Dialogues of San Andrés: For the First Time, Indigenous Peoples Were Placed at the Top of the National Agenda

Last February marked the 30th anniversary of the signing of the San Andrés Accords on Indigenous Rights and Culture between the Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) and various branches of the Mexican government—historic documents in which the government committed to recognizing the rights and culture of indigenous peoples in the Constitution and within the structure of the Mexican political system.

“There is no doubt that they are of significant importance,” says Carlos González, a lawyer specializing in agrarian law and a founding member of the National Indigenous Congress (CNI), “because they embody a historic process—the Zapatista uprising [1994]—and the process they managed to generate together with organizations, communities, and academics during the discussion and drafting of the agreements.”

The lawyer, who participated in the San Andrés Agreements Forum as part of the National and International Day of Justice for Samir and Self-Determination for the Peoples, highlights three elements he considers significant in the Agreements: the recognition of territorial rights; the recognition of communities as public-law entities with governmental functions; and the capacity to manage fiscal budgets within the framework of the Mexican state structure.

“The failure to comply with these agreements” is also significant, he argues. They were signed in 1996. Following that, a proposal—a legal draft—was drawn up to incorporate them into the Constitution, something that “did not happen” in subsequent constitutional amendments.

In the 2001 constitutional reform, he explains, neither the first set of rights—that is, territorial rights—nor the second set of political rights, which would allow the peoples to exercise autonomy, were recognized. “It was a true betrayal of the San Andrés Accords,” he summarizes. This betrayal led to “our peoples deepening the exercise of autonomy without seeking constitutional recognition or legal recognition from the Mexican state,” he says.

The administration of President Andrés Manuel López Obrador (2018–2024) promoted the 2024 constitutional reform, and according to its own propaganda and that of its allies, the San Andrés Accords are finally being incorporated into the Constitution. “The truth is that it didn’t do so thoroughly. This reform carries more weight for what it fails to recognize than for what it does recognize,” says attorney González.

While, on the one hand, it recognizes communities as public legal entities, on the other, it once again fails to recognize territorial rights. The concept of territory “as a legal concept with clear and precise content, as provided for in international law, conventions, and treaties, is left out of the wording of the constitutional reform. As long as the territorial rights of indigenous peoples are not recognized, it is very difficult to speak of the full exercise of autonomy.”

Furthermore, the lawyer emphasizes that the context in which the agreements were drafted was different from both the country’s current reality and its constitutional framework. “If we compare this country’s constitution before the agreements were signed with the one we have today, they are completely different.”

“After the agreements, a series of changes were made to the legal framework to adapt it to the ‘needs of dispossession and exploitation by large corporations,’” he notes. A whole cycle of neoliberal reforms ensued, beginning with the 1992 reform of Article 27 regarding land and water, and the 1994 Free Trade Agreement with the United States and Canada. “Reforms will continue with the Mining Law, amendments to the Water Law, the Biosafety Law, amendments to the Forestry Law, and a host of changes in the administrative sphere, to facilitate the dispossession and privatization of water and natural resources.”

“Given the current legal framework, the idea that—with the San Andrés Accords incorporated into the Constitution in a ‘half-hearted manner,’ as was done in 2024—our peoples will achieve full recognition of their autonomy and rights is, in our view, a pipe dream,” he argues.

The Important

Beyond the agreements that were signed, for Gilberto López y Rivas—who advised the Zapatistas at the time—the significance of this moment in Mexican history lay in the San Andrés dialogue process—which took place between November 1995 and February 1996, prior to the signing—and brought together at least 2,000 people. “It was a constituent congress from the perspective of grassroots Mexico and the indigenous peoples, where sectors of Mexican civil society had the opportunity to raise awareness, to learn, and to deepen their understanding of the collective rights of the peoples, particularly the collective right to territory and autonomy and to the defense of the codes and norms of life that these peoples uphold,” he says.

Furthermore, this process allowed for the participation of nearly 40 indigenous peoples who, a few months later, in October 1996, joined the CNI. “I believe that the most important aspect of the San Andrés process—in organizational and political terms—was not the San Andrés Accords themselves, but rather the formation of the National Indigenous Congress and, subsequently, the Indigenous Governing Council. In this sense, the formation of the CNI was one of the most significant outcomes.”

Before, During and After the Accords

Similarly, Carlos Beas, coordinator of the Union of Indigenous Communities of the Northern Isthmus (UCIZONI), who also advised the EZLN during this process, focuses his analysis on the San Andrés talks and, furthermore, on the Mexican context before and after the signing of the agreements.

