but it isn\u2019t my decision, of course, to accept or reject a request to join the EZLN, of course. I am, of course, let\u2019s say, the Synod, sure, but someone else has to approve the decision. After that, there is the local authority, and of course the regional one and of course the comit\u00e9,<\/em>[iii]<\/strong><\/em><\/a> and the general command of the Zapatista Army for National Liberation, of course. Why don\u2019t you go home and I\u2019ll just let you know as soon as I know something?<\/em><\/p>\n But\u2026 just as I was saying this, the other indigenous person who completes the trio of me and Moy came into the general command.<\/p>\n \u201cAh,<\/em>\u201d he said, \u201cI see you already spoke to him.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes,<\/em>\u201d I said, \u201cbut this stubborn man over here wants to be a Zapatista.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cWell,<\/em>\u201d he said, \u201cI was actually talking to Luis Villoro Toranzo, not to you.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cHe had already talked to me, and I told him that in any case he should go and talk to you to check out your arguments.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cBut the deed is done: I have already registered him in the special unit. Now for us he is our colleague Luis Villoro Toranzo.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cI already told him that, as is our manner, we will call him only \u2018Don Luis,\u2019 so I think that all that is left to do is welcome him and assign him his work.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n And the already Zapatista compa\u00f1ero <\/em>Luis Villoro Toranzo stood up and, with admirable poise, stood at attention and greeted the officer.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd what work will we assign him?<\/em>\u201d I managed to ask in the midst of my confusion.<\/p>\n \u201cWell, the one that he\u2019s always had: the watchman,<\/em>\u201d said the other and left.<\/p>\n You could probably venture a guess that Juan, Fernanda, and those others who are listening to me now and who will read this later, have heard these words as just one more of the fantastic stories that populate the mountains of southeast Mexico, told over and over by beetles, irreverent little boys and girls, ghosts, cat-dogs, twinkling lights, and other absurdities.<\/p>\n But no. It is time that you knew that Don Luis Villoro Toranzo became part of the EZLN one early morning in May, many moons ago.<\/p>\n His nom de guerre<\/em> was \u201cLuis Villoro Toranzo\u201d and in the general command of the EZLN we referred to him as \u201cDon Luis\u201d for brevity and efficiency.<\/p>\n It happened in the general headquarters \u201cBed of Clouds,\u201d where he left his brown shirt for the many return visits that he made there before he died.<\/p>\n What more can I say?<\/p>\n He fully carried out his mission. As a sentinel in one of the guard posts on the Zapatista periphery, he was attentive to what happened; out of the corner of the eye of critical thought he was attentive to the changes and movements that, for the vast majority of the self-proclaimed progressive intellectuals, go unnoticed.<\/p>\n As a result of his responsibility for sounding the caracol<\/em>, in the coming days you will hear, and a few more of you will read, the reflections we have made on these changes and movements.<\/p>\n A GIFT, ZAPATISTA STYLE<\/strong><\/p>\n It was another morning. Don Luis, then-Lieutenant Colonel Mois\u00e9s (now-Subcomandante Insurgente Mois\u00e9s), and I had started talking around 1700 hours on the southeast battlefront. Around 2100 hours, SupMoy, as he is called now, excused himself to go check on the surrounding positions.<\/p>\n Don Luis had a particular way of debating: where others gesticulate and raise their voice, he would smile with a wandering absence. Where others argued with slogans, he would say something absurd \u201cJust to give himself time,\u201d I thought to myself.<\/p>\n These talks regularly resembled sword fighting encounters. It need not be mentioned that many of these times I was soundly defeated. And this is how it went down this time. Don Luis then laughed and belted: \u201cStruck down but not destroyed<\/em>!\u201d I recuperated through words, telling him that it would look bad for a neopositivist philosopher to quote, whether intentionally or not, the second letter from the Apostle Paul to the Corinthians. And he responded, with a sly smile \u201cAnd it would look even worse that a chief Zapatista could identify the quote.<\/em>\u201d Then he got to his feet and dramatically recited: \u201cWe are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; defeated, but not destroyed<\/em>\u201d and then he pointed at me: \u201cAnd I find it strange that you haven\u2019t pointed out that this is from Chapter 4, verses 8 and 9.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n Still sore from the argumentative beating, I responded: \u201cI always thought that text seemed more like a Zapatista communique describing the resistance, than part of the New Testament<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAh! Zapatista resistance!\u201d<\/em> he exclaimed with enthusiasm.