Mi nombre es Lorena, tengo 59 años, soy tucumana y fui una gran amiga de Mocha Celis. Ella nació en Lastenia, Tucumán. Llegamos las dos juntas a Buenos Aires a principios del 80’. La familia de Mocha era de clase media, su mamá era una vidente muy famosa en la provincia. Todos sus hermanos estudiaban, trabajaban. A ella nunca le faltó nada, su mamá siempre la quiso. Cuando vinimos a la ciudad, la mamá de Mocha me dijo “Yo sé que al negro me lo van a traer en un cajón”. Y así fue, unos años después.
Tomamos el tren desde Tucumán. Venía María Belén, Tránsito, la Mocha y yo. Y nos fuimos a buscar a la madre de Belén, hacía 15 años que no se veían, y la encontramos en Banfield. Ahí nos alojamos un mes hasta que nos fuimos cada una por su lado. Mocha y yo nos mudamos a Constitución y empezamos nuestra vida. Después vivimos en la casa de un amigo que ya no está más. Hasta que nos mudamos a un hotel en Congreso. Yo me fui a un departamento y Mocha se fue a Villa Madero en el 85’ a alquilar, hasta que compró su casita.
Con la Mocha me conocí en el secundario. Ella estaba en primer año y yo en tercero. Como ella era tan mariquita como yo, enseguida nos reconocimos y ahí nació nuestra amistad. Ella venía a mi casa, yo iba a la de ella. Las dos dejamos de estudiar. Nos hicimos amigas de la Tutú, una chica trans que trabajaba en el bar de la terminal, muy buena onda. Un día nos comenta “la hija del patrón quedó encantada con ustedes y está por poner un bar, ¿quieren trabajar con ella?” Accedimos porque la calle estaba muy complicada en ese momento.
Como su amiga me enorgullece mucho que un secundario lleve el nombre de la Mocha. Yo se lo comenté a su mamá cuando seguía viva y se puso a llorar.
My name is Lorena. I am 59 years old. I am from Tucumán and I was a great friend of Mocha Celis. She was born in Lastenia, Tucumán. The two of us arrived together in Buenos Aires at the beginning of the 1980s. Mocha's family was middle class. Her mother was a very famous seer in the province. All his brothers studied and worked. She never lacked for anything. Her mom always loved her. When we came to the city, Mocha's mother told me "I know that they are going to bring him to me in a box." And so it happened, a few years later.
We took the train from Tucumán. María Belén, Tránsito, la Mocha and I. We went to look for Belén's mother. They hadn't seen each other for 15 years, and we found her in Banfield. We stayed there for a month until we each went our separate ways. Mocha and I moved to Constitución and started our lives. Then, we live in the house of a friend who is no longer with us, until we moved to a hotel in Congress. I went to an apartment. Mocha went to rent a place Villa Madero in 1985 until she bought her little house.
I met La Mocha in high school. She was in her first year and I was in my third. Since she was as gay as I was, we immediately recognized each other and that's where our friendship was born. She came to my house, I went to hers. We both stopped studying. We became friends with Tutú, a Trans girl who worked in the terminal bar and was very cool. One day, he tells us "the boss's daughter was delighted with you and is about to open a bar, do you want to work with her?" We agreed because working the street was difficult at the time.
As her friend, I am very proud that a secondary school has her name, Mocha. I told her mom about it when she was still alive and she started crying.
Lo peor fue cuando la asesinaron. Fue un detonante. Ella era una amiga de toda la vida. Yo había estado con ella el domingo anterior, me había venido a visitar. El lunes siguiente me llama la hermana y me dice “Salió el sábado y todavía no volvió”. Yo en ese momento estaba en pareja, tenía mi coche, le digo “Venite a casa urgente”. La buscamos por todos lados en el auto, por todas las comisarías de la provincia habidas y por haber. En un momento pienso en Nadia y la llamo. Habíamos estado en la comisaría 50, en el Hospital Álvarez, en los dos lugares nos habían dicho que no. Logro comunicarme con Nadia, con Pía no pude, y ella me comunica con Luana. Al rato nos llama para decirnos que había un cadáver en la morgue del Hospital Penna. Ahí se descubre todo: la habían matado en Juan B. Justo y Condarco con un tiro en la cabeza. La llevan a la comisaría 50, de ahí al Hospital Álvarez y la derivan al Hospital Penna porque ella estaba con vida todavía. Y muere en ese hospital mientras la operaban de la cabeza.
