The Broom of Truth (Which Sweeps Away the Lies)

IT IS 10 A.M. In the youth center’s backyard, four gang members surround a girl of fifteen or so. She is seated in a plastic chair, and one of them looms before her with half a broomstick in his hands.

“No, no, noooo! I don’t even know them. I don’t even talk to them!” wails the girl. Her cry is immediately followed by a dry thud.

“Nooo! I don’t even know them, I barely talk to them.”

The pattern repeats. A grunt, a blow, then more of the same:

“Noooo! I didn’t tell them anything, I didn’t say anything, I don’t even know them!”

A teenager wields the stick. He is tan, with a large gold earring in each ear and a beard dripping with beads of sweat. He takes off his shirt and ambles before the girl, still wielding the stick. When he spots me, he cocks his head and scowls, like a dog baring his teeth. He doesn’t say anything, but his look says it all. The other three surround the girl and ask questions. They beat her without waiting for answers. Gustavo comes out from his office and approaches to watch the girl’s trial. He pretends to grab something and signals with his eyes that I should follow him to his office. Once there, he tells me to be more careful: seeing too much can be dangerous. He says the center’s previous employee had to leave due to gang threats. Apparently he didn’t understand the region’s guiding law: See, Hear, and Shut Up.

Today we ascended the hill early. Gustavo picked me up in a car from the center. The journey is far more peaceful than last time. At this time of day, we see no gang members, and gone are the wary stares. The youth center is a large building with three rooms, a gigantic kitchen space, and a back patio. It is not the most welcoming place, despite Gustavo’s efforts. Colorful posters adorn the walls, but even so, the menace is palpable. It seems that every youth who has passed through here has left a mark: the floor is covered in grime; the walls are marked with shoe prints, hearts bearing initials, and MS graffiti.

On the patio, the blond gangster is tidying up. He left prison a few months ago and, when he’s not crashing with other gang members, he sleeps in the youth center. I take a broom and help him. His hearing is bad, and I nearly have to shout to get him to understand me. He seems laid back. Every so often he takes a break and scans the mountaintops. We talk about anything. He tells me about his pet, a fighting dog, how cold it is in these hills at night, how annoying it is to sneak around during National Civil Police (PNC) patrols. He sprinkles his phrases with thank you, please, and god willing, like he’s making an effort to show manners. He finishes cleaning up and sits in a plastic chair, then begins sketching a tattoo. He goes by Destino,¹¹ and I am told he’s one of the founders of this clica, and its current leader.

As the day goes on, a procession of gang members arrives at the youth center. They greet us brusquely and head to the patio where Destino awaits, seated on the plastic chair. They approach him, whisper in his ear, and depart in a rush.

Piece by piece, the patio becomes something of an office. Destino’s two cell phones don’t give him a moment of peace. He sits there on his throne of plastic, spending his day like Al Pacino in The Godfather. He gets up only to make space for the four gang members and the frightened girl they drag in their wake.

It is lunchtime, and as we eat some instant soup with Destino, one of the young men who tormented the girl approaches us. Like everyone, he approaches my host with respect, and a certain submission. In what I think is an attempt at ingratiating himself, he slides me a dollar on the chair.

“Here, so you can get yourself a soda.”

I obey. Not five minutes later, I am pouring glasses of foamy Salva Cola. This gangster is short and dark, with lively eyes. He wears a tight-fitting black jersey and black Nike sneakers. He is jittery, and scans in every direction like a human motion sensor. I later find out he’s a hitman for the Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha clica, and that a few days prior he shot two young men to death in the foothills of the mountain. The girl he tormented is one of his girlfriends. Other gangsters arrive at the patio and speak in slang I can scarcely make out. Some watch me with mistrust, others couldn’t care less, but either way I decide it’s best to draw back and let them talk. I go out to buy cigarettes.

The main street, the only one that goes here, is quiet at this hour. From here you can see it wind up and down the mountain. People move slowly. Some women balance pitchers and baskets on their heads. A real feat on this incline.

Soon I encounter a gang member. He sports a green jersey down to his wrists, from which you can see a mass of black tattoos poking out. As he spots me, he slows his pace and stares. I have never seen him but he seems to know me. I ask if he has a cigarette, or knows where I can find a store.

“Oh, you want cigs. Sure. I don’t smoke, but gimme a sec, I’ll have some bolo¹² run out.”

He scans his surroundings, and addresses a man. He is old and tattered, and clearly pushing his lungs to make the incline.

“Hey! You, bolo. Go get this man some cigs.”

The man looks back at the hill he has just conquered, and with resignation in his voice, asks:

“Menthol or no?”

11   In English, Destiny.

12   Slang for drunkard in El Salvador.