Book collects testimonies of banished children, stories of hope, solidarity and struggle

▲ Illustration from the book Memories of Childhoods of Chilean Exile in Mexico, sponsored by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

Daniel López Aguilar

La Jornada Newspaper, Friday, April 25, 2025, p. 2

Exile, in its most painful forms, involves the loss of home, the rebuilding of ties, the formation of new communities, and the strengthening of a collective resistance that endures over time.

Childhood Memories of Chilean Exile in Mexico brings together 32 testimonies from people who experienced exile following the 1973 coup d'état in Chile, as well as those who grew up in our country surrounded by children of displaced persons.

The project came to life when writer and educator María Paz Duarte Rodríguez had the idea of ​​collecting stories from exiled children and presented it to Dr. Gabriela Pulido Llano, who coordinated the initiative in collaboration with Gregorio Joaquín Lozano Trejo, Director General of the Diplomatic Historical Archive of the Mexican Ministry of Foreign Affairs. This institution, along with the archive, was responsible for publishing the volume.

In an interview with La Jornada, Ana Elena López Payán, an academic and editor at the National Autonomous University of Mexico, acknowledged the deep personal connection she feels with this project.

"When I was offered the opportunity to collaborate on the editing, as well as to give my testimony, I accepted because this topic is close to my heart. Working with Emilio Payán and Angie Santa María Daffunchio, who assisted with the design, was a great learning experience.

Several of the stories included in the book come from close friends who experienced exile alongside me. These texts are not an academic collaboration, but rather a form of reconstruction, both individual and collective, an effort to share what was forgotten, to give voice to those silenced by history. It is an act of memory, of giving voice to those silenced by history.

The editor recalled with emotion how, as she immersed herself in the stories, she felt she was rediscovering her friends, those who experienced exile alongside her. This work is a reflection of what we were, what we are now, of the certainty of childhood greatness and of a historical memory that we cannot allow to fade away .

During the development of the publication, Emilio Payán Stoupignan, director of the National Print Museum and an active participant in the initiative, realized that the initial testimonies were not enough. For this reason, he decided to seek out new voices and contact more people affected by exile.

This work was much more than an editorial task: it represented a gesture of responsibility toward shared memory. I remember the days of work when every word, every story, became an essential piece in understanding the true scope of that experience , he noted.

He also took on the design of the cover image, a task that took on profound symbolic value for him. "It reflects the essence of the stories: a perspective filled with hope and struggle, so characteristic of exile ," he added.

More than a simple illustration, the design was intended to translate the emotions that permeate each experience into shapes and colors.

The footprint of Carlos Payán

The back cover, created by Carlos Payán Velver (1929-2023), founding director of this newspaper, takes on even more significance as it was made in the last years of his life, when his memory was already beginning to fail.

Payán Stoupignan emphasized how, during their afternoons together, her father showed interest in the book, and how his connection to the Chilean community enriched the visual concept. "The design had to reflect the essence of what he had experienced. We wanted each element to speak to that memory ," she added.

The Olympic Village in Mexico City stands as a central symbol in the stories captured in the book. There, many exiles found refuge, and a community united by solidarity, transcending borders, was born.

Emilio Payán recalled those days with appreciation and gratitude: “We adopted each other: Chileans, Argentines, Bolivians, Mexicans... We formed a great family. That space was more than a physical location; it represented the seed of relationships that transcended politics and history. Despite the distance, we found each other, we cared for each other, and we grew stronger.”

In 2023, 50 years have passed since the Chilean coup d'état, an event that profoundly marked an entire generation.

Ana Elena López Payán fondly remembers that period, for it was then that she understood the true magnitude of solidarity. “My adolescence was marked by exile; during that time, I understood the meaning of solidarity, the human condition, and friendship.

“In those difficult times, through music, books, and love, we took care of each other. The songs of Silvio Rodríguez, Sui Generis, and Bob Dylan, the poetry of Pessoa, Simone de Beauvoir, and the work of Rilke and César Vallejo were a haven of joy.

This publication celebrates that legacy and the collective memory that remains alive. It gives meaning to the story by recounting the past and the strength of those who, as children, faced exile, an experience that continues to resonate with those who resist.

The book Memories of Childhoods in Chilean Exile in Mexico will be presented tomorrow at the Equity Forum of the Book and Rose Festival, located at 3000 Insurgentes Sur Avenue, University City (CU).

