San Salvador, El Salvador, September 27, 2026
Hi, Ruth.
It feels strange to write this letter knowing you won't be able to read it, because the Salvadoran State does not allow you to receive anything from the outside — the same as happens to most of the innocent people unjustly detained after more than four years under the state of exception.
We are writing to wish you a happy birthday — your 49th. We hope that next year we can celebrate your 50th in freedom, hug you and celebrate your life together with your family and all the people who love you so much. In the meantime, all we can do is write you this letter and tell you a little about everything that has happened in a year: you in prison; us in exile.
Do you remember what the days were like before all this? We think about it often. We think of your laugh, your warmth, you always standing in front of the camera with something sharp to say, with that unstoppable drive that is so you and that inspires us so much today. We also think about the day everything changed. That night they detained you, and a couple of days later, when they passed the Foreign Agents Law, we understood that Cristosal could no longer keep working from El Salvador. But for us, simply stopping is not an option, and among the many things we cannot stop doing is exhausting every avenue needed to get you released. That task is not over, and it won't be until you are free and you get justice.
Like so many people, we wish you were here so we could figure out together how to work from exile. Even though you are not here physically, you are always with us. You are our engine and our inspiration when the exhaustion weighs on us — and it weighs a lot — but your words keep us company and your spirit moves us. That is why what does not weigh on us is the conviction and the commitment that we cannot stop until the day this is over. Because yes, Ruth, one day this will be over.
Talking about you is something we do often. We try to describe you and explain why you became someone so inconvenient for the regime, why your arrest was a message to those who are unwilling to stay silent and indifferent, why our exile followed your arrest. We keep meeting people who know you, who have read you, who have listened to you and who have lots of stories about you. Out here, people know you are innocent. Everything you sowed when you stood with communities over contaminated water, with the defenders fighting mining, with the people scammed with bitcoin, with the health workers during the pandemic, with the families of the Venezuelans sent to CECOT, with those unjustly fired, with the young people you trained — all of those are the voices that defend your name today, and that merit is your harvest and yours alone. With most of them we agree on how much we miss your laugh, your joy. Others don't know you, but want to meet you one day. In many places around the world they mention you and recognize your bravery and your courage in denouncing what is wrong — because things should not be this way, because people don't deserve it, because rights should not be a privilege of the few, and because it is not fair that they do whatever they want with public affairs without consequences.
From exile we keep working for what you have defended; we have stood with communities and people in vulnerable situations. This year we also celebrated as other criminalized leaders won their freedom in Guatemala, and you can't imagine how we dream of you having a public trial and of us being there to see you walk out free, head held high and arms open wide, with that courage and love that are so you. And we hope it will be so, because more and more voices around the world are joining to demand your freedom.
When you get out, we have so much to tell you — everything that has happened since we left El Salvador. We left a lot behind, but above all we have also built community here. Between tears and laughter, fears and uncertainty, we try to carry on with life in exile; but life is still strange without you, always trying to guess what you would think, what you would say and what you would do. We miss your reflections, so wise and so human, and that clarity of knowing what to do and not being afraid to do what is right. We would like to know how you are doing in prison. We have a feeling you are very strong, with your spirit intact and thinking about everything you will do when you get out: how many people you will hug, how many new paths you will walk, how many songs you will dance to. We wish you could read all the messages that have been sent to you from so many places around the world — full of sisterhood and brotherhood, inspiring, full of solidarity. But as long as you can't read them, we read them for you, because they give us strength to keep going.
We celebrate your life and thank the universe for letting our paths cross and for having you as our compañera and friend, and from this physical distance (because you are always with us) we wish you: Happy birthday, Ruth!
From the heart,
your friends at Cristosal