Erased Faces (23 page)

“‘Before I continue, I ask the maids to remove the cups, saucers and jugs from this House for this is the House of God! I command the
rest of you to sit on the floor, just as those who serve you have done, for in this House we are all servants of God!'

“Our
compañera
marveled when she saw that the congregation obeyed him and got down on their rumps, but something in their bodies told her that they hated our bishop, despite their obedience, and she knew the reason. They despised him because he was our protector, and understanding this made her put her fatigue aside. She could only think of what had just been said by our brother. Suddenly her concentration was interrupted by the young man next to her who wanted to know our bishop's name.

“‘Compañera
, who is that priest?'

“‘His name is Brother Bartolomé de Las Casas, but we call him
Tatic
, Little Father.'

“Our bishop breathed in deeply, filling his lungs as he prepared to speak out again. He looked toward the rear of the church, and our
compañera
thought that his eyes met hers, but then he returned his gaze to those huddled beneath him, their fine garments wiping the dust off the floor.

“‘It is a mortal sin to enslave the natives of this land! Blind cowards, whom Satan holds deceived, put down what you have stolen, or at least stop stealing! I command you to do this now! Otherwise, I shall excommunicate you right here in this sacred House! Almighty God is my witness!'

“Our
compañera's
eyes widened because she understood our priest's words, every one of them, and as she looked around, she saw that the others also had understood. Their eyes, too, were wide open, and filled with expectation.

“‘Traitor!'

“‘Liar!'

“‘Cut out his tongue!'

“‘No! Cut out his heart!'

“She heard the rumble of insults and threats, first in low, whispering tones, then louder, and finally they were hurled against our bishop in pitched, shrill voices. The slave masters,
capitanes
and
maestros
, as well as their women, got to their feet, faces red, veins puffed up with the blood of outrage, as they screamed their fury at our priest. Fists
were raised in disgust, slashing the heavy air. They shuffled back and forth, like cattle. Soon, several men broke away from the crowd, daggers drawn. They leaped over the altar rail heading for the pulpit.

“Our
compañera
rose to her feet with a speed that she thought her limbs had forgotten and, without thinking, she plunged into the milling, screeching crowd that shoved her back and forth. Suddenly she lost her footing and she fell, pressed to the floor where the heeled slipper of one of the ladies squashed her hand. She let out a groan but got to her feet again, forgetting the sharp pain in her hand. When she looked back, she saw that many of our people had followed her.

“The attackers' lunge toward our bishop had been halted by three soldiers who had been standing behind the pulpit, giving him time to descend the narrow steps onto the floor of the church. He headed for the vestibule, but before reaching safety, his path was blocked by a bearded slave owner. As the man raised his dagger, our
compañera
and the others jumped on him, all of them falling in a heap, rolling in the dust, amid the clamor of curses, obscenities and threats. This break gave our bishop time to escape into the sanctuary at the rear of the church, leaving his enemies infuriated and filled with hatred.

“Amigas y amigos
, you can imagine how, at that violent moment, our
compañera's
memory must have conjured the years during which she had wandered, looking for what she and our people had lost. She thought of the many deaths, mutilations and floggings which she had witnessed. Now, her thoughts were riveted on the image of our bishop, who had dared to unmask the evils that had gripped our land. She had no way of knowing that he would live many more years, never ceasing to decry what his countrymen were doing, never halting his stinging words that assured the world that she and her people were humans, with souls that wept because of pain inflicted on their bodies and for what was gone from their lives.

“The next day, our
compañera
did not resist when she was strapped to the pillory by a soldier's rough hands. She looked around hoping to inspire the others awaiting punishment, but she saw that she was surrounded instead by a multitude of white faces, some bearded, others partially covered by
mantillas
. To one side was the front of this cathedral, its ornate pillars and niches staring down at her like empty eyes.
In the opposite direction, close to where she stood, was the huge cross that still rises nearly as high as the cathedral. Soon its shadow would be cast over her. She waited patiently for its darkness to overcome her.

“And so you see, my
compañeras
and
compañeros
, our bishop was among us then, just as he is living with us now. And then as now, our
hermanas
and
hermanos
were, and are, punished for defending him. In this very place, if one listens, one can still hear his voice raised in our defense, as well as the sounds of whips cutting into the backs of our people. If he has the courage now, as he had it then, to speak against injustice, I ask you: Why do we not have the strength to follow the path that he is again carving out for us? If our
compañera
had the will to defend him then, why are we afraid to do so now?”

The woman ended her testimonial with two images that danced in the church's dim light: a
compañera
, overshadowed by a cross, awaiting punishment, and a bishop who, in his attempt to stand up for the rights of his people, was living a repeated life. The narrative left the listeners stunned by its challenging words that churned up memories of ancestral injustice. Silence prevailed within the ancient walls of Santo Domingo, while the
compañeras
and
compañeros
listened to echoes of words from the past trapped in the church's vaulted ceilings.

Orlando Flores sat as if in a trance. He was remembering the story of the woman who had led the insurrection generations ago—another testimonial learned in the kitchens of the Mayorga
finca
. He was also struck with admiration for the woman who had just spoken. Her memory, her gestures and her way of speaking had unlocked his heart, allowing the fears inhabiting it to spring loose to escape into thin air. He felt strong again, fearless, new, and he wanted to speak out.

The Las Casas Indian Congress was scheduled to convene in San Cristóbal in October of 1974. It was the bishop who had called together such a conclave, and although he declared that it was in memory of Brother Bartolomé de las Casas, its primary purpose was to hear the voices of the natives, which had been silenced for nearly five hundred years.

