Chiapas Support Committee

VOTÁN IV

D-Day Minus 7

Revelations of what the Zapatista heart admires in others, announcement of some exemptions to the Zapatista Little School, and some pointless advice that no one is going to follow.  

August 2013

Okay so, there’s not much left now. I mean that there are not many days left until the Little School starts, not that we don’t have much more to do and say.

If anyone out there can find a school that assigns each individual their own teacher, 24 hours a day, a school that is laicized [secular] and free of cost, that provides lodging and meals during the teaching and learning, well good luck.

As you already know, the educational backgrounds of those who are going to attend the Little School stretch from not even entering nursery school to holding a foreign doctorate (and by “foreign” we don’t mean countries other than Mexico, but rather places alien or foreign to us, meaning that many educational institutions in our country count as foreign). And the calendars lived [ages] of those who will come range from just a few months old to over 90 years old. All who come, whether they are going to a community, or staying at CIDECI, or are in another geography participating via videoconference, or waiting their turn to participate, are received and held in the collective heart that we are.

Perhaps you do understand the organizational effort that the Little School represents for the Zapatista peoples.

But perhaps you haven’t asked yourself how and why a group of indigenous communities decided to host, feed, live with and share their knowledge with a group of foreigners, those who are different, others. How is that the object of so much pity, charity, shame and all those words that hide racism, discrimination, and contempt—that is, the Zapatista people—have the audacity to declare that they have something to teach? And that in order to do so, they erect, upon what was before an absurd ark in the middle of the jungle, a school so big that it covers the entire world?

Or perhaps you have asked yourself these things. But then you must also ask yourself how it is possible that people from 5 continents, of the most varied nationalities (that cheap trick pulled by flags, borders, and passports), of very great or very small learning, decide that they do indeed have something to learn from people who are catalogued in important books and government discourses as “ignorant,” “backward,” “marginalized,” “poor,” “illiterate,” and the etcetera that you can find in INEGI “studies” (The National Institute of Statistics and Geography), in anthropology manuals, and in the words and gestures of disgust of those who say they govern the world.

Why is it that both renowned and unknown people take time to listen, to travel, to learn from the Zapatista peoples?

Now, we as Zapatistas are not astonished by our persistent path through the continuous ups and downs of our struggle for life, that is, for freedom. What we are surprised by is that people like you, who could have chosen friendlier, more comfortable and comforting destinations, have instead chosen to put your heart in the rebellious mountains of the Mexican Southeast in order to, by our side, illuminate like lightning an August in the last, the smallest, corner of the earth.

Why is this? Could it be because you intuit, think, or know that the light does not come from above, but that it is born and grows from below? That it is not the product of a leader, boss, caudillo, or wise man, but of the common people? Could it be because in your stories great things start small, and what every so often makes the world tremble always starts with barely a murmur, soft, low, almost imperceptible? Or perhaps it is because you can imagine the racket of a world that is collapsing. Perhaps it is because you know that new worlds are born with the smallest of them all.

In the end, what really should be surprising is that you will be here with us, on this side. And I think it should be clear that I’m not talking about this side of the calendar or the geography.

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THE EXEMPT

We Zapatistas have the fortune of having the ear, word, and hand of men and women, compañer@s, whom we look up to for their moral height. Some of them have not said anything directly about us, for or against. But their words about how the world turns do.

And there are people who could easily be on the other side, with those above, or with those who from various places see us as a competitor, an obstacle, a bother, an enemy, or an animal that is impossible to tame or domesticate. There on that side they could receive honors and gallantry, homage and salutations. To get such things, it would be enough to create some distance from our path or add themselves to the complicit silence of others. Some of these people have accepted our invitation to the Zapatista Little School out of generosity. On the long path of their dignified walk, they always maintained bridges to the smallest, the most forgotten, to us.

Were there others, who also supported us, before? Yes, many. And later, on the crest of whatever wave was current, they demanded our submission and subjection to the new garments of those who have always pursued us, but now dressed as the “left.” They demanded that we bow down and thank them for their support, to be silent in the face of the same injustices as always, but now adorned with false words. Like He who Rules, they demanded our obedience. And just as we did with He who Rules, we responded with rebellion.

