He copiado esta información del New York Times de hoy, 13 de agosto del 2000.
Pido disculpa a todos nuestros foristas que no dominan el inglés, para quienes traduciré el artículo tan pronto como sea posible.
Oremos para que la guerra contra nuestros hermanos chamulas cesen. Estuve ahí hace 25 años y desde entonces me enteré personalmente de sus sufrimientos.
*************************8
In a Warring Mexican Town, God's Will Is the Issue
By GINGER THOMPSON
J. Jimenez for The New York Times
Evangelical Christians at prayer in the Prince of Peace Temple, their new church in Chiapas State in Mexico.
---------------------------------------------
SAN JUAN CHAMULA, Mexico -- This rugged part of Chiapas State has been the eye of a human storm that has raged on much longer than the better-known struggle surrounding the Zapatista rebels who have been fighting Mexican authorities for six years.
It has been ground zero in Mexico's lingering conflict between Catholics and evangelical Christians. The battles -- often pitting Indians determined to preserve traditional customs against those who want change -- have blazed on for 30 years, dividing fathers from their sons, turning violent, and leaving hundreds dead and at least 30,000 displaced in Chiapas alone.
But that may be changing. Nestled in a field turned green with young cabbage and corn is an extraordinary monument of determination -- perhaps even tolerance -- signaling what could be a beginning to the end of those religious tensions.
The building is little more than a shell, with unfinished concrete walls, a flat roof and gaping holes where there will one day be windows. When completed, however, it will be the area's first evangelical church.
The church, the Prince of Peace Temple, is being built with donations that have trickled in from evangelical groups across the country. And although the drab, gray hull will not be completed until sometime next year, it is already a house of worship.
On Sunday mornings, its bare sanctuary -- furnished only with handmade benches and a folding table for an altar -- fills with color and life that is at once exotic, yet familiar. As the worshipers arrive, they are greeted by music from an electric keyboard that sounds like it might introduce an American hymn, until the soloist begins singing in Tzozil, the language of the Chamulans.
Men with creased faces gather on one side. And as the songs intensify, they fall to their knees and shout "Glory to God." Women sitting on the other side rise and dance through the aisles with tambourines.
"We are going to heaven with Jesus," they rejoice in their songs. "So powerful is our God."
The scene of joyful celebration belies the dangers that have loomed around the church, where God's work sets off local wars. In recent years, armed paramilitary groups whose members loosely call themselves Protestants have terrorized Catholic villages at the northern edge of the state. It is a reversal of the historical trends that have more often forced the evangelicals out of their homes and off their land.
Two months ago, say officials of the National Commission of Human Rights, 98 Chamulan evangelicals were forcibly expelled from a village less than a mile away from the Prince of Peace Temple by Catholics who burned houses and threatened children who tried to attend the local school.
It is a vicious phenomenon that has existed across Latin America since the 1960's, when waves of fundamentalist evangelicals began to win large numbers of converts from Catholic flocks, numbers that continue to grow even today.
There are religious refugees among the Huichols in Jalisco and the Zapotecs in Oaxaca, said Arturo Farela Gutiérrez of the National Fraternity of Evangelical Christian Churches. But the greatest numbers are in Chiapas, a state where 70 percent of the residents are indigenous people and where religions exist in greater variety than just about anywhere else in the country.
Almost half of those fleeing religious persecution in Chiapas are evangelicals from San Juan Chamula. The municipality of 40,000 people is known for its fierce devotion to its religion, a bizarre mix of Catholicism and pre-Hispanic beliefs.
"For us it was important to build a church in Chamula because that is where most of the blood has been spilled," Mr. Farela said. "For us, the Prince of Peace Temple is the most important new church in the country."
The tide of evangelicals, however, has begun to turn. In 1996, more than 2,000 evangelical exiles returned to San Juan Chamula in a huge human caravan and began work on the new church. Most of those expelled in June have also returned, thanks to government negotiated peace treaties, human rights officials said,
"For us, this has been a great struggle," said Marcelino Cruz Patishtan, the 25-year-old pastor at Prince of Peace.
"We had to return," he said. "We decided to do it, no matter what. God gave us this life, and we believe that he will protect us."
One of those who returned, Manuel Pérez Gómez, said his house had been fired on nine times in the last five years. The walls, he said, are still pocked with bullet holes -- 75 of them.
He has not been wounded, nor have his wife and eight children, but there are psychological scars, he said. And they seem to open when Mr. Pérez talks.
"I know I need to go out to my fields because we need food," said Mr. Pérez, who farms corn. "But I am afraid. What if there is another shooting? Who will pay for my life? My wife and children will be crying. Who will take care of them?"
As for the Catholics, they seem to have begun a grudging acceptance of the growing evangelical congregation in their midst.
"It is true that we used to expel them," said Mario Hernández Jiménez, 58, a Catholic leader and elementary school teacher. "But not anymore. We give them total liberty -- and they still provoke problems by going to human rights groups and saying bad things against us."
Catholics worship in a church in the main plaza of San Juan Chamula, across the highway from the evangelical communities. Theirs is a plain, rustic structure whose height and fresh white paint make it stand out amid the squalor of the landscape.
