“A Side to Fight For”

Leaving Gorostieta’s camp, the Cristero’s camp, the boy ran, ran until he could run no more. His aching feet wouldn’t allow it, and there was no place further to go. At the top of the hill he came face to face with it: the cross. He had been running from it, trying to escape from it, and here it was: made tall and mighty, reigning over the whole landscape, proud and fearless. Two plain wood planks crossed one over the other, painted in green, was all it was. Unpretentious object, and yet so affluent with connotations, countless implications, untellable meanings; to him, to them. There it was, resolute to never be made silent, in his mind, in theirs. It was the fault of the cross, all this mess for the sake of it, inside of him and between them.

Exhausted, he fell at its foot. Let it remain there, on the top, over the landscape, over him. Very little could it add now to the burden which it had already loaded him with. Let it trouble the nation, but let him rest, body and mind. Let them find him there, all his hopes dead. “Them”, no matter who they were, what side they fought for, for he himself supported no party anymore. All of them were fools, all of them. And he was a fool for having let himself get involved in it.

But he could not have stayed home. What a coward he would have seemed! All his comrades bravely fighting for their God, their country and their families. And he, all full of doubts, confused and uncertain of all his childhood certainties had nevertheless been forced to unite to the troops of the resistance. His family would have had it no other way. His stern father, a good and kind man, but so firm in his moral values and deeply rooted religious beliefs, that he would not have permitted his son to act in discordance to what they dictated should be done in such a situation. Not his good mother. “Luis”, she had told him, “no mother could be more proud than I, for having been mother to such a boy who is willing to die for Jesus’ cause.” Jesus’ cause or not, he didn’t know, but he could not have stood breaking her heart by telling her how absurd he found such a national distress, over such a meaningless governmental issue.

Why had this new law disturbed his fellow countrymen so much? Was it worthwhile to break the national peace, which had so difficultly been kept for seven years, by the government established by Carranza and continued by Obregon? There had been nine long years of fighting, after thirty years of political standstill with the General Diaz as the supreme and unquestionable master. And besides, a new century had begun, these were new times. The country did need reforms. With less than a decade of having been promulgated, the new constitution had lots of holes where improvements should be made.

Perhaps it had indeed been a little harsh or a too prompt measure. True enough, restructuring the relationships between the Church and the State was a most pressing issue; the church having the real control of the nation, not only for its uncountable wealth, but for controlling the minds of the people. Obviously, with such a fanatic population the measures taken should have been softer, applied more gradually. It was pointless for the president to drastically enforce, from the 1st of August on, such an acutely anticlerical law. Restricting the number of priests, as well as the number of churches, closing all catholic schools and forbidding all religious practices out side of the houses of worship, just like that, from one day to the next, would obviously be enough to provoke great discontent amongst the citizens.

But, nevertheless, what if they were right? They would certainly be right, for they knew more. Indeed, he was young, as was his country and it was certainly his responsibility to consecrate his youth to his nation, to fight in its best interests. All the bravery he had been struggling to show in battle, should not be wasted. He had made up his mind: he would march to Guadalajara and join the government troops there. He would certainly be received with great honors, as he would be able to supply them with lots of information on the Cristero movement.

And thus he marched. Giving his back to the cross he started his way to the capital. It might be a day’s walk, or even a little more, but he didn’t care. After many days of mental confusion he had made his decision and nothing would make him falter now.

He walked through the dense woods and came out into a green valley, marveling at the beauty of the landscape. On crossing it he came to a small village, a “ranchería”, of no more than 200 people, from where he was he could see a large number of them gathered outside of the church. Driven on as much by curiosity as by a terrible thirst, he approached the village.

When he was near enough he heard the shouting and the cries of the women and children. He saw what it was all about: the federal troops had arrived first, and having ransacked the houses for food and guns, were now taking possession of the church. The few men that had remained in the village, for the vast majority of them had joined the rebel forces, had fought bravely and were now lying on the ground or chained up and being mocked by some of the soldiers. The women, hiding their children behind their skirts, pleaded for mercy, receiving obscene gestures or blows as the only responses. On seeing the boy’s coming they implored: “Please, please help the priest!”

He turned to where they pointed and what he saw truly brought him low: the priest was surrounded by the few men left, who were vainly trying to conceal some cups and images, which were being violently snatched away from them. Most of these men had been brought to the ground by now, leaving the priest unprotected. And yet, he didn’t seem ready to surrender. Far from it, he seemed to have planted his feet on the ground, at the entrance of his church. His face showed the deepest oath not to let them pass, over his dead body. The boy recalled from the gospel the zeal with which Jesus Christ defended his Father’s house from the temple’s merchants and was certain the priest’s expression was the vivid incarnation of the matching zeal. Watching the scene, his insides lurched with the greatest discrepancy of feelings and thoughts. Suddenly with the most puzzled expression, the priest had fallen to the ground. The soldiers were free now to corrupt the sacred ground.

Afraid they might have seen him watching, he ran away. He ran away, once more. He ran into the night, until he was outside the city. And there he rested.

By noon of the next day he finally arrived to the capital. The streets were deserted, but he felt no tranquility in the air. He knew the city was not at rest. Where was everybody? He walked street by street, hoping to find someone who could show him to the general headquarters of the Federal army, or that at least could inform him what was going on. A few streets further on he saw the towers of the cathedral and the downtown buildings. He came nearer and could hear some singing, coming from the direction of the cemetery, the “Pantheon de Mesquitán”. Indeed, he found the largest congregation of citizens he had ever seen in his life. They had flooded the streets that surrounded the cemetery, and he now recognized the songs as funeral marches, which they seemed to be singing with the deepest of emotions.

He joined the peculiar procession, hoping to find amongst them a familiar face. Mr. Rivera, a lawyer who had taught him Mexican Law at the high school before he interrupted his studies to go to the battlefield, stood before him. “Luis, my boy, I’m glad to see you around. But I’d imagined you would be fighting under General Gorostieta’s, somewhere in Los Altos.”

“I am, professor, indeed, but we were given the chance to come for a family visit, now that things have settled down a bit more,” he lied. “Er… professor, could you tell me what’s going on here? Has the governor died or something? Why is the whole city at a graveyard?”

“My boy! Please don’t tell me that you don’t know. It is the very same Maestro Anacleto who was executed last night, along with two of the boys at whose house he was staying.”

“Maestro who? Executed by the army? So then he was a rebel…?”
“A rebel my boy? A rebel? He was our truest leader. There was nobody who believed in the cause more fervently than he did. He was a most prepared man, a lawyer, who had accurately foreseen what was coming long before it did, and nevertheless advocated for peaceful means of uprising. He, who had such a clear image of the values of the youth and had been a master and a guide for your generation. Here, take this, will you, and read it please.”

Luis took the book from the professor’s hand and read: You Shall be King, Anacleto Gonzáles Flores. Raising his eyes to thank him, he found the professor had lost himself in the crowd. He was alone once more. Alone, among thousands of people, alone and confused, alone with his thoughts… and Anacleto’s.

He opened the book and read aloud:

“Let not the purpose of bravery be simply to drown in a sea of risks. Take risks for the good of others and to search for the truth.
Though it is not easy to be good, to be holy, to be a martyr.”

Now the boy understood what he was fighting for. The correct path was not easy, but he was willing to take the risk. He was confused no more.