Return of the Maya

under the yib'an q'inal. May this journey, this b'e kalab' that we are about to undertake, have a happy ending, a less painful ending for our souls, for our bodies. We have had enough suffering, enough pain. You must realize how much we poor people have suffered ever since childhood. Why should our little children have to witness all kinds of atrocities at such a tender age?

Perform your miracle, you who are close to the Heart of Heaven and the Heart of Earth, pray for us. As you know, it's not like other times; now all I can bring you is this k'itan kantela, this liquid candle. But it's not on account of stinginess or unwillingness; you well know that we have nothing; we lack everything.

At the end of her prayer my mother tearfully asked our ancestors, our whole family tree, all of them, to give us their blessing:

"Txajoneqtaq, bless us," she said. "Bless this poor child who knows nothing but suffering. It is not fair for him to suffer a life of pain," she said on my behalf.

The sun disappeared once more behind the mountains of Yichkan. Who knows if tomorrow will dawn for us? Who knows how many people in this community or others will not see the light of a new day on that uncertain tomorrow. At her insistence, I intoned "Txajineqteq, bless me".

They were left alone, as we went back to our little home that we would leave that very night. Night was falling like a soft rain over the village.

Up in Flames

The night we went to bid farewell to the grandparents was the night of the planned exodus. The people knew what time they had to gather in the big ditches just outside the village. My mother knew too. We had to arrive one by one so as not to arouse any suspicion on the part of the few who were remaining behind, among them the commissioner who watched the movements of the community. Our little hut was as simple shelter against the elements - wind, water, sun - but it was our home, the place where I had spent the first years of my life. I slept there, I played there, I ate there. There the root of my existence had been planted. I had become very fond of that part of the world, my world. I didn't want to leave it. I resisted the idea that I had to go far away from it; I could not imagine living in any other place. The walls were made of cane and mud, with a thatched roof and a dirt floor; that's all it was. I knew every nook and cranny where my life as a child had unfolded: a corner to sleep, the place I kept my toys, our eating area, the yard where I spent hours playing in the dirt. And now I had to leave it all behind. My mother, my sister and I closed up the house, tying a rope to a big nail on the board that served as a door. That's what we did whenever we went out to do errands or when we went to town. The dog was curled up near the door in a hole in the ground, guarding the house. This time he was being left alone for good. who knows what was going to happen to him? His name was B'alam, Jaguar. We left him some tortillas in a dish and some water to drink.

We took a few things: a sack on my mother's head, my sister on her back and a bag in one hand. I carried my shoulder bag, my straw hat and a stick to guide my way down the little path that was disappearing in the darkness. We had to throw stones at the dog so he wouldn't follow us. We quickly joined the rest of the people on the outskirts of the community, beyond the last houses.

But somebody must have betrayed us, for some men soon arrived at the village. The dogs that had stayed behind as faithful guardians soon began a war of barking in their own language at the strangers, something the people did not dare to do. Later on, huddled down in the ditches, we observed the first light in that scene with the black night as a background. Little by little the intensity increased, and spread until the fire lit up the whole area as far as we could see. The silhouettes of the actors became giants before our very eyes. They were silhouettes with helmets and boots moving against the backdrop of the night dyed red like blood. These are memories that cannot be erased from our young minds. They were the figures of actors that carried those death-spitting sticks. They were thirsty for blood, like those gigantic tongues of fire that rose up into the heights, hungry for more fuel so they could devour everything.

Never in my short life had I seen such hug flames; their color ranged from a light, almost white orange, to a reddish purple that was diluted in the blue and brown that merged into the blackness of the night. The fire was making a great crackling sound as it consumed the wood and dry palm. The odor of the smoke carried by the wind reached our nostrils; it was strong and heavy on account of the sib'aq, the soot from the burning houses. We were sickened by the smell of burning flesh. My eyes bulged out of their sockets witnessing such a spectacle. The hut! My toys that I left in the old basket in the corner, my only piece of furniture! I suddenly felt the impulse to run back and rescue my toys that were being consumed by the fire. Like all children, I had become very fond of them. If it were not for the fact that my mother, guessing my intentions, grabbed me, I would certainly have gone back.

We stayed quite a while in that hiding place while the fire gradually died down, though it still illuminated the area. But then we saw that they were coming out looking for us in all directions. We could see their flashlights moving all around. The group decided to take off in a direction different from that originally planned, where there was hardly a path.

