đŸ Archived View for library.inu.red âș file âș ricardo-flores-magon-collected-works.gmi captured on 2023-01-29 at 13:36:39. Gemini links have been rewritten to link to archived content
âĄïž Next capture (2024-07-09)
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Title: Collected Works Author: Ricardo Flores MagĂłn Date: 1923 Language: en Topics: Mexico, revolution Source: http://dwardmac.pitzer.edu/anarchist_archives/bright/magon/works/sembrando/index.html Notes: Ricardo Flores MagĂłn: Vida y ObraSembrando Ideas(Historietas Reclacionadas con las Condiciones Sociales de MĂ©xico)Tomo Unico(4. de la Serie)1926Ediciones del Grupo Cultural Ricardo Flores MagĂłnApartado Postal Num. 1563 MĂ©xico, D.F. âNew Lifeâ translated from Spanish by Mitchell Cowen Verter. From âRegenerationâ number 212 November 13, 1915.
Federal Prison. Leavenworth, Kansas, 2 May, 1922.-Miss. Irene
Benton.-Granada, Minnesota.
My dear comrade:
Isnât it a shame not to answer your letter since the 10^(th) of last
month? But I am not free, my dear friend, to write more than three
letters a week. You know this, and I hope you will excuse my apparent
negligence.
Your letter, so perfectly well calculated, to diffuse some warmth to my
afflicted soul, was effective in its generous mission, and especially in
the last part, where you say that your dear mother speaks to you about
me; it touched the most delicate fibers of my heart, and it moved me to
tears, because I thought about my own mother, dead after so many years.
Itâs been 21 years! I was in prison during that time, punished for
having denounced the bloody tyranny of Porifirio DĂaz, and because of
this, I could not be at her bedside. I could not give her my last kiss,
nor hear her last words. This happened in MĂ©xico City, the 14^(th) of
June, 1900, some three years before my coming to this country as a
political refugee in search of freedom. My thanks to you and to your
dear mother for your affection for me, as expressed in your beautiful
letter. Your recounting about the realization of the work in the fields
and the one in preparation, is most interesting, as you have no idea how
much I love the countryside, the forest, the mountains. âThe men, you
say, have been busy in the fields, preparing the soil to receive the
seed. What world of emotions and thoughts provoke those few words in me,
as I have also been a sower, although a sower of ideas! And I have also
felt what the sower of seeds has felt in the generous depths of the
earth, and I trust much more in the minds of my fellow man, and we both
hope...and the agony he suffers with his waiting is also my torment. The
most minute indications of ill fate crushes our heart, holding our
breath, waiting for the crack of the crush of the ground, showing that
the seed has sprouted, and I, with my compressed heart, wait for the
word, the action, the gesture that indicates the germination of the seed
in a fertile mind...The only difference between a sower of seeds and the
sower of ideals resides in the time and the way of working; as with the
first, has all night to rest and relax the tension from his limbs, and
also waits until the season is favorable for his seedtime and only
plants where the ground is generous; the latter does not have nights,
nor seasons, all of the grounds deserve attention and work; plant in the
spring as in the summer, day and night, night and day; in all seasons,
under the heavens and anything that can be the quality of the mind;
outside of time... Even when the lightning thunders in the heavens,
where resides the arbiter of human destinies.
The sower of ideals does not stop his work, he continues toward a future
looking with the eyes of the spirit, sowing, always sowing. Threatening
fists, and all around may tremble and burn with the hate that emits from
those whose interests benefit, leaving without cultivation of the minds
of the masses...The sower of ideals does not draw back, the sower of
ideals continues to sow, always sowing...far and close, here and there,
under pale heavens illuminated by a yellow sun that, projecting his
gloomy silhouettes against frowning horizons, feeling a presentiment of
plalafarms over the floor, agitating its sinister arms like antennas of
monstrous creatures created by fever or fed by madness, while huge black
iron doors sleepily yawn for flesh and soul...The sower does not draw
back, the sower continues planting, and this has been his task since
immemorial time, this has been his fate, yet way before our race emerged
dignified and erect from the wild forest, where since the beginning in
the course of time, close to other quadrupeds and with the rest of the
fauna of the quadrupeds, because the sower of ideals has always had a
mission of combat, but serene and majestic, with an ample movement of
arms, so ample that it seems to trace in the hostile air the orbit of
the sun, faithfully sowing the seed, causing humanity to advance,
regardless of obstacles, toward the future that he sees with the eyes of
the spirit.
Your letter is so sweet...! Oh, my dear comrade! You are so gentle, like
your mother. Yes, your affection calms me, it give me much happiness;
thank you a million times. The clippings are very interesting and the
drawings very cute. Now, good-bye!
I gave Rivera your message; he is very grateful. Fraternally yours,
Ricardo FLORES MAGON
Ricardo Flores MagĂłn is dead. Generally the news of a death affects me
less, but in this case it has been quite contrary. It is not because,
after long years of prison and exile, this indomitable freedom fighter
has died in prison. A feeling much greater than compassion or personal
affection dominates me. For reasons I cannot analyze, this death appears
to me as the synopsis of a period and brings about ideas and feelings I
find difficult to express with words. I have the sensation that a force,
that was essential, has stopped working.
It appears to me that all those who had intimate relations with Ricardo
Flores MagĂłn will feel the same as I. Something placed a special seed in
him, giving him definite character, regardless of the conditions he was
in: he always remained being someone, a strength that had to be
recognized, a personality who could not be ignored. Even the staff from
the Court of Justice and from the penitentiary, who, because of their
unnatural instincts, considered him a violation of the law, I felt, were
very much aware of this fact, when I discussed this matter with them.
I believe it was so, because the man was profoundly sincere, so firm in
his convictions, that anyone else could have been subjected, reduced to
silence, but he had to talk: so firm was his determination to be part in
this great fight for the destruction of human slavery, the one, he
personally, had to combat and fought until his last moment. He hated
oppression, anyone, from the Government or the monopoly of the land, to
the religious superstition or high finances.
As a Mexican, he knew how this had ruined the life of his own country;
as an anarchist, he understood that this was the fate of the
disinherited, to those who had consented to be reduced to the impotence
in all the world.
In our greater part there periodically surges a just indignation, but
MagĂłn seemed to me a volcano who never slept.
If I recall, it was in San Luis PotosĂ, about thirty years ago, where
Ricardo Flores MagĂłn, then a young journalist, obtained prominence.
Frankly said, he reached it by a leap: The Liberal Party had a
convention, and, in accordance with their traditions, was directing all
their accusations toward the Catholic Church; Ricardo, according to the
version I knew, literally overwhelmed the convention with a speech, in
which he attacked Porifirio DĂaz, omnipotent dictator of MĂ©xico to Wall
Street, who was, consequently, the real origin of all the wrongs of the
country.
The special reason for the case, in reality, consisted in that, during
that time, the attacks against the Church were popular and certain,
while an unprecedented attack on DĂaz was full of dangers. This brought
to Ricardo the friendship of Librado Rivera, who from then on,
participated, according to his destiny, and today lives in the prison of
Leavenworth; making him, his brother Enrique, and Librado Dictator
DĂazâs target of anger. The trio, however, initiated and rushed with
great activity an agitation to the determined point, until after many
imprisonments, they understood that they could not live in MĂ©xico
anymore, so they emigrated to the United States. They started the fire.
With daring boldness they had started the economic movement which
subsequently threw DĂaz to exile. The way I see things, the real man is
always the motor of movement; but the road he opens always drives him to
the cross.
I am completely sure that Ricardo Flores MagĂłn previously anticipated
this with caution, because in his conversation he stoically accepted it
as the price that he had to pay. With some frequency he allowed himself
to be greatly swayed over his affinities or his antipathies, and rarely
could he find a virtue in his adversaries, but in fundamental problems
he would always find it just because he never wanted to abandon the
fundamental facts. Repeatedly, I considered his sentences unjust, but I
frequently observed that he men he had criticized in the past, were the
ones, as time passed, who changed into the politicians MagĂłn had
predicted. He was the most aggressive and positive fighter, and he
acquired friends and enemies by the hundreds.
I got interested in MagĂłn, reading the âMĂ©xico BĂĄrbaro,â by John Kenneth
Turner; but it was his passionate hate toward a social system that seems
to think only about the dollar, which I openly was attracted to. For
many years, my most firm conviction has been that the cult for the
golden calf, in the greatest wall the ascendant progress has, and that
humanity is obligated to carry out, in regards to the intellectual
conquests of recent centuries. I have found many men and women who share
this concept with me; however, none so saturated as the one from MagĂłn.
I believe Ricardo was fully persuaded that the worst fate for MĂ©xico
would be to fall under the yoke of Wall Street. The real fact he saw,
was that all humanity was strapped to the wheels of the Powerful Moneyâs
Carriage, brutally triumphant and needing to liberate herself, or die.
I, myself, believe this fact. My study of the Mexican Revolution and my
contemplation of the way plutocracy from there had taken from MĂ©xico all
that had values, changed ideas that before were theories, into unbending
convictions. Ricardo Flores MĂĄgon was one of the most powerful writers
who the Revolution produced. Except for the time he allowed deplorable
polemics, he did not waste his time in pettiness; he always touched the
main cords with extraordinary firmness. In all the course of his work he
would stress the most powerful emotions to the heroic: he asked much of
men. I doubt he had knowledge of the writings of Nietzsche; however, he
appeared to be another Nietzsche, except for the fact that he was
democratic. Nevertheless, in such characters there is always a parallel
force: both insist on the best; in the realization of his respective
ideal with all forthrightness, and for this realization, no sacrifice
was too big.
I have no desire to write a biography or a praise, and I limit myself to
some personal reminiscences which give profound recognition about the
man. I remember that, having been forewarned that was tentatively
persecuted, he refused to hide in a secure place, âbecause the movement
would disorganize.â When, and after many months we had him out prison,
under protection, he went directly to the office of âRegeneraciĂłnâ and
he had worked for one hour, one more time, with the enormous
correspondence to which he dedicated eight hours a day; I never found as
active a propagandist, except for his brother Enrique. He lived
modestly, and to my knowledge, he had no vices. In fact, he had no time
for them.
On my first visit to the offices of âRegeneraciĂłn,â I observed a big
parcel box, and then learned that it only contained flyers of âThe
Conquest of Pan,â by Kropotkin, to be mailed to MĂ©xico. For years, these
men continued to follow this work, sapping with infinite tenacity and
great sacrifice because of their limited resources. Their great idea was
the development of revolutionary personalities. They had great
admiration for Kropotkin, which in my opinion, was just.
When I substituted John Kenneth Turner as editor of the English section
of âRegeneraciĂłn,â its circulation was about 27,000 copies and the
newspaper had to make money; but all was spent on advertising. We had
between 600 and 700 newspapers in our exchange lists, and we received a
lot of news from the âLatino World.â Our wish was to unify the Latin
opinion in MĂ©xico, and Central and South America, against the
plutocratic invasion, and the creation in the United States a very
strong sentiment maintaining the perpetuated threat of intervention.
I believe that Ricardo considered the latter as the main work of
âRegeneraciĂłnâ and that, for this reason, he opposed the move of the
newspaper to MĂ©xico, which I urgently requested a while back.
In the book âThe Real MĂ©xico,â Mr. Hamilton Fife, today editor of the
âDaily Herald,â but prior a distinguished traveling correspondent,
treats the unexpected fall of Porifirio DĂaz, renown in the United
States as a great power of the first order, with a strong regard for his
rear guard. Mr. Fife observes that DĂaz forgot one important factor: a
gentleman by the name of Ricardo Flores MagĂłn. I have always seen this
observation as correct, and I have considered MagĂłnâs men as those who
really moved the power that definitively threw DĂaz to exile. I
considered it a great win, and a true success â one that epochs are made
of. DĂaz was the man who, as William Archer said, had sold his country
for bagatelle, with the abandon of a child making soap bubbles. His
overthrow was the first failure that the plutocracy from the North found
in its march toward the South.
When Madero succeeded DĂaz as President, he named MagĂłnâs brother,
JesĂșs, Secretary of State; and it was then, known news, when JesĂșs made
several efforts to induce Ricardo and Enrique to return to MĂ©xico,
assuring them complete security and fast improvement in position. They
were poor, having been subjected to repeated persecutions and
imprisonments, as inconvenient agitators of plutocratic peace; and in
spite of that, they decidedly refused their brotherâs offers.
It always seemed known to me. It could have been difficult, perhaps
impossible, for us to understand the maneuvers of the Mexican way of
thinking and the methods of the men, with their Indian blood; however,
what is deeply inherited and cannot be denied is that these men â
Ricardo and Enrique Flores MagĂłn, and Librado Rivera, who are still in
the prison at Leavenworth â were fanatically loyal to their anarchist
convictions.
Well, Ricardo Flores MagĂłn has died, and surely, after a life of
feverish activity, he sleeps tranquilly; neither praise nor criticism
can affect him now. He died in the penitentiary at Leavenworth, where he
had five years of the fiery sentence of the twenty he was given for
writing articles that damaged the recruitment. He had been suffering for
some years from diabetes, and during his last days, he completely lost
his sight. He could have bought his freedom by confessing his regret;
but this confession was impossible for a man of his nature. In the past
months the organized workers from MĂ©xico had been agitating for
Ricardoâs liberty, and, upon learning of his death, the Capitalâs
Parliament ordered the tribune to mourn.
The Governor requested to bring back his mortal remains, to give a
dignified burial to the one who, when alive, was an incessant fighter
for the cause of the emancipation of the masses of MĂ©xico, who, in
addition to the whole world, still needed to win; but his comrades had
respected his principles and had declined the funeral offered to be paid
for by the Governor.
