A Christmas tree in Mexico carries the faces of loved ones who never came home

A photograph of Argenis Yosimar Pensado Barrera, who disappeared on March 16, 2014 in Xalapa, Veracruz state, covers a Christmas ornament to hang on the Tree of Hope, during an event organized by the diocese of Ecatepec at the Church of the Sacred Heart of San Cristobal in Ecatepec, State of Mexico, Monday, Nov. 17, 2025. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)

Published by The Associated Press, November 2025

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – It’s been 10 years since Verónica Rosas set up a Christmas tree. The sorrow brought on by the disappearance of her son in 2015 has been too overwhelming.

Before the 16-year-old vanished in a Mexico City suburb, mother and son yearned for the winter season. They loved buying natural Christmas trees. To brighten them up, they hung Diego’s favorite decorations: figurines of Mickey and Minnie Mouse.

“It’s been too hard and I have not been able to set up a tree,” said Rosas, who recently met with other grieving relatives to make Christmas ornaments in remembrance of missing loved ones.

The gathering was hosted by the Catholic Diocese of Ecatepec, near the capital, where residents endure robbery, femicide and other crimes.

Rosas and a dozen more families showed up carrying pictures of their relatives. For a few hours, they pasted the images onto old CDs and circles of cardboard, and sprinkled them with glitter.

A priest celebrated Mass and blessed their work. Afterward, the ornaments were hung from a “tree of hope” inside the cathedral, where they will remain until Feb. 2.

“We want to draw attention to the crisis that we’re living,” said Rosas, who founded an organization providing support for Mexicans sharing her pain. “It’s a symbolic gesture that keeps what’s happening in plain sight.”

The mark of a disappearance

Official figures indicate that more than 133,000 people have disappeared in Mexico since 1952. Human trafficking, kidnapping, acts of retaliation and forced recruitment by cartel members are among the causes.

The phenomenon has affected Latin America for decades. In each country, many mothers, sons and sisters have made life-altering choices to search for their relatives — often because authorities fail to act or deliver answers.

“This has been a Way of the Cross,” said Marisol Rizo, referencing the biblical account of Jesus carrying the cross before his crucifixion. She has searched for her mother since 2012. “Thirteen years have passed and we can’t make authorities do their jobs.”

She said her children were little when her mother vanished, and juggling motherhood while searching for her took a toll.

“My mom always told me to take care of them,” she said. “But as I searched for her, I forgot about my children.”

Rizo believes her father was responsible for her mother’s disappearance in a country where at least 10 women or girls are killed because of their gender every day. He has denied any involvement.

Like numerous other relatives of the disappeared, Rizo navigates the winter season with sorrow rather than joy. She still remembers how, years ago, she spent days round Christmas posting flyers on the streets.

It’s a common practice among people with disappeared relatives in Mexico. Each poster contains contact information, as well as the photo, name, distinguishing features and the date a person went missing.

“On Dec. 24, I used to cry a lot,” Rizo said. “I could see happy people pouring out of shopping centers while I was posting flyers, dragging my sorrow.”

Rizo’s daughter, now 17, joined her in crafting round ornaments at the Ecatepec cathedral. Yet the memories sparked by seeing photos of her vanished mother felt almost unbearable.

“These spheres represent a deep sadness to me,” Rizo said. “This is not the place where I would have wished to see a picture of my mom.”

A long wait for compassion

In some cases, relatives of the disappeared have been dismayed by lack of support from religious leaders.

Catholic mothers like Rosas, overwhelmed with fear, sought comfort at their local parishes after their children vanished. But long-trusted priests sometimes rebuffed them.

“I remember when I arrived in a church five years ago, requesting a Mass for my daughter, and I was told ‘We don’t celebrate Mass for disappeared people,’” said Jaqueline Palmeros, who recently found her child’s remains in Mexico City.

“But I believe that the Church, which closed its doors to us for a long time, is an alternative path to access truth, justice, memory and repair,” she added.

During a recent encounter with relatives of the disappeared, Bishop Javier Acero asked for forgiveness. Representing Mexico City’s archdiocese, he has publicly supported victims of disappearances and holds a monthly meeting with relatives in need of spiritual support.

“As church leaders, we recognize that at times we have not acted as we should — out of fear or out of not knowing how,” Acero said. “If we failed to receive you with the care you needed, if we did not pray as you asked us to, please forgive us.”A ministry of presence

Rosas attended the meeting alongside members of an ecumenical group that has offered spiritual shelter for years. Known as “the church circle,” it brings together nuns, an Anglican priest and several other pastors from different denominations.

Holding the mothers’ hands, the faith leaders routinely celebrate Mass in public squares ahead of protests demanding answers from the government. They dress up in gloves and rubber boots to dig up pits where human remains may be. All year round, they post flyers of missing sons and daughters throughout Mexico’s streets.

The Rev. Luis Alberto Sánchez is among them. With open arms, he welcomed relatives at the Ecatepec cathedral. There they shared breakfast and he sprayed lacquer on the newly made ornaments.

“We can’t remain silent,” said Sánchez, whose own brother was kidnapped and killed. “The voice of the disappeared, of those who have perished, needs to resound and say ‘no more.’”

Rosas treasures his blessings and regards all members of the church circle as friends. She, too, has spent mournful Christmases searching for Diego, and they have supported her the whole time.

“I wish for people belonging to all faith communities to congregate and replicate our model everywhere,” she said. “In that way, all families could get this constant presence of the church and the hope that we carry within our hearts.”

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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 ancient Maya myth finds new life in a Mexican circus company’s performance

Acrobats from a Mexican theater company perform the show titled «Mortal Leap into Xibalba,» which reinterprets a myth from a sacred Mayan book about creation and the journey to the underworld, in Mexico City, Saturday, Nov. 22, 2025. (AP Photo/Marco Ugarte)

Published by The Associated Press, November 2025

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – Mexican artistic director Jorge Díaz used to have a unique selection of bedtime stories for his son. 

Setting aside well-known books like “Pinocchio,” they read tales closer to home. Among their favorites was the Popol Vuh, a compendium of sacred Maya myths.

“Recalling those stories is important,” said Díaz, whose grandmother told him legends from her Indigenous lineage as a child. “We have plenty of beautiful, pre-Hispanic tales. But we sometimes forget.”

