Erased Faces (24 page)

An uneasy silence followed his words as they reverberated in the transparent, warm air. The
compañeras
and
compañeros
were amazed at what Orlando had said and by the conviction of his ideas. They gaped at him, some with open mouths. The organizer narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips as he concentrated on what he had heard. An expression of admiration rapidly replaced one of disbelief.

Even Orlando was astounded by the words he heard flowing from his mouth, because they gave life to thoughts that had nestled deep inside of him since his days as a
boyero
. He now realized that each time he had wanted to describe what he felt inside, rage would render him speechless, and because of that, he had become as silenced as the oxen that churned their hooves in the mud.

“Amigo
, come here where we can all see you. Tell us who you are and encourage us with more of your words.”

The organizer walked toward the rear of the crowd where Orlando was standing. The man beckoned with both hands, inviting him to come to the front of the group. Shyness, however, overcame Orlando,
and he hesitated, not wanting to bring yet more attention to himself. Apprehension also crept into his mind as he thought of the possibility that Don Absolón might have spies among those gathered in the church. But the organizer would not back away. He approached Orlando, gesturing all the while for him to come closer.

After a few moments, Orlando put aside his timidity. He began to move, and, twisting his sombrero in his hands, he made his way to stand in front of the group. There he saw, for the first time, a sea of brown faces upturned toward him. He took in the brightness of those eyes, the high cheekbones, the flat foreheads, many covered with the straight overhanging bangs of his own people.

“My name is Orlando Flores. I am a Lacandón, born close to the Lacanjá River. I am one of you. I may not have suffered as much as some of you, but I, too, have been hurt.”

Silence followed his words. Eyes were riveted on him, telling him that they were expecting more from him. Those looks were filled with such intensity that Orlando felt himself losing his nerve, and he began edging toward the rear to regain his seat.

“Wait,
hermano
Orlando! How are we to become new Bartolomés, if our stomachs are so empty and flat that they cling to our backbones? How are we to defend one another, when we are so weakened by hunger ourselves? How are we to see ourselves as more than burros when the
patrones
crush us with labor and disdain us each day?”

Orlando returned the look that was in the woman's eyes. He understood the meaning of her words and recognized the suffering in her plea. He experienced doubt and hesitated, because, although he wanted to answer her question, he did not know how to do so.

“Compañera
, I don't have a cure for such pain, but I do have the beginning of a response. Everywhere I look these days I see unity. When I'm laboring in the field or building a wall, when I sit to eat my tacos or to take a drink of water, I see harmony and
hermandad
in my
compañeros
. I can forget that I'm a Lacandón, or that he is a Tzeltal, or that she is a Chol. I see only that I am like them, and that they are like me. I believe that if all of us can think this way, we'll form a strength never before seen by the
patrones
. Yes, they crush us, but we also crush ourselves by thinking of ourselves as they do. We must stop
thinking that way. If we come together, remembering that our ancestors were good and powerful, we will be the new Bartolomés.”

Orlando held his breath when he saw that most of the men and women in the crowd turned to one another in heated talk. Some got on their feet, trying to reach someone in the rear, or farther up the aisle. There was hand waving, wagging of heads and pointing towards Orlando, who stood, feet planted apart on the stone floor, as he tried to decipher his own words. He looked over to the organizer, who stood a few paces away, and saw that his eyes were focused on him. Orlando tried to discern the man's thoughts, but his expression was blank. The organizer blinked, as if trying to clear his vision, and walked over to Orlando's side.

“Amigo
, you have said important things.”

“Others have said the same thing.”

“Not as you have done. Look, the
compañeras
and
compañeros
have understood you.”

Orlando did as the organizer asked and turned again to look at the crowd. This time it was clear to him: They were happy, excited, nodding and smiling. Now and then, glances were thrown his way, looks that told him that he was trusted and that where he would lead, they would follow.

“
Compañero
Orlando, why don't you join our group of organizers? We need you.”

“Why do you need me?”

“Because already you are trusted.”

“How do you know that,
amigo?”

“I have eyes and ears. I can see and hear.”

“I'll think more about what has happened here.”

Orlando pondered the events of that evening for days. At the time, he was working as a bricklayer with a gang that was trucked from Ocosingo to Palenque, where the laborers stayed for up to a week on the job. As he worked, he revisited his life, as if each brick he laid marked a different moment of experience. He saw himself as a boy, playing childish games with Rufino, then serving Don Absolón. This memory made Orlando's stomach churn as he realized the power of that
patrón
. He asked himself,
What if Don Absolón had not sentenced
me to the
caoba
camp?
Brick by brick, he repeated this question over and again as his mind erected a wall of understanding: it was not the sentence itself that was significant to Orlando. The important thing was that Don Absolón
could
do it, that he held that authority in his hands, that there was nothing to rein in the power he held over people like Orlando.

When the job was done, he returned to Ocosingo with his mind determined to accept the organizer's invitation. That evening, he reported to the meeting and began training as a leader of his people. In the beginning, he accompanied one or another of the organizers on trips out to remote villages and settlements as well as to less distant communities. Orlando observed his companion as he or she spoke to the people in preparation for the Indian Congress, which was now scheduled to take place in San Cristóbal de las Casas. He listened to words used, reflected on them, making them part of his own language.

More importantly, he took in ideas regarding equality and ownership, health and education. The name of Emiliano Zapata was often invoked when speaking of land and liberty, and Orlando was gratified when he was told that a native of the state of Morelos, a man like him, had fought and died so that his people might have a piece of land and the freedom to farm it.