<\/p>\n And later: \u201cYou know what Subcomandante<\/em>? You all should open a school<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot one, many<\/em>,\u201d I told him.<\/p>\n It must have been around 2005-2006. Years earlier Don Luis had joined our ranks, and the Good Government Councils were immersed in the health and educational needs of the zones, regions, and communities.<\/p>\n Don Luis then said: \u201cNo, I\u2019m not referring to those schools. Of course there must be many of them, without a doubt. I\u2019m talking about a Zapatista school. Not one where Zapatismo is taught but rather one where Zapatismo is shown. Not one where dogmas are imposed, but one where one questions, asks, where one is obligated to think. One whose slogan would be \u2018And what about you?\u2019<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n Really, Don Luis\u2019 idea was not original. Prior to this both Pablo Gonz\u00e1lez Casanova y Adolfo Gilly had sketched this out in different words.<\/p>\n But our idea is neither to teach nor to \u201cshow.\u201d But rather to provoke. The \u201cAnd what about you?\u201d did not seek an answer, but rather sought to incite reflection.<\/p>\n Anyway, allow me to continue:<\/p>\n The discussion turned into a conversation in the same way that a flood reaches a flat plane in its meandering, and becomes a calm flow. Calm but unstoppable.<\/p>\n It was already early morning. The night guard informed us that Moy was still busy and he offered us coffee. When I looked to him, Don Luis responded with an affirmative gesture. I don\u2019t really know if Don Luis even drank coffee, as his cup was always left untouched. I chalked it up to the heat of the conversation. Now I realize that I never once asked him if he even drank coffee. One could assume, of course, well, he\u2019s a philosopher, of course, and \u201ccoffee\u201d is to a philosopher like an undesirable surname. Or maybe he did drink it. Well, we are in Chiapas. Coming to Chiapas and not drinking the coffee is\u2026. like going to Sinaloa and not eating the chilorio<\/em>,[iv]<\/a> like going to Hamburg and not trying a hamburger, like going to La Realidad and not coming across reality.<\/p>\n The point is that without even noticing, we started talking about gifts.<\/p>\n \u201cImagine what would be the perfect gift<\/em>,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cThe most surprising,<\/em>\u201d I responded without thinking.<\/p>\n \u201cNo, the one that you couldn\u2019t thank someone for,<\/em>\u201d he responded.<\/p>\n \u201cOr the one that is not a gift<\/em>,\u201d I counter attacked.<\/p>\n \u201cHow?<\/em>\u201d He asked intrigued.<\/p>\n \u201cLike for example an enigma or a piece of a puzzle. That is, a gift that has no reason to be so. If there is no reason, the surprise grows<\/em>,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cTrue, but for the giver of the gift, it could be a gift to not be able to be thanked for the gift<\/em>,\u201d he said to himself.<\/p>\n The more turns the logic of this argument took, the more I thought that Don Luis was getting tired. But no, he was animated and his face was bright, as if\u2026<\/p>\n I got up and touched his forehead. I didn\u2019t say anything, I just turned toward the door and instructed the guard: \u201cGet the compa <\/em>in charge of health.\u201d<\/p>\n Don Luis had a fever. The insurgenta<\/em><\/strong> responsible for health matters recommended a fever-reducing medicine, a cold bath, and lots of liquids. Don Luis didn\u2019t argue with any of this. But when the compa\u00f1era<\/em> left he said \u201cAll I need is a little bit of rest<\/em>\u201d and he fell asleep. He was like this for two days, only waking up to eat and to go to the bathroom. Once rested, he told me that he should get going and he recommended that I re-read his vigilance reports and he said goodbye.<\/p>\n Before crossing the threshold at the door, and without turning around to look at me, and more to himself, he murmured: \u201cYes, a gift you can\u2019t be thanked for. This would be very Zapatista.<\/em>\u201d He put on his beret, said one more thing to me, and left.<\/p>\n Today, after more than 12 moons of his absence now, I can talk about what he said as he was leaving that morning, as the sun was raising light and shadow.<\/p>\n \u201cCompa\u00f1ero Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos<\/em>,\u201d he said squaring himself toward me, with a notable vitality.<\/p>\n \u201cCompa\u00f1ero Luis Villoro Toranzo,<\/em>\u201d I said following my habit of indicating that I was ready to listen.<\/p>\n \u201cI want to ask you something.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n I noticed that he abandoned his usual informality, but I chalked this up to his new profession.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t go telling anyone about any of this, for the moment,<\/em>\u201d he demanded.<\/p>\n \u201c
\n[podcast]https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/Audios\/pensamiento\/homenaje_sup-galeano1.mp3[\/podcast]<\/p>\n
\nM\u00c9XICO<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/a><\/p>\n
\n[podcast]https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/Audios\/pensamiento\/homenaje_sup-galeano1.mp3[\/podcast]<\/p>\n
\nMEXICO<\/strong><\/p>\nUN REGALO AL ESTILO ZAPATISTA<\/h4>\n
\nM\u00e9xico, 2 de mayo del 2014.
\nHecho p\u00fablico el 2 de mayo del 2015.<\/p>\n