Dawn does not make haste in the mountains of the Mexican Southeast. As if it were in no hurry, it takes delight in each and every corner, like a patient and dedicated lover. The fog knows no bounds, with its long dress of cloud, and it manages to smother the most determined light. It lays siege to it, it surrounds it with its snow-white wall, encircles it in a diffuse loop. From the middle of the sky, the moon is making its retreat. A column of smoke mingles with the mist, slowly, with the same languor with which the cloud wraps the scattered huts under the wide skirts of her petticoat. Everyone is sleeping. Everyone except the shadow. Everyone is dreaming. Especially the shadow. As soon as it extends its hand, it catches a question.
What is the speed of dreams?
I don't know. Perhaps it's...But no, I don't know...
The truth is that was is known here is known collectively.
We know, for example, that we are at war. And I'm not referring just to the real zapatista war, the one which has not totally satisfied the bloodthirstiness of some media and of some intellectuals "of the left." The ones who are so given, the first to the numbers of deaths, injured and disappeared, and the latter to translating deaths into errors "for not having done what I told them."
It is not just that. I'm also speaking about what we call the "Fourth World War" which is being waged by neoliberalism and against humanity. The one which is talking place on all fronts and everywhere, including in the mountains of the Mexican Southeast. As well as in Palestine and in Iraq, in Chechnya and in the Balkans, in Sudan and in Afghanistan, with more or less regular armies. The one which fundamentalism of both camps is carrying to all corners of the planet. The one which, taking on non-military forms, is claiming victims in Latin America, in Social Europe, in Asia, in Africa, in Oceania, in the Near East, with financial bombs that are causing entire nation states and international bodies to disappear into little pieces.
This war which, according to us (and, I insist, tendentially), is attempting to destroy/depopulate lands, to rebuild/reorder local, regional and national maps, and to create, by blood and fire, a new world cartography. This one which is leaving its signature in its path: death.
Perhaps the question "What is the speed of dreams?" should be accompanied by the question "What is the speed of nightmares?"
Just a few weeks prior to the terrorist attacks of March 11, 2004 in Spain, a Mexican political journalist-analyst (one of those to whom they give a piece of candy and then they break into ridiculous praise) was lauding Jose Maria Aznar's vision "of the State."
The analyst said that Aznar, by accompanying the United States and Great Britain in the war against Iraq, had gained promising ground for the expansion of the Spanish economy, and the only cost he had to pay was the repudiation by a "small" part of the Spanish population, "the radicals who are never lacking, even in a society as buoyant as the Spanish one," said the "analyst". He went on, noting that the only thing the Spanish had to do was to wait for a while until the reconstruction business of Iraq got underway, and then yes, they would be getting boatloads of money. In short, a dream.
It didn't take long until reality demanded the real price for Aznar's "vision of the State." That morning of March 11 the fact that Iraq is not in Iraq came true. I mean Iraq is not only in Iraq, but in the entire world. In short, the Atocha station as a synonym for nightmare.
But before the nightmare was the dream, but it was the neoliberal dream. The war against Iraq had been set in motion a good deal prior to the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001 in US lands.
In order to go back to that beginning, there is nothing like a photograph...
Flat, reddish ground. It looks to be hard. Perhaps clay or something similar. A boot. Alone, without its mate. Abandoned. Without a foot to wear it. Some scattered pieces of rubble. The boot, in fact, looks like one more piece of rubble. It's all that there is in the image, and so it's the bottom of the picture which clarifies what Iraq is about. The date? September, 2004.
One can't discern whether the boot is from someone who died, if it was abandoned in flight, or if it is just a discarded boot. Nor is it known if the boot belongs to a US or British soldier, or to a resistance fighter, to an Iraqi civilian or to a civilian from another country.
Nonetheless, in spite of the lack of more information, the image presents an idea of what Bush's "postwar" Iraq is: violence, death, destruction, desolation, confusion, chaos.
All of it a neoliberal program.
If the false arguments that the war against Iraq was a war "against terrorism" have collapsed, the real reasons are now emerging, more than a year after Hussein's statue was pulled down, aided by the tanks of the US war, and a euphoric Bush erected another one to himself declaring an end to the war (Apparently the Iraqi resistance didn't listen to Bush's message: the number of US and British soldiers killed and injured has only increased since "the war ended", and now added to that are the losses of civilians from various nations.)
