Elena and Her Story - We Are Deporting Kids to Die

Elena and her story (“We’re Helping Deport Kids to Die” article)

“Tell us your name,” the reporter said pointing the microphone in my direction.

I lower my head to speak into the microphone, I take a deep breath before speaking.“ My name is Elena.” I felt frightened and a sense of paranoia crawled down my spine causing me to shudder. I sat there in a cold sweat, afraid of the consequences of revealing my identity. Do I really want to share this on the news where everyone will hear it? Are THEY going to find me?

“How old were you when this tragedy happened?” The reporter asked, a flash of sympathy crossed his face, after noticing the frightened look in my eyes. He looked me as if I was a lost sheep seeking salvation.

“I was 11 years old when this happened. I’m 14 now.” I say staring at my obsolete black and white Nike shoes, trying to avoid eye-contact with the reporter and the camera. I could already imagine the shocked look on his face, just like everyone else with whom I shared my story. It was always the same, wide eyes, opened mouth and the slight gasp of sympathy.

“Can you tell me what happened?” The reporter asked.

Now that’s the real question. I should tell, but can I? Do I have the strength to say exactly what happened to me? Yes. I can. They are not going to get away with what they did and made me do. “ Yes,” I said with a half-heartedly sigh while tears streamed down my face remembering my terrible past that doesn’t seem like my own, “I w-was walking down a busy road with my younger brother and sister in Honduras on my way to my mom’s job, when I heard someone catcall me…..”

The day was hot and humid, my hands clasped between my younger siblings. I was 11 years old then, practically an adult. I was walking through the streets of La Ceiba, Honduras, minding my own business when I heard a few catcalls coming my way. I turned to see who catcalled, only to face forward again, ducking my head lower as the grip on my brother’s and sister’s hands tightened. I tried to pull them faster, to get as far away from the men as I could. They were the gang members of La MS13, men that no one should mess with. No one. I tried to walk away from them, when one of them, a lot younger than the rest,(but older than me) corners me, looking at me like I was someone he desired. I knew that my mother’s job was around the corner so I let my siblings run to her store. The boy let them go. I tried to walk away again when he walks in front me again.

“Aye, you’re kind of cute mija,” He said grinning like a mantled howler eyes his prey. I felt a shudder down my spine. I tried to leave but he blocked my path. “Wait, where are you going? I wanna ask you something.”

I was a bit curious to what the question might be, so I stood in place waiting for him to continue. He stared at me , for what felt like ages, until he finally spoke, inching closer to me.

“Wanna be my girlfriend?” He asked, snickering as I shuddered when his hot breath hit my face.