Esther Sulub Santos, a Maya woman, has such an intimate relationship with embroidery that she identifies completely with it. “I was born and raised surrounded by embroidery,” she says. “I grew up watching my grandmother, my mother, my aunts embroider by hand, by machine, or with cross-stitch.”
Although she has retired, she is always active, says her brother Ángel. Esther paints and writes stories and coordinates the embroidery workshop at the Maya School, a project launched in 2020 by the U Kúuchil K Ch’i’ibalo’on community center. An autonomous, collectively managed space, located on top of a hill beneath a large palapa, and immersed in the jungle of Felipe Carrillo Puerto, in southern Quintana Roo.
“This place is full of life, of the spirits of the wind, of the mountain, of the spirits of our grandfathers and grandmothers who run around to protect it,” says Wilma Esquivel Pat, a high school teacher who is part of the Escuelita Maya (Little Mayan School).
Every afternoon, a group of children gathers under the palapa with their mothers and grandmothers to embroider everything that is essential to the Mayan people: toucans, jaguars, cenotes, corn, milpas (cornfields). “Embroidery is a way of remembering our ancestors, of defending our territory, of fighting against dispossession,” affirms Esther, who often wears elegant huipiles. In this collective space, embroidering animals is an exercise in memory and a fight against the attempts to erase Mayan culture brought about by mega-tourism projects. It all began in the 1970s, when a mass tourism model was launched in Cancún, which gradually spread to southern Quintana Roo. First to Playa del Carmen, then to Tulum, and in recent years it has been moving toward Felipe Carrillo Puerto, in the center of the state. A large number of people who live in the more than 150 rural communities surrounding this town of 30,000 inhabitants work in large hotels and restaurants in the tourist zone, where Mayan identity is trivialized and commercialized for the enjoyment of visitors who want to see traditional dances and participate in rituals or temazcal ceremonies.
“Many things are changing, and little by little, we seem to be letting go and forgetting who we are,” laments Wilma. “That’s happening very quickly here.”
Those who make up U Kúuchil K Ch’i’ibalo’on (The Place of Our Ancestors) believe that, in Quintana Roo, the traditional school system seeks to erase the memory and way of life of the Maya people, training young people “to serve tourists.” This “cruel strategy” nullifies their knowledge and forces them to leave their communities to work on the tourism development projects multiplying in the Mexican Caribbean: large luxury hotels, theme parks like Xcaret, and the Maya Train megaproject.
“The Little Maya School is a space we created to rebuild the bond that the educational system destroys, and to reconnect with our elders, which is like reconnecting with the land, with memory, with the web of life,” Ángel explains.
Some of the embroideries from the Little Maya School. (Facebook of the U Kúuchil K Ch’i’ibalo’on Community Center)
The Violent Transition to Development
Where there is economic development, criminal groups also arrive in search of profit, warns Ángel; in Felipe Carrillo Puerto, the number of disappearances and murders of young people has increased in recent years. That is why U Kúuchil K Ch’i’ibalo’on rejects the mass tourism that is advancing relentlessly, devouring indigenous territories.
The new monster that the communities have to face is the Maya Train, a railway that runs more than 1,500 kilometers through the southeast of the country and connects, with its 34 stations, the states of Chiapas, Tabasco, Yucatán, Campeche, and Quintana Roo, crossing the jungle and protected natural areas.
For its construction, millions of trees were felled, and caves and cenotes were destroyed. In Quintana Roo, the Maya Train project led to the opening of over a hundred quarries for extracting stone materials, managed by the Secretariat of National Defense (SEDENA). This year alone, the Secretariat of Environment and Natural Resources (SEMARNAT) granted 11 permits in Felipe Carrillo Puerto, which will cause the deforestation of large swathes of jungle. This megaproject promises to boost tourism in the region’s lesser-known destinations, such as this municipality, encourage the agricultural and energy industries, and multiply job opportunities.