Neo-conservative ideology in the United States has a dream: building a neoliberal "Disneyland." In place of a "village model", a reflection of the counterinsurgency manuals of the 60s, it has to do with building a "nation model." The land of ancient Babylon was then chosen.
The dream of building an "example" of what the world should be (always according to the neoliberals) was fueled by "(...) the most prized belief of the ideological architects of the war (against Iraq): that greed is good. Not just good for them and their friends, but good for humanity and certainly good for the Iraqis. Greed creates profits, which create growth, which creates jobs, products and services and anything else which anyone could possibly need or want.
"The role of a good government, then, is to create the optimal conditions for corporations to pursue bottomless greed, so that they can, in turn, satisfy the needs of society.
"The problem is that governments, even neo-conservative governments, rarely have the opportunity to prove that their sacred theory is correct: despite their enormous ideological efforts, even George Bush's Republicans are, in their own minds, eternally sabotaged by meddling Democrats, stubborn unions and alarmist environmentalists. Iraq was going to change all this. The theory was finally going to be put into practice someplace on Earth in its most perfect and uncompromising form.
"A country of 25 million inhabitants would not be rebuilt as it had been prior to the war: it would be erased, disappeared. In its place would appear a dazzling showroom for the laissez-faire politicians, an autopia like the world had never seen."
("Baghdad Year Zero. The Pillage of Iraq After a Neo-conservative Utopia", Naomi Klein in Harper's magazine, September 2004. Translation: Julio Fernandez Baralbar).
Instead of that, Iraq is indeed an example, but an example of what is waiting for the entire world if the neoliberals win the great war, the Fourth World War: unemployment of almost 70%, industry and commerce paralyzed, an exorbitant increase in foreign debt, anti-explosion walls everywhere, the exponential growth of fundamentalism, civil war...and the exporting of terrorism to the entire planet.
I'm not going to inundate you with something that appears in the news every day: military offensives by the coalition (in a war which has "already ended"), mobilization of the Iraqi resistance, attacks, attacks on military and civilian objectives, kidnappings, executions, new offenses by the coalition, new mobilization of the Iraqi resistance, etcetera. I'm sure you can find plenty of information in the press of the entire world. The best source in Spanish, beyond a shadow of a doubt, is the Mexican newspaper La Jornada, which has among its analysts some of the most serious and best informed on the issue of Iraq.
The truth is we have already seen this video in other places...and we are continuing to see it: Chechnya, the Balkans, Palestine and Sudan are only examples of this war which destroys nations in order to try and "restructure" them into paradises...and they end up being turned into hells.
An abandoned boot on the ground in "liberated" Iraq sums up the new world order: the destruction of nations, the obliteration of any trace of humanity, reconstruction as the chaotic reordering of the ruins of a civilization.
There are, however, other boots, even if they are just a few...
Broken boots. Worn-out boots. Yes, Insurgenta Erika's boots are worn-out. The sole is detached from the right toe, making the boot look like an unsatisfied mouth. The toes aren't visible yet, and so Erika doesn't seem to have realized that her boots, especially the right one, are worn-out.
From the first days in the mountain, I made it my custom to look down.. Footwear is often one of the guerrillero's dreams/nightmares (others?: sugar, keeping your feet dry and other rather damp ones), since he devotes a good deal of his attention to it. Perhaps that's why one acquires that obsession of always looking at other people's feet.
Insurgenta Erika has come to advise me that they've now finished editing the story of The Magical Orange (Radio Insurgente's latest production which is about...well, better if you listen to it). I respond to her that her boot is worn-out. She lowers her gaze and tells me "you too." She salutes me and leaves.
Erika is going to change clothes because two teams of insurgentas are soon going to be playing football. One is called "8 de Marzo" and the other "The Princesses of the Selva." I don't know much about football, but my understanding is that the "princesses" play in a style rather far removed from the good manners of the corte real, and the "8 de Marzo" play as if it were the first of January uprising. In other words, a good number of them end up in the insurgent medical station. In fact, every time they're going to play, the medical people have the stretcher on one side of the field. "So we don't have to turn around," they say.
