Drawing based on photo by José Rosas Cano
Note: Written within the context of the Irish referendum on marriage equality May 2015.
(The following is a conversation
which may or may not have taken place, inside a wooden barn, at the fort of Loreto;
in Puebla, Mexico; on the eve of the 5th day of May of 1862.)
‘What
has been agreed my dear teacher?’
‘The
same as was mentioned by the republican messenger who visited our foggy village:
Our blades will win a place at the table for our people, my dear Coyi.’
‘Master
Washi, I would follow you anywhere, so would the rest; but our people have been
duped before… are you confident that this new government will keep their word?’
‘Brave
Coyi, I tell you this: If we do not act as equals we will never be treated as
such. Tomorrow, we will be first to repel the French assault; it’s an honour…
If any of us survive, we will hold the government to their word, if we all
perish, our women and elders will do it, if they should be chained or slain as
in the past… then our people’s children will avenge us all someday.’
A
sense of foreboding clouded young Coyi’s brow, he glanced at his machete, left standing
against the barn door, the carvings of a cross and the symbol which his teacher
told him was an ‘M,’ freshly cut into its wooden handle.
“Protection…”
his teacher had said; “…our saviour and mother Tonatzin will walk with us.”
The
late afternoon thunderstorms began to roar high up in the sierra. Coyi looked
out through a crack in the door, there was just about enough daylight left to
make out the contour of the volcanoes to the west, they stood purple and bruised
against the gushing red dusk.
Fire
in the clouds wrapped itself around snowy peaks; bottled up tempest in the
mid-spring evening of bloodletting.
‘I
will fight by your side any day my teacher. I know very little of this world. I
haven’t been able to learn the Spanish alphabet though you’ve tried. I’m
thankful for the medicine through which you have shown me the twilight world of
which others can only dream… Teacher, if you think being here is a good idea, I
shall ask no more.’
Washi
moved closer to his disciple and landed a warm hand on his shoulder.
‘Coyi,
this is the time to think of this world and not of the other. You are a man,
you have already fought enough battles in your life, you are free to go, many
happy years await you and there are many lessons which I cannot teach.’
‘Let
me learn the lesson of why we must be here and defend this fort.’ Coyi said.
‘Very
well,’ Washi said pausing only long enough to smile, ‘When I was your age, no
one would have believed that a Zapotec indian could ever become president; and yet,
it happened… This is a time of great change my dear one. President Juarez will
not betray his own blood; he will make good on the republic’s promise to us. On
the other hand; there are many in this world who hate the kind of change that
is taking place… They don’t want indians as presidents, they want Indians under
the yoke, ploughing the fields or cutting down straw until they die.’
Coyi
turned to look at his teacher’s face, his lips hurting to say something.
‘Speak,
after tonight you may not get another chance, my brave Coyi.’
‘My
teacher… what if we, what if we lose?’
Washi
slowly crouched down and began dragging his finger on the ground. He remained
quiet for a while. The mules in the barn stirred as the far away thunder began
to rumble.
Coyi
looked down at his teacher’s drawings and recognised the sacred geometry outlined
by his fingertip -their people’s motif on the dirt; it brought a sort of
calmness to his heart.
Washi
stopped drawing and caressed one of the bales of straw at arm’s length. He ran
his dark fingers along the surface, as if trying to count the individual strands
by touch.
‘If
we fight and lose, we will be ruled by foreigners, yet again.’ He finally said.
Coyi
listened to the distant thunder; he began to guess the expression in his
teacher’s eyes as the twilight dyed itself black.
‘My
teacher, what can a few dozen Zacapoaxtlan warriors do here, that thousands of well-armed
republican troops cannot do?’
Washi
smiled lovingly at his student, recognising rightful questioning as if blossoming
in the dark like a Tlitlitzin moonflower.
