The drizzle sprinkled like snowflakes in San Cristóbal de las Casas. The streets were empty, and the air was tense. Silence permeated the town like a gag order. A couple Chamula women sat on their heels behind their merchandise outside of the 450-year-old church. The black masked Zapatista miniatures stood next to chromatic indigenous dolls calling for my attention.
I paused and looked at the intricate carving on the façade of the Baroque-style church before I entered. As soon I walked into the church, I was taken aback by the unexpected darkness. I slowed down as my eyes tried to adjust to it, until I could see a statue of dark-skinned Jesus at the end of the church. Slowly, through a fog of smoke, I began to see the gold-gilded walls around me.
Close your eyes and listen………….
Mayan prayer floated in the darkness. The sorrow in her voice struck me like a thunderbolt. In the dim light I saw a bare-footed indigenous woman kneeling on the hay scattered thickly on the floor. In her arms was a tiny baby.
Can you hear what I am hearing now?
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