Pete Hamill - Piecework

AMERICAN FILM,

July-August 1984

Each day after lunch, we walked under the hot, scoured Mexican sky to the center of the town of Tepoztlán. Off to the left were the sour remains of old cane fields where shirtless kids played soccer in the dust. Down the broad valley behind us, we could see men riding horses and the sudden glint of sun on a machete. In the town’s graveyard, tiny cones of dust whirled among the headstones. On both sides of the valley were the mountains of Morelos.

Those mountains, surrounding this town about 60 miles south of Mexico City, are a spectacular sight: sheer cliffs, sudden crags, rocky formations that seem split by some cosmic ax. Behind them, other mountains rise, big and broad-shouldered, with the dark purple silhouettes of still more beyond — all part of the Sierra Madre, the primordial spine of Mexico. Each day, as my wife and I walked to town, they became as familiar as the road itself.

A half mile from the house where we were staying, the modern two-lane blacktop abruptly gave way to 18th-century cobblestones and rose steeply into the town. Here, visiting automobiles slowed to a crawl in a tenuous and losing negotiation with the colonial past. At the top of that steeply terraced hill, sitting in doorways, wearing the familiar white pajamas of the campesino — the countryman — their eyes cloudy with the past, their faces gullied by time, were the last old soldiers of the man who once was the revolutionary master of these mountains: Emiliano Zapata.

“Si, fue un Zapatista,” an old man told me one afternoon. Yes, I was a Zapatista. Then he paused, in modest clarification: “We all fought. In Tepoztlán, we were all Zapatistas.”

The sight of these old men moved me in complicated ways. I’ve been going to Mexico since the mid-1950s, when I was a student there on the GI Bill. In 1956, on the Transportes del Norte bus heading south from Laredo, I carried Zapata in my psychic baggage, or at least the version of the great revolutionary leader that Marlon Brando played in Viva Zapata! In that fine, tragic 1952 movie, directed by Elia Kazan, Brando gave Zapata a muted and melancholy grandeur. For once, the movies got it right; over the years, as I studied the history of this great, tormented country, it became clear that Viva Zapata! might be of limited use as literal history, but was absolutely true as legend.

Here in the village of Tepoztlán, among the mountains of Morelos, was the proof. The legend lived. But for these old men, Emiliano Zapata wasn’t simply a character in a movie, a figure in a mural, or a name, in the history of the 1910-1920 Mexican Revolution. He had lived, he’d fought, he’d died here. Or in places within a day’s horseback ride or three days’ walk. These men saw him, heard him speak. “All of Morelos followed him,” one man said. “Right to the end.”

Even today, many decades after his death, the spirit of the Zapatista struggle seems to permeate Morelos, while haunting Mexico. “He is one of our legendary heroes,” wrote the great Mexican writer Octavio Paz. “Realism and myth are joined in this ardent, melancholy, and hopeful figure who died as he had lived: embracing the earth.”

That earth was, above all, the earth of Morelos, where Zapata was born in 1879 in Anenecuilco, a village whose name in Aztec means “place where the water moves like a worm.” And though as a young man Emiliano was a master horseman, not a tiller of the soil, his ancestors had lived and worked the land for generations. Much of that land was communal — the grazing fields, the rivers — and was theirs according to land grants that went back to the earliest days of the Spaniards. But over the centuries, and increasingly under the dictator Porfirio Diaz, who took power in 1876, the common lands were taken from the men of Morelos by the owners of the expanding haciendas. Stolen village cornfields were planted in sugar, rivers diverted to irrigate the lands of the rich. Guns proved more powerful than paper. Those who protested were humiliated, jailed, sometimes killed; after the turn of the century, when the Diaz regime was in full power, those who protested were often sent off to penal slavery in the henequen plantations of distant Yucatan. More and more, the men of Morelos whispered about revolt; someday, they said, they would have to fight for the land with guns.

In Anenecuilco in 1909, the 400 citizens turned for help to 30-year-old Emiliano Zapata, electing him their leader. He was a proud, tough man who did not toady to the rich. He spoke Spanish and Nahuatl — the language of south-central Mexico — and had traveled beyond the valleys, beyond even Cuernavaca, the capital of Morelos; he had even lived in Mexico City, la capital, where he had handled horses for a rich family. And he had demonstrated his love for Morelos by coming home. “Uneasy and depressed,” wrote John Womack Jr. in his classic 1968 biography, Zapata and the Mexican Revolution, “he was soon back in Anenecuilco, remarking bitterly how in the capital horses lived in stalls that would put to shame the house of any workingman in the whole state of Morelos. …”

For more than a year, Zapata and the men of Morelos tried to use the law to settle their grievances. Basically, they wanted the return of the ejidos, the communal lands that had been theirs since before the Conquest. They pleaded with the owners of the haciendas; they sent letters to the governor. They were ignored. Finally, in 1910, initially over the narrow issue of reelection of the dictator, Mexico exploded into full-scale revolution. And with Zapata as its leader, Morelos was the most revolutionary state of all.

Although he never learned to read (in 1910, 77 percent of all Mexicans were illiterate), Zapata soon proved to be a more daring and intelligent commander than the well-read graduates of the military schools. He was quick when they were slow; he was patient when they were not; above all, he had the respect and support of his people (who supplied food, information, and troops), while they had only the heavy artillery.

“Seek justice from tyrannical governments,” he said, “not with your hat in your hands but with a rifle in your fist.” For the next decade, with a rifle in his fist, Zapata made clear that he wanted nothing for himself. He was offered haciendas, land, power. He turned them all down, remaining true to the basic Zapatista demand: “Tierra y Libertad” - land and liberty — for the people who worked the land.

This was, of course, a conservative vision; Zapata offered no blurry Utopian future. He asked only that stolen land be returned to its owners, the campesinos, and that they be allowed to work that land in peace. Now, before the planting. That, plus the freedom to speak what they felt and elect whom they wanted. The troops of his army marched under the banner of the Virgin of Guadalupe, not Karl Marx.

There was fighting all over Mexico, of course, but Morelos suffered more than any other state. Hundreds of villages were damaged; Cuernavaca, the state capital, was reduced to rubble; the state’s economy was destroyed, as was the sugar industry. The people suffered horrendous losses; almost half the population was killed or driven away by the war. That’s why here, of all the regions of Mexico, the hope and pain of the revolution remain so vivid.

You drive down a side road near Cuautla, where there is a monument to Zapata, and off to the right is the chimney of a destroyed house, the smashed bricks and beams of a church, and more often the oddly splendid ruins of a once more splendid hacienda. The last always evoke images of Mexico’s anden regime, when men in tight chamois pants and silver spurs built grand mansions they thought would last forever. In 1910, 30 haciendas owned 62 percent of the total surface area of Morelos and almost all of the arable land. Their ruins are also monuments to Zapata. “The land free, the land free for all,” he said. “Land without overseers and without masters, is the war cry of the revolution.”