Little is recognizable about the Catholicism practiced there. There are no pews, and the air is hazy and pungent with incense. Worshipers kneel on a carpet of pine needles. They stand candles on the floor in front of them, as if it were one big birthday cake, and light them as they pray. And they drink a clear homemade corn liquor called posh from used Coca-Cola and Pepsi bottles.
Some stay all day, their prayers turning into drunken murmurs.
It was the drinking that turned many Catholics into evangelicals. Agustín Hernández Santis, a deacon at the Prince of Peace Temple, said he lost six sons to illnesses related to alcoholism. When his last son turned a year old, he said, he stopped drinking posh and joined the evangelicals.
Mr. Cruz, the pastor, said of the Catholics: "They have roosters for sacrifices to try to cure the sick. And they drink a lot."
"Even the people who are happy without drinking begin to drink," he said. "There is a lot of suffering from this. They begin to beat their children, and they begin to beat their wives."
"But if you do not do what they do," he added, "they make you an enemy."
Years ago, the Chamulan Catholics expelled priests from the Roman Catholic Diocese of San Cristóbal de las Casas because the diocese tried to push the Chamulans to stop their drinking and idolatry.
A priest from the Diocese of Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the state capital, now visits to say Mass and to baptize babies every other Sunday. But the church is mostly run by leaders, called "mayordomos," who are appointed by the village president.
As one of the mayordomos, Mr. Hernández, the teacher, was assigned to take care of San Juan Chamula's "Baby Jesus," a plastic doll that represents the son of God. At Christmas, he will head the Baby Jesus' birthday celebration.
On a recent Sunday, Mr. Hernández led a procession of about 10 deputies and their wives -- some Chamulan Catholics have two wives -- to the front of the church carrying a cup of burning incense. After they prayed, the procession wound through the streets to Mr. Hernández's house.
There, Mr. Hernández, wearing a heavy black wool poncho and a crown woven from dried leaves, sat at the edge of the porch, looking like a king watching over his subjects.
Before him, his deputies opened three wooden trunks containing dozens of satiny baby gowns and blankets. Carefully, the men ironed each gown. They were for the Baby Jesus to wear for different ceremonies.
"Just like you need new clothes each time you go to a party," Mr. Hernández said, "so does the Baby Jesus."
After the work was done, the drinking would begin.
"Each one of them will toast," Mr. Hernández said, pointing to several Pepsi bottles filled with posh. "They will toast to show respect and as a sign of appreciation for their service to me."
But the drinking was not mandatory, he added. "He who wants to drink, drinks. He who does not, does not."
Pido disculpa a todos nuestros foristas que no dominan el inglés, para quienes traduciré el artículo tan pronto como sea posible.
Oremos para que la guerra contra nuestros hermanos chamulas cesen. Estuve ahí hace 25 años y desde entonces me enteré personalmente de sus sufrimientos.
*************************8
In a Warring Mexican Town, God's Will Is the Issue
By GINGER THOMPSON
J. Jimenez for The New York Times
Evangelical Christians at prayer in the Prince of Peace Temple, their new church in Chiapas State in Mexico.
---------------------------------------------
SAN JUAN CHAMULA, Mexico -- This rugged part of Chiapas State has been the eye of a human storm that has raged on much longer than the better-known struggle surrounding the Zapatista rebels who have been fighting Mexican authorities for six years.
It has been ground zero in Mexico's lingering conflict between Catholics and evangelical Christians. The battles -- often pitting Indians determined to preserve traditional customs against those who want change -- have blazed on for 30 years, dividing fathers from their sons, turning violent, and leaving hundreds dead and at least 30,000 displaced in Chiapas alone.
But that may be changing. Nestled in a field turned green with young cabbage and corn is an extraordinary monument of determination -- perhaps even tolerance -- signaling what could be a beginning to the end of those religious tensions.
The building is little more than a shell, with unfinished concrete walls, a flat roof and gaping holes where there will one day be windows. When completed, however, it will be the area's first evangelical church.
The church, the Prince of Peace Temple, is being built with donations that have trickled in from evangelical groups across the country. And although the drab, gray hull will not be completed until sometime next year, it is already a house of worship.
On Sunday mornings, its bare sanctuary -- furnished only with handmade benches and a folding table for an altar -- fills with color and life that is at once exotic, yet familiar. As the worshipers arrive, they are greeted by music from an electric keyboard that sounds like it might introduce an American hymn, until the soloist begins singing in Tzozil, the language of the Chamulans.
Men with creased faces gather on one side. And as the songs intensify, they fall to their knees and shout "Glory to God." Women sitting on the other side rise and dance through the aisles with tambourines.
"We are going to heaven with Jesus," they rejoice in their songs. "So powerful is our God."
The scene of joyful celebration belies the dangers that have loomed around the church, where God's work sets off local wars. In recent years, armed paramilitary groups whose members loosely call themselves Protestants have terrorized Catholic villages at the northern edge of the state. It is a reversal of the historical trends that have more often forced the evangelicals out of their homes and off their land.
