How is gender-based violence being understood in Esmeraldas?

By Nayely Gonzalez 

Based on interviews with key stakeholders in the territory, Nayeli González, DignArte Cimarrona researcher and member of the Mujeres de Asfalto Collective (CMA), reflects on the many ways gender-based violence is experienced, named, and often silenced in Esmeraldas:

When I am asked how gender-based violence is understood in Esmeraldas, the first thing that comes to mind is that it is not only about physical assaults or newspaper headlines. Violence here has many faces, and many of them are not even named.

In our territory, violence is part of everyday life. It is present in silence, in what is left unsaid. It appears in the lack of opportunities for Black women and for gender and sexual diversities; in the absence of data that reflects what we actually live; and in the racism that intertwines with machismo and shapes our daily lives.

I have often heard phrases such as: “In my social context, women are not considered to experience violence.” And this hurts, because it reflects a reality that is true: many of us were taught to normalise what we experience. Being a Black woman, being young, being diverse, already places us in a situation where violence is present, yet most of the time it is not recognised as such.

Being a Black woman in Esmeraldas means carrying a double burden of discrimination. On the one hand, the machismo that cuts across society as a whole; on the other, racism, which constantly puts us in doubt, refuses to believe us, and judges us before listening to us.

I have seen how, faced with the same situation of violence, a white woman with privilege is defended or treated differently, while a Black woman living in precarious conditions is questioned and further re-victimised. This constant gaze that holds us responsible for the pain we endure is also a form of violence.

Many times, the rationalisation of pain within the criminal and judicial system dehumanises Black bodies, normalising violence against them and treating them as bodies expected to endure any form of injustice.

Another defining feature of our territory is the divide between urban and rural areas. In rural communities, reporting violence is not easy. Institutions are far away, transport is expensive, and many women remain silent simply because they have no way of reaching support. Even within reporting processes, many Black women from rural areas experience institutional violence, manifested through legal and administrative procedures—particularly in cases of gender-based violence—where rules, protocols, formal requirements, and the attitudes of judicial officials reproduce mistreatment, mistrust, and exhaustion for women seeking justice.

This enforced silence becomes a cycle of violence, inherited through historical racism combined with the patriarchal system. I have seen this in workshops with young people, for example, in girls who repeat the same forms of violence experienced by their mothers, because they were never taught that they could live differently. Breaking this cycle is one of the greatest challenges we face as a territory and as a society.

In the face of all this, what gives me hope is the work carried out by community-based organisations.

On this path, we are not alone. I have seen artists such as Crisleyani Preciado using music to name what we are living through, and collectives such as Fundación Red Badea working with sex-gender diversities, reminding us that violence is also hidden in the normalisation of insults, jokes, and everyday rejection.

Thinking about violence in Esmeraldas also means recognising what is missing:

• Public policies that truly see us, with an intersectional approach, recognising that being a Black woman in an urban area is not the same as being a Black woman in a rural one.

• Institutions that engage sensitively, that do not re-victimise, and that inspire trust.

• Clear data on what is happening in our territory, because if we do not appear in the statistics, it is as if we do not exist.

• Real and sustained support for community organisations, because we are the ones closest to victims, those who accompany them from a place of humanity, not from behind a desk.

For me, thinking about violence in Esmeraldas means speaking from pain, but also from resistance and from anger as a political tool of denunciation and articulation. It also means recognising that our communities are tired of carrying normalised forms of violence, yet we continue to create and foster our own discussions and solutions—rooted in our culture, collectivity, organisations, art, and the spoken word.

I see it this way: gender-based violence here is not only an individual problem; it reflects the historical inequalities that have weighed upon Black bodies and Afro-Esmeraldan communities. At the same time, I believe that the way forward lies in popular organisations and collectives that weave together community networks to sustain life—networks through which we recognise one another, accompany one another, and build memory—because our lives do matter and deserve respect, dignity, and a future.

That is why I insist: thinking about violence in Esmeraldas is, ultimately, an act of humanity.