By Alma Portillo
Like every year in San Miguel, hundreds of us women gather at Parque Juárez, all of us different but with one goal in mind: to dismantle the patriarchy. This is an event organized by the feminist collective Sororas y Rebeldes that aims to protest against still very palpable gender inequalities in our society. A procession led by relatives of missing women or victims of femicide—a group that shouldn´t exist, but that is packed instead. The atmosphere feels sad and mournful. Emotions are raw.
“No worries, sister, this is your pack,” we shout in unison, and the march begins. People watch us and follow our steps; some judge, others support. In a country where 1 in 4 girls has suffered sexual abuse and more than 18 women were murdered every day just last year, it seems absurd that some are still outraged by seeing an enraged crowd demanding justice from the system.
We’re not here to ask permission to use our voices, so we unleash them. I can taste the anger behind every chant that comes out of my mouth. “Sir, ma’am, don’t be indifferent. Women are killed in plain sight.” I feel my lungs burst with every word, but the volume is never enough to make us heard. We walk for several minutes, “disrupting” traffic and receiving the occasional curse from desperate drivers, until we reach our destination.
We stop and look around at our companions. We’ve all experienced it, we’ve all feared not making it back home. That’s when the hardest part of the program begins: the open mic, where victims vent their anger and cry in solidarity.
It’s impossible to see clearly; tears obstruct my vision as I empathize with their stories. We hug each other, encourage one another, and together we shout, “You’re not alone! I believe you!” In that moment, we are one entity, a single being made of the pieces society has left of us. Voices of all ages rising in common pain.
Simultaneously, the “abuser clothesline” is set up, where anonymously, we are all welcome to expose our aggressors to warn any future victims. What a devastating scene: some roaring into the microphone, others sobbing as they watch the picture of the face of their attacker being hung.
The posters are placed on the fences protecting the main church, though from inside, a pair of furious eyes watch and disapprove of our actions. It feels like a victory to rub the revolution we’re creating in their faces. The event continues with talent showcases from various participants, and we prepare to sing and dance. After all, we must make the most of the freedom our foremothers have given us.
Exhausted from jumping up and down to avoid “being a macho,” I say goodbye to my companions and head home, not without first agreeing to let each other know when we’ve arrived safely home. We want to march together next year, not be part of the posters of the victims.
