Branded In a World Of Gang Warfare

The hallways of J.E.B. Stuart High School in Fairfax County, from which Fernandez, 18, graduated this year, were "infested" with gangs, he said. Members seemed to see it as "their job" to beat anyone who looked at them wrong.

Fernandez, born to a Peruvian mother and a Cuban father, couldn't relate. His mother and stepfather, with whom he lives, work at the World Bank. He wears AC/DC T-shirts and plays drums in a rock band.

But fear is a part of his life. When he missed the school bus, he insisted that his mother drive him so that he would not have to walk through the Culmore neighborhood, a hub for gang activity. She protested, until she saw the news reports.

'Please, I'm Like You'

Puro miedo -- pure fear. That's what Teresa Martinez feels every time her 16-year-old son goes to work at Westfield Shoppingtown Wheaton, the site of the stabbings at the Target.

She has warned him not to wear earrings or tattoos. She's worried that his longish hair, fashionable among gangsters, will stereotype him.

More important, she has begun to ask him questions and learn more about him and his world.

"Now I'm checking everything," Martinez said. "I'm much more alert to what he has in his bedroom, the music he listens to and their lyrics."

The vast majority of gangs' crime targets are impoverished Latinos who are here illegally. They can no longer open bank accounts because of homeland security laws. Many carry their savings on their bodies, according to community social workers.

Two Latino gang members recently lured Jose Navas, 26, a slim, soft-voiced Guatemalan laborer, with the promise of $12 an hour to move furniture. They drove him to their apartment building in Langley Park, chatting the whole way in Spanish, building up his hopes.

In the building's basement, one of them pressed a knife against his throat.

"Please, I'm like you," Navas said he pleaded with the robbers. "I've come to this country to do my best. I have a lot of people to support back home."

The two men grinned.

"The money you are taking is for my mother," continued Navas. "She's sick."

"We are not interested," one of them said. "It's your money or your life."

Navas handed them $100. It wasn't enough. They wanted his sneakers, too. Navas took them off, and they left. He waited half an hour, sweating, praying that they wouldn't come back.