Family Seeks Help Returning Teen’s Body to Guatemala After Monrovia Hit-and-Run

In the fading golden light of a Southern California autumn evening, the 800 block of West Duarte Road in Monrovia pulsed with the familiar rhythm of a Saturday commute. Shoppers darted across the four-lane artery, bags rustling in the breeze, while families strolled toward nearby eateries, the scent of grilled tacos wafting from food trucks. It was October 5, 2025—a day like any other in this leafy suburb nestled at the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, where the American Dream whispers promises of safety and opportunity to newcomers from afar. For 16-year-old Sulmy Merary López, that promise had drawn her family across borders and oceans, only to shatter in an instant of screeching tires and shattering glass. At approximately 5:30 p.m., as the sun dipped toward the horizon, a vehicle struck the vibrant teen while she crossed the street, her laughter perhaps still echoing from a conversation with friends. The driver fled into the twilight, leaving Sulmy crumpled on the asphalt, her young life ebbing away amid the chaos of honking horns and frantic calls to 911. Now, six days later, on October 11, her family huddles in grief-stricken silence, not just mourning a daughter and sister stolen too soon, but pleading with strangers for the funds to carry her body home to Guatemala—back to the soil where her story began. This is a tale of migration’s fragile hope, a hit-and-run’s cowardly shadow, and a community’s call to heal a wound that crosses continents.

Sulmy Merary López wasn’t just a name on a police report or a fleeting headline; she was a burst of light in a world often dimmed by hardship. Born on January 9, 2009, in the verdant highlands of Guatemala’s Quiché department, Sulmy grew up amid the misty peaks and ancient Maya ruins that cradle the hearts of her indigenous K’iche’ people. Her village, a cluster of adobe homes and cornfields where roosters crow at dawn and marimbas sing at dusk, was a place of unyielding beauty laced with poverty’s grip. Guatemala’s “dry corridor”—a swath of parched earth plagued by droughts and gang violence—had claimed too many dreams, pushing families like the Lópezes to seek solace south of the border. Sulmy’s parents, weary from years of scraping by on meager harvests and seasonal labor, made the harrowing choice in 2023: uproot their children and chase the elusive stability of the United States. With coyotes’ whispered routes and nights hidden in the Sonoran Desert’s thorns, they crossed into Arizona, hearts pounding with equal parts terror and resolve.

Monrovia welcomed them with its quiet charm—a city of 36,000 where Victorian homes line shaded streets and the annual Old Town Sidewalk Spectacular draws crowds for crafts and carousels. The Lópezes settled into a modest apartment on the east side, near Duarte Road’s bustle of taquerias and thrift stores. Sulmy, ever the adapter, blossomed in this new soil. At Monrovia High School, she dove into sophomore year with the fervor of a girl twice her age, her backpack slung low as she navigated hallways buzzing with English lessons and after-school clubs. Teachers remember her wide smile and quicker wit, the way she’d volunteer to lead group projects on environmental science, drawing from memories of Guatemala’s fragile ecosystems. “Sulmy had this spark,” says her English teacher, Ms. Elena Ramirez, in a tearful interview with local ABC7 affiliate. “She’d stay late, practicing pronunciations, dreaming of becoming a nurse to help families like hers. She wasn’t just surviving; she was thriving.” Friends echo the sentiment: sleepovers filled with Selena Quintanilla playlists, impromptu TikTok dances in the park, and whispered confidences about crushes and college aspirations. Sulmy’s Instagram, now a digital mausoleum, overflowed with selfies in Wildcats gear—Monrovia’s mascot—captioned “Chasing stars in Cali #NuevaVida” alongside photos of pupusas shared with siblings, a nod to home.

But beneath the surface shimmered the undercurrents of immigrant life: the constant hum of code-switching between Spanish and English, the ache of holidays without abuelita’s tamales, and the unspoken fear of ICE vans prowling parking lots. Sulmy’s father, José López, toiled as a landscaper in nearby Pasadena, his callused hands shaping manicured lawns that mocked his own family’s modest yard. Her mother, Maria, juggled shifts at a Duarte Road bakery, kneading dough at dawn while dreaming of the day Sulmy might translate for her at parent-teacher conferences. Younger siblings trailed Sulmy like shadows, idolizing the big sister who braided their hair and tutored them through homework tears. At 5 feet 2 inches, with cascading dark waves, warm brown eyes that crinkled with mischief, and a laugh that could disarm the grumpiest crossing guard, Sulmy embodied resilience. She volunteered at the local library’s ESL program, reading stories to newcomer kids, her voice a bridge between worlds. “She wanted to be a healer,” Maria confides, clutching a rosary in the family’s dimly lit living room. “Not just for bodies, but for hearts broken by distance.”

