A cracked dirt floor… walls of adobe… a tin roof… seats of boards on top of concrete blocks. It is Sunday – and this is church for the Christian people of El Puerto.
El Puerto is a small village about sixty kilometers (thirty-one miles) out of San Cristóbal de Las Casas, in Chiapas, Mexico. The last five kilometers is over a rough, bumpy road, which curves down a mountainside into a valley. No vehicles enter this road unless they are visiting, as we were. The villagers must walk in after a bus drops them off at the intersection with the highway, and many were doing so on this particular day. We did make room for one elderly man who was slowly making his way home. Crippled with arthritis and carrying a heavy pack, it would have taken him all day to reach his destination.
Nervous smiles trying to cover apprehension greeted us. It was a small group of about fifteen families. The last two years have been trying. They have so much to fear from those whom they already know. A year ago, neighbours joined forces and tore down the homes of these people because they weren’t Catholic. Piling wood, tin, and personal belongings onto a borrowed truck, townspeople drove the five kilometers to the top of the mountain and scattered the contents along the highway. Others remained behind to evict their neighbors from their midst because they had chosen another way. These outcasts made their way many kilometers to find refuge with brethren in a larger centre outside of San Cristóbal. Eighty people crammed into one house for several days while makeshift shacks were erected in a neighbouring yard. The name of this community still must be kept quiet because of retaliation. It all seems so senseless. Religions that espouse “peace” bring anything but.
At the service, as with other congregations, we sat near the front, women and children on one side, men on the other. As usual, we were asked to bring greetings, with the missionary being the translator. Then, the congregation would stand quietly in recognition as it was an honour that strangers would visit them. After the service, we would be fed a basic meal. We were particularly touched by this congregation. The seven of us who came in the missionary’s van, the pastor, and one other local official were the only ones who were fed because there was only one chicken available. We felt badly, but the people would have been hurt if we had refused to eat.
For six months, the refugees from El Puerto remained with their benefactors. The time was spent in negotiating with the government to allow them to return to their village. In the Chiapan Highlands, each village has a separate identity. This includes unique clothing and speech. One does not survive long outside his accustomed pattern of identification. Through negotiations, the group from El Puerto were allowed to return. Building supplies provided by the government were not nearly enough to replace their meager homes. The people returned anyway to the only life that they knew.
Their one source of income vanished some time ago when African bees destroyed the honey industry. Now, it is subsistence living. A portion of what they grow for food has to be sold for other staples. Corn for tortillas, beans, coffee, salt, and sugar are all manually carried into the village. Occasionally, water has to be rationed because conflict may arise preventing another faction from having access.
In Mexico as a whole, and in the Chiapan Highlands in particular, the people strongly adhere to pagan practices, even after their supposed “conversion”. For those still believing in pagan ways, it is a threat when someone in their midst professes anything different. They believe that disaster will strike unless all do, say, and believe in the same way. With this basic understanding in mind, we can only imagine the cost of individualism. This is only one of hundreds of such villages in Chiapas.