We hope that, inspired by the example of this indomitable fighter, the
people of the United States can straighten up and demand freedom for the
many political prisoners, martyrs because of their freedom of
conscience, who now rest in the galleys of that country. Such a deed
would be the most appropriate monument to the life and to the memory of
Ricardo Flores MagĂłn.
William C. OWEN.
(From âFreedom,â London, December 1922.)
Crossing fields, crossing highways, stepping over the thorns, walking
between the rocky highlands, consumed by the ravenously thirsty dryness
in his mouth â that is how the Revolutionary Delegate goes on his
intended undertaking of persuading â under the avenging sun, it seemed,
daringly hurling him with its fierce flames; but the Delegate does not
stop; he does not want to waste a minute. From some shacks come out
rotten mean dogs, to chase him, as hostile as the miserable dwellers of
those shacks, laughing stupidly, ignoring the apostal, who brings them
the good news.
The Delegate moves forward; he wants to get to that group of nice little
houses close to the bottom of the high mountain, where he has been told
there are some comrades. The heat of the sun is unbearable; hunger and
thirst debilitate him as much as the tiring walk; but his lucid mind has
the fresh idea as clear as the water from the mountain, beautiful as a
flower, where there is no place for the threat of the tyrant. So is the
idea: immune to oppression.
The Delegate walks, walks. The deserted fields oppress his heart. How
many families could live in abundance if all this land would not be
controlled by a few ambitious people! The Delegate follows his way; a
snake rattles under the dusty bush; the crickets fill the noisy rumor of
the hot ambient; a cow moos from afar.
Finally, the Delegate arrives at the village, where â he has been told â
there are comrades. The dogs, alarmed, bark. From the doors of the small
houses, indifferent faces lean out. There is a group of men and women
under a porch. The apostal approaches; the men see him and contract
their eyebrows; the women see him with distrust.
âGood afternoon, comrades,â says the Delegate.
The group looks at each other. Nobody answers the greeting. The apostal
does not give up, and again says:
âComrades, the propagandist continues, the tyranny is swaying; strong
men have taken arms to demolish it, and only we hope that all of us,
without exception, help in any manner we can those who fight for freedom
and justice.â
The women yawn; the men scratch their heads; a hen crosses between the
group, followed by a rooster.
âFriendsâ â continues the indefatigable propagandist of the good news â
âliberty requires sacrifices; your life is hard; you have no
satisfaction; the future of your children is uncertain. Why are you
indifferent before the abnegation of the ones who have thrown themselves
into the struggle on behalf of your happiness, to free you, so your
little children would be happier than you? Help, help however you can,
give part of your salaries to promote the Revolution, or bear to arms if
you so prefer; but do something for the cause, at least propagate the
ideals of the insurrection.â
The Delegate pauses. An eagle passes, swaying in the clear sky, as if it
could have been a symbol of the thought of that man who, being among
human swine, would keep himself very high, very pure, very white.
Bugs, buzzing, in and out of the mouth of a sleeping old man. Men,
visibly worried, were coming, one by one; the women had all left.
Finally, the Delegate is left alone with the old man who is sleeping
away his drunkenness and a dog that furiously bites the flies that suck
his coat. Not even a penny had come out from those sordid pockets, not
even glass of water had been offered to that answering man, who, casting
a compassionate look to that egoistic and stupid den, started to walk
toward another shack. When he passed in front of a tavern, he could see
those miserable men he had spoken to, drinking huge glasses of wine,
giving the bourgeoisie what they did not give to the Revolution,
clinching the chains of their children, with their indifference and
selfishness.
The news of the coming of the apostal had extended around the whole
town, and, the alerted dwellers closed their doors when the Delegate
would approach.
Meanwhile, a man, who appeared to be a worker, came heaving towards the
police office.
âSir,â said the man to the police officer, âhow much do you pay for
handing over a revolutionary?â
âTwenty reales,â said the officer.
The dealing was done; Judas had lowered the tariff. Moments later, the
man, tied elbow to elbow, was pushed to jail. He fell, and by kicking
him out, was lifted by the executioner, amongst the laughing, drunken
slaves. Some kids were enjoying throwing handfuls of dirt into the eyes
of the martyr, who was no other than the apostal, the one that had
crossed fields, traveled highways, over hawthorn, pebbly land, dried,
thirsty mouth devouring him, but with a lucid, clear mind, carrying with
him the idea of regeneration for the human race, by way of comfort and
freedom.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 19, dated January 7, 1911.)
Juan and Pedro came to age at the precise age to start working to
survive. They were sons of workers, who died not having the opportunity
to acquire formal education to free them from the chains of salary. But
Juan was spirited. He had read in newspapers how some men, born from
humble beginnings, had come to be, with work and thrift, become
financial kings, and dominate, with the power of money, not only in the
market place, but in the world. He had read thousands of anecdotes of
the Vanderbilts, the Rockefellers, the Rothchilds, the Carnegies, and
all of those whom, according to La Prensa, and some school reading
books, with the stupidities of our contemporary childhood, are abreast
of world finances, not because of anything else,-oh, despicable lies-but
the dedication to work and the devotion to save.
Juan tenaciously threw himself into his work. He worked a year, and
found himself as poor as the first day. At the turn of the following
year, he found himself in the same circumstances. He kept on working
more, without dismay, without rest. Five years went by, and he found
that, at the cost of sacrifices, he had saved some money-not too much.
To save those coins, he had to minimize the expense of his nourishment,
lowering his strength, dressed in rags, with the torment of hear and
cold weather, his system wore out too; he lived in miserable shacks, and
the unsanitary environment contributed to his weakness. But Juan kept on
saving, saving money at the cost of his health. For every penny he was
able to save, he lost strength. So in order to not pay rent, he bought a
lot, and built a small home. Later, he married a young girl. The court
and the priest took away a big chunk of his savings, saved with so much
sacrifice. Some years passed, but work was not steady, debts started to
stress poor Juan. One day one of his children got sick, the doctor did
not want to assist him since he had no money, and in the public
dispensary, he was given such poor attention that the poor child died.
Juan, however, did not give up. He would remember the writings he had
read about the famous virtues of being thrifty and other foolishnesses
of the kind. He had to be rich because he worked so hard, and saved.
Didnât Rockefeller, himself, Carnegie and others, before millions, drool
unconscientiously? Meanwhile, basic necessities were costing more,
making him worried. Groceries were costing more, and extremely limited
the home of the innocent Juan, and, much to his concern, bills were
increasing, and he could not save a penny. To add pain to injury, the
owner, that morning, fired him from work. Occupying their places were
new slaves, who, like the ones before, would dream with accumulated
wealth, by hard work and savings. Juan had to pawn his home, with the
hope to keep his dreams, but he was going down, sinking without help. He
could not pay his debt, and had to leave it at the hands of the sharks,
all the product of his sacrifice, that small lot saved for with his
blood. Obstinate, Juan wanted to save more, but it was in vain. This
deprivation to which he subjected himself, so he could save, the hard
work he labored the best years of his life, had destroyed his vigor.
Everywhere he asked for work, he was rejected, and there was no work for
him. He was a machine to produce money for his employer, but very worn
out. Old machines are seen with disdain. And, meanwhile, Juanâs family
suffered hunger. In the dark shack, there was no heat, no covers to
protect them from the cold; the children plead for bread with fury. Juan
would go out everyday to look for work, but who wanted to hire tired old
arms? And after walking all the city and the fields, he returned home,
where they were waiting, sad and hungry, those loved ones, his wife,
children, those loved ones who once dreamt about the wealth of the
Rockefellers, the fortune of the Carnegies.
One afternoon, Juan stopped to contemplate the automobiles passing by,
driven by fatty drivers, imagining the satisfaction of having a life
without worries. Women chatting happily, and men, flattering syrupy and
insignificantly, attending to them with mellifluous phrases that could
make other women yawn with boredom if they had not been those
bourgeoisie.
It was cold; Juan shivered, thinking about his family, what they could
expect inside that dark shack, that mansion of misfortune. How could
they shiver in that cold weather, that very moment; suffering the
indescribably torture from famine; how bitter the tears shed those very
moments! The elegant parade continued. It was the perfect moment for the
rich to show off, just from whom Juan had learned âto work and save,â
like the Rothchilds, like the Carnegies, like the Rockefellers. A great
gentleman was coming in a luxurious car. His presence was magnificent.
Gray hair, but his face looked young. Juan cleaned his eyes, rubbing
them, worried to be a victim of an illusion. No, no, his old and tired
eyes did not fool him; that great man was Pedro, his childhood comrade.
âHow much had he worked and saved,â thought Juan, âso he could get out
of his misery, and reach such a level, and gain so much distinction.â
Oh, poor Juan! He has not been able to forget the imbecilic stories
about the vampire of humanity; he could not forget what he had read in
school books, in what conscientiously stupefies the population.
Pedro had not worked. A man without scruples. And with great malice, he
had become aware that honesty is not a fountain of wealth, so he started
cheating his fellow man. As soon as he pooled some savings, he installed
a shop and hired cheap labor; so he went up, up. He widened his shop,
and hired more help, more and more, and he became a millionaire and a
great man, thanks to the many âJuansâ who carefully took the advise from
the bourgeoisie.
Juan continued watching the parade of the lazy and the indolent. At the
next corner a man was preaching to the townsmen. There were a few
people, really, but this orator, who was he? What did he say? Juan went
to listen:
âComrades,â exclaimed the man, âthe time has come to reflect.
Capitalists are thieves. Only by bad tricks can one become a
millionaire. The poor drop down, working, and when we cannot work
anymore, we are fired by the bourgeoisie, as leaving a tired and old
horse from service. Letâs bare arms to conquer our welfare and for our
families!â
Juan saw the man with disdain, spit on the floor with anger, and walked
to the obscure shack, where his loved ones waited sad, hungry, and cold.
He could not let his idea die, that saving and work make the man
virtuous. Not even the undeserving, who deserved misfortune from his
fellow man, could make the miserable soul educated to be a slave, nor
could he recognize his mistake.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 21, dated January 21^(st), 1911.)
That beautiful morning was probably the saddest for this poor man
suffering from tuberculosis. The sun was brilliantly shining, giving
enrichment with golden splendor, to the beautiful city of Los Angeles.
A few weeks ago, Santiago had been fired from his job. He was terminally
ill from TB, and the âniceâ bourgeoisie, who exploited him for years,
had the nerve to throw him to the street, as soon as he realized that
the weak arms of his slave could not give him the previous profits.
When Santiago was young, he worked zealously. He used to dream: to earn
a âgoodâ salary and to be able to save some money, to be able to make it
easier the last days of his life.
Santiago saved. He âtightenedâ his belt and accumulated some coins;
however, each coin he saved meant privation, in such a way that if the
savings were increasing, the arteries of his body had less blood.
âI will not save anymore,â Santiago said courageously one day, when he
realized his health was declining. In fact, he did not save anymore,
and, so in fact, he could prolong his agony. The salary increased, this
was no doubt-it increased. Some labor strikes, produced by his own union
members, had produced these increased wages, but of course, if wages
were better than before, basic merchandise prices had top cost, so that
the advantage gained by the suffering from the strikes was deceptive,
resulting in hunger and coldness at home, lines of policemen, even jail
and death from the encounter with the strike suppressers.
Years went by, salaries went on the rise and so did the cost of bare
necessities, at the same time Santiagoâs family would augment. Work
hours had been reduced to eight, thanks to the strikes; however, and
again âthe butsâ-the tasks to carry out had to be done in the same eight
hours-the same that before were performed in ten or twelve hours, so he
had to use all of his skill, strength, all of his life experience
acquired as a worker, to be able to deliver. The cold âlunch,â gulped
down in a few minutes at noon, the nervous tension to which he submitted
his body, so as not to loosen the machineâs movement; the dirt, lack of
ventilation of the shop, the unbearable noise of the machines, the poor
nutrition he could possibly get, because of lack of provisions; the poor
room where he slept with is numerous family, without fire, without
comfortable clothes, the lack of tranquillity overwhelming his spirit,
as he thought about the future of his family; everything, all, was in
conspiracy against his own health. He thought of saving again, with the
hope to leave something to his family when he died. But, what could he
save? He limited the household expenses to the extreme limit, as he saw
dreadfully that the pink cheeks of his little children had disappeared,
and so was he, himself, feeling famished.
Santiago realized his dilemma, that if one is not made of iron, nobody
knows what to do: save at the cost of the health of your loved ones, so
one could leave them a few coins at the time of oneâs death, maybe money
to be spent in medications to combat the anemia of his offspring, or not
save so he could feed his family better and be without anything,
penniless when he would go. Then he would think of the helplessness of
his family, maybe prostitution of his little daughters, the âcrimeâ his
loved sons would commit, to get a piece of bread, and the sadness of his
noble spouse.
Meanwhile tuberculosis had advanced in his beaten body. His friends fled
from him, afraid of contamination form the sickness. The bourgeoisie
would retain him at the shop as he could still work, and as could labor,
he could get good sums of money from the unfortunate slave.
The time arrived, nevertheless, the moment when Santiago was not useful,
neither for God nor for the Devil, and that bourgeois who used to pat
his back when he was tired, after leaving the shop in the afternoon,
after making his boss richer, and his health poorer, fired him, as it
was not profitable to leave him at the shop; he was not producing
anymore.
With tears in his eyes, Santiago arrived at home one afternoon, when
nature and all things smiled. Children played in the street; birds
pecked here and there the asphalt; dogs with intelligent and smart eyes,
watching people walk around, unable to guess the sorrow or happiness of
the human hearth. Horses swept with their tails, from the persistent
flies bothering their polished legs; the newspaper boys would amuse the
scenery with their yelling and their roguishness; the sun was setting in
a purple bed. So much beauty everywhere! So much sadness in Santiagoâs
home!
