Erased Faces (16 page)

“Why are we persecuted? What have we done to be so hated? Why do their dogs want to destroy us?”

Orlando shifted his weight while he pondered Juana's questions. When he began speaking, his words baffled her because they appeared not to be answering what she had asked. Nonetheless, she listened.

“Compañera
, when I was a boy still working on Finca Las Estrellas, Don Absolón Mayorga,
el patrón
, had a sister. She was so young that everyone thought she was his daughter. One day, all the workers were assembled out in the field where a post had been planted. All of us, servants, maids, laundry women, everyone that served inside and outside of the main house, were ordered to that pillory. We didn't know what was going on, but I remember hearing the older people say that something terrible was about to happen.

“Then, the sister of
el patrón
was brought out from the big house. We could all see that it was by force, because it was Don Absolón himself who was pushing her forward. I remember that she was crying, that her face was swollen and smeared, as if she had been struck many times. When they reached the pillar,
el patrón
tore off her clothes until she was naked. Ashamed for her, we turned away, but he scolded us and ordered us to look at his sister. We obeyed. Then he
tied her to the pillory and whipped her until she fainted. After that he cast her into the jungle.”

Orlando fell silent, leaving Juana more baffled than before. She tried to tie his words to her questions, but could not find the connection. What she did see, however, was a repetition of the scourging of the woman in Orlando's story, only this time it was a mestiza, the sister of
el patrón
.

“Compañero
, what does this sad story have to do with the hatred the
patrones
have for us?”

“You see, Juana, Don Absolón's sister was discovered to have been in love with another woman. She was a
manflora
, a woman who loved one of her own kind. I remember that he shouted for everyone to hear that what she did, what she was, and what she called love was a sin, that it was repugnant, that she was an animal with no reason to live.”

Juana sucked in a deep breath, feeling frightened without fully understanding why. She, herself, had never experienced love, much less had she ever imagined that a woman could have such feelings for another woman. Hearing and knowing this made her heart pound. She thought of her mother, of her sisters, of all the women of her village, and she was unable to grasp what it would be like to love one of them.

Orlando narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on Juana's face, discerning her astonishment at hearing the story. Without waiting for her to say anything, he continued.

“Juana, after many years spent in cities and villages in search of the answer to questions like yours, I now see why Don Absolón was so enraged. His sister had gone against his and all the other
patrones'
rules and religion. She was different and had dared to do what was forbidden, so he punished her even though she was of his own flesh.”

Juana's silence was deep. She had withdrawn so much into herself that Orlando thought she was no longer listening to him. He waited for her to return to him and his words, but when she remained silent, he went on.

“I also see that to the men who want to be our masters, being
una india
or
un indio
, being poor and forced to scratch a life out of a piece
of dry dirt, being a
manflora
or a man who loves men, being anyone contrary, is all the same. In their eyes, we share a common destiny in which we are hated, persecuted, tortured and condemned because we threaten their way of life. In the end,
los patrones
are severe and unforgiving.”

Orlando moved closer to Juana and raised his hand to touch the scar on her forehead. It was a fleeting, tender touch. After a few moments, he cleared his throat.

“Will you stay?”

“Yes.”

Juana, under the guidance of Orlando Flores, became Teniente Insurgente Isabel, and embraced the life of a guerrilla without reservation. Along with men and other women, she rose daily before sunrise, ate tortillas and drank black coffee—the usual breakfast fare—and put in a full day of training. Getting used to wearing pants and a man's shirt posed a difficult obstacle for her; she found those garments tight, restraining, hot. But she soon realized that dressing like a man also gave her more mobility and protection than did her long dress. Another hardship for her was wearing boots in place of the
huaraches
she had worn all of her life. Her feet blistered, they became swollen, almost hobbling her, but in time she adapted, and she enjoyed being able to step on sharp or prickly rocks and plants without worrying about her soles or ankles.

Soon she learned to slither on her belly, almost silently, and crawl on her hands and knees as she approached mock targets, or enemies. Her elbows bled, and her hands and arms ached from the pressure of carrying the unaccustomed weapon until her skin became coarse, scabbing over with new bleedings on top of those wounds.

Juana had never held a rifle and felt awkward when she was first ordered to take hold of one, but she soon became acquainted with its weight and feel. She practiced shooting long hours, beyond what was expected, until she was able to place the bullet on the exact mark on the designated tree or branch. This was also the case with running, ducking and leaping, all of which she did with more success than any of the other new recruits, the same
compañeras
and
compañeros
who
in the beginning had laughed at her because she was short. That scoffing soon turned into admiration when it could not be denied that no one could match Juana's accuracy and speed during maneuvers.

Through the years, she changed. Not only was she transformed from the girl who had sustained the blows of a morose husband into a woman now trained as a guerrilla, but during that time she had also developed her mind, concentrating on learning to read, write and expand her skills in speaking Spanish. It was Orlando Flores who provided her first lessons, guiding her until she was capable of reading newspapers, written notices and other articles.

Her face had also undergone a change; once round, it became elongated and angular. Her nose had also thinned to a point, and her eyes were nearly always veiled by caution. Only her mouth remained the same. It was still as full as when she had been a girl, and appeared always on the verge of a smile. This characteristic caused confusion in those who did not know her because her lips contradicted the seriousness of her other features.

After a few years, when Orlando Flores and other members of the leadership noticed her dedication, and even more important, her successful transformation into a guerrilla, Juana was included in the small group of leaders. Shortly after that, supplies were purchased, brokered and even donated for
la lucha;
they came from different parts of Mexico, and even from other countries. Food, clothing, medicines, stockpiles of firearms and explosives grew steadily. They were warehoused at strategically hidden points, where they were held to be transported to the Lacandona. This was done by train, boat, and even on the backs of mules.

