In Indonesia, where politics carries on without conviction but also without irony, I am reminded of a slender figure, masked and armed, emerging from the guerrilla zone in the Lacadon jungle in the Mexican interior, bullet-pouches on his belt, and smoking a small pipe like a daydreaming poet. He is interesting not because he is a photogenic character. He is interesting because he, Subcomandante Marcos, exemplifies a struggle with convict