July is a festive month in Oaxaca. In the historic downtown, locals are outnumbered by tourists, who come to enjoy the Guelaguetza, a colorful festival of regional dance. This year, the striking teachers' union decided that July is also a good month to increase their political pressure. They set up hundreds of tents in the Zocalo (The central plaza) and "occupied" it. Itinerant vendors followed suit, and built their stalls around the tent city. Overnight, the Zocalo, which is arguably the prettiest in Mexico, turned into a Brazilian favela. The locals shook their heads. They vividly remember the Summer of 2006, when a similar occupation by the teachers, escalated into an armed rebellion. After several months, the army intervened, and cleared the plaza. The riots resulted in seventeen dead, and a large economic loss to the city.
On the last day of the festival, Adi and I went on our usual evening stroll. We were winding our way through the stall-cluttered Zocalo, when we noticed a trickle of young people running as fast as they could, clearly escaping an imminent danger. The itinerant vendors, who are much more attuned to such situations than us, were already hastily throwing their wares onto blankets, and leaving the area.
"The police is coming", rose the warning.
"I hope they are coming for the teachers," I said, "but why today?"
We looked on, as the trickle turned into a stream of fleeing men. We heard several loud bangs, and saw smoke billowing out of an object that landed beside us. Immediately, the pungent smoke of tear-gas filled the covered walkway, searing our eyes and lungs. General panic ensued. Our favorite cafe was only a few steps away, and we headed to the safety of its interior. I saw Adi enter, when a large brute, who was running down the sidewalk, violently pushed me out of his way. I tucked, performed a perfect shoulder roll (Ofer would have been proud of me), and landed in the guayabera shop next door. The owner helped me to my feet, and I hurried through the smoke plume, towards the closing doors of the cafe, where Adi was pleading with the workers to let me in.
Cafe Del Jardin, with its doors tightly closed, became a refugee center. People stood with tearing eyes, wet towels over their noses, looking totally dazed. Two young indigenous women, each with a baby slung on her back, were weeping uncontrollably. A kind soul led the two to the kitchen, where the air was better, and the atmosphere calmer. Adi encountered her favorite waitress, and they consoled each other with a long, strong hug I headed for the bar. I needed a cold beer to sooth my burning throat, but the bartender was rushing to shutter the liquor shelves, and would not comply. I guess he was anticipating a riot, which did not happen. Through the windows we could see the running subside, and as the smoke dissipated, despite protests from the other refugees, I unlocked the door, and we left for home.
A beer in hand, I learned that on their way back from a teachers demonstration, some self-proclaimed anarchists confronted the police. Tempers rose, and the police gave chase. The rest, we witnessed.
The teachers are scheduled to stay in the Zocalo till mid August. I hope cooler heads will prevail.
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