Part VI of A Tractor in Common and the Case of the Crazy Parakeet
The Private Part.
There is a course on medicinal plants. Most of the students are women, though there are a few men as well. During the break, since they are in the majority, the women set the topic of conversation and its focus. Right now they are checking “the news” sent to them from their villages. In Los Altos de Chiapas, an indigenous woman, a party member, was arrested for killing her husband. “She’ll be released,” says a classmate, “because it was self-defense.” Since they speak different languages, Spanish serves as the bridge between them. “Yes,” says another, “she was supported by the women’s collectives.” Another one details what happened: “Her husband abused her—he beat her and insulted her, to an unbelievable extent. And the woman put up with it, saying nothing. One day she followed her husband to see where he was going, and discovered he had another woman and was getting drunk with her. The (political party member) sister decided to leave him once and for all. The damn husband comes home completely wasted, barely able to stand. He tries to hit her, but the sister defends herself and slashes his throat in one go, and he bleeds to death.”
The atmosphere is festive, just like in “as the women that we are”; there is no pity or sorrow for the dead man. The woman has used her native language to refer to the place where he was wounded. They all laugh knowingly. A young man, who speaks another language with Mayan roots, asks what “yat” means. They all blush and smile. One of them says, “That’s what we call men’s private parts in my language. Their ‘what’s-it-called,’ as the Captain says.” “His penis, then, with his testicles—so they cut it all off at once,” clarifies the oldest woman, who insists we should use scientific terms. The young man, pale, asks, “What’s the name of the town? So I don’t go looking for a wife there.” Another woman says, grabbing her cell phone, “I’m going to call my husband right now. If he doesn’t answer, he’ll know what could happen to him.” They laugh.
Back at the barracks (the young man is an insurgent), he remarks to the female insurgent accompanying him: “Urrr, that compañera maybe feels ashamed. Of course she talked about that part they cut off the poor man.” The female insurgent gets angry: “Why ‘poor’? He used to beat his wife and once almost killed her. I say it was about time.”
The next day, still speaking in code, the other women called to task the compañera who used the term for men’s “private parts.” They tell her not to speak that way in front of men. They start arguing: whether they have to step away to talk like the women we are, whether they have to hide. In the end, they conclude that they should speak freely, whether or not men are present. “Better with men,” says one, “that way they learn.” “Or at least they’ll think twice before doing their stupid stuff,” adds another.
The topic for that day was “Medicinal plants for menstrual cramps.” The young man took detailed notes throughout the entire class.
-*-
Firewood.
One of the men complains, in front of a group of other men, that his wife asks him for “solid firewood.” “I got angry,” he says, “I already told her that’s all there is and she’ll just have to put up with it.” “So what kind of firewood do you bring her, then?” they ask him. There’s a series of translations through up to five Mayan languages before it reaches Spanish: it’s what they call “cork” or “balsa wood.”
Another man chimes in: “Well, no offense, compa, but you’re a real idiot and your wife is right. Because that wood gives off a lot of smoke, and the poor woman won’t take long to get sick in the lungs, plus she won’t even be able to see through the smoke. If she has a little one, well, too bad for the little one too. Don’t be a dick and go find the firewood she’s telling you to. It’s for her own good, and for your own good because you won’t have to spend money on medicine later. And it’s for all of our sakes because then we won’t have to listen to your nonsense. No offense, compa.
A deadly silence brings the meeting of “like the little dudes that we are” to a close. SubMoy calls them over to check on the site measurements.
-*-
The Dance.
A young woman cuts her hand with a machete while clearing brush. She doesn’t say anything because she’s embarrassed that they’ll find out she hurt herself. She ties her bandana around her wrist to stop the bleeding, but her “line” partner (they’ve lined up in a “spread-out line” to clear a thicket) notices and alerts the Committee member who’s watching over them. They quickly find a car to take her to the health clinic at the nearby puy. She arrives: vital signs are checked, she’s laid down, and monitored. The health promoter struggles to untie the bandana. “Well, how did you tie it, compañera? It’s really tight.” He’s about to reach for the scissors when the female health promoter steps in and—snap!—unties it in one swift motion. Then comes the cleaning, disinfecting, some local anesthetic, and stitching. “We put in four stitches. She’ll be fine, just don’t use that hand for a few days,” the health promoter declares. “But can I dance?” the patient asks. The health promoter says nothing, just shakes his head and makes a face that says, “You just can’t make this stuff up.” The health promoter asks the patient, “When is there going to be dancing?” and the two begin whispering in code. All that can be made out is “promoter,” “militiaman,” “insurgent.” The health promoter puts away the equipment.
