Honduran child migrants leave home because of poverty and violence - The Washington Post
U.S. sends first planeload of moms, children back to Honduras - The Los Angeles Times
In morgue, clues to why people leave violence-plagued Honduras - CNN
The awful reason tens of thousands of children are seeking refuge in the U.S. - Vox Media
I’ve had several people ask me what I think about the recent immigration crisis in the United States. Since so many of the children fleeing are Hondurans, some believe I have insight into the issue. If you’ve read Paradise in Front of Me or any of the many articles in the media, you have some understanding of what impoverished Hondurans face. Imagine this . . .
It’s the middle of the night, and we should all be sleeping. Addie, my now 10 year-old daughter, stands facing me. She is holding her 8 year-old sister’s hand, and they are both scared. Cristina, my wife, is seated in a chair behind me, facing the kitchen. She is crying quietly, trying to hide her tears. “They could die,” she whispers. I turn my head away from my daughters, glancing at the back of Cristina’s head. “If they stay here, they will die.” I know the risks. As I look into the eyes of my beautiful children, I understand exactly what they face. My daughters could be robbed, beaten, raped, or killed. I know this, and it tears my soul to shreds at the thought. However, in a land where work is impossible to find and violence reigns, yes, I'm desperate.
U.S. sends first planeload of moms, children back to Honduras - The Los Angeles Times
In morgue, clues to why people leave violence-plagued Honduras - CNN
The awful reason tens of thousands of children are seeking refuge in the U.S. - Vox Media
I’ve had several people ask me what I think about the recent immigration crisis in the United States. Since so many of the children fleeing are Hondurans, some believe I have insight into the issue. If you’ve read Paradise in Front of Me or any of the many articles in the media, you have some understanding of what impoverished Hondurans face. Imagine this . . .
It’s the middle of the night, and we should all be sleeping. Addie, my now 10 year-old daughter, stands facing me. She is holding her 8 year-old sister’s hand, and they are both scared. Cristina, my wife, is seated in a chair behind me, facing the kitchen. She is crying quietly, trying to hide her tears. “They could die,” she whispers. I turn my head away from my daughters, glancing at the back of Cristina’s head. “If they stay here, they will die.” I know the risks. As I look into the eyes of my beautiful children, I understand exactly what they face. My daughters could be robbed, beaten, raped, or killed. I know this, and it tears my soul to shreds at the thought. However, in a land where work is impossible to find and violence reigns, yes, I'm desperate.
I stand up and look at Addie. She’s staring up at me, an orange pack strapped to her back. She’s always been a quick thinker and good athlete. We’ve played soccer, baseball, and tag together since she could walk. She's strong-willed, and I’m confident she can lead her sister. “Stay away from the main roads and follow the river. Remain quiet at all times and listen to your guide,” I say, trying to keep my voice from cracking. Addie nods. Bridgette looks up at her older sister and then turns to me. My youngest daughter is my thoughtful, analytical one. While Addie moved quickly around the house, Bridgette sat quietly with puzzles or drew horses on clear white paper. On walks, Bridgette found the beautiful flower among a patch of weeds or heard the sound of a bird above the other noises. She will compliment Addie well on their journey, and I am thankful they have each other. To be thankful for anything in this moment seems absurd.
“They’re not even wanted there,” Cristina whispers. “I don’t care,” I say a little too loud. “I’m not going to let the fact that they were born here stop us from saving our children.” I’m growing angry at the unfairness of it all. One person is born on a plot of soil and destined for an early death. Another person is born on a different patch of land and has an opportunity at life. I grab Cristina’s hand and squeeze it. “This is their only chance at a life.” She nods, knowing the truth but not wanting to accept it.
A tapping on the door breaks the silence. No, not yet. Cristina gasps. She stands and approaches her daughters. She puts her hands to their cheeks. “You’re going to be fine.” she assures them before wrapping her arms around her two young children. “It’s time to go,” I say. A young man is standing at the door. Every penny I ever earned now belongs to this man. The fate of my children is in his hands. I'm praying he can deliver them safely to a cousin who will care for them. I embrace my daughters for what could be the last time. Will I ever see them again? I push these thoughts aside because they do me no good. A parent does whatever he can for his children and hopes everything works out. Cristina and I are no different.
The guide is growing impatient. “We must go now.” I walk Addie and Bridgette outside as tears stream down their cheeks. They turn to face us, raise their tiny hands, and wave goodbye. I watch them as they walk away, my two daughters, hand in hand. Memories race through my mind. I’ve watched them walk like that so many times before. Only this time, it is likely the last.
Americans love to have an opinion, all too often on issues they know very little about. I don’t pretend to have an answer to the immigration problem. All I know is this: The story I wrote above is fiction. It’s fiction because I live in the United States. The story was hard enough to write, and I cannot fathom actually living it. Honduras is a land filled with beautiful people who want what every human being on this earth wants. They want a chance, an opportunity at life. For many parents, the story above is reality, and that is the tragedy.
“They’re not even wanted there,” Cristina whispers. “I don’t care,” I say a little too loud. “I’m not going to let the fact that they were born here stop us from saving our children.” I’m growing angry at the unfairness of it all. One person is born on a plot of soil and destined for an early death. Another person is born on a different patch of land and has an opportunity at life. I grab Cristina’s hand and squeeze it. “This is their only chance at a life.” She nods, knowing the truth but not wanting to accept it.
A tapping on the door breaks the silence. No, not yet. Cristina gasps. She stands and approaches her daughters. She puts her hands to their cheeks. “You’re going to be fine.” she assures them before wrapping her arms around her two young children. “It’s time to go,” I say. A young man is standing at the door. Every penny I ever earned now belongs to this man. The fate of my children is in his hands. I'm praying he can deliver them safely to a cousin who will care for them. I embrace my daughters for what could be the last time. Will I ever see them again? I push these thoughts aside because they do me no good. A parent does whatever he can for his children and hopes everything works out. Cristina and I are no different.
The guide is growing impatient. “We must go now.” I walk Addie and Bridgette outside as tears stream down their cheeks. They turn to face us, raise their tiny hands, and wave goodbye. I watch them as they walk away, my two daughters, hand in hand. Memories race through my mind. I’ve watched them walk like that so many times before. Only this time, it is likely the last.
Americans love to have an opinion, all too often on issues they know very little about. I don’t pretend to have an answer to the immigration problem. All I know is this: The story I wrote above is fiction. It’s fiction because I live in the United States. The story was hard enough to write, and I cannot fathom actually living it. Honduras is a land filled with beautiful people who want what every human being on this earth wants. They want a chance, an opportunity at life. For many parents, the story above is reality, and that is the tragedy.