A Tractor in Common and the Case of the Crazy Parakeet
Images: Tercios Compas Zapatistas
Music: “No te salves”, Mexicanto; Lyrics: “No te salves’”, Mario Benedetti
Who owns that bird? If there is an owner, does he also own the twists and turns of its flight, its spacious song to call its mate? Is its anguish at sensing the shadow of a predator part of the inventory of the company that owns it?
Does the old, dry tree come to life again in another time within the flames of the hearth that provide food, warmth, and a gathering point for calendars and geographies? In the hands that shape it into a spoon, an axe handle (the future executioner of other old, dry trees), a guitar, or a resonant key on pianos and marimbas? Does it change owners as it changes form, path, and destiny?
Who owns that cloud? Is it the bird that dives into it, the airplane that brazenly cuts through it with its deadly cargo, the rain in which it will be harvested, or the destination of its journey on the wind? Does the warship intimidate the sea with its armaments?
Do those who work the land own it, just as the fisherman owns the waves over which he glides? Does the river, winding in shades of ochre and dark, own the riverbank eroded by its slaps? Does the suspension bridge unite the banks, the crossings, the properties?
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Do the past, the present, and the future have an owner? Who owns the calendar and geography? Who owns the skin, the word, the way, the stature, the history?
Does the old woman say “I had” when recounting her past? Does the adult insist on “I have” when describing his present? Does the young person sketch out his future with “I will have”? Is childhood defined by the fact that it is still unaware of the verb “to possess”?
Does the old man demand that the world grow old with him… and with his categories? Does the young person demand that it move at his own pace, innovating while enslaved by technology? Does the infant simply gaze at it in wonder and discover, in that gaze, the wonder of pleasure?
Does childhood—as children run about aimlessly—claim ownership of play? Does it manage income, expenses, customs, and extraditions? Does it own laughter, the tears shed upon falling, the outrage at being cheated? Is it a phase in the calendar or a stage preceding the awareness of ownership?
Does the tiny being in its mother’s womb—and later in her chest—feel at home? Does it inherit a heap of rubble, anguish, and multiplied loneliness? Does it find its future in the statistics of the unborn, the displaced, the disappeared, those bought and sold, the exploited, the despised? Is it part of the catalog of future nightmares?
When we say “Palestine,” are we naming death and destruction? Or are we pointing to a struggle for life? Do we sum up the entire world in that word? Is it another way of saying “we will be”?
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Does the one who loves possess, or is he possessed?
Do lovers with shy glances gaze at each other through their hands and footsteps as they dance? Is the ache in their chest a sign of possession?
If a young female militiaman says, “Love is when the wind brings a cool breeze, early in the morning, in the cornfield, and heartbreak is the fierce midday sun,” did she get that definition from Artificial Intelligence? Is it a sales contract? Where is the title to this property filed?
When the young insurgent clarifies that the only thing that keeps her awake are the mosquito bites, is she establishing a hierarchy of priorities in her schedule? When another insurgent complains that there aren’t enough songs for when she’s just getting to know a guy, is she pointing out a glaring deficiency in romantic ballads?
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That music, that soaring dance, those colors captured on canvases and walls, those lyrics that yearn to travel far, those dreams carved in stone, metal, and wood; that woman who, as she memorizes her lines, realizes she must live them; that cinematic sequence that creates its own reality—are these declarations of ownership?
Do the arts resign themselves, or do they reveal themselves—or rebel?
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Is this text a pretext for identifying new email addresses, or are these email addresses the alibi?
encuentroryragosto26@gmail.com
When I ask all these questions (and more, but I’m running out of data), am I hoping for answers, or am I simply celebrating the fact that, rather than providing certainty, these perspectives raise doubts?
(To be continued in the story…)
From the mountains of southeastern Mexico.
The Captain.
Mexico, June 2026.
Original text published at Enlace Zapatista on June 14th, 2026.
Translation by Schools for Chiapas.