12 Women in Year 12 (in the Second Year of the War)
In the 12th year of the EZLN, thousands of miles away from Beijing, 12 women arrive on March 8, 1996, with their faces concealed.
Yesterday…Her face covered in black, only her eyes and some hair at the nape of her neck remain visible. In her gaze, the sparkle of someone searching. An M-1 carbine slung across her chest, in what is known as the “assault” position, and a pistol at her waist. On her left chest, the seat of hope and conviction, she wears the insignia of Major of Infantry of an insurgent army that, until that frosty dawn of January 1, 1994, called itself the Zapatista Army of National Liberation. Under her command is the rebel column that assaults the historic capital of the southeastern Mexican state of Chiapas, San Cristóbal de Las Casas. The central park of San Cristóbal is deserted. Only the indigenous men and women she commands witness the moment when the Major, a Tzotzil indigenous woman and rebel, collects the national flag and hands it over to the leaders of the rebellion, the so-called “Clandestine Revolutionary Indigenous Committee.” Over the radio, the Major reports: “We have recovered the flag. 10-23 stand by.” It is 2:00 a.m. southeastern time on January 1, 1994. 1:00 a.m. on New Year’s Day for the rest of the world. She waited ten years to say those seven words. She arrived in the mountains of the Lacandon Jungle in December 1984, less than twenty years old and with a lifetime of humiliation of indigenous people etched on her body. In December 1984, this dark-skinned woman said, “Enough is enough!” but she said it so quietly that only she could hear herself. In January 1994, this woman and tens of thousands of indigenous people no longer say but shout “Enough is enough!” They say it so loudly that everyone hears them…
On the outskirts of San Cristóbal, another rebel column commanded by a man—the only one with light skin and a large nose among the indigenous people attacking the city—has finished storming the police station. Indigenous people who spent New Year’s Eve locked up for the most serious crime in southeastern Chiapas—being poor—are freed from clandestine prisons. Eugenio Asparuk is the name of the insurgent captain, a Tzeltal indigenous rebel who, with his enormous nose, directs the search of the station. When the Major’s message arrives, Insurgent Captain Pedro, a Chol indigenous rebel, has finished taking over the Federal Highway Police barracks and securing the road between San Cristóbal and Tuxtla Gutiérrez; Insurgent Captain Ubilio, a Tzeltal indigenous rebel, has controlled the northern accesses to the city and taken the symbol of government handouts to the indigenous people, the National Indigenous Institute; Insurgent Captain Guillermo, a Chol indigenous rebel, has taken the most important high ground in the city, from where he dominates with his gaze the surprised silence that peeks through the windows of houses and buildings; Insurgent Captains Gilberto and Noé, Tzotzil and Tzeltal indigenous people respectively, rebels alike, finish storming the state judicial police headquarters, set it on fire, and march to secure the edge of the city that connects to the 31st military zone headquarters in Rancho Nuevo.
At 2:00 a.m. Southeast Time on January 1, 1994, five insurgent officers, all men, indigenous and rebels, listen to the radio and hear the voice of their commander, a woman, indigenous and rebel, saying, “We have recovered the flag, 10-23 stand by.” They repeat it to their troops, men and women, indigenous and rebels in their entirety, translating. “We’ve begun…”
In the municipal palace, the Major organizes the defense of the position and the protection of the men and women who are currently governing the city, all of whom are indigenous and rebels. A woman in arms protects them.
Among the indigenous leaders of the rebellion is a small woman, small even among small women. Her face is covered in black, leaving only her eyes and some hair at the nape of her neck exposed. Her gaze has the sparkle of someone who is searching. A sawed-off 12-gauge shotgun is slung across her back. Wearing the unique costume of the sandreseras, Ramona descends from the mountains, along with hundreds of women, heading for the city of San Cristóbal on the last night of 1993. Together with Susana and other indigenous men, she forms part of the indigenous leadership of the war that dawns in 1994, the Clandestine Revolutionary Indigenous Committee-General Command of the EZLN. Commander Ramona will astonish the international media with her stature and brilliance when she appears at the Cathedral Dialogues carrying in her backpack the national flag that the Mayor recovered on January 1. Ramona does not know it at the time, and neither do we, but she already carries in her body a disease that is eating away at her life, silencing her voice and dimming her gaze. Ramona and the Mayor, the only women in the Zapatista delegation that is showing itself to the world for the first time in the Cathedral Dialogues, declare: “We were already dead, we didn’t count for anything,” and they say it as if taking stock of humiliations and forgetfulness.
