Peace Plaza October 12, 2021
El Cerrillo, the church named for the little hill, sits on the north side of the old city, overlooking the swarming markets of Santo Domingo. The church is open for quiet prayer on Sunday, candles blazing beside a wax figure of Jesus, looking like a white guy with dreadlocks. He is not bloody and dying, like at Guadalupe’s place on the eastern hill. This Jesus at El Cerrillo is very much alive, if not quite kicking. His painted portrait hangs behind the empty altar, and he does not look happy about it. A few worshippers kneel on the pews with bowed heads and a profound wish list. Outside the large wooden door, some Tzotzil families are having an early lunch on the front step, making it almost impossible to enter the church. Perhaps this is an invitation to join their modest feast, but I doubt it. Maybe it is part of a protest.
Down the hill to the south, outside the shuddered Cathedral on the Plaza de Paz, a rally is being held, featuring speakers and a folk band playing songs about Che Guevara and the struggles of the Campesinos. This block is the central gathering spot for such events, and it definitely belongs to the Tzotzil. The hard flat surface resembles a miniature version of the Zocalo in Mexico City, with one exception—a lonely wooden cross, placed in the center, almost crying out to be burned.
According to lore, Ciudad Real was having problems with Tzotzil encampments in the central plaza, creating an eye sore for the municipal authorities, who may have been fine with Catholic conversions but resisted the thought of markets in the temple. So a second plaza was created across the street—the Peace Plaza. No trees, no benches, no gazebo, just an empty square. Everyday the ladies and their children lay out colorful blankets and textiles in neat rows, and sell all day long on the square. When the rain comes, they cover themselves in plastic tarps and continue to sell. On Sundays, they rest, making room for the protesters.
The event has been organized to cast yet another light on Mexico’s missing, including the 43 student-teachers from Iguala (a subject of impassioned outcry since at least 2016), and others closer to home. The construction barrier beside the old Cathedral is covered with photos, of men and women, many of them ancient-looking, others like they were taken yesterday. A speaker makes pointed remarks about Governor Escandón, then reads a list of names, but to complete the task would take a lifetime. Around 100,000 people have disappeared since 1968, when records first were kept, and there were a staggering 7000 reported in the country just in 2020 alone.
The outrage never ends. There have been 340,000 documented murders since the Cartel War started in 2006. According to one estimate, there are more than 5000 unidentified bodies in Mexico. In an era of forensic biotechnology, this is an unconscionable failure, in which ineptitude is not a suitable explanation. It is clearly advantageous to someone that the mystery remains forever unsolved.
No mysteries are going to be solved on the Peace Plaza today. The crowd gathered is smaller than expected, despite the folk band’s best efforts to create a sing-along anthem—El Pueblo Unido Jamás Será Vencido!—of triumph over suffering. Many in the audience are armed with carved wooden sticks, about the length and heft of a baseball bat. Young women are carrying them. So is a teenage son, and so is his dad. Some of the bats have been whittled into sharpened tips. Point taken.