Religión

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.

Salvadorans honoring Saint Óscar Romero: During these difficult times, he is like a ray of hope

An ornament features Saint Oscar Arnulfo Romero during a religious procession honoring him in San Salvador, El Salvador, Thursday, Aug. 1, 2024. Romero was assassinated on March 24, 1980, while celebrating Mass. (AP Photo/Salvador Melendez)

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

Spanish language story here

SAN SALVADOR (AP) – It’s as if Joyce Valencia could still hear Saint Oscar Romero’s voice.

“I met him when I was a little girl,” the 61-year-old Salvadoran said. “We used to gather around our radio with our grandma to listen to him. And, even now, listening to him encourages us to move forward.”

For a few years now, Valencia has joined the yearly pilgrimage that kicks off in El Salvador each Aug. 1 to honor Romero, who was named a saint by Pope Francis in 2018.

According to the committee that organizes the event, up to 3,000 pilgrims will cover 160 kilometers (100 miles) in three days, traveling from San Salvador, the capital, to Ciudad Barrios, where Romero was born in 1917.

Already known to many as “Saint Romero of the Americas,” San Salvador’s archbishop was beloved among the working class and poor for defending them against repression by the army. But he was loathed by conservative sectors who saw him as aligned with leftist causes as the country descended into a 1980-1992 civil war.

Romero was murdered as he celebrated Mass on March 24, 1980, in a hospital chapel. The day before his assassination, he sent a blunt message to the country’s military in his Sunday homily: “In the name of God and this suffering people, I implore you, I order you, in the name of God, to cease the repression.”

Romero’s influence continues to resonate in this Central American country where thousands of lives have been destroyed through decades of extortion and murder committed by the gangs.

Since March 2022, President Nayib Bukele’s security forces have cracked down harshly on gangs, arresting more than 81,000 people suspected of criminal involvement without due process. Human rights groups say innocent people are also being detained.

“Monsignor Romero is of great importance during these times, under the regime, as many human rights are being violated and very few institutions advocate for them,” said Wilbert Sánchez, 21, a university student whose aunt was detained during Bukele’s crackdown and freed after one year, due to lack of evidence against her.

“I think if he (Romero) were here, things would be different,” Sánchez said. “He would make a change, as he did in the past, when he tried to intercede for the peasants and others affected by the government.”

Soon after a 5 a.m. Mass, Sánchez joined dozens in the pilgrimage, his third since friends invited him to tag along in 2022.

“You can feel a very special connection during the journey,” Sánchez said. “What encourages me the most is faith. And learning more about our country’s only saint.”

Romero’s pilgrimage was first organized by Catholic leaders in 2017, when the archbishop would have turned 100.

The route, said Cardinal Gregorio Rosa Chávez, who was Romero’s disciple and friend, is meant to unite the Saint’s “tomb”, San Salvador, with his “crib”, Ciudad Barrios.

“He was the most beloved and hated man of his time,” Rosa Chávez said. “It was exceptional to watch him in his struggles, his anguish, his doubts and his tribulations until he gave his life on the altar.”

According to the cardinal, Salvadorans participate in the pilgrimage for three main reasons: being at peace with Romero after discovering that government criticisms of him back in the 1980s were “slanders”, to thank him for miracles or favors, and to simply enjoy the spiritual experience of the journey.

Each pilgrimage has a theme. 

“This year’s mark the 500th anniversary of our encounter with Christ,” said the Rev. Santos Belisario during a recent news conference. “The first Mass that took place in El Salvador calls us to remember the first priests and bishops who arrived in Salvadoran territory, many of whom valiantly fight for the dignity and rights of the Indigenous people.”

During the journey to Ciudad Barrios, pilgrims not only pray, but also participate in dances and cultural activities in the towns where locals offer shelter and food. Religious leaders from across the country join the celebrations as well.

Abraham Hernández, 87, has completed the procession times. “I hope that my age and body won’t fail me this time,” he said.

The Salvadoran man never met Romero personally but is grateful for his political stances. “He even gave his life for us, so that we would have a better government,” Hernández said.

Joyce Valencia, too, feels nothing but gratitude. “I thank God for our saint,” she said. “He is our pastor and friend”.

She has asked many favors of Romero and he has granted them all, including a return to good health for a girl who had seemed destined for heart surgery.

“It’s a joy to attend this pilgrimage. To pray for our country,” Valencia said. “During these difficult times, he is like a ray of hope.”

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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.

Surviving Rwanda: God, remembrance and reconciliation on the genocide’s 30th anniversary

Pascal Kanyemera is shown at the National Arts Centre in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada, on Wednesday, July 17, 2024. Kanyemera has no doubts: Back in 1994, when he survived the genocide against the Tutsi in Rwanda, God had his back. (AP Photo/Justin Tang)

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

Spanish language story here

(AP) – Thirty years ago, while he was hiding from the machetes that killed his father, two of his brothers and an estimated 800,000 other people during the genocide against Rwanda’s Tutsi minority, Pascal Kanyemera made a deal with God.

