Hands
The journalist interviewed an ancient miner, a man who was used as a human tool in the depths of the darkness of the mine by the company for thirty-three years.
The color of his skin, the sound of his breath, the sadness in his eyes - these human characteristics were the characteristics of the mine itself, as if the inhumanity of the mine had overcome the humanity of the person.
They sat, the journalist and the miner, at a simple wooden table in simple wooden chairs.
The soft light of the evening showed through the clear glass of the kitchen window onto his hands, battered hands he clasped together on the table in front of her, a sign by him to her.
"All questions lead to my hands,” he whispered, “The answers are in my calloused, battered hands."
"Who are you?" she asked.
Her voice was steady and persistent, like the rain that came afternoon after afternoon on their island, cool and compassionate like the breeze that blew day by day from the sea.
"I’m a miner," he answered.
His voice was old and rickety, like a plow that wobbled behind a donkey, warm and gentle like the donkey itself.
"I’m a miner, but I’m a person. I’m a miner, but I’m not a tool.”
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I worked for a time," he answered, "In the Chuquicamata copper mine in Chile.
It was the world's largest open pit mine.
It made Chile rich.
It was run by an American company.
The company made so much money from the mine.
Chile depended on the money it made from the company.
If copper was worth a lot, a lot of money was made by digging it from the ground..
If copper was worth a little, not much money was made by digging it from the ground.
The copper was more important than the miner.
The copper had no eyes to see, no ears to hear, no mind to think, no heart to feel, no mouth to speak, no feet to walk, no hands to touch.
Yet copper was all the company and the country saw, all the company and country heard, all the company and country thought about, all the company and country felt, all the company and country spoke of, so they used my hands, they used me, the miner, as a tool to dig the copper out of the ground, but I am not a tool, I am a person."
"I am a person!” I declared as I descended into the bowels of Chuquicamata at dawn.
“I am a person!" I declared as Chuquicamata belched me from it's mouth at dusk.
I joined in union with other miners who were people and not tools, and we declared together, "We are people!"
The company and the country threw us in jail.
"You are not people," they declared.
"You are Communists."
I rose from the jail, but many of my compañeros did not.
I returned to my country, but many of my compañeros disappeared.
They are gone, but they were people.
They were human beings.
I am here.
I am a person.
I am a human being.
“Here," he said tenderly to the journalist, "Please, hold my hand."
She held his hand.
The skin was cracked and creviced, like the walls of the mines where he worked, walls that had been blasted and picked for years and years, walls that went deeper and deeper into the earth, the depths of the earth that were wont to take life, that were not wont to give life, like the soil of the ground of the earth, hands that were created to give life, yet, as she held his hand, she thought, "Life has been taken from these hands that were meant to give life, these hands that were used as tools, and used up, until now they are cracked and creviced, like the walls of the mines."
The bones of his hand were bent and broken, like the pics in the mines where he worked, pics that had been handled and used for years and years, pics that dug deeper and deeper into the earth, yet, in that moment, at the kitchen table, by the window, in the evening light, he gently squeezed her hand, without looking into her eyes, for he was looking down at their hands, their hands clasped together, and she thought, "Life is given from these hands, these hands that were used as tools, and used up, until now they are bent and broken, like the pics of the mine...but in this moment, I know he is not a tool, I know he is a person, and I am holding his hand, and he is holding my hand, and we are human beings, and we are not taking life, we are giving life, because we are holding hands.”
(I dedicate this story to the mamí of my little students, who spends long days cleaning rooms at a local hotel...with her hands)
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