Frida's cafe

I’ve always struggled with my emotions but never really understood why. I’ve always felt like I live on an emotional roller coaster. A constant up and down- highs and lows.  The lows at times have felt too heavy to bear and found myself in a very dark place. 

I became more aware of these emotions when I moved to the United States.  Moving to a new country and leaving my grandmother who raised me was incredibly difficult. I felt sad, anxious and overwhelmed with the life change. New country, new family, new language, new school, new everything. 

It was difficult to assimilate to a new normal and I don’t know that I ever  processed how those changes impacted me.

I also never really took the time to understand how my experience in the civil war attributed to my anxiety.

As an adult, I am learning that it has in more ways than one. I am learning that there’s PTSD that has deeply impacted me. My therapist, Robert, is helping me understand how my memories of that time can become triggers for me as an adult. He encouraged me to write about it. 

Recently, I found myself scrolling through images of the war in Gaza. The sounds, and colors reminded me of the war in El Salvador. I saw myself in the children, my grandmother in the elderly and the dead bodies reminded me when we walked by dead bodies covered with white blankets. It reminded me of how terrified I felt walking through the streets of our little town fleeing from our home. Reminded me of the screams I heard of a man in the street asking a helicopter above to kill him and put him out of his misery. I remember the sounds that came after and how his screams stopped.

There are so many sounds, textures and colors I remember from this time. My therapist says this is what our brains remember when trying to block traumatic experiences.  

I remember the day we left our home, unsure if we would ever come back. Unsure if we would get hurt. Unsure why we were leaving. I don’t remember much but I do remember having to leave in a rush because my grandmother was afraid FMLN would come to our house. I remember we walked to Dona Mari. She used to make tortillas and sell them in our community. She let a number of families stay in her home. I remember soldiers coming to her house to drop off beans, rice and corn. I think she was asked to cook for them and she was told she can feed those staying in her house. This was the first time I saw the men in uniform be nice. 

During our stay there we had to sleep under a bed, on the dirt floor with ducks all around us. I remember feeling dirty because we couldn’t take showers every day. After a few days, my grandmother decided to leave Dona Mari’s home. I’m not sure why but we ended up in the home of a small family, a man with his wife and daughter with disabilities. I cannot remember if we knew them. The house had a patio where you could see across a large field. That’s where we could see men in uniform. At the time, I wasn’t sure if it was the military or the rebel group. In the house I remember we would sleep under a table or something that looked like it. I cannot say for sure but there may have been rocks on the top of the table in case of emergencies, I’m not sure for what. I became scared to be around the little girl because she would scratch me. I don’t think she knew any better due to her condition but it made me feel out of place. I couldn’t wait to go home. One day the family made fresh chicken soup with one of the chickens from the backyard. While there, I was finally able to take a shower and feeling clean.

I remember the way my grandmother asked me to pray to the Virgen de la Paz, “her birthday is coming up,” she would say. “Maybe they will stop because it’s her birthday… let’s pray it does.”

I also remember how scared we were when a group of soldiers stormed into the house and started shooting across a field. That’s when we realized those on the other side were part of the rebel group. Same group that fed us at Dona maris home.

Thinking back, I am amazed at how calmed my grandmother was during this time. Not once did I see her cry or scared. I know she was, how couldn’t she? Not knowing if we would make it out alive. Not knowing if she could keep me safe. Not knowing if her son or daughter were safe.  I don’t remember everything, I wish I did. 

During this time i don’t remember being or getting hurt but i remember a constant fear

I was afraid something would happen to us- me or grandma

I remember being away from our home for months after the ofensiva ended 

My grandmother was afraid to come back after a bomb was left in our backyard 

I remember we stayed in a garage with family for months or maybe it was weeks… it felt like forever. 

I remember playing in the street at night and remember it was during the carnaval de San Miguel. You could hear the music from a distance. 

One of my most vivid memories is from when I went to see my father. I remember putting on a dress- it had pink and black squares. I’m not sure where we got that dress since we couldn’t take much when we left our home. 

I think it was mi Tia lita who took me to his furniture store. . 

She didn’t come inside with me. She had to stay behind

I remember walking up some stairs and being told to go to an office.

I remember walking in. 

He was there. I think he asked me how I was doing but I’m not certain. This may have been my first time meeting him, or at least the first memory I have of him. 

I  saw him and saw myself in him. I think I wanted him to hug me but all I can remember was him giving me a yellow envelope. I think it had money. He was wearing jeans and a blue shirt 

His hair was big and fluffy like mine. 

I wish I remembered exactly what he said or the way he looked at me. I don’t think he hugged me or got up from his desk. I remember feeling disappointed and confused about being there. 

That was my father Jose Alejandro Diaz 

I think I left after he gave me the envelope.. My tia was waiting for me outside 

I wish I remembered more. I think I was 9 or 10 during this time. 

My experience with war wasn’t gruesome or bloody- i don’t remember seeing any of that but i do remember thinking about it. I did see a body or maybe a few covered with blankets.

I saw kids with big guns. I was afraid they would take me or my uncle away. He separated from us and went somewhere else because my grandmother was afraid they would take him. At the time, young boys were being taken from their families and forced to become soldiers. Forced to kill or be killed.

I remember being a girl also meant being scared to get raped. 

The current images of the war brought me back to these memories.The pain I see in their faces, reminds me of the pain I saw in El Salvador. The horrible scenes of women being brutalized – that could be me. 

I now understand why I felt hurt each time my mother would make comments comparing my experience with my brother’s who crossed the border. 

“You had it easy,” she would say… “He had to cross the border, you didn’t.” 

I don’t think she ever really understood what we lived with my grandmother and everything she did to keep me safe. I owe my life to my grandmother. She kept me alive, made me feel safe and I will never forget this. 

My mom never asked what this experience was like and I’ve never shared. I also think she’s afraid to ask – perhaps there’s guilt that she carries after making the difficult decision to leave my brother and I. I’m not sure how she did it but can only imagine that decision had to take incredible courage, bravery and heartbreak. 

I was two years old when she left, and didn’t reunite with her until a little before my 11th birthday. I know so many parents had to do this during this time due to war and instability in our country. So many children like me had to separate from their parents. Same children who were then brought to a new country expected to be okay. No one talks about the impact these separations have on children and their parents. How much it hurts their relationship, childhood and upbringing. This is something I’ve struggled with my entire life. Just now as an adult I’ve learned to understand and see beyond the feelings of resentment I once held. Feelings of not being wanted. I’ve also had to accept the relationship I have with my mother is not the one I once dreamed of. It is different and always will. 

This has helped shape my relationship with my son. I want it to be different with him. 

Writing this has made me realize how hard it is to talk about these memories. I never quite understood their impact and how much they have attributed to the way I feel – the way I feel about my country, my grandmother, my mother and my move here. I also believe they have made me stronger, much more resilient and have motivated me to be the best I can be. These memories are part of my story and that of many others like me.