“Please, if I survive one more week, I will give you 100 Rwandan francs.”

God listened, so the 15-year-old prayed again. Then again. And again, until the killings stopped in July 1994.

“By the end of the genocide, I owed God 400 Rwandan francs,” said Kanyemera, now 45, from his home in Ottawa, the capital of Canada. “That shows you how I always put my life and my survival in his hands.”

His grandmother, uncles and cousins were also among the thousands of Tutsi killed by extremist Hutus in massacres that lasted over 100 days. 

The genocide was ignited on April 6, 1994, when a plane carrying President Juvénal Habyarimana, a member of the Hutu majority, was shot down as it prepared to land in Rwanda’s capital, Kigali. The Tutsi were blamed for downing the plane and killing the president. Enraged, gangs of Hutu extremists began killing Tutsi, backed by the army and police.

Kanyemera was hiding at a local school when his family was slaughtered on April 9. He learned about their deaths by late May, when he reunited with his mother and sisters at a refugee camp that was controlled by the French.

Other Tutsi witnessed the killings firsthand and barely survived to tell the tale.

In her book “Chosen to Die: Destined to Live,” Frida Umuhoza recounts how her mother was beheaded before her eyes. She gazed at her grandfather begging his assassins — Bible in hand — to let her family pray together one last time. She shuddered when the Hutu extremists coaxed her into choosing the weapon she would be killed with. 

“Please, don’t kill me with anything else,” said Umuhoza, who was terrified of machetes and opted for a club.

Soon after, the 14-year-old felt a smack in the back of her head and all went dark. When she woke up, her heels were sliced open and her body covered in dirt inside the ditch where her relatives lay dead. She remained numb for hours, until one of her Hutu neighbors took pity on her and dug her out to a life of sorrow, orphanhood and anger.

“Sometimes, when people hear about what happened to us, they don’t believe it,” Kanyemera said. “Some men killed their kids, their own kids. Out of hate.”

Healing, he said, is a long process. But many survivors hold on to faith to bring back peace into their lives. 

Umuhoza details in her book how becoming a Christian allowed her to forgive. Another survivor, Immaculée Ilibagiza, has written about hiding for 91 days in the tiny bathroom of a pastor’s house. Now a U.S.-based author, motivational speaker and devout Catholic, Ilibagiza often recounts how reciting the rosary drew out the pain and rage inside her.

Kanyemera — the current president of the Humura Association, which supports genocide survivors — has always attributed his survival to God.

Hutu militias patrolled the school where he was hiding, looking for the Tutsi who lived in the surrounding area, but he was never caught. And though the Hutu planned to kill the surviving Tutsi in the refugee camp where he was, French troops took over, so he survived. 

As painful as it is, many survivors remain committed to remembrance. They visit schools to share their stories with younger generations. They write books. They speak to journalists, willing to reopen their wounds year after year, hoping that no genocide is ever committed again.

“Someone said that whoever forgets the past is condemned to relive it,” said Tarcisse Ruhamyandekwe, who lost a brother, uncles and aunts in 1994. “Our people, our families, were killed in unusual circumstances, so it is a way of giving them back the dignity they did not have.”

During the genocide, Hutu extremists engaged in extreme brutality. Killings were often preceded by beatings, torture and mutilation. Militias sang “Kill them all!” before reaching the homes of the families they would exterminate. An estimated 100,000 to 250,000 women were brutally raped, many of whom later needed reconstructive surgery or HIV/AIDS treatment.

“Rwanda was full of bodies,” said Ruhamyandekwe, who also lives in Ottawa. “Imagine you go back as a survivor and in your house you only find the bodies of your brothers and sisters.”

He, like Kanyemera, moved far from Rwanda to be safe. His first stop was Congo, where his parents sent him in 1985, fearing that the violence against Tutsi would escalate.

Survivors like them have emphasized that the genocide arose from longstanding Hutu-Tutsi animosity.

“I remember that, when I was 7 or 8, I used to see my dad taken by the military to jail,” Ruhamyandekwe said. “I remember thinking he was lucky because he came back. Other people did not; they were killed in jail.”

Discrimination, he said, was inflicted on the Tutsi from a very young age. Schools required teachers to keep a detailed registration of students. It was common for them to enter the classrooms and say: “All the Tutsi, stand up.”

“We carried our IDs to show our race and we could not escape,” Ruhamyandekwe said. “That’s why during the genocide it was very simple to ask: ‘Where is your ID?’ And get the Tutsi killed.”

His father was not a victim of the Hutu, but when he died later in the 1990s — probably of a heart attack — Ruhamyandekwe was unable to bury him. “Taking that risk, going back to Rwanda, was probably going to get me killed,» he said.

He has no pictures or material possessions from his life in Rwanda, but his memories of the country of a thousand hills remain intact.

A few years ago, he took his children there.

