Fault in San Andres May 9, 2022
In the mid-’90’s, the small town of San Andres Larráinzar became famous. It was, and remains, a Zapatista stronghold, where the peace agreement between the EZLN and the government of Mexico was first brokered. Manuel Camacho, a man with his own presidential ambitions at the time, represented the federal government, on behalf of President Ernesto Zedillo, the chief executive accused of stealing an election.
Meanwhile Subcomandante Marcos, his black mask revealing only a hole for his pipe, represented the rebels with great skepticism. The mutually-agreed referee for the negotiations was Bishop Samuel Ruiz, leader of the the Catholic diocese of San Cristobal and latest successor to the legendary Fray Bartolome , whose liberation theology had won the trust of the Maya. When the settlement was finally signed, granting limited autonomy to most parts of the state, the Zapatistas claimed victory, although it was nothing more than a truce. As it stands, the settlement is unsettled.
By the end of 1996, Bishop Ruiz reported that “the presidential proposal on Indigenous Rights and Culture does not comply with what was agreed in San Andres.” The federal government had reneged on their promises of Chiapaneco autonomy, and the counterproposal from Zedillo was instantly rejected by the EZLN, thus throwing the conflict back into stalemate, where it remains today, leaving the State of Chiapas essentially ungovernable.
Displaced Maya keep arriving in San Cristobal, the city where Father Bartholomew once promised aid and comfort to the dispossessed natives. The latest arrival is from San Andres. Her name is Maria Candelaria. She just turned 19 the other day, arriving with nothing at the LibreArte bookstore belonging to Victor and Margarito, where she is relieved to find a secure place to sleep. For the first time, she is safe, if not quite sound. Somehow she blames herself for her mistreatment, which is how so many indigenous women are taught.
Candelaria’s left foot curls outward, as a result of a birth defect, requiring the use of crutches, so her escape from her abusive home took extra planning and effort. It happened in the middle of the night, days after her father had threatened to kill her with a machete. As the girl became an adult, she realized how her parents had come to see the cursed girl as an economic burden, especially when she resisted their pressure to increase her tamales production for the family business.
“You make 300 tamales or you are beaten,” she says in Spanish, her second language. Family finances grew untenable at home, the violence escalated. Her brother was sent to the United States, where he almost died in the Sonora Desert.
Vanessa met Candelaria at LibreArte and listened to her harrowing story. She does not ask about the grisly details that brought this 19-year-old to such a desperate state. Instead, she gives Candelaria the bag of used clothes she had intended for her friend Elvira, who also struggles with life in the city, although less so because she is at least loved by her parents. She gives her money to purchase supplies for making tamales, a brutally earned skill that the young woman might yet use to make ends meet.
First, Candelaria needs a shower, and maybe treatment for lice. Vanessa doubts anyone has ever combed this girl’s hair. Such deprivation and abuse existed long before the so-called peace agreement of San Andres—and as far back as Fray Bartolomo’s memories of the 1500’s—and little has changed since victory was declared. Those brave women who served in the Uprising of 1994 may have been treated with dignity after the war, but few others can claim the privilege. The poverty and despair intractably persist, overwhelming those empaths who listen to their stories and feel compelled to act.
Vanessa says to her, “Even if your father beats you and your mother does nothing, even if he holds a machete to your throat, you have worth. Candelaria, you have worth.”