Remembering Acteal

A solemn march uphill through carved-out communities,
Spirits serenaded by a triumphant marching band
High up in the clouds, overlooking absolutely everything,
Moments of soul-warming intense sun quickly met by
The goose-bump rendering shade.
The intermittently sweeping calm breeze reminds everybody
That somebody greater is here today;
This place is alive.

The casual and intense beauty of Los Altos lay beyond the road,
Their hillsides robbed of their contents,
Men adorning sombreros, work furiously in the foreground
With beads of sweat glistening in their brows.
One man braces himself for just a moment,
His pitchfork firmly entrenched into the tierra,
Perhaps staking his claim in the fiery remnants below,
His silhouette conjuring an eerie resemblance to that of
A modern-day conquistador, standing proudly atop
His pile of burning trash.

A tired dog lies on the side of the road, and I wait for it to exhale.
It does not.
. . . . .

Walking uphill
-still serenaded-
heading directly into the beehive.

Upon arrival we’re met by gathered masses and
The bystander chapel that was forced to contain
Such aggression,
Families killing families,
Mothers, fathers, and children huddled in prayer,
All slain,
The near-decimation of a community;
A massacre.

But in spite of it all, they still march uphill into the beehive yearly,
Proudly staking their own claims of the charred ashes underneath the soil
Fighting the screams and the tears that threaten to burst from inside
And instead,
Choosing to sing.

¨Cantamos

porque el grito no es basta,

El llanto no es basta.¨


Gathered high atop this mountain of unrealized beauty,
In this community driven to geography’s edge,
Forever marked by the absolutely worst moments of men.
Huddled in prayer,
Not screaming,
Not crying,
Singing.

Cantamos.


for more photos of Acteal, view our Gallery Post.