Based on a True StoryFreedom of expression is a victory achieved during the abolition of slavery, and the right to life is an essential accomplishment resulting from democracy. When I say, "I need protection," I mean that I also have the right to freedom of expression and the right to live. It is imperative to live safely so that neither my life nor that of any of my loved ones is threatened. Life is priceless. When you protect a person, you are not only providing him or her with a humanitarian service, but you are also giving them something invaluable—a life that cannot be bought anywhere. Otherwise, I would have bought my life, and you would have sold yours. Regardless, if I die today, my life would have been worth the journey I've taken.
A Tale of Persecution, Escape, and the Search for Safety
In a world filled with diverse stories, mine unfolds against the backdrop of struggle, persecution, and the relentless pursuit of safety. Originally hailing from Togo, my journey encapsulates the complexities of political conflicts, ethnic tensions, and the ongoing quest for asylum. This is not just a personal narrative; it is a plea for protection against the harrowing ill-treatment, persecution, death threats, and torture that have marked my life since April 25, 2005.
Author's Note: This narrative is not for sale, and reproduction without written notice is strictly prohibited.
Origins and Ethnic Strife
The tapestry of my narrative begins in Aného, Togo, a place that cradled my birth in the year 1987. Nestled within the embrace of a Christian household, I emerged into existence in this quaint Ewe ethnic town. My roots run deep in this community. Togo, a West African nation, has been a witness to the ebb and flow of political tides. Since the year 2005, the reins of power have been held by President Faure Essozimna Gnassingbé, who ascended to the presidency, succeeding his father, who had governed the country since 1967. The political landscape bears the imprints of this longstanding familial legacy, marking a significant chapter in Togo's modern history. Togo's political landscape is peculiar, often labeled as a dictatorial democracy. The ruling family, with decades-long authority, maintains close ties with the international community. I asked why ?
Amidst this, my family and I face persecution and even death sentences, forcing me to seek asylum from one country to another, risking my life through dangerous forests and rivers, being assaulted, rejected, imprisoned, and discriminated against. Nevertheless, I stand firm in faith, relying on divine grace, this is my story.
Back in my country, I can say there is a political conflicts between two major ethnic groups—the "Kabyè" and the "Ewe." Easy to understund: The "Kabyè" are the goverment and the "Ewe" are the opposition, my ethnic group. Despite the historical involvement of the Ewe in political opposition, power dynamics have marginalized them, creating a volatile environment. Togo's history is turbulent, woven with threads of political conflicts and ethnic tensions, leaving a lasting impact on its citizens. The nation grapples with the ongoing struggle between the Kabyè and the Ewe, two major ethnic groups entangled in power struggles and exclusion. This strife finds its roots in a complex historical backdrop, marked by the enduring legacy of colonialism and intricate power dynamics that have shaped Togo's destiny, leaving an indelible mark on people like me.
The political landscape, dominated by a Kabyè family called "Gnassingbé family" since 1967, lies at the heart of this strife. The Kabyè, originating from the north, have long held the reins of power, perpetuating a system that has systematically marginalized my ethnic group the Ewe and other southern groups. This power dynamic has spilled over into the economic sphere, where poverty has become a pervasive force, affecting significant sections of the population.This, my story, is not only a cry for help, assistance, and protection but also an appeal to the government of Togo for change. And an appeal to the international comunity for a change: Enough is enough. The ruling party's dictatorship, primarily composed of the Kabyè, has perpetuated a cycle of economic disparity, leaving many in a state of perpetual struggle.
Reports on the economic consequences of the government's policies in Togo point to a stark exacerbation of poverty, creating a fertile ground for discontent among its citizens. According to the United States Department of State report in 2020, "Significant human rights issues included: unlawful or arbitrary executions by members of the security forces; cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment by the government; harsh and life-threatening conditions in prisons and detention centers; arbitrary detention; political prisoners; arbitrary or unlawful interference with privacy; severe restrictions on freedom of expression and the Internet, including threats of violence..." (source: US State Department - Togo 2020 Human Rights Report, accessed on August 18, 2022). This report, dated 2020, provides a comprehensive overview of the challenging conditions faced by the Togolese population and highlights the government's role in perpetuating economic disparity, contributing to the overall discontent within the nation.
