The Mission of Zapatismo: Part Three

Published December 23, 2020

The Mission of Zapatismo: Part Three


About how Zapatista Defense tries to explain to Hope what the mission of Zapatismo is and other happy reasoning

“Well, I’m going to explain something very important to you. But you can’t take notes, you have to keep it in mind. Because you leave the notebook thrown anywhere, while you have to keep your head on all the time.”

Difesa Zapatista walks from one side to the other, as he says the good soul did when he was explaining something very important. Hope is sitting on a log and, prescient, has placed a nylon on the damp wood blooming with moss, mushrooms and dried twigs.

“Are we about to see where we’re going to go with the struggle?'” she kicks off Zapatista Defense by pointing with her small hands to a vague spot.

Hope is thinking of an answer, but it is clear that Difesa has asked a rhetorical question, that is, one whose answer she is not interested in, but rather the questions that follow from the first question. In its own opinion, Difesa Zapatista is following the scientific method…

“Therefore, the problem is not to arrive, but to create a path. That is, if there is no path, then you have to do it, because otherwise how do you do it,” the little girl brandishes a machete that who knows where it came from, but surely in some hut they are looking for it.

“So, the problem is how to change, and the very first thing is the path. Because if there is no path where do you want to go, so it becomes a useless concern. So what are we going to do if there’s no path to where we’re going?”

Hope responds with satisfaction, “We wait for the rain to stop so we don’t get wet when we make the path.”

Defense runs a hand through her hair -and ruins the hairdo that cost her mommy half an hour to fix- and shouts, “No!”

Hope doubts and ventures, “I know: let’s tell a lie to Pedrito that there’s candy there where we’re going, but there’s no path and let him see who makes his own path first, and fills his pockets with candy.”

Defense reacts, “Are we going to ask the fucking men for help? Never. We’ll do it as the women we are.”

“Sure,” says Hope, “and maybe there’s chocolate.”

Defense continues: “But what do we do if we get lost in paving the way?”

Hope replies, “Do we shout for help? Do we shoot flares or play the shell so they can hear us from the village and come to free us?”

Defense realizes that Hope is taking the matter literally and, moreover, is gaining approval from the rest of the audience. For example, the cat-dog is now licking his chops imagining the pot full of chocolate at the end of the rainbow, and the one-horse suspects that maybe there is also corn with salt and the pot overflowing with plastic bottles. Calamity rehearses the choreography that SupGaleano has designed for her, called “pas de chocolat”, which consists of balancing herself like a rhinoceros on the pot.

Elías Contreras, for his part, from the first question has pulled out his file and sharpens his double-edged machete.

Further on, an indefinite being, extraordinarily similar to a cockroach, carries a banner that reads “Call me Ishmael”, discusses with Old Antonio the advantages of immobility on land, and argues thus: “Yes, my dear Queequeg, there is no white whale that comes close to port”. The indigenous and Zapatista elder, the unintentional teacher of the generation that rose up in arms in 1994, takes a cigarette with the machine and listens attentively to the beast’s arguments.

The Zapatista Defense child realizes that, like the sciences and the arts, she is in the difficult condition of being misunderstood: like a pas de deux waiting for the embrace for pirouettes and the support for a porté; like a film locked in a pizza waiting for a look that will free it; like a port without a boat; like a cumbia waiting for the hips that will give it meaning and purpose; like a concave Cigala without a convex; like Luz Casal going to the meeting of the promised flower, like Louis Lingg without the bombs of punk; like Panchito Varona looking, behind a chord, for a stolen April* (*references to Diego El Cigala’s flamenco “Cóncavo y convexo”, to Luz Casal’s album “Como la flor prometida”, to the band Louis Lling and the Bombs, to the song “¿Quién me ha robado el mes de abril? " by Joaquín Sabina, of which Pancho Varona was the guitarist, Ed); like a ska without a pogo; like a hazelnut ice cream without a Sup to honor it.

But Defense is defense, but it is also Zapatista, so that there is none for anyone: resistance and rebellion, and with his eyes he seeks the help of Old Antonio.

“But the storms respect no one: it is always the same on sea and land, in the sky and on the ground. Down to the bowels of the earth humans, plants and animals writhe and suffer. It doesn’t matter the color, the size, the way”, says Old Antonio in a dull voice.

Everyone maintains a silence halfway between respect and terror.