AP

These Peruvian women left the Amazon, but their homeland still inspires their songs and crafts

Sadith Silvano, de los Paoyhan, una comunidad indígena Shipibo-Konibo en la Amazonía, se pone aretes en su vivienda y taller de arte en Lima, Perú, el 19 de octubre del 2024. (Foto AP/Guadalupe Pardo)

Published by The Associated Press, November 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish story language here

LIMA (AP) – Sadith Silvano’s crafts are born from ancient songs. Brush in hand, eyes on the cloth, the Peruvian woman paints as she sings. And through her voice, her ancestors speak.

“When we paint, we listen to the inspiration that comes from the music and connect to nature, to our elders,” said Silvano, 36, from her home and workshop in Lima, Peru, where she moved two decades ago from Paoyhan, a Shipibo-Konibo Indigenous community nestled in the Amazon.

“These pieces are sacred,” she added. “We bless our work with the energy of our songs.”

According to official figures, close to 33,000 Shipibo-Konibo people inhabit Peru.

Settled in the surroundings of the Uyacali river, many relocated to urban areas like Cantagallo, the Lima neighborhood where Silvano lives.

Handpainted textiles like the ones she crafts have slowly gained recognition. Known as “kené,” they were declared part of the “Cultural Heritage of the Nation” by the Peruvian government in 2008.

Each kené is unique, Shipibo craftswomen say. Every pattern speaks of a woman’s community, her worldview and beliefs.

“Every design tells a story,” said Silvano, dressed in traditional clothing, her head crowned by a beaded garment. “It is a way in which a Shipibo woman distinguishes herself.”

Her craft is transmitted from one generation to another. As wisdom is rooted in nature, the knowledge bequeathed by the elders connects younger generations to their land. 

Paoyhan, where Silvano was born, is a flight and a 12-hour boat trip away from Lima.

In her hometown, locals rarely speak languages other than Shipibo. Doors and windows have no locks and people eat from Mother Nature.

Adela Sampayo, a 48-year-old healer who was born in Masisea, not too far from Paoyhan, moved to Cantagallo in the year 2000, but says that all her skills come from the Amazon. 

“Since I was a little girl, my mom treated me with traditional medicine,” said Sampayo, seated in the lotus position inside the home where she provides ayahuasca and other remedies for those ailing with a wounded body or soul.

“She gave me plants to become stronger, to avoid getting sick, to be courageous,” said Sampayo. “That’s how the energy of the plants started growing inside me.”

She, too, conveys her worldview through her textiles. Though she does not paint, she embroiders, and each thread tells a tale from home.

“Each plant has a spirit,” said the healer, pointing to the leaves embroidered in the cloth. “And medicinal plants come from God.”

The plants painted by Silvano also bear meaning. One of them represents pure love. Another symbolizes a wise man. One more, a serpent.

“The anaconda is special for us,” Silvano said. “It’s our protector, like a god that cares for us and provides food and water.”

In ancient times, she said, her people believed that the sun was their father and the anacondas were their guardians. Colonization brought a new religion — Catholicism — and their Indigenous worldview was diluted.

“Nowadays we have different religions,” Silvano said. “Catholic, evangelical, but we respect our other beliefs too.”

For many years, after her father took her to Lima hoping for a better future, she yearned for her mountains, her clear sky and her time alone in the jungle. Life in Paoyhan was not precisely easy, but from a young age she learned how to stay strong.

Back in the 1990s, Amazonian communities were affected by violence from the Shining Path insurgency and illegal logging. Poverty and sexism were also common, which is why many Shibipo women taught themselves how to navigate their anguish through the heartfelt music they sing.

“When we encounter difficult times, we overcome them with our therapy: designing, painting, singing,” Silvano said. “We have a song that is melodic and heals our soul, and another one that is inspiring and brings us joy.”

Few Shipibo girls are encouraged to study or make a living of their own, Silvano said. Instead, they are taught to wait for a husband. And once married, to endure any abuse, cheating or discomfort they may encounter.

“Even though we suffer, people tell us: Take it, he’s the father of your children. Take it, he is your husband,” Silvano said. “But deep inside, we are wounded. So what do we do? We sing.” 

The lesson is taught from mothers to daughters: If you hurt at home, grab your cloth, your brush and leave. Go far away, alone, and sit. Connect with your kené and paint. And while you paint, sing.

“That’s our healing,” Silvano said. “Through our songs, our kenés, we are free.”

In the workshop where she now works and raises her two children on her own, Delia Pizarro crafts jewelry. She, too, sings as she creates birds out of colorful beads.

“I didn’t use to sing,” Pizarro said. “I was very submissive and I didn’t like to speak, but Olin, Sadith’s sister, told me, ‘You can do this.’ So now I’m a single mother, but I can go wherever I want. I know how to defend myself and fight. I feel valued.”

The figures in the products they craft for sale are varied. Aside from anacondas, they like to depict jaguars, which represent women, and herons, which were treasured by the elders.

A Shipibo textile can take up to a month and a half to be completed. Materials required to craft it — the cloth, the natural pigments — are brought from the Amazon.

The black color used by Silvano is extracted from a bark tree that grows in Paoyhan. The cloth is made of local cotton. The mud used to set the colors comes from the Uyacali river.

“I like it when a foreigner comes and leaves with something from my community,” said Silvano, touching one of her freshly painted textiles to bless it for a quick sale. 

She said that her people’s crafts were barely known when she and her father first arrived in Lima 20 years ago. But in her view, things have now changed.

In Cantagallo, where around 500 Shipibo families have settled, many make a living selling their crafts.

“My art has empowered me and is my loyal companion,” Silvano said. “Thanks to my mother, my grandmother and my sisters, I have a knowledge that has allowed me to open doors.”

“Here’s the energy of our children, our ancestral world and our community,” she added, her textiles still between her hands. “Here’s the inspiration from our songs.”

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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.

Care for a sweet treat during Mexico’s Day of the Dead? Have a bite of ‘pan de muerto’

Pan de muerto, or «bread of the dead,» traditional for Mexico’s Day of the Dead, sits for sale at a bakery in the San Rafael neighborhood of Mexico City, Thursday, Oct. 17, 2024. (AP Photo/Fernando Llano)

Published by The Associated Press, October 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish language story here

The first bite is an assault to the senses. A sugary, citric, fluffy delight.

“Pan de muerto” or “bread of the dead” is baked in Mexico every year, from early October to mid-November, amid Day of the Dead celebrations. 

Shaped like a bun, decorated with bone-like bread pieces and sugar on top, pan de muerto can be seen at coffee shops, dinner tables or home-made altars, which Mexicans build to remember their deceased loved ones and welcome them back for a night on Nov. 2.