The one he enjoyed with his son recounts the story of hero twins Ixbalanqué and Hunahpú.

In the Popol Vuh, the brothers embark on a perilous journey to the Maya underworld. There, they outwit death, confront its lords and ultimately rise transformed.

The myth inspired Díaz’s adaptation, “Mortal Leap into Xib’alb’a.” Blending circus arts with theater, the piece employs acrobatics and ritual to reimagine the ancestral story on stage.

“We sought to give the piece its own identity through circus, but I didn’t want the work to rely only on tricks or spectacle,” Díaz said. “The idea was for the techniques to blend with the story and the characters, creating atmospheres rather than just showcasing skills.”

The show has returned to the stage periodically since its debut in 2023. New performances were held in Mexico City in late November.

Circus as storytelling

The troupe behind “Mortal Leap into Xib’alb’a” was founded 20 years ago by Díaz and fellow artist Jessica González. Initially a theater company, “Tránsito Cinco” evolved into a group devoted to circus arts.

“Fresh out of university, we searched for tools that would allow us to grow as actors,” said González, who also performs as a narrator in the Maya myth piece. “We wanted to find something that could connect theater with dance and the circus became a meeting place.”

Their current repertoire includes 16 productions. There’s not a shared theme among them. Yet Díaz and González aim to create pieces with a clear narrative thread.

“Our shows are built around a theme or storyline,” she said. “We believe that circus arts can also be a way to say something, whether it’s about social issues or any other subject.”

How they work hand in hand with artists is reflected in “Somnia,” a documentary about Tránsito Cinco’s history and vision.

“This is one of the most influential art forms I’ve ever witnessed,” said director Arely Cantellano during a recent showing of her film. “It opens those doors to many different arts and invites us all to take part.”

Circus as ritual

Aside from adapting the Maya myth and directing fellow artists, one of Díaz’s jobs in “Mortal Leap into Xib’alb’a” is rigging work. That is, as Yareli Reyes performs while being suspended from a rig by her hair, Díaz oversees her safety

Her performance is close to Díaz’s heart. She plays one of the Maya twins, a role the director once envisioned for himself.

His brother — also an actor — plays the main character in the Maya-inspired piece and Díaz dreamed of performing alongside him. “I love that fragment of the Popol Vuh,” he said. “It felt important to me to create it onstage together.”

He let go of the role so he could avoid overloading himself. But watching his beloved sacred story from a distance provides him with a fresh understanding of his art.

“Circus has the power to astonish and play with risk,” he said. “When I’m holding the performer who does hair suspension, there are moments when I see the light, the atmosphere, and it feels like a ritual.”

Several scenes feel full of energy to him. The way the music, the light and the artists’ bodies fuse into stagecraft creates an immersive environment for audiences, he said.

“It’s fantastic,” said marketing strategist Alba Vida about Tránsito Circo’s work after the recent showcase of their documentary. “I love circus arts because, within them, the frontier with entertainment shifts.”

A tale of rebirth

Díaz’s son is now 14. However, the work inspired by their nights delving into the Maya underworld is still aimed at children and families.

For an hour, “Mortal Leap into Xib’alb’a” depicts the twins’ journey between the living realm and the underworld. The performance kicks off, portraying how the brothers are born after their mother becomes pregnant when the skull of their father spits into her hand, a symbolic transfer of life.

The twins are raised among humans. Yet as they learn to play a pre-Hispanic ritual sport that infuriated the Xib’alb’a lords, several fights take place and the pair eventually perishes — only to return transformed in the myth’s final cycle.

“Under the Mayan worldview, death is not an ending, but a chance to be reborn,” Díaz said. “So even as they throw themselves into the fire as a sacrifice, they become the Sun and Moon.”

Conveying how the ancient Maya perceive death as a possibility to reinvent oneself is as important to Díaz as taking care of every detail in his colleagues’ risky, brilliant acts.

“There are many elements from pre-Hispanic Indigenous traditions that can be brought into circus performance,” he said. “Ways to use them, reinterpret them and give them new meaning onstage.”

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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.

Experts lead tours uncovering Mexico’s hidden ancient sites

Tourists raise their arms at the Great Basement in the Cuicuilco Archaeological Zone during a tour organized by the National Institute of Anthropology and History in Mexico City, Sunday, Oct. 5, 2025. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)

Published by The Associated Press, October 2025

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – Amid the constant blare of car horns in southern Mexico City, it’s hard to imagine that Cuicuilco was once the heart of a thriving ancient civilization. Yet atop its circular pyramid, now surrounded by buildings and a shopping center, a pre-Hispanic fire god was revered.

“This is incredible,” said Evangelina Báez, who spent a recent morning at Cuicuilco with her daughters. “In the midst of so much urbanization, there’s still this haven of peace.”

Her visit was part of a monthly tour program crafted by the National Institute of Anthropology and History, known by its Spanish initials as INAH.

Aside from overseeing Mexico’s archaeological sites and museums, the institute safeguards the country’s cultural heritage, from restoring damaged monuments and artworks to reviewing construction projects to ensure they don’t harm archaeological remains.

Its historians and archeologists also lead excursions like the one in Cuicuilco. Each academic expert picks a location, proposes a walking itinerary to the INAH and, once approved, it’s offered to the public for about 260 pesos ($15).

“I joined these tours with the intention of sharing our living heritage,” said archaeologist Denisse Gómez after greeting guests in Cuicuilco. “Our content is always up to date.”

According to Mónica de Alba, who oversees the tours, the INAH excursions date back to 1957, when an archaeologist decided to share the institute’s research with colleagues and students.

“People are beginning to realize how much the city has to offer,” said De Alba, explaining that the INAH offers around 130 tours per year in downtown Mexico City alone. “There are even travel agents who pretend to be participants to copy our routes.”

María Luisa Maya, 77, often joins these tours as a solo visitor. Her favorite so far was one to an archaeological site in Guerrero, a southern Mexican state along the Pacific coast.

“I’ve been doing this for about eight years,” she said. “But that’s nothing. I’ve met people who have come for 20 or 25.”

Traces of a lost city

Cuicuilco means “the place where songs and dances are made” in the Nahua language.