How the conflict started ?The ethnic tensions between the Kabyè and the Ewe trace their roots deep into history. While Togo's first post-independence president was an Ewe, the subsequent reign of the Gnassingbé family from the Kabyè ethnicity has resulted in the exclusion of the Ewe from positions of power. This exclusion has bred resentment and resistance, with the Ewe emerging as central figures in the political opposition. The year 2005 marked a pivotal moment in Togo's history, as political unrest climaxed in the death of my father, a representative of the opposition political party. The events of that year, including contested presidential elections and subsequent protests, led to a government crackdown, resulting in numerous lives lost and many more displaced.
During this period, the ethnic conflict between the Kabyè and the Ewe intensified, culminating in targeted violence against the Ewe. The government's response to the political opposition further fueled resentment, creating a volatile environment that persists to this day.
The economic consequences of this ethnic strife have been profound, with poverty rates soaring and opportunities for the Ewe diminishing. The unequal distribution of resources and power has driven many to seek refuge in neighboring countries, contributing to the growing refugee crisis. The events of 2005 were a turning point, forcing countless individuals to flee in search of safety and a chance at a life free from persecution.
The international community must recognize the direct correlation between ethnic conflicts, government policies, and the economic fallout propelling people to become refugees. In the tumultuous aftermath of the events that occured in Togo in 2005, when I, at the tender age of 16, fled my homeland seeking refuge, the reality of the journey was even more harrowing. Alone and desperate for safety, I sought protection in Benin, where I took refuge in a forest called Agame, alongside the local population. However, my asylum marked the beginning of a nightmare, as the close ties between Togo and Benin became a double-edged sword. The geographical proximity and bilateral agreements between the two nations facilitated the infiltration of Togolese police into our refugee camp, casting a dark shadow over our haven. This infiltration led to escalating violence, turning our refuge into a battleground. The echoes of gunfire and the pungent smell of burning refugee camps became haunting reminders of the perils we faced even in our supposed sanctuary. The shared border and agreements on population movement between Togo and Benin, meant to foster cooperation, became instruments of persecution for those seeking refuge. The vulnerability of the refugee camp in Agame was exploited, turning it into a theater of conflict and leaving countless lives in jeopardy.
On March 9, 2006, the UNHCR agency published the following update: Around 5,000 refugees have returned to the Agamé camp, whereas there were 9,000 before the events of mid-February. Services on-site are gradually being restored. The UNHCR office in Benin is currently exploring the possibility of implementing community projects involving local communities (By Francis Kpatindé, Accessed 24/02/2024 - source
As I embarked on this arduous journey, little did I know that seeking asylum would not only be a quest for safety but also a plunge into the complexities of geopolitical relationships that would amplify the challenges we faced as displaced individuals.
My story - Flight and Political Activism
My story unraveled after the brutal assassination of "my dear one" in 2005, a prominent member of the opposition party in our village. The mere mention of his name brings tears to my eyes. The horrific event unfolded in the polling station of our village, where he served as a representative. It was a day that stained my memory with indelible images of violence and despair.
As I stood witness to the heart-wrenching scene, those responsible for his murder callously extinguished a life dedicated to democratic ideals. The ruthless perpetrators, identified as Togolese police and paramilitary forces, wielded their power with cruelty that defies comprehension. Live ammunition was discharged, and he fell victim to their merciless onslaught in that fateful polling station.
The brutal killing marked the beginning of a relentless pursuit by those responsible, aided by a government indifferent to justice and human rights. In response to this profound tragedy, I found strength in activism, using platforms like Messenger and SMS since there was no Facebook or WhatsApp at that time. I created a group on Messenger, and to my surprise, it quickly grew to include millions of people. I recall receiving a scholarship to study in Brazil while I was in Benin.
