{"id":28139,"date":"2018-08-27T13:00:45","date_gmt":"2018-08-27T18:00:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/?p=28139"},"modified":"2018-09-10T10:29:40","modified_gmt":"2018-09-10T15:29:40","slug":"la-ultima-mantecada-en-las-montanas-del-sureste-mexicano","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/?p=28139","title":{"rendered":"[:es]La \u00faltima mantecada en las monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano[:en]The Last Muffin in the Mountains of the Mexican Southeast[:]"},"content":{"rendered":"

[:es](Cuento le\u00eddo durante la clausura del \u201cCompARTE por la vida y la libertad 2018<\/a>\u201d en el Caracol de Morelia, Torbellino de nuestras palabras, monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano.)<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Escucha aqu\u00ed: [podcast]https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/08\/Cierre-comparte-2018-discurso-galeano.mp3[\/podcast]<\/p>\n

LA \u00daLTIMA MANTECADA
\n<\/strong>EN LAS MONTA\u00d1AS DEL SURESTE MEXICANO.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0 Tal vez fue por una serie de sucesos aleatorios, sin liga aparente entre ellos, que la tragedia se gest\u00f3.<\/p>\n

O quiz\u00e1s fue una simple coincidencia, una suerte de azar infortunado.\u00a0 Como si el destino se diera en alimentar los rumores sobre su existencia, arrojando las piezas de un rompecabezas sobre, claro, las cabezas rotas de humanos y m\u00e1quinas.<\/p>\n

O acaso la Tormenta (\u00e9sa que el zapatismo insiste en se\u00f1alar y que, como en todo lo que dice, nadie m\u00e1s repara), hab\u00eda incurrido en un \u201cspoiler<\/em>\u201d, un peque\u00f1o adelanto de lo que se avecinaba.\u00a0 Como si, en el software incoherente con el que parece funcionar la realidad, se hubiera colado un aviso urgente, un \u201cwarning<\/em><\/strong>\u201d inadvertido, una se\u00f1al que s\u00f3lo podr\u00eda ser detectada e interpretada por los m\u00e1s avezados vig\u00edas que, en los rincones del mundo, se empe\u00f1an en otear horizontes que, de tan lejanos, ni siquiera aparecen como variable en las fren\u00e9ticas estad\u00edsticas del sistema mundial.\u00a0 Despu\u00e9s de todo, las estad\u00edsticas sirven para se\u00f1alar tendencias que borran dramas cotidianos.\u00a0 \u00bfQu\u00e9 es, despu\u00e9s de todo, el asesinato de una mujer?\u00a0 Una de numeral.\u00a0 Una m\u00e1s es una menos.\u00a0 Las estad\u00edsticas dir\u00e1n que se necesitan varios, muchos de esos asesinatos \u201cde g\u00e9nero\u201d para incidir apenas en una tendencia: la del desbocado cabalgar del sistema hacia el abismo, derrapando sobre sangre, lodo, escombros, mierda, destrucci\u00f3n.\u00a0 \u00bfEn el horizonte?\u00a0 La guerra.\u00a0 \u00bfEn el sendero andado?\u00a0 La guerra.\u00a0 Porque en el sistema capitalista la guerra es el origen, el camino y el destino.<\/p>\n

En fin, tal vez desvar\u00edo.\u00a0 Porque \u00e9ste es un cuento y hay que cuidar que no se cuelen en \u00e9l reflexiones tendenciosas, malas ideas, malsanos pensamientos, cavilaciones ociosas, provocaciones.<\/p>\n

Quienes padecieron alguna vez el ver una pel\u00edcula con el finado SupMarcos, cuentan que era insoportable.\u00a0 Bueno, no s\u00f3lo era insoportable en eso, pero estoy hablando de ver pel\u00edculas.\u00a0 Bastaba que en el filme apareciera un arma de fuego para que el difunto pusiera \u201cpausa\u201d y se diera una larga y ociosa exposici\u00f3n sobre rasancia<\/em>, energ\u00eda, alcance, poder de fuego, y las breves o largas par\u00e1bolas que un proyectil trazaba en su ruta hacia \u201cel objetivo\u201d.\u00a0 Poco importaba que, en ese momento pausado, la trama se fuera a resolver, o que quienes ve\u00edan el filme se angustiaran sin saber si el h\u00e9roe (o la hero\u00edna, no olvidar la equidad de g\u00e9nero) se salvaba o no.\u00a0 No, ah\u00ed estaba el in\u00fatil derroche de erudici\u00f3n: \u201c\u00e9sa es una carabina M-16, calibre 5,56 mm NATO, nombrado as\u00ed para diferenciar las municiones fabricadas por los pa\u00edses de la Organizaci\u00f3n del Atl\u00e1ntico Norte, de las del Pacto de Varsovia, y etc\u00e9tera, etc\u00e9tera<\/em>\u201d.\u00a0 Claro, la compa\u00f1\u00eda cin\u00e9fila no sab\u00eda qu\u00e9 hacer: si demostraba inter\u00e9s, el finado podr\u00eda extenderse; si, en cambio, mostraba indiferencia, el difunto podr\u00eda interpretar que no hab\u00eda sido claro y se explayar\u00eda m\u00e1s, llegando, claro, a la guerra fr\u00eda.\u00a0 Y entonces el SupMarcos se sent\u00eda obligado a explicar que el t\u00e9rmino \u201cguerra fr\u00eda\u201d era un ox\u00edmoron<\/em>, una argucia del sistema para obviar la muerte y la destrucci\u00f3n que hab\u00edan marcado esa \u00e9poca.\u00a0 Segu\u00eda entonces con lo de \u201ccuarta guerra mundial\u201d, y as\u00ed hasta que las palomitas se enfriaban o se hab\u00edan convertido en un amasijo de ma\u00edz palomero con salsa \u201cValentina\u201d.<\/p>\n

Bueno, ya me estoy poniendo igual.\u00a0 El asunto era que, si el SupMarcos asist\u00eda a la funci\u00f3n, hab\u00eda que ver las pel\u00edculas o las series dos veces: una para padecer las interrupciones, la otra para entender la trama.\u00a0 Por esto digo que un cuento es un cuento y no una pl\u00e1tica pol\u00edtica.\u00a0 Aunque Defensa Zapatista use lo de \u201cpl\u00e1tica pol\u00edtica\u201d para ocultar las muestras de \u201cviolencia de g\u00e9nero\u201d que, en forma de zapes, le aplica al estoico Pedrito, el ni\u00f1o que, sin saberlo ni pretenderlo, asume el papel de n\u00e9mesis de la ni\u00f1a y su indefinible gato-perro.<\/p>\n

\u00bfEn qu\u00e9 estaba?\u00a0 Ah, s\u00ed, en los por qu\u00e9 de lo que les narrar\u00e9 m\u00e1s adelante.<\/p>\n

El asunto es que, esa madrugada, confirm\u00e9 lo que me tem\u00eda: se hab\u00edan acabado las mantecadas.\u00a0 Todas.\u00a0 Incluso la reserva estrat\u00e9gica (destinada a hacer frente al previsible apocalipsis zombi, a una invasi\u00f3n extraterrestre, o a la ca\u00edda de un meteorito), estaba en ceros.<\/p>\n

\u00bfQu\u00e9 fue lo que pas\u00f3?\u00a0 Pues, como en las tragedias griegas y en los corridos mexicanos, no pasa nada hasta que pasa.<\/p>\n

La Do\u00f1a Juanita, atrincherada en la cocina del CIDECI, en San Crist\u00f3bal de Las Casas, Chiapas, M\u00e9xico, se hab\u00eda declarado en huelga: nada de tamales, nada de cuche<\/em> (cerdo, en Chiapas), nada de tacos y garnachas, nada de batidillos ricos en carbohidratos, grasas y colesteroles.\u00a0 Y, oh desgracia, nada de mantecadas.\u00a0 Que ahora pura comida sana, o sea verduras, verduras y m\u00e1s verduras.\u00a0 Que nada de que nada. \u00a0Que resistencia y rebeld\u00eda.\u00a0 Que muera la comida chatarra y el fast food<\/em>.<\/p>\n

