Subcomandante Marcos Quotes

We are sorry for the inconvenience, but this is a revolution.

Yes, Marcos is gay. Marcos is gay in San Francisco, black in South Africa, an Asian in Europe, a Chicano in San Ysidro, an anarchist in Spain, a Palestinian in Israel, a Mayan Indian in the streets of San Cristobal, a Jew in Germany, a Gypsy in Poland, a Mohawk in Quebec, a pacifist in Bosnia, a single woman on the Metro at 10pm, a peasant without land, a gang member in the slums, an unemployed worker, an unhappy student and, of course, a Zapatista in the mountains. Marcos is all the exploited, marginalised, oppressed minorities resisting and saying `Enough'. He is every minority who is now beginning to speak and every majority that must shut up and listen. He is every untolerated group searching for a way to speak. Everything that makes power and the good consciences of those in power uncomfortable -- this is Marcos.

I shit on all the revolutionary vanguards of this planet

In our dreams we have seen another world, an honest world, a world decidedly more fair than the one in which we now live. We saw that in this world there was no need for armies; peace, justice and liberty were so common that no one talked about them as far-off concepts, but as things such as bread, birds, air, water, like book and voice.

In the cabaret of globalization, the state shows itself as a table dancer that strips off everything until it is left with only the minimum indispensable garments: the repressive force.

Abajo y a la Izquierda está el Corazón!

I look over at my hero shelf and see Philip Levine, Rainer Maria Rilke, Virginia Woolf, Shunryu Suzuki, Adrienne Rich, Pablo Neruda, Subcomandante Marcos, Eduardo Galeano, James Baldwin. These books are, if they are instructions at all, instructions in extending our identities out into the world, human and nonhuman, in imagination as a great act of empathy that lifts you out of yourself, not locks you down into your gender. (“80 Books No Woman Should Read”)

The prophecy is here: When the storm calms, when rain and fire again leave the country in peace, the world will no longer be the world, but something better.

But I'll tell you more about that later... or maybe I won't, because some wounds just don't heal even if you talk them out. On the contrary, the more you dress them up in words, the more they bleed.

As to whether Marcos is gay: Marcos is gay in San Francisco, black in South Africa, an Asian in Europe, a Chicano in San Ysidro, an anarchist in Spain, a Palestinian in Israel, a Mayan Indian in the streets of San Cristobal,… a Jew in Germany, a Gypsy in Poland, a Mohawk in Quebec, a pacifist in Bosnia, a single woman on the Metro at 10pm, a peasant without land, a gang member in the slums, an unemployed worker, an unhappy student and, of course, a Zapatista in the mountains.

We were born between blood and gunpowder; and between blood and gunpowder we were raised. Every so often the powerful from other lands came to rob us of tomorrow. For this reason it was written in a war song that unites us: "If a foreigner with his step ever dares to profane your land, think, Oh beloved motherland, that heaven gave you a soldier in each son." For this reason we fought. With flags and different languages the foreigner came to conquer us. He came and he went.

Don Quixote is the best book out there on political theory, followed by Hamlet and Macbeth. There is no better way to understand the tragedy and the comedy of the Mexican political system than Hamlet, Macbeth and Don Quixote. They're much better than any column of political analysis.

il domani potrà albeggiare solo con una certa dose di delirio e di follia.

There once was a brown horse that was brown like a bean, and he lived in the home of a very poor farmer. And the poor farmer had a very poor wife, and they had a very thin chicken and a lame little pig. And so, one day the very poor farmer s wife said: We have nothing more to eat because we are very poor, so we must eat the very thin chicken. So they killed the very thin chicken and made a thin soup and ate it. And so, for a while, they were fine; but the hunger returned and the very poor farmer told his very poor wife: We have nothing more to eat because we are so poor, so we must eat the lame little pig. And so the lame little pig s turn came and they killed it and they made a lame soup and ate it. And then it was the bean-brown horse s turn. But the bean-brown horse did not wait for the story to end; it just ran away and went to another story. Is that the end of the story? I asked Durito, unable to hide my bewilderment. Of course not. Didn't you hear me say that the bean-brown horse fled to another story? he said as he prepared to leave. And so? I ask exasperated. And so nothing you have to look for the bean-brown horse in another story! he said, adjusting his hat. But, Durito! I said, protesting uselessly. Not one more word! You tell the story like it is

Los soldados mexicanos se empiezan a pregun-tar qué hacen persiguiendo mexicanos, dónde quedaron la Patria y su historia, dónde el honor y la verguenza...