Nothing is left of the house where his parents — both teachers — raised him comfortably and lovingly, except for marks in the ground. And there, with his hands moving through the air, he “drew” his childhood home for his kids.

“I showed them where my room was. My brother’s, my sister’s,” Ruhamyandekwe said. “I told them: ’That’s the house where I grew up, but everything was destroyed.’”

Sharing his feelings has not been easy. Rwandans, he said, are not open with emotion, even within their own families. Crying or confiding in someone is discouraged from an early age. For him, though, writing has been like therapy. And there has been his faith.

“In my book I write about what I call ‘God’s invisible hand,’” Ruhamyandekwe said. “Some people say it’s luck, but I say it was God guiding me through all the stuff I went through.”

By writing, he has not only expressed himself, but tried to spread awareness about his people’s history. 

“We cannot forget our loved ones,” Ruhamyandekwe said. “If reconciliation has to happen, as it is happening, we have to remember that and teach what happened to the next generation.”

“Someone said that there’s something stronger than death: It’s the presence of the dead in the memory of the living.”

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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.

¿En qué creen los venezolanos? Una mirada a la religión en Venezuela a pocos días de las elecciones

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

English story here

(AP) – Venezuela es un país mayoritariamente católico, pero el número exacto devotos es difícil de determinar. Dado que el gobierno no ha publicado cifras oficiales en más de una década, el panorama religioso actual sólo puede dimensionarse mediante proyecciones y trabajo de campo independiente. 

En la boleta de las elecciones del 28 de julio figura un pastor evangélico, pero Javier Bertucci tiene pocas posibilidades de dar la batalla al presidente Nicolás Maduro, quien busca un tercer mandato consecutivo.

La religión no ha jugado un papel clave en esta carrera electoral. Sin embargo, sí se ha entrelazado con la política, en especial durante el mandato del fallecido expresidente Hugo Chávez, quien llegó a convertirse en una figura de culto para decenas de venezolanos y se distanció de la Iglesia católica abrazando la religiosidad popular.

Aquí una mirada al contexto religioso de Venezuela.

¿Qué dice la ley?

La Constitución garantiza la libertad de religión y culto. También dicta que toda persona tiene derecho a profesar su fe y manifestar sus creencias siempre que no se oponga a la moral, las buenas costumbres y el orden público. Además, establece la independencia de las iglesias y cada familia es libre de elegir si sus hijos reciben educación religiosa o no. 

De acuerdo con un reporte que el gobierno estadounidense publicó en 2023 sobre libertad religiosa en Venezuela, las comunidades de fe profesan sus creencias libremente siempre que se abstengan de criticar al gobierno. Representantes católicos y evangélicos han dicho que partidarios de Maduro acosan verbalmente a miembros de sus instituciones si llaman la atención sobre la crisis humanitaria del país. 

¿Con qué religión se identifican los venezolanos?

Sin números oficiales a mano, todas las estimaciones coinciden en que la población es mayoritariamente católica.

Según el reporte del gobierno estadounidense de 2023, el 96% de la población sería católica y el resto englobaría otras confesiones.

Desde Venezuela, una de las investigaciones más recientes fue encabezada por la Universidad Católica Andrés Bello y data de 2016.

Enrique Alí González, sociólogo que comparó las cifras con su experiencia en campo, estima que el paisaje religioso actual podría ser el siguiente: católicos 82%-84%, evangélicos (sin distinguir denominación) 10%-12%, adeptos de la santería 1,5%-2% y ateos 1%. Los testigos de Jehová, musulmanes, Baha’i y otras minorías integrarían el porcentaje restante.

Según el experto, la mayor concentración de evangélicos está en el estado de Apure —fronterizo con Colombia—, mientras que la santería está más presente en Caracas. Además, algunos venezolanos participan de dos religiones: muchos devotos del espiritismo —cuya máxima representante es María Lionza, deidad femenina que se venera en la Montaña del Sorte— también son católicos. 

¿La religión impacta en la política actual?

Las creencias religiosas no se perciben como un factor definitorio en las elecciones del 28 de julio.

Según el sociólogo Hugo Pérez Hernáiz, más allá de que el pastor evangélico Bertucci aparezca en una boleta, la adscripción religiosa difícilmente determinará lo que arrojen las urnas. “Una persona no te dirá que su creencia en Dios es la que la está llevando a votar”. 

La manera en la que sí influye, explica Alí González, es en el acompañamiento social y espiritual. 

En un país en el que la pobreza alcanza a más del 90% de la población, la organización religiosa Cáritas ofrece ollas comunes y suplementos alimenticios para niños y niñas. 

“Y, por supuesto, también está el acompañamiento pastoral”, agrega. “Porque, ¿qué te queda cuando vives una situación tan miserable?”.

“La fe, y cuando la fe es sólida, se transforma en esperanza”.

¿Cómo ha sido la relación entre el gobierno y las iglesias?

Allá por 2013, cuando apenas buscaba el poder, Nicolás Maduro dijo que, mientras oraba en una capilla, el fallecido Hugo Chávez se le apareció en forma de pajarito y lo bendijo. 