Its date of origin can’t be specified, but pan de muerto can be thought of as a fusion of Mesoamerican and Spanish traditions, said Andrés Medina, a researcher at the Anthropological Research Institute of the National Autonomous University of Mexico.Mexicans have remembered the dead with festivities and food for centuries

Since pre-Hispanic times, festivities for the dead have existed and skull-shaped products have been made. But in the 1500s, when the Spaniards arrived, new elements such as sugar and bread were incorporated into Indigenous offerings.

Those early celebrations, Medina said, coincided with the crop season, which provides pan de muerto a spiritual, symbolic meaning. If its decorations resemble bones, it’s because Mesoamerican worldviews regarded them as the origin of life.

According to an ancient myth, Quetzalcóatl created humankind out of bones. Details vary from one source to another, but soon after the god apparently stole them from the underworld, he fell. And from his blood, the seed of life was born.

“Under this worldview, the human body’s bones, just like the fruit’s insides, are seeds,” Medina said. “So, in a way, altars are offerings to fertility. And Day of the Dead is a celebration of the life contained in each seed.”

Pan de muerto’s shape, ingredients and preparations differ from one Mexican state to another, but is enjoyed all over the country.100 and counting: One man’s quest to try every variation of “pan de muerto”

In Mexico City, hundreds of bakeries make their own version. Rodrigo Delgado has spent years trying to taste them all.

For fun, he challenges himself to try as many as possible and review them on his Instagram account. On his first quest, a decade ago, he tried 15. In 2023, he had a bite of 100. This year, he expects to taste at least 110.

“I like pan de muerto because of what it means during Day of the Dead season,” said Delgado, who also reviews local restaurants on his blog, Godínez Gourmet. “The mix of flavors of the bread, as much as its texture, are very comforting.”

He can’t remember the first time he tried pan de muerto, but he treasures the memories of his mother baking it at home. He and his brother used to knead the dough, he said, and shape the bone-like decorations of its top.

Baking pan de muerto is not an easy task. At Panadería Dos Veinte, in Mexico City’s San Rafael neighborhood, owner Manu Tovar said that having these sweet buns ready for sale takes three days of work: one to extract the infusions that will provide the bread with its flavor, another to incorporate them into the dough and one more day to knead and shape the buns.

There’s no secret in his recipe, Tovar said. The ingredients — although seasonal — are simple: orange blossom, tangerine zest, anise and butter.

His special touch, what makes his bread unique, is the sourdough. “It’s an ancestral process,” Tovar said. “A millenary way to make bread.”

The sourdough that he and four assistants use is 20 years old. He incorporates water and flour daily, to keep it alive, and mixes part of it with new dough. This gives the bread a better taste, he said, and makes it easier to digest.Pan de muertos’ seasonal flavors help make it special 

For years, said Tovar, he resisted the temptation of baking pan de muerto in early October. The quality of the ingredients improves as November gets closer, but customers kept asking when the buns would be ready, so he caved.

This season, aside from baking 90 pan de muertos per day, he came up with two new creations: a croissant roll filled with marigold cream and a bun — locally known as “concha” — shaped like a marigold flower and prepared with tangerine instead of vanilla or chocolate.

“If you bake it in a traditional way, you can only have pan de muerto now, because that’s when the fruit is available,» Tovar said. «That’s what I think makes it so special.”

The ambience of the Day of the Dead season, he added, also plays a role. Nightfall comes earlier during this time of year and there’s certain mysticism, a particular feeling in the air.

“It probably has to do with the melancholy of what this festivity means,” he said. “For one day a year, you can feel closer to those who are no longer with you.”

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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.

Are LGBTQ Jews welcome in Orthodox communities? This is how they are building spaces of their own

Daniel Gammerman poses for a photo on his balcony where he sometimes prays as he prepares to worship at home for the Jewish High Holy Days, Thursday, Sept. 26, 2024, in Miami. (AP Photo/Wilfredo Lee)

Published by The Associated Press, October 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish language story here

It was a heart-wrenching choice. But when Daniel Gammerman decided to never set foot back in an Orthodox synagogue, he thought of it as an act of love. Not toward the Jewish community he was born into, but to himself.

“A synagogue is a spiritual place, but it’s also a community place,” said Gammerman, 47, from his home in Miami. “If I have to basically check at the door half of my identity in order to come in, I don’t feel that’s welcoming enough for me.”

Dozens of LGBTQ+ Jews like him have struggled to find support and acceptance within their Orthodox communities. Most were raised with little knowledge of what being gay or queer meant. They just felt different, but found it hard to ask their rabbis: “This is who I am, is there still room for me here?”

“The way it mostly works is invisibility,” Gammerman said. “There’s no addressing the existence of LGBT people among us. And, whenever you hear something about it, of course it’s negative.”

He can’t put his finger on a specific date in which he realized he was gay. But he remembers clearly what happened to him when the news got out.

“I used to get enormous texts from different people trying to explain to me how this was wrong,” Gammerman said. “It was a bombardment of people trying to fix me.”

Grandson to Eastern European Jews who fled during World War II, Gammerman was born in Brazil. He moved to the U.S. after finishing high school in the 1990s and continued his studies at a Jewish Orthodox university. At age 21, he got married. He and his wife — who he still thinks of as a friend — raised four children together.

“We built a perfect family,” he said. “I checked all the boxes of what a nice Jewish Orthodox family is supposed to be.”

Afraid to destroy his future and his children’s lives, he shut down his feelings for years, until he could do it no more.

He initially traveled to Brazil and met with a therapist who counseled gay men in heterosexual marriages. That helped, Gammerman said, but something was missing. What about his life within an Orthodox religious community that didn’t even acknowledge that LGBTQ+ people exist?

Embracing his true identity felt easier after meeting Steven Greenberg, an openly gay rabbi who founded Eshel, a U.S.-based organization focused on connecting LGBTQ+ Orthodox Jewish communities.

According to Miryam Kabakov, Eshel’s co-founder and executive director, most of the people who reach out share similar concerns: I’m coming out and I’ve been part of this community my whole life. Can I still belong? What will happen to me now? Can you find a rabbi who can help me?

“We guide them toward religious leaders who will tell them that there’s still a place for them,” Kabakov said. “That they still have the religious obligations and expectations that they’ve always had and that they should stay true to their heart and their tradition if that’s what they want.”

Ely Winkler, a 37-year-old LGBTQ+ Orthodox Jew from Brooklyn, will soon be back at an Orthodox synagogue after years of distancing himself from his community.

“After the war broke out between Israel and Gaza, I felt a deeper calling,” he said. “I didn’t feel strong enough to stand up for myself, for my beliefs, and I knew that I needed to strengthen my Judaism, to remember who I was.”

Abrielle Fuerst, 32, moved from Texas to Philadelphia six years ago. Eshel helped her to connect with a local rabbi and an inclusive synagogue.

