Oventic

I think the thing that stood out to me most about my visit to Oventic was the feeling I had when I was there of unimportance, of being somehow discredited as a person, of being unsure that I should even be there in the first place. To tell the truth, I’m incredibly glad I had the experience.

Oventic is the seat of government of a Zapatista caracol, which is a community of indigenous people committed to creating and living their own self-determined and autonomous model of governing, justice, education, and administration of public services, that falls in line with their indigenous values and beliefs. Internationals and Mexican tourists in solidarity with the ideals of the caracol are permitted to visit to learn about the Zapatista movement and the structure and functioning of the caracol. Nevertheless, making the visit isn’t as easy as strutting into your average tourist attraction in Latin America.

When I first arrived at Oventic, I was confronted by a big iron gate. There was a woman behind the gate with a bandana covering the lower part of her face in the signature Zapatista style. I explained to her why I had come (to respectfully learn about the place and to visit a friend of mine who was studying at the Spanish language school). She asked for my passport, which she took with her as she went to check in with a Security office a few meters away. After a short while (but a little longer than I felt comfortable being without my passport), she returned and told me I could pass through the side gate. She instructed me to go to the security office to check in. There, a young man behind a desk, also with the Zapatista bandana, looked at my passport, asked me questions (nationality, occupation, organizational affiliation, what I wanted to do there), and took notes in a register. There were a few other people in the room observing. They didn’t smile. They looked at each other with knowing glances and spoke a few words in their indigenous language. Then, the young man behind the desk turned to me and told me that I had the permission to make my request to visit to the Mesa Directiva (Directive Board) of the caracol. One of the men in the room showed me the way to the board’s headquarters, located in another building a few meters down the road. The board was busy, so I waited outside the building on a bench. Soon, they invited me in to the windowless room and shut the door behind them. There were about six people in the room, seated at a table in front of the room. They all war the Zapatista-style black ski masks with holes at the eyes and mouth. There were two or three women among the group. I sat in the chair facing the table. The room was plastered with photos, posters, and articles chronicling the years of the Zapatista struggle. A woman towards my left at the table was the first to speak to me. “What is your intention here, compañera?” she asked me. I explained my situation. I also mentioned that I was interested in learning more about their health care system, so if there was any way to visit the clinic briefly, in addition to seeing my friend, I would very much appreciate it. They asked me another series of questions, many of the same that I had been asked previously in the other place. They passed me a notebook and asked me to note who I was and what organization I belonged too. I thought it would probably look good to show affiliations I’ve had with peace and solidarity groups, so I put down LEPOCO, a peace group based near Allentown, Pennsylvania. Perhaps that was a mistake. The Zapatistas had never heard of LEPOCO and they eyed me suspiciously. They spoke to each other in the indigenous language. I got nervous. Finally, the first women who had spoken to me turned towards me and told me that, to visit in the way I was requesting, I needed a letter of support from the organization I belonged to, to prove my affiliation and my good intentions. “It’s all over,” I thought, “an hour and a half of traveling to get here, and now I’m going to have to turn around and just head back.” I had been aware that a letter was needed to study at the language school, but I didn’t think (and in fact I had been told otherwise) that a letter was needed to just visit for the day. So I thought I’d try just one thing more. “Well, what if I just visit my friend. She is expecting me. I only plan to spend a few hours,” I said. They looked doubtful. I continued to plead a little more, and apologized for not having brought the letter. Also, I explained that I wasn’t there representing LEPOCO, rather, I put it down to show my participation in peace and solidarity groups. They started talking amongst themselves once again. Perhaps they took pity on me. At last, the woman directing the conversation turned to me and said that I could have permission to visit my friend, and only that. They filled out a form and wrote in my name and the parameters of my visit. I was permitted to leave and instructed to carry the permission slip on me during my time there. I thanked them profusely and was on my way.


The Autonomous Clinic in Oventic

So after this, I was, needless to say, feeling a little vulnerable and discredited. Even though I know the Zapatistas appreciate international solidarity, I felt somehow guilty for who I was. Nevertheless, the reason I was glad for the experience, was that I realized that these are feelings that indigenous people in Chiapas must experience all the time in their lives: people speaking about them in a language they don’t understand, making decisions about what they are able to do and not do without explaining why, making them wait and go through long lines of bureaucracy to achieve what they are looking for. And in fact, the experiences that indigenous people have are probably worse. The Zapatistas, although they were suspicious, treated me with utmost respect throughout our entire encounter. Unfortunately, for many indigenous people interacting with authority figures and, for that matter, fellow Mexican citizens, lack of common respect and violations of human rights are frequent.

I, on the other hand, am used to, in general, getting what I want without having to fight very hard and without having to worry about my rights being violated. If my rights are violated, I feel pretty confident that I would be able to make a complaint and something would get done about it. In Mexico my privileges often feel augmented. My position as a foreigner and tourist award me a certain power, and I often feel like I have a red carpet rolled out for me. Non-indigenous Mexicans have also noted this phenomenon. My friend Alma told me about a time when she and her sister went to buy jewelry, but they could hardly get the attention of the girl who worked there because she was so preoccupied with attending to the foreign tourists who, in the end, didn’t even buy anything. For indigenous people, the situation is often much worse because of the strong history of racism and discrimination that has been practiced against them in the country and still continues to this day. I’ve heard stories from indigenous people in which they say they went to the hospital and were ignored for hours, that the doctors didn’t want to attend to them. And only 15 years ago or so, indigenous people were still expected to step down from the sidewalk in the streets of San Cristóbal to allow mestizos to pass.

In Oventic, I wasn’t treated with discrimination or disrespect. But the power that I’m used to feeling in Mexico was taken away from me. I was just like any other unknown person who arrives at the gate of Oventic. Nevertheless, this feeling of generality, of being treatment with even a smidgen of suspicion, was shocking to me. Of course, I know that in the majority of my life, I’m still going to live with and project the accumulated privilege and power I have been granted due to my place of birth, skin color, native language, family structure, and a gamut of other factors. And I know that I’m never going to really know what it feels like to be an indigenous person in rural Chiapas, discriminated against and marginalized, but fighting for their rights. Nevertheless, I hope that throughout my life, I will remember was it was like to have a small taste of that feeling of unimportance, of generality, and of being just another person, equal to all others in this world.