This article was first published in Avispamidia in July 2024.

“Up there, that part that looks brown is a bit of what burnt,” says Margarito Morales as he points to Cerro Iglesia (Church Hill) in the distance, and his voice sounds heavy, as if he were carrying the mountain in his words. He, his wife, and his son talk to us about the hill that burned for more than a week last May. As they speak, they share stories and landscapes, occasionally pausing to converse in their native language, Zapotec, which allows them to recall stories more easily. It is as if the memory of the hill were inherently linked to their language, while Spanish is an intruder. And in a way, it is. When a question arises in the narrative (a discrepancy between dates, names, or meanings), the three switch the conversation to Zapotec, laugh and discuss, and share only the agreed upon conclusion in Spanish.

“The hill gives us nothing, but it sustains us,” says Amalia López, better known as Mama Mali by her children and grandchildren. With her words she reveals the relationship between the history of the hill and her own history; it is a relationship of mutual support and care, of mutual dependence and affection. This fire was the worst she has seen since she and her husband, Margarito, were born, more than 70 years ago. “I was born in 1949 and he was born in 1946, and the hill is older than that,” she says, trying to remember the last time the hill burned.

Margarito recounts that during his childhood, the hill, known in Zapotec as Dani Roo , caught fire once, and immediately the bells were rung to alert the community to control the blaze. But during the night, a downpour ended up extinguishing the flames. On that occasion, the losses were not as severe as they are now, since it is estimated that this year at least 10,000 hectares of the hill were affected, more than double the amount that was burnt the last time.

"We're not looking for someone to blame, that's not what matters. It's about having these experiences, because the hill never used to burn, and now we know [it does],” share Margarito and Amalia “A long time ago, it did burn, and at that time everyone went up there: men, children, women with buckets, jugs, whatever they could find, and they almost managed to put it out. They even brought the elders, who stayed to pray and ask for the fire to be extinguished, so everyone helped. And then at night, the clouds came and the rain fell.”

Margarito says that during this fire, "That part where it burned was untouched, it never burned before. I've been around for so many years and it has never happened. It was pure forest, no one goes in there, that's why they call it el Río Oscuro, the Dark River. The animals in those parts, goodness! At all hours! There are deer, squirrels, quails, chachalacas, wild pigeons, squirrels, large pigeons. There are about 40 or 30 of them there in flocks. Wild turkeys. They are large, and if you can hunt them, you can eat them, but they are clever, so when you walk to find them they are no longer there." When he was a child, Margarito used to go hunting with his father in the hills, like many others in his community, but now only those who have no land to farm live off the hills. Hunting and gathering firewood to sell is their livelihood, but after the fire they lost their main source of work.

The family continues to name the inhabitants of the forest. They laugh and name them in both languages, imitating their sounds and describing their colors: "Orchids that bloom in May, there are many mockingbirds and goldfinches. Goodness, how they sing! And there was one that whistled like a human. If you whistle, it answers you, inviting you to go to the forest. There were pines, oaks, pingüica, and mountain apple trees. There is a tree with a red trunk and peeling bark. It was very beautiful, all of that was there." The past and the present are blended in the grandfather's words, as if he refused to accept that everything he is talking about has been turned to ashes.

In this latest fire, unlike the one that occurred more than 60 years ago, the community found themselves without rain, manpower, or the awaited support from local government agencies. The fire did not start on their land, Villa Díaz Ordaz — a community and municipality named after the liberal general José María Díaz Ordaz, who was mortally wounded in that territory more than 150 years ago — but rather: "First they said that on the land of San Miguel Albarradas, lightning struck a tree, and with so much drought there is a lot of leaf litter that has been accumulating there for years, so the fire started," they tell us. The flames quickly consumed the entire forest and approached the borders of neighboring towns such as Villa Díaz Ordaz, Mitla, and San Miguel in the Tlacolula Valley.

In response, the agricultural authorities conducted an inspection of the territory's borders with neighboring communities and concluded that it was unlikely that the fire would spread. But fire does not recognize agricultural boundaries. It crossed these imaginary borders, devouring and invading communal lands. The agrarian, administrative, and ecclesiastical authorities called for community support to stop the fire, ringing the church bells, making announcements over the municipal megaphone, and sharing information on social media. They called on everyone who could help the next day to come and prevent the fire from consuming everything. 