Cuando me enter\u00e9, mand\u00e9 un enlace para convencer a Do\u00f1a Juanita de que hiciera una excepci\u00f3n; que la entend\u00eda, pero que hab\u00eda yo le\u00eddo en un libro que las mantecadas eran muy nutritivas; que si ella hac\u00eda mantecadas, todo iba a quedar \u201centre nous<\/em>\u201d, que no se iba a publicar.\u00a0 El enlace regres\u00f3 desconsolado: ni siquiera pudo hablar con Do\u00f1a Juanita, quien estaba fortificada, junto con sus compas de la cocina, cantando el \u201cno, no, nos mover\u00e1n, y el que no crea que haga la prueba, no nos mover\u00e1n<\/em>\u201d.\u00a0 Le pregunt\u00e9 al enlace que qu\u00e9 hab\u00eda hecho \u00e9l.\u00a0 Dijo que se puso a cantar, que se o\u00eda bien bonito el coro y agarr\u00f3 una guitarra y acompa\u00f1\u00f3 el himno.<\/p>\n

Yo no me dej\u00e9 derrotar por cuestiones que adjudiqu\u00e9 al rubro \u201cde g\u00e9nero\u201d.\u00a0 Despu\u00e9s de todo, Do\u00f1a Juanita es mujer y hay cosas que las mujeres no entienden.<\/p>\n

Recurr\u00ed entonces al arma ultra secreta del ezetalene<\/em>: el compa Jacinto Canek.<\/p>\n

Muy lejos de estas monta\u00f1as, pero enclavado en otras, el compa Jacinto Canek le sabe a la cocina.\u00a0 Hace maravillas con apenas unas cuantas ollas y sartenes.\u00a0 Pero tiene un don especial para el pan.\u00a0 Se rumora que hay gente que viaja desde los m\u00e1s diversos rincones del mundo para probar sus panes.\u00a0 Como una muestra de la \u201cotra globalizaci\u00f3n\u201d, su reposter\u00eda ha deleitado el paladar de 5 continentes.<\/p>\n

\u201cEl secreto est\u00e1 en que hay que echarle muchos huevos<\/em>\u201d, me confes\u00f3 un d\u00eda el compa Jacinto Canek mientras esper\u00e1bamos, yo impaciente, que salieran las mantecadas del horno.\u00a0 Aunque \u00e9l se refer\u00eda a los panes, yo dije casi como reflejo: \u201ccomo a todo, Don Jacinto, como a todo<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Por una cuesti\u00f3n de solidaridad de g\u00e9nero, confiaba yo en que el compa Jacinto Canek har\u00eda honor a su nombre de lucha y aportar\u00eda una salida a la grave crisis que se avizoraba.<\/p>\n

Una misi\u00f3n de tal trascendencia requer\u00eda una postura dr\u00e1stica.\u00a0 Con el fin de acallar las cr\u00edticas que ya adivinaba de las feministas, le encargu\u00e9 a la insurgenta<\/em> Erika que fuera hasta las tierras donde Jacinto Canek defend\u00eda a capa y espada sus secretos culinarios.<\/p>\n

Le dije a la Erika que ten\u00eda ella una misi\u00f3n muy importante.\u00a0 Que deb\u00eda ir donde Jacinto Canek y deber\u00eda relatarle una leyenda: los m\u00e1s primeros dioses, los que nacieron el mundo, crearon las mantecadas para que los humanos se dieran una idea de lo que era el para\u00edso.\u00a0 Pero luego lleg\u00f3 el pinche sistema capitalista con sus Bimbo-Marinela<\/em>, la T\u00eda Rosa<\/em>, Wonder<\/em> y etc\u00e9tera, y corrompieron el sagrado manjar de los dioses.<\/p>\n

Que quienes hac\u00edan pan artesanal eran los custodios de la memoria, los que resguardaban el santo grial que permit\u00eda la comunicaci\u00f3n entre humanos y dioses.<\/p>\n

Por supuesto que la insurgenta<\/em> Erika me pregunt\u00f3 qu\u00e9 cosa era \u201csanto grial\u201d.\u00a0 Le dije que era algo muy importante, sagrado, que de eso depend\u00eda el destino de la humanidad.<\/p>\n

La Erika se burl\u00f3 diciendo \u201cNah,<\/em> qu\u00e9 va a ser, seguro lo inventaste, Sup, nom\u00e1s porque quieres mantecadas<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Yo puse cara de \u201cme ofendes<\/em>\u201d, y la despach\u00e9 con las amonestaciones de rigor.<\/p>\n

Despu\u00e9s de jornadas que imagino agotadoras, la insurgenta<\/em> Erika regres\u00f3 con una gran bolsa de pan.\u00a0 No pude evitarlo: aplaud\u00ed.\u00a0 Y debo confesar que mis hermosos ojos se humedecieron agradecidos.<\/p>\n

Sin responder al saludo de la Erika, le arrebat\u00e9 la bolsa y vaci\u00e9 su contenido en la mesa.\u00a0 Nada.\u00a0 Hab\u00eda conchas, trenzas, orejas, mo\u00f1os, polvorones, bolillos, teleras, chilindrinas, marquesotes, pan de elote, empanadas, hojaldras (sin agraviar a quienes leen), cemitas, donas, y hasta el mal llamado \u201cpan de amor\u201d.\u00a0 Pero ni una mantecada, ni una sola.<\/p>\n

El horror.<\/p>\n

Me derrumb\u00e9 sobre la silla, con un sabor amargo llen\u00e1ndome la vida.<\/p>\n

Entonces la insurgenta<\/em> Erika sac\u00f3 de su morraleta<\/em> otra bolsa, m\u00e1s peque\u00f1a.\u00a0 Envuelta con pl\u00e1sticos y papeles, apareci\u00f3 \u00a1una mantecada!<\/p>\n

\u201cQue s\u00f3lo alcanz\u00f3 a hacer \u00e9sa<\/em>\u201d, me aclar\u00f3 la Erika, \u201cque ya no hizo m\u00e1s porque est\u00e1 echando baile con su mujer.\u00a0 Que a ver hasta cu\u00e1ndo<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Se fue la insurgenta<\/em> Erika.<\/p>\n

Con extremo cuidado, como si de una valiosa pieza de fino cristal se tratara, coloqu\u00e9 la mantecada sobre la mesa.<\/p>\n

Con todo eso de la Tormenta, la Hidra y el apocalipsis-todo-incluido de mi hermano bajo protesta, me puse \u00eddem y sentenci\u00e9:<\/p>\n

\u201cHe aqu\u00ed la \u00faltima mantecada en las monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

No sab\u00eda si comerla o hacerle un altar, un homenaje premonitorio a lo que eso significaba: el fin de una \u00e9poca, la inapelable sentencia del destino, el enojo de dioses desconocidos, el desd\u00e9n avistado en una mirada deseada, el da\u00f1o colateral de la guerra capitalista.<\/p>\n

La mir\u00e9, s\u00ed.\u00a0 La mir\u00e9 con lujuria mal disimulada.\u00a0 Con cuidado mis dedos apenas rozaron sus contornos azucarados, la hendidura circular que enaltec\u00eda el seno un\u00edvoco del ser unig\u00e9nito, la voluptuosa figura que no s\u00f3lo dec\u00eda sino que gritaba: \u201csoy una mantecada, pero no cualquier mantecada, soy la \u00faltima mantecada<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

En eso estaba yo, o sea que calculando si en la tienda cooperativa tendr\u00edan conocido refresco de cola con el cual honrar la \u00faltima mantecada, cuando, como si faltara ratificar la desgracia, aparecieron en la puerta\u2026<\/p>\n

Defensa Zapatista y el gato-perro.<\/p>\n

Me puse de pie tan r\u00e1pido como pude y, tratando de tapar con el cuerpo el obscuro objeto de mi deseo, empec\u00e9 a balbucear incoherencias:<\/p>\n

\u201cEh, no, no hay una mantecada sobre la mesa.\u00a0 No, no la estoy escondiendo.\u00a0 No, no hay nada detr\u00e1s m\u00edo.\u00a0 Eh, hace mucho calor, y el zancudo est\u00e1 muy bravo, creo que va a llover.\u00a0 \u00bfPiensas que va a llover?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