The year before the congress, when Orlando Flores had first experienced the bishop come alive in the storytelling of his
compañera
in the Church of Santo Domingo, his own life took a new path. For days, even weeks, he could not stop thinking of the man who was inhabiting this world in a repeated way. The repetition of life was not a new idea for Orlando; his people knew that this was a common occurrence. What baffled him, however, was his own role in the events that were swirling around him.

What am I to do? Should I return to the jungle to protect myself? Should I remain here in the city or on the
fincas
to listen, to speak, to help?
These were some of the questions that robbed Orlando of sleep despite his weariness beyond words from hard days' labor. His body and legs ached from carrying loads on his back, or from countless hours spent stooping over bean plants.

He decided the least he could do was to become a part of the excitement that was taking hold of the people: the Tzeltal, Tzotzil, Chol, Lacandón. Despite his fatigue after work, he joined the groups of men and women who got together in back rooms or in churches. He found that at those times people talked without restraint; everyone seemed to have something to say—except for him. Although he had wanted to speak right from the first meeting he attended, he found himself surrounded by the masses and listening to the inspiring stories of others. Orlando still found himself tongue-tied.

As his reticence struggled with his desire to speak, his attention was riveted on the organizers whose presence became more apparent each time a meeting took place. Orlando saw that among them were women, as well as men, and that they were mostly mestizos educated
in cities, who were responding to the bishop's call to prepare the people for the Indian Council.

He observed those persons closely, listening to their words, scrutinizing their moves and gestures, because he distrusted them. He noticed that at first they visited workers only in the field or on the job site. But as 1973 moved on, they became bolder, appearing at evening meetings as well. Their presence, Orlando realized, spurred everyone into questioning, planning, even expecting changes in their lives, and this disturbed him because he saw that the organizers did not give solutions but only gave short sermons about Christ and his apostles, and often about Bartolomé de las Casas. This forced Orlando to wonder where such words would lead. He listened to the questions and remarks often provoked in his companions by the organizers, but he thought most of their talk was essentially without direction.

The pressure caused by hearing so many things and not speaking up intensified in Orlando. With each meeting, he came closer to telling everyone that he thought that they were on a mistaken path. The truth was that in his heart Orlando doubted that any one of those organizers, with talk alone, could change what centuries had given to his people as their burden.

Yet the misery experienced by his people was undeniable and growing with each day. So he listened to the voices of the women and men who were like him, and he remembered the years he had spent dragging mahogany trunks through impenetrable mud while being prodded and driven as were the oxen. He remembered El Brujo and his severed head and its staring eyes. He remembered his days of wandering in the jungle and Don Absolón's face.

“¡Compañero!
What about the land the mestizos stole from our ancestors? When will we get some of it back? They have the best land; we get rocky
barrancas
in which to plant our seed.”

“I get paid only seven pesos a day for working like a burro, and most of the time I don't even get money, just a paper that I can exchange for a kilo of beans at the company store.”

“And what about us women who have to work like oxen, along with our children, for even less than that?”

“That's right! Don't forget us women! We want education for our children. We need medicine for them when they're sick. We want to be heard!”

Men and women uttered afflictions which cycled and repeated. People used different words but said the same thing over and again until the time did come when Orlando was finally able to put words together to say what he wanted. This happened when one of the organizers again spoke of Brother Bartolomé de las Casas.

“I tell you,
hermanas y hermanos
, he walks among us.”

Orlando felt a knot of words coursing from his heart toward his mouth, and got to his feet. He stood quietly, sombrero in hand, but the organizer saw him almost immediately. The man interrupted what he was about to say as Orlando spoke.

“No! That bishop died many generations ago!”

Orlando's voice rang out with such vigor that it bounced off the vaulted ceiling, echoing through the church. Everyone turned in his direction. Many twisted on the rickety pews on which they sat, trying to look at the face of the one who had uttered such a terrible thing.

“Hermano
, why do you say that?”

“Because we all know that Brother Bartolomé died many years ago.”

“Do you not believe that our lives repeat?”

All eyes were pasted on Orlando. He felt their rounded pressure pushing in on his skin. Instead of feeling intimidated, however, he experienced a surge of energy moving through his body. During the first seconds it was hot and slow, but then, as if it had broken through a barrier, his courage soared.

“I do believe that we repeat ourselves, but just as the bishop left us the first time, so will he leave us again with empty hands.”

“¡No! Cabrón mentiroso.”

“¡Fray Bartolomé se ha repetido!”

“¡Él está con nosotros!”

The gathering shouted, hurled insults at Orlando, protesting what he had said. Many of them got on their feet; the shorter ones even jumped on chairs and pews to look at Orlando and to contradict what he had said.

Orlando would neither be intimidated nor silenced.
“Hermanos, hermanas
, don't be offended, for I am one of you.”

“Then why are you trying to discourage us?”

“No,
compañera
, I'm not trying to dishearten or to make any one of us back down or turn away in fear. I'm only trying to find a way in which we will have a true chance to overcome the
patrones.”

“If that's so, why are you saying that our bishop is dead?”

“Because he
is
dead. But,
hermana
, listen carefully to me. To understand that he's dead is not a bad thing. We all know his spirit is still with us. What I'm saying is that now it is
our
turn.”

Orlando paused because he saw that the
compañeras
and
compañeras
were baffled by his words. He was searching his mind for the words needed to say what he meant. He wrinkled his brow and licked the dryness from his lips.

“What I mean is that we must be new Bartolomés. We must now take his place, stop our talk and do what he did. We must be the ones to care for one another, and defend one another with words, yes, but with actions as well. We must begin by loving ourselves and stop thinking of ourselves as stupid burros born to be slaves.”