Between accession of cough, deep sighs and moving sobs, Santiago told
his loyal wife the sad news: âTomorrow we will not have bread...â
Oh, kingdom of social inequality, you take so long to arrive!
Everything that could be pawned went to the pawnshop; this is what you
call these caves of thieves protected by...the law! To the pawnshop one
went, and all the few small jewelry they have had, going from parent to
children of the poor race; to the pawnshop went those shawls his
mother-in-law displayed when young, and which were treasured as dear
relics; to the pawnshop went that beautiful painting, the only luxury
from the room that was, at the same time, kitchen, dining room, living
room, and...bedroom; to the pawnshop went the humble clothes they owned.
The illness in the meantime, not losing time: much advanced, worked
without tire, eating up Santiagoâs lungs. Black masses would be expelled
from the patientâs mouth on each access of his cough. The malnutrition,
sadness, and lack of medical attention, dragged the patient to his tomb,
as so it is said. There was no other choice but to get into that prison,
in that hateful, mediocre welfare, into which the bourgeoisie condemn
humans who have produced so many beautiful things, and so much richness,
so many good deeds, for such a pittance that can be obtained with such a
damned salary.
To the hospital he went with his skin and his bones, the unfortunate
Santiago; meanwhile his noble companion went from one factory to another
and workshop to workshop imploring to any scrooge to exploit her arms.
Until when, disinherited brothers, would you decide to overthrow the
iniquity of the actual capitalistic system?
At the hospital, he lasted a few days...was helplessly declared by the
doctors, his illness was terminal, and he was confined to the incurable
ward. No medicines, poor nutrition, no medical care; this is what
charity did for our sick patient, while the bourgeoisie, who exploited
him all his life, would carelessly squander, in going out on sprees,
from the coins earned at the sake of that poor manâs health.
Santiago requested to be released from the hospital. There was no reason
to be a prisoner, and during that beautiful morning, that perhaps was
the saddest of this poor afflicted manâs life, a policeman dragged him,
âas a vagrant,â through a public park, going like this, from one prison
to another.
The lovely Californian sun was shining intensely. The beautiful avenues
flourished with well-dressed people and happy faces; puppies happier
than millions of human beings resting in the arms of pretty and elegant
bourgeoisie women, shopping while Santiago, in the police car, would
hear once in a while this exclamation: âBah, a drunk!â
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 35, dated April 29^(th), 1911.)
The night before all peons had reunited. That was not possible to bear;
the bosses had never been more insolent, neither so demanding. It was
necessary for that treatment to end. The man who had been talking with
them a week before, was right: the owners were the first bandits that,
with the excuse to civilize them they had reached the point of war,
taking their land from the Indians, their ancestors, to make them peons.
What a life they had dragged for centuries! They had to accept corn and
beans full of bugs, to eat â they, the ones who harvested fresh and
abundant crops! Did a head of cattle die in the field? That was the only
time they would taste meat, spoiled by then; the same for which the boss
would make them pay higher than market prices. Were these pretty women
among them slaves? The boss and his sons had the right to rape them. If
a slave complained? He would go straight to the army to defend the same
system which tyrannize him!
Just eight days before, a man had been with them, and nobody knew from
where he had come; neither was it later known, where or when he had
left. He was young; his hands, hard and strong, did not leave a doubt
that he was a worker; but because of that strange fire in his eyes, one
could tell something was burning inside that brow, sunburned from the
outdoor and market with a frown giving him an air of an intelligent and
reflective man. This man had spoken to them in this manner: âBrothers of
misery, hold your heads high. We are equal human beings to the rest of
humans habitating this earth. Our origin is humble, and the land, this
old land, which we have irrigated with our sweat, is our mother, and
because of this, we have the right to be nourished from her, to give us
wood for her forests, and water from her resources, without distinction,
but with only one condition: that we fertilize her by loving her. The
ones who claim to be owners of the earth are the real descendants of
those bandits who, with blood and fire, stole from our ancestors, four
centuries ago, when these incendiary actions occurred, killings galore,
and savage rapers of minors, which History describes with the name
âConquest of Mexico.â This land is ours, comrades; let us take her for
us, and for all of our descendants!â
Since that day, nothing else was talked about among all the peons except
to claim the land, to take it from the bosses by any way or form. The
issue here was to take possession of the land, harvest the crops for
themselves, discard the old owners and continue with the work from the
hacienda, once and for all free from the leaches. From then on, all
would be for the workers.
Since then, the masters started noticing that the peons did not take off
their hats in their presence, and that there was some kind of dignified
assurance in their look; they felt a catastrophe. When the humble raise
their heads high, the arrogant will knock him down. The spirit of
rebelliousness, for so many years asleep within the robust chests of the
slaves, had been awakened by the sincere words of the propagator. There
was conspiracy in the shacks. Together, around the fire, words from the
young agitator were discussed in a low voice. âIf the earth is our own
mother,â they said, âit must be ours.â âBut how can we own it?â the
hesitant would ask. âWe will ask the Government,â the ones who appeared
more sensible advised; but the younger ones, and women above all,
protested against those coward revolutions and voted for using violence.
âRemember,â the more excitable ones exclaimed, âhow many times have we
asked for justice or have protested against some infamy from our master.
The Government has taken the best of our brothers to incarcerate them in
the barracks and jails.â And then, trying to recall each one of those
men and women exposing examples of such nature, giving credibility to
the hotheads. They would recall Juan, who was pulled out of his shack,
late at night, and was executed when he had only walked about half a
league form the little houses, only because he did not allow his master
to abuse his wife. Spirits were becoming excited, remembering so many
past infamies and talking about the present ones. A man said, âI lost my
leg and arm fighting under the orders of Madero, and here I am, burdened
with a large family, and not knowing if tomorrow I will have a piece of
tortilla for my little children to eat.â Another said, âToday the master
ordered me to kill five hens I have in my chicken coop, and if I donât
do it, he will take them anyway to the corral of his hacienda.â Another
one exposed, âYesterday my daughter notified me that the young gentleman
has threatened her to make his father send me to prison if she does not
give him her body.â
Similar conversations were had inside the other shacks. Hard work was
mentioned and the miserable wages, and shivering, they would get close
to the fire. However, they agreed to have a general meeting. It took
place at night, in a nearby ravine. The cold was intense; but that human
mass did not feel it; the desire for freedom was burning within their
chests. The âsensibleâ wanted to send a commission to the Government,
asking for land for all; but then the yelling would raise in loud
screams: âNo, we do not want to deal with our executioners. Death to the
Government, and death to the rich!â The women, carrying their children,
would talk about hunger and nakedness, suffering, caused by the
cowardice of the men. âNo more hunger!â they would scream. âLetâs take
the hacienda!â yelling again. The owner appeared threatening; the rags
floated in the wind as black flags of vengeance. The cliffs multiplied
the intensity of that tremendous yelling. âTo the home of the hacienda!â
screamed some women, and started a rapid race towards the houses, from
where the wind would bring the barking of the nervous dogs, as if
guessing the grandiose act of social justice to end a few minutes later.
Men followed the women, who reached the houses, taking hoes, shovels,
anything they found; and kept on going in the shadows, racing toward the
house in the hacienda...
A close shooting received the attackers, but a few arrows
âRegeneraciĂłn,â well directed, took the fort of the bourgeoisie in a few
minutes, dying in those ruins, the descendants of the bandits who, with
blood and fire, raping virginities, had stolen the land from the Indians
four centuries ago...
When the flames of the fire ended, a clarity like rose petals, diluted
in milk, started to appear in the East: the sun shone more brilliantly,
more beautiful, happy to shine the foreheads of the free men, after many
centuries of only shining the muddy backs of the human herd.
It was wonderful to see so many people. Some were dedicated to count
cattle heads, others counting the number of people in the community;
others were ransacking stores and grain lofts (barns), and when the sun
would set in the afternoon with the fiery clouds; when the birds would
find refuge on tops of trees, all knew with what resources the community
had, and now they were in agreement to start work on their own, and
free, forever, of their masters.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 68, dated December 16, 1911.)
At the edge of the road, I find a man with weeping eyes and tossed black
hair, staring at the thistle at his feet. âWhy are you crying?â I ask,
and he answers, âI cry because I did everything I could for my comrades.
I sowed my parcel of land with hard work, as any man who respects
himself must do; but those for whom I did so much good made me suffer,
and in regard to my land, lacking water, that was snatched by the rich,
only to produce those dry thistles you can see at my feet.â
Bad harvest, I say, the one that the good ones harvest, as I continue my
march.
A little farther I stumble with an old man falling and getting up,
hunchback, sadly vague look. âWhy are you so sad,â I asked, and he
responds, âI am sad because I have been working since I was seven years
old. I was a dedicated person until the morning my boss said âYou are
too old, Juan; there is no work for you to perform,â and he slammed the
door on my face.â
What a harvest of years and more years of honest labor! He told me and I
keep on walking.
A very young man yet, but missing a leg, comes to my counter, hat in
hand, asking âa bit of charity for the love of God,â expressing somewhat
similarly to a man. âWhy are you moaning?â I ask, as he answers, âMaduo
promised we were going to be free and happy, with the condition to help
him get the presidency of the Republic. All my brothers and my own
father died in the war; I lost my leg and my health, leaving our
families in poverty.â
This is the reaping we the ones get, who work to raise tyrants, and
support the capitalist system, I say to myself, and keep on walking. A
few steps further, I encounter a group of tired men, sad steadfast
looks, their arms dropped, reading dismay in their faces, and anguish,
yet anger. âWhat makes you so angry?â I question. âWe came out of the
factory,â they say, and after working ten hours, we only make enough for
a miserable bean dinner.â
These are not the ones who reap, I say, but their bosses do, so I
continue with my travel.
It is nighttime already. Crickets sing their love songs in the crevices
of the ground. My ear, attentive, perceives sounds of fiesta somewhere.
I direct myself toward the place from where those gay sounds come, and I
see myself in front of a sumptuous palace. âWho lives here?â I ask a
lackey. âHe is the lord-owner of these lands you see around here and
owner also of the water which irrigates these lands.â
I understand I am in front of the residence of the thief who made the
fields become dry with thistle, and showing a fist to the beautiful
structure of the palace, I think, âYour next harvest, scoundrel
bourgeois â you will have to reap it with your own hands, so you know,
your slaves are waking up...â
And I keep my march, thinking, thinking, dreaming, dreaming. I think on
the heroic resolution of those disinherited, who have the courage to put
in their hands the recovery of their lands that, according to the law,
belong to the rich, and, according to justice and reason, belong to all
human beings. I dream about the happiness of the humble homes after the
expropriation; men and women feeling really human; children playing,
laughing, happy, with their stomachs full with healthy and plenty of
food.
The rebels will give us the best of the harvests: Bread, Land, Freedom
for all.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 69, dated December 23, 1911.
âI do not kill myself so others can live,â Pedro, the miner, said with a
clear voice, when Juan, his co-worker, extended a newspaper in front of
him called âRegeneraciĂłn,â full of details about the revolutionary
movement of the Mexican proletarianism. âI have a family,â he continued.
âI would be an animal if I showed my belly to the bullets of the
federals.â
Juan received without surprise Pedroâs observation: that is the way the
others talk. Some would even try to hit him when he would say there were
places where the peons had not recognized their masters and had taken
ownership of the haciendas. Some days passed; Juan, after buying a good
carbine with abundant bullets, went to the interior of the sierra, where
he knew there were rebels. He didnât care to know what kind of flag they
belonged to, or what ideals the revolutionists defended. If they were
their own, that is, the ones with the red flag, they forced themselves
to establish a new society, in which everyone would be his own owner,
and never the hangman of the others, very good: he will unite with them,
he will add with his own self to the number of fighters, as the number
of brains to the magnificent work of redemption, as many guns as of
capable brains to guide other brains, and fiery hearts, capable of
inciting with the same fire of other hearts. However, if they were not
from the same group, the ones who would move around the near area, it
did not matter; anyway, he will unite, as if considered the duty of a
liberator to mix among his brothers, unconscious, by way of clever
conversations, about the rights of the proletariat.
One day the minersâ wives were crowding at the door of the mine. a
landslide gave away one of the minesâ galleries, leaving more than fifty
workers inside without communication. Pedro was among them, and, like
all the others, without hope of escaping death. Surrounded by utter
darkness, the poor peon thought about his family; for him a horrible
agony was waiting, without water and food; however, finally, after a few
days he will be resting; but, how about his family? What will happen to
his wife and his children, so very young? Then he had thoughts of anger,
thinking about how sterile his sacrifice would be, and understanding,
however late, that Juan, the anarchist, was right, when, showing him the
newspaper âRegeneraciĂłn,â he would talk to him enthusiastically about
the social revolutions of the necessary struggle of classes,
indispensable, so men would stop being the slaves of masters, so
everybody would eat a piece of bread, crime would stop, prostitution,
and poverty, alike. The poor miner would remember, then, that cruel
phrase thrown, like a spit to the face to his friend: âI do not kill
myself so others live.â
While the miner was thinking, buried alive from working so hard, so the
burguese owner of the business, the women, crying, twisted their arms
pleading with screams, asking them to bring out and retrun their
husbands, their brothers, their sons and their fathers.
Crews of volunteers will plead the manager of the business, asking to
let them do something to rescue those unfortunate human beings who were
waiting inside that mine for a slow death, horrible because of the
hunger and thirst. The rescue finally started; but how slowly they
worked! Besides, were they sure these miners were alive? Didnât they
remember that the burgess did not give enough boards for lining the
mine, so they could get better profits, and that precisely this one,
where this catastrophe occurred, was the worst lined? Anyhow, good
willing men were working, taking turns day and night. The families of
the victims, in poverty, did not receive from the burgesses â owners of
the mine, not even a fist full of corn so they could make some tortillas
or some pudding, despite that their husbands, sons, brothers, and
fathers had earned their salary from several weeks already worked.
