It’s only a matter of time. The list of the disappeared grows longer and I can’t help but remember being 19 years old and seeing at the Vicaría de la Solidaridad in Santiago de Chile the shelves of books filled with names , dates of birth. That was during the Pinochet military dictatorship sponsored by the United States that started over 50 years ago.
For the last few days, I, along with my colleagues, have been collecting names, dates of birth, country of birth in the wake of raids by agents sponsored and paid for by the United States government. This is not another country. This is here, in the city I have lived in for 13 years. This is here in Hollywood, where movies and other illusions are made - like the illusion of sanctuary.
With each kidnapping, the landscape of Los Angeles becomes more whitewashed, quiet - not in an idyllic way but rather an eerie post apocalyptic way, because literally worlds are ending.
Last Thursday morning, Juneteenth, a holiday to acknowledge the delayed news (and actualization) of the abolition of Black chattel slavery in the US, my organization was supposed to be closed. Instead many of us sprung into action upon getting calls and texts that a location we have been organizing at for decades (so yes even before me) was raided by ICE.
One of my staff who arrived at the scene before me called me crying that they took a longtime street vendor. I didn’t brush my teeth, I didn’t put on a bra or underwear. I threw on some sweats and headed to Hollywood.
I have never been in a war zone proper. I have been in situations that felt post-catastrophe (9-11-01). This was something in between. Bowls and plates were abandoned half eaten. The cooking surfaces were still warm. The sidewalk was busy but not in it’s usual weekday morning way. People were rushing back and forth to collect what was left behind. There was crying. There was yelling as what I am pretty sure were Federal agents continued to circle around in unmarked trucks.
“Are you Federal Agents?” I yelled at the bearded driver and passenger in a white jeep as they circled for a third time, their window down, looking menacingly at all who remained.
“And what if we were?” the driver yelled back before driving off and away.
I began collecting names in my book. Birthdates. Countries of origin. I met daughters and husbands and cousins and friends of the disappeared, exchanged numbers and whatever hope I could muster. Some of the names were only first names. Media of all sorts swarmed around : official media trying to get quotes from crying family members, photographers capturing small skirmishes from the traumatized left behind, streamers offering commentary and best (even if wrong) guesses.
A politician I know arrives and asks me for a brief and then goes to talk to media about a U.S. Citizen that was taken. I too give a few quotes to journalists I know.
There are at least two abandoned trucks in the parking lot of the big box hardware store with an orange logo. One has it’s windows completely smashed and people tell me they pulled the driver out through that smashed window. It would be hours later in line at B18 , the basement holding area in Downtown Los Angeles, that I would learn the identity of another driver kidnapped from his truck when a staffer and me meet his family.
That afternoon one worker was released. He had asylum. We didn’t see any other workers, nor had we confirmed where they were. At the end of the day in my book of names and dates and family - we still only had maybe half of the disappeared.
:( how scary . you paint a vivid scene as always. witnessing you witness