In the newspaper El Mundo I published a report on this project and the lives of these five women. Now I narrate how the story came about.
I approached the house with a certain respect. She was a good friend and journalist, Carmen serna, who sent me an email one day from Madrid telling me about this story. I wrote and called them several times and two months later they responded by giving me an appointment to speak beforehand about what I wanted to tell and then allow me to listen in.: Xoxhiquetzal House, to 11:30.
I went with my motorcycle, I went through the Historic Center and got a bit into that neighborhood, Tepito, in which a Mexico City is scattered that has little to do with the one I live. Tepito is preceded by a poor and violent fame. What strikes me the most about that place is that it is the irrefutable proof that Mexico, at least the south, It has much more of Central America than North America. There are hundreds of stalls on both sides of the sidewalk and you are crossing as best you can between hundreds of people carrying carts with boxes, bags and all that low-cost merchandise.
I arrived at the Xochiquetzal house, they opened a wooden gate for me, I entered with my motorcycle until an arch that preceded to a patio, I turned off the engine and before taking off my helmet I saw a group of elderly ladies, some sick, who looked at me with surprise. "They are", thought.
Most smiled and some took a few steps back
I said hello and they greeted me with a smile. Someone introduced me, He said he was a journalist and that he came to talk about the House and their lives. Most smiled and some took a few steps back.
I went to the office and met Jésica, the director of Casa Xochiquetzal. I found someone dedicated to the project, to which he arrived as a cooperator and now directs. He explained everything to me with affection, respect and realism. We talked and he prepared me for them, so as not to offend them, and he only asked me for one thing in return: Can you leave the address of the House in the article in case someone wants to give something, we need help to survive? I said yes and we went out to introduce myself to the women and show me this beautiful colonial property that the city council gave them in 2006.
In the center of the building there is an open courtyard that houses its mandatory well. Spain chews in Mexico more than anywhere in the world. He introduced me to three women who are under the stairs leading to the bedrooms. Where does it come from? "I am Spanish, but I live in Mexico". "Of course, with those eyes he must have been Spanish », says one. "I always tell you that Spaniards are very handsome", says another. They do it naturally, with a certain mischief and affection to please the guest. I laugh and Jésica tells me, "it's curious, it is easier for them to talk to men than to women. With women they feel more judged ».
It is easier for them to talk to men than to women. With women they feel more judged
After the tour and having gained their trust something, we agreed that I will return in five days. The motorcycle again, the stalls, the crowd and the challenge of them in my head. "This is not just another story", tell me.
I come back on a Tuesday. When I walked through the door, I had decided to interview and photograph them with hardly any intervention.. I imagined that I was going to listen to broken lives and I decided that the text would capture them only with their words, I did not want to add anything. It was about giving them confidence and making them speak without feeling attacked (That's the hard part).
In Mozambique I once did an interview with three girl soldiers who were kidnapped and turned into sex slaves. I went several times to a flat to talk to them and they had a hard time talking to a man and a foreigner. Their answers were short and it was evident that they were silent more than they counted. One morning, however, we went by car to a distant town to talk to the third of the group. That morning things came out that among them had never even been told. They cried and laughed listening to each other. I was in the middle, but they didn't talk to me, They decided to use me as an excuse to vomit their memories.
Is it better for them to talk in a group or alone?, I told Jésica remembering that experience. «Alone, in group they will not speak », I answer. Curious, I guess the difference is that here they live in the same house and in Mozambique they were able to let go of everything knowing that there was a physical distance to defend themselves.
His mother hung him from the ceiling like a piñata and beat him with a quince stick
I spoke that morning with two women, one hour with each. Few times in my life have I heard such sad stories. They sometimes cried and sometimes laughed (plus the second). They spoke without fear. One of them showed me her stuffed animals that she was talking with and the other wanted to give me some cookies that she sold on the street that I ended up buying.. One told me that her guts were gouged out with a stab and the other that her mother hung her from the ceiling like a piñata and beat her with a quince stick until she shattered it.. The tears, generally, they fell when they remembered their children that in some cases they no longer want to remember them.
I had to digest what I heard. I decided to stop and come back tomorrow; on the way to my house on the motorcycle I was reviewing their stories. They surprisingly smiled a lot and I started to smile too.
The next morning I returned notebook and camera in hand. This time I spoke to three women. Quiet meetings again, private, with laughter and some crying. This time one was shot and lost his left eye in a beating, another was raped by a very close relative with 8 years and another who still worked on the street had been raped a month ago by two boys.
Another who still worked on the street had been raped a month ago by two boys
When I finished listening carefully, we all took a group photo. They laughed. They stood by the well. In the kitchen came the smell of stew. We finished and I said goodbye. I took out the motorcycle and saw the wooden gate close. The Xochiquetzal House was behind me.
I thought of all those women who had worked in the gallant life, the street, of prostitutes, as company ladies, sex servants and I don't remember in what other ways they were defined. On the motorcycle, while dodging the stalls and hundreds of people, I thought of its immense value, in her motherhood in the bowels of her soul and in the enormous generosity of all those who get involved with the project.
I found them to be especially brave and strong people. I realized that they had never said a single bad word from anyone, even of those near or far who destroyed their lives. They always narrated everything without rancor. I smiled again.
