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You have the courage to be afraid

23 September 2017

Juan Villoro’s  El Puño en alto was published the 22 September 2017 in Reforma.  Translation by Peter Davies published in Latin American Focus, 23 September 2017.

A raised fist is normally seen as a sign of defiance.  But, when digging through the rubble, we all know it as the signal to keep absolute silence as rescuers listen for any sign of life below … in a way, a call to defy the unpredictability of our lives.

Eres del lugar donde recoges
la basura.
Donde dos rayos caen
en el mismo sitio.
Porque viste el primero,
esperas el segundo.
Y aquí sigues.
Donde la tierra se abre
y la gente se junta.
Otra vez llegaste tarde:
estás vivo por impuntual,
por no asistir a la cita que
a las 13:14 te había
dado la muerte,
treinta y dos años después
de la otra cita, a la que
tampoco llegaste
a tiempo.
Eres la víctima omitida.
El edificio se cimbró y no
viste pasar la vida ante
tus ojos, como sucede
en las películas.
Te dolió una parte del cuerpo
que no sabías que existía:
La piel de la memoria,
que no traía escenas
de tu vida, sino del
animal que oye crujir
a la materia.
También el agua recordó
lo que fue cuando
era dueña de este sitio.
Tembló en los ríos.
Tembló en las casas
que inventamos en los ríos.
Recogiste los libros de otro
tiempo, el que fuiste
hace mucho ante
esas páginas.Llovió sobre mojado
después de las fiestas
de la patria,
Más cercanas al jolgorio
que a la grandeza.
¿Queda cupo para los héroes
en septiembre?
Tienes miedo.
Tienes el valor de tener miedo.
No sabes qué hacer,
pero haces algo.
No fundaste la ciudad
ni la defendiste de invasores.Eres, si acaso, un pordiosero
de la historia.
El que recoge desperdicios
después de la tragedia.
El que acomoda ladrillos,
junta piedras,
encuentra un peine,
dos zapatos que no hacen juego,
una cartera con fotografías.
El que ordena partes sueltas,
trozos de trozos,
restos, sólo restos.
Lo que cabe en las manos.El que no tiene guantes.
El que reparte agua.
El que regala sus medicinas
porque ya se curó de espanto.
El que vio la luna y soñó
cosas raras, pero no
supo interpretarlas.
El que oyó maullar a su gato
media hora antes y sólo
lo entendió con la primera
sacudida, cuando el agua
salía del excusado.
El que rezó en una lengua
extraña porque olvidó
cómo se reza.
El que recordó quién estaba
en qué lugar.El que fue por sus hijos
a la escuela.
El que pensó en los que
tenían hijos en la escuela.
El que se quedó sin pila.
El que salió a la calle a ofrecer
su celular.
El que entró a robar a un
comercio abandonado
y se arrepintió en
un centro de acopio.
El que supo que salía sobrando.
El que estuvo despierto para
que los demás duerma.
El que es de aquí.
El que acaba de llegar
y ya es de aquí.
El que dice “ciudad” por decir
tú y yo y Pedro y Marta
y Francisco y Guadalupe.
El que lleva dos días sin luz
ni agua.
El que todavía respira.
El que levantó un puño
para pedir silencio.
Los que le hicieron caso.
Los que levantaron el puño.
Los que levantaron el puño
para escuchar
si alguien vivía.
Los que levantaron el puño para
escuchar si alguien
vivía y oyeron
un murmullo.
Los que no dejan de escuchar.
You are from the place where you pick up
the garbage.
Where two bolts of lightning
fall in the same place.
Because you saw the first,
you wait for the second.
And you’re still here.
Where the earth opens
and people come together.
You arrived late again:
You’re alive because you’re unpunctual,
because you didn’t go to the appointment
that death had prepared for you at 13:14,
thirty-two years after the other appointment, which
you didn’t arrive to on time either.
You are the missing victim.
The building swayed and
you didn’t see life pass
before your eyes, like it does
in movies.
A part of your body pained you that you didn’t know existed:
The memory ingrained in your skin
didn’t recall the scenes
of your life, but of the animal within
that hears the creaks of the walls.
The water remembered as well
when it was the master of this place.
It shook in the rivers.
It shook in the houses that we
built over the rivers.
You picked up from the books of another
time, one that you were a long time ago before
these pages.
It never rained but it poured
after the festivities
of the motherland,
that more resembled revelry than greatness.
Is there room for more heroes in September?
You are afraid.
You have the courage to be afraid.You don’t know what to do,
but you do something.
You didn’t found the city
nor defend it from invaders.
You are, if anything, a beggar
of history.
The one who picks up the pieces
after the tragedy.
The one who picks up the bricks,
gathers the stones,
finds a comb,
two shoes that don’t make a pair,
a wallet with photographs.
The one who puts loose parts together,
pieces of pieces,
remnants, only remnants,
whatever fits in your hands.
The one who doesn’t have gloves.
The one who hands out water.
The one who gives away his medicine
because he’s already cured of his horror.
The one who saw the moon and
dreamt strange things, but
didn’t know how to interpret them.
The one who heard her cat meow
half an hour before but only
understood it with the first
tremor when water came out of the toilet.
The one who prayed in a strange language
because he forgot how to pray.
The one who remembered who was at which place.
The one who picked up her kids at school.
The one who thought of those who had kids at school.
The one who ran out of battery.
The one who went out to lend his phone.
The one who entered an abandoned shop to steal
but repented it later
at a collection center.
The one who knew what there was too much of.
The one who was awake so the others could sleep.
The one who is from here.
The one who just arrived
but is from here now.
The one who says “city” by saying
you and I and Pedro and Marta
and Francisco and Guadalupe.
The one who has been without electricity
or water for two days.
The one who’s still breathing.
The one who raises his fist
to ask for silence.
The ones who obeyed.
The ones who raised their fists.
The ones who raised their fists
to listen if someone was still alive.
The ones who raised their fists
to listen if someone
was still alive and heard
a murmur.
The ones who don’t stop listening.
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Start following the money…

