Original subtitles

My name is Francisco Santillán García.

I'm 21, and I was born here.

What do you do?

I live here, with my mother

I help out here in the house,

in the fields. I work, too.

Would you like to live in the U.S?

Once I did.

Before my brother left, I was going to go.

I asked, "Who goes, you or me?"

He went, and look what happened to him.

- He's older than you? - Yes.

- By how much? - About 10 years.

What happened to your brother?

He left to make money but on the way it went wrong.

It started out OK but...

out of water, the "coyote" went to get some,

and left them in the desert.

When he didn't come back, they went on walking.

And instead of heading out of the desert,

they went deeper into it.

That's how they got lost.

After three days of walking

at night, they slept all tangled up together

On the fourth morning, four of them didn't get up.

Four of them were dead.

And seeing that... they couldn't stay with them.

So they went on and on.

The next night,

another handful didn't get up.

They kept on going and after 5 days, more dead.

On the last day,

no one could get up.

Only one guy, a guy from here, could still move.

He covered the others with grass, so they wouldn't die.

They were found that day. If they weren't found,

they'd probably be dead.

I'm Delfina Maruri Miranda.

I'm 78.

Can you tell me a little about the story of your family?

You see, my family is not from around here.

My grandfather was from Spain.

My great-grandfather was among the first Spanish

down in Las Minas.

They were engineers who came to extract the gold.

Because in the Zomelahuacan mines there is lots of gold.

The family got larger.

The children married people from around here.

But my father still married a woman

whose father was from Spain, too.

That's why my last name

is Maruri Miranda.

It's all Spanish.

My husband's name is Ranulfo Barreda Arcos.

He's from a family from Spain, too.

Like that.

I was a teacher in the villages.

I worked in Barrancones, El Progreso,

Tepeican, El Olvido,

and in the public school

in Zapotitlán.

And lastly, I worked in Zomelahuacan,

way up therein the mines.

It's a town, part of Las Minas.

I met my husband there,

and we got married there.

It's a very poor area.

But Las Minas...

it took me 25 minutes to get down there.

There were some stores there.

At the time, a teacher would earn thirty pesos.

But, because everything was cheap,

that was a very good salary.

Very good.

Salaries went up a little

under President Ruiz Cortines,

to 70 pesos.

Clothing, shoes,

everything was practical and of good quality.

It's hard, but you get by,

and you learn.

We left Zomelahuacan for Xalapa,

and from there we came here.

We've lived here a long time.

It's been a long time and we've put down roots.

Could you tell me a little about your son, Reymundo,

and your grandson, who both died?

My son always dreamed

his town would come into its own.

He always got people fired up.

From an early age,

when he was 18 or 20, he already had the itch.

He was always with his elders

to demand they repair the school.

He was very young but he wanted them to renovate.

"Dad, there's no roof, no overhang,

"The wooden fence is all eaten by termites...

"Dad, why won't they fix it?

'When we went to the doctor, I saw some beautiful schools."

"Yes, son, we'll fight for it."

People got together, threw dances every 2 week

to raise money to buy lime and cement.

Finding sand and stone is no problem around here.

They rebuilt the school with stone, not cinder blocks.

Stone from around here, and sand

is easy to find in this area.

But they still needed lime.

We brought in masons from Altotonga.

We went from door to door,

asking for contributions for the building

to raise the funds. We went to local government.

And, in the end, we did it.

- He wanted to go north? - What?

He wanted to go north?

When he grew up, he still said,

over and over, till the last time he left:

"I want to see my village get bigger, better

"It already has, but I want more."

Lots of young people left with that same idea.

They're only now getting back,

and they're having their homes built,

bringing in all the materials they need.

Because here, when the wind blows,

it blows very hard!

When the strong winds come, in March, in February,

they blow the roofs off houses,

the cardboard roofs.

The wind takes them.

There are earthquakes, too.

They can hit very hard at times.

