Cecilia Alvarez
It was a typical Tuesday afternoon, and I was at my editing station, piecing together the final segments for the evening news. The newsroom buzzed around me—reporters rushing to meet deadlines, the hum of the cameras, the steady chatter of the anchors rehearsing their lines. As an editor for a well-known broadcaster here in Quito, Ecuador, I’ve always thrived under the pressure. But lately, that pressure had taken on a new, darker tone.
Two months ago, during a live broadcast, our newsroom was stormed by armed men. They were masked, their eyes cold and emotionless behind the holes in their ski masks. I barely had time to register what was happening before I was forced to lie face down on the floor. I could feel my heart pounding so loudly, I was sure it would give me away. They demanded airtime to deliver a message to the president, guns pointed at our heads, voices low and menacing. I remember the smell of the cold studio floor, the metallic taste of fear in my mouth. I thought of my family and my body shook uncontrollably.
The men were from one of the notorious drug cartels that have been wreaking havoc across Ecuador. For thirty agonizing minutes, we were their captives, caught in the middle of their violent statement to the government. It felt like an eternity before the special unit arrived and freed us. Miraculously, no one was hurt, but the trauma lingered. I took a few days off to recover, but the fear has never left me.
Now, every time I step into the newsroom, I can’t help but look over my shoulder, anticipating another attack. Our country is sinking deeper into violence and corruption. The police, the military, even judges—no one is untouched by their influence. I am 30 years old, and I want to start a family. I want to feel safe when I go to work, not constantly fear that I won’t make it back home.
But this is the reality of Ecuador today, and it breaks my heart to think about leaving. Yet, the desire for a peaceful life, away from this madness, is growing stronger with each passing day.