Mike Meaney on Thanksgiving in a Place Called Chiapas

By: Michael Meaney

December 1, 2010

Thanksgiving 2010: no turkey, no gravy, and no pumpkin pie. Instead: armed men in ski masks, a ride through the mountains in the back of a stranger's pick-up truck, and a Catholic church filled with incense and 2,000 candles.

I spent Thanksgiving in a city called San Cristobal de las Casas in Chiapas, Mexico. I visited two nearby indigenous villages. The first—Oventic—is an autonomous region controlled by Zapatista rebels, a result of the sub-Comandante Marcos-led Zapatista rebellion in 1994. The second—San Juan de Chamula—is a town with some of the most intriguing religious syncretism I’'ve ever encountered. And traveling from one to the other entailed hitchhiking through the mountains.

On January 1, 1994, – the day the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) came into effect, the Zapatista Army for National Liberation (the Zapatistas) declared war on the Mexican government to protest the free trade deal. They claimed that NAFTA—and all neo-liberal globalization really—would only further marginalize the indigenous poor (nearly 40 percent of Chiapas' population is indigenous, and 99 of its 118 municipalities live on or below the poverty line). On that day, 3,000 revolutionary soldiers stormed San Cristobal. They freed prisoners, set fire to numerous government buildings, and tried to take control of the city. The next day, the Mexican military intervened, inflicting great loses on the rebels. On January 12, the armed conflict came to an end, as a ceasefire was negotiated by the Catholic Diocese of San Cristobal.

While the rebellion failed to instigate the country-wide political chaos it was intended to, the message of the movement was heard. Instead of seeking out and persecuting the rebel leaders, the Mexican government negotiated with them. In 1996, the San Andres Accords were signed between the Mexican government and the Zapatista rebels. While still not entirely fulfilled, the agreement guaranteed the Zapatistas the right to land and to set up self-governing communities. The Mexican government has since set up a number of social development programs in Chiapas in order to increase access to better health care and education. Perhaps more importantly, the Zapatista rebellion shed light on the plight of Mexico's indigenous poor, and all poor people marginalized by the thrust of globalization.

Oventic is one region controlled by the Zapatistas, and curious travelers are allowed entry only after a thorough screening. When I arrived with my exchange friends, three men in ski masks, one of them armed, greeted us at the gate. Ten minutes of skeptical questioning proceeded: "Where were we from? Why were we there? What did we know about the movement?" We then waited for 20 minutes while the men discussed with their leaders, and eventually we were let in.

We were given a brisk 20 minute tour of the village, and then promptly led back toward the gate. Our tour guide was amiable, and his Spanish was fluent (not all that common in the indigenous villages of Chiapas, where most people speak a native dialect). The poverty was obvious: no running water in the bathrooms and cottage-like shacks for living space. The modest gains made by the Zapatista rebellion were evident, too—electricity, ambulances, a health clinic, and a school.

Next was a trip to San Juan de Chamula, another autonomous region of Chiapas. It is not, however, controlled by Zapatista rebels. Our options for transport were limited. We could have waited an indefinite amount of time for the San Cristobal bus to pick us up. We could have walked. Or, we could have hitched a ride with a local. My slightly more adventurous Australian friend didn'’t even consider it a choice; he flagged down the first pick-up truck to pass by, asked for a ride, and then jumped in the bed of the truck. The rest of us followed. The 45 minute drive through the mountains was beautiful, albeit slightly terrifying.

After a quick lunch at a local eatery, we headed to the church. One of our history teachers had told us that entering the church in San Juan was like entering another world. I expected her description to be a little exaggerated. I was wrong.

On the outside, the cathedral appears to be a typical colonial Catholic church. On the inside, it couldn’'t be more different. Instead of pews and pulpits, the church is filled with kneeling worshipers chanting in Tzotzil (a Mayan language). Crowded around thousands of burning candles and incense, but surrounded by life-size statues of major Catholic saints, the people of San Juan de Chamula gather here to practice their unique blend of indigenous beliefs and Catholicism. Curanderos (medicine men) diagnose physical and psychological ailments, suggest remedies, and lead the worshippers. Chanting prayers, making sacrificial offerings (including animals, from time to time), and drinking Coca Cola and sugar cane-based liquor somehow blends with the basic tenants of Catholicism to create a mystifying syncretic religion—one that is literally impossible for outsiders to understand.

Reflecting on my abnormal Thanksgiving experience, I couldn'’t help but think of the original celebration at Plymouth Rock, celebrated by the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag Native Americans. This was the first—and perhaps the only—Thanksgiving that I spent with indigenous villagers. And, while there was none of the traditional American festivities, I couldn't help but think that I was probably doing more justice to Thanksgiving by spending the holiday with native peoples, instead of with my relatives.

Some food for thought: the Spanish certainly didn't treat the indigenous people of Mexico well, but at least their treatment of them didn'’t lead to a decimated population, only a marginalized one—something that can'’t be said of our founding ancestors.

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