Interview · María José López · August 31, 2023 · Leer en castellano

Santa María Zacatepec, in the state of Puebla, is an epicenter of struggles in defense of territory in Mexico. There, among capulin trees, squash plants and marigolds, a song made up of multiple voices was collectively composed, fusing a mosaic of musical genres to channel the power of the women land defenders.

The song is called "Rebeldía sana", which can be translated as either "healthy rebellion" or "rebellion heals." It was composed by women who are guardians of the Metlapanapa River, professors and students from the Autonomous University of Puebla (BUAP) and defenders of life and territory from Jalisco, Puebla, Querétaro, Tlaxcala and the State of Mexico. They created this song and video out of a recent encounter with the aim of sharing them with people in struggle in other geographies and active in their own processes.

The song came out of the "Stop the War on Women, Water and their Territory" gathering, which took place last October. I spoke with three of the women active in composing the song and making the video via videocall in August.

Mariana Pérez is a guardian of the Metlapanapa River She was born into a family of land defenders, and has just started studying Communication Sciences at the BUAP. Sarai Soto is a PhD student in sociology and is a jaranera, a folk artist who plays traditional music from Veracruz. Denisse Quiroz is a researcher and teacher with a PhD in political economy who studies the water crisis in Mexico; she’s also a rapper who uses the stage name Deni Valo. 

Our interview has been translated to English, and lightly edited for length and clarity.

María José López (MJL): How do you define rebellion? How has it healed you?

Mariana Pérez (MP): It has two meanings. One is when they say "oh, you're such a rebel" frowning upon you, in a disparaging way. Yet when one speaks of a healthy or dignified rebellion, it is rebellion for something, for raising one's voice, speaking out against corporations. 

We experienced true healing during the workshop, which began with a ritual here in Zacatepec. We bound ourselves with paper chains and we had to break them, be it chains from school, from work, the chains that we live with every day. We tore them and burned them. This was a moment to be among women, to converse among women, to feel free and not to worry about anything.

We also knew that we’d be taking care of the children, but it wasn't going to be like a daycare, because children were very much a part of the gathering. We asked them what their mothers were doing there, why they were doing it; we explained why we hold these gatherings, trying to guide them since they're the next generation that will take up the struggle.

Sarai Soto (SS): Rebellion is the vital effort to say ‘no’ to the world that kills you. I’ve been sustained by the networks we've built, by collectivizing in this broken world, by knowing that my problems aren't just mine, they're structural. By knowing that if anything comes up we're there to support each other, that if the riot police arrive, well, we're there with them, that we don't have to face this harsh world on our own.

Deni Valo (DV): I think of rebellion as collective rebellion, joyous rebellion. When we rebel, especially in an organized and collective way, we begin to hatch worlds. We’re giving birth to other forms and other ways.

MJL: The song describes the magic that happens in encounters between women, nature and living things. Tell me about that magic.

SS: The first day was very tense because it was proving difficult to engage in dialogue across our diverse struggles. But then came the magic that emerges among women, when we are able to recognize each other in our different but common wounds. 

In Zacatepec, at the end of the day, next to Marianita's mom's marigold field and the community radio station, we were able to say "our struggles really do go together, each one of us is doing what she can, as best she can, to rebel, to sustain a dignified life."

We felt it very important to remember that for centuries women have been coming together to embroider, to paint, to cook, to make something with our hands. And as we talk, we heal and express what hurts us and moves us and what we need. Coming together was like a bonfire where we could use art to express what each one of us carried.

MJL: Indigenous people and land defenders have been unequivocal in calling out academia. They denounce how scholars arrive to their communities to write their thesis, then graduate and leave without sharing their findings with them or with the wider public. They claim local knowledge and take credit for it. Sarai and Deni, as academics, how do you understand your responsibility towards struggles?

DV: Of course there's discontent among people, communities and movements towards academia, an institution that often doesn't give back. The compañeras from Zacatepec and other movements said it very clearly in our meeting. Yes, there is a kind of academic extractivism, of knowledge, and it's important to take a stand on this.

Research has to begin with shared research. We learn, but we also share what we learned: there must always be a process of return.

I don't believe that academia is where the revolution is made. It can be an important space. But if we undertake research and critical thinking, we must also be in action, in continuous practice. If not, we would be committing an epistemological and methodological error. Organization and revolution are made in the streets, in the neighborhoods, in the communities.

SS: Within academia, it's our responsibility to commit to creating a non-extractivist academy. At least here in our space in Puebla, where the idea for the workshop was born, we're assuming this task, listening to each other and trying to foster as much horizontality as possible, recognizing the differences between city and countryside.

The experience of the compañeras from El Salto, Jalisco, was very relevant in the workshop. They have a long history of struggle and have received so many people from the academia.

They sit and talk it through with the students from the beginning. They found a productive way to continue working with academics and being nourished by their research, while opening the door for students to participate in these processes.

MP: We do feel the support of the compañeras from the BUAP. When our compañero Miguel [López Vega] was imprisoned, they showed up, and we saw that their commitment went beyond the workshop. We really saw the solidarity of the university women.

It helps us when students do their theses. Most of my fellow guardians communicate through my mobile phone, because they don't have one. We can't raise the visibility of our struggle like that, so we make ourselves known through the women who come from the universities. It's a give and take.

MJL: How did the song come about? How did you assemble its different parts?

SS: In the workshop we did an activity in which we wrote incantations, regarding what we wanted to invoke for this war upon our bodies and territories, which we all painted on a collective banner. Those turned into the verses that Andre Ortega later set to the metric of the traditional son jarocho song "La Bamba".

DV: It was totally a collective process. We got together with this madness and everything flowed, piecing together what we had, listening to each other. We said: "Why don't we start with this part, which is more raw, with a deeper voice?" And then we added a cry, which is from son jarocho, along with the incantations. Finally Vidaes, a compañera that does reggae and dub, added her conclusion, filled with hope and possibility and urgency.

SS: Natse Rojas, a traditional musician from the state of Puebla, helped us so that each of us could deliver what our hearts wanted to share. Musically, Natse helped us put it all together like a puzzle. The collective listening and construction was the beautiful coloring.

MJL: What would you like this song to inspire in others?

DV: I would like to share our view of the world and hopefully inspire someone to analyze, organize and resist. Sometimes there's fear, terrible things are happening, but as we become more organized and united we become more and more, and the fear dwindles. And we keep growing, healing.

MP: When one listens to the song, one really feels that power. Like, "oh, we’re in good company!" I sing it and identify with it and feel empowered, because it's saying what I, too want and feel. My sisters and I are learning the lyrics. I would like other people who listen to it to feel the power it has.

SS: It's really hard, but it's also full of joy, company, music and delicious rebellion. It'd be beautiful if it could convey how we experienced the process where the seed of this song sprouted. That's how we try to live our struggles: not just by constantly brandishing our swords, but by earnestly trying to live a joyful, dignified and collective life.