Sruthi Kalavacherla
A child’s cry pierced the blue sky. I followed the turn along the unpaved dirt path, the sun relentless as it beat down my back. Gabriela and I were holding onto each other desperately––two among hundreds under the Mexican sun. For the first time in my life, I missed home.
“Mamá, I’m tired,” Gabriela whispered, unable to find her voice. “I hope we can find water soon.”
Gabriela’s bright, inquiring eyes were now blank as she stared into the crowd around us. I ran my fingers through her curly brown hair––the only part of her father she may ever be able to remember.
“Have patience, mija. Our toil will be worth it soon.”
Guatemala was becoming more and more dangerous by the day. The neighborhood women’s whispers and warnings crept into my thoughts every night. Did you hear Señora Ramirez’s daughter was raped? Have you seen Diego? I heard he finally joined the gang that was threatening him! Such a shame that poor Isabel’s husband was shot. He probably owed someone money! Such stories spread like wildfires through the favela.
But nothing could ever happen to us, right? We lived in a tight community where neighbors were almost like our family, spending most of our days in our small, one room house in Guatemala. Every night, my husband would come home from a long day at work with a flower or trinket for Gabriela that he managed to find on the way. We didn’t have much, but at least we had each other.
It was her sixth birthday a few days ago––in her mind, the age that made her a grown up. She put on her cleanest clothes and sat at our small, wooden table, swinging her legs and telling me the extravagant plans she had for a birthday party.
“I can’t wait for Papa’s gift” she giggled.
We waited for him to come home, spending the slow minutes by telling made up stories of a different universe. Yet soon it started to feel like night had crept into our home and was taunting us. It was hot outside but I felt a chill crawl up my spine. Something felt off––it was getting late. Where had he gone?
“He is probably finding you a gift, Gabriela. He will be home soon.” I said.
But she was already asleep.
That night, my worst nightmare had become a reality. He was taken from us––plucked like a beautiful rose from a bush. Dozens of neighbors came to convey their condolences, but the world was blurring behind me. I put on a smile, thanking them blankly, not listening to a single word that they had said. I didn’t know what to tell Gabriela or even myself, but I did know that it was time for us to leave.
I was shaken from my memories of home as a woman a few feet ahead of us collapsed with a feeble cry, overcome with exhaustion. It had been so long since we left.
I remembered the tears as the neighbors and my childhood friends hugged me goodbye, giving us words of caution. My best friend Maria was falling asleep, tears staining her cheeks, on our tattered sofa when I saw a figure approaching my door. It was Doña Lucia, the old widow in the neighborhood who rarely spoke to anyone, yet walked with her head held high despite the sadness in her eyes. I was surprised, but welcomed her inside and offered her a seat, even though it was getting late.
“Mija,” she said in a hoarse voice. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose everyone and everything. You still have Gabriela.”
The story of Doña Lucia was an infamous one that the women in the town often talked about, even though her tale got twisted as the years progressed. Her son had tried to escape to the United States when he was young, but twelve years have gone by with no word from him. I tried to shake off the chilling, worrying thought of Maurizio’s fate. If a strong man like Doña Lucia’s son could not make it, how could I?
It was soon dawn, and I pushed Doña Lucia’s words into the back of my mind, although her visit shook my confidence momentarily.
I remembered the biting wind that followed us as we made our way out of the small favela that we called home. The April rain tormented us with light drops on our heads, and the hardened, muddy pathway began to crack under my heavy footsteps as I turned around for a last look. Cement homes with tattered walls. Large families packed together under a single roof. Dirty water, little electricity, no comfort. But I still felt a lump in my throat with the thought that I may never see my home again. I continued to turn around every dozen steps––the vision of life as I knew it getting smaller and smaller with every step forward. I had to squint to see the outlines of the houses. I told Gabriela that I saw Maria waving back at us, though I knew it was just a broken wire flapping in the rain. Part of me wanted to believe that it really was Maria. I started to feel like every footprint marked another mile away from home.