El video produjo todo tipo de reacciones pero no fue sorpresivo. Afirmando que los obispos eran “demonios” y favoreciendo el culto a María Lionza, era usual que el mismo Chávez se mostrara más cercano al espiritismo que a la Iglesia católica. 

Según Alí González, en la historia venezolana se han dado varios roces entre gobernantes y líderes católicos.

El primero ocurrió en el S.XIX, cuando el presidente Antonio Guzmán (1870-1887) trató de suplantar a la Iglesia con una visión que incorporara la masonería y el protestantismo. Tras su muerte, el anticatolicismo declinó, las congregaciones europeas volvieron a Venezuela y varios gobiernos subsecuentes se mantuvieron al margen siempre que la Iglesia no interviniera en política.

A mediados de los años 40, hubo una segunda ruptura cuando un sector político apegado al socialismo emprendió nuevas acciones anticlericales. Los ánimos se enfriaron con el retorno a la democracia en los años 50 y no fue sino hasta la llegada de Chávez al poder, a finales de los 90, que la grieta se reabrió.

Según Alí González, Chávez fomentó una suerte de divinización o “culto humano” que algunos expertos llaman “religión atea” en consonancia con el “guevarismo” o “fidelismo”, derivados del fervor que aún despiertan líderes como Ernesto “Che” Guevara y Fidel Castro.

En paralelo, Chávez se propuso reducir el culto a la Iglesia católica aliándose con sectores evangélicos. Por ejemplo, sacó a las capellanías de las cárceles y cedió ese terreno a los evangélicos.

¿Qué ha sido de la religión en el chavismo?

Algunos sacerdotes apoyaron a Chávez y a Maduro. Otros los enfrentaron. Y, en uno de los puntos más álgidos de las protestas que estallaron en 2017, el papa Francisco llamó al diálogo y la paz.

Religiosamente hablando, Maduro se dice un hombre espiritual que públicamente ha hecho guiños a prácticas tanto católicas como evangélicas. Y como presidente, en su relación con la Iglesia, suele seguir los pasos de su antecesor. Aunque ha viajado al Vaticano para encontrarse con el papa y celebra al beato venezolano José Gregorio Hernández, también ha criticado a líderes católicos y estos a él. 

Más recientemente, su acercamiento con las iglesias evangélicas aumentó. En 2023, lanzó el programa “Mi iglesia bien equipada” para mejorar y restaurar templos cristianos y su hijo preside una oficina estatal de Asuntos Religiosos para “fortalecer el acompañamiento a los sectores cristianos”.

¿La religiosidad ha cambiado por la crisis?

Aunque algunos reportes señalan que la espiritualidad de los venezolanos ha ganado fuerza debido a la crisis económica y política, Pérez Hernáiz explica que esa afirmación no cuenta con datos que la respalden.

“Siempre ha habido un sustrato de religiosidad popular muy fuerte en Venezuela”, dice. “Y lo que comúnmente se llama ‘santería’ es un abanico de espiritualidades populares que se mezclan con expresiones religiosas más formales, como el catolicismo”.

Según añade, tras revisar las cifras de afiliaciones de diversas comunidades religiosas, los académicos coinciden en que ha incrementado el número de pentecostales, pero sin datos oficiales es imposible precisar cuánto. Este incremento es consistente con el que expertos de la región y Estados Unidos han reportado en América Latina en los últimos cinco años. 

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AP Foto: Cristian Hernandez

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.

Activistas dominicanas protestan contra Código Penal que mantiene prohibición total del aborto

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

English story here

(AP) – Lo que ronda la cabeza de las activistas que piden la despenalización del aborto en República Dominicana es preocupación. 

Luego de que el Senado diera una primera aprobación a un proyecto de Código Penal que mantiene la prohibición total a la interrupción del embarazo a finales de junio, decenas de personas se lanzaron a las calles el miércoles para exigir que se garanticen los derechos de las mujeres, de la niñez y de la comunidad LGBTQ, que —según diversas organizaciones de derechos humanos— se vulnerarían con los posibles cambios al documento. 

“Nosotras seguimos en pie de lucha», dijo antes de la protesta la reconocida activista dominicana Sergia Galván. 

Galván y otras feministas llevan décadas exigiendo que el aborto se despenalice bajo tres causales: cuando esté en riesgo la vida de la mujer, cuando el embarazo sea producto de violación o incesto y cuando existan malformaciones fetales incompatibles con la vida.

República Dominicana es uno de los cuatro países latinoamericanos que criminalizan el aborto sin excepción. El Código Penal actual establece que cualquier persona que aborte enfrenta hasta dos años de cárcel. Para médicos, parteras o enfermeras, la pena va de cinco a 20 años de prisión.

El presidente dominicano, Luis Abinader, quien se reeligió en mayo pasado, se dijo dispuesto a respaldar la despenalización en sus dos campañas presidenciales, pero tras ganar ambas elecciones no volvió a mostrar su apoyo.