They tied. Or the insurgentas tied in football. They went to penalties, and they got to the formation time without breaking the tie. Insurgenta Erika came and told me this. Erika is the romance counselor to the insurgentas, but this time she didn't come to tell me that a compa~era's "heart was hurting" from lovesickness, but that the match was over now, and she was going to give a talk to the villages, more specifically, to the women of the villages. She was going as a civilian, or in civilian clothing. Well, that's what she said. Because I saw that she was wearing boots made in zapatista workshops, and they had "EZLN" embossed on one side.
"Hmm, if you're going to wear those boots, it would be better if you wore the complete uniform," I told her, trying to be sarcastic. Erika left. She returned shortly with her uniform on. "Where are you going?" I asked her. "To the village," she responded. "But whatever made you go in uniform?" I asked/scolded her. "Because that's what you told me," she said I said. Understanding that it's useless to try and explain the qualities of subtle irony, I just ordered: "No, put civilian clothes on, and take off those boots." She left. She returned shortly in civilian clothing...and barefoot. I sighed, what else could I do?
Don't believe Erika. My boot isn't worn out. The stitching is coming apart, which isn't the same. Besides, it's an eye that's split, and so the way the laces are intertwined looks like the political system under neoliberalism: it's a mess, and you don't know where the right is going or where the left is going. I was explaining this to Rolando when who should arrive but...
First-Generation To~ita, or To~ita I (she of the kiss denied because "it was too scratchy," she of the little broken cup, she of the stalk of maize fashioned into a doll) is 15 years old now. "Or she finished 14, but she turned 15 and now she's going on 16," her papa, who is one of the oldest zapatista responsables among us, tells me.
I concur, not confessing that I have never understood the higher mathematics which rule the calendars in the rebel zapatista communities (after trying to explain it to me, to no avail, Monarca resigned herself and just added: "I think it's because that's our way, which is just quite otherly").
The papa of To~ita I (or First-Generation To~ita) had come so I could see her, because it's been more than 10 years since I'd seen her for the last time. Ten years had not passed in vain, since To~ita I not only didn't deny me a kiss, but, without my saying anything, she gave me a hug and planted a kiss on the padded cheek of my ski-mask and turned all colors (To~ita I, not the ski-mask). I didn't say anything, but I thought "Hmm, I'm not doing well this year...and I haven't taken off my ski-mask even to bathe myself."
Then To~ita I took some boots out of her backpack and put them on. I was going to ask her why she was putting her boots on after walking barefoot for six hours from her village, but To~ita spoke first, asking me if she could go "there" - and she pointed to where there was a group of insurgentas. To~ita I knows what a kiss, even if it's on a ski-mask, can achieve, so she didn't wait for an answer and left.
While To~ita I was running over to see if they would let her play in the football match, her papa told me about their village (which I have always called, taking care that no one would hear me, "Stormy Peaks"). I had seen the scar left by a scratch on To~ita I's left arm, and I asked him about it.
To~ita I's papa told me that a young man from the village had wanted to take her to the latrine (Note: let me explain to the unlikely reader of these lines that in some villages the latrine fulfills not only its smelly hygienic functions, but it's often also the place for couples to meet. There are not a few marriages in the communities which have originated in the not at all romantic location of the latrine. End of Note). What happened was that To~ita I did not want to go to the latrine. "It wasn't her pleasure" her papa informed me. And then the boy tried to force her, and then, "since it wasn't her pleasure," - her papa repeated - they struggled. To~ita I managed to escape, but, as they then said, it was published and the matter reached the village assembly. To~ita I's papa told me that they had wanted to put her in jail. I interrupted: "But why, if they attacked her, and she even had a scratch on her arm?" "Ah, Sup, you should see how the young man ended up" - the papa told me - "He was left flat out unconscious. To~ita is, as they say, quite fierce."
To~ita I has, in addition to an attractive face, a sturdy figure or - how can I explain it to you? - well, in order for you to understand me, I'll just tell you that Rolando wanted her to play defense center on the zapatista football team.
"But the insurgentas' team is already complete," I said to Rolando. He just added: "Maybe it is for the insurgentas' team, I wanted her for the men's team." Just then the people from the medical unit were going by with two quite battered insurgentas. To~ita I was crying because it was her fault that her team had been given two penalties. I understood Rolando and turned around to her papa and asked him: "Has To~ita I said whether she wanted to be an insurgenta?"
To~ita I took her boots off and put them in her backpack. She left with her papa, walking barefoot.
