were being detained not because of something related to them or to their condition, but because of a circumstance—singular, perhaps, but also certainly arbitrary—which, at the end of the day, was external to them: the fact that they had displaced themselves. In reality, they had not been detained for their nature, but rather for their condition. If you think the life of a lawman is hard, it’s nothing compared to what they inflict upon the immigrants, they consoled themselves by whispering into the wire fence of the camp before the evening came to separate them. They watched a flock of parrots approach; as soon as they had passed, their low flight turned into a memory made of light—a few spots of green cut out from the sky—and the fading echo of their raucous calls. They longed for their past freedom, which they had seen as an inexhaustible resource, not realizing that it had actually run out too soon. It may have been brief, but it was of an immeasurable intensity.
After a few weeks they would learn the customs and limitations of Formosa’s immigration policy. The camp, with its progressive stages of detention—indictment, confinement, freedom—and its rhythms adapted to the arrival of new immigrants, was nothing more than a simulacrum of control. There was no such thing as deportation. The inmates that had been there the longest, having passed through all the stages, were given priority to leave as more people came; in that moment, they were no longer illegal immigrants, but legal ones. The groups of Paraguayans were perfectly happy to accommodate this system, but to citizens of Formosa, like the two protagonists of this story, these machinations bordered on the absurd. After a while they made up their minds: nationality was of secondary importance—they would be Bolivians, Turks, or Paraguayans; they just wanted to get out of there. Their determination was so great that, even if they had needed to declare themselves citizens of Formosa, they would not have hesitated to tell the truth. From time to time a corporal would appear and comment jovially, anticipating some groveling plea for freedom, “Stop your complaining, we’ll kick you out of here soon enough.” He was like a ghost or an angel. These assurances could be repeated for months, but they always came true in the end. It actually did happen that way: one night they were given back their documents, and the next morning, along with hundreds of other prisoners, they saw the cloudless Formosa horizon stretch out before them like the promise of a journey. Without realizing that they had finally made it back to their native land, the vast expanse brought to mind the pictures of the Siberian steppe they had seen so often in their illustrated magazines, though they had to ignore the vegetation—now the silence of midday coincided strikingly with the awed silence that fell over them as they pored over the images. Everyone dispersed through the deserted streets of Clorinda, though only to pass through; soon there was nothing left of the group.
It happened just as it had on the way, only in reverse: once at the outskirts of town, they thought they were still in Paraguay. Just as nature showed wisdom in its diversity, it was also predictable in its similarity. They rejected the idea of passing through the city of Formosa; they hated the thought of anything that might delay them from getting back on their way. Without border controls, the land to the south seemed limitless; Paraguay represented a stage they had to pass through, while Argentina seemed to swell with opportunities for adventure. And so it was. Over kilometers and kilometers of open countryside, they honed their skills as itinerants. Apart from greater physical resilience and a sense of sight that grew sharper with the passage of time, the first virtue they acquired was that of forgetting the notion of speed and, along with it, any sense of hurry or delay. Just as it would be risky to say that a
After a few weeks they would learn the customs and limitations of Formosa’s immigration policy. The camp, with its progressive stages of detention—indictment, confinement, freedom—and its rhythms adapted to the arrival of new immigrants, was nothing more than a simulacrum of control. There was no such thing as deportation. The inmates that had been there the longest, having passed through all the stages, were given priority to leave as more people came; in that moment, they were no longer illegal immigrants, but legal ones. The groups of Paraguayans were perfectly happy to accommodate this system, but to citizens of Formosa, like the two protagonists of this story, these machinations bordered on the absurd. After a while they made up their minds: nationality was of secondary importance—they would be Bolivians, Turks, or Paraguayans; they just wanted to get out of there. Their determination was so great that, even if they had needed to declare themselves citizens of Formosa, they would not have hesitated to tell the truth. From time to time a corporal would appear and comment jovially, anticipating some groveling plea for freedom, “Stop your complaining, we’ll kick you out of here soon enough.” He was like a ghost or an angel. These assurances could be repeated for months, but they always came true in the end. It actually did happen that way: one night they were given back their documents, and the next morning, along with hundreds of other prisoners, they saw the cloudless Formosa horizon stretch out before them like the promise of a journey. Without realizing that they had finally made it back to their native land, the vast expanse brought to mind the pictures of the Siberian steppe they had seen so often in their illustrated magazines, though they had to ignore the vegetation—now the silence of midday coincided strikingly with the awed silence that fell over them as they pored over the images. Everyone dispersed through the deserted streets of Clorinda, though only to pass through; soon there was nothing left of the group.
It happened just as it had on the way, only in reverse: once at the outskirts of town, they thought they were still in Paraguay. Just as nature showed wisdom in its diversity, it was also predictable in its similarity. They rejected the idea of passing through the city of Formosa; they hated the thought of anything that might delay them from getting back on their way. Without border controls, the land to the south seemed limitless; Paraguay represented a stage they had to pass through, while Argentina seemed to swell with opportunities for adventure. And so it was. Over kilometers and kilometers of open countryside, they honed their skills as itinerants. Apart from greater physical resilience and a sense of sight that grew sharper with the passage of time, the first virtue they acquired was that of forgetting the notion of speed and, along with it, any sense of hurry or delay. Just as it would be risky to say that a
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