“Las organizaciones de mujeres estuvimos en reunión con él y dijo estar de acuerdo con las tres causales y que iba a trabajar para que en su partido hubiera una postura a favor», dijo Galván. “Realmente fue un engaño a la ciudadanía, a las mujeres y al pueblo”. 

Tanto Galván como miembros de otros organismos locales e internacionales han denunciado que la prohibición absoluta del aborto tiene diversas ramificaciones. Alrededor de un 30% de las adolescentes carece de acceso a métodos anticonceptivos, no existe la educación sexual integral laica, siete de cada 10 mujeres sufre violencia de género —como incesto, matrimonio infantil y explotación sexual— y los niveles de pobreza incrementan los riesgos de enfrentar un embarazo no deseado. 

“Queremos un Código que respete a las mujeres y a las niñas, que les permita decidir, que respete el oficio y el criterio de los médicos para decidir en caso de hacer un aborto, pero también queremos un Código que sancione la impunidad, esa corrupción burda que nos ha robado el futuro a muchos jóvenes”, dijo desde la protesta Nicole Pichardo, dirigente de un partido político minoritario. 

Más allá de la despenalización, organismos como Human Rights Watch alertaron que el proyecto de Código Penal reduce las penas por violencia sexual dentro del matrimonio y excluye la orientación sexual de la lista de características protegidas contra la discriminación, lo que traería más vulneración a la comunidad LGBTQ. 

“Estamos aquí, frente a la Presidencia de la República Dominicana, porque el Código Penal que aprobaron los senadores y está próximo a aprobarse por los diputados, no nos representa”, añadió desde la manifestación del miércoles Rosalba Díaz, miembro de la Comunidad de Lesbianas Inclusivas Dominicanas (Colesdom). “¿Qué significa eso? Que ahora las personas que vivimos con diferentes orientaciones sexuales, identidades de género, vamos a estar en riesgo de que constantemente nos discriminen”. 

A la lista de preocupaciones de ciudadanos y activistas se suman otras cuestiones. El artículo 14, por ejemplo, exime de responsabilidad penal a las iglesias, lo que según activistas como Galván dejaría impunes crímenes de pedofilia, lavado de activos o encubrimiento entre los líderes de fe. 

En la isla caribeña, la religión es fundamental. Es el único país del mundo con una Biblia en su bandera y el lema del Estado es “Dios, Patria y Libertad”. 

Según activistas del sector conservador y que se oponen a la despenalización, su relación con algunos legisladores es cercana y miembros de organizaciones como 40 Días por la Vida dicen orar para que los congresistas mantengan los candados que impiden abortar o brindar educación sexual integral. 

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AP Foto: Ricardo Hernandez

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.

A 70 años de su muerte, la obra de Frida Kahlo aún conecta con miles en el mundo

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

English story here

CIUDAD DE MÉXICO (AP) – La Frida Kahlo que sostiene la mirada desde el óleo no es el hueso y la carne que su familia sepultó hace 70 años, cuando la vida de la artista mexicana se apagó el 13 de julio de 1954.

En “Diego y yo” se representa, como en el resto de sus autorretratos, con símbolos que aluden lo mismo a un cuerpo herido que a un espíritu firme.

En el óleo lleva el pelo suelto de un león y el rostro fuerte, sereno, aunque de sus ojos caen tres lágrimas. En su frente aparece el rostro de su marido, el también artista Diego Rivera, y en el centro de la cabeza de Rivera, un tercer ojo.

Que “Diego y yo” se convirtiera en la pintura latinoamericana más cara jamás subastada —en casi 35 millones de dólares— tiene una razón de ser.

A siete décadas de su muerte, Kahlo aún conecta y conmueve. Enmudece a espectadores en museos. Mantiene el interés de los fanáticos que llevan su imagen en bolsos, camisetas y gorros. Inspira los selfis que los turistas se toman en Ciudad de México, cuando visitan su preciosa Casa Azul. 

“Frida trabajó el poder del individuo”, dice la investigadora y curadora del arte Ximena Jordán. “No está haciendo un culto al ego porque no se retrata como era, sino que se auto-crea, se re-crea”.

Su obra transmite que todo individuo es vasto, complejo y poderoso. Rompe la distancia que sus contemporáneos mantuvieron con sus espectadores al crear piezas que exploraban, sobre todo, el progreso, la máquina y los juegos de poder.

Kahlo, en cambio, se siente cercana. En obras como “El venado herido”, que alude a la imaginería del mártir en el catolicismo, retrata la dimensión espiritual de su vida y plasma aquello que se puede tocar, sentir, sufrir.

“Yo conecto con su corazón y sus escritos”, cuenta Cris Melo, una artista estadounidense de 58 años que vive en California y ha inspirado parte de su obra en Kahlo. “Tenemos el mismo lenguaje del amor y una historia similar de angustias”.