It was determined that Juana would be the best of the group to bring in those materials because of the self-assurance with which she walked and talked, and because she was a woman, a Tzeltal, who would hardly draw attention. Teniente Isabel accepted the mission, but not until she trained herself, learning the terrain, the cities, the rivers, the lakes, the borders that might present potential obstacles. When this had been accomplished, she chose to travel by herself, accepting the company of others only when necessary to return with supplies.

It was at those times that she mingled, dressed in a native skirt, blouse and
huipil
. Unnoticed, she traveled to hidden caches in Tabasco, Veracruz, Oaxaca, north to Monterrey and south across the border to El Petén and Frontera Echeverría in Guatemala. She forged rivers: Río Negro, Río Santa Cruz and others that flowed in various directions, but that always yielded fresh supplies. Strangers often saw her leap on barges or rafts, ride into a village on the bare back of a burro, unsuspecting that she was no ordinary Tzeltal woman but someone on a mission.

Juana outwardly threw herself into the life of an insurgent, but inwardly she found herself trapped in loneliness, which grew as time passed, and her isolation deepened as she became obsessed by the memory of her father bartering her. She tried to understand why this feeling gnawed at her. After all, it was tradition; she was not the only girl to be exchanged. It had happened to her mother, to her sisters, to all the women she knew.

He even owns a mule, which he has offered to sell in exchange for you
. Juana was tormented by those words; they were engraved on her spirit, they tortured her, and no matter how much she tried, she was incapable of forgetting those lisping sounds as they dripped from her father's lips. After several years, she understood that unless she confronted that memory, she would never be free. That was when she went out in search of her father.

During one of her trips to claim weapons and supplies, Juana reached the region where Río Santa Cruz nears Lago Nahá, the site of her native village. She had been on a barge making her way toward Monte Líbano, when she was filled with an urge to return to the place where she would find her father, where she would ask him the questions that had haunted her for years. When the boat stopped at Monte Líbano, she got off and walked to the road leading to her village.

On the way, she blended into clusters of people who walked the muddy roads, either making their way to the marketplaces of Ocosingo and Comitán, or traveling in the opposite direction toward the lake villages of Ts'ibatnah, Mesabak, or Ah K'ak, as well as Nahá. It was a long walk, taking her an entire day.

As Juana made her way, she observed her people, taking in the men and women who crowded the intersecting paths in that part of the Lacandona Jungle. She scrutinized the men, those coming toward her heading in the opposite direction and those traveling her route. Some held reins pulling emaciated burros, or oxen; others pushed dilapidated carts loaded with sacks of beans or vegetables. She focused on their worn, wrinkled faces, their eyes downcast in dejection, and she mused how that look became transformed once a person became an insurgent, someone convinced that life could be changed.

Juana looked at the women especially. Some of them were just girls already burdened with hefty loads of goods meant for the market, or by bellies heavy with child, or by children that dangled from a backpack or clutched at a skirt. In each one of those women, Juana, remembering her life, saw her reflection first as a girl carting goods, then as a wife experiencing one ill-fated pregnancy after the other, all the time toiling in the fields or by the river of El Caribal.

Juana trekked along with everyone else, her feet pounding the hardened mud, her throat coated with the fine dust lifted by the tread of countless feet. She felt energized by the sound of thumping
huaraches
, murmuring voices, creaking carts, squalling children, but she was also filled with anger, knowing that such a life had been going on for decades, for centuries, that the pathway she and others now trod had been pounded into the ground by enslaved ancestors whose names were now forgotten.

She wore the long woolen skirt of her tribe as well as a faded embroidered blouse and
huipil
. She knew that outwardly she was just another Tzeltal woman, but inwardly, she was different from them. This thought empowered her and reconfirmed her mission of finding her father. As she neared Nahá, however, her resolve began to falter because she wondered what she would say to him, how she would let him know that he had condemned her to unhappiness for the price of a mule.

When she neared Lago Nahá, Juana's nose picked up the scent of water and her ears caught whiffs of voices that skimmed the lake, reminding her of her childhood. Without having to ask, she took the path that rimmed the lake, heading for her family
palapa
, but when
she arrived at the place, she found nothing, only faded remnants of what used to be her family's dwelling.

Juana, astounded and not understanding, looked around, but there was no one; the place was abandoned. What she remembered as a flourishing cluster of huts was now a heap of rotting poles and palm fronds entangled in fetid mud pits. She looked toward the trees that had surrounded the dwellings and noticed that in their place were saplings growing out from under felled trees. Other than that, there was only silence broken by the sound of the breeze, rustling bushes and low-growing ferns.

Bewildered, Juana paced the short distance to the rim of the lake, where she walked until she came across a group of women doing their wash. They gawked at the stranger until the one who appeared to be the oldest spoke.

“Demetria Galván?”

“No,
abuela
. I'm her sister, Juana.”

“¡Ahhhhhhh!”

A hushed expression that sounded like a sigh passed through the women's lips, but Juana was not able to interpret its meaning. She noticed that they stared at her, then one after the other, faces turned toward the woman who had taken the lead.

“You're the wife of Cruz Ochoa, who lives in El Caribal.”

Juana stiffened at the sound of the name that she never uttered. She knew that, cutting through vast distances of jungle and mountain, there was a tight system of communication between villages and tribes. Knowing this, however, had not prepared her to hear that name thrown in her face so soon after her arrival.

“Tongues said that you left him, but that he found you and brought you back to El Caribal.”

“Those who speak say the truth, but only part of it. I left him again years ago.”