¿Feliz Navidad?

I have been back in El Salvador for 5 months, and stories and experiences keep piling up that I want to share in some way. I straddle the line between aching to write and to share (especially with the corners of the world so far removed from the everyday realities of violence and resilience), and feeling the protective urge to hold stories deep within me so as not to expose the lives of those who trust me with their own. Both responses seem irresponsible. Becoming a silent reservoir of stories that I believe should come to light seems to be a bow to the status quo. At the same time, in sharing the lived realities of those I love with a virtual public audience, I run the risk of turning their lives and their experiences of violence into a spectacle, and I wonder to what end this will serve them/me/those who read.

This being the case I will straddle that line and will continue to write, trying to partake in the delicate dance of stating what needs to be stated while still respecting the privacy and dignity of those whose lives are intertwined here with my own. Since moving back in August, there have been many, many days where I have woken up filled with awe and rage at the expressions of violence and inequality that I witness here. I tell myself I must begin to write. I plan out what I’ll write in my head. I sit down at the computer. And yet, I don’t write. I get swept up in the next crisis and the outrage of the previous crisis fades and sinks into a new “normal” as stories of ever greater violence and brutality become par for the course. I become more and more outraged by the way the world keeps on turning for some, oblivious to the depths of pain and fear others are forced to experience daily, and to their role in perpetuating such dualistic realities. I remember that I inhabit both worlds, if they can be simplistically condensed into two, and that as such I must not only witness and hold, I must write and share. I hope that my writing might in some small way serve as an invitation to encounter the humans bearing the brunt of the consequences of the sweeping issues like the “drug war,” the “gang crisis,” the “immigration problem” etc.; issues that are thrown around as mere topics of discussion or debate in some circles, while they continue to have paralyzing and terrifying daily implications in others.

Last week leading up to Christmas, soldiers (who have long since policed communities here) and anti-gang policing units had a hey-day in our community. For all intents and purposes, in marginalized Salvadoran communities, it is a crime to be a young male. Soldiers and police prowl through communities stopping, searching, and often beating and killing young people with complete impunity. Last Thursday as I sat in my neighbor’s house, my 5-year old god-daughter ran in and said, “The soldiers are here! If they ask me where I live I’m going to say that I live in this house and that you’re my mom! Do you think they’ll take me away?” I assured her that they wouldn’t take her away, and I stepped outside into the alleyway in front of our homes to see who they had stopped this time. Two houses down, 4 masked soldiers had five of my neighbors (aged 14 to 17) shirtless and spread eagle. When I walked down to witness the scene, with the hopes that spectators might reduce the chance of abuse and arbitrary arrests, I heard one of the soldiers calling the boys “gay assholes,” in an attempt to provoke them. I asked him to please treat the boys with respect, and I identified myself as their youth group leader, and I was told to get away because I had no business being there.

Thankfully, our community has a strong sense of unity, and soon there were about 20 of us witnessing this scene. The soldiers had the boys standing and coughing shirtless in the cold for over an hour as they went through every message and song in their phones, trying to find anything gang-related. They accused the boys of being spies for the gangs because some of their messages alerted their friends that the police were coming. One boy’s mother piped up and told one of the officers that her son had been beaten 3 times this month by soldiers who had stolen his necklace and cell phone, and that he warned his friends about their presence to avoid getting beaten for nothing. The soldiers denied these claims and insisted that these boys were dangerous because they were “in a group” when they should be in their houses, and because 2 of the boys had run from them (no doubt, to avoid being beaten and humiliated). He proceeded to add that he was doing us a favor by not arresting all 5 of them on the spot, and that he would have shot the 2 who ran had there not been so many children around. The boys were told that next time they were found in the street in a group, they would all be taken to jail. The same outspoken mother pointed out that 50 meters down the alleyway several men were making a drunken ruckus in the street, but no one stopped them, to which the soldiers replied "they're just drinking and they're not bothering anybody, but these boys are in a group in the dark." Finally the boys were released and as I debriefed with them back in their homes, they strategized about where they would do the secret santa exchange we had planned for the following evening, without risking being arrested for being in a group.

