Mexico's southern states are once again drawing international attention, with an upcoming visit by U.N. Secretary General Kofi Annan and a proposal for talks from the mysterious Commandante Marcos. But the essence of the Zapatista "rebellion" is far from communiques and the world stage -- it is in the gritty business of surviving day to day. PNS Central America editor Mary Jo McConahay has reported from Latin America for the National Catholic Reporter, Choices, Mother Jones and other publications for over a decade. This article is the first of two parts.

POLHO, MEXICO -- These are dangerous times for the Tzotzil Maya Indians of the Chiapas highlands. Just maintaining the everydayness of life in an atmosphere of mayhem and fear is what it means to be a Zapatista -- a supporter of the 5-year long movement for autonomy here.

The central government's response to this movement has caused some 6,000 people to flee to this mountain village, once home to 1,000, seeking the safety numbers might bring. "We don't know what is going to happen," says Luciano, 36, a spokesman for the town. "We are not thinking about returning to our home villages, because Federal soldiers and paramilitaries are there, inside the communities."

Dozens of Tzotzil Maya have died violently over the past year, including 45 murdered in the town of Acteal by pro-government paramilitary forces last December. After Acteal, army troops flooded this coffee-rich area -- they are visible day and night in new encampments encircling Polho -- and the Tzotzil regard them as accomplices to the violence.

This is an ancient village, with breathtaking views of lush, solid peaks reaching into moving clouds. Steep dirt paths connect the pulse points of the community -- the porch where the governing council meets, a clinic, the hardware store where one can find warm soft drinks (but little else) and talk, vegetable fields, coffee groves and, high up where the paved highway passes, the place where a thick pole is lowered across the muddy road into town, a symbol meant to warn away those who would do harm.

According to human rights monitors, 500 to 700 civilians have died since the Zapatista uprising began in 1994, despite a cease-fire that went into effect after a few months. Pro-government paramilitary groups, with names like "Peace and Justice," have emerged, expelling those who do not accept their authority.

The Roman Catholic human rights center for this diocese has chronicled two years of expulsion, house burning, and assassination in the two years leading up to Acteal -- all unpunished, and almost all at the hands of pro-government militaries. Here they are called "Pri-istas" after the name of the governing PRI party.

For all the danger, Antonio -- 45, and the father of 12 -- still willingly announces, "I am Zapatista" because, he explains, all other paths seem exhausted.

"I went to school only to the fourth grade, but little by little I learned more," he says, mentioning courses in nursing, organic farming, raising fish. He even landed jobs as an indigenous "technical advisor" in government programs.

But there was a moment of taking stock. "I was doing the best I could, as my father and his father had done, and still could not give my family the barest necessities, like shoes."

Antonio also speaks to a local perception that an insidious racism against indigenous people touches every corner of life here. "On every job, the government agronomists and engineers who were well paid took advantage of the kind of knowledge we learn from our fathers. But what does it benefit us?"

After the Zapatistas' armed uprising in January of 1994, Antonio decided that, without a change, "there was no future." He is now organizing newcomers to this village to plant. "We're starting with cabbage, radishes, lettuce, carrots, potatoes." He has no plans to leave. "It's beautiful work. I'll stay here."

The pledge may be heartfelt -- but he also knows Zapatistas cannot travel easily these days. Highways and town entrances are militarized with nerve-wracking identification checks, and government authorities have shown they are willing to arrest people for crimes that human rights observers say are fictitious.

On a piece of blue plastic spread on a treasured flat space in front of the hardware store Jose Miguel 22, his mother, his wife, and his son, age 4, sit sorting a heap of coffee beans by color.

The Tzotzil here have long been coffee people. The mountainsides are dark green with the bushy, shiny-leaved trees, and coffee has long brought just enough so they did not have to join those forced to farm in rain forests on the other side of the state.

Jose Miguel used to live in the village of Tzajalhucum. "I have 1200 trees," he lamented. They can be picked three times a year but this year, he says, the Pri-istas picked the first two harvests for themselves without paying. The church human rights office has documented this charge. "If I went to harvest them myself, they would have killed me," he says.

Before the violence, Jose Miguel had real hopes of moving out of the poverty that governs small towns here. He is part of a 15 year old coffee growers' co-op with members in 20 communities, which ensures him a fair price for his coffee.

He tells of the goods he abandoned -- coffee depulping machinery, a radio, a tape recorder, extra clothes, a store of food. "Now when the child is sick, we don't have enough money to buy medicine," he says.

He managed to get these beans because "I went quick and cut fast," picking only what he could carry on his back and watching for paramilitaries or state police. "I was scared."

Polho may be representative of the Zapatista resistance, but otherwise it feels much like any other village in Central America. At first light, women are chatting and laughing over the laundry they wash in communal tubs. By midday, even the winter sun is so hot a rest is the best defense. At sunset the young men, suddenly shy, walk past knots of young women, clearly hoping to catch an eye. Some look a little glum -- perhaps because there is no beer, as Zapatista communities are pledged to stay dry.

But it is impossible to ignore the passage on the highway above -- soldiers in dark green, state police in dark blue, federal police in black. And occasionally an open-backed pickup filled with men in plain clothes who whistle and jeer down at the villagers.

"Paramilitaries," someone says.