An immigrant business owner from a dictatorship faces anxiety and frustration as a citizen of a repressive regime.
“Where are you from?” asked “F.”, a man in his thirties, as we introduced ourselves and our research.
“The United States,” I responded.
“You’re from the United States, I am from [the regime], you see we can get along? We, the people of [the regime], are not the same as our government.” We sat around a square table to continue our conversation.
“I came to Ecuador ten months ago in February 2019. I came here because it is a [free] country, and it’s [easy] to get a visa to come here. My dream is to go to the United States or Canada, but this is not possible with my passport. I heard from my friend that Ecuador was a good place to come to escape [the regime’s] dictatorship and find freedom. In my country, I have a nice home, and a garden, and a car, and many friends and relatives. But I wanted to find freedom. So, I decided to leave and come to Quito. A short time after, my wife joined me.
“It was not a cheap voyage. The plane ticket per person cost between $4,000 and $5,000, plus an additional $1,000 to get visas for me and my wife, and another additional $100 to $200 to hire a lawyer to assist with the visas. I had to take three flights to come here and in the last airport I felt extremely vulnerable. They took me into a room to fingerprint me. They kept me there for many hours and officers looked through [the] messages on my phone.”
“I had $5,000 of cash in my pockets and put it in a bank account when I got to Quito. Before I arrived, my friend from my country helped me find a space to live, which is downstairs from my business. My friend owned this business before me and when I first arrived I would spend a lot of time at the business with him. But then my friend decided to leave to go to another country and told me he was going to sell his business. I needed to make money, and I had worked in the same industry as him, so I offered to buy the business from him. It cost me $10,000, which was almost all of my savings. I also had to spend another $2,000 to $3,000 to fix up the place. On top of that, the rent for my wife and I costs $650 a month. But it is an investment in my new life.”
“I officially opened my business four months ago. The economy is very bad in Ecuador and I can’t save. I have to sell my products for extremely cheap to compete with the other businesses... it is like people just don’t have enough money to spend so that I can make a better profit. The only people that work in my business are me, my wife, and my one employee. We all work more than ten hours a day, but the business never makes more than $1,000 per month. My wife has a master’s in management from my country and she is capable of doing much better work than just working in our small business.”
“Here in Quito, I know many people who are from my country. I get along with many of them because they share my opinions about [the regime]. But there are others who work at the embassy. They have a different mind, like the government of [the regime]. One time, the embassy people came to my business to buy things, and they scolded me because they did not think the logo on my store was the best representation of our country. They support [the regime’s] government. But for me, just because I am from [the regime] does not mean that I support its views.”
“On Twitter, there are many hashtags created by citizens of [the regime] people to protest the government. Like #[TheRegime]Detests_____ (fill in the blank with the name of the movement). Many people appreciate what the militaries of other countries do in [the regime’s] territory.”
Suddenly, F. became tense and squinted his eyes. He stood up and abruptly left the room, seeming nervous. He came back with his phone in his hand. “I need you to show me your IDs. I need to know that you’re not spies for the government. I have been told there are spies.”
As researchers, we wanted to make him feel as comfortable as possible. I pulled out my driver’s license, showing my nationality, and his shoulders relaxed. “Thank you. I just need to be sure. For safety.”
He opened up Twitter on his phone and continued, scrolling through his feed.
“There are also many hashtags about the ethnic people in [the regime], like me. In my country, people can only access Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube with a VPN, and for safety, if you want to express a political opinion, you must make a fake name account, or you might be arrested. There is not a way to write something using your name about the government, but there is much opposition on Twitter using a VPN. To be honest, I didn’t come to Ecuador for the money. Just for the freedom.”
“The governments of countries like Ecuador and the US should not compare the people of [the regime] to the government of [the regime]. We are not the same. It is not fair. You can find bad people and good people in a family. How can you compare millions and millions [of] people in a country? They are all different people with different views. The policies and sanctions of other countries are really hurting the people [the regime]. People are starving. But why am I guilty? Why should I be punished? My only guilt is I have a passport from [the regime].”
“In Quito, I have a cedula [the Ecuadorian identification card that gives access to benefits]. But our business is not good now. If I make my business successful, maybe my wife and I will decide to have a family here.”
“Here, I own a restaurant, and there is freedom. But my life is better in [the regime].”