It was an opportunity to escape far from Togo, the horrific and difficult situation in Benin, so my primary goal was to seek protection rather than studying. I migrated to Brazil in 2012, landing in Sao Paulo in March, desperately seeking asylum. Unfortunately, my case was rejected in Brazil, and people filled with rejections and threats against me. Why ? I don't know. Only God's plan.I lived in dangerous situations in Brazil without any government support, any social assistance, any family nearby. Only me and my little daughter. In the year 2017, the Federal Police of Brazil delivered the sobering news that my plea for asylum had been denied. The gravity of the situation became starkly apparent as they conveyed the potential consequences: deportation or imprisonment awaited me if I did not heed the directive to depart from the country. This unwelcome turn of events thrust me into the complex and uncertain realm of immigration challenges, forcing me to confront the looming specter of expulsion from the land that had become my temporary haven. Despite being forced to return to Togo, the shadows of the past and the cruelty of the Togolese police and paramilitary continued to haunt my life. I took the risk of returning to Togo, facing hellish situations, including torture and assault. The echoes of my loved one's assassination still resonate through my life, serving as a stark reminder of the ongoing struggle against a system thriving on oppression and brutality.
How I lost my dear One
In the midst of the political turmoil, where the echoes of democracy clashed with the harsh realities of authoritarian rule, my Dear One faced a tragic tale that unfolded on the stage of our country, a nation gripped by unrest. The genesis of this story lies within the heart of an election, where My Dear One, more than just a father but a valiant defender of the opposition, took center stage at a voting center in our village. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows on the unfolding drama, the government played its cards in a deceitful manner.
A falsified list, a concoction of deception, was thrust upon the voting center, bearing names of individuals who were strangers to the village. The sinister motive behind this list was to manipulate the election results, and My Dear One, being the chief, was coerced to endorse it. Yet, in the face of corruption, he stood unwavering, refusing to sign a pact with deceit. The community, sensing the struggle, rallied behind him, hurling stones at the soldiers who sought to manipulate the democratic process. The response was not just verbal; it was met with the thunderous roar of bullets.
Amidst the chaos, My Dear One, a beacon of resistance, fell victim to a stray bullet, piercing his abdomen. I firmly believe that the police intentionally targeted My Dear father for his refusal to be part of the deceitful orchestration.This tragedy goes beyond the loss of a dear one; it strikes at the very core of our collective resilience against injustice. My Dear One's stand against corruption becomes a symbol of unwavering courage in the face of adversity, a testament to the indomitable spirit that refuses to bow to tyranny. The echoes of this event resonate through the corridors of our village, a stark reminder of the sacrifices made in the pursuit of truth and justice. As the shadows of oppression loom, My Dear One's legacy serves as a guiding light for me, urging us to continue the fight for a brighter, more just future and this motivate me in every writing.
Avenue into a cul-de-sac
As I previously mentioned, I migrated to Brazil in 2012, arriving in Sao Paulo in March. Fleeing the relentless persecution by the policemen who had taken the life of my dear one, the shadows of their pursuit loomed over me, even within the confines of the refugee camp in Benin. Being the sole witness to the tragic scene as the only son of my dear one, I sought asylum desperately. Regrettably, my plea was met with rejection. Brazil became for me, the labyrinth of adversity; the intricacies of survival painted more detailed canvas of despair. The marriage to a Brazilian woman, once seen as a beacon of hope, unveiled unforeseen challenges. The legal complexities of my asylum case, exacerbated by bureaucratic hurdles and the unyielding nature of the immigration system, turned this avenue into a cul-de-sac, leaving me entangled in a web of uncertainty. In the big confusion of Brazil's rules for people like me, there's this big question: why some people get help and others, like me, don't? It's like the rules are broken, and they like some stories more than others. I talked to other people who moved here, and some said I should change my story. They told me to hide my real name, say I don't know how I got here, and make up a story about a dangerous ship journey. They even said to pretend all my family died in Africa. It felt wrong, you know? They laughed while telling me, but it didn't feel right. These people, they didn't really have problems. Their families were okay, and they came here with legal papers. After just three months, the government gave them a permanent home as refugees. And me? They said I'm lying. It seems like they didn't even read my real story.
