After The Cartel: Children Of Mexico
Life consists of snapshots. People, experiences, places. We only get them for a few moments. Sometimes the moments linger, and other times they fade away as quickly as they came. And each moment leaves behind a trace, that may be cheerful or may not be; sometimes marked, and other times weak and unconscious.
We only had two snapshots of Ivan, but they left behind a heavy trace.
Ivan was a lighthearted boy in his early twenties who loved to laugh and mess around. We met him in a village in the mountains of Mexico during a youth camp. I can’t say I remember much more about him. He was of a medium build, had dark eyes and coal black hair cut in a style reminiscent of Moe from the Three Stooges. I also remember he was a lot of fun to hang out with.
A year passed without seeing him or hearing from him. We returned to the same state, but to a different village to help with another youth camp. One night, dad and I were helping wash dishes in a row of plastic tubs out on the grass. The warm evening air was humid and heavy with the cries of cicadas. The black silhouettes of the jungle-clad mountains lined the valley.
I happened to look up from the dishes to the main street of the town which was several meters away. A few blocks away, I saw a figure outlined under a yellow streetlight. He stood far enough away I couldn’t recognize any features, but somehow I made out the haircut.
I nudged my dad, drying my hands. “Is that…. Ivan?”
He looked up.
The figure was trudging slowly, hands in his pockets.
“I think that is!”
Dad and I dropped what we were doing and rushed over.
“Yo! Ivan!”
He looked up, his face coming into the murky light. His eyes were serious and his face distraught.
“How are you, man?” My dad hugged him. I did too, but we only got a limp reaction.
“How’ve you been? What have you been up to?”
He looked at my dad, then at me and back, expressionless.
“Why aren’t you at the camp?” Dad motioned back at the crowded lawn and basketball court.
He shook his head. “Na. That’s not my place anymore.”
Without further prodding, he told us how he’d been searching for work a year ago to support his mom and younger siblings. He found none in his village of several hundred people, dirt streets and a single convenience store. So he traveled by bus to the city. After searching for a few weeks there, he found nothing. Two options remained for him: make the dangerous journey to the US to find work. If he made it past the treacherous desert and across the border, there was still the fact he’d be so far from his family. His other option was to work for a local cartel.
“It made sense at the time,” Ivan shrugged. “I would be close to home, and it was well-paid.” He lowers his voice, avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t know what the job would be like, though….”
Cartels in that region charge for “protection.” In other words, if a family doesn’t pay what’s due, the cartel charges in lives. Ivan found himself caught in this madness as an errand boy, doing the cartel’s dirty work.
Ivan’s voice sinks lower and lower as he tells us his story. Not long after he joined the cartel, he regretted it. However, he couldn’t just quit the job and walk away. He had to run and lie low. And that’s how he ended up in this other village, where he had a few vague acquaintances and not much else.
He refused to go into much detail, and we didn’t press him. But what he had said was enough to break anyone’s heart. During the entire thing, he kept his eyes downwards and fidgeted with his hands.
“So, what are you doing now…?” dad ventured.
Ivan shrugged again. “I don’t know. I sometimes wonder the streets.”
We couldn’t comfort or encourage him. What do you say to a human being that’s so broken like that? And so haunted by regret and guilt. We prayed for him, dad’s hand on his shoulder, then tried to invite him to join us.
Ivan looked at the crowd wistfully, light touching his eyes and lingering there, but he shook his head.
“I’m good. I’ll stay here.”
I looked up and down the pitch-black street, lit only by a yellow patch here and there. I looked up at dad, asking a wordless question. My fourteen-year-old self wanted to push Ivan to come, but something in dad’s face said not to.
Ivan gave us an emotionless half-smile. “Well. I don’t wanna keep you.” He put his hands back in his pockets.
Dad squeezed his shoulder and nodded once with a sad smile. “Good seeing you, man.”
I smiled too. “Yeah, good seeing you!”
He gave me a real half smile.
I glanced over my shoulder as we walked back. He was where we’d left him, standing still, surrounded by blackness.
I retook my place by the washing tubs and sighed. I looked behind me, but he was gone. And like that, Ivan’s snapshot faded into an unrecognizable sepia mark.
We never heard from him again.
