The sound of metal crashing filled my ears and I woke up confused. I sat up on my bed and I turned on my bedside table lamp. The clock read 3 a.m. I decided it must have been a nightmare and snuggled back inside the sheets. I turned off the lights… and that’s when I saw him.
The dark silhouette of a man was painted against my window curtains. As he grabbed onto the window’s metal bars, I could tell he was trying his best not to move. Across the bedroom I sat paralyzed. Fear was gathering inside my stomach like a rock. Adrenaline rushed to my head and I knew I had to leave my room.
I grabbed my phone and crawled out of bed. As soon as he heard me moving he continued his upward climb and I was shocked to see how he propelled himself upwards, hanging on from the metal bars. He was heading towards the roof of my house, where a staircase leads directly to my parent’s bedroom terrace. I ran to my brother’s room, we dialed my dad’s cell-phone number and locked ourselves in his closet. Then we heard two gun shots.
***
Honduras is the poorest country in Latin America and because of the government-funded drug war, we are quickly becoming one of the most dangerous places on earth as well. This is what the world knows about my country. It’s the label they believe encompasses it and what the media’s front page stories are all about.
What many don’t know is how Honduras is the greatest banana exporter. It has the most beautiful islands in Central America with wave-less crystalline water, white sand and the second largest coral reef in the world.
It’s also the home of the ancient Maya civilization, who shaped a small valley in western Honduras into a city full of pyramids, temples and plazas.
Yet the media insists on focusing on the thieves, pandilleros and murderers that roam our streets. To them, these are the only stories worth sharing, without pausing for a second to consider who these people are and why they are so desperate to steal from others.
***
My brother and I ran from the closet to the patio outside my parent’s room as soon as we heard the gunshots. My dad was aiming at the roof with his shotgun and my mom was calling the police. We heard a desperate cry and saw a dark figure appear with both hands up. He was screaming, “Please stop. They’re trying to kill me. I’m running away from them.”
My dad, still pointing the gun at him, told him to come down the stairs. The man that towered against my window was nothing more than a 15 year-old boy. He’d been in the national stadium watching a soccer game between the two best teams in the country.
The team the kid was cheering for won the match, so fans from the opposing team beat him up. Punches led to gunshots so this boy ran away without stopping. That’s how he ended up climbing our walls.
His face was drenched in blood and he hadn’t stopped crying. His mouth trembled when he talked. My dad put his gun away and my mom packed some leftover dinner for him. We asked if he wanted to spend the night at our house, but he said no, he had to keep running.
***
The negative light constantly pointed at Honduras from the rest of world only contributes to the country’s violence and the government’s feeling of hopelessness. Meanwhile, there are many untold stories about my country’s success. For example, about its potential to become the greatest producer of cacao in the world or about many poor children who’ve become amazing soccer players.
Thousands of Honduras’ thieves and gang members are teenagers desperate to find something to eat and someone to guide them towards the right direction. But of course, it’s a lot harder when we have local and international news companies drawing attention to only negative stories, which create a sentiment of failure.
What Honduras needs is people who help share stories worthy of admiration and national pride. These are the ones that will make our people as well as the whole world realize how extraordinary my country really is.