Days later, a large part of the population decided to form a blockade on International Highway 190 with the support of other neighboring communities, including San Dionisio Ocotepec and Villa de Mitla, which were also requesting manpower and material support to extinguish the fire as it spread throughout their territories. Faced with the impossible task of stopping the fire with their own hands, the community demanded that a helicopter be sent to extinguish the flames, and that Army and National Guard personnel be sent to help create firebreaks, since most of the population in the community at that time were children and elderly people due to migration out of the region. 

"The bells rang and rang to summon the people, and the loudspeakers called and called for people to go to the hill to help. And everyone was sad because everything was filled with smoke, not even the radio was working. The festivities were suspended and the town felt it. We were sad, talking about how they were going to put it out. Some went to help in the morning, others at midday, and others in the afternoon, but everyone was sad," Amalia shares.

These elders were born and lived their entire lives in this territory, sheltered by the mist that descends from the mountains in cold weather and surrounded by green hills that turn yellow in the dry season, so emblematic of the Oaxaca valley region. "It's not the same as it used to be. We love the hill because we know it. The hill was like a grandfather, telling us old stories, and we listened to it a lot. Like a grandfather who tells us, 'Listen to me because when I die, there will be no one left to remember me.’ And it's true, we listened to our grandfathers and we remember them for their stories. It's the same with the hill," recalls Amalia as she looks at her son Juan, who also grew up there, but who at the age of 15 had to emigrate to Mexico City for ten years to work and support his siblings who left the village to study. For the past 25 years, Juan has lived in Oaxaca City, where his children were born. This is a pattern that is repeated in the community and in the region, a repetition of stories of migration to the city, migrants who exchange farming, animal husbandry, and self-sufficient living for wage labor. And although it is not immediately apparent, this phenomenon is related to the recent fire. “The thing is, now there's no interest because everyone has a job and they don't live off the hill, but I think that even though the hill doesn't give us anything, it sustains us. There's oxygen, and the trees that absorb all the smoke from the cars that take us to those jobs,” says the grandmother.

Just as Juan migrated for economic reasons, between 1942 and 1964, a large number of men from the community of Villa Díaz Ordaz temporarily migrated to the United States as part of the Bracero Program, which was a binational agreement between Mexico and the United States to send Mexican workers to the US while the US military fought World War II. This was the case for Margarito and Amalia's grandparents, who migrated temporarily when the opportunity arose. They recall that, even so, during their childhood and youth, most people in the community continued to grow corn, potatoes, and chilacayotas, as well as make bread and chocolate. During their childhood, entire families planted the fields, even working on distant land on the hill, Cerro Iglesia. People walked for hours to reach their land, women cut firewood and prepared food in the fields, leaving behind metates and other tools that could be used by those who came up and needed them. In addition, every New Year, the community organized itself to bring an offering to the hill to give thanks for the harvest.

The couple spent many years in this way, but when their children grew up, there were no educational opportunities and families struggled constantly with money, so the children, including Juan, migrated to different cities and countries to continue their studies and to work to support their parents financially. This story was repeated in families throughout the town and permeated the very structure of the community.

When the fire was reported, the village called for a tequio, a form of mutual aid. At first, few people responded, but as the days passed and the extent of the destruction became clear, more people began to arrive. Those who came to fight the fire arrived with nothing more than the tools they use daily for their work in the fields. A group of women organized outside the village market to prepare and distribute food to those who came to help. Many people sent financial aid from the cities, but there was a shortage of manpower.

On May 11, Juan and his son left early on their motorcycle to support the blockade of International Highway 190. While they positioned themselves near the Rancho Valle del Lago subdivision, another blockade was taking place near San Dionisio Ocotepec. At each blockade, there were residents from various communities. Throughout the day, father and son moved between the blockade and the hill, carrying supplies, tools, and information about what was happening and about the agreements being reached at each blockade. During their travels, Juan would stop to tell his son memories of what he had experienced in each place, as if the act of remembering could take away the pain of loss. As they drove, Juan showed him the places where he used to pasture his goats, hike with friends, or take solitary walks.

Because the public information circulating about the fire focused on the Mitla area, which is classified as a pueblo mágico or “magical town” (a governmental designation design/ed to bring in tourists) and has an archaeological site, much of the support and assistance sent by the state and from cities was directed specifically to that community. In the absence of institutional support, the blockade redirected part of the support to its territory, even intercepting a Red Cross truck carrying gloves and masks, and an Army convoy to support the firefighters. The convoy were assigned two guides, but they soon left their guides and got lost, which meant that they stopped supporting the firefighters. They were dressed in full military gear, including bulletproof vests and long guns — long guns to put out a fire.

