At the end of a road in the city of Cancún, in the Mexican state of Quintana Roo, a tall watchtower rises behind barbed wire and perimeter walls closely monitored by the army. This is where the Cereso stands, a high-security prison complex housing a men’s facility as well as a section called Modulo 2 that is reserved for females. A total of 284 women are held there.
Inside, time moves slowly. Days unfold according to a strict schedule, structured around chores and workshops organised by the prison administration.
Just two years ago the Cereso was considered one of the most dangerous prisons in Mexico. In effect, male inmates controlled the facility, and order and security were minimal because of an insufficient number of guards. To regain control, the government of Quintana Roo intervened with the support of the army, installing a new administration.
Since then, the prison has been entirely remodelled. Infrastructure has been renovated, and the leadership has introduced an approach focused on rehabilitation. Mental health has become a priority, with six psychologists dedicated to the women’s section and regular psychosocial workshops aimed at preparing inmates for release and reintegration into their communities.
Behind each prisoner lies a story shaped by poverty, exclusion and precarious living conditions.
Among the women, six have given birth while in prison. Their children remain with them until the age of three, after which they must be handed over to their families. Although the area designated for mothers and toddlers is designed to be playful and child-friendly, it remains within the confines of a penitentiary.
Most of the women at Cereso have been convicted of serious crimes such as human trafficking, sexual exploitation or drug-related offences. Some are serving sentences for murder. Yet many are being held in pre-trial detention, sometimes for several years. Mexico’s judicial system is slow, particularly since the implementation of stricter criminal policies, and increasingly relies on detention before trial. Legally, women are neither favoured nor judged more harshly than men, but they face gender-specific discrimination, and their social and family circumstances are often used against them. All of those we spoke to who had not yet been sentenced insisted on their innocence.
Within this enclosed space, every encounter carries a particular emotional weight. Laughter and moments of joy are present despite the setting. All those who agreed to be photographed participated enthusiastically, sharing their stories without artifice or evasion, with a sincerity that did not conceal the brutality of the facts. It is perhaps in this tension between lightness and gravity that their full humanity emerges.
Blanca, for example, is serving 54 years, the longest sentence in the Cereso. It was while in prison that she learned to read and write. Among her notebooks, filled with handwritten texts and drawings, she proudly shows one in particular, a song she wrote and composed herself, which she wishes to perform for us. Her strong, powerful voice carries words that take on a particular resonance in this context: mi último lugar (“my last place”), a reflection on what she calls her final place of life, one that has shattered her dreams and aspirations.
The photography project, named Modulo 2 after the women’s wing, explores a more subtle form of resistance within this constrained environment. Rather than documenting confinement head-on, the project observes the moments when women reclaim control over their image, through makeup, hairstyling, manicures. Beauty products are strictly regulated and made available only for limited periods under supervision.
These moments, though rare, transform the atmosphere. Postures shift. Shoulders straighten. Gazes become more assertive. Some women, usually defensive, open up, others intensify their presence in front of the camera. A gesture that might seem trivial outside – drawing a line of eyeliner, braiding hair – becomes an assertion of identity. In a space designed to standardise and control bodies, these gestures become acts of reclaiming agency.
Prisons are often depicted through images of extreme overcrowding and violence. These realities exist in certain regions of Mexico. Modulo 2 offers a more nuanced picture: sentences are heavy; control is omnipresent; opportunities are limited. Yet within this confined space, forms of solidarity, creativity and pride persist.
Beauty rituals do not erase the gravity of the crimes or the structural inequalities embedded in the penal system. They reveal its complexity. They show that identity does not disappear behind bars.
In a place designed to regulate time and discipline bodies, these women find small spaces in which to exist as more than inmates. Modulo 2 neither romanticises nor sanitises incarceration, but instead explores what endures despite it: dignity, contradiction and the human capacity to assert one’s presence even in the most constrained circumstances.