Jerhy’s photograph found me in early 2020, a few days after he was murdered. It had been two years since I had migrated from Costa Rica to the United States to attend college. Like any other Costa Rican, I grew up firmly believing that my home country was the most important bastion of peace in Latin America. While my studies and experiences in college began to challenge this belief, I was always proud of my history and the place I had come from. However, the story of Jerhy’s murder shattered my rose-colored glasses with might and pain. How could a mob of more than 150 people—fellow Costa Ricans, no less—invade an Indigenous town, attack its residents with sticks, stones, and machetes, and collectively murder a beloved member of this community? 

Why him? Why his community? And how did my country, a supposed human rights haven, allow for such a brutal tragedy to happen? I spiraled into a rabbit hole of research, which brought me back to Costa Rica and led me straight into Jerhy’s hometown: Térraba. Here, in my search for Jerhy, I met an entire community of landback activists, all fighting to return to their land, which had been taken away from them since the inception of our country. 

While I didn’t have the privilege of meeting Jerhy, the more I learned about him, the more sorrow grew in my heart. I speak directly to him throughout the film as an attempt to explore that pain, and to invite my audience to connect with the grief that his family and his community continue to experience. I desperately want the people of my country to care, and I believe that the only way to try is to share my experience of piecing together his legacy. Like Elides Rivera—Jerhy’s aunt—told me once: “Jerhy’s not gone, he’s just in a different place.” His heart carries on in every land reclamation in Térraba. He’s in every drop of water, every leaf in the canopy, and every star on the horizon. And the people of Térraba won’t stop fighting for their land hasta que muera el sol.