maria teresa hernandez associated press

Burnt offerings, whispering to mountains: Inside Bolivians’ rituals for Mother Earth

Spiritual leader Eusebio Huanca burns offerings observing the month of Pachamama, or Mother Earth, performing an ancient tradition to ask for a good harvest, on La Cumbre, a mountain considered sacred on the outskirts of La Paz, Bolivia, Friday, Aug. 1, 2025. (AP Photo/Juan Karita)

Published by The Associated Press, August 2025

Spanish story language here

Neyza Hurtado was 3 years old when she was struck by lightning. Forty years later, sitting next to a bonfire on a 13,700-foot (4,175-meter) mountain, her scarred forehead makes her proud.

“I am the lightning,” she said. “When it hit me, I became wise and a seer. That’s what we masters are.”

Hundreds of people in Bolivia hire Andean spiritual guides like Hurtado to perform rituals every August, the month of “Pachamama,” or Mother Earth, according to the worldview of the Aymara, an Indigenous people of the region.

Pachamama’s devotees believe that she awakens hungry and thirsty after the dry season. To honor her and express gratitude for her blessings, they make offerings at home, in their crop fields and on the peaks of Bolivian mountains.

“We come here every August to follow in the footsteps of our elders,” said Santos Monasterios, who hired Hurtado for a Pachamama ritual on a site called La Cumbre, about 8 miles (13 kilometers) from the capital city of La Paz. “We ask for good health and work.”

Honoring Mother Earth

Offerings made to Pachamama are known as “mesitas” (or “little tables”). Depending on each family’s wishes, masters like Hurtado prepare one mesita per family or per person.

Mesitas are made of wooden logs. On top of them, each master places sweets, grains, coca leaves and small objects representing wealth, protection and good health. Occasionally, llama or piglet fetuses are also offered.

Once the mesita is ready, the spiritual guide sets it on fire and devotees douse their offerings with wine or beer, to quench Pachamama’s thirst.

“When you make this ritual, you feel relieved,” Monasterios said. “I believe in this, so I will keep sharing a drink with Pachamama.”

It can take up to three hours for a mesita to burn. Once the offerings have turned to ash, the devotees gather and solemnly bury the remains to become one with Mother Earth.

Why Bolivians make offerings to Pachamama

Carla Chumacero, who travelled to La Cumbre last week with her parents and a sister, requested four mesitas from her longtime spiritual guide.

“Mother Earth demands this from us, so we provide,” the 28-year-old said.

According to Chumacero, how they become aware of Pachamama’s needs is hard to explain. “We just know it; it’s a feeling,” she said. “Many people go through a lot — accidents, trouble within families — and that’s when we realize that we need to present her with something, because she has given us so much and she can take it back.”

María Ceballos, 34, did not inherit her devotion from her family, but from co-workers at the gold mine where she earns a living.

“We make offerings because our work is risky,” Ceballos said. “We use heavy machinery and we travel often, so we entrust ourselves to Pachamama.”

A ritual rooted in time and climate

The exact origin of the Pachamama rituals is difficult to determine, but according to Bolivian anthropologist Milton Eyzaguirre, they are an ancestral tradition dating back to 6,000 B.C.

As the first South American settlers came into the region, they faced soil and climate conditions that differed from those in the northernmost parts of the planet, where winter begins in December. In Bolivia, as in other Southern Hemisphere countries, winter runs from June to September.

“Here, the cold weather is rather dry,” Eyzaguirre said. “Based on that, there is a particular behavior in relation to Pachamama.”

Mother Earth is believed to be asleep throughout August. Her devotees wish for her to regain her strength and bolster their sowing, which usually begins in October and November. A few months later, when the crops are harvested in February, further rituals are performed.

“These dates are key because it’s when the relationship between humans and Pachamama is reactivated,” Eyzaguirre said.

“Elsewhere it might be believed that the land is a consumer good,” he added. “But here there’s an equilibrium: You have to treat Pachamama because she will provide for you.”

Bolivians’ connection to their land

August rituals honor not only Pachamama, but also the mountains or “apus,” considered protective spirits for the Aymara and Quechua people.

“Under the Andean perspective, all elements of nature have a soul,” Eyzaguirre said. “We call that ‘Ajayu,’ which means they have a spiritual component.”