“Here it’s not: ‘Oh, come because you are Jewish and gay, we’ll accept you.’ It’s just: ‘Hello, you’re Jewish, thanks for being in this space and it’s nice to meet you.’”

One of Eshel’s projects, named the «Welcoming Shuls,” enlists more than 200 rabbis who work across North America to make their synagogues hospitable for LGBTQ+ people. Many of them consent to being publicly identified; others ask to keep a low profile, foreseeing hostile reactions within their Orthodox communities.

“A lot of rabbis are very afraid to be public because they’ll get ostracized,” Kabakov said. “But we know they’re there.”

The group also counsels Orthodox LGBTQ+ Jews who wish to keep a distance from their religion.

“People who don’t want to be religious anymore are torn up about it,” Kabakov said. “But we try to help them through the struggle and let them know that they can be gay and be religious. It might be hard to find a place, but we’re working on that.”

Gammerman has tried to go back to Orthodox synagogues since he came out. Until now, none in Miami have made him feel truly accepted.

“I’ve tried many times, but it’s like wearing a costume,” he said. “At some point I was able to live with that. But the more you accept yourself, the more you love yourself, you just cannot do it.”

His Orthodox community did not prevent him from attending religious services after he came out, but rejection was still there. People stopped greeting him, and he was no longer allowed to officiate services at his synagogue. Once, during a speech, the rabbi looked at him and said: “Homosexuality is destroying humanity and if this continues like this, there’ll be no more children in the world.”

“I lost friendships, relationships, participation and community,” Gammerman said. “It was all gone really, really fast.”

Meeting Greenberg, who is married to another man and has a child, helped him realize he could still live a happy, fulfilling life. After their encounter, Gammerman decided to talk to his wife. The couple separated and found a way to break the news to their children.

“Since then, I have rebuilt my life,” he said. “I remarried. I have a husband. My children are part of my life and they understand.”

In time, he realized that not only his family, but his approach toward his religion would also need to change. At first he tried to attend liberal Reform synagogues, some of which fully embrace LGBTQ+ worshippers, but having been raised an Orthodox Jew, he still felt out of place.

“Being LGBT is a whole identity,” Gammerman said. “And I want to be embraced in a place where there are no buts or ifs.”

He’d rather not label his current religious observance, but Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur still bear huge significance for him. So, every year, during the High Holy Days, he wakes up early, dresses nicely and opens his prayer book.

“I say the prayers from beginning to end,” Gammerman said. “I call to all the praises as if I was in a synagogue, but I do it by myself in my house.”

He was once taught that Jewish prayer required at least 10 men to be conducted, but he has learned a few things since.

“If I was given a switch that I could press to change who I am, I would not do it,” he said. “God made me like this, so it’s not up for me to switch. I have to love myself for who I am.”

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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.

Their churches no longer feel safe. Now Nicaraguans are taking their worship home

Nicaraguan exile Francisco Alvicio, a deacon of Nicaragua’s Moravian Church, reads a Bible in his rented room in San Jose, Costa Rica, Sunday, Sept. 22, 2024. (AP Photo/Carlos Herrera)

Published by The Associated Press, September 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish language story here

When their church no longer felt safe, deacon Francisco Alvicio and his congregation made a plan. Cautiously, discreetly, they took their worship to their homes.

“If I’m pursued at the church, I still have my Bible,” the 63-year-old Nicaraguan said.

Praying in hiding became his last resort before fleeing his country in 2023.

Like him, several evangelical pastors, Catholic priests and human rights organizations have denounced the surveillance, harassment and the imprisonment of Nicaraguan faith leaders in recent years.

“Arriving with a weapon is not kind-hearted,” Alvicio said from Costa Rica, where he currently lives. “If someone goes into a church wearing a uniform, speaking loudly, it’s to intimidate.”

The relationship between Nicaraguan religious communities and the government has been strained since President Daniel Ortega’s crackdown on massive street protests in 2018.

Ortega asked the Catholic Church to play a role as a mediator when political tensions arose, but the dialogue didn’t last long. After priests sheltered demonstrators inside their parishes and expressed concern about excessive use of force, Ortega targeted them as “terrorists” who backed opposition efforts to overthrow him.

Among evangelicals, relatively few pastors have openly supported the president. Most congregations have refrained from any political participation, though this has not prevented leaders from being imprisoned and hundreds of organizations from being closed.

In northern Nicaragua, where Alvicio was born, most of the Indigenous Miskito people are evangelicals. The Moravian Church — to which the deacon belonged — was established in Nicaragua in 1894. Until its closure alongside more than 1,600 nongovernmental organizations last August, it had about 350,000 members in the country.

For decades, Alvicio said, the Miskitos could profess their faith freely. Services took place every Wednesday, Friday and Sunday. Elders and children alike gathered at the church, where clergy read the Bible and ceremonies ended by singing a Miskito hymn.

Things started shifting when the government imposed new rules on the congregation. First came a tax that its members had never paid. Then, an order to replace their logo. 

“We did not accept,” Alvicio said. “We can’t change something just because the government wants to. The only path we follow is the one of God.”

Before long, black-clad strangers started showing up at his church. 

Those too afraid to attend a public service decided to pray at home. Some read their Bibles in solitude. Others with spare chairs turned their tiny houses into makeshift churches, calling in a few neighbors and leaders like Alvicio.

By changing venues every day, lowering their voices and gathering as early as 4 a.m. to avoid detection, they kept worshipping. How evangelicals have been affected by Ortega’s government

According to CSW, a British-based organization that advocates for religious freedom, violations against the faith practice of Nicaraguan Protestants have been less visible than those against the Catholic Church.

Anna Lee Stangl, CSW’s head of advocacy, noted in a recent publication that the Catholic Church is a single religious organization whose structure spreads geographically and has a clear, public hierarchy.

“The Protestant Church is made up of many different denominations and independent churches, some of which may be dominant in one part of the country and absent in another, and which do not necessarily work together or even communicate,” she said.

In both Catholic and Protestant communities, violations reported by organizations and faith leaders are similar: restrictions on the length, location and frequency of services; prohibition of processions; invasion of masked men into churches; theft or destruction of religious objects and infiltration of informants. 

“The situation has seriously worsened,” said Martha Patricia Molina, a Nicaraguan lawyer who keeps a record of religious freedom violations.

According to her latest report, 870 violations were committed against the Catholic Church between 2018 and 2024, and 100 against Protestants in the same period. 

Additionally, said human rights organization Nicaragua Nunca Más, more than 256 evangelical churches have been closed by the government in the past four years, while 43 Catholic groups have been targeted since 2022.

At least 200 religious leaders have fled Nicaragua, the organization said. More than 20 were stripped from their citizenship and 65 have been indicted for conspiracy and other charges.

The Nicaraguan government did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

An American pastor’s tale

Pastor Jon Britton Hancock didn’t see it coming.