We took our time on our journey, taking breaks in the shade every so often until we reached a set of rundown, rickety train tracks in the middle of Tapachula, a Mexican town on the Guatemalan border. As a native Spanish speaker, the crossing into Mexico was fairly easy and uneventful. I remembered the anticipation Gabriela and I felt as we waited for La Bestia, the cargo train that would take us to our new lives. Ignacio, one of my friends since childhood, told me that he had connections who could get me inside the train, rather than on top where I would be vulnerable to the local gangs. I had faith in him, and I left some money under his door when I left.
Ignacio’s friend met us in Tapachula when we reached, his height and stature exactly as Ignacio had described. He was wearing a black hood that covered his eyes, his voice finding it hard to whisper in the night. He was a man of a few words, only telling me that I need to meet him in the early morning at the same place.
The loud noise of the train approaching struck me awake, and I held Gabriela tightly as I got ready to board La Bestia. Dozens of people were packed atop the train car like an unsightly, overgrown houseplant. I waited until it was safe to climb into one of the cargo doors that Ignacio’s friend told me I could enter. I squeezed my way into the center, holding my breath, and gripping my backpack tightly. There were others in the cramped car, and I knew that if I closed my eyes for even a second, I could still get robbed, killed, or Gabriela could be taken from me. I did not have a lot of money in my backpack, as it was just the money my husband saved from his job. I could tell that a lot of the people on the train were just as poor, if not poorer than me. Anyone could steal.
A bony, young child was laying down on the floor of the train car, as people stepped around him as if he was just a piece of garbage. He was breathing heavily, fingers trembling, and was nearly shaking hands with death. I looked into his glossy eyes, and I could not help but see Gabriela in them. If I lost her on this journey, she would surely end up like him. The mere thought of it gave me chills. It was apparent that the poisonous touch of disease spread to many others in the car, and as the wheels turned faster, people began falling onto the tracks from the roof, their screams ringing in my ears. I leaned to help the child, but the touch of Gabriela’s fingers reminded me that I have my own child to worry about.
I took a second to survey the others in the train. I saw a girl of my age sitting at the edge of the car, her pale hands clasped together. Her light brown hair fell past her shoulders. The pain in her eyes seeped through and tainted her pretty face. My gaze shifted to a mother rocking her two children back and forth as she hummed a tearful melody. I saw an old man with no bags, holding a framed picture tightly to his chest as he closed his eyes and prayed. The only words I heard in the first few hours in the train were from the train car itself, its frequent hiccups jostling me from my seat. Gabriela had become silent as well, only opening her mouth to yawn or ask me how much longer. Her voice broke the silence in the car, infecting the others with the venom of her youthful hope.
After a while, the rhythmic hum of the train wheels put Gabriela to sleep. A crack in the car door let the cool, night breeze sneak inside every now and then. For the first time, I could take a second and think clearly about our journey. I was always apprehensive about leaving to America. After all, why would anyone be willing to take in thousands of immigrants, especially those who can’t speak the same language? The connection I felt between myself and the others in the train was that none of us were fleeing from the crushing poverty or economic hardships of our homelands. Rather, there was an imminent harm and danger that came with staying in Guatemala––one that felt like an engulfing fire, with the only fire escape being to America. I am not the kind of person to invite myself or impose upon somebody’s home. I was only willing this time to protect Gabriela from a world of danger.
Along the way, after spending many nights at various safe houses and multiple train crossings, we approached the border. Even though the train crosses into America, many experienced travelers planned to jump off several miles early to avoid confronting immigration officials. On one particular day, just as the journey started feeling unbearable, people’s voices began to rise, encouraging everyone to get off the train. All of the passengers hurried off, trampling others and losing their belongings to thieves that hid among the crowd. I followed them, taking careful strides forward.
A few days ago, I had woken up inside the car to find half of my money and water supply stolen. Gabriela and I had lost a lot of weight, and we were in desperate need of a shower and shelter. I was still thankful, though, as many others had suffered much worse on this travel, yet only a fraction of them made it this far. The young child I had seen on the first day and the woman and her two sons disappeared as if someone had blown out a candle.
But I still saw the quiet old man and his framed picture. His presence gave me hope.
Three more days of walking under the blistering sun of Mexico to reach the border, watching your back every step of the way, hoping that a Mexican officer would not suspect you. The roads teemed with officers, and some were crueler than death itself. A quarter of the money I had left went to a bribe that I was forced to give when an officer caught us sneaking in the midst of the night.