According to Beas, indigenous peoples have always been present in Mexico’s major social struggles, but they were not recognized as indigenous peoples. Mexico’s democratization struggles in the 1950s and 1960s—the teachers’ and doctors’ union movement of that era, for example—“were led by indigenous leaders, who were recognized as union leaders but not as indigenous peoples.” Or then in the 1970s, “a major independent movement of struggle that would build an initiative for mobilization and land seizures—there were many indigenous organizations that did not call themselves indigenous organizations; they were peasants.”

According to him, it was in the 1980s, when changes began to take place. In Oaxaca, for example, a proposal for self-determination and autonomy emerged in the Sierra Norte. “It is important to focus on the agreements reached in the dialogues that took place within society itself. On this occasion, indigenous organizations were already openly raising the demand for indigenous rights.”

He points out that, in the first declaration from the Lacandon Jungle, in the ten points announced by the EZLN, “not a single one called for indigenous rights. It called for housing, health care, water, justice. But it did not speak of the specific rights of indigenous peoples.”

It will be in the discussions taking place within the framework of the San Andrés Accords “that the EZLN recognizes and takes up this demand; this is the importance of the agreements—more than the dialogue with the state, more than the state’s legal recognition—it was the dialogue between society and the indigenous peoples that placed indigenous rights as the first item on the national agenda,” he maintains.

He points out that “the idea that there was an atmosphere of complete harmony among the EZLN’s advisors is false. There were intense internal debates; it was a struggle to impose the vision of prioritizing the rights of indigenous peoples.”

The Ucizoni coordinator emphasizes that the San Andrés dialogues “gave rise to various reflections and processes.” After 1996, he notes, three major independent currents within the indigenous movement in Mexico began to emerge. On one hand, the indigenous current aligned with the PRD (which has since migrated to Morena). On the other hand, those we “call the ‘legalists’ (who ended up in López Obrador’s government), mainly comrades from Oaxaca who advocate for constitutional recognition.”

“And a third current, which remains alive to this day as an independent movement, is the one that has been advocating for the defense of our territories and the rights of our peoples—but from an autonomous perspective, free from any state oversight—because we know the state will never recognize the rights of our peoples, much less our rights to self-determination,” Beas asserts.

For him, we must “dispel the illusion of the State as a great benefactor” that will recognize the rights of our peoples. “We have paid dearly for this approach, diverting our focus toward legal recognition. The only thing that has come of it is that a bunch of bastards have taken over the Supreme Court of Justice and the INPI [National Institute of Indigenous Peoples]—it’s that simple. We believe the path forward is very clear. The path that the peoples’ struggle must follow is one independent of political parties and the state—a truly autonomous struggle.”

The Agreements

The Tzotzil municipality of San Andrés Larráinzar, located in the Los Altos region of Chiapas, Mexico—renamed San Andrés Sakamch’en de los Pobres by the Zapatista Army—served as the venue between 1995 and 1996 for a dialogue process involving the EZLN, the state, indigenous movements, and various sectors of Mexican society. Both government delegates and Zapatistas were accompanied by advisors and experts for each of the topics at the four negotiating tables: Indigenous Rights and Culture, Democracy and Justice, Welfare and Development, and Women’s Rights in Chiapas.

As a result of the first round table, Indigenous Rights and Culture, the San Andrés Accords were signed. Following the signing, progress was made at the second roundtable, Democracy and Justice, which continued until September 2, 1996, when the EZLN suspended negotiations, arguing that the government was not fulfilling its commitment to enact legislation. The last two rounds were scheduled to take place between late 1996 and early 1997; ultimately, they did not occur.

Original text by Renata Bessi published in Avispa Midia on March 11th, 2026.
Translated by Schools for Chiapas.

The Damned and the Ants (Love and Heartbreak According to a Zapatista Child)

(A note of clarification for those unfamiliar with certain terms: GAL stands for Local Autonomous Government, and GALes is the plural. CGAZ is like the coordinating body for the GALes, organized by geographical proximity. ACEGAZ is the assembly of the GAL coordinating bodies. The INTERZONA is where those in charge of all the Zapatista zones meet (the comandantas and comandantes, that is). The PERMANENTE is an assembly of comrades who are learning to govern. But don’t pay too much attention to these names because, as the COMMON is still being built, the structure keeps changing in form and name. End of explanatory note.)

Once upon a time, there was a boy. A Zapatista. Not very big, but not very small either. He is of Mayan descent and lives with his family in a community where there are Zapatistas and partisans—that is, what we now call “non-Zapatista brothers and sisters.”