How could he suspect that 11 pastors from his evangelical church could be arrested if Ortega’s government had greenlighted their operations for years?

He and his wife, both Americans and founders of Mountain Gateway, started working in Nicaragua in 2013. Two years later, they sent their first missionaries and began collaborating with local pastors. 

For the next decade, they developed fair-trade coffee practices, offered disaster relief to families affected by hurricanes and organized mass evangelism campaigns. 

But then, it all suddenly changed.

In December 2023, 11 of his church’s pastors and two lawyers were arrested; their families didn’t hear from them for months. It wasn’t until Sept. 5 that they were released on humanitarian grounds.

Hancock wondered why this happened. Though he never engaged in political discourse, he had preached in Congress and to the national police. He had met with officials. Ortega and his wife, Vice President Rosario Murillo, had sent notes congratulating him on his church’s work. 

“I think the real reason is the Gospel is a threat to totalitarian ideas,” Hancock said. “Our perspective is about personal relationship with God and it’s based on love. And love doesn’t thrive if there’s control or coercion.”

With Ortega’s measures against faith communities, he said, not only freedom is lost.

Confiscations by the government have been a blow to church investments. And, in many cases, pastors imprisoned or forced into exile are the providers for their homes.

Mountain Gateways’ local leader, Walder Blandon, was arrested with his wife, so they were both separated from their 2-month-old baby. He and his brother, who is two years older, had to be taken in by their grandmother, who had health issues, until their parents were released in September.

“So, whether or not the Nicaraguan government intends for people to be fearful, I can promise you that there is much fear and people are responding,” Hancock said.

He, too, has heard of multiple people holding house meetings to pray. Parishioners’ modest sound systems are no longer an option, he said, because a guitar or a piano could attract police asking for a registration, so congregations have gone underground. 

“It’s not very known what’s happening with evangelicals in Nicaragua,” he said. “Evangelical pastors don’t take their stands in the same way that Catholic priests do, so it’s kind of gone under the radar, but it’s certainly there.”There’s nothing left but leaving

One pastor had already gotten used to police watching his sermons and strangers listening to his conversations, but when someone told him “they’re after your head,” he decided he should flee.

“The government wants to control everything,” said the evangelical leader, who agreed to an interview on the condition his name and new home base be withheld for safety reasons. “They fear that if one speaks against the government, the people will rise.”

In his hometown, he said, he was targeted by informants who would seek to make his acquaintance, then surreptitiously use their phones to record sounds or video that the government might find of interest.

Now, with him gone, his family no longer goes to church. They worship at home and he joins them from a distance, praying for his people and the government, for justice and peace.

Alvicio, too, has kept his faith strong.

His church might be gone and he yearns to return to his country, but through his prayers, he remains tied to his land.

“We, the Moravians, believe that wherever we are, we can pray to God,” he said. “So I can walk and speak and think bearing that power, knowing that, even if I’m alone, he’ll be with me.”

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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.

Catholic leaders raise concerns over judicial reform pushed by Mexico’s president

Judicial workers lead a strike to protest the government’s proposed judicial reform, which would make judges stand for election, outside the Senate in Mexico City, Friday, Sept. 6, 2024. (AP Photo/Jon Orbach)

Published by The Associated Press, September 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish language story here

MEXICO CITY – (AP) Mexico’s Catholic leaders said Monday that the judicial reform pushed by President Andrés Manuel López Obrador might not necessarily bring justice for victims of the crime wave that is rampant across the country.

“The proposal promoted by the Executive does not respond to a comprehensive review of the judicial system nor does it guarantee a better and more qualified administration of justice,” said Archbishop Gustavo Rodríguez in a video released by the Catholic bishops conference of Mexico.

López Obrador, who has clashed repeatedly with judges throughout his six-year term, has claimed that the judges in the current court system are corrupt. The governing party’s proposal would make the country’s entire judicial branch — around 7,000 judges — stand for election.

The proposal has fueled a wave of protests and drawn extensive criticism from analysts, judges and international observers. Some of the critics contend that it would compromise the independence of the judiciary and the system of checks and balances.

U.S. Ambassador Ken Salazar warned on Aug. 22 that electing judges is a “risk” for Mexico’s democracy and “threatens the historic commercial relationship” between the two countries. The proposal has also sparked nervousness among investors, while the Mexican peso has plunged.

The lower house of Mexico’s Congress passed the legislation on Sept. 4. It then moved to the Senate, where it is expected to pass by a razor-thin margin.

Bishop Ramón Castro, secretary of the bishops conference, said Monday that Catholic faith leaders are praying for the senators to reflect on the responsibility that’s been laid on them.

“May they contemplate the benefit of the nation beyond unnecessary partisanship, so we can move towards a comprehensive reform that includes prosecutors’ offices, local courts and respect for the judicial career,” Castro said.

This is not the first time that Catholic leaders have voiced their concerns over Lopez Obrador’s decisions and policies.

The church spoke out in 2022, when the murder of two Jesuits priests shook the public opinion and the Catholic hierarchy. Calls for peace have been followed by nationwide meetings to search for solutions to achieve justice and security.

During his address Monday, Castro sent a reminder to Claudia Sheinbaum, who will succeed López Obrador on Oct. 1. As a candidate, Sheinbaum hesitantly signed a peace commitment with the Catholic Church ahead of the June presidential elections.

“The national agenda for peace, presented to those seeking the presidency in the last electoral process, expresses the need of a comprehensive reconstruction of justice at all levels,” Castro said. “It’s a request from Mexico’s society, especially from victims of widespread criminal violence throughout the country.”

Various faith leaders have supported violence victims — both Mexican citizens and migrants — in recent years.

While bishops of Guerrero, one of the most violent states in Mexico, negotiated with criminal groups in an attempt to stop the wave of violence that afflicts its population, several priests have supported relatives of disappeared people.

On Aug. 30, after nationwide protests demanded justice and the safe return of 150,000 people who vanished under unclear circumstances, Catholic Bishop Javier Acero joined a group of mothers searching for their disappeared children during a news conference at Our Lady of Guadalupe’s Basilica in Mexico City.

Many of these mothers, he said, have tried to approach government officials, but the doors have remained closed for them. Now, with Sheinbaum soon to be in power, he hoped for a change and sent a message to her: “I ask this on their behalf: As a mother, listen to these moms.”

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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.

Temple or museum? How Diego Rivera designed a place to honor Mexico’s pre-Hispanic art

Visitors exit the Anahuacalli Museum in Mexico City, Tuesday, Aug. 20, 2024. Built by Mexican artist Diego Rivera, its name, Anahuacalli, translates from the Nahuatl language as «house surrounded by water.» (AP Photo/Eduardo Verdugo)

Published by The Associated Press, September 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish language story here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – In the 1940s, Mexican artist Diego Rivera had a dream: to build a sacred place to preserve and display his lifelong collection of pre-Hispanic art.

