Why Bother Anymore?

The Mejía girl was already raped by coyotes while crossing into Guatemala.

Pedrito, the one from the Martínez family, wounded his foot in the mud; it turned gangrenous, and he died.

The Hernández family has spent years begging from corner to corner, from town to town, from country to country.

Teresita González’s child died of hunger, even after he had grown used to not eating.

When they look back, the Ahumada family can no longer see the little house their parents built for them.

The soul of the Páez family has fallen silent, and their eyes have grown used to despair.

The fate of Mr. Buendía—the businessman who once gave work to the whole neighborhood—ended in expropriation.

We are already far away, without a ticket back; far away like millions of steps on burning asphalt, like millions of worn-out soles or bare feet.

We are no longer all together; we have had to live beneath bridges, under rain and sun, and under immeasurable hatred.

Nachito, the eldest of the Pérez family, now sits in jail at the border for stealing food for those who wait for him in hunger.

We have become pariahs.

We are far from the border now, crossing countries that offer us a cocktail of compassion and contempt.

Everywhere we are seen as gypsies, thieves, intruders.

Dignity may no longer be visible, though it still endures.

We have grown used to seeing the bodies of friends and acquaintances drifting down the rivers that border our journey as the expelled.

It no longer surprises us to see our makeshift shelters burned in any park or street corner.