It wasn't long before, accompanied by her mother,...Second-Generation To~ita, or To~ita II, showed up.
Elena is the name of To~ita II's, or Second Generation, mama. She is an insurgent medical lieutenant, and she has to her credit the fact that in January of 1994 she saved the lives of various insurgents and militants who were left wounded in the fighting in Ocosingo. In a more than modest field hospital, Elena operated on bullet wounds and extracted pieces of shrapnel from the bodies of zapatistas. "A compa died," she said when she made her report. She didn't mention the more than 30 combatants, who are now living and struggling in these lands, whom she saved.
To~ita II is three years old. "Or she's finished two and she's going on four?" I asked, anticipating Elena's explanation. She laughed. I mean Elena laughed. Because To~ita II was shrieking at a level worthy of a more serious cause. And it so happened that, putting on my most flirtatious face (number 7 of my exclusive "catalogue of seductive gazes"), I had asked her for a kiss. To~ita II didn't even say "too scratchy" (not even an improved version), she just started crying with such vehemence that she had a group of insurgentas at her side offering her caramels, a little purse with a rabbit face (although it looked to me as if it were a possum face - the purse, you understand) - and they were even singing the one about the chivito to her, a song that is an uncommon success among zapatista boys and girls.
"They don't love you," Major Irma told me, making matters worse. I answered: "Bah, she's crazy for me", and I acted as if my heart were not broken.
Leaving the shop, Rolando handed me one of those needles called "capoteras" and a roll of nylon thread.
In the hut of the EZLN Comandancia general now, I wonder...
I don't know what the speed of dreams is, nor do I know whether to mend my boots or my heart.
(To be continued...)
From the mountains of the Mexican Southeast.
Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos
Mexico, September of 2004, 20 and 10.
Marcos:The Speed of Dreams/Part 2
The Speed of Dreams Part Two: Shoes, Sneakers, Flip-Flops, Sandals and Heels
September is the ninth month of the year, and above it's as if the Moon has a tummy. She even blushes a bit when she lets herself fall over the west. The rain and the clouds almost make an appearance, but they grow lazy and remain behind the mountain, the one which rises to the east. Below, Tania Libertad is singing that song on the little tape player that goes "they're not going to stand in our way (...) we shall grow despite the autumn." Mixed up in the shadows, the shadow is writing a letter. After "Zapatista Army etcetera" and the date, September of 2004, can be read...
To: Pierluigi Sullo
Editorial Office of the Carta Weekly
Italy, European Continent, Planet Earth
Pedro Luis, brother:
Greetings from the mountains of the Mexican Southeast. I suppose you might think the "Pedro Luis" strange, but I have been influenced by the compas' "way" of "zapatizing" names, and so I'm using "Pedro Luis" for "Pierluigi."
Well, then, I received the letter you wrote and which you didn't send. I received the letter in the Carta (August 26 - September 1, 2004, Year VI, Number 31). Since my Italian doesn't extend even to the point of looking like the "Ita~ol" of the "turbineros and tubineras" (who have been working hard for years in order to bring light to La Realidad), I had to ask for someone to do me the favor of translating it. And they did it, but in a neo language that we call "Itazapa~ol" here, which, if my memory doesn't fail me, Vanessa inaugurated when, always disobedient, she remained for years, living in the zapatista reality. Things being as they were, I had to resort to some dictionaries they had sent us some time ago (I don't quite remember, I believe it was Mantovant or Alfio). In order to do that, first I had to look for the dictionaries and find them. They were, as was to be expected, leveling one of the legs of one of the tables of one of the Comandancia Generales of the one and only EZLN. It took me longer to intuit than to know what the letter in Carta said.
Perhaps I am wrong, but I managed to understand that the objective of your letter was to greet us...and to posit problems.
The epistolary genre is, in my humble opinion, one of the best means of debating (another, better yet, is political practice).
You didn't say so openly, but anyone could notice that your letter basically poses, now from rebel Italy, the same problem of the speed of dreams. And, even though you don't say so explicitly either, from the Italy which struggles, or dreams, you also answer "I don't know."
Well, I can answer the problems you're raising with the axiom of the ineffable and great (of ego) Don Durito of La Lacandona: "There's no problem so great it can't be mulled over."
