An Immigrant
by Palmira Figueroa
How many more dead? How many more bodies without names, hidden and unreported?
How many more families torn apart?
How many more small children crying for their parents, their futures, their safety?
How many more immigrants begging for the basic respect of their human rights?
So many questions, and so much pain.
I have always believed the answers live in the eyes of my people-our souls that heal one another. But today, my people are crying. Today, they are hiding. They are chased, harassed, and demonized-more than ever before.
I have so many questions, and so much sadness. I grieve for this country’s humanity and decency, weakening with every second that tyranny tightens its grip.
I migrated 23 years ago. For 23 years I have accompanied, supported, and loved my community. We immigrants are always struggling and striving. But these days are different. We are steeped in desperation, sorrow, and a kind of relentless, unsettled rage
I have never felt before.
I grieve constantly.
I grieve for the innocence stolen from children whose parents live under siege.
I grieve for the babies crying for their incarcerated mothers.
I grieve for my community, its heart torn apart after every raid, every detention, every death.
I grieve for workers-persecuted for being brown, for daring to speak Spanish, for seeking to survive as day laborers, gardeners, housekeepers.
People who cross borders carrying only their love and labor—an offering of dignity, turned to sacrifice by a system that exploits their humanity and throws them away.
This grief is a sword in my throat.
A weight on my chest.
It is a thousand fists pounding my back until I can no longer move.
And still-we keep moving, for our people.
Because we are not just grieving.
We are remembering. We are resisting.
We are loving, loudly.
We are immigrants.
And we will not be silent.
