Erased Faces (35 page)

A drum roll silenced the mob, which gawked in shock as they saw Orlando Flores appear between two soldiers. They were pushing him forward, but his body demonstrated his disdain and hatred for them. By the way he walked and held himself, he showed that he was not frightened, even when the same soldiers ordered him to stand against a wall. He shrugged off the blindfold that was offered him.

The presiding officer came on the scene and stood to the side of the firing squad. He was a short, malformed man whose uniform was oversized, and he wore green-shaded glasses even though it was night. It was apparent by the way he held out his chin and sucked in his belly that he desired to appear taller. As he was adjusting his posture, Orlando's voice rang out; it was so powerful that it silenced the murmur that had begun to sweep over the horde. So compelling were Orlando's words that the presiding officer stopped in the middle of straightening his jacket, and the shooters slackened the hold on their weapons.

“¡La cuerda se reventó, cabrones!”

A shocked silence floated over the onlookers because Orlando's words had said it all, all that was burning in their hearts.
The leash snapped, you sons of bitches! It's over! Your grip has been broken!

In an attempt to silence the prisoner, the officer raised his hand to get attention. He held a sheet of paper in his other hand, from which he began to read.

“Orlando Flores, because you are a communist intruder from another country…”

“Cabrón
, since you're going to murder me, call me by my true name: Quintín Osuna!”

Nearly unnerved, the officer looked around, first toward the shooters, then toward the crowd, then straight at the prisoner. He frowned, confused about the name, and not knowing what to do next. He brought the document closer to his face and removed the shaded glasses, squinting his myopic eyes. He chose to ignore the prisoner's name and continue reading.

“You have been found guilty of instigating…”

“¡Pendejo!
Don't you know anything? If you're going to assassinate me, do it for the right reason. I am Quintín Osuna, the executioner of one of your masters, Rufino Mayorga!”

Mention of the death of the Mayorga patriarch stunned the officer, who finally demonstrated that he understood that the prisoner was the hunted murderer of Rufino Mayorga. Within seconds, the man squared his shoulders, drew his pistol, aimed it at Orlando, and shouted his order.

“¡Fuego!”

Orlando's riddled body reeled backward against the wall, where it remained propped up for a few seconds while spots, like black roses, blotched his white tunic. The body teetered, then plummeted face forward onto the stones of the plaza floor.

“¡No! ¡No!”

Before his face crashed against the ground, Juana's voice rang out, emitting a grief-filled howl that so rattled the throng it momentarily froze in fear, then suddenly snapped, panicking, screaming, pushing, tugging, running in every direction. The pandemonium became huge, frightening the military police, who knew they were outnumbered and that control was out of their hands.

Juana and Adriana pushed blindly through the frenzy, through legs, torsos, arms, everything moving and churning. They shoved,
using the confusion that had gripped the soldiers, trying to reach Orlando's body. When they did, they took hold of him by the underarms and dragged him, inch by inch, along the wall of the building, aiming for its corner, searching for cover.

The chaos escalated, and the thrust of the crowd overturned the towers supporting the neon lights on one side of the square. The structures crashed to the ground, wounding and frightening the swarm of people even more. That side of the plaza became darkened and it was into that blackness that Juana and Adriana dragged Orlando's corpse.

The women pulled at the body of their
compañero
, but its dead weight became increasingly unmanageable. Suddenly, the burden became lighter, easier to carry and Juana looked back to see the same Chol man to whom she had spoken; he had plucked up the body's legs and was helping the women. Neither Adriana nor Juana paused to speak, or to thank the man. They knew only one thing: that they had to remove the body as far away as possible from the streets of Ocosingo. They halted when the man suddenly spoke.

“Hermanas
, wait! I have a wagon nearby. We can use it to take our
compañero
from here.”

The women looked at him, relief and gratefulness stamped on their faces. They did not know his name, nor did they ask. Juana and Adriana agreed and followed his lead to the cart, which was stationed behind a small chapel at the edge of town. Between the three of them, Orlando's body was placed on the flatbed of the wagon, which was hitched to an emaciated mule. With a jerk, they began their journey.

Hours passed as Juana, Adriana and the Chol man walked beside the creaky cart in silence. So much grief filled them that they found it impossible to speak. Adriana grieved because there was so much death around them. She mourned for Orlando and for all the innocents who were suffering and dying, and for all those who had lost and searched for a fallen loved one. Juana relived the years in which she had walked in Orlando's path, the early days when he spoke of the people of maize and the woman who had led the first insurrection against the
patrones
. She thought about his feelings for her, and she knew that, although he had never said it, he had understood her love for Adriana.

The blackness of the night slowly turned into the milky light that awaits the first rays of the sun; by that time, the cortege had entered the fringe of the Lacandona Jungle. They moved steadily without stopping for any reason, not even their own bodily needs. Neither thirst nor hunger nor the urge to relieve themselves halted the sad journey that was leading them to where they would stop to mourn and say their final farewell to the man they had loved and respected.

Without knowing when, Adriana and Juana realized that others, men and women, had joined the funeral march. No one spoke nor asked questions, yet they knew whose body it was and where it was being taken. They walked the distance in silence. Morning turned to afternoon, then to evening, and it was not until they reached the edge of a river, when the sliver of a new moon appeared over the treetops, that Juana signaled a halt to their journey. Without question or murmur, the cortege stopped.

Juana, Adriana and several other men and women assisted in taking Orlando's body from the wagon to lay it on the damp earth, near the water's edge. There the women disrobed the body and anointed it with water cupped in palm fronds. Juana and Adriana wept silently, their tears bathing Orlando's wounded body. Many of the mourners murmured prayers that would accompany him on his journey to the other side. Then, with fresh branches cut from giant ferns, the body was wrapped and fastened with vines until it was shrouded against insects and other predatory creatures.