22 September 2017
tags:

Some lessons we learned, others have yet to sink in.

 

Laura Carlsen on Real News Network:

Anarchy in the CDMX:19 Septiembre 1985… y… 2017

20 September 2017

Obviously, we have had an “eventful” few days here.  The coincidence of another major earthquake on the anniversary of what many here still think of THE earthquake (and only a two hours after a city-wide drill) has been endlessly noted, but apparently, saved lives.  The first responders to the apartment house collapse a few blocks from my house (where, had I not been in a wheelchair recovering from a bicycle accident, I’d have been walking my dog about the time it happened) were construction workers from a nearby renovation project who had just finished a refresher course on what was they should do, should they face a major earthquake ever again.  Which, of course, they did.

But, it wasn’t just the construction workers who popped up, knowing exactly what to do.  In 1985, it was the inability… or reluctance… of the government to respond immediately that forced citizens to set up “ad hoc” disaster relief brigades.  I honestly think it changed the psyche of the country… people did not passively wait for help to arrive, or for someone in authority to pop up to tell them what to do, but took control of their own lives, and responsibility for their community.  While some, like the Brigada de Rescate Tlatelolco have become formal bodies since then (and deserve your support:  paypal donations to donativos@brigada-rescate-topos.org), and back in 1985 we didn’t have social media to keep us informed, what surprises me is how organized the unofficial emergency response is.

In 1985, for communications, one had to depend on radio, TV and print journalism.  It took longer to sink in the dimensions of the disaster in 1985.  And, even if the media outlets were able to function, their reporters, pressmen, and technicians either were missing, or unable to get to work.  Elena Poniatowska drafted a writing class for “ladies who lunch” to work as reporters and runners for the newspapers.  A 14 year old boy scout took charge of one rubble-digging crew, under the assumption that SOMEBODY in uniform should be directing the operation (and, it is said, he did a much better job than any military authority around).  Private autos (still relatively rare in those days) were pressed into service as ambulances. And neighbors set up communal kitchens to serve not just the “damnificados” (displaced people) but the hordes of accountants, housewives, students, construction workers, doctors, lawyers, bureaucrats, punk rockers … who all found themselves not cogs in the machine, but active agents in the running of their own society.  But it took a few days.