Melo, a diferencia de Kahlo, no sufrió un accidente de autobús que le perforó la pelvis y le heredó una vida de cirugías, abortos y la amputación de una pierna. Pero sí sabe de dolor físico y en medio de ese sufrimiento, de esos años de sentir que la resiliencia se le escapaba, se dijo: “Si Frida pudo con esto, yo también”.

“Los autorretratos de Frida son un recordatorio de que todos tenemos muchas maneras de ejercer y realizar el poder que nos dio la vida. O Dios, por decirlo de alguna manera”, agrega Jordán.

Como otros que compartían una ideología marxista, Kahlo pensaba que la Iglesia católica era castrante, inquisidora y racista. La desdeñaba como todo artista forjado en un contexto modernista y posrevolucionario, pero a la vez comprendió que en la devoción al catolicismo hay una dimensión espiritual que beneficia a los humanos.

En su obra y el hogar que compartió con Rivera, las imágenes y símbolos religiosos abundan. 

La Casa Azul, por ejemplo, preserva su colección de 473 exvotos, pequeñas pinturas que algunos católicos ofrendan como agradecimientos por milagros o dones recibidos. No se sabe el momento exacto en el que la artista comenzó a coleccionarlos, pero se calcula que fue desde los años 30 y que muchos fueron obsequios.

El hecho de que Kahlo atesorara estos objetos podría obedecer, según Jordán, al entendimiento que la artista dio a su vida tras el accidente. ¿Por qué, si no por una suerte de milagro, habría sobrevivido al brutal choque entre un tranvía y un autobús?

“La única diferencia es que ella, por su situación contextual, no atribuye ese milagro a una deidad de origen católico, sino a la generosidad de la vida”, dice la experta.

A pesar del dolor físico y emocional que Kahlo plasma en sus óleos, no hay amargura, tristeza o derrotismo entre quienes admiran su obra.

Los seguidores de cuentas de Instagram que reproducen sus pinturas emulan su fuerza, su ímpetu. Crean estampas con el rostro sereno de la mujer que convirtió su columna rota, sus abortos y las infidelidades de su marido en arte.

“Frida inspira a muchas personas a ser constantes en algo”, dice Amni, un artista español que reside en Londres y reinterpreta la imagen de Kahlo con inteligencia artificial.

“Otros artistas me han inspirado, pero Frida ha sido la más especial por todo lo que pasó”, agrega. “A pesar del sufrimiento que tuvo, del amor, el desamor y el accidente, ella siempre estuvo firme”.

Para él, como para Melo, las obras más memorables de Kahlo son las aquellas en la que Rivera aparece en su frente, como un tercer ojo: “Diego en mi pensamiento”, actualmente en el Museo de Arte de Carolina del Norte, en Estados Unidos, y “Diego y yo”, que puede visitarse en el Museo de Arte Latinoamericano de Buenos Aires, en Argentina. 

“Frida, probablemente por razón de su accidente, aunque es una artista de la modernidad, trabaja desde una perspectiva posmoderna y por eso los espectadores se sienten más identificados con ella en el siglo XXI”, dice Jordán. “Porque involucra un respeto, una atención y una consideración a las creencias de los demás”.

Por las lágrimas que caen de su rostro en “Diego y yo”, la pintura suele interpretarse como una representación del sufrimiento que Rivera le ocasionó, pero la inclusión del tercer ojo —que representa el inconsciente en el Hinduismo y la iluminación en el Budismo— refiere algo más.

“La religiosidad de la obra no está en el hecho de que Frida tenga a Diego en su pensamiento porque eso no es religioso”, dice Jordán. “Pero el hecho de que lo tenga como un tercer ojo, y que Diego a su vez tenga un tercer ojo, da cuenta de que su afecto la hacía trascender a otra dimensión de la existencia”.

En otras palabras, Kahlo establece cómo, a través del amor, los individuos conectan con su dimensión espiritual.

A lo largo de su obra, aunque desate sufrimiento, el dolor es pulsión vital. Por sus mejillas chorrean lágrimas, sí, pero según explica Jordán, denotan algo más. 

“Dan cuenta de que está viva, representan la actividad del corazón”.

Quizá por eso la última de sus pinturas difícilmente expresa que Kahlo estaba punto de morir. 

Sobre una mesa con sandías bajo un cielo seminublado, el cuerpo partido de una de las frutas dice: “Vida la vida”.
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AP Foto/Mary Altaffer

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.

Más que un libro: ¿Qué son las Biblias de Gutenberg y por qué importan a 500 años de su impresión?


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

English story here

CIUDAD DE MÉXICO (AP) – Éste no es un libro cualquiera.

Allá por 1454, cuando la Biblia se convirtió en la primera obra impresa a gran escala con una imprenta de tipos móviles, Johannes Gutenberg sabía perfectamente lo que hacía.

Para sacar el mayor provecho a su invento, el orfebre alemán le ofreció su versión inédita de las Sagradas Escrituras a los únicos clientes adinerados que leían latín: los jerarcas de la Iglesia católica.