Still, the precise name of its people is unknown, given that the city’s splendor dates back to the pre-Classic era from 400 to 200 B.C. and few clues are left to dig deeper into its history.

“The Nahuas gave them that name, which reveals that this area was never forgotten,” said archaeologist Pablo Martínez, who co-led the visit with Gómez. “It was always remembered, and even after its decline, the Teotihuacan people came here to make offerings.” 

The archaeological site is a quiet corner nestled between two of Mexico City’s busiest avenues. Yet according to Martínez, the settlements went far beyond the vicinity and Cuicuilco’s population reached 40,000.

“What we see today is just a small part of the city,” he said. “Merely its pyramidal base.”

Now covered in grass and resembling a truncated cone, the pyramid was used for ritual purposes. The details of the ceremonies are unknown, but female figurines preserved at the site’s museum suggest that offerings were related to fertility.

“We think they offered perishable objects such as corn, flowers and seeds,” Gómez said. “They were feeding the gods.”

Echoes of living heritage

According to official records, Mexico’s most visited archaeological sites are Teotihuacán and Chichén Itzá. The first is a pre-Aztec city northeast of the capital known for its monumental Sun and Moon pyramids. The latter is a major Mayan site in the Southeast famed for its 12th-century Temple of Kukulkán.

The INAH oversees both. But its tours focus on shedding light on Mexico’s hidden gems.

During an excursion preceding Cuicuilco’s, visitors walked through a neighborhood in Ecatepec, on the outskirts of Mexico City, where open-air markets, street food and religious festivals keep local traditions alive. A few days prior, another tour focused on La Merced market, where flowers, prayers and music filled the aisles during the feast of Our Lady of Mercy.

October’s schedule takes into account Day of the Dead traditions. But tours will feature a variety of places like Xochimilco, where visitors can take a moonlit boat tour through its canals and chinampas, and Templo Mayor, the Aztec empire’s main religious and social center in ancient Tenochtitlán.

“These tours allow the general public to get closer to societies that are distant in time and space,” said historian Jesús López del Río, who will lead an upcoming tour on human sacrifices to deities in Mesoamérica.

“Approaching the pre-Hispanic past is not only about how the Maya used zero in their calculations or how the Mexica built a city on a lake,” he added. “It’s about understanding how those societies worked — their way of seeing and relating to the world.”

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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.

Why a centuries-old Mexica myth became Mexico’s enduring symbol

Mexico’s coat of arms decorates a large flag in the city’s Zocalo square, Mexico City, Thursday, Nov. 13, 2025. (AP Photo/Claudia Rosel)

Published by The Associated Press, November 2025

Spanish story language here

The almighty eagle perched on a cactus while devouring a serpent on Mexico’s flag hints at the myth behind the foundation of the country’s capital.

It’s a divine sign in an ancient legend, according to which the god Huitzilopochtli asked a group called the Mexica to leave their homeland in search of a place to establish a new city. 

It took some 175 years before they spotted the sacred omen and established the city of Tenochtitlan in 1325 where Mexico City stands today. 

How the eagle, the cactus and the serpent became an emblem and endured through the European conquest is the focus of a new exhibition. “A coat of arms, an emblem, a symbol of identity,” runs through Dec. 15 at the Old City Hall in downtown Mexico City.

The exhibit is among the government’s activities marking the 700th anniversary of the founding of the Mexica capital.

“Recognizing Tenochtitlan doesn’t mean recalling a dead past, but rather the living heartbeat that still beats beneath our city,” President Claudia Sheinbaum said during an official ceremony in July. “It was the center of an Indigenous world that built its own model of civilization — one in harmony with the Earth, the stars, and its gods and goddesses.”

Fragments of that civilization lie underneath the Old City Hall, the current seat of Mexico City’s government.

Built by order of Spanish conqueror Hernán Cortés in 1522, its construction used stones from ancient Mexica sacred sites. The building has been renewed over time, but its halls have witnessed centuries of governance and symbolism.

“Holding the exhibition in this City Hall, a place of decisions and memory, is a way to recognize the history of those who once inhabited it and how its transformations still echo in Mexico City’s identity,” said Mariana Gómez Godoy, Director of Mexico City’s Cultural Heritage, during the exhibit’s inauguration in November.

A city’s mythic origin

The Mexica themselves recounted their story after Tenochtitlan fell to the Europeans. Several codices — including some produced after the conquest — depict the path that led them to fulfill their deity’s task.

According to the Templo Mayor Museum, the region’s pre-Hispanic people preserved the origin story of a long journey that led to the founding of Tenochtitlan as a cornerstone of their traditions. 

They identified a small island in Lake Texcoco —now central Mexico City— as the place where the Mexica saw the eagle foretold by Huitzilopochtli.

Some scholars, however, revisit the narrative with a different lens. Eduardo Matos Moctezuma — an acclaimed archaeologist from Mexico’s National Institute of Anthropology and History — has argued that the legend is a symbolic retelling of historical events, rather than a literal claim about divine prophecy.

From ancient prophecy to national symbol

The new exhibit offers a historical overview of how the image evolved — from its establishment as the city’s coat of arms in 1523 under Emperor Charles V to its transformation into an emblem of Mexico as an independent nation.

Curated by researcher Guadalupe Lozada, it also displays images portraying how it was adopted by the religious orders in charge of converting the Indigenous people to Catholicism.

While the eagle and cactus were already adopted by Europeans in the mid-16th century, the Jesuits introduced the serpent decades later. “From then on, it would remain a symbol of the city’s identity — one that would also spread throughout the rest of New Spain,” Lozada said.

According to her, plenty of monasteries dating back to the 17th century attest to how friars displayed the eagle and cactus in their sanctuaries. Even today, the emblem can still be seen above the façade of Mexico City’s cathedral and inside one of its chapels.

“Such was the strength of Mexica culture that the evangelizers sought to adopt it rather than exclude it,” she said. “It was like saying, ‘I acknowledge your history.’”

The same logic applied with the European conquerors. Even as they ordered the destruction of the Mexica religious complexes, the representation of the foundational myth was not erased from history.

“For them, conquering a city like Tenochtitlan was a matter of pride and therefore they never intended to deny its existence,” Lozada said. “This meant that the strength of the city buried beneath the new one underlies it and resurfaces — as if it had never disappeared.”