Yesterday, within about two hours of the initial quake, Facebook and other social media (it could have been earlier, but I wasn’t checking my social media all that much while sitting out in the street anticipating possible after-shocks) was full of calls for this and that brigade.  None needed a formal name… nor was their any formal leader. But they knew what was needed.  Bicyclists were asked to meet at one place, ready to distribute food and water to sites where other brigades were searching for survivors in collapsed buildings.  And those brigades were listing exactly what they needed:  including megaphones for whoever it was who had to coordinate the effort.  And, if you’ve seen these operations, they are coordinated.

One reads and hears it was “anarchy” back in 1985.  And, in a sense, it was.  The government response was to protect itself from the people.  Much of the business community did the same, more interested in protecting its goods than in rescuing its workers.  It was chaos, but the heroes and heroines of 1985 who saved the city were “anarchists” of a sort.  The masses simply pushed aside the state, and of their own free will worked together under their own leaders… or no leader… to meet the immediate needs of the citizens.

In part, the state has learned its lesson:  one reason we have that drill every year here.  And some (but not enough) better building codes.  Certainly, the “official” groups… Cruz Roja, the hospital staffs, the police, the electric company, etc… have responded quite well, although not always as immediately as one would like.  Not having to go through channels, or wait for instructions, we are almost back to normal in good part thanks to a outbreak of anarchy.

Will “they” get over it… and should they?

13 September 2017

Something by way of a draft for an introduction to a new edition of Gods, Gachupines and Gringos.

Last night, I watched the 2008 documentary The Last Conquistador“... a study of the controversy surrounding the city of El Paso’s commission of a monumental sculpture of Juan de Oñate), one incident that stuck in my mind was a meeting of Hispanic historians and history buffs where one leader said that the Acoma tribe should “just get over it”.  “It” was Oñate’s massacre of an estimated 1000 Acomas in October 1598, followed by the enslavement of the rest, and having the left foot chopped off all the adult male survivors.

Oñate, founder of El Paso/Juarez, and Santa Fe, is undoubtedly a seminal figure in the history of New Spain.  That his impact on what is now part of the United States was largely forgotten by “official” history until quite recently does indeed have more to do with seeing history through a “white lens” (a term I have shamelessly stolen from Joaquín Ramon Herrera, who did the illustrations for, and designed the cover of, the first edition of Gods, Gachupines and Gringos).  Joaquín was referring to the tendency to interpret experience and to explain complex events  through the viewpoint of the privileged class  … in the United States, the “white” majority.  Especially in places like El Paso (a majority “Hispanic” city), paying homage to a Oñate would seem to be a corrective to this — never mind that he was of Jewish-Castillian ancestry (“white” by 21st century reckoning), and the majority of people in El Paso “people of color” — mostly of mixed European and indigenous ancestry.

To the Acoma, and the other Pueblo tribes of New Mexico Oñate was a terrorist and genocidal maniac.  He had more than a hand in wiping out about 80 percent of the communities that existed at his time, and evidently the Viceregal government back in Mexico City agreed.  Despite having “settled” huge new territories for the crown (his forces ranged as far afield as what it now Oklahoma and Kansas), he was recalled to the Capital in 1606, tried and convicted of cruelty but merely stripped of his title as Governor of the new territory, and banished from returning.

Certainly, it is to the credit of sculptor John Houser — who had worked with indigenous communities memorializing their own history — that he was conflicted about the meaning communities gave to his work, and wondered if it hadn’t been a mistake, despite which the 11 meter high monument (allegedly the largest equestrian statue in the world) was installed at the El Paso airport October 2006.

Then this morning, I read a small paean to Juan Garrido, the African born conquistador.  When I was writing my first edition, Afro-Mexican studies was a tiny field.  Most scholars paid attention to the impact of African influence and culture on colonial New Spain and in the early Republic, the contemporary Afro-Mexican community has only been receiving a wider recognition, both by scholars and the general public, in the last decade.  In my first edition,  Garrido got a one-sentence mention, as the first wheat-grower in the Americas.  But his history is hardly that of a benign farmer.  He had taken in active role in the genocide … or as he put it in a letter to King Felipe I, the “pacification” of Cuba, and, as an officer in Nuño Guzmán’s rampaging conquest of what is now Jalisco, an active participant in the reign of terror, enslavement, and genocide perpetrated against the indigenous communities.  Can he be seen as a figure of pride by Afro-Mexicans, or would that be merely substituting a “black lens” for an indigenous one… or is seeing him as a Conquistador, and celebrating his contributions to the creation of New Spain, to see him through the “white lens”?