Forty eight hours had passed since the catastrophe occurred. The sun,
outside, was shining over the desolation of the minersâ families, while,
in the depths of the earth, in the darkness, the last act of this
terrible tragedy arrives.
Crazed with thirst, possessed with savage desperation, the miners with
the weakest minds furiously hit with their picks the hard rock, for a
few minutes, later some would fall down exhausted, some not getting up
again. Pedro thought, âHow happy would Juan be in these moments, free as
a man would be, with a gun in his hands, satisfied as a man with a great
idea, and fighting for it, and so it is. He, Juan, would be fighting
against the soldiers from the Authority, the Capital and Clergy,
precisely against the cruel men that, because they did not want to
diminish their gains, they were the ones to be blamed for him being
buried alive. Then he felt a fit of fury against the Capitalists, who
suck the blood of the poor; then he would remember the conversations he
had with Juan, so boring all the time, but now he was giving them the
justice they deserved. He remembered one day, Juan rolling a cigarette,
mentioned about the astonishing number of victims that industry fires
every year from all countries, forcing in demonstration how many human
beings die in car disrailment, drowning, fire, or fallouts in the mines,
the number of labor accidents, much more than in the most bloody
revolution, without counting the millions and millions dying of anemia,
excess work, malnutrition, sick persons contained because of bad hygiene
conditions, poor home conditions of the poor, factories, shops,
foundries, mines and other exploitative establishments. And so he
remembered also, Pedro, with what disdain he had heard Juan, at that
time, and with what brutality he had refused him when the propagandist
had advised him to send his donation, any amount he could send, to the
Revolutionary Chapter, who worked for the economic, political, and
social freedom of the entire working class. He remembered him saying to
Juan, âI am not such a sucker to give my money; I would rather get drunk
with it.â And something close to regret was torturing hi heart; and at
the anguish of the moment, with the clarity which comes in critical
moments, he thought it would have been better to die defending his
class, than to suffer that dark death, hateful, to allow the better life
of the cruel burgess. He imagines Juan face down, refusing the weight
and disgrace of tyranny; he imagines him happy and delirious with
enthusiasm, carrying on his fists the blessed emblem of the oppressed,
the red flag, oh, good and magnificent, beautiful, with your floating
hair in the air in the middle of combat, throwing dynamite bombs into
the enemy trenches, as I could see him at front with some brave ones
getting to or arriving at an hacienda, telling the peons: âTake
everything and work for yourselves, as human beings and not as beasts of
burden.â And the poor Pedro wished to have Juanâs life, knowing
comprehending was fruitful, but it was too late now. Even with the rest
of his life, he was death to the world.
Fifteen days have passed since the mine catastrophe. Discouraged were
the rescuers abandoning the recovery of mines. The families of the dead
miners had to leave from the village as they could not pay rent of their
homes. Some of the daughters and widows would sell kisses at the taverns
to get a piece of bread...Pedroâs oldest son was in jail because he took
some lumber from the factory to mend his shack. His mother, sick as a
result of the moral shock suffered. All the relatives had gone to the
office to ask for the last salaries of their loved ones; they did not
receive one cent. The Great Captain recounted debts and the result was
that the dead ones became debtors and because the poor families did not
have money to pay the rents of their homes, a very beautiful day, since
nature is indifferent to human suffering, when the sun burned with its
rays on a nearby pond and the birds, free from their owners, worked
trying to catch insects for them and their babies, âa beautiful day, a
representative of the Authority, dressed in black, as a vulture and
accompanied by some armed policemen, went from house to house, putting
in the name of the Law, to the advantage of the Capital, throwing all
those poor people to the street.â
This is the way the Capital pays the ones who sacrifice to him.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 72, dated 13 January, 1912.)
Bent down over the plough, spilling his sweat over the furrow he is
ploughing, the peon works at the same time he tunes one of those sad
songs from his village, in which he seems to sink, condemning himself
with all the bitterness social injustice has accumulated from centuries
and centuries ago, in the hearts of the poor. The peon works and sings,
at the same time, he thinks about his loved ones waiting to eat
together, the poorest supper. His heart fills with tenderness thinking
about his little children and his partner, and lifting his eyes to the
disposition of the sun, at that moment, as to guess the time it could
be, perceives at far, a light cloud of dust, becoming bigger and bigger
little by little as it gets closer to the place he is standing. They are
calvary soldiers getting close and at the same time asking him, âAre you
Juan?â and he answers affirmatively. They say, âCome with us; the
Government needs you.â And there he goes with them, tied with ropes, as
if he was a criminal, walking away from town, where the quarter waits
for him, while his family stays in their shack, doomed to famish or
steal and prostitute, so they wonât die.
Could Juan say that the Authority is good to the poor?
It is the third day Pedro runs over all the town, anxiously all over the
streets, looking for a job. He is a good worker; his muscles are made of
iron; his square face, son of his town, reflects honesty. It is useless
for him to run all over the place begging the burguese masters âto
botherâ themselves exploiting his strong arms. Everywhere all doors
close in his face; but Pedro is persistent, does not dismay, and,
sweating, with his fine teeth from the hunger destroying his stomach,
offers and offers his iron fists, with the hope of finding a master who
will âdo him the favorâ of exploiting them. And as he crosses the town
the twentieth time, he thinks about his loved ones, who, lie him, suffer
hunger and wait for him anxiously in the poor shack, from which they
soon will be evicted by the landlord who cannot wait any longer for the
rent. He thinks about them...and struggling and heart broken, with tears
running down, walks faster, pretending he will find masters, masters,
masters...but a stupid policeman sees him, âchecking for public order,â
and picking him by the neck, drags him to the closest police station,
where he accuses him of vagrancy. While he suffers in jail, his family
will suffer hunger and cold, or they will prostitute or steal so as not
to die of hunger. Could Pedro say the Authority is good of fair to the
poor?
Santiago, happy, says good bye to his co-workers. He is going to ask the
owner of the hacienda the part; as a sharecropper, he is entitled from
the abundant crop harvested. The landowner takes out his book, notes,
debts, and after adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, etc., tells
his sharecropper, âI do not owe you anything; much on the contrary, you
owe me for groceries, clothing, wood, etc., etc.â The sharecropper
protests and goes to the judge, asking for justice. The judge checks the
books, notes, debts, and after adding, subtracting, multiplying, and
dividing condemns the sharecropper to pay his debt to the landowner plus
the expense of the court. The wife runs very happy to meet Santiago with
the youngest child in her arms, thinking that he will bring lots of
money, considering the crop has been abundant; but her face fades when
she sees the tears of her hard worker, with sun-burned cheeks, running
down his face, with empty hands and a broken heart. The landowner had
done his earnings as a Great Captain and the judge, as always, had
leaned to the side of the strong. Could Santiago say that the Authority
was fair to the poor?
In the small room, the atmosphere saturated with smoke from petroleum
and tobacco, MartĂn, the intelligent labor agitator, speaks to his
commander. âIt is not possible to tolerate the innocuous exploitation to
which we are subjected,â says MartĂn, throwing back his head with the
beautiful mane like a lion. âWe work twelve, fourteen, and sixteen hours
for a few pennies; we are penalized with any excuse, to deduct from our
miserable salary; we are humiliated, prohibiting us to give roof or help
to our friends or relatives or anyone we want; we are prohibited from
reading newspapers which alert or educate us. We must not accept anymore
humiliation, comrades; letâs go on strike, asking for raise of salaries,
and less work hours, and to respect the guarantees of the Constitution
given to us! Applauses receive those words from the orator; votes for
strike, but the whole town knows that MartĂn has been arrested as he
arrives home, and there is an order of arrest for some of the most
intelligent of the workers. Panic spreads, the labor mass gives up, and
succeeding again, gives away to be the object of humiliations. Could
MartĂn say that the Authority is good and fair to the poor?
Before dawn, Epifania is already up, preparing her big basket with
cabbages,lettuce, tomatoes, green peppers, onions which she gets from
her small vegetable garden, and, with it carried on her back, gets to
the market to sell her humble merchandise. With that money she will be
able to buy medicine for her old father, and bread for her small
brothers. Before Epifania sells her onions, the tax collector from the
Government presents himself , demanding money to pay ministers,
deputies, senators, judges, policemen, solkiers, city workers,
governors, politicians, and jailers. Epifania cannot pay so her
merchandise is taken by the Government. Not even her tears or crying can
soften the heart of the public functionary.
Could Epifania say that the Authority is good or fair to the poor?
What is the value of the Authority? To make the law be respected, writen
byrich or educated men, at the service of the rich, who have to have the
guarantee, the assurance of possession of richness, and the exploitation
of the work of men. In other words: The Authority is the watchman of the
Capital, and this watchman is not paid by the Capital, it is paid by the
poor.
To end with the Authority we have to start with finishing the Capital.
Let us take possession of the land, the machinery of production and the
means of transportation. Let us organize work and common consumers,
establishing a common ownership for all, and then, there will not be a
necessity to pay funcitionaries to guard Capital held in only a few
hands, as every man and every woman will be at the same time, producer
and guardian of the social richness.
Mexicans:
Your future is in your own hands. Today that Authority has lost strength
because of the popular rebeliousness, this is the precise moment to put
hold on the law and destroy it; to get a hand over the individual
ownership, making it property to all and each one of the human beings
who live in the Mexican Republic.
Let us not allow, that the Government becomes so strong. Letâs
expropriate without delay for public use! And if by unfortunate fate
another individual gets the seat of the Presidency of the Republic, war
against him and his followers! So by it, avoid letting them become
strong, and, in the meantime, continue with expropriation.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 83, dated the 30^(th) of March, 1912)
That afternoon dies without specific peculiarity. The sun, lazy, did not
want to spread his golden hair in all the circumference of the horizon,
as if he would be upset from the baseness of men, that because of their
smallness they kill each other, because of nothing they suffer, and from
nothing they are amused, like poor worms.
Through the dusty highway â and dusty, too â an older man walks. It must
have been a long journey, judging by the reflected tired face and his
painful walk. He carries a backpack, a shirt, made of bleached cotton,
perhaps, and worn out pants. It is a soldier returning home from the
Orozco group.
The man walks and walks, walks observing the groups of men and women
assiduously, working in their eternal labor, dressed in very humble
clothes, with sadness and desperation showing in their sunburned faces.
These people work the same, dress the same, have the same look than
before the revolution.
The revolutionary stops to contemplate the picture and questions, âWhy
did we have the revolution?â
And he continues walking to his village where he will see his loved
ones, waiting for him anxiously, for sure, children and wife, after his
long absence.
The highway is slowly covered by shadows. To his side walks a group of
workers marching towards their shacks, with the same looks of weariness,
of fatigue, and maybe resentment. The revolutionary turns to the group
and asks, âWhy did we have the revolution?â
He continues walking towards the village, where he will find his loved
ones, where they are waiting desperately after a long wait, his children
and wife.
The barking of dogs denounces the proximity of the village completely
submerged in darkness. The wind weeps between the branches of ash trees
burdening the road. Our traveler walks, walks, and walks, thinking about
his loved ones...
The next day the revolutionary has to go back to the furrow, as any
other one to make 25 to 50 cents a day; and if Vazquez GĂłmez has gotten
the presidential chair, the poor keep on being poor, keep on being
humiliated by the rich and by the authority.
The revolutionary reflects and questions, âWhy did we have the
revolution?â
Worn out, he returns to his shack, where he had been the night before. A
pot of beans is their dinner, with a few tortillas. The dog yawns close
to the fire; crickets sing their love in the cracks; children sleep
almost naked. âWho won?â asks his wife, who is so happy to be able to
stretch and hug her absent husbandâs arms, and had not been able to ask
the question before. After a few minutes, thinking, the revolutionary
answers, âWell, we did.â
âBut you have not even a cent.â
âWell anyhow, we son â we dethroned Madero.â
âBut we were left down, as always,â says the woman.
The revolutionary scratches his hair and, not having any other way to
answer,and answering as before, he questions, âWhy did we have a
revolutionary?â
âWhy did we have the Revolution?â the woman asks.
And the revolutionary, surprised of this woman thinking like him, could
not stand his indignation anymore, backing inside and exclaimed, âThe
revolution is only for the bold ones, the ones who want to be in the
government, the ones who want to live off of the work of others! â
We got furiously obstinate by not listening to the anarchists of
Regeneration, who in all ways have advised us not to follow the
employers, to take possession of the land, water, fields, mines, the
factories, mills, miner, means of transportation, and that we should
commune property to all the population of the Mexican Republic and so,
we would consume what we produced. We were told that to struggle to
elevate individuals was a criminal offense. We did not listen, because
they were poor, from our own class, and as the saying goes, we carry
penitence from our own sins. This is what we deserve, for being stupid!
Our employers are having a great time right now, while we, the bait, the
suckers, the ones who work, sweat, and struggle, show our chests to the
enemy; now we are the ones who suffer more than before... Juan sounds
the trumpet, announcing a meeting; rubs his eyes...It was a bad dream!
Picks up his rifle, and rejoices, knowing the fact heâs joining the
lines of the red flag liberators, and yells with sound voice, âHail to
my laud and freedom!â
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 87, dated April 27, 1912.)
Sitting on the threshold of the door from his humble home, Pedro,
serious and hard worker, thinks, thinks, and thinks. He had been reading
Regeneration, given to him from a skinny worker, nervous, with an
intelligent look, as he was leaving for home. He actually had never read
this paper, although he had heard about it, sometimes with disdain,
other times mad, and sometimes enthusiastically.
As he is sitting at the threshold of his door, Pedro thinks and thinks
hard, so hard his head hurts, just with the question, thinking, âHow
could we possibly live without a government?â Itâs eight oâclock in the
morning, the last day of April. Roses open their petals so the sun can
kiss them; hens, busied digging and trying to find worms, while the
gallant rooster, opening and dragging his wings, fencing them, asks for
love.
