Juan Garcia, a 71-year-old Guatemalan immigrant, shares his life story of growing up in Guatemala during a turbulent time of social unrest and civil war, being drafted into the military, and his journey to the United States. He describes his experiences of working odd jobs in Mexico, eventually making his way to San Antonio, Texas, where he met his wife and started a family. Despite the challenges, Juan became an active community organizer, advocating for immigrant rights and helping others navigate the system. He emphasizes the importance of education, family, and faith for young people, encouraging them to stay true to their principles and get involved in their communities. Juan's story is one of resilience, perseverance, and a lifelong commitment to helping others, making him a respected elder in the Latinx community of Rhode Island.
My name is Juán Garcia. I was born in Guatemala City, en La Zone Cinco, in the La Palmita neighborhood. La Zone Cinco is a well-known area, especially for its history of social movements—it’s where the May 1st social movement was born. I am 71 years old now, but I still remember my childhood in Guatemala vividly.
One of my best memories is of my mother buying chickens before Christmas. She would raise them, then prepare them for our big holiday feast, making around 300 tamales—Guatemalan tamales, which are large, not small. Our house was open to everyone. People came as they were, and they ate tamales. My parents sent me to deliver them to godparents, neighbors, and friends. It was a time of community, of sharing, of opening our doors to people we knew and people we didn’t. Those moments are some of the most beautiful memories of my childhood.
But my childhood was also marked by the civil war. When I was ten years old and just starting school, Guatemala erupted into political turmoil. The war started in 1960, and by 1966, students were organizing in support of the peasants. The movement wasn’t just rural—it was urban too.
I remember names like Chino Soza and César Montes—strong voices of opposition. The army responded with repression, killing students, ordinary people, anyone they saw as a threat. In zone five, where I lived, people met in secret to resist. There was a place called La Limonada, a ravine where people took refuge. The army wouldn’t go there. It became a safe haven for those fighting back—Soza was there, even Che Guevara passed through in those years. When election time came, political groups sought support from the people in La Limonada, knowing how strategic it was.
One of my best memories is of my mother buying chickens before Christmas. She would raise them, then prepare them for our big holiday feast, making around 300 tamales—Guatemalan tamales, which are large, not small. Our house was open to everyone. People came as they were, and they ate tamales. My parents sent me to deliver them to godparents, neighbors, and friends. It was a time of community, of sharing, of opening our doors to people we knew and people we didn’t. Those moments are some of the most beautiful memories of my childhood.
But my childhood was also marked by the civil war. When I was ten years old and just starting school, Guatemala erupted into political turmoil. The war started in 1960, and by 1966, students were organizing in support of the peasants. The movement wasn’t just rural—it was urban too.
I remember names like Chino Soza and César Montes—strong voices of opposition. The army responded with repression, killing students, ordinary people, anyone they saw as a threat. In zone five, where I lived, people met in secret to resist. There was a place called La Limonada, a ravine where people took refuge. The army wouldn’t go there. It became a safe haven for those fighting back—Soza was there, even Che Guevara passed through in those years. When election time came, political groups sought support from the people in La Limonada, knowing how strategic it was.
I was in school when all this was happening. From my fourth year on, I supported the revolution. I was part of what we called the *human mail chain*—a line of boys stationed block by block. If we saw the army coming, we would pass the message down the line. By the time the soldiers arrived, everyone had already disappeared. It was solidarity, a swarm of young hands working together. But the army caught on and started hunting us. They shot at us. The situation became more dangerous every day.
At 17, I was studying at the Tecun Uman vocational institute. Like any young man, I was restless, eager to live. One night, I went out with friends and forgot my student ID. At that time, General Arana Osorio had made military service mandatory for anyone who couldn’t prove they were a student. If they caught you without your ID, they took you. And that’s exactly what happened to me.
