In the auditorium of the Lurigancho prison, a flagstone court under a tin roof, a burly young man in a flowery shirt has just stabbed an inmate in the stomach who had tried to strangle him. Furious, he has now grabbed a revolver and is pointing it at the forehead of another man who was coming to attack him. They are surrounded by other gunmen who are shooting in the air. The prison is bleeding and there is no trace of the penitentiary officers. A scandal that will undoubtedly become a trend and will dominate the Sunday papers. But no, fortunately it is not a brawl, but a rehearsal for a Lurigancho: the musicala play created by the prisoners themselves behind the bars of the largest prison in Peru, with a population that usually borders on 9,500 inmates, when it was initially created for 2,500. In other words, a place where there is no bed. for so many people.
As in other prisons, there are those who come and go, trapped in an endless revolving door; others prefer to stay inside because they find a way to preserve their power or be safe from the vengeance of their enemies or simply because they are convinced that they have nothing to do outside: they have no family or if they do, they have lost it forever; others, the most optimistic, allow themselves sensitivity and learn to give their hands another use: embroider a cloth, make pottery, repair shoes, prepare bread, play an instrument. But they all face the universal dilemma of what to do with time. Take advantage of it or let it pass. Their attitude when leaving prison will depend on that decision. Find a meaning, cling to a glimmer, begin to be free.
It is no coincidence that the creator of the musical was a former inmate with the surname Paz. A fugitive for sixteen years, he was responsible for the deaths of thirty young people burned and suffocated in a nightclub called Utopia The owner of the company, businessman Édgar Paz Ravines, instinctively wrote a couple of books and this play during his brief stay in this prison northwest of Lima. In its first years it was only an in-house play, but since 2022 it has taken on another level when it was directed by Yashim Bahamonde, a renowned television, film and theatre scriptwriter with two decades of experience designing prison productions. He is the bearded man with a bun who, every time he gives an instruction, attracts the absolute attention of the inmates. “I speak to them in the same language. Not as a teacher, nor as a psychologist, nor as an authority, but as a volunteer who believes in them,” he will say during the break.
The work, which has the musical support of an orchestra directed by Venezuelan masters, left the walls of Lurigancho for the first time in mid-December 2023, performing before five hundred people at the Segura Theater, in the Historic Center of Lima. The pleasant impressions they aroused and their good behavior earned them two performances at the central auditorium of the University of Lima last June. Everything was ready for them to make the leap to the most important stage in the country on August 20: the Gran Teatro Nacional and its fifteen hundred seats, but fate put a stumbling block on them: a union strike at the National Penitentiary Institute (INPE) cut short the presentation because there was no staff to protect them and, finally, they will have to wait until November 1 to show people that they also have the talent to produce art and that looking at life from another angle is possible.
“The theater has helped me realize that crime is not my thing, that this is my world, acting and singing,” says Arturo Moreno Miño —head shaved on the sides, prominent curls, twenty-five-stitch scar above his right eye—, the young man who half an hour ago stabbed an inmate with a plastic sabre, threatened another with a prop gun and then sang a salsa. The musical’s protagonist, who plays Omar Negrón, the leader of Los Bravos Temerarios, a gang that has robbed several banks and jewelry stores and who deny being thugs, but rather “adrenaline addicts.” Through this character, the harshness of prison is shown, which is evident when the press is not visiting: how a mandatory fee must be paid to receive protection from the taytas (father in Quechua) of the pavilions, as well as to access a daily meal and even a mattress. Without money, prison can be hell. A well-known truth, but one that is rarely told—and danced—by the inmates themselves to the rhythm of rock and hip hop.
Moreno Miño was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, but was abandoned by his parents at eight months old. He grew up in Lima with his paternal grandmother, an old woman raised in the old-fashioned way, loving and strict in equal parts, who taught him to cook, but who left this world too early, before he came of age. With her went the joy and came the loneliness. The wrong steps. Taking what belongs to others. The main actor of “Lurigancho: el musical” entered prison for aggravated robbery in mid-2020 and still has two years left on his sentence. “I’m going to leave as a singer and actor,” he says with a smile. He has acquired valuable tools. Yashim Bahamonde, the director, has taught him to cry using his emotional memory. Every time the scene calls for it, he thinks of his grandmother and how much he would like her to be able to see how she is now. Hug her, shower her with kisses and thank her.
From one corner of the auditorium, trumpets, keyboards and congas set the mood for the morning. The rehearsal continues with the discipline and professionalism of any other cast. Those who do not have to go on stage remain silent, and those who do, accept the choreographer’s observations and repeat what needs to be repeated without making a face. There are forty people, including singers, dancers and musicians. They are joined by another five musicians from the Castro Castro prison and twenty inmates from the Santa Monica women’s prison, who make up the chorus. Several of the songs are written by Édgar Paz Ravines and also by the co-star, the mature version of Omar Negrón: Julián Izquierdo Ferreira, a dark-skinned fifty-something whose physical appearance and saoco when singing resemble those of the Dominican sonero Cuco Valoy. He did not join some salsa orchestras out of choice. This is his third season in Lurigancho, and this time he was sentenced to sixteen years for a crime he does not want to go into details about. He still has a decade left. He has been encouraged to compose and his work highlights his song “El Rufo”, as those who lose their dignity and will to live are known in prison.
“I can be free or within four walls, but if I continue to be addicted to drugs, I will remain in prison for the rest of my life. I have not taken drugs for three and a half years. It would be very sad if, after having been applauded for what I am capable of doing on stage, they saw me destroyed again. I ask God that it does not happen to me again,” says Izquierdo Ferreira —a metal cross hanging on his chest, a faded dragon on his left arm, scars everywhere and a peculiar dedication to his deceased wife on his left forearm: “my dirty black woman.” His greatest hope is that one of his seven children will go to see him in the musical. But he also understands their absences. “They are incredulous and they are not wrong. One has lied a lot. So you have to win over the family again. It takes time,” says Izquierdo, whose greatest musical influences are Puerto Ricans Andy Montañez and Cano Estremera.
Another notable appearance in the production is that of Aldana Earl Gómez, a trans girl who, in addition to spreading her mischief and her rhythm when she shakes, plays three roles: the partner of one of the leaders of the Los Bravos Temerarios gang, the mother of the protagonist Omar Negrón and, if that were not enough, she is Negrón’s daughter in her mature version who lives in Spain. Her determination has earned her the congratulations of actress Denisse Dibós, director and producer of a cultural association that supports musicals in Peru. “I have discovered my acting talents. I only have three years left. And I am mentally prepared to dedicate myself to this when I get out. I want to shine,” says Aldana, who feels protected among her fellow cast members.
Devoting oneself to art after serving time in prison is a real possibility. Yashim Bahamonde has trained several former inmates in the soap operas and soap operas where he works. He has also founded a cultural association called 2da Función, which is made up entirely of students who have taken his workshops while in prison. His vision transcends the local scene; he plans to film a short film of “Lurigancho: the musical” and send it to international festivals. “My dream is that when they regain their freedom we can travel together to Berlin, to Venice. That they can see the world,” he says, and then sighs. The big leagues. The director of the prison, Víctor Santos Huapaya, joins in the enthusiasm: “I have been serving in prisons for twenty-six years and there has not been a similar project. It is good that the population knows that Lurigancho is not only overcrowding, but also resocialization.” The walls of the auditorium, covered with football team crests, convey the final message of the day, amidst a hip hop beat: “the past dies, the present lives, the memory remains and life goes on.”
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