The scent of burning copal filled the air on a recent Monday night as Nury Ortega placed a headdress of long, colorful feathers on her head. She wrapped a set of shells around her ankles, closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Then the drums began.
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Flutes, maracas and the rhythmic rattle of shells soon filled the room as Ortega led the other dancers through a series of movements rooted in an Indigenous tradition.
Each movement, a different prayer.
Last fall, when masked, armed and uniformed federal agents descended on Chicago, “it was as if they also forced us to stop our prayers,” she said.
“We couldn’t meet to dance. We couldn’t perform because we were afraid that federal agents would target us based on how we looked.”
And they did, she said.
Ortega’s partner, Oscar Burciaga, was arrested by federal immigration agents, along with four of his co-workers, at their construction site on the morning of Dec 16.
It was her dance group, neighbors and friends who carried her through, said Ortega. And since he was deported, she has once again found refuge and acceptance in performing the Indigenous rite.
“Without a doubt, this difficult situation would have been much harder to endure without their help,” Ortega said.
She doesn’t know when she will see Burciaga again. In person, at least.
“I’ll talk to you later, I love you,” she smiled at him through a FaceTime call marred by static.
The grieving, she said, is only beginning to settle in. Still, she smiles through it.
“I just haven’t had time to cry,” she said.
As soon as Burciaga was detained, Ortega searched for an attorney who could help him and his co-workers. She immediately began raising money through different fundraisers, since Burciaga was the primary breadwinner.
And finally, she learned to navigate the complex system of different jails and detention facilities to locate and communicate with Burciaga. She found ways to ensure she could send him money and that he had enough food and hygiene supplies inside the facility.
“I was willing to put up a fight even if lawyers gave us little hope,” she said. “We knew … and we know miracles exist.”
What began as an effort to help the man she loved soon became something much larger that she is still carrying through.
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As Ortega figured out how to create an account to communicate with Burciaga, other detainees began giving him their information. They had not been able to reach their families. Ortega would call those families, tell them their loved ones were alive and help them create their own accounts.
Soon, people from Minnesota, Milwaukee and Texas were calling her.
When a loved one failed to come home, families called Ortega hoping she could help locate them.
In a community where trust in the immigration system and other authorities had eroded, Ortega became someone who had been through the same fear and knew how to navigate a system that many families found impossible to understand.
“People are still calling me because this is far from over,” she said. “Thankfully, I know how to reach almost every facility,” she said.
Over the last nine months, Ortega estimates she has helped hundreds of families.
Many have lost loved ones to deportation or voluntary departure, she said. In many cases, the person taken was the family’s primary breadwinner. They had properties, cars and businesses, and left behind U.S.-born children and their mothers.
Ortega worries about what happens to the children left behind.
“It’s going to be interesting to see how those children will eventually decide the future of this country. Children like my own, one who is getting ready to vote and two more who will be able to vote soon,” Ortega said.
She has three children: Christopher, 20, Alexander, 17, and Elkin, 13.
“They are sad about what happened. They are angry,” Ortega said.
Ortega has seen that anger in other families, too.
And the fear lingers. Pain has not ended with a deportation. In many cases, she said, it is only beginning to reveal itself.
But on Monday nights, she dances.