Thursday, May 7, 2020

In the limbo of migrants

Stories and News No. 1199
 
Hello, planet earth.
We call you from the Limbo, but you may also think about it as a seemingly far away place.
So, we are here, but also there, among the invisible cracks within human decency; over there, down there, or if you prefer sideways to the more convenient horizons - and we are still alive.
We are, despite everything and everyone. Although over time the perception of existence has deteriorated so much that the detestable meaning of a mere survival is now only a memory.
That is why we rely on the only certainties that remain: the beating heart, although at each toll it wonders whether it is appropriate to continue knocking on the world’s doors; the air that invades our lungs, although - conscious of how little clean oxygen it contains – it feels compassion for the rest of us; and our torn but indomitable imagination that persists in scrutinizing the surrounding universe in search of that phantom star called humanity.
Marveled by this unnatural sentence without a reasonable crime, but neither trial nor sentence, two words define the abominable state which they transformed us in: we cannot.
The first plural person of the verb “power” is the only one granted to us, with all the painful and contradictory variations:
We cannot stay.
And we cannot leave.
We cannot expect justice.
And, almost simultaneously, we cannot make judgments about the misdeeds of our jailers.
We cannot claim respect and consideration for our needs.
And, at the same time, we cannot even think of limiting the privileges of the documented citizens, neither their rights, not even in exchange for just a crumb of the latter.

Because this is a perfect prison, according to all the current meanings: prison exists and works, this is what you need to know; but don't tell anybody what really happens beyond the walls that separate us from you; like a carpet which you carelessly walk on and which hides emotions and feelings similar to yours; only immensely more unfortunate.
It is like an island within an island, which is subject to alien as well as alienating physical rules. Time goes backwards, because when the future becoming present is perpetually worse than the latter, you end up counting the peaceful memories instead of the sheep to fall asleep; and when you find they are finished, you start inventing them yourself.
The most grotesque paradox is that even the name you are used to calling us becomes out of place: migrant. The most misunderstood present participle of history, because it does not concern only the verb itself, like all the actions that imply whole existences embraced by the mere meaning of the word. Along with our bodies that some have taught you to ignore, our loved ones left behind and all their dreams migrate with us; the colours that have filled our eyes and all the light that we have just touched with our mind migrate too; the kind words we hoped to hear on our arrival also migrate; all the information that our senses have collected over time migrates, from the most negligible to those pleasant. Because, in short, people migrate, only people do.
This is our personal lockdown. On the other hand, it's old story, nothing new. When the tree burns the highest price is paid by the most vulnerable branches and minor leaves. Well, our tragedy, however, is that the rest of us never climbed on the tree. We always remained down, crouched next to the trunk with the hand outstretched, waiting to be able to pick the fruit you forgot and hoping every time it was less wormy than the previous one.
This is the limbo where we are now and has nothing to do with the biblical one, of quranic interpretation; it comes neither from Dante or a figurative sense.
All that for a reason that most of our fellow human beings over the wall insist on wanting to neglect: we are still alive and, as long as the breath allows, we don't want to die...


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