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Casa de Medicina

Tucked away on a quiet road in Chimalhuacán, just beyond the northeastern edge of Mexico City, the Casa sits on a warmly cultivated piece of land. It’s composed of small, open-air, single-story buildings, two traditional clay sweat lodges (temazcal), a kitchen, a communal living space, an herbal apothecary, a classroom for student midwives, and a treatment room.

Surrounded by cactus plants, crops, and the sacred ahuehuete tree—believed to connect the underworld with the earthly realm—the Casa is a living sanctuary of ancestral knowledge passed down through generations of Indigenous midwives.

Here, Maestra Partera Amparo, the founder of the Casa, tells her story. A story that begins with her late mother, Aida Araceli Soto Mouzón.

As a young woman, Aida left Chiapas to seek work in Mexico City. She found employment in a poorly paid, physically harmful textile factory. Her wages barely covered a tiny room and some food.

But what she carried with her was priceless: her deep knowledge of women’s health—how to care for pregnant women, infants, and common female ailments. Supporting birth and healing gynecological issues was her calling.

She helped young women* through unwanted pregnancies, assisted with abortions, and supported them through other challenges.

She cared for sex workers, watching their children overnight. By day she worked at the factory, and after work, she healed and treated women* who had been excluded from the official healthcare system.

It was in this space that Amparo was born, often at her mother’s side, watching and learning. Soaking up the wisdom of her mother, a Maestra Partera—a master midwife—Amparo grew up immersed in this world. As both a teacher and a lifelong student, she traveled across Mexico, learning from Maya midwives before returning to Chimalhuacán nearly 20 years later to help build a midwifery school alongside fellow activists. The school officially opened in 2018.

Education as Resistance

Chimalhuacán is a neighborhood marked by poverty and crime—conditions shaped by colonialism. But it’s here that Indigenous communities built an open-access school for children. They resisted poverty and alcoholism by embracing education as a tool for empowerment. Next to the school for children stands the midwifery school. Amparo sees herself as a guardian of knowledge that has been passed down orally for generations. Teaching it in a non-commercial, community-centered way, she says, is a form of resistance—just like the school. It’s a response to the colonial system that sought to silence Indigenous language and knowledge, but never succeeded in destroying it. The spiritual and practical wisdom of the parteras—Indigenous midwives—lives on. It continues to be passed down and is now being reignited in the midwifery school in Chimalhuacán.

Apprentices at Amparo’s school begin with 13 months of study before entering a three-year mentorship, learning hands-on from an experienced midwife. After four years and one month, graduates take on the responsibility of always naming the woman who trained them.

This mentor—lovingly called “abuela,” or grandmother—is honored by name, ensuring her memory and her teachings live on. This tradition makes clear that this is not institutional knowledge—it is ancestral knowledge. The act of naming the abuela is both respectful and deeply spiritual. It reflects a cultural energy rooted in Indigenous practices that honor where the knowledge came from.

Patriarchy and Colonialism

Colonial powers didn’t just seize land through violence and oppression—they also took control of women’s bodies through the weapon of patriarchy. In both general medicine and reproductive health—birth, abortion, and postpartum care—men and institutions took over, stripping women* of autonomy over their own bodies.

Pregnancy, birth, and even the decision to terminate a pregnancy became matters for male-dominated systems. The process became controlled, institutionalized, and disconnected from women’s experiences. C-sections, for instance, have become almost standard. At the Casa de Medicina Ixchel, this kind of control is rejected. Birth here is considered sacred—a spiritual moment supported by the wisdom of female ancestors and guided by a traditional Indigenous cloth called the rebozo, which plays a key role during labor.

Rebozo – The Parteras’ Tool

The rebozo isn’t just used to carry babies and toddlers—it also plays a vital role during birth. If the baby is in a difficult position, the rebozo is used to gently shift its position in the womb. Through a special massage technique, the cloth is rocked rhythmically over the pregnant belly to release energy and help the baby align properly for birth. No machines. No pressure. No fear. Just a cloth—and deeply rooted ancestral knowledge.

Amparo and her student, Lita, say that during birth, the spiritual presence of the women’s ancestors—those of the mother, the midwife, and the mentor—can be felt. Birth is seen as a rite of passage, a moment when a portal opens. But only the birthing mother can pass through it to bring her child into the world.

Cierra con Rebozo – Closing the Body and Preparing for Conception

Many women* experience postpartum depression after institutional births. Amparo and Lita offer a ritual of closure called Cierra con Rebozo, performed 40 days after birth.

In this tradition, the mother’s abdomen is wrapped tightly with the rebozo, symbolically “closing” the openness and vulnerability that followed childbirth. The ritual is often combined with a sweat lodge ceremony (temazcal), offering both physical cleansing and emotional healing.