Creo que Defensa sospech\u00f3 algo, porque me dio la vuelta como si tal y vio la mantecada.<\/p>\n

Me mir\u00f3 con reprobaci\u00f3n y sentenci\u00f3:<\/p>\n

\u201cTienes que compartir, Sup<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

El gato-perro ladr\u00f3 o maull\u00f3, a saber, pero supongo que apoyando a Defensa Zapatista.<\/p>\n

Imagino que sinti\u00e9ndose convocada por la palabra \u201cmantecada\u201d, apareci\u00f3, a saber de d\u00f3nde, una ni\u00f1a que trataba de alcanzar la mantecada con una manita mientras con la otra sosten\u00eda un osito de peluche.<\/p>\n

La apart\u00e9 de la mesa y, siguiendo el modo del finado, le pregunt\u00e9:<\/p>\n

\u201c\u00bfT\u00fa qui\u00e9n eres?, no te conozco<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cYo me llamo Esperanza y me apedillo<\/strong> \u201czapatista\u201d y \u00e9ste es un mi osito y tenemos hambre<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Al escuchar el nombre de la ni\u00f1a, yo no dej\u00e9 de apreciar la reiteraci\u00f3n de las paradojas en estas tierras.<\/p>\n

La Esperanza Zapatista se retir\u00f3 despu\u00e9s de varios intentos de lo que la nueva teor\u00eda social llamar\u00eda \u201cacumulaci\u00f3n por despojo de mantecadas\u201d, una fase a\u00fan en desarrollo del capitalismo.<\/p>\n

Defensa y el gato-perro me miraban con m\u00e1s de 500 a\u00f1os de reclamos, esperando lo imposible: que yo les compartiera la \u00faltima mantecada de las monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo se puede<\/em>\u201d, me defend\u00ed con torpeza, \u201cs\u00f3lo hay una.\u00a0 Viera que hay dos o m\u00e1s pues se puede repartir, pero como s\u00f3lo hay una, pues no se puede compartir, s\u00f3lo es para uno<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Subray\u00e9 el \u201cuno<\/em>\u201d para marcar la diferencia de g\u00e9nero: el \u201cuno<\/em>\u201d dejaba fuera a Defensa Zapatista, a Esperanza y al gato-perro, el cual, si no sabe si es perro o gato, menos va a saber si es masculino o femenino.<\/p>\n

Siguiendo la quinta ley de la dial\u00e9ctica (nota: la primera ley de la dial\u00e9ctica es \u201ctodo tiene que ver con todo\u201d; la segunda es \u201cuna cosa es una cosa y otra cosa es no me chingues\u201d; la tercera es \u201cchingue su madre el universo y la materia\u201d; la sexta es \u201cno hay problema lo suficientemente grande como para no darle la vuelta\u201d)\u2026<\/p>\n

Les dec\u00eda que la quinta ley de la dial\u00e9ctica se\u00f1ala que \u201csiempre puede llover sobre mojado\u201d, y, para confirmarla, reapareci\u00f3 la Esperanza Zapatista, ahora acompa\u00f1ada de dos ni\u00f1os zapatistas: uno portaba un sombrero vaquero m\u00e1s grande que \u00e9l y se present\u00f3 con un \u201cyo soy el Pablito\u201d; el otro tra\u00eda un sombrero modelo \u201cDon Ram\u00f3n en el Chavo del 8\u201d, aunque tambi\u00e9n parec\u00eda un casco de estambre, y dijo que \u00e9l era \u201cAmado, el Amado Zapatista\u201d (quise darle un zape por suplantarme).<\/p>\n

Vi\u00e9ndome en desventaja num\u00e9rica, analic\u00e9 mis posibilidades:<\/p>\n

Pod\u00eda, por ejemplo, ponerme en el cl\u00e1sico \u201cmodo matanga dijo la changa<\/em>\u201d, tomar la mantecada y huir en lo que, en la teor\u00eda militar, se llama \u201crepliegue estrat\u00e9gico\u201d.<\/p>\n

Opci\u00f3n desechada: el comando infantil zapatista me ten\u00eda rodeado.<\/p>\n

Pod\u00eda atropellarlos, siguiendo el modo del Fondo Monetario Internacional frente a gobiernos progres y no progres, pero corr\u00eda el riesgo de tropezar y que el santo grial cayera.\u00a0 Eso le dar\u00eda ventaja al gato-perro, cuya habilidad para tomar lo ca\u00eddo ya hab\u00eda sido demostrada en otro cuento que les narrar\u00e9 en otra ocasi\u00f3n.<\/p>\n

Opt\u00e9 entonces por la demagogia en boga y, dirigi\u00e9ndome al comando infantil, les solt\u00e9:<\/p>\n

\u201cMiren, tienen que entender la coyuntura, la correlaci\u00f3n de fuerzas no es favorable.\u00a0 No es tiempo para radicalismos.\u00a0 Es mejor una transici\u00f3n pausada. Esperar, por ejemplo, a que haya m\u00e1s mantecadas y entonces s\u00ed.\u00a0 Pero ahora ustedes deben esperar con paciencia.\u00a0 Por ejemplo, si ya hay una ni\u00f1a que se llama \u201cDefensa Zapatista\u201d y otra que se llama \u201cEsperanza Zapatista\u201d, puede ser que haya una que se llame \u201cPaciencia Zapatista\u201d.\u00a0 Entonces, vayan a buscarla y, cuando la encuentren, le echan la pl\u00e1tica pol\u00edtica y entonces pues ya vemos<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo hay<\/em>\u201d, respondi\u00f3 Defensa Zapatista, y agreg\u00f3 con malicia: \u201cpero hay una compa\u00f1erita que se llama \u201cCalamidad\u201d, o sea que es \u201cLa Calamidad Zapatista\u201d.\u00a0 Ah\u00ed lo veas si la traemos<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Un estremecimiento sacudi\u00f3 por entero mi sensual cuerpo.<\/p>\n

Desesperado, me di cuenta de que mis argumentos no convenc\u00edan.<\/p>\n

Imagin\u00e9 entonces el cataclismo terminal: una multitud de ni\u00f1as y ni\u00f1os zapatistas rodeando mi champa, la otrora comandancia general del ezetaelene; insultos en diferentes lenguas de origen maya; Defensa Zapatista ordenando \u201ctraigan ocote<\/em>\u201d; Esperanza sacando, a saber de d\u00f3nde, un encendedor, mientras su osito, os lo juro, se transformaba en \u201cChuky<\/em>, el mu\u00f1eco diab\u00f3lico<\/em>\u201d; el gato-perro ladrando y maullando; el Pedrito bailando con la promotora de educaci\u00f3n y el Pablito cantando la del mo\u00f1o colorado y el Amado haciendo la segunda voz (s\u00ed, los varones siempre en otro canal); los ocotes encendidos democratiz\u00e1ndose; las primeras llamas lamiendo las tablas y creando un cerco de fuego dentro del cerco infantil; y yo, heroico, abrazando la mantecada, dispuesto a morir antes de entregar \u201cmy tresaure<\/em>\u201d a esa masa irreverente que apenas levantaba unos palmos del suelo.<\/p>\n

Era in\u00fatil tratar de dividirlos y llevarlos a enfrentarse entre s\u00ed: la mantecada los un\u00eda y yo no pod\u00eda cederla.<\/p>\n

Podr\u00eda, es cierto, arrojarla y, aprovechando la confusi\u00f3n, buscar refugio.\u00a0 Pero dudo que se abalanzaran por la mantecada.\u00a0 Seguro seguir\u00edan su tradici\u00f3n de compartir incluso lo poco que tienen, tal y como la pandilla del finado SupMarcos hac\u00eda despu\u00e9s de asaltar la tienda \u201cLa Nana Zapatista\u201d en La Realidad \u00eddem.<\/p>\n

