Young Writers Society

Spoiler! :

September 16 is coming up, Mexico's Independence. So, this is in honor of that day.

“Revolución!” the cry rose among the people in an eerie chant, which grew louder and more wild as the seconds drifted away. “Revolución!”

I stood hidden on the outside of the crowd, wishing I could just ignore the frantic voices. In this mess of people, faces no longer looked different. Each figure was no more than a silhouette, outlines in the dim light of dawn. Across the zócalo, the town square, the large cathedral blocked out the view of the sunrise. It was out of this building that Hidalgo made his appearance. Immediately the crowd was silenced. Hidalgo’s voice rose and fell almost like waves on a stormy ocean. Each syllable dripped with the feeling of resistance that had driven the people to gather outside this church. He used their anger to bring them to support his cause. Not only his words but his voice, his expression, reminded us of the corrupt government. The injustices that had become a normal part of our lives.

His short speech ended with the words, “¡Viva la Independencia! ¡Muera el mal gobierno!” His cry was taken up by the crowd. “Long live the Independence! And may the bad government die!” I found myself joining in with the cry, and closed my mouth immediately. I wasn’t even supposed to be here watching. Yet, the spirit of Independence had grown to the point where it could not be ignored. Even if my mom wished me to ignore the restlessness that had overcome Mexico, I knew what was about to happen. War was inevitable, and now it was finally here.

“¡Viva Mexico!” the cry rose once more over the air, which was now a dull grey and steadily growing lighter. I repeated the cry in a loud voice before running behind a corner and watching the crowd march away, holding up sticks, machetes, anything they could find that might work as a weapon. My heart pounded, my breath came out in ragged gasps, fear consumed my body, but I couldn’t look away. I stared as the last of the men disappeared from sight with rusty rifles. A few women lingered in the zócalo with downcast faces. How many of them would be widows before the war ended?

A few more minutes I waited, expecting something more. But before long the sun was visible above the cathedral and I realized there was no reason to stay here. I gave the now abandoned square one last glance before turning and fleeing down the cobblestone road to my little house where no doubt my mother would be waiting with her arms crossed and that ever present look of worry and sadness pasted on her face.