72 Time April 25/May 2, 2022
All around this southwestern high-
land region of Guatemala, which is
the starting point for many of the
more than 1,000 Guatemalans who
leave the country every day for the
U.S., elaborate houses are popping
up. Three-story homes with neoclas-
sical facades and French windows
tower over their cinder-block neigh-
bors. Dubbed “remittance architec-
ture,” the structures are built with
money sent home by migrants. And
to Barán, who left the town of El Pal-
mar in Quetzaltenango for the U.S. in
1990 and regularly returns to visit,
the houses are a symbol of the trap in
which Guatemala is caught.
“When I look at them, I think, first,
how great that someone has been able
to build their dream house. But then,
how sad,” says Barán, 50.
The houses that look so much like
investments actually eat cash. Built
by remittances, many sit on uneven
ground in areas at risk of landslides,
or in places disconnected from
sewers and roads. Often, the grand
homes remain empty, as migrants
opt to stay in the U.S. and their
families prefer the comfort of their
neighborhoods.
In a country that is losing tens of
thousands of its citizens to migra-
tion every year, 9 in 10 residents leave
because of a lack of economic op-
portunity. Every year, the estimated
3 million Guatemalans in the U.S.
send vast amounts of money home to
try to improve life for their families.
In 2021, buoyed by the Biden Admin-
istration’s stimulus package, remit-
tances to Guatemala reached a re-
cord $15.3 billion—making up 17.8%
of the nation’s entire economy (com-
pared with 9.2% in 2011). But every
year, the remittances, along with tens
of millions of dollars in U.S. aid, fail to
improve the situation at home. And
the flow of people northward gets
stronger.
The swell of migrants has stirred
endless noisy debate in the U.S.
But their money moves silently,
largely ignored in policy and rhetoric
alike.
The residents of El Palmar say
changing that is key to break-
ing the cycle of migration. In late
2018, Barán and her son Danny, who
stayed in Guatemala, joined around
30 others in setting up the country’s
first migrant co-op: organizing via
WhatsApp and Zoom, the members,
split between people in El Palmar and
their relatives in the U.S., pool a por-
tion of their remittances together.
They offer loans to members who
have less cash, and share knowledge
about starting businesses and build-
ing homes, enabling all of the mem-
bers to launch projects that grow both
members’ wealth and the local econ-
omy. “The co-ops are building a cul-
ture of savings and credit between
migrants and their families, and cre-
ating a new source of leadership on
development,” says Rodulfo Santizo,
founder of Prima veral Inc., a U.S.-
based nonprofit helping migrants to
set up remittance co-ops.
The idea borrows from collective
remittance programs by Mexican mi-
grants in the late 20th century. If it
succeeds, the project could not only
change the lives of every person in
El Palmar, but also start to transform
Guatemala’s economy—and its
relationship with the U.S.
The co-op holds around 500,000
quetzales—around $65,000—and hasso far invested in 10 of its members’
new businesses, including carpentry
shops, bakeries, and bookstores. The
aim is to eventually enlist all 29,000
of El Palmar’s residents and their
relatives, to funnel as much of the
money earned in the U.S. as possible
into making the town a better place
to live.
El Palmar’s co-op is part of a grow-
ing movement to turn Guatemala’s
unprecedented flow of remittances
into lasting change for the country.
Two other southern towns have set
up co-ops, and 13 more are in the pro-
cess of doing so, according to Prima-
veral Inc. MayaPlus, a GuatemalanWORLD
Letty Barán has an uneasy
feeling when she gazes at
the hills of Quetzaltenango.