Pero ni hablar, era mi mantecada.\u00a0 Ella y yo est\u00e1bamos unidos por el destino.\u00a0 En mis pensamientos rondaban los antiguos escritos (que yo redact\u00e9): \u201cen el principio de los tiempos, los dioses crearon la mantecada y vieron que la mantecada era buena y entonces crearon al Sup para que de ella se regocijara y se la zampara sin compartir<\/em>\u201d.\u00a0 Ergo, la mantecada era de mi propiedad por mandato divino y esos enanos y enanas herejes pretend\u00edan despojarme de ella, cometiendo as\u00ed el m\u00e1s grande pecado: desafiar la propiedad privada de la mantecada, que, como todos saben porque viene en todos los libros de historia, es el fundamento de la civilizaci\u00f3n, el orden y el progreso.<\/p>\n

El futuro de mi mundo estaba en juego.\u00a0 Si yo compart\u00eda mi mantecada, la humanidad volver\u00eda a la edad de piedra, a un mundo sin internet, sin redes sociales, sin las pel\u00edculas y series en stream<\/em> y, horror de horrores, sin helado de nuez.<\/p>\n

Entend\u00ed entonces que en mi hermoso y bien formado cuerpo resid\u00eda la \u00faltima oportunidad del ser humano.<\/p>\n

Si yo compart\u00eda la mantecada, cosas terribles podr\u00edan suceder.\u00a0 Por ejemplo, las mujeres podr\u00edan rebelarse.\u00a0 No una, ni dos.\u00a0 Todas.\u00a0 Millones de Defensas, Esperanzas y Calamidades Zapatistas surgiendo por todos los rincones del planeta.<\/p>\n

El apocalipsis.<\/p>\n

La destrucci\u00f3n total del mundo tal y como lo conocemos.<\/p>\n

El fin de los tiempos.<\/p>\n

La cat\u00e1strofe final.<\/p>\n

Me estremec\u00ed.<\/p>\n

Entonces comet\u00ed un error del que no me cansar\u00e9 de arrepentirme: sin que fuera necesario, solt\u00e9:<\/p>\n

\u201cAdem\u00e1s, es la \u00faltima<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u00a1La \u00faltima!<\/em>\u201d, repiti\u00f3 la ni\u00f1a con alarma y sorpresa.<\/p>\n

Qued\u00f3 pensando Defensa Zapatista. Yo sent\u00ed un escalofr\u00edo recorrer todo mi voluptuoso cuerpo.\u00a0 Nada hay m\u00e1s temible que una ni\u00f1a pensando.<\/p>\n

Defensa Zapatista rompi\u00f3 el silencio:<\/p>\n

\u201cEst\u00e1 bueno, entonces vamos a jugar y quien gane se queda con la mantecada<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Yo quise alegar que no ten\u00eda por qu\u00e9 jugar a nada apostando mi mantecada, porque era m\u00eda, m\u00eda de m\u00ed-me-conmigo, my tresaure<\/em>, el producto de mi esfuerzo\u2026 (bueno, el esfuerzo hab\u00eda sido del compa Jacinto Canek, pero por solidaridad de g\u00e9nero y en su representaci\u00f3n, me tocaba a m\u00ed).<\/p>\n

Mientras constru\u00eda el alegato de mi defensa, la \u00eddem zapatista, a\u00f1adi\u00f3:<\/p>\n

\u201cY en honor del gato-perro aqu\u00ed presente, el juego va a ser \u201cgato\u201d.\u00a0 Quien gane, gana la mantecada<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Al escuchar eso, suspend\u00ed en la cabeza mi brillante disertaci\u00f3n jur\u00eddico-gastron\u00f3mica, y pregunt\u00e9:<\/p>\n

\u201c\u00bfGato?\u00a0 \u00bf\u00c9se que se juega con bolitas y cruces y gana el que hila una l\u00ednea horizontal, vertical o diagonal?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201c\u00c9ste<\/em>\u201d, dijo la ni\u00f1a y traz\u00f3 en su cuaderno la cruz de paralelas del \u201cgato\u201d, el juego de mi infancia que, al jugarlo unas veces, se adivinaba sin ganador.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>\u00a0 Si quien lee este cuento es de la llamada \u201cgeneraci\u00f3n digital\u201d, le ahorro la consulta en wikipedia<\/em>:<\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u201cEl tres en l\u00ednea<\/strong>, tambi\u00e9n conocido como Ceros y Cruces<\/strong>, tres en raya<\/strong> (en Per\u00fa, Espa\u00f1a, Ecuador y Bolivia), juego del gato<\/strong>, Triqui<\/strong> (en Colombia), Cuadritos<\/strong>, Gato<\/strong> (en Chile y M\u00e9xico),Triqui traka<\/strong>, Equis Cero<\/strong>, Tic-Tac-Toc<\/strong> (en Estados Unidos), es un juego de l\u00e1piz y papel entre dos jugadores: O y X, que marcan los espacios de un tablero de 3\u00d73 alternadamente.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Yo hice con rapidez mis c\u00e1lculos y aventur\u00e9:<\/p>\n

\u201c\u00bfY si hay empate?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

Defensa Zapatista mir\u00f3 al gato-perro.\u00a0 El gato-perro mir\u00f3 a Defensa Zapatista. \u00a0Esperanza mir\u00f3 a ambos.\u00a0 Pablito y Amado miraron la mantecada.<\/p>\n

Despu\u00e9s de unos segundos, el gato-perro ladr\u00f3-maull\u00f3.\u00a0 La ni\u00f1a Defensa, dirigi\u00e9ndose al animalito, pregunt\u00f3:<\/p>\n

\u201c\u00bfEst\u00e1s seguro?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

El gato-perro resopl\u00f3 con aires de \u201cno s\u00e9 qu\u00e9 te hace dudar de m\u00ed<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

La ni\u00f1a me dijo entonces: \u201csi hay empate, la mantecada queda con quien la ten\u00eda al principio<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cO sea yo<\/em>\u201d, dije asegur\u00e1ndome de que no hubiera trampas jur\u00eddicas en el acuerdo.<\/p>\n

\u201cS\u00ed<\/em>\u201d, dijo despreocupada Defensa Zapatista.<\/p>\n

\u201cBueno<\/em>\u201d, dije yo, saboreando de antemano por partida doble: el triunfo de g\u00e9nero y la mantecada que no era cualquier mantecada, era la \u00faltima mantecada en las monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano.<\/p>\n

\u201cEntonces, \u00bfempiezas t\u00fa o yo?<\/em>\u201d, le pregunt\u00e9 a la ni\u00f1a mientras sacaba una hoja en blanco y mi plum\u00f3n negro con tinta indeleble.<\/p>\n

\u201cYo no voy a jugar.\u00a0 Reclamo juicio por combate.\u00a0 Elijo al gato-perro aqu\u00ed presente como mi campe\u00f3n.\u00a0 \u00c9l va a luchar en mi lugar<\/em>\u201d, respondi\u00f3 Cersei<\/em>, perd\u00f3n, Defensa Zapatista.<\/p>\n

\u201cDe acuerdo<\/em>\u201d, dije confiado.\u00a0 Despu\u00e9s de todo, eso me aliviar\u00eda de las cr\u00edticas de g\u00e9nero por haberle ganado a una ni\u00f1a, y el gato-perro, bueno, era un gato-perro, as\u00ed que no hab\u00eda nada qu\u00e9 temer.<\/p>\n

El animalito se trep\u00f3 de un salto a la mesa de madera, apart\u00f3 con un adem\u00e1n despectivo el papel y, con lo que yo cre\u00ed era una sonrisa burlona, sac\u00f3 sus u\u00f1as y, como un rel\u00e1mpago, traz\u00f3 sobre la superficie de la mesa el campo de batalla.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>\u00a0 No es que yo me queje de que rasgu\u00f1\u00f3 la mesa, despu\u00e9s de todo est\u00e1 llena de quemaduras y manchas de tabaco y tinta, pero me pareci\u00f3 algo, digamos, poco profesional por parte del gato-perro.<\/p>\n

As\u00ed las cosas, saqu\u00e9 mi navaja de monta\u00f1a y desplegu\u00e9 su afilada hoja con un brillo mal\u00e9fico en la mirada.<\/p>\n

En el rel\u00e1mpago de la hoja de metal, el universo entero pareci\u00f3 detenerse, como si su movimiento o inmovilidad futuros dependiera de lo que en esa vieja mesa de madera se dirim\u00eda: cara o cruz, vida o muerte, sombra o luz, mantecada o caos.<\/p>\n