That Saturday, October 5, was meant to be ordinary magic. Sulmy had spent the afternoon at the Duarte Park playground with cousins, kicking a soccer ball under acacia trees, the air thick with the scent of blooming jasmine. Around 5 p.m., she texted her mother: “Heading home soon, Mamá. Picking up milk from the corner store. Love you.” The walk was routine—two blocks down Shamrock Avenue, a quick jaywalk across Duarte’s eastbound lanes to the 7-Eleven where she’d treat herself to a tamarindo candy. Eyewitnesses later painted the horror in halting tones: a silver sedan, perhaps a Honda Accord, barreling through the 5:30 rush without yielding. Sulmy stepped off the curb, phone in hand, mid-laugh at a meme from a friend. The impact was instantaneous—a sickening thud, her body tumbling 20 feet like a discarded doll. Screams pierced the air as bystanders rushed forward: a nurse from the nearby Foothill Unity Center administering futile CPR, a construction worker dialing 911 with shaking hands. “She was gone before the ambulance arrived,” the paramedic would later tell investigators, his report a stark entry in Monrovia PD’s log.

The driver? A ghost in the machine. Monrovia Police Lieutenant Chad Harvey, leading the probe, described the scene at an October 8 press conference: “The vehicle struck the pedestrian and fled westbound on Duarte Road. We have no suspect vehicle description yet, but we’re combing traffic cams and canvassing for dashcam footage.” Detectives fanned out, knocking on doors from the 700 block to the I-210 underpass, interviewing gas station clerks and bus drivers. A grainy snippet from a nearby business’s CCTV caught taillights vanishing into traffic, but the plate was obscured by glare. “This was no accident in the aftermath,” Harvey urged, his voice edged with frustration. “Hit-and-run drivers think shadows hide them, but we need the public’s eyes. Someone knows something.” As of October 11, the case remains open, with Crime Stoppers offering anonymity for tips via 1-800-222-TIPS. The López family, adrift in bureaucracy, clings to a single, searing question: Why her? Why run?

Grief descended like a monsoon on the López home, transforming a space once alive with merengue rhythms into a shrine of sorrow. Maria hasn’t slept more than fragments since Saturday, her nights haunted by replays of Sulmy’s final text, the screen glowing accusingly from the kitchen counter. José, stoic by Guatemalan machismo’s code, weeps in the garage over half-finished yard work, his tools idle reminders of dreams deferred. Siblings huddle in shared rooms, whispering memories through sobs—Sulmy’s secret recipe for atol de elote, her playlists that now play on loop like a dirge. The GoFundMe launched by Sulmy’s older sister, Ana López, exploded online within hours, its Spanish plea translated into a raw English cry: “To all kind-hearted people… my little sister Sulmy… passed away yesterday at only 16. We ask with all our hearts for your help so we can repatriate her to Guatemala.” By October 10, donations topped $15,000, strangers from as far as Boston and Bogotá chipping in $5, $20, $100—each a thread in a tapestry of compassion.

Ana, 22 and working double shifts as a cashier in Azusa, became the family’s reluctant voice. “Sulmy was our light,” she told KTLA through tears, her words tumbling in a bilingual torrent. “She crossed deserts at 14 to build a future here, and now… this? The driver took her, but the system traps us in paperwork hell. Autopsy, coroner fees, embalming, casket, flight—it’s $12,000 we don’t have. Back home, her village waits with marigolds and prayers. She deserves to rest with her ancestors.” The fundraiser details the labyrinth: Los Angeles County Sheriff’s morgue holds Sulmy’s body, pending release after toxicology (standard in fatalities). International repatriation demands FDA-compliant embalming, hermetic seals, and airline cargo manifests—costs that soar for low-wage families. Guatemalan consulate officials in Los Angeles offered condolences and paperwork guidance, but no direct aid, citing resource strains from a migrant surge. “We’re not asking for pity,” Ana posted in an update, “but for humanity. Every dollar brings her closer to the mountains she loved.”

