For those who are left behind, there is nothing more dreaded than the black bag. The vile black bag. The temporary container that often arrives unannounced at Mexican and other consulates in the United States, carrying the last remnants, the decomposing bodies of unfortunate brave souls who dared dream of a better future and who went after it going north. Carrying what is left at the of the road: mortal flesh, but also unwritten epitaphs, embodying the faded hopes, the dashed dreams of desperate men and women.
All that crammed there in a vulgar black bag. Dressed in mourning, with the same color, but without the traces of devotion, without the reason for having that tint. Black as the dress of waking souls who mourn for their own; black, the hue of the unknown, of uncertainty. Black as the night is black. Black, like an unwelcome omen, announcing death and forthcoming tears.
Thick plastic bag, capable of holding the weight of what was left of a man, a woman, a child. Commonly used to transport the remains of victims of accidents, of crimes. Of criminals. But also used to carry those who pay with their lives for their defiance of false, unacceptable borders. Of those geographical demarcations created unlawfully by man to separate nations, to separate human beings.
Useful and flexible black bag. Practical, to more easily carry the unfortunate bodies of those who did not reach the promised land, to hide the putrid smell of decaying bodies. Useful black bag, to easily place those bodies inside the vans of border patrol agents. Flexible bag, just like the lives of heroic souls who never give up, who never stop dreaming.
Vile bag that smells of death, that’s used to deliver to others the final remains of our brothers and sisters so they may be transferred to pine coffins, the ones that arrive at our towns in other countries, looking for relatives, shedding tears. Wanting to link victims with victims. Those who left with those who stayed behind.
Vile black bag. Splattered with footprints of our people, stained with the blood of our brothers and sisters, of Mexicans, of Central Americans, of those who filled with hope left their towns to look for better opportunities. Vile black bag, temporary repository of fallen souls, of those who dared cross deserts in the middle of summer, cold mountains in harsh winter, rivers filled with treacherous currents.
Repugnant black bag. Passing storage for those that die crossing freeways. For the victims of human coyotes. Of the heartless coyotes. For the victims of the waves of violence, of hatred. For those who perish fleeing the guardians of the line. The infamous line that divides our land, our planet.
Black bag. Vulgar transport of once brave souls, of those who dared to go north, seeking a better future for their families and for themselves. Vile black bag. Full of death, of anguish, of pain. May the Lord be with you. And with us.
AUTHOR: Pedro Chávez