A few months ago, at Mexico City’s Auditorio Nacional, workers were cleaning up after a triumphant viewing of “L’Elisir d’Amore,” broadcast live from the Metropolitan Opera House. Outside, in the bright sunshine, Reforma Avenue was closed to traffic for a protest. Angry people gathered on the theatre steps, waving Mexican flags and hoisting effigies of Donald Trump, and then began marching toward El Ángel, a century-old monument to Mexican independence. One protester carried a placard that read “Mexico Deserves Respect.” Another held a poster of Trump with a Hitler mustache and the tagline “Twitler.” A local activist known as Juanito carried a large American flag bearing an unflattering image of Trump and the message “Enough! Gringo Racist, Full of Shit Trump, Son of Satan, You’re a Danger to the World.” Juanito said that he was prepared to take up arms against the American incursion, demonstrating his resolve by pointing out the scars of old bullet wounds.
Tag Archives: Mexico
Momentous times. As Hurricane Maria, right on the heels of Irma, smashed its way past Dominica and toward Puerto Rico, in the Caribbean, on Tuesday, the inhabitants of Mexico City were reeling from the terrifying shock of a 7.1-magnitude earthquake that struck in the early afternoon. By Wednesday morning, more than two hundred deaths had been reported in Mexico City and in the nearby cities of Morelos and Puebla. Dozens of buildings had collapsed in the capital, while many, many more were damaged, and their occupants evacuated. Amid panic and chaos, people crowded into the streets, while plumes of dust rose from teetering structures across the city.There were several bitter coincidences about Tuesday’s earthquake. It struck just a couple of hours after Mexico City’s residents participated in an earthquake-preparedness drill, and on the thirty-second anniversary of the terrible 1985 earthquake that killed at least ten thousand people. And it came just twelve days after another powerful earthquake—the strongest to hit Mexico in a century, measuring 8.1 on the Richter scale and lasting nearly four minutes—had rocked the city. That quake had caused widespread damage and killed at least ninety-six people in states south of Mexico City—Oaxaca and Chiapas—but no one died in the capital itself. The difference in the effects had to do with the locations of the epicenters. The September 7th quake had its epicenter some five hundred miles away from Mexico City; Tuesday’s was only a hundred miles distant.
It was a half hour after midnight and Silvino Cubesare Quimare was approaching the ghost town of Separ, in southwest New Mexico. Tall and lithe, his skin browned from years of laboring under the desert sun, he strode through the darkness. Strapped to his back were two homespun burlap packs, one filled with 45 pounds of marijuana bricks and the other with enough burritos and gallon jugs of water to survive another week in the wilderness. With him were five cousins and a nephew, each shouldering a similar load. They trudged silently past the scars of an old copper mining trail, long-gone railroad tracks and trading posts that once upon a time exchanged men, minerals, and equipment across the border to Chihuahua. Up ahead, they saw the lights of a highway and knew they were within a dozen miles of their drop-off. They’d reach it before daybreak.It was April 2, 2010, and over five days they had traveled roughly five hundred miles from their village of Huisuchi, in the remote Sierra Madre mountains of northern Mexico. For months, Huisuchi had been cursed with drought. Though clouds had gathered off and on over the villagers’ homes—dark, billowing masses that overshadowed their huts among the fields of corn—it had not rained. The villagers had danced, and their children had tossed handfuls of water toward the sky, asking their god Onorúame for help, but relief had not come. By early spring their corn was burned on the stalk. Rather than face starvation, Silvino’s cousins had approached him with an idea: they could go on a drug-running mission across the border. It was a quick-paying job, and it would help their village. “You’re strong and you know the way,” they pleaded. “You’ve done this before.”
Magdalena García se veía y decía ya grande, cansada. Se apena porque dice que su mensaje no es claro cuando de sus palabras salen dardos cargados de realidad apabullante. “Nadie nos quiere ver, nadie quiere escuchar de nosotros”, lanza esta indígena mazahua de 59 años, seis hijos, año y medio encarcelada. “Ni modo”, se repetía, pues si en México ya de por sí es complicado imaginarse una mujer presidenta, qué va a poder hacer en unas elecciones si encima es indígena: “Nunca pensé que íbamos a ver esta semilla”.