Ok, exagero, pero el gato-perro y quien esto relata intercambiamos las mismas miradas que, por siglos, intercambian los contrincantes que saben que, en un enfrentamiento, no s\u00f3lo se juegan la vida, sino el ma\u00f1ana entero.<\/p>\n

El gato-perro tendi\u00f3 la mano, bueno, la garra, como cedi\u00e9ndome el inicio, al menos as\u00ed lo interpret\u00e9.<\/p>\n

Con decisi\u00f3n, emulando a Kasparov, trac\u00e9 mi bolita en el centro.\u00a0 Aunque yo sab\u00eda que el centro no conduce a nada, pensaba yo para mis adentros que, en este caso, un empate era una victoria, porque la mantecada permanecer\u00eda con su leg\u00edtimo due\u00f1o, es decir, con mi est\u00f3mago.<\/p>\n

<\/center>El gato-perro, como si llamara a la Sexta de su lado, marc\u00f3 abajo y a la izquierda.<\/p>\n

<\/center>Yo quise abreviar su sufrimiento y reiter\u00e9 el centro, pero abajo, muy en la onda progresista.
\n
\"\"<\/center>El gato-perro, como era de esperarse, bloque\u00f3 sin miramientos arriba al centro, como queriendo decir que al centro de abajo siempre lo neutraliza el centro de arriba.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>\u00a0 Ataqu\u00e9 por el flanco izquierdo, queriendo sorprender al gato-perro, pero bloque\u00f3 de nuevo.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>\u00a0 Por \u00faltimo, previendo ya el empate, intent\u00e9 la diagonal de arriba abajo, izquierda a derecha, como la socialdemocracia en decadencia.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>Nuevo bloqueo del gato-perro.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>Termin\u00e9 arriba a la derecha, ya por mero tr\u00e1mite porque el empate estaba a la vista y mi triunfo era ya inobjetable.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>\u00a0 Me dispon\u00eda a guardar en el caj\u00f3n la mantecada, cuando Defensa Zapatista aleg\u00f3:<\/p>\n

\u201c\u00a1Un momento!\u00a0 Le falta una tirada al gato-perro<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cPero ya est\u00e1 lleno<\/em>\u201d, dije como protesta.<\/p>\n

El gato-perro sonri\u00f3 con picard\u00eda y, con sus u\u00f1as m\u00e1s afiladas, traz\u00f3 lo no previsto: como si un mundo nuevo dibujara, agreg\u00f3 extensi\u00f3n al diagrama:<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>\u00a0 Y lentamente, con placer malsano, rasg\u00f3 la cruz en la nueva casilla y os juro que la madera rechin\u00f3, l\u00fagubre, cuando traz\u00f3 la diagonal del triunfo.<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/center>\u00a0 \u201c\u00a1Ganamos!<\/em>\u201d, grit\u00f3 Defensa Zapatista y tom\u00f3 la mantecada mientras el animalito daba brinquitos girando sobre s\u00ed mismo.<\/p>\n

Salieron corriendo, con Defensa Zapatista levantando al aire la mantecada como si una bandera universal ondeara.<\/p>\n

Antes de irse, Esperanza Zapatista, haciendo honor a su paradoja, se acerc\u00f3 y me palme\u00f3 en la espalda mientras me dec\u00eda:<\/p>\n

\u201cNo preocupas Sup.\u00a0 Yo luego te platico c\u00f3mo sab\u00eda el pancito \u00e9se que te derrot\u00f3 el gato-perro<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

Se fue tambi\u00e9n la Esperanza y, con ella, mi \u00faltima \u00eddem.<\/p>\n

Mientras les miraba alejarse, pens\u00e9 que \u00e9se es el problema con el zapatismo, cr\u00e9anme: si sus sue\u00f1os y aspiraciones no caben en este mundo, imaginan otro nuevo\u2026 y sorprenden con sus empe\u00f1os por lograrlo.<\/p>\n

Y no s\u00f3lo con el zapatismo.<\/p>\n

En el planeta entero nacen y crecen rebeld\u00edas que se niegan a aceptar los l\u00edmites de esquemas, reglas, leyes y preceptos.<\/p>\n

Porque no son s\u00f3lo dos los g\u00e9neros, ni siete los colores, ni los puntos cardinales son cuatro, ni uno el mundo.<\/p>\n

As\u00ed como Defensa Zapatista, el gato-perro y la pandilla formada por el Pedrito, el Pablito y el Amado, nosotras, nosotros, nosotroas<\/em><\/strong> s\u00f3lo tenemos un objetivo: cuidar la Esperanza Zapatista.<\/p>\n

Si este mundo no da para eso, pues habr\u00e1 que hacer otro, uno donde quepan muchos mundos.<\/p>\n

Con estos pensamientos, yo suspir\u00e9 y le dije al espejo: \u201cdebiste haber compartido<\/em>\u201d.<\/p>\n

-*-<\/strong><\/p>\n

Tan-tan.<\/p>\n

Desde el caracol Torbellino de Nuestras Palabras, monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano, planeta tierra.
\nEl SupGaleano.
\n9 de Agosto del 2018,
\nen el 15 aniversario de los caracoles zapatistas
\ny las Juntas de Buen Gobierno.<\/p>\n

[:en](Story read at the close of the \u201cCompARTE<\/em> for Life and Freedom 2018<\/a>\u201d arts festival in Morelia, Caracol<\/em> \u201cWhirlwind of our Words,\u201d mountains of the Mexican Southeast.)<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Listen here (in Spanish): [podcast]https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/08\/Cierre-comparte-2018-discurso-galeano.mp3[\/podcast]<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

It may have been a string of random events, without any apparent relation between them, that brought about this tragedy.<\/p>\n

It may have been merely a coincidence, a bit of bad luck, as if destiny decided to feed rumors of its existence by dropping pieces of a jigsaw puzzle onto the now-cracked open heads of humans and machines.<\/p>\n

Or maybe the Storm itself (yes, that storm that Zapatismo insists on calling attention to and, like most things we say, no one else seems to notice) revealed a spoiler, a hint of what is coming. It was as if the incoherent software on which reality apparently runs suddenly flashed an urgent warning, an unexpected alert, a signal so subtle that it was only noticed by the most experienced lookouts, those who focus on examining horizons so distant that they don\u2019t even appear as factors in the frenetic statistics of the global system. After all, statistics function to show tendencies deeper than the drama of the day-to-day. What\u2019s one murdered woman? A number: one more statistic, one less woman. Statistically speaking, you\u2019d need more, many more of these \u201cgendered\u201d murders to even suggest evidence of a tendency\u2014which would be that of the system\u2019s runaway gallop toward the abyss, skidding through blood, mud, ash, shit, and destruction. What\u2019s on the horizon? War. What\u2019s down the beaten path? War. In the capitalist system, war is the starting point, the ending point, and everything in between.<\/p>\n

But maybe I\u2019m just talking madness. After all, this is a story, and one has to be careful not to veer into biased reflections, dangerous ideas, morbid thoughts, idle musings, or provocations.<\/p>\n

Those who had to suffer through watching a movie with the late SupMarcos can tell you that it was intolerable. The truth is he was intolerable in various respects, but for now I\u2019m talking about watching movies. Any time a firearm appeared onscreen he\u2019d hit pause and launch into a long and pointless discussion about trajectory, distance, force, firepower, and the various shorter or longer geometric curves a projectile could take en route to its \u201cobjective.\u201d During that pause he didn\u2019t care how the plot was going to play out, or if other viewers were anxious to know if the hero (or the heroine, musn\u2019t forget gender equity) would be saved; he\u2019d just delve into his hopelessly erudite explanations: \u201cthat one is a M-16 rifle, NATO 5.56-caliber\u2014named as such to differentiate between munitions manufactured in countries belonging to NATO versus those of the Warsaw Pact, etc. etc<\/em>.\u201d The rest of the movie-watchers never knew what to do: if they showed interest, he might go on even longer; if they looked disengaged, he might think he hadn\u2019t been sufficiently clear and thus expound further, always eventually ending up, of course, at the Cold War. At that point SupMarcos would always feel obliged to explain that the term \u201ccold war\u201d was an oxymoron, the system\u2019s way to hide the death and destruction that characterized that period. From there he would delve into the \u201cfourth world war\u201d and on and on until the popcorn got cold and turned into mush with hot sauce.<\/p>\n