While the blockade collected supplies and tools, the brigade members fought against the intensity of the fire. The lookout tower, which had been built through many years of collective effort, was reduced to ashes. Among the firefighters was a group from CONAFOR, the National Forestry Commission of Mexico, that the town had retained to accompany the work and ensure that the government took appropriate action, as well as a National Guard patrol. Just as the women prepared food for everyone in the central square, there was also a group in the mountains in charge of food and care.

Up on the hill, they were trying everything: they created firebreaks, bought water pipes, shoveled dirt, but the fire jumped from tree to tree with the wind, and the leaves caught fire so easily that the flames spread to a distance. Breathing was difficult, and talking was a luxury that no one could afford. After risking their lives, the group held a meeting and agreed that they needed more support, that their hands were not enough. “There was effort, but the magnitude of the fire was impossible for the town to stop,” Juan shares. The CONAFOR group explained that given the geographical conditions of the area and the level of the fire, the most viable option was to request a helicopter. They explained that permission had to be requested to gather water from a nearby dam or river and to clear a landing area. The community members explained that they had already arranged this and were still waiting for support. “The helicopter isn't coming because there's too much air traffic,” someone joked amid the chaos. 

After much work, the group was forced to move to a safe area and rest. They gathered in an open field and calmly, sadly, and above all painfully observed the destruction in front of them.

Some people prayed for rain, others for the helicopter, but no one had any choice but to wait. “Do you see all that is disappearing? My son loved this place. What else can we do but watch it disappear?” one man said to another as they ate.

That day was not the last of the fire; it lasted a few more days and consumed 10,000 hectares, according to CONAFOR's announcement to the press. The community organization and collective work of both the firefighters and the blockade allowed the voracity of the fire to slow down, but the lack of immediate government action fed the fire. Days later, the helicopter arrived, “but almost everything had already burned, it was too late,” says Margarito. Only when it rained did the remaining embers finally go out.

While Cerro Iglesia was burning, there were 23 other active fires in the state, an astronomical number. According to the National Forest Fire System, in Oaxaca alone, from 1970 to 2023, there were 9,592 fires recorded, damaging 1,081,657 hectares. Oaxaca ranks 11th on the list of states with the largest forest area affected by fires from 1970 to 2023. According to the weekly national forest fire report presented on June 27 of this year by CONAFOR, "So far this year, there have been 6,771 forest fires in 32 states, covering an area of 862,495.97 hectares," with Oaxaca being the state with the largest area damaged. In the last year, there were 202 fires covering 113,820.31 hectares. Both 2023 and 2024 exceed the previous 10 years in terms of the number of hectares of forest lost, and although the causes of the fires appear to be diverse or unclear, there is an evident lack of institutional capacity to control them. In addition to this, it has been seen that with the loss of forest, land use change increases, which threatens communities and their way of life. While Oaxaca burns, the mezcal agave monoculture industry grows, threats from extractive megaprojects such as mining intensify, and changes in community life become more pronounced. Goldfinches and mockingbirds are losing their homes to these man-made wildfires;according to the National Center for Prevention of Disasters 90% of the wildfires in Mexico are started by people.

After the fire, there was a feeling of sadness in Villa Díaz Ordaz. The couple said that the neighboring town of San Miguel del Valle was almost untouched by the fire because, according to its residents, they make an offering to the hill every year. So, a few days after the disaster, the community organized itself to make an offering of its own. 

"Everything looked blue, like the hill was purple. You couldn't see anything green, but now you can start to see green again. And that's because of the offering to the hermit. Because there's a hermit who lives on the hill, and people ask him for luck on the hill. Because our ancestors had that belief: that when you do something on the hill, you have to ask Mother Earth for permission, but they hadn't been bringing many offerings,” explains Amalia, and Juan adds, ”In less than twenty years, it will be well grown again. Because the hearts of the trees are still alive. And with the recent rains, it is becoming green again, ready to be reforested."

“But now you can see the furrows,” says Mama Mali. She is referring to the furrows that were dug by her parents and grandparents for planting. Furrows hidden under the forest and leaf litter that only became visible through the chaos. These furrows remind us that the work we do now leaves a mark on the future. It is as if the hill were recounting its own memory. “The hill remains as a memory for us, and for those who come after us. It remains as a story because we already have it, we already tell stories of it. We do this so that the community always keeps it in mind, and remembers to reforest it and plant new trees,” Margarito tells us as he watches the clouds fall heavily on Dani Roo.