For many Bolivians, wind, fire, and water are considered spirits, and the apus are perceived as ancestors. This is why many cemeteries are located in the highlands and why Pachamama rituals are performed at sites like La Cumbre.

“The apus protect us and keep an eye on us,” said Rosendo Choque, who has been a spiritual guide or “yatiri” for 40 years.

He, like Hurtado, said that only a few select people can do they job. Before becoming masters, it is essential that they acquire special skills and ask Pachamama’s permission to perform rituals in her honor.

“I acquired my knowledge little by little,” Choque said. “But I now have the permission to do this job and coca leaves speak to me.”

Hurtado said she mostly inherited her knowledge from her grandmother, who was also a yatiri and witnessed how she survived the lightning strike.

“For me, she is the holiest person, the one who made me what I am,” Hurtado said.

She said she finds comfort in helping her clients secure a good future, but her close relationship with Pachamama brings her the deepest joy.

“We respect her because she is Mother Earth,” Hurtado said. “We live in her.”

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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.

Despite rainy weather, Catholics in a Paraguayan town dress as birds to honor their patron saint

Children dressed in feather costumes attend a Mass celebrating Saint Francisco Solano at his namesake chapel in Emboscada, Paraguay, Thursday, July 24, 2025. Catholic parishioners in Paraguay don bird-like costumes and parade the streets to honor the 16th century saint said to possess miraculous powers. (AP Photo/Jorge Saenz)

Published by The Associated Press, July 2025

Spanish story language here

EMBOSCADA, Paraguay (AP) The rainy weather did not prevent Blanca Servín from dressing her 7-year-old son like a bird. They joined a procession honoring St. Francis Solanus, the patron saint of a town in Paraguay about 20 miles (32 kilometers) from the capital city of Asunción.

Like her child, dozens of Catholics in Emboscada wear elaborate feathered garments each July 24. Dressing up is a ritual aimed at fulfilling promises made to the Spanish friar, who was a missionary in South America during the 16th century and is believed to grant miracles.

“I couldn’t have children,” Servín said. “I underwent several treatments and when I finally got pregnant and my child was born, the doctors said he would barely live for a few days.”

She then prayed to St. Francis Solanus and made a promise many parishioners make: If you do this for me, I will honor you on your feast day for seven years.

“My son is almost 7, and I have kept my promise,” Servín said. “But we will keep coming.”

Dressing in feathers

Participants dressing up in feather garments are known as “promisers.” As part of the rituals, they cover their faces, imitate birds and distort their voices when speaking.

Marcos Villalba said he spent three months crafting his costume. He worked on it every other day and said his father and brothers have also been long-time promisers.

Sulma Villalba — not related to Marcos — devoted six months to the task. Rather than wearing a costume herself, she patiently glued hundreds feathers to her children’s and husband’s clothing. Like Servín, she has already fulfilled the promise she made to St. Francis to protect her family, but she said they still honor him because it has become a tradition they enjoy.

A missionary to Indigenous people

According to Ireneo López, a layperson in charge of recreational activities at the Emboscada parish, St. Francis is remembered as a missionary who evangelized the Indigenous people through music. The first church in his honor was erected in the 1930s. As parishioners increased, a new building was built later.

López said that participants use up to 30 hens, guinea fowls and geese to craft their costumes. 

“These garments represent what people used to wear in ancient times,” he added. “Gala suits were made with what nature provided: birds.”

Jessica López, who attended the festival with her two children and a niece, said she gathered feathers for months. Before crafting the costumes a week ago, her family enjoyed a banquet with a hen they specifically picked for the occasion.

She, too, asked St. Francis for good health, but said parishioners request all sorts of miracles. About 2,500 area residents join the feast every year.

Processions and dances honoring St. Francis start on July 22. The night before the feast day, a local family takes home a wooden figure depicting the friar in order to decorate it for the festivities. 

On July 24, promisers and parishioners attend Mass at the St. Francis chapel, then lead a procession and end up dancing in front of the church.

A tale of land and dispute

According to historian Ana Barreto, the ancient context of the feast is as fascinating as the feast itself. It is celebrated in a territory that was disputed by two Indigenous people — the Guaraní and the Chacoan — before the Spaniards came in the 16th century.

