Text copyright © 2019 by
English translation © 2019 by Elizabeth Bell
Published in Canada and the USA in 2019 by Groundwood Books
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Title: Caravan to the north : Misael’s long walk / Jorge Argueta ; pictures by Manuel Monroy.
Other titles: Caravana al norte. English
Names: Argueta, Jorge, author. | Monroy, Manuel, illustrator.
Description: Translation of: Caravana al norte. | Translated by Elizabeth Bell.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190115610 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190115637 | ISBN 9781773063294 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781773063300 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781773063317 (Kindle)
Classification: LCC PZ73.5.A74 C3713 2019 | DDC j863/.64—dc23
Jacket and interior illustrations by Manuel Monroy
Map by Mary Rostad
Design by Michael Solomon
To all the immigrants from Central America and Mexico, you are the true dreamers. To all the good-hearted people who generously help them along the path to the North. — JA
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank the following people for their support during the production of this book: Héctor Jiménez López, Nora Obregón, Carolina Osorio, Alfredo Pérez, Holly Ayala, Yuyi Morales, Manlio Argueta, Xosé A. Perozo, José Ardón, Evelyn Arizpe, Juan Carlos and Hugo Fernando Osorio, and Patricia Aldana.
Us
My name is Misael Martínez.
I’ve come to join
the caravan
that’s leaving tomorrow
from the Plaza Divino Salvador
del Mundo* to the North.
I’m going with my
family.
We decided to leave
because you can’t really live
in my village anymore.
There’s no work.
There’s no way to get by.
What there is,
is violence, gangs.
* * *
* The name of this plaza in El Salvador’s capital means “Divine Savior of the World.”
Home
I love my country
so, so much.
I love to plant
the fields,
see the corn come up
and the little beans sprout.
Every year in May
the whole family
gets the land ready
for planting.
We do the weeding, fertilizing.
We pray for a good crop
and when the first rains fall,
we get up before sunrise.
We feel happy when
we put
the best of the corn and the beans
in our Mother Earth.
My papá says,
“There’s nothing prettier
than watching the first
blades of corn poke up.
It’s the cutest thing
to see it come up bright green and grow.
We raise the crop like it was a child.”
“Yes,” my mamá says.
“This is what we have.
We are good with it.
We get by
until our time is up.
Ahhhh,
but now and then
we cook a wild hen,
we make tamales and then
we feel fat and happy.”
But here in our village
things are all screwed up now.
I tell them:
“In the schools
the gangs want
us to join them.
We can’t walk down
the street.
They stalk us.
It scares us.
We’re sad.”
“We can’t cross the street.
We can’t go from one barrio to another,”
says my brother Martín.
“Because this is one gang’s turf,
and over there it’s another’s.”
Our friend
Juan Yegua’s son
disappeared.
They say he got mixed up
in stupid stuff.
Gang stuff.
“I don’t know
anything about that,”
my mamá says to us.
“But what I do know is
they’re just pups.
They’re children like you,
the kids who get caught up in that,
and they turn into bad guys,
I mean really bad.
Even murderers.”
My mamá looks
at my brother Martín and then at me.
There are tears in her eyes.
Then she speaks
again:
“I feel sorry for them
because they’re kids
from poor families.
They’re the poor
screwing the poor.
“Those poor babies,
those kids
in the gangs,”
my mamá says,
crying …
“They leave their homes
and then they’re nobody’s children.
They’re the gang’s.
The gangs are their family.
It scares me
to even say this.
It’s their law here:
See. Hear. Be quiet,” she says.
“A few days ago,”
my papá says,
“it was Martina’s son.
I don’t know the whole story,
but I know
the police came
and the kid ran away
and they shot him.
He was a child, just
about to turn
sixteen.
The people who saw him
say the boy was begging,
‘Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me.
Don’t kill me,’ he was saying.
Poor kid died crying
and calling for his mamá.
As a dad, that really hurts.”
“I’m scared, Papá.
I’m scared, Mamá.”
I told them I heard
there’s a caravan
that’s leaving
from San Salvador
to go to the United States.
I tell them we should go.
We all say, “Let’s go.”
Mother Earth
When the gualcalchillas†
sing,
my heart sings
and I know
our Mother Earth’s heart
is singing too.
* * *
† A gualcalchilla is a little yellow songbird with a voice as loud as an orchestra.
Plaza Divino Salvador del Mundo
So many people
in the Plaza
Divino Salvador del Mundo,
and how beautiful it looks.
Everyone says
they want to leave
for the same reasons:
The violence.
No work.
They’ve lost
hope.
Some don’t want to go.
Their parents are taking them or sending them.
The kids don’t know where they’re going.
They just get taken.
“I’m from Sonsonate.”
“I’m from Chalatenango.”
“I’m from La Unión.”
“I’m from San Salvador.”
“We came
to join the caravan
that’s going to the United States.
We want to go there, we want to work,”
says a man
with a green backpack.
He touches it and says,
“This is full of hopes.”
A skinny curly-haired boy,
angry and sad, says,
“I sell fruit in the Central Market
but you can’t live on that here.