The Anahuacalli Museum in Mexico City, which celebrates its 60th anniversary this month, is everything he hoped for.

Inch by inch, its pyramid structure honors the Mexica worldview. Among its 60,000 archeological pieces, dozens represent ancient deities. And though foreigners visit on a regular basis, its workshops and year-round activities aim to connect the local communities to their historic roots. 

“This is Diego Rivera’s dream come true: a space in which art, nature and the public coexist,” said María Teresa Moya, director of the Anahuacalli.

The Mexican muralist was aligned with a Communist ideology. He and his wife — renowned artist Frida Kahlo — openly criticized the Catholic Church. But their fascination with Mexico’s pre-Hispanic spirituality is palpable through their work.

In Rivera’s case, he bought and collected archeological pieces, depicted them on his murals and designed the Anahuacalli for their exhibition.

“Diego had a great respect, affection and admiration for our ancestors,” Moya said. “Everything he designed or created was inspired by our origins.”

Mexico’s pre-Hispanic worldview was so important to him that it even influenced the Anahuacalli’s architecture. While its main floor represents the underworld — and feels dimly lit and cold — the second and third levels were inspired by the earthly and celestial worlds, which makes them seem warmer and flooded by light.

Though Mexica heritage is dominant in the museum’s design, visitors can also appreciate other Mesoamerican influences, said Aldo Lugo, a researcher who points out the Mayan, Toltec and Teotihuacan elements through guided tours of the museum. 

The three-story pyramid was inaugurated in September 1964, seven years after Rivera died. Its name, Anahuacalli, translates from the Nahuatl language as “house surrounded by water.”

According to a recent government publication, the Anahuacalli is distinctive among Mexican museums in being situated in an ecological reserve of about six acres (2.6 hectares) protecting nearby flora and fauna. The museum itself was built with volcanic rock to fuse with its natural surroundings. 

Rivera and Kahlo first thought of the place as an oasis where they could move away from the buzz of the city. Later, even as their plans changed and Rivera decided to build the museum, the couple desired to be buried in the Anahuacalli’s underworld.

The adjoining niches of the main floor are currently empty. Kahlo’s remains are located in her “Blue House” and Rivera was buried in the Rotunda of Illustrious Persons, a national cemetery site that honors those who made major contributions to Mexico’s history and culture. “But we keep the niches, just in case they end up here,” Lugo said.

During a one-hour visit through the Anahuacalli, its various rooms and cabinets can be read as a book.

From the start, Coatlicue, mother of the gods, greets all visitors from the ceiling. Her myth was special for the pre-Hispanic understanding of the world: a battle between her son and daughter — the sun and the moon — explained the origins of day and night.

The Anahuacalli’s main floor is focused on rituals and burials. The first level displays archeological pieces depicting everyday life, while the second level — representing the celestial world — is devoted to the gods.

The museum’s walls and stairs bear meanings too. Each of the Anahuacalli’s four corners depict a natural element — earth, wind, water and fire — and their respective pre-Hispanic deities. The stairs represent the transition between the stages of one’s existence.

“The Anahuacalli is a temple,” Moya said. “And one of a kind.”

To celebrate its 60th anniversary, the museum planned various activities reflecting on Mexico’s artistic and cultural landscape.

Aside from a gastronomic festival in June and monthly lectures on Rivera’s legacy — which the public can attend through December — neighbors who knew the artist are working on a video to preserve the oral collective memory of the museum and the neighborhood where it’s located.

“We want the community to keep feeling that this space belongs to them,” Moya said. 

Contemporary artists are often invited to host exhibitions at Anahuacalli. “Atomic amnesia,” by Mexican sculptor Pedro Reyes, will be on exhibit from Sept. 13 through January 2025.

His 20 works on display, a press release said, were inspired by one of Rivera’s murals, which was highly controversial and mysteriously disappeared, though its sketch is preserved: “The Nightmare of War, The Dream of Peace. A Realist Fantasy (1952).”

Like Rivera, Reyes’ art reflects society. His works are meant to express the current political landscape and, following in Rivera’s footsteps, he regards his art as a platform to protest and raise awareness.

“Diego was quite controversial,” Moya said. “On the one hand, he had a huge interest in rescuing our pre-Hispanic heritage, but he also adhered to socialism in an unwavering way.”

“He wanted us to look at our past to understand our present and plant something for the future.”

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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.

«¡Hasta encontrarles!», gritan familias en México en el Día de las Víctimas de Desaparición

La foto de una persona desaparecida yace en un mandala creado por familias que protestan para que el gobierno ayude a localizar a sus familiares desaparecidos en el Día Internacional de los Desaparecidos en la Ciudad de México, el viernes 30 de agosto de 2024. (AP Foto/Eduardo Verdugo)

Originalmente publicado en The Associated Press, agosto de 2024 (link aquí)

CIUDAD DE MÉXICO (AP) – “Estamos en una reunión que no debería de existir”, dijo el viernes por la mañana el sacerdote anglicano Arturo Carrasco durante una misa ecuménica celebrada en Ciudad de México en el marco del Día Internacional de las Víctimas de Desapariciones Forzadas.

A su alrededor, decenas de familiares portaban mantas y camisetas con las fotos, nombres y fechas de desaparición de sus seres queridos. 

Al menos 115.000 personas han sido víctimas de este flagelo en el país desde 1952, reportan cifras oficiales, aunque diversas organizaciones estiman que la cantidad podría ser mayor. Trata de personas, secuestros, represalias y reclutamiento forzado a manos del crimen organizado están entre las motivaciones detrás de las desapariciones. 

Marcela González, de 58 años, viajó desde Jalisco para exigir respuestas sobre el paradero de su hijo, Alan, que tenía 33 años cuando salió a trabajar y no volvió a casa en 2017. Junto a otras 30 familias, la madre integra la organización “Por Amor a Ellxs” en un estado que registra más de 15.000 desapariciones. 

«Venimos a ver si así nos hacen caso, porque la empatía no existe en el gobierno», dijo la mujer. “Merecemos que el gobierno voltee y se haga presente, nada más en señal de solidaridad». 

Angelina Banda, de 65, se movilizó desde Estado de México, vecino a la capital, para manifestarse por la desaparición de su hijo Roberto, a quien vio por última vez en 2021. 

“Las madres buscadoras andamos en campo pegando volantes, buscando en situación de calle, SEMEFOS (servicios médicos forenses), psiquiatrías, hospitales, vamos a donde uno pueda y le digan”, explicó la madre buscadora que forma parte del colectivo “Uniendo Esperanzas”. 

Amnistía Internacional señaló el día anterior, durante la presentación de un informe que enlista estándares para proteger a las madres buscadoras en todo el continente, que los Estados son los que deberían encabezar las búsquedas con debida diligencia y aplicando enfoques diferenciales y de género acordes a casa caso, así como garantizar que los familiares puedan participar en condiciones adecuadas sin que se les discrimine o peligren sus derechos humanos. 

