cancun

Cancun Dispatch: 9/11
September 2003
By Starhawk,
Utne.com

Rain and Fire

CANCUN CITY, MEXICO -- I awaken on the grass near the fountain at
kilometer zero, the intersection of Coba and Bonampak that leads into
the
hotel zone. The gray mist is still cool and the light is silvery on the
fountain,
where strange Mayan crocodile figures rise from the water. I've been
sleeping
next to the Korean's tent, at the vigil they set up near the spot where
their
companero, Kyoung Hae Lee, stabbed himself to death yesterday in protest

of the WTO.The night of the 10th, we join the vigil after our full-moon
ritual in
the park next to the convergence center. About 40 of us gather, make a
circle,
invoke the elements, and do a spiral under the full moon. Some of the
punks
join
us, and a few of the local people who have been at the cultural events
in
the
Parque de Palapas nearby. The mood is somber, because of Lee's death --
but
as we circle, looking at the parade of faces, the different shapes and
colors and
ancestors looking through our eyes, the energy builds to a beautiful
peak.
Then we scatter to join the wake at the auditorium at the Casa de la
Cultura,
where the campesinos have been camping.

The service is a truly syncretic mixture of cultures. The campesinos
have
set
out an ofrenda, an altar, of flowers and candles and pictures of Lee,
arranged in the shape of a giant cross. They are on the microphone,
offering
traditional prayers in Mayan and and songs and prayers to the father,
son,
and
holy ghost. The Koreans move forward, bow to the altar in a Buddhist
salute.
For Koreans, yesterday was a day to honor the ancestors. Because they
could
not be home to perform the rites, they had brought a casket with them,
which
they burned at the barricade so that the ancestors could open the way.
Then
Lee
stabbed himself, becoming an offering.
When the Koreans march out, Brush and I march with them, along with
about a
hundred other people. Some of our group follows in cars, or goes back to
the
house to get stuff. The streets are dark and empty, the police hang
back,
and
the crowd grows as we reach the circle where two canopies have been set
up
on the grass circle surrounding the fountain.

There is a line of cops behind the barricade, and soon they are
reinforced
by
Federal and judicial police and a group in white coveralls who goosestep
in
chanting in unison. A group of students run forward, link hands and
stand in
front of the police, a visual symbol of our intention to protect the
Koreans,
who are being threatened with deportation by the government. For a
while,
the
situation seems tense, but then it settles into calm. The students relax
and
pull back, and we all stroll around greeting and talking to each other.
We
establish little groupings on the grass. Some people fall asleep, while
a
few stroll
up to the police lines. I see three young Mexican men, all with that
tough,
masculine body language, approach the police lines and talk with them.
"We
are
students," they are saying. "We are human beings, just like you. The WTO
is
the enemy of all of us."

I finally lie down on the grass, and fall immediately asleep. When I
wake
up,
the fence is gone, moved an eighth of a mile into the hotel zone.
Everyone
is
waking up together, a beautiful mix of campesinos, Koreans, students,
internationals, as if all the separate groupings are now mixing up
together.

I run home to shower and then to the Casa, to get some final pictures of
the
eco-village while the campesinos are still there. Most are leaving
today,
and
those who aren't are moving the camp down to kilometer zero to support
the
Korean vigil. We have a quick Green Bloc meeting, decide to move the
information and a few of the washing basins down to what we are now, on
September 11, beginning to call Ground Zero. But the overall
installation is
too big and complex to move without more planning and design time.

In any case, it has done its work. Erik tells us the story of the little

5-year-old
campesino girl who approached him as he was washing his hands. She
explained the entire system to him, piece by piece, as he just nods and
smiles.
Some piece of knowledge has been transferred through the example of this

system, with its cheerful orange funnels for sink and its pump and tubes
and
plastic casks, some understanding of how things can be integrated, can
work
together, support each other, and form the basis of a different world.
In
its own
way, our little handwashing station is indeed a model of the world we
are
striving
for, and the reason we are pushing ourselves so hard and risking so much
is
so
that she may be one of the builders.

I lie down on the grass at Ground Zero and fall deeply asleep for an
hour or
so. Then I help rig tarps against sun and rain, and go off to buy rope
with
Andy
and Sophie. While the young man in the hardware store is winding cord
into
loops and weighing them, the storm rolls in and a drenching rain begins.
As
we
head back, the streets are blocked by cops and floods, and we circle
around
and around before we succeed in finding our way back to the circle past
the
police. By then the rain has stopped, so we are relatively dry as we
head
back
to the Parque de Palapas for the cacerolazo.

