12/10/22

By Josh Rubin

He is from Venezuela. We are on the flat-scraped bank of the cement-channeled Río Bravo, watching around fifty people who have crossed to the US side wait patiently in a line to turn themselves in to the Border Patrol up a slope on the opposite bank.

Where we stand had been a small town of tents set up by mostly Venezuelans who got caught in the ever-shifting sands of the US policy of deterrence. The last shift was a collaboration with Mexico that created that small settlement, then wiped it away when considered an eyesore, bulldozed down, scraped clean.

He traveled for three months to get here. Four days in the jungles of the Darién Gap. Through Mexico on La Bestia, riding atop the train, hopping on while moving. He shows me his bruises and abrasions. He tells me what he thinks I should hear.

There was a mother with a small child atop the train car. Two-year old girl, held by the mother, when the girl’s heart gave out. The mother’s agonized voice rose above the roar of the train. There was nothing but desert to both sides. The train did not stop. Someone knew CPR and tried. The little girl was never revived. The train reached its destination with the girl’s mother still clutching her in her arms.

He holds his heart and so do I, as we watch the line of homeless people slowly move up the opposite bank.