Text by Feliciana Chiaradia
As an expat from Calabria, Italy, I have experienced throughout my life abroad what it means to be away from the things I loved about the place I came from: my family, friends, the mountains rising above the sea… yet less people ever asked me about that. The most common question, besides from jokes about Berlusconi or Renzi, was: “As you’re from Calabria, do you personally know a mafia boss?”
That’s why, when entering the academic world in Germany, I decided to write a dissertation about the representation of my region in relation to organized crime. I also chose to explore another region far away, Sinaloa, in Mexico, which I believe shares a similar perception in how its people are viewed, as a region really tied to narcotrafficking. Last March, I had the opportunity to travel to Mexico for the first time and conduct field research to see whether my assumptions, feelings, and experiences could be confirmed.
Despite the stereotypes about Southern Italians suggesting otherwise, I like to be very organized, and my plan was to keep a daily journal to record my thoughts about Mexico on paper. But the jet lag, the surge of emotions, the city’s relentless energy, my own curiosity, and the confronting images I encountered every day wore me down. But, let me begin from the real beginning of the trip, and perhaps something deeper.
Madrid, 10.03.2025
My journey began at the Madrid airport. I had the comfort of spending the night before with my
brother in the vibrant capital of Spain. He helped ease my anxiety; some tapas here and there, a long walk through a city I briefly “met” when I decided to leave my country. Spain: my first conscious step into the world, fuelled by a desire to “see” from afar and maybe change something, it made me upset about Calabria, the region where I was born.
When I formulated my research question, something became incredibly clear to me: Mexico and parts of Italy face a similar tragedy, one of the “desaparecidos.” I grew up watching people I loved “disappear,” but, in this case, beneath the soil -poisoned by chemical waste hidden under Calabria’s stunning landscapes. In Mexico, the violence is overt, brutal, unbearable. In Calabria, it is insidious, ignored, and almost unspeakable.
Madrid became a threshold, a gateway between worlds. A familiar place that had previously answered my call for an “elsewhere,” from where I could better understand my “here.”
My brother and I rushed to see exhibitions. One led to another, time was short, and words weren’t enough. But we made it. At Espacio Telefónica, we visited an exhibition featuring sculptures by Jaume Plensa, a Catalan artist who explores identity through monumental heads. Materia Interior, “Interior Matter” was the title the artist chose to summarize the pieces on this particular floor. A strange premonition: those silent faces seemed to foreshadow the decapitated heads I would later find in the film archive in Mexico City. The sky darkened in Madrid, as did my stomach – my first 13-hour flight loomed, taking me to a place I only knew through media and warnings. My brother suggested I share my live location with him during the journey. He promised to stay awake until I reached my apartment safely. That night, in his tiny shared flat, I barely slept. I even hit a wall in my sleep – leaving a bruise that stayed with me for the next two weeks, reminding me that this wasn’t a dream.
13 Hours Later: Mexico City
A colleague from Guatemala had advised me not to sleep upon arrival to fight jet lag. So, I took her advice. After a safe taxi ride to my rented apartment, I sat on the balcony, listening to the city’s skyline – its symphony of noise, voices, and flickering lights.
I had spent months trying to find the right place to stay in a city larger than Austria. My biggest fear was landing in a gentrified neighbourhood, where I’d experience tourism, not life. So, I activated my international network. Through Natalia, a Colombian friend in Munich, I connected with Paolo, a Mexico City native now living in Saarbrücken. Paolo kindly helped narrow down safe and authentic areas to live in. Through Paolo, I met Jorge – my brilliant, unofficial local guide- and his Dutch visiting friend Joёl. I had already messaged Jorge waiting in the boarding queue, asking how to get to my apartment from the airport. Viral videos had warned me about the confusing chaos of CDMX’s airport and the risks of unofficial taxis, particularly by night. That small conversation sparked a friendship. It reminded me: fieldwork isn’t just research; it’s also human bonding.
Ciudad de México (CDMX), Random Memories – March 2025
The jet lag tip didn’t work for me. I woke up at 4 a.m. on my first morning. I watched the city wake up too. I love to explore a city without a map, though this time I had checked the streets beforehand. What I had read online had sparked a fear in me, but I was determined to walk.