Together, men and women carried the body to the river and waded to its center, where the current was strongest. They held on to Orlando Flores for a few minutes, cherishing the feel of his weight against their bodies as they prayed in their native languages: Chol, Chamula, and Lacandón. Juana chanted in Tzeltal. Adriana did not grasp the words of that soft prayer, but she understood their meaning. Then the mourners released their grip and allowed the current to take possession of Orlando's body, leading it downstream towards the land of his birth.

The insurgents went into negotiations with the government after ten days of war. Countless agreements and accords were devised only to be discarded. Promises were made only to be broken. Documents were developed, then rendered obsolete. The insurgents' ranks diminished as men and women returned to their settlements, attempting to halt the collapse of what was left of their lives.

Juana contemplated returning to Lago Nahá, but she knew that her father was still alive and she did not want to live under his shelter. It would have been her obligation as would have been the tasks of weaving and planting and selling goods in the marketplace. She could no longer do this; she was different. The years of fighting and leading others had transformed her. Most important of all other considerations was the presence of Adriana in her life. Juana knew that she could no longer live without her.

After much reflection, Juana saw that the struggle for Chiapas was not over. People were still living in misery; in many ways they were worse off, because multitudes were now uprooted and lost. Juana realized that the only thing that had changed was the place of battle, that it had shifted from the shootings and bombings of the streets to the mountain peaks that sheltered those fleeing for their lives. She decided to ask Adriana to join her as she went on fighting against the misery that was devouring her people.

Adriana could not conceive of a life without Juana, either. She followed her
compañera
wherever she went, working with volunteers and agencies that had swarmed into Chiapas to assist the victims of the conflict. She knew that with her photography she had a special way to be part of the struggle. Hers was a unique way of alerting the world to the anguish that was tormenting Chiapas. She had no doubt that the portraits
she brought forth were a graphic and undeniable testimony of truth.

Shortly after the war, Adriana submitted her work outside of Mexico, establishing connections with journals and newspapers hungry to disseminate her prints. She wired and mailed her work from San Cristóbal de las Casas to publishers in New York, Houston, Chicago, Los Angeles. Her portfolios included action pictures of the war, the insurgents, the embattled cities, the refugees as they clogged roads, hopelessly roaming the countryside in search of sanctuary. The publication of her work spread, opening promising doors for her work beyond the United States, extending to Europe, Canada and Australia, all of which resulted in stipends on which she and Juana were able to live.

After 1994, the two women migrated from one refugee camp to the other, staying mainly in the highlands north of San Cristóbal de las Casas. They focused on Chenalhó and Acteal, where they ministered to people who were living under deplorable conditions. There, famine had led to disease, which in turn caused plagues. The extreme cold and fog of the mountains exacerbated the refugees' misery, leading to the deaths of infants and children and to widespread anguish among adults.

Juana and Adriana traveled back and forth between San Cristóbal de las Casas and the camps, bringing food, blankets and medicines. The trek was not easy. Sometimes they walked, other times they were taken aboard dilapidated vehicles slowly meandering from one village to the other. Once in the city, they searched for sources of supplies. The luxury hotels that surrounded the main plaza and connecting streets of the city were Adriana's target, as she had established connections with cooks and room managers who put aside sacks of beans, rice, potatoes, and blankets that could no longer be used for hotel guests. Often, she would pass on a portion of her latest stipend as compensation.

Juana, in turn, had tight contact with groups that worked for the same cause. One of these was known as “Las Abejas,” the Bees, and they were unmatched in their success in bringing assistance from foreign donors. Working with Las Abejas, Juana soon became known for her efficiency, and she was always given supplies to transport north. But those donations, however generous and constant, were just drops in the deluge of poverty that had escalated in the camps day by day.
During those months, neither Juana nor Adriana was discouraged; they worked openly, publicly, without thinking what the consequences might be for them. It was then that word of their personal relationship began to seep out. The refugees saw and understood the love Adriana and Juana shared, but unsuspected by the two women, rumors mounted, making their way to hateful ears.

On December 22, 1997, Adriana and Juana were based in Acteal. Adriana had not accompanied Juana on the trip to the city, but had stayed behind to take pictures of the refugees. She worked during the morning, making use of the early hours of sunlight before the fog rolled in. When she finished the shoot, she decided to venture out to the surrounding mountainside to take shots of the impressive panoramas. Some of the children followed her on the trek, romping and playfully posing for her. She was touched as she snapped frame after frame, seeing that hardly any of them were glum, that they had not forgotten how to play, despite their being ill and emaciated.

“¡Allí viene Juana! ¡Allí viene Juana!”

Juana had arrived, leading a convoy of two run-down vans filled with supplies. The clamor and cheering that signaled her return reached Adriana, who gathered her equipment and made her way up to the road to meet her. By the time she reached the village, Juana had already climbed out of the van and was surrounded by children and adults, who embraced her, squeezing her hand, patting her shoulders. Her arrival was always a cause for celebration because of the food and other supplies that she brought.

Adriana stood at the fringe of the crowd snapping pictures: Juana's radiant face with strands of her coarse black hair fluttering in the mountain breeze; a child holding her, his head buried between her breasts; a woman nestling her head on Juana's back.

Once the vans were unloaded and their contents distributed, most of the women and children went down to one of the shelters to pray. Juana and Adriana, with a camera still hanging around her neck, decided to go on a walk in the forest, where they found a spot covered by heavy overhanging branches. They sat there in silence for a few minutes.

Juana, nearly whispering, got very close to Adriana. “A woman came to warn that we take care. She said our enemies often speak of you and me, of our connection.”

Feeling bewildered and afraid, Adriana stared at Juana, but Juana smiled.