What are we to do?
Where are we to go?
Ahhh, I’m just going
to sleep,
praying and watching
the rain fall.
“At dawn we’re leaving.
We’re going to cross
the border.
We will be in the North
once and for all,”
my mamá and my papá
say firmly.
That’s what we all feel
in the caravan.
Everyone wants to get to the North.
Everyone is tired.
Everyone wants to go to the wall and cross over.
A Honduran kid
says in a loud voice,
stirring up the whole caravan,
“Tomorrow we will cross the wall,
tomorrow we get to the North!!!”
“Yessss!!!” the voice of the caravan
answers excitedly.
That night it is quiet,
just the wind blowing,
and when the rain dies down
you can hear some snoring
or migrants whispering to each other.
Morning comes fast.
We are waiting for it.
We are all nervous.
We are all on our feet.
We all want to go.
“Let’s go north!!!”
a voice says,
and everyone answers,
“Let’s go!!!”
Once again, we are walking.
We are heading toward the border,
toward the wall.
I can’t wait
to get to the North.
I want all this to be over.
It feels like we’re in the middle
of a bunch of poisonous snakes.
There are lots of people
shouting chants
against us.
They say we are criminals.
That we are drug dealers.
They say we are bad people.
I’m confused,
I’m scared.
My hair is standing on end.
In the distance I see the wall.
It’s big, with barbed wire on top.
It has bars.
It looks like a huge jail.
“Uyyyy,” I say.
The people keep yelling.
Some say that Tijuana
doesn’t want us.
Others say
they’ll give us work.
I don’t understand.
I’m just scared.
I’m in front of the wall.
People are climbing it
and crossing over.
There are immigration trucks,
police with shields
and soldiers everywhere.
I’m really, really, really scared.
They shoot tear gas.
People are running every which way.
I hear screams
and wails.
My mamá takes my hand
and holds me.
My papá hugs my brother Martín.
“Run, we have to run!!!”
my mamá says.
Everyone is running.
Some are crying from the gas,
some are crying from sadness.
Finally we get
far enough away.
We’re near the sea.
I see the waves break
and roll north,
and no one
says a word to them.
The waves, like the North, the wind,
can go where they want.
If someone were a wave …
If only I were the North, the wind.
If only all the migrants
were like the North,
like the wind
or the waves …
When I get back to the wall
I’m tired.
Some come crying,
or they say nothing.
Everyone is tired.
I Dreamed
I fell asleep and I dreamed.
I dreamed I was flying,
I dreamed I was a song,
I dreamed I was a butterfly,
I dreamed I was a fish
and a wave.
I dreamed
the sweetest dream of all.
Instead of going to the North,
I went back to El Salvador.
Afterword
On October 30, 2018, I heard that a caravan of fellow citizens from El Salvador was gathering at the Plaza Divino Salvador del Mundo and planning to leave the following morning for the United States. Over thirty-five years ago, I had done the same. My heart, the heart of a refugee and immigrant, understood what they were doing. That evening, I visited the public square to share a cup of coffee with them, some pan dulce, a word of encouragement … The hundreds of Salvadorans who had arrived were willing to undertake the long and dangerous walk of over 2,500 miles (4,000 km) to reach the Tijuana border to the United States. They were willing to risk their lives and those of their children.
“We prefer to die trying than to die of hunger here, or have the gangs kill us,” said one woman. Most of the people were from the countryside. Those who brought luggage had a small bag, a sweater or jacket, and the hope of making it to the United States — to the North. They also hoped that, once there, the reasons that had forced them to flee El Salvador would be heard and judged sufficient to allow them to remain as refugees and rebuild their lives. The immigrants carried with them the hope of meeting generous people along the way. Fortunately, they did. In Mexico and Guatemala, people offered them shelter and humanitarian support to allow them to continue their long walk north.
I ask myself what people like Misael Martínez, his family and the thousands of Central American immigrants are doing in Tijuana. Despite the great obstacles to enter the United States, some of them must have kept going. Others must have found work while they wait for their requests for refugee status to be resolved. Others must be tired of all the uncertainty and not know what to do: whether to continue waiting in Tijuana, and make it to the North one day, or to return to their countries. I wonder what Misael is planning to do …
I’ve written this text in my eagerness to share the voices of hope, of anguish, of the thousands of immigrants from Central America who abandon our countries because of all the violence and the lack of opportunities. In their midst, I saw people who were hard workers, humble, desperate and tired of suffering.
Jorge Argueta
Map
Caravan to the North Page 3