But these people, compas, men and women of different calendars and geographies, never demanded of us submission or surrender. And although it was not seldom that their gaze was and is critical of our path, it was and is a gaze of compañer@s. They are proof that support is not subordination (something the global left still does not understand).

We invited all of these people. But not as students. According to our understanding, these people understand what freedom according to the Zapatistas is. We invited them to include them as participants in this happiness of seeing that our path, although halting and disconcerting, continues and has one destiny, which is also theirs.

I am going to write some names. It won’t include all of them. But in naming them, we name those who should appear at our side and also those who won’t appear because death has already appeared on their path. But they are in our memory, which is our best and only weapon and shield. We will miss them, for example: the untiring activity of the compañera sister Chapis; the firmness of the compa Rosa de Querétaro; the gaze-as-bridge of Beverly Bancroft; the happy laughter of Helena, the determined struggle of Martha de Los Ríos, the clear word of Tomás Segovia; the wise ear of José Saramago, the brotherly sentiments of Mario Benedetti, the ingeniousness of Manuel Vázquez Montalbán, the serene consistency of Adolfo Sánchez Vázquez, the profound knowledge of Carlos Montemayor, the brotherly embrace of Andrés Aubry and Angélica Inda, among many others.

Although they, and some others, appear on the list of invited students, they are not that. They are, to use scholarly jargon, exempt.

It would be good to greet them with a hug, here or in the geography from which they generously watch and listen to us. Whether they come or not, they are with us as what they are, our compañeras and compañeros.

Here I will only put the names of a few. There are more. We will send to all of them, along with our embrace, admiration, and reiterated respect, a letter of exemption that is merely an academic simile to show our gratitude. So here are some of the exempt, with honor, from the course “Freedom According to the Zapatistas”:

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Idle Advice (because I know you’re not going to pay any attention to what I tell you).

On Chess and Nightmares.

Let’s say, for example, that you are sent to the Little School in the zone of the Caracaol of La Realidad. After a busy day, with blisters on your hands and feet but also with that happy pain that only comes with learning, you are sitting outside your shelter. You light a cigarette as you watch the light of the day cede to the shadows of the night. You see your surroundings as if in slow motion. There is a silence of everyday goings on, which allows you to notice the stubborn chirping of crickets, the playful light of fireflies, the buzzing of mosquitoes. You decide to take out your portable chessboard. As you’re setting up the pieces, a little girl or little boy approaches (you think abut 8 or 9 years old), and squats down beside you. The little girl or boy watches what you are doing with curiosity and asks, in total innocence, “what’s that?” You feel flattered to have this opportunity to teach something, especially because ever since you arrived, your Votán and the family with whom you are living have constantly corrected you. So you take a puff on your cigarette and say: “Ah, this is a game called chess.” And here is the decisive moment. You are tempted to say exactly what you should not say. You think that, after all, it’s just a little girl/boy and it would be fun to teach them this mysterious game of intelligence, tactics, and strategy. So you say the cursed words: “Do you want me to teach you how to play?” And it’s done. The die has been cast. The little girl/boy says, with total innocence, “okay, I’ll try.” Then comes the nightmare.

After the first explanations of “this one is a pawn,” “this is a bishop,” “this is a horse,” and so on, the girl/boy will sit down in front of you and it’s a done deal. You will spend the rest of the afternoon and part of the night listening to “checkmate” over and over again. And later, a little before the dreamt dream replaces the lived one, you will murmur, “Damned Sup, I should have paid attention to him.” I, from close and from far, will light my pipe, dig into my bag of animal crackers and think: “I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so.” I have heard cussing in dozens of different languages, when the children of the La Realidad Zone beat the chess “teachers.” After all, they call this place “Reality” for a reason, do they not?