Why do we need to be pardoned? What are we to be pardoned for? For not dying of hunger? For not accepting humbly the historic burden of disdain and abandonment? For having risen up in arms after we found all other paths closed? For not heeding the Chiapas penal code, one of the most absurd and repressive in history? For showing the rest of the country and the whole world that human dignity still exists even among the world’s poorest peoples? For having made careful preparations before we began our uprising? For bringing guns to battle instead of bows and arrows? For being Mexicans? For being mainly indigenous? For calling on the Mexican people to fight by whatever means possible for what belongs to them? For fighting for liberty, democracy and justice? For not following the example of previous guerrilla armies? For refusing to surrender? For refusing to sell ourselves out? Who should we ask for pardon, and who can grant it? Those who for many years glutted themselves at a table of plenty while we sat with death so often, we finally stopped fearing it? Those who filled our pockets and our souls with empty promises and words? Or should we ask pardon from the dead, our dead, who died “natural” deaths of “natural causes” like measles, whooping cough, break-bone fever, cholera, typhus, mononucleosis, tetanus, pneumonia, malaria and other lovely gastrointestinal and pulmonary diseases? Our dead, so very dead, so democratically dead from sorrow because no one did anything, because the dead, our dead, went just like that, with no one keeping count with no one saying, “Enough!” which would at least have granted some meaning to their deaths, a meaning no one ever sought for them, the dead of all times, who are now dying once again, but now in order to live? Should we ask pardon from those who deny us the right and capacity to govern ourselves? From those who don’t respect our customs and our culture and who ask us for identification papers and obedience to a law whose existence and moral basis we don’t accept? From those who oppress us, torture us, assassinate us, disappear us from the grave “crime” of wanting a piece of land, not too big and not too small, but just a simple piece of land on which we can grow something to fill our stomachs? Who should ask for pardon, and who can grant it?

This wind will come from the mountains. It is already being born under the trees and is conspiring for a new world, so new that it is barely an intuition in the collective heart that inspired it...

Γιατί στην πραγματικότητα αυτοί που κυβερνάνε σήμερα είναι οι άνθρωποι των ΜΜΕ. Ναι, βέβαια, τα τηλεοπτικά κανάλια κυρίως. Ναι, έτσι είναι, εμείς οι αποκάτω βάζουμε τους νεκρούς κι εκείνοι οι αποπάνω βάζουνε τις διαφημίσεις.

To look and to struggle, it is not enough to know where to direct your gaze, patience, and effort," old Antonio said to me as he got up. "One must also get started, reach out, and meet other gazes, which, in turn, will get started, reach out, and met yet other gazes. In this way, looking at the other looking, many gazes are born, and the world sees that it can be better, and that there is room for all gazes and for those who, though different and other, look at others looking and see themselves walking a history yet to be made.

So the greatest gods explained to the first men and women what 'looking' was and taught them to look. That's how men and women learned that you can look at others, know that they exist, they are there, they are other, and, in that way, not bump into them, hurt, step over, or trip them. They also learned that they could look inside another and see what their hearts are feeling, since the heart doesn't always speak with words that come from the lips. Many times, the heart speaks with the sink, with a look, or by walking. They also learned to look at those who see only themselves, who see only themselves in others' look. And they learned to look at those others who look at them looking. The first men and women learned every type of gaze there was, and the most important one they learned is the gaze that looks at itself and is aware of itself and knows itself, that sees itself both looking and looking inward, that sees paths and futures yet to be born, paths not yet walked, and dawns yet to break.