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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.

How Mexico’s Day of the Dead turns skulls into joyful sugar treats

Sugar skulls known as “calaveritas” or little skulls, traditionally added to Day of the Dead altars honoring deceased loved ones, are displayed for sale at the Dulces de Ampudia market in Mexico City, Thursday, Oct. 30, 2025. (AP Photo/Claudia Rosel)

Published by The Associated Press, November 2025

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – Marigolds? Check. Candles? Check. And of course, sugar skulls — the final touch on altars honoring deceased loved ones during Mexico’s Day of the Dead.

Just like the traditional “pan de muerto,” these colorful treats known as “calaveritas” (or little skulls) capture how Mexicans remember their dearly departed with celebration rather than sorrow each November.

“Very few customers buy them to eat,” said Adrián Chavarría, whose family has crafted and sold calaveritas since the 1940s in a Mexico City market. “Most people get them to decorate their altars.”

Following a tradition rooted in pre-Hispanic beliefs related to agriculture, many think their loved ones return home to spend the night on Nov. 2.

To welcome them, families set up homemade altars. Candles are lit in the hope of illuminating their paths and the departed’s favorite dishes are cooked for the occasion.

“I set out a beer, a Coke, a cigarette — a little of everything just in case,” said Margarita Sánchez, who spent a recent October evening shopping for calaveritas and other items for her altar. “That way, whoever comes can help themselves.”

Her whole family takes part in setting up the offerings, but her daughters lead the way, finding creative ways to surprise their deceased relatives with a fresh display each year.

“This is how we honor our loved ones who left earlier than we would have hoped,” Sánchez said. “We do this to remember them.”

A sweet tradition with ancient roots

Calaveritas are mostly made of sugar, chocolate or amaranth. Nonetheless, each Mexican state has its variations. Ingredients such as almonds, peanuts, pumpkin seeds and honey can be added as well.

According to Mexico’s Agriculture and Rural Development Department, the calaveritas’ origins date back to ancient Mesoamerican traditions.

The Aztecs used to make amaranth figures mixed with honey as offerings to their gods. Sugar was introduced in the 16th century with the arrival of the Spaniards, who brought a new technique to mold figures — a practice that eventually led to the colorful sugar skulls made today.

The pre-Hispanic offerings, however, bear no resemblance to the altars used nowadays during Day of the Dead. 

“Those offerings were not structures set up at home,” said historian Jesús López del Río, who recently led a tour on human sacrifices to deities in Mesoamerica. “They were given to entities beyond the human realm and consisted of food, blood, animals, songs, prayers and other things.”

Calaveritas are family heirlooms

Chavarría sells a wide variety of sweets at his shop, but most come from external providers. His sugar skulls are the only products crafted at home.

“I feel very proud and happy to carry on this legacy,” he said. “When we encounter an altar bearing our calaveritas, it fills us with pride.”

The design of his products was his mother’s. Yet his grandfather launched the business around 1941. “Besides being part of our folklore, calaveritas are artisanal sweets,” he said.

All are made by hand. The process is so meticulous that production starts in April, sales kick off by mid-September and by late October his products are sold out.

He can’t specify how many calaveritas are crafted per year, but his shop offers 12 different sizes and produces around 40 boxes per size. Packages containing the tiniest sugar skulls can accommodate up to 600 pieces, while those holding the largest can store around 300.

Prices are affordable — ranging from 3 to 400 pesos ($0.17 to $20) — but days are required to finish each piece. According to his son Emmanuel, who will inherit the business, the process is equally hard and fascinating.

“When your hands burn from handling the sugar skull molds, you feel so satisfied,” he said. “It’s fulfilling because, besides being your creation, it’s part of your family’s legacy.”

The process begins by adding sugar to hot water and lemon juice is incorporated to prevent the mixture from sticking. Once it boils, the blend is poured into ceramic molds, where it sits for a few minutes before the skulls are removed to cool. Around five days later, each calaverita is painted by hand.

Beyond the Day of the Dead, Emmanuel feels close to his departed relatives every day he crafts calaveritas and puts them up for sale at his family’s shop.

“This is how we remember them,” he said. “In each calaverita, their memory prevails.”

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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.

Mexican artisans turn clay into Trees of Life that are celebrated worldwide

A statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe decorates a tree of life sculpture in the main square of Metepec, Mexico, Thursday, Oct. 9, 2025. (AP Photo/Fernando Llano)

Published by The Associated Press, September 2025

Spanish story language here

The first time he met a pope, Mexican craftsman Hilario Hernández could not believe his luck. He did not travel to the Vatican as a guest, but as the guardian of the fragile ceramic piece he had created as a gift for Benedict XVI.

“No one really planned to take me along,” Hernández said. “But a Tree of Life can easily break, so I got the chance to bring it myself.”

The work he was commissioned to create for the pope in 2008 is a celebrated expression of Mexican craftsmanship. 

Known as a Tree of Life, it belongs to a tradition that flourished in the hands of artisans in the mid-20th century and is considered a symbol of identity in Hernández’s hometown.

In Metepec, where he lives and runs a family workshop about 40 miles (65 kilometers) southwest of Mexico City, dozens of craftsmen devote themselves to creating Trees of Life. Their designs vary, but most share a common motif: the biblical scene of Genesis, with Adam and Eve at the center, separated by the tree’s trunk and a coiled snake.

“The tree allows you to express whatever you want,” said Carolina Ramírez, a guide at Metepec’s Clay Museum. “It’s a source of pride for us, as it has become part of the town’s identity and charm.”

The museum holds an annual contest that encourages artisans from across Mexico to submit their versions of the tree. It now houses more than 300 pieces and displays a permanent selection of them.

Aside from Adam and Eve, the trees display a variety of figures like Catrinas — skeletal female figures that have become a symbol of Mexico’s Day of the Dead celebrations — and Xoloitzcuintles, hairless dogs sacred to ancient Nahua people.

“A tree’s theme draws from our culture and traditions,” Ramírez said. “And for the people who buy them, they’ve become a source of identity.”

Heritage in clay

Hernández’s ancestors have crafted clay pieces for as long as he can remember. His grandfather, now 103, still creates pots in Metepec.