¿Los zapatistas han desaparecido? Los medios, alguna vez ávidos de noticias con pasamontañas, los tratan como si hubieran vuelto a la noche de los tiempos.Pero existen, dedicados a la transformación de la vida diaria en sus caracoles y Juntas de Buen Gobierno, y no dejan de plantear iniciativas. Contra la “haraganería del pensamiento”, han organizado estimulantes seminarios internacionales, que prefieren llamar “semilleros”.
concederlo el recién electo presidente de Estados Unidos, Donald Trump. Quieren que se restituya la política de ‘pies secos, pies mojados’ o quieren, al menos, una amnistía para los varados, para aquellos que abandonaron Cuba antes de que el 12 de enero pasado el ex presidente Barack Obama derogara la política que permitía a los residentes de la isla ser admitidos legalmente de manera casi expedita si se presentaban en las fronteras terrestres o si lograban tocar tierra desde el mar.
La petición de los varados llegó al sitio web de la Casa Blanca el pasado 25 de enero y necesitan obtener 100.000 firmas para que la Casa Blanca se pronuncie sobre este asunto. Que responda no significa que conceda la amnistía, o que regrese la política de ‘pies secos, pies mojados’. Significa, apenas, que recibirán algo de atención. Mientras las 100.000 firmas llegan, Jovann Silva Delgado, abogado cubano residente legal en Dallas, Texas, viaja en su auto hasta Nuevo Laredo para dar asesoría legal a quienes duermen en albergues, casas de migrantes manejadas por la iglesia católica, hoteles baratos y otros sitios cerca de la frontera.
“If we had spent those 23 years exchanging gunshots,” says Subcomandante Insurgente Moisés of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation in an evening address to the many gathered for “The Zapatistas and ConSciences for Humanity” encounter currently taking place in San Cristóbal de Las Casas, “would we have been able to build this?”
The Subcomandante was referring to the flourishing infrastructures of self-organized Zapatista life, lived by thousands of rebel Indigenous people in the Lacandon jungle of Chiapas, Mexico. The Zapatista movement today celebrates the 23rd anniversary of its uprising in San Cristóbal on Jan. 1, 1994, the day the North American Free Trade Agreement went into effect. In the 23 years that have followed the Zapatistas are organized by small communities known as caracoles and have built autonomous hospitals, schools, health clinics, security, transport, and communications operations.
Nochixtlán—Before the federal police opened fire, the church bells in this town high in the mountains of southern Mexico rang out a warning. Mariana Sosa, a 51-year-old primary school teacher, was already out that morning with other demonstrators, blocking the nearby national highway, part of a wave of protests against a government effort to impose a new education policy partly designed to weaken the teachers union.
It was Sunday, June 19, market day in this town of 18,000, with added festivities planned for Father’s Day. Sosa (her name has been changed) remembered: “Hundreds of federales started arriving in busloads. First, they fired tear gas and rubber bullets and pushed us back. The church bells alerted our people to the danger, and they came down from the market to reinforce us.”
Zapatista Army for National Liberation
To the Federal Judiciary Council of Mexico:
The whole time the only terrorists have been those who for more than 80 years have so badly governed this country. You are simply the sink where the genocidaires go to wash their hands and together you have converted the judicial system into a poorly built and clogged latrine, the national flag in a reusable roll of toilet paper, and the national shield into a logo made of undigested fast food. Everything else is pure theater in order to simulate justice where there is only impunity and shamelessness, feigning “institutional government” where there is nothing more than dispossession and repression.
Joaquín Archivaldo Guzmán Loera, El Chapo, está por primera vez en la historia perdiendo sus privilegios en prisión. Luego del ridículo mundial personificado por la Secretaría de Gobernación que “perdió” el control de la seguridad, y la Conagua que participó en facilitar la construcción del túnel, el gobierno mexicano se enfrenta a un problema enorme.
Los 82 cargos formales en las cortes de Estados Unidos en contra del capo y sus aliados, la presencia de la CIA en México, los informes del FBI y la DEA sobre vínculos políticos con el cártel, y las confesiones que el narcotraficante y su familia han hecho a la prensa a últimas fechas complican el panorama.
Como lo hiciera en su momento el capo colombiano Pablo Escobar, Guzmán pretende negociar que le permitan vivir el resto de su existencia cómodamente y no encerrado como está en alta seguridad (sin convivir con otros presos y apenas mirando el sol una hora al día).
Sus abogados han ofrecido que se declararía culpable de narcotráfico y retirarían los amparos contra la extradición si las autoridades estadunidenses le aseguran una prisión laxa, con comodidades y visitas.