This kid is a real handful. As soon as he learned to walk, he’d wander out of the house and off he’d go. When they went out to look for him, his parents always found him in trouble: he’d tried to catch a wasp, or he’d covered his whole body in mud—completely naked, but covered in mud—because he’d started playing with the little pigs. Another time they found him in the pasture, apparently talking to a cow that had just had a calf. “I was just asking her about her calf,” he said when they scolded him.

Well, since the boy was so mischievous, his dad and mom took turns watching him.

But you know how men are—they say they’re watching him, but they’re just on their phones, checking Facebook or WhatsApp and stuff like that.

Moms, we know, if they’re going to watch you, they’re really going to watch you. And it’s like they have eyes everywhere, even in the back of their heads, because any mischief you try to pull off in secret, they catch you right away.

Well, we also know that moms scold a lot. It’s not just that they say, “Don’t do that”—no, they start telling you a whole bunch of things that sound like they’re praying, and what’s worse is that they scold you in your native language, in Spanish, and sometimes even in English, French, Italian, German, and even Farsi.

This boy’s mom scolded him, saying, “You goddamn devil child, you’re going to hell for all the mischief you get into.”

And that’s how this boy’s day went: him getting into mischief, his dad playing dumb, and his mom scolding both of them.

Well, the day finally came when the boy had to go to the public school. So all the boys and girls are at school on the first day of class, and the education promoter arrives.

So the rumor goes that the education promoter was head over heels in love—in a way you wouldn’t believe—with a health promoter. But the problem was that she and he were from two different puyes, that is, from two different caracoles (“puy” means “caracol” in the Mayan language). She was in one puy, and he was in another puy that’s out in the middle of nowhere. She and he met at an anniversary party for the uprising. They didn’t say a word; they just danced together. And even though it was freezing cold, they didn’t feel the cold. He was even sweating, and she was blushing, blushing bright red with embarrassment. They didn’t say a word to each other, but the education promoter looked into it thoroughly.

You see how our comrades are—they have a secret system of investigation and communication—so this comrade first investigated the most important thing. That is, whether or not the guy has a wife.

Once she found out he didn’t have a wife, the compañera looked for a good excuse to see him.

And the idea came to him because the theater folks frompuyes get together every so often when SubMoy calls on them to put on a play.

And she figured out a way for the boy to join the theater group too, so they could see each other, and maybe talk, and maybe hold hands, and maybe hug, and maybe share a little kiss, and maybe… Oh my goodness!

Well, it was known that there would soon be an arts festival and that the theater folks would be called upon to prepare a play about community and nature. So, is the education promoter even paying attention in class? No, she’s completely distracted, thinking about something else; she can’t concentrate and is just sighing, wondering when she’ll get to see her beloved. But all the girls and boys are already here, and they’re already fighting over a chamoy candy that Verónica, Ceci, and Hermelinda Damiana brought (who are the new recruits of the Popcorn Command).

So, since the class monitor is distracted because she’s in love, when she goes to take attendance using the list the teacher gave her, she can’t find it. She looks for the list, but it’s not there.

And it’s a big problem, but the class monitor may be in love, she’s not stupid, and she says, “Okay, everyone is going to say their name so we all know each other’s names.”

So every girl and boy goes around saying their name, and when it’s the mischievous boy’s turn, he says, “My name is Condenado (Damned) and my last name is Chamaco del Demonio  (Devil’s Child).” “That’s what my mom calls me all the time—‘Damned Devil’s Child’—so that’s my name.”

The promoter, as I said, was head over heels in love, so she didn’t care and wrote him down on the list: “Condenado Chamaco del Demonio. 4 years old, almost 5, from GAL such-and-such,” and all that stuff about cgaz, acegaz, interacegaz, permanente, interzona, and those weird names that are common among the Zapatistas.

When he checked the list, the teacher trainer didn’t notice because he was arguing with his wife, who was scolding him for supposedly flirting with their friend Ruperta.

And the teacher defended himself: “But how could you think that, woman? Ruperta is 80 years old.” “It doesn’t matter,” said the jealous wife, “she’s got 80 years of tricks—so many that not even a truck could carry them all—and she’s a husband-stealer.”

And there they were, fighting and fighting, and the teacher didn’t notice that on the list there was a boy named “Condenado” whose last name was “Chamaco del Demonio.”

And so that boy’s name remained on his school record. And that’s how his classmates knew him.

But the matter reached the meetings of the Word of God. And there they heard the tunel (pronounced with an acute accent, who is in charge of the sacraments) say that one must be careful with bad people, “they are the damned,” he said, “and one must not associate with the damned.”

