Palenque
January 3, 2006
The army base outside Palenque, where the caravan is scheduled to arrive today, is covered with Zapatistas. The Zapatista communities from the Northern Zone have come by the thousands to the city to usher in the Sup and the Sexta. They form human chains on either side of the caravan and they walk us from the base to the town square, though it feels as though they are carrying us. There are kids, old women, babies, everyone wears a pasamonta~as in the boiling heat, so
me of the women walk barefoot on the hot asphalt, young girls march for hours in jellies, or plastic sandals. For the 2 hours it takes us to move a little over a mile, they never stop chanting, “Viva el Subcomnandante Marcos!” “Viva el Delegado O!” “Viva los municipios autonomos!” Viva la sociedad civil nacional y internacional! And one I’ve never heard here, “Viva la izquierda!” (Long live the Left!)
The people of Palenque peer out of their houses as the masses of masked indigenous people, who live far from the concrete houses and commercial districts and paved streets of Palenque, take the city by the thousands, the first time they have entered Palenque en masse, ushering in their commander and now delegate, making the city theirs and the sixth’s. The people watch, it seems to me, with a mix of admiration and fear. It is striking, the incredible force and respect these people command, that they have constructed, that they have created from, materially, nearly nothing. The ski mask with the indigenous dress has come to signify an incredibly powerful militancy, a force that commands respect, a dignity that keeps the world’s eyes on them and the military’s hands off them.
The Zapatista chains close behind the last vehicle of the convoy, encircling us and, it seems like, carrying us forward like a precious delivery into the middle of Palenque. After the long, hot, events of the day, they keep guard all night, in a circle, arms linked, around the entrance to the building where the Sup sleeps. Each autonomous community is identified by a different color ribbon tied to their pasamonta~as, and every couple hours, a new ribbon color forms straight lines to march into the security circle, binding hands and expanding to burst and replace the old one. In the morning they form chains and walk us back out of the city again.
The army base outside Palenque, where the caravan is scheduled to arrive today, is covered with Zapatistas. The Zapatista communities from the Northern Zone have come by the thousands to the city to usher in the Sup and the Sexta. They form human chains on either side of the caravan and they walk us from the base to the town square, though it feels as though they are carrying us. There are kids, old women, babies, everyone wears a pasamonta~as in the boiling heat, so
me of the women walk barefoot on the hot asphalt, young girls march for hours in jellies, or plastic sandals. For the 2 hours it takes us to move a little over a mile, they never stop chanting, “Viva el Subcomnandante Marcos!” “Viva el Delegado O!” “Viva los municipios autonomos!” Viva la sociedad civil nacional y internacional! And one I’ve never heard here, “Viva la izquierda!” (Long live the Left!)The people of Palenque peer out of their houses as the masses of masked indigenous people, who live far from the concrete houses and commercial districts and paved streets of Palenque, take the city by the thousands, the first time they have entered Palenque en masse, ushering in their commander and now delegate, making the city theirs and the sixth’s. The people watch, it seems to me, with a mix of admiration and fear. It is striking, the incredible force and respect these people command, that they have constructed, that they have created from, materially, nearly nothing. The ski mask with the indigenous dress has come to signify an incredibly powerful militancy, a force that commands respect, a dignity that keeps the world’s eyes on them and the military’s hands off them.
The Zapatista chains close behind the last vehicle of the convoy, encircling us and, it seems like, carrying us forward like a precious delivery into the middle of Palenque. After the long, hot, events of the day, they keep guard all night, in a circle, arms linked, around the entrance to the building where the Sup sleeps. Each autonomous community is identified by a different color ribbon tied to their pasamonta~as, and every couple hours, a new ribbon color forms straight lines to march into the security circle, binding hands and expanding to burst and replace the old one. In the morning they form chains and walk us back out of the city again.
posted by El Kilombo Intergalactico at 2:11 PM
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