Huh, looks like I\u2019m doing the same thing now. The thing is that if SupMarcos came to watch a movie, you knew you\u2019d have to watch it twice: once to suffer through the interruptions, and a second time to understand the plot. That\u2019s why I always insist that a story is a story and not a political discussion, although \u201cpolitical discussion\u201d is also used by Defensa Zapatista as a cover for the \u201cgender violence\u201d she inflicts on the stoic Pedrito who, without his knowledge or intention, has become the nemesis of the girl and her undefinable cat-dog.<\/p>\n

What was I saying? Oh, right, I was telling you why I was going to tell you what I\u2019m going to tell you.<\/p>\n

It was in the wee hours of that fateful night that I confirmed what I had long feared to be true: the honeybuns were all gone. All of them. Even the strategic reserve\u2014meant to withstand the predictable zombie apocalypse, an alien invasion, or a falling meteorite\u2014was null.<\/p>\n

How did this happen? Well, that\u2019s just the thing, just like in Greek tragedies and Mexican corridos<\/em>, everything\u2019s okay\u2026until it\u2019s not.<\/p>\n

Do\u00f1a Juanita, holed up in the CIDECI kitchen in San Crist\u00f3bal de Las Casas, Chiapas, Mexico, had gone on strike: no tamales, no pork, no tacos or street food, no carb-rich, fat-laden or cholesterol-ridden milkshakes. And, heaven help us, no honeybuns. Now she was dead set on serving all healthy food: in other words, vegetables, vegetables, and more vegetables. She would have no discussion about it\u2014she claimed it was part of resistance and rebellion: down with junk food and fast food.<\/p>\n

When I found out, I sent an emissary to convince Do\u00f1a Juanita to make an exception: to say that I understood her point of view, but that I had read a book about the nutritional value of honeybuns. Then I tried another tactic: that if she would make honeybuns, we\u2019d keep it between the two of us\u2014I wouldn\u2019t tell anyone. The emissary came back looking totally defeated: he hadn\u2019t even been able to talk to Do\u00f1a Juanita. She and her compa\u00f1eros<\/em> had fortified their position in the kitchen and were singing, \u201cWe shall not be moved, and if there\u2019s any doubt just try it out! We shall not be moved![i]<\/strong><\/a><\/em> I asked my emissary what he had done in the face of this. He said that the chorus was really catchy, so he had grabbed a guitar and started singing along. Me on the other hand, I don\u2019t just roll over on issues that fall under the rubric of \u201cgender.\u201d After all, Do\u00f1a Juanita is a woman and there are some things women just don\u2019t understand.<\/p>\n

At that point I resorted to the ee-zee-ele-en\u2019s<\/em> super-secret weapon: our compa\u00f1ero<\/em> Jacinto Canek. Far, far from these mountains but deep in others, our compa\u00f1ero<\/em> Jacinto Canek knows all about things pertaining to the kitchen. He works wonders with just a few pots and pans. But he has a special gift with regard to bread. It is said that people travel from all over the world to try his bread. As a demonstration of \u201canother globalization,\u201d his baking has delighted the palate of people across the five continents.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe secret is that you have to put a lot of huevos[ii]<\/strong><\/a><\/em> into it,\u201d Jacinto Canek confessed to me one day while we waited, me rather impatiently, for some honeybuns to come out of the oven. He meant into the bread, but I said, \u201clike with everything, Don Jacinto, like with everything<\/em>.\u201d I had faith that our compa\u00f1ero<\/em> Jacinto Canek, as a matter of gender solidarity, would honor his nom de guerre[iii]<\/strong><\/a><\/em> and offer a solution to the very serious crisis at hand.<\/p>\n

A mission of such transcendental importance required drastic measures. In order to ward off the criticism I could already see coming from the feminists, I sent Insurgenta Erika to the distant lands where Jacinto Canek protected his culinary secrets at all costs.<\/p>\n

I told her she was on a very important mission, that she had to find Jacinto Canek and tell him about the legend of the first gods, the ones who gave birth to the world and created honeybuns so that humans would have some idea of what paradise was. But then the fucking capitalist system showed up with its Bimbo-Marinela, Tia Rosa<\/em>, Wonder<\/em> Bread<\/em> and all that, corrupting the sacred delicacies of the gods. Those who make artisanal bread are effectively the guardians of memory, protecting the Holy Grail that provided for communication between humans and gods.<\/p>\n

Insurgenta Erika of course asked me what on earth a \u201cHoly Grail\u201d was. I told her it was something very important\u2014sacred, in fact\u2014and that the entire future of humanity depended on it. Erika scoffed, saying, \u201cOh, please, you for sure made that up, Sup: you\u2019re just trying to get your hands on some honeybuns.\u201d<\/p>\n

I put on my \u201cI\u2019m-so-offended\u201d face and sent her off with a firm warning.<\/p>\n

After what I imagine was an exhausting journey, Insurgenta Erika came back with a huge bag of homemade bread. I applauded, I couldn\u2019t avoid it. I have to admit that my beautiful eyes teared up with gratitude. I didn\u2019t even return Erika\u2019s greeting, but grabbed the bag from her and emptied its context onto the table. Nothing. There were croissants, cupcakes, muffins, elephant ears, cinnamon rolls, long johns, cornbread, donuts, everything. But no honeybuns, not a single one.<\/p>\n

The horror.<\/p>\n

I collapsed into my chair, bitterness filling my mouth.<\/p>\n

Just then Insurgenta Erika took another bag out of her backpack, a smaller one. And there it was, all wrapped up in plastic and paper: a honeybun!<\/p>\n

\u201cHe only managed to make this one,\u201d Erika explained. \u201cHe couldn\u2019t make more because he was about to go dancing with his wife. He said he didn\u2019t know when he\u2019d get around to making more.\u201d<\/p>\n

Erika left. With extreme care, as if it were fine crystal, I placed the honeybun on the table. With the Storm, the Hydra, and the All-Inclusive-Apocalypse on my mind, I assumed a formal posture and declared:<\/p>\n

\u201cHere lies the last honeybun in Southeastern Mexico.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t know if I should eat it or put it on an altar, with a homage to what it represented: the end of an era, destiny\u2019s unappealable mandate, the anger of unknown gods, a glimpse of disdain from a desired eye, the collateral damage of the capitalist war.<\/p>\n

I looked at it\u2014oh, yes, I looked at it with undisguised lust. My fingers brushed lightly over its sugared curves, the circular cleft that gave rise to the single bosom of the unisex being, the voluptuous figure that not only spoke but shouted: \u201cI am a honeybun, not just any honeybun, but the only honeybun<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

I was busy with that, and pondering whether the cooperative store would have that well-known cola with which I could honor this last honeybun, when, as if to complicate what was already a tragedy, Defensa Zapatista and the cat-dog appeared at the door. I stood up as quickly as I could, using my body to try to shield the obscure object of my desire as I stammered incoherently:<\/p>\n

\u201cUh, no, there is no honeybun on the table. No, I\u2019m not hiding it. Of course there\u2019s nothing behind me. Wow, it\u2019s hot, and the mosquitos are out in force: I think it\u2019s going to rain. Do you think it\u2019s going to rain?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

I think Defensa suspected something because she walked right up and around me and saw the honeybun. She looked at me sternly and declared:<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to share, Sup.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

The cat-dog barked or meowed or who knows what, but I suppose in agreement with Defensa Zapatista.<\/p>\n

Out of the blue, apparently convoked by the very word \u201choneybun,\u201d another little girl appeared, reaching over the table to try to grab the honeybun with one little hand while holding on to her teddy bear with the other. I pulled her away from the table and, in true SupMarcos fashion, asked her:<\/p>\n

\u201cWho are you? I don\u2019t know you<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy name is Esperanza <\/em>[Hope] and my last name is \u2018Zapatista\u2019 and this is my little bear and we\u2019re hungry<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Upon hearing the little girl\u2019s name, I once again appreciated the continuous paradoxes of these lands.<\/p>\n

