What my Zapatista upbringing in Boyle Heights taught me about resistance—and standing up for my community

Growing up, a portrait of Che Guevara clad in commanding green fatigues always hung prominently on our living room wall. His piercing and thoughtful gaze, carrying the weight of knowledge, has followed me through the years. 

Guevara is one of my mother’s idols. To her — and to many among the Zapatistas in southern Mexico, as well as people in Central America, Africa, and Palestine—he is seen as a revolutionary of the people and a symbol of what one person can achieve.

​​The Zapatistas, or the Zapatista Army of National Liberation, who use the acronym EZLN, are an Indigenous and anti-capitalist movement that formed in Chiapas, Mexico, more than 30 years ago. They fought for land reform and redistribution, and in 1994, they staged an armed insurrection in protest of the signing of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) that they saw as a threat to Indigenous rights. 

Today, they continue to be a symbol of Indigenous resistance. Outside of Mexico, the city of Los Angeles was the biggest hub for Zapatismo. In L.A., the Zapatista movement led to collectives and community spaces like the Eastside Café in El Sereno. (My dad was one of the café’s co-founders.)

I was raised in a Zapatista household in Boyle Heights.

My parents — who were involved in revolutionary work since their teens — taught me that being a Zapatista goes beyond carrying a political identity. It’s a way of life. We’ve incorporated a Zapatista lifestyle by caring for the land, by speaking out against injustices and by keeping Indigenous ideals. 

In Boyle Heights, my dad operates our family garden on a plot of land next to the Casa del Mexicano landmark. It’s called El Semillero. We grow squash, beans, corn, medicinal plants and fruit trees. We also raise chickens that lay nearly a dozen eggs daily, which we give away for free to our neighbors.

Through El Semillero, we hold workshops on “Know Your Rights,” gardening and self-sustainability for both youth and adults, as well as ancestry education programs to reconnect with our roots.

Our home was always filled with literature, cultural artifacts and political relics. Books by Paulo Freire, Jacques Soustelle, and Guillermo Bonfil Batalla lined our shelves. Woodblock prints of Emiliano Zapata and political posters emblazoned with protest iconography of raised fists and and red stars – the symbol of EZLN — decorated our walls. The air inside our home was often thick with copal incense and tortilla smoke, with a view of the milpa just outside our window.

My dad taught me about our heritage. He told me we are still Native — that we are not Chicano, not Mexican, not Latino or Hispanic. We are Indigenous. He showed me to wear our identity with pride. 

Every year, we observe Día de los Muertos, staying up all night drinking coffee, speaking of the dead, and sharing food. We hold ceremonies in the spring to celebrate life and the renewal of sprouts. We fast as a sacrifice for what we have taken from the earth. In our ceremony of the banners, we gather with other Native people to celebrate our heritage and the ongoing struggles to keep our ways alive.

We were also involved in local efforts against the Dakota Access Pipeline in Standing Rock. We  offered our home to protesters who had traveled from there. I also remember taking our No DAPL signs on Columbus Day to protest the statue in downtown L.A. 

On a recent trip to Chiapas, my mom and I visited Oventic, one of the Zapatista communities known as “caracoles.” It was our first time in Chiapas. We were there for the 31st anniversary of the Zapatistas in late December and January.

During our trip, we saw urban Zapatistas on a mass scale. In the caracaol, every household had maybe at least one acre dedicated to farming. Under tarps – in the morning and at night – they would have massive pots of food including rice, beans, and caldos made from produce that they grew.

It was all very much self-sustaining and autonomous. We were able to see a version of what we’re all fighting for, what we want to see in our communities. It was like a portal into a new world that was possible.  

I write about this at a time when injustices are rampant and our rights are being challenged. 

Trump has vowed to deport “millions and millions” of immigrants. He ended policies that prevented immigration officers from arresting immigrants at sensitive locations like schools and churches. Just this week, news broke that the Trump administration deported three U.S. citizen children. 

Activism is the only way to get out of it and fight back. 

With the recent student walkouts against Trump’s immigration policies, we were able to show the country our anger over the laws that are being put in place.

At first, there was a lot of mismanagement with the walkouts. Someone ended up getting stabbed in downtown L.A. during a student demonstration.

Because I had experience with protesting since I was little, I helped with the planning process to make the walkouts more organized. With students from other schools, we formed the Raices Unidas de Los Angeles collective. MEChA and organizations like Meztli Projects got involved, helping us design banners and posters. We made a list of demands, and as an organized front, we urged for “Know Your Rights” workshops and called on LAUSD to be more transparent on protocols if immigration agents were to show up on school campuses.   

Being put in a position to lead in the walkouts, I followed the Zapatista principle, “Proponer Y No Imponer” (To Propose, Not Impose). I provided information and people acted and organized through that guidance.

Student representatives directly connected with elected leaders and built connections with other organizations for future activism work that we can leave behind for the younger students. 

The walkouts planted a seed in the youth in my generation. For a lot of people, it was their first protest. When I talk with other activists, their first protest always sticks with them. It will push your life in a certain direction.

I hope it will lead to a more conscious and a more revolutionary generation.