Parishioners carry a religious float with a statue of St. Mark during a month-long event honoring the saint, outside St. Mark’s church in Aguascalientes, Mexico, Friday, April 25, 2025. (AP Photo/Eduardo Verdugo)
AGUASCALIENTES, México (AP) – There’s a corner in central Mexico where much revolves around a revered saint. The neighborhood’s name? Saint Mark’s. The name of the local Catholic church? You guessed it, St. Mark’s.
Last year, 10 million visited the city of Aguascalientes, about 500 kilometers (310 miles) northwest of Mexico City, the country’s capital. But the crowds on Friday were there for something more than just the fair. They came to honor Saint Mark, also known as Mark the Evangelist.
Rev. Abel Carmona, who leads Masses and processions on April 25, when Catholics observe St. Mark’s Day or the Feast of Saint Mark, says that “even if the fair’s original purpose was commercial and agricultural, a religious sense was later added to it.”
He says the fair now promotes knowledge about St. Mark, whose relics are kept in Venice, Italy, where the landmark St. Mark’s Basilica is located.
The neighborhood was founded in 1620 as the settlement of “Indios de San Marcos” (St. Mark’s Indians) by Spanish missionaries who built a small church.
A fair was first held in November 1828 in a nearby village, mainly for farmers to offer their merchandise. But after a beautiful garden was constructed close to St. Mark’s church 20 years later, authorities decided to host the fair in St. Mark’s, ahead of the saint’s feast day.
Jodie Altamira, 35, grew up in the neighborhood and now helps organize processions and a bazar at the church during the fair, which she says it has been part of her identity, both as a resident of Aguascalientes and a Catholic.
Over the years, Carmona and Altamira grew concerned about the fairgoers’ excessive alcohol consumption and now are working to spark a different, healthier ambiance. This year, the neighborhood hosted three lectures about St. Mark’s and the church’s history.
Carmona said this year was special because the community also marked what is known as “the defense of the temple.”
It commemorates a fraught time in the 1920s, when then-President Plutarco Elías Calles planned to set up a Mexican “schismatic” church, independent from Rome. In February 1925, St. Mark’s church was taken by priests loyal to Calles but the local residents staged a rebellion and eventually got their beloved temple back.
“It was a heroic defense,” Carmona said. “And it was significant because it led to Calles giving up on his idea of founding a Mexican church.”
Carmona celebrated Mass throughout the day on Friday. Afterward, a concert was to follow and a procession before sunset.
“Our procession is a public manifestation to say that ‘Saint Mark’ is not just a pagan fair,” Altamira said. “It’s how we celebrate the saint who brought us to Jesus Christ.”
___
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
A person walks past a pride flag at Casa Frida, a shelter that supports LGBTQ+ migrants, in Tapachula, Chiapas state, Mexico, Wednesday, March 12, 2025. (AP Photo/Moises Castillo)
TAPACHULA, México (AP) – Ana Esquivel no longer feels like her heart stops every time she sees a police officer.
“We’ve been told that they won’t harass or mistreat us here, but back home, if a male name is spotted on your ID, you could spend the night detained,” said the 50-year-old transgender woman. She fled Cuba fearing for her safety and arrived in Mexico earlier this year.
Esquivel settled in the southern city of Tapachula, hoping to dodge the Trump’s administration crackdown on migration and reach the United States. But unlike many who were turned back after Customs and Border Protection abruptly canceled appointments for people to legally enter the United States, returning home is not an option for LGBTQ+ migrants.
“The LGBT population doesn’t necessarily leave their countries for the same reasons as others,” said Mariana de la Cruz, operations director at Casa Frida, a shelter that supports LGBTQ+ migrants and lost 60% of its funds after President Donald Trump ordered the suspension of foreign assistance programs in January.
“They leave due to discrimination and violence based on their gender identity,” de la Cruz said. “Beyond economic reasons or the American Dream, they leave because they need to survive.”
The flux of migrants at the Southern Mexican border with Guatemala dipped after Trump announced plans to restrict refugees and asylum seekers, contending he wants to stop illegal entry and border crime. The Mexican Commission for Refugee Aid in Tapachula has not updated its public data since December 2024, but the transformation is clear.
Hundreds of migrants no longer flood a public square, waiting for a response to their refugee applications. And though lines still form around the commission’s headquarters, locals say the crowds are smaller.
At a nearby Catholic shelter, administrator Herber Bermúdez said they have hosted up to 1,700 migrants at a time, but it’s closer to 300 with the shutdown of CBP One, the U.S. border app that facilitated legal entry into the country.
“The change was substantial,” Bermúdez said. “By Jan. 20, we had around 1,200 people, but as the app stopped working, people started heading back to their countries.”
In contrast, help requests addressed to Casa Frida have not dropped.
«All of the people we support were victims of violence,» said Sebastián Rodríguez, who works at the shelter. «They can’t go back.»
In Tapachula since 2022, Casa Frida staff review on average 80 applications per month, assessing the most at-risk. According to Rodríguez, nonbinary and transgender migrants are frequently vulnerable to attacks.
The shelter doesn’t have enough resources to help everyone, but they bring on about 70 new people monthly and can support up to 200 LGBTQ+ at any given time.
Several migrants recently told The Associated Press they were kidnapped by cartel members as they set foot in Mexico and had to give up their possessions to be released.
LGBTQ+ people face more violence, Rodríguez said. Transgender women often dress as men to avoid mockery and being spotted by criminals. If they are spared and reach a shelter, staff assign them to male dorms. If they leave and try to rent a room elsewhere, landlords seem unhospitable or demand unthinkable fees.
“That’s why programs like ours are needed,” Rodríguez said.
According to the shelter, about 40% of its population was affected by the end of CBP One app and the mass cancellation of appointments.
“Some people feel discouraged and hopeless,” Rodríguez said. “But many have applied for asylum in Mexico.”
