"Cancun: Kyoung Hae Lee Is Dead"

Starhawk

Kyoung Hae Lee is dead. I don't yet know his
story, only that he came with the Korean workers'
contingent. I videoed them forming up in the march,
carrying their proud banners, beating their drums and
bells. They marched up at the front, with the
campesinos and the other workers. When the march
reached the police barricade, they split off, marched
up to the fence, and Kyoung Hae Lee took his own life,
stabbing himself in the heart in an act of ritual
suicide.But let me begin in the morning, as we wake and
prepare for the campesino march. "I don't what to
wear," Andy says. "I don't know if I'm dressing for a
nine kilometer march in the hot sun, or a police
battle." "If the campesinos decide to play it low key
and nonconfrontational" I suggest, "they'll probably
ask to send a delegation through and they may let
them, in which case we'll be standing around in the
sun for hours. If they decide to push through, we'll
have the battle but somehow in either case I doubt
that we'll have the nine kilometer march."

We head down to the Casa de la Cultura where the
mood is festive. Thousands of campesinos are milling
around the food tents, a giant drum circle is underway
and students are dancing ecstatically in the center
while old grandmothers look on and smile. We meet up
with the pagan cluster and Rodrigo appears, back from
Mexico city just in time. Kukulcan, the amazing giant
puppet feathered serpent God, with a head of carved
styrofoam reproduction of a Mayan sculpture, covered
in silver and copper foil, dances through the streets,
snaking in giant meanders. Chac, the Mayan God of
rain, a giant striding figure painted silver gray,
rolls with a more dignified pace. Contingents of
campesinos form up behind their banners, many wearing
their own identifying scarves, the women in their
traditional dresses, white with beautiful embroidery
on collars and hems. They are chanting their chants
and songs and clapping along to the rhythms. The
black bloc contingent forms up
black with patches and masks. I see the students I've
trained, marching together in their contingent. Our
affinity group joins together behind the Infernal
Noise Brigade, under a blue spiral banner. We are
toward the back, as the campesinos have asked of the
internationals.

The march moves out, a beautiful sight. At last
we have thousands of people marching together, filling
the streets with a river of color.

When we get close, Lisa calls me. She tells me
that the Koreans have moved up to the front, and
there's a rumor that one of them impaled himself.

There are always so many rumors in actions. I put
this one aside. The march has stopped in front of the
police barricade at the entrance to the hotel zone, at
Bonampak. There's a big sculpture in the center,
giant Mayan carved pillars and platforms in a pool of
water. We make our way over to the side of the crowd,
where we can escape if necessary. The Infernal Noise
Brigade is playing, and the Koreans and campesinos are
up front, challenging the fence. We can see it
shaking under their assault, but the barricade is
reinforced by big flanges of steel in front and
behind, and is hard to tip over or pull down.

The Infernal Noise Brigade really understand how
to work the energy through music. They are playing an
eerie, tonal tune that slowly builds energy. The
fence rocks. We move in warily, but the police have
barricaded themselves behind it and don't react.
There is shouting and yelling and chanting around us.
I'm happy. I can feel this mass of campesinos and
students and all of us putting forth our power to
challenge the barrier, and we are strong.

The agreement all the action groups have made is
to respect the campesinos. The black bloc, the more
militant anarchist contingent, have made themselves
padded body armor and shields, but have agreed not to
use them unless the campesinos want them to. Now some
word is given and they move up and begin pulling on
another section of fence. It is one of those perfect
moments that sometimes happen in action: the
campesinos on one side, the urban street warriors on
the other, pulling in unison on the barriers. At that
moment, clouds form in a clear sky, the air grows
cool, and rain begins to fall, as if Chac himself were
blessing us. Blood has been spilled, and the
voluntary sacrifice has been accepted. The rain is
cool and strong and we raise up our arms and glory in
it as the battle goes on.