These rituals are also used for women trying to conceive. A special three-meter-long rebozo, along with a wooden tool, is used in massages that provide physical and emotional support. The cloth, firm in texture, is meant to hold and protect. “A woman who longs for a child but cannot conceive needs support,” says Amparo. In Indigenous medicine, illnesses are often categorized as “hot” or “cold.” The uterus, they say, must always stay warm. A “cold” uterus can lead to painful periods or fertility problems. The cold travels upward—from the feet, legs, and joints—to the womb. Midwives at the school use warming herbs to restore balance. Each midwife has her favorite—Amparo’s is rosemary.

Through a three-part ritual, the woman receives rebozo massages and wraps combined with hot water and herbal infusions of warming plants. These treatments offer protection and healing. In many post-colonial countries, techniques like these are often stripped of their spiritual roots and sold at high prices, making them accessible only to wealthy women. This commercial appropriation is completely against the values of Indigenous midwives and the mission of Amparo’s school.

Traditional medical knowledge is meant to inspire—not to be commodified or used for individual gain. It is grounded in collective Indigenous spirituality and belongs to the community.

The Midwifery School

The guiding philosophy of Amparo’s school is to share this sacred knowledge, not hide it—but also to protect it and pass it on responsibly. The school is free of bureaucratic barriers and open to anyone who feels genuinely called to this work. Alongside mentors, there’s also a network of midwives who regularly visit to teach.

Four generations of students have completed the training so far; the fifth generation, which includes Lita, is nearly finished. In just seven years, over 100 midwives have graduated from the school, carrying with them a deep understanding of traditional birth practices. More than 300 births have been supported at the Casa de Medicina Ixchel, helping to welcome babies into the world naturally and empower mothers in their strength. Beyond professional training, the Casa offers young women and girls free access to traditional Indigenous healthcare—especially those excluded from formal systems.

Amparo and her students continue the work in honor of her mother:

In memory of Aida Araceli Soto Mouzón.

May your knowledge grow like seeds wherever they land. May your name and your wisdom never be forgotten.

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I see young people setting out because they want to help, to contribute, to hold on to a vision of a world built on humanity and solidarity. They are people who voluntarily leave home to stand beside those forced to flee theirs, driven by nothing more or less than the desire to help others survive.

Like Samiye (name changed), whom I speak with at length. She fled from Kabul, Afghanistan, with her five-year-old daughter. She first tried to rebuild her life in Iran — a country where Afghan children are barred from schools, where Afghan women* face daily humiliation. She stayed until despair grew so great, she risked everything and set out on the long journey to Europe. Kabul. Daughter. Woman. Life. Education. Stoning. Europe — and especially Germany — carries a deep responsibility here. And the women* who make this journey carry enormous weight on their shoulders, enormous fear in their hearts, driving them to step into a dinghy on a stormy night, in search of hope.

ROSA’s Everyday Work to Help Women* and Children in Need

At ROSA, the activist women — doctors, midwives, craftswomen, and more — often don’t know each other when they arrive. Most rotate in on cycles of five to twelve weeks. They stay together in a rustic Greek house, surrounded by mountains and fields, with space to sleep, cook, gather, share meals — and laugh.

The Crewis run on a detailed schedule: Who’s in charge of what? When’s check-in? When do they set off? Who’s driving which vehicle? Who’s handling setup and takedown? Who speaks with the guards or police? Who welcomes newcomers at the camps? Are there weather alerts? Wildfires nearby?

All of this is carefully coordinated in daily planning meetings. Meals are cooked and shared, shopping and packing handled together, dishes washed as a team.

Of course, things rarely go perfectly. But even when plans shift, one thing holds steady: the goal of giving women* and children, caught in an overwhelming situation, a few hours of care and safety. Alongside medical advice, women also receive legal information — access that can mean everything in a country where the chance of winning asylum is under 0.1 percent.

Even after the Crewis wrap up their day at a camp, the work isn’t done: supplies need to be unpacked, gear cleaned and dried, trucks refueled and checked, groceries bought, dinner made. They prep for the next day, connect with ROSA groups back in Germany (where local chapters now exist), and reflect — often late into the night.

During the winter solstice of Yalda Night, thoughts turn to family and those who have passed. People remember beloved relatives who are no longer with them. But the night also symbolizes the birth of new light. It’s a time to make plans for the year ahead.

“Solidarity with women* on the move and all those standing with them and in memory of those who didn`t make it!” (from the booklet “Information — for refugee women in mainland Greece”) *Yalda Night is an ancient Iranian festival celebrated on the longest, darkest night of the year, observed in Iran, Kurdistan, Azerbaijan, Tajikistan, and Afghanistan.

The earth, the mountains, the fields — they are healthy and scream of spring with such force, as if nothing could stop them. No amount of fire, bombing, or water being cut off have succeeded in desolating this area. And yet, they keep trying to destroy this land with so much fury. I admire the resilience of nature reflected in the people of Jinwar.