Pedro walks and walks. Palms sway and swing their fronds under the
shining sky, the swallows gathering mud to make their nests; Pedro is in
the plain field; the herd pasture quietly, without the police beating
them, hares, playing freely without the need of legislators trying to
make them happy with their laws; birds enjoying life, no one demanding,
âI rule; obey me!â
Pedro is experimenting with the free sensation, lifting the weight, and
cries, âYes, yes, it is possible to live without a government!â
The picture he sees in the life of the animals has given him the answer,
and that answer has lifted the knocks of his headache. Those flocks of
sheep at his sight have given him the idea that no government is needed
to live in peace. Not having individual property, there is no need for
someone to take care of that property from the attacks of the ones who
do not possess anything. They do own, in common, the beautiful meadow,
the crystal waters, and when the sun rays shine furiously, they
participate together, from the shadow the trees project. Without
government, those worthy animals do not kill each other, neither do they
need judges, neither jailers nor bailiffs. By not extending between them
private property there isnât that horrible rivalry, that cruel war
between classes, from one individual towards another, debilitating
solidarity, so powerful in animals of the same species.
Pedro breathes with all of his open lungs; a vast horizon opens in front
of him; as it crumbles down before his intelligence, the dark
scaffolding of worries, of prejudices, the atavisms, the bourgeoisie
society carefully encouraging to continue this existence. Pedro had been
thinking that it is indispensable to have masters and servants, rich and
poor, governors and governed. Now he understands: the ones who are
interested in the actual political, economic, and social systems
continuing are the ones who impose the political, economic, and social
inequalities to exist between humans.
Pedro thinks, thinks, thinks. Coyotes, wolves, ducks, wild horses,
buffaloes, elephants, ants, sparrows, swallows, pigeons, and almost all
animals live in union, and that society is based in practical solidarity
at such degree that the poor human species has not attained it yet, in
spite of conquests by science, the main cause of this human misfortune,
the right of individual property which allows the stronger ones, the
most intelligent, the meanest to hoard, for their exclusive advantage,
the natural rich resources, and the product from human labor, leaving
the rest without sharing the social inheritance, and subjected to work
for a crumb of bread, when they have the right to have everything they
need.
The weary heat of the noon sun tires Pedro, who finds refuge under the
foliage of a tree, falling asleep. The insects fly and fly over him,
like escaped jewels from show windows anxiously sparkling with the sun.
Pedro sleeps and dreams. He dreams himself in a vast land, where he
finds thousands of coworkers laboring the fields, while from their
throats rush out triumphant notes of the hymn âWork and Liberty.â Never
has a musician conceived a melody as such. As is, no none until them had
felt as free and happy to be alive! Pedro works and sings just the same
as the others, and after two hours, they seem as seconds, he and the
rest start walking towards the village, where, smiling to see small
houses surrounded with flower gardens, they see nothing is missing to
make life happy and beautiful. All of them have cool and hot water,
electricity, electric stoves, bathrooms, sinks, comfortable furniture,
curtains, rugs, pianos, and pantries filled with provisions. Pedro, as
the others, has his own home, happy with his wife and small children.
Now nobody works for a salary. All are owners. The ones who like
agricultural jobs, fine, together working the land; the ones who are
inclined to the factories, have gathered together like their brothers
from the fields. All industries, at last, have come in accord to
produce, according to the needs of the community, putting the products
of all the industries in a huge warehouse, where there is a free entry
to all this working town. Everyone takes what he or she needs, as there
is abundance of everything. The streets are free of beggars, of
prostitutes, because everyone has their necessities satisfied. At the
working scene one does not see an old person, as they worked when they
were apt, and now they live peacefully, from the work of the strong
ones, waiting for a quiet death, surrounded by loving sincere tokens of
affection; the disabled enjoy the same privileges as the seniors.
To get to the result, the people from this region started to disregard
all kind of authority, and at the same time, declared common property
the land and the production machinery. They gathered the workers of each
industry to discuss the way to better production, having at front, a
list of the demands from the bourgeoisâs warehouses, and that now was at
the disposition for all in a big warehouse.
Many unnecessary industries were eliminated, since there was not a
reason for speculation anymore, and the work that previously used to
move the policemen, the soldiers, the public and private office workers,
helped with their contingency effort. There were no parasites of any
kind anymore, as everyone of those inhabitants were at the same time
producers and guardians, therefore being at the same time workers and
owners.
What is the reason to have a government?
Which was the reason to destroy those people, when all of them felt like
owners? Nobody could be better than the other. Each one would produce
according to his effort and intelligence, and each one would consume to
fill his needs. What would be the reason to hoard? That would have been
stupid. Pedro feels happy and smiles while sleeping. Butterflies fly
around him as if they were part of his dreams...
Suddenly Pedro feels a great pain on his head, and awakes startled. It
is a policeman, a representative of Mrs. Authority, with which scared
shy people believe they cannot live without. The pretty officer has just
awoken, with a kick on the head, the good and peaceful laborer.
Desperately, she orders him to go and sleep at home, or on the contrary
he will go to jail for being vagrant.
Vagrant? When his master just told him there was no work â just two days
after!
Pedro shakes with indignation; turns his back to the officer and leaves.
His face shows a supreme resolve. Arrives home, kisses his small
children, and, with great emotion, says good bye to his wife, to march
towards the brave ones who fight at the exalt of âHurrah Country and
Freedom!â
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 85, dated May 4, 1912.)
Pedro was unconscious; he started to work when he was seven years old.
His father was a peon in a hacienda from the state of MichoacĂĄn, with a
salary no more than twenty five cents a day, working from dawn to
sunset. The family could not live with that miserable salary; the cloth
to make their clothing was more expensive everyday, the first necessity
articles much higher, and the bill owed to the landowner was increasing
and increasing...
One day the peon took Pedro to his job. It was imperative that the child
work so they could help at least with a fist full of corn, the everyday
porridge, and the indispensable tortillas. From then on, Pedro must earn
his food from the sweat of his brow.
Pedro came to the age of 24, like his father, earning twenty five cents,
working from morning to night; however, if life was expensive, then, it
was much more now; levies were more frequent, the fugitive law was
applied to the maximum, the âfatigues,â the free personal service to
authority, were more and more frequent, and to their misfortune, as a
traditional costume, the debt from the father, had fallen or accumulated
to the son, increasing his own. In search of better fortune, Pedro came
to the United States, finding work in a section of the railroad. One day
he found a newspaper, RegeneraciĂłn, maybe a passenger left it behind.
Pedro read the paper and felt something so deep that it left a profound
feeling in all of his being. He had learned to respect his masters, as
if they were his parents; in his simplicity, he believed that, if there
were not wealthy people, the poor would not have anything to eat. He
respected the government, in spite of the treatment he received in
Mexico; considered a priest, as a representative of God on Earth.
Finally, poor Pedro was a total reactionary.
Sitting on an empty drawer serving as a chair, Pedro read RegeneraciĂłn
under the light of an oil lamp, and while he was reading the newspaper,
he felt a knot in his throat...feeling something shattering inside his
being, and a huge horizon was extending in front of his life.
Pedro felt terribly sad; and he believed that it was so natural to
suffer in this world, at least the priest had assured him. Now, he
realized that those lies from men of the cloth just wanted to keep the
slaves quiet, and his heart was pounding violently. With clenched fists,
he cried, âI will go to Mexico and I will not leave any of these rotten
birds alive!â He would remember then the priestâs sermon from his
village, when he would preach, pretending love, and charity, in a loved
voice, and cry, âBe patient, my children, and the Lord will give you a
better life in your next life; respect and love your employer as if they
were your second parents; conform with your poverty; do not envy the
fortune of the rich, because that wealth was given by God, merciful
Lord. He will give you work, and receive food on our tables. Respect
your government, which is the one who is in charge and guards your
belongings, people, abide the laws, as well as punish crime and reward
virtue.â
âOh! If I would have read Regeneration,â said Pedro, sitting on his
empty shack, as his voice, sounded empty. âIf I would have read
Regeneration, something else would have become of me and my loved ones.â
The wind would filter from the hut, crevices, crying as if carrying the
slavesâ laments, who are born, live, and die without knowing anything
else from life, except misery and pain. Far away a dog howled; a night
bird sang mournfully, as the night seemed sadder.
Pedro continued reading, and while reading, his mind had only one idea:
to buy a rifle, and clenching the newspaper, crushing its lines, he kept
on thinking, thinking. He was not old! He was only 24 years old;
however, he thought having wasted much time in the struggle for the
ideal. âI will not leave a Burgos alive as soon as I step on Mexican
territory!â he yelled with fury, and his voice vibrated as a trumpet
calling the slaves to combat determined the soldiers to become men.
The wind would blow through the cracks from the hut, as if it were the
weeping and the sighs and complaints, the cries of men and women, old
people, children proletarians who are born, live, and die without
anything but sorrow and pain...Outside, the telegraph wires, shacked by
the strong wind, gave saddened notes. A rooster sang far away; a pair of
cats, denouncing, in the shadows their noisy loving.
Pedro kept on thinking and thinking. âI will have a bullet for each
representative of the Authority, as soon as I step into Mexico!â he
cried, and his voice resounded as if he were the sound of a machine gun
in the enemyâs trenches...
Sometime later, after this night, when the brain of a man illuminated
with a new light, a troop of Carrancistas rebelled against the authority
of Venustiano Carranza, disregarding Government, Capital, and Clergy.
It happened that Pedro, converted into the apostle of the Good News,
marched towards the territory dominated by the Carrancismo, presented
himself in a Carrancista camp, and set a soldier post. Once among these
rebels, he gave full range to his generous thoughts.
âBrothers,â he said, why are we carrying the weight of another
government?â He proceeded, saying, âNow that we have arms in our hands,
letâs finish once and for all with the beginning of Authority, the
Capital, and the Clergy.â Then, taking out a small red book from his
pocket, , he read to his comrades, not about ideals. It was the 23^(rd)
of September, 1911. The rebels listened to the apostle, and the opinion
was expanding, that if the revolution was going to be wasted, it would
be imperative that the country, during the armed struggle, take
possession of the land, machinery, and means of transportation; that is
if one expects that a Government give happiness to its people, that
would never happen, because the mission of the Government is to give
protection to the wealthy, with prejudices towards the poor. The
Carrancista rebels thought and thought and thought. One remembers that
one time the workers from his district decided to go on strike, asking
for a raise of salaries, and less work hours. The government sent troops
to machine gun them and make them continue or return to their work with
the same old working conditions. Another brought from his memory the
fate of Juan, his village, and how he was taken out of his home, in the
late hours of the night, by the Acordads, and shot by a shower of
bullets, like a dog, at the corner of the road, because he did not allow
the owner of the hacienda to rape his wife, companion for all of his
life. Another remembered well poor Santiago, that cowboy, with so many
children and family, and how he was sent to fight in the army and died
of malaria in Tierra Caliente, as he did not allow his boss to steal his
salary. Each of those rebels had more than one memory of how the
Authority protects the rich, with prejudice against the poor, and in
each of those hearts, hardened by privation and suffering, burned a
vengeful fire. âWe do not want a government anymore!â...they cried and
yelled, and their clamorous cry resounded on the Sierraâs steep rocks,
as thunder.
âDeath for Capital; Death for the Clergyâ repeated cries, and the
formidable voices went down the channels until they were last in the
lands.
The officials perceived the disruption, and went there to impose order.
Some shot some bullets, giving an end to the officials, and the new
âlibertarios,â with the red flag high, felt stimulated with heroic notes
of the hymn âEl Hijo del Pueblo,â as they walked away, marching toward
the conquest of Land and Liberty.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 175, dated February 7, 1914.)
That day Juanito and Liusita, Rasaâs children, could not get out of bed:
fever was devouring them. Rosa squeezed her arms in desperation, bearing
the pain before her own flesh and blood. It had been three weeks since
she was fired from the factory. In vain she would scrape the bottom of
drawers, moving useless implements and other old trumperies; not even a
penny in the first one, nor anything of value in the others. Not even a
piece of bread or a cup of coffee on the table, and the children burning
with fever, agitating their small arms, asking for food. The door opens
abruptly, and some individuals, dressed in black, with papers under
their arms, break in without any ceremony. It was the notary and
secretaries, aides just doing their jobs in the name of the law. Rosa
had not paid her rent to the burguese, due to her misery, and the
representation of the Authority came to throw her out on the
street...Could Rosa say that the Authority is fair to the poor?
In the middle of the fidgeting and the confusion, in the business
district, suddenly a burguese, agitating his arm, yells, âThief! Thief!â
From the bottom of the vestâs lapel swings a chain without a watch.
People gather; the representation of Authority, cane in hand, opens
space among the multitudes; but where is the thief? All the people close
to the burguese were elegantly dressed. Pedro, after looking for work
all morning, without luck, gets close to the multitude, wondering why
there is so much excitement, and while waiting, feels a strong hand
around his neck, and a soaring voice yells, âCome with me, you thief!â
Itâs a policeman. Could Pedro say that the Authority is fair to the
poor?
Jose feels very tired. He has been walking all day heading to the city
in search of work. Dismayed, he sites on a park bench. Getting relaxed,
he falls asleep. A violent shaking awakens him: a representative of
Authority tells him about the crime of falling asleep in the park. Jose
apologizes the best he can, but the policeman orders him to get out of
the park. Jose walks and walks, until, very tired, he sits at the edge
of a sidewalk of a far-away street, falling asleep again, and suffering,
for a second time, a shake from the âwelcomingâ representative of
Authority, ordering him to stand up and march away. Jose explains his
situation to the policeman: itâs been about three months since he has
worked because there is an abundance of slaves, and it has been
necessary for him to walk to look for work to exploit him. The
representative of Authority tells him only lazy ones do not find work;
he handcuffs him, and takes him to jail, where he will work for the
benefit of the Authority. Meanwhile, Joseâs old parents and his family
starve in the village he left. Could Jose say that the Authority is fair
to the poor?