I see one of "our" punks from the permaculture
village climb the fence. A police baton crashes down
on his head from the other side, but he seems unhurt.
Sticks are flying and then rocks are flying. Someone
lights a fire and burns a giant banner of an American
flag that says "Yankee Go Home!" The police put on
their gas masks, and we fall back. Lisa has no
goggles -- I give her mine and rip out my contact lenses
and put my glasses on. Contacts are unsafe with tear
gas, but no goggles fit over my glasses so if its bad
I won1t be able to see. Rodrigo has no gas protection
and I give him my paint filter as I have a bandanna.
The battle in front of us is intensifying.

Skip comes up and tells us that the campesinos
want the rock-throwers to fall back, that they have
negotiated a passage through to the next barrier but
can't go because of the battle in front of them. I
say I will try to find our friends among the punks,
and run forward into the crowd. I spot Loco and
Chiwy, and run up and tell them. They already know.
Abby is running around trying to get people to stop
throwing rocks and get. Then the campesinos bring up
a small sound truck. Rafael Allegria from Honduras,
one of the leaders of the campesino organization here,
tries to calm the crowd, asking them to be tranquilo,
pacifico. He tries to get people to sit down but no
one wants to do it. I don't actually want to do it
myself in that situation. He's asking for something
too disparate from the wild energy that is raging.
The crowd begins to yell at him to get back, and
someone pushes him. The truck pulls back, and the
crowd surges forward. Rocks are flying and we are
eyeing the cops, knowing that if they come out from
behind the barricade they will be angry and likely to
break heads.

The Infernal Noise Brigade has gone, and suddenly
I'm afraid. "I'm not sure I want to be here," I say
to Andy who is next to me. "the energy
seems...disorganized." I'm not sure how to say what I
sense, just the sense of a lull with no clear
direction, lots of scattered, unfocused power that
could turn nasty or dangerous. "Unless we do
something to organize it."

The only thing I can do, really, is drum, and hold
the whole scene in my deep attention to make it more
coherent. I begin drumming and softly chanting.

"What is our desired outcome?" Andy asks. In
truth I don't know. I would like to see the fence
come down, see us enter into that space and take it
back and march to the conference center and tear down
that fortress, too. My mythical mind wants to see the
power of the people surge forward and reclaim this
space, wants to believe that fences and steel bars
cannot keep us out. My tactical mind is saying that
even if the fence comes down, we would be entering
nine kilometers of a narrow road between the lagoon
and the sea, with no escape if we're attacked -- and even
if we were allowed to march, it's nine kilometers in
the blazing sun which came out again as soon as the
rocks started flying.

"I just want to raise enough coherent energy to
get a little clarity," I tell him. Another drummer is
a few feet away, and we join up together, holding a
beat that people respond to. I feel like I'm playing
the energy of the crowd as it surges forward and
subsides, and as we drum, many people are working the
crowd. The tension is building and the rocks are
flying when a juggler steps into the space between the
crowd and the police. He stands there, rocks flying
around him, tossing his clubs and catching them in
hypnotic patterns, a magician holding back the attack.

Some of the students from the Coordinadora begin
slowly edging the rock throwers back, forming a line
and opening space, the juggler in their midst. A chant
begins, "El pueblo, unido, jamas sera vencido!" and
then another and another. The crowd pulls back, and
the tension subsides.

The campesinos have moved back across the traffic
circle into the shade, and begin making speeches. Our
group sits on the edge of the fountain, a bit stunned,
not sure what we've just experienced. The sound track
changes again, as a campesino band marches up to the
barricades and around the traffic circle, while the
students begin a game of anarchist soccer in front of
the police lines. A mis-aimed kick, and the ball
rolls under the fence. A cop's boot nudges it back out
to the field of play.

Hyoung Hae Lee is dead. Now in the evening we
know he was a farmer, a leader in his community, a
director of a magazine for farmers and fishermen, a
married man. He came here planning to do this act.
He made a casket which he set on fire in front of the
police line. He killed himself, as farmers all over
the world are killing themselves. Six hundred and
fifty farmer suicides in one month alone, Vandan Shiva
said. He killed himself not in despair, but as an act
of power.

His death affects us all deeply. It reminds us
that this is not just carnaval and war games, but
deeply serious work. It makes us question what we are
called to give.