I never thought of myself as an activist. 

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked uncertainly, turning to my friend, who was crammed beside me in the third row of the car. It was March 8, International Women’s Day. My first protest. Along with four other girls and my Regional Director, I was traveling to the Women’s March in Mexico City. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

If I am being completely honest, I did not know this day even existed before moving to Mexico. But, after living here for almost two years it was impossible to ignore. The march is not a celebration, it is an outcry against femicide and widespread violence against women. This crisis runs so deep and the response is so violent that the government installs steel barricades around landmarks to protect them from being destroyed by acts of rage and grief. In other words, it is their way of defending old stones and scrap metal from the desperate voices of the unheard.

However, as B’nai B'rith Girls, we marched with a slightly different and more specific purpose; to represent Jewish women because they are just as equal and important too. 

Our Regional Director, who is typically relaxed and easygoing, adopted a serious tone of voice as she laid out the rules emphasizing that we must stick together and stay aware of our surroundings at all times. In case of tear gas, we were to cover our faces and escape. If one of us wanted to take a picture we needed to announce it out loud. Lastly, she noted that if we saw a Palestinian flag, to ignore it and not engage.

When we arrived, the sun was scorching hot, searing my skin, and my lips were already dry from the heat. I saw a sea of women in purple, green, and pink, gripping posters that glistened in the light. My friend had made all our posters, and when she rolled them out, I gasped in awe. My favorite read: Judía, Cristiana, Musulmana yo te creo hermana (Jewish, Christian, Muslim I believe you sister).

Women walked around double-checking that emergency contacts and blood types were written in Sharpies on concealed parts of our skin. It was a precaution that made my heart beat faster. All of a sudden, where I was, what I was about to witness, sank in.

Finally, it was time. We all began to walk on Reforma, Mexico City’s most important avenue. Chants rang in unison. Statues were vandalized and covered in graffiti. Walls and street posts were covered with faces of men labeled as violador (rapist) or abusador (abuser). Families clutched pictures of missing daughters, sisters, and mothers. Every time I saw a picture of a young innocent girl my heart would break a little more. One girl, no older than ten, held up a sign; No soy una princesa, soy una guerrera (I am not a princess, I am a warrior).

Then, my friend turned to us with fire in her eyes and announced, “I am climbing that statue.” 

And she did. 

She wrapped the BBG flag around her like a cape, covered her face with a bandana, and proudly held up her sign for everyone to see; Si tu feminismo no incluye a las mujeres judías, no es feminismo, es antisemitismo (If your feminism does not include Jewish women, it is not feminism, it it antisemitism).

She was a blazing flame, igniting change and demanding to be seen. 

Purple smoke filled the air. We cheered in support. Over fifty women paused with their eyes fixed on the sign and their mouths slightly parted open. In that moment we had done exactly what we came for. She made them see us, acknowledge us, and question their own silence.

As we continued marching we saw it; a group waving a Palestinian flag. 

We knew what we had been told. Walk away. Look the other way. But we did not. 

Instead, we ran forward, fearlessly raising our signs high like polished armor. They pointed at us, their chants filled with anger and hatred, in a place that was meant for unity. Regardless, we did not cower. We stood our ground and chanted back steadily, louder, and prouder: “Feminismo selectivo no es bienvenido” (Selective feminism is not welcome). 

Then something incredible happened. To my surprise, other women caught on. The chant spread. Women we did not even know joined us. They understood our message. We eventually moved on, with the Palestinian flag fading into the crowd.

The Zócalo, the city’s main square, was supposed to be too dangerous. Our Regional Director had never made it there before. But the streets were too packed to leave. We had no other choice but to continue forward. 

And suddenly, we were there.

I had expected chaos. Alternately, I found silence. Not a peaceful silence. A silence so heavy it pressed against my chest. A silence that made the air thick with sadness and despair. Groups of women sat on the ground, mourning and remembering. The heaviness of the moment settled into my bones. 

A mountain of discarded posters rose in the center of the square. It was here that we took our final picture, our BBG flag in our hands against the backdrop of the Zócalo and the massive Mexican flag looming behind us. 

That moment reminded me of the weight of this movement. I cannot put into words the feeling of standing there, of being part of something bigger than myself, of knowing that our voices mattered. This made me realize that there is no one I would rather experience it with than my B’nai B’rith sisters.

I now know, without a shadow of a doubt, that standing together loudly, visibly, and unapologetically is the only way forward.