Emilia Lozano: empowering migrant youth through compassion and resilience
Every afternoon, I sat with young migrants, listened to them, and learned from their resilience. Tragically, they revealed they were migrant minors who, upon turning 18, were expelled from shelters without documents, a home, or a future. Determined, I realized I could not just listen. To truly help, I needed to do more than offer words.
- 18 hours ago
December 11, 2024
Emilia is a 71-year-old woman who has dedicated the past five years of her retirement to helping young migrants in a village in Toledo, Spain. | Photo courtesy of Emilia Lozano
TOLEDO, Spain — At just 11 years old, betrayal shattered my world. My father’s close friend, a man my family trusted completely, hid his predatory nature behind a mask of kindness. While other children played freely, I endured constant fear, trapped in a nightmare I could not escape.
He silenced me with ruthless threats, warning me of harm to my beloved father if I dared to speak out. Terrified for my father’s safety, I buried my pain and kept silent. By the time I turned 17, the weight of it all crushed me. Summoning every ounce of courage, I left everything behind, starting anew in Madrid and reclaiming the life he had stolen from me.
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Escaping a life of fear, transforming pain into purpose
In my small village in La Mancha, life flowed with tranquil simplicity. Wheat fields danced in the breeze, and children’s laughter mixed with the toll of church bells. But my childhood followed a different path. At 17, I fled the nightmare I had endured for years, arriving in Madrid with nothing but a suitcase. There, I worked as a maid, caring for houses while carrying the weight of my pain. Despite the darkness, something within me resisted surrender. I began reading, seeking answers to the world that had failed me. Over time, I found purpose: transforming my pain into action by helping others who, like me, suffered in silence.
Shortly after arriving in Madrid, I met my first husband. Although we shared little in common, the promise of stability felt enough to grasp. Hoping to bury my past, I married him. But the marriage soon became another prison. His explosive temper filled our home with tension, each word a potential spark for his fury. I remember the gray days when sunlight filtered through the curtains as I struggled to smile for my children, shielding them from the chaos and fear raging within our walls.
For years, I endured in silence, just as I had since childhood. But one day, watching my children play, I realized I could not allow them to grow up in fear. That night, I packed what little I could and left. I walked away from my marriage and the fragile life I had built, stepping into the unknown. For the first time in years, I could breathe. It was not easy, but every step brought me closer to becoming the woman I am today—a woman who refuses to let fear chain anyone, especially herself.
Woman builds organization to support victims of domestic violence
My rebirth as an activist, helping abused women, sparked a fire of solidarity within me. It began in a humble neighborhood in Madrid, where the gray buildings seemed to conceal secrets. I was a mother, a worker, and a woman who understood pain. Every day, I saw neighbors carrying invisible scars, and others whose pain was all too visible.
One of the first to reach out was Carmen, a woman from the third floor, who came downstairs to ask me for sugar. Her hands trembled as her voice was barely a whisper. She told me her husband, drunk almost every night, beat her in front of their children. Her confession ignited something inside me. I took her to the police station and supported her when her world crumbled. Then, we found a lawyer to help her.
Soon after, I founded my first organization, Mujeres en Hortaleza. Together with a group of neighbors, we organized workshops, meetings, and even visits to the courts, creating a lifeline for women in need. One night, Ana arrived at a meeting with tear-swollen eyes and a baby in her arms. Her husband had thrown her out in the middle of the night. Without hesitation, we welcomed her, helped her find work, and supported her as she rebuilt her life. Stories like Ana’s—and Carmen’s—ignited an unwavering compassion within me. Through these experiences, I discovered how shared pain can transform into strength, proving that together, we can change lives.
With the support of her husband, woman opens her home to young migrants
In Hortaleza, a district in Madrid, I met my curent husband, Luis, as life carried me forward despite the wounds of my past. Luis worked as the director of culture at the municipal board, and our paths crossed when I brought documents to his office. He seemed serious, almost distant, while I was full of laughter and energy. Yet, his calm demeanor and thoughtful way of speaking drew me in.
Over time, our relationship grew. With every conversation, I discovered his kindness, patience, and principles. I fell in love with his humanity—the way he listened without judgment and offered unconditional support. After everything I had endured, Luis became my refuge. We married and built a family and a community rooted in solidarity and hope.
