Crossing the River
One woman’s journey from El Salvador to the United States.
Story by Timothy Shivers
Silvia* sits in a small and crowded room in Everett, Massachusetts. El Salvador is the country most represented among the 10–15 people that trickle in and out of the doors. Two white women — social workers — stand out. The meeting was part of an effort to assist undocumented immigrants who have recently been shuttled to Boston after unimaginable journeys. Silvia, 47, is one of them.
Silvia is a mother of nine — eight of whom lived under her care as a single parent when she lived in El Salvador. She sold small pieces of furniture for income, but with eight mouths to feed in a heavily populated and dangerous city, she worked at maximum capacity for minimum return. The result?
Little food for them, less food for her.
As Sylvia’s health deteriorated, her next door neighbor called Sylvia’s eldest daughter, who was living in the United States. Soon enough, her daughter arranged for the passageway that has brought an influx of undocumented immigrants in recent months. Silvia, sick from lack of resources and food, started her journey to the U.S. on May 1st, 2013.
She traveled the next four days with an acquaintance to the border of Mexico and the U.S., where she then joined a bigger group with one goal in mind: get across the river.
The route that Silvia took — crossing into Texas—involved swimming. But she does not know how to swim and was left behind with two others. While everyone crossed, she remained: a river separating her from the freedom that pushed her this far.
In the crowded room in Everett, Silvia sits calmly, mostly looking down at a piece of blank paper in front of her. Lawrence, the social worker who speaks with her, asks Silvia to draw. Draw anything.
“I never learned how to draw,” Silvia says.
“That’s OK, draw anything,” Lawrence responds.
Silvia insists that she doesn’t know how to draw. But in detailing the nuances of her story, her fragile fingers begin to illustrate a flower.
As she develops her story, the waters remain murky: Silvia doesn’t remember the details of how she crossed the river. If she remembers anything, it is that she was tired, hungry, and in immense pain. She asked one of the others with her for help. She didn’t know where she was or how much time had passed—all she knew was that she had to cross the border.
Perhaps it was with the help of another, of God, or of the ounces of energy that remained —perhaps all three— that she woke up, disgruntled and shoeless, inside U.S. territory. Immediately, it occurred to her that immigration officials would soon be after her. She was right.
“What are you doing here? Go back to your own country,” they yelled.
“I’m coming to help my children,” she said.
They inquired where the others were. She did not tell them. They took her into custody, where they began to question her. Afraid, alone, and without certainty of what was going to happen, Silvia shut down. They yelled at her, but she did not want to talk.
“I will talk when I need to talk. But I am tired,” she said. Silvia put her hands in her lap, hiding for a moment from the reality in front of her.
They told her she should go back to El Salvador. She eventually told them she was en route to see her daughter in Massachusetts. They told her she should return to her own country. She told them she would be killed.
After interrogations by multiple officers, Silvia explained her situation: The story of her eight children, the gangs, the little food, and the quest to create a better life.
They gave her the option to relocate to Massachusetts, where her deportation process would begin. Without the money to buy a flight, her daughter arranged for her to take a bus. For four days, Silvia switched from one moving vehicle to another, not sure where to go next or where she would ever end up. She took refuge in the kindness of bus drivers, who helped her along the way.
Take that bus. Change here. Next stop. Go to the end. This is your stop.
She made a friend on her last leg from who-knows-where to New York City. When she arrived in NYC, her friend allowed her to use her phone before they parted ways. Silvia, transported from one universe to another, called her daughter with an update. Next stop: Boston.
The blank page that Silvia has been staring at turns into a flower stemming from an abstract concoction of a vase. She smiles at it, nicely, as Lawrence smiles back.
“It’s beautiful,” Lawrence says. More silence. More stares. “You are a very brave women for telling your story, Silvia.”
Unlike many of the undocumented immigrants who have crossed the border, Silvia is not an unaccompanied minor coming to seek refuge with a parent or relative in the U.S. She is a parent coming to seek refuge with her daughter. Thus it has proven difficult to get a Boston Legal Services pro bono lawyer, as their focus is on the children.
Over a year later, Silvia remains in Boston, living with a faith and hope that she can fend for her kids back in El Salvador. She even hopes that one day her children, who are being cared for by the eldest of the clan in El Salvador, can come to the U.S. Yet she remains jobless, and her deportation process, although slow, is ever present. She does not live with her daughter, although they see each other often. Their hope lies in the dangerous situation in El Salvador —if the judge sees that her situation back home will lead to her death, perhaps he will let her stay.
Her future unknown, Silvia still feels that every day in the U.S. is a win.
*The name’s of undocumented immigrants were changed in this story to protect participant’s privacy.
