Erased Faces

erased faces

A Novel
By

Graciela Limón

This volume is made possible through grants from the City of Houston through the Houston Arts Alliance.

Recovering the past, creating the future

University of Houston
Arte Público Press
452 Cullen Performance Hall
Houston, Texas 77204-2004

Cover design by James Brisson
Photo courtesy of Eduardo Vera, “Mayor insurgente Maribel,
EZLN, October 1994”
http://evera.home.ige.org

Limón, Graciela.
        Erased Faces / by Graciela Limón.
              p. cm.
        ISBN 978-1-55885-342-3

1. Women photographers—Fiction. 2. Women revolutionaries—Fiction. 3. Americans—Mexico—Fiction. 4. Indian women—Fiction. 5. Mexico—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3562.I464 E7 2001

The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

© 2001 by Graciela Limón
Printed in the United States of America

10 11 12 13 14 15                        10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

In memory of those who perished in the
massacre of Acteal, Chiapas
22 December 1997

Although set against a background of conflict in Chiapas, this work is a novel. Places and people portrayed have been fictionalized.

G. L.

She meets with her face erased, and her name hidden. With her come thousands of women. More and more arrive. Dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions of women who remember all over the world that there is much to be done and remember that there is still much to fight for
.

EZLN communiqué:
Twelve Women in the Twelfth Year
Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos
1996

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1 She didn't look like me.

Chapter 2 Adriana decided never to speak again.

Chapter 3 We repeat ourselves.

Chapter 4 She wondered if white things felt pain and sadness.

Chapter 5 The mountain spoke to us.

Chapter 6 You have already been among us.

Chapter 7 Our people built that church.

Chapter 8 The soil was gray; it had no color.

Chapter 9 She felt that floating would turn to flying.

Chapter 10 The gods made men and women of maize.

Chapter 11 Why don't you come and see?

Chapter 12 In the end, los patrones are severe and unforgiving.

Chapter 13 He even owns a mule.

Chapter 14 Kap jol, the anger of the people.

Chapter 15 I'll see that he's taken care of.

Chapter 16 There was only emptiness.

Chapter 17 The night in Tlatelolco had shaken him.

Chapter 18 We call him Tatic, Little Father.

Chapter 19 They crush us but we also crush ourselves.

Chapter 20 There cannot be equality in a false peace!

Chapter 21 He wondered if he would ever see her again.

Chapter 22 It was quick. It was merciful.

Chapter 23 In these parts the only thing that matters is a signature.

Chapter 24 They were innocent!

Chapter 25 Why is the day moving in reverse?

Chapter 26 What about me?

Chapter 27 Emboldened, Juana mingled with the crowd.

Chapter 28 You are my blessing.

Chapter 29 The leash snapped!

Chapter 30 In lak'ech. You are my other self.

Chapter 31 The anguish, too, was the same.

Chapter 32 She asked me to be the lips through which their silenced voices will speak.

Books by Graciela Limón

About the Author

I'm sincerely grateful to Letitia Soto, my dearest cousin, as well as to Andy Soto, who accompanied me to Chiapas during the month of June 1999. Circumstances were intimidating to travelers at the time, especially since we had to travel through the mountains between Palenque and San Cristóbal de las Casas, a region filled with armed military checkpoints. I know that I would not have had the courage to do it on my own. Letitia and Andy's company, their courage, their
chistes
and
cariño
of what we saw and experienced, made that journey unforgettable and rich in information. Roberto Flores, valued colleague, shared remarkable photographs and documentation on the Zapatista War, and for that I'm indebted to him. I thank him most especially. I'm very grateful to Mary Wilbur, one of the first readers of
Erased Faces
. Her input, suggestions and research enhanced the work beyond my initial concept of it. Also, much gratitude to Toni Zepeda for her numerous readings of the manuscript and for her helpful input. Finally, but not least of all, is
Acción Zapatista
which has been so helpful to me in gathering information.

G. L.

The Lacandona Jungle, Chiapas, Mexico, 1993.

Her ankle-length dress caught in the thick undergrowth. Her legs and bare feet were bleeding from cuts inflicted by roots and branches matting the muddy ground. She ran, plunging headlong into a snare of decaying plants, oblivious to the pain that shot up her ankles, through the calves of her legs, lodging deep in her thighs. She ran because she knew the dogs were gaining on her; she could hear their baying, and in seconds she began to sense their clumsy paws pounding the darkened jungle floor. Terrified, she ran, lunging forward, panting, her body covered with sweat and her face smeared with tears of dread.