Years later, retired, Luis and I often walked our dog, Luna, in a nearby park. One day, I noticed a group of young migrant boys, often labeled delinquents and treated as outcasts. Their tattered clothes and worn backpacks told a story I could feel even before they spoke. Slowly, I gained their trust, and they shared their journeys—how they arrived on boats, leaving everything behind in search of a better life. They were not delinquents; they were children, barely older than my grandchildren, abandoned by a world that turned its back on them.
Hearing their stories changed me. I could not go home and ignore them. Our walks in the park became daily encounters. I listened to their pain and learned of the systemic cruelty they faced—expelled from shelters at 18 without documents, homes, or hope. Determined to act, I opened my home and worked to help them rebuild their lives.
From homeless to hope: “Mohamed became part of my story, a living reminder of why we must act“
I remember Mohamed, one of the first boys we took in. On his birthday, he was thrown out, expected to become self-sufficient the moment he turned 18. The news hit me like a punch: “They’ve thrown him out on the street, Emilia. He has nowhere to go.” How could this happen on his birthday? My heart pounded as I rushed out, searching for him with only scraps of information.
I found Mohamed under a bridge, wrapped in a thin blanket that barely shielded him from the cold. His face, a mix of resignation and pain, lit up when he saw me. Trying to sound grown-up, he said he’d found a place to sleep, but his trembling hands and lost look betrayed him. I took him home, where we prepared a simple meal. He devoured every bite like it was a feast.
That night, Mohamed slept in a bed for the first time in months. From the next room, I heard his quiet breathing as I cried—for him and the countless others out there, invisible and forgotten. In the morning, sunlight lit his shy, grateful smile, and I knew I could never forget. We offered a roof and food; giving back dignity and hope to those robbed of both.
Mohamed became part of my story, a living reminder of why we must act. In 2019, we founded Somos Acogida, an association offering young migrants not just shelter but a chance to rebuild their lives. Every migrant child deserves more than survival—they deserve a future. Mohamed’s journey continues to inspire me, proving that small acts of kindness can ignite transformative change.
Somos Acogida: a shelter transformed into a home for displaced young migrants
As the project began, the town rallied to bring it to life. After receiving permission from the town hall, I rushed to the local radio station, my voice trembling with excitement. I shared our dream: a home for young people who had lost everything. The next day, a couple arrived with keys in hand. “It’s yours for as long as you need it,” they said. I could hardly believe it. The house, 180 square meters of empty space, held limitless potential. As Luis and I walked through its bare rooms, I could already imagine laughter filling the walls and lives being rebuilt. We knew it would become a home for those with nothing.
When we asked for help, the town responded overwhelmingly. People brought beds, furniture, and paint. Watching neighbors contribute, from donating mattresses to painting walls, felt like witnessing a miracle. Slowly, the house came to life. Each boy who arrived carried a backpack filled with visible and invisible scars. Smiles came slowly at first, but within days, they began to reclaim the joy they had lost. Seeing my own children in them, I could not stop thinking of how many others were still out there, alone and forgotten.
Somos Acogida became more than a shelter. It gave young migrants the chance to dream, to be young, and to rebuild their lives. Since its founding, over 25 young people have passed through its doors. We helped them obtain documents, learn Spanish, and gain skills to find work. Each time one left to start their own life, I felt a bittersweet emptiness, much like when my children left the nest. The house grew into a community filled with love, work, and resilience.
Migrant teen receives care after enduring a harrowing journey
I will never forget the migrant boy from Ghana. His journey to Europe became an odyssey no teenager should endure. He described crossing the desert, the sun scorching his skin, and weakening from lack of water. In Libya, his ordeal worsened. Mafias beat and exploited him, scarring his body and soul. I remember how he avoided my gaze while recounting nights of praying not to die, the beatings, and the unbearable loneliness.
When he arrived at our house, his feet told their own story. His sneakers were torn, exposing shrunken toes marked by his barefoot journey. When I asked to see his feet, I gasped at the thick calluses, open wounds, and burns etched into his skin. “The first time I wore slippers was in Algeria,” he admitted, embarrassed. We gave him new shoes, but he spent weeks relearning how to walk in them after years of being barefoot. “I could not stop,” he told me. “If I stopped, I would be left behind, and behind meant death.”
His story broke my heart. It hurt even more to know that, during his time in shelters, no one treated his wounds or gave him proper shoes. At our home, he began to heal. Warm baths soothed his feet, and trust returned slowly. I will always remember the first time he smiled, trying on new sneakers donated by a neighbor. In that moment, he looked like a teenager again.
