For the powerful, who present themselves throughout the world in the name of neoliberalism, we were worthless, we did not produce anything, we did not buy anything, we did not sell anything. We were an insignificant number in the accounts of capital.

An so we went into the mountains to find ourselves, to see if we could find some relief for our pain in being forgotten rocks and plants.

Here in the mountains of the Mexican Southeast, live our dead. Our dead who live in these mountains know many things. Their death has spoken and we listened. Small boxes that speak told us another story, a very old story about tommorrow. The mountain has spoken to us, the macehualob, who are common and ordinary people.