The Major translates the journalists’ questions for Ramona. Ramona nods and understands, as if the answers they are asking for had always been there, in that small figure who laughs at Spanish and the way city dwellers behave. Ramona laughs when she doesn’t know she is dying. When she finds out, she continues to laugh. Before, she didn’t exist for anyone; now she exists, she is a woman, she is indigenous, and she is a rebel. Now Ramona lives, a woman of that race who has to die in order to live…
The Major watches as daylight begins to fill the streets of San Cristóbal. Her soldiers organize the defense of the old town and the protection of the men and women who are still asleep, indigenous and mestizo, all taken by surprise. The Major, a woman, indigenous and rebellious, has taken the city. Hundreds of armed indigenous people surround the old Royal City. A woman in arms commands them…
Minutes later, the rebel forces take control of Las Margaritas, and hours later, the government forces defending Ocosingo, Altamirano, and Chanal surrender. Huixtán and Oxchuc are taken as a column advances on the main prison in San Cristóbal. Seven municipal capitals are in the hands of the insurgents after the Major’s seven words.
The war of words has begun…
In those other places, other women, indigenous and rebellious, are rewriting the piece of history that they have had to bear in silence until that first day of January. Also nameless and faceless are:
Irma. An indigenous Chol woman and insurgent infantry captain, Irma leads one of the guerrilla columns that take the plaza of Ocosingo on January 1, 1994. From one side of the central park, she and the fighters under her command harassed the garrison guarding the municipal palace until they surrendered. Then Irma let down her braid, and her hair fell to her waist. As if to say, “Here I am, free and new,” Captain Irma’s hair shines, and continues to shine as night falls on Ocosingo, now in rebel hands…
Laura. Insurgent Infantry Captain. A Tzotzil woman, brave in battle and in her studies, Laura becomes captain of an all-male unit. But that’s not all: in addition to being men, her troops are recruits. With patience, like the mountain that watches her grow, Laura teaches and commands. When the men under her command hesitate, she sets an example. No one carries as much or walks as far as she does in her unit. After the attack on Ocosingo, she withdraws her unit, complete and in order. This fair-skinned woman boasts little or nothing, but she carries in her hands the rifle she took from a police officer, one of those who only saw indigenous women as objects to be humiliated or raped. After surrendering, the police officer, who until that day thought that women were only good for cooking and bearing children, runs away in his underwear…
Elisa. Insurgent Infantry Captain. She carries, as a war trophy, mortar shrapnel forever embedded in her body. She takes command of her column as it breaks through the ring of fire that fills the Ocosingo market with blood. Captain Benito has been wounded in the eye and, before losing consciousness, reports and orders: “They’ve got me, take command Captain Elisa.” Captain Elisa is already wounded when she manages to get a handful of fighters out of the market. When she gives orders, Captain Elisa, an indigenous Tzeltal woman, seems to be asking for forgiveness… but everyone obeys her…
Silvia. Insurgent Infantry Captain, ten days inside the mousetrap that Ocosingo became on January 2. Disguised as a civilian, she slips through the streets of a city full of federal troops, tanks, and cannons. A military checkpoint stops her. They let her pass almost immediately. “It’s impossible for such a young and fragile girl to be a rebel,” say the soldiers as they watch her walk away. When she rejoins her unit in the mountains, Silvia, a Chol indigenous woman and Zapatista rebel, looks sad. I cautiously ask her the reason for the sadness that dampens her laughter. “Back in Ocosingo,” she replies, lowering her gaze, “back in Ocosingo, all my music cassettes were left in my backpack. Now we don’t have them anymore.” She remains silent, holding her sorrow in her hands. I say nothing, I just share her sorrow and realize that in war, everyone loses what they love most…
Maribel. Insurgent Infantry Captain. She takes over the Las Margaritas radio station when her unit storms the municipal capital on January 1, 1994. She spent nine years living in the mountains to be able to sit in front of that microphone and say: “We are the product of 500 years of struggle: first against slavery…” The broadcast is not made due to technical problems, and Maribel retreats to cover the unit advancing on Comitán. Days later, she will have to escort the prisoner of war, General Absalón Castellanos Domínguez. Maribel is Tzeltal and was less than fifteen years old when she arrived in the mountains of southeastern Mexico. “The most difficult moment of those nine years was when I had to climb the first hill, the hill of hell. After that, everything got easier,” says the insurgent officer. When General Castellanos Domínguez is handed over, Captain Maribel is the first rebel to make contact with the government. Commissioner Manuel Camacho Solís shakes her hand and asks her age: “502,” says Maribel, who counts her birth year from when the rebellion began…
Isidora. Infantry insurgent. As a private, Isidora enters Ocosingo on January 1. As a private, Isidora leaves Ocosingo in flames, having spent hours evacuating her unit, composed entirely of men, with forty wounded. She also has shrapnel in her arms and legs. Isidora arrives at the medical station and hands over the wounded, asks for some water, and gets up. “Where are you going?” they ask her as they try to treat her wounds, which are bleeding, staining her face and reddening her uniform. “To bring the others,” says Isidora as she loads ammunition. They try to stop her but cannot. Private Isidora has said she must return to Ocosingo to rescue more of her comrades from the death song sung by mortars and grenades. They have to take her prisoner to stop her. “The good thing is that if they punish me, they can’t demote me,” says Isidora as she waits in the room that serves as her prison. Months later, when she is given the star that promotes her to infantry officer, Isidora, Tzeltal and Zapatista, looks alternately at the star and at the commanding officer and asks, like a scolded child, “Why?” She does not wait for an answer.
