In Las Malvinas, a cramped and forgotten neighborhood in the south of Guayaquil, the calendar stopped on December 8. Since then, the neighbors have only one theme, a litany that they repeat as if by naming them they could bring them back: Nehemiah, Steven, Ishmael and Joshua. That Sunday, a year ago, the four of them went out with a group of 10 other children and teenagers towards fields a twenty-minute walk away, perhaps less for them, always in a hurry to arrive first, to seize the rectangle of grass where they feel invincible. They walked, ran, pushed, stole the ball, played like nothing bad could happen to them. It was the last time the neighborhood saw them alive. The next day, he accompanied them with screams and tears in front of four coffins.
A year later, this Monday, the residents of Las Malvinas took to the streets in procession to follow the same path that the boys took before being captured by a military patrol, and from there they disappeared forever. Only a few days later, and after incessant pressure from parents, the bodies were found burned near the Taura military base.
The roll call took place in the community hall, where the rhythm of the bass drum, the cununo and the guasá began to hit loud and furious, marking the pulse of collective memory. The batucada, full of Afro-descendant heritage, led the march, to a melody of protest. The parents of the four boys were hugged by other relatives and neighbors, never alone. When they greeted them, they responded with broken smiles, thanking them without words for the support of the crowd that furiously shouted their children’s names. They no longer had the strength to scream for themselves.
The murder of children is once again at the heart of the country’s news. After the march, the wait is at its maximum before the verdict which will be pronounced this week – as planned – against the 17 soldiers accused of forced disappearance of minors. The men in uniform face sentences of 34 years and eight months, as requested by the prosecutor in charge of the case. This affair could mark a before and after for a country deeply shocked by the rise in violence, also on the part of the military, to whom at least 31 forced disappearances are attributed during the two years of Daniel Noboa’s government.
The relatives were confronted with cruel confessions from four of the 17 soldiers involved, who recounted what happened that day: they were forced to strip, they were beaten, tortured and their execution was simulated. “Every day was as if the wound was reopened again and again,” says Yuliana Flores, cousin of brothers Ismael and Josué.
The first stop was at Nehemías Arboleda’s house, he was 15 years old. The music stopped and a silence covered the door he exited through that day, heading to his final football game. “He lived by singing,” says Mayra Avilés, a neighbor and friend, who wears a pink T-shirt with Nehemiah’s face printed on her chest. “His voice made the days less painful. He dreamed of a business to help his mother and sister. He loved football and he was excited about one day seeing himself on a giant screen,” he describes, in a broken voice, what the neighborhood remembers about Nehemías, the singer, the one who dreamed of being famous.
When the silence is broken, the batucada boys take up the drums again with force. They hit the bass drum, they make the tambourine sound like winter rain. The march advances and stops in front of the house of brothers Ismael and Josué. Both football fans were inseparable. Ismaël, 15, dreamed of playing in the big leagues, while Josué, 14, wanted to be a soldier. “Truth, justice and reparation…! shout the demonstrators. The next stop is the house of Steven, the youngest, who was barely 11 years old when the soldiers arrested him. His wide smile, his love for collecting Spiderman dolls are repeated in the stories of those who knew him. “Truth, justice and reparation…!
The walk widened as they continued to follow the boys’ footsteps. Among the demonstrators is Efraín Bayas, a 69-year-old retiree. He lives on the other side of town, but his outrage over what happened won’t allow him to sit still. “We cannot forget this atrocious crime. If this does not stop, it will continue with other cases. A sentence is needed to stop them,” he adds firmly.
The soccer field where the boys last played is empty. Chairs are now lined up and a stage is set up to reveal a plaque in his honor. From now on, the land will bear the name of the “Four Children of Las Malvinas”, as a permanent reminder that there, in this space of dreams and laughter, their lives ended. Among the attendees, two mothers struggle for words, their voices shaking as they try to thank the crowd for not letting them down. “They took away my soul, they took away my life,” says Katy Bustos, mother of Ismael and Josué. “At home there is a table with two empty seats. I only fill them with the presence of their spirit, because their bodies are no longer there.”
“I am the mother of Nehemías Arboleda,” Teresa says, but when she says his name, something breaks in her voice. With tears on the verge, he asks the question that resonates deep within everyone: “Why did they do this to our children?”
The memory march culminated on Avenida 25 de Julio, the exact spot where the military patrol intercepted them. There, they put them in the truck, hit them on the back and dragged them to Taura, a rural area an hour’s drive away. According to the accounts of four of the 17 soldiers prosecuted for enforced disappearance, they took the boys to the mountains where, in the middle of nowhere, they were subjected to cruel torture. One of the soldiers was cruel to Steven, the youngest, hitting him more than 20 times with a belt. Part of the torture was recorded on video by one of the soldiers, who secretly recorded when he saw everything was “getting out of control.” This recording now constitutes one of the crucial pieces of evidence in the trial, which is in its final stages.
In the exact same spot on Avenida 25 de Julio where the boys were kidnapped, protesters lit candles and built an altar with their faces. Four people lay down on the sidewalk, covered by a tricolor flag, while the musicians, with broken souls, improvised a melody of protest and farewell:
Goodbye, it’s already calling you
There is your little way
Goodbye, it’s already calling you
Goodbye my little boy
Goodbye, it’s already calling you
This is the government’s fault
Goodbye, it’s already calling you
So guilty, oh what pain
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