Among its services, Casa Frida can provide a roof and meals for up to 12 people for three months. The organization’s other programs can help several more migrants by providing legal guidance on remaining in Mexico, advice on finding temporary jobs with inclusive environments, psychological counseling and tips for renting apartments under fair conditions.
“Most people just think of us as a shelter, but providing refuge is only the core of what we do,” Rodríguez said. “Our goal is to reintegrate violence victims into society.”
The shelter operates in three locations: Mexico City, where it was founded in 2020 and mostly supports locals; Tapachula, which mainly receives migrants from Cuba, Honduras, Venezuela, El Salvador, Perú and Haiti; and Monterrey, where those at grave risk are transferred to be safe at an undisclosed address.
Manuel Jiménez, 21, was welcomed at the Mexico City station in February. He arrived from a state near the capital when harassment by family members became unbearable.
Jiménez initially hoped to reach the U.S. and he traveled north in November 2024. All went well until border patrol officers detained him in Arizona and he was deported. But it was dangerous for him to stay in his hometown.
“Someone told me about this shelter because I wanted to find a place where I could feel at peace,” said Jiménez, who identifies as bisexual. “Back home, there were people who wanted to hurt me, verbally and physically.”
Now living at Casa Frida, he started working at a nearby restaurant and hopes to save money that will enable him to find a home of his own.
Back in Tapachula, Esquivel applied for Mexican refugee status. Around 85% of Casa Frida’s migrants get a positive response, so she’s optimistic. Maybe one day, she hopes, she could go back to school, land a job and relocate.
“I want to stay here and become part of this country,” Esquivel said. “I want to do it the right way and I’m grateful to Casa Frida for helping me get there.”
She learned about the shelter from another trans woman who also fled Cuba after feeling threatened by police.
“I was nearly arrested,” said Rachel Pérez, 51. “In Cuba, we are discriminated and persecuted. We leave in search for a better life.”
According to Esquivel, she was accused of prostitution — which is not illegal under Cuban law — for repeatedly walking alone at night. Police warned her a few times, but she kept going out until she was detained and transferred to a male prison.
“I was raped there,” said Esquivel, who remained imprisoned for a year. “I was only 21 and the inmates abused me. Within time, I learned how to defend myself, but those were very difficult times I won’t forget.”
Staff at Casa Frida constantly updates their protocols to help migrants like Esquivel. But keeping operations running has proved challenging due to the U.S. aid cuts. According to De la Cruz, worrisome notifications popped by Jan. 24, and a few weeks later, 60% of their budget was gone.
“We’ve been looking everywhere to find new sustainability alternatives,” she said. “We are part of a network focused on LGBT mobility in Latin America and the Caribbean — 13 organizations in 10 countries — and at least 50% of them took a hit.”
Funding campaigns and ongoing meetings with European and local leaders might bring a solution, but concerns haven’t ceased and the team could significantly diminish its operations.
“Nothing is written in stone and we don’t know what could happen next,” De la Cruz said.
____
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
MEXICO CITY (AP) – Quintonil is not your typical Mexican restaurant.
Clients book tables months in advance to celebrate special occasions. The World’s 50 Best list ranked it as the most acclaimed venue in the country in 2024 — and No. 7 worldwide. But once in a while something unexpected happens: food brings guests to tears.
“We have hosted people who have wept over a tamale,” said chef Jorge Vallejo, who founded Quintonil in Mexico City in March 2012.
He intentionally chose traditional street food for the menu — insects and other pre-Hispanic delicacies included. Priced at 4,950 pesos ($250 US) per person, it evokes the nostalgia of home and the history of the homeland.
The tamale — which translates from the Nahuatl language as “wrapped” — is a Mesoamerican delicacy made of steamed corn dough. It can be filled with savory or sweet ingredients — such as pork meat and pineapple — and topped with sauce.
Official records show that around 500 varieties of tamales can be found in Mexico. And according to a publication of Samuel Villela, ethnologist from the National School of Anthropology and History, Nahua communities used them for ritual purposes.
Most of Vallejo’s clientele are foreigners attracted by the two Michelin stars awarded to Quintonil last year. Others are nationals who spent decades living abroad or Americans of Mexican descent in search of a taste from their ancestry.
“They come to visit their families and feel shaken by the flavors that remind them who they are,” the chef said. “It’s like coming back to their roots.”
Providing that experience is what motivated him to open Quintonil 13 years ago. He first thought of his 11-table restaurant as a “fonda,” as Mexicans call popular food venues offering homemade dishes.
“I didn’t think I would own a restaurant like Quintonil nor did I aspire to that,” Vallejo said. “What I’ve tried to do is to learn from Mexico and show the best of it.”
He took his first job in a place resembling a fonda, where he and his mom used to have lunch. He then studied culinary arts.
For a while, he worked on a cruise line, peeling crabs and coordinating the logistics to feed thousands of clients. Back in Mexico, he met his wife and business partner at Pujol, run by famed chef Enrique Olvera. They founded Quintonil a few years later and their mission has not changed: We’ll tell our country’s tales through food.
“We all have a life story,” Vallejo said. “I try to interpret that and transform it into stories we can share at Quintonil.”
Traveling is part of his routine. He meets with colleagues to exchange anecdotes and contacts, but also encounters local farmers and spends time in remote communities to understand how food and tradition intertwine.
“In Mexico, we have ecosystems and ingredients that don’t exist anywhere else,” Vallejo said. “And our recipes, our traditions, are deeply rooted in society.”
His menu at Quintonil often incorporates insects, treasured since pre-Hispanic times.
Ancient documents describe how the Mexica were once established in the Chapultepec Hill. Its name comes from “chapulín,” a type of grasshopper that Mexicans currently enjoy from street vendors or at popular bars known as “cantinas.”
“In Mexico City, we have ‘escamoles’ season,” Vallejo said, referring to an edible larvae the Aztec people ate. “But in Oaxaca, we can find the ‘chicatana’ ants. In Tlaxcala, ‘cocopaches’ (a leaf-footed bug) and in Guerrero, they have insects of their own.”
