ZAPATISTA ARMY OF NATIONAL LIBERATION MEXICO 6 April 1996 American Continental Encounter for Humanity and against Neoliberalism La Realidad, America. I was looking at how the moon began to deflate slowly, like an old balloon that gets tired of holding in air and begins to get thinner, like how one's enthusiasm wanes when the moment for good-byes gets closer. I was thinking that perhaps it was because of walking so long during the night that its edge was getting dulled and that the stars were nothing more than sawdust that the moon gave off during the constant sanding of the night. I was thinking of these things and, of course, I couldn't think of anything to say about neoliberalism for any of the tables at the continental encounter. I knew very well that we had committed ourselves, but even so I couldn't think of all this, instead I kept looking at the moon and trying to guess what it was trying to say, or what it was hiding, behind this deformity that diminished it. I was in a state of mind that one could surely qualify as "irresponsible lunacy", when something black and shiny fell on my nose. It bounced and landed at my feet, began to climb up my pants and it wasn't until it reached my right knee that I could distinguish a figure much like a beetle. And it could very well have been a beetle, if it hadn't been for a paper clip that he had on his right side, a bottle cap that he carried in his right hand, a little branch that was attached to his waist and the seed shell that he had on his head. I should say that the only horn that could be seen coming out of his head could confuse this being with a unicorn, but no, it was as clear as the moon that kept us awake today, that we were not dealing with a unicorn. I declared myself firmly disconcerted and, as always when I find myself firmly disconcerted, dedicated myself to sneezing with that lively and jolly style that has been the delight of young and old ... pharmacists. One of these sneezes hit squarely against the body that had managed to reach 3 centimeters above my knee. It fell all the way to the ground and began its climb again, but now up my left leg. I stopped paying attention because I was distracted watching how the moon, worn out and all, tossed clouds about from one side to the other. Suddenly I heard a voice that said to me: "Now we have seen that from the right, the result is always that one falls. From the left it to be harder work, but one ends up arriving." I thought that it was the voice of one of the presenters in this Continental Encounter, that the wind had managed to trap a fragment of his thoughts and had let it fall on me just when I was thinking about moons and heavenly wear and tear. I would have been satisfied with this veeerry logical explanation if it hadn't been for the fact that something stung me in the neck and I could see, on my left shoulder ... DURITO [In 1994, Subcomandante Marcos created the figure of Don Durito de la Lacandona. Based on the tradition of Don Quixote, Don Durito is a proud beetle who sees himself as a brave knight and Marcos as his vassal -- much like Don Quixote and his faithful Sancho Panza.] (Neoliberalism: a story as a cartoon ... badly made) "I'm talking to you, buffoon - said Durito as he withdrew his paper clip sting out of my neck. "And it's not a paper clip, you ignorant plebian, it's the lance of a brave knight ," said Durito as he finally put his clip, I mean his lance, to one side, took out his pipe and lit it. I took advantage of the impasse to tell him: "Durito, it's so good that you're here, you see I have a big problem ..." "Just a minute!," said Durito, indignant. "Since when do vassals allow themselves the sacrilege of talking to their lords and masters, the brave knights, in such disrespectful and presumptuous terms? Have you forgotten, you pallid and big-nosed lout, what I have taught you about the sacred laws of the knighthood?" I was offended by being called a lout and pallid. I didn't get offended by being called big-nosed, because you just can't hold a grudge against nature. I tried to begin a protest ... "But Durito ..." "But nothing! And don't call me Durito! I am the great and sublime Sir Durito of Lacandona, the highest example of knighthood, the supreme destroyer of entangled evil, the obscure object of desire of all womanhood, the superior state to which all honest men aspire to attain, the hero of all children, the consolance of the old, the best and the only!" said Durito as he unsheathed his branch, excuse me his sword "Excalibur", draws in his chest and pulls out his belly, I'm sorry, I meant to say the opposite, although in truth with Durito it is very difficult to say which is his chest and which is his belly. Well anyway, the point is that Durito looked truly indignant, so I thought I'd best opt for a conciliatory attitude. "And must I direct myself to you, I mean to you SIR, with all these titles?" "You should do so, but today I woke up in a magnanimous and generous mood, so you can just call me "Sir Durito" or simply "Sir". "Well Sir Durito or simply Sir, I was explaining to your excellency that I have a grave problem that has soured my soul and clouded with confusion my clear vision." I accompanied these serious word with a reverent gesture, because of the special relationship between plebians and nobles. "Now that's much better," said Durito, now seated on the top of the collar of my shirt, close enough to be out of my eyesight and to injure me with the lance if the circumstances and his humor made it necessary. "And what is the problem that brings such anguish to a soul as simple as yours? Is it perhaps a problem of the heart?" "No," I responded