Amalia. Second Lieutenant of Health. With the quickest laugh in southeastern Mexico, Amalia lifts Captain Benito from the pool of blood where he lies unconscious and drags him to safety. She carries him on a stretcher and pulls him out of the death belt that surrounds the market. When someone talks about surrendering, Amalia, honoring the Chol blood that runs through her veins, gets angry and starts arguing. Everyone listens to her, even above the noise of explosions and gunshots. No one surrenders.
Elena. Lieutenant of Health. She arrived at the EZLN illiterate. There she learned to read, write, and what they call nursing. From treating diarrhea and giving vaccinations, Elena goes on to treat war wounds in her little hospital, which is also her home, warehouse, and pharmacy. With difficulty, she extracts the pieces of mortar lodged in the bodies of the Zapatistas who arrive at her medical post. “Some can be removed and others cannot,” says Elenita, a Chol and an insurgent, as if she were talking about memories and not pieces of lead…
In San Cristóbal, on the morning of January 11, 1994, she communicates with the big-nosed, fair-skinned man: “Someone has arrived who is asking questions, but I don’t understand the language. It sounds like he’s speaking English. I don’t know if he’s a journalist, but he has a camera.” “I’m on my way,” says the big-nosed man, adjusting his balaclava.
He loads the weapons they recovered from the police station into a vehicle and heads to the city center. They unload the weapons and distribute them among the indigenous people guarding the municipal palace. The foreigner is a tourist asking if he can leave the city. “No,” replies the balaclava-clad man with the disproportionate nose, “it’s better if you go back to your hotel. We don’t know what’s going to happen.” The foreign tourist leaves after asking for permission and taking a video. Meanwhile, the morning progresses, and curious onlookers, journalists, and questions arrive. The nose responds and explains to locals, tourists, and journalists. The Major is behind him. The balaclava talks and jokes. A woman in arms watches his back.
A journalist behind a television camera asks, “And who are you?” “Who am I?” hesitates the balaclava-clad man as he fights against sleepiness. “Yes,” insists the journalist, “are you called ‘Commander Tiger’ or ‘Commander Lion’?” “Ah! No,” replies the balaclava-clad man, rubbing his eyes in annoyance. “Then what is your name?” says the journalist as he moves the microphone and camera closer. The big-nosed balaclava-clad man replies: “Marcos. Subcomandante Marcos…” Above, the Pilatus planes fly overhead…
From that point on, the impeccable military action of the takeover of San Cristóbal becomes blurred, and with it, the fact that it was a woman, an indigenous rebel, who commanded the operation is erased. The participation of women combatants in the other actions of January 1 and in the long ten-year journey of the EZLN’s birth is relegated to the background. The face hidden by the balaclava is further obscured when the spotlight turns to Marcos. The Major says nothing, continuing to watch over that prominent nose that now has a name for the rest of the world. No one asks her name…
In the early hours of January 2, 1994, this woman led the retreat from San Cristóbal to the mountains. She returned to San Cristóbal fifty days later, as part of the escort guarding the safety of the EZLN CCRI-CG delegates to the Cathedral Dialogue. Some female journalists interviewed her and asked her name. “Ana María. Major Insurgent Ana María,” she replied, looking at them with her dark eyes. She left the Cathedral and disappeared for the rest of 1994. Like her other compañeras, she had to wait and remain silent…
In December 1994, ten years after becoming a soldier, Ana María receives the order to prepare to break through the siege imposed by government forces around the Lacandon Jungle. In the early hours of December 19, the EZLN takes position in thirty-eight municipalities. Ana María commands the action in the municipalities of the Chiapas Highlands. Twelve female officers are with her in the action: Monica, Isabela, Yuri, Patricia, Juana, Ofelia, Celina, Maria, Gabriela, Alicia, Zenaida, and Maria Luisa. Ana Maria herself takes the municipal capital of Bochil.