The Europeans eventually subdued the Guaraní, but the Chacoan kept defending the land even after descendants of formerly enslaved people from Africa settled there. 

“The Indigenous people sought to steal young women, take weapons and other valuable objects, and set the ranches on fire,” Barreto said.

Not all current participants in the St. Francis feast are aware of this, but their costumes and celebrations are a remembrance of this historic episode.

According to Barreto, the Guaraní name of the event, “Guaykurú Ñemondé,” translates as “dressing like a barbarian.” Thus Guaraní participants are dressing as their ancestral enemies. 

The reason might be hidden in an ancient Guaraní rite. After battling the Chacoan, the Guaraní people kept their prisoners alive. They provided them with food and energizing drinks, and encouraged them to have sex with their women. Afterwards, they killed the prisoners and cooked them, serving them as a meal at a community banquet.

“In this way, the enemy strengthened the Guaraní,” Barreto said.

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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.

Renowned Mexico City restaurant serves traditional street food and nostalgia of the homeland

Quintonil’s team of chefs test sauces for the menu at the restaurant in Mexico City, Friday, Feb. 28, 2025. (AP Photo/Ginnette Riquelme)

Published by The Associated Press, March 2025 (link aquí)

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – Quintonil is not your typical Mexican restaurant.

Clients book tables months in advance to celebrate special occasions. The World’s 50 Best list ranked it as the most acclaimed venue in the country in 2024 — and No. 7 worldwide. But once in a while something unexpected happens: food brings guests to tears.

“We have hosted people who have wept over a tamale,” said chef Jorge Vallejo, who founded Quintonil in Mexico City in March 2012.

He intentionally chose traditional street food for the menu — insects and other pre-Hispanic delicacies included. Priced at 4,950 pesos ($250 US) per person, it evokes the nostalgia of home and the history of the homeland.

The tamale — which translates from the Nahuatl language as “wrapped” — is a Mesoamerican delicacy made of steamed corn dough. It can be filled with savory or sweet ingredients — such as pork meat and pineapple — and topped with sauce.

Official records show that around 500 varieties of tamales can be found in Mexico. And according to a publication of Samuel Villela, ethnologist from the National School of Anthropology and History, Nahua communities used them for ritual purposes.

Most of Vallejo’s clientele are foreigners attracted by the two Michelin stars awarded to Quintonil last year. Others are nationals who spent decades living abroad or Americans of Mexican descent in search of a taste from their ancestry.

“They come to visit their families and feel shaken by the flavors that remind them who they are,” the chef said. “It’s like coming back to their roots.”

Providing that experience is what motivated him to open Quintonil 13 years ago. He first thought of his 11-table restaurant as a “fonda,” as Mexicans call popular food venues offering homemade dishes.

“I didn’t think I would own a restaurant like Quintonil nor did I aspire to that,” Vallejo said. “What I’ve tried to do is to learn from Mexico and show the best of it.” 

He took his first job in a place resembling a fonda, where he and his mom used to have lunch. He then studied culinary arts.

For a while, he worked on a cruise line, peeling crabs and coordinating the logistics to feed thousands of clients. Back in Mexico, he met his wife and business partner at Pujol, run by famed chef Enrique Olvera. They founded Quintonil a few years later and their mission has not changed: We’ll tell our country’s tales through food. 

“We all have a life story,” Vallejo said. “I try to interpret that and transform it into stories we can share at Quintonil.”

Traveling is part of his routine. He meets with colleagues to exchange anecdotes and contacts, but also encounters local farmers and spends time in remote communities to understand how food and tradition intertwine.

“In Mexico, we have ecosystems and ingredients that don’t exist anywhere else,” Vallejo said. “And our recipes, our traditions, are deeply rooted in society.”

His menu at Quintonil often incorporates insects, treasured since pre-Hispanic times.

Ancient documents describe how the Mexica were once established in the Chapultepec Hill. Its name comes from “chapulín,” a type of grasshopper that Mexicans currently enjoy from street vendors or at popular bars known as “cantinas.”

“In Mexico City, we have ‘escamoles’ season,” Vallejo said, referring to an edible larvae the Aztec people ate. “But in Oaxaca, we can find the ‘chicatana’ ants. In Tlaxcala, ‘cocopaches’ (a leaf-footed bug) and in Guerrero, they have insects of their own.” 

