DESTINO SITS IN his plastic chair and eyes the group. They are all teenagers. Some have already been initiated, others are hopeful recruits. Among them are Bernardo, El Chele, and Hugo, the youngest hopeful. This isn’t a formal meeting, just Destino regaling the rookies with MS lore.
“Back in my old clica there was this homeboy by the name of El Demonio. That dude was crazy, had a pact with the devil,” says Destino, spitting at the ground. He takes his shirt off to display his tattoos. The young men’s eyes light up like full moons, and silence reigns.
“That vato, when we’d meet, he’d say, ‘Is everyone here yet?’ And we’d say yeah, then he’d move his arms and all the branches on the trees would move. It scared the shit out of us. When the cops would show, we’d all take off running, but him, man, just nothing. ‘Ey, why you guys hiding?’ he’d ask us, and walk by with two guns, one in each hand. ‘Ey, wassup, are you guys looking for me?’ he’d ask the cops. ‘No, no, Demonio, just a routine check.’ they’d answer. And they’d leave with their tails between their legs, fuckers.
“In prison, homeboy turned Christian, and the demons would torture him at night, for real. Other homeboys didn’t believe it. But me, I knew how he was. He said they wouldn’t let him rest, that they’d show up at night and jump on the beds. One time I was there and I heard them, they were jumping. No shit, they were jumping. Sometimes, in his cell, the devil would come and try to reclaim homeboy’s soul. They say you could just see these footprints, like a bear’s, and it smelled like shit. For real, it was the devil who wanted that vato’s soul.”
The young men are amazed, and Destino sits back in his chair with a look of satisfaction on his face.
In the war between gangs there is not only death and destruction, there are also small periods of calm. Today, for example, has been quiet, and the neighborhood seems at peace. The gangsters are holed up in the youth center, and they don’t seem to be planning anything. I just stick around and listen. Some ask me things, nothing too deep; they want to know if the women in the University of El Salvador are attractive, if I don’t get sick of studying, they want to know where I live and if the women there are attractive as well.
“Look Juan, in the Mara you can die for one of three reasons. For killing another homeboy, even if it’s an accident, doesn’t matter, whoever spills a homeboy’s blood ain’t worth shit. Those guys are fucked because MS wants them, the little bitches20 want them, and the cops too. They’re shit out of luck.
“You can die for being a snitch, for giving out information on what the gang’s doing.
“And, you can die for being a faggot!”
The hopefuls erupt into a chorus of laughter.
“Yeah, a faggot! If you’re fucking a dude, you lower your prestige, and the gang’s too. Damn, people will say, he couldn’t even get a fat bitch, or an old-ass lady.”
The speech is over and Destino puts his shirt back on, as if to indicate that the session is over.
Gustavo sits in the office. Though his role sounds prestigious—head of the youth center—his contribution up until now has been limited to opening up in the morning and locking up at night. A few days ago, Gustavo called out a gangster for coming in armed and smoking weed. The young man got heated, and only because Destino stepped in was a tragedy averted. Since then, Gustavo has kept to his office, sitting before an old computer with headphones on.
“Ey! Juan, I wanted to talk to you,” he says as I pass by.
He explains that they have started a tutoring program for kids in the community, that he’s been asked to make it happen. More concretely, he asks me to teach the kids in the afternoons. The tutoring will be held in a communal house, a big gloomy building. Right now, two novice teachers sent by the congregation teach there. But they just can’t keep up. I agree to take on the job. I think it will give me the chance to study the upcoming war from a different angle.
“If you want, go scope it out, they’re there now,” he says, then plugs his headphones back in.
At the communal house, the two young teachers struggle with a herd of kids. Their inexperience shows. This is going to be a tough gig.
It’s afternoon, and the sun bakes the mountaintop. A rush of wind drives away the heat for a few moments, at least. Those who headed out this morning make their way back, slowly scaling the hill. Those who have been lucky return with empty baskets. Others return carrying the merchandise they weren’t able to sell. For the latter, dinner, if there is any, will be meager.
The Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha gang has left the youth center and posted up on a corner to listen to music off Little Down’s cell phone. The fun doesn’t last long. From afar you can see a police patrol making its way up the hill. The gangsters return to their hideout.
Inside, El Noche gulps down a mango and Destino writes something in a notebook. Hugo has found a ball and practices his aim on the other gangsters, who accept his blows with resignation. Little Down is angry. He doesn’t like having to hide from the cops. He tells me he’d rather face them up front, but now is not the time to make more enemies. He shoots Hugo a scathing look. Hugo sets aside the ball and takes refuge in view of Destino.
Night falls, and the aura of war is felt in the last neighborhood on the hill. Homes start to lock up, and those still in the streets speed up their pace. As I descend, I come across several patrols making their way up the hill. Once I reach ground level, down in Columbia Little Sycos territory, I’m followed by a fusillade of eyes, watching me like an enemy.
20 MS tends to use this derogatory phrase to refer to its enemies in Barrio 18.