‘Dearest
Coyi, by showing our Zacapoaxtlan faces at the battlefield tomorrow, we will
show this Napoleon III over in Paris, and his generals here in Mexico, that
they are not just fighting president Juarez, they’re not just fighting the
second Mexican republic… Our blunt machetes, our huarache-sandaled feet, our cotton
clothes, our straw hats… our very own copper faces… we will show them that they
are fighting Mexico itself.’
A
lull in the thunder coincided with a coyote’s distant call, which for a second distracted
Coyi from the lesson at hand.
‘I
see,’ Coyi sighed and nodded as he leaned back against the straw, ‘and besides
us, the Xochialpulcans and our other neighbours, are there more Indians waiting
to defend this fort tomorrow, teacher?’
‘I
was the only indian face at that table my Coyi, but in so many other faces
there, I could see the blood of our ancestors even if somewhat mixed with the Spaniard’s
own, like in Porfirio Diaz’s -the military man from Oaxaca.’
‘And
what of this General Zaragoza who is to lead us tomorrow? Some of our men heard
that he is not even from around here.’
‘He’s
from Texas.’
‘Forgive
me teacher, but are Texans… Mexican?’
‘They
used to be, Zaragoza still is.’
‘What
of the old man we met on the way here? Oswaldo, the black man? The one who says
he fought alongside Riley back in 47?’
‘He
was at the meeting also. Oswaldo is well-known to Texans like Zaragoza; many years
ago -before he ever met Riley- Oswaldo fled the plantation, as there was a
price on his head.
The
wind outside began to pick up and made a draft of dust fly around inside the
barn; wood boards creaked, Washi and Coyi squinted to keep their eyes clean.
‘A
warrior who runs away?’ Asked Coyi, as the wind howled.
‘Those
who once dared chase Oswaldo across the border, called him a “runaway slave.”
He calls himself a “free man”.’
‘Teacher,
why would a man choose to fight with us against the French rather than return
up north to fight his would-be masters?’
The
rain opened up, and began hitting the barn’s roof. It sounded like a thousand
lashes, like a thousand drums.
‘Young
Coyi,’ teacher made his voice louder than the deluge, ‘Why a man choses to stay
in Mexico is often the fault of a woman; Oswaldo fights for his family. As for
the French… Their Emperor wishes to set up shop in Mexico and help the
confederates who fight Lincoln up north… so that when they win their so called
“civil war” up there, they can make us all into slaves.’
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Coyi
remained quiet listening to the thinning rain and contemplating all of the
things his teacher had told him.
Only
the darkness would witness Coyi and Washi’s embrace.
Soon
enough, the rain stopped and Coyi fell asleep with his head on the straw.
Coyi
dreamed of the mountains of Zacapoaxtla, of his mother’s cheekbones, of the cuts
in his hands after long days working the fields and of a waterfall, the one he
saw reflected in his teacher’s eyes.
When
he woke, Coyi found Washi sitting calmly, looking at him, dressed in the cold
twilight.
A
bugle broke the peaceful awakening as the sun’s rays snaked in through the gaps
in the wood.
‘It’s
time.’ Washi whispered, preparing to stand up.
‘Perhaps…
one more question teacher?’ Coyi rubbed his eyes as his nerves choked his voice.
Washi
smiled and sat back down.
‘Well?’
‘If
this new republic survives, will we all be equal?’
‘Yes.’
‘Indians,
blacks, the women too? No more second-class people?’
‘Yes.’
Coyi
nodded scratching the thick black hair on top of his young head.
‘What
about people like us teacher? We, who choose each other but must hide it
because of the laws that say we can’t be together? Will we be equal in the new
republic also?’
Coyi
dived deep into his teacher’s black eyes, waiting for the answer.
‘Coyi,
my dear, my equal: If not in this new
republic, it will be so in another republic; but I think that you and I will
not ever see it, even if we live a hundred years after this day –the Cinco de Mayo of 1862.’
Copyright © Francisco Rebollo 2015
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