Then the lion stares at it. It stares at its prey. Like this.' (Old Antonio frowns and fastens his black eyes on me.) 'The poor little animal that is going to die just looks. It looks at the lion, who is staring at him. The little animal no longer sees itself, it sees what the lion sees, it looks at the little animal image in the lion's stare, it sees that the lion sees it as small and weak. The little animal never thought before about whether it was small and weak. It was just an animal, neither big nor small, neither strong nor weak. But now it looks at what the lion is seeing, it looks at fear. And by looking at what the lion is seeing, the little animal convinces itself that it is small and weak. And, by looking at the fear that the lion sees, it feels afraid. And now the little animal does not look at anything. Its bones go numb, just like when water gets hold of us at night in the cold. And then the little animal just surrenders, it lets itself go and the lion gets it. That is how the lion kills. It kills by staring.

P.D. MAYORITARIA QUE SE DISFRAZA DE MINORÍA INTOLERADA. A todo esto de que si Marcos es homosexual: Marcos es gay en San Francisco, negro en Sudáfrica, asiático en Europa, chicano en San Isidro, anarquista en España, palestino en Israel, indígena en las calles de San Cristóbal, chavo banda en Neza, rockero en cu, judío en Alemania, ombusdman en la Sedena, feminista en los partidos políticos, comunista en la post guerra fría, preso en Cintalapa, pacifista en Bosnia, mapuche en los Andes, maestro en la CNTE, artista sin galería ni portafolios, ama de casa un sábado por la noche en cualquier colonia de cualquier ciudad de cualquier México, guerrillero en el México de fin del siglo XX, huelguista en la CTM, reportero de nota de relleno en interiores, machista en el movimiento feminista, mujer sola en el metro a las 10 p.m., jubilado en plantón en el Zócalo, campesino sin tierra, editor marginal, obrero desempleado, médico sin plaza, estudiante inconforme, disidente en el neoliberalismo, escritor sin libros ni lectores, y, es seguro, zapatista en el sureste mexicano. En fin, Marcos es un ser humano, cualquiera, en este mundo. Marcos es todas las minorías intoleradas, oprimidas, resistiendo, explotando, diciendo "¡Ya basta!". Todas las minorías a la hora de hablar y mayorías a la hora de callar y aguantar. Todos los intolerados buscando una palabra, su palabra, lo que devuelva la mayoría a los eternos fragmentados, nosotros. Todo lo que incomoda al poder y a las buenas conciencias, eso es Marcos.

Debo empezar por unas disculpas ("mal comienzo", decía mi abuela). ¿De qué tenemos que pedir perdón? ¿De qué nos van a perdonar? ¿De no morirnos de hambre? ¿De no callarnos en nuestra miseria? ¿De no haber aceptado humildemente la gigantesca carga histórica de desprecio y abandono? ¿De habernos levantado en armas cuando encontramos todos los otros caminos cerrados? ¿De no habernos atenido al Código Penal de Chiapas, el más absurdo y represivo del que se tenga memoria? ¿De haber demostrado al resto del país y al mundo entero que la dignidad humana vive aún y está en sus habitantes más empobrecidos? ¿De habernos preparado bien y a conciencia antes de iniciar? ¿De haber llevado fusiles al combate, en lugar de arcos y flechas? ¿De haber aprendido a pelear antes de hacerlo? ¿De ser mexicanos todos? ¿De ser mayoritariamente indígenas? ¿De llamar al pueblo mexicano todo a luchar de todas las formas posibles, por lo que les pertenece? ¿De luchar por libertad, democracia y justicia? ¿De no seguir los patrones de las guerrillas anteriores? ¿De no rendirnos? ¿De no vendernos? ¿De no traicionarnos? ¿Quién tiene que pedir perdón y quién puede otorgarlo? ¿Los que, durante años y años, se sentaron ante una mesa llena y se saciaron mientras con nosotros se sentaba la muerte, tan cotidiana, tan nuestra que acabamos por dejar de tenerle miedo? ¿Los que nos llenaron las bolsas y el alma de declaraciones y promesas? ¿Los muertos, nuestros muertos, tan mortalmente muertos de muerte "natural", es decir, de sarampión, tosferina, dengue, cólera, tifoidea, mononucleosis, tétanos, pulmonía, paludismo y otras lindezas gastrointestinales y pulmonares? ¿Nuestros muertos, tan mayoritariamente muertos, tan democráticamente muertos de pena porque nadie hacía nada, porque todos los muertos, nuestros muertos, se iban así nomás, sin que nadie llevara la cuenta, sin que nadie dijera, por fin, el "¡YA BASTA!", que devolviera a esas muertes su sentido, sin que nadie pidiera a los muertos de siempre, nuestros muertos, que regresaran a morir otra vez pero ahora para vivir? ¿Los que nos negaron el derecho y don de nuestras gentes de gobernar y gobernarnos? ¿Los que negaron el respeto a nuestra costumbre, a nuestro color, a nuestra lengua? ¿Los que nos tratan como extranjeros en nuestra propia tierra y nos piden papeles y obediencia a una ley cuya existencia y justeza ignoramos? ¿Los que nos torturaron, apresaron, asesinaron y desaparecieron por el grave "delito" de querer un pedazo de tierra, no un pedazo grande, no un pedazo chico, sólo un pedazo al que se le pudiera sacar algo para completar el estómago? ¿Quién tiene que pedir perdón y quién puede otorgarlo? ¿El presidente de la república? ¿Los secretarios de estado? ¿Los senadores? ¿Los diputados? ¿Los gobernadores? ¿Los presidentes municipales? ¿Los policías? ¿El ejército federal? ¿Los grandes señores de la banca, la industria, el comercio y la tierra? ¿Los partidos políticos? ¿Los intelectuales? ¿Galio y Nexos? ¿Los medios de comunicación? ¿Los estudiantes? ¿Los maestros? ¿Los colonos? ¿Los obreros? ¿Los campesinos? ¿Los indígenas? ¿Los muertos de muerte inútil? ¿Quién tiene que pedir perdón y quién puede otorgarlo?

