72 Migrantes – Unidentified Guatemalan Female Immigrant (#64)
Unidentified Guatemalan Female Immigrant
It’s been days, weeks now, that I’ve been looking thinking of you looking for you, wondering whether you look like the undocumented Guatemalan girl that I met four years ago at the Tapachula immigration station which was like a golden cage. The girl was about to be deported-joint repatriation, as you say it in the correct language in immigrant institutions, that report with white gloves and handcuffs if necessary. It wasn’t the first time she tried going north and crossing over, it was the second time they’d deported her and she went on smiling with that adventurous look on her face, ironically clutching the obligatory booklet on her human rights.
Remembering her, vital and brilliant, I asked myself what was her experience, an anonymous dead girl. If it was your first time when all 13 women, certainly all very young, were ambushed, as if being locked in a cradle, as if they were animals in which it was a total of seventy two people, threaten and beaten to be accepted for the “offer” that they made to work for “them” and for the females, so they could pay with their own bodies and be brought into disappearance and the secrecy of this treatment, this is a perverse business in which ones’ own body is used and abused like a slave.
The unidentified girl from Guatemala whom I look for in my imagination was willing to try again and again, leave-cross-arrive, to stop feeling used and abused by her own community, by men who claimed to care about her but who abused her. She kept dreaming about a more valuable and free life, she planned to escape, she got together with a girl her age, they collected some money, set off, and finally were able to cross the Suchiate by paying some quetzals. It was in Mexico where the worst started, although they decided not to get on the train, but to walk as much as possible, they had blisters on their exhausted feet so they decided to take some bus. They were detained because of their skin color and their way of talking, as always, the signs of identity and discrimination, abducted and subjected to threats and calls, from siblings from the other side to pay for their rescue. Siblings did not answer the calls, they did not have the money nor the means, and the two immigrant friends that escaped together from Guatemala looking for another life were raped and submitted by police and immigration personal, how would you know, and forced to either sell their bodies or die. Realizing this was not life, that there was no choice, the girl from Guatemala, whom I think saw in an instant everything she lived and dreamed, fell on her friend like an impossible embrace, so that together they would either resist or die.
Central American mothers who have started today a caravan through Mexico looking for their immigrant “missing” sons and daughters, they will find them one day if we help them, so we will all know disappearance in our country means annihilation, by physical death or mental disintegration.
Author: Isabel Vericat
Translated by Laura Triana and Janitza Solarte
Laura and Janitza,
Your translation begins and ends very well, but there are a lot of issues with the middle section.
Here’s an initial edited version:
It’s been days, weeks now, that I’ve been searching for you thinking of you, wondering whether you look like the undocumented Guatemalan girl I met four years ago at the newly opened immigration center in Tapachula that was like a golden cage. The girl was about to be deported. “Accompanied repatriation,” is the term used by the institutions in charge of the immigrants, which deport them with white gloves—or handcuffs if necessary. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried going north to make the crossing. This was the second time they’d deported her, and she kept on smiling with an adventurous look on her face, ironically clutching the obligatory booklet on her human rights.
Remembering that vital, glowing girl, I ask myself what your experience was like, anonymous dead girl [pavana tan merecida]. Was it your first time when, along with thirteen other women, all undoubtedly very young, you were corralled, yes, literally confined to a corral, as if all seventy-two victims were animals. And they were threatened and beaten to make them accept the “offer” to work for “them.” And for you, the women, to make you pay with your own bodies and disappear into the secret world of human trafficking, that perverse business in which human flesh is sold into sexual slave labor.
The unidentified girl from Guatemala that I look for in my imagination was willing to try again and again — leaving-crossing-arriving — in order to stop feeling used and abused by her own community, by men who claimed to care about her but who abused her. She went on dreaming about a freer and more precious life, and she planned her escape. She got together with a girl her age and they collected some money, set off and finally crossed the Suchiate River into Mexico by paying some quetzales. But in Mexico that the worst of it began, though they decided not to ride on top of the train but walk as much as possible. They had blisters on their exhausted feet so they decided to take a bus. They were stopped because of their skin color and their way of talking, always the signs of identity that trigger discrimination. They were abducted and subjected to threats; calls were made to their relatives on the other side demanding a ransom. Their relatives did not answer the calls; they had no money, no way to help, and the two immigrant friends who escaped together from Guatemala seeking another life were subjugated and raped by Zetas, policemen, immigration personnel—who knows?— and forced to sell their bodies or die. And seeing that this was not life, that there was no other way, the girl from Guatemala that I’m thinking of saw in an instant, her last instant, everything she’d ever lived and dreamed, and fell on top of her friend as if in an impossible embrace, so that together they would resist or die.
The Central American mothers who are embarking today on a caravan through Mexico looking for their “disappeared” immigrant sons and daughters will find them one day if we help them, and then we will all know that disappearance in our country means annihilation, by physical death or mental disintegration.
EAllen — December 9, 2013 @ 7:42 pm