In a corner of the mountain, Old Antonio rolls his cigarette in front of a tentative campfire. Only the dawn listens to his words:
“The oldest of our ancestors tell that in the beginning, there was darkness, fog, silence, everything motionless. There were already the earliest gods, the ones who gave birth to the world. But it was not until the first words were spoken that time began its long journey.
Many things were created by the first gods, those who created the worlds. Terrible and wondrous things that had to find their reason, motive and destiny with the growing pace of the created ones, the ones thus formed.
The heart of the sky, Hu Rakan, storm, lightning and thunder was made to punish the beings who, had disrespected their first mother, the earth. To those who sold her, to those who bought her, to those who prostituted her, to those who murdered her. For them it was terror, destruction, despair, and emptiness.
Only some people were given something to protect themselves with. They gave them the arts, and tolerated – and even encouraged – the blasphemy of the sciences. Because those first gods, the ones who created the world, created those who honored them and those who challenged them. For it is with doubt, they said to themselves, that tomorrow is made fertile.
But they gave special attention to those who are moved by memory, to those who turn it into indignation and struggle. To those who search, they gave hope and the permanent surprise of finding those who are lost in oblivion and abandonment. They receive nothing, but they distribute certainty where uncertainty has sown sorrow. Those who seek without rest, is certain to always find.
Thus said the first gods, the forgers of worlds. Thus were the first words spoken and thus the first steps.”
-*-
It gets dark and everyone gathers on the field. The original ones and the newcomers. Those who have recently joined this community do not really know what it is all about, but it seems to be something very solemn and special. As if something big was happening.
You hear a murmur that spreads: “Nana’jatikon, Yayatik, Lak’chuchuo’j” (*).
The searching mothers are in the center, with the bonfire further enlarging their already gigantic shadows over the people. They wave almost as if asking for forgiveness. Those coordinating the meeting do not ask them who they are, nor what they know how to do. In the assembly everyone looks at them with a mixture of affection, admiration, respect.
That look that can only be found in the originary communities when they come across someone with enough moral stature to look them in the face.
The Seekers speak: “Well, this is as far as we have come, little sisters, little brothers. We don’t know what to tell you, only that we are here.”
From among those in the silent assembly, a small group of girls and boys separates. They carry bunches of wild flowers, the kind found in cornfields and pastures.They hand them to the searching mothers and repeat:
Nana’jatikon, Yaya tik, Lak’chuchuo’j” (*).
The Seekers struggle to articulate any words. Their wet gazes glisten in the reflection of the campfire that presides over the gathering.
The smallest one tells them:
“Nana’jatikon, Yaya tik, Lak’chuchuo’j (*), our grandmothers, our predecessors, our guides, our mothers. We just want to say thank you. Thank you because you didn’t falter, you didn’t give up, you didn’t get discouraged, and you didn’t stop until you found us. Here we are, we, the smallest ones. Although far away, we see your footsteps close. Though weak, we hear your voice strongly. Though veiled by sorrow, your gaze was and is light on our path. And your heart has been one with ours.”
The Captain.
November of 2024.
(*) “Our grandmothers” in the Mayan languages of Tzeltal, Tzotzil and Cho’ol, respectively.