So what can we do for the people there? Not much. Their autonomous structure has turned them into masters of self-sufficiency. Solar panels can help, as well as money for irrigation. But above all, it helps to learn more about Jinwar, to support the origin of “Jin Jiyan Azadî” and not to take our eyes off the women* in Iran, Afghanistan, and the Kurdish region of Rojava. It's about leading the feminist movement not as separatists, but fighting together for freedom.

I am taking this feeling of connectedness with me to Germany and will continue to work for the liberation of the oppressed, for their freedom, for their lives. Just like Jiyan in Rojava.

Until we meet again.

Who would care for these women* and children? She didn’t know how, but she knew she must.
Something had to change.

Rebecca gathered a small group of women* who shared her determination to break free from the cycle of violence. They went again and again to the District Commissioner to plead for help, but no one listened.

So they began making jewellery. With no money for materials, they used plant seeds and dried fruits they gathered from the bush, selling them to tourists passing along the main road. Their former husbands watched, mocking them. It angered them to see their wives stand tall or earn their own money, and they repeatedly tried to destroy what little independence the women had built.

Rebecca realised they needed safety — a place of their own where they could live and protect each other. “A place, like a village, where we can care for one another,” she said. At first, only fifteen women* dared to join her. Many were too afraid of the consequences. But slowly, the idea began to take root.

They found a piece of land that felt right — close to the road so they could still sell their jewellery, but near the Ewaso Nyiro River where they could wash and find water. With their own hands, they built the first huts. Their husbands laughed at them, but the women* kept building. When the men attacked and beat them, the women* stood firm: “We are staying here. We will not leave. You can kill us, but we will not go.”

International Recognition

A women’s organisation in Nairobi heard about Umoja and came to visit. They invited Rebecca to speak at a conference on women’s rights and empowerment.
She was the only Samburu woman* there. She didn’t understand what the other women* were talking about and spent hours hiding in the toilet, feeling out of place. “What are they talking about — women’s* rights?” she thought. “Men are allowed to kill us and nothing happens. If I go home, I could be killed.”

Later she was invited to South Africa. By then, her children had taught her a little English, but she still couldn’t see what human rights had to do with her own life. “We have no rights — not even the right to eat,” she said. “The rights belong to men.”

In 2005, the United Nations invited her to New York. Once again, she felt alien and overwhelmed — cold, far from home, lodged on the eighteenth floor of a skyscraper. Once again, she couldn’t understand what all this talk of women’s rights had to do with her. Then she heard a white woman say that her grandmothers had fought for their rights — and that she was now living the result of their struggle.

That thought stayed with Rebecca. Back in Umoja, she shared what she had learned. She began to see the strength she and her sisters had already shown — how they had built a village with their own hands, defended it with their own bodies, and carved out a new life without anyone fighting for them. They had done it themselves. From that moment, she knew what she wanted: to be one of the grandmothers who fought for the rights of their granddaughters. The women* of Umoja decided they would fight to end female genital mutilation, to educate their daughters, to stop child marriage, and to end femicide — the killing of women*.

Today, those ideas shape daily life in the village. More and more women arrive, bringing their children, finding safety and staying. They look after one another — checking each morning who’s there, tending to the sick, sharing food. Their independence still angers the men. Sometimes they come armed with knives or sticks, sneaking into the mud houses at night. But the women* stand together. If a man tries to beat his wife, the others defend her and throw him out. Now, the houses have steel doors — the only parts of their homes they didn’t build themselves.

Life in Umoja

Children play all around me as I stand in the village. Christine, one of the residents, tells me about everyday life. Six years ago, she arrived here with her three children, fleeing violence.
There’s a school in the village, teaching girls and boys from Year 1 to Year 9. Boys can stay until they finish school; after that, they’re always welcome as visitors. A European foundation funds the school, including uniforms. The women have also managed to build a nursery with a small playground.

Around the village, they’ve planted neem trees, which grow tall and offer shade. The tree is one of Umoja’s most-used medicines: they boil its leaves to make tea against malaria, and use the extract to treat rashes and childhood illnesses.
In the community garden, they grow spinach, cabbage, pumpkins, tomatoes, bananas and medicinal herbs. Goats wander freely between the houses built of stone and cement. Their milk and meat sustain the women*, and the hides are turned into bedding. Many women share a house; once it’s clear someone will stay, a new home is built for her.

They sell goats from time to time, and their handmade Samburu jewellery to tourists. Visitors can tour the village, guided by the women themselves. All money earned is managed collectively.

There is also space for learning and reflection. The women* meet to talk — about injustice, about raising their daughters differently. The girls attend school in Umoja, but without sanitary pads they miss a week of lessons every month. Female genital cutting still claims young lives, and childbirth after such procedures is often deadly. “Stop cutting our girls,” they say. As Rebecca puts it: “We love our culture, but killing girls and women has nothing to do with culture.” The women* now provide menstrual products, educate their sons about respect, and organise workshops and meetings for the community.

They call themselves the future grandmothers — proud that one day their granddaughters will say: “It was our grandmothers who fought for our rights.”