I will look for you until my last breath
Gloria Muñoz Ramírez
“Mrs. President, we didn’t all make it,” is one of the cries of today’s march in a city that has a new woman in the Executive and a new head of government. It was also the largest painting on the esplanade of the capital’s Zócalo, where mothers of victims of disappearances and femicide gathered early in the morning to place hundreds of candles in front of the National Palace. And it was also the legend on the huge steel wall that the government placed to protect the building. “May they protect us as they protect the monuments,” was one of the slogans.
María del Carmen Volante, mother of Pamela Gallardo Volante, who disappeared at the age of 23 on the Picacho-Ajusco highway in 2017, arrived at the zócalo before dawn along with her compañeras, other mothers who, like her, have not rested for a second since their daughters were torn from them and, with them, peace. “Today we say to the president that if this six-year term is for women, then she should attend to us with dignity, with honor, with her word, because we ask for nothing more than our daughters. Enough of the violence that has resulted in disappearances and femicide,” says María del Carmen to Desinformémonos, after lamenting that the current government has ‘ignored’ the searching mothers. “You,” she rebukes the president, ”stated in your words that this was going to stop, but our daughters and girls continue to disappear. The country is covered in blood,” she concludes, as the dawn of this March 8 is illuminated by the fire of their candles in a circle and a promise printed on their white T-shirts: ‘Daughter, I will search for you until my last breath.’
For more than six uninterrupted hours, tens of thousands of women did not stop arriving at the zócalo of this city, despite the fact that their passage was interrupted by concrete dikes in the surrounding streets, the same ones that will be opened this Sunday for the presidential call to “defend” Mexico from the tariff policies of a crazed Trump. The nationalist “party” with State infrastructure will not be walled. The women’s one will be, as it goes out of control and institutional brackets. “Claudia, dare to listen to us,” they paint with yellow paint on the huge sheets that block the way.
At noon, in front of the La Glorieta de Mujeres que Luchan (Roundabout of Women in Struggle), various collectives held a trial of state institutions. One by one, the names of officials who have been accomplices of patriarchy are mentioned. Judges, ministries, prosecutors, as well as the CNDH, the Sedena, the Marines, the Church, one by one are declared guilty. They are in large cardboard representations that, at the end, are set on fire.
The migrant women, the prisoners, the housewives, the maquila workers, the students “where are they?,” ask the walls, while the violet rivers pour into the streets. “No es pensión no es pensión, es tu pinche obligación” (it’s not a pension, it’s not a pension [alimony], it’s your fucking obligation), claim the mothers to the deadbeat fathers, while they support José Luis Castillo, father of Esmeralda, who disappeared at the age of 14, with a “No estás solo” (You are not alone). Jose Luis has not stopped looking for her, year after year he joins the march and is embraced by the chorus of hundreds of women.
The night arrives and the demands do not stop. Groups of women try to break through the fence and are repelled with gas from the other side of the wall. The authorities decide to turn off the lights in the Zócalo and the provocation is answered with shouts of “Claudia, traitor, you are an oppressor.” The image of the digitally manipulated wall spreads through the networks: “We’ve all arrived (but only to here).”
This heart knew no rage
Beatriz Zalce
They are the mothers, the sisters, the aunts “of the girl you won’t touch,” of the victims of femicide, of disappearance; of the beaten, of those who raise their children alone “because he left and doesn’t pay the child support” or of the bastard who doesn’t show respect and crosses the line. They are the descendants of the witches who were burned alive. They are the ones who are going to end the patriarchy. They are the ones who say they can be bad and even worse.
The streets around the Glorieta de las Mujeres que Luchan replicate the purple of the jacarandas on bandanas and caps, on eyelids, cheeks and nails. Women, hundreds of women, thousands of women, hundreds of thousands of women walk on Paseo de la Reforma. They walk, they sing, they shout. Walking they are fighting. Singing they go. Shouting they are. They demand Justicia (Justice). And Justicia is the name of the female child that replaces the statue of Columbus. Amidst the skyscrapers she seems small. Almost in front of her, a building displays the image of a woman whose curves and voluptuousness advertise the Levis brand. It is eight stories tall and is nothing more than an object, a huge advertisement and nothing more. Justicia is an anti-monument. It is more than two meters tall. Its creators are anonymous, they are feminist collectives that insisted on taking it there, to place it with their own hands. And she, Justice, earned the right to stay there. To be protected. Not to be vandalized. There, next to Justicia, a group of women embroider the memory of Veronica Soto Hernandez and Lesvy Berlin Rivera Osorio. “I will fight for you until I get Justice. I love you.”
“¡Alerta,- alerta, -alerta que camina- la lucha feminista- por América Latina!”(Alert, alert, alert! the feminist struggle is moving through Latin America!) And so they arrive at the anti-monument to the +43. The memory and the indignation is alive. The governments of Enrique Peña Nieto, Andrés Manuel López Obrador and Claudia Sheimbaum should be red with shame. More than ten years have passed since that night in Iguala. Impunity is red. But red also are the flowers sown around the sculpture of more than 800 kilos. At first the fathers, mothers and compañerxs of the 43 students from the Normal Rubén Isidro Burgos planted delicate “forget-me-nots.” Cempazuchiles and Nochebuenas followed. And there has never been a lack of people coming to pour water on them so they don’t dry up. “Mom if one day you don’t see me anymore raise your voice for me and all the others” they shout and dye the air with violet and blue smoke. “We have not disappeared: our voice is heard. Justice.”