Aunque inicialmente planeó imprimir 150 Biblias, la demanda fue tal que optó por producir 30 más. De aquellas 180 “Biblias de Gutenberg”, unas 48 se preservan.  

No se sabe de ninguna que esté en manos de coleccionistas privados, pero entre las instituciones que conservan copias destaca la Biblioteca Morgan de Nueva York.

Su sala principal exhibe una impresa en papel, pero en sus bóvedas — junto a otros 120.000 libros— guarda otro par que se imprimió en piel de animal.

¿Qué es lo que hace a estas Biblias tan especiales y por qué siguen importando a más de 500 años de que fueran impresas?

Aquí una mirada a la influencia que tuvieron en la historia de la impresión, de los libros y las transformaciones que trajeron al Cristianismo.  ¿Qué es una Biblia de Gutenberg?

El término se refiere a cada Biblia —compuesta por dos tomos— que Gutenberg imprimió en su taller en el siglo XV.

Hasta antes de eso, todas las Biblias existentes eran copias hechas a mano. Aquel proceso podía tomar hasta un año, dijo John McQuillen, curador en la Biblioteca Morgan. En contraste, se cree que Gutenberg terminó sus 180 Biblias en un lapso de seis meses.

Cada Biblia de Gutenberg tiene unas 1.300 hojas y pesa alrededor de 30 kilos. Todas se imprimieron en latín a dos columnas, con 42 líneas por folio. La mayoría se produjo en papel, aunque una cuarta parte se imprimió en piel de animal.

Al salir de la imprenta, las hojas sólo tenían letras negras impresas. Las letras capitales en color y la encuadernación se añadían después, dependiendo del gusto y presupuesto de cada comprador.

Muchos de esos decorados se añadieron en Alemania, pero otros en Francia, Bélgica y España. Por ello, cada Biblia de Gutenberg es única, dijo McQuillen.¿Por qué su impresión dio un giro a la historia?

La invención de Gutenberg produjo que los textos bíblicos completos se multiplicaran de manera masiva.

Los primeros efectos de esta masificación fueron notables entre académicos y sacerdotes, que por primera vez tuvieron un acceso antes impensable a las Sagradas Escrituras, dijo Richard Rex, profesor de Historia de la Reforma en la Universidad de Cambridge.

“Esta multiplicación masiva incluso llevó a que se adoptara ampliamente el término ‘Biblia’ para describir el libro,” explicó Rex. “Hay autores medievales que alguna vez mencionaron el término, pero ‘Escrituras’ era más común”.

Psicológicamente hablando, añadió, también hubo otro efecto: el carácter y la apariencia del texto impreso —su precisión y uniformidad— contribuyó a la tendencia de resolver argumentos teológicos con base en la Biblia impresa. Es decir, empezó a dársele mayor autoridad a los textos impresos.  

Más adelante, la impresión de Biblias en otros lenguajes —especialmente la Biblia de Martín Lutero y el Nuevo Testamento de William Tyndale, a principios y mediados de 1520 respectivamente— incidieron en la relación que los devotos mantenían con sus creencias y el clero.

Los límites de la alfabetización aún implicaban que el acceso de la Biblia no era universal, pero, los líderes de fe poco a poco dejaron de ser sus únicos intérpretes.

“El fenómeno de los laicos cuestionando o interpretando los textos bíblicos se volvió más y más común a partir de 1520”, dijo Rex.Más que un libro

Unas tres veces por año, un curador de la Biblioteca Morgan da vuelta a la página de la Biblia de Gutenberg que siempre está expuesta en su sala principal.

En sus hojas no sólo se oculta una historia sagrada, sino también la de aquellos que alguna vez poseyeron el volumen.

Hace unos años, estudiando las iniciales que se añadieron a mano, McQuillen dio con el origen de su decorado: un monasterio alemán que ya desapareció.

En un descubrimiento similar en los años 2000, una académica japonesa encontró pequeñas marcas en la superficie de la copia en papel del Antiguo Testamento, lo que reveló que esas hojas fueron utilizadas por los sucesores de Gutenberg para imprimir su propia edición en 1462.

“Por muchas veces que se haya examinado, pareciera que cada que un investigador la mira, la Biblia de Gutenberg revela algo nuevo”, dijo McQuillen.

“Este libro ha existido por más de 500 años, pero ¿quiénes son las personas que lo han tocado? ¿Cómo podemos contar sus historias personales aunadas a una idea mayor de lo que la tecnología de la imprenta implicó en una escala europea o global?”.

Entre las otras miles de Biblias que J.P. Morgan adquirió, aún pueden leerse las anotaciones de muchos de sus dueños: nombres, fechas de nacimiento y otros detalles que cuentan historias íntimas que rebasan el papel.

“Hoy una Biblia parece un libro en un estante”, dijo McQuillen. “Pero en algún punto fue un objeto personal”.

“Dentro de un museo se convierten en arte y se vuelven un poco distantes, pero lo que intentamos es romper esa distancia”.

