The diary of a migrant child
The police were after us. I spotted three patrol cars, but there could’ve been more: they all had their sirens on; Although I couldn’t see their faces, I felt their unbounded hatred towards us. I was petrified at that moment; it was as if it was happening all over again, they would catch us again. All those images returned to my head: the horror, the dread, the mourning—everything seemed to repeat itself as if it were a perverse, cursed, vicious cycle.
Suddenly, the driver taking us out of Mexico City made a very violent turn to the side of the road, stopped dead, and yelled at us. “Get out, get out! I’ll come back for you later!” We scrammed out of the car and ran towards some bushes that were on the side of the road. The policemen didn’t even see us—or at least that’s what I tried to tell myself. Many questions flooded my mind in that moment of chaos, doubts weighed down on my conscience for a fraction of a second until I realized that I left my backpack in the car. Goodbye to my medicine, my food, and my things. Fortunately, I managed to bring my jacket with me, although, on second thought, it probably wasn’t a good idea to wear something that heavy in the desert.
We went into the bushes: there was nothing but cacti, those strange, dangerous plants, and lots of flies. Lots of flies. We were stranded in the middle of nowhere; our only company was the presence of the majestic, blue, midday sky. Of the 17 people who accompanied me, only two remained: Juan and Marcos. I had no idea what had become of our group, I feared for them, and I hoped the police hadn’t caught them, but from the way things looked, it had most likely been so. In that desert where lost souls wandered, there was nothing but an ominous and depressing aura of loneliness. Its sad monotony was broken up by an enormous, beautiful hill full and vibrant colors that loomed in the distance. We lied down on the ground while looking at the view, given there was nothing else to do in a situation like this. I noticed that my group was starting to get worried, but I didn’t understand why; our guide said he would come back for us, and I had no reason to mistrust him. The hours passed. We began to feel hungry, but there was nothing to eat. We felt thirsty, but we had nothing to drink. We got bored, but we had nothing to do. At that point, our only hope was that they would come back for us.
I had never been in a situation like this: hungry and lost in unfamiliar territory. Who knows, maybe that was my divine punishment for never having been a good Christian. Maybe, after all, there was a God, and he was rejoicing in that moment of my suffering. In that little period of despair, I decided to do something I hadn’t done in years: pray. I thought that my words would not be ignored this time, unlike the previous times. “Father, please, I beg you to help us. Please, send someone to help us.” I was about to continue, but Juan’s “no one is coming” made me stop short, I decided to stop wasting my time and instead I lay down on the ground, a huge thorn stuck in my chest. back, ignored the pain, and went to sleep for a while. I kept looking up at the sky. Not sleeping well for two weeks had wreaked havoc on my head, which led me to unsurprisingly falling asleep as soon as my head hit the ground.
I woke up sweating, no one was there: They had abandoned me again. I jumped up and looked at the time on my phone: it was five in the afternoon, and they had left us there since noon. I wandered around for a few minutes, needing to clear my head. I found Juan and Marcos sitting on a log a few meters from where I’d slept. “No luck,” Juan said despondently, with visible sadness on his face. “They’re not coming. They saw our stupid faces” Marcos scowled with visible anger and hatred. I did not lose hope, it was the only thing I had left. I don’t know why I didn’t feel afraid, I think I was a little desensitized at that moment; already having been in the icy jaws of death so many times most likely did nothing more than make me look forward to that moment of joy. At that point, I didn’t mind dying: if I had stayed in El Salvador, I would have anyway. Dying there was preferable to dying at the hands of those gang members.
By the time night had come, we had resigned ourselves: it was very hard to accept that they were not going to come back for us. Despite having paid them thousands of dollars, they’d left us lying around like we were nothing more than garbage. My phone had low battery, plus, in that inhospitable area, there was no signal for me to send even a basic text message.
“Let’s go,” Juan directed.
“But where?” Marcos replied, still convinced that they would come looking for us. “And what if he comes and doesn’t find us?” He expressed, being sure of himself. We decided that the best thing would be to get out of there. The worst that could happen is that other people living here would snitch on us and have us deported.
It was very dark. We walked through the open desert between huge cracks and dozens of thorny plants; we had to be careful. After about 30 minutes without stopping, we came to a small intersection that appeared to connect to the main road. In the distance, we saw a little pink house that seemed to be a store, just like the one my grandmother had. There were people outside buying bread and other things that I couldn’t quite make out. In that moment of hope, my thoughts suddenly became clear. I took out my phone. I had 8 percent battery left. In that adrenaline rush, I realized I had enough signal to make a call. I called my mother, and she answered suddenly. The first thing I heard was a cold cry that came out of her mouth like a sob. She was horrified by what had happened to us, but at the same time, she was happy to have the ability to hear my voice again. She said that she would call Héctor, the puppeteer, right then. Immediately after saying that, my phone turned off: the battery died. Fear filled the three of us. We didn’t know what to expect from such a banal interaction. How were they going to find us— with what address? Well, they would do something, or at least that was what we expected. Deep down inside of me, somewhere in my gut, there next to my liver, I knew that everything would be fine. We decided that we would return the next day first thing in the morning to see if the store owner could help us. After a long and uncomfortable pause, we turned around and headed back to our starting point. The night was very long. What a horrible night to have a curse.
This was just the beginning, it was the first of what would be seven days. Seven days in the middle of that violent and inhospitable place. During those seven days, many things happened, good and bad, like everything in life. Luckily, in that little misadventure I was able to meet some kind and charitable souls who, if it hadn’t been for their help, I wouldn’t be here recounting these events. We were lost for seven days, without food, water, support, and someone to listen to us. Each day that passed was one more nail in my coffin, one more regret; regret for having decided to take that fateful trip that would only demolish my hope. This experience changed me forever, made me the man I am today, and allowed me to learn a valuable life lesson: sometimes help can come from the most unexpected people. Goodness is everywhere. People believe that humans are cruel and evil by nature, but this experience made me learn otherwise and realize that in this world, there are still people in solidarity with values and principles of the highest caliber. I will continue this story when I consider it pertinent.