decisively. "Well, not only that," I continued, more dubious. Or rather, I want to say, well that is, well in reality it's something else," I concluded, stressing my indecision firmly. "Well then spit it out and stop going around in circles and cliches," Durito said impatiently. "Well the thing is that I have to write a presentation for the American Continental Encounter for Humanity and Against Neoliberalism. This is one thing, but the problem is that I can't think of any theme to discuss. I have here some rough drafts I've written ...,"I say as I pull out a sheet of paper. Durito snatches them from me immediately and begins to review them impatiently. "Mmmh, mmmh, mmmh," murmurs Durito as he chews on his pipe. I already know what these "mmmh"s mean, so I sneeze to encourage Durito to hurry. Durito only pulls out a small umbrella and continues his reading. After a while, he remains silent and gazes at me firmly. "Well?" I ask impatiently. "You should ask "Bad"? instead," says Durito and continues, "your prose, my illiterate vassal, is lamentable. Your similarity to my colleague Cyrano de Bergerac is limited to the disproportionate promontory you carry as a nasal appendix. Although to be just, one must recognize that as far as size is concerned, your's is notable superior to that of Bergerac." "Well let's just not talk about promontories, shall we, my illustrious knight?" I say as I sneeze so hard that it overshadows the torrent of a little while ago. "That's fine, I can see that this is not the time nor the manner to talk about mirrors, so I will continue...," says Durito as he puts away the umbrella and pulls out an asbestos suit. "Mmh. This part on the economy is too political, the part on culture is too economical, the politics are too culturalized and the social has everything but society. So therefore what we have here ... is good for nothing!" "I already know that. The question is how to resolve the problem," I repeat my impatience. "Don't worry. Here is the great and marvellous destroyer of the entangled evil that exists in the world. I will save you from this predicament into which you have fallen through your own ignorance," says Durito as he tosses my papers into the latrine closest to his heart. I tell him, with resentment and pain as I watch my papers drown in the metaphor for neoliberalism. "And how do you plan to resolve this dilemma, my lord?" "Veeery easy. I have a magic potion with me, given to me as a gift by the great witch of the Amazon. It has marvellous properties and is capable of doing miracles," says Durito as he draws out of his shell a bottle of sherry. I ask: "And if I drink this liquid will I be able to understand neoliberalism and construct an intelligent alternative?" "Of course not! This liquid does miracles for the shine of shells of all kinds. It has given me a "look" that has caused an uproar among the respectable," says Durito as his pours a little of the liquid on his back and rub himself with my bandana, or rather, with what is left of it. "But Durito ... what does the shine of your shell have to do with neoliberalism?,"I say, forgetting all about the protocol of knighthood. "Quiet! Attention everybody! Quickly! Pen and paper! Take note, because I am going to speak!" says Durito, directing himself to a pasture that, if it hadn't been for the 15 million fleas and 4 cows, was empty of an audience. Durito clears his throat and puts on some glasses that I hadn't seen before on him. One of the bullets in my bullet- belt is his improvised pulpit and, without any paper, he begins to talk to this mirror that is all of us. "In neoliberalism, my squalid vassal, history is converted into an inconvenience, due to what memory represents. Graduate studies in forgetfulness are promoted, and the minutely detailed statistics of the trivialities of power are the subject of studies and great, profound dissertations. Power converts history into a badly made cartoon strip, and its social scientists construct ridiculous apologies with a theoretical construct so complex that it succeeds in masking stupidity and servility with a costume of intelligence and objectivity. In the cartoon strip of neoliberalism, the powerful are heros because they are powerful, and the villains are those that can be eliminated, the "expendables", that is, the black people, the yellow people, the chicanos, latinos, indigenous people, women, youth, the prisoners, immigrants, poor people, homosexuals, lesbians, marginals, the old, and most especially, the rebels. In the cartoon strip of Power, the phenomena that matters is that which can be quantified in an electronic spreadsheet with respectable profit indices. Everything else is completely irrelevant, especially if it affects profit. "In the cartoon strip of Power, everything is predicted and resolved in advance: evil can continue to be evil, but only to emphasize the power of good. The ethical balance between good and evil is transformed into the amoral balance between Power and the rebel. In Power, money has weight. In the rebel, it is dignity that has weight. In its cartoon strip, Power imagines a world not without contradictions, but with all the contradictions under control, manageable as escape valves that control the pressures of social resentment that Power provokes. In its cartoon strip, Power constructs a virtual reality where dignity is unintelligible and immeasurable. How can something have value and weight if it cannot be understood or measured? Thus, dignity will always be, inescapably, defeated by money. So just say "no problem", there can be dignity because money will take care of buying it and converting it into a marketable good that will be distributed