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AP Foto/Mary Altaffer, Archivo

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.

Ante todo, paz, pide Iglesia de México a dos años de los asesinatos de dos jesuitas en Chihuahua

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

English story here

CIUDAD DE MÉXICO – Nada borrará aquel 20 de junio de la memoria de los líderes religiosos de México. 

Poco después de acabar con la vida del beisbolista Paul Berrelleza y del guía de turistas Pedro Palma, las balas del crimen organizado derramaron sangre sobre el altar de una iglesia en la Sierra Tarahumara en 2022. 

“No” al olvido y “sí” a la paz, reclaman diversas instituciones de fe desde los asesinatos de los sacerdotes jesuitas Javier Campos y Joaquín Mora en su templo de Cerocahui, al norte del país. 

El gobierno mexicano ha mostrado poca empatía por el dolor de las víctimas del narcotráfico, pero entre éstas y sus familiares los reproches no ceden. 

Para recordar los asesinatos de hace dos años, la Conferencia del Episcopado Mexicano (CEM), Jesuitas de México y otras agrupaciones religiosas que crearon una Red Nacional de Paz iniciaron el jueves la tercera etapa del Diálogo Nacional por la Paz, una serie de encuentros entre funcionarios públicos y ciudadanos que busca asentar compromisos y soluciones para enfrentar la violencia. 

“El asesinato de los padres Javier y Joaquín nos ha permitido resignificar el dolor que mora en los corazones de muchos rincones del país, construir un movimiento compartido que tiene la paz como horizonte y las víctimas de la violencia como punto de partida y estar dispuestos a no claudicar hasta volver habitable cada territorio”, dijo la CEM en un comunicado.

Las campanas de los templos jesuitas sonaron al unísono el mismo jueves por la tarde. Horas más tarde, en una iglesia de Ciudad de México, docenas de devotos se reunieron para celebrar una misa especial en su honor. 

“Con ellos recordamos a todos los que han muerto por motivos de violencia y por indiferencia”, dijo el padre Javier Acero, quien encabezó la eucaristía en la Iglesia de la Sagrada Familia.  “Hoy, en este día, pedimos la paz, lo gritamos”. 

“Denunciamos que siguen las desapariciones en nuestro país, que sigue la indiferencia por parte de aquellos a quienes les toca salvaguardar nuestra seguridad”, añadió a pocos metros de un retrato de sus hermanos asesinados. “Y sabemos que denunciar esto significa derramar sangre, sudor, lágrimas, pero lo seguiremos haciendo”. 

Al finalizar la misa, en una calle aledaña, se inauguró el mural titulado “Memoria Cerocahui”, de la artista Paulina Jiménez.

En los últimos dos años, sacerdotes, hermanas, laicos y otros miembros de las comunidades de fe entablaron charlas a lo largo y ancho de México y recogieron más de 60.000 testimonios que, según la CEM, reflejan un diagnóstico comunitario. 

Con base en aquellos encuentros, la Red elaboró un documento que trazaba una hoja de ruta para encaminar al país hacia la paz y enumeraron una serie de compromisos que convocaron a firmar a los entonces candidatos presidenciales en marzo. Los opositores Jorge Álvarez Máynez y Xóchitl Gálvez celebraron la iniciativa, pero Claudia Sheinbaum, quien sucederá al presidente Andrés Manuel López Obrador tras haber ganado las elecciones del 2 de junio, debatió varios de los puntos y firmó con reticencia. 

Tanto Sheinbaum como López Obrador han repetido que los homicidios dolosos disminuyeron durante la última administración y rechazan toda crítica de opositores, organizaciones de derechos humanos y activistas a la gestión presidencial.

La relación entre López Obrador y la iglesia católica se volvió tensa desde los asesinatos de Cerocahui. Ante las desapariciones y muertes, los religiosos pidieron al gobierno repensar su estrategia de seguridad, pero el presidente cuestionó su “hipocresía”, alegando que los sacerdotes no hicieron los mismos reclamos a sus predecesores. 

“Después de la muerte de Javier, de Joaquín, de Pedro y Paul, tuve que empezar a hablar y el presidente de la República me dijo que era cínico, hipócrita, y que por qué nunca había hablado”, dijo en una entrevista reciente a la AP el sacerdote jesuita Javier Ávila, quien recibe de denuncias de derechos humanos en la ciudad norteña de Creel. “Pero no puedes ser indiferente cuando has tocado fondo, cuando te ha salpicado la sangre, cuando has compartido el llanto y la esperanza». 

En su comunicado del jueves, la CEM también anunció el inicio de los denominados Proyectos Locales de Paz, que articularán diversas acciones en escuelas, barrios, empresas y entornos familiares. 

Los siete puntos que abarca su propuesta de Paz incluye reconstrucción de tejido social, seguridad, justicia, cárceles, juventudes, gobernanza y derechos humanos.

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AP Foto: Fernando Llano

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.