On Soccer

Let’s say, for example, that you are assigned to the zone of the Caracol of La Garrucha. Same situation as the above. But this time the child has a ball in his hands. He says, asks and challenges you with, “Where you come from do they know how to play soccer?” You feel Pelé and Garrincha, Maradona and Cruyff, Ronald and Messi (it’s not a Table Dance, eh), Puskas and Di Stéfano (is that too far back?) or whoever corresponds to your geography and calendar beating in your veins. I recommend that you smile and ask about the weather or whatever, but… you begin to see red and well, knowing sports chauvinism is well tolerated even on the radical left, you dismiss my advice, adjust your boots, tennis shoes, sandals, toes, or whatever, and stand up saying, “Do we know how to play soccer where I come from? Let me show you, c’mon.” Later at night, as you begin to doze off, you will run through the damages in your mind and you will say it was the fault of the keeper, the defense, the midfielder, the forward, the referee, the steep field, the mud, the cow shit, that in the end the spanking you got wasn’t so bad really, that you’ll have a rematch tomorrow. But, with one last yawn, you will murmur: “Damned Sup, I should have listened to him.” And I, from both close and far, will light my pipe and lie back as I think: “I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so.”

I have seen multinational teams of authentic football masters succumb on the “soccer fields” of the Caracol of La Garrucha. In this zone, even the cows know the magic of dribbling a ball.

On Pozol Agrio (a sour corn drink).

Let’s say you are in whichever zone of the 5 caracoles you are assigned. “There’s a party!” you hear. You get up, even though your whole body hurts as if you had spend the whole day trying to get on public transport during rush hour in your own geography. You go over to where the noise is coming from. You hear a jubilant shout “pozol agrio!” Now pay attention to what I’m telling you: turn around on the spot and go back to the house where you are staying. If someone offers you some, pardon yourself with a “thank you, but I’m very full right now” as you rub your stomach with satisfaction. But, double or nothing, you say to yourself, “Well, I came to share, so I should also share the happiness that this pozol agrio appears to provoke,” and you ask for and receive your cup. As you spend the entire night in the latrine, you will have to light a cigarette, even though you don’t smoke, and with the flash of the lighter you will think, “Damned Sup, I should have listened to him.” And I, from not so close and perhaps quite far, will light my pipe, and, murmuring, “I hate to say I told you so, but I told you so,” I will go even further away because believe me, there is no tobacco that covers that odor.

On Food.

If you think that something might make you sick, or if you feel bad, or if something isn’t sitting right in your stomach, don’t eat it. Don’t feel obligated to eat what you can’t eat. You won’t be looked upon badly, or expelled from the Little School, and no one will criticize you or anything like that. On the contrary, you will be given medicine for your stomach and asked what you can eat that won’t make you feel bad. Because we know well that with regard to food, what pleases and nourishes is found in the word that seasons it. And yes, you can bring what you like to eat, as long as you share it.

And when I say share I don’t mean giving everyone a portion, but sharing the story of the food you bring, how it is prepared, how it is eaten. And no, sharing a stomachache is not part of community life.

On Recess.

Yes, you can bring a ball, a guitar, a theater piece, a movie, or a story to tell. Only remember, everything is done in collective. Not the collective you came with, but your collective here: your family and your Votán. If you hear someone say “what a happy ton,” they aren’t talking about the weight of the firewood or the water drum. It’s just one of those strange translations that abound here: “ton” (tonelada) means “tune.” You’re welcome.

On slogans.

There should be a sign at the entrance of any Zapatista community that reads, “Abandon any hope of rhyme.” If someone nearby is practicing a “slogan” for the welcome party or the farewell party, and you hear “hey hey, ho ho, there are a shitload of us and we will win,” don’t even think about saying that it doesn’t go like that or that it doesn’t rhyme. Because if you do, you’ll be bombarded with, “why not? You don’t think there are a shitload of us? You don’t think we’re going to win?? And finally, “well you understood me, didn’t you?”

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Vale.  And don’t forget to pack three basic things: something for the cold, something for the rain, and something in which to stockpile your memories.

From the mountains of the Mexican Southeast.

SupMarcos.

Mexico, August of 2013.

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From Alí Primera, the classic “No basta rezar” (It’s not enough to pray), in the voice of a Zapatista in the Festival of Dignified Rage, in Chiapas, Mexico.

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Musical group of Zapatista compas from Los Altos of Chiapas.

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Regional dance performed by Zapatista children in Chiapas, at the Festival of Dignified Rage.

VOTÁN III.

IAQ Section (Infrequently Asked Questions).

What you always wanted to know (or be warned) about the Zapatistas, their renowned Little School, and the potential consequences of attending.

July 2013.