Orlando caught on quickly and became an organizer himself, taking care to stay far away from the Lacanjá region. He gained confidence knowing that his looks had changed almost entirely. Don Absolón, he was certain, could no longer recognize him, and he believed that even Rufino would not be able to identify his boyhood companion. Nonetheless, Orlando journeyed westbound, in the opposite direction of Lacanjá, concentrating on the Tzotzil region.

He went to the larger places first: into the northern areas of Simojovel, then down to Ixtapa, and over to Chamula. In between those centers, Orlando visited small villages, settlements and even clusters of
palapas
, with his message to unite and to prepare for the congress. He reached out to those men and women who hesitated, some in fear, others in skepticism. He knew when to back away, if necessary, hoping that when he returned, his words would be better understood. He
spoke convincingly to anyone who would listen, reminding them always of their worth as men and women, stressing the power and organization of their ancestors, often invoking the legends of his people.

He met with serious resistance several times from overseers of
fincas
and haciendas. He often had to cut off whatever he was saying to a gathered group just to duck into a hiding place out of sight of a lackey of a
patrón
. Only once did Orlando come close to being captured. At that time, he was in the community of Santa Marta speaking to a cluster of young women.

“The gods made men and women of maize, but the
catxul
became envious.”

Orlando had just begun to speak about the origins of their people, intending to push his lesson to the point where his listeners would understand who were the maize people and who were the
catxul
. Suddenly, a woman ran to him, and even though out of breath, she stammered a warning.

“Hermano
, someone is looking for you. Run!”

Orlando dove for cover but not before he was spotted. He heard several blasts of a shotgun as he disappeared into a thicket of bushes and from there into a wide span of trees. As he ducked and crawled, vivid memories returned to him of the time when he was hunted by Don Absolón Mayorga. Orlando was saddened and angered by those recollections because he wondered if his life as a fugitive would ever end. Despite these thoughts, however, he did not give up, and after that incident, he always made certain to have a companion with him to watch his back, to warn him of any impending danger.

After that, Orlando plunged deeper into his mission of bringing more natives into the preparations for the congress. Primary in his strategy was the recruitment of leaders who were members of the different tribes: men and women who felt what was being said, who knew what suffering meant. The people trusted those native organizers, recognizing them as their own; and they followed them, wanting to be part of the congress. The barriers that separated the city-bred mestizo organizer from the trust of the people melted away in the face
of someone who spoke of similarly experienced afflictions, in their language. This tactic proved effective, especially over the long run, since it was from this group that leaders would emerge twenty years later: women and men who would follow Orlando into the Lacandona Jungle, from where they would mount the new struggle.

The debate was heated but orderly as the members of the Indian Congress took their turns in explaining their positions regarding health, education, land and commerce. Orlando Flores sat at his place, listening, pondering what the other delegates were submitting. He felt proud of having been elected to represent the Ocosingo delegation, but because he did not know how to read or write, he felt intimidated. He knew, however, that sooner or later his ability to speak would lead to his participation in the deliberations.

He followed as the various views were explained by women and men representing different tribes. He felt moved to hear the clarity of those voices reading declarations and summaries, or simply speaking from the heart, proving what the organizers had always said: The natives of those lands had a mind with which to think, a tongue with which to speak, and given the opportunity, they would let their ideas be known.

The hall was large. Its seats were placed in rows so that everyone could see the main stage where the speakers sat on either side of the president. The place was packed, there were no empty chairs. Orlando looked around, concentrating on the delegates' faces and expressions. He saw men and women, most of them wearing tribal garb, who appeared uncomfortable in the enclosed environment of the hall. Their eyes squinted, unused to the harsh glare of neon lights. Their hands fidgeted with a sombrero, or the fringe of a
huipil
, and they sat awkwardly on the metal folding chairs to which they were assigned. Despite this, they seemed eager to adapt, to listen, to be heard. It was only when the time came for each sector to forward their grievances, that the members grew restless and the environment in the hall became tense.

“We are treated like slaves!”

“Our customs are trampled on!”

“We get the worst land.”

“Our children are sick and uneducated.”

“We women are excluded from all planning!”

Many times voices became shrill, and some people even got to their feet in frustration, babbling or waving a hand to get the attention of the speaker. Whenever that happened, the president of the congress hammered his gavel on the table and repeatedly reminded the members to respect the speaker's right to be heard.

“Hermanos, hermanas
, please remember our goal:
Equality in peace!
We see it written above the entrance to this auditorium as we enter. We must respect each other if we are to be respected.”

Those words cast a pall over the members, and Orlando was disappointed; he thought that the president should allow voices to rise and be heard, even if they were speaking out of place. Otherwise, what good was the meeting? Each time a woman, or a man was silenced, Orlando became increasingly impatient, and he wondered what direction was being taken by the congress. He was also displeased to see that after the first sessions, words seemed to be repeating, spinning, and their importance fading.

Discussions dragged on, and after several days Orlando felt that little was being accomplished. He had anticipated the opportunity to be one of those who would speak out as he had in the past, but that chance never materialized. He waited patiently, hoping to be pointed out by the president whenever he raised his hand to speak, but he was not acknowledged. As he waited, he became distracted and his mind wandered; thoughts swirled, entangling with memories.

“I say that there cannot be equality in a false peace! That's shit!”

Orlando was yanked from his thoughts by the harshness of the voice as well as by the crude expression. So far everyone had been careful not to use vulgar words. His face jerked toward the direction from which the words had come and he saw a man who stood in the middle of the audience. Orlando narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on the figure. He saw that everyone else was doing the same. He took in the man's shirt, trousers and even the hat, which he had not removed from his head. What he saw told Orlando that the man was from the city, that he was a mestizo, and that more than likely he was educated.