No historian can guarantee that his or her work is free of all biases, nor am I completely convinced it is necessary to inject my 21st century white lens (even with corrective glasses, fitted by a wide-ranging number of scholars, writers, and ordinary people from various minority cultures) on historical figures.  That is, one has to accept that the often appalling attitudes and actions of our ancestors may not have affected them, or been viewed by them, the same way they affect us.  We’re grossed out by the thought of Aztec human sacrifice, of the (mis)treatment of women and sexual minorities, of slavery, of the whole nonsensical theory of “race”, of any number of things.  The most one can hope to do is say “X did this, and also did that” and let the heroes fall where they may.

 

El disastre… hardly the first, and definitely not the last, time.

10 September 2017

For obvious reasons, this seems an appropriate historial document to highlight today:

The permanent tourists: when will they ever learn?

2 September 2017

Via one of the “expat” sites:

 A couple, which has been “coming and going on 180 day tourist permits[FMM: technically not a “tourist permit”, but permission to be in Mexico, but not to work in Mexico, for a short period of up to 180 days] for several years” got off the plane recently, “they were then asked to step into the interrogation room and  to hand over their phone and laptop, along with the password for their email.  They hold an on-line job from outside of Mexico. They were questioned about where they live, how long and what was their source of income. The agent then discovered an email on the computer that was an exchange regarding a VBRO email. It was a rental confirmation for a house that they manage for a Canadian friend. The money went into a Canadian account but as far as he was concerned they had income in Mexico. The lecture they got included three main points. They had been residing in Mexico on FMMs intended for Tourists. They would need a Resident Visa to stay in Mexico. They were not permitted to work in Mexico. ´Managing´ Mexican property is a lucrative activity. Lastly they would be responsible for paying tax on the rental income. [Although given a 30-day tourist permit, if they wished to return, the immigration officer said they would need “to visit a Mexican Consulate and apply for residency.”

A lively thread followed, most comments coming from people with residency permits of one sort or another, most of them not particularly sympathetic to the couple.  I’ve been hearing more and more stories like this, and — at the same time — more and more posts from people planning to look for work after they arrive here.  While working “on-line” remains a possibility, or so far is overlooked by the authorities (how to tax income earned abroad is always problematic) I see a few trends developing.

The assumption that one is “entitled” to stay up to six months simply because you cross the border isn’t a given.  Mexico is not some technological backwater, and … although slow to do so… is updating and installing better software.  They can see where a person is continually coming and going as a “tourist” and is rightfully suspicious of those tourists whose entries indicate that they live here.  The Mexicans expect those foreigners living here are not likely to become public charges, and … as US and Canadian (and every other country’s immigration officers) … interrogate the would be visitor about their financial resources, intended destination, purpose for visiting the country, and other matters.  I haven’t heard of anyone denied entry (yet) as happens with some regularity at the US and Canadian borders, but I have run into people given shorter stays when their responses were inadequate.

A few years ago, when after our former employer’s business in Mazatlan had closed, and we had moved to Mexico City, my now spouse inadvertently overstayed his temporary residency permit (which permitted him to work).  It was a complicated situation, and at the advise of our attorney, he  returned to the United States for a few days, then flew back to Mexico expecting to receive a 180 day FMM, which would give ample time to resolve the problem. Not something easily explainable at 2 in the morning.  The 20 days he was given were a little hectic, and we’ve been told the immigration officer overstepped her authority, but that was an unusual situation.  And one we were able to resolve.

The couple in the post, and those “permanent tourists” who are working in Mexico in some way (which would include pet and house sitting… and, obviously, managing rental property) aren’t in some bureaucratic twilight zone, but are clearly violating the laws.  Giving them 20 days to make arrangements to either regularize their situation, or at least wrap up their affairs in the country (and, as supposed tourists, staying less than six months, there wouldn’t be much to wrap up) is relatively humane.  Most other places would just tell you to buy a return ticket on the next plane out.

