Beware: long post. May be worth reading, may not be...

Hello loved ones,

I wrote what is included below as more of a journal entry than a blog entry. Then, my day became full (I made a friend!), and I decided to go ahead and paste it in, rather than write a brief version. If you find the time to read it all, I hope you'll find it interesting and educational. I certainly learned a lot, in writing it. I chose to put the photos that illustrate the story at the bottom, so scroll down if interested...

I want to know what the difference is, technically, between what we call “fireworks” and what we call “bombs.” I can venture a guess--fireworks somehow explode in a contained fashion, while bombs radiate outward--but after what I heard last night I feel confused about the distinction. As these self-contained bombs continue to explode at 11am on New Year’s Day, I wonder how many people maimed themselves last night, how many ended up in the hospital, how many unintended fires began as a result of last night’s so-called festivities.

Really, for me, the unsettling bomb activity began at 4 am on the night of the 30th, continued throughout the day yesterday and reached it’s crescendo at midnight last night. Through home-made earplugs, from the warmth of my bed in the house of Doña Teresa, I listened incredulously as the forceful, warlike explosions broke open and rumbled across the hillside from the barrios. BOOOOM! BOOOM! BOOOOM!

My past experience hearing fireworks has been more “Ssssssshweeeee-Crack-crack-crackle-crack; ssssssshhhhhhwwwoooooooeeeee-crackle-crackle” with the occassional “boom! crackle-crack-crack-crack.” But the blasts I heard last night echoed through my chest cavity, made me think more of war and destruction than of celebration and light.

I got to thinking about this, and I have a theory. It fits with my theory about grafitti, and there is a lot of that here, too. To me it feels like a way for disempowered people to express themselves. From the heart of the region of the Zapatistas, from the barrios that house people whose people have been marginalized for centuries, comes a war-cry. Maybe it is as simple as: “I will be heard;” “I will be seen;” and “I am here.”

It is important to understand the context of this, too. Today is the 1st of January, El primer de enero. This day is not simply significant as the first day of a new year, as we gringos understand it. Today commemorates the Zapatista uprising of 1994. In that year, which was an election year, the group known here as the EZLN took control of San Cristobal de las Casas and several other towns in Chiapas. Their chief aims were “social justice, indigenous people’s rights, democracy at all levels of Mexican politics, an end to government corruption, and land reform for the peasantry” (Hutchison & Boobbyer 362). According to Anna, Teresa’s daughter, during the New Year’s Eve festivities in 1994, people did not know which explosions were fireworks and which were firearms. She said the tourists were very scared. I wonder, what about the people who live here, what was their reaction?

From the small amount of reading I have done on the subject, it appears that the infamy assigned to the Zapatista movement has its roots in fraud and deception. According to the history offered in my travel guide, the peace talks that began after the 1994 uprising were overshadowed by the assassination of Mexico’s ruling party’s presidential candidate, and the murder and kidnapping of important political figures and businessmen. I believe these violent acts were attributed to the Zapatistas. The kicker is, a later investigation into these murders revealed that Mexico’s chief political party was involved in orchestrating the murders, and the former president’s brother was arrested for at least one of the assassinations. Clearly, the Zapatistas’ opposition to Mexico’s ruling parties was marginalized, and it’s reputation tainted, based on corruption and fraud.

Even worse, in 1997, when the Zapatistas renewed their protests because change was not happening fast enough for the indigenous populations in Chiapas, the Mexican government responded by sending more and more troops to Chiapas. With the presence of 60,000 Mexican paramilitary troops in San Cristóbal and surrounding areas, the EZLN fighters had retreated into hiding in the mountains. This volatile situation culminated in the massacre of 45 people, mostly women and children, in an indigenous community outside San Cristobal called Chenalhó.

I learned this on my first morning in San Cristobal, while sitting in the courtyard restaurant of a Zapatista cultural center. Surrounded by the art and imagery of the Zapatista movement--fierce women with faces shrouded behind black bandanas; photographs of EZLN leader Marcos; colorful appeals for world peace showing people of diverse backgrounds holding hands--I was overwhelmed by how real, and how recent, this struggle is. My eyes filled with tears as I read about this massacre, feeling a fraction of the suffering that the indigenous populations here have experienced for centuries.

While the fallout of the massacre included the removal and resignation of several top government officials, it also increased the army’s pressure on the EZLN and its supporters. Additionally, foreign activists and observers were deported for participating in “political activities” on behalf of the Zapatistas.

When I was making my plans to come here, I was vaguely aware that the state of Chiapas is the home of the Zapatistas, and some of the people with whom I shared my plans informed me that this means Chiapas is a dangerous place. Others, like myself, simply weren’t aware of the history. Yes, there is an edge to this place, a volatility that hangs in the air like an unexploded firecracker. Perhaps this is the volatility of non-acceptance, of activism. It isn’t what I would consider peaceful, but sometimes in peace there is complacency, an acceptance of what is, even if it isn’t in alignment with one’s truth.

The cry for change here is an unsettling sound, like bombs exploding on New Year’s Eve. It isn’t quiet. It isn’t peaceful. It is raw and real, like hunger or thirst. Feeling this for myself, even in this small way, is important, as unsettling as it is.

As an aside, I want to note that I do not feel in danger in any way. As with all stories, there are alternative perspectives and, as in every community, here there are various facets with differing views and experiences. I have not detected any “revolutionary” vibes from the family with whom I am staying; they go to church, work in tourism, and put family first. I don’t know their background, relative to the political or social scene here, but they do seem slightly more “worldly” than the average Mexican. The son has studied in Greece, speaks English fluently, was a vegetarian for years, etc. One of the brothers is married to a Japanese woman. Another brother lives in Boston. They have been hosting travelers from all over the world since 1992. With them, and in the city in general (during the day) I feel safe.

This is a common image representing the EZLN. I think the inscription says something like "Women with rebellious dignity."

A wall full of graffitti in downtown San Cristo.

This road comemmorates the insurgency with it's name.

"Enough repression" reads this bit of grafitti.

On a lighter note, I made a friend, today. She is from Japan and speaks Spanish fluently. We had a lovely time together this afternoon!