Alexandra Bretón, a food enthusiast who has visited Quintonil several times and reviews restaurants in her blog “Chilangas Hambrientas,” feels that Vallejo’s contribution to Mexican gastronomy is invaluable.

“He has elevated Mexican ingredients,” Bretón said. “My memories of Quintonil are of dishes where herbs, insects and vegetables are taken seriously in dishes with great technique.”

During her last visit in February, she tasted a delicious tamale filled with duck. Her second favorite was a taco, which can be found at thousands of food spots, but Vallejo somehow transforms into an experience.

“What we do here are not just beautiful plates,” said Geraldine Rodríguez, Quintonil’s sous chef. “We aim to nourish people, to show what Mexico is.”

There was a time, she said, when fine dining was synonymous of foie gras and lobster. But Quintonil chose another path.

“We have an ancestral cuisine that comes from our grandmothers,” Rodríguez said. “So we respect those recipes and add the chef’s touch.”

The taco experience highlighted by Bretón is among those efforts. Several ingredients — insects, for instance — are offered in plates for clients to wrap in tortillas.

“Through that interaction, that ritual that we Mexicans own, we watch clients wondering if they’re grabbing the taco in a proper way,” Rodríguez said. “But we always tell them we just want them to feel at home.”

Working long shifts and aiming for perfection is not an easy task for the 60 people working at Quintonil.

Rodríguez can spend up to four hours selecting a handful of sprouts to decorate a plate. Other near-invisible, almost ritualistic tasks are performed daily. One of them is brushing the “milpa,” a textile that hangs from the terrace and was named after Mesoamerican fields where crops are grown.

In the end it’s all worth it, Rodríguez said, because Quintonil provides clients with moments that evoke special memories.

She, too, has seen Vallejo’s clients cry over food. One of them was her dad. It was his 50th birthday, she said, and while she was not an employee of Quintonil at the time, Vallejo greeted her warmly.

The menu of the day included “huauzontles,» a green plant commonly cooked as a bun-shaped delicacy dipped in sauce. It also bears history, as Aztec communities ate it and used it to perform religious rites.

Quintonil’s recipe added stir-fry tomato and a local cheese. “When he ate it, he started crying and said they reminded him of my grandma,” Rodríguez said. “I had never seen my dad cry over a plate.”

Vallejo has often expressed joy for the recognition that Quintonil has achieved. But in his view, a chef’s true success is measured by what he make his clients feel.

“Mexican cuisine is a connection to the land, to the ingredients,” he said. “It’s a series of elements that produce not an emotion, but a feeling. And for me, there’s nothing more amazing than provoking that.”

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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.

Ancient deity, pet and endangered species. Why is axolotl Mexico’s most beloved amphibian?

An axolotl swims in an aquarium at a museum in Xochimilco Ecological Park in Mexico City, Tuesday, Feb. 11, 2025. (AP Photo/Marco Ugarte)

Published by The Associated Press, February 2025 (link aquí)

Spanish story language here

MEXICO CITY (AP) – Legend has it the axolotl was not always an amphibian. Long before it became Mexico’s most beloved salamander and efforts to prevent its extinction flourished, it was a sneaky god.

“It’s an interesting little animal,” said Yanet Cruz, head of the Chinampaxóchitl Museum in Mexico City.

Its exhibitions focus on axolotl and chinampas, the pre-Hispanic agricultural systems resembling floating gardens that still function in Xochimilco, a neighborhood on Mexico City’s outskirts famed for its canals.

“Despite there being many varieties, the axolotl from the area is a symbol of identity for the native people,” said Cruz, who participated in activities hosted at the museum to celebrate “Axolotl Day” in early February.

While there are no official estimates of the current axolotl population, the species Ambystoma mexicanum — endemic of central Mexico— has been catalogued as “critically endangered” by the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species since 2019. And though biologists, historians and officials have led efforts to save the species and its habitat from extinction, a parallel, unexpected preservation phenomenon has emerged.

Axolotl attracted international attention after Minecraft added them to its game in 2021 and Mexicans went crazy about them that same year, following the Central Bank’s initiative to print it on the 50-peso bill. “That’s when the ‘axolotlmania’ thrived,” Cruz said.

