St. Jude's Gate

The following is taken from actual human rights delegations and reports. The author has spent time both in Colombia and the Borderlands with Community Peacemaker Teams and Mennonite Central Committee. Most details, down to St. Jude's Gate's existence, are entirely accurate. The violence the militia enacts is factual - many vigilantes do seek out migrants and beat them, and there are some reports of murder. This is an accurate representation of a migrant's journey across the desert, as well as the Catholic theology that provides hope for many migrants seeking refuge. 

	"Chicken or vegetarian?" the American girl asks you slowly.
	The very few words in English you have picked up so far tell you that the vegetarian option is maybe vegetables, maybe cheese. You don't like chicken as much, but you know it's better than the alternative. You say, "Chicken," and you find your way around the cafeteria. 
	One more day until the border crossing, and you are grateful that there is a shelter nearby. 
	"Look for St. Jude's Gate," they told you. "There's no guards there."
	"What if I get caught?" you asked. 
	"It is better than staying in Bogota and getting killed."
	They warned ahead of time that cartels would attempt to take you to a safe house that actually sets refugees like you up for failure. They charge you for a glass of water, for a blanket.	  
Look for the humanitarian shelters and keep your head low, they told you as they laid out the map. 
Don't trust anyone.
---
	You sometimes dream of your days in paramilitaries, and your struggle to get clean from cocaine.
	It was the kindness of your priest that showed you a better way to live. You didn't know what to make of Jesus, but you knew the priest's kindness was genuine. When you got clean, you started packing your bags.
	There was another paramilitary soldier there who harassed you constantly - laughed at you as you tried to quit drugs. He was always cruel. His name was Luis. 
	"There is no plan or meaning to this life," Luis spat out one day in the quiet. "You take what you can and you leave the rest behind."
	In Luis' eyes, you always noticed a disconnection from humanity - the things he had seen, the things he had done. All paramilitary soldiers have done things they regret. You regret introducing drugs and your life of violence to teenagers as ways for them to escape poverty. You regret threatening human rights watchers.
	But Luis? He didn't feel regret. There was no soul there. No compass.
---
You kiss your crucifix and put it under your shirt in front of the border.
You take out a map and look at it for a bit, noting the various water locations set out in the desert, set there by activists. In the US, as you understand, it is illegal to directly help but not to directly give water. You don't understand, but you suspect they don't understand either.
	You lay the blanket on top of the razor wire. 
	They were right. St. Jude's Gate is a wide open space with only simple fencing, posts, and vehicle barriers. Much easier than the wall. 
	You take one last inventory to make sure you have everything you need: booties to cover up your tracks, camo, water bottle, backpack, some bandages if needed. 
	You clench your fist, count backwards from three, and run over the blanket.
	American soil so far doesn't feel different from Mexican soil. 
---
	You dream of your priest and your church again.
	"Who is St. Jude?" you asked.
	"He is the saint of the downtrodden and lost," your priest replied. "That is why along the border, there is an opening called St. Jude's Gate. Its name is a blessing for those with the courage to cross."
	"I'm not sure a saint can listen to prayers like mine."
	"Redemption is for everyone, friend. Even you."
---
	You wake up and stretch.
	Another hot, unbearable day in the noisy desert.
	You keep walking north. Tucson, they say, is about a week away.
	Cartels tell the other migrants it's only a three hour walk.
	You are grateful now that you spent the money you had for detailed information. The world is beyond cruel and is inherently untrustworthy. Always plan for people to take advantage of you.
	People like Luis.
	You see a blue flag in the distance - water. 
	A smile forms and you run towards it.
---
	The blue barrel lays on cinder blocks. 
	You start to open up your water bottle and crouch next to it.
	That's when you notice a shoe sticking out of a nearby bush. 
	You walk towards it and see a familiar face.
	"Luis," you whisper. "Luis."
	No reply. 
	His skin is pale, eyes open, mouth open. You've seen this before. 
	You put your fingers along his neck - no pulse. Examining the body, you notice no bullet holes or other violent injuries. You sit across from the body. The heat is slowly cooking him, you realize.
	But how did he die?
	You look at the water barrel again, walk towards it.
	You turn on the faucet and hold your hand underneath the flowing water.
	Raising your fingers to your nose, you smell gasoline.
	Luis was poisoned.
	You walk back over to Luis' body.
	"You never knew love or kindness, did you?" you ask. "I feel sorry for you, friend."
	You pat down the body more, find his pistol. You put it in your belt - just in case. 
	"I would bury you but I need to keep going," you wave your hand. "I hope you understand. May God have mercy on you."
	You put a handkerchief over his face and turn around.
	Around Luis' body are various flags sticking up from the ground - from Confederate flags to Don't Tread On Me. You heard about these people before - the people who hate migrants, the people who are deeply afraid of you. 
	You realize these people are after you too now. You think back to your paramilitary training, and pray you don't have to use the training again. 
	It's about a half-day away from the next water station. With the little water you have, you know you can make it - but it will be painful.
---
	You finally get to the next water station.
	You smell-test it to make sure it's pure. It is.
	Saying a quick prayer of gratitude, you put your water bottle underneath it and see the clear, fresh water pouring out. You smile. You take out some food from your backpack and start chewing it. 
	In the distance, you hear gunshots. 
	You panic and quickly sneak away from the station.