They showed the video to the Captain. He simply remarked, “Well, they gave her some Frankenstein-style stitches—pretty badass—but she’ll have a scar to brag about… and use to threaten people.” Then he said to the injured woman, “You tell them you got into a fight with some bastard who tried to grab you by force, you pulled out your machetes, and a fight broke out. You came out with that wound on your hand, but the little macho guy isn’t a macho guy anymore and he’s never going to have kids.” The Captain pauses to think, weighing the impact of the story, and then adds, “But don’t tell everyone, because if you tell the guy you like—well, how should I put it?—he’s going to run like never before in his life.”
-*-
The Thorns.
“I looked at the compañera who was limping; she was walking like a lame duck. I quickly asked her, and she said it was a thorn,” reports the Monarch. The commander: “But did she go to the clinic?” “No, her other comrades just pulled it out right there.” “Go and take her to the clinic yourself so they can check her out. And tell her not to wear flip-flops during clearing.” The Monarch returns to report: “They had removed one thorn, but left another, so she had two thorns. They’ve already removed them and treated her. And she was wearing rubber boots, but that thorn is really vicious. I know for a fact, it’s like this, big (the Monarch gestures to indicate some 20–25 centimeters long), it even pierces through the boots we wear; it’s like a nail, it makes you bleed, and if it gets infected, well, that’s the end of it.” “And how is she doing?” “She’s a little sad because she won’t be able to dance cumbias.”
-*-
Math and Love.
They check the measurements on the floor plan. “We’ve got a good spot here—clean, no roots, no thorns, no wasps. I think we need to figure out how many spots fit on each side so we can start marking them off.” SubMoy decrees: “Well, go get the high school kids to do the math.” The education promoters arrive. They explain it to them. The kids: “But we need a calculator.” They’re teased. “Or a notebook.” More teasing. “In your heads,” they’re told, “otherwise you studied for nothing.” They’re given a pen. They try to do the math by hand, but their hands are covered in blisters. The laughter can be heard all the way to the next town. A young woman, smiling flirtatiously and ignoring everyone else, approaches and says to one of the education promoters: “My cell phone has a calculator.” “Bring it, then,” the committees tell her. The young woman runs off and returns with her cell phone. All the committee members’ hands remain outstretched in the air. As if no one else were there, she hands the cell phone to the promoter, who looks like a traffic light because his face is turning every color. The young woman just says, “Give it back to me later,” and, with a twinkle in her eye, adds, “My photos are on there.” The poor education promoter got an earful from the committee members; I think they even gave him advice. Of course, he got the calculations wrong. Oh well, we suffer enough as the men that we are.
-*-
The Missing Piece.
Despite the fierce and relentless sun, the afternoons and evenings are now cooled by rain. As if the sky were becoming an accomplice to the earth, giving it strength to endure the next day’s heat, here… in the communal workspace.
On the esplanade where tarps and scattered shacks are piled up, people sleep or stay awake, but not in silence. Music can be heard coming from various small huts and tarps set up as makeshift roofs to offer some protection from the sun by day and the rain by night. The guards relieve one another with just a few gestures. And they smile as they listen to the “playlist” that clashes with the stubborn persistence of crickets and, little by little, of toads and frogs summoned by the first puddles.
Under the roof, the elderly and the wise snore without a care in the world. The children huddle close to their mothers and sisters. A few babies cry for just a few seconds, thanks to the prompt consoling of their mothers.
But in the minds of young men and women, there is no silence, nor is there sleep. The memory of the one who is missing is to blame. Someone, a physical presence—woman, man, or other—is far from here. That someone has stayed behind in some village, in a shack, with a piece of the one who remembers them and suffers from an incomplete heart, a gaze without a destination, a truncated whispered word. Every song—of love or heartbreak—played on cell phones and Bluetooth speakers, every futile attempt to fall asleep, is a small tribute to the missing piece, to their absent touch, and to the wound that love or heartbreak revels in.
Because there are embraces that never end and lights that don’t go out even at night.
-*-
What You Don’t See.
A little girl, about 12 years old, talks to SubMoy:
“You’re working here with us,” she says.
“I am,” says SubMoy.
“I thought Subs didn’t work,” the girl insists.
SubMoy: “Work isn’t always visible. And it’s not just about working the land. In fact, the most important work goes unnoticed; it’s not like everyone sees you working. So, if you don’t see someone next to you working, it doesn’t mean they don’t work or haven’t worked. It’s just that you don’t see it, but you see and feel their work, even if no one keeps track of it. Did you know SubPedro? You didn’t, did you? Well, if we’ve reclaimed the land, if we’re here, if you’re here, if we’re fighting for life now, it’s because he made it his work—to fight for the people. You work, even if no one sees you. Fight, even if no one is keeping score.
(To be continued…)
From the mountains of southeastern Mexico.
The Captain
México, May-June 2026
Original text published at Enlace Zapatista on June 2nd, 2026.
Translation by Schools for Chiapas.