And sure enough, the next day, no one went near the boy named “Condenado,” and they didn’t play with him or anything. So they left him alone.

But Condenado, the Devil’s Child, wasn’t sad; instead, he organized his own games and went into the woods to gather herbs, because his grandmother knew about medicinal plants and he used to accompany her.

He also went with his dad when he went to the milpa, and with his mom when she went to gather firewood, and there his dad and mom taught him which animals are dangerous and should be avoided, which are harmless and won’t hurt you, which look alike but are different, and what they’re called.

So the boy learned the names and habits of many animals, as well as the names of many plants and what they’re used for. And the boy made a notebook: on one page he wrote the names of all the animals he knew, and on another page the names of the plants.

Then one day the boy was looking through his notes and noticed that the ants weren’t there. So he went and asked his dad about the ants.

His father was arguing with his mother because the pozol was sour, it just wasn’t right, and the two of them were nagging each other, just as couples who love each other tend to do. The boy asked again if ants are good or bad. And the man, since he was still arguing, just told him, “Ants are ants.”

So the boy thought that meant no one knew whether ants were good or bad, and that’s why he had to study them.

And the boy began to study the ants: where they walk, where they live, what they do. And he learned that there are different kinds of ants. He observed and analyzed several anthills, and saw how organized the ants are—that is, they have divided up the work and roles: some go out to explore, some gather food and bring it back to the anthill, some care for the young, some defend the colony, and some just slack off, depending on the situation—that is, they’re lazy.

But the boy wasn’t satisfied and thought he needed to investigate further. So he came up with a mischievous plan: he went to see the Monarch and told him he had to find and show him videos of the ants. The Monarch looked at him—he was just a little kid—and asked who had told him to do that. The boy told his lie that it was an order from SubMoy.

The Monarch didn’t believe him and asked the boy his name. The little boy said his name: “Damned Devil’s Child,” and then the Monarch got scared that maybe he really was the devil’s, and, no matter what, he had to find the videos and show them to the boy.

That night, the Monarch couldn’t sleep because he was afraid of the devil. Because the Monarch gets scolded by SubMoisés, and he gets scolded by Captain Marcos. If the devil is going to scold him too, well, that’s just too much.

But that’s how the boy learned more about the ants, how they’re organized, and the roles and jobs they have.

-*-

 Once, after a really intense rain—that is, after a storm—the boy went to check on an anthill near his hut. There were little streams of water around the entrance to the anthill.

And the ants coming out of the ant hill’s entrance seemed confused, wandering back and forth. Suddenly, one of them crawled into the hole, and other ants followed behind her, marching as if they were an army.

There is no one in command, but the soldier ants quickly organize themselves and grab each other’s legs, forming a bridge over one of the streams. Then the other ants follow, crossing the bridge and heading where they need to go to find food and explore.

Once the sun dries up the little streams, the soldier ants let go and return to the anthill, and then head out again to do their assigned work.

The boy is very impressed by what he saw and is left thinking about it.

-*-

 On another day, while they are at school with the love-struck and distracted education promoter–the poor thing, sighing with love—the GALs from that town arrived and told her that at the GALs’ general assembly, the highest Zapatista authority, it had been decided to invite SubMoy to give a talk, and he would be in town that day, and SubMoy asked about the school and they showed him, and SubMoy said: “I’m going to give a talk to the girls and boys, so that from a young age they understand what is being done.”

And with that, SubMoy comes into the classroom, but the education promoter barely notices him and is just in a corner sighing and sighing for her distant love.

Then SubMoy realizes that the compañera hasn’t even seen him and greets the boys and girls. “Good morning,” he says to them, “my name is Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés and I’m going to give you a little talk.”

And, right away, SubMoy begins to explain what the común is, and the pyramids, and political work, and the sciences, and the arts, and military training to defend oneself, and all that.

And the children remain silent, as if they didn’t understand a thing, just as those from the Interzona remain silent, not wanting to participate because it quickly becomes clear that they didn’t understand a thing since they were distracted by their cell phones or picking their noses.

So, since everyone is quiet and even the town’s GALs are staring at their muddy boots—basically, they’re just standing there like ducks—SubMoy asks the boys and girls if they understood the explanation.

No one says a word; it’s completely silent. Even SubMoy thinks he’s at an Interzona meeting, and he’s about to leave when a boy raises his hand.

SubMoy stops at the door, turns back, and tells the boy to speak up.

The boy just says, “Ants.”