Según la organización, ésta es la región más peligrosa para la defensa de los derechos humanos en el mundo y las madres buscadoras reciben amenazas de violencia física que en ocasiones interrumpen sus labores búsqueda. También hay varias que han sido asesinadas o desaparecidas. 

El Comité Internacional de la Cruz Roja (CICR) se sumó a la exigencia de responsabilizar al Estado de las búsquedas y agregó en un comunicado que los gobiernos deben coordinarse para mitigar las consecuencias de la violencia armada, la migración y el desplazamiento en la región, pues también suelen impactar las desapariciones.

“Establecer políticas de Estado coordinadas y sostenibles que aborden las causas profundas de las desapariciones para prevenirlas y erradicarlas debe ser un compromiso político a largo plazo, sostenido a pesar de cambios de gobierno o instituciones”, dijo Marianne Pecassou, asesora regional de protección del CICR. 

Las actividades del viernes arrancaron en México con la pegada de boletines a manos de familiares que recorrieron diversos puntos del país. A lo largo del día se sumarían protestas, conferencias, presentaciones de libros y celebraciones religiosas de distintas confesiones. 

En la Glorieta de los Desaparecidos, antes de la misa celebrada por miembros del “Eje de Iglesias” —organización que agrupa a religiosos anglicanos, metodistas, evangélicos y católicos—, familiares y líderes de fe crearon un mandala, representación espiritual que proviene del budismo e hinduismo. 

Sobre el suelo colocaron velas, fotos de sus familiares y flores. Cada pétalo, dijo la religiosa católica Paola Clerico, representa a uno de los 116.000 desparecidos en el país.

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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.

One day, their children didn’t make it back home. Faith helps these Mexican mothers’ search for them

Veronica Rosas poses for a portrait in the bedroom of her missing son Diego Maximiliano in Ecatepec, Mexico, Friday, Aug. 2, 2024. Rosas’ son went missing when he was 16 years old on Sept. 4, 2015. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)

Published by The Associated Press, August 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish language story here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – Each time the kidnapper hung up the phone, Veronica Rosas and her relatives did the only thing they could think of: kneel, grab each other’s hands and pray.

“I told God: Please help me,” said Rosas, who has spent the past nine years searching for her son, Diego Maximiliano.

The 16-year-old vanished in 2015 after leaving home to meet with friends. They lived in Ecatepec, a Mexico City suburb where robbery, femicide and other violent crimes have afflicted its inhabitants for decades.

“Many joined us in prayer,” said Rosas, who 10 days after the kidnapping received one of her son’s fingers as proof of life. “Christians, Catholics, Jehovah Witnesses. I opened my door to everyone and — maybe — that’s why I didn’t die.”

For weeks, she could barely eat or sleep. How could she, if Diego might be famished, exhausted or wounded?

In spite of her efforts, Rosas was unable to gather the amount of money requested by the kidnappers. And though they agreed to a lower sum, Diego was never released.

According to official figures, at least 115,000 people have disappeared in Mexico since 1952, though the real number is believed to be higher. 

During the country’s “dirty war,” a conflict that lasted throughout the 1970s, disappearances were attributed to government repression, similar to the dictatorships in Chile and Argentina.

In the past two decades, as officials have fought drug cartels and organized crime has tightened its grip in several states, it’s been more difficult to trace the perpetrators and causes of disappearances. 

Human trafficking, kidnapping, acts of retaliation and forced recruitment by cartel members are among the reasons listed by human rights organizations. Disappearances impact local communities as well as migrants who travel through Mexico hoping to reach the U.S.

For thousands of relatives like Rosas, the disappearance of their children is life-altering. 

“A disappearance puts a family’s life on pause,” said the Rev. Arturo Carrasco, an Anglican priest who offers spiritual guidance to families with missing members.

“While searching for them, they neglect their jobs. They lose their sense of security and many suffer from mental health problems,” he added. “In many cases, families fall apart.”

Relatives initially trust the authorities, but as time passes and no answers or justice comes, they take the search into their own hands.

To do that, they distribute bulletins with photos of the missing person. They visit morgues, prisons and psychiatric institutions. They walk through neighborhoods where homeless people spend the day, wondering if their sons or daughters might be close, affected by drug abuse or mental health problems.

“Ninety percent of the people who search are women,” said Carrasco. “And from that percentage, most of them are housewives who suddenly had to face a crime.”

“They lack legal and anthropological tools to do that,” he added. “But they have something that the rest of the population does not: the driving force of love for their children.”A mother’s search 

When Rosas was pregnant with Diego, she made a decision: “This will be my one and only son.”

She raised him on her own, juggling several jobs and finding the time to check his homework every night. They lived a simple, joyful life. 

Diego practiced karate and soccer. At his birthday parties, he loved to wear costumes. Their shared hobby was going to the movies. Their favorite films? “Transformers” and “Spider-Man.”

Now, with him gone, Rosas has been to the movies only once. She agreed because a friend she made after Diego’s disappearance — a Catholic nun named Paola Clericó, who comforts relatives with missing children — was there, holding her hand.

It doesn’t feel right for her to have fun, to take a break. But if she does not take care of herself, who will find out what happened to her son?

Three months after Diego’s disappearance, she got tired of waiting to hear from the police. She opened a Facebook page called “Help me find Diego” and, though she was frightened of stepping out of her home, she started looking for him, dead or alive. 

For three years, her search was lonely. Relatives, co-workers and friends commonly distance themselves from people with missing family members, claiming that “they only talk about their search” or “listening to them is too sad.”

It wasn’t until 2018 that Rosas met Ana Enamorado, a Honduran woman who moved to Mexico to search for her son after he migrated and disappeared. They got acquainted and Enamorado invited Rosas to an annual protest in which thousands of mothers demand answers and justice.

The resentment and disappointment from Mexicans affected by nationwide violence has increased recently. President Andrés Manuel López Obrador and Claudia Sheinbaum, who will succeed him on October 1, constantly minimize the relatives’ recriminations, claiming that homicide rates decreased during the current administration.

But it’s not just violence that victims resent. On a recent evening, in the state of Zacatecas, a mother like Rosas stormed into a session of Congress. Drenched in tears, she screamed that she found her son — with a gunshot to the head — at the morgue. He had been there since November 2023, she said, but the authorities failed to notify her in spite of her tireless efforts to get information about what happened to him. 

This is the reality that Rosas became aware of at the 2018 protest.

“When I got there, I saw a mother, and then another and another,” she said. “’Who are you looking for?’ we asked each other. It was an awakening. It was horrible.”

After meeting other women like her, she wondered: What if we use our collective force in our favor?