“We’re the fifth generation of potters and artisans,” said Felipe, one of Hilario’s younger brothers. “Our knowledge is passed down by word-of-mouth.”

All five siblings trained for technical careers. None went on to practice them, choosing to become full-time artisans instead.

Hilario — the eldest — became his brothers’ mentor. Their tasks now rotate among them. While one shapes leaves for the trees, another attaches them or paints. All take pride in their family’s legacy.

Luis, now 34, said he has crafted Trees of Life since age 12. “This workshop was my playground,” he recalled. “What I initially thought of as a game, later became my job.”

Another local artisan, Cecilio Sánchez, also inherited his father’s skills and went on to found his own workshop. Now his wife, two children and other relatives work together to create a tradition of their own.

His technique is known as pigmented clay and consists of mixing clay with oxides. “Some fellow artisans add industrial pigments to their pieces, but our work is about preserving what the earth itself gives us,” he said.

Where tradition meets myth

While making his first tree for a pope, Hilario pushed his own limits as an artisan. 

Drawing on his father’s ancestral wisdom, he fired the 2-meter-tall (6.6-foot-tall) clay piece at just the right temperature. To transport it, he wrapped it like a giant mummy using 200 rolls of toilet paper to cushion and seal every hollow space.

Then there was the design. For six months, he and his family patiently crafted figures on both sides — a challenge rarely faced in the business. One face told the story of Mexico’s most revered saints; the other, the origins of Metepec’s Tree of Life.

The details of that history are unclear. Yet experts agree that such trees might have played a role in evangelization after the Spanish Conquest in the 16th century.

According to Ramírez, the first artisans to reinterpret them in modern times incorporated elements distinctive to Metepec. One of them is known as the Tlanchana, a half-woman, half-serpent figure who, legend has it, once ruled the waters around the town.

“It was thought that her coming out of the water brought abundance,” Ramírez said. “For our ancestors, deities were bound to fire, water and nature.”

The Tlanchana figures in Hernández’s Trees of Life, though, no longer resemble snakes. Given that the reptile is regarded as a representation of evil, temptation and death within the Catholic worldview, its tail was replaced. In her current form as a mermaid, she is perhaps Metepec’s most iconic symbol alongside the Tree of Life.

Faith in his hands

Hilario keeps a special frame on his worktable: a photograph of the day he met a pope for the second time.

On that occasion he didn’t travel to the Vatican. In 2015, a stranger knocked on his door and asked him to create another Tree of Life — this time, for another pope. Francis was soon to visit Mexico and the president wanted the artisan to present him with a masterpiece.

Hilario’s new assignment took three months of hard, family work. Francis’ tree would not be as tall as the one made for Benedict. But the design presented challenges of its own, as it was to portray the pope’s life.

The craftsman visited nearby chapels, spoke to priests and read as much as he could. In February 2016, when he met the pope inside Mexico’s Presidential Palace, he realized he still had much to learn.

“He ended up explaining to me his own tree,” he said. “And he added: ‘I know you didn’t do this on your own, so God bless your family and your hands.’”

The meeting had a life-changing effect on him. It made him reflect on his purpose in life and reaffirmed his calling to his craft.

“Making Trees of Life is a commitment,” he said. “It’s how we make a living, but it’s also how we keep our culture alive.”

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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.

For Paraguay’s transgender women, survival often means leaving home

Activist Yren Rotela waves an Amnesty International flag during a Pride March in Asuncion, Paraguay, Saturday, June 28, 2025. (AP Photo/Jorge Saenz)

Published by The Associated Press, September 2025

Spanish story language here

ASUNCIÓN (AP) – In Paraguay, one of the most conservative countries in the Americas, many LGBTQ+ people feel compelled to leave their hometowns due to discrimination, harassment and gender-based violence. 

Social rejection and the absence of legal protections take a particular toll on transgender women like Alejandra Mongelós, who first fled her home in 2013 when she was 8 and already identifying as trans. The search for a safe place where she could be herself became an ongoing struggle.

Her life took a turn after a relative molested her. The situation sparked a family quarrel that ended with her mother in prison. Mongelós was then placed in the first of several foster homes where rejection became the norm.

“In one of them, there was this guy who talked to me about God,” said Mongelós, now 20. “He told me: ‘God created you a man, so you have to be a man.’”

Before meeting another trans woman who would take her under her wing at age 13, she says she cycled through nearly 30 foster homes. She would sometimes stay for a month. Other times, not even for a week.

“I kept running away,” she said. “My own caretakers mistreated me.”

Faith and politics uphold exclusion

Macho attitudes have long fueled discrimination against LGBTQ+ Paraguayans.

Close to 90% of the population is Catholic. And while a repressive dictatorship ended in 1989, the conservative Colorado Party has ruled almost uninterrupted since 1947.

Months before he was elected in 2013, former President Horacio Cartes compared gay people to monkeys and said he would rather shoot himself before his son married a man.

The current president, Santiago Peña, said prior to his election in 2023 that he rejects abortion and Paraguay would defend marriage as the union between a man and a woman.

“As an election cycle begins, the ruling party launches a battle against what it calls ‘gender ideology,’” said attorney Michi Moragas, who specializes in cases involving women’s rights and LGBTQ+ causes. “It’s a way of turning gender issues into an internal enemy.”

That campaign extends to classrooms and encompasses reproductive rights. Comprehensive sex education programs are banned in schools. Curricula overseen by the Catholic Church promote abstinence as the ideal. And the power of the Colorado Party in Congress has prevented discussion on abortion or same-sex marriage, both of which remain forbidden.

“We have a sexist culture where men are men, women are women and nothing else is accepted,” said Yrén Rotela, a trans activist who became a mentor to Mongelós. “That’s why this prejudice endures.”

Shelters offer safety as violence goes unrecorded

Mongelós now lives in Casa Diversa, a shelter founded by Rotela in 2018 to protect LGBTQ+ people.

Most beneficiaries migrated within Paraguay in need of safety, work and companionship. Rotela provides them with clothing, meals, training to work as hairdressers and support to overcome addictions.

“I migrated too and was a victim of human trafficking,” said Rotela, who transitioned at age 13 and turned to sex work to sustain herself. “All my scars are the result of the violence I experienced on the streets.”

