Tribute to rescue, “a bridge between the hope of progress and the reality of suffering”

▲ José Chávez Morado's mural is located in the lobby of the Siglo XXI National Medical Center. Here, a detail of the piece. Photo by Jair Cabrera Torres

Daniel López Aguilar

La Jornada Newspaper, Friday, September 19, 2025, p. 5

“September is a month of bad omens, so I prefer it to pass quickly,” said Lucía Garrido, while waiting in the lobby of the Siglo XXI National Medical Center. She admitted that she is terrified of earthquakes: she avoids looking at them even in a painting, because “thinking about them too much is attracting them.”

In front of him stands the imposing mural "Homage to the Rescue," measuring 20 by 30 meters, created between 1988 and 1989 by José Chávez Morado (1909-2002). The piece dominates the space and pays tribute to civil solidarity following the earthquake of September 19, 1985.

Its bas-relief incisions evoke scars on the stone and integrate scenes of devastation: brigade members remove debris, doctors treat the wounded, camps are set up for victims, and crowds raise banners demanding housing, health care, culture, and education.

Between tragedy and reconstruction, the intervention imposes its narrative on those who tour the hospital and its surroundings, even when some mistake it for decoration.

In an interview with La Jornada, art historian Dina Comisarenco explained that Chávez Morado's return to the Medical Center, where 30 years earlier he had praised medical advances, had profound symbolic and personal implications.

"In his first work, he celebrated scientific progress; in Homage to the Rescue, he recognized human limits and vulnerability, as well as the capacity for resilience and solidarity. The composition serves as a bridge between the hope of progress and the reality of suffering.

"This contrast is reflected in the tripartite structure: on the right, the moment of the disaster; in the center, pain and rescue; and on the left, reconstruction.

“The three sections function as temporal layers of trauma. First, the shock and confusion; then, the wound and loss; finally, the aftermath and reconstruction. The viewer travels through an emotional chronology that generates empathy and awareness of collective memory.”

The way the surface was worked reinforces this intention. Although it is a mural, its appearance is reminiscent of a monumental woodcut: deep incisions in the marble suggest the indelible mark of trauma.

“It's as if he wanted to engrave into the material itself the impossibility of forgetting. The earthquake and the emergence of civil society were forever inscribed in social memory. The work reminds us that the past is irreversible and that we have the capacity to rebuild ourselves,” Comisarenco added.

In the center, two giant hands hold the eagle and the cactus, Mexico's founding symbols. They represent "the strength of citizen solidarity and the possibility of rebuilding civil society after the catastrophe. It is a metaphor for a country that sustained itself through mutual support."

Colorful details mark the memory: an orange circle indicates the fateful hour, 7:19 a.m., September 19, 1985, and a green rectangle commemorates the 2,300 people rescued, a figure celebrated as a collective victory.

At the ends, a burning, dry tree contrasts with another full of buds and birds, an allegory of the transition from destruction to renewed life. The architectural plan of the new hospital is presented alongside that of the old one, which was damaged during the 1985 earthquake and subsequently restored.

Dina Comisarenco compared this work to the work Chávez Morado created in 1959 in the same complex at the Medical Center: Evolution and Future of Medical Science in Mexico, where an optimistic view of medical advances prevailed.

“Thirty years later, the emphasis has shifted: Tribute to the Rescue places civil society at the center, the anonymous hands that carried stones, improvised brigades, and demanded rights. It reflects the profound changes in Mexican society in the 1980s.”

Among the figures, banners with essential demands stand out: Housing; Water; Electricity; Health; Work; Culture; School; Books; Sports. "These are not slogans from the past, but a call to action," the specialist emphasized.

Some visitors perceive the work differently. Eloy Rubio, a high school student, acknowledged the historic magnitude of the earthquake, but admitted that the mural went unnoticed: “I came to bring my grandmother for a consultation and thought it was decoration. It's good that there is art that speaks to that, but young people now are more on their phones, social media, or listening to music.”

For Irma Peláez, it's surprising how artists manage to transform chaos into beauty. "I wouldn't want it to ever shake again; just thinking about the people who lost their relatives hurts me. Most people walk around with headphones on and don't notice it."

Lucía Garrido, a 47-year-old accountant, barely glanced at the mosaic. “During the earthquake, I remember my distressed grandparents and the cracks in the pavement. I didn't think it was that bad. Today I prefer not to think about it, because you attract it. That's why September scares me.”

The card next to the work summarizes its meaning: “Devastation, helplessness, absolute sorrow and immediate solidarity, hope, struggle, reconstruction.”