He boards the bus, follows a dream into the unknown

Diego (not his real name) arrived at the bus station nearly an hour before the 5 a.m. scheduled departure. He was too nervous to sleep. His entire family joined him, but only as far as the edge of the floodlit parking lot, and then only long enough to offer a few words of encouragement to sustain him on his journey. He clutched a ticket that would take him farther than anyone in his clan had ever traveled, or wanted to. It was a Voyage of Discovery, a journey that would take him far from his ancestral home and deep into the mysterious terrain of his destiny.

When the bus reached its destination, he joined a cluster of other refugees walking across the border — a ragged scar weeping instability and danger. A cheerless soldier checked Diego’s identification papers; he presented a ticket to a bus driver, who then ferried him to the next border, another ticket, and another driver. This went on seemingly forever.

It was mid-afternoon when Diego’s last bus discarded the last passengers to where their future began — the end of the line. Gathering heat and humidity shimmered along the horizon, deceiving some passengers to glimpse an oasis in the distance. Others saw an undulating mirage mirroring a separate reality and an unreliable future. Lightning stabbed the horizon; a hard rain fell along the ridgeline where the migrants huddled together, sharing the warmth of their bodies and sinking into a fitful sleep.

By mid-evening, the cluster of weary travelers abandoned the rain-furrowed pathway to seek shelter under whatever vegetation would have them. The relentless rain drenched the fortunate with the same indifference as all the rest, stripping their dignity and exposing their frailty with equal enthusiasm.  After a while, even the most road-hardened could no longer bear the weight of weariness; they surrendered their tears of exhaustion and listened to the rhythm of the falling rain.

Of course, the forced migration was hardest on the children. They sobbed as they mourned their shattered childhood and cherished memories now sprawled like shards of broken mirrors.

When Diego was a young boy, he would join his extended family in celebrating saints’ days, birthdays, and holidays by picnicking in the local park after Sunday mass. His clan found great comfort in sharing steaming bowls of chicken soup, tortillas, and a bottomless trough of lukewarm Coke while playing friendly futbol matches or lazing about in the shade, gossiping about the neighbors. The presence of family was enough.

Diego’s family depended on working with the land to provide their meals. Everyone shared in providing for each other; the youngest kids fed the chickens, cleaned the coop, and collected eggs. Mom milked the cow, churned butter, and washed the family’s clothes, draping them over shrubs like deflated clouds set out to dry. A small team cultivated the garden. Grocery store rice, purchased by “the breadwinner,” was served with every meal when times were good, but less often when times were bad.

During the interview for this story, Diego spoke twice about a frequently recurring dream he had as a child. He quietly mentioned that the fumes of that age-old dream will occasionally linger during the earliest moments of his waking.

“I was seven, shopping in a gigantic grocery store like the kind you see on television. I was with my mother. The two of us were filling a cart right to the brim with food…right to the brim.”

He knows that his lingering dream is a common dream shared by hungry children worldwide. He knows, too, that all children have dreams that need to be fulfilled.

Diego smiled as he recalled taking long walks with those he shared confidences, the substance he now barely remembers, except for his desire for tailored suits and his dream to one day fall in love and have a family of his own.

But he mostly rails against the auburn rust of corruption that is rotting the core of his homeland, and mourns those who remained by surviving on a diet of half-baked rhetoric that tasted like defeat.

He cautioned, “Once the decision to leave your life behind is made, you must do so quickly to not draw attention to yourself or those perhaps more vulnerable than you who will be left behind. This is imperative.  Go while you can still afford it, go when you are still allowed to, and go while you still have your spirit intact.”

Public service always appealed to Diego; his speed on the pitch as a young man made him a standout in his community, prompting him at an early age to recognize the responsibility and opportunity of being a role model. But for now, he is content to have any level of work; he has obligations to provide for his family and their well-being.

Diego prays that he made the right decision and that this foreign land will embrace him. He is aware that he wears his nationality like an emblem not of his own design and that some will disregard him as an interloper. Still, he believes that dogged hard work will allow him to prevail and find acceptance and recognition. He is 27 years old now and imagines he has 50 years of productivity left.

Diego has come to terms with the fact that his life is no longer his own; he forfeited it the moment he boarded the bus, which carried him on the torturous journey of becoming the conduit for his family’s survival nearly half a world away. He spoke patiently of the obstacles he faces and his unrelenting determination to persevere.  He spoke eloquently of the “understanding of purpose” he chose for this life… and the next.

He is among the settlers who understand the cost of freedom.

The flag he carries is colorless.