If you want to read this letter in Spanish, you'll find it here.
I recently read a post by Irene Vallejo in which she remarked how excessive she finds labeling the information files on our computers as ‘memory’ or attributing the word ‘intelligence’ to the most extensive database. She highlighted the profound complexity of these distinctly human qualities, suggesting that we may still have much to learn and comprehend about them and their intricacies.
As I get old, I realize that each November finds me yearning for silence, as if a kind of nostalgia implores me to remember. To reflect upon my own mortality and vulnerability, my fleeting existence here like a brief spark and that of everyone I know and love. Weeks ago, we were at the cemetery visiting a relative, and a sudden surge of thoughts overwhelmed me. We have devised countless beliefs and systems to extend in time and space everything that comes to an end; understandable to cope and conciliate, to show some respect, or to find some sense over death. Contracts, regulations, disputes, and stresses revolve around what to do with those who are no longer present. Suddenly, a weird yet genuine, and maybe highly irrational wish came to my mind: when I die, I would like my ashes to be kept in a tin cookie box—like one of those my mom uses to store her walnut shortbread each and every Christmas.
This is a time that immediately transports me to Mexico; to the streets filled with cempasúchil, the scent of orange blossom from pan de muerto, and the colorful altars adorned with photos of unfamiliar faces. It leads me to ponder who these people were, what their stories might have been, or what they enjoyed eating. For Mexicans it’s almost inevitable to think about death from a young age, to innocently lighten its gravity, to coexist rather than avoid it until it knocks on our door. Simply acknowledging its existence as a natural and necessary part of life can perhaps relieve us of absurd pressures, provide us with new perspectives, and a bit of wisdom to manage the time we are given.
We don’t know what comes after, but it seems essential to normalize the fact that we are all headed towards the same destination; although this reflection has little to do with the deep pain experienced when a life ends, with the confusion and the following incomprehension that arises from being and then no longer being.
Years ago, I came across Zahara’s work when the first edition of Recetario para la memoria had just been published in 2020, a book that places memory at the center while exploring our uniquely human ways of embracing it to celebrate life. Zahara delves into social issues through photography, and Las Rastreadoras del Fuerte is a collective of more than 130 women dedicated to search; they look for their loved ones, for friends and relatives that never returned. Recetario para la memoria (Sinaloa) emerges from this collaboration. For me, it makes complete sense to understand and share such a harsh reality as it is enforced disappearance.
In the northwest of Mexico, situated in the state of Sinaloa, there is a place called Los Mochis, closer to the sea than the desert. Since 2014, from this very location, Las Rastreadoras have tirelessly unearthed the remains of nearly 200 victims, with the only help of picks and shovels. This old problem has escalated in recent decades due to drug trafficking, organized crime, and the missteps of a government and its failed policies struggling to navigate such a complex situation. It’s these aspects of Mexico that weigh heavily on my heart, wrought by corruption and the lack of education and common sense that altogether sow immense suffering. In January 2020, the Mexican Ministry reported 61,637 missing people in the country. Today this figure is higher.
Zahara has fully immersed herself in capturing a reality that is undeniably tough, in a completely hopeful way. The book stands as an anthropological portrayal of the significance behind separation, absence, and the resilience against forgetting. This photographic and social project is a compilation of recipes and accompanying texts. Pozole for Roberto, tacos de birria for Sergio, tamales for Rodrigo, machaca for Miguel Ángel, capirotada for Pablo, caldo de chicharrón for Jesús Javier…
Food can serve as a means to navigate loss, the helplessness of not knowing, of being unable to do anything. And cooking can be a powerful act to defy the emptiness through memory, at the table, in the company of others. The connection between food and the diverse cosmogonies of creation is so profound in any culture, in any corner of the planet, that it also plays a fundamental role when departing. We are born eating, and as we pass, we leave behind a collection of food practices and customs that have the potential to endure, possessing the capacity to linger in the daily lives and memories of those continuing their journey. As I see it, this might be the ultimate and most authentic way to achieve the sought-after eternity.
«May food serve as a pretext to talk about the unspeakable» Zahara Gómez Lucini
Food, like memory, holds a multitude of meanings, and although this is nothing new, it is quite significant. It propels us to live and revisit experiences, shaping and reshaping memories that give purpose to our lives. It weaves a tapestry of connections offering a perpetual avenue for bonding. Setting the table becomes an invitation to embrace affections and to extend care to one another.
Returning to the subtleties of memory, the other day we met Lara Bongard, a multidisciplinary artist and author of The Girl Who Crossed the River with a Tablecloth (recently published and very, very soon available), and she told us that the word ‘history’ is absent in the Hebrew language and that instead, the word ‘Zikaron’ זִכָּרוֹן is used, which means ‘memory’; understanding memory as something intrinsic, and history as something external, separated from oneself.
All the previous leads me to contemplate memory as an exquisitely delicate thread that sustains us all—a thread that has been doing so ever since the formation of the stars, allowing us to celebrate the continuity of the lives of those who are no longer around us. So many individuals who never had, and perhaps never will have, the chance to express their desires as they depart from this world, because their breath was or will be abruptly snatched away.
Just like the stars gleam with the light of memory, those who are gone will continue shinning because from here, we will nourish their remembrance.
Hopefully by February 2024, the second edition of Recetario para la memoria (Guanajuato) will also find its place on our bookshelf. This second book delves into the displacement of the population and the resulting abandonment of the Mexican fields, the colonization dynamics and the subsequent migrations; the international trade agreements and the full government support to agribusiness; gray, homogenous, and cracked lands; and the plight of the farmer who has no other option but to try his luck on the other side of the border.
For all those who are missing, for the sake of demanding truth and justice to prevail.
At Tabletimes we express our gratitude to Zahara and all the voices who contributed to make this project possible: María de Vecchi, Daniela Rea, Constanza Posadas, Alejandra Díaz, Clarisa Moura, Tai La Bella Damsky, Sydonie Ghayeb, Las Rastreadoras del Fuerte, and all the collectives advocating for the cause. Half of the benefits from both books are donated to Las Rastreadoras and the groups involved to support ongoing search efforts.
TTS-005
Recetario para la memoria (Sinaloa)
ed. Zahara Gómez Lucini
2020