In the first weeks of January, 1998, there were several striking acts of resistance on the part of indigenous communities in the Mexican state of Chiapas, acts of courage in the face of the onslaught of the Mexican army, acts of defiance that made headlines around the world. There is also, however, another form of resistance, woven into the texture of everyday life, which has to do with the new alternatives being constructed in the autonomous municipalities of Chiapas: the construction of hope and dignity, the construction of a new society, the construction of a better future. And in fact, these two forms of resistance are integrally connected.

Many of the most remarkable acts of resistance were in response to the encroachment of the Mexican military into EZLN support base communities in early January. One of the earliest and harshest blows fell on the community of Nueva Esperanza. The army trucks pulled up on the morning of January 1st; the guns pointed at the people gathered to celebrate on their new basketball court. The twenty-five families that make up this nuevo poblado immediately fled to the mountains. The soldiers stole, ate, killed, or destroyed everything in the community: the corn stored to last until the next harvest, the merchandise and the money from the two collective stores, the chickens from the women's cooperative, the cattle, the schoolbooks, the furniture, the cups, the bowls, the pots; they slept in the houses and used the kitchens as their latrines; they poured gasoline in the church. "Nos quedamos sin nada, sin nada," the women told me: they left us with nothing, with nothing. By that afternoon, women from Nueva Esperanza had been joined by women from 13 neighboring communities and they rallied to try and run the soldiers out; they demanded that the soldiers leave and they slept there on the highway, since the soldiers were occupying their homes. The soldiers would not leave, however, at least not until the press showed up the next day. In the meantime, the women were threatened and sexually harassed.

The majority of the families from Nueva Esperanza have decided to return to their homes--not to give up their community despite having to start over with nothing. Nevertheless, for many, the army's invasion and destruction of Nueva Esperanza brought back memories of February 9, 1995, when the army pounded through EZLN-controlled territory; entire communities fled to the mountains and suffered hunger and cold there for weeks, even months, while the soldiers ransacked and destroyed their homes and communities and set up military camps throughout the conflict zone that remain to this day. Contemplating the fate of Nueva Esperanza, a spontaneous but collective decision was made that February 9, 1995 was not to be repeated. They decided to stand their ground, they decided that they would not be chased out of their communities and into the mountains, they would not grant the Mexican army the power that it had in 1995.

When the military entered or tried to enter the communities, it was the women who defended the communities, because of the fear that the men would be carried off by the army. In the Ejido Morelia, the capital of the autonomous municipality of 17 de Noviembre, and in the community of Galeana in the autonomous municipality of Francisco Gomez, women organized and drove out soldiers attempting to enter their communities. Armed only with sticks and rocks and the fierceness of their voices, they confronted the heavily armed soldiers with an outpouring of pent-up rage accumulated over four years of low-intensity warfare. In both cases, according to the women who participated, the soldiers were completely taken aback and did not know quite what to do. It seems, in fact, that the soldiers were the ones who were frightened. In Morelia, women gleefully recounted how the retreating soldiers slipped and slid in the mud. They, unlike the barefoot women, did not know how to walk in the mud and the women took advantage of this fact to give them a few good shoves. In Galeana, gales of laughter were produced every time the story was told how several soldiers, separated from their troop and hiding in the mountains, were too terrified to come out of hiding to retreat.

In addition to women organizing to drive out the military, there have been poignant gestures of defiance which illustrate the strength of resistance within this movement, even in the face of incredible obstacles. In the autonomous municipality of Francisco Gomez, as in many other regions, the soldiers arrived with their banner of "labor social," insisting that they came bearing food, medicine, and good will to the indigenous communities of Chiapas. Frustrated at the communities' refusal to accept their hand-outs, the army dropped their packages on the doorstep of the EZLN comandante of the region, thinking that, in this way, they could maintain that they had delivered their hand-outs thereby generating positive publicity for the army's presence in Chiapas. The comandante came out of his house, lit the unwelcome gifts on fire, and stepped back inside. "Mejor hambre que el ejercito," the people said. Better to go hungry than to have the army here.