	You wait an hour before continuing on.
---
	You come across another body. This one is shot point blank in the head, blood staining the dirt around him.
	You make the sign of the crucifix and look through the body's pockets. You find a piece of paper written in Spanish: Stay out of our country. You put the piece of paper back into his pocket. You take off your crucifix and place it on the body, say a silent prayer.
	"May God watch over you and keep you," you whisper. "May he watch over your family. This wasn't your fault. You were looking for a second chance just like me. May guilt never haunt you like it does for me."
	You make another sign of the cross. 
---
	You remember the advice you got when you decided to leave Colombia. 
	"Once you get to the highway, there will be people there to help you," your priest smiled.
	"How will I know they are there to help?" you asked.
	"They will be wearing Quakers for Peace shirts. Light blue. Look for them. They are there to help. They are good people."
	"I wish I could just simply declare asylum and run there."
	"I know. But with your past and your paramilitary connections, you will never find safety in the normal means. You must run and keep your head down. Quakers for Peace will help you form a new life."
---
	Night time.
	You decide, under the full moon, it is best to cross in the dark where the militia will have a harder time finding you. 
	This makes seeing the vegetation and blue flags and horizon a bit harder, but you know you can make it.
	Tucson is two-ish days away. 
	You can do this. 
---
	You accidentally stumble upon a truck in the middle of the night next to a campfire.
	You hide behind a cactus and stare. You see guns laying on the ground, a MAGA bumper sticker on the back of the truck. You know militia when you see them - amateur as they are. There is only man though, fast asleep. 
	You take out Luis' gun and point it towards him. It would be easy - just shoot and walk.
	Memories of Luis' eyes suddenly flood you. The distance, the coldness. The kind of cruelty that makes a man kill children. You know pulling the trigger would feel good after all that you've seen this militia do, but you've made a promise to stop being that type of man. 
You are here for redemption.
Tucking the gun away, you sneak to the truck and get in the driver's seat. You remember how to hotwire a car from the war when you were on the run from FARC.
You open up the panel and start crossing wires.
The truck suddenly turns on, with loud rock music blasting through the valley.
The militia man wakes up.
"What the hell!" he yells. "Stop!" 
You slam on the gas as gunshots hit the truck on its side, leaving the man behind - cursing and yelling.
---
	You know they will be looking for this truck soon, so you park it a few miles from the highway. You turn around and see packaged drugs and some money.
You're not going to do it, you say. You're here for redemption. You do, however, take a big jug of water. That's understandable and forgivable, you think. 
	You get out of the truck and start running as fast as you can. 
---
	Hot, desolate.
	You walk along the road - empty.
	Where are these Quakers? you wonder. 
	You stop and notice a cross alongside the road with a reflective red dot in the center. You know what happened to them, judging from what you've just survived. You say another quick prayer of gratitude and keep going. 
---
	You dream again that night of Colombia, of the jungles and of the clear night sky. You think back to your childhood, your mother's warmth. She has been dead for a few years, but you know that she still speaks with you sometimes. 
	You apologize to your mother as she sits on your bed. 
	"I'm sorry for doing what I've done," you say. "I'm trying to do better."
	"That's what makes me proud of you," she says. "Keep seeking redemption, and all will reveal itself. Make those who died crossing proud."
	You smile as she hugs you.
---
	You keep walking the highway when a car stops next to you.
	The window rolls down, you put your hand on your pistol.
	You immediately notice the blue shirt.
	"Are you Jhon Alvarez?" the man asks.
	He is speaking in Spanish - a language you haven't heard for a week, maybe even two.
	"Yes," you say.
	"We've been waiting for you," the man smiles. "Get in."
	You reach into your pocket, take out the gun, unload it, and throw it back into the desert. Death is behind you now. You hop into the car, say another prayer of gratitude.
	As the car speeds up, you look out at the desert and notice the American sunrise for the first time.  In all your efforts to survive, you never noticed it in depth - absorbed it. Truly noticing it fills you with awe and hope. 
	You don't understand why you're alive, or why God brought you here. You wish all migrants could cross safely. But you realize maybe you're not meant to understand what God's will is - at least not yet. You remember the stories of Mary and Joseph fleeing for their lives from Bethlehem while Jesus was in the womb. You wonder if Egypt treated them well when they arrived. You wonder if people knew the Hope growing inside Mary - Mary, the refugee, Mary, the Mother of God. You wonder if she thought about why God spared her so much. 
	As you look into the vastness of the desert,you realize all that was for you is right here  in this present, mysterious moment. Redemption is here, offering her hand for another chance at life.
	Nothing can take that away from you now.
	A smile forms on your face as you close your eyes and fall asleep.

.

Nathan Perrin (he/him/his) is a writer and Anabaptist pastor in Chicagoland. He holds an MA in Quaker Studies, and is a doctoral student studying Christian Community Development at Northern Seminary. His doctorate work centers on creating a writing program for nonprofits and churches to use to help under-resourced communities process trauma. His work has been published in the Dillydoun Review, Bangalore Review, Collateral Journal, Esoterica Magazine, etc. His forthcoming novella Memories of Green Rivers will be released in winter 2025 by Running Wild Press. He is also a screenwriter for an unannounced indie comedy series. For more information, visit www.nathanperrinwriter.com