In Brazil, the system seems to like made-up stories more than real ones. It's frustrating when they believe fake stories, and real ones like mine get ignored. I'm not the only one going through this, and it makes me think the system needs to change. They should look closer at everyone's story and really see who needs help. My story, what happened to me, should matter, just like everyone else's. The refugee commission in Brazil rejecting my plea wasn't just the end of a legal process; it was the start of a darker chapter in my life. Once my story became public, criminals targeted me because of my vulnerable situation. Despite desperate pleas for help to the police, it felt like my cries disappeared into bureaucratic indifference, leaving me helpless in a city that turned its back on my struggles. The gangs in Brazil didn't just take my credit cards; they controlled my whole life. They made me pay them every month just to survive. It was like living in a nightmare where criminals set the rules, and staying alive meant giving them money. Walking on the streets was like playing a dangerous game. Armed gangs were always a threat, and I had to hide all the time. Pretending to be a man with a foot problem wasn't just a desperate move; it was something I had to do every day. It was like walking on a tightrope, balancing between being seen and facing danger at every step.
Throughout my challenging times in Brazil, numerous hardships unfolded. Persistent threats from armed gangs forced me to frequently relocate, hindering my attempts to establish stable businesses. The financial strain resulting from these circumstances was profound. Regrettably, my pleas for assistance were met with denial from those in authority, rendering me vulnerable to nefarious individuals. This period marked a profoundly distressing chapter in my life.
All the struggles I went through show a bigger problem for refugees like me. I want people to see the difficulties we face, not just for me but for all refugees trying to live in a new place.The rejection of my asylum plea by the CONARE refugee commission not only shattered my hopes for a secure future but also exposed me to the public eye, making me a target for criminal elements. This exposure triggered a sequence of events where my reports to the police fell on deaf ears, and I became a victim of robbery and violence in my own home. As my life unraveled in Brazil, the intricate threads of hardship were woven into every aspect of my existence. The city's insecurity compelled me to disguise myself, adopting the guise of a foot-crippled man, a desperate measure to avoid attracting attention in the perilous streets. My efforts to carve a stable life were met with resistance and intimidation, pushing me further into the shadows of fear.
My relentless pursuit of a safe haven in Brazil took every conceivable measure, even marrying a Brazilian woman, in a desperate bid to secure stability. However, the complexities of my asylum case remained unresolved, pushing me deeper into the abyss of insecurity.The tactics employed by criminal gangs escalated, reaching into my daily life. Seizing control over my financial lifelines, they targeted my credit cards, leaving me economically vulnerable. In a cruel twist, I found myself compelled to pay these gangs monthly for the privilege of my survival, a harrowing testament to the economic stranglehold they exerted over my existence. Despite my persistent efforts to seek help through denunciations to the police, my pleas for assistance fell on deaf ears. The desperate measures I undertook, from marriage to public denunciations, underscore the lengths to which I went in the quest for security. However, the intricate details of my struggles in Brazil reveal a harsh reality where conventional avenues for help proved futile, leaving me ensnared in a cycle of economic exploitation and unrelenting threats to my well-being. My pursuit of refuge in Brazil concluded with shattered dreams and depleted savings.
Returning to Togo in the hope of escaping the challenges I faced in Brazil, I found myself targeted in an assassination attempt in February 2020. This harrowing experience underscored the harsh reality of my existence, marked by brutality, humiliation, and the ever-present threat of death. My return to Togo in 2020, hoping for a semblance of peace, only intensified the danger. An assassination attempt in February 2020 left me brutally assaulted, humiliated, and sentenced to death. Fleeing back, my life became a cycle of hiding and running. Criminal gangs targeting me, robbing me of my businesses and forcing me into hiding. The intricate web of collaboration between gangs and local police made seeking help futile. My attempts to maintain a low profile failed, as threats and violence persisted, pushing me to the brink. Returning to Togo seemed my only option, but the situation had not improved. Abductions and persecution of members of the political party to which I belonged escalated, highlighting the pervasive atmosphere of fear and oppression. The power of Faure Gnassingbé continued to target opposition activists, leaving no room for dissent.
