Open Pit by Marguerite Pigeon Read Free Book Online Page B

Cristóbal’s help, Pepe said there’d be no turning back once they talked details. He required a full commitment. But Cristóbal knew right away that he would do it, and not just for his share of the money Pepe had accumulated by means Cristóbal has never asked about, or even because he missed life as a guerrilla soldier so very much and wanted any chance to recreate it. He’d do it because he and Pepe have a bond.

    6:30 PM . Community hall, Los Pampanos
    â€œOne at a time, por favor .” Marta is hollering to be heard, something she’s very good at. People must sense that tonight will be different. Attendance has tripled and everyone is clamouring to say their piece. “Please!” she repeats, then points to a raised hand several rows back. “You. Go.”
    A chair scrapes as a man in a too-big t-shirt and work pants stands. “ Compañeros y compañeras, I fought in the war against the imperialistas .” Someone passes him a microphone attached to a long extension cord, itself plugged into one of only two outlets in the hall. “I worked in the refugee camps to keep our people positive.” A hum of approval from the crowd. “I came back and helped rebuild this community when the government wished we would disappear.” More approving sounds. “And since 1996 I have been fighting this mine.”
    Onstage Marta feels a creeping impatience. She doesn’t like to interrupt speakers. The whole point here is to encourage community participation. But there is always one man who can drone on forever. “ Compa . What is your comment tonight?”
    â€œI have fought against this mine,” the man reiterates, “and now I think we need to support our brother who has taken a step to close it down.”
    â€œThank you, Compa . And what about the women here? We never hear enough from our sisters. Yes — you!”
    A shy-looking woman seated nearer the back, directly under one of the tube lights that run the length of the hall’s peaked tin roof, takes the mike. Several news crews, who’ve made the trip from the capital city for the first time in ages, crowd around her. Despite everything Marta knows about the media and their distortions, she is delighted. The Committee needs the coverage.
    â€œ Compañeros y compañeras, I don’t support this abduction because I think it will bring a negative image to the fight against the mine, and the message of Jesus Cristo and Monseñor Romero was to use violence only when there is no other choice, and today is not like that, even though the mine is poisoning our water and my cousin has skin rashes from it and some people think this is reason enough to resort to violence, but I think they’re wrong, and we need to continue our work of closing the mine down, but we should not support violence, which is bad for the struggle.”
    â€œGood,” says Marta, “Thank you.” She paces her plywood stage. People tilt left and right to see her. Many stir the heavy air with paper fans. “So. We’ve heard many views tonight. Some of us are worried. Some of us want to fight. But brothers and sisters, we also have to think strategically, no? Whether or not we support the person who is demanding that the mine be shut down temporarily — and I repeat, temporarily — we still have an opportunity to use the media who are naturally being drawn to this case, as you see.” She sweeps an arm towards the cameras. Lenses whir, tightening their focus.
    â€œWe’ve wanted to make a statement before the mine’s expansion begins at El Pico. Here’s our chance. How can we amplify our voice? You remember the bullhorns in the camps?” The crowd laughs as Marta mimics the comical overuse of this device by zealous guards in the Honduran refugee camps where many of those gathered survived the civil war. “Well, think how a tool can make you loud. That’s what we