1980. The war in El Salvador was at its peak. Thousands of families were separated and displaced all throughout the world. Among them was my father, a 16-year-old boy who came to know fear as a way of life. One night, actually the very last night that he ever spent in his country, a mass shooting took over the streets. My father, along with his siblings, hid under the bed, hoping that the bullets wouldn’t find them.
He lost two cousins that night. Growing weary of the violence, my grandparents asked my father to go and seek asylum in Mexico.