After the Zapatistas withdrew, the federal army high command ordered that nothing be said about the breach in the siege and that it be handled in the media as a mere propaganda stunt by the EZLN. The federal forces’ pride was doubly wounded: the Zapatistas had broken out of the siege and, what’s more, a woman was commanding a unit that had taken several municipal capitals. This was impossible to accept, so a lot of money had to be thrown at it to keep the action from becoming known.
2. Today
First through the involuntary action of her brothers in arms, then through the deliberate action of the government, Ana María, and with her the Zapatista women, were minimized and belittled…
I am finishing writing this when…
Doña Juanita arrives. With old Antonio dead, Doña Juanita is slipping away from life as slowly as she makes coffee. Still strong in body, Doña Juanita has announced that she is dying. “Don’t talk nonsense, Grandma,” I say, avoiding her gaze. “Look,” she replies, “if we die in order to live, no one is going to stop me from living. And certainly not a young boy like you,” says Doña Juanita, the wife of old Antonio, a woman who has been rebellious all her life and, as it seems, also in her death…
Meanwhile, on the other side of the fence, there appears…
She has no military rank, no uniform, no weapon. She is a Zapatista, but only she knows it. She has no face and no name, just like the Zapatista women. She fights for democracy, freedom, and justice, just like the Zapatistas. She is part of what the EZLN calls “civil society,” people without a party, people who do not belong to the “political society” made up of rulers and leaders of political parties. She is part of that diffuse but real whole that is the part of society that says, day after day, “Enough is enough!” She too has said “Enough is enough!” At first she surprised herself with those words, but then, by repeating them and, above all, by living them, she stopped being afraid of them, of herself. She is now a Zapatista, having joined her destiny to that of the Zapatistas in this new delirium that so terrifies political parties and intellectuals in power, the Zapatista National Liberation Front. She has already fought against everyone, against her husband, her lover, her boyfriend, her children, her friend, her brother, her father, her grandfather. “You’re crazy,” was the unanimous verdict. She leaves behind no small thing. Her renunciation, if it were a matter of size, is greater than that of the rebels who have nothing to lose. Her whole world demands that she forget about “those crazy Zapatistas,” and conformity calls her to sit in the comfortable indifference of those who only see and care for themselves. She leaves everything behind. She says nothing. Early in the morning, she sharpens the tender tip of hope and emulates the January 1st of her Zapatista compañerxs many times in a single day that, at least 364 times a year, has nothing to do with January 1st.
She smiles. She used to admire the Zapatistas, but not anymore. She stopped admiring them the moment she realized that they were only a reflection of her own rebelliousness, of her own hope.
She discovers that she was born on January 1, 1994. Since then, she feels alive and that what she was always told was a dream and a utopia can be true.
She begins to quietly and without payment, together with others, pursue that complicated dream that some call hope: everything for everyone, nothing for ourselves.
She arrives on March 8 with her face concealed, her name hidden. Thousands of women arrive with her. More and more arrive. Tens, hundreds, thousands, millions of women around the world remembering that there is still much to be done, remembering that there is still much to fight for. Because it turns out that dignity is contagious, and women are the most likely to fall ill with this uncomfortable disease…
This March 8 is a good excuse to remember and give credit to the Zapatista insurgent women, Zapatistas, both armed and unarmed.
To the rebellious and uncomfortable Mexican women who have insisted on emphasizing that history, without them, is nothing more than a poorly written story…
3. Tomorrow…
If there is one, it will be with them and, above all, thanks to them.
From the mountains of southeastern Mexico,
Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos
Published at Enlace Zapatista on March 11th, 1996.
Translated by Schools for Chiapas.
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