“Tu estas con inmigración, no voy a hablar contigo…”
I nearly lost my breath under the hot sun, I thought they would have some sort of baggage, they were covered in dirt with only the clothes on their backs.
Manny, age 23 from Honduras, left his family three months ago. His neighborhood is marked on his face in fading black ink. He arrived today from the south. South of everywhere it seems. He has been travelling for the past 30 days in Mexico, he and his friends are amongst around 40 immigrants headed towards the United States whom arrived earlier via train.
The next hour involved a similar process with the guerrilla in Colombia: proof, proof I was not with the immigration and not the enemy. Arturo, 34, arriving from El Salvador, informed me of the Mexican immigration police that killed his brother 20 days ago on the same trip after arriving in Chiapas.
They all left an hour ago, around 8:00 pm at night running, running to grab ahold of the side of the train to move towards the roof. Three of the twelve immigrants I talked to have already lost fingers and many more have not even made it to Guadalajara.
Three blocks away sits the street Chapultapec. There, hipsters, fresas, and the wealthy class of the city meet, and even amongst the poverty of this country, there seems to be a disregard for the other Latinos traveling north. Welcome to the first world, Mexico.
This coincides with reports that several U.S. border states are clamoring for more troops to cordon off Mexico’s unprecedented drug violence. Only the violence isn’t unprecedented. Nor is the deep American denial as to its origins. And through America, Mexico’s government submits.
"Ven con nosotros.." he said as they left Guadalajara for Nayarit and further Culiacán. And so I will.
Cerca de la fábrica de cerveza de Modelo en la calle niños héroes puede encontrarlos. diario.
You do not have to feel guilty, we just need to pay more attention.