When I was asked to write this article, I thought the invitation was a joke or that I’d misheard. But once I understood this special issue of ReVista intended to gather memories and experiences from people around Latin America and reflect on the current U.S. situation, I hesitated. Should I accept? Then I remembered that now, more than ever, we need to raise our voices. I only hope my words can help others see, from a different perspective, the fractures we carry in Central America. Maybe my story can open conversations about the conflicts happening today in the United States.
I always share with pride that I am a Central American filmmaker. Although it sounds unusual to many, I feel deeply proud of where I come from and of the resilience of our people in the face of so many wars in such a small region. Like my ancestors, I rebelled and decided to study film. A nearly impossible career to pursue from Honduras, or as some people in the United States say, from the “third world.” I admit I was deeply influenced by Hollywood productions and by documentaries from the Discovery Channel and the History Channel, which sparked in me the idea of expressing my perspective through film. Before talking about cinema, though, I want to share my roots.
I grew up watching Cinderella, Pocahontas and other fairy tales. I was that little girl full of innocence and imagination. Over time, however, I developed a critical view of an imperialist nation that, for more than a century, through the Monroe Doctrine and its various versions, has influenced Latin America’s social, economic and political destinies. As I became more aware of my ancestors and my own reality, I sometimes find myself returning to that same dreamy girl and wondering: Do things really happen for a reason?
My father taught me to read history, especially our own. He told me about the Sandinista Revolution. How he himself, a poor young man from a small village in Nicaragua, took to the streets to oppose the U.S.-backed Somoza dictatorship, which had lasted forty years, and how, after the regime fell in 1979, a civil war followed. For ten years, Sandinistas and Contras fought brutally. Witnessing injustice against the poor, even at the hands of Sandinista guerrillas along the Honduras–Nicaragua border, my father decided to defend them. For speaking out, he was accused of being with the CIA and imprisoned. When he was finally released, he went to Guatemala to search for opportunities and continue his studies, far from home.
My mother, meanwhile, had to flee El Salvador in 1979, at only twelve years old. She escaped with her parents, brothers, and sisters from another U.S.-backed civil war, justified by fears that El Salvador would “become another Cuba.” Half of her siblings migrated to the United States during the 1980s in search of the “American Dream,” while the others rebuilt their lives in Guatemala.
Two people, both displaced by geopolitics and war, eventually met in a country that, at the time, was hostile toward foreigners. Yet destiny brought them together, and from that union my siblings and I were born. Almost ten years later, our family settled in southern Honduras, where fate gave me my third nationality. Maybe those circumstances were preparing me to witness yet another kind of war: a modern coup d’état, again influenced by the United States. In 2009, at just sixteen, I saw a new military intervention unfold. My most vivid memory is of a U.S. representative on CNN saying, “We have restored democracy in Honduras.” All I could think was: democracy for whom?
Despite knowing so much history and living through difficult times, I never grew up resentful toward the United States. Instead, I’ve always sought to understand why there is so much injustice toward our region. Why must we continue to live under that “American” ideal, when in the end, we’re all equal? We all dream of a dignified life and a better future.
In the midst of the geopolitical crisis, the time came to decide my future. I chose what resonated most deeply with me: documentary filmmaking. It was a difficult decision. No one understood why I was turning away from traditional careers, especially in a country with no opportunities to study film. For me, documentary film has always been a tool to open dialogues about human rights, to address complex issues, and to contribute to historical memory. One of my short films, “Cuerpos Vivos” (Living Bodies), deals with the silence of the state and society regarding the increase in violence against women and femicides in Honduras during the pandemic.
After many years of sacrifice in my career and finally managing to work in the film industry in Honduras, in 2025, I decided to try to go to the United States to represent my countries at the Camden International Film Festival. To be completely honest, I was terrified of what might happen— for example, facing discrimination if someone heard me speaking Spanish or witnessing something terrible happen to another person.
It took me almost five months to make up my mind, buy the ticket, and fulfill my dream of attending the festival. Thanks to many friends, I was able to visit not only Maine, but also Boston and New York. From my perspective, it felt like living in a dystopia. Seeing vibrant cities while being acutely aware of the underlying political tensions. I also witnessed uncomfortable moments with people who spoke about Latin America without even knowing its geography, yet voiced their opinions with complete confidence. Some friends encouraged me to “speak up,” but many times fear got the better of me. Despite everything, I hold on to the beautiful glimpses of community I encountered: families talking in different languages, hardworking people who greet you and help without hesitation. To me, that is the true spirit of the United States.
I believe that what is happening in the United States, even if it might seem like a hopeless moment from within, also calls for deep reflection that goes beyond political affiliation. I’ve seen how marches are being organized across several states, and I believe that’s where the spark of change begins to ignite. Democracy is a constant battle, a social construct that is never finished, as we have learned over decades in Latin America.
Back in my country, I remain that same dreamy girl who believes in the power of cinema to open conversations, to bring historical events into the present, and to make visible on screen those human stories from the other side of the border that inspire empathy toward others. I still dream that film can help heal the fractures of the past and build bridges between nations. At the very least, I am willing to try.