At a community garden in North Strand, Latina women share worries and swap pre-loveds

Liliana Fernández grabs an orange dress and puts it in front of Gabriela Burnett as they stand face to face with big smiles.

Burnett chuckles, holds the dress over her black dungarees and starts swirling and bopping her shoulders.

Spanish-language music blasts in the room.

Women are busy checking out jeans, dresses, crop tops, and jumpers hung from wheeled rails – borrowed from the not-for-profit reuse hub Change Clothes Crumlin –  and picking out accessories like bags, hats and beanies from a table in the corner.

There’s hot water and coffee and a tray of cookies.

“Chicas … ,” says Paula Alvarenga, a co-organiser, to Burnett and Fernández, gesturing to them to greet Bianca Rivera, who’d just arrived, wearing round sunglasses.

On Sunday, the women swapping pre-loveds inside the cottage on the grounds of Mud Island Community Garden in North Strand were all from Latin American countries.

Venezuela. Mexico. Women told each other where they were born as they trickled in, welcoming and embracing and planting kisses on each other’s cheeks.

The event was organised by Latina Women Against Violence, a grassroots group co-founded by Burnett to reach women impacted by gender-based violence, helping them find support, solidarity and community in an unfamiliar country.

Last year, Burnett and other volunteers thought fun social gatherings were one way to stretch their reach and get more women to open up, she said. “To have a safe space to come and meet each other.”

Come talk about anything at all, she says, like if your rent has gone up a bunch recently.

She landed on exchanging clothes for the group’s first gathering because “I don’t know about you, but I find it hard sometimes to find clothes that I identify with here,” said Burnett, who is from Bolivia.

Nothing you can’t shake

In March 2024, Latina Women Against Violence organised an information session where women learned about their tenancy rights in Spanish from a representative of the Community Action Tenants Union (CATU).

They shared homemade snacks afterwards.

But the Sunday get-together was the first time everyone was there just to hang out.

Rivera, the woman with sunglasses, is from Mexico. She had come with a friend who told her about the event, she said.

Burnett grabbed a brochure from a table near the door and handed it to Rivera. She skimmed through it and took a photo with her phone.

It can feel lonely if you aren’t here with family, said Rivera.

“For us, we’re alone, but we can be a family now,” she said, gesturing to the women around her.

The leaflet – there are stacks of it sitting on a tablecloth emblazoned with a drawing of a glowy sun – invites immigrant women to seek a way out.

It reassures them that their hardship doesn’t have to be insurmountable. Even if their immigration status is tied to an abuser.

“You can apply for independent status as a victim,” it says.

Abusive partners can sometimes refuse to help their dependents renew their immigration permits, raising the stakes for going to the cops.

That the guards have investigated immigration statuses of victims in the past cropped up in the PhD thesis of the former head of its diversity bureau, David J. McInerney.

His successor, Garda Superintendent Seán Fallon, said in 2023 that if this does happen, it shouldn’t.

The leaflet lists out all the ways the legal system offers reprieve to victims of domestic violence at the back, in white font on a red background.

“If you know a woman who is experiencing violence [….] let her know that you are here to help her and offer helpful information,” it says.

Be gentle. Don’t judge or pressure them to leave the relationship, the flyer says.

I got all my sisters with me

Mariana Blanco, tarrying by the accessories table, says she saw the event publicised on Instagram and showed up because she wanted to be there for women dealing with toxic partners at home.

Romi Beiroa Rey tried on a shimmering, colourful sequin dress. Burnett’s four-year-old son smiled and handed her a pair of Mickey Mouse ears. She put those on too.

Then, they headed to the garden to play and hang out.

Beiroa Rey’s partner, Ro Cruañas, was sipping a chá mate – the South American herbal tea – on the cottage’s balcony.

Cruañas, who co-organises Fusion Murga Ireland – a collaborative performance group for minoritised artists who can’t afford paid courses to come and train for free –  says that for Latina women who grew up in societies that normalise machismo, it’s vital to get together to talk.

“They can be on the receiving end of coercive roles that they’re not even aware of,” she said.

She hopes women can find an escape in these gatherings, even if it’s temporary, just for a couple of hours, said Cruañas.

After a while, the small cottage was crowded with dancing women trying out new clothes.

Some sat outside in the garden to gab, or chatted outside in clusters.

Fernández, one of the organisers, said outside the cottage that it’s unlikely for women to open up at the first gathering, but she hopes it makes them realise that they have a safe space and a community to turn to.

“Clothes is an excuse, really,” she said.

More than anything, she wants to see women talking to each other, said Fernández.

If you or somebody you know might need help, Women’s Aid’s national 24-hour hotline can also be contacted at 1800-341-900.