Life is unbearable for Lucas and his family. His boss wants to rob the
affection of his wife; the bossâ son wants to ravish his daughter; the
foremen are insolent; the salary he earns is miserable. Lucas decides to
leave with his family; however, he has to do it hiding from his boss, as
it is known this man is the owner of lives and haciendas. The march
takes place; they are yet to fall into the hands of the Authority, so
notified by the man in charge of slave escapes. Women are returned to
the hacienda, where they will stay, exposed to the appetite of the
master and his son; meanwhile, Simon is sent to the headquarters, as a
man with âprevious charges,â according to the bossâ declaration. Could
Simon claim the good of the Authority?
The roads are ruined from the torrential rains. The burguese need the
repair of the roads as soon as possible, so their automobiles can pass
without problem over their roads and their paths. The Authority orders
every male from the working class, from the district boundaries, and
forces them to work repairing bridges, constructing dams, making
trenches, without any pay, so the burguese keeps on getting business,
while the proletarian families bite their elbows from famish. Could the
poor families say the Authority is good and generous to the poor?
Why do we, the poor, need Authority? She is the one who throws us to the
barracks and makes us soldiers so we can defend, rifle in hand, the
interest of the rich, just as it is happening in Cananea, where the
soldiers are guarding the companiesâ properties, so that the strikers
will not destroy them. She is the one who makes us pay taxes so we can
support presidents, governors, deputies, senators, cheap policemen of
every kind and from all borders, office workers, judges, magistrates,
soldiers, jail keepers, hangmen, diplomats, and a multitude of lazy,
good-for-nothings, who do nothing else but pressure us for the benefit
of the capitalist class. We, the poor, do not need anything of those
cloth-moths and should shake them from our backs so the burguese system
falls on the ground; and taking charge of our lands, homes, machinery,
means of transportation, food, and other things kept in warehouses,
declare aloud that everything belongs to all, men and women, according
to the Manifest from the 23^(rd) of September, 1911.
Down with Authority, disinherited brothers!
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 195, dated July 11, 1914.)
It has been a week since the comrades had launched themselves into the
Revolution, and Pedro felt sad. He wanted to be next to those lions who,
rifle in hand, were in the front of the action fighting for human
freedom. He would remember the last meeting in his very humble home. It
had been at night; the cold air would go through the crevices, as to
cool down the excitement. Jose, the man in charge of residence of the
mine, would talk enthusiastically. âComrades,â he said, âholding a glass
of wine. âTo die without glory, crushed by the mine, so we could make
the burgess fat, as to die in the battle field in defense of our own
right, as production of social wealth, I prefer the latter,â and raising
the glass to his lips, he drinks the wine in one draught.
The wind had a sort of lament at every crack, as if all the victims of
exploitation and tyranny had congregated that very night around the hut
so their complaints could be heard. The coyote sadly hauled in the
nearby hill, gloomy and nervous. The owl, disquiet with his mournful
notes, the little birds in their nests.
Juan, the railroad peon, corpulent, and lacking words, hugged Jose, and
said, âIâm going with you,â and at the same time, some plates fell from
the table, shaken by the peonâs effusive redness. The cat woke up
frightened; in the next room a child cried; the oil lamp gave off a
dense and unpleasant smell.
Jose filled his glass again. All of them seemed possessed of that fire
proper of the generous hearts which beat for a great deal of time. The
Manifest of the 23 of September 1911, in red binder, was shining on the
proletarian table, as a red-hot coal.
âHow many of us are going?â Jose asked. All of them stood up to signify
all were in agreement to fight for the struggle. Only Pedro stayed
sitting. The surprised looks from his comrades turned to him, who with
hands on his forehead, wept.
âYou are afraid, ah?â Santiago asked brutally, the shepherd making a
disdaining grimace.
Everybody looks at Pedro with pity: the scene was singularly painful.
There was a picture of Praxedis G. Guerrero hanging on the wall, the
beautiful group of children of the state ready to follow in his glorious
steps.
Pedro, moved to the point of crying, raises unstable as a drunk, even
though he had not tasted wine â he was tempered â and, with a weak
voice, says, âI cannot go with you; Marta, my partner, objects my going
with you: she claims I have the obligation of supporting our children. I
will stay.â
It was getting colder as the night approached, and the whistling wind
would get into every crevice. Manuel, the tobacco worker, coughed and
from his pressed chest, a murmur could be heard similar to boiling water
from a bottle. Everybody sat, except him. He wanted to talk, but his
coughed drowned his words. Finally, he claims, âYes, letâs march to the
battle, comrades.â He coughed, spit a viscous bloody mass, and added,
âWe will die crushed in the mine; at the shop they are spying on us; our
kidneys wear out in the fields; the scaffoldings are dangerous, and the
digging of quarry demolishes the bones; machinery mutilates us...all for
the benefit of the burgess! Why not, instead, raise firearms and grab
from the hands of the infamous burghs, our natural wealth, that which we
have produced ourselves?â
Praxedis, from the wall, watches that union of heroes. The freezing cold
wind continues, going into all the crevices. Manuel coughed, and his
cough seemed as if it came from the bottom of a pitcher. âDo you hear?â
he yelled; âthe wind brings us the lament of the ones who suffer the
tears of the children who want bread; the anguish of the son with his
old parents, dying away gradually, for lack of nutrition; the suffering
of the prostitutes, forced to sell their flesh so she can bring a morsel
to her children; the sigh of the prisoner, decaying in the corner of his
cell; the forced breathing from the proletarians, who tame their own,
sweat and blood, the fortune of their master. Letâs rebelâ
âTo the struggle of battle!â all proclaimed, and from those suppressed
chests came the heroic notes of the Anarchist Marsellesa:
To the revolt, proletarians;
The day of the redemption now shines...
Clouds turn pink, as if embarrassed to be seen asleep by the sun. Dawn
comes; the owl had gone, scared by sunrise, and the brisk happy song,
joyous as the hangman disappeared, by the coyote, as they go their dens,
and the cat snores in his corner, shakes his skin to scare the flies.
Since then, everything has been sad to Pedro. He was the only one left
behind. Since that day, his sadness multiplied. He got up early and went
to the mine. He felt his heart sink. âIt was my duty to go with them,â
he thought. âThe mine can collapse one day, and then what? My family
will be without bread and they will become the same as they would have
had I been killed by defenders of the capitalist system on the
battlefield.
The dark entrance of the mine was opening at his feet, as if it was a
hungry monster yawning, impatiently waiting for his ration of human
flesh. Pedro looks around, sighs, and goes down, to do his work.
Five hours later, some sad, taciturn men deposited, at the feet of
Marta, the crushed body of Pedro. A huge rock had smashed him like a
mouse. A death without glory!
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 207, dated 9 October 1915.)
Juan is delighted: he just saw the newspaper coming from Washington,
about Carranza being recognized as chief of the Executive Power of the
Mexican Republic. He hugs Josefa, his wife, effusively kisses his little
son and, almost yelling, says, âNow, peace will be had at last!
Oppression will end! Hurrah for Carranza!
Josefa is left with her mouth open, speechless, just looking at her
husband; without understanding why, just because a new president comes
into power, misery will cease. She looks around the room, a room from a
poor neighborhood from the Tepozan Alley of Mexico City, and sighs.
Everything which surrounds her is miserable; the broken grass chairs,
the furnace without a piece of charcoal; the sheets from the cat have
stains, product of the childâs urine; on the solitary table, stands a
bottle with a piece of paraffin, drippings falling down like thick
tears.
Without realizing his wife has not understood him, Juan yells, âOne was
for prosperity and liberty opens before the Mexican country. Hurrah for
Carranza!
Josefa opens her eyes immeasurably. She cannot understand the relation
between the exaltations of a man in power and death to expression, and
submerges in profound reflections, until a lice, the hungriest of the
many populating her head, gives a bite that returns her to reality. She
scratches furiously, and at the same time, with a weak voice, weak from
lack of food, tells her husband, âCould you tell me, Juan, what we are
gaining with Carranza in power with the Presidency?â
âCome on, Josefa, you havenât yet understood about these matters? We are
getting laws which benefit us workers; the ones about agricultural
labor, weâll receive land form the hands of the government; in fact we
will have freedom and well being.
Josefaâs lips show a smile, transcending the bitterness from her heart.
Even though poor, she had had the opportunity to read something about
Mexicoâs history, and remembers that all past presidents, before
reaching the highest position, swore a thousand times, and again to
dedicate all their efforts for the country. Thatâs how the proclamation
of Sturbide reads, the manifests from Bustamento, the ones from Santa
Ana, and the proclamations, manifests publishing from government,
circulars from Bulooga and Commonfort, Gonzalez and DĂaz, from all, in
fact, including Madero. All promised to make the country happy, and the
country was miserable under all of them.
A bedbug walks slowly on the wall, as to kill time taking a walk, while
these poor people decide to go to bed, victims of the capitalist system.
Josefa sees it and, with her previous practice, presses one on the wall
with the tip of her finger, kills it, leaving a bloody mark on the wall.
The poor woman gives a sad look to her husband, almost saying, âPoor
slave! When will you open your eyes?â
Juan is radiant with joy and agitating the newspaper high, exclaims,
âConstitutional order, these are respected individual guarantees; the
privileges of the citizen without obstacles; justice justly
administered, free suffrage, no reflection; honesty from public
officials, what more do you want, woman? Why do you have a mournful
face?â
Josefa replies, âEverything sounds great; but the bread â who is giving
us the daily bread?â
âHa, ha, ha! This is why I have arms,â Juan says, laughing, and adds,
âOnly the lazy die of famish.â
Josefa drops her arm in dismay. âHonestly,â she thinks, âJuan is a
perfect sheep.â
Some lice bite her, making her scratch desperately to the point of
bleeding. Later, church bells can be heard; they are the bells from the
parish Santa Ana; from the area of Tezontlale one can hear yelling,
fireworks, all the church bells from all the nearby churches sound in
unison with the notes of a âpaso dobleâ from the military band making
Juan so excited to the point of being delirious, so he takes his hat and
yells in full blast, âHurrah Carranza!â
They are the workers, Carranzistas, who celebrate the recognition of
Carranzaâs government, extended by the foreign governments, representing
their proper burgesses.
A month has gone by. Juan works, but his situation does not change; his
miserable salary barely covers him, his wife and son do not die of
hunger. The same dilapidated chairs, some stained blankets on their bed,
their poor table hasnât been replaced; and in their stove there is not a
good soup to nourish them; charcoal is as expensive as gold; most of the
bloody spots on the walls indicate that the bedbugs havenât lost the
habit of taking a leisurely walk before eating; the lice burn poor
Josefaâs head.
âHey, we sure have gotten a lot from Carranzaâs rising! Isnât it true,
dear Juan?â says Josefa, with a certain sluggishness.
Juan scratches his head due to the torment of the lice and
disappointment. He thought that Carranza being in power would be like
abundance at home. However, he does not give up and explains, âItâs
impossible for a government to give happiness to his people in one
month. Letâs give him time so he can implement the reforms which will
benefit the masses, and then weâll see.â
A year has gone by. Juanâs condition is about the same as before. It is
true that the salaries are better; but the landlord has also raised the
rent for the rooms; merchants have raised the price for articles of
first necessity; clothing is also much more expensive than before. He
does not work more than eight hours a day; however, the same amount of
work has to be done in eight hours that he used to do in twelve,
fourteen, or sixteen hours.
Juan is holding the paper âRegeneraciĂłn,â reading it avidly, and leaves
the reading aside, only to scratch due to the parasite bites, using his
nails. Juan walks up and down, very concerned, holding a small red
notebook, being the only color giving some joy inside the dark miserable
hole, dirty and hopeless: this is the manifest dated the 23^(rd)
September 1911.
Suddenly, Juan stops his walking and slapping his forehead, and
exclaims, âHow foolish I have been, and with me, the workers who helped
Carranza! Here we are in poverty, the worst misery, even though we drop
working just as before the old goat went into power. The distribution of
land was a damn lie, as we have to pay for the piece of land given;
protection laws to the workers â it was no other than the protection of
the Capital, because burgess have a way to get paid for the little given
or granted; the constitutional order does not do any good for the poor,
as in misery being a virtue, we are the outcasts as always. Death to
Carranza!â
âDeath to all Government!â Josefa yells, waiving, as if it was a flag, a
newspaper called
âRegeneraciĂłnâ that she had on hand.
âHurrah for anarchy!â Juan screams, waiving his red book, of whose pages
contain memories of youth, effluvium of spring, balsam of hope and rays
of sunshine for all the sufferers, for all who sigh, for all who drag
their existence in darkness from slavery to tyranny.
For the first time the squalid room becomes noble, as it serves as
shelter to a couple of lions and a cub.
Several days have gone by. The trenches of the Capitol offer a
formidable scene. The neighborhood is La Merced. Tanners and apple
pickers united here to build a trench in two hours. Men, women,
children, seniors, and even handicapped have worked together here. The
ugly market building from La Merced has given part of the material.
Behind the trench, there is an ocean of straw hats. The huaraches and
rude shoes from the defenders, energetically walk stepping the bland
dirt, proud now to serve as pedestals to this large group of heroes.
They wait a few minutes for the Government to attack. All is activity
within the trenches: women stand in line, men cleaning their rifles;
children distribute artillery to the men. A red flag, with white letters
reading, âLand and Freedom,â smiles at the sun at the highest point of
the trench, sending from there greetings to all the outcasts of the
world. The proletarians from the Capitol are against the Capitol,
Authority, and Clergy.