Alexandra Bretón, a food enthusiast who has visited Quintonil several times and reviews restaurants in her blog “Chilangas Hambrientas,” feels that Vallejo’s contribution to Mexican gastronomy is invaluable.
“He has elevated Mexican ingredients,” Bretón said. “My memories of Quintonil are of dishes where herbs, insects and vegetables are taken seriously in dishes with great technique.”
During her last visit in February, she tasted a delicious tamale filled with duck. Her second favorite was a taco, which can be found at thousands of food spots, but Vallejo somehow transforms into an experience.
“What we do here are not just beautiful plates,” said Geraldine Rodríguez, Quintonil’s sous chef. “We aim to nourish people, to show what Mexico is.”
There was a time, she said, when fine dining was synonymous of foie gras and lobster. But Quintonil chose another path.
“We have an ancestral cuisine that comes from our grandmothers,” Rodríguez said. “So we respect those recipes and add the chef’s touch.”
The taco experience highlighted by Bretón is among those efforts. Several ingredients — insects, for instance — are offered in plates for clients to wrap in tortillas.
“Through that interaction, that ritual that we Mexicans own, we watch clients wondering if they’re grabbing the taco in a proper way,” Rodríguez said. “But we always tell them we just want them to feel at home.”
Working long shifts and aiming for perfection is not an easy task for the 60 people working at Quintonil.
Rodríguez can spend up to four hours selecting a handful of sprouts to decorate a plate. Other near-invisible, almost ritualistic tasks are performed daily. One of them is brushing the “milpa,” a textile that hangs from the terrace and was named after Mesoamerican fields where crops are grown.
In the end it’s all worth it, Rodríguez said, because Quintonil provides clients with moments that evoke special memories.
She, too, has seen Vallejo’s clients cry over food. One of them was her dad. It was his 50th birthday, she said, and while she was not an employee of Quintonil at the time, Vallejo greeted her warmly.
The menu of the day included “huauzontles,» a green plant commonly cooked as a bun-shaped delicacy dipped in sauce. It also bears history, as Aztec communities ate it and used it to perform religious rites.
Quintonil’s recipe added stir-fry tomato and a local cheese. “When he ate it, he started crying and said they reminded him of my grandma,” Rodríguez said. “I had never seen my dad cry over a plate.”
Vallejo has often expressed joy for the recognition that Quintonil has achieved. But in his view, a chef’s true success is measured by what he make his clients feel.
“Mexican cuisine is a connection to the land, to the ingredients,” he said. “It’s a series of elements that produce not an emotion, but a feeling. And for me, there’s nothing more amazing than provoking that.”
____
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
German director and organist Leo Krämer rehearses for a concert at the Metropolitan Cathedral in Mexico City, Friday, Feb. 28, 2025. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)
After six decades of devotion to the organ, Maestro Leo Krämer treats the instrument like an extension of himself. He doesn’t even need to lay hands on it to hear in his mind how a song will sound.
“That’s why it’s called an organ,” Krämer said. “Because it’s alive.”
The 81-year-old German director and organist was the latest guest star of Mexico City’s Catholic cathedral, where he recently inaugurated a season of sacred music concerts.
Subsequent presentations will be announced by the Archdiocese’s social media channels. Throughout 2025, a diverse range of musicians, directors and choirs will play once a month. Krämer is expected to come back for the closing concert in December.
“Our goal is to position the cathedral as a space in which we can praise God and convey the taste for good music,” said Arturo Hernández, from the organizing committee of the music festival, during a recent press conference. “Within these walls, we can find marvelous works of art — paintings, sculptures — but musical expressions can sometimes go unnoticed.”
Not for Krämer, that is. In the 1980s, he performed a concert at the very same Cathedral and was beyond excited to make its two organs roar a second time.
“Each organ represents a nation’s culture,” he said. “It might be a single instrument, but it can be tremendously variable depending on its origin.”
Back home, in Germany, the touchstone moment for organ music came with Johann Sebastian Bach during the Baroque period, he said. And in Mexico, where the Indigenous lands were conquered in 1521, organ music arose from the nation’s Spanish heritage.
“For a European musician like myself, entering a magnificent space as this cathedral, having the opportunity to play and listen to these historical instruments, is just fascinating.”
According to historian Kevin Valdez, the cathedral itself is special because it has two organs — one Mexican, one Spanish — and both survived a fire in 1967.
The wooden titans rest over the choir loft facing each other like 18th century twins. Their dimensions slightly differ with the Spanish one being the tallest, but together have more than 6,000 pipes capable of producing thousands of sound variations.
Since their construction, several composers have specifically written music to be played on the pair. And to this day, cathedral staff take care of its precious musical archive, which musicians worldwide, like Krämer, revere.
Unlike violinists or trumpeters who bring their instruments with them, Krämer encounters new organs as he changes venues.
Days before each concert, he climbs the stairs to the organ’s bench and keyboards, getting to know the instrument by allowing his fingers to dance freely.
“Once I recognize the organ, what I acoustically feel with it, I choose the music I will play,” Krämer said. “It all depends on the acoustic capacities of the instrument and the space.”
His fascination with music came from childhood. In Püttlingen, where he was born, both his parents were amateur singers.
Before he left for school, as his mom prepared his lunch, he listened to her songs. Other days, while his dad took him to church to practice with the choir he was part of, Krämer rejoiced.
“My earliest memories are not from when I learned to read or write,” he said. “My first memories are being in church, listening to music, feeling fascinated by the sound of the organs.”
That was all it took. At age 11, he decided to become a musician and fill holy spaces with an organ’s voice.
It might seem a solitary job. Krämer plays practically isolated, merely aided by two assistants who pull in and out the side knobs that determine the pipes’ sound. But he never feels too far from his listeners.
“I can absolutely feel the contact,” he said. “It’s energy. It’s connection. Music is like a street that you create between yourself and the public. It’s God’s gift for humankind.”
