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Paramilitary Repression Madre TierraI had never participated in a full Mayan ceremony, let alone been an honored guest. In the middle of the open space, two rows of 13 candles flickered: one row for the 13 angels that protect oneself and one's community; the other for the 12 apostles and the Virgin Maria de Guadalupe. In front of the candles, a copal burned incense, sending sweet smoke swirling, carrying their prayers up to Jesus. Creating a half wall around the candles and copal, a blue plastic tarp was stretched "to keep the devil away from the community." To one side, "los cuatro tios" (the four uncles) sat on a low bench playing rhythmic music throughout the ceremony, on locally made instruments: a tiny guitar; a tiny, two stringed violin; a harp; and a hand held rattle. The first prayer was for friends who had come from afar to visit their community, to learn of their losses and suffering, and of their unity and efforts to rebuild. The visitors were wished a safe return to their communities and homes. As I knelt on the ground, alternately back on my feet, or bowed forward, face and hands to the earth, the Mayan priest chanted on and on, for the victims of the repression, for the well-being of the survivors, for the healing and health of the community, for clean water and rains to nourish the earth, for the well-being of Mother Earth, and for more support - moral and financial - from "bienhechores" [doers of good deeds] from near and far.
Behind me, kneeling children squirmed, whispered, giggled and poked at the soles of my big shoes. Then the community gathered in the centre to dance, together - a slow and peaceful shuffling, or stepping from side to side, as the four uncles played on and on, the dance itself a form of giving thanks to mother earth. Endless Needs Before lunch, we walked with a quiet following of community leaders to their small, bubbling source of potable water, halfway up the mountainside, amidst some corn. Thankful for the little drinking water they could access [many surrounding communities, particularly the internally displaced, have no water at all], we talked of their need to access funds so as to access enough potable water to stem the tide of diseases affecting mainly their children. Seated at a rough-hewn table, we learned during lunch of their ongoing efforts to pressure the government to provide compensation and reparations to the tens of thousands of "internally displaced" of Chiapas, for their losses due to the political crimes and human rights violations committed by the paramilitaries and government forces. After lunch, we walked along a small creek that flows through the community. Too dirty to drink, it provides year round water to irrigate community crops and family orchards, and to wash clothes, bodies and dishes. The five meters on either side of the creek cannot be used for any purpose. Brush and small trees are being planted; they are doing every thing they can to preserve the river clean. On the other side of the creek, over 100 townspeople - women and men, young and old - were cleaning brush off a swath of mountainside. The Red Cross had donated peanut seeds, and they were preparing the land. All community members work twice a week, for three hours, on community projects. "Soon we hope"For an hour, we hiked up and down muddy paths. Past a cleared space where a school will be built, "soon we hope." Past a space for a health clinic, to be built "soon we hope". A site for a chapel -- "soon we hope." We walked by dozens of homes. All community members were living under tiny tin roofs nailed to four corner posts. Plastic sheeting - roped to the posts -- serves as walls. No doors or windows, homeowners push a corner of the plastic aside to slip inside. The community member in charge of health broke down crying, telling us in Tzotzil of their need to get funds for decent housing. Infants and young children were constantly sick. TB and other bronchial infections are common, due to malnutrition and exposure to the cold and rain. During the cold months, temperatures can dip to freezing in the night. Finally, we hike back up to the truck, still accompanied by a quiet and thankful entourage. I feel I have been here an age. In the trees to the left, I see blue-garbed "security" forces standing by some tents in a small encampment. "That is our community burial ground," Augustin tells us. One month after the 100 families returned to Yibeljoj, these forces set up camp in their gravesite, with no consultation. Thus, no one knows what they are doing here, but every one knows. Alone, United and ExposedHaving said our last good-byes, tearful words and hugs from our Yibeljoj friends, we rumble along the dirt road, past the military barracks, to the country highway. I think back to my words -- that they are not alone; that we and other like-minded organizations are with them. While this is true on one level, they are also profoundly alone, exposed to endemic poverty and harsh living conditions, exposed to prowling "security" forces and the Army, and very exposed to the paramilitaries, just over the ridge. There is much work to be done; they need housing, health, education and water. And, they need justice. |
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Grahame Russell is director of Rights Action (Guatemala Partners), a tax-charitable organization with offices in Washington DC, Toronto & Guatemala City. Rights Action supports development and human rights projects in Mexico and Central America.
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