With the passage of time, in the mountains of Chiapas, bits of local knowledge begin to trickle into my path. With these simple little facts, my understanding of the indigenous culture here continues to grow, and it forces me to question the system in which I have grown up. I begin to un-educate. I begin to de-educate. I begin to re-educate myself.
On Maize. It is widely accepted that maize production led to the settling of natives in Meso-America and to the transition from nomadic tribes to settled communities. The Maya are often called the 'people of maize.' Maize fields dominate the landscape. Mayan legend has their people actually being born as the fruit of the maize plant. This makes sense after discovering that maize takes nine months from the time it is planted as a seed to the time its fruit can be harvested, the same amount of time as a human embryo.
On Language. The more I speak with the associates of the cooperative and the other community members, the more I realize how important language is. Their language, whichever it may be (Tzotzil, Tzeltal, Chontal, Chol, etc...), is a part of who they are. This is not something particular to the region - everywhere in the world, our language gives away our culture. Something I learned recently: When I ask 'how are you?', they do not know how to respond. Rather, in Tzotzil, 'how are you' is better translated 'how is your heart?" For the Tzotzil, answering my questions in Spanish is like not speaking from the heart. This was compared to me telling a lie. When I tell a lie - I am not speaking from the heart. This makes me wonder about all of the information I am gathering in my interviews...
On Development. Beginning with the scientific revolution in the 17th century, progress came to be correlated with fixed natural laws in physics, chemistry, and biology. Progress was the accumulated understanding of these static scientific laws and the manipulation of nature to further human achievement. This sense of progress paralleled a new historical science that gave weight to a linear perspective of time. In this new perspective, life took on a new meaning - something that was situated in the context of past and future events - and one could now regard the past as ‘old’ and the future as ‘new.’ This led to the displacement of the past as a source of authority, meaning that progress was separating one’s current condition from their old condition. Perhaps this had to do with a cultural will to separate from the darkness of the Middle Ages. Here in Acteal, and in many other cultures, this change in thinking never took place. There is no distinction between the past, the present and the future. One can think of the Mayan calendar as a set of gears, spinning against each other, each day, month and year set by the linking of clogs on this ever-revolving, ever-cyclical expanse of time. When the elders tell stories of their childhood, it is in the present tense, as if it is occurring to them at that very moment.
The definition of development as bettering one's condition, progressing, separating from the past, holds no value here. What is important is the now. The rain, the trees, the maize, the family. I wonder if these two vastly different ways of looking at life can coexist. Can the always forward-looking, capitalistic, globalizing economy create a space for these cultures and societies to exist? Can the Mexican government allow these people to retain the control of the land, and use it how they please? Can our Western society survive on the path it is walking with the resources that it already has and has taken, or do we need more? Should the communities change their way of thinking and secede their land and their culture to make way for mega-development projects aimed at specialization, urbanization, and consumption? Are conventional education systems put in place in these communities really a step in the right direction, or do they have their own education systems that have allowed them to exist on this land much longer than we have been here? Can we coexist, or does one society need to change?
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Humor Amid Pain
Two nights ago I took the twenty minute walk into the town of Acteal from the Maya Vinic compound, on the outskirts of the same town. The views looking northwest to peak after peak in these highlands of Chiapas were breathtaking, as the sun was going down and the clouds began to alight with various oranges, yellows, and reds. I finally came upon the sacred ground along the main road where the monument to those 45 women and children killed in the massacre of 1997. The monument, as I mentioned before, took the form of a candle, whose melting wax formed the ghostly bodies of those killed. Apparently, it was fashioned after one presented in Tiananmen Square to honor those killed in that massacre in China.
I walked down a steep flight of stairs to a leveled piece of land along the slope. There was an open auditorium, with five or six half-circles of concrete steps/seats, that faced a level surface where there were a couple wooden crosses and some vinyl signs hanging from the wooden frames of the tin roof above. The signs spoke of the struggle for peace and justice. As I approached a small church to the side of this amphitheater, a young man approached me. With the softest of voices and a dazzled look in his eye, he introduced himself to me and shook my hand. He asked what I was doing there and when I responded that I was only exploring and was going to pay my respects in the church, he asked if he could join.
Still a little credulous of who this guy was, I allowed him to come with me and we entered the barren church and sat there in silence for a little while. After several minutes, I got up off of my knees (there were no chairs in the church) and proceeded outside. He followed and asked me if I would like to visit the old church. I said sure, and he took me around back to the edge of the leveled land, behind the new church, where there stood a very small hut, made of wooden planks taken directly from a cut of trees, bark and all, and an earthen floor. Through a very small door we entered and sat there on a pew, taking in the surroundings.
After a little bit, the man, Manuel, began to recount the story of the day of the massacre. He pointed out to me the bullet holes that were still present in the wooden planks that made up the walls. He told me how nine of his family members had died that day. He told me how at the end of the shooting, he was buried under three of his siblings, shot through the head and chest, dying above him. I wondered if the bullet hole sized scar in his forehead was a token from that day, and whether or not this token was what now affected his soft, almost inaudible speech. Manuel told me a story of the last words that his sister spoke to him; of the two things she requested of him: to remember to smile, and to take care of his parents and those in the community. Little did she know that their parents died as well that day.
