The word of the oldest of the old of our peoples didn't stop. It spoke the truth, saying that our feet couldn't walk alone, that our history of pain and shame was repeated and multiplied in the flesh and blood of the brothers and sisters of other lands and skies.
In addition to being extremely expensive, and we have to put up with the stupidities that the candidates repeat, it's really being decided elsewhere who will sit in the presidential seat.
We came to know each other in war, and in war we continue.
In the end, the women can be very rebellious, and very capable and all of that, but if she depends on a man economically, she has few possibilities.
In that first blow to the deaf walls of those who have everything, the blood of our people, our blood, ran generously to wash away injustice. To live, we die. Our dead once again walked the way of truth. Our hope was fertilized with mud and blood.
We are nothing if we walk alone; we are everything when we walk together in step with other dignified feet.
In reality, the pioneers of this transformation of the indigenous Zapatista woman are a merit of the women insurgents.
Always, since our birth, we've insisted on another way of doing politics. Now, we had the chance to do it without arms, but without stopping being Zapatistas; that's why we keep the masks on.
Our war cries opened the deaf ears of the almighty government and its accomplices.
We think, fundamentally, that the future story of Latin America, not only of Mexico but for all of Latin America, will be constructed from the bottom - that the rest of what's happening, in any case, are steps.
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