of other regions. Everybody, however, shared the same vacant expression of despair.
One day, as I ate from the food I carried, two old men approached me with their hands held out begging. I shook my head and ran from them. Another day, anold woman approached me searching for a lost family member. Again I shook my head. My responsibility had been a family that now lay buried. My only responsibility now was feeding myself and searching for a young girl named Alicia and a baby I had never wanted.
Some days, platoons of soldiers passed on distant hillsides and gunshots echoed in the distance. Rumors of ambushes spread among the refugees. For this reason, most refugees walked during the night, which was hard because of the cold and the twisting rocky trails. Some nights, heavy clouds hid the moon and made traveling even more dangerous, but never as dangerous as a soldier’s gun.
There were some who risked walking during the day, but I didn’t. I hid among the trees or in caves or behind large boulders until nightfall, avoiding everyone, especially those who started fires or had children who made noise. When I finished the food carried with me from the pueblo, I spent my days as the others did, sleeping or picking berries,
jocote
fruit, or digging for raw
pacaya
, a bitter-tasting root that Mamí and Papí had taught me to eat. My nights and dayswere consumed with overwhelming anger and guilt.
Sometimes when I walked close to a group, I overheard their stories. Men showed their wounds and told of being caught and tortured. Most of the women remained silent, not willing to share the memories they guarded. All of the refugees spoke of losing family or friends to the war.
I walked alone, but remained close to one large group. I never knew where I was as we journeyed northward. I knew only that I walked each day closer to a frightening and unknown fate. Some days, in the far northern hills of Guatemala, we passed small cantóns filled with mostly Indios. I didn’t dare enter those places for fear soldiers might be waiting in ambush. I knew also that the villagers in those cantóns were very poor and probably didn’t have enough food to feed their own families.
Sometimes strangers approached the refugees, offering directions or telling them where soldiers had been. Always I feared these people were setting military traps. I worried that if we believed them, we might die, but if we didn’t believe them, we might still die.Everyone lived in constant fear of dying, never trusting anybody.
Rumors of more killings to the south continued, but after many nights of travel without hearing gunshots and many days without seeing patrols, I decided I must be north of where the soldiers destroyed cantóns and killed the Indios. Still fearful and cautious, I began walking in daylight. This was easier, but I noticed that everybody who owned a machete carried it always at their side. I carried a big stick. Every voice, every breaking branch in the forest, even the sound of a hawk’s cry made me look around, certain that the soldiers had caught up with me.
Food grew scarce to the north. I spent whole days searching for enough food for one small meal. More and more people begged from me, but I turned and walked away from them. I feared people and wanted nothing from them, nor did I wish to give anything of myself. I existed in an isolated world of memories, anger, and hurt.
Sometimes I glanced at the children on the trail and felt twinges of pity when I saw their small faces sohaunted by fear and hunger. Their faces brought back painful memories of another place that had children with names like Antonio, Rubén, Victoria, Lidia, Lisa, Pablo, Federico, Lester, and Alicia. But I reminded myself that the children on the trail weren’t my responsibility either. I searched for the only responsibilities I had, Alicia and the baby. But each day I lost a little more hope.
As my journey took me farther north, refugees stretched down the trails for
One day, as I ate from the food I carried, two old men approached me with their hands held out begging. I shook my head and ran from them. Another day, anold woman approached me searching for a lost family member. Again I shook my head. My responsibility had been a family that now lay buried. My only responsibility now was feeding myself and searching for a young girl named Alicia and a baby I had never wanted.
Some days, platoons of soldiers passed on distant hillsides and gunshots echoed in the distance. Rumors of ambushes spread among the refugees. For this reason, most refugees walked during the night, which was hard because of the cold and the twisting rocky trails. Some nights, heavy clouds hid the moon and made traveling even more dangerous, but never as dangerous as a soldier’s gun.
There were some who risked walking during the day, but I didn’t. I hid among the trees or in caves or behind large boulders until nightfall, avoiding everyone, especially those who started fires or had children who made noise. When I finished the food carried with me from the pueblo, I spent my days as the others did, sleeping or picking berries,
jocote
fruit, or digging for raw
pacaya
, a bitter-tasting root that Mamí and Papí had taught me to eat. My nights and dayswere consumed with overwhelming anger and guilt.
Sometimes when I walked close to a group, I overheard their stories. Men showed their wounds and told of being caught and tortured. Most of the women remained silent, not willing to share the memories they guarded. All of the refugees spoke of losing family or friends to the war.
I walked alone, but remained close to one large group. I never knew where I was as we journeyed northward. I knew only that I walked each day closer to a frightening and unknown fate. Some days, in the far northern hills of Guatemala, we passed small cantóns filled with mostly Indios. I didn’t dare enter those places for fear soldiers might be waiting in ambush. I knew also that the villagers in those cantóns were very poor and probably didn’t have enough food to feed their own families.
Sometimes strangers approached the refugees, offering directions or telling them where soldiers had been. Always I feared these people were setting military traps. I worried that if we believed them, we might die, but if we didn’t believe them, we might still die.Everyone lived in constant fear of dying, never trusting anybody.
Rumors of more killings to the south continued, but after many nights of travel without hearing gunshots and many days without seeing patrols, I decided I must be north of where the soldiers destroyed cantóns and killed the Indios. Still fearful and cautious, I began walking in daylight. This was easier, but I noticed that everybody who owned a machete carried it always at their side. I carried a big stick. Every voice, every breaking branch in the forest, even the sound of a hawk’s cry made me look around, certain that the soldiers had caught up with me.
Food grew scarce to the north. I spent whole days searching for enough food for one small meal. More and more people begged from me, but I turned and walked away from them. I feared people and wanted nothing from them, nor did I wish to give anything of myself. I existed in an isolated world of memories, anger, and hurt.
Sometimes I glanced at the children on the trail and felt twinges of pity when I saw their small faces sohaunted by fear and hunger. Their faces brought back painful memories of another place that had children with names like Antonio, Rubén, Victoria, Lidia, Lisa, Pablo, Federico, Lester, and Alicia. But I reminded myself that the children on the trail weren’t my responsibility either. I searched for the only responsibilities I had, Alicia and the baby. But each day I lost a little more hope.
As my journey took me farther north, refugees stretched down the trails for
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