SubMoy raises an eyebrow, as if he doesn’t understand, and says, “Okay, go ahead and explain that about the ants.”

And the boy begins to describe what he saw in the anthill—how the ants were organized, how each one had its own job, how they support each other, teach each other, and even heal one another, and what happened after it rained, and how one group of ants was tasked with caring for, protecting, and supporting their ant community.

SubMoy listened carefully, turned to look at the committee members accompanying him, and gave them a look that seemed to say, “Aren’t you ashamed that a kid gets it, but you grown-ups can’t even explain it?” The committee members kept playing dumb, acting like they weren’t even there.

Then SubMoy congratulated the child and asked him his name. And the child replied, “Condenado Chamaco del Demonio,” but one of the GALs approached and told SubMoy that he is the grandson of an elderly couple, Zapatistas since before the uprising.

SubMoy asked the boy why he was called that, and the boy looked at the education promoter, who was still sighing, and said, “Because of love”; then the boy looked at the teacher trainer and added, “And because of love lost.”

SubMoy laughed heartily for a while, shot a dirty look at the promoter, shot a dirty look at the teacher trainer, and invited the boy to eat with him the raw tamale that the local women cooks had prepared.

“All single women,” said Captain Marcos, “because they don’t know how to make tamales, and that’s why they never even catch a cold, let alone find a partner.”

In reality, it was SubMoy’s trick to get the boy to eat the tamale first, and if it didn’t make him sick, then SubMoy would eat it too.

-*-

 No one even said hello to the Captain. That’s what he gets for talking trash about the cooks.

But the Captain didn’t care, because he ate all the chamoy candy and marshmallow pops that were meant for the Popcorn Command.

And in the end, the Captain’s tummy still hurt from eating so much candy.

Tan-tan.

From the Mountains of the Mexican Southeast

The Captain
January-February 2026.

Originally published at Enlace Zapatista on March 18th, 2026.
Translation by Schools for Chiapas.

Tell Them That We Must Resist, We Must Rebel, We Must Live. Letter from Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés to Luis de Tavira.

To: Maestro Luis de Tavira.
From: Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés.

Compañero Tavira:

I send you our greetings on behalf of Zapatista children, elders, women, men, and non-binary people.

From one theater director to another, I send you a warm embrace. We are happy that your health has improved a little and that you are now able to attend this tribute organized by your closest family and friends.

Here we continue in the struggle, in our resistance and rebellion which, as you well know, also walks through the arts and sciences. A few weeks ago, the art and culture coordinators and theater artists wrote you a letter, and you responded. That warmed our hearts because we understand that you see us as we see you: as a compañero in the struggle for life.

As we well know, the storm is growing stronger and deadlier in every corner of the world, and it is the disadvantaged who suffer the most.

But, as you have rightly said on several occasions, the arts are also a way of fighting for life. And those of us who fight, resist, and rebel also learn and teach through the arts and sciences.

The struggle for life in these difficult and hard times is fought with the head, the heart, and the guts. And all three have to do with each person’s history. Those of us who are of what we call native, indigenous blood are different. We are different in our heads, hearts, and guts from those who have another language, another way, another history. But we are made equal in the sciences, the arts, and the struggles. And even more so now that the struggle is for life, because the capitalist system is determined to destroy all of humanity.

We find life on earth. Others in science. Others in the arts. Others in their history.

Perhaps some think that each person should look out for their own life, but the current situation leaves no room for individual struggle. All of us are in mortal danger. Distinct, different, each according to their geography, their calendar, their way, we become equal in recognizing the criminal and in the struggle to defeat him.

Our effort, as Zapatistas that we are, is so that the day after the death of the inhuman beast of the system, we do not do the same, and that other monsters are not born from our roots. Other pyramids, we say, we the Zapatista communities.

What we want is another world where we can be ourselves. Not all the same as copies, not all with the same way of being, but each one what they are and want to be, without oppressing those who are different, without trying to make them like us, but respecting those who are not like us. A world without exploitation, without repression, without theft, without contempt.

We salute you, maestro. Tell those close to you that geography and circumstance do not matter, nor do age or health. Tell them that we must resist, we must rebel, we must live.

A hug from your compañerxs, the Zapatista peoples.

Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés.
Mexico, February 2026.

Original text published at Enlace Zapatista on March 13th, 2026.
Translation by Schools for Chiapas.

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.

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.