The proletarians form the slaughterhouse and San Antonio Abod do not
show less active. The butchers files their knives, testing them with
their thumbs. The streets next to the slaughter houses and Textile
Manufacturing buildings are without sidewalks since the materials were
used to build trenches; tables, pots and pans, pianos, clothing,
mattresses, all have been a mountain of objects in horrible confusion,
and are used as a defense for the noble defenders.
Belin and Salto Del Agua; San Cosme and Santa MarĂa de la Ribera; San
LĂĄzaro and San Antonio TomatlĂĄn; La Bolsa and Tepito; San Juan Menoalco,
Santa MarĂa la Rhonda, la Lagunilla, all the popular neighborhoods from
the populated city have emptied their homes, people, embellished by the
revolutionary ardor, are getting prepared to resist the attack from the
Carranzistas, the trenches expel dirt right away. The trench from San
LĂĄzaro and San Antonio TomatlĂĄn is showing an unusual flag: itâs an old
pair of bloomers, old and stained. Itâs a miserable flag! It is the
disfigured rag of the world of oppression and privilege. While the rag
stays close to the proletarians, the lords are fine; but when the same
old rag is tied to a stick, then the world trembles.
However, if there is excitement in the trenches, but none compares with
the ones from Peralvillo, Santa Ana, Tezontlale, who, united with
activity, enthusiasm, audacity, and revolutionary care, join Juan and
Josefa, who do not rest. Black with dust, they look beautifully sweaty,
worn out, running up and down under the trench, sharing energy and
enthusiasm for their defenders. Suddenly, great confusion, followed by
firing, sounds of the trumpet can be heard from the area of la
ConcepciĂłn Tequipehuca.
âThey are the ones from La Bolsa and Tepito and they are fighting!â
screams Juan, throwing his hat in the air.
A few minutes after the roar of the cannons, the rifles voice; the
beating of the drums; the madness of the trumpets; the martial airs of
the musical bands were confused with the cityâs thunder, as all the
trenches were attacked at the same time by the Carranzista troops.
Juan and Josefa get up to the highest place of the trench, where they
can see a heavy cloud, where the Carranzistas are approaching, on the
streets of Santo Domingo.
âThe enemy is approaching, comrades!â they yell at the same time.
âEveryone get to the place which is best for the defense of our land!â
In an instant the trenches are surrounded with rifles. The enemy sets
two cannons in the center of the street from Santa Catarina and Las
Moras, while part of the column continues to advance over the trenches
from the entry of the street.
An imperative voice comes out from the dusty cloud and approaches
already at one hundred steps from the barricade.
âIn the name of the Supreme Government,â he says, âSurrender!â
âHurrah Country and Freedom!â answer the ones from the trenches.
The shooters follow from both parts; the cannons direct their
projectiles to the center of the trenches to open breach in the fort,
the smoke saturates the area, making it unbearable; the attack is
furious, the resistance formidable, the Carranzista soldiers add
blasphemies to their firing; the proletarians, defenders of the
barricade, sing:
Countrymen, the chains oppress you,
And this injustice cannot continue;
If your existence is a world of sorrows,
Before a slave, choose to die.
And the notes of this magnificent hymn, that hymn common to the
oppressed in this world, that same hymn which condemns the bitter
martyrdom of the outcasts, and their holy need for redemption, that
hymn, being, at the same time, a complaint, protest, threat, spreading
to the four winds, as an invitation made for the dignified and the
honorable.
The next day, Mexicoâs proletarians celebrate the success of the Social
Revolution. The burgess system has died.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 209, dated October 23^(rd) 1915.)
It is eleven thirty on a winter night in Valle de MĂ©xico, when appears,
in one unexpected moment, a wonderful miracle, as the stars fall in
showers of diamonds.
The district of the capitol sleeps just the same as their inhabitants,
working people who spend hours of the Mexican days in the shadows of the
shops and factories, adding to the wealth of the bourgeoisie, and the
splendid nights in the darkness of their homes, poor, very poor. There
is not even a transient in the suburb of Santiago Tlaltololco, with the
exception of the passing women, selling and crying with melancholic
voices, hiding sadness, bitterness, the torments of a martyrdom of their
race: âBooooooiled duuuuuuuck, tortillas with chiliiiiiiii.â
It is the cold; the flickering of lanterns on the street corners,
âtecolatesâ; a man knocks softly at a dirty door of one of the
outbuildings of the Puente de Tres Guerras; the door opens as a big
mouth yawning in the dark, and the odor of poverty comes out from
within; the man comes in with assuredness and the door closes behind
him.
That outbuilding is the home of Melquiades, weaving worker, where twenty
others work together. As the newcomer enters, all approach him to shake
his hand. How long he has taken! They were desperate; some had already
left for their homes. The newcomer explains the best he can the reason
for his delay: he had to leave town to take care of important business
for the worker syndicate, of which he is an organizer. In a corner, two
workers are squatting and speaking in soft voices.
âI can bet, brother, that that one has been in the whorehouse and now he
comes to tell us he has been out taking care of syndicate business. He
dresses fine, eats better, he doesnât collapse like we do, because he
makes his good old salary, as an organizer. That one is already
emancipated. Why does he worry about us anyway? Do you think he is
concerned with how the worker feels? He knew important businesses were
to be dealt with here for the benefit of the working class; however, he
comes late. He sure is not in a hurry so we can be emancipated, because
if we did the union would go to hell for being unnecessary! The
officials would have to work to live, just as any mortal will have to do
when we are able to overthrow the system that crushes us.â
âYour are right, brother,â says the other. âThe union or syndicate
official feels that as a member of the bourgeoisie and, due to that
reason, he is interested in delaying our emancipation.â
Everybody talks at the same time, excited as the organization arrives.
Time flies, it is important that this issue be taken care of at once.
Melquiades raises his right arm, signaling that he wants to say
something. There is silence. Melquiades tightens his voice, spits and
speaks in a tone that reflects the honesty of a noble proletarian heart.
Comrades, as we explained in the circular sent to all members of âGrupo
Humanidad Conciente,â this meeting has only one objective: to determine
what attitudes we should assume as workers, before the lack of
fulfillment of promises, due to us by the Constitutionalist Party, when
that party aspires to power, and wants our supports. This support was
given, as many hard workers shed their blood at the battlefront for the
constitutional flag, and many more went to vote in favor of Carranza.
Well, comrades, it has been awhile since we have had a Carranzista
government, and everything is just the same than before the Revolution,
or should I say, everything is even worse than before because now the
worker has to carry on his shoulders not only the old debt, but the new
one, as well, owed to the bankers of the United States to consolidate
the government of Carranza. That is without counting the hundreds of
millions of pesos that we are paying as indemnities for the national
bourgeoisie and foreigners who have suffered prejudices during the
Revolution. Suffering poverty is extreme; tyranny is even worse than the
time of the hateful Porifirio Diaz. Speaking about the workers from
Grupo âHumanidad Conciente,â what is needed is to join the beautiful
movement of the ones who didnât abandon arms when Venustiano Carranza
took power, and to shout, âCountry and Freedom!â Yes, comrades, letâs
adopt the beginnings of the Liberal Mexican Party and make our own
Manifesto, dated September 23, 1911. To tyranny, we respond; to tyranny
we respond with barricade, to hunger with expropriation! Letâs rebel!â
The boldness causes the afraid ones to tremble; others, due to the
excitement so related to violence, as the only recourse to effect a
right, respond to ideas and desires, kept in secret; however, no one
materializes with a âyesâ or a âno,â approving or disapproving. The
âowlâ (watchman) from the corner blows a whistle to alert, and that
whistle others follow, until all the owls from the neighborhood and all
his friends form the city follow. The dog from next door, where there is
a wake, howls mournfully; a chestnut dealer, covered up to his eyes,
yells so loud that his voice denounces liquor. Even though our brothers
do not notice, the stars wink to our mother Earth, twinkling
persistently.
The organizer, pale, convulsive, doesnât know if it is fear of losing
his privileged position of his devotion to drinking and orgies, or has
exclaimed, âHa, what do I hear? Really I thought you were more sensible,
Melquiades. Violence has never given anything more than blood, tears,
pain, and death. I could bet you have been reading a damn newspaper
named âRegeneracion,â written by renegades, tricksters, traitors to the
country, exploits, scoundrels, and cannibals, getting fat at the expense
of the imbeciles who fill their pockets with gold, cowards who do not
have the guts to come here and publish an anarchist newspaper or to get
into any of those groups of thieves, who assure, without proving, that
they follow their principles. Who knows them here?
Nobody.
A noise, as the one produced from a paper stubbing the floor, makes at
least one hundred eyes turn toward the door. There is a paper on the
floor, a paper appearing at the scene to represent itself. One person
from the rally takes the paper in his hands. âItâs âRegeneracionâ!â The
hated paper from all deceitful; the dreadful paper from all the tyrants.
The lofty publications that is, at the same time, incentive for the
good, poison for the bad. An abnegated hand slid the paper under the
door. On the front page there is a picture of Nicolas Riveles, the
accredited artist, modest, talented, straight in his conceptions, as he
does not deviate from the anarchist ideal. The paper goes from one to
the next, admiring all of the inspiration from Riveles. The organizer
grabs the incendiary paper from one of the workers, and looking up to
the ceiling, seeing a few spiders as if they were curious as to his
exclamation, pale as ever, exclaims, âThere is always propagandists for
worse causes! The presence of this paper reveals the fact that there is
a Magonist element in the city, that works in exchange for the gold
received from Los Angeles. Do you want to believe it now? Those men are
very rich, and proof is the fact that some miserable people distribute
the despicable paper for a few cents. Comrades, not violence! We can get
everything within the law, in a peaceful way. When we have three million
workers in the union, then we can adopt stronger resolutions. Besides,
our working class is not ready enough to take advantage; the reforms our
Government works so hard to implement are not even ready. Much more,
comrades, the attitude of those armed ruffians are not giving the
Government the opportunity to realize the reforms it has offered. I
invite you to organize a public rally, running in all of the principle
streets form our city, asking, in a peaceful and orderly way, a fast
resolution to all those offered reforms form the constitutional
movement. By doing this, we can show the whole world that Mexican
workers are cultured.â
All, with the exception of Melquiades, and from bath workers hands,
squatted, gossiped, and applauded, making the organizers mad.
Insurrection, as a way to take from the hands of the tyrants of the
town, their bread, freedom, lost at least for the moment.
Peaceful feelings, peaceful ideas, predominant to the ambient, reflected
just yesterday, by revelry and protest. It is the flow and rising of the
Revolution; it is the momentary retrieve of the revolutionary wave, to
return, a bit later, enervating, magnificent, to give another blow to
the rock, until succeeding to demolish it.
Melquiades, angry, fixes his belt, as it was dragging down his heels;
turns around to see everyone with disdain, a look corresponding to the
idea he felt about those men, and what it could translate to (borregos),
or stupid! He spits on the floor with anger, and pulling the lock of
hair from his forehead, âI have only known a caliber of men who hate
Regeneracion, and those are scoundrels. All who struggle with lack of
interest for the human emancipation, love Regeneracion. The members from
the Mexican Liberal Party are not Magonists; we are anarchists.
All of them argue in loud voices, and time flies, flies. It is six
oâclock in the morning. The call of âje-llo!,â given by a passing man,
startles the men. Itâs too much, we have to end this meeting. Anyway,
everything is taken care of; instead of revenge and a redeeming
barricade, the protest seemed a procession in the streets. Everybody
leaves except Melquiades, and the two workers, who were gossiping,
squatting in the corner. The three anarchists look at each other with
sadness, move their heads left and right, and again, while an idea goes
to their minds: this is the worst weight, that the most advanced workers
are condemned to drag, and how much delays our victory for the Ideal.
As it was approved, the demonstration takes place. Since nine oâclock,
it has been walking through street after street. There havenât been
major incidents. All has been mocking looks to the demonstrators, and
stares from the bourgeoisie from their stores, banks, and casinos, looks
that without doubt wanted to say, âpoor devils! We can keep on cutting
their dough for a while: letâs live in peace!â
Itâs twelve noon; the sun shines in all splendor; it is a privilege for
a Mexican sky to be in gala, happy, smiley, amiable, in comparison to
other heavens, pale, opaque, speckles, sad as a heart hungry for love
and tenderness.
The procession is very long. The once in charge peeps from the corner.
Norte del Portal de Mercaderes, and still the tail cannot be seen from
the Glorieta de Cuauhtémoc. The multitude is a great river of people
marching toward an uncertain destiny. The sun, with its immense
kindness, plays with the colors of the banners; all in all it displays
happiness; but the expression of the workersâ faces, reveals the
contrary, as they are marching toward something good, they feel in the
depths of their hearts, they are not going to conquer life, but the
burial of their hope.
The procession marches at the front of the Cathedral, until it reaches
the door of Mariana del Palacio Federal, where the head of the march
turns right and continues in front of the Palace, where crime hides in
the guise of Government to expel expression and infamy. The head almost
reaches the corner of Flamencos Street and portal de las Flores, when a
few soldiers of the Cavalry stop in front of the procession,
intercepting them. The ones behind step against the ones on fronts as if
stopping the march. A deaf murmur of admiration and surprise exalts from
that human serpent. What happened? Whatâs the meaning of this?
Excitement travels to the heights and assumptions multiply as larvae in
mud. It is that Venustiano Carranza has invited the union officials to
talk with him and concede everything they request. General favor reaches
this assumption. However, let us see what is happening at the head of
procession.
The soldiersâ official asks the ones at the front who gave permission to
organize this march. The ones who are listening get alarmed. What, isnât
it true the Revolution has succeeded and with it the political freedom
for all citizens? Why did they need permission if they are exercising a
right backed by the Constitution?