As I found out later, under normal conditions we were expecting, we would have begun to walk at nightfall, because at that time nobody would have noticed our absence. Usually when it began to get dark, people would bolt their flimsy doors, and nobody left on errands or to go visiting. In those far away corners of our country, there was a virtual state of siege. But that wasn't why our departure didn't go as planned; it was on account of that other incident that we were delayed. It is indeed true that we peasants have a certain ability to walk in the darkness of night, but under these conditions it was much more difficult, especially for us children. It was a moonless night; it was a journey without paths, among twisted tree roots and vines hanging from the trees, through underbrush that scratched our faces, with thistle and nettle where our blind hands groped their way along in the darkness, through the mud and among sharp rocks. It was flight with our enemies stepping on our very heels.

Well, we left at the time set by our guides. The group was made up of perhaps sixty or more people. I heard them say there were about oxk'al, that is, three score of us, or three bundles of twenty. That's how our system of counting works, by twenties. This is the way our parents' parents used to count. There were more women and children than men: there were not many men left in the community.

Among those who were leading the way and providing advice were the older men and women. I remember one couple, Xhuxep the wife and Kuin the husband, their heads crowned with white like the clouds that come down over the mountains. Their words were regarded as very important by the people. He was one of our oracles, that is, an ajtxum, and the people believed in his guidance and predictions. At our most critical moments they always walked quietly among the people giving advice as to what to do in any given circumstance. We had a great deal of respect for them. On account of their age they had great difficulty waling; they grasped their walking sticks, especially in the dark of night, which was when we had to travel in order to avoid being seen. Their guidance was based on the counting of the days according to our grandfathers and grandmothers. They kept count with great care to transmit it to the younger generations, and this count was used in all of life's activities.

So although the day for our departure had been set in a hurried fashion, it came under the protection of the sacred days we call Heb' Komam Ora, that is, our Fathers the Sacred Days. From an early age I was instructed in this system of spiritual life, which is now one of the great losses I feel I have suffered as a result of the problems I had to face during those years of my life. How I regret having lost the practice of something that was taught to me in the bosom of the family and the community. Heb' Komam Ora are the group of spiritual beings that have always controlled the system of life of humans and other beings in the Maya world throughout time, from a single day to eternity, always in the cyclical form of life and death, day and night, past and present, inside and out, up and down, in a system where each element complements the other, all under the watchful eye of the Ajaw, the Creators and Formers, that is Heb'Yib'an Q'inal, the Heart of Heaven and the Heart of Earth.

When my grandparents mentioned the name of the Supreme Ajaw, they would trace a circle in the air with their right hands, embracing the totality of the universe. This constitutes the greatest concept in the life of the Maya. We kneel before Him, our heads bowed down to the ground; we lift up the smoke of our offerings and our words to Him, because He is the Ajaw, the essence of the world, the one who supports the pillars upon which the world and the universe rest, and from whom the other deities who control the flow of time and the days branch off. They are the Mam Ora, the intermediaries between the Great Spirit, humans and things. They carry the names of the elements which exist in nature like Iq'air, Imox Earth, Tz'ikin birds, Chej deer and Kixkab' earthquakes, all of them deified. I no longer remember the meanings of all of them, because once in exile, in school, they taught me a different calendar for counting the days, a calendar that lacks any meaning for us: a simple and sterile counting of days, months, and years.

As a child I learned that the Great Spirit, that is, the Heart of Heaven and the Heart of Earth is the nucleus of the universe, just like the heart is the central organ that gives life to humans. And since the Ajaw is also the one who grants existence to everything, especially to winaq, humans, which are particles of Him, that's why we call Him Komam, Our Father. The prefix ko opens for us the doors to possession of Father Ajaw, that is, to integrate part of His nature. Deep inside I don't feel so much like an orphan, that is, completely without parents, since Komam lets me feel that I am the son of the greatest Father that exists in all of the yib'an q'inal, or universe. Not only does He make us participants in His very nature, but also owners of His wealth and users of the values which come from Him. And so the actions of winaq, people are controlled by Ajaw's plan. Their actions are predetermined upon the table of q'inal, time, which is manifest in the basic unit of time, the k'u or day. Each k'u has its name in the totality of time, which is well identified throughout all eternity by means of the numbers which give it different levels of importance. These numerals run from one to thirteen, sacred numbers within the culture. They originate from the thirteen scores of days of the gestation of a human being. In the calendar they taught me in school later on, instead of the Lords there appear names of saints. But the saints do not represent the Maya. There are no Maya saints, because we poor and indigenous people, as we are identified, cannot have saints or martyrs, although our lives are a constant martyrdom.

