packets. Chocolate powder. Powdered milk. Sugar, rice, beans, oil. I bought more than I needed – whatever I left behind would find use in the community.
I went back to the hotel room to pack and prepare.
The police and the army line was that they were trying to keep order in a lawless situation where guerrillas and paramilitaries were killing each other over land and drugs. Their theory of the murders was that their cops had been caught in the crossfire between guerrillas and paramilitaries. Or, rather, that one or the other group, it didn’t matter which, had killed the cops to try to drive cops away from their community and activities. That was the theory of the Seguridad Publica brass, both Saltillo and Beltran's, and probably silent Chavez thought that too but he wasn’t telling me.
Marchese, from the American Embassy, blamed the guerrillas. He was training the cops to keep order and he thought the guerrillas wanted to kill cops. That was what they did. They were rebels who were fighting a war with the government.
But neither of these theories explained: why these cops? Why Gonzalez and Diaz? Gonzalez’s gun’s irregularities, their scheduling, it all pointed to those two being targeted somehow. Either these rebels and paras were watching the police very closely, and planned the attack accordingly, or some police helped in the murders.
Raul’s theory was sounding more plausible. He said the army, police, and paramilitaries all worked together. They all wanted to destroy the rebellion, slowly and persistently, by making villagers into refugees, having massacres, and imprisoning people. Maybe Gonzalez and Diaz were paramilitaries, who the rebels had targeted for revenge for some reason, some strategic reason?
All the roads were leading to the rebels. But it still seemed like a stupid thing to do for rebels who were so good at publicity. Rebels who my friend was maybe working with. Rebels who would have to be delicately handled, if I was going to get them to talk to me.
I changed my shirt and went to see Evelyn. I bought her a cake on the way. The least I could do, for the woman who was going to lead me to Walter.
Her hair was down and still wet, and she was wearing a white blouse and a knee-length dark blue skirt. She brought me into the courtyard. There were two doors, two apartments it looked like, opening to it. It was small, with some flower beds and a shed, and a bicycle.
She pointed to the door on the right. “That one’s mine... but if you want to sit here a while, while there's still some light?”
“Sure.”
She went inside and brought back a tray with two cups, a bowl for sugar, spoons, a creamer cup, all metal, painted a blue I'd only seen here.
“Coffee?”
She set the tray down beside her and sat next to me on the steps, quite close, and looking right at me.
“I know your secret,” she said.
I didn't believe her. I had done enough interrogations to know this was a standard line of attack – give the suspect the impression that you already know what he did. But even if she knew Walter, even if my friend who had scrupulously kept his identity and even the fact that he was alive a secret from all of his loved ones had decided to tell this stranger everything about us, she couldn't know what I was doing here because Walter didn't. The game could lead somewhere, though, so I would play it out.
“What secret is that?”
“You know things human rights observers shouldn't know and you don't know things they should. You understand the military and police situation but not the politics. You speak Spanish fluently. But you ask questions that every Zapatista solidarity worker knows the answers to. You are making an 8-hour trip to one of the most dangerous occupied communities in the state, but you’re not planning to stay the full two weeks. You are obviously not a cop because Raul wouldn’t have allowed you to go with me. You would still be at your hotel, waiting to find out
I went back to the hotel room to pack and prepare.
The police and the army line was that they were trying to keep order in a lawless situation where guerrillas and paramilitaries were killing each other over land and drugs. Their theory of the murders was that their cops had been caught in the crossfire between guerrillas and paramilitaries. Or, rather, that one or the other group, it didn’t matter which, had killed the cops to try to drive cops away from their community and activities. That was the theory of the Seguridad Publica brass, both Saltillo and Beltran's, and probably silent Chavez thought that too but he wasn’t telling me.
Marchese, from the American Embassy, blamed the guerrillas. He was training the cops to keep order and he thought the guerrillas wanted to kill cops. That was what they did. They were rebels who were fighting a war with the government.
But neither of these theories explained: why these cops? Why Gonzalez and Diaz? Gonzalez’s gun’s irregularities, their scheduling, it all pointed to those two being targeted somehow. Either these rebels and paras were watching the police very closely, and planned the attack accordingly, or some police helped in the murders.
Raul’s theory was sounding more plausible. He said the army, police, and paramilitaries all worked together. They all wanted to destroy the rebellion, slowly and persistently, by making villagers into refugees, having massacres, and imprisoning people. Maybe Gonzalez and Diaz were paramilitaries, who the rebels had targeted for revenge for some reason, some strategic reason?
All the roads were leading to the rebels. But it still seemed like a stupid thing to do for rebels who were so good at publicity. Rebels who my friend was maybe working with. Rebels who would have to be delicately handled, if I was going to get them to talk to me.
I changed my shirt and went to see Evelyn. I bought her a cake on the way. The least I could do, for the woman who was going to lead me to Walter.
Her hair was down and still wet, and she was wearing a white blouse and a knee-length dark blue skirt. She brought me into the courtyard. There were two doors, two apartments it looked like, opening to it. It was small, with some flower beds and a shed, and a bicycle.
She pointed to the door on the right. “That one’s mine... but if you want to sit here a while, while there's still some light?”
“Sure.”
She went inside and brought back a tray with two cups, a bowl for sugar, spoons, a creamer cup, all metal, painted a blue I'd only seen here.
“Coffee?”
She set the tray down beside her and sat next to me on the steps, quite close, and looking right at me.
“I know your secret,” she said.
I didn't believe her. I had done enough interrogations to know this was a standard line of attack – give the suspect the impression that you already know what he did. But even if she knew Walter, even if my friend who had scrupulously kept his identity and even the fact that he was alive a secret from all of his loved ones had decided to tell this stranger everything about us, she couldn't know what I was doing here because Walter didn't. The game could lead somewhere, though, so I would play it out.
“What secret is that?”
“You know things human rights observers shouldn't know and you don't know things they should. You understand the military and police situation but not the politics. You speak Spanish fluently. But you ask questions that every Zapatista solidarity worker knows the answers to. You are making an 8-hour trip to one of the most dangerous occupied communities in the state, but you’re not planning to stay the full two weeks. You are obviously not a cop because Raul wouldn’t have allowed you to go with me. You would still be at your hotel, waiting to find out
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