A cacerolazo (think 'casserole-azo" is a Latin American tradition used
by
both the left and the right of beating pots and pans throughout the
streets
of
the city and marching to express opposition to a government or policy.
We
meet
this cacerolazo coming down Tulum, led by the Infernal Noise Brigade.
None
of
us visitors has pots and pans, but some of the students have
appropriated
metal
garbage cans or bucket drums and the noise is powerful. A few have lit
torches,
and as we sweep through the streets at a fast pace, a wild, magic
procession,
purifying the city with fire and noise, driving out the evil spirits of
greed.

As we come down the slight hill toward Ground Zero, I see the red flame
of
the torches like a river of fire, and below, a circle of cool, white
lights,
the
flames of the candles the Koreans hold as they circle the fountain. The
moon
has come to earth in a circle of light, and we stop the drums and fall
into
a
powerful silence in respect. We stand, silent, fists raised, torches
burning,
and the lights circle below. Everardo, in the front, cries out:
"Lee!"
"PRESENTE!" we thunder back in response,
"Allende!"
"PRESENTE!"
"Zapata!"
"PRESENTE!"
And the roll call of the dead goes on. Dead, but presente, present,
still
here.
The chant becomes as well an affirmation of the living, of what
survives:
"Chile!"
"PRESENTE!"
"Latinoamerica!"
"PRESENTE!"
"Mexico!"
"PRESENTE!"
"ZAPATA VIVE! LA LUCHA SIGUE!"
Zapata lives, the struggle goes on.

The Koreans have been having a memorial for Lee, and duck up front as
the
march waits. They have set out an altar with flowers and banners on the
spot
where he died. Different groups and organizations have placed banners,
as at
home they might have sent wreaths. The most touching, to me, is a small,

black-and-orange banner, inscribed with a circle A, that says "Respect."
A
tribute from the black bloc.

I am thinking about death rites. I was in Palestine when Rachel Corrie
was
killed by an Israeli soldier who crushed her with a bulldozer. I went
down
to
Rafah to support the team that was with her. They were trying to design
her
poster, the color photo and tribute that are the due of every shaheed,
every
martyr. In the hospital, Alice said, the nurses wouldn't let them wash
the
body.
A shaheed's blood is sacred, not to be touched. They have their own
traditions,
their own way to respond to death, as here the Koreans and the
campesinos
have their own ways, their rituals.

I honor Lee, and the sacrifice he made, but my heart right now is with
the
students, pulsing with life. I hope we don't make a cult of the dead. I
remember
one phase of my involvement with feminism when it seemed that all our
heroines
were suicides. Maybe we needed to know that oppression hurts, and Lee
reminded us that the policies of the WTO are deadly. But honoring the
dead
should
be to say say that a life is worth something, that life is what we are
fighting for.

The march resumes as soon as the service is done and circles the
fountain
before it heads back to Palapas. I am following at the back, chatting
with a
friend I haven't seen in a long time. As the march turns back into the
pedestrian
street that leads into the park, a small group breaks away, runs
upstairs
into
a Pizza Hut, breaks windows and then runs back into the march. Those
ahead
are unaware of what has happened; those of us behind hear the burglar
alarm
shrieking.

Inside the park, the students gather under the big tent in front of the
stage.
They are drumming and dancing, wild and ecstatic, the carnival unleashed

at last. I stand for a moment, watching from above a seething cauldron
of
youth
jumping and shrieking in unison, the energy building as it reaches the
center,
a boiling blast furnace of power, the power of life itself raging and
pulsing
and demanding to be heard, a power that can bring down empires. Creation
and
destruction, love and rage, no aspect of it singular but always light
and
dark,
life and death, the juggler and the sacrifice, a mix of dualities, like
the
Gods/Goddesses of this land. Part of me wants to jump into the center,
but
I'm
in another phase of life right now, my life fires not burning with quite

such
heat. I prefer the edge, where I can bask in the warmth of the blaze.

A group of my friends has gathered at Tacos Arabe, sitting outside on
the
patio drinking beer and eating tacos while youth thunders beside us. On
the
TV
behind the grill, scenes of 9-11 play -- the people running in panic
from
the
burning towers. They take their place, too, in the roll call of the
dead.
The night is full of false alarms. We hear the riot cops are moving in
on
the
students -- but they pull back. The students hear that the police are
water
cannoning the Koreans, but all is peaceful.

I try to attend a meeting in the rain at the fountain, but my feet hurt
and
I
can't concentrate on the Spanish, and I don't really need to be there. I
try
to attend a midnight meeting at the convergence center, but fall asleep
sitting up. I have surrendered to Mexico, stopped trying to organize and

orchestrate and make things happen, started to trust that there is a
deeper,
self-organizing flow. Tomorrow is a big day of action, we hope. We don't

know
what will happen, but we will try to be in the right place at the right
time, with the
energy, courage, and luck to do the work.
-- -Kraig Grady
North American Embassy of Anaphoria Island
http://www.anaphoria.com
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