So, it seems it is becoming more or less clear what the hell the Zapatistas are thinking when we talk about the little school.

But it is as expected that you would now have more questions than answers. Perhaps you are no longer worried about your footwear, but now you have other questions. It occurs to you that perhaps it is true what they say about Zapatismo being a 21st century rebellion, that they are skilled in all things cybernetic (they even have a graffiti artist for virtual walls). So you go to the nearest Internet café, turn on the computer, and search “Zapatista little school, doubts, common questions, FAQ, etc.”

The screen makes, as they say, an “elegant cybernetic maneuver” to elude the National Security Agency, and enters the ultra secret server of those transgressors of the law: the ZPS (the English acronym for Zapatista Pozol Server). After a resounding “Fuck You XKeyscore,” appears on the screen, you are asked to enter a password. You try “MARICHIWEU” and the screen displays “No.” You try “NOSOTR@S” and the screen says “Nope.” You try “DURITO” and the screen says “Ah hell no.” Annoyed by these obstacles, you leave an insulting message directed at the North American government and, after you sign your name, the screen opens as if it were a door – in 3D, with Dolby surround sound and all that, and a sign appears that says “Zapatista Little School, IAQs – Infrequently Asked Questions. You may add yours at the end,” followed by a long list of questions and answers, such as the following:

Find the concern that most closely matches yours, link to its question and see the corresponding response:

– I haven’t gone to college/ I am not an artist/ I am not a well known person/ I don’t represent anyone/ I’m not a director or a leader of anything/ I am very young/ I am very old/ I have never been to school/ I am new to learning about the Zapatistas and I have never been in a community/ I wasn’t born yet or I was very young when you emerged in the public spotlight /I didn’t know anything about this until the day of the end of the world/ I just learned of you a few weeks ago and asked you to invite me/ I don’t know why you invited me, I don’t even like the Zapatistas, well okay I like the Zapatistas but Marcos is a clown who is taking advantage of those poor little Indians and I-will-tell-them-not-to-be-fooled-and-rescue-or-redeem-them-myself/whatever etcetera is in style/  ___________(your particular case)-

Questions:

Will I be treated the same as someone who knows the Zapatista anthem by heart, who has attended all the activities of/by/about Zapatismo, who has an EZLN t-shirt, who can recite perfectly that refrain of “it is an honor to be…” – ah no, that is from another channel-, who has fancy boots and mountain climbing equipment, who has been to community many times and has supported the indigenous people soooo much, I mean really so, soooooo much? Does this stuff matter in the Little School? Is it an impediment to being able to attend or to asking for an invitation?

Responses (in order of questions asked):

Yes. No. No.

Question:

Can I stay and live in a Zapatista community?

Answer:

No.

Argumentative Question:

But I have thought it through and I am very determined to stay, can I?

Reiterated Answer:

No.

Emphatic insistence:

Please? Please? Please? Can I stay?

Equally emphatic Answer (in the order of questions asked):

No. No. No. No.

Question:

Can I give more than 100 pesos for the education materials as a demonstration of solidarity with the Zapatista indigenous communities?

Answer:

Yes, but neither we nor others will know how much was given, nor by whom. At registration, you will see a bucket or a box (I don’t know what they will put out) and there you will deposit your 100 pesos or however much you would like to give. No one but you will know if you only gave 100 pesos, or more, or less, or if you put in a prepaid card, or a subway ticket, or an insult. After registration, the assigned compas will empty the bucket or box and to give its contents to a Zapatista Little School commission. So we also won’t know who gave or how much they gave. And this way no one can complain or demand special VIP treatment because “you don’t know who I am, nor all of the positions I have held and prizes I have received, nor how veeeerrrry much I have helped the communities/ and you are not going to humiliate me by putting me together with people who have never even been to community/ and besides, you have nothing to teach me and everything to thank me for/ and the only indigenous image that I can digest is that of those who bend on one knee to adore me; the image of rebellious indigenous people, that it to say, ungrateful indigenous people, gives me indigestion” (as has already been stated by one highly “illustrious” person from the artistic-cultural sphere).

Question:

Can I take gifts to the family that is going to host me?

Answer:

No.

