Beyond the pain and indignation at the death of almost forty migrants, the discussion around responsibility and the embarrassment generated by the fact that no one takes responsibility for what happened, an image has remained etched in my mind. The one in that video of a few seconds that circulated on the networks. The migrants are seen locked up when the fire has already started; Also, a couple of policemen who don’t even deign to turn towards the cell; and the desperate attempt of the one who knocks on the gate to see if he can open it.
I’ll stay with those two policemen. What were they thinking? There are so many possibilities that I cannot help but consider a few hypotheses. From those who excuse them, since they were convinced that the fire would not get worse, to those who condemn them, since they considered that the lives of these people were not worth the minimal risk that opening the cell meant.
And then? What did they think when they found out that due to their laziness, disinterest or following some absurd order thirty-odd people died burned? What did they think when they got home, when they met their families? What did they think when they saw their children’s faces (if they have them), their wives, their mothers?
And later on? What did the person who ordered not to open the cells think? How did he manage to sleep that night or the following ones, knowing that a few words from him would have been enough to save the lives of dozens of people? Or was it the opposite, instead of thinking about it, his mind began to make excuses and justifications to convince himself that he had not been guilty?
I am afraid that, sadly, that is just what has happened. With him and with the chief of the chief and his chief and the one who rules over all of them. They find the words to say it in public. They blame, stand out, avoid accusations, lie and try to change the perception of others.
However, deep down, they know well what their responsibility is, has been, and will be. There is someone who, before going to sleep, despite all his cynicism, when he closes his eyes, cannot but think that it was in his hands to avoid some of that pain, that suffering, those injustices and those deaths.
At least, that’s what I want to believe. Because I refuse to assume that this series of people, from the one who closed the gate to the one who awarded contracts, from the one who gave an order to the one who distributed blame, from the one who fled the next day to the one who laughed at what happened, were incapable of feeling relief. seeing that no one would go for them.
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I hope those 39 migrants appear to them every night to remind them that they are there, that they cannot help but think of them.
Jorge Alberto Gudino Hernandez
Jorge Alberto Gudiño Hernández is a writer. He has recently published the police series of former commander Zuzunaga: “Your two deaths”, “Seven are your reasons” and “The speed of your shadow.” These novels are added to “Trains never go east”, “Love, your daughter”, “Instructions to move a town” and “Just after fear”.
