FROM THE FIELD
Occasional Paper #3
TODAY
There comes a morning
when you awake knowing
today you will
break the law.
When breaking the law
is congregating freely,
not selling the land,
feeding the hungry,
defending yourself
against rape and beating,
choosing not to have a child,
when even breathing
out of rhythm with the juggernaut
is treason
you can’t help but break the law.
You will open your eyes
to truth’s dawn,
shrug off the long sleep
of fear’s silence,
refuse imposed perimeters’
razor-wire fences constraining action
and cross the line
with your life in your hands.
There will be a day
when the question you insist on asking,
the peaceful vigil for
los muertos y desaparacidos that you observe,
la defensa de tus usos y costumbres,
your right to grow
traditional blue, white, red, gold corn, por ejemplo,
will all brand you as criminal.
When the insults of years
can only be redeemed by action
you will rise, you will wake
and when the next step you take
in any direction
begins the break for freedom
the dreams of the night
materialize.
As cockcrow’s welcome signal
fills the roads with people
no urging is needed.
The beat that is heeded
without hesitation
emanates from a common heart.
That day
when there are as many banderas as birds in the sky,
when even the stones jump
to the tramp of marching feet,
when everyone
is tuned to the news
because the voice on the radio
is ours,
when
hundreds of thousands of Oaxaquenos
in unions, popular assemblies and civil associations, barrios y vecindades
rejected those in power
and governed themselves,….
That day
lasted for 190 days.
But that day is not today.
Now,
due to circumstances beyond our control,
it gets hard-core in a hurry.
Government thugs continue
to break, enter, and wreak havoc
on homes of targeted organizers,
assassinate individuals,
raid communities.
The busloads of boys
already beaten in detention
from the demonstration,
being transferred back to a prison
in Oaxaca from Nayarit,
are raped by the soldiers
in whose custody they are taken…
What happened to the arrested women
after they are forced to strip naked
before interrogation
goes without saying…
They will repaint the town
and insist “nothing happened.”
as if this white wash
will make us forget.
They will give us circuses;
and raise the price of tortillas.
They will plant poinsettias
as though each petal
was not a red reflection of blood
and call it a “noche buena”
a good night
por la temporada.
But what season
are we to celebrate?
This is not poetry.
How can it be?
Not until stone by stone,
song by song,
inch by inch,
sifting each grain of sand,
hand by hand, together
people reshape this land.
Michele Gibbs
OAXACA