Monrovia’s response has been a mosaic of heartbreak and heroism. The high school principal, Dr. Gwendolyn Walker, dimmed lights on campus for a vigil on October 7, hundreds gathering under string lights with candles and cempasúchil flowers—Day of the Dead harbingers repurposed for Sulmy’s immediate heaven. “She was Wildcat proud,” Walker said, unveiling a mural of Sulmy’s silhouette against the Sierra Madre backdrop, painted by art club peers. Local Latina organizations, from the Pacific Clinics to the Monrovia Multicultural Association, rallied with potlucks and petition drives urging the DA’s office to classify the hit-and-run as vehicular manslaughter. “This isn’t just a crash; it’s a symptom,” argued community advocate Rosa Mendoza at a rally outside City Hall. “Immigrant kids walk these streets dreaming big, but drivers speed through like we’re invisible. We demand speed cameras on Duarte, better lighting, crosswalk enforcers.” Pasadena’s Chicano/Chicana Student Union extended solidarity, hosting a benefit concert with mariachi bands covering “Cielito Lindo,” proceeds funneled to the GoFundMe.

Yet, the story’s tendrils stretch beyond Monrovia’s borders, weaving into America’s fractured narrative on migration and mortality. Sulmy’s tragedy echoes a chorus of stolen futures: the 53 Guatemalans suffocated in a San Antonio truck in 2022, the 7-year-old Jakelin Caal Maquin lost to sepsis in Border Patrol custody in 2018, the day laborer Carlos Roberto Montoya Valdez, struck on the 210 Freeway while fleeing an ICE raid in Monrovia just two months prior. Montoya’s death, in August 2025, had galvanized the same streets—vigils at the Home Depot where he sought work, outrage from the National Day Laborer Organizing Network decrying federal tactics that “turn parking lots into kill zones.” Sulmy, too, walked in that shadow; her family had navigated checkpoints and whispers of raids, choosing Duarte Road’s relative calm over urban fray. Experts like Dr. Cecilia Menjívar, a sociologist at UCLA specializing in Central American migration, frame these losses as “structural violence.” “Guatemalans flee extortion, femicide, climate collapse,” she explains in a recent op-ed. “They arrive to build, only to face hit-and-runs where fleeing drivers evade justice 70% of the time, per NHTSA data. Repatriation? It’s a luxury tax on grief.”

The Lópezes’ plea has ignited national ripples. Telemundo’s Los Angeles affiliate aired a segment on October 9, interviewing Ana amid stacks of condolence cards, her voice cracking: “Sulmy wanted to be a nurse, to heal like the curanderas back home. Now, we heal by bringing her peace.” Social media amplified the call—#TraeASulmyDeVuelta trending on X, with influencers from Bad Bunny’s orbit sharing the link, donations spiking 300% overnight. In Guatemala, Quiché’s mayor declared a local day of mourning, villagers gathering at the López family finca with velas and viudas—widow’s weeds—preparing a plot overlooking Lake Atitlán. “Our girl returns as a saint,” said elder Doña Rosa, Sulmy’s great-aunt, to a Univision crew. “But the wound? That driver must answer to God and man.”

As October 11 unfolds, the clock ticks mercilessly. Monrovia PD’s tip line hums with leads—a blurry license plate from a Lyft driver’s cam, a witness recalling a panicked man at a nearby gas station ditching a fender fragment. Fundraising inches toward the goal, bolstered by a $5,000 match from the Monrovia Chamber of Commerce. José pores over maps, plotting the route from LAX cargo to Guatemala City’s Aeropuerto La Aurora, then the winding bus to Quiché. Maria lights a vela each dawn, whispering to La Virgen de Guadalupe: “Guide her wings home.” Ana updates the GoFundMe hourly, her posts a blend of despair and defiance: “Sulmy’s smile saved us daily. Now, let’s save her journey.”

This isn’t merely a family’s lament; it’s a clarion against indifference. Hit-and-runs claim 2,000 lives yearly in California alone, per CHP stats, with pedestrian fatalities up 45% since 2019—disproportionately Latino youth in borderland suburbs. Sulmy’s story demands more: stricter penalties under AB 2965’s hit-and-run enhancements, federal grants for immigrant funeral aid, community funds modeled on Montoya’s repatriation drive. As donors click “contribute,” they don’t just fund a flight; they affirm a girl’s worth, a migration’s dignity.

In Monrovia’s twilight, where Duarte Road hums on oblivious, Sulmy’s absence carves a chasm. But in that void blooms something fierce: unity, from Quiché’s highlands to the San Gabriels’ base. The Lópezes wait, hearts freighted with hope. Will you help carry her home? The road ahead is long, but Sulmy’s light—once a whisper across borders—now roars for justice.