The first time I heard about Honduras was in elementary school. Our class had to talk about different Latin American countries, and I was assigned Honduras. I recall making the white and dark blue flag and its stars with glossy paper, yet what I remember the most is the one fact I read in an article during my research: “Honduras is one of the most dangerous countries in Central America.” For years, the memory lingered in my easily impressionable brain, creating a separation between my country, Venezuela, and la república bananera. I grew up believing the two had nothing in common, like two planets in different galaxies. However, the space between them shortened after I read Libertad, by Bessie Flores Zaldívar, where I was introduced to a fictional family of hondureños trying to survive their country’s government in 2017, the same year my family and I left Venezuela, escaping ours.
Readers see the novel’s world through the observant eyes of Libertad Morazán. She is a 17-year-old girl who lives with her mom, grandmother, and two brothers during the civil manifestations in her country. Libertad is about to graduate from high school and deals with the stress that represents, but that is not the only milestone our character must face. She struggles with her sexuality, her role in her family dynamics, and her art, which takes the form of poetry. Libi—as those close to her call her—finds an outlet for her frustration with the political situation in Honduras by writing and anonymously posting poems about it, taking a clear political stance that rejects the current government. Although a work of fiction, the book portrays the reality of this country seven years ago, when the pueblo wanted the opposition to win their country back. Still, the authoritarian government wouldn’t give up power—a tale that certainly felt familiar to this reader.
Flores Zaldívar’s richly descriptive craft oozes through Libertad’s narration of events, sensations, and settings. While reading their words, it was impossible not to feel the heat inside buses and cars that lack air conditioning—like in most cases back home—or perfectly picture the intricate scenarios Libertad, her family, and friends dealt with during the tense election year. Similarly, the feelings of guilt so familiar to closeted queers were almost palpable, and I would cry next to Libi when she realized her mom wouldn’t accept her sexuality. But I would cry just as hard whenever her big brother, Maynor, showed unconditional support regardless of whom she loved. The author’s ability to place readers within the story—as if we are standing next to the characters when the events unfold—makes it easy to relate to them; thus, laughing with them, crying with them, cheering with them, and mourning with them is an inevitable reaction.
That said, this novel is not as plot-driven as it is character-driven. Although one could think that the story unfolds around the infamous elections, the true driving force in Libertad is Libertad herself. Like many teenagers transitioning into adulthood, her life is unexpected, exploratory, and seemingly lacking a clear path. Flores Zaldívar’s narrative develops simultaneously with the main character, meaning that the point isn’t to reach a determined event but to witness Libi’s both painful and joyful growth. The author, however, doesn’t leave the secondary characters aside; they become just as important to the reader as they are to Libertad. As an older sister, I found myself wishing for an older brother such as Maynor who would buy me plantain chips—a testimony of Flores Zaldívar’s ability to entrap us with their carefully crafted characters that make the novel feel undeniably human.
“The author’s ability to place readers within the story—as if we are standing next to the characters when the events unfold—makes it easy to relate to them; thus, laughing with them, crying with them, cheering with them, and mourning with them is an inevitable reaction. ”
It is because of how human Libertad is that I could not help but relate to Libi. The homophobia, violence, loss, disappointment, family love, friendships, and creative outlet she experiences in the novel are almost the same as what I experienced growing up. Suddenly, after finishing this book, Honduras and Venezuela felt like sisters separated at birth, and I was reminded of the common history that unites Latinx people. Flores Zaldívar’s emotionally charged storytelling leaves a long-lasting impact on whoever reads their work, on whoever grew up or knows someone who grew up in Latin America's unforgiving summers, too-often blackouts, warm family dinners, colorful sceneries, and corrupt governments. Libertad is the coming-of-age story of a queer artist, yet it is also a reminder of what unites our community. I still picture the phrase on Maynor’s t-shirt: Solo el pueblo salva al pueblo—and I know I will for a long time.
Roxanna Cardenas Colmenares is a Venezuelan writer living in New York City who loves to consume, study, and create art. She explores multiple genres in her writing, with a special interest in horror and sci-fi, while working on her B.A. in English with a Creative Writing concentration.
Her work has made her a two-time recipient of the James Tolan Student Writing Award for her critical essays analyzing movies. She has also won The Henry Roth Award in Fiction, The Esther Unger Poetry Prize, and The Allan Danzig Memorial Award in Victorian Literature.
In her free time, she likes to watch movies, dance, and draw doodles that she hopes to be brave enough to share one day.