It had been a long day for me, and the emotion of my day and of Manuel's story got to me - I began to choke up with tears. As we sat there, outside the old church, standing over the beautiful scene of the sunset and the mountains, and this land where the people have been nothing but warm and welcoming to me, I wondered where such pain, misery and evil could possibly come from. Sensing my despair, Manuel pulled me close to him and we embraced for a moment. Holding true to the second favor that his sister had asked, he told me not to fret. He then told me a joke to cheer me up. That Manuel could look back on those moments in his life and have the spirit to encourage and bring cheer to another is something I will never forget. I will never forget that moment, that church, that man. I'm not exactly sure why Manuel happened to be walking in that space that day the same time as I, but I have a feeling it was no coincidence that he was there to touch my heart, and touch my life - and possibly mine his.
I walked down a steep flight of stairs to a leveled piece of land along the slope. There was an open auditorium, with five or six half-circles of concrete steps/seats, that faced a level surface where there were a couple wooden crosses and some vinyl signs hanging from the wooden frames of the tin roof above. The signs spoke of the struggle for peace and justice. As I approached a small church to the side of this amphitheater, a young man approached me. With the softest of voices and a dazzled look in his eye, he introduced himself to me and shook my hand. He asked what I was doing there and when I responded that I was only exploring and was going to pay my respects in the church, he asked if he could join.
Still a little credulous of who this guy was, I allowed him to come with me and we entered the barren church and sat there in silence for a little while. After several minutes, I got up off of my knees (there were no chairs in the church) and proceeded outside. He followed and asked me if I would like to visit the old church. I said sure, and he took me around back to the edge of the leveled land, behind the new church, where there stood a very small hut, made of wooden planks taken directly from a cut of trees, bark and all, and an earthen floor. Through a very small door we entered and sat there on a pew, taking in the surroundings.
After a little bit, the man, Manuel, began to recount the story of the day of the massacre. He pointed out to me the bullet holes that were still present in the wooden planks that made up the walls. He told me how nine of his family members had died that day. He told me how at the end of the shooting, he was buried under three of his siblings, shot through the head and chest, dying above him. I wondered if the bullet hole sized scar in his forehead was a token from that day, and whether or not this token was what now affected his soft, almost inaudible speech. Manuel told me a story of the last words that his sister spoke to him; of the two things she requested of him: to remember to smile, and to take care of his parents and those in the community. Little did she know that their parents died as well that day.
It had been a long day for me, and the emotion of my day and of Manuel's story got to me - I began to choke up with tears. As we sat there, outside the old church, standing over the beautiful scene of the sunset and the mountains, and this land where the people have been nothing but warm and welcoming to me, I wondered where such pain, misery and evil could possibly come from. Sensing my despair, Manuel pulled me close to him and we embraced for a moment. Holding true to the second favor that his sister had asked, he told me not to fret. He then told me a joke to cheer me up. That Manuel could look back on those moments in his life and have the spirit to encourage and bring cheer to another is something I will never forget. I will never forget that moment, that church, that man. I'm not exactly sure why Manuel happened to be walking in that space that day the same time as I, but I have a feeling it was no coincidence that he was there to touch my heart, and touch my life - and possibly mine his.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Precariously Perched
This morning I caught a ride about twenty minutes along the curvy mountain ridge road that is the highway here into Pantelho, the 'cabacera', or municipality head, after which the Pantelho municipality is named. It is the next municipality to where I am located, in the town of Acteal in the municipality of Chenalho. Pantelho was the most action I've seen since I got up here. Although it is really not much of a city, the city square was bustling, and a several block radius around it was full of venders on the side of the road each selling their fruit, shirts, ripped dvds, cds, vegetables, etc.
I stocked up for the next while: avocados, tomatoes, carrots, oranges, squash, cucumber, pasta, a brush to clean my clothes with, candles for the night time relaxation, one of those big bottles of purified water, oats, juice, hot sauce, a big carton of eggs. The choice of fruits and vegetables here, all grown locally, that you can get for soooo cheap never ceases to amaze me. One example: about 15 mangos for 10 pesos (~ dollar). After stopping in at a little 'comedor' (eatery - comer is to eat), where absolutely everyone stopped and stared at me (not uncommon for the day or my life as a whole right now), I caught the next truck going back to Acteal.
Loading my stuff and myself into the bed of the truck and grabbing onto one of the metal rails that formed a frame around the bed, I began the journey back to Acteal, passing little ten-hut villages scattered along the edges of the mountains. The scenery is beautiful, although human presence is easily detected. Despite the apparent will of vegetation to overtake the land, the mountainsides are scarred by the clearing of steep inclines where the communities have attempted to grow the maize that sustains their life here, and has for thousands of years.
