I waited until he had rolled her back down the hall, and then I got up and turned on the living room light. My pack was propped against the wall, and I sat down on the floor in front of it in my black T-shirt and underwear and white socks and dug around until I found the packet of Stefan’s letters. Then I began to read from where I’d left off in Tikal. Letter #3 was dated February 16, 1992.
Dear Jonah,
Sorry about yet another long silence. I don’t mean to leave you hanging between letters. But I’m pretty much up to the eyeballs all the time, and when I do get a minute to myself, I try my best to hide out somewhere, even if it’s only for a couple of hours. Next time you’re tempted to gnash your teeth about the rigors of the hermit life (i.e., your New York Times is a day or so late), try to spare me a thought. Right now, I’d give my left arm to be sitting on that redwood bench outside my cell, watching the whales go by.
But I chose this, right?
There’s a young man here I’m asking you to pray for. Mat—a Maya name—has only been in San Cristóbal for three years. Before that he lived in the Ejido Morelia, a Tzeltal community outside of Altamirano, where his family grew corn and coffee. It’s an independent-minded ejido, and for a number of years has resisted the overtures of the PRI’s official campesino federation (which is more about keeping the campesinos in line than it is about helping them), despite having to face even worse neglect by the government as a result. Morelia has no doctor, no potable water, no full-time teacher, no priest.
Three years ago, Mat’s father drew down the wrath of a powerful local latifundista, Donaldo Aguilar, whose plantation runs along the ejido boundaries, and who’s had his eye on Morelia’s land for years. Mat’s father made it his business to keep track of Aguilar’s plans, and spoke out against them once too often. So Aguilar called out his private little police squad, which, like most of these mercenary gangs, is primarily made up of disgruntled ladino ex-cowboys.
Mat’s father was kidnapped on the road to Belisario Dominguez. Witnesses, a ten-year-old girl and her eight-year-old brother, recognized at least two of the men, rough types from Altamirano they often saw lounging around town when they went to the market. They were in a new blue Ford pickup without any license plates, and there were six of them, four riding in the bed. The little girl said they beat Mat’s father with the butts of their guns, then slung him in the back. Six days later, he reappeared on the track to Belisario Dominguez in almost the same place, this time propped against a rock, with his severed head in his lap. Based on the burns on him, he’d been put through hell.
Mat was old enough to be next, so the community smuggled him out of Morelia, and he resurfaced in San Cristóbal, living at first in La Hormiga slum with a group of expulsados. Did I mention the expulsado thing in my last letter? How Maya converts to evangelicalism, or else what’s known as “Word of God” Catholicism, are being driven out of their ancestral villages? The charge is that they no longer recognize the authority of the caciques (local chiefs), but the real issue is that they’ve started thinking for themselves, which power brokers like Aguilar and company, who more often than not have the caciques in their back pockets, refuse to countenance. Sadly, the villages themselves are no help, only too happy to drive out those who they feel are passing moral judgment by swearing off drinking, wife beating, and polygamy. Homeless and landless, the exiles head for the towns and cities where they are making up an increasingly large portion of the slum populations.
Mat was lucky. He found his way into the Guadalupe barrio, a community founded by former expulsados, where he lives with a Tzeltal family from the congregation. In three years he’s learned Spanish, and in the few months I’ve known him a fair amount of English besides. He has the idea that when he learns enough, he will bring his father’s killers to justice. What I can’t help hoping is that when he learns enough, he’ll want to become a priest instead. He’s got it in him, Jonah. I can see it from a hundred miles away.
And why, you are no doubt asking, is someone like me, a confessed coward, getting so wrapped up in this kid’s situation? Lots of reasons, but here’s the most direct. When I was in Nepal, probably nineteen or so, young enough to have not yet personally witnessed a purely evil act, I was dragged to a festival at a little village called Khokana at the far end of the Kathmandu Valley. A normal little town, mostly known for its mustard seed industry. Nobody would tell me what was going to happen, only that I was about to see one of the old, authentic rituals tourists are not invited to.
There’s a temple there, the Rudrayani, and nearby is a walled pond. At a certain point, people started gathering on the ledge above this pond, jocular but intent, and you could feel the excitement level starting to rise. The next thing I know, someone tosses in a young goat. This poor creature is terrified and bleating and trying its best to swim, and I’m already getting sick to my stomach at the callousness of what’s going on here. Then nine guys leap in after it like they are going to save it, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
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