All over Mexico, the peculiar, dragon-like amphibian can be spotted in murals, crafts and socks. Selected bakeries have caused a sensation with its axolotl-like bites. Even a local brewery — “Ajolote” in Spanish — took its name from the salamander to honor Mexican traditions.

Before the Spaniards conquered Mexico-Tenochtitlan in the 16th century, axolotl may not have had archeological representations as did Tláloc — god of rain in the Aztec worldview — or Coyolxauhqui — its lunar goddess — but it did appear in ancient Mesoamerican documents.

In the Nahua myth of the Fifth Sun, pre-Hispanic god Nanahuatzin threw himself into a fire, reemerged as the sun and commanded fellow gods to replicate his sacrifice to bring movement to the world. All complied but Xólotl, a deity associated with the evening star, who fled.

“He was hunted down and killed,” said Arturo Montero, archeologist of the National Commission of Protected Natural Areas. “And from his death came a creature: axolotl.”

According to Montero, the myth implies that, after a god’s passing, its essence gets imprisoned in a mundane creature, subject to the cycles of life and death. Axolotl then carries within itself the Xolotl deity, and when the animal dies and its divine substance transits to the underworld, it later resurfaces to the earth and a new axolotl is born.

“Axolotl is the twin of maize, agave and water,” Montero said.

Current fascination toward axolotl and its rise to sacred status in pre-Hispanic times is hardly a coincidence. It was most likely sparked by its exceptional biological features, Montero said.

Through the glass of a fish tank, where academic institutions preserve them and hatcheries put them up for sale, axolotl are hard to spot. Their skin is usually dark to mimic stones — though an albino, pinkish variety can be bred — and they can stay still for hours, buried in the muddy ground of their natural habitats or barely moving at the bottom of their tanks in captivity.

Aside from their lungs, they breathe through their gills and skin, which allows them to adapt to its aquatic environment. And they can regenerate parts of its heart, spinal cord and brain.

“This species is quite peculiar,” said biologist Arturo Vergara, who supervises axolotl preservation efforts in various institutions and cares after specimens for sale at a hatchery in Mexico City.

Depending on the species, color and size, Axolotl’s prices at Ambystomania — where Vergara works — start at 200 pesos ($10 US). Specimens are available for sale when they reach four inches in length and are easy pets to look after, Vergara said.

“While they regularly have a 15-years life span (in captivity), we’ve had animals that have lived up to 20,” he added. “They are very long-lived, though in their natural habitat they probably wouldn’t last more than three or four years.”

The species on display at the museum — one of 17 known varieties in Mexico — is endemic to lakes and canals that are currently polluted. A healthy population of axolotl would likely struggle to feed or reproduce.

“Just imagine the bottom of a canal in areas like Xochimilco, Tlahuac, Chalco, where there’s an enormous quantity of microbes,” Vergara said.

Under ideal conditions, an axolotl could heal itself from snake or heron biting and survive the dry season buried in the mud. But a proper aquatic environment is needed for that to happen.

“Efforts to preserve axolotl go hand in hand with preserving the chinampas,” Cruz said at the museum, next to a display featuring salamander-shaped dolls. “We work closely with the community to convince them that this is an important space.”

Chinampas are not only where axolotl lay its eggs, but areas where pre-Hispanic communities grew maize, chili, beans and zucchini, and some of Xochimilco’s current population grow vegetables despite environmental threats.

“Many chinampas are dry and don’t produce food anymore,” Cruz said. “And where some chinampas used to be, one can now see soccer camps.”

For her, like for Vergara, preserving axolotl is not an end, but a means for saving the place where the amphibian came to be.

“This great system (chinampas) is all that’s left from the lake city of Mexico-Tenochtitlan, so I always tell our visitors that Xochimilco is a living archeological zone,” Cruz said. “If we, as citizens, don’t take care of what’s ours, it will be lost.”

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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.

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

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

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

Spanish story language here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

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

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

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

Spanish language story here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

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

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

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

Spanish language story here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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La cobertura de noticias religiosas de The Associated Press recibe apoyo a través de una colaboración con The Conversation US, con fondos del Lilly Endowment Inc. La AP es la única responsable de todo el contenido.

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

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

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

Spanish language story here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP’s collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.

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.