At 17, I was studying at the Tecun Uman vocational institute. Like any young man, I was restless, eager to live. One night, I went out with friends and forgot my student ID. At that time, General Arana Osorio had made military service mandatory for anyone who couldn’t prove they were a student. If they caught you without your ID, they took you. And that’s exactly what happened to me.
Years later, in Rhode Island, I found my faith again at Santa Theresa Church. A priest, Father Ray, said in a sermon that many of us were *passive Catholics*, people who didn’t live out the Gospel. His words struck me. He invited me to a community meeting in the church basement, and when I arrived, he greeted me: *We were waiting for you.* That’s how I got involved in organizing.
Being forced into the army felt like my world was falling apart. If they grabbed you, they decided what to do with you. For them, capturing students from the capital was a prize. They knew that educated people weren’t so easily controlled. The army was full of young men from rural areas who had never studied—but students, especially those from the capital, thought differently. We questioned things.
They saw my intelligence in training and decided to send me to the Kaibiles, an elite special forces unit in Petén. The Kaibiles are known for their brutal training—they are trained to be merciless. Their motto is that they will even kill their own guardian angel. They have no remorse.
When my sister found out I had been sent to Petén, she pulled every string she could to get me transferred. They moved me back to the capital, but I couldn’t leave the army. Under military law, I was stuck. I rose through the ranks quickly—rifleman, then military police, then corporal, then sergeant. Eventually, I became a bodyguard for the Mexican ambassador, Miguel de la Fuentes.
But the war didn’t stop. The movement continued, even as the battles moved to the countryside. Then, after an attack on traveling military police near San Araté, the army sent us to Zacapa. We were the lowest in rank, which meant we were the first to be sent into battle—the first to die.
The night before a major operation, I told a friend, *I don’t believe in this. I’m not going to kill my own people. This is brother against brother.* If we were fighting an enemy from another country, maybe. But this? No.
That night, we went to a bar, had some drinks, and ended up getting caught with our weapons. We were court-martialed—sentenced to death. But my sister, who was in the U.S., fought for me again. She saved my life. Instead of execution, my sentence was reduced to nine months in *the Wagon*, the largest prison in Guatemala.
Many people who entered *the Wagon* never came out. But my sisters visited, bringing me food—carrots, meat, whatever they could. I even started a small restaurant inside the prison with the help of two cooks. But I trusted the wrong people, and I ended up at the bottom of the prison hierarchy for three months. Then, someone recognized me and spoke up for me. I was moved to a different role, serving imprisoned soldiers. That made the last six months easier.
When I was finally released, I lost myself for a while. Drinking, running with the wrong crowd. My father was furious. That’s when a friend and I decided to leave for the U.S. We had almost nothing—just ten quetzals between us. No money, no plan.
The journey took over two years. We lived in Mexico, worked hard jobs, and slept on the streets. In Tepito, I rented a *Diablo*—a handcart—to move boxes. We were even taken in by a police officer who promised to help us in exchange for labor. We built rooms in his house before finally escaping after 15 days.
The night before a major operation, I told a friend, *I don’t believe in this. I’m not going to kill my own people. This is brother against brother.* If we were fighting an enemy from another country, maybe. But this? No.
That night, we went to a bar, had some drinks, and ended up getting caught with our weapons. We were court-martialed—sentenced to death. But my sister, who was in the U.S., fought for me again. She saved my life. Instead of execution, my sentence was reduced to nine months in *the Wagon*, the largest prison in Guatemala.
Many people who entered *the Wagon* never came out. But my sisters visited, bringing me food—carrots, meat, whatever they could. I even started a small restaurant inside the prison with the help of two cooks. But I trusted the wrong people, and I ended up at the bottom of the prison hierarchy for three months. Then, someone recognized me and spoke up for me. I was moved to a different role, serving imprisoned soldiers. That made the last six months easier.
When I was finally released, I lost myself for a while. Drinking, running with the wrong crowd. My father was furious. That’s when a friend and I decided to leave for the U.S. We had almost nothing—just ten quetzals between us. No money, no plan.