As I watched these boys who I know and love, who I've watched grow up over the past 9 years, stand spread eagle, coughing and enduring this routine act of public humiliation, I was filled with anger and with an overwhelming sense of impotence. I thought of the 100 million dollars in military aid that the US sent this year to the Guatemala, El Salvador, and Honduras, and how policy makers would never have to watch their children be criminalized daily for their mere existence. They wouldn’t have to fear searching high and low for their son’s remains, after routine military raids. They wouldn’t have to spend sleepless nights with their 14-year old boys suffering from panic attacks, too scared to go outside. They wouldn’t have to hear their 8-year-old sons say what my neighbor recently told his mom, “I don’t want to grow up and be a youth, because youth get killed.”

The following night I spent the night at a friend’s place, and when I called home I was told that the soldiers had stopped another group of boys and that they’d taken one away in handcuffs. When I came home the next day, I heard the full story. This time several boys were sitting on my front stoop watching youtube videos on their phones when the soldiers came through and grabbed them and took them to the end of a dark alleyway. The soldiers beat them with their flashlights and their rifles and when a crowd emerged they finally let all of them go except for one. They handcuffed him and walked him out of the community in a public spectacle of shame, before taking his shoes off and burning them (claiming they were gang related), and letting him go. My neighbors later went to bring him new shoes, but the soldiers stopped them on their way, claimed they were gang sympathizers, and stole the shoes. When my 5-year-old god-daughter relayed the story to me she told me with a resigned look of sadness and conviction, “When I’m big, the soldiers will burn my sandals.” As I looked back at her, I thought of the safety and security that enshrouded my own childhood, and longed for a world where state sponsored violence and constant insecurity would not define the way she tried to make sense of the world.

Gangs are made out to be the the horrific cause of all violence here, and the violence they inflict is in fact, horrific. However, the state apparatus in charge of “serving and protecting” civilians, is seemingly doing all in its power to create an environment of constant insecurity, humiliation, fear, and shame, such that young people search for a way to have some sense of power and protection when they will be treated as guilty no matter what. As one of the leaders of the community youth group, I see the way in which the threat of police violence in our community aggravates cycles of violence in families and pushes young people to their limits. They are trapped and they know it. If they are in a group, they’re assumed to be in a gang. If they are found alone, they are assumed to be spies for the gang. If they leave their own community, they risk state-sponsored brutality and that of the rival gang, even if they are not the least bit gang-involved. They talk about wanting to go to the US, even if they die along the way, because there is no life for them here. Years ago, I used to urge them to stay. Today, it seems their lives are in jeopardy either way.

In the midst of this madness, 5 youth leaders from the community and myself have revived the community youth group to try to create a space for young people to feel validated and to be given the freedom to exist in a space without fear. We meet once a week with thirty young people from our community to learn from one another about topics like self-esteem, police violence, identity, creativity, trauma and healing, etc. We do guided meditations, play games, and learn together how to try to build a community of safety and support, even within a context that makes this nearly impossible once they leave the community center doors. Every Sunday we laugh and cry together and learn a bit more about ourselves and the world we inhabit. We have no external funding, and we make miracles with what we do have. We’re a tiny oasis in the midst of the madness and I’m convinced that if we don’t lose momentum amidst all of the challenges we face here, the same young people in the group who are still too shy to say their names, will be those leading the group in a few years, assuring that the next generation has a space to feel safe, to feel welcome, to discover themselves and their place in this world in spite of the noise and the violence.

Youth group members on their way to the National Theater.

Youth group members dancing at a community celebration they organized for the Day of the Child

Youth group members in the closing session of a Sunday meeting.

Youth group members in a writing workshop with guest facilitator Jennifer Coreas.

Last night one of the youth group leaders and I walked from door to door requesting letters from the participants' parents, so that we can surprise them with their parents’ supportive words at our Christmas celebration with them tonight. After two hours of going door to door, we were headed back home at 9:30, and what to our wondering eyes should appear? (hint: not a miniature sleigh, nor 8 tiny reindeer) But 3 soldiers crouched down in full gear…. Three soldiers, automatic weapons drawn, crouched down and moving quickly along the perimeter of our homes, making their way through our community, sending everyone running inside. In some twisted way, both of our evening rounds are construed as violence prevention efforts geared towards ensuring safe communities. Why the military policing strategy is given millions, while youth-led community organizing efforts don’t usually make the funding drawing board, is beyond me. Except for the fact that the violence and the resulting state of insecurity is incredibly profitable to many… who will certainly not bump into crouching soldiers in their communities on their way home at night. And yet… tonight we will celebrate life. We will celebrate the vibrancy of the young people in our community and their creative energy. And we will keep working to create a world where just maybe, one fine day, the soldiers might lay down their guns and celebrate with us.