The Room Fell Silent: Witnessing the Human Cost of Gang Violence

“He had MS13 tattoos all over his face,” the Salvadoran woman said quietly, holding back tears.

The conference room was standing room only.

I translated her words into a microphone fed to the headsets of English-speaking government officials and organizational leaders from around the world who had come to hear firsthand accounts about life with gangs in Mexico and Central America.

“He said, your daughter Maria needs to go to the Mariona jail tomorrow for a spousal visit with Jose Hernandez. If she doesn’t show, you will watch our entire gang rape and torture your daughter until she dies, and then we will kill all of you. Your husband Arturo, your little daughter Jessica, and your son Manuel.”

She began sobbing.

“We tried to run that night,” she said through tears. “We pretended we all had errands. I took my two youngest to my mother’s and my husband took Maria to visit his mother. We were supposed to meet at the bus station at 8 p.m. to take the last bus out of San Salvador for Guatemala. But my husband and Maria…” She struggled to continue. “They never showed.”

She wiped her face.

“Some gang members showed up while we were waiting at the bus terminal. They didn’t look like gang members. They just came straight at us, yelled ‘for the barrio!’ and opened fire.”

“They killed my two youngest. I was in the hospital for over a month. I survived by the grace of God. I had twelve bullets in my body.”

The sound of gasping filled the room.

The next speaker was brought to the stage.

“My name is Fernando Rodriguez,” the man said in a pronounced indigenous Guatemalan accent. “I lived in a neighborhood controlled by gangs.”

“One Sunday morning, while I was out selling ice cream from my cart, the gang came and knocked our door down. They told my wife she had fifteen minutes to leave the house or we would all be killed. They told her she could take nothing except a few changes of clothing. Everything else had to remain. Our house, they said, was now a Destroyer House. A house for the gang.”

He began to weep.

“They also told her…” His voice broke. His whole body shook as he sobbed and struggled to breathe.

An assistant tried to guide him off the stage, but he shook his head.

The audience applauded his courage.

Everyone waited quietly.

He gathered himself just long enough to speak.

“They also told my wife my thirteen-year-old daughter had to stay as a gang girlfriend.”

He began to wail.

“My wife said they could keep everything. That they would leave right then. But please let her take our daughter.”

He pushed through the tears.

“But they refused. The neighbors say my wife got on her knees and begged them. They started yelling at her, insulting her. My children were behind her, crying.”

He swallowed hard.

“Then one of the gang members suddenly took out a gun and shot my two children while my wife watched.”

“They said, ‘This is what you get, you stupid bitch.’”

“And then they shot her.”

He was shaking.

“Something has to be done. They can’t keep terrorizing us like this. The police won’t do anything. Half the time they’re on the side of the gangs. Someone has to do some—”

His microphone was shut off while an attendant spoke in his ear and guided him away.

“We will take a short ten-minute break,” an announcer said.

I removed my headset and looked down at the papers in front of me in the booth.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats,” the announcer said a few minutes later.

I slid the headset back on.

“We thank you for your understanding,” one of the organizers said as people returned to their seats.

“These accounts are not easy to speak or hear. We ask that you remain respectful, keep silent, and abstain from applause.”

She nodded to the attendant.

The next speaker stepped forward.

“My son Eduardo was eight years old,” the man said slowly. “He was at school when the gangs came. They were recruiting.”

“They made the administration take the children out into the courtyard so they could choose.”

“They picked my son and five other third graders.”

He swallowed hard.

“They separated the children they had chosen. The gang leader told them they belonged to the gang now. They would do whatever was asked of them without complaint.”

“But first,” he said, his voice trembling, “they had to be jumped.”

He began to weep.

“They took my son’s best friend, Marito. Two men held him down on one of the tables the children used during recess. They pulled his white shirt over his face.”

“The gang members formed a line. Some grabbed rocks. Others took off their belts. Some held their guns.”

“Each gang member rushed at him one by one, hitting him with rocks, belt buckles, the butts of their guns.”

“His white shirt turned red with each blow.”

“My son loved that boy,” the father said through tears.

“Eduardo ran and threw himself over Marito’s body.”

“The gang members came twice as hard, screaming ‘Rat! Rat! Rat!’”

“My son was dead in less than a minute.”

Tears ran down the man’s face as he looked at the papers on the podium.

“I will never see my son smile again.”

“I will never see him graduate.”

“I will never be a grandfather to his children.”

The names in this piece are fictional. The events are drawn from testimonies shared at a conference on gang violence in Mexico and Central America and are presented here as I remember and interpreted them.