The armored door

After attending one of the schools in Estación Central for a couple of months, I was finally able to delve deeper into certain themes related to urban space. I entered the field in the role of an analogue photography teacher, using this position as my methodological gateway for ethnographic engagement. After a few sessions, I invited interested students to voluntarily participate in my research, giving special priority to those of Haitian nationality. We would gather once a week in the computer lab, arrange the chairs in a circle, and place the recorder in the middle. Each session included me and roughly eight or nine other students, all between the ages of 12 and 13. The group included six Haitian students (one of whom was occasionally absent), a Venezuelan girl, a Chilean girl, and a Dominican boy.

The method was simple: I would give them a topic (or sometimes they chose one), and then they had to take photos with their phones during the week, which we would later project on a small tablet. Through this process, I sought to address the multiple research questions I had been refining. What was the relationship of these Haitian migrant children to the city of Santiago? How did they experience their daily lives? How did their migrant experience, Haitian identity, and skin colour influence their engagement with urban space? Through image-based discussions, I sought to explore these dynamics.

Thus, one Wednesday, after discussing images of their commutes from home to school, I asked them to imagine their ideal city. I told them to envision having all the money they needed to design their neighbourhood—their house, their yard, a park—without worrying about cost. I expected answers like having four dogs, a huge garden, a waterslide pool, or a treehouse. I had even prepared follow-up questions for responses related to green spaces. However, their answers immediately brought me back to reality: security cameras, armoured doors, private guards, electric fences, giant walls. Little by little, unintentionally, they described a prison. I tried to steer the conversation toward other topics—dogs, trees, the backyard. But no. Robberies, carjackings, and safety were their primary concerns.

In this way, the carceral metaphor emerged in multiple aspects of these children’s lives. From the moment they left their homes, passing through four locked and chained gates, to the racist remarks they heard on public transportation, where nationalities were ranked, and Haitians were deemed "not as bad as Venezuelans." The radio broadcasts feature politicians praising the idea of building a prison in the desert or perhaps on a remote southern island for foreigners, calls for a Chilean Bukele to terrorise migrants. One day, an English teacher told me that sometimes his students arrived late in the morning because the soldado del pasaje (the neighbourhood watchman) had overslept, leaving the children unable to open the gate that sealed off their street. In their daily lives, the gendarme no longer came from the penitentiary system; instead, it was their neighbour, the self-appointed guardian of these prisons where no one could enter or leave without permission.