Finding los desaparecidos // Amanda Harvey-Sánchez
Amanda Harvey-Sánchez writes about what grabs her attention as she walks the streets in Querétaro and Mexico City as part of our guest edited month examining the theme of Urban Ephemera.
My cousin and I sit on a bus bench together, peering out the window. We pass through a big open square where motorcyclists and cars are veering around a modern art statue. Usually, family trips to Mexico don’t involve seeing much of Mexico, but on this trip, family is Mexico. Paulina encourages me to take a picture of the scenery. I mutter something about the angle not being great. Not a minute later, my aunt points out the window—“Miren!” A mass of people and police officers, clearly rallying about something. Phone in hand, I jump out of my seat and cross the aisle. I strain to try and read one of the signs but can’t make out anything. Pau laughs and makes some snide remark about my willingness to photograph protests but not the statue and cars we had passed. The last time we had seen a protest in Mexico City, we were travelling by car with her parents. They had complained that the crowd was disrupting traffic. That was, of course, the point. The bus thuds to a halt near a pedestrian walkway. I gaze down below me at a permanent fixture of faces on flowing fabric. Sensing my confusion, my mother turns to me. “Los desaparecidos,” she remarks. The 43 young student teachers who had been kidnapped and murdered in the city in 2014. Their faces belie the open secret of the Mexican government’s complicity with their deaths.Majestic trees line the street all the way up Paseo de la Reforma towards el Castillo de Chapultepec. In their shade, we walk where violet petals lay scattered across the sidewalk. To my left, an elderly woman in a pink smock rakes leaves and tends to the earth beneath her. Affixed to a fence across the road, a large black-and-white photograph of a stoic-looking man in a sombrero. I recognize him instantly: Emiliano Zapata. His adage echoes in the breeze through the leaves. La tierra es de quien la trabaja. At the end of the day, we stride down the mountain, making our way past the vendors to a quiet shaded area in the park. Pau, my mother, and my aunt pause to sit and chat but I continue, following six white marble pillars I had seen from the lookout point. I pick up the pace to get a full view of the monument. The pillars stand in a semi-circle, three on each side. My eyes move between them to a statue in the middle: two young men standing tall and proud, the tallest holding a third limp in his arms. The Mexican flag drapes his feet. I squint at the engraving on the pillar affixing the statue. Los Defensores de la Patria 1846-1847. These were the young cadets who had given up their life for their country during the battle of Chapultepec, during the Mexican-American War. According to legend, one of the cadets wrapped the Mexican flag around himself and jumped from the castle rather than surrender to the American forces. My eyes fixate on the word patria. This monument is commonly known as Niños Héroes. I can’t help but wonder where the niñas are. You don’t often hear of women in revolution and war.
***
Earlier that week, Pau and I enjoyed a rare, unchaperoned morning in the historical centre of Querétaro. Two young but capable women are considered easy targets for harassment in Mexico’s busy streets, so my family rarely ever lets us go out on our own. This is probably what bothers me the most about travelling with my family in Mexico. Where are you going? Who will be there? What time of day? Which neighbourhood? What are you wearing? Don’t talk to anybody. Then, after intensive questioning and admonitions: Your uncle will accompany you. This particular day was a good one because I had managed to convince my aunt and uncle that a few hours on our own was perfectly reasonable and safe. Pau and I snapped pictures of colourful buildings, peering curiously at jewellery and knickknacks displayed in open-market stalls. Around the corner, I heard drumming and chanting. Grinning, I exclaimed to my cousin, “Una manifestación!” Pau rolled her eyes but followed me reluctantly into the crowd. We stood behind two women wearing vine-woven crowns in their hair. Young people with bicycles and backpacks held signs with pictures of trees. No hay manera de vivir, one of the signs declared. I captured a photo of the scene for Twitter, with a brief caption about the globalization of youth activism. Pau nudged that she was tired of the protest and beckoned me to leave. At the crowd’s edge, I asked a woman about the protest. She seemed perplexed; perhaps it was my broken Spanish. Nonetheless, she explained. The group was protesting state deforestation around the construction of a highway.
***
As I turn to leave, I find myself transfixed once again. A long, grey walkway spans from the monument to the city centre. In the distance, the Angel of Independence, commemorating the War of Independence and freedom from Spanish colonial rule. Behind me, my family continues to murmur under the shaded area. I stride briskly down the walkway. My ears fill with the laughter and chatter of families. Mothers grab their small children by the hand and push strollers. Fathers carry day packs for their journey. There seem to be young couples everywhere, Chapultepec Park offering a refuge for young, unpoliced love. Between the monument and the angel, a couple kisses in the middle of the calle, oblivious to the buzz of people around them. I try not to stare. I glance around to see if there is anything else I want to capture. Not being able to shed the thought that my family might be starting to wonder about me, I turn back. My eyes fall on the plaques glistening along the sidewalk. Desaparecidos … so many of them. Under my toes, a plaque commemorates Paolo César Antonio Cano Montero, who disappeared at 26 years old. The last line on the plaque begs: Quiero pedirles a todos que exijan justicia al Estado Mexicano para que nos busquen, somos miles de desaparecidos en México. No pueden ni deben olvidarnos, ustedes son nuestra esperanza.
***
Later that night, as I pack my belongings, a notification interrupts my scroll through Twitter. A comment from a stranger. An activist in Querétaro had seen my tweet about the protest and thanked me for the promotion. I click on his picture, my excitement building. His profile is filled with posts about the protest and the campaign to protect the trees. I open an article from a local newspaper documenting the event. It seems that the protest leaders had been in contact with the government authorities. Some discussion had begun to remove fewer trees. It wasn’t everything the activists wanted, but at least, a clearing for change.“Pau, look at this!” I beckon to my cousin. I hand her my phone to show her the article and the tweet. Her face fills with incredulity. “We were there!” Pau exclaims. “I know.”
Amanda Harvey-Sánchez is of mixed-race Mexican heritage and grew up in Toronto, the site of the Dish with One Spoon Wampum Belt Covenant, near the shores of chi’nibiish (Lake Ontario). Amanda is a community organizer, activist, and facilitator, having worked primarily in the climate justice realm on fossil fuel divestment and anti-pipeline campaigning. Amanda holds an Honours B.A. in Sociocultural Anthropology, Environmental Studies, and Equity Studies from the University of Toronto, where she also participated in university governance and electoral politics. She is currently pursuing an M.A. in Sociocultural Anthropology and South Asian Studies at the University of Toronto. Her research explores the intersections of identity, Indigeneity, and global development in Kerala, India. During the 2018-2019 academic year, Amanda is a Junior Fellow at Massey College.
