Description

Carlos is one of the most extraordinary people I have ever met at the immigration center. A Mexican native, he is neither deported nor forced to flee his homeland. Even he himself could not fully articulate why he chooses to leave Mexico.

Now sixty-one, he sports short hair and a prominent high nose bridge, with an extensive tattoo sprawling across his arm, which depicts a phoenix rising from flames. He gets the ink done in his younger days, a symbol standing for luck, bravery and perseverance. “When I was young, I thought this tattoo would serve as a talisman protecting me,” he remarks. “But I’ve come to realize nothing can shield you other than yourself.”

Spain is set to be his destination, yet he has no clue how to get there, what drives him to go, nor what occupation he will take up upon arrival. Having travelled through several cities before ending up at the immigration center, he scrapes together a living doing odd jobs — washing dishes, hauling cargo, sweeping streets, anything to get by. “I am merely a drifter,” he says. “I have no idea where I am headed, nor when my wandering will ever end.”

What strikes me deepest, however, is a painting he’s made.

Simple yet brightly colored, the sketch looks just like a child’s doodle. It portrays the rural Mexican village where he was born, the very place he’s spent his childhood years alongside his family. “We were terribly poor back then,” he tells me, “yet I still vividly remember those lush green fields and warm sunshine.”

Decades have passed since he left that village. He once worked as a landscape designer — a career he cherished deeply, even though it barely brought in enough income to make ends meet. Nowadays he works part-time at a restaurant, washing dishes, chopping vegetables and doing cleaning, forced to stand upwards of ten hours every single day. “My hands are never meant for washing dishes,” he sighs, “yet I fail to figure out what else I could possibly do with them.”

His greatest wish is to return to landscape design someday. “I do not crave vast wealth,” he explains. “All I long for is a small plot of land, somewhere I can plant seedlings, watch them grow, and wait for them to bloom.” As he speaks, his gaze drifts toward the window, as if an entire garden full of blossoms is awaiting him beyond the glass pane.

Before parting with me, he leaves me a photo of that painting. “This represents my roots,” he tells me. “No matter how far I wander, this drawing stays with me. It constantly reminds me exactly where I came from.”