They march down Avenida Juárez. They advance to the rhythm of drums. To the rhythm of slogans. The slogans of yesteryear: “No que no, sí que sí, ya volvimos a salir” and they adapt some of them. The classic: “Whoever doesn’t jump is a Yankee,” which should continue to fly in these times when even those who don’t know what a tariff is tremble at the threat of its increase, becomes “Whoever doesn’t jump is a macho” and they jump, with laughter, and with conviction.
One arrives at the Palace of Fine Arts surrounded by a fence that quickly is filled with names of victims, of victimizers. “Femicides in Mexico: uncontrollable pandemic.” They increase like everything else, like prices. In 2019 when the anti monument was placed, nine femicides were officially registered daily. Today there is talk of an average of twelve daily.
Six years ago, just six years ago, women became loaders, welders, bricklayers and caretakers of the sculpture that represents the mirror of Aphrodite and her raised fist. The demand of “Ni una más,” (Not one more) which can also be said as “Ni una menos,” (Not a single one less) has not been enough. The young women feel courage mixed with fear. They do not want one of their selfies to be the photo used for a want ad. Nor do they want to be silent. No more disappearances, no more rapes, no more harassment: “La verga violadora, a la licuadora”(The rapist’s cock to the blender.)
Elin Chauvet painted 37 pairs of red women’s shoes. High heels, walking shoes, shoes to look pretty, girl’s shoes, dress shoes. 37 pairs of shoes that no longer walk the streets, that no longer go to school or to work or to the club. They represent Norma, Diana, Fatima, not to forget Ingrid. A small sticker shows a heart with the face of an angry woman, very angry: “This heart did not know anger and now it wants to burn everything.”
The Zócalo cannot be entered through Avenida Madero. Dikes have been set up so that the purple tide can walk along Eje Central and turn around on Avenida 5 de Mayo. Some restaurants have lowered their curtains. Others are on standby: the employees are at the threshold and watch the crowds.
To look friendly, the police women hold a few half-wilted roses in their hands. Some try to fan themselves with them. One tries not to be affected by the cry “The only body that is under criticism is the police force.”Two anti-monuments almost rub shoulders: “1968. October 2nd is not forgotten” and the bust of Samir Flores. Both, the sixty-eighters and Samir can say: “We want neither tinsel nor recognition, we want memory and justice.” However, the gaze of those who opposed Huesca’s mega project is harsh. She seems to be reacting to the cry “Hey, Claudia, we didn’t all make it” that is repeated over and over again at the entrance of the contingents to the capital’s Zócalo. “Hey, Claudia, we didn’t all make it.” But to leave no doubt in the mind of the first woman to reach the presidency of Mexico, someone wrote on the black fence, in large, clear, yellow letters: “Claudia, we didn’t all make it. Dare to listen to us.”
My voice can change the world
Mary Farquharson
A small band of women with their faces covered, dressed in black, break ranks at the 8M march near the Glorieta de Las Mujeres que Luchan. They take spray cans out of their backpacks and paint a legend on a white wall. When they finish, they uncover their faces and join the march, accept a fruit ice cream from those who a few seconds ago supported them with “These bitches represent me,” and continue the march towards the Zócalo. I am going to see what they have written: “Housewives sustain the world.” The apparent radicalism of the maneuver contrasts with a slogan that makes visible the bare essentials.
That love for the daily struggle of mothers is very present during the huge march that paints Avenida Reforma purple, the same color of the jacaranda blossoms on Avenida Juarez, on the way to the Zócalo. There are many women, more than last year, many of them with little girls carrying their banners: “I am not a princess, I am a warrior”; and others who explain that they are shouting what their mothers were made to silence. “My mom deserves for me to come home,” says a teenage girl; ‘I march for joy’ insist the posters of the little girls. Each woman who participates has her own story and the desire for her own daughter or sister to live free from the abuse they have suffered.
A large group of Otomí artisans from Santiago Mexquititlán, Querétaro, travel together, as they do every year, to accompany all the women struggling in Mexico. “We feel a lot of solidarity with the women who are looking for their daughters, and we understand their struggle,” says Jazmín. “In our case, we want to denounce the discrimination we suffer in the street, just because we speak our language and because of the way we dress.” Jazmín is 24 years old and has participated in the march for 9 years. Her collective makes Lele dolls, embroidered with cross-stitch. No one brought dolls to sell at the march, but it wasn’t a vacation day for them either. “A real vacation… what would that look like? To be in Santiago, in my village, among the hills and the calm” reminisces Jazmín. Nor does she pretend that all is well in her town. There are addiction problems among young people and, as a community, they work with the mothers to prevent these problems.
Montserrat, 29, has been participating in the march for four years; she traveled with her sister from Orizaba, Veracruz, and carries the modified Mexican flag. The blood red has been replaced with a purple stripe. “The purple signifies the struggle we women have, not only on March 8, but every day in Mexico,” she tells me. For her, the future of Mexico wears purple. We move a little to pass a girl with a large banner that says “The Revolution will be feminist” and we both smile. Montserrat considers herself among the lucky ones, because her partner supports her in this struggle and she understands that men should respect and support her from their trenches.
Original article posted by Desinformémonos on March 8th, 2025.
Text by Gloria Muñoz Ramírez, Beatriz Zalce and Mary Farquharson. Photos by Gerardo Magallón.
Translation by Schools for Chiapas.