The journey took over two years. We lived in Mexico, worked hard jobs, and slept on the streets. In Tepito, I rented a *Diablo*—a handcart—to move boxes. We were even taken in by a police officer who promised to help us in exchange for labor. We built rooms in his house before finally escaping after 15 days.
By 1977, I reached Ciudad Juárez, then crossed into the U.S. Hidden in the trunk of a car, I made it to San Antonio. But the man who promised to help us rent a place disappeared with our money. I had nowhere to go, so I slept outside an empty workshop. The owner caught me one morning but, instead of kicking me out, gave me my first real job. He paid me $40 a week and let me save my earnings with him. Months later, I bought my first car.
I planned to go to Miami, where many Guatemalans had settled. But one night in San Antonio, I met a woman who convinced me to stay. She introduced me to people who helped me find work. Seven months later, I met another woman—she would become my first wife. We had children together, but the marriage didn’t last.
By 1984, I became a U.S. resident. Immigration caught me working in a restaurant, and I knew I had to fix my status. Back then, it was easy—a lawyer charged me $700, and three months later, I had my residency.
Years later, in Rhode Island, I found my faith again at Santa Theresa Church. A priest, Father Ray, said in a sermon that many of us were *passive Catholics*, people who didn’t live out the Gospel. His words struck me. He invited me to a community meeting in the church basement, and when I arrived, he greeted me: *We were waiting for you.* That’s how I got involved in organizing.
We worked to clean up Olneyville, once a place overrun by drugs and crime. We fought for better housing, pressured drug dealers to leave, and helped transform the neighborhood into what it is today.
My second wife and I later raised my stepdaughter’s three boys after she passed away. We gave them stability. Today, my children are successful—one is a military policeman, another a nurse, and two are teachers. I have a strong bond with my grandchildren.
To immigrants, my message is this: Get involved. Learn. Educate yourselves. So many people live here for years and don’t even know how to fill out an application. Stay connected to your roots, your culture. I am an American citizen, but I will never forget Guatemala.
And to young people: Organize. Educate yourselves. The internet holds answers to anything you seek. Help others. Keep your faith, whatever it may be.
No matter how many times you fall, the important thing is to get up. Family is everything. And the greatest inheritance you can leave your children is knowledge.
This is the story of a man who, like everyone else, learned through struggle.
I planned to go to Miami, where many Guatemalans had settled. But one night in San Antonio, I met a woman who convinced me to stay. She introduced me to people who helped me find work. Seven months later, I met another woman—she would become my first wife. We had children together, but the marriage didn’t last.
By 1984, I became a U.S. resident. Immigration caught me working in a restaurant, and I knew I had to fix my status. Back then, it was easy—a lawyer charged me $700, and three months later, I had my residency.
Years later, in Rhode Island, I found my faith again at Santa Theresa Church. A priest, Father Ray, said in a sermon that many of us were *passive Catholics*, people who didn’t live out the Gospel. His words struck me. He invited me to a community meeting in the church basement, and when I arrived, he greeted me: *We were waiting for you.* That’s how I got involved in organizing.
We worked to clean up Olneyville, once a place overrun by drugs and crime. We fought for better housing, pressured drug dealers to leave, and helped transform the neighborhood into what it is today.
My second wife and I later raised my stepdaughter’s three boys after she passed away. We gave them stability. Today, my children are successful—one is a military policeman, another a nurse, and two are teachers. I have a strong bond with my grandchildren.
To immigrants, my message is this: Get involved. Learn. Educate yourselves. So many people live here for years and don’t even know how to fill out an application. Stay connected to your roots, your culture. I am an American citizen, but I will never forget Guatemala.
And to young people: Organize. Educate yourselves. The internet holds answers to anything you seek. Help others. Keep your faith, whatever it may be.
No matter how many times you fall, the important thing is to get up. Family is everything. And the greatest inheritance you can leave your children is knowledge.
This is the story of a man who, like everyone else, learned through struggle.