Although it appears to me to be an excellent recipe (it has given me good results on more than one occasion), I sincerely believe that you are not searching for a solution, but rather for a discussion.
The what to do in Italy? is, in effect, a problem. And to my way of thinking it is part of the problem of what to do in the world?
Now our response, we, the zapatistas, is..."we don't know."
I know that you don't expect anything else of us, knowing us as well as you know us. However, from our land and our struggle, we can say the following:
First. In the Mexico of today, all politicians - even those who are leading in the opinion polls, in the front pages of the news stories or in the number of demonstrators, regardless of the color of the rhetoric they brandish or the sign of their party organization - can count on the sullen mistrust of us, the zapatistas, with our skepticism and incredulity. Based solely on their words, promises, intentions, figures, opinion studies, they will absolutely not receive anything good from us. Nothing, not even the benefit of the doubt. Like the chief of the Liberation Army of the South, General Emiliano Zapata in front of Francisco I. Madero, our hostility towards the politicians of the center will be an invariable rule: and, like Emiliano Zapata in front of the presidential chair, we shall continue turning our backs on the National Palace and on those who aspire to take that seat. And the same thing goes for the self-styled "Congress of the Union" and the circus Judicial Branch of the Federation.
Second. In the specific case of the official self-proclaimed leftist political parties in Mexico (and which, it should not be forgotten, are not the only political organizations of the left which exist in our country), we cannot stop laughing bitterly when their party officials, leaders, deputies, senators and little paid canaries throw Vicente Fox's failure to fulfill his campaign promise of resolving the Chiapas "problem" in 15 minutes in his face. We do not forget that those who are criticizing that were the same ones who voted for a law which, in addition to failing to act on a breach of elemental justice, was in fundamental contravention of the cries of the Indian peoples of Mexico and of millions of persons in our country and in other parts of the planet.
They are the same ones who are encouraging paramilitary groups to harass and attack the zapatista communities. They are the same ones who are striving to appear pleasant to a right (whether it's called the ecclesiastical or the business high hierarchy) which, it must be said, feels no attraction for them. They are the same ones who are carrying under their arms the economic and police plans which have been drawn up in the boardrooms of international greed.
Even with all of this, we cannot endorse, with our silence, the legal dirty business with which they are trying to prevent the person who heads the Mexico City government from running in 2006 for the Presidency of the country. It seems to us to be an illegitimate act, poorly wrapped up in legal fallacies, an attack against the right of Mexicans to decide if one or the other or no one shall govern them. The commission of a felony of that nature would mean, neither more nor less, than the invalidation of Article 39 of the Mexican Constitution, which establishes the right of Mexicans to decide their form of government. It would be, to put it in simple terms, a "soft" coup d'etat.
By pointing this out we are not putting ourselves on the side of a person or a government program. Even less does it translate into support for a party which is not only not of the left and is not progressive, but is not even republican. Quite simply we are putting ourselves on the side of the history of the struggle of our peoples.
Third. Elections pass, governments pass. The resistance remains as it is, one more alternative for humanity and against neoliberalism. Nothing more, but nothing less.
However, consistent with the aversion we profess for dogmas, we will always admit that we could be wrong, and it could be, in effect, as the fashionable hacks are now predicting, necessary, urgent, essential, to deliver ourselves up unconditionally into the arms of those who, from above, are promoting changes which can only be achieved from below.
We could be wrong. When we realize it because stupid reality gets in the way of our path, we will be the first to recognize that mistake in front of everyone, those who are with us and those who are opposed. It will be that way because we believe, among other things, that honesty in front of the mirror is necessary for all of those who, in word or in fact, are committed to the building of a new world.
In any event, we give life to our wise moves and to our mistakes. I sincerely believe that, ever since the dawn of the first of January of 1994, we have won the right to decide for ourselves our path, its rhythm, its speed, its accompaniment, continuous or sporadic.
We shall not cede that right. We are willing to die to defend it.
Fourth. We shall continue doing what we believe is our duty. And without regard to the "ratings" our actions receive, the space we occupy in the news, or the threats and prophecies which they are good enough - from both sides of the political spectrum - to prescribe for us every time we don't do what they want us to do or we don't say what they want us to say (something which happens all the time).