It hurts to see my parents.
They’re old now.
I want to help them out.
I’m nineteen.
but now I can’t go on
with my studies.
I want to get my education and help
my parents, that’s why I’m leaving.
I came to join the caravan.
You can’t study here
or work.
On a good day
I make ten dollars selling tomatoes and onions.
My heart is always asking,
‘What are we gonna eat today?’”
A woman with her arms around
her daughter says in a shaky voice,
“My guts are twisting
but even though it scares me
to leave, it’s better to go.
I want a better life.”
“Yes,” another woman says.
“We came to join the caravan
because when you’re alone
the road north is dangerous.
In the caravan
we help each other.”
Some boys
say happily:
“We come from Ciudad Barrios,
the land of the saint and prophet
Óscar Romero.
We’re going to Mexico.
After that, we’re not sure
but we’re going.
We’re like
birds looking for
a new dawn.”
“Yeahhhh!” some other boys say all together.
“It’s too much here.
That’s why
all of us are leaving
in the caravan. It’s not as dangerous.
We’re going to the North
with our mamás and our papás
and our brothers and our sisters.”
In the Plaza Divino Salvador
del Mundo
my mamá says,
getting it off her chest,
“It’s true, here in El Salvador
you can’t get by.
We’ve tried.
I’ve looked for work.
They won’t hire me.
These boys make me brave.
I’m going to get
to the United States.”
“These boys
are my life.
They’re going to go to school.
They’ll have
what I didn’t.
We’re going to make this happen.”
“I love El Salvador so much,
but here
you can’t live.
There’s no work.
I don’t want to leave
but I don’t know what to do.
Ayyy — I’m so worried,” my papá says.
“Me too, I’m taking
these two brats,”
says a man in a hat,
a man from San Vicente.
“I want
my sons
to graduate from high school, so they can go on
to college.
Here, when you finish high school
you end up
selling water
on buses
or in parks,
or if not, God knows what they’ll do.
Nooo, I
want my sons
to have dreams,
and to have their dreams come true!”
“I love El Salvador,”
says a man
who is praying,
looking up at the sky.
“I’m a widower
with two daughters,
Margarita and Juana.
“I love El Salvador.
But here
they don’t love us.
We are poor.
“You can’t live
on promises.
Ayyyyy —
El Salvador! It hurts me so much,”
A little girl running happily
around the plaza says,
“My daddy is bringing my stroller.
They say the North is really far
but my daddy is strong.
He’s going to push me
and play games with me
and with the north wind too.”
Another little girl says,
“My mommy kisses my face.
My mommy makes me laugh.
My mommy sings to me.
My mommy gives me a yummy pupusa‡ for dinner.
My mommy holds me in her arms.”
* * *
‡ Pupusas are the national food of El Salvador, round cornmeal cakes filled with beans, cheese or meat.
Here in the Plaza
Divino Salvador del Mundo,
we sleep all bunched together.
The grass is as green
as my parakeet’s wings.
One little girl holds a doll.
She’s happy. She says,
“My doll Josefina and I
like to go to sleep watching the stars
while Mommy holds us in her arms.”
We Set Out
Before the sun comes up
we set out walking.
We set out by bus.
We set out by truck.
We set out.
Divine Savior of the World,
saint of all Salvadoreños,
help us on the road, guide us.
Take us away from here, make a miracle.
Carry us away from here, even though it hurts.
Help us to get far away,
far, far from El Salvador.
Now we’re going.
Who knows when we will come back?
I look around me
and see the volcano of San Salvador,
the city and its buildings.
The Divine Savior of the World.
I’m going to miss El Salvador so much,
especially now with Christmas coming.
What I’m going to miss most about El Salvador
are the snow cones.
I think about the mangoes
and the marañones.§
Ahhhhh and also the jocotes.¶
They taste so good.
* * *
§ Marañones are the colorful fruits of the cashew tree.
¶ Jocotes are delicious tropical fruits. Their name derives from the Nahuat word shúgut.
Now it’s five in the morning
and we’re leaving.
It’s better to walk
at dawn. It’s not as hot.
I look around me
and the sky is still kind of dark.
There are hundreds of us.
Some are crying,
others laughing nervously.
They’re praying, singing and saying,
“We’ll get there!”
I’m sighing, I’m shaking,
not sure if it’s from happiness
or cold or fear.
We’re walking.
The sun of El Salvador warms me.
I like feeling the sunshine.
My backpack’s a little heavy.
I think about how far
the North is.
We’re barely going to reach Santa Ana
and I’m tired.
El Salvador is big.
How about Guatemala?
And Mexico?
To say nothing of the North?
Sometimes all you hear are footsteps
of people walking —
tran tran tran tran —
as if we were marching,
or as if we were
horses.
The streets are a long, long black road.
We’re going toward the border
of Guatemala. I’m tired but happy.
The pavement is hot.
We have a long way to go
before we reach the North.
Waking Dreams
When we get there,
I’m going to have an apartment
with water you can drink.