By Veronica Saquisili
When I was little, my favorite place to visit was “Parque Infantil,” a small park with a beautiful pond and playground in the city of Azogues, Cañar, Ecuador. I used to go there every Sunday after mass with my best childhood friend, with whom I would run through its paths, climb its playgrounds, and chase each other until the sun began to set. We’d argue over which game to play first, the maze or the seesaw, the swing or the slide, but even our little fights were filled with love.
That beautiful place, like a secret garden, was our escape from our troubles. Even though it was noisy with laughter and shouts, it was peaceful in its own way because I had her. The moment I treasure most is that I was lucky to live it with her. I admired her because, although she was born just three months after me, she acted like the leader. Bold, perceptive, and charismatic. She got along with everyone and always stood up for me. This brave child was my little cousin Jenny, who was more than family. She was my sister in spirit.
Jenny and I were raised by our maternal grandmother, who did her best with very little. Despite the hardships, we found joy in each other’s company, in nature, and in the simplest things. Whenever I see a mountain, a pond, a farm, a playground, or a dark sky filled with shining stars, I think of her. I still hear her laughter in the wind. I feel her presence in the rustling leaves. We used to lie on the grass and wonder out loud:
What’s above the sky? Why do the stars shine so brightly? Could we ever reach them?
Those questions faded in the summer of 1995. Our grandmother took Jenny to visit her mother in Quito. She was supposed to return before school started, but she stayed a few weeks longer. On September 15, Jenny, age 12, and her sister, age 14, went out to collect recyclables from the city’s garbage dumps, a way to help their family survive. That day, a mountain of garbage collapsed on top of several people, including Jenny and her sister.
I could not believe this was true. The grief was unbearable. My grandmother and I, who were closest to her, were devastated. Her body wasn’t found right away, and I held on to hope. After heavy searches, her body was finally found. For years, I carried this story deep, deep in my heart. Only recently have I found the courage to speak about it.
Jenny’s story must be told, even if it hurts, because it’s a call for justice. Her death, and the deaths of so many others, reveal how environmental neglect and poverty intersect. Climate justice isn’t just about rising temperatures. It’s about lives lost, especially among those with the fewest resources. Climate change is a human-made crisis. That’s why we must reduce, reuse, and recycle, not just as slogans, but as urgent actions. We must find safer, more humane ways to manage waste so that no child’s life is ever put at risk again. Jenny’s memory reminds me why I speak up, why I care, and why change is not optional. It’s necessary.
Today, I try to inspire my children to care for this planet and the people in it. I teach them to use eco-friendly products, to conserve energy by turning off lights, and to give back to the community by cleaning parks and planting vegetables. I take them to farms and camping so they can connect with nature, just like Jenny and I did when we were little.
Her spirit lives on… in every seed we plant, every story we tell, and every step we take toward a more just and compassionate world, because the wonder she sparked in me never faded.
Veronica Saquisili is a business administration professional with a focus on family engagement. She is passionate about storytelling and inspired by her family: her mother, a powerful example of a resilient immigrant woman; her husband, her greatest support in pursuing her dreams; and her two children, who motivate her to never give up, keep learning, and stay open to new challenges. Her story is a wake-up call about our responsibility to care for the planet and about how climate justice intersects with the loss of innocent lives caused by negligent human decisions.