A Cry for Protection
My plea is not just an individual cry for help; it is a testament to the broader issues plaguing Togo and the struggle faced by those seeking refuge. The violations of human rights, systemic abuse, and the culture of impunity demand international attention. The recent abductions and persecuti*-on of PNP activists underscore the urgent need for intervention. As my story unfolds, I find myself caught between the crossfires of political conflict, ethnic tension, and the pursuit of safety. The challenges I face are not unique but emblematic of a larger issue—the plight of those seeking refuge from persecution.
The international community must heed this call, recognizing the urgency of the situation in Togo and the broader implications for human rights.My journey becomes a testament to resilience, a plea for understanding, and a call for collective action. The complexities of my story mirror the struggles of countless individuals seeking protection and a chance at a life free from fear. It is my hope that by sharing my narrative, a spotlight can be cast on the urgent need for protection, justice, and the preservation of human dignity in the face of persecution.
When I had resolved to flee Brazil, threatened from all sides, thousands of souls were also traversing the dense forest between Colombia and Panama, aspiring to one day find refuge in the United States or Canada. The perilous journey spared no one, marked by assaults from armed groups on the way, thefts, rapes, accidental falls, and drownings.
My narrative unfolds amid these trials, following my escape from Brazil, burdened by the tragic loss of my daughter, Serrafine. She was swept away by the turbulent waters during our attempt to cross the final river, and her body was never recovered, leaving an immense void in my heart. The incline stretched steeply over the orange, crumbly soil. Enormous tree roots served as obstacles to conquer or climb. None of these challenges held significance for me, despite my little Serrafine, merely five years old, being attired inappropriately for this demanding ascent. Adorned simply in gray flip-flops and green shorts that I had purchased for her the day before our departure, she bravely trotted alongside adults, their shoulders weighed down by heavy packs, and their faces contorting when the path became particularly arduous.
In the Darien jungle, every gram mattered; even happy memories felt heavy. I remember that day when, over time, those on this journey left behind their things. In September 2021, my daughter made friends with other kids on this path, and we just entered the migratory trail crossing the Tapon del Darien – a hundred kilometers of jungle with scattered belongings, debris, and sometimes decomposing bodies. The Darien wasn't just a gap in the Pan-American Highway; it was a natural path between Colombia and Panama, a dense forest that became a nightmare for those who got lost. It was also a common route for migrants, driven by economic crises in South America
The improvised camps overflowed with waste as migrants spent the night. The initial stage of our journey had led us to the small town of Necocli on the Caribbean coast of Colombia. For the exiles, it marked the beginning of an infernal voyage, governed solely by the law of money, as the region was controlled by the Clan del Golfo, an armed group profiting from drug and human trafficking. Migrants were subjected to taxes, ironically called "la vacuna" (the vaccine), for every service, be it accommodation, transportation, or otherwise.
Under the oppressive heat, children leaped into the port's waters, living in scattered tents nearby. "Only Venezuelans camp here. People from other nationalities often have the means to afford a hotel, a meal," explained a humanitarian worker. Some waited here for a few days, others for several months, as their families couldn't afford the boat. Every day, 1,200 people, including a handful of tourists, boarded at Necocli, heading to Acandi or Capurgana, the starting points of the two routes across the Darien.
The majority of migrants preferred the Acandi route, less risky but more expensive. The Clan del Golfo controlled everything, from boats to the paper bracelets needed to purchase tickets. Standing in front of my bright pink tent, I observed other migrants, each carrying their burdens and stories, all faced with heart-wrenching choices. Marcos de Castillo, 47, and his wife Carolina Herrera, four months pregnant, were among them. Former workers in Venezuela, they had fled due to gang threats. The exorbitant cost of bracelets and crossings tested their resolve.
The journey from Necocli to Acandi was also fraught with obstacles, rivers to cross, hills to climb, and potential dangers. During our walk, my daughter Serrafine showed exceptional bravery, taking the hands of her new friends to assist them. She was a beacon of hope in the midst of the darkness of this inhospitable jungle. The Darien route, with its waterfalls, howler monkeys, and perilous passages, was a physical and mental trial. Every step was marked by fear, uncertainty about what awaited us at each turn.