Esperanza Zapatista backed away after various attempts at what new theoretical frameworks would call \u201caccumulation by dispossession of honeybuns,\u201d a still-developing phase of capitalism.<\/p>\n

Defensa and the cat-dog looked at me with over 500 years of demands in their eyes, awaiting the impossible: that I share with them the last honeybun in the Mexican Southeast.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can\u2019t,\u201d<\/em> I defended myself awkwardly, \u201cthere\u2019s only one. If there were two or more we could divvy them up, but there\u2019s only one, enough for one person, and that one person, well, he can\u2019t share one honeybun.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

I emphasized the masculine pronoun to purposely leave out Defensa Zapatista, Esperanza, and the cat-dog\u2014I mean, we don\u2019t even know if it\u2019s a dog or cat, much less if it\u2019s male or female.<\/p>\n

In accordance with the fifth law of the dialectic (note: the first law of the dialectic is \u201cEverything is related to everything else\u201d; the second law is \u201cTo share is one thing; don\u2019t fuck with me is quite another\u201d; the third is \u201cFuck matter and the universe\u201d, and the sixth is, \u201cThere\u2019s no problem too big to be turned around\u201d)\u2026<\/p>\n

Anyway, I was telling them that the fifth law of the dialectic states that \u201cThere\u2019s no problem so big that it can\u2019t get worse\u201d, and as if to ratify it right there on the spot, Esperanza Zapatista reappeared, now accompanied by two little Zapatista boys: one had on a cowboy hat that was bigger than he was and introduced himself as Pablito; the other had on a hat resembling that of Don Ramon on \u201cEl Chavo del Ocho<\/em>\u201d[iv]<\/a>, which also looked kind of like a wool helmet, and introduced himself as Amado [literally \u201cbeloved\u201d], The<\/u><\/em> Amado Zapatista.\u201d (I wanted to swat him for trying to take over my role.)<\/p>\n

Seeing that I was outnumbered, I evaluated my options:<\/p>\n

I could, for instance, take the \u201cfinders-keepers, losers-weepers\u201d approach, that is, grab the honeybun and flee, or in military terminology, execute a \u201cstrategic retreat.\u201d But I had to discard this option: the Zapatista kid-commando had me surrounded.<\/p>\n

I could plow through them, IMF-style (they\u2019ve trampled both progressive and not-progressive governments), but I\u2019d run the risk of stumbling and dropping the Holy Grail. That would give the cat-dog the advantage\u2014its ability to snarf down whatever falls is demonstrated in another story that I\u2019ll tell you another time.<\/p>\n

So I opted for the current demagoguery in fashion and addressed myself to the kid-commando:<\/p>\n

\u201cLook, analyze the current historical conjuncture\u2014the correlation of forces is not on your side. This is no time for radicalism; it is a moment of gradual transition. You should wait, for example, until there are more honeybuns, at which point, yes, of course you can have some. But right now you need to wait patiently. If there is a little girl named \u2018Defensa Zapatista\u2019 <\/em>[Zapatista Defense] and another named \u2018Esperanza Zapatista,<\/em>\u2019 [Zapatista Hope] well then maybe there\u2019s another little girl named \u2018Paciencia Zapatista\u2019 <\/em>[Zapatista Patience]. So go look for her, and when you find her, give her a political talking-to and then we\u2019ll see.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThere isn\u2019t,\u201d <\/em>Defensa Zapatista responded, adding maliciously, \u201cbut there is a little girl named \u2018Calamidad,\u2019 so that would make her full name \u2018Calamidad Zapatista\u2019 <\/em>[Zapatista Calamity]. You want us to bring her?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

A shiver ran down my succulent body. I realized with desperation that my arguments weren\u2019t working.<\/p>\n

I imagined the potential final cataclysm: a multitude of little Zapatista girls and boys surrounding my hut, the former General Command of the ee-zee-el-en<\/em>, yelling insults in various Mayan languages. I could imagine Defensa Zapatista giving the order, \u201cB<\/em>ring the kindling<\/em>\u201d, Esperanza wielding a lighter (who knows where she got that) while her teddy bear, I swear it, transformed before my very eyes into \u201cChucky.\u201d The cat-dog would be barking and meowing, Pedrito would be dancing with the education promotora<\/em>, Pablito singing the \u201cThe Girl with the Red Bow\u201d and Amado harmonizing (yeah I know, the guys are always off in outer space). The kindling would begin to catch, the first flames licking the walls and forming a circle of fire within the circle of kids, and there I\u2019d be, heroically clutching my honeybun, willing to die rather than give up \u201cmy treasure<\/em>\u201d [English in the original] to this irreverent mob barely a couple feet tall.<\/p>\n

It was pointless to try to divide and conquer them; the honeybun united them and I could not give it up.<\/p>\n

I could have hurled it out to them and used the ensuing confusion to seek refuge. But I had my doubts that they would pounce on the honeybun\u2014they would probably follow their tradition of sharing any little bit they had, just like the late SupMarcos\u2019 kid-gang used to do after robbing the \u201cNana Zapatista\u201d store in [the Zapatista community of] La Realidad.<\/p>\n

Forget it, it was my honeybun: we were united by destiny. Ancient verses ran through my mind: \u201cIn the beginning, the gods created the honeybun and they saw that it was good. Then they created the Sup so that he could delight in the honeybun and scarf it down without sharing.\u201d<\/em> Ergo, the honeybun was my property by divine right and these disrespectful little midgets were trying to steal it from me, thus committing the gravest of sins: challenging private property rights over the honeybun, which is, as everybody knows because that\u2019s what the history books say, the foundation of civilization, order, and progress.<\/p>\n

The future of the world was at stake. If I shared the honeybun, humanity would return to the stone age, a world without internet, social media, films, streaming series\u2019, and, horror of horrors, without pecan praline ice cream.<\/p>\n

I realized then that within my beautiful and shapely body lay the last opportunity of humankind.<\/p>\n

If I shared the honeybun, terrible things could happen. For example, women could rebel. Not one, not just a couple, but all of them: millions of Zapatista Defensas<\/em>, Esperanzas<\/em>, and Calamidades<\/em>, rising up all over the planet.<\/p>\n

The apocalypse. The destruction of the world as we know it. The end of time. The final catastrophe. I shivered.<\/p>\n

Then I committed a mistake that I will always regret. I blurted out, completely unnecessarily:<\/p>\n

\u201cPlus, it\u2019s the last one.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThe last one!\u201d<\/em> Defensa Zapatista repeated with alarm. She fell silent, thinking, and another shiver ran down my voluptuous body. There is nothing more terrifying than a little girl deep in thought. Suddenly she broke the silence:<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay fine, then what we\u2019ll do is play a game and whoever wins gets the honeybun.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

I wanted to object that I had no reason to play anything and gamble my honeybun because it was already mine, ALL MINE, my treasure,<\/em> the fruit of my labor\u2026(okay, the labor technically was Jacinto Canek\u2019s, but in his place and out of gender solidarity, it fell to me). As I was preparing my legal defense, Defensa Zapatista added:<\/p>\n

\u201cIn honor of the cat-dog <\/em>[gato-perro] here, the game we\u2019re going to play is \u2018gato\u2019 <\/em>[tic-tac-toe]. Whoever wins gets the honeybun.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

Upon hearing this I paused the brilliant juridical-gastronomical defense I was developing in my head and asked:<\/p>\n

\u201cGato<\/em>? That game with the x\u2019s and o\u2019s where whoever makes a horizontal, vertical, or diagonal line wins?<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the one,\u201d<\/em> the little girl replied, and drew the tic-tac-toe pattern in her notebook. It was a game I remembered from my childhood, and which I knew from playing had no winner.<\/p>\n

For those of you of the \u201cdigital generation,\u201d I\u2019ll save you the trouble of looking it up on Wikipedia: \u201cTic-tac-toe (also known as noughts and crosses or Xs and Os) is a paper-and-pencil game for two players, X and O, who take turns marking the spaces in a 3\u00d73 grid. The player who succeeds in placing three of their marks in a horizontal, vertical, or diagonal row wins the game.\u201d<\/p>\n

