To be a person of faith in this world is to live in a constant state of tension. It is a daily bending and contorting, an almost up-to-the-minute discomfort that sits in your chest and bones. To be a Latino of faith in this country—to complicate matters further—is to hope in a living God while knowing that some people simply do not want us to exist. That they would rather see us cold and lifeless in the ground than to be a part of the same community.

Given the events of the last few days, the murders in El Paso and Dayton, Ohio, the temptation is to either want to retaliate or to completely disengage, whatever that looks like for you.

It can be a strange dance, this whole “love your neighbor” thing. A difficult idea to confront and attempt to reconcile at times, even as the president of the United States continues to fan the flames of bigotry and intolerance.

Given the events of the last few days, the murders in El Paso and Dayton, Ohio, the temptation is to either want to retaliate or to completely disengage, whatever that looks like for you.

I was thinking about these things as I sat in church this past Sunday, mere hours after two gunmen took the lives of innocent men, women and children. I was looking at all the Latinos around me, in my row, across the aisle. I wondered if they were thinking similar thoughts—if they, too, were wrestling with the weight of their existence in an increasingly hostile environment. Were they wondering, like I was, if the person sitting next to them, in church, harbored any hatred toward them?

I was also thinking about Priscilla Zavala, whom I had read about the night before. Ms. Zavala, along with her husband and four children, was among the survivors of the shootings in El Paso. After the shooter was apprehended and people were being escorted out of the shopping mall, Ms. Zavala heard police shout, “We’re letting the victims out.” Naturally, she started to cry.

“What hit me the hardest was being called a victim,” Ms. Zavala said. “Because I didn’t realize we were victims in the whole thing. That’s what we are.”

We are carriers of this collective grief and sadness and anger whose burden will begin to manifest itself daily and in any number of ways.

Part of me hesitates to say this, but I know that, in some sense, we are all victims now. Latinos especially. We are carriers of this collective grief and sadness and anger whose burden will begin to manifest itself daily and in any number of ways. And so, yes, we are victims.

We are victims of the brutality of time. The minutes, days and years of unwarranted death and suffering, the endless clamor and collision of politicians, talking heads, all vying for the same space. All God’s kids, all damaged. Eking out a life in his or her own way, many with little to no regard for anything but their own name. Drifting in the wind from one moment to the next. The brutality of time.

I don’t know what you believe. I don’t know if faith plays a part in how you maneuver through this world in such a time as this. I can’t pretend to know what your eyes have seen or what your past has taught you, the harm it has done. But I do know that I need you. And I need you to know that I need you. And that you need me. I won’t pretend to have deciphered the reasons as to why there is so much injustice, or why evil spreads the way it does in the age of social media feeds. It is a delicate balancing act, this juggling of belief and deep-rooted cynicism. But I have to believe that something good and beautiful can exist on the other side of grief. Hell may be other people, but we are all we’ve got for now.

This article appears in September 16 2019.

Juan Vidal is the author of Rap Dad: A Story of Family and the Subculture That Shaped a Generation. His writing has appeared in NPR, Rolling Stone and LA Times.