The wisdom of Subcomandante Marcos...
In the guidebook I read about the neighborhoods that surround San Cristobal that have been nicknamed 'Cinturon de Miseria' (Belt of Misery). The people who live in the Cinturon de Miseria are mostly indigenous people who have been displaced from their homes and villages. It is also mostly these people who sell things in the street here. So I struggle over it, especially when approached by children, because I don´t need, nor can I even fit the thins that they want to sell me into my bag. But it makes me feel sad and sick to say no. I sometimes wonder if I should just offer them money, but I am conflicted over that too. They are trying to make a living by selling something, they are not begging. I therefore do not want to presume that they would want me to offer them money, it could be very insulting.
Yesterday I ate dinner in a nice restaurant. It had been recommended to me. Even though it was not expensive according to US standards, here it is a restaurant for people with means. It is organic and vegetarian and therefore very much caters to the needs of travelers.
Two little boys approached my table. They carried a basket of wooden animals. Their clothes were worn. One began taking the animals out of the basket one by one, naming each as he set it on the table.
"No gracias," I said, shaking my head.
"Llevate uno," the little boy said to me, but his heart wasn´t in it. He didn´t want to be selling me those animals, or weighted down with the task of earning money. His brother took the basket and went to another table.
"¿Como te llamas?" I asked him. He looked at me for a moment before he spoke. I didn´t know if he was going to answer.
"Rudolfo," he finally said.
"¿Cuantos años tienes?" I asked him. I couldn´t buy his anmals, but I wanted him to know that I saw him. That I recognized that he was a little boy with a name, and a family, and the right to be a child playing or going to school.
"Nueve," he answered. His body was small but his face looked much older.
"¿Ustedes son hermanos?" I asked.
"Si," he answered. And then his brother returned, also unsucessful with the other gueros, and they turned to leave. That is all I know of Rudolfo, age 9, brother.
Last night I saw a documentary of the Zapatista movement. I saw people standing together trying to get someone to recognize that they had real needs that needed to be met. They kept asking to be listened to. What they wanted was peace and dignity. They had tied white flags onto their guns as a sign that they hoped the guns remained useless, but that they would not put them down. This was all met with intimidation by the army, broken promises by politicians, bloodshed. In one massacre in a village 45 people were killed - 15 children and over 20 women, 4 of them were pregnant. They were killed in their church. It is people from villages like these, still impoverished despite the ongoing struggle, still dimished by politicians who want to take the land they live on, who come to live in the belt of misery and sell animals and chicles in the street.
So now I can´t stop thinking of Rudolfo and wishing I had done something else, something helpful or meaningful. Instead I watched them walk away and I finished my lunch.
"What are words when you are hungry?" Subcomandante Marcos asked. "They have given us lots of papers filled with promises, but you can´t eat paper."
Yesterday I ate dinner in a nice restaurant. It had been recommended to me. Even though it was not expensive according to US standards, here it is a restaurant for people with means. It is organic and vegetarian and therefore very much caters to the needs of travelers.
Two little boys approached my table. They carried a basket of wooden animals. Their clothes were worn. One began taking the animals out of the basket one by one, naming each as he set it on the table.
"No gracias," I said, shaking my head.
"Llevate uno," the little boy said to me, but his heart wasn´t in it. He didn´t want to be selling me those animals, or weighted down with the task of earning money. His brother took the basket and went to another table.
"¿Como te llamas?" I asked him. He looked at me for a moment before he spoke. I didn´t know if he was going to answer.
"Rudolfo," he finally said.
"¿Cuantos años tienes?" I asked him. I couldn´t buy his anmals, but I wanted him to know that I saw him. That I recognized that he was a little boy with a name, and a family, and the right to be a child playing or going to school.
"Nueve," he answered. His body was small but his face looked much older.
"¿Ustedes son hermanos?" I asked.
"Si," he answered. And then his brother returned, also unsucessful with the other gueros, and they turned to leave. That is all I know of Rudolfo, age 9, brother.
Last night I saw a documentary of the Zapatista movement. I saw people standing together trying to get someone to recognize that they had real needs that needed to be met. They kept asking to be listened to. What they wanted was peace and dignity. They had tied white flags onto their guns as a sign that they hoped the guns remained useless, but that they would not put them down. This was all met with intimidation by the army, broken promises by politicians, bloodshed. In one massacre in a village 45 people were killed - 15 children and over 20 women, 4 of them were pregnant. They were killed in their church. It is people from villages like these, still impoverished despite the ongoing struggle, still dimished by politicians who want to take the land they live on, who come to live in the belt of misery and sell animals and chicles in the street.
So now I can´t stop thinking of Rudolfo and wishing I had done something else, something helpful or meaningful. Instead I watched them walk away and I finished my lunch.
"What are words when you are hungry?" Subcomandante Marcos asked. "They have given us lots of papers filled with promises, but you can´t eat paper."
posted by Eva Hathaway at 9:57 AM
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