Erased Faces (15 page)

“What are you thinking,
compañero?
Do you believe that the man who cried out a while ago was right about women and war?”

“No. Women will have much to do with our struggle.”

“Why do you say that when you know that in the
palapas
, in the
mercados
, in the
llanos
, we are less valued than burros?”

“It's because you do more than half the work, because you suffer twice as much as men, because you have the children, that you have earned and should have an equal amount of authority.”

Juana leaned her head to one side as she studied Orlando's face. She had never heard a man acknowledge what in her heart she had felt, especially since her life had been joined to Cruz Ochoa.

“Compañero
, if that ever happens, it will be the first time. Don't you think that more than one man thinks like the one who spoke out? I can't imagine we would be allowed to participate in your plans as men do.”

“He was wrong. Didn't you hear how the women responded? Women have fought with men before, and it will happen again, because we will not overcome the
Catxul
and the
Aluxob
if we don't allow women to be our partners.”

“The thieves and the liars… yes, you've spoken of those people before,
compañero
. But tell me, how can women help overcome those who have grown used to being
patrones?”

“By not being afraid, and by fighting with weapons as well as words. By masking our faces in order to give a face to our people. By changing our names, and returning lost identities to our ancestors. By forgetting our own pasts so that we can give a future to our children.”

Juana liked Orlando's words, but she cared more for the way he spoke to her, because it was intense yet calm. She looked into his eyes despite her having been taught that a woman should not do so when speaking to a man.

“Look,
amiga
, I will tell you of a woman who lived among us many generations ago and who led the first insurrection against the bosses.
S
he belonged to the Tzeltal people. I first heard about her when I was a boy working on an hacienda in Lacanjá. That history was told to me by a man, a Lacandón who was educated and who became a teacher to the children of
el patrón
. Whenever that
maestro
came into the kitchen to eat, I would ask him to repeat the story, and it became so important to me that I memorized it until it became a part of me. Now I'll tell it to you completely, but please don't interrupt me because, if I stop speaking, I'll lose the thread of the story and be forced to begin it again.”

Juana sat with her eyes riveted to Orlando's face, which soon appeared transfigured as he began the story. She now stared at him without inhibition, because she saw that his eyes were closed and that
he was no longer aware of her presence, much less her gaze. He sat cross-legged, with his hands resting on his knees, palms cupped upward, as if he were lost in prayer.

“This story begins in Cancuc, Chiapas, in 1712, when the woman I speak of was sentenced to a lashing for having claimed to have heard the voice of the Virgin Mary commanding her to lead our people to freedom. She did not resist when she was strapped to the pillory by the soldier's rough hands. She remained calm, her frail back naked and exposed to the lashes of the whip. Her body shuddered with the first blow, but when the next strokes descended, her limbs refused to feel pain. What she did feel was the blood trickling down her back onto her buttocks, coursing past the rear of her thighs until it saturated her ankles, finally seeping into the dirt, drenching it until its brown tones turned black. The whipping went on, biting into the woman's back. Only the lashing sounds broke the silence.

“And still she stood, enduring the searing pain of the whip, her forehead pressed against the pillory in such a way that the scar over her left eyebrow began to ache almost as much as the lashings. She tried to forget the misery by concentrating her eyes on the people witnessing her punishment. She saw that she was surrounded by men and women of the commune whose faces reflected rage and frustration at seeing one of their own people endure such meaningless and undeserved suffering.

“As she swiveled her head from one side to the other, stretching her neck to get a better look, she saw that there was a multitude of people on every side, and that their presence extended even beyond the range of her vision. They had come to witness the ordeal, and they did it respectfully, because the woman was now to them a special person. They had walked from as far away as Chilón and Ocosingo to pay homage to her because she had received and told of visions of freedom for our people.

“The hissing of the lash was the only sound to shatter the silence while the whip ate at her flesh. Despite the pain, she focused her mind
on whatever she could see. She looked at the people, concentrating on those emaciated, dark faces, masks carved in wood, slits in the place of eyes, veiling pent-up rage. She suddenly realized that oppression and hatred had transformed the faces of our people; they no longer resembled our ancestors.

“‘¡Infiel diabólica! ¡Que Dios Santísimo te perdone este pecado mortal!'

“She turned around to see who had shouted those condemning words. Behind the soldier who was whipping her stood Brother Simón de Lara, a Dominican priest, the only white man in the village of Cancuc. It was he who had ordered the whipping with the intention of cleansing her of her dangerous ideas, and it was he who spoke. It was a lesson, he had told everyone, for those villagers who would not abandon their bent towards their ancient ways.

“Brother Simón, spitting accusations of sin and devilish deeds at her, stood erect. His big jaw pointed toward the pillory while he held his arms crossed under the long black cloth that covered his white gown. He nodded as each lash bit into the woman's skin, but to his angry dismay, she did not cry out.

“Unexpectedly, a shrill voice rang out from the crowd. Startled, she and everyone, even the soldier, looked at each other and in every direction trying to identify who had screamed, trying to make out what the voice had yelled. But they heard only silence. And so the soldier returned to his task, and his grunting, along with the whirring sound of the whip, again broke the silence. Then the faceless voice rang out again.