And so, as other mothers have done in Mexican states like Sonora and Jalisco, Rosas created an organization to provide mutual support for their searches. She called it “Uniendo Esperanzas,” or Uniting Hope, and it currently supports 22 families, mostly from the state of Mexico, where Diego disappeared.

All members learn legal procedures together. They put pressure on judicial authorities who are not always willing to do their jobs. They dress up in boots, sun hats and gloves to explore remote terrain where they have found human remains.

From time to time, they find missing family members. Sometimes alive. Others, regrettably, dead. Whatever the result, as any family would do, they hug and pray and cry.

Sometimes it’s hard, Rosas said. Or ambiguous. “When we find other people, I feel a lot of joy and I thank God, but at the same time, I ask him: Why don’t you give me Diego back?”Together, we search, we pray

On a recent Sunday, Benita Ornelas was mostly serene. But when Carrasco named her son, Fernando, during a Mass to honor him on the fifth anniversary of his disappearance, tears began flowing down her cheeks.

Not many faith leaders — regardless of their religious affiliation — are willing to address the disappearances in Mexico. Or to console hurting mothers in need of spiritual comfort.

“Not everyone has the sensitivity to endure such pain,” said Catholic Bishop Javier Acero, who meets with mothers like Rosas and Ornelas on a regular basis. He pushed for celebrating Mass in Our Lady of Guadalupe’s basilica to remember their disappeared children for the first time in 2023.

“But the numbers of disappearances keep rising and the government doesn’t do anything about it, so, where the state is absent, the church offers guidance,” Acero said.

Some mothers regard him as an ally and leaders from the Catholic church have raised their concerns against Lopez Obrador’s security policy since two Jesuit priests were murdered in 2022. But, in parallel, relatives of missing people claim that many Catholic priests, nuns and parishioners have shown little empathy for their pain.

Soon after their children disappeared, Ornelas and Rosas rushed to nearby parishes. “Please, father, celebrate Mass so we can pray for our sons,” both requested. But the priests refused.

“I cried and cried,” Rosas said. “But he responded: ‘I can’t say that people are being kidnapped, madam. I encourage you to pray for your son’s eternal rest.’”

On another occasion, Rosas recalled, she approached a group of elders praying the rosary, and asked them to pray for her son. “Why don’t you accept it? Hand him to God,” one replied.

In contrast, rain or shine, faith leaders like Carrasco and Clericó are always there for the mothers. They have walked with them through muddy terrain where excavations have been done. They have celebrated Mass in the middle of busy streets and next to canal drainages. They have joined them in visiting prisons and morgues, comforting them no matter what sorrow may come.

“We have the legitimate hope of finding our treasures alive,” Carrasco said. “We are no fools and we understand that there’s a risk they might be dead. But as long as we have no evidence of that, we will keep searching.”

Faith leaders like Carrasco and Clericó are part of an ecumenical group called “The Axis of Churches.” Methodists, Evangelicals, spiritual leaders from Indigenous communities, theologians and feminists are among its members. Sometimes they pray, but on other occasions they share a meal, draw mandalas or simply listen to the mothers.

“When I have a problem and I don’t know what to do, I go to them,” Rosas said. “They always share examples of God’s life, which allows me to flow with love and peace.”

They alone, Rosas said, can understand what she’s been through.

“When a friend tells me that I only speak of my searches or my organization, I answer: ’You wake up every morning to cook breakfast for your child and take him to school, but I wake up trying to find where mine is,’” Rosas said.

“I’m still a mother. My maternity did not disappear, though it now feels sad and unfair.”

Among the mothers of her organization, their missing sons and daughters are always present.

For the gathering to remember Fernando, Ornelas cooked tacos, a Mexican dish her son loved. “They are his favorites,” his mother said.

That Sunday evening, under the rain, Sister Clericó, Rosas, and the rest of the group shared the tacos with homeless people around a Catholic church in Mexico City. The food ran out in an hour, after which Carrasco celebrated Mass and the group hugged Ornelas.

“We live with a such a profound pain that only God can help us endure it,” Rosas said. “If it wasn’t for that light, for that relief, I don’t think we would be able to still stand.”

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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.

An offering, a fire, a prayer. How a Mexico City community celebrates its pre-Hispanic origins

Mexica dancers burn incense during a ceremony commemorating the 503rd anniversary of the fall of the Aztec empire’s capital, Tenochtitlan, in Mexico City, Tuesday, Aug. 13, 2024. (AP Photo/Eduardo Verdugo)

Published by The Associated Press, August 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish language story here

MEXICO CITY (AP ) – Claudia Santos’ spiritual journey has left a mark on her skin.

Soon after the 50-year-old embraced her pre-Hispanic heritage and pledged to speak for her ancestors’ worldview in Mexico City, she tattooed the symbol “Ollin” — which translates from the Nahuatl language as “movement” — on her wrist.

“It’s an imprint from my Nahuatl name,” said Santos, wearing white with feathers hanging from her neck. She was dressed to perform an ancestral Mexica ceremony on Tuesday in the neighborhood of Tepito. 

“It’s an insignia that represents me, my identity.”

Since 2021, when she co-founded an organization that raises awareness of her community’s Mexica heritage, Santos and members of close Indigenous communities gather by mid-August to honor Cuauhtémoc, who was the last emperor or “tlatoani” of Mexico-Tenochtitlan, as the capital was known before it fell to the Spaniards in 1521.

“It’s important to be here, 503 years after what happened, not only to dignify Tepito as an Indigenous neighborhood where there has been resistance, strength and perseverance,” Santos said. “But also because this is an energetic portal, a sacred ‘teocalli’ (‘God’s house’, in Nahuatl).”

The site that she chose for performing the ceremony has a profound sacred meaning in Mexico’s history. Though it’s currently a Catholic church, it’s also the site where Cuauhtémoc — a political and spiritual leader — initiated the final defense of the territory that was lost to the European conquerors.

“Our grandfather, Cuauhtémoc, is still among us,” said Santos, who explained that the site where the church now stands is aligned with the sun. “The cosmic memories of our ancestors are joining us today.”

Though he was not present during the pre-Hispanic rituals, the priest in charge of the Tepito church allowed Santos and fellow Indigenous leaders to move freely through the esplanade of the temple. Their preparations started early each morning, carefully placing roses, fruit, seeds and sculptures of pre-Hispanic figures among other elements.

“I’m very thankful to be given the chance of occupying our sacred compounds once again,” Santos said. “Making this connection between a religious and a spiritual belief is a joy.”

Before Tuesday’s ceremony, as this year’s activities began August 9, a Mayan spiritual guide was also invited to perform a ritual at the church’s main entrance.

“This is an act of kneeling with humbleness, not in humiliation, to make an offering to our Creator,” said Gerardo Luna, the Mayan leader who offered honey, incense, sugar, liquor and other elements as a nourishment for the fire. 