Of course it is only natural that you will build a relationship of affinity with the people you stay with. But personal “gifts” distort the community balance and convert a political relationship into a personal one. In that case, you stop relating to a cause and start relating to a person, which in itself isn’t a bad thing, but you are not coming to make friends, rather you are coming to learn. What you can do, is to leave whatever you wish to donate at CIDECI, either at registration or after the course, and the donations will go to the Juntas de Buen Gobierno (Good Government Councils), who will distribute them EQUITABLY among all of the Zapatista communities. But remember that for us, that is, for the families who will receive you, what is important is the person, not what they have or what they give. And it should be the same for you also, what should matter is the Zapatista people as a whole, not the particular family or Votán with whom you relate most closely, because it is not a small group of people who are attending to you but rather the entire organized Zapatista people, synthesized for you in a family and a guardian.

Question:

Why isn’t it permissible for me to give something to the people who will open their home to me, feed me, take care of me, and teach me?

Answer:

Look, there are Zapatista families who aren’t going to host anyone, but they have participated in any case in this effort and are helping out with food, materials, and transport. They participate as much as any family who is going to host guests. So would it make sense that there is not gift for these families because you can’t see them? Would it make sense that to these families you won’t give your contact information in case some day they are in your geography, or so that they can call you or write you? Does it make sense that for those children you didn’t meet there won’t be any sweets, clothes, toys, or presents?

For example, there are Zapatista villages under paramilitary threat. They couldn’t host Little School students since security there is precarious and we wouldn’t have been able to properly care for our guests. But these families prepared like everyone else, supporting those who were going to serve as host families, building, sweeping, washing, mopping, painting, cooking, gathering wood, helping to provide the food that you will be served. You don’t know these people and you won’t meet them in the Little School. If the paramilitary and police aggressions increase, they may be displaced. You may or may not find out about it (for example, check the number of web visitors to the last Good Government Council denunciation), but for you they will have neither a face nor a name.

They will be invisible, just like hundreds of thousands of Zapatistas. Will anyone take them into account even though they are invisible to you and everyone else?

Yes, us, their compañeros and compañeras. That’s why we try to distribute anything we receive from outside equitably. The most and the best of what we receive is given to those most in need.

There’s something else we should mention about donations. We know very well that out there, the dominant stereotype of indigenous people is as objects of pity and charity, and that you should give them those things that you don’t need anymore and are about to throw away. It’s like one enormous telethon syndrome. Its equivalent can be found in the political class in charity photoshopping (i.e., there’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a “national campaign against hunger”… or a photocopier).

We Zapatistas call this “an aspirin to soothe the conscience.”

And in our long walk through the ups and downs of the struggle, we have seen many things. One of them is that in difficult moments, those who have the most give only what they don’t need; and those who have the least, give what they can’t spare. Someone who has money and goods donates the blankets that they don’t use, the clothes that don’t fit them, the shoes that went out of style, the change that they don’t really need. And those who have to struggle through every day to make a little bit of money in order to put something on the table other than a threadbare tablecloth, if even that, give the change that they needed to achieve their barest level of survival.

The indigenous Zapatista peoples do not deserve your pity. Despite the disdain expressed toward us for being out of fashion, and despite not being counted as part of the current “historic” movement of the conjuncture (whichever movement that may now be), we have risen up with dignity, just as we did 20 years ago, just as we did 50 years ago, just as we did 500 years ago. And we will keep doing so. Don’t insult us with your charity.

We have not asked you for anything else: all we have asked you for is the cost of the course material (one hundred pesos) and your willingness to learn. We will provide your lodging. We will provide your food. It won’t be a 7-star hotel nor will there be a grand buffet, but in every tortilla, dish of beans, vegetable, pallet, hammock, and rain poncho you can find the affection and respect of all of us for all of you, because you are our invited guest, our compañero, our compañera, our compañeroa.

You don’t and won’t owe us anything. The outcome of the Little School is not militancy, belonging, submission to command, nor fanaticism. What follows the Little School is something that you, and only you, can decide… and act upon. We didn’t invite you in order to recruit you, train you, un-train you, program you, or, like they say, “reset” you. We have opened a door and invited you to come in and see our house, to see what we have constructed with the help of people all over the world who gave us not their leftovers but the eyes and ears of compañeros, to whom it never would have occurred to expect our eternal gratitude, who would never have expected us to pay homage to them as homage is paid to those who have things and give orders.