Of course, having been an “illegal alien” at one time myself (working on a tourist visa, and not even bothering to renew it, to boot) I’m not going to say that this couple were “bad hombres” and — for all I  know — they may have just been victims of bad advise.  After all, the internet (and travel guides, and other foreigners) too often give bad advise. I have no idea if a FMM holder who is paid abroad for on-line work is considered working in Mexico (it would seem NOT YET) but they probably should avoid those jobs meant to earn income within Mexico, like property management, or sales of Mexican goods and services… including language lessons.

There are political considerations in all this, as well. Not so much in some “left/right” argument … between those who see the couple’s woes as some kind of “karmic payback” for mistreatment of less well heeled migrants to wealthier countries, or as some “hypocrisy” for the demands of justice for Mexican migrants who have run afoul of US immigration laws… but in the sense that the comments suggest that the more settled migrants (and expats) are less sympathetic to the “permanent tourists” than I’d thought. Perhaps it’s a feeling that having “gone through the channels” the resident visa holders see themselves as belonging, and the “permanent tourists” as interlopers on their community.  And, perhaps, the Mexicans are starting to agree… that the “tourists” are welcome to visit, but if they plan to stay, at least say so.

Reading Thoreau in Mexico

28 August 2017

Thoreau has been interpreted in many ways … which is only right, given that as a New England Transcendentalist, one’s intuition about an experience is the path to wisdom.  Given that On The Duty of Civil Disobedience was written largely in reaction to his own protest against the U.S. invasion of Mexico, it is only to be expected that our writers’ intuit Thoreau’s political stand as more relevant to this country than even his better known Walden.

Juan Manuel Roca’s “Evocación de Thoreau” from the 27 August Jornada Seminal. My translation*

Henry David Thoreau’s essay on civil disobedience strong influenced both Leo Tolstoy and Mahatma Gandhi:. Together they would become icons of an otherwise iconoclastic movement: anarchism.

Inclining towards anarchism, Thoreau is, at core, a pacifist, but his pacifism is pacifism, an active pacifism, involved with politics in a real way.

Born in Massachusetts in 1817, in the 21st century his reputation is mostly as a pioneer in the ecological and environmental ethics movements. He gives testimony to his love for nature in his beautiful Walden, a book about life in the woods that he published in 1847 and which tried to reconcile the split between man with his natural environment.

But, On the duty of civil disobedience is perhaps his greatest political legacy. In 1846 Thoreau refused to pay taxes, in protest both to the war against Mexico and to slavery in the United States, and was sentenced to jail. From there was born his famous treatise, in which he declares as one of his main concepts the idea that governments should not have any more power than the citizens are willing to grant it, even proposing the abolition of all government and in the same vein, opposing all power.

He then declares himself, like any good and true anarchist, an enemy of the State. His influence over the ensuing years has ranged from the Beatnicks to Martin Luther King to the late American environmentalist Murray Bookchin.

Reflecting on Thoreau, the elderly Henry Miller said he was “the best sort of person that a community can produce”. Someone who would have preferred the non-existence of governments if I was in a hurry to define his book. I could say that it is a classic of insobordination, a manual for the disobedient, useful for reinforcing the healthy and necessary ideas of dissent.” Miller himself evoked D. H. Lawrence when he said that Thoreau was a “aristocratic spirit,” which Miller reinforced by saying that “he is closer to an anarchist than to a democrat, a socialist, or a communist.”

When he wrote Of the duty of civil disobedience, he most certainly did not think that the conditions at that historic moment in his country were inalterable. He warned about how, over and above the will of one people, the US government – like so many others – will continue to give rise to “abuse and prejudice before the people can act”.

As an example he presented, “…the current Mexican war, the work of relatively few people who use the government established as an instrument, even though the people would not have authorized that measure.”

It is history as repetition, a macabre caricature that would re-emerge its imperial mood in the Vietnam War and of course in the Iraqui war, which was enthusiastically supported by a spurious government of this country.

Thoreau should be considered a hero in Mexico and deserves tp have a monument to remember him by, as surely as we have one of Gandhi.

* Working from the original Spanish, and not having Henry Miller’s works handy, I can’t vouch for the Miller quote. Thoreau’s, of course, I took directly from the published 1849 text.