The saints arrived along with the invaders of our lands and the murderers of our ancestors. Those saints were the symbols of the battle and the victory which accompanied the soldiers who took everything from us. There are many images of saints adorning colonial churches in all the invaded countries, portrayed on horseback with swords in their hands. They are saints of violence and pillaging that paved the way for the colonial system, because the reverend fathers taught our fathers to venerate them as very important divine beings who came in the name of God, just like those invaders who also carried swords to kill our ancestors. They had to accept the will of God with resignation and humility. Thus the invasion of our lands and plundering of our wealth was accepted in the name of God and those saints that made possible the miracle of the "Conquest".

I was born on the day Lajun Kixkab' 10 Earthquake. According to tradition, this should by my name. But because of the process we have suffered, the Spanish brought new saints' names; this is just a part of what they imposed on us. So our names are as in a void. They do not fulfill our need for identity because we do not know their origins, nor the history or meaning of our names. What's more, it is like betraying our authenticity and cultural heritage, because we carry a seal, showing that we were invaded, that is, the symbols which were utilized to assure our defeat. That's what the elders of the community tell me. They don't stop speaking our language, nor do they abandon their traditional dress, and above all they preserve the values of our ancestors, which is what makes us different from other people.

During my childhood I also learned that the chronological order of the sacred days predetermines the fate of every individual on the face of the earth. From the time I was a child, I learned the names of the twenty Lords. Their complicated functioning is not within the grasp of ordinary people like me; rather it is destined to be managed by the mamin, the ajtxum or oracles. They control the life of the community and offer guidance as to what should be done in different events and situations.

From this point on, in order to record our cavalry during the days that we walked into exile, I shall mention the name of each day in chronological order, from the time we left until the day we arrive at our destination. I don't know how many days it will take, I don't know if we will reach our goal or die along the way. When I write now a long time afterwards, I frequently do so in the present tense, because it is as if I were seeing everything all over again. That's the way we talk in Q'anjob'al.

Huqajaw

7 Ajaw

Ajaw (Ajpu in some of the other Mayan languages) is the Supreme Deity of the txolq'in in ancient and contemporary time counting. This day is dedicated to the Master (Ajaw) of all, that is, to God. Some people remembered our custom of saying a prayer every morning and they remembered that this day was dedicated to Ajaw, for our spiritual guide, the ajtxum was no longer with us.

Nobody talked: nobody said anything. Our figures were like souls in purgatory, ghosts wandering through forests and canyons. What little clothing we were wearing had a reddish color from the earth. The word q'antutxenaq in our language describes this color exactly. Our hair was matted with filth and dust. Tattered rags hung from our bodies as we stumbled along the way.

I don't know how many dead were left half buried along the road. Most of them were children and old people. We made very little progress; we would walk a stretch and then sit for a while. For two days there was no water in the area: it seemed to me like months or years. Our mouths were very dry; our lips were chapped and ashen. How well I remember all that: it's the sort of thing you never forget. It is true that I was just a child, so I was unable to comprehend the context of the trip, the problem and our tragedy as a whole, but the experiences were written on the blank slate of my child's mind.

Those were my first experiences, and because they were the first. I believe I will never forget them. Those images that I keep in my memory are like photographs of sad-looking people walking through the mountains. When I concentrate, now one k'atun later, I see the film passing before my eyes once more, and sometimes I am horrified to see the extent of human capacity for suffering.

I think of the exodus of the Israelites in the desert: I think of the Jewish people in the concentration camps: I think of Vietnam, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Somalia and the former Yugoslavia and many other places in the world. The same old story: man against man.

I don't know how I endured it: I don't know why I didn't die along the way like the other children. I can't explain why under those terrible conditions my sister and I were able to survive. Others with greater resistance than we succumbed and were left behind. Because I myself desired death, I sought it out and came to despise life. My kind of life didn't interest me, nor did I desire it. Rather, I missed no chance to seek out an accident. After my mother died, I was constantly leaving the path with any old excuse. Basically I wanted to have contact with a mine, a guerilla, a soldier or some other danger that would end my life. But fate was against me. I had to take my punishment for being Maya, in spite of the fact that all the probabilities were in my favor, that is, in favor of death. I was a meb'ixh; I was alone, poor, sick, young, dry, weak, malnourished, but I didn't die.

"You're like a cat with nine lives," somebody once told me.

