The Key Bridge, now twisted wreckage submerged in the Patapsco, once held six men high above the river. They were fathers, husbands and hard workers; at least some of them had traveled to this country for a life they hoped would be prosperous and long.
End of carousel
More than a day after the disastrous collapse, there was still little known about their deaths: why the ship crashed, why the bridge fell, and what happened in those final moments when the men were suspended in the air. But their losses have left an international trail of grief — two of the victims were from Mexico, a 26- and a 35-year-old were from Guatemala, another victim was from Honduras, and a sixth was Salvadoran — and from the web of people who loved them have come stories about their lives.
Maynor Suazo Sandoval, from Honduras, was about to turn 39. Miguel Luna, from El Salvador, was a father of three. Both were members of the immigrant organization Casa. Both loved soccer. As of Wednesday afternoon, the four other victims had not been publicly identified.
Hector Guardado had seen the news: A search-and-rescue mission for his uncle had been turned into a recovery effort. The odds of survival were slim. But he was not ready to give up hope that Suazo Sandoval might be found alive.
“Until we have his body, we will be hoping and praying that he is alive,” Guardado said by phone from Honduras, where Suazo Sandoval grew up before coming to the United States. “In the end, the last word is God’s.”
Suazo Sandoval left their small town of Azacualpa in Honduras’s Santa Bárbara department nearly two decades ago. After short stints in Virginia and North Carolina — working in construction and as a truck driver — he arrived in Baltimore. He met his wife, Berenice, also from Honduras, and they have a daughter, now 5. Eventually he brought over his son, 17.
Their life in Maryland was anchored by his grit and optimism. Although getting by day-to-day was harder — there were nights working on a bridge in the cold and harassment from past employers — it also meant he could better support his family, the one in Maryland and the one he had left behind in Honduras.
“He was always so happy to be able to share what little he was able to make over there in the United States,” Guardado said. “Everyone else always came first.”
His ties to home never frayed, Guardado said.
He called and video-chatted for every baptism and wedding and could often be seen shedding tears of joy. On birthdays, he would buy cakes for faraway relatives. When someone got sick, he would help pay for medicine.
A lifelong fan of the soccer team F.C. Motagua, he followed every match he could, dressed in his dark blue jersey. He sent money to Azalcapua to support a youth soccer league, helping to purchase jerseys not just for his relatives but for plenty of others in town, and he worked with Guardado to open up a hotel in town.
“We’re distraught. We’re hurt. It’s the kind of tragic death you never imagine,” he said. “Living so far away, there’s only so much you can do.”
Suazo Sandoval’s mother, an otherwise healthy 80-year-old named Emerita, has been fainting and losing consciousness since she first heard the news Tuesday morning. Family members in Maryland have been in touch with the Honduran consulate to receive updates.
The family of Luna has also been searching for answers.
Marvin Luna, his son, said he knew his father was on the Key Bridge overnight but did not learn it had collapsed until friends called him and said, “The bridge is … gone.”
Marvin Luna then called his father, who had worked for the construction company for about 15 years, but no one answered.
On Tuesday evening, not long before officials would say Miguel Luna was presumed dead, the family was at home in Glen Burnie, Md., desperate for news.
“We’re okay right now because we don’t know yet, nothing about my dad,” Marvin Luna said at the time. “But we still wait.”
At a news conference Wednesday, Gustavo Torres, the executive director of the Latino and immigrant organization Casa, said he had been in touch with the families of Luna and Suazo Sandoval.
“Maynor and Miguel are just two stories, two specific examples of thousands of thousands of Baltimoreans that are making a contribution to this beautiful country,” Torres said. “In a time when there is so much hatred against the immigrant community, we look to the quiet leadership of Maynor and Miguel and appreciate how they uphold our society so that Americans can live comfortably.”
Guardado said that his uncle, Suazo Sandoval, who was undocumented, had been in touch with lawyers to eventually try to obtain citizenship and be able to see his family in Honduras.
“The kind of work he did is what people born in the U.S. won’t do,” he said. “People like him travel there with a dream. They don’t want to break anything or take anything. It’s the only opportunity he had.”
The United States “opened many doors for him,” he said, “but he always wanted to return to his country.”
Even if it was in a casket, Guardado said, he prayed that could happen.
Jasmine Hilton, Maria Paul and Scott Dance contributed to this report.