“The fire is the element that links us to the spirit of the Creator, who permeates everything that exists,” said Luna, also praising the opportunity to practice his beliefs in a Catholic space. 

“There are different ways of understanding spirituality, but there is only one language, the one of the heart,” Luna said. “Our Catholic brothers breathe the same air as us. We all have red blood in our veins, and your bones and mine are the same.”

Some locals approached the church and joined both Mayan and Mexica ceremonies. They were drawn in by the sound of a conch shell that was blown to announce the rituals and the smoke released by the lighting of a resin known as “copal.”

Lucía Moreno, 75, said that participating made her feel at peace. Tomás García, 42, added that he is Catholic, but these ceremonies “purify” him and allow him to let go of any wrongdoing.

Others, like Cleotilde Rodríguez, call upon the ancestors — and God — with a deeper need of comfort.

After Tuesday’s Mexica ritual, the 78-year-old said that she prayed for her health and well-being. No doctor or medicine has cured her aching knees, and none of her 10 children visit her or call to ask how she is. Another son of hers, she said, died by suicide some years ago, and she has not felt at ease since.

“This is what has happened to me, so I hope that God allows me to keep working, that my path is not shortened,” Rodríguez said. “Otherwise, what is going to become of me?”

The “tlalmanalli,” as the Mexica ceremony is known, is as an offering to Mother Earth. All members of the community are encouraged to participate and benefit from its spiritual force.

“What people take with them is medicinal,” Santos said. “It is all blessed, so people leave with medicine for life, which they can use in moments of sadness.”

She was not always aware of the depth of the Mexica and other pre-Hispanic worldviews, but a couple of decades ago, feeling that Catholicism no longer fulfilled her spiritually, she started looking for more.

She researched Buddhism and Hinduism. She practiced yoga and studied the awakening of the mind. But still, she wondered: “What’s in my country? Why, if other nations have gurus, aren’t there any widely known spiritual references in Mexico?”

And then she found them. The Mexica provided her with answers. They were wise, spiritual people, who resisted what others brought upon them, always connected to their ancestors and the profoundness of their land.

As part of her transformation, she received a new name, this time in Nahuatl and tied to the pre-Hispanic calendar. And so, just as her parents baptized her in the very same Tepito church where she now performs Mexica rituals, she embraced her current spirituality in a “sowing” ceremony, where she became “Ollin Chalchiuhtlicue,” which means “precious movement of the water.”

The name, she said, also comes with a purpose. As directed, she defined her life mission after the ceremony. Santos chose to comply with Cuauhtémoc’s final wishes for his people: Maybe the sun has gone down upon us, but it will come out again. In the meantime, we must tell our children — and their children’s children — how big our Motherland’s glory is.

“Through the spirituality of our Mexica tradition we are taking back our dignity and the essence of our Indigenous community,” Santos said. “Being here today is a joy, but also a work of resistance.”

“Tepito exists because it has resisted, and we will continue resisting.”

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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.

Catholic devotees honor St Jude’s relic with watery procession through Mexico’s Xochimilco canals

A relic of St. Jude Thaddeus is transported in a glass urn on a trajinera through the canals of Xochimilco, Mexico City, Sunday, Aug. 11, 2024. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)

Published by The Associated Press, August 2024 (link aquí)

Spanish language story here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – It was no ordinary Sunday on Mexico City’s famed Xochimilco canals.

Instead of tourists and locals hanging out with friends, the brightly painted boats known as “trajineras” were filled with Catholics honoring a relic of St. Jude Thaddeus, one of Jesus’ 12 apostles and patron saint of impossible causes.

A wooden figure holding a bone fragment of St. Jude’s arm was kept in a glass case while it glided through the calm waters as part of a month-long visit to Mexico, a country that is home to nearly 100 million Catholics.

The relic arrived in Mexico in late July after touring the United States in its first-ever trip out of Rome. Devotees will be able to pay respects in a dozen Mexican parishes through Aug. 28.

“Our faith for St. Jude Thaddeus is a family tradition,” Iris Guadalupe Hernández, 36, said while waiting in line to board one of the trajineras escorting the relic early Sunday.

Her mother’s devotion for the saint began four decades ago, when St. Jude granted her what she wished for the most: a family.

“My mother was unable to have babies,” Hernández said. “She had three miscarriages before asking St. Jude for a miracle, so after she got pregnant with my brothers and me, she promised that she would spread the word and our family has honored him since then.”

Like Hernández, thousands of Mexicans gather to celebrate St. Jude every Oct. 28 — his official feast day — at San Hipólito church in Mexico City. The saint is one of the most revered figures in Mexico after Our Lady of Guadalupe, one of several apparitions of the Virgin Mary.

“He is one of the most significant expressions of popular piety among the humblest,” said the Rev. Jesús Alejandro Contreras, a priest in the Xochimilco’s diocese. “In our neighborhoods, where there are mainly merchants, devotion toward this apostle is seen as an intercession for difficult causes.”

Contreras, who was among those who traveled through Xochimilco’s canals in the one-hour trajinera procession, said that being close to the relic is a way to “come into contact with the Lord.”

Parishioners were already waiting in nearby boats when the relic left the dock at 8 a.m. Once the procession began, devotees clapped in rhythm with the Mexican traditional songs performed by a local band. 

Hundreds more awaited for the relic’s arrival at the end of the canal, where a procession on foot made its way to Xochimilco’s cathedral.

In the Mexico City neighborhood, locals are also devoted to the “Niñopa,” a life-size wooden figure of a baby that is believed to be about 450 years old. Its origins are unknown but it was found after the Spanish conquest, and Catholic families in Xochimilco typically keep images of him in their homes.

“Our faith here is divided,” said Arturo Espinosa, 52, standing close to a makeshift altar carrying a figure of St. Jude. “There’s a lot of faith here in Xochimilco and the Niñopa is our main representative, but we also have other emblems and participate in these celebrations.”

The festive spirit of the procession was led by “comparsas,” groups of local dancers who are devoted to a specific image of the infant Jesus. Each member wears a long velvet robe, a big drum-like hat and a mask depicting an old man,. The costume is meant to mock the Spanish conquerors.

Francisco García, 33, jumped steadily in his brown velvet robe while he and fellow comparsa dancers waited to make their way to the cathedral, where the archbishop welcomed the relic and celebrated Mass in its honor.

“My mom is sick, so I came to ask St. Jude for her surgery to go well,” said García, who had already seen the relic on July 28, right after it arrived in the capital and was taken to the Zocalo, Mexico City’s main square.

“I was so moved I started crying,” García said. “I told him (St. Jude): ‘You called for me, so here I am.’”

The relic was to be on display in an oratory next to Xochimilco’s cathedral until nightfall, and its trip through central Mexico’s churches resumes Monday. It is scheduled to leave the country in late August. 

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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.