It affects us in a strange way that we are almost ashamed to talk about. In the end we are far away, cowardly and desperate we abandon ship to swim to safer shores where we work from morning to night but no one “visits” us to blackmail us, we do not survive amidst the fear, frustration and uncertainty that rule the streets of the place we still call “Ecuador, my country.” That’s how we migrants continue to speak even though we live far away, even though with a bit of remorse we secretly mutter “ugh, what did I save myself from”. But in the cold of a lonely night, far from the land where we were born, we confess our nostalgia for that land that still hides (or should hide) our loved ones.

A bomb of incomprehensible, inexplicable, unjustified violence has exploded in Ecuador.

A bomb of incomprehensible, inexplicable, unjustified violence has exploded in Ecuador. Horrified, we read, see, and hear about kidnapped journalists and prison staff; murdered fathers, mothers, children. Thousands of kilometers from Quito and Guayaquil, we migrants heard the voices of our families and friends telling us how they returned home in desperate turmoil before the Government’s decree. Friends who walked for hours because the buses were overcrowded and the traffic was heavy. Friends describing the warmth and solidarity with which so many people have chosen to face their fear in a WhatsApp audio recording. Anyone who has ever set foot in Ecuador, who was born and lived there, knows the gentle and nostalgic soul of the Andes, the invincible strength of the coastal man, and wonders where all those guys who today are spreading blood on the land, the slaves, have gone. who sold his soul to the mafia that the only thing he could promise them was dirty money, more than dirty, blood-stained money.

Give way to the extradition of Ecuadorians with the condition of not applying the death penalty to them, suggests Daniel Noboa in the first question of his second submission to the Constitutional Court

We migrants walk through strange streets, and our foreign friends greet us with fear: what is happening in your country! They shout at you as you pass by, and you can’t help that humiliating bite, that feeling that they are talking to you as if it is your fault, as if they expect you to explain to them why your country is so violent, what is their problem?!, as if they are scolding you. while you bitterly wonder where all this enthusiasm and interest for your country is kept 364 days a year when the international press ignores it, why they never come to congratulate you on those great birds and flowers, on those soups that can raise you to the risen dead with the promise of so much pleasure, why are they only interested in us when we are a tragedy. And this is Ecuador, we would like to tell you as we serve you a plate of cazuela, ceviche, corviche, locro, encebollada, fanesca. This is also Ecuador: 15,300 species of flowers; hummingbirds, finches, giant tortoises, blue-legged dancers; dancers in ponchos, espadrilles, hats and skirts, people who sing and talk and caress their eyes, painters, musicians, dreamers. And this is Ecuador, you would like to tell them, because if they don’t know what we are, they don’t understand how we suffer. But they are already running towards the next breaking news, the new international scandal, the new viral bomb and will forget about “your country” until the next front page. (OR)