by Chelsea Lee

As we traveled in silence along the dirt path leading to the construction site, anticipation etched on all our faces, with shades of fear and hints of curiosity. After what felt like 20 minutes in a tightly packed van, the tires slowed and the engine’s roar silenced. In front of us was a massive site in which hundreds of homes had been destroyed, and behind them, not far in the distance, were beautiful El Salvadoran mountains plentiful with greenery, while the sun shone brightly despite the tragedy. Outside of the van, locals and their families gathered around to meet the foreign faces. I remember the feeling of being overwhelmed at that very moment, the pressure we felt from those families to be their saving grace. We each stepped off the van carefully and cautiously, making our way through the crowd of unfamiliar faces, smiling and offering quick introductions. The day carried on slowly as we indulged in our jobs: restoring the homes, a quick lunch break, and back to work, while simultaneously trying to impact change. This very soon became our daily routine.

At the site, the children took to us the quickest, and for the most part, they made the days easier, filling the silence with laughter and our hearts with joy. There was, however, one little boy who was about four years old, and although it’s difficult to remember much about him, one thing stuck. He was not playing with the other children or hanging around his family, but rather he was watching us from a distance, keeping himself hidden behind the houses that gave him just a good enough angle to remain incognito, yet fully immersed in our work. His presence caught my attention from afar, and my eyes locked into his. He was so young, but his eyes withheld a story that no one else’s had seen; shades of deep wooden brown and tints of hazel, his eyes were glossed over, coated with layers of innocence and fear, like glass, shattered by adversity. Slowly, I made my way towards him, as not to alarm him. He stood motionless in front of me, gazing intently. I kneeled down so that we were equally leveled and to my surprise, he reached out towards me, the way infants reach out to be held when they’re scared, and gave me the most sincere and welcoming hug. The unspoken, yet ultimately well understood, communication between a young boy and a teenager had been exchanged, absent of words. When he released me, I looked into his eyes and from shattered glass to scattered shards, his eyes began to well up, blending the different shades of brown around his iris, the way the colors of a painting blend from the stroke of a wet paintbrush. It was in that moment that I understood our objective while in El Salvador; it was not so much about restoring hope or mending the physical lives of the locals, but more so on preserving the innocence of the young: the untainted sincerity and authenticity of those that were too young to understand what it means to grow up and truly experience the world. But it was in that very moment that I was indefinitely touched by his understanding of what had happened to his city and his people, and his fear that maybe the world was not as kind as he had once believed.