Chapter Three
The worst part about being at home during all this is that no one here has any idea what to expect. Only the Cambians know what is really happening, and what to do about it. There is no proof they have this insight, but I know they know. I can see it in their eyes. About two days ago I remember seeing dozens of Cambian-born families at the market buying jugs of fresh water. That night all the water pumps in the city died, and water became gold. They know the NR’s plans; I know they do. There are only two people who I can go to for that kind of inside information: Julio and Alejandro.
Since Julio is gone, Alejandro is my only alternative.
Unbeknownst to my dad, right after he goes to go take his afternoon nap, I slyly sneak out. Slowly jarring open the back door, I slip out into the backyard. I carefully lift myself up and over the rough back gate, and gracefully land on my face as my shoe gets caught on the gate’s clasp. The dusty dirt falls like snowflakes from my cheeks as I jog to my car, start the engine, and take off towards Remoh Blvd. The black giant drives well for a 10-year-old car. It had been used when my dad bought it, and that was back when I was 7. A lot of memories have been put into this car, memories and overpriced gas.
Remoh is a funny road. You can not compare it to any other local road. It’s basically a miniature highway, complete with jaywalkers galore. I turn left, taking care to avoid any potential hood ornaments who have decided not to use the crosswalk. The street signs stare at me, I return the favor. 152nd street. How boring these street signs are; they’re all numbers. In normal cities they have streets that honor people, such as Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd. Or at least Palm Tree Way, anything but 152nd street.
Another red light; this gives me time to change the station from a black rapper singing about a sandwich to some real music: classic rock. I jam out for a few minutes then glance at my dash board. My gas gauge reprimands me. “Tisk, tisk” it says as it wags its sardonic pointer finger at me; such condemnation for a piece of plastic with glowing lights. Reluctantly I pull into a filling station. Groaning at the constantly rising prices I surrender and swipe my card. $40 later I am good to go.
I get into my car, and find there is nowhere to go. Remoh has suddenly become packed with traffic, usually normal, but not for a Sunday afternoon. Farther up the road, at the immigration building is a human blockade. Person after person, arms linked, they stand firmly in the middle of the road. Strong dark men with their beautiful Caribbean wives and tender infants, elderly couples holding each other for support, bold teenagers with their heads held high and their long black hair furrowed around their faces, confused children with tears in their eyes, all of them are hand in hand blocking any and all commuters.
Their message is obvious: they want citizenship.
Chapter Four
When the NR took over Cambia they not only caused people to flock to Cambia, they caused many to flee. As with other coups, what seems like a good and glorious thing can easily take a negative turn. The leader of the NR, Javier Gonzalez, has declared that anyone who is in support of Pérez’s old ways, or is against the ways of the NR, will be eliminated immediately.
I can only imagine what these refugees have been through. The trip itself must have been torture; then having to wait hours upon hours to get a green card only to be denied is heartbreaking. I sympathize with their struggle, but there is not much I can do for them.
Those rafts never were the safest means of transportation, but they were the only plausible way a poor to middle class family could escape. The rich have it easy-or easier really, because nothing is easy when it comes to running for one’s life-they have the means to bribe ship captains, flight attendants, drug traffickers, and anyone else who has the power to get them off that collapsing island.
The journey has taken its toll on every one of them. Their hair is knotted every which way and salt streaks their faces. One man in particular catches my eye. He stands there holding the hand of his preteen daughter, who is oddly not in as bad shape as he is. His body language shows a tough middle aged man, but his eyes tell the story of near death.
Desperate to hear the story from his mouth, I walk up to the pair. Carefully I take a crumpled $20 bill and fold it into my palm, concealed from view.
Standing cautiously before the towering man I extend my hand, as to give him a handshake. The money is exchanged and he searches my face for signs of naïve charity. There are none, simply curiosity and the will to empathize. He motions for me to follow him inside.
The gray immigration building always reminded me of a prison, unfortunately that’s exactly what it had become. All the refugees who have been refused citizenship are forced to stay here until the government knows what to do with them. Every nook and cranny is inhabited by families and their meager possessions. The man leads me to what appears to be his corner. We sit and he begins to speak.
What immediately shocks me is his command over the English language. “My daughter and I started out two weeks ago.” He explains how he is a journalist and all learned men were being threatened. It’s always the smart ones whom a new government fears. “The waves slapped me on my back and across my face. The wind encouraged the waves that kicked up that murky water. The thunder laughed along. Terror seeped into my vulnerable bones with the saltwater.” He stopped, and I could see the strain the story had on him. “I feared more for my daughter’s life than my own. There isn’t much hatred in me, but on that day I hated the ocean more than any murderer. Staring into the elements I wondered what made them so merciless towards a slab of wood and two bodies; they believed destroying us was hilarity.
Then the worst happened. A rope holding one of the wooden slabs to the raft unravels before my eyes. Before I have time to react my daughter is slipping off, into the turbulent sea.” The man pauses again with tears in his eyes. “I dove down to get her, luckily I grabbed onto her hair before she fell too far out of my reach. But…I wasn’t paying attention to where we surfaced. All I cared about was getting air back in her. So I pushed her upwards….right into a swarm of man-o-war.” He motioned to his daughter. “She’s blind, and it’s all my doing.” A gut wrenching feeling overcame me as I looked at the journalist’s daughter. Her eyes are on me, but I can see the purblind glaze that covers them.
I felt heartbreaking pity for both of them, along with that incessant guilt that I couldn’t do anything more for their survival than provide them with a small paper note.
Anyway, it was a little weird, but I liked where the story went from there.
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