according to the laws of the market ... of Power. But, it turns out that the cartoon strip of power is just that, a cartoon strip, one that disdains La Realidad - REALITY - and is thus a badly made cartoon strip. Dignity continues to escape the laws of the market and begins to have weight and value where it matters most, that is, in the heart." Durito takes a deep bow. The grasshoppers applaud long and hard. Well, in a manner of speaking. I venture forth with ... "Well, it is a bit dense ..." "Silence! Don't ruin art with your trivialities and annexes!," protests Durito as he puts away his eyeglasses. Then he continues: "I hope you took note of everything and that this brilliant dissertation will help you get out of the muddle you are in." "No, I think you actually confused me more," I say as I try to hide the fact that I had not written a single word. "You are hopeless. Your reasoning is as limited as your nose is unlimited. We had better leave just leave this topic alone and tell me about the latest happenings," said Durito with resignation. I take out my notebook, stand to attention and report: "The motorized serpent has said that it plans to bring electricity to LA REALIDAD and that it's first installation will be ... an electric chair, which will be at the disposal of all those who practice the "slam"." "Ah! Goodness me, Sancho!" muses Don Durito. " "In addition, they say that they say around here, that the best musician of the Greased Serpent is "El Flama" and the only thing he can play is the horn of a car," I say as I cock the trigger in case someone wants to pick me off - "What this Serpent of the Hoy No Circula needs is that I, the great Durito Heavy Truck, join in as the artistic director." ["Hoy No Circula" is the name of a government environmental program in Mexico City, where each automobile must rest, or not circulate, one day a week.] "Is that how you will learn to play?" I ask as I prepare the hard version of the song "Cartas Marcadas" in case we need to do a "playback". "Not a chance, but the concert halls will surely fill to bursting to admire my dance style called "Durito's Dance". Wacha bato and look this beauty-full move!" says Durito and begins a sort of epilepsy. I remind the great and never well praised Don Durito of the Lacandona that it is not time to be causing distortions and that we have to resolve the problem on the presentation for humanity and against neoliberalism. The reminder takes me several sneezes because the first ones are confused by Durito's applause. "Ehem, ehem," says Durito while he rearranges the helmet and places `'Excalibur'' back in its case, that had simultaneously acted as guitar, piano, drum, and electric synthesizer. The clip is no longer a standing microphone and returns to being the fierce lance of the brave knight. "You are right. It is necessary to return to the prosaic matters of this world. I have foreseen your incompetence..." having said this, Durito pulls out some papers from I don't know where. "Here is my presentation, make 5 million copies and distribute it all over LA REALIDAD," says Durito as he throws some papers at me. "If you speak of the community LA REALIDAD make me many copies, and if you speak of the real LA REALIDAD [THE REALITY] make only a few," I tell him while I page his writing. The title is: "PROMISING ELEMENTS FOR AN INITIAL ANALYSIS AS A THE BASIS FOR AN ORIGINAL GATHERING TO THE PRIMORDIAL FUNDAMENTAL CONSIDERATIONS IN TERMS OF THE SUPRAHISTORIC BASIS AND SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALADOCIOS OF NEOLIBERALISM IN THE DECISIVE CONJUNCTURE OF APRIL 6 OF 1994 AT EXACTLY 0130 SOUTHEASTERN TIME, WITH A MOON THAT TENDS TO EMPTY ITSELF AS IF IT WERE A WORKER'S POCKET AT THE PEAK OF PRIVATIZATIONS, THE MONETARY ADJUSTMENTS AND OTHER ECONOMIC MEASURES SO EFFICIENT THEY PROVOKE GATHERINGS SUCH AS THE ONE IN LA REALIDAD'' (First of 17,987 parts). The presentation is very synthetic. In fact, it is made up of only one phrase that states: "The problem with globalization in neoliberalism is that the balloons burst ." I scratch my head after reading. Durito becomes restless: "Well? What do you think?" "Well, what can I tell you," I respond carefully. "At least let us recognize that the table coordinators will not have to struggle with the synthesis." "Nothing, nothing. Do not belittle any compliment. And do not fear, my modesty is proverbial. You can say that it is clear, overwhelming, illuminating, clarifying, undebatable, definitive and defining. You can add that you are at the forefront of a new scientific paradigm, it is no longer a secret of who will win the Nobel prize in economy, that a new science is born, that ''Duritism'' will revolutionize all study plans and all economic models, that world history will be studied from now on in ''before Durito'' and ''after Durito'', that you are bewildered, shining and astounding, the end. One should never exaggerate, right?" "No," I say hurriedly, "It is better not to exaggerate." "Well," says Durito sliding down one of my guns... "I have to leave because there is going to be a concert and, it is known that, a serpent on wheels, without me, will end up with flat tires." Durito leaves. The moon takes overhead a cloud of petticoats and its blush stains the edges. Underneath there are men and women dreaming, a wheat celebrates existence, and I sigh as if ending, as if continuing, as if beginning... Vale. Health and do not be sad. The moon and hope always return. And do they give up? Never! >From the mountains of the Mexican Southeast. Subcomandante Insurgente Marcos. Mexico, April of 1996 _______________________________ ------- End of forwarded message -------