All this brought me back to my college days In New York City. At that time, segregation in the United States was still very strong, particularly in the Deep South. Even in Manhattan, it existed clandestinely. No Catholic women´s college had admitted black students until Mother Grace Damman, President of Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart, took the courageous step of allowing a black girl to enter as a freshman. Mamie Jenkins´ glorious contralto voice, her smile and her intelligence soon won all of us over. Her deep spirituality eventually led to her conversion as a Catholic and later on, to become a .Religious of the Sacred Heart. Our respect turned to love and the differences in the color of our skins were erased.

Other interracial friendships blossomed later on and I grew accustomed to treating people of other races as my equals.

Nazism underlined the inherent arrogance in the idea of a ¨superior¨ race, ignoring the Church`s teaching that we are all equal in the sight of God. Even way before Hitler, colonialism looked upon native populations as ¨backward¨ and England especially was bent on "civilizing" them, never of course taking the dreadful step of extinguishing them as a State policy, but nonetheless, unable to accept them as equals.

Spain, with its advanced and humane Laws of the Indies (Leyes de Indias), tried to give fair treatment to the indigenous populations in its far-flung colonies, but one thing was the law and another its application. The Virgin of Guadalupe united Indian and Spaniard in a beautiful and tender syncretism. With the mixture of races, all racism apparently disappeared.

I say apparently, because underneath the surface, racism does exist in my country. A certain snobbery exists based on tones of brown skin. Condescendingly, we admit the intellectual, or Benito Juarez, the Indian who reached the presidency of Mexico (How on earth could he have gotten there?) as an exception.

Ah, but the Conquest was incomplete in the South. The Dominican Friars labored mightily to gain souls but the few Spaniards who went there took over the rich lands of the Captaincy General of Guatemala, and in their avarice and ambition saw the inhabitants of these lands as cheap labor, if not very docile, at least capable of being forced to work. The fulminations of Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, the great protector of the Indians, went unheeded.

Today, Chiapas is the sad heir of this racial conceit. That we are all brethren in Christ has fallen into oblivion. "But these people are incapable of fending for themselves." "They don’t want to learn. They are stupid." "They can’t even speak Spanish." And what about us? Who but a handful are willing to pay attention to the great wealth of their diverse cultures and traditions?

I have just returned from an unforgettable experience which has begun to open my own eyes. Dear friends invited me to accompany them to sorely wounded Chiapas, the theatre of such inexplicable and dolorous confrontations.

When we arrived at San Cristobal de las Casas, we were briefed by one of the volunteers at the Fray Bartolomé de las Casas Center for Human Rights, run by Bishop Samuel Ruiz`s diocese. She related the latest events in the Tzotzil and Tzeltal regions where my friends were going as Volunteer Civilian Observers. (These are only two of the more than 40 different ethnic indigenous groups, each with their own language, to be found in Chiapas). They were to be sent to El Bosque, the scene, six months after the Acteal massacre, of a lesser but no less shocking blood bath unrivalled for its cruelty and horror. Their mission was to collect testimony from witnesses to violations of human rights. The Mexican Army has remained quiet, but small skirmishes between paramilitary groups and indigenous communities have maintained tension among the population. The paramilitaries, to my surprise, turned out to be Indians themselves who either were brought up on the great cattle ranches and plantations and armed and trained to turn against their own people, or else they originally had been members of Zapatista communities and starvation forced them to surrender in order to survive and accept the benefits which have been offered to them by the Mexican government. The result has been that families, which traditionally have been so close knit, have been pulled apart by this "war of low intensity". Those families and communities that do not capiltulate have been pursued, displaced, jailed, and when bullets haven’t killed them, hunger has. Why such stubborness? To risk one’s life for refusing to belong to a political party seems akin to madness. But here is where a whole history of ill treatment, exploitation, injustice and sheer racism carried out for centuries enters the picture. In the nineteen sixties, some say that as a result of stupidity, others say that it was malice on the part of the federal government, a large group of indigenous people left the cattle ranches, the coffee plantations and the estates to lose themselves in the Lacandonian jungle as an assertation of their dignity as human beings.

In what does this dignity consist? To be taken into account, to be considered and treated as the Mexican citizens that they are, to enjoy the same rights as any other citizen to acquire land, to receive fair wages (they were often paid with alcohol) and to be looked upon as persons and not just as cheap, almost slave laborers. Ever since "Rerum Novarum", Pope Leo XIII’s famous encyclical on social justice, the Catholic Church has given importance to the rights of workers and the obligations of their employers. In January, 1994, a man with a ski mask emerged from the jungle and electrified the whole country with a forceful denunciation of the unjust treatment of the indigenous communities, declaring that in view of the indifference to their demands, the only other course left was to wage war. The Bishops of Chiapas, and in particular, Bishop Samuel Ruiz, never have accepted violence as a means of obtaining justice, although they had to admit that they agreed with the raising of consciousness that Sub-Comandante Marcos achieved.

Later on, we made our way to Ocosingo, the largest diocese in Mexico, larger than several states. Dominican Friar Raymundo Tamayo, the parish priest, told us that thanks to the Civilian Brigades who volunteered to accompany the displaced members of indigenous communities to do their spring sowing (if they are accompanied, they won’t be molested) for the first time since the hostilities began, they were able to plant their corn. Now we must pray for rain so that the crops won’t fail, he said. We then attended a Mass in the Tzeltal language in his huge and unadorned church.

