November 2019
By Josh Rubin
Let Them Cross.
They are camped along the river bank, the south bank. Smoke rises from the clay stoves they have built to cook food that somehow was purchased with scant resources from a store 45 minutes away. The view from the south bank, across the muddy river, deep enough to bathe in, is of the tent courts rising into the sky on the north bank.
Those tent courts hold their fate. And their fate is nearly certain. The chances of being granted asylum are slim to none. But, just as people with enough loose change buy themselves lottery tickets, people with little choice hang on to hope. Perhaps lightning will strike...
And anyway, what else is there to do? Here by the river, they can band together with others for protection, and there are volunteers pulling their wagons full of food and clothing and, when needed, medicine. Pedialyte when small children suffer diarrhea, to keep them from dehydration. It is a long way back to Honduras, or Guatemala, and what little resources they have must be shepherded, to keep life and limb together while they wait.
In Spanish, the word esperar means to wait. It also means to hope. They are waiting. They are hoping. The end of this policy of deliberate cruelty is their only hope.
Shall we gather at the river?
Jan. 12.