During his latest concert at Mexico’s cathedral, Krämer performed with both organs, pleasing the audience.
Saira de la Torre, a soprano who happened to be among the audience, said she felt overwhelmed by the opportunity to “watch closely” such an emotive musician and feel an instrument as majestic as the organ. “The most moving moments were those of simplicity,” she said. “This touched my soul.”
Óscar Ramírez, an architect, was impressed by how the organ filled the church. “The sound dissipated through lots of places. You could feel one thing here, another one there,” Ramírez said. “This space alone could make music sound this way.”
Krämer’s repertoire included works by Bach, Italian composer Ignacio de Jerusalem and pieces from the cathedral’s archive, such as “Misa Ferial a 4” by Spanish artist Hernando Franco. Krämer also improvised, sound spilling out of his hands.
Verónica Barrios sat quietly for a few minutes after Krämer faded behind the choir.
“You don’t just come here to pray,” she said. “This is music that brings us closer to God.”
____
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
Feligreses encienden una vela por la salud del papa Francisco en la Catedral Metropolitana en Ciudad de México, el jueves 27 de febrero de 2025. (AP Foto/Marco Ugarte)
CIUDAD DE MÉXICO (AP) – Cuando Araceli Gutiérrez leyó en redes sociales que la Arquidiócesis de México convocaba a un oración para el papa Francisco, la mujer de 60 no lo pensó ni un segundo. Tomó su rosario, consiguió una veladora y se dirigió a la catedral capitalina.
“Él es como parte de la familia”, dijo tras el rosario del jueves por la tarde. “Por eso se siente esta preocupación por él».
Como ella, otras decenas de personas se dieron cita en el templo católico de Ciudad de México para pedir por la recuperación de Francisco, quien ha estado hospitalizado en Roma desde el 14 de febrero tras una infección respiratoria que derivó en neumonía y otras complicaciones.
El papa de 88 años, a quien se le extirpó parte de un pulmón cuando era joven, padece una enfermedad pulmonar crónica y el sábado sufrió una crisis respiratoria asmática que requirió altos flujos de oxígeno. Desde entonces, el Vaticano ha reportado mejorías leves y constantes, aunque los médicos indicaron el jueves que requiere más días de “estabilidad clínica”.
Gutiérrez, quien recuerda con nostalgia la visita que Francisco realizó a México en 2016, dice que ha rezado por él desde que se enteró de sus más recientes complicaciones de salud. “En muchos actos en los que yo lo veo en la tele, digo: ‘Es Dios; son los actos que hubiera hecho Jesús si estuviera aquí con nosotros’”.
Poco antes del inicio del rosario, las hermanas María Teresa y María Consuelo Sánchez guardaron unos minutos de silencio y se persignaron frente a una fotografía de Francisco.
María Teresa, de 72 años, contó que son colombianas y están de visita por México, pero decidieron unirse a la oración porque el papa siempre pide que recen por él. “Es el único papa que ha sido latinoamericano, que no es de tan lejos», dijo. “Eso es como tener un familiar en los altos mandos, con Dios”.
Tanto ella como su hermana, de 70 años, afirmaron que su pontificado se ha distinguido por su sencillez. “Es un papa humilde, como un amigo”, dijo María Consuelo.
A pocos metros de ella, hincado sobre el mármol de la catedral, José Carlos Zúñiga mantenía los ojos cerrados y las manos frente al pecho mientras el canónigo Manuel Corral repetía un Avemaría tras otra.
“He estado al pendiente de su salud”, dijo el mexicano de 56 años. “Me tocó conocerlo en Morelia en una visita que hizo y, para uno como católico, es algo que lo llena porque no es fácil que venga y no es fácil que uno vaya hasta el Vaticano».
El viaje que Francisco realizó por México en 2016 duró cinco días y recorrió territorios inexplorados por sus predecesores, como Michoacán y Chiapas, donde gran parte de la población se ha visto asolada por el narcotráfico, el crimen organizado y la corrupción.
En el país de 100 millones de católicos, el pontífice argentino se encontró con familiares de los 43 estudiantes desaparecidos en 2014 y rezó por los migrantes. En la última misa que ofreció en Ciudad Juárez antes de volver al Vaticano, pidió por todos aquellos que han muerto tratando de llegar a Estados Unidos.
Al finalizar el rosario del jueves, el padre Corral contó a periodistas que le entusiasmaba que los últimos reportes desde Roma refieren que la salud de Francisco ha mostrado ciertas mejoras.
“Lo queremos mucho porque es un papa que está cercano, que da vida», dijo». “Siempre está sonriente. Dicen que sigue con su gran humor y eso nos alegra mucho”.
____
La cobertura de noticias religiosas de The Associated Press recibe apoyo a través de una colaboración con The Conversation US, con fondos del Lilly Endowment Inc. La AP es la única responsable de todo el contenido.
MEXICO CITY (AP) – Legend has it the axolotl was not always an amphibian. Long before it became Mexico’s most beloved salamander and efforts to prevent its extinction flourished, it was a sneaky god.
“It’s an interesting little animal,” said Yanet Cruz, head of the Chinampaxóchitl Museum in Mexico City.
Its exhibitions focus on axolotl and chinampas, the pre-Hispanic agricultural systems resembling floating gardens that still function in Xochimilco, a neighborhood on Mexico City’s outskirts famed for its canals.
“Despite there being many varieties, the axolotl from the area is a symbol of identity for the native people,” said Cruz, who participated in activities hosted at the museum to celebrate “Axolotl Day” in early February.
While there are no official estimates of the current axolotl population, the species Ambystoma mexicanum — endemic of central Mexico— has been catalogued as “critically endangered” by the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species since 2019. And though biologists, historians and officials have led efforts to save the species and its habitat from extinction, a parallel, unexpected preservation phenomenon has emerged.
Axolotl attracted international attention after Minecraft added them to its game in 2021 and Mexicans went crazy about them that same year, following the Central Bank’s initiative to print it on the 50-peso bill. “That’s when the ‘axolotlmania’ thrived,” Cruz said.