We will not join in the hysterical clamor of the political class, and of their fans in the "political analysis" columns. Those people who try to impose, always from above, an agenda which has nothing to do with what is happening below in our country, the implacable dismantling of the foundations of national sovereignty.
Nor will we flail about concerning the calendar, hastening 2006 and its uncertainty, its festival of vanities, its cynical squandering of resources and stupidity. Even less will our actions be guided by those who are demanding that we contribute the names of prisoners, disappeared and dead, while they contribute names to the nominating lists.
Fifth. This does not mean that we do not listen. We do, and we shall continue to do so. From all over the world we receive words of encouragement and of criticism, advice and warnings, support and condemnation. We listen to everything, and we keep it in the collective heart which we are. Anyone, anyplace in the world, can be certain that the zapatistas will listen to them.
But it is one thing to listen and another thing to obey.
We don't give a damn about the "polemics" as to whether the zapatistas are revolutionaries or reformers, "lights" or "heavies", nai:ve or malicious, good or bad, and, like the mosquitoes in the long nights of the Mexican Southeast, they are not what keeps us awake.
The transnationals do not govern in zapatista lands, nor does the IMF, nor the World Bank, nor imperialism, nor the empire, nor governments of any sign. Here the communities make the fundamental decisions. I don't know what that is called. We call it "zapatismo."
But ours is not a liberated territory, nor a utopian commune. Nor an experimental laboratory for nonsense or the paradise of an orphaned left.
This is a rebel territory, in resistance, invaded by tens of thousands of federal soldiers, police, intelligence services, spies from the various "developed" nations, counterintelligence officials and opportunists of all types. A territory composed of tens of thousands of Mexican indigenous, harassed, persecuted, attacked for refusing to stop being indigenous, Mexican and human beings, that is, citizens of the world.
Sixth. As far as the rest of the planet goes, our ignorance is encyclopedic (it would, in fact, take up more volumes than the complete works of the external and internal words of the neo-zapatistas which, incidentally, abound), and there is little or nothing we can say about political organizations of the left which are struggling, or say they are struggling, under other skies.
There, as everywhere, we prefer to look downwards, to movements and trends of resistance and the building of alternatives. We only turn our gaze upward if a hand from below points us there.
Seventh. We are trying, with our clumsiness and our wise actions, definitions or vagueness, just trying, but putting life into it, to build an alternative. Full of imperfections and always incomplete, but our alternative.
If we have arrived where we have arrived it has not, however, been just because of our abilities and decisions. It has been because of the support of men and women from throughout the world who have understood that in these lands there are not a bunch of needy people, eager for handouts and pity, but human beings, just like them, who are yearning and working for a better world, one where all worlds fit.
I believe that such an effort deserves the sympathy and support of every honest and noble person in the world.
And I believe, more times than not, that sympathy and that support finds its most fortunate version in the struggle they are undertaking or maintaining in their respective realities, whatever their culture, their language, their flag, their kind of footwear, shoes, sneakers, trainers, flip-flops, sandals or heels.
In this sense you are closer, in our geography, to the real zapatista communities than the distances noted on maps.
The Europe of below is thus closer: disobedient and self-managing Italy; the Greece which communicates with smoke signals; the France of the flip-flops and of those without papers and without homes, but with dignity; rebel and solidarity Spain; Euzkal Herria which resists and does not surrender; rebel Germany; committed Switzerland; compa~era Denmark; persistent Sweden; conscientious Norway; the Patria denied to the Kurds; the marginal Europe which the immigrants suffer ; the entire Europe of the young people who refuse to buy shares in the markets of cynicism...and the Mazahua Mexican indigenous women.
Rebellions and resistances which we feel are closer than the endless distances which separate us from the arrogant city of San Cristo'bal de Las Casas and from the political parties who talk with the left and act with the right.
Well, that's all for now, compa Pedro Luis. Believe me, I have no regrets about running a risk of "being judged as someone who's crazy, who doesn't see reality" through what I'm writing you. However it may be, the fundamental problem remains, to wit, that of determining the speed of dreams.
While it's being resolved, best wishes, and the next time you write, send, in addition to the letter in Carta, a translation, even if it's in "Ita~ol."
Vale, salud and may the clamor from above not prevent the murmur from below from being heard.
(To be continued...)
From the mountains of the Mexican Southeast.
Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos
Originally published in Spanish by the EZLN ******************************* Translated by irlandesa