More than nine times during our journey I had escaped death; sometimes by accident; other times when I had sought death deliberately. Once I was playing with a hand grenade I had found in the brush, and someone came and grabbed it away from me and threw it far away. Another time I fell out of the top of a tree, but on my way down my foot got caught in a fork of two branches. Another time, when my mother was still alive, I was about to fall off a cliff. Still another time I cut one of my veins, but I didn't die. All that makes me sad and angry at the same time, because so many people are dying in this men's war, and I am at war with life, but I cannot manage to die.

Sometimes at night I lie awake thinking that death would be the solution to my misfortunes and problems, because really one wishes to live only when one finds some meaning in life, but when one is suffering, there is no desire for life. I have seen that the dead no longer feel anything even though they are beaten, cut, or tortured. They are not hungry, hot or cold. They have no sadness and they feel no love: they are like rocks. They can't be massacred any more, nor can they be shot or tortured any more. After all is said and done, the dead are victorious, because they disappear. If others debase their quality as human beings in the mud of evil, those others become less human and more unworthy. Death is like absenting yourself and closing your eyes to everything; it's like defeating the enemy by building a curtain of indifference and disdain. It's like children's games; while the loser keeps looking for his adversary, the winner laughs at him from his hiding place. Death is like drawing a boundary between you and your enemy; he can't come over to this side where I am.

But I am still unable to say that: pain and suffering are defeating me; they laugh at me; they ridicule my failures and shortcomings. They rejoice at seeing me doubled over under the piles of troubles heaped on me. I walk hanging my head, silent, like a ghost, a specter, like a nawal in these rags, these chirajos, these threads that hang from my body and my soul.

But those who persecute us forget that in the world of Maya thought, death is nothing more than a step toward life. They forget that the more you die, the more you live, because the cycle of existence begins and has its origin in death. Living is a type of death; it's like a reflection that unfolds toward another existence, according to our philosophy.

Therefore, to kill is nothing more than to sow the seeds of life which will bear fruit in some manner. But there is something that is immortal even though the body be killed; that which is invisible, abstract, immaterial and absolute. To kill is like trying to stop the flow of existence with poor material things that people hold in their hands, but a human being is not just matter, but above all is thought. It is yesalej, the invisible, the immaterial. It is impossible to stop this stream, and when an attempt is made to cut off its flow, it only multiplies more rapidly in a permanent chain reaction of survival, or rising opposition to attempts at extermination. Therefore those who attempt to end life see it as competition, as an obstacle or something to be manipulated. They fear death as an ending; it is the goal they resist arriving at, and so they wish to control it. But what a shame to accumulate so much wealth, because it cannot be transferred to where they are going, beyond death: neither bank accounts, nor plantations, nor jewelry, nor power, nor fame nor other riches. This creates concern about the logic of greed. Who knows what remains after death? It is an unknown reality.

On the other hand, existence, in our philosophy, is a constant cycle of death and rebirth. Tree leaves fall in autumn and die in winter, but then spring and new life return. At nightfall the sun disappears, apparently leaving behind a funeral darkness, but then dawn comes and the new day arrives with new brilliance and new life. The seed falls and is left in the fallow earth, but after the first rain the green sprouts pop up, and life starts anew. To the shame of humanity, people have shed innocent blood over the face of the earth, from the time of the pharaohs, slave traders. Hitler, Stalin, tyrants in various parts of our bleeding Americas, up to the Maya victims over more than twenty k'atun, but in spite of everything, life and thought emerge once more.

This dichotomous and complementary concept of life and death, emptiness and fullness, existence and death, is perfectly well defined in our Maya beliefs concerning life and what awaits us beyond death.

First: Pap pap pap pap pap pap.

Then: Pap pap pap pap pap.

And then another: Pap pap pap pap.

Three black hornets appeared in the sky. There was nowhere for us to hide. ¡Plongon, plongon, plongon! And more and more!

"We've been spotted!" shouted the guides.

We could see that the border was only about five hundred meters away.

"Run over there and hide as best as you can, and some of us will run over here on this side to distract them," said Don Xhun, Don pal, Don Ixhtup and two others. I started to go with them, but Don Xhun threw a stone at me and ordered me to return to the group. We ran as fast as we could, casting off our sandals and our bags, leaving them under the branches and shrubs as deafening bombs exploded nearby, especially in the area where the guides had headed. T'in, ay, cha!

After a while two more helicopters appeared, and we saw paratroopers starting to jump out. We were about a hundred meters from the border. There was a bare stretch which the swiftest runners had already managed to cross, but we were still at quite a distance. The Guatemalan soldiers had already detected our presence:

"Hurry up! Please! Walk fast! ¡Lem! ¡Lem! ¡Ay! ¡Uy!"

the women and the children were bringing up the rear. At