“This entire violent transition toward the development they promise will come with the train puts children’s lives at risk, the enjoyment of nature, the connection to the land—everything we value and preserve at the Maya School,” warns Ángel.
On May 2nd, 2023, the caravan “The South Resists,” made up of Indigenous and human rights organizations, which was protesting the environmental impacts of the construction of the Interoceanic Corridor of the Isthmus of Tehuantepec and the Maya Train, stopped in Felipe Carrillo Puerto. Its members recounted how, during their journey, they witnessed firsthand that where there had once been a habitat for hundreds of species such as toucans and butterflies, only devastated jungle remained. At the Maya School, they reacted by inaugurating a mural painted by Russel Castillo Alamilla that celebrates the resistance of the people, and also the hope embodied in their children.
Image of the mural created by Russel Castillo Alamilla during the passage of the El Sur Resiste caravan. (Instagram @_ac.ar)
In Felipe Carrillo Puerto, there is a station on the Maya Train, which was inaugurated in December 2024. The town was never a tourist destination, and despite the government’s announcement that the project would bring many visitors to the region, this has not yet happened.
“The town is still the same as before; the Maya Train facilities are incredibly large and empty,” says Ángel. “The train passes through Felipe Carrillo Puerto four times a day, and it’s just one carriage. Before, nobody got off, but in recent months they set up a market with local products at the station, and people started getting off the train. They stay for about 20 minutes to do their shopping and then get off again.”
So far, the megaproject has only brought insecurity to Felipe Carrillo Puerto, even before its inauguration. “I used to walk around late at night, but now you go out and see a group of train workers… They see you or you hear something, and you just don’t feel comfortable anymore, you don’t feel safe,” says Linnet Baltazar, a founding mother of the Escuelita Maya (Little Mayan School), who dedicates herself to healing with medicinal plants.
“Over there in Cancún, even closer, to Tulum, in Playa del Carmen, a lot of things happen: they say people are killed, people are robbed, children go missing,” says Pastora Santos, an 86-year-old woman who participates in the embroidery workshop. All her life she has worn a huipil and spoken Maya, as a way of resisting the disappearance of her culture, a language she now tries to teach her grandchildren.
“When a language disappears, everything that lives within it disappears: the way of experiencing life,” says Ángel. “The Maayat’aan language is in danger due to the imposition of foreign languages that serve tourism. People are encouraged to speak more English, French, or any other language that can be exchanged for a tip.”
Esther Sulub Santos shows Darío how to make an embroidery stitch. (Ángel Sulub Santos)
Threads that Come to Life
In Felipe Carrillo Puerto, embroidery has always been used for everyday wear and for wearing new outfits at celebrations like Hanal Pixan, Day of the Dead. Later, these creations began to be sold, becoming objects of commercial value. “Before, embroidery was done for families, and now it’s done for tourism, for politicians who need it to look like Maya, even though they are far from feeling it,” says Esther.
Her colleague Wilma also laments the commodification of Maya culture. “The saddest thing is that our embroidery is only valued as a commercial object; in the end, we reach the point where we become objects to be displayed again, used and discarded,” the teacher points out. “When I put on my huipil, I feel that I am close to my grandmothers, I feel that they are with me, that they are happy to see me.” It is to preserve their memory and their connection to this territory coveted by tourism companies that the children of Felipe Carrillo Puerto embroider at the Little Mayan School, in front of a banner of the National Indigenous Congress, surrounded by the sounds of the jungle. Their gaze is focused on their embroidery hoops, and at the same time they laugh, chat, and play.
“When I finish embroidering,” says Naayten Marroquín, “I feel that the threads come to life and become part of our jungle.”
“Embroidering with the children,” concludes Esther, “is teaching them a way to defend our territory, to save the land. It is a way to feel alive, to continue, to not lose ourselves.”
Original article by Orsetta Bellani, Lado B, November 4th, 2025.
Translated by Schools for Chiapas.