Esto de la patria es algo difícil de explicar. Pero más difícil es comprender eso del amor a la patria. Por ejemplo, nos enseñaron que el amor a la patria es, por ejemplo, saludar a la bandera, ponerse a escuchar el himno nacional. Emborracharse a discreción cuando pierde la selección de futbol.

PD. DE "LA OTRA CONSULTA". Revisé la parte de la correspondencia externa que va dirigida a mi pasamontañas. Hay de todo: caricaturas, albures, mentadas (de menta y de las otras), amenazas de muerte y retos a duelo. Estos son los resultados preliminares: -El 97.98% de los consultados piensa que soy muy mamón. El 2% dice que no soy mamón, sino bastante payaso. El 0.02% no contestó (está contando un chiste de pepito). -El 87.56% piensa que voy a terminar vendiéndome con el gobierno. El 12% pregunta que cuál es el precio. El 0.44% revisa la cartera en busca de cambio. -El 74.38% dice que yo no escribo las cartas y comunicados, que con esta cara (?) dudan que pueda hilvanar un par de ideas coherentes. El 25% señala que sí escribo yo, pero me dictan. El 0.62% mejor se puso a leer El Chahuistle. -El 69.69% dice lo que dice. El resto no lo dice, pero lo piensa. Varios no contestaron, pero entornaron los ojos y jadearon ostensiblemente. -El 53.45% dice que nunca he estado en la montaña, que despacho desde un escritorio público donde se mecanografían tesis y cartas como la que, el otro día, me dictó Rutilio y que dice: "Ufemia: Claro necesito que me digas si querétaro las manzanas para que poninas dijo popochas y, si naranjas podridas y ni maiz palomas, me boinas con los cuadernos". El 46% dice que sí estuve en la montaña pero en la de Vail, Colorado, iuesei. El 0.55% está haciendo fila en la taquilla de la montaña rusa. -El 49.99% dice que nunca he agarrado un arma y que soy "soldado de escritorio". El 50% dice que la única arma que he agarrado es la que diosito me dio y quién sabe, dicen. El 0.01% se mantuvo a prudente distancia (¡órale! ¡no salpiquen!). -El 33.71% dice que "perdí el piso" con la crítica al PRD y el veto a "importantes diarios" (?). El 66% dice que nunca he tenido piso alguno, que seguro me desalojaron. El 0.29% no trajo su copia de la boleta predial. -El 26.62% dice que mi pasamontañas ya está muy guango y que enseña TODO. El 73% dice que me suba el cierre del pantalón. El 0.38% fue por unos binoculares. -El 13.64% dice que soy egocentrista. El 86% dice que soy un presumido. El 0.36% cambió de periódico y ahora lee Nexos. -El 99.99999% dice que ya está hasta la madre de encuestas y consultas. El 0.00001% fue al baño, ahorita regresa (ojo: se llevó la hoja de la encuesta, no se vayan a manchar).