Pero lo peor de todo esto es que cuando van a reconocer el cuerpo, lo quieren entregar sin una autopsia, sin nada.
Preguntamos en la comisaría y en los hospitales pero nada. Fueron ellos quienes la levantaron, así que
empezamos a sospechar algo raro. Luego de la intervención de Ángela Vani y de las chicas nos dicen que
sí le van a hacer la autopsia pero que el cuerpo lo van a entregar 30 días después. De la autopsia nunca
se supo, eran otras épocas. Ahí empezamos a convocar marchas con Nadia y Luana, frente a la
comisaría.
El día que a ella la matan estaba Tránsito de la Cruz Pereyra, una amiga nuestra. Yo hasta el día de hoy
pienso que ella sabe quién la mató. Porque ella después trabajó sin ningún problema en la 50. Y
quien supuestamente la mata es un oficial de la 50. Osea todo medio turbio. Ella ya se llevó el secreto a la
tumba pero para mí lo sabía. Seguro estuvo amenazada. Y bueno empezamos las luchas, las marchas, con
cualquier cantidad de chicas, la legislatura porteña que nos reprimió. Su muerte no se esclareció
pero
costó la vida de ella para poder ser libres. Lamento mucho que ella no pueda disfrutar de la libertad
que
nosotras tenemos ahora, porque ya no está.
En la época de la dictadura estuve detenida en Buenos Aires, 21 días en Devoto, y en Tucumán. Mi papá era policía. Durante los apagones yo tenía esa costumbre de marica de andar de acá para allá y no me importaba nada. Me iba a joder con los pibes a una plaza. Nos juntábamos 3 o 4 chicas. Ya sabíamos que en esa época estaba muy picante. Una noche nos llevaron caminando como dos kilómetros los militares. A algunas les pegaron.
Cuando me toca acercarme al oficial que estaba tomando los datos le dije “Mirá, yo soy hijo de fulano de tal”. Y el tipo me dice “No sabía que tenía un hijo puto”. Así, con esas palabras. “¿Y tu papá?” “Está trabajando en Jefatura”. Levantó el teléfono, lo llamó a mi papá y le preguntó si yo era hijo de él. Gracias a Dios mi padre dijo que sí. Y me largaron. Bueno yo ya le hice pasar una vergüenza dije, otra no. Una noche estábamos trabajando todas en la punta del parque. Y aparece la camioneta de los militares, pensamos que venían a joder. Se bajaron del coche y nos dijeron “Todas arriba”. Y nos llevaron. Nos tuvieron una semana. Sin saber tu familia, sin saber nada, nosotras pensábamos que no nos largaban más. Esto fue en el 78’, 79’. Mi mamá me buscaba por todas partes. Hasta llegó a venir donde me tenían detenida y le dijeron que no estaba. Todavía éramos menores.
Yo tuve una amiga trans, ya fallecida, que fue secuestrada durante la dictadura. Ella trabajaba en
una casa
de familia que sólo ocupaba chicas travestis. Los hijos de esa mujer parece que eran estudiantes
subversivos. Entonces mi amiga agarró el libro (prohibido) y salió. Lo agarró para que no los
detengan,
inocentemente. Estuvo 40 días secuestrada. Se murió con el agujero que le dejó la venda en el
entrecejo.
La venda le comió la piel. La largaron a los 40 días en un campo, toda flaquita porque le daban
pan y agua
nomás. Y se salva porque ella escucha a un tipo que dice “¿para qué lo vamos a tener acá si es un
perejil? Lo tenemos que tirar” Ella pensó que la iban a matar. Pero la tiraron en un campo.
Encontró a
alguien que la llevó a su casa y le dijeron que desapareciera de Tucumán.
