Enrique's Writings

My grandmother Virginia, my mom’s mom, had a deep and enviable devotion to the Catholic faith. In Chinameca, our small town, the leadership she shared with her husband, my grandfather Miguel Enrique, from whom I was named after, made her an influential figure in many decisions surrounding church life. Although my grandfather wasn’t particularly devout, he rarely attended Mass or any other religious services, his voice carried remarkable weight. So much so that Father Montesinos and later Father Ventura often relied on my grandparents’ judgment when making important decisions about church events. I was about seven years old when I first witnessed the preparations for the Good Friday procession during Holy Week. That year, however, something unexpected happened. One afternoon, I was sitting in my grandparents’ living room, absorbed in old comics, my grandfather, who was a typographer who owns the only printing press in town, had collected over the years, from the pages from Sunday papers...

Lisa, a young Trinidadian immigrant living in Toronto, moved to Montreal with one clear intention: to learn French, a dream she had carried since childhood. Back in Charlotteville, in Tobago, she used to play with the children of Haitians working there. She had always thought the way they spoke to one another was beautiful, melodic. After, her family immigrated to Toronto, her connection to her French-speaking friends quietly faded away. After graduating from University of Toronto, Lisa decided to dedicate a year of her life to learning a second language. What better way than to immerse herself completely? She moved to Montreal, determined to live and work in a French-speaking environment. She relished her newfound independence as a university graduate. For the first time, she truly felt free, eager to explore her adopted country and embrace a new, official Canadian language. Montreal, one of Canada’s most vibrant bilingual cities, seemed perfectly suited to help her become the biling...

The Atecozol River is a mighty body of water originating from the Izalco Volcano, the youngest volcano in the world. Its name, in Nahuatl, means “place of the black sands” or “place of obsidian” (itz = obsidian, calli = house/place). Rising 1,950 meters above sea level, with an inclination of around 45°, this volcano remains active, its commanding presence standing proudly amid the thick vegetation that surrounds it. Along its course, the river is fed by natural springs, known for their fresh, crystal-clear water. These springs give the river a cold, steady flow that endures throughout the year. At the foot of the volcano lies the town of the same name: Izalco. A place rich in history, it has been home to human presence for over 2,000 years. Izalco was originally founded by the Pipil people (Nahuatl), a Mesoamerican Indigenous group primarily residing in western and central El Salvador. They speak the critically endangered Nahuatl language and were once part of the historic Kingdom of ...

The first summer in our adopted new country couldn’t have arrived soon enough. Our small family had arrived in mid-January, at the very beginning of our first Canadian winter. As government-sponsored refugees, we did receive winter clothing. However, none of us had ever endured sub-zero weather before. By the time spring finally arrived, and then summer, we were exhausted, longing to be outside and eager to enjoy the warm weather. With the arrival of summer came the need to secure daycare for the children. Until then, they had been attending school while their parents studied English as a Second Language (ESL). Fortunately for us, the school the children attended had a daycare attached to it that operated year-round and was accepting new participants. On the first day of summer, I walked with my six-year-old daughter to drop her off at daycare. As we approached the building, I overheard someone in the neighborhood shouting something I couldn’t quite understand, though it sounded f...

I met Danny in the mid-nineties, when I was working as a housing worker in what was then the newest and largest non-profit housing development ever built in Toronto. Little did I know that, years later, Danny would teach me one of the most profound lessons of my career in community development. At the time, we tried to house him in the newly opened building. Danny had been living in another housing project owned and operated by Homes First Society called Street City. The newer project was located between Jarvis and George Streets, just north of Dundas Street. It was a vast complex of four buildings surrounding a shared central courtyard: two cooperatives and two non-profit housing projects, totaling almost three hundred units. Each building was managed by a different organization. Homes First Society, the organization I worked for, managed one of them9 Jarvis Street on behalf of a coalition of nonprofit organizations led by the Church of the Holy Trinity. The building was named Mar...

(From the Latin: “You are dust, and to dust you shall return.”) For those who follow the Christian faith, today is Ash Wednesday, a holy and solemn day marking the beginning of Lent: seven weeks of prayer, fasting, and acts of charity leading up to Easter, the sacred week that commemorates the martyrdom and resurrection of Christ. Realizing what day, it was stirred a vivid memory from when I was about seven years old, visiting my grandmother Carmen in San Salvador. My grandma was a deeply devout Roman Catholic. She loved attending her local parish in her neighborhood, but during special celebrations she would visit an old church in the center of the city. The Church of the Calvary, rebuilt in the 1920s in a striking Gothic style, rose from the ashes of the original 1660 structure that had been destroyed by a massive fire and devastating earthquakes that nearly leveled the city. To many, it was majestic. To me, it was terrifying. I dreaded going there because of a statue of Saint Lu...