Oso Blanco Birthday Statement

Oso Blanco’s birthday is February 26th. Send him a note and check out his birthday statement below. Also, check out his birthday raffle at https://www.abcf.net/blog/oso-blanco-birthday-raffle-is-on/

Byron Chubbuck #07909­051
USP Atwater
PO Box 019001
Atwater, CA 95301

Brothers and Sisters and Everyone in the Struggle:

I am now about to turn 59 years of age, and this will be my 26th birthday serving time on this case in federal prison. It is often very empty and cold on birthdays and holidays, because you’re obviously far away from your family. But when people reach out, when brothers and sisters in the struggle reach out and write to a political prisoner on their birthday, it is amazingly powerful. But when you share something that sounds like it was written according to a format, or like it comes from a robot, it is disheartening. Because I often receive birthday greetings from people where it sounds like there is no real heart to the message. I’m a human being, and I like people to express human love from the heart. When they write they should write something from the heart—because I can tell the difference, and I don’t feel any human interaction because they don’t express real human emotions. It is often the same thing—the same words—over, and over, and over, for years.

If you’re reaching out to me on my birthday, you should express real thoughts. Don’t go by a format, a set of words, that someone told you to say. I want you to express your real hearts because I put in my work for the struggle, for the Native-American struggle, for the Zapatista struggle—and I want you to express your real selves, your real heart, your real emotions.

I am far away from my family, and the letter will come a month after February because the police won’t let me have my mail, and they will hold it for at least that long. People must express themselves more genuinely, more from the heart, because you’re talking to a person that is suffering because they’re missing their birthdays with their family, because they’re missing their birthdays with their friends, missing their birthdays with their community. You’re talking to a person who is excluded and exiled from society and all human connection.

When you reach out to a political prisoner and it’s their birthday, it’s really meaningful. I still get birthday greetings from my homeboys in the streets in Albuquerque sometimes, but Fentanyl killed 100 people that I knew in New Mexico, and that’s a real number. And that almost ended the greeting cards coming from people I knew from the streets. My parents are too old. I get some birthday greetings from my Cherokee sister’s side of the family in Oklahoma, on the reservation in Tahlequah. When you’re reaching out to a political prisoner, don’t sound like a robot. Sound like a real human being with real emotions and real love. Because I can tell the difference as time goes on. And I would venture to say society is really messing up the human-emotion-connection for things as important happy birthdays.

When someone that reaches out to you for you birthday, something that is so deep and meaningful when you’re in prison doing a zillion years for your political actions, it is very powerful. So, let’s keep the human connection going for political prisoners because they’re in here for you. They’re in here for people who want a better world. They’re in here for people who know we have to heal the Earth. And they’re in here for the struggle to uplift love. Because without love there will be no change, there will be no better world, there will be no revolution—not without love.

If I have a birthday wish, I wish that people would get up off their asses and really do something to end oppression. Really organize. Really bring oppression, and repression, and abuse by the State to an end. That is my birthday wish.

I love you all, and I thank you so much. Anyone who picks up a pen or types up a letter, I love you so much. I could never have survived these 26 years alone. I never could have survived these years without people like Leonard Peltier, Tom Manning, and Dr. Mutulu Shakur, who I crossed paths with—and not without little things. Not without little things that mean a lot—like birthdays.

More via https://freeosoblanco.org/

Source: https://www.abcf.net/blog/oso-blanco-birthday-statement/

Joint Statement: 30th Anniversary of San Andrés Accords

To the Zapatista Peoples
To the Assemblies of Collectives of Zapatista Autonomous Governments (ACGAZ)
To the National Indigenous Congress
To the Adherents of the Sixth Declaration of the Lacandon Jungle (National and International)
To the Networks of Resistance and Rebellion
To the signatories of A Declaration for Life on the five continents.
To human rights organizations and collectives.
To all those who struggle and resist throughout the world.

Joint statement

Thirty years after the San Andrés Accords, the living memory of Indigenous peoples reminds us that the promises made by the Mexican State remain unfulfilled, betrayed, and silenced. Today, amidst the demonstrations for the murder of our comrade Samir Flores, we reaffirm the struggle for life, land, and dignity.

Samir was murdered for defending his community against dispossession and the imposition of deadly megaprojects. His voice joins those of thousands who have fallen on the path of resistance, and his absence calls upon us to amplify our collective strength against a system that prioritizes capital over life and turns Mother Earth into a commodity.

Thirty years later, the San Andrés Accords represent a continued betrayal. The EZLN denounced as early as 2001 that the constitutional reform negated what had been agreed upon: autonomy, self-determination, recognition of Indigenous peoples as subjects of public law, access to lands and territories, and the Commons.