▲ Images of garments made by activist Natalia Toledo. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Angel Vargas

La Jornada Newspaper, Friday, April 25, 2025, p. 3

What do designers and brands—both domestic and foreign—take over when they appropriate an indigenous design or garment without permission? They steal our souls , complains Zapotec designer Natalia Toledo. These textiles are our second skin. When I see copies in shop windows, I feel a stab in my heart .

A poet, clothing and jewelry designer, and defender of indigenous cultures, she expresses her outrage at the unscrupulous way in which people outside those peoples and communities not only strip them of their cultural heritage, but even ridicule them.

I feel sadness and pain seeing our designs on mannequins that present us in a ridiculous way. We are not those bodies punished by diets, those bodies that yearn to be perfect, those very white bodies. There is nothing there that resembles us, there are only our clothes.

He argues that indigenous Mexicans don't wear clothes from other peoples out of respect, while stores and brands only care about profit, not tradition or cultural significance. All they want is to sell, and at much higher prices. They are truly resellers, not creators .

According to Natalia Toledo, it's unacceptable that major international brands appropriate a community's heritage and flaunt it as their own. You can't call yourself a designer if you copy what already exists and only take it out of context to sell it. Many foreign companies have a massive advertising campaign and present these garments to the world as if they had invented them , she points out.

I wouldn't put my brand on or sign a chain-link huipil with traditional figures, or a dress with flowers drawn and embroidered by my countrywomen. Being a designer means creating, not taking from others. My designs invent new figures, always respecting the shape of the huipil and the skirt. Sometimes I play around and embroider tortilla chips, corn, shrimp, soles, and canoes, something that wasn't done before.

Born in 1967 in Juchitán, Oaxaca, the writer and activist carries a passion for textile creation and design. She is the daughter of the celebrated painter Francisco Toledo and the renowned huipil embroiderer Olga de Paz, both of whom have since passed away.

In the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, women's costumes are an act of love, the result of a long process that begins with selecting the fabric, then taking it to a muxe (a person of the third gender in the Zapotec culture) or a lady to make the designs, then you have to choose the threads, which must match the color of the fabric and the skin , she states.

The next step is to go to the embroiderer, which takes two to five months, depending on the complexity of the design. Finally, a seamstress must assemble it, and you must find the ruffle you like. This is something very few people know about. When you see the dress in a shop window, you admire its beauty, but you don't know the work that goes into each stitch.

This process is inherent to the creator's life: I was born in my grandmother's house; my mother stopped embroidering only to give birth and then resumed her work. Thread is my umbilical cord. So, I have a lot of respect for it and don't sign anything that doesn't come from my head and heart .

-How do you preserve cultural values ​​without violating them?

"Clothes, like life, change. That's why the issue of cultural appropriation is so complex. If we women of the Isthmus didn't dare to change, our clothing would have died long ago."

According to Natalia Toledo, each dress in that region of the country is unique. The hands involved in its creation make it unrepeatable. They also have a ritual meaning, accompanying a woman from childhood to death.

I have a suit my mother embroidered before I was born. It's my age, 57, and it's still intact. Because quality threads ensure it lasts until death. That's why every purchase is a good investment. It's not a disposable item.

Isthmus women only have two or three outfits in their lifetime to wear to their town's important festivals, and that's enough . It's a purchase that costs between 30 and 50 thousand pesos—depending on the designer's estimates—and not only will it last forever, but it's even passed down from generation to generation.

-What do you think of Chinese or Indian fabrics that imitate embroidery?

"They're nothing alike. They're horrible and ephemeral. The sole purpose of doing so is to make them cheap and last only three days. Sometimes I think that's fine, because life is ephemeral too, but only as a metaphor."

"It's an affront to culture. Those fabrics came in like everything else that can be imitated, and that applies to absolutely everything. There's even piracy in food, because it's much cheaper. Wearing something from those imitations is like having fish or shellfish to eat and opting for instant soup ," he says ironically.

It's a matter of individual intelligence. Of course, the leaders' intelligence should help preserve traditional textiles and prevent copies from entering the market, because it's highly unfair to have a woman selling a huipil that took months to make while others sell wholesale pieces for five pesos. How can we compete?

Creator of the jewelry and textile design brand Teka, which she later had to change its name to Ladidoo (thread skin, in Zapotec) due to the proliferation of imitations, Natalia Toledo believes that to protect indigenous designs from misappropriation, there must be clear sanctions, like that of Frenchwoman Isabel Marant with her Mixe blouses.

While acknowledging the legal limitations, given that these are often international companies, he believes it is also invalid when firms like Carolina Herrera justify themselves by claiming to honor communities, but fail to involve or benefit them.