By Elket Rodríguez

Where cross the crowded ways of life, 
Where sound the cries of race and clan… 

In haunts of wretchedness and need, 
On shadowed thresholds dark with fears, 
From paths where hide the lures of greed… 
Above the noise of selfish strife, 
We hear Thy voice, O Son of Man. 

–Where Cross the Crowded Ways of Life, by Frank Mason North

Every day, the footprints of thousands of migrant women and children are superimposed on the banks of Panama’s Chucunaque River – on the northern banks of the Darien, the jungle that divides Panama in Central America from Colombia in South America. Before journeying through this vast rainforest that costs the lives of hundreds of migrants, thousands of families gather in Necoclí, Colombia, at the southern end of the Darien, in order to make their way north, especially to the United States.  

But the voyage is more than a challenge, it is hell. The Darien Gap –10,000 square miles of rainforest spanning thousands of square miles connecting Central and South America – is a natural labyrinth where migrants face the immensity of nature and the constant danger of getting lost, becoming a symbol of the magnitude and complexity of the global migration crisis. Steep mountains, vast swamps, rushing rivers, wild and deadly wildlife, extreme weather and disease are the order of the day on this stretch that has become one of the most dangerous migratory routes created by criminal organizations with the lives of migrants forced to risk their lives to cross it. 

However, the hope for a better future for these migrants is chimerical. While here in the United States, President-elect Donald Trump outlines that the American dream is dead, paradoxically this televised U.S. nightmare seems a better alternative to many than persecution and extreme poverty –much of it created by more than a century of foreign policy that impoverishes our neighbors.   

Migrants from Venezuela, Ecuador, Cuba, Colombia, Afghanistan, Benin, Bangladesh, China and Congo, among others, meet in Panama –a port of passage not just for Central and South America but for the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans through the Panama Canal. That land, where trillions of dollars in goods cross annually and where hundreds of ethnicities, nations and cultures come together, is also the scenario that crosses one of the most tortuous routes of human trafficking. A land of hope and death. A portal to the future or an end of the destination. 

Either way, it seems that passing through Panama is natural. Likewise, is the crossing of migrants that generate thousands of dollars to local carriers who charge $60 per person to transport them from the Darien to the northern border with Costa Rica.  

Everyone asks me for impressions and takeaways. Well, I take a lot, and I take little. But in general, I take away that we are spectators, me included, of a human trafficking story that profits cartels, governments, indigenous people, arms manufacturers, defense contractors and private prisons. All of which generate gain from this business, from Venezuela to Canada. This trip cemented in my mind that migration is a business, I am a spectator and I am not, nor are we, saviors of the world.  

I take away that crossing the Darien is an encounter with death. There were multiple stories I heard of entire families who perished when they fell on the cliff of death, from bites from “spider 24” (because it kills you in 24 hours) and of bodies of adults and children floating in the river because the river had swollen during the journey, due to the passage of tropical storm Rafael on November 4. I find surreal the idea that, if a drone had flown over the official camp set up by the Panamanian authorities and international organizations on the banks of the Chucunaque in Panama, which we visited, it would have captured a panorama of death around the established camp.   

But the death that the Darien grants is not only physical, it is of the soul, especially the death of innocence for children and the sexual integrity of women. I still struggle to assimilate the overwhelming number of testimonies of sexual abuse among many of the women who crossed the Darien and the tacit understanding that sexual violence by cartels, armed groups, indigenous people, fellow migrants, and even government authorities is almost inevitable, while silence persists in the face of these atrocities.  

I cannot comprehend this reign of impunity. Sexual abuse is the silent theme of migration and is so common that it is not even questioned. It’s as if it’s part of the decision to migrate itself and I struggle to internalize this. 

It’s sad, but what struck me most about the Darien was the perception of women and children as merchandise: as the main currency of migration. At a crucial moment when it is questioned what it is to be a man in this century, I, who am the father of two boys, refuse to validate with my silence behaviors that do not represent a man. I am a father, husband, son, brother, cousin, nephew and uncle of women. I’m honest… I don’t understand.  

But I also take a lot with me. The vulnerability of migrant parents, the innocence of children, the humanity of volunteers and the true action in faith of young Panamanian volunteers who woke up at 2:00 AM on a Saturday to donate their day off to the service of migrants. I take with me the Christian brotherhood of the colleagues of different faith traditions who do not see the immigration issue as a matter of exploitation or dollars and cents.  

I take away that it is my choice and your choice to see Jesus in the face of every migrant, to see dollars in their lives, to see exploitation in their strength, to see sexual pleasure in their weak bodies, to see the scapegoat for our sins, to see criminals who want to invade us, demons that want to destroy us or to see angels that we can host. Only two of these options above are biblical. But I repeat, the choice is yours and mine. It is in the eye of the beholder; it is inside you and me.  

I wonder, if blasphemy against the Spirit is calling God’s work Satan’s and Satan’s work God’s, could it also be blasphemy to see Satan where Jesus tells us to see Him? Is it blasphemous to see invaders where, in the Word, we are invited to harbor angels? 

What else do I take? I take the back of a girl full of mosquito bites. The tears of mothers with one-year-old children begging for money to take a bus to take them to Costa Rica. The face of helplessness of fathers who did not know how to protect and provide for their families.  

I carry with me the ministry of Teresita in Colombia, who, through her alter ego Lupe the clown, brings smiles to children in the refugee camps of Necoclí before they embark on the perilous journey through the Darien. During her trip to Panama, Teresita met children who had already crossed the jungle, children she had once cheered up in Necoclí. It pains me because she understands the suffering they endure on that journey, yet she still finds the strength to bring joy and light to their lives. 

I take with me the different faces of Jesus. The lost face of the children, the face of distrust of the women, the indifference and the compensation of forces of the authorities and the face of desperation of the men to provide. I take with me what I brought, the conviction of God’s presence in the volunteers who serve in the Darien.  

For a week I wondered how to walk after the Darien. What footprints can I leave. How can I be more than a spectator. It’s a process I’m still discerning. But what is clear to me is that there are always Christians who “above noise and selfishness” see Jesus in their neighbors.