This keeps the doors to dialogue and peace closed, paving the way for the construction of de facto autonomies, which the Zapatistas have built for three decades despite the ongoing counterinsurgency.

Neither the 2019 nor the 2024 reforms respond to the mandate of San Andrés. Fundamental exclusions remain: the right to territory, respect for the Commons, and the full autonomy of Indigenous peoples. The Mexican State’s refusal to recognize full and effective rights that address the historical debt is clear, as an extractivist model persists that denies the lives of Indigenous peoples. In response, we honor and celebrate the three decades of the National Indigenous Congress and the journey of resistance that has resulted in the construction of real autonomies, community organizing, and the defense of memory as a tool for struggle.

We denounce the neoliberal and capitalist model as incompatible with the dignified life of Indigenous peoples. Faced with the imposition of projects of death, today it is vital to defend our territory and build collective horizons where justice, memory, and the Commons are the foundation. Mother Earth is not property or a resource: she is our root, she is life, she is our future.

Today we say:

Samir lives on in the struggle of the people.
The dignity of Indigenous peoples is the seed of the future.
Mother Earth and the Commons are not for sale, they must be defended.
Long live the National Indigenous Congress and the Indigenous Governing Council.
Faced with the system of death, we affirm life, community, and rebellion as paths to emancipation.

Signatories:

Red de Resistencia y Rebeldía Ajmaq
Fray Bartolomé de Las Casas Center for Hyman Rights
Espacio de Lucha contra el olvido y la represión. Elcor
Lumaltik-Herriak
Comité de mujeres Chiapas-Kurdistán
Antsetik Ts’unun (autonomous collective of women defenders)
Las Artemisas Collective

Original statement at Frayba, February 20th, 2026.
Translated by Schools for Chiapas.

Zapatista Commemorations for Samir Flores on the Seventh Anniversary of his Assassination

Seven years after the assassination of Samir Flores Soberanes, Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) supporters and organized communities held Zapatista Days for Samir Flores to honor his memory and denounce the impunity that persists in the case. The activities took place as part of the commemoration of his death, with the aim of denouncing the lack of justice and calling for grassroots organizing against megaprojects and governments.

During the day, the supporters affirmed that Samir is a symbol of resistance and rebellion in Mexico and the world. “Let’s not wait for justice to be delivered by those at the top. Those at the top of the pyramid. Those in power. Justice will come from below, from organized communities,” they declared. They also stated that “if we don’t organize, there is no struggle that can continue.”

They recalled that Samir Flores was an Indigenous farmer from Actzingo, a Nahuatl speaker, and a broadcaster on his community radio station, which had been operating since 2016. He was a member of the National Indigenous Congress and participated in the defense of their territory against megaprojects promoted by powerful interests and by all three levels of government.

“Samir gave his life and his blood to defend Mother Earth. The life and blood of our comrade Samir were not shed in vain,” they affirmed. The Zapatista Army of National Liberation (EZLN) support bases stated that the crime remains unpunished and that the best way to honor his memory is to continue the struggle of the peoples who defend Mother Earth in Mexico and around the world.

Original article at Desinformémonos, February 21, 2026.
Translated by Schools for Chiapas

We Demand the Release of our Compañero Francisco Moreno Hernández and the Rights of the Hernández Family, Members of the CNI, Be Guaranteed

To the Networks of Resistance and Rebellion,
To the National and International Sixth,
To the signatories of A Declaration for Life, on all five continents.
To Rebellious, Dignified, and Rebellious Europe,
To the free and independent media,
To those who walk the word of life,

Prior to the eviction of the Moreno Hernández family from the ejido of Jotolá, Mpo. Chilón, on February 12 of this year, comrade Francisco Moreno Hernández, who along with his family is a member of the National Indigenous Congress in Chiapas, was arrested at 8 a.m. He was unjustly accused of the crime of aggravated dispossession of the lands that his family has held for generations.

As a result of the 1994 EZLN uprising, these lands which had been in the control of the hacienda owner who had kept the Moreno family and members of the community as slaves for generations, were recuperated being and freed up to those who work them. Subsequently, the Jotola ejido was established, where Francisco’s father, Manuel Moreno Pérez, was recognized as an ejido member. Since then, he and his family have worked peacefully, continuously, and publicly on approximately 5 hectares of land.