A otra amiga, Jujú, casi la tiraron por muerta, pero se salvó, está con vida hoy. A ella
la
cortajearon
por todos lados, le pegaron mal y la tiraron de la ruta hacia los pastizales como para que no la
vean, ya
casi muerta, para que se muera. Pero ella empezó de a poquito, con la fuerza que tenía, a
arrastrarse
hacia la ruta hasta que pasó justo un auto, la vio y la llevó al hospital. Gracias a Dios se
salvó.
The worst was when she was murdered. It was triggering. She was a lifelong friend. I had been with her the previous Sunday when she came to visit me. The following Monday my sister calls me and says “She left on Saturday and hasn't come back yet”. At that time I was in a relationship, and he had my car. I told him to come home urgently. We drove everywhere looking for her, in all the police stations in the province. At one point, I thought of Nadia and called her. We had been at the 50th division of the police station and at the Álvarez Hospital. Both places told us that she was not there. I managed to communicate with Nadia. I couldn't with Pía. Then I connected with Luana. After a while, we got a call saying that there was a body in the Penna Hospital morgue.
Then, we found out everything. They had killed her at Juan B. Justo and Condarco with a shot to the head. They took her to the 50th division, from there to the Álvarez Hospital and then to the Penna Hospital because she was still alive. She died in that hospital while they were operating on her head. But the worst of all is that when they went to identify the body, they wanted to hand it over without an autopsy, without anything. We asked at the police station and at the hospitals but no answers. They were the ones who took her in, so we began to suspect that something was odd. After Ángela Vani and the girls intervened, they told us that they were going to do an autopsy but going to return the body 30 days later. The autopsy results were never known, these were different times. From there on, we began to protest with Nadia and Luana, in front of the police station.
The day she was killed, she was there with our friend, Tránsito de la Cruz Pereyra. To this day, I keep thinking that she knows who killed her. Because after that, she worked without any problem with the 50th division. The one who supposedly killed her is an officer from the 50th division. I mean, everything was a bit murky. She took her secret to the grave but I think she knew. She must have been threatened. We started the protests, the marches with many of girls. The Buenos Aires legislature repressed us. We never found out how she died The cost of her life helped us be free. I am very sorry that she cannot enjoy the freedom that we have now because she is gone.
During the dictatorship, I was detained in Buenos Aires, 21 days in Devoto, and in Tucumán. My dad was a policeman. During curfews, I had that queer habit of walking from here to there without a care at all. I was hanging out in a plaza. We got together 3 or 4 girls. We knew that it was a contentious time. One night, some soldiers made us walk for about two kilometres. Some of us got beat up. I had to approach an officer who was taking our info, I told him "Look, I'm the son of so-and-so." And the guy says “I didn't know that he had a prostitute son. And your dad? He's working at the headquarters." He picked up the phone, called my dad and asked if I was his son. Thank God my father said yes. And they let me go. Well, I already had embarrassed my father so I said no more. One night we were all working at the park. The military truck shows up, we thought they were coming to fuck with us. They got out of the car and told us to go in the truck and took us. They detained us for a week. Our families didn’t know and we didn’t know what was happening. We thought that they wouldn't let us go. This was in 78 and 79. My mom was looking for me everywhere. She even went to where I was detained and they told her that I wasn't there. We were still minors.
I had a Trans friend, now deceased, who was kidnapped during the dictatorship. She worked in a family house that only hired Transvestite girls. It seemed like that the children of that woman were subversive students. So my friend grabbed the (forbidden) book and left. She grabbed it so they wouldn't be detained, innocently enough. She was kidnapped for 40 days. She died with a hole between her eyebrows caused by a bandage. The bandage rotted her skin. They released her in a field after 40 days. She was all skinny because they just gave her bread and water. She was saved because one of the captors said “Why are we going to keep her here? She looks so frail. We have to get rid of her.” She thought they were going to kill her. But they dumped her in a field. She found someone who took her home and told her to disappear from Tucumán.
Jujú was another friend who was left for dead, but she was saved. She is alive today. They cut her from all sides and beat her badly. They threw her onto the pastures from the road so that she would not be seen, almost dead, so that she would die. But she began little by little, with the strength she had, to crawl towards the road until a car just passed. They saw her and took her to the hospital. Thank God she was saved.