All over Mexico, the peculiar, dragon-like amphibian can be spotted in murals, crafts and socks. Selected bakeries have caused a sensation with its axolotl-like bites. Even a local brewery — “Ajolote” in Spanish — took its name from the salamander to honor Mexican traditions.
Before the Spaniards conquered Mexico-Tenochtitlan in the 16th century, axolotl may not have had archeological representations as did Tláloc — god of rain in the Aztec worldview — or Coyolxauhqui — its lunar goddess — but it did appear in ancient Mesoamerican documents.
In the Nahua myth of the Fifth Sun, pre-Hispanic god Nanahuatzin threw himself into a fire, reemerged as the sun and commanded fellow gods to replicate his sacrifice to bring movement to the world. All complied but Xólotl, a deity associated with the evening star, who fled.
“He was hunted down and killed,” said Arturo Montero, archeologist of the National Commission of Protected Natural Areas. “And from his death came a creature: axolotl.”
According to Montero, the myth implies that, after a god’s passing, its essence gets imprisoned in a mundane creature, subject to the cycles of life and death. Axolotl then carries within itself the Xolotl deity, and when the animal dies and its divine substance transits to the underworld, it later resurfaces to the earth and a new axolotl is born.
“Axolotl is the twin of maize, agave and water,” Montero said.
Current fascination toward axolotl and its rise to sacred status in pre-Hispanic times is hardly a coincidence. It was most likely sparked by its exceptional biological features, Montero said.
Through the glass of a fish tank, where academic institutions preserve them and hatcheries put them up for sale, axolotl are hard to spot. Their skin is usually dark to mimic stones — though an albino, pinkish variety can be bred — and they can stay still for hours, buried in the muddy ground of their natural habitats or barely moving at the bottom of their tanks in captivity.
Aside from their lungs, they breathe through their gills and skin, which allows them to adapt to its aquatic environment. And they can regenerate parts of its heart, spinal cord and brain.
“This species is quite peculiar,” said biologist Arturo Vergara, who supervises axolotl preservation efforts in various institutions and cares after specimens for sale at a hatchery in Mexico City.
Depending on the species, color and size, Axolotl’s prices at Ambystomania — where Vergara works — start at 200 pesos ($10 US). Specimens are available for sale when they reach four inches in length and are easy pets to look after, Vergara said.
“While they regularly have a 15-years life span (in captivity), we’ve had animals that have lived up to 20,” he added. “They are very long-lived, though in their natural habitat they probably wouldn’t last more than three or four years.”
The species on display at the museum — one of 17 known varieties in Mexico — is endemic to lakes and canals that are currently polluted. A healthy population of axolotl would likely struggle to feed or reproduce.
“Just imagine the bottom of a canal in areas like Xochimilco, Tlahuac, Chalco, where there’s an enormous quantity of microbes,” Vergara said.
Under ideal conditions, an axolotl could heal itself from snake or heron biting and survive the dry season buried in the mud. But a proper aquatic environment is needed for that to happen.
“Efforts to preserve axolotl go hand in hand with preserving the chinampas,” Cruz said at the museum, next to a display featuring salamander-shaped dolls. “We work closely with the community to convince them that this is an important space.”
Chinampas are not only where axolotl lay its eggs, but areas where pre-Hispanic communities grew maize, chili, beans and zucchini, and some of Xochimilco’s current population grow vegetables despite environmental threats.
“Many chinampas are dry and don’t produce food anymore,” Cruz said. “And where some chinampas used to be, one can now see soccer camps.”
For her, like for Vergara, preserving axolotl is not an end, but a means for saving the place where the amphibian came to be.
“This great system (chinampas) is all that’s left from the lake city of Mexico-Tenochtitlan, so I always tell our visitors that Xochimilco is a living archeological zone,” Cruz said. “If we, as citizens, don’t take care of what’s ours, it will be lost.”
—-
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
FILE – Maka Indigenous leader Mateo Martinez leads a protest for the recovery of ancestral lands in Asuncion, Paraguay, Feb. 28, 2024. (AP Photo/Jorge Saenz, File)
ASUNCIÓN (AP) – Many Maká traditions have slowly faded. Yet a few elders among these Paraguayan Indigenous people recall how their songs imitated birds.
“Men used to say that, as they sang, they travelled to Iguazu Falls or to the mountains,” said Gustavo Torres, a Maká teacher based near Paraguay’s capital, Asunción. “Their songs imitated nature.”
Next to him smiled Elodia Servín, who only speaks the Maká language but had Torres help as a translator. Her skin is covered in wrinkles and she has forgotten her age, but a memory sticks: A long time ago, when she was healthy and strong, she loved dancing in Fray Bartolomé de las Casas, a territory her people are now fighting to get back.
The land in dispute is an 828-acre (335 hectare) terrain that the Maká claim ownership over. Paraguay’s government has rejected most of their arguments, designating part of it to build a bridge connecting two cities across the Paraguay River.
Fray Bartolomé, as the Maká call it, was offered to them through a decree issued in 1944 by strongman Higinio Morínigo, then Paraguay’s president. It was meant as a present, the Maká have said, to acknowledge their courage and the role they played during the Chaco War against Bolivia in the 1930s.
“That place is sacred for us,” said Maká leader Mateo Martínez, 65. “It was a gift we thanked God for because it was given through people that loved us.”
His ancestors, Martínez said, guided soldiers through the mountains and quenched their hunger and thirst during the war.
“Only the Indigenous people knew where to find water,” he said. “If a Paraguayan soldier had gotten lost there alone, he would have died.”
Aside from the decree, details of the gift were never put on paper. The ownership titles were issued in the 2000s, and once they were, less than half of the promised acres were granted to the Maká.
Officials have said that a piece of land was indeed given to the community by Morínigo, but its size was never determined nor were its coordinates precise. Both sides meet on a regular basis to discuss a potential new agreement, though no consensus has been reached yet.
