72 migrantes.
Peyeto: Be generous to me and allow me to call you with the same nickname the ones who loved you in Suyapa did, your poor neighborhood Nacaome southern Honduras. I’m writing to you full of shame. I have carried it since August 24, when I heard you were dead two days ago. I almost didn’t know anything about you, then .you were a body stacked with other 71, your face was missing, identity, biography. They weren’t needed. I distressed imagine your fear, thinking of the cold, in the cruelty, in the previous rumble. I wished that was a lie, that the ranch where they found, were somewhere else. Not in Mexico. We murder you. my grief is greater now than I have been unraveling your story. It hurts me, Peter, knowing that you were only 26 years old, that you were a brave man. Nothing seemed able to stop the way you had chose. the pain you felt last year after knowing that your daughter had died didn’t kill you. Nor sadness defeated you when your wife left you. No.
You decided instead to give a turn to your life, grab the road north from there and help your parents, that today find no comfort. No desististe when the owner of Gift of God, the business for which you used deliver bread, believed that by refusing to pay the money he owned, you would have regret of leaving. Nor worked out that last conversation with the oldest of your four brothers, who also came to Mexico threw to the United States, and lived so many horrible things that vowed never to return to the land from which he was deported. Was your visit to Mexico which cut short your walk. Sorry Peyeto.
Hi Alex — this version is incomplete, but the one you handed in is complete. Here’s an initial edit, as I send it off to Alma.
41
Pedro Antonio Rubio García
By Lucia Irabien
Peyeto: Be generous to me and let me call you by the same nickname your loved ones use in Suyapa, your poor barrio of Nacaome, in southern Honduras. I’m writing you full of shame. I have carried it since August 24, when I heard you’d been dead for two days. I knew almost nothing about you then. You were a body stacked up with 72 others. Your face was missing, your identity, your biography. They weren’t needed. It distressed me to imagine your fear, to think of the cold, the cruelty, the harsh sound that rang out just before. I wished it were a lie, that the ranch where they found you were somewhere else. Not in Mexico. We murdered you.
My grief is greater now than I’ve been unraveling your story. It hurts me, Pedro, knowing that you were only 26 years old, that you were a brave man. Nothing could keep you from the path you had chosen. The pain you felt last year when you learned that your daughter had died didn’t kill you. Nor did sadness defeat you when your wife left. No. You decided instead to give a new turn to your life, take the road north, and help your parents, who can find no comfort anywhere now. It didn’t stop you when the owner of Gift of God, the business you used deliver bread for, believed that by refusing to pay the money he owed you he could make you change your mind about leaving. Nor were you affected by that last conversation with the oldest of your four brothers, who also went to Mexico on the road to the United States and lived through so many horrible things there that vowed never to return to that land from which he was deported. It was your visit to Mexico that cut short your walk.
Sorry, Peyeto. Because we knew about it and did nothing. Because before you 1, 145 Hondurans have died on their way north int he last eight years, according to the Foreign Ministry of your country. Because we prefer to throw the blame somewhere else. Because we didn’t see you. Because we don’t know how to demand justice for you. Forgive me. Because as I write this and someone else reads it, the fear, the cold, the anxiety, the pain, will be repeated in someone else. I’m sorry. Because again there are mothers whose souls are shattered by an absence, and nephews like yours yelling “Uncle! I want to see you alive!” at a motionless body. And I’m just sitting here, bemoaning our misfortune.
EAllen — December 9, 2013 @ 6:54 pm