Activists like her contend that some Paraguayans who spot trans women walking down the street throw glass, liquids and stones at them. Others chase them with machetes or shoot at them.

These attacks generally go unrecorded by the authorities. Most cases are documented only by LGBTQ+ organizations. According to Moragas, trans women feel discouraged to file a police report after being attacked, believing officers won’t take them seriously.

“In theory, the police are supposed to pass on the reports to the prosecutor’s office,” she said. “In practice, they often don’t — or they mistreat the women, mock them, and as a result many decide not to file a complaint.”

Isabel Gamarra, director of another LGBTQ+ organization called Escalando, said she started migrating after her family forced her out when she transitioned at 15.

She became a sex worker for about 10 years. The violence became unbearable and she fled to Argentina, where she lived for three years before returning to Paraguay.

“The killings of trans people were horrific,” she said.

A fight for dignity beyond legal texts

Paraguayan law does not recognize transgender identity or hate crimes. The Constitution forbids discrimination, but what that means in practice — and the legal steps victims should take — remains unclear. Given the legal loophole, a bill is pending in Paraguay’s Congress to establish mechanisms to address cases of discrimination.

To push for its approval and to demand a gender identity law, human rights defenders and members of the community protest each Sept. 30.

The date commemorates the publication of an anonymous letter regarded as a symbolic act of resistance against Gen. Alfredo Stroessner’s regime in 1959.

Days prior to the letter’s publication, radio host Bernardo Aranda was found dead in his home and Stroessner used the case as an excuse to prosecute 108 men identified as homosexual as suspects of the crime.

Nelson Viveros joins the protests each year. In Asunción, where he settled after years of leaving his hometown, he joins the march as his drag persona, Dislexia.

“Nowadays I’m doing fine, but I have to endure constant remarks,” said Viveros, who identifies as a gay man. “Everything I represent is despised and marginalized. People want us to hide.”

His relationship with his family was never as fractured as those of the trans women at Casa Diversa. But it took a while for his parents to fully embrace his identity and relocating became essential for him to feel comfortable.

“I don’t know if I want to wait for things to improve in Paraguay,” said Viveros, who had plans to migrate to the United States but gave up that dream when Donald Trump won the presidency.

“I want to have a better life and feel safe,” he added. “If something ever happens to me, I want to be able to denounce it.”

He, like Rotela and other activists, thinks that Paraguayan trans women face tougher challenges than gay men or lesbians, given that their physical appearance can make them targets for violence.

“I dress like this (in masculine garments) because I take the bus and walk,” he said. “But one shouldn’t alter one’s personality in order to survive.”

Rotela, too, joins the September protest every year and says she won’t stop fighting to secure LGBTQ+ rights.

“We need to start breaking down discrimination, stigma and prejudice,” she said. “Because what’s the point of a law if society won’t respect you?”

“What good is changing our names if we’re still being killed?”

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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.

Afro-descendants in Bolivia fight invisibility with dance and memory

A young member of the Afro-Bolivian community dances the “saya,” a traditional dance performed with drums and chants, as part of the celebrations to mark the upcoming National Day of Afro-Bolivian people, in La Paz, Bolivia, Friday, Sept. 19, 2025. (AP Photo/Juan Karita)

Published by The Associated Press, September 2025

Spanish story language here

YUNGAS, Bolivia (AP) – Cielo Torres had always lived in Bolivia. Yet before moving at age 17 to the remote town of Tocaña — where much of the country’s Afro-descendant community lives — she had rarely encountered people who looked like her.

“Back in Santa Cruz, we were the only Afro,” said Torres, now 25. “But when I saw others like me, I told myself: This is where I want to be. Here I feel comfortable and understood.”

Her sense of belonging echoes the experience of many Afro-Bolivians. Although officially recognized in the constitution since 2009, they remain one of Bolivia’s least visible groups, struggling to feel at home in their own land.

“Many think that we are foreigners and we don’t have any rights,” said Carmen Angola, executive director of the Afro-Bolivian National Council (CONAFRO). “But we were born here.”

More than 11.3 million people live in Bolivia. Around 23,000 identified as Afro in a 2012 census, the first and only time they appeared as a distinct category. Most live in Yungas, a region where roads and communications are scarce but coca leaf plantations abound.

“Our Afro communities depend on coca harvesting or honey production,” said Torres, who runs a beekeeping business with her husband.

“We are people used to walking trails instead of paved roads,” she added. “People who learn from the land.”

Symbolic gestures, scarce change

Official information on the community’s history is hard to come by. “We have been made invisible by the state,” said activist Mónica Rey. “There weren’t any written registers reflecting our reality. We wrote that history down ourselves.”

She said some progress was made in 2007, a year after Evo Morales became Bolivia’s first Indigenous president. “By 2009 we were included in the constitution,” she added. “But we have demanded our inclusion and rights to all the past governments.”

Morales supported CONAFRO’s founding in 2011. That same year, Sept. 23 was established as the National Day of the Afro-Bolivian People and Culture. Still, according to Rey, symbolic recognition is not enough to achieve structural change.

“The idea was that this day would serve to reaffirm our identity and that the state would create public policies for the Afro people,” Rey said. “But it turns out we celebrate among ourselves and the government doesn’t do anything.”

She and Carmen Angola contend that promoting their people’s legacy has proven difficult. Angola has tried to convince local authorities to allow a group of Afro-Bolivians to visit schools and share insights of their community. None have agreed so far.

“They just say they’re going to address discrimination, history and racism,” Angola said. “But the people who created the curricula aren’t Black. Their history is not ours.”

From the mines to the ‘haciendas’

CONAFRO joined efforts with another organization to gather testimonies documenting the Afro-Bolivian community’s long-lost past. A comprehensive document was released in 2013.

“We got our history back,” Rey said. “Our experiences, our elders’ tales, our culture, have been retrieved and documented.”

The Afro-Bolivian people descend from the Africans enslaved in the Americas during the European conquest between the 16th and 17th centuries. 

Mostly born in Congo and Angola, they were initially taken to Potosí, a colonial mining city located about 340 miles (550 kilometers) southeast of La Paz.

