J. Rochel, L. Holguín and C. Escrich playing the roles of Salomé, Judith and María. Photo: Carolina Sánchez
Sometime in the summer of 2010, 72 migrants from Central and South America left their homes with the hopes of reaching the United States. Out of sheer necessity, they instilled their trust into coyotes to bring them to a better life, to regain the normalcy that had been stripped of them at no fault of their own. After a grueling journey through unfamiliar lands, they finally reached San Fernando in the Mexican state of Tamaulipas, less than 100 miles from a new beginning.
On August 24, 2010, those 58 men and 14 women were found with their hands tied behind their backs, met with a bullet to the back of the head courtesy of Los Zetas.
Six years later, there wasn’t an open seat at the Citalin Gallery in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood as Raúl Dorantes premiered his latest production, ‘Allá en San Fernando.’ Despite the efforts put forth by Los Zetas, what happened Allá en San Fernando would not be just another mass killing, whispered about and then forgotten.
This was about redemption. This was about remembering.
Introduced with hopeful melodies, a vast stage opens up with two individuals dressed in army fatigues, resemblant of the former Special Service operatives who would eventually make up Los Zetas. Kneeling in front of them are three migrants, draped in dirty, tattered clothing as they endure an interrogation into their reasons for being in the area.
Before long, various pieces of fruit are placed into the migrants’ hands, symbolic of the sweet future the migrants came so close to tasting. In an instance, the pieces of fruit are taken from the three women and torn into pieces by the two leaders in control of their fate. Falling to the floor, the pieces scatter, resembling shattered dreams more so than any sign of hope.
While one commander stands tall and relishes in the lives that were just taken, the other curls himself into the wall and chokes on the stench that fills the room. Moments later, the five individuals, once so clearly divided by captor and captured, would rediscover themselves in a purgatory that wasn’t here nor there, neither heaven or hell.
After being smeared with white paint, almost acting as a return to innocence or what once was, the migrants awaken. However this time, they are the ones in control. When the two former captors awaken, one is now unable to see while the other commander, who stood tall and confident before, can now no longer walk and must rely on a cane to move.
What follows is where Dorantes and the cast really hit their stride. More often than not the gap between those involved in criminal drug gangs and the lives of poor migrants is widened when trying to deconstruct a tragedy involving both. However this time, Dorantes chose to show how similar they could actually be while occupying this sort of purgatory. Not the same in character, but simply in how certain conditions forced them into situations they never imagined being in.
The three women are now in control, and with that returns the hope that once was lost and the expectation of one day reaching the sea, or the big door that surely awaits them. Conversely, the commanders now have a lifeless aura to them. The confidence they possessed while they were the ones in charge has now escaped them. They are vulnerable and weak.
But where do the similarities lie? For the migrants, leaving home was the only choice. While we’re not fully able to understand the complexities of their displacement, of their decisions to flee, we can comprehend that it was dire enough for them to leave their families and homes. For them the only option was to head north.
One of the commanders was also forced to leave. Without any jobs or schooling in his community, the only option was to get to the United States. However before long, a simple traffic stop would send the soon to be commander back to Mexico and into the open arms of Los Zetas. The commander and the migrant are alike in that joint feeling of helplessness. But they are not alike in the paths they took. The path that made the commander a murderer and the migrant a victim.
As the production comes to a close, the three migrants are huddled close to one another as they slowly approach a door they see in the distance. One of the migrants is sure that it is God and in an instance, appears to have reached the end of her journey and is taken away. As night falls the other two are left to gaze into the distance, wondering if they’ll ever make it to their destination.
In both of the migrants’ hands rests a candle. Even with the wind blowing and the uncertainty that engulfs the two, in time and in place, the flame endures. As the light fades to black one of the migrants bends down and places the still-burning candle at her feet. The crowd is left with the one light that couldn’t possibly have existed at the beginning of this road of violence and despair. But now the migrants have regained control over their fate.
This was about redemption. This was about remembering.
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Parker Asmann is a 2015 graduate of DePaul University with degrees in Journalism and Spanish, along with a minor in Latin American and Latino Studies. He is currently residing in Chicago while focusing on issues of social justice and human rights. He is a member of El BeiSMans Editorial Board.
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