Jorge had advised me to take the subway: “easy and cheap,” he said. He also said I could use my credit card to enter – but neither of my cards worked. I wanted to buy one of the colourful subway card. So, a long hunt for a decent currency exchange began. The card became my best companion for the rest of the trip.
My destination was the Museo Nacional de Antropología. It was a place of wonder and questions. The exhibitions – spread across four huge rooms and two floors – offered an overwhelming, though fascinating, amount of information. The reconstructions of temples and tombs were detailed, but something about them felt… hollow, as though their energy had been left behind in their original locations.
A few days later, I visited Teotihuacán, home of the Pyramid of the Sun and Moon. The site – once considered a “non-place” by colonizers – survived precisely because it was disregarded. It resisted erasure under layers of sand. I thought about how colonialism and capitalism continue to “bury” Indigenous languages and practices – now written on placards and recreated behind museum glass, while their people face subtle forms of segregation in urban life.
A friend once told me, “They see the native in you, even if you appear ‘white-.’” I carried that thought through the museum, especially on the second floor, where indigenous communities were “represented”, flattened into folklore.
Overstimulated, I wandered into a special exhibition of works by Sebastião Salgado, one of my favorited photographers. He transported me to the clouds over the Amazon and back to the warm heart of CDMX.
UNAM and the Women of the Film Archive
Impressions from the Filmoteca UNAM. March 2025. Author´s own photos.
The next day, I had my first appointment at the Filmoteca of the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM). On a quiet Tuesday morning, I met the deputy director of the archive. She welcomed me not with formalities, but with passion: for film, for storytelling, for resistance.
In one of our conversations, she told she didn’t want to retire; cinema was her life. As I shared my project, she listened attentively and gave me guidance, contacts, and encouragement. Research in a place where “emergency” is the status quo is never easy, she said, but her network opened doors I didn’t even know existed.
The people at the archive made me feel at home. They checked in on me, brought me books, fed me with stories, snacks, and even fruit I’d never tasted before. Despite the brutality of my topic, their warmth gave me space for hope. In their screening rooms, I watched films that never made it to Europe: raw stories of narco-violence, of women, of children, of grief and beauty.
In My Suitcase Back to Europe
One day after work, I asked the kind doorwoman at the Filmoteca, María, how to get to the Central Library. I wanted to see from near one of the most fascinating buildings I had ever laid eyes on – an edifice entirely covered by the famous mosaic of architect Juan O’Gorman. Señora María insisted it was a long walk and suggested I take the bus, but I needed to clear my thoughts. So, I began a real journey on foot (one that even led me onto a highway for a short stretch!). But without that detour, I would never have seen this image… or begun this reflection about my condition.
Since I am part of an interdisciplinary research training group, I am already feeling very lucky. I love my job, but above all, I really appreciate the networks that connect not only subjects but also people. Having the chance to travel for research allowed me to meet wonderful human beings and, most importantly, to listen to their stories.
What I made of my weekends and “Feierabend” in Mexico City, the inspiration I drew from the “Casa Azul,” the home of Frida Kahlo, the meals at the Coyoacán Market, the evening I experienced an earthquake alarm, the Lucha Libre experience, my first time seeing an axolotl in what remains of the old canals, the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, and many other amazing memories: CDMX showed me a world both familiar and utterly new.
It reminded me that I come from a complicated place in (the South of) Italy- but still one where I never feared walking alone at night or having to ride in separate train cars because of my gender.
I saw how violence can become invisible, normalized, like background noise. And I saw how stereotypes fail to capture even a fraction of what this city holds.
Some call CDMX a bubble in a country gripped by a silent war. Maybe it is. But it’s also a place of resilience, creativity, and community.
As I continue my research, I carry these memories with me – like the blooming jacarandas in the Centro Cultural UNAM: purple proof that beauty insists on growing, even in the most unlikely places.
Even though I think the Jacaranda tree gave me allergies until the very last day of my stay, it became my favourite tree; some of its flowers are now kept between the pages of my new Sayak Valencia book.
For everyone who made me feel safe, “belonging”, and inspired and get rid of some stereotypes – thank you.