The high altitude — 13,700 feet (4,175 meters) above sea level — and the extreme weather quickly took a toll. Later on, exposure to mercury and other substances in mining led to severe illnesses — from tooth loss, respiratory disease and death.

Two centuries later, the ancestors of the current Afro-Bolivian population were forcibly relocated to Yungas. There they settled and started working in large estates known as ‘haciendas,’ where coca leaf, coffee and sugar cane were grown.

“The Afro people were dying and that was inconvenient because they were considered investments,” said sociologist Óscar Mattaz. “So people started buying them and taking them away.”

Now Tocaña and neighboring towns are considered the cultural heart of Afro-Bolivians.

A king with no crown

In Mururata lives Julio Pinedo, a symbolic leader regarded as the king of the Afro-Bolivians.

Bolivia’s Black community has recognized kings for centuries. Pinedo’s role carries no political weight within the government, but he is considered a guardian of his people’s rights. Local authorities acknowledge his title and even attended his coronation in 1992.

“The king was a symbolic means to show there’s royalty in the community,” Mattaz said. “He was very influential, worked hard and was respected.”

His position hardly made a difference in his lifestyle. Pinedo, now 83, resides in the same humble home he has always lived. He now relies on his son’s coca harvest for income.

Pinedo welcomes visitors. But engaging in conversation is hard due to his age. According to his wife, Angélica Larrea, his royal ancestry dates back 500 years. 

“I remember his coronation,” she said. “People came from other communities. They danced and there was a procession. A priest came and we celebrated Mass.”

A handful of Afro-Bolivians have tried to decipher what their ancestors’ spirituality was. Yet the community remains overwhelmingly Catholic.

Close to Pinedo’s home, the sole parish of Mururata has no resident priest. Nonetheless, a group of devoted women are welcomed to read the Bible each Sunday. 

Isabel Rey — a distant relative of Mónica — said her ancestors were Catholics. And even without a priest to rely on, the catechist in charge of the church has kept the community’s faith strong.

“She will soon celebrate 40 years sharing the Lord’s word,” Rey said. “I help her, because she can’t keep up the work alone.”

A dance of struggle and love

There might not be an Afro-Bolivian spirituality, but the community’s soul remains bonded through the “saya,” a traditional dance performed with drums and chants.

“Our demands were born through this music,” Rey said. “The saya has become our instrument to gain visibility. We protest with drums and songs.”

Torres recalled dancing saya before moving to Tocaña. Yet her feelings while performing it changed.

“Here it’s danced from the heart,” she said. “I learned how to sing and listen. It’s no ordinary music because we tell our history through it.”

She said each detail in their garments bears meaning. The white symbolizes peace and the red honors the blood shed by their ancestors. Men wear black hats to remember how their predecessors worked endlessly under the sun. And the women’s braids depict the roads they dreamed of to escape.

“It may seem like fashion, but it’s not,” Torres said. “It’s our culture.”

For more than a decade now, she has learned new moves and saya songs. She became fluent in her community’s language — a variation of Spanish that is not officially recognized — and is proud of her identity.

“I used to feel embarrassed for dancing saya,” Torres said. “But when I saw people dancing here, I told myself: ‘This is what I am. I am Black.’”

Committed to raising her daughter to also be proud of her ancestry, she constantly praises her skin color, hair and moves.

“She already dances saya,” Torres said. “I tell her: ‘You are Black. My Black little girl.’”

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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.

Mexican churches mark the anniversary of deadly quakes with remembrance and lessons for the future

Vinicio Cruz and Carmen Chavez get married during a ceremony by Father Juan Carlos Guerrero inside San Juan de Dios church in Mexico City, Friday, Sept. 19, 2025. The church withstood the 8.0 earthquake of 1985, however, its structure was severely damaged in 2017 and it was forced to shut down and reopened in late 2024 after most of its restoration was completed. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)

Published by The Associated Press, September 2025

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – Carmen Chávez has a clear answer for those wondering why she and her partner chose to get married on Sept. 19 — the anniversary of two deadly earthquakes that struck Mexico 32 years apart.

“This was a tragic date for me,” said Chávez, who remembers how buildings collapsed in downtown Mexico City 40 years ago. “So I want to give this day a new meaning. From now on, it will mark the beginning of our life together.”

There is no official consensus on the overall death toll from the 1985 and 2017 earthquakes. Some estimates put the total figure at more than 12,000, but the real number remains unknown.

The coinciding dates fuel anxiety for many, especially after a third, less damaging quake hit the country on Sept. 19, 2022. But seismologists and researchers say there is no physical reason for the concurrence of major earthquakes on a specific date.

As Chávez’s wedding ceremony ended Friday morning, police closed off nearby streets to traffic for an earthquake drill. Meanwhile, exhibits, lectures and Masses took place all over the city to remember the quakes’ victims.

Mexico’s flag was flown at half staff outside Mexico City’s cathedral. A message was posted on its social media channels: “Those days left us wounded, but they also taught us that solidarity is greater than fear.”

Churches still bear scars from quakes

The Catholic venue that Chávez and her partner chose for their wedding carries a deep significance on this particular date.

The San Juan de Dios church withstood the 8.1 magnitude earthquake of 1985. However, its structure was severely damaged in 2017, forcing it to shut down. It reopened in late 2024, after most of its restoration was completed, though some interior work is still pending.

Across the plaza, another sanctuary, Santa Vera Cruz, remains closed to the public. No reopening date has been announced, but Monsignor Juan Carlos Guerrero, in charge of both parishes, hopes it can welcome visitors again by the end of this year.

“We need to keep up the restoration of our buildings,” Guerrero said. “The life of these monuments is closely linked to the people’s identity.”

Chávez said she and her partner chose San Juan de Dios as a wedding venue because her late grandmother used to attend frequently.

“It’s a parish full of history and it’s so beautiful,” she said. “Its paintings, its architecture, I love being here.”

Learning from tragedy

The Rev. Salvador Barba, who became an intermediary between the Catholic church and officials in charge of restoring federal buildings after 2017, said more than 150 churches were damaged by that earthquake in Mexico City alone. Forty were forced to shut down due to structural damage.

Nationwide, more than 3,000 churches were affected. By late 2024, nearly 90% had been restored, along with 4,000 pieces of sacred art, a government press release said.