Two months ago, say officials of the National Commission of Human Rights, 98 Chamulan evangelicals were forcibly expelled from a village less than a mile away from the Prince of Peace Temple by Catholics who burned houses and threatened children who tried to attend the local school.
It is a vicious phenomenon that has existed across Latin America since the 1960's, when waves of fundamentalist evangelicals began to win large numbers of converts from Catholic flocks, numbers that continue to grow even today.
There are religious refugees among the Huichols in Jalisco and the Zapotecs in Oaxaca, said Arturo Farela Gutiérrez of the National Fraternity of Evangelical Christian Churches. But the greatest numbers are in Chiapas, a state where 70 percent of the residents are indigenous people and where religions exist in greater variety than just about anywhere else in the country.
Almost half of those fleeing religious persecution in Chiapas are evangelicals from San Juan Chamula. The municipality of 40,000 people is known for its fierce devotion to its religion, a bizarre mix of Catholicism and pre-Hispanic beliefs.
"For us it was important to build a church in Chamula because that is where most of the blood has been spilled," Mr. Farela said. "For us, the Prince of Peace Temple is the most important new church in the country."
The tide of evangelicals, however, has begun to turn. In 1996, more than 2,000 evangelical exiles returned to San Juan Chamula in a huge human caravan and began work on the new church. Most of those expelled in June have also returned, thanks to government negotiated peace treaties, human rights officials said,
"For us, this has been a great struggle," said Marcelino Cruz Patishtan, the 25-year-old pastor at Prince of Peace.
"We had to return," he said. "We decided to do it, no matter what. God gave us this life, and we believe that he will protect us."
One of those who returned, Manuel Pérez Gómez, said his house had been fired on nine times in the last five years. The walls, he said, are still pocked with bullet holes -- 75 of them.
He has not been wounded, nor have his wife and eight children, but there are psychological scars, he said. And they seem to open when Mr. Pérez talks.
"I know I need to go out to my fields because we need food," said Mr. Pérez, who farms corn. "But I am afraid. What if there is another shooting? Who will pay for my life? My wife and children will be crying. Who will take care of them?"
As for the Catholics, they seem to have begun a grudging acceptance of the growing evangelical congregation in their midst.
"It is true that we used to expel them," said Mario Hernández Jiménez, 58, a Catholic leader and elementary school teacher. "But not anymore. We give them total liberty -- and they still provoke problems by going to human rights groups and saying bad things against us."
Catholics worship in a church in the main plaza of San Juan Chamula, across the highway from the evangelical communities. Theirs is a plain, rustic structure whose height and fresh white paint make it stand out amid the squalor of the landscape.
Little is recognizable about the Catholicism practiced there. There are no pews, and the air is hazy and pungent with incense. Worshipers kneel on a carpet of pine needles. They stand candles on the floor in front of them, as if it were one big birthday cake, and light them as they pray. And they drink a clear homemade corn liquor called posh from used Coca-Cola and Pepsi bottles.
Some stay all day, their prayers turning into drunken murmurs.
It was the drinking that turned many Catholics into evangelicals. Agustín Hernández Santis, a deacon at the Prince of Peace Temple, said he lost six sons to illnesses related to alcoholism. When his last son turned a year old, he said, he stopped drinking posh and joined the evangelicals.
Mr. Cruz, the pastor, said of the Catholics: "They have roosters for sacrifices to try to cure the sick. And they drink a lot."
"Even the people who are happy without drinking begin to drink," he said. "There is a lot of suffering from this. They begin to beat their children, and they begin to beat their wives."
"But if you do not do what they do," he added, "they make you an enemy."
Years ago, the Chamulan Catholics expelled priests from the Roman Catholic Diocese of San Cristóbal de las Casas because the diocese tried to push the Chamulans to stop their drinking and idolatry.
A priest from the Diocese of Tuxtla Gutiérrez, the state capital, now visits to say Mass and to baptize babies every other Sunday. But the church is mostly run by leaders, called "mayordomos," who are appointed by the village president.
As one of the mayordomos, Mr. Hernández, the teacher, was assigned to take care of San Juan Chamula's "Baby Jesus," a plastic doll that represents the son of God. At Christmas, he will head the Baby Jesus' birthday celebration.
On a recent Sunday, Mr. Hernández led a procession of about 10 deputies and their wives -- some Chamulan Catholics have two wives -- to the front of the church carrying a cup of burning incense. After they prayed, the procession wound through the streets to Mr. Hernández's house.
There, Mr. Hernández, wearing a heavy black wool poncho and a crown woven from dried leaves, sat at the edge of the porch, looking like a king watching over his subjects.
Before him, his deputies opened three wooden trunks containing dozens of satiny baby gowns and blankets. Carefully, the men ironed each gown. They were for the Baby Jesus to wear for different ceremonies.
"Just like you need new clothes each time you go to a party," Mr. Hernández said, "so does the Baby Jesus."
After the work was done, the drinking would begin.
"Each one of them will toast," Mr. Hernández said, pointing to several Pepsi bottles filled with posh. "They will toast to show respect and as a sign of appreciation for their service to me."
But the drinking was not mandatory, he added. "He who wants to drink, drinks. He who does not, does not."