We are woken gently at three in the morning and told that we need to leave. Guided by the light of the stars rather than the moon, we walk for half an hour before we reach a hut. We can just about make out the presence of three men inside, but it's almost as dark as the balaclavas that hide their faces. In the identikit released by the Mexican government, Marcos was de-scribed as a professor with a degree in philosophy who wrote a thesis on Althusser and did a Master's at Paris-Sorbonne Univer-sity. A voice initially speaking French breaks the silence: “We’ve got twenty minutes. I prefer to speak Spanish if that’s OK. I’m Subcomandante Marcos.

I remind you that divisions between countries serve only to define the crime of contraband and to justify wars. Indeed, there exist at least two things that transcend borders: one is the crime disguised as modernity that distributes misery on a global scale; the other is the hope that shame will exist only when someone misses a dance step, and not every time we look at ourselves in the mirror. To bring an end tot he crime and make hope bloom, we need only to struggle and to become better. The rest falls into place on its own and is what fills libraries and museums.

en los expedientes de la PGR, donde levantan los cargos contra los presuntos zapatistas, pusieron “La Candona”.

la pioggia rompeva tutti gli angoli della notte e non ne lasciava intero neanche un pezzetto.

aspettare come di solito si aspettano il mare e il grano, sapendo che arriveranno, perché non se ne sono mai andati davvero.

Di certo esistono almeno due cose al di sopra di ogni frontiera. Una è il crimine che, travesito da modernità, distribuisce la miseria su scala mondiale; l'altra è la speranza che la vergogna esista solo quando sbagliamo un passo di danza e non ogni volta che ci guardiamo allo specchio. Per porre fine al primo e far fiorire la seconda bisogna solo lottare ed essere migliore. Il resto viene da sé e in genere è quello che va a riempire le biblioteche e i musei.

No es necesario conquistar el mundo. Basta con que lo hagamos de nuevo. Nosotros. Hoy.

...ότι κάποιες φορές μπορεί κανείς να διαλέξει σε ποιο δωμάτιο θα ζήσει ... κι ότι, αν μπορεί κανείς να διαλέξει, τότε θα πρέπει να διαλέξει δυο φορές, ότι αν μπορεί θα πρέπει να διαλέξει που θα βρεθεί και εκτός αυτού από ποια πόρτα θα μπει, κι ότι η δουλειά των μεγάλων είναι να να δείχνουν στα παιδιά όλα τα πιθανά παράθυρα, έτσι που εκείνα να μπορούν να σκύψουν και να κοιτάξουν όλα τα δωμάτια που μπορεί να υπάρχουν, ότι η δουλειά των μεγάλων είναι να παλεύουν αδιάκοπα προκειμένου τα παιδιά να έχουν πάντοτε την ελευθερία να διαλέξουν το δωμάτιο του κόσμου όπου θα βρεθούν, και την ελευθερία και την υπευθυνότητα να διαλέξουν την πόρτα απ' την οποία θα μπουν σ' αυτό το δωμάτιο, γιατί ο καθένας μας μπορεί να 'ναι ό,τι θέλει κι όπου θέλει, αλλά θα πρέπει να διαλέξει αν θα 'ναι καλός ή κακός.

Che worship amongst Mexicans, however, features a few more wrinkles than the usual caudillismo causes. Guevara, for one, was an emigrant—left Argentina for revolution—who remade his life in Mexico when he met Fidel Castro. He died young, like all good Mexican men. Che was a romantic—can’t tell you how many pro-immigrant-activist e-mails end with Guevara’s supposed quote “At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that a true revolutionary is guided by great feelings of love.” More important, Guevara wasn’t afraid to use violence as a method in the pursuit of his love, the love that dare not speak its name except through the barrel of a gun. Don’t believe Chicanos: while César Chávez advocated nonviolence, Mexicans like their leaders armed to the gold teeth—think Emiliano Zapata, Pancho Villa, Subcomandante Marcos. And now you know why democracy has never existed in Mexico.

