In a long, spacious room, a teacher speaks with passion and enthusiasm. Five teenagers listen as they paint and draw on their cardboards, each fully absorbed in their work. Though they ignore me completely, I don’t feel uncomfortable—instead, I’m struck with awe. This is a holy place, where emotions bleed into colors and memories take shape through brushstrokes.
To continue with this sacred moment, they begin discussing their drawings. They explain the meaning behind each shape, the intensity of their chosen hues, and even the dark spots that reveal their sorrows. I sense this is a safe space for them, a refuge where they can release the repression buried in their creative minds—repression born from homes where violence stifled their smiles and tender words, from a *machista* society that taught them to hide their vulnerability.
After a brief introduction led by their teacher, Roger, I greet the group and start taking silent photos, careful not to disrupt their focus. They aren’t intimidated; if anything, they’re radiant, lost in their passion. Once they finish, Roger instructs them to sign their masterpieces and share their stories.
Ariatne* speak first. At 16, she looks younger, her face bright with enthusiasm. In bold, beautiful letters, she’s written: “Siento que merezco más” (I feel I deserve more) and “Mi lugar seguro” (My safe place). Beside the words is a small drawing of “Casa Esperanza”—a little house with a hearth at its center.
Next is Alexandra*, who begins with slight nervousness. Her piece is striking, a vivid map of emotions. In one corner, a black sun symbolizes her past self—a time of sadness and turmoil. But that darkness is encircled by a burst of color. A heart with a "C" marks someone growing dear to her. A large "G" dominates one half; the other half blooms with music notes and a player awash in red and blue. When I ask what song plays, she smiles: “Querer querernos” by Canserbero. Her signature ends with two playful horns, and as she finishes, she laughs, light and free.
Abigail* goes next. Her cardboard opens with “Mi lugar seguro” (My safe place), followed by a cascade of names framed by a yellow background and a bold red heart. I ask about each one—some are family, others friends, and one, represented only by an initial, is a secret kept close. She ends by sharing her love for soccer, her dream of rivaling Ronaldo, and the pride her trophies bring her parents. Her smile says everything.
Finally, there’s Sandra*, a quiet soul. While the others chat, he sits on a large couch, earphones in, sketching peacefully. When I ask Said what his painting means to him, he only smiles. I feel good about it, he says.
His work is deceptively simple—soft washes of color, uncomplicated words that carry weight. At its center, bold and unadorned: “SOY FELIZ AQUÍ” (I’m happy here). Nearby, just two more words: “La Música” (The music). That’s all. No elaborate explanations, no grand metaphors. Yet in that simplicity lies something universal: the need for a place where you can simply “be”, without pretense or fear.
As I listen to these gentle souls, I realize how much they have to teach me. The trust Project Suma has placed in me—to witness and nurture these fragile, resilient hearts—is a sacred charge. I will honor it with every respectful gesture, every moment of patience. And for this gift, this fleeting chance to step into their world, I whisper my gratitude to God.
- Alejandro Vasquez, Project Suma Intern