basquebromance
Diamond Member
- Nov 26, 2015
- 109,396
- 27,005
- 2,220
- Banned
- #1
I’m from a small town on the Pacific coast of El Salvador. You probably have never heard of my town, but I’m sure you’ve been hearing a lot about how people from my country are fleeing and are trying to seek asylum in the United States. I never really wanted to leave my home. My early life was peaceful.
Then gangs started appearing in our neighborhood and demanding renta, or extortion payments. At night they left little notes at people’s houses, threatening, “If you don’t pay us, we’ll kill your daughter or your son.” How is someone supposed to pay $400 when it takes all day to earn $20? As the threats continued, my family felt we had no choice but to abandon our boats.
Bigger problems started from there. When I was 16, I was relaxing with my cousin, watching over my uncle’s cattle while my uncle was out with my father. Some guys came over and started bothering us. One of them was my friend. We’d grown up together, shared meals together. They said: “When are you guys going to join the gang? You’ll have your own money, women, guns, drugs, whatever you want!” My cousin and I told them, “No, we’re good.” But they kept insisting, “You need to join the gang.”
One day, an older guy threatened, “If you don’t join us, you know what’s going to happen.” I’d seen him around but didn’t know him. I just knew that he sold guns and drugs. I said, “Who are you to give me orders?” And he replied, “I’m going to teach you to respect me!” Not long after, my father came home and told me, “They just beat up your cousin.”
The next day, I was herding my uncle’s cows when some guys began walking toward me. One had a gun, another a machete. I abandoned the cows and hid between rows of sugar cane. After a while, I made my way home and told my father what had happened. We were both terrified.
Gang members slid a piece of paper under the door. Neither I nor my father knew how to read, so my little sister read it aloud for us: “We’re coming for you tomorrow morning. We’re not playing around.”
I can still recall the terror I felt. My father told me: “I have someone who can help. He’ll take you away.” I looked at him, trying not to cry. He said: “You have a father who cares about you, and no matter what happens, I’m very proud of you. I know who you are, and you’ll be a good man.” My father paid a “coyote” $3,000 to take me to the United States border. I packed only one pair of pants, shoes, a pair of boxers and three shirts. My dad gave me some toothpaste and a comb. I decided to take only a bit of money, in Salvadoran colones, to buy food or something I might need.
The morning I left, I awoke at 5:00, bathed and got dressed. All the while, I cried like a small child. I’d cried a lot when my mother died, but this was different. I was worried that something would happen to my sisters when I was gone. My father hugged me. He didn’t want me to see that he was crying. I warmed up some beans and said, “Papá, let’s share a plate of frijoles.” A white car with black windows drove up. A couple of the gang members who had been threatening me walked up to the car. But before they could reach me, I got in and we drove off. Inside the car were the coyote and his helper, who was driving. The coyote wore a dress shirt and black shoes. He’d made this trip many times.
It took us a month to reach the American border. When we arrived in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, I got separated from the coyote and became lost. I had no money, nothing to eat. Three days later, the coyote found me. He took me and another migrant to a bridge to cross. Border guards were checking people on foot, so we grabbed bicycles and rode across. When an officer standing in a booth turned toward us, I ditched the bike and ran. But the border guards on the United States side caught up with me and handcuffed me.
I told them that I’d fled gangs in my country. One agent said in Spanish, “All of them say this!” Another yelled, “We don’t want people like you.” They asked: “Why did you enter this way? Why didn’t you go to another country?” I told them that I had an aunt here and I didn’t have anyone in other countries. I also had two stepbrothers and a stepsister in the United States, but I didn’t have any contact with them at that point. When I told the agents I was 16 years old, they took off my cuffs. Then they took off my belt, my shoes, all my clothes, and searched me.
And then one Sunday morning in September 2015, my father called me at around 8:00 to say hello. He texted me a photo he had taken of himself. He was drinking coffee, and eating beans and fried plantains. He told me that he was going out and that he’d call me in the afternoon.
I went to my job delivering furniture and was just arriving at a house to make a delivery when my stepbrother called. He said: “I want you to be strong. Your father was just murdered.”
