The journalist interviewed the old copper miner.
The man had been a human tool in the depths and darkness of the mine for fifty years.
The color of his skin, the sound of his breath, the sadness in his eyes - his human traits were the traits 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 sun showed through the clear glass of the kitchen window.
It settled onto the hands of the miner as he clasped them together on the table in front of him.
All questions lead to my hands, he whispered.
All answers are in my battered hands.
She began with the first and foremost question of journalism.
Who are you? she asked.
Her voice was steady and cool, like the rain that came afternoon by afternoon on their island, 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 cart wobbling 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, he said.
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 owned by an American company.
The company made so much money from the mine.
Chile made so much money from the company.
When copper was worth a lot, a lot of money was made by digging it from the ground.
When copper was worth a little, not much money was made by digging it from the ground.
The copper was more important than the miners.
It was more important than me.
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 hold.
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, as a tool to dig the copper out of the ground.
But I’m not a tool.
I’m a human being.
I joined a union with other miners who were human beings and not tools, either.
We declared together, We are people!
The company and the country threw us in jail.
You’re not people, they declared.
You’re fucking Communists.
I rose from the jail, but many of my compañeros did not.
I returned to my country, but many of my compañeros did not.
They disappeared.
They were people.
They were human beings.
I’m here.
I’m a person.
I’m a human being.
Here, he said tenderly to the journalist, Please, hold my hand.
She did.
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 student, who spends long days cleaning rooms at a motel...with her hands.)
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