It is easy to see why bad weather and landslides can devastate the communities here - entire communities and their patches of land easily fold and are devoured by intense rains that can simply wash away the human presence. One would think they would have developed the concept of a terrace, but perhaps the fact that they were not always constrained to the mountainsides has something to do with the lack of development in this technique. I can now see how essential a training is like the one I participated in yesterday with six 'tecnicos', or technicians, from various regions where Maya Vinic has a presence. In the small community of Canolal, again perched precariously on a mountainside, the six technicians, myself, and a free-lance contractor, Poncho, from San Cristobal, whom Maya Vinic has hired for some time, spent about five hours training in the art of leveling land and making terraces. Although the majority of the time was spent showing the technicians how to make a level out of cut branches, a string, and a bottle of water (geniusly named 'Aparato A' (Apparatus A)) and how to measure the incline of the land, I wonder how much of that the technicians will really take home to teach in their respective communities. The majority of their interest seemed to be in finding the best spot to sit in the shade, and in the discussion afterward, it was discussed how most of the 'cafetaleros' (coffee farmers) simply do this by eye anyway... Perhaps I am just a bad judge of interest and absorption of knowledge at this point however, and don't give them enough credit. We shall see...
Today and tomorrow are days of rest for the people here, as is in most of the U.S., and so I will spend the days cleaning the kitchen and my room (dust covers everything), and wandering around the town of Acteal. I still have yet to go back and check out the monument to the 45 women and children killed by the paramilitary in 1997. Into this creepy pillar to the sky is carved the ghostly bodies of those massacred, like a burning candle, wax falling down the sides, and is a reminder of the political and social context into which I have been placed.
I look forward to the late afternoon, when the clouds gather overhead and a rain cools the peaks and valleys of these mountains. I will most likely sit on the cement patio outside my door, gazing through the banana trees, the ferns, the tabbaco plants and all other plants I don't know yet, smelling the smoke rising from the wood-burning stoves somewhere down below. Somewhere in the distance a radio will be playing polka -like sounds of a Mexican 'romantico,' and as I gaze off into the distance, my view stretching out over the patchy peaks of these mountains, my mind will inevitably wander to thoughts of how simple life can be.
I stocked up for the next while: avocados, tomatoes, carrots, oranges, squash, cucumber, pasta, a brush to clean my clothes with, candles for the night time relaxation, one of those big bottles of purified water, oats, juice, hot sauce, a big carton of eggs. The choice of fruits and vegetables here, all grown locally, that you can get for soooo cheap never ceases to amaze me. One example: about 15 mangos for 10 pesos (~ dollar). After stopping in at a little 'comedor' (eatery - comer is to eat), where absolutely everyone stopped and stared at me (not uncommon for the day or my life as a whole right now), I caught the next truck going back to Acteal.
Loading my stuff and myself into the bed of the truck and grabbing onto one of the metal rails that formed a frame around the bed, I began the journey back to Acteal, passing little ten-hut villages scattered along the edges of the mountains. The scenery is beautiful, although human presence is easily detected. Despite the apparent will of vegetation to overtake the land, the mountainsides are scarred by the clearing of steep inclines where the communities have attempted to grow the maize that sustains their life here, and has for thousands of years.
It is easy to see why bad weather and landslides can devastate the communities here - entire communities and their patches of land easily fold and are devoured by intense rains that can simply wash away the human presence. One would think they would have developed the concept of a terrace, but perhaps the fact that they were not always constrained to the mountainsides has something to do with the lack of development in this technique. I can now see how essential a training is like the one I participated in yesterday with six 'tecnicos', or technicians, from various regions where Maya Vinic has a presence. In the small community of Canolal, again perched precariously on a mountainside, the six technicians, myself, and a free-lance contractor, Poncho, from San Cristobal, whom Maya Vinic has hired for some time, spent about five hours training in the art of leveling land and making terraces. Although the majority of the time was spent showing the technicians how to make a level out of cut branches, a string, and a bottle of water (geniusly named 'Aparato A' (Apparatus A)) and how to measure the incline of the land, I wonder how much of that the technicians will really take home to teach in their respective communities. The majority of their interest seemed to be in finding the best spot to sit in the shade, and in the discussion afterward, it was discussed how most of the 'cafetaleros' (coffee farmers) simply do this by eye anyway... Perhaps I am just a bad judge of interest and absorption of knowledge at this point however, and don't give them enough credit. We shall see...
Today and tomorrow are days of rest for the people here, as is in most of the U.S., and so I will spend the days cleaning the kitchen and my room (dust covers everything), and wandering around the town of Acteal. I still have yet to go back and check out the monument to the 45 women and children killed by the paramilitary in 1997. Into this creepy pillar to the sky is carved the ghostly bodies of those massacred, like a burning candle, wax falling down the sides, and is a reminder of the political and social context into which I have been placed.
I look forward to the late afternoon, when the clouds gather overhead and a rain cools the peaks and valleys of these mountains. I will most likely sit on the cement patio outside my door, gazing through the banana trees, the ferns, the tabbaco plants and all other plants I don't know yet, smelling the smoke rising from the wood-burning stoves somewhere down below. Somewhere in the distance a radio will be playing polka -like sounds of a Mexican 'romantico,' and as I gaze off into the distance, my view stretching out over the patchy peaks of these mountains, my mind will inevitably wander to thoughts of how simple life can be.
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