I calculated quickly in my head and ventured:<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if there\u2019s a tie?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Defensa Zapatista looked at the cat-dog. The cat-dog looked back at her. Esperanza looked at both of them. Pablito and Amado looked at the honeybun. After a moment the cat-dog bark-meowed. Defensa Zapatista paused, asking it, \u201cAre you sure?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

The cat-dog snorted as if to say, \u201cHow could you doubt me?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

The little girl turned to me and said: \u201cIf there\u2019s a tie, the person originally in possession of the honeybun keeps it.\u201d <\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cMe, that is,\u201d<\/em> I said to make sure there were no juridical tricks in this agreement.<\/p>\n

\u201cCorrect<\/em>,\u201d Defensa Zapatista said without concern.<\/p>\n

\u201cDeal,<\/em>\u201d I said, savoring my anticipated double triumph: the gender victory and the honeybun that wasn\u2019t just any honeybun, but the last honeybun in the mountains of the Mexican Southeast.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo who goes first?<\/em>\u201d I asked the little girl as I took out a blank page and my black indelible ink pen.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh I\u2019m not playing. I call for a trial by combat and declare the cat-dog my champion. He will fight in my place<\/em>,\u201d declared Cersei[v]<\/a>, I mean Defensa Zapatista.<\/p>\n

\u201cFine<\/em>,\u201d I answered confidently. In the end, that arrangement would relieve me of all the gender-based critiques that would have plagued me for having beaten a little girl, and the cat-dog, well, it was just that, a cat-dog, so there was nothing to worry about.<\/p>\n

In a single leap, the little animal landed on the table, disdainfully pushing the paper aside and, with what I\u2019m almost sure was a mocking smile, extended its claws to draw on the surface of the table, lightning-fast, the battlefield:<\/p>\n

Don\u2019t get me wrong\u2014I don\u2019t care about the scratches on the table, I mean, it\u2019s already covered with tobacco burns and ink stains, but it seemed to me a little unprofessional on behalf of the cat-dog. Nevertheless, I pulled out my pocket knife and switched open its blade with an evil gleam in my eye.<\/p>\n

The entire universe seemed to rest on the metal blade, as if its future movement or lack thereof depended on what played out on this wooden table: heads or tails, life or death, shadow or light, honeybun or chaos.<\/p>\n

Oh, fine, I\u2019m exaggerating, but the cat-dog and I exchanged the same looks that have for centuries passed between opposing sides when they know that in this battle not only one\u2019s life but the whole future is at stake.<\/p>\n

The cat-dog gestured with its hand, well, its paw, as if to cede to me the first move. At least that\u2019s how I interpreted it.<\/p>\n

Firmly, emulating Kasparov,[vi]<\/a> I drew my first circle in the center. I know of course that the center takes us absolutely nowhere, but I thought in this case a tie would be a victory because the honeybun would remain with its legitimate owner\u2014my stomach.<\/p>\n

SupGaleano\u2019s move:<\/p>\n

The cat-dog, as if trying to get the whole Sixth on his side, played below and to the left:<\/p>\n

I wanted to keep the cat-dog\u2019s suffering minimal, so I played the center again, but from below\u2014you know, the progressive trend these days:<\/p>\n

The cat-dog, as was to be expected and without hesitation, played the above center, as if to say that the center from above always neutralizes the center from below:<\/p>\n

I attacked from the left flank, wanting to catch the cat-dog off-guard, but it blocked me again:<\/p>\n

Finally, and seeing the tie shaping up, I tried for the diagonal route from above to below, left to right, you know, social democracy in decay style:<\/p>\n

Another block from the cat-dog:<\/p>\n

I filled in the above right spot, a mere technicality since the tie was imminent and my triumph uncontestable:<\/p>\n

I was ready to stow the honeybun safely away in my possession when Defensa Zapatista exclaimed:<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, wait a minute. The cat-dog still has one more turn.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cBut the diagram is full,\u201d<\/em> I said in protest.<\/p>\n

The cat-dog smiled slyly and, with its sharpest claws, did something totally unexpected: as if drawing a new world, it added an extension to the diagram:<\/p>\n

Slowly, with morbid pleasure, it scratched an \u201cx\u201d in the new space and, I swear it, the wooden table creaked in mourning as the cat-dog drew the diagonal line of triumph:<\/p>\n

\u201cWe won!\u201d<\/em> Defensa Zapatista yelled and grabbed the honeybun as the little animal jumped up and down in circles.<\/p>\n

They both ran out the door, with Defensa Zapatista holding the honeybun in the air as if it were a universal flag.<\/p>\n

Before following them, Esperanza Zapatista, honoring her paradoxical name, came over to me and patted me on the back:<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t worry, Sup. Later I\u2019ll tell you how that honeybun the cat-dog won from you tasted.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

She left too, and with her my last hope.<\/p>\n

As I watched them run off into the distance, I thought that this is precisely the problem with Zapatismo: believe me, if its dreams and aspirations don\u2019t fit in this world, it imagines another\u2026and surprises everyone with its attempts to bring it into being.<\/p>\n

And it\u2019s not just Zapatismo.<\/p>\n

Across the whole planet are born and grown rebellions that refuse to accept the limits of diagrams, rules, laws, and norms.<\/p>\n

There are not just two genders, nor seven colors, nor four cardinal points on the compass, nor one world.<\/p>\n

Just like Defensa Zapatista, the cat-dog, and the gang made up of by Pedrito, Pablito, Amado, and us [nosotros, nosotras, nosotroas<\/strong><\/em>], we only have one objective: to take care of Esperanza Zapatista.<\/p>\n

And if it can\u2019t be done in this world, well then we\u2019ll have to make another, one where many worlds fit.<\/p>\n

With that thought in mind, I sighed and said to the mirror: \u201cYou should have just shared.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

-*-<\/strong><\/p>\n

The end.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

From the caracol<\/em> Whirlwind of our Words, mountains of the Mexican Southeast, Planet Earth.<\/p>\n

SupGaleano.<\/p>\n

August 9, 2018<\/p>\n

15th anniversary of the Zapatista caracoles<\/em> and the Juntas de Buen Gobierno <\/em>[Good Government Councils]<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

[i]<\/a> The African-American spiritual \u201cI shall not be moved\u201d was translated into Spanish as \u201cNo nos mover\u00e1n<\/em>\u201d in the 1930s during the Chicano movement and has since become a protest song in its own right, \u201cWe shall not be moved\u201d. The lyrics sung here come from a 1996 take on \u201cNo nos mover\u00e1n<\/em>\u201d by Mexican punk bank Vantroi, in a song that references the Zapatistas.<\/p>\n

[ii]<\/a> Literally \u201ceggs,\u201d but used as slang for \u201cballs.\u201d<\/p>\n

[iii]<\/strong><\/a> Jacinto Canek was an 18th<\/sup> century Mayan Revolutionary who fought against the Spanish in the Yucatan Peninsula.<\/p>\n

[iv]<\/a> Popular, widely syndicated Mexican sitcom.<\/p>\n

[v]<\/a> Cersei Lannister, the fictional character and unscrupulous queen of the series of fantasy novels by George R. R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire<\/em>, adapted for TV as Game of Thrones<\/em>.<\/p>\n

[vi]<\/a> Garry Kasparov, Russian chess grandmaster widely considered to be the best chess player in the world.[:]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[:es](Cuento le\u00eddo durante la clausura del \u201cCompARTE por la vida y la libertad 2018\u201d en el Caracol de Morelia, Torbellino de nuestras palabras, monta\u00f1as del sureste mexicano.) Escucha aqu\u00ed: [podcast]https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/08\/Cierre-comparte-2018-discurso-galeano.mp3[\/podcast] LA \u00daLTIMA MANTECADA EN LAS MONTA\u00d1AS DEL SURESTE MEXICANO. \u00a0 Tal vez fue por una serie de sucesos aleatorios, sin liga aparente entre ellos, que […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":15,"featured_media":28143,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[118,955],"tags":[644,926],"class_list":["post-28139","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-ezln","category-ezln-temas","tag-comunicados-ezln","tag-ezln"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28139","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/15"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=28139"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28139\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":28184,"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/28139\/revisions\/28184"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/28143"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=28139"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=28139"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/radiozapatista.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=28139"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}