Crossing the Muerto River, with water seeping into our boots up to our knees, symbolized the constant struggle to move forward despite obstacles. Families, like Edgar and Marianela's from Ecuador with their children and their puppy Chayla, carried the weight of hope for a better life. During breaks, tired faces lit up around my small pink tent, witnesses to the trials overcome and the bonds formed in this grueling march.
The dangers of the jungle became more tangible, with hidden armed groups and corpses marking the path. Night in this cemetery-like forest was a nightmare, with campfires risking panic and decomposing bodies leaving an unbearable olfactory imprint. Every moment was a battle against fear, a struggle to stay alive.
At the Bajo Chiquito camp, the reality of the traumas suffered by migrants emerged. Some, like Angelica Jimenez, desperately sought medical assistance for their sick children. Women, particularly vulnerable, were often victims of sexual violence, while children were exposed to infections and unsanitary conditions.
Tensions rose as the American dream seemed to fade, replaced by the uncertainty of the future. Overwhelmed, Panamanian authorities attempted to contain the migratory flow by strengthening military presence at the border with Colombia. However, migrants resisted abandoning their hopes, fighting for every moment of dignity and the possibility of a better life.
I bow before the painful omission of the episode where my dear daughter, Serrafine, was swept away by the relentless force of the river during our final crossing. It is a wound that will never heal, an indescribable grief that has marked every subsequent step of my journey.The descent was dizzying, the slope steep, and the force of the current irresistible. I clung desperately to my daughter, but the unforgiving nature of the jungle had other plans. Tears mixed with the pounding rain, creating a bitter blend of pain and despair. My little Serrafine, who had been my courageous companion throughout this ordeal, was carried away by the turbulent waters, leaving behind a void that could never be filled.
After this heart-wrenching tragedy, my path through the Darien was tinged with mourning. The wild nature of the jungle resonated with the deafening silence of loss, every tree and every animal cry seeming to mourn with me.
Arriving in Mexico, a new chapter of my journey began. Mexican immigration detained me and other migrants in an isolated village in the state of Chiapas for over a month. The hostel that hosted my sleepless nights, awaiting a solution, bore the significant name of Hostel CASA DEL MIGRANTE. Days were marked by uncertainty, anxiety, and solitude.
After a month of waiting with no prospect of progress, the collective resolution of the migrants manifested. Around 6500 of us decided to resume our march, braving the hot sun of southern Mexico to the city of Mexico. The roads were long, exhausting, with cruel death lurking among us. Two souls succumbed along the way, and women lost consciousness from exhaustion.
Nights on the asphalt were devoid of comfort, sometimes reduced to fleeting rests on the hardness of the ground. River water, our only beverage, was our meager solace in this relentless journey. The physical and mental trials seemed insurmountable, but the will to survive and pursue hope persisted, even in the darkest moments.
My narrative, now completed with these tragic twists, seeks to give voice to the entirety of the migratory experience, where every step is a struggle against the elements, adversities, and the failures of the human heart. It is a journey that transcends geographical borders to touch the heart of the human condition, with all its tragedies and unyielding hopes.At the threshold of my journey through Mexico, a stroke of luck had allowed me to discreetly infiltrate a bus heading to the city of Veracruz. There, I encountered the formidable "Train of Death," a sinister mode of transportation that offered neither rest nor respite. The conditions on board this train were as inhospitable as the journey itself, with no room to sit as it was originally designed for transporting containers.
Between the train's two wagons, every immigrant desperately sought a grip, clinging to anything that could offer a semblance of stability in this moving trial. More than twelve hours on board, tossed by the jolts of the journey, as the train cut through the air at a breathtaking speed. Each passage through Mexican slums brought not refuge but hostility from the locals, welcoming us with stones, a palpable hostility aiming to force us off the moving convoy.
The fear of being crushed under the train's wheels added to the constant anxiety. My thoughts turned to my daughter, and every jolt of the train became a silent prayer for her soul to watch over me, transforming this perilous journey into a meaningful quest. Near the American border, the relentless pursuit by Mexican immigration forces forced us into a frantic race for life.