Barba suggested that the 2017 earthquake was groundbreaking for the Catholic Church. “We raised awareness among priests that we need to take care of our churches,” he said. “An expression that we now frequently use is ’preventive maintenance’.”

That means priests nationwide can reach out to him to report cracks or any details that call for professional attention. Barba then forwards the report to the experts at the federal government and the buildings are inspected.

“We must not wait until it becomes worse,” he said. “That is what caused so much harm.”
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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.

Coca leaves remain a source of work, faith and identity in Bolivia

A person puts coca leaves into the mouth of a decorated, human skull on display at the General Cemetery, as an offering during the annual «Natitas» festival, a tradition marking the end of the Catholic holiday of All Saints in La Paz, Bolivia, Nov. 8, 2023. (AP Photo/Juan Karita)

Published by The Associated Press, September 2025

Spanish story language here

LOS YUNGAS, Bolivia (AP) – Tomas Zavala performs a ritual ahead of each workday in his coca field.

Deep in the lush green mountains of Bolivia’s Yungas region, the 69-year-old farmer closes his eyes, faces the soil, and asks Mother Earth for permission to harvest coca leaves.

“The coca leaf is the core of our survival,” Zavala said. “If we work the land without permission, it gets ruined.”

Outside Bolivia, the green leaf is best known as the main ingredient in cocaine. But within the South American country it is widely considered sacred, present in both rituals and everyday life.

“The coca leaf allows us to send our children to school and put food on the table,” said Zavala, who relies on harvesting coca leaves for income. “It’s useful for everything.”

The practice that fuels Bolivia’s workforce

Bolivia recognizes the coca leaf as part of its cultural heritage, allowing cultivation within designated areas. According to the country’s Coca Producers Association, its production employs more than 45,000 people nationwide.

Most Bolivians use coca leaves for “boleo,” a practice recognized as an intangible cultural heritage since 2016. The word has no English translation. It means placing a compact wad of leaves inside the cheek.

Many refer to it as chewing, but the leaves are rarely treated like gum. Instead, people let them slowly release their active compounds. The alkaloids act as stimulants, though producers and government officials insist their effects remain mild — far from those of processed cocaine.

“It slows down our fatigue and takes away our hunger,” said Rudi Paxi, secretary of the producers association. “You’ll always watch the people from Yungas doing boleo as they head to work.”

Neri Argane, 60, works at a coca plantation in Yungas for 11 hours a day, six days per week. “We do this no matter the sun, the rain or the cold,” Argane said.

She eats bananas, rice and corn tortillas to keep up her strength. But only boleo enables her to endure long hours crouching in the fields, she says.

Families pass down coca fields like heirlooms

Bolivia’s government has made several attempts to highlight how the coca leaf is intertwined with its people’s cultural traditions.

Even as coca’s global reputation remains linked to drug trafficking, President Luis Arce sought to highlight its cultural roots. Earlier this year, he performed a public boleo to mark National Coca Chewing Day.

“Our government values the ​​coca because it is a cultural symbol,” he said. “It represents our identity and sovereignty. It has medicinal and ritual values, and is a source of social cohesion.”

In the Yungas region, where Zavala lives about 60 miles (100 kilometers) from the capital city of La Paz, the heritage of dozens of families is tied to these hardy leaves.

“I watched my parents working the land since I was 8,” he said. “Luckily, they entrusted it to me. So I could survive.”

Mónica López also inherited her parents’ coca fields in a neighboring town. “I have been a farmer for as long as I can remember,” she said.

Raising healthy coca leaves is demanding. All work is done by hand, without machinery or animals to help. Farmers prepare the soil by October, sow the land by December and harvest the crops around February.

Most fields are handled by family members. On any given day in Yungas, it’s common to spot children next to their mothers and grandparents while they clean the leaves.

“I’ve been in the coca fields since I was 2 and I can tell you this work is hard,” said 22-year-old Alejandra Escobar. “But the coca leaf brings us plenty of benefits. When we have no money, it’s what we consume.”

Bolivians from rural areas regularly drink coca leaf tea to heal headaches and stomach inflammation. Elsewhere in the country, people use it for pancakes, ice cream and beer.

“The coca is everywhere,” Paxi said. “It unites us as families. It’s our company.”

Coca leaf nourishes both body and spirit

The coca leaf also plays a key role in Bolivians’ spirituality. “It’s used to start most of our rituals,” said anthropologist Milton Eyzaguirre. “Before you start a new job, for example, you set up a ‘mesa’ (or table) and coca leaves around.”

In the worldview of the Aymara, the region’s Indigenous people, ‘mesas’ are offerings for Pachamama (Mother Earth). Built from wooden logs, they are arranged by spiritual leaders who pray for wealth, protection and good health.

“The coca leaf helps us see,” said Neyza Hurtado, who was hired by a family to perform a ritual ahead of the recent Pachamama month. “By deciphering a coca leaf, you can know how a person is.” 

Personal rituals with coca leaves are common. According to Eyzaguirre, bricklayers regularly make a boleo before each workday. And like Zavala, they ask for Mother Earth’s permission to kick off the day.

“People even use it to travel,” Eyzaguirre said. “When you go somewhere by foot, you make coca offerings and consume it, to gather strength.”

Rituals for Pachamama live on in the Yungas

López’s coca leaf rituals start on the first minute of Aug. 1. “We thank Mother Earth, because if she gets tired, nothing sprouts,” she said.

At the mesa inside her home, her spiritual leader places sweets, rice and cinnamon. Before lighting it on fire to complete the offering, López adds 12 coca leaves. “We ask for wishes with the coca,” she said. “We ask for good luck for 12 months, from August to August.”

Just like the Yungas field, her faith in Pachamama was inherited from her parents. Now she performs her rituals alongside her five children, hoping they will keep the tradition alive. 

Zavala’s rituals occur both inside his house and in his field. He, too, encourages his grandchildren to participate. “We need Pachamama in the terrain, to have a good production,” he said.

Aside from asking Mother Earth’s permission to work, Zavala performs an Andean tradition known as “chaya.” The word refers to the custom of spraying alcohol onto the ground as an offering, either for requests or as an act of gratitude that symbolizes giving back to Pachamama.

“It’s what our elders passed down to us», he said. «So we must preserve it.” 

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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.