Though these last two years we haven't had any.

That's the way it is.

That's how people think. And him...

And lately we went to see the area he lived in,

and he said he wanted to go back there

so his region could develop more.

You told Ana to go? No?

My son, my poor son always had very lovely ideals.

And he was a hard worker

And he liked farming a lot.

He planted before leaving

he never had much to show for it.

He planted beans.

He made sure his fields were well taken care of.

My poor son...

His son liked to work in the fields, too.

He was the only son, so...

Excuse me, I can't help it.

What a tragedy.

They left one May 15th.

They left in the afternoon.

My son came to say goodbye,

to me, to his mother, to the rest of the family.

The little one, my grandson,

said he'd miss us so much, he already missed us.

And he left.

They left on the 15th.

Once in Martínez, they called and got my granddaughter.

When they got to Mexico City, my son called again,

to tell us where they were,

and to say they were leaving for the border

When they got to the border in Sonorita,

they told my granddaughter on the phone

that they were waiting for the day or time of departure.

And that was their last call.

Myself, unfortunately,

though I had a chance to say goodbye when he left,

once he was gone, I never spoke to him.

And unfortunately, a few days later,

we found out what happened.

It's something you can't...

I mean, myself, up till now,

I haven't gotten over it.

It comes and goes,

I try to be strong.

My wife tries, too,

tries so hard to be strong

she made herself even sicker.

Did you come by car?

You left it in Altepepa?

In Altepepa?

Two or three people from there died as well.

It's coffee season

and the beans that fall must be gathered.

The price is very low. We get a very low price.

But it's better than nothing.

The bad weather is no help. It rained a lot

and the wind was strong.

I'm from Mexico City.

A lady snatched me when I got here.

In Mexico City, I worked as a mason,

in construction.

I came here to cross over to the other side.

A woman snatched me

to get me across, if I paid her.

I said no, but she forced me.

I went with her, there was nothing else to do.

After walking three days,

we got to Tucson and we were turned back...

They put us in a juvenile prison,

then an orphanage.

I escaped,

and I came here to find Mr. Pedro.

And that's all.

There are four of us. Me and three others.

I'm the oldest.

You're the only one left in Mexico?

There are three others.

I'm going to cross over

and send them enough to eat.

How old are you?

I think I'm fourteen.

My family is from New York. They have no papers.

Neither do I. I have no papers.

I was going to get them.

That's it.

How do you see your future?

In the United States?

I'd like to build a big house

for my family

and have enough for everyone to eat.

I'm from Oaxaca.

I left in 1999,

three years ago.

I left Oaxaca for Mexico City.

Then my sister called to ask if I wanted to come here.

And I said yes.

I came here and then

I tried to cross over to the other side.

But I didn't make it. Immigration caught me.

I tried twice and twice I was caught.

I was turned back again.

My sister told me, "Stop trying

"it's too hard to get across.

"I see so many people die

"who never get there."

So I decided to stay here.

I got a job at the factory

but I was making 400 pesos, which wasn't enough.

So I stayed three of four months,

and then I left it.

I found a better job at the tortilla place.

I don't make a lot, but 700 pesos is a little better

Now, thank God, I can send money to my parents,

and call them on the phone.

I miss them.

They're far away and I want us to be together

It's better here,

but the best would be if we could all live here.

But for my parents it's not easy to come here.

It's hard because they have other children

to take care of there. They're still in school.

For now, I don't know,

I'll stay here a while longer

But I hope to go back and see my parents soon.

Here are our names...

We're illegal immigrants.

My name is José Sánchez.

Víctor Rodríguez,

Martín Rodríguez,

Ana Ortiz,

Marisela Hernández, Antonio García,

Arturo Romero and David Rodríguez.

We all come from different states of the Republic

and we're here in search of a better life.

There's work here in Mexico,

but unfortunately the wages are very low.

That's why we take the risk

of crossing to another country, in this case, the