On January 1, 1994, the same morning NAFTA took effect, armed indigenous fighters seized four towns in Chiapas, Mexico. The timing was not coincidence. Historian Neil Harvey, who documented the rebellion's roots, argued that NAFTA's implementation date was chosen deliberately by the EZLN — the Zapatista Army of National Liberation — to expose the lie at the center of Mexico's modernization story: that economic integration would lift all boats, when entire regions had been structurally excluded from development for generations. Last time, Peter, we established that Pitol's time in the Eastern Bloc taught him to use irony and oblique language as tools of political resistance — techniques learned from writers who had no other option. Chiapas is where that same sensibility meets his own country's buried contradictions. The EZLN had organized clandestinely for nearly a decade before January 1994, recruiting Mayan and mestizo activists across Chiapas's canyons and villages. Bishop Samuel Ruíz shared their goals — ending rural poverty, recognizing indigenous rights — but opposed armed rebellion, yet tacitly allowed their organizing within his diocese. That tension between moral solidarity and tactical disagreement is precisely the kind of layered, uncomfortable truth Pitol gravitates toward. The uprising emphasized cultural and social empowerment, focusing on community-driven change. Subcomandante Marcos advocated for a grassroots revolution, village by village, rooted in the Zapatista principle of 'mandar obedeciendo' — rule by obeying, which highlighted the cultural richness and diversity of Chiapas. Democratic village organizations were built with equal roles for women; indigenous women in traditional traje physically pushed armed soldiers out of their own villages. The EZLN convened indigenous meetings that eventually produced the National Indigenous Congress. The San Andrés Accords, signed February 16, 1996, formally granted Mayan autonomy, recognition, and rights — though later constitutional amendments left those protections largely hollow. What Pitol finds in Chiapas, Peter, is a mirror of everything he absorbed in Eastern Europe — but rooted in Mexican soil. The Zapatistas built their own schools, rejected PRI-controlled state institutions, and created liberated zones interspersed with non-supporters, surrounded by the army. George Baker's contemporaneous 'Chiapas Diary' noted that Mexican politics systematically avoided written major policy decisions — governance by deliberate opacity. Pitol recognized that structure. He had seen it in Prague. The rebellion highlighted the cultural narratives and indigenous resilience in Chiapas, showcasing how these communities preserved their identity despite systemic challenges. For you, Peter, the key insight here is this: Pitol's observations in Chiapas enriched his literary themes, drawing from the cultural richness and diversity of the region. The Zapatistas' focus on cultural identity and community empowerment mirrors Pitol's narrative style. His commitment to observing history from the ground up — not from diplomatic offices or literary academies, but from the edges where official narratives fray — is the same impulse that makes The Art of Flight a radical act of witness. The margin, in his hands, is never peripheral. It is where the truth actually lives.