However, when Juan Cruz Méndez, Medardo Carmelino Cruz Méndez, Rogelio Cruz Méndez, and Guadalupe Cruz Méndez (Los Cruces) arrived from the Ejido de Montelibano, municipality of Oconcingo, from where they had been expelled for alleged crimes such as murder, kidnapping, attempted murder, and alleged links to organized crime, they began to take control of the ejido, causing unrest, social conflicts, and violent incidents in the community. Juan Cruz Méndez is the regional leader of the paramilitary organization ORCAO, which has since attacked the Moreno Hernández family, who under Zapatista principles, have resisted in this area as part of the CNI.

It was then that, without showing an eviction order, at around 11 a.m. on February 12, approximately 30 State Guard police officers, hooded personnel from the INPI and the Agrarian Court, accompanied by more than 50 ejido members led by “Los Cruces” from the ORCAO, gathered to remove the 30 members of the Moreno Hernández family, began beating them and stealing the cell phones of those who were recording, suffocating Francisco’s son until he was unconscious and handcuffing him, even though there was no arrest warrant. They detained Francisco’s mother and wife, Maria de Jesus Sánchez Gómez, while her young children with special needs screamed in fear and helplessness. After being detained, María de Jesus was beaten, groped, and strangled with a knee by the police of the Indigenous Prosecutor’s Office of Yajalón, who then threatened to disappear her, saying, “you’re the one who’s being the most stupid.”

The members of ORCAO, under the protection of the State Guard, a hooded National Guard member dressed in civilian clothes named José Moreno Sánchez (son of the current ejido commissioner of Jotola), and a former soldier dismissed for misconduct, began to destroy the five houses of the eight Moreno Hernández families with sledgehammers, removing and burning their belongings, tearing down the tin roofs, and killing the animals that the family had raised with great effort over many years, as well as their corn, coffee, and plant crops, and stealing their savings. The innocent children were left with irreparable psychological damage, homeless and without rights. Juan Cruz thanked the governor on social media that they could finally carry out what they had been waiting for so long to do.

At the initial hearing, María de Jesus was released under the condition of periodic reporting, as her court-appointed defense attorney argued that she has two children with special needs who depend on her. However, Francisco Moreno Hernández remained in custody until the hearing to determine whether he will be brought to trial, scheduled for Tuesday, February 17, at 9 a.m., as the prosecutor argued that he is the leader of the dispossession carried out by “Los Cruces.” Eight other members of the Moreno Hernández family are also facing arrest warrants. They have lost all their belongings and are in hiding for fear of being detained.

The resistance, work, and dignity that the Moreno Hernández family has shown for years, building their homes, raising their animals, and working the land without government assistance and in common, is under attack by the despotic rule and impunity of those who, with the support of the bad government, seek to end the struggle of their comrades in the National Indigenous Congress.

WE DEMAND:

THE IMMEDIATE RELEASE OF OUR COMRADE FRANCISCO MORENO HERNÁNDEZ

CANCELLATION OF THE ARREST WARRANTS

AN END TO THE AGGRESSIONS AGAINST THE MORENO HERNÁNDEZ FAMILY

PUNISHMENT OF THOSE RESPONSIBLE PARTIES WITHIN ORCAO AND THE CHIAPAS STATE POLICE

FOR THE FULL RECONSTITUTION OF OUR PEOPLES!

NEVER AGAIN A MEXICO WITHOUT US!

NATIONAL INDIGENOUS CONGRESS

Original text published by the Congreso Nacional Indígena on February 14, 2026.
Translation by Schools for Chiapas.

7 años del asesinato de #SamirFlores, #Fiscalía insiste en un montaje. Enjuiciar al asesino material sin tocar a los autores intelectuales es simular #Justicia

👉 https://wp.me/pdD3iE-vKa 🐝

#claudiasheinbaum #pueblosoriginarios #pueblosindigenas #ezln #zapatistas #indigenas #samirflores #samirfloresvive #samirfloressoberanes #samirfloressomostodos #mexico_maravilloso #resistencia #protesta #zapatista #zapatistasnoestansolxs

Some of my recommended #RSS picks to have in your own #RSSFeed!

Red & Black 
https://redandblackanarchists.com.au/rss/

Schools for Chiapas  
https://schoolsforchiapas.org/feed/

Radio Zapatista  
https://radiozapatista.org/?feed=rss2

The Polar Bl@st  
https://thepolarblast.wordpress.com/

Nina Illingworth Dot Com  
https://ninaillingworth.com/feed/

Anarchist Union Journal  
https://anarchistunionjournal.org/feed/

International Workers Association - Web Magazine  
https://iwa-ait.org/rss.xml

Zoe Baker Radical Theory and History  
https://anarchozoe.com/feed/

#Anarchism #Zapatista #EZLN #Rojava #News #Politics #ypj