Born Guilty

Forty minutes from Mexico City is the Ecatepec prison, with approximately 2,000 people deprived of their liberty; 288 are women.

March 10, 2020

The brown dust produced by the arid territory takes over the road as we head there. The landscape seems painted with that sepia tone used in movies that take place on the Mexican border.

These marginalized territories are infertile lands for agriculture and basic resources, but their proximity to one of the most populated cities in the world makes them an economic option for those who cannot afford the costs of urban life.

The sterile conditions in such places could drive anyone mad but not before starving them to death. The opportunities that the inhabitants of this type of municipality have to earn a living are limited and almost always linked to violence and crime.

Are we really born free or are some of us born guilty?

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Outside the high walls of the Ecatepec prison, a line of approximately 50 people waits their turn to enter. They hold bags and colorful Tupperware with homemade food for their relatives inside.

"La Cana!" - shouts the guard in charge, as he gives us the signal to enter.

Both the security guards and the visitors look at us with suspicious eyes, as the photographic equipment we carry seems not to belong in a place that no one wants to look at.

At the first security checkpoint, we leave all our personal belongings. No wallets, cell phones, or IDs can pass. We leave at that door all the tools we use not to be just a number in the file at the mercy of the system. This is the preamble to a world that some will never leave.

I'm not sure what to expect. It's noon and the sun is beating down hard from above. There are few shady corners, so they represent a luxury at that moment.

"Good morning" - says one of the inmates with a beautiful smile on her face.

"Good morning" - we all respond in unison with a tone of surprise.

They all seem to be very friendly and willing to help. I guess they simply appreciate being able to see new faces.

To my left, about 20 women are taking an aerobics class in their blue sportswear. It seems to be the best part of their day. I wonder where they got their homemade patterned sweatshirts with the Adidas logo. Apparently, not even their uniforms are free in this place, but the most alarming thing of all is that the highest price is paid by the babies born here.

Today, more than 800 babies live in Mexican prisons mainly because, during their years in confinement, inmates can receive marital visits. Some of these marriages happen after entering prison. In other cases, the accused were already pregnant before entering. Unfortunately, the rest of the pregnancies are the result of corruption or abuse of power, which allows encounters with other inmates or guards.

These babies are born in precarious conditions and remain with their mothers until they are 3 years old, sharing a 60 cm bed, sometimes with up to two adult women, because there is not enough space for so many people. After this, the children leave prison to be handed over to a family member or, in the worst case, to DIF.

- "This way, guys" - says Andrea, one of La Cana's collaborators, showing us the way.

As we cross the patio, band music plays in the background, and about 30 women are sitting on the floor or on buckets washing their clothes. Light blue pants and sweatshirts hang from wall to wall as they dry in the sun. I wonder how they know which item belongs to whom.

From the outside, papers are stuck to the building's windows. I imagine they are family photographs and that those who have access to the window overlooking the patio are the ones who pay the most expensive rent for their bunk.

The intense reflection of the sun on the pavement dries our eyes, so we feel relief when we finally enter the building. As our pupils adapt to a contrastingly dark and cold space, an intense mix of aromas fills the air. Several women have connected small electric grills to heat and cook their food on the stairs, on the floor, or wherever there is an outlet. This happens while a Christian group reads the Bible aloud in one of the corners of what functions as a dining room, kitchen, reading space, nursery, and social gathering point.

For the 288 inmates, there are only 3 rooms designated for activities where they can put their minds and hands to work.

One of them is for making foam crafts, the second is for general workshops, and the last functions as a knitting and embroidery workshop. This is where La Cana participates. The women who decide to be part of this workshop have the opportunity to learn techniques and use free materials for the development of products that are sold throughout the country with the sole purpose of giving them an income to help themselves and their families while they are deprived of their liberty. With the support of La Cana, they can keep their job and thus continue to earn clean money once they are out of prison, thanks to the follow-up program.

The knitting and embroidery workshop has about 4 machines, 6 tables, and is full of beautiful dolls, bedspreads, and dresses made by them with these techniques.

The 10 women who have babies in this prison, hearing that we have come to collaborate on a project with them, approach us stealthily.

Chio is the first to join us. Holding a baby with unruly hair only 7 weeks old in her arms, she turns to me and says - "his name is Jonathan." The baby's eyelids struggle as they allow the electric light to enter through his barely waking eyes.

A very long French braid and somewhat aged freckled skin frame Chio's face and reveal an approximate age of forty. Her sad eyes tell me a story of abuse and neglect, but her mouth says nothing. She only smiles intimidated and allows me to carry the baby.

“We want to give you a voice and perhaps through your story help your son get better conditions for his development. Would you like to participate? We will take your picture.” - I tell her.

“A picture of me?" She asks surprised

“I'm ugly and I haven't had my picture taken in a long time," she says fearfully as she licks her hair with her hand. When she sees another mother posing for the camera, she decides to be next.

We photographed 7 women with their babies, and during the process, I saw how the hard shell of a story that has been told a thousand times and yet remained dusty because no one has really listened to it softened. That story speaks of a marginalized society of which we are both participants and victims, but only to the extent that we ignore it.

I hope that through these photographs and these stories, that harsh reality can be confronted, recognized, and transformed so that never again should a child live a childhood without knowing what a window is. Let's open our eyes and hearts. Let's integrate these women and children by giving them a hand to weave and create their future. Everyone's future.

- Chío and little Jonathan -