“We are open to talking,” Martínez said. “But the government won’t listen to us or tries to deceive us.”
The Maká are one of the 19 Indigenous communities of Paraguay. In the South American country of 6.8 million, more than 140,000 are Indigenous people. The latest census from 2022 estimates that around 2,600 Maká are distributed in both urban and rural areas.
Mariano Roque Alonso, where Servín and 1,600 other Maká live, is located across the Paraguay River, not too far from Fray Bartolomé. Floods forced them to relocate in the 1980s, and they haven’t been able to move back since.
Younger generations have learned Spanish, but their native language remains predominant. A few steps from the Baptist church most of the community attends, the prayers painted on a wall are in Maká.
“Our elders had other beliefs,” Martínez said. “They used to believe in the forces of nature. They prayed to the Venus star. To the moon for good health and crops.”
Among their most treasured traditions, the Maká still make a feast when a young woman transitions from puberty to adulthood. Men drink chicha, made of fermented corn, or fight as part of the celebrations. Women like Servín sing.
“Our songs come from our ancestors,” she said. “I now want to bequeath them to younger generations. To my daughters and granddaughters.”
Many like her — who sell bags and other embroidered products — make a living from craftsmanship.
Patricio Colman, 63, produces necklaces, bracelets, arrows and bows. He, too, grew up in Fray Bartolomé and recalls his people’s long-gone traditions.
“When hunters were still alive, they gathered to go hunting and stayed up to three months in the mountains,” Colman said. “But no one does that anymore.”
Back in the day, he said, the Maká had various leaders. One for hunting, one for fishing, one for youth and one for dancing. Now Martínez is the only one left.
“Even then, when officials used to visit, the distribution of the territory was unclear,” Colman said. “There had always been a threat of invasion.”
The Maká not only weep for the loss of the land itself, but the distance keeping them from their loved ones buried in Fray Bartolomé. Among them is Juan Belaieff, a Russian soldier and cartographer who mapped the region during the Chaco War. According to Martínez, then-elders thought of him as a white deity who served as a link between the community and God.
“They loved him deeply, and he was venerated by our grandparents,” the leader said.
Non-Maká people might find it hard to spot their cemetery. With no tombstones or crosses on-site, officials have doubted their claims.
“We are a different culture, though,” Martínez said. “When a Maká perishes, we don’t use a cross.”
The community does dig graves for loved ones who have recently died. Relatives cover the bodies with a cloak and the person’s belongings, but no other rituals are performed and graves are not marked.
“Relatives feel the absence so profoundly that we don’t do any ceremonies or console each other,” Martínez said. “It’s a moment of respect.”
The Maká now bury their people in Quemkuket, about 11 miles (18 kilometers) from their current settlement, but they hope to eventually get their ancestors’ remains back in one place.
“The Maká are warriors, courageous warriors,” Martínez said. “We have been fighting for this for five or six years and have no intention of ever giving up.”
____
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
Photos of people who disappeared during Peru’s internal armed conflict (1980-2000) lie on display at the House of Memory museum in Lima, Peru, Sunday, Oct. 20, 2024. (AP Photo/Guadalupe Pardo)
Thousands of people have disappeared in Latin America during decadeslong conflicts. Many have never been found, presumed to be the victims of dictatorships, insurgencies or organized crime.
The most well-known of these mass disappearances occurred in Argentina and Chile during their military dictatorships. There are similarly wrenching but less well-known traumas elsewhere in the region.
In Peru, Colombia and Paraguay, for example, many people are still searching for answers. Loved ones have found comfort in their faith but have faced years of uncertainty and a lack of official justice.
In Peru, out of 20,000 disappeared people, only 3,200 remains have been found. In Colombia, five decades of war left a staggering death toll and more than 124,000 people missing. Paraguay’s dictatorship left a smaller number of disappeared (500 people), but only 15 bodies have been recovered.
Some key aspects of AP’s reporting from these three countries:A divisive peace in Colombia
Fighting among leftist guerrillas, right-wing paramilitaries, drug lords and government forces left more than 450,000 people killed and 124,000 disappeared. These figures are on par with other conflicts in Latin America, where thousands have vanished under similar circumstances.
In Colombia, though, a peculiar thing happened. Aiming to heal long-time wounds and build new paths toward reconciliation, dozens of former rebels, officials, forensic anthropologists and religious leaders now work side-by-side in finding their country’s disappeared.
A 2016 peace pact with the main rebel group — the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) — earned then-President Juan Manuel Santos a Nobel Peace Prize. But neither he nor his successors have fully addressed endemic violence, displacement and inequality — issues that helped spark Colombia’s conflict in the 1960s.
In 2022, Gustavo Petro, a former rebel, was sworn in as the country’s first leftist leader. His goal is to demobilize all rebels and drug trafficking gangs, but even as a ceasefire was carried out, negotiations with Colombia’s remaining guerrilla group, the National Liberation Army (ELN), failed and violence reemerged. Simultaneously, FARC hold-out groups and trafficking mafias continue to affect the country.
The peace pact established three crucial institutions for searching efforts: the Truth Commission; the Special Jurisdiction for Peace, which encourages offenders to confess their crimes and make restitution actions in exchange for not serving any jail time; and the Search Unit for Disappeared Persons, which traces disappearances, conducts exhumations and returns loved ones’ remains to hurting relatives like Doris Tejada, whose son Óscar Morales disappeared in 2007.
“It’s been 17 years and still hurts,” said Tejada, who found Morales’ remains in 2024. “I asked God for help because it was difficult to see his bones. We still mourn.”
Government forces and illegal groups were as responsible for massacres, forced recruitment and disappearances. According to the Truth Commission, paramilitary groups committed 45% of the homicides, while guerrillas — most of them FARC — carried out 27% and the government forces 12%.In Paraguay, a dictator’s sway is felt long after his ouster
Despite being ousted in 1989 after a 35-year reign of terror, during which 20,000 people were tortured, executed or disappeared, some Paraguayans feel as if Gen. Alfredo Stroessner never truly left.
