La Cruzada

I tremble under the cold, hard floor. It’s dark, so dark I can’t even see my hand in front of me. I wonder if I’ll make it out alive.

Are these my last moments? Is this the last thing I’ll ever see? Darkness.

The air is dry. So dry, I can’t breathe.  

I can’t breathe.

The darkness is overwhelming. Quiet chatter is scattered but diminishing. All of us, all strangers, are just searching for the same dream. A dream to be somebody. To be anybody. 

The walls are starting to close in. The dream we had, the dream we fought so hard to get, we won’t ever reach it. We’re done.

I’m done.

Suddenly, a dim flash breaks through the roof. The soft light caresses my skin, as cool, fresh air begins to seep in the sliver. I begin to regain a bit of clarity, as I see the end is far from near. I’m ready. I’m ready for what is to come. And all because a sharp, serrated knife has cut a hole in the ceiling.

My savior, a knife. A knife that could have been used to rob me. That could have cut and killed me. But ultimately, it saved me.

No one warns you of the dangers upon leaving home. No one tells you how much hunger and pain you’ll suffer from. No one tells you how lonely you’ll feel or of the sense of distrust you’ll have. They just tell you how lucky you are to have this opportunity and how happy you’ll feel once you’ve “made it.”

My dad, aunt, and uncle began their descent into the Land of the Free. They paid a coyote to help them cross over. Little did they know, this would be one of the most treacherous hardships they would encounter. My aunt, at the young age of eleven, my uncle, fifteen, and my dad, twenty-four, were told to be quiet and get into the back of a shipping container, that had been modified to smuggle people. Dark, dank, cramped, and small, they traveled amongst twenty other individuals, in a space that was fit for ten, unsure of any dangers that may arise from trusting complete strangers. My dad recalls that along the way, the oxygen level had dropped so low that people were fainting. Even he, who had the responsibility of taking care of his new bride’s siblings, was beginning to feel woozy.  My aunt, on the verge of losing consciousness, recalls how hot and dry the air felt on her face and how she was sure she wasn’t going to make it out of there. It wasn’t until one of the other passengers pulled out a machete and made a hole in the ceiling that slow bits of fresh air began filling the container. It was then, that they knew, they still had a chance.

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