She could not be sure, but she thought that there were others running alongside her. In the thick gloom of the forest, she caught sight of women running, desperately clinging to babies, tugging at children trying not to lose their way in the darkness. Long cotton dresses pulled at them as they plunged through the growth; straight, tangled hair stuck to their shoulders. She saw that those women were also afraid that the snarling dogs would catch them and tear them to pieces. Men were running, and they, too, were terrified—their brown, sinewy bodies pressed through the dense foliage, their loincloths snagged and ripped by gigantic ferns that reached out with deadly tentacles.

The Lacandón women and men ran because they understood that soon they would be overcome and devoured by the ravenous pursuers. She ran with them, but suddenly she stopped; her feet dug deep into the jungle slime as she halted abruptly. She began to turn in circles, arms rigidly outstretched, but she could see nothing; she was blinded
by fear, and she darted in different directions. She had lost something, but she could not remember what it was that had slipped through her fingers. She dropped to her knees, groveling in the mud, digging, trying to find what it was that she had lost. Her fingers began to bleed when her nails ripped from her flesh, and her desperation grew, looming larger than even her pain, greater even than the terror of being overcome by the dogs.

She was on her knees when she felt her long straight hair wrap itself around her neck. It got tighter and tighter. It began to strangle her. Frantically, her fingers dug into the taut coils that were cutting off her breath. Nearly drained of air, she felt that her lungs were about to collapse. With each second, the hungry dogs got closer, but she was paralyzed because the pain of having lost something that was precious to her nailed itself into her heart.

Adriana Mora awoke startled, panting and covered with perspiration. She sat up choking, out of breath and in the grip of an asthma attack. In the darkness she fumbled, trying to reach the inhaler that she had placed on the rickety crate next to her cot, but her groping hand got tangled in the mosquito net. She struggled with the mesh, knocking her dark glasses to the ground, almost spilling a cup half-filled with water. When she finally reached the device, she pressed it into her mouth and plunged once, twice, relieved to feel air clearing her throat and reaching her lungs.

When Adriana's heart returned to its normal rhythm and her lungs readjusted, she sat with her back to the wall, still shaken and breathing heavily. Making out the palm ceiling as well as the earthen floor, she looked around the tiny hut, a
palapa
. Through the ridges between the cane stilts, moonlight seeped casting elongated shadows on the dirt. Trying to gain a hold on herself, she stared at the small table where she had propped her equipment: cameras, tripod, note pad, canvas jacket with its pockets stuffed with lenses she used to capture the faces and bodies of Lacandón women.

Adriana drew her legs up until her knees pressed against her breasts. Wrapping her arms around the calves of her legs, she leaned her head against her knees; she stayed that way, thinking of the nightmare from which she had awakened. She was listening to the jungle sounds that filled the night: the jumble of insect chirping that scraped against the heavy breathing of iguanas and other reptiles. Howling monkeys barked, chattering angrily as they swung from branch to branch. Screeching parrots complained because of the hooting of owls and other nocturnal birds. Adriana tried to decipher each sound. She wanted to identify what animal, which insect had made what noise, but it was impossible because it all melted into an indistinguishable cacophony of murmur, hissing, and howling. The night vibrations of the jungle fused with the sad groaning of the muddy waters of the river that coiled around the tiny village of Pichucalco.

She thought of the dream, trying to discern its meaning. She had experienced it before, but never had it been as vivid, as terrifying. The other times, the woman had been remote, someone else. This time, however, she had no doubt: It had been she who was being hunted, she who was running in the forest along with other natives. It had been she who had lost something precious, something loved and so riveted onto her heart that reliving the dream made her feel pain beneath the nipple of her left breast. With outstretched fingers, she rubbed the palm of her hand over her chest; she was thinking, concentrating, trying to recognize what she had lost. But it was useless, because she could not remember anything that had ever meant so much to her, not even the distant memory of her mother and father.

Unable to find the answer, Adriana straightened her head and cocked it to one side, this time listening to her dream. She stayed that way for a while until she realized that she heard only the sound of menacing dogs. Her searching mind then focused on the woman in the dream.

“She didn't look like me!”

Mumbling out loud, Adriana flung aside the net and slid off the cot. She went to the stand where she kept a basin and water jug that she used to wash her face and hands; above it, she had nailed a small
mirror. She unhooked it and made her way past the gunny sack that covered the entrance of the
palapa
. Once outside, Adriana found herself in moonlight that was bright enough to see her reflection.