“This is probably the only country in which the political party that supported a dictator, once he is gone, remains in power,” said Alfredo Boccia, an expert on Paraguay’s history. “That’s why scrutiny took so long, most disappeared were never found and there were barely trials.”
Stroessner served as Paraguay’s president, leader of the conservative Colorado Party, commander of the armed forces and chief of police. He was not overthrown by enemies, but by his in-law, and the military members involved were affiliated with his party, which has ruled almost uninterrupted since.
The Colorado Party’s dominance makes accountability elusive. Few of those responsible for crimes have faced trial, and public schools avoid mentioning the dictatorship during history lessons.
“Paraguayans now vote for the party freely,” Boccia said. “For those of us who fight for memory, that battle was lost.”
Rogelio Goiburu, who has searched for his father for 47 years, was named director of historic memory at the Ministry of Justice, but has no budget. By his own means or raising funds, he has filled in the blanks about the fate of his father and other disappeared people, earning the trust of retired police and military officers who confessed to him how bodies were disposed.
Only one major excavation has been done in Paraguay seeking to solve disappearances. It was led by Goiburu between 2009 and 2013. Of the 15 bodies found, only four were identified.
While 30,000 Argentinians disappeared in a less than a decadelong dictatorship, around 500 people vanished in Paraguay amid the 35-year regime. Regardless, relatives argue that searches must continue.
“Every disappearance attacks the right to mourn,” said Carlos Portillo, who interviewed thousands of victims for the Truth Commission. “There’s no culture which doesn’t have a ritual for mourning. A disappearance is the denying of this ritual, and that’s why it’s impossible to let go.”Grim legacy of Peru’s 20-year insurgency
In Peru, an estimated 20,000 people disappeared between 1980 and 2000 during a brutal conflict between the government and the Sendero Luminoso (or Shining Path), a Communist organization that claimed to seek social transformation through an armed revolution.
Founded in the 1970s by Abimael Guzman, the group turned violent a decade later. Older Peruvians still tell tales about donkeys strapped with explosives detonating in crowds, bombs that blew up streetlamps to plunge cities into darkness, and massacres that wiped out entire families.
The terror, though, was not merely unleashed by the insurgents. The armed forces were equally responsible for deaths and human rights violations.
Hundreds of men — many of them innocent — were captured by the military, often to face torture and execution. Others were slain and buried in mass graves by insurgents seeking to control communities by spreading fear.
Although hundreds of people have disappeared for other motives since then, the Truth Commission said this was the most violent period in Peru’s history. More than 69,000 people are counted as “fatal victims” — about 20,000 classified as “disappeared” and the rest killed by insurgents or the military.
“In many ways, Peru is still dealing with the repercussions of the political violence from the late 20th century,” said Miguel La Serna, a history professor at the University of North Carolina.
“Whole generations of adult men disappeared and that impacted the demographics in these communities. People moved out to escape the violence and some never returned,” he added. “And that’s to say nothing of the social, collective trauma that people experienced.”
Despite the work of forensic doctors, prosecutors and organizations like the International Committee of the Red Cross, only about 3,200 remains have been found. Some now fear that President Dina Boluarte might cut the government’s support to keep searching.
___
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
Gabriela Viquez holds onto her black and tan Yorkie Jerome, as she receives communion during the annual blessing of the animals Mass in Mexico City’s Metropolitan Cathedral, Friday, Jan. 17, 2025. (AP Photo/Marco Ugarte)
MEXICO CITY – Behaving at their best, a dozen dogs attended Mass at Mexico City’s cathedral Friday, waiting for their turn to be doused with holy water.
The blessing of the animals is a long-time Catholic tradition celebrated on January 17. On this day, Mexican Catholic congregations and priests welcome pups, cats and the occasional parrot on the feast day of St. Anthony the Abbot, considered the patron saint of animals.
A few parishioners dress up their beloved pets with sweaters or scarves. But all pray to God and their four-legged friends’ patron to keep them healthy and safe.
Karla Flores feels as if Lana, her 11-year-old dog, was a true blessing. Someone abandoned her as a newborn outside her home on Dec. 12, when millions of Mexican Catholics celebrate Our Lady of Guadalupe.
“We found her next to her mom and little brothers inside a box,” Flores said. “We rescued them and gave up most of them for adoption, but we kept her and her mom.»
Recently, Lana has been depressed and sick, Flores said, so a blessing felt in order.
Rocky, a black, poodle-looking dog, came with owner Naydelin Aguilar. He was a gift from her mother during the pandemic, she said, and will forever feel grateful for the joy he’s brought into her life.
“We have faced tough situations,” Aguilar said. “But he’s been like a light for us during the storms we have endured, and this will be his fifth year as part of our family.”
The Rev. José Antonio Carballo, rector of the cathedral, addressed the pets waiting attentively and calmly in their owners’ arms during his service.
“We ask the Lord to bless them, so he can preserve them and care for them, since they bring company and encouragement to their caretakers,” Carballo said.
As soon as he finished noon Mass, pet owners headed to the cathedral’s entrance, where Carballo sprinkled holy water on both humans and pets.
There was Jerome, a black and tan colored yorkie, held by loving owner Gabriela Viquez.
She adopted him four years ago as a pup and immediately fell head over heels for him. Since then, on the anniversary of the day he arrived home, she gets a cake and hosts a party to celebrate Jerome.
“I once spoke to a person who can talk to animals and she told me that he once was a gift for someone, but was later abandoned and beaten, so he carried a lot of trauma,” Viquez said.
“We are now very happy together and it was a fortune to have found each other.”