“‘¡Cabrones! ¡Asesinos! ¡No tienen derecho! ¡Mátenlos!'

“This time the woman heard the words clearly and she saw that everyone else had also understood. It was a signal to take vengeance. Our people murmured and shifted, moving one foot, then the other. Brother Simón looked into the crowd and saw its growing agitation. Then he raised his arms high over his head as if defending himself against an invisible enemy.

“‘¡En nombre de Dios… !'

“His words were cut off by howling. She did not hear what he was about to say because our people lifted their arms and screamed out the
pain of generations of bondage. The wail was loud, anguished, and she heard her own cracked voice as it joined the clamor. Years of paying tribute to faceless masters became intolerable. It was as if famine, scourgings, uprootings had become a gigantic knot that was strangling them. They were Lacondones, Tzeltales, Tzotziles, who would not tolerate that burden any longer.

“The woman was cut down from the pillory in time to catch a glimpse of the soldier as he dropped his whip and ran towards the forest. She also saw the expression of horror stamped on the priest's face as he realized what was happening. He stumbled over his long garment, trying to escape behind the soldier, but Brother Simón was not fast enough. Rough hands took hold of him, knocking him to the ground. Hardened feet stomped on him until blood spurted from his nose and cheeks while he rolled in the mud screaming for pity.

“The woman, bloodied and weakened by the flogging, was one of the first to accost him, tugging at his hair until she felt a handful rip away from his scalp. The others pushed, tearing at the priest's garments, leaving him stripped. Men and women struggled, trying to at least dig their nails into the white skin that had caused them so much misery, but the priest wiggled and thrashed his legs against our people until he was able to free himself. Naked and bloody, he disappeared into the jungle.

“From that place the news spread throughout the province of Zen-dales, reaching disbelieving ears and filling hearts with hope. The woman was one of the messengers who traveled from village to village, telling of how the people had lifted their voices in outrage and forced the soldier and the priest to flee in fear. She, along with the other messengers, stirred the hearts of the people to courage, calling them to Cancuc.

“It was in that village, in August of that same year, 1712, amidst the crowd, that the woman who had been flogged gave the signal to begin the struggle against the Spanish rulers. The women and men of the villages of Los Zendales, Las Coronas, Chinampas and Huitiupán rose up in anger. They rebelled, overcoming the Spaniards and mestizos with the weight of their numbers and causing them to flee in terror to take a last stand in Ciudad Real.

“Later that month, our people marched on Ocosingo and Chilón and prevailed over their former masters. They fought with machetes and sticks, beating, hacking, screaming and terrifying the enemy. Emboldened by their victories, our ancestors pressed forward with one thought in mind: to cast out the Spaniards once and for all.

“After these encounters, the
patrones
tried to engage our people but were besieged in Huixtán, and from there they retreated back to Ciudad Real, where for three months they languished, imploring help from their brothers in Tabasco and Guatemala. During that time, our people formed a new country, one free of menace, one joined by Tzotzil, Tzeltal and Chol. It was at that time that messengers again went out to the multitudes with the woman's counsel. Everyone listened attentively because her words were filled with truth.

“‘Believe me and follow me, because there is no more tribute, or king, or bishop. The prophecy of throwing off the yoke and restoring our lands and liberty has been fulfilled.'

“But the end came in November, when the Spaniards were reenforced by soldiers from Guatemala who were armed with stone mortars and other more advanced weapons. The first defeat of our people happened at Oxchue, then another at Cancuc. After that, one village after the other surrendered, despite our people knowing that what awaited them was worse than death. The rebellion weakened, faltered, and ultimately was squashed by the soldiers. Not long after that, a report reached the Bishop of Ciudad Real assuring the
patrones
that order would soon be restored.

“‘Your Excellency,' the message said, ‘the natives have been overcome; we are once again in control. But it must be noted that this has been the most extensive and most serious challenge to the presence of His Majesty's authority since our arrival in these lands. We must do all in our power to guarantee that the natives never again raise a hand against our sovereign rule. May Almighty God preserve us from another such rebellion.'

“The woman and the rebels fled into the Lacandón Jungle and sought shelter in the vastness and thickness of its growth. Soldiers and hounds pursued them relentlessly, not caring that their swords slashed and slayed women and children, as well as men. The woman ran,
exhausted by hunger, but kept on the move only out of fear of falling and being torn apart by those dogs. That is where the story of the woman ends.”

When Orlando ended the narrative, his eyelids fluttered as if he were coming out of a deep sleep. After a while, he put his hands to his eyes, rubbed them and opened them as he focused on Juana. He licked his upper lip while staring at her, evidently waiting for words that might tell him what she was thinking. All he saw, however, was that she sat cross-legged and hunched over her hands, which she held clasped in her lap. He reached out, hesitated, then lifted her chin with his forefinger. He was surprised at the brilliance of her eyes, but more by her words.