“It’s dangerous for a woman like you to travel like this,” he scoffed. “You’re lucky you even made it this far, chica.”
Most of our food and water were gone and we were only halfway there.
As we traveled slowly, we encountered other immigrants every so often. All of them were weak and exhausted, praying for a break from this endless trek. If we were lucky, we would find a shelter for the night, but more often than not we slept under the cold blanket of the stars.
As the sun shone harder, the sound of crying infants, screaming parents, and astray families began to echo in my ears. I was lost––had we reached the border? The way that the people back home described it, I had imagined an entirely different scene. I imagined a place of orderly lines, with officers outnumbering the immigrants. I imagined a place that was less crowded, and one that was less tearful. Every path we tried was blocked by tall, intimidating officers. Gabriela’s forehead was burning up as she barely kept herself standing.
“Señora,” a voice called. “I can help.”
I spent the very last of our dollars on the coyote who offered to help us cross the border. He wore a hood and his face was covered by shadows. I had no choice other than to trust him. He promised that he would help us and a few others make it across as fast as possible.
Time became blurry as the coyote stealthily led us forward. Yet all of a sudden, it had felt as if the world came to an abrupt halt. A small breeze danced past me, and with it came the realization that we had finally made it across the border. Gabriela let go of my hand for the first time in weeks. Just when we thought our ordeals were over, two bright headlights blinded me.
Before I could collect all of my thoughts, a tall, olive green shadow came out of the car towards me. I opened my mouth to speak, but he picked up Gabriela and pointed me to the left. Initially, I let out an uncomfortable laugh and tried to take Gabriela back from him, but he was stronger than I was.
“Mama!” she cried.
With that, the man and Gabriela disappeared, and I looked until I saw the last of her bright yellow dress fade into the crowd.
There have been only two other times in my life that I had felt such pain. From the day that Gabriela was born, this was the first time that I let her go. It’ll only be for a few hours, I comforted myself. I’ll see her soon, and we can start a new adventure together. As I stood in the center of the hundreds of adults, the line moving inch by inch, I restrained from imagining where Gabriela was.
They led all of us into a small building, where the man next to me said that each of us will be interviewed in order to be granted asylum. I distracted myself by imagining our new life in America.
Time began slipping away, and I started to doubt whether or not I would even get interviewed. It had been at least four days since they brought us here. The murmurs in the room finally quieted as a large man came to the front of the room, leading us again into a different building. This one was large, almost like a stadium. Words came out of his mouth, but they were in English. I could tell only a few people had understood him as a handful of faces changed instantly. But the man repeated himself in Spanish.
As the end of his sentence rolled off his tongue, all hope in that room had been turned off as if the man flipped a light switch. None of us were granted asylum––they weren’t even willing to talk to anyone personally, to know our stories. There was a silence as we filed out of the room.
I waited for Gabriela where the officer had taken her from me. Minutes passed by and soon those minutes passed into hours.
“What are you doing, miss?” a gentle voice spoke. I looked up to see her, but my eyes were still blurry from the tears.
“I’m waiting for my daughter.”
“Haven’t you heard?” I could see the voice clearly now. It was coming from a woman a few years older than me––her eyes tired like a mother’s eyes. “The children aren’t coming back.”
I didn’t believe her at first, but the emotion that struck me when I first arrived all started to make sense. It had been at least seven days since she was taken from me. I sat in the cold and prayed, along with hundreds of other parents waiting for their children to come back.
Days turned into weeks, and it became clear that Gabriela was not coming back. I had no business staying in Mexico, so I began my journey back home, exhausted and numb. I boarded La Bestia for the second time, even though this time I was on top of the train. The train was very empty compared to last time, and most of the people I saw were people I had seen at the border.
Anytime I heard a child’s cry on the train, it felt as if my heart had been ripped from my chest. I would even hear Gabriela’s soft voice at times, her smile plastered across my mind. When the nights got cold and the days got lonelier, I considered jumping off the train. I had no money, no food, no child. What did I have to lose?
But I pushed myself to complete the journey, keeping myself sane with the thought that Gabriela could find me someday. I know my little girl–– she may be young, but she would not let me become another Doña Lucia.