The Sisters of Charity were kind enough to invite me to spend a few days with them at their hospital in Altamirano, the last village on the edge of the Lacandonian jungle. The peace and joy that I felt there were a notable contrast to the tense and distrustful atmosphere outside. The government built a big Social Security hospital a block away, but it’s practically empty of patients, while San Carlos Hospital is crowded. Why?

First of all, the respect shown to all regardless of their ethnic groups, their political preferences or their religious creeds, and the warmth of the Sisters’ welcome, are an invitation to find Christ in this loving environment. The nuns greet everyone as "Brother" (hermano) or "Sister" (hermana) and this human warmth and respect is extended to the patient’s family who accompany him. The latter with great dignity pay for his (or her) treatment with work, helping with the cleaning, etc. and are allowed to remain nearby in a shelter that was built for them where they can sleep and be fed while they await their relative’s recovery. The Sisters explained to me that the indigenous communities are very similar to the early Christian communities, where personal welfare is secondary to the common good.

Secondly, the young indigenous people trained by the Sisters work in practically every area of the hospital, writing up case histories, taking temperatures and blood pressures, interpreting if the patient doesn´t speak Spanish, giving baths, using computers, in other words, helping in a thousand ways towards the efficiency of the hospital. The interest they show in their high school and technical studies, their quick understanding of nursing techniques, or to put it more simply, how intelligent they are, clearly refute the lie that they are dumb and ineducable. In the laboratory, there is a man in charge who speaks three indigenous languages besides Spanish. Ignorance should never be equated with stupidity.

Thirdly, the professional quality of the entire hospital is number one. Although modest in appearance, San Carlos can boast of excellent operating room, pediatric and diagnostic equipment, much of it donated by several countries and organizations.

I heard the rumor that some 200 paramilitaries from a group that calls itself MIRA were infiltrating the area around us. On the day that I reluctantly left, they had burst into the homes of three families, threatening them with death as they took over their homes and lands because their deeds were not in order. For 40 years now the indigenous communities have put in their petitions for land, but even after they have paid for it, to this day bureaucratic run-arounds are the only answer they receive. A favorite ploy is that their papers have been lost. One of the families sought help at the hospital and the Sisters had to sedate the mother to calm the terror that this infamous act had aroused in her.

A sweet contrast to all this was the newborn baby girl with distinct Mayan features that slept in my arms. I was amused to hear that one of the mothers named her daughter "Diana Leidi". The baby´s almond-shaped black eyes, the fold in her eyelids, and the blue "Mongolian spot"at the base of her spine similar to that of Chinese babies gave her a very Oriental aspect, a fact that the anthropologists who adhere to the Bering Strait theory of how America was originally populated, bring out. The brotherhood of the children of God is universal.

The soul of all this however, lies in a small room 11-1/2 X 13 square feet with a large window at one end that looks out upon the glorious spectable of mountains, forest and tilled land that puts Chiapas among the most beautiful states in Mexico. On one side, there is a large chimney with a statue of the Virgin Mary on the mantelpiece; in a corner a red vigil light announces Our Lord´s presence . In the center of this little room lies an enormous tree trunk from whose branches hang yellow orchids and all kinds of green leaves and on top of this, a small thatched Mayan hut inside of which reposes the Blessed Sacrament. What a perfect place for recollection, for meditation, for praising God and laying all fears, worries, hopes and longings at His feet! And most especially, for loving Him intensely. The motor of the hospital lies in this little chapel, the "raison d´etre" of the Sisters, nourishing the soul and giving strength to the body.

When will we learn to revere nature the way the Indians do? A Jesuit priest, Father Eugenio Maurer, who has spent more than 20 years among the indigenous peoples of Chiapas, arrived to bless "El Naranjo", an idyllic place near Altamirano where three fountainheads meet. We passed a large army encampment that watched us indifferently and the officer in charge of Immigration was too bored to bother us for our identity cards. Whole families accompanied us down to a makeshift altar glowing with candles and incense made from copal, an aromatic resin. Here they deposited bouquets of flowers which they were carrying. The priest blessed the waters and in a short sermon in both the Tzeltal and Spanish languages, he spoke of water as a source of life, and of Christ as "living water". A group of young people sang hymns in Tzeltal with their guitars and the peace and lush beauty of the place amid the joyful sound of birds and rushing rivulets made us forget for a while all the tragedies going on around us.

When will we rid ourselves of hatred, a hatred that has been injected, that didn´t exist before? Prostitution was unheard of; now it has arrived with the army, battalions of which are stationed in strategic places. Why are there Immigration Officers, looking for foreigners so as to deport them? Because they don´t want the truth to be known. What can we do? We can be informed. We can make the truth reach as many people as we can. We can work for justice, gathering evidence and testimonies, insisting upon exercising our incipient democracy. And above all, we can pray. If we pray for our brethren looking upon them as such, sharing their pain, loving them as image and likeness of God, loving them because it leads us to want to know them better, loving them in obedience to Christ´s command, we can build a Mexico worthy of being the land of Our Lady of Guadalupe.