Breathe
By Montserrat Jiménez Valero
We arrived at 10 a.m. sharp. The entrance, as always, was complex and uncoordinated. The officers were self-absorbed, that little bit of power slipping through their fingers with each new visitor. Will they know that we are going to help? Will they understand that our work is voluntary, that there is no other interest than to bring a breath of humanity to this confinement?
Occupa! (Organización Comunitaria por la Paz) has been walking the gray corridors of Santa Martha, Oriente, Acapulco, Tlaxcala, Nuevo León for four years; and so the story began in federal and state corners. Four years of shared laughter, of dancing with feet chained to an uncertain destiny, of stories whispered between cumbia notes. And here we are again, in Tepepan, to make them dance, to remind them that they can still live. But here there is something different, something that weighs in the air. A frightening deficit. An excess of medication administered without sense, without name, without reason.
The women here are divided. Two wards, two realities. Some, more conscious, though equally medicated, carry in their eyes a history of internal struggle. Others wander, moving their hips with an unreal calm, as if they were floating in a distorted reality, as if time had stopped for them. Rosaura, Fer, Lety, Marquita, Susana? Names that intertwine in the midst of the music, of the twists and turns of a dance that returns them, if only for a few minutes, to what they were before the bars.
I am not interested in judging, I have never been interested. I did not come to ask about crimes or guilt, I came to give them a break, a pause, a spark of something different from the imposed routine. But I can't help but wonder: what kind of prison is this that anesthetizes the existence of women who don't even have a sentence, how can a system like this extinguish the voices of those who are still waiting for a destiny?
High doses of pregabalin. Most take it; combining benzodiazepine antipsychotics and antidepressants, since no treatment is personalized, the doses they take are incorrect. Does sedation forget the sadness?
Still, then, the magic happens. It becomes a loop of lost and overflowing emotion. It resembles San Bernardino, but here the hopelessness is thicker, more tangible. The salsa starts to play loudly, thundering against the cold walls. And suddenly, the fear is broken. Someone takes courage, one of Occupy, of Rosita, takes the first step. Then another. The parade begins: one by one they come out to dance, to laugh, to move with an energy that had been dormant for too long.
The captive glances of the shyest ones start to light up. Some sing, others dare to ask for a "palomazo". Some close their eyes, letting themselves be enveloped by the sound, while others reach for the headphones of the sound system, wanting to hold on to that small auditory freedom, as if for an instant the whole world were only music and movement.
The officers who are there guarding "our security" realize something unexpected: we have become so connected to them that security is just a mirage, a pretext, merely a symbol of power. But something changes. They start laughing. The domino effect happens! The invisible barrier vanishes. For a moment, they are just women in the same space, dancing, feeling, existing without labels.
And then I am struck by a raw and painful truth: security officers are also prisoners. Prisoners of a system, of a duty, of a routine that consumes them. Who takes care of their mental health? Who listens to them when the weight of confinement also falls on their shoulders? Another tear slides down my cheek. I don't know if it is for them, for us or for all of us.
The rhythmic exercises continued, the body no longer hesitated, it surrendered without fear. Soon the reggaeton began, a touch of explosion, a clear direction to the "sexiest", to those who carry the music in their skin. The rhythm summons them, moves them, turns them on. And then, they all clap in a circle, marking an invisible beat that unites us, a bond of hope in the midst of confinement.
-We are all one! -I told them. And I felt it. For an instant, the reality of the walls disappeared, and only the music, the laughter, the freedom inside the body remained. Because as long as you dance, resist, dream... there will always be a way to be free.
Almost at the end, our hands covered with purple and pink paint found their place on the wall. Traces of struggle, of love, of resistance. A cry of freedom burst into the air:
-Occupy lives and resist!
We were not just visitors in that space; we were part of something bigger, an echo of hope that refuses to fade away. We surrounded ourselves in a collective embrace, about ten of us, intertwined in a circle of strength and tenderness. Then we spread like spores, sowing the seed of hope. Because that one, the real one, does not die. Even if confinement kills.
*Monserrat Jiménez Valero is part of OCUPA (Organización Comunitaria por la Paz), a fabric of resistance, love and dignity that transforms realities from the collective; Monserrat has dedicated her life to bringing art, music, psychological support and words to the most forgotten corners of the world. Her work in prisons, streets and vulnerable communities is a beacon of solidarity that vindicates and gives voice to those who have been displaced, violated or silenced.
The opinions expressed are the responsibility of the authors and are absolutely independent of the position and editorial line of the company. Opinion 51.
Comments ()