I write to you all from the rooftops of San Cristobal de las Casas, Chiapas, somewhere in Los Altos in southernmost Mexico.  Dusk is falling upon this bustling town, though the sounds of the center still rise above my soft tunes playing sweet reggae music.  My moment of refuge, elevated from the depths that I’ve explored these past few days.  The song of two lonely birds in the tree next door strikes a chord deep within me, as I long for the forests of home, where the fences are few, the rivers clean and rushing, the ocean air crisp and invigorating.  I breathe heavily as I trod these narrow roads, avoiding the speeding exhaust spewing taxis and the steep curbs lining the slippery stone sidewalks.  When I get the chance I peek up at the surrounding hills, imagining what must be happening out there, this movement we speak of in silent voices, the Zapatistas. 

Each day as I venture out to explore this city and try to find my place here I find myself going deeper and deeper into a sorrow that I cannot express in words.  500 years dug deep into the faces of the poor who are holding out their hands for pesos on the corner.  The street children begging you to buy their humble crafts, friendship bracelets, its hurts every single time you deny their desperate sales’ pitch.  The young girl taunted and harassed by military police, dozens walking by without even a glance.   The leper woman near the market, covering her face and offering up an empty cup.  The reeking river I cross everyday overflowing with refuse and occasionally a floating animal carcass.   The distrust and suspicion I see in the eyes of those I pass by.  The booming fireworks at all hours of the night, sometimes startling me from sleep, when for a moment my heart stops, thinking of gunshot.  The sole rooster’s crow I mistake for a woman’s screams.

There is a presence in the air here of a people under siege, struggling to keep their heads above the rising waters of globalization, militarism, racism and the state of constant fear that entangles all who live here.  Behind our locked gates we speak of the history of this place, the complexities of our war-ravaged world, how the so strikingly different realities of here and there are so completely interdependent. When I call home and hear talk of sport boats and vacations, I feel worlds away.  

It does not take long before you cry out, from the very depths of your being, “Ya Basta!”

During these pensive days I long for the darkness.  For the dreamtime, when I escape from this suffering that I’ve seen and when I can remember what it was like here not so long ago.    Songs from the forest reviving my soul, jaguar peering into the village, children laughing.  Milpas thriving, rivers cleansing, prayers renewing and continuing.  Mystic Maya, wisdom carriers, holding up the heavens, each breath a prayer.

And when I wake and walk out onto the streets, in their eyes I see an ancient truth.  The tiny women cloaked in incredibly detailed and fine huipiles, fuzzy black wool wrap skirts, jelly sandals and braided ribbon streaming hair, walking with the dignity and grace of a goddess.  Somewhere in all this sadness there is a sense of hope, de esperanza, for a new day, “a world where many worlds fit”.  This is Zapatista.

Respect for humankind.  Diversity.  For the sacred space we fill.  Realizing the interconnectedness of all.   A world where all are provided for, where children no longer hunger, where communities decide their own destinies, where there is no more war.

We have a lot of work to do.  Each and every one of us.

And so I face the darkness, the shadows of my soul that I would rather ignore, though to do so would just continue this destruction, this distraction from my true being which is love, and light, and good.  In order to see and really understand the light, we must know and experience the dark.  Standing face to face with the unknown, heart open and willing to see how I have participated in creating this reality.  Realizing my privilege, how I’ve come to expect it.  Recognizing my fear of my brothers and sisters, how I’ve allowed the culture of fear that feeds the beast to permeate my own soul and my interactions with my neighbors.  Seeing how I’ve been conditioned since my very birth to accept oppression, racism, hate, war, poverty, all of it, as something out of our hands, out of our control.

What bullshit.

So here I am, now morning and the dawn of a new day.  The warm sun shining light on my heart, reminding me of balance, the cool wind whispering sweet truths in my ears.  By exploring these depths I am assured I will reach new heights.  There is so much more to tell, so much I’ve learned about the struggle here and abroad, how my identity was stolen (literally) this week, how the peace house was plagued with a nasty throw-up virus on Tuesday, so much more.  Every single moment has been worthy of storytelling, but there’s a story here much more powerful than words can express, and it has yet to be told.

May you cherish each and every moment, each breath a prayer.

Con toda mi alma,

Susan