The discussion continued after that first agreement, because it is one thing to recognize that there are others who are different and something else entirely to respect them. So they spent a long while talking and discussing how each of them was different from the others. They didn't care that they were spending so much time talking, because, as it happens, time didn't exist yet. Then they all fell silent as each one spoke of their own difference. Each of the other gods realized that the more they listened and recognized the differences of the others, the more they discovered what it was within themselves that made them different. That made them very happy, and they started to dance.

The brutality of "The Story of the Lion and the Mirror" refracts the violence of this historical moment. The lion, intoxicated by the taste of blood, mistakes his own blood fort hat of the calf he wants to devour and ends up bleeding to death. We wonder if this story is perhaps a parable about how counterinsurgency fails: thinking it is consuming the blood of its enemy, the state bleeds itself out.

...as Marcos reminds us, "When Mexican government officials say land, they precede the word with an 'I buy' or 'I sell,' since for the powerful land is just a commodity. When the Indigenous say land, no word recedes it, but with it they also mean nation, mother, home, school, history, wisdom.

Old Antonio says that the eldest of teh elders told him that the assembly of the first gods, those who gave birth tot he world, happened very long ago, so long ago, in fact, that time didn't exist yet. And the elders said that in that assembly each of the gods spoke their word, and each said, "The thoughts I have are different from those of the others." At that point, the gods fell silent, because they realized that when each of them said "the others" they meant different "others." After they had been silent fora while, the first gods realized that they now had their first agreement: there were "others", and those "others" were different from themselves. In this way, the first agreement reached by the very first gods was to recognize difference and accept the existence of the other. But, then, what choice did they have since they were, after all, dogs, first gods, and so they had to accept one another, not as greater or lesser but as different.

In the world we want, everyone fits. We want a world in which many worlds fit.

I understand you, Marco Antonio Guerra said to him. I mean, if I’m right, I think I understand you. You’re like me and I’m like you. We aren’t happy. The atmosphere around us is stifling. We pretend there’s nothing wrong, but there is. What’s wrong? We’re being fucking stifled. You let off steam your own way. I beat the shit out of people or let them beat the shit out of me. But the fights I get into aren’t just any fights, they’re fucking apocalyptic mayhem. I’m going to tell you a secret. Sometimes I go out at night, to bars you can’t even imagine. And I pretend to be a faggot. But not just any kind of faggot: smooth, stuck-up, sarcastic, a daisy in the filthiest pigsty in Sonora. Of course, I don’t have a gay bone in me, I can swear that on the grave of my dead mother. But I pretend that’s what I am. An arrogant little faggot with money who looks down on everyone. And then the inevitable happens. Two or three vultures ask me to step outside. And then the shit kicking begins. I know it and I don’t care. Sometimes they’re the ones who get the worst of it, especially when I have my gun. Other times it’s me. I don’t give a fuck. I need the fucking release. Sometimes my friends, the few friends I have, guys my age who are lawyers now, tell me I should be careful, I’m a time bomb, I’m a masochist. One of them, someone I was really close to, told me that only somebody like me could get away with what I did because I had my father to bail me out. Pure coincidence, that’s all. I’ve never asked my father for a thing. The truth is, I don’t have friends. I don’t want any. At least, I’d rather not have friends who’re Mexicans. Mexicans are rotten inside, did you know? Every last one of them. No one escapes. From the president of the republic to that clown Subcomandante Marcos. If I were Subcomandante Marcos, you know what I’d do? I’d launch an attack with my whole army on any city in Chiapas, so long as it had a strong military garrison. And there I’d sacrifice my poor Indians. And then I’d probably go live in Miami. What kind of music do you like? asked Amalfitano. Classical music, Professor, Vivaldi, Cimarosa, Bach. And what books do you read? I used to read everything, Professor, I read all the time. Now all I read is poetry. Poetry is the one thing that isn’t contaminated, the one thing that isn’t part of the game. I don’t know if you follow me, Professor. Only poetry—and let me be clear, only some of it—is good for you, only poetry isn’t shit.