There are no reasons; the official orders to disperse the march; some
protest, detesting the tyranny; the sack of clothes from Palacio
NaciĂłnal set on fire, clouding with smoke, and the noise of firing over
the multitude of workers. The firing happens rapidly, as if there was a
hurry to kill, to finish with the producers of the social wealth, the
simple workers who did not have the strength to put barricades and die
as lions, and were part of a farce where they died as lambs.
The three-colored flag proudly floats attached to its mast, following
the massacre.
(From âRegeneraciĂłn,â number 211, dated November 6, 1915.)
âWhat do we do now,â the workers ask themselves, not without a certain
anxiety.
They have successfully taken the city in blood and fire. There does not
remain a single capitalist in it, nor a priest, nor a representative of
the government, except for those who hang from telephone posts or lay on
the ground, showing their fat dead bodies to the sun. These bold workers
understand that, if they allow a single one of these parasites to
escape, they will soon return in the shadows leading a troop of
mercenaries to stab them in the back.
âWhat do we do now,â and the anguished question is repeated by thousands
and thousands of convulsing lips. These men, who do not fear shrapnel
and who enthusiastically salute the roar of enemy canons that sends them
death in each ball, feel timid in presence of Life, which offers them
abundance, beauty, goodness, and sweetness.
The men scratch their heads shyly and thoughtfully; the women nibble the
ends of their shawls; the kids, innocently free from the preoccupations
of their elders, take advantage of the absence of policemen who usually
are always around, and invade fruit stores. For the first time in their
lives, they satisfy their puerile appetites until their bellies are
full.
Before this spectacle, the multitude stirs: it was children who, with
their sincerity, were educating their elders about what must be done. It
is more natural for children to work like this, because their
intelligence is corrupted by neither the preoccupations nor the
prejudices which shackle the minds of adults. They do the right thing:
they take it from where they find it. The multitude moves about, its
undulation mimicking a sea of palm fronds. Our father the sun kisses the
rags of these dignified people, generously allowing them a portion of
its life, of its gold, of its beauty, and those clothes shine like the
cheerful flags of victory.
In the middle of this sea, the most virile man surges forward, like a
modest boat sailing proudly towards life. It is Gumersindo, the austere
peasant farmer who had just been seen in the most dangerous places
holding aloft his scythe, simultaneously the harvester of the heads of
evildoers, and the symbol of fecund and noble work. Gumersindo loosens
the peasant blanket that covers him. The multitude quiets down. The
breathing of a child can be heard. Emotionally, Gumersindo says:
âThe children grant us an example. Let us imitate them. The
indispensable thing is to eat; that is our primary task. Let us take
from the shops and the grocery stores what we need to satiate our
appetites. Comrades: for the first time in our lives, we may eat as we
like.â
In an opening and closing of eyes, the multitude invades shops and
grocery stores, taking whatever they need. In other sections of the
city, the same thing occurs. For the first time in the history of the
population, there is not a single human being who does not satisfy the
necessities of his stomach. A great happiness reigns in all the city.
The houses are vacant: everyone is on the street. Bands improvising
music roam the streets playing joyous tunes. Everyone salutes each
other, calling each other brother and sister. Even though they did not
know each other a few hours earlier, they dance in the middle of the
street, sing to each other, laugh, cry out, joke about fraternally, and
frolic to the four winds: The tyrannical regulations of the police have
ceased!
Night comes. No one thinks about sleeping. The celebration of Liberty
continues, with more joy than can be contained. The municipal service
was disbanded when the principle of Authority disappeared. In its place,
men and women of good will take care of public lighting. They empty the
streets of dead bodies. Everything goes cheerfully, needing neither
government orders nor district regulations. Already a new day is
dawning, and the celebration, the great celebration of liberty, does not
show any signs that it will end soon, and why should it? The death of
centuries of oppression deserves to be celebrated, not with a few hours
of abandon, not with one day, but rather until the body, exhausted by
the debauchment of pleasure, reclaims slumber.
While the entire population is abandoned to pleasures, pleasures they
have always dreamed of, the comrades, both men and women, of the group
âThe Equalsâ work day and night.
The noble builders of the new social order barely sleep. They are dirty,
unshaven, and swollen from continuously watching over the population all
night. Nevertheless, they are still active, enthusiastic, and valiant.
Upon their shoulders rests the gigantic task of constructing on top of
the debris of a past of slavery and infamy. They avail themselves of the
meeting hall of the extinct Municipal Government to hold their sessions.
The peasant railway man Ramon speaks enthusiastically. He has barely
slept during the five days since the city was taken by proletarian
forces. He is radiant. His square, bronzed face, in which one can read
frankness, resolution, boldness, and sincerity, gleams as if behind his
dark skin, a sun is blazing. He sweats; his eyes shining intensely, he
says:
âFinally, the people are enjoying themselves; finally, they avenge
thousands of years of sadness; finally, they know the pleasures of life.
Let us rejoice in this blessing, like the father finds recreation seeing
his children play. Our brothers and sisters enjoy until they are
exhausted from pleasure. Meanwhile, we work: we finish the plans for
social reconstruction.â
The joyous notes of a waltz arise from the street, making all the faces
turn toward the windows. The waltz ends, followed by an explosion of
cries, whistles, hearty laughter, all sorts of sounds produced by
striking all kinds of objects against each other.
âThe people are enjoying themselves,â says Ramon. âWe are working.â
And the men and the women of the group âThe Equalsâ continue their
labors.
Ten days have passed since the proletarian forces took the city. The
entire population rests, fatigued by the week of pleasure during the
celebration of Liberty. Numerous groups of proletarians assemble in the
plazas asking each other what would be the right thing to do now. The
comrades of the group âThe Equalsâ have completed their plans for social
reconstruction. They have affixed announcements to the street corners,
inviting the residents of various city neighborhoods to congregate in
specific sites in each neighborhood to discuss affairs of common
interest. Everyone responds to the call, because they are all yearning
to do something. For many, the future is uncertain. For others the
horizon is limited. There even some who believe that the skies will soon
discharge its anger against the men who executed the priests. The terror
of the ignorant is widespread. The anxious crowd begins to murmur.
The comrades of the group âThe Equalsâ distribute themselves in the
various city neighborhoods. In plain language, they explain the
excellence of communist anarchist to the people The people crowd around.
They do not want words: they want deeds. They are right: they have been
deceived too much! But no: this time no one is trying to deceive them.
The orators lecture with all clarity about where they should go next,
without delay, on the march of progress. The first thing they must do is
investigate, with the greatest possible exactitude, the number of
residents in the city. They must make a thorough inventory of the food
and clothing in all the shops and department stores. With this
information, they must calculate how long they will be able to feed and
clothe the population with the assets they have on hand.
The problem of the adequate shelter still remains. It was partially
resolved during the days of the Festival of Liberty. On their own
initiative, some residents of the city housed themselves in the
dwellings of the bourgeoisie and other parasites, who have finally
disappeared forever. However, many families still remain living in tiny
neighborhood rooms and shacks. On hearing this, the masons leap forward,
saying that they will make as many cozy, lovely houses as would be
necessary. Without needing anyone to order them around, they themselves
organize commissions to investigate precisely how many houses must be
built to lodge those who are still living in tiny rooms and shacks.
The murmuring ends: fears and suspicions dissipate from the gathered
crowd. No; âThis is serious,â they say and confidence is reborn in their
hearts, that, like a amiable fire, frees up the enthusiasm that is so
necessary in all human enterprise. More than enough men of good will
volunteer to perform the census of the population and to take
inventories of all the articles in the shops. It is necessary to take
inventory not just of the food and of the clothing, but of all items
useful in domestic and industrial settings.
The applauses repeat again and again, not so much to praise the merit of
the volunteers, but to express the joviality of their spirits. These
simple people understand that the fulfillment of duty does not need to
be rewarded. The sea of palm hats stirs cheerfully under the rays of an
amiable sun. The women display their satisfaction, cleaning the clothing
taken from the shops. For the time being, the kids suspend their
frolicking, because they all have furious bellyaches from stuffing
themselves so fully. Convoys of parrots fly joyfully above the crowd,
leaving an impression of openness, of freshness of health, of
youthfulness, of spring. All dawns are beautiful, why shouldnât this
dawn of Liberty and Justice be beautiful as well?
The conclusion of yesterdayâs meetings were postponed until today at two
in the afternoon. The volunteer commissioners are all present. Not one
is missing. All carry exact data about the number of residents in the
city, as well as the existence of food and the other articles contained
within the shops and grocery stores.
The day is splendid, one of the last days in April, when all is light,
perfume, color, youth, love. In all the gardens, now tended by female
volunteers, the flowers show their petals of silk, their exquisite,
smooth, warm, humid vegetable lips that invite caresses and kisses.
In the same sites of yesterdayâs meetings, people speak animatedly. âHow
well and how quickly everything comes together when Authority does not
intervene,â they say in their conversations. Their hearts palpitate
violently. Gumersindo does not take a moment of rest for himself. He
roams all the neighborhoods in an expropriated automobile, now property
of the community. Its usage is now absolutely necessary, because it
unifies the resolutions made in each city neighborhood. He does not
abandon his scythe, tying it to the hood of the automobile, giving
prestige and luster to a machine that yesterday was merely aristocratic.
The blanket that covers the shoulder of this rural peasant guarantees
his modesty and concern.
Now they know how many residents there were in the city as well as the
quantity of all kinds of manufactured goods. Despite their inability to
find a mathematician on hand, they rapidly calculate how much longer
they can continue to live off the provisions, a necessary calculation
for regulating production. Hundreds of working hands plot the figures
with expropriated pencils.
In a few minutes, these men of the hammer, of the shovel, of the saw,
and of the chisel explain that this quantity of food is needed to
provide daily subsistence for that many residents. They say that,
because this quantity of foodstuff has been found, the entire population
can subsist for that length of time.
Everyone is satisfied. âMy goodness, this is going wellâ they say. Not a
single complaint can be heard. âTruthfully, one needs only anarchists to
arrange things,â they add. Cries of âLong live Anarchyâ thunder
throughout the space, in well-justified ovations that finally accept the
sacred ideal. Ramon, the peasant railway man, cries with emotion and
shakes a red bound booklet above him, saying in a voice broken with
sobs:
âThis is our masterpiece!â
It is the Manifesto of September 23, 1911, issued by the Organizing
Council of the Mexican Liberal Party.
Ramon is magnificent. Like all heroes, his square face, which looks like
it has been hewn by ax blows in the strongest wood, radiates light.
However, a hero is not a god, because anarchists do not have gods.
Rather, it is a being who, through his actions, elevates himself above
us as an example, as a great and beneficial teaching. Whether or not one
wants to admit it, he shines like a sun.
Ramon explains that, considering the quantity of supplies, all the
workers in the each industry must assemble to agree upon how work will
be organized in their industry. Once they obtain this agreement,
delegates from all the industries must also come to an accord on how to
produce what the population needs. All approve of the idea, and
Gumersindo lets all the assemblies in the different city neighborhoods
know of this agreement. They all receive this idea with grand gestures
of enthusiasm. An era of prosperity and progress is opening up before
the redeemed city. From now on, the production will be adjusted to the
needs of the population rather than to enrich some bandits.
Volunteers from the many trades have completed the construction of vast
galleries in various locations in each of the neighborhoods which divide
the city. Other volunteers have carried to these galleries all the items
that always are found in great quantity in the shops, stores, and other
warehouses. These articles are classified carefully. They have been
distributed in the storehouses made expressly for containing them, where
people who need them can go take them. In these galleries will be
deposited all the articles that the many industries produce.
The comrades of the group âThe Equalsâ do not rest. What an enormous
task they have! What colossal responsibilities will flatten them if the
new order comes to nothing. However, they work with great faith in its
success, the intense faith that is born from a profound conviction.
Nevertheless, some details preoccupy them. The city can not get beyond a
certain point without the aid of the farm workers. The peasant farmers
must give the city worker what they need to eat, as well as the primary
materials for industry such as cotton, wool, wood, cactus leaves, and
many other things. In exchange, the peasant farmers will have the right
to take from the cityâs storehouses everything they need: clothing,
prepared or manufactured food, furniture, machinery, and utensils for
work. In a word, everything they need. The metallurgic industries need
the miners to cooperate with metals. In exchange, they obtain all that
they need, like their brothers the peasant farmers.
âYes!â Ramon cries enthusiastically, âwe need the cooperation of the
peasant farmer, of the miner, of the quarrymen, of all who work outside
the city, and we have obtained it!â
A cloud of volunteer commissioners scatter to the region conquered by
the workersâ firearms. They invite their brothers to cooperate in the
great work of social production, as has been said before. All accept
with enthusiasm, and promise to send what they produce to the city, in
exchange for what the city workers produce.
The anarchist society is finally a reality. Everyone works, everyone
produces according to his strengths and aptitudes and consumes according
to his needs. The old and the invalid do not work. All live contentedly,
because they all feel free. No one orders and no one obeys. In all
fields of work, the greatest harmony reigns between everyone, without
needing taskmasters or bosses. There is very great traffic on
streetcars, on railroads, on automobiles, and on carts, because now
everyone has the right to transport himself from one place to another
according to his whim.
Some five or six days is all it has taken to obtain such a cheerful
result. Finally, humanity has been regenerated through the adoption of
the principles of communist anarchist. One can not even understand the
depth of feeling in Gumersindo and Ramon when they emotionally
contemplate the beautiful work in which they played such a large part.
From the nearby hill, on the route to the city, they look with eyes
dampened by emotion upon the tranquil city, the peaceful city, the city
of brothers and sisters. The murmur of the immense metropolis breathing
comes to them. It is no longer the breathing of fatigue nor the death
rattle of an agonized population of slaves, but the ample, profound,
healthy breathing of a city of free and happy beings.