Reproductive Rights | »Don't feel like a victim forever«

Photo: IMAGO/TT They originally come from Ahuachapán, a rural region of El Salvador on the border with Guatemala. How did you end up in the capital, San Salvador?

Photo: IMAGO/TT My mother gave birth to eleven children, I was number six. As I watched my older sisters get married one by one, I became scared because I felt like the same thing would happen to me. So I left my village.

You were only twelve years old then.

In the city I met people who supported me. In the beginning I looked after other children and looked after them, even though I was of course still a child myself. As I slowly got older, I worked in restaurants, as a waitress or in the kitchen. The most important thing for me was to be economically independent. I didn't earn much, but I made ends meet. When I was 20, I became pregnant for the first time and gave birth to a son.

Teodora Vásquez, 43, comes from El Salvador. Due to extremely rigid abortion laws, women there are often innocently imprisoned for many years after a stillbirth because they are accused of infanticide. Vásquez takes care of these women with her organization Mujeres Libres de El Salvador (Association of Free Women in El Salvador), which has existed since 2022.

A few years later, you were about to give birth to your second child when your life took a dramatic turn.

The doctor told me it would probably take another three weeks. So I thought I still had time to go to my village so that my mother could take care of me during the birth. But then everything happened much faster.

You were at work in a cafeteria in the capital San Salvador when you went into labor.

I called 911 and the woman on the phone told me an ambulance was on the way. Then I called again because the ambulance didn't come. I called probably five times and no one came. Finally I couldn't take it anymore and had to give birth to my child where I was.

You lost consciousness, your child died at birth. After this traumatic experience, you were taken to a clinic far too late.

I didn't understand at all what had happened. I felt like I was going to die. When I woke up in the hospital, I was handcuffed to the bed and journalists were standing around me. They asked me, “Why did you kill the child?”

There is an absolute ban on abortion in El Salvador, and even stillbirths are repeatedly interpreted as infanticide. They were innocent - but were sentenced to 30 years in prison for aggravated murder. How did you survive your time in prison?

I endured it all because I knew my son was waiting for me outside. I was afraid of the other prisoners, I was depressed, but my son gave me hope.

There were other women who had also been convicted of alleged child murder and were serving long sentences in the women's prison in Ilopango - but you didn't initially know these women who were in a similar situation to you. Why not?

We were heavily discriminated against by the other prisoners. Our motto was: "The less I say, the less will happen to me." That's how we survived - by simply not saying anything.

It was only when a Salvadoran lawyer systematically searched for cases similar to yours that you met the other women. The lawyer found a total of 17 cases - a local NGO turned them into the campaign "Las 17" - "The 17 Women" to fight for their release together with international organizations such as Amnesty International.

Yes, it was a big campaign, it created a lot of attention for our case, on a national and international level. But the only thing I knew back then was that whenever there was an opportunity to get out of prison, I would take it. So I joined in.

After ten years and seven months you were finally released. They were then offered support to leave the country. But instead you stayed in your homeland of El Salvador. Why?

I stayed primarily because I wanted to rehabilitate myself and my name. I had been criminalized and convicted. If I had fled now, I would have fled from exactly these problems!

You had to completely rebuild your life. How did you manage that?

When I was released there was a lot of hype: a lot of journalists and cameramen were there, and a lot of people who had supported me. But when all the noise cleared, I was alone and felt terrible. So I came up with the idea of ​​asking other women for advice who had been through a similar situation and had been released before me. I organized a room and everyone came. The women then began to talk about what they needed: work, for example, and psychological support. Some wanted to study, others needed an apartment or financial support, and still others wanted to learn a profession.

You then founded the Association of Free Women in El Salvador, which supports women with a similar fate to yours after prison in finding housing and jobs or offers psychological support. There is even a house where the women can stay for a while. What does the club mean to you?

I enjoy this work a lot, but it also gives me the strength to say: It's true that we come from a very difficult situation, but we also don't want to feel like victims forever. Instead, we take responsibility for other women so that our history is not repeated in future generations.

You have had bad, traumatic experiences - and yet you talk about it publicly. That takes a lot of courage!

I've always thought that the more you talk about a painful experience, the easier it becomes. There are days when I cry more, other days I cry less. Of course it's painful for me to talk about this topic, but it's also very liberating and I can let go of some of the pain that's still there.

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