Mexican police, like relentless hunters, were on our heels. Some of us were arrested, sent back to southern Mexico, while others suffered inhumane abuses on the spot. Terror was our constant companion, and every corner of the journey became the stage for atrocities. The police, devoid of any compassion, looted our meager possessions, leaving behind only distress and destitution. It was an unimaginable horror, a test of resilience in the face of adversity, engraved in my memory as a dark reality of the journey into the unknown.The struggle between life and death reached its climax when I found myself at the gates of the asylum request, a quest for the much-hoped-for protection in a world marked by uncertainty. My once obscure future now depended on the mercy of those tasked with deciding the fate of wandering souls like mine.
Seeking refuge and safety, I expended all the energy left in me to make my voice heard in this complex and often ruthless process. The documents I carried with me, fragile traces of my past and the horrors endured, were like witness papers of my asylum-seeking existence.
The cold and impersonal room echoed with the sounds of suspended lives, destinies in precarious balance. The incessant questioning seemed to probe the depths of my being, revealing the invisible scars of my journey. The protection I sought was shrouded in uncertainty, a distant dream hanging in suspense for the words uttered by strangers sitting behind desks.
"I need protection," I whispered with tangible sincerity, my eyes reflecting the urgency of my request. The future stretched before me like a blank canvas, ready to be painted by the decisions of those who held the power to define the course of my life. Every second spent in that waiting room of destiny felt like an eternity, between fragile hope and devouring fear.
It is in these moments that humanity confronts itself, where borders become lines drawn by men, and where the quest for protection transcends the limits of geographical maps. My narrative, written with the urgency and necessity of the pen, captures the essence of this fierce struggle between life and death, between uncertainty and hope, in the universal quest for refuge and safety.
In the tumultuous epilogue of my journey, the final obstacle stood in the ruthless form of the Acunha River. On that day, tragedy unfolded before my eyes as two young souls were carried away by the relentless force of the waters. Through an elusive grace, I managed to cross unscathed, but the nightmare I thought was over was only just beginning. On the other bank, American police awaited us steadfastly, their white pick-up trucks and handcuffs ready to welcome us.
I was handcuffed like a war criminal and taken into the darkness of the 33 darkest days of my life, confined in a Texan prison. Near the river, in a makeshift military camp, I endured six days of deprivation, without hygiene, shivering on the hard ground, confined to a cramped room devoid of any ventilation. The rudimentary toilets were in the open, without a shred of privacy, and each use filled the air with the nauseating smell of distress. Our meager daily fare amounted to a single burrito, a meager ration that left the stomach empty and the soul in distress.
I recall those nights when my inner tears mingled with my prayers, whispering to me that death would have been a welcome release from the clutches of the PCC in Brazil. On the seventh day, I was transferred to the ominous Karnes Correctional Detention Center, a place where days blended in a whirlwind of torment. Nights were haunted by endless nightmares, and madness seeped into the folds of my tormented mind. Doctor visits brought only fleeting respite, a momentary relief from the pervasive horror.
When I was finally released, an additional burden rested on my shoulders, an electronic monitor attached to my ankle and a set date for my deportation or trial. But I couldn't await that fateful day, so I fled to Canada, ignorant of the perils awaiting me on the other side of the border. Yet there, a new, relentless challenge arose: after over a year in Canada without residential status, the Border Services Agency informed me that my asylum application could not be processed, under an agreement between Canada and the United States. Thus, I found myself immersed in a risk assessment process before expulsion, wondering if all the trials endured so far were not enough to demonstrate the peril awaiting me if I were to return.
In conclusion, my narrative transcends a personal tale, extending into a human chronicle that mirrors the challenges and aspirations of a multitude of individuals who, like me, have been driven to exile by desperate circumstances. Through these pages, I strive to lend a voice to those whose cries for help are lost in the tumult of migration. My journey through the Darien is more than a physical ordeal; it is a spiritual voyage that delves into the boundaries of humanity and the ceaseless quest for a sanctuary of peace.
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