At night, I often thought about the journey that brought him to us—the visible and invisible scars he carried. He fled Ghana to save his mother and sister from the poverty that killed his father. Yet, what hurt him most was the loneliness. “For months, I did not hear my name, only shouts or insults,” he confessed, tears streaming down his face.
From struggle to song: Sheriff’s journey of resilience and hope
After months of surviving on the streets, Sheriff arrived at our house—a young man from Sierra Leone carrying a backpack full of losses. Poverty had turned life into agony, and his mother, with tears in her eyes, sent him away one morning at the port. “Go, son. Do not look back. Look for a future,” she said, her voice breaking as Sheriff ran to the boat. The journey became an ordeal. He endured nights in the desert, days without water, and watched friends vanish into the Mediterranean waves. By the time he reached Spain, exhaustion had hollowed him out, leaving behind a shadow of the boy he once was.
One afternoon, while rearranging a room, I found my children’s old guitar. I handed it to Sheriff, urging him to play. He hesitated, as though his work-hardened hands might not deserve to touch the strings. Slowly, he began. A soft, wistful melody filled the house. “This reminds me of my mother,” he said, his voice trembling. Tears welled as he spoke of her singing while cooking, filling their home with fleeting moments of hope.
From that day, music became Sheriff’s refuge. Each time he picked up the guitar, a quiet transformation occurred—a flicker of light returned to his eyes. Over time, Sheriff rebuilt his life. Now, he studies music in Madrid, his talent blossoming. Yet, the most beautiful part is his visits. He still walks through our door, guitar slung over his shoulder, filling our home with melodies.
His music reminds us of his strength and resilience. Each note speaks of beauty that emerges from pain, a testament to the hope that endures even in life’s darkest moments.
A birthday cake for Diarasuba: from homelessness to new dreams
One day, Diarasuba arrived at our home at 19, after spending months sleeping under park benches in the city. He was from the Ivory Coast and left his country at 15, escaping poverty and violence. One afternoon, while we chatted in the kitchen, he shared something, leaving me speechless: he never celebrated his birthday. “In my house, there was barely enough to eat. Having a birthday meant nothing,” he said sadly. Immediately, we decided to change his story. We planned a surprise party, with a cake, the first of his life.
When the day arrived, we turned off the lights and emerged from the kitchen, singing, with the cake in our hands. Diarasuba froze, the candles illuminating his face as tears filled his eyes. “I never thought anyone would remember me like this,” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the laughter and applause of the other children. When he sat before the cake, he struggled to figure out how to respond to so much affection. The small room echoed with music, laughter, and genuine joy. For the first time, Diarasuba experienced something many of us take for granted: a moment that belonged entirely to him.
Gradually, his life started changing. With our home’s support, he found a job at a furniture store, where he discovered exciting new skills. Now, he dreams of opening his workshop to craft furniture with his hands. But whenever he visits, no matter how much time has passed, he always remembers his birthday cake. For him, it was not just a party; it marked the start of a home, a family, and the certainty of reasons to keep going.
At 72, woman continues to transform young migrants’ lives with compassion
From the moment we opened the shelter’s doors with barely enough, I knew it could grow into something extraordinary. Within these walls, we rebuild shattered lives, embrace scarred stories, and restore stolen dignity. Here, children find what they believed lost: love, understanding, and the chance to dream again. Every corner reflects humanity, from the kitchen filled with childhood recipes to the living room echoing with laughter. While hate spreads like poison, we remain steadfast, betting on humanity. In this place, we resist.
Every document secured, every Spanish class completed, and every smile regained is a victory for young migrants against a world that tries to ignore them. I have seen them arrive with slumped shoulders, their backpacks heavy with fear and loneliness. Yet, I have also seen them rise, their eyes brightening, their hands steady, reclaiming the life that had seemed forever out of reach.
At 72, I never imagined leading a project like Somos Acogida. My husband Luis and I envisioned a peaceful retirement, filled with quiet evenings in our village home. Everything changed the day we welcomed our first child into the shelter. I remember falling seriously ill a few years ago, fearing my absence might go unnoticed. Instead, the young migrants visited, bringing fruit and laughter, sharing their dreams and energy. They rejuvenated me.
This project does not only give them new lives; it gives me one as well. Growing old with it feels like a gift. Yes, exhaustion can be overwhelming, but every success makes it worthwhile. My plan is simple: to keep going as long as I can. One day, I will step away, but the smiles we have restored and the lives we have transformed will remain my legacy—a testament to the power of love and solidarity to change the world.
