Opinion: Trauma can be transformed into an instrument for generational healing. Here’s how we can do that.
As long as I can remember, my mom avoided answering questions about her experience during El Salvador’s Civil War. When I would ask her why she didn’t like talking about it, she talked about the feeling of seeing a dead body for the first time, and how her school friends were lined up and killed in front of their homes for publicly supporting the leftist guerilla group Frente Farabundo Martí para la Liberación Nacional (FLMN). She spoke about the FLMN and the massacres in hushed tones, as if Salvadoran officials would come knocking on our door. For her and many other survivors, voicing your political opinion was like signing your death certificate.
In spite of this, my mom raised me to be a guerrera, a warrior, like her. Strength and perseverance have long defined my family, but I was encouraged to embody these traits through education and hard work, not activism. My parents tried to make me understand that it wasn’t common in El Salvador for women to voice their opinions, to play soccer, to be independent. To them, I was an anomaly. To them, I was putting myself in danger’s way. I wanted to be an advocate for change, especially for immigrants unwilling or unable to voice their need for healing due to their trauma or cultural stigmas. For many second-generation children, this trauma can create significant negative impacts. Because of my parent’s own trauma, it was not until I attended UC Berkeley that I would learn the magnitude of the atrocities from the Salvadoran Civil War and community efforts to promote healing and stability decades later.
I committed to Berkeley because of its history of vibrant activism. When I told my mom that I was majoring in political science and planned to participate in several protests, she immediately told me that she feared for my life. Once, when I was staying with her in LA, she locked me inside the house after I told her about a march I planned to attend. She hated the idea of me voicing my political opinions in public places, because of what happened to her family and friends. In her world, protesters were forcibly disappeared, beaten, or killed. It made me realize the power and privilege I had as a first-generation student at Berkeley. I could advocate for my community in a way that had been physically impossible for my family when they needed it the most. More than anything, I hoped that my mom would one day understand that it was her story and resilience that inspired me to advocate for others and demand a more equitable world.
I found a home for my activism at Berkeley’s Human Rights Center (HRC), which applies science, technology, and law to investigate human rights abuses around the world. There, I found a special bridge to my own roots through Asociación Pro-Búsqueda de Niñas y Niños Desaparecidos (Organization in Search of Disappeared Children), with whom HRC has worked since 1994. Pro-Búsqueda specializes in the DNA reunification of Salvadoran families separated from their children during the civil war. During the conflict, children were separated from their families in a number of ways. Some were abducted by the military after their parents were killed, others were stolen and sold to adoption agencies. Many desperate mothers gave their children up after being told that adoption agencies were daycare centers, that they would have access to their children and it would help alleviate the economic hardship caused by the war. Other mothers consented to adoptions, hoping to give their children a better life away from the war. For me, working with Pro-Búsqueda offered a window into speaking openly about the atrocities of the war my parents were so reticent about.
Pro-Búsqueda’s current campaign is aimed at encouraging mothers to submit their DNA to increase chances of family reunification. There is a disproportionately low number of DNA samples from mothers as opposed to a high number of samples from adoptees, a reflection of the long-term impacts of trauma and lack of awareness of organizations like Pro-Búsqueda. Over the last year, I’ve had the honor of working closely with Patricia del Carmen Vàsquez Marías, Pro-Búsqueda’s geneticist, who inspires me to continue advocating for my community. Patricia’s work and efforts to reunite separated families and raise awareness across borders is a prime example of how trauma can manifest itself in powerful ways, to help rebuild and heal communities impacted by war. Without taking the risks of exposing the systematic enforced disappearances, many families would lack the channels necessary to find closure. Seeing the impact of Patricia’s work has been profoundly impactful for me, especially as I look towards my final semester at Berkeley and consider where my next steps will lead me. As HRC’s representative to Pro-Búsqueda, I’ve facilitated meetings with adoptees, translated legal documents and campaign materials, finalized edits on a massive Pro-Búsqueda report, and helped locate adoptees in the United States that are increasingly difficult for the organization due to language barriers. Whatever comes next, I know this work will inform and shape it.
This year, I was finally able to visit Santa Ana, El Salvador after a decade of not seeing my family. Even so, a state of emergency began in March 2022 and suspended the freedom of association, assembly, and due process protections after a gang retaliation left dozens massacred. This policy has amounted to massive human rights violations across the nation, but current efforts to increase tourism in the country made my family and I feel safe. To me, it was paradise. I was able to sightsee with my cousins at El Cerro Verde, la Playa el Majahual, and el Lago de Coatepeque and eat delicious pupusas, platanos, jocotes, and nances. The tropical environment and state preservation of nature was a stark contrast to the highrises of Los Angeles, where my family migrated to in the ‘80s. I was so happy that my parents were finally comfortable enough to revisit their childhood memories and share their favorite places of El Salvador with me.
Despite my mom’s understandable efforts to steer me away from political activism, I know she’s proud of my role in transnational advocacy and reunification efforts. She loves to tell me that my stubborn efforts for change remind her of my grandpa, “vos eres tan politica, solo mi papa era asi,” “you are so political, only my dad was like that.” I’m proud to embody that generational inheritance and will use it to continue bringing awareness to human rights issues, unlocking the cycle of intergenerational trauma, and motivating others to do the same.
Ana Linares Montoya is a senior at at UC Berkeley. She will graduate in May 2023 with a degree in political science and a minor in human rights. She works at the Human Rights Center and is a student in the Human Rights Investigations Lab.
