By Claudia Arroyo
There are news that do more than inform. They shake you. They break something inside.
Hearing the revelations from Dolores Huerta about decades of abuse and silences that lasted a lifetime, I felt a knot in my chest. Not just for what is being said, but for everything that is confirmed. For everything that many of us already knew, even if we didn’t always have the words, the space, or the permission to name it.
This morning, I had a conversation with my son. Tomorrow he turns 12. Just two days before all of this came out, his class was learning about César Chávez and the farm workers’ movement. With wide eyes, trying to process it all, my son said: “That’s crazy!” But it wasn’t just childlike amazement; in that phrase was disbelief, surprise, and a deep question: “How can this happen?” It was the gaze of a generation beginning its journey, ready to inherit the struggles of those who came before, capable of learning from the good and questioning what is wrong.
How do you explain to a child that someone can fight for the dignity of a people, and at the same time, profoundly fail the dignity of women? It is not easy but it is absolutely necessary.
We talked about everything: the achievements of the movement, yes, but also the silences, the omissions, the pain. We talked about them. About all the Dolores Huerta who have existed in silence. About all the women who are silenced, ignored, minimized. About those who sustained entire movements while their own voices were sidelined. About those who survived. About those who did not.
Because yes. I am one of them, too.
I am a survivor. And for many years, I remained silent as well. I know, in my body and in my memory, what silence means. For many people, that silence is inconceivable. But they cannot understand it because they have never been there. Silence is not weakness. It is, many times, survival.
When a woman speaks after 60 years, she is not late. She speaks when she can. She speaks when it is safe. She speaks when her voice finds a path. And when one woman speaks, we all speak.
At Prospera, we see it every day. We are a community, yes, but also a movement. A space where women find each other, recognize each other, believe in each other. Where what one of us names resonates in another. Where the act of supporting one another becomes a form of healing. In this collective fabric, we remember that we are worthy, that we deserve respect, that our stories matter.
And we understand something deeper: struggles cannot be partial. We cannot raise our voices for some and leave others behind. We cannot talk about justice without talking about gender, migration, class, race. We cannot repeat the same patterns of exclusion within the movements that claim to fight them. Because that is also violence. And that also has consequences.
Today more than ever, we need uncomfortable conversations. We need to raise sons and daughters with awareness, with the ability to question, to feel, to empathize. With the clarity that being a man does not mean dominating, it means accompanying. It does not mean imposing, it means respecting.
I am raising a son to be a different kind of man. A present, free, and compassionate man. A man who does not need women’s silence to feel strong.
Today, I want to express my deep solidarity with Dolores Huerta, Ana Murguía, Debra Rojas, and all the women who, like them, have carried difficult stories in silence. With all those who are finding their voice today. And with all those who cannot yet but someday will.
This is the moment to speak.
This is the moment to listen.
This is the moment to believe in each other.
This is the moment to do things differently.
Because the struggle is always valid.
Because dignity remains urgent.
And because now we know something we can no longer ignore: there is no true justice if it is not for all.
Claudia Arroyo
Executive Director
Prospera