You are who you are, and only you can decide whether to keep being that or something else.

Now, to round out this fragment of the Infrequently Asked Questions Section:

You aren’t a celebrity? You haven’t studied extensively? You have never been in a Zapatista community? You weren’t even born when the EZLN came out publicly? You didn’t know about any of this until the day of the end of the world, or even after that?

Don’t worry or even think about that. Here we don’t look at academic resumes, nor one’s history in life or in the struggle; we only look at the heart. There will be people who come to the little school who have multiple doctorates and other people who have never even been to nursery school; there will people over 90 years old and others who haven’t yet lived a year. We will receive everyone (todos, todas, todoas)[i] with the same affection of compañeros, and we will attend to everyone with the very best that we have, we will teach and show ourselves to all equally, and treat all of you with the same painstaking care.

So leave all of those qualms, traumas, and resentments for the television series of your choice.

Instead think about, for example, what you can tell your family and friends later, or put on your blog or your profile, something like this:

“I remember when Pablo (González Casanova), Luis (Villoro), Adolfo (Gilly), Immanuel (Wallerstein), Paulina (Fernández Christlieb), Oscar (Chávez), and this one guys we called “el Mastuerzo”[ii] because that’s what he was, and another we called “el Rocco,”[iii] I don’t know why, and a few other buddies that went by the odd names of Comando Cucaracha, SKA-P, and Louis Ling and the Bombs, and other compas that I don’t remember anymore, but we all studied together at the Little School and hung out during recess and got in trouble for not doing our homework. And one day we found Toño (Ramírez Chávez) and Domi (the only Domi there is) painting graffiti on a wall that faces out, toward our worlds, and so all of us together grabbed whatever was at hand and started painting. But just then the concierge came and we all ran. The concierge stood there looking at the wall, then left and came back with a bucket of paint and a brush. We thought he was going to paint over what we had made, which had lots of figures and colors. But he didn’t. You aren’t going to believe me, but the concierge took the brush and started painting on the wall. But it was a very different kind of painting, because he only drew a crack in the wall… and then he left. But the strangest thing was while we were at the school, the painted crack on the wall became real, and then each day got bigger and deeper. The last day of classes we all got together in front of the wall, watching and waiting to see if the crack would break the wall. We were there watching when a Zapatista compa in a bright multi-colored ski mask came by and said, ‘the school is over, what are you still doing here? Go back to your lands!’ And we all left. I’m telling you the story so you can see that I have in fact been to school. What’s that? What’s this aerosol paint can for? Nothing, I was just looking at that wall there in front of us, The One Who Rules lives on the other side. But that wall is so big, so well maintained, so solid, so powerful, so intimidating, so indestructible, so gray. And I was thinking, ‘That wall is missing something… a crack.’”

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Vale. Cheers and you don’t need to buy paint and a brush, you will already bring those in your heart. Just search them out. What you decide to do with them is part of your freedom.

From the mountains of the Mexican Southeast.

El SupMarcos.

Concierge, night watchman, and street sweeper for the Zapatista Little School (don’t leave a mess behind!)

Mexico, July of 2013.

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Watch and listen to the videos that accompany this text:

Fragment of a wonderful parody of the telethon and other charity festivals/fund drives. The entire cast of  [the show] 31 Minutes campaigning for funds to rescue the arch-multimillionaire Señor Manguera, owner of the television station. I recommend watching the entire program, I didn’t put the whole thing here because it’s really long. 

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Women of Seville, Jeréz, and Andalucia, show their indignation with humor, talent, and sagacity. Dedicated to those who don’t scare easily.

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Eduardo Galeano tells the story of how the world is, that is, those who are in the world, and warns us that… well, listen.

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Oscar Chávez (one of those who has best known how to see us, that is, understand us) with “Los Paliacates,” accompanied by Los Morales.

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[i] The EZLN often uses the suffix –oa (compañeroa, todoas) to provide a noun form that is not strictly feminine or masculine.

[ii] Best known as member and drummer of the Mexican rock band Botellita de Jeréz.

[iii] Lead singer of Mexican rock band Maldita Vecindad.