In the autonomous municipality of 17 de Noviembre, January 7th is remembered as the date in 1994 that the army entered the Ejido Morelia: the entire community was tortured and three elders were kidnapped and murdered. This day is commemorated every year in the community 7 de Enero, named to commemorate the horror, the tragedy of that day's events. And yet the very creation of this new community, populated entirely by young EZLN militants, is an example of the new society that the EZLN is constructing. Every year January 7th is celebrated with weddings and baptisms: countering sorrow with joy, honoring death by celebrating new life. This January 7th, the EZLN comandante of this region commented that the military campaign could only backfire because with every act of violence, the true nature of the Mexican government and military becomes that much more evident and, as the people see the truth, their will to struggle becomes that much stronger. This comment was made the day before the army tried to enter Morelia for the second time and was driven back by women waving sticks and hurling insults.

There is another way in which the Zapatista communities have decided that February 9, 1995 will not be repeated. In the past, not only did the communities flee to the mountains, but all work was suspended, all projects were put on hold, all motion forward was halted for months on end, as long as the communities were on red alert. For the first few weeks of January, all Zapatista communities were tightening their belts and steadying themselves for the possibility of war: no one left any community in 17 de Noviembre, not even to go to the milpa, not even to carry firewood. And yet, within a brief period, work picked up again and the rhythm was barely broken. Men returned to the fields, work in the cooperatives resumed, meetings and workshops and plans all picked up again. The women went back to work in their bread-making and vegetable-garden cooperatives. Training workshops were held for educational and health promoters. Regional meetings were called to discuss production throughout the entire municipality. And while the communities continue to be on red alert and the threat of the Mexican army still hovers over them, ominous, people refuse to give up the rhythm of their lives; this rhythm includes not only day-to-day activities but also long-term plans and the realization of a vision of something new, something better.

One morning, for example, all the women of Morelia were called to the Aguascalientes because there were rumors circulating that the army was going to enter again. They decided that it was only a rumor but that it was better to be alert and ready just in case; but then they took advantage of the fact that they were all already gathered and held a women's assembly. Of course this low-intensity warfare takes a tremendous toll on people and it inevitably affects the effectiveness of their work. And yet there is a fierce determination to continue to construct even as the Mexican government tries so hard to destroy the work and the vision that they are creating; it is this that I call the beauty of resistance.

These two forms of resistance are parallel and closely related. People were animated and empowered by having fought off the Mexican army: it gave them hope, it gave them strength, it imbued them with renewed energy to create the world they are slowly, sometimes painstakingly slowly, constructing. At the same time, the fact that they are in this process of construction of something new provides the basis, the foundation, for all other forms of resistance. And through both forms of resistance comes the recognition that the only power that the Mexican government and the Mexican army wield over them is the power that they grant them. That, as they resist, they also create: they create their own power, they create their own autonomy, they begin to create the world that they describe in their dreams, a world with justice, un mundo donde quepan muchos mundos: a world that encompasses many worlds.

People fighting back--especially in the context of low-intensity warfare where the violence is often slow and invisible and eats away at you with hunger and fear--recognize that the backbone of resistance is not letting the enemy crush your spirit. For the communities in resistance, the most common form of protest is to dance, even in Acteal, where 45 people were slaughtered by paramilitary groups. A caravan of women from all over Mexico arrived in Acteal and heard an explanation of the grisly events that took place, the cold-bloodedness of the murders, saw the dirt still fresh on the 45 graves; but this was followed by a dance. One survivor of Acteal described the massacre and her voice trembled and broke as she spoke of her family members who had been killed. Tears streamed down her face. And yet afterwards she danced. The depth of the pain brimming out of her eyes was matched by the rhythm of her body. Mixed in with the grief in her eyes was the knowledge that she danced because she had to. Because what other choice does she have? In the face of such incredible brutality, she can succumb and be defeated, or she can dance and struggle and live and resist and keep on dancing.