I refused to believe it. I didn’t even cry. The only thing I could do was call my father over and over again but he didn’t answer. I finally talked to my stepsister and she confirmed that he’d been killed
Then gangs started appearing in our neighborhood and demanding renta, or extortion payments. At night they left little notes at people’s houses, threatening, “If you don’t pay us, we’ll kill your daughter or your son.” How is someone supposed to pay $400 when it takes all day to earn $20? As the threats continued, my family felt we had no choice but to abandon our boats.
Bigger problems started from there. When I was 16, I was relaxing with my cousin, watching over my uncle’s cattle while my uncle was out with my father. Some guys came over and started bothering us. One of them was my friend. We’d grown up together, shared meals together. They said: “When are you guys going to join the gang? You’ll have your own money, women, guns, drugs, whatever you want!” My cousin and I told them, “No, we’re good.” But they kept insisting, “You need to join the gang.”
One day, an older guy threatened, “If you don’t join us, you know what’s going to happen.” I’d seen him around but didn’t know him. I just knew that he sold guns and drugs. I said, “Who are you to give me orders?” And he replied, “I’m going to teach you to respect me!” Not long after, my father came home and told me, “They just beat up your cousin.”
The next day, I was herding my uncle’s cows when some guys began walking toward me. One had a gun, another a machete. I abandoned the cows and hid between rows of sugar cane. After a while, I made my way home and told my father what had happened. We were both terrified.
Gang members slid a piece of paper under the door. Neither I nor my father knew how to read, so my little sister read it aloud for us: “We’re coming for you tomorrow morning. We’re not playing around.”
I can still recall the terror I felt. My father told me: “I have someone who can help. He’ll take you away.” I looked at him, trying not to cry. He said: “You have a father who cares about you, and no matter what happens, I’m very proud of you. I know who you are, and you’ll be a good man.” My father paid a “coyote” $3,000 to take me to the United States border. I packed only one pair of pants, shoes, a pair of boxers and three shirts. My dad gave me some toothpaste and a comb. I decided to take only a bit of money, in Salvadoran colones, to buy food or something I might need.
The morning I left, I awoke at 5:00, bathed and got dressed. All the while, I cried like a small child. I’d cried a lot when my mother died, but this was different. I was worried that something would happen to my sisters when I was gone. My father hugged me. He didn’t want me to see that he was crying. I warmed up some beans and said, “Papá, let’s share a plate of frijoles.” A white car with black windows drove up. A couple of the gang members who had been threatening me walked up to the car. But before they could reach me, I got in and we drove off. Inside the car were the coyote and his helper, who was driving. The coyote wore a dress shirt and black shoes. He’d made this trip many times.
It took us a month to reach the American border. When we arrived in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico, I got separated from the coyote and became lost. I had no money, nothing to eat. Three days later, the coyote found me. He took me and another migrant to a bridge to cross. Border guards were checking people on foot, so we grabbed bicycles and rode across. When an officer standing in a booth turned toward us, I ditched the bike and ran. But the border guards on the United States side caught up with me and handcuffed me.
I told them that I’d fled gangs in my country. One agent said in Spanish, “All of them say this!” Another yelled, “We don’t want people like you.” They asked: “Why did you enter this way? Why didn’t you go to another country?” I told them that I had an aunt here and I didn’t have anyone in other countries. I also had two stepbrothers and a stepsister in the United States, but I didn’t have any contact with them at that point. When I told the agents I was 16 years old, they took off my cuffs. Then they took off my belt, my shoes, all my clothes, and searched me.
And then one Sunday morning in September 2015, my father called me at around 8:00 to say hello. He texted me a photo he had taken of himself. He was drinking coffee, and eating beans and fried plantains. He told me that he was going out and that he’d call me in the afternoon.
I went to my job delivering furniture and was just arriving at a house to make a delivery when my stepbrother called. He said: “I want you to be strong. Your father was just murdered.”
I refused to believe it. I didn’t even cry. The only thing I could do was call my father over and over again but he didn’t answer. I finally talked to my stepsister and she confirmed that he’d been killed