____
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
Mariana Ariza, of Venezuela, straightens a compatriot’s hair at the Pope Francis Migrant Shelter in Palmira, Colombia, Friday, Nov. 1, 2024. (AP Photo/Juan Diaz)
PALMIRA, Colombia (AP) – It’s been three years since Douarleyka Velásquez abandoned her career in human resources. Her new job is not what she had planned for, but still feels rewarding. As a cleaning supervisor at a migrant shelter in Colombia, she gets to comfort Venezuelans who, just like herself, fled their homes hoping for a better life.
“I feel that in here I can help my brothers, my countrymen who come and go,” said Velásquez, 47, from Pope Francis Migrant Shelter in Palmira, a city in southwestern Colombia.
The U.N. refugee agency, UNHCR, estimates that more than 7.7 million Venezuelans have left their homeland since 2014, the largest exodus in Latin America’s recent history, with most settling in the Americas, from neighboring Colombia and Brazil to more distant Argentina and Canada.
According to the International Organization for Migration, Colombia hosts the highest population of migrants from Venezuela. Colombian records show that as of mid-2024, more than 2.8 million Venezuelans were in the country.
Pope Francis Migrant Shelter was founded in 2020 to address this phenomena, said the Rev. Arturo Arrieta, who oversees human rights initiatives in the Catholic Diocese of Palmira.
The city is mostly a transit point, Arrieta said. Migrants pass through on their way to the Darien Gap, a treacherous route to reach North America. A few others, who found it impossible to keep migrating or yearned for their past life, make a stop before heading back home.
“It’s one of the few shelters en route,” Arrieta said. “The international community has stopped financing places like this, thinking that it would discourage immigration, but that will never happen. On the contrary, this leaves migrants unprotected.”
People reaching the shelter can stay up to five days, though exceptions can be made. Velásquez was welcomed to the team when she settled in Palmira, which was also the case of Karla Méndez, who works in the kitchen and said that cooking traditional Venezuelan meals for her compatriots brings her joy.
According to Arrieta, the shelter is mostly sought out by families, women traveling alone and the LGBTQ+ population. Food, clothing and spiritual counsel are provided to those in need; facilities include showers, a playground for children, and cages for pets.
Aside from this, the team provides information on human trafficking and support to women who have been abused and to children who travel unaccompanied.
“We have also encountered Venezuelan mothers who are looking for their relatives and are coming from or towards the Darien Gap in a never-ending search,” Arrieta said. “Families are searching for loved ones who disappeared while migrating.”
While no official records track the number of migrants who have vanished – in part because some of them traveled illegally – their disappearances have been acknowledged by human rights organizations and Colombian institutions.
“In recent years, we have found unidentified bodies whose clothing or belongings indicate that they are migrants,” said Marcela Rodriguez, who works at a local missing-persons search unit.
Arrieta knows he can’t protect every migrant from stepping into territories controlled by illegal armed groups. But he does his best to comfort migrants at the shelter.
“Our motto is that we are a caress from God,” he said. “We want them to find an oasis here.”
Velásquez, whose husband, two children and a grandson left Venezuela with her, said that leaving everything behind was tough, but her family now feels at home.
“I feel very proud of what I do,” she said. “I always try to provide encouragement and tell people that all will work out wherever they go.”
One floor up, 20-year-old Mariana Ariza faces a dilemma that many migrants share: Where to go next?
After leaving Venezuela in 2020, she arrived in Bogotá with her 2-year-old and became a sex worker to support her child.
“It’s really hard to migrate and not being able to get a job,” said Ariza, now a mother of two. “I would do anything for my children. I would never let them starve.”
She’s undecided about going back to Venezuela to reunite with her family or heading to Ecuador, to look for better opportunities.
“Some people tell me, ‘You have that job because you don’t know how to do anything,’ but that’s not true,” Ariza said. “I learned a lot of things, but I haven’t had the money or the opportunity to move ahead.”
In Bogotá, where she initially arrived, the Rev. René Rey has spent decades supporting Colombian sex workers and LGBTQ+ people with HIV. In recent years his work has broadened to aid Venezuelan migrants.
He noticed an increased influx starting in 2017, when protests flared in Venezuela in reaction to an attempt by the government to strip the National Assembly of its powers.
“It was a strong wave,” Rey said. “Many of them, who were sexually abused or were victims of human and labor trafficking, got here.”
According to Rey, about half of the sex workers in Santa Fe – the neighborhood where he works in Colombia’s capital – are Venezuelan, most of them between 21 and 24 years old.
The building where he teams up with a Catholic organization called Eudes Foundation to provide information on HIV and cook lunches for homeless people is known as “The Refuge.” It’s also a place of prayer, where locals and migrants converge and a few transgender Venezuelan sex workers have found a safe space to practice their faith.
“We just tell them: ‘God is around here, how are you? We would like to be friends’,” Rey said. “I think these honest encounters provoke something new, where the Holy Spirit really is.”
Out of the three prayer groups that he oversees at The Refuge, one is led by Lía Roa, a Colombian transgender woman who became a seminarian before her transition and later struggled for acceptance within the Catholic Church.
Rey initially invited her to participate in activities inclusive of transgender people during Holy Week but later thought: What if she could have a bigger role in our community? So he took his proposal to the cardinal, and he enthusiastically supported it.
The group of half a dozen transgender sex workers – most of them from Venezuela – meet at The Refuge most Saturdays. First, they share a meal. Afterwards, they pray, meditate and talk.
“It’s been a challenge because Santa Fe is like Mecca for trans women,” Roa said. “They carry a rough past that has made them become invisible to the point that they lose their dignity as humans and daughters of God.”
Members of her prayer group often recount that they migrated because they could not find safes spaces for them as trans women in Venezuela. And even if many of them are just passing through Bogotá before heading back home or toward the Darien Gap, Roa feels that their meetings at The Refuge are meaningful and build loving, truthful friendships.
“In their own words, this process becomes spiritual nourishment for their way forward,” Roa said.
“They leave with a new vision, because once you’ve been told that God hates you because you are trans, hearing a priest and another trans telling you that God loves you just the way you are definitely makes a difference.”
____
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
mthernandezr.com 