Marcos Hernández is a restless person, his speech rapid and his hands continuously busy. He and three friends—Juan Herrera, Carolina Duarte, and Tonatiuh Ayala—chat around a conference table under fluorescent lights in what would look like a nondescript office space were it not for the raised platform in one corner, where a drum set and other bits of music gear hint at the sound and sociability once hosted here. On a warm Sunday afternoon in May, I’ve joined them on the second floor of a former commercial office building adjoining what used to be a metal-recycling business at 3200 S. Kedzie in Little Village.

“Los espacios son carísimos,” affirms Ayala—rents are very expensive. It’s a common challenge for DIY institutions, which purposefully refuse to set up hierarchical organizations with paid staff and other overhead costs (and whose informal nature often means they can’t access established funding sources such as granting agencies). The BSR was evicted from a space in Mexico City in 2009 and remained without a home until 2015. La Casa del Inmigrante seems likely to endure a similar ordeal if the state’s eviction moratorium ends on June 26—which it will, if not extended again by Governor Pritzker.

Mestre not only made his collection public but also established the library and its environs as a gathering place. He frequently met with fellow Spanish exiles at nearby Café La Habana, a famous haunt for the city’s cultural and political thinkers (rumored to be where Fidel Castro and Che Guevara brainstormed the Cuban Revolution). Mestre was equally motivated to befriend young people interested in anarchism, and for a particular group of young people, the timing couldn’t have been better—the city’s punk scene was coalescing during the same period when Mestre was building an audience for his young library.

These economic upheavals exacerbated wealth inequality and contributed to the steady transformation of Mexico City. Its picturesque, heavily touristed historic center was increasingly at the heart of battles about who should be able to use public space and how. Despite the recession that began in 2008—by which point at least half of Mexican workers made their living from informal as opposed to on-the-books labor—city officials were preparing for high-profile bicentennial events in 2010. Street vendors were evicted from parts of the historic district, and its already high rents rose further still.

More information about the Biblioteca Social Reconstruir is available at bibliotecasocialreconstruir.wordpress.com and the library’s Facebook page.

Finally, in 2015, the library signed a two-year renewable contract with the Frente Auténtico del Trabajo (FAT), one of Mexico’s only autonomous labor unions. The BSR reopened on the ground floor of the union’s building and resumed providing a space for self-improvement and sociability. The library’s relationship with the FAT is sympathetic, even symbiotic, but the situation remains precarious—every two years, its contract must be renegotiated. For now, at least, García says that the FAT allows the BSR to use the space in exchange for a monthly contribution of 3,500 pesos ($175) to the building’s maintenance and other expenses.

  • Seventy-four minutes of footage from the first La Casa del Inmigrante benefit for La Biblioteca Social Reconstruir in 2015.

“Derecha la flecha, aquí no hay trucos,” quips Herrera (“The arrow flies directly, here there are no tricks”). The Casa operates with a transparency and directness that most charity organizations can’t match. The members choose a cause, brainstorm ways to help, come to a consensus, and then get to work themselves. “No nos condicionamos ante nada,” says Ayala (“We are not influenced by anything”). They’re not subordinate to anyone and cherish their independence, which they link to their interest in anarchism. The recipients of their support tend to appreciate seeing documentation of how much the Casa raised and what it cost to send (services such as Western Union take a bite of international cash transfers). That manner of operating is a “reference,” explains Duarte, a calling card recognized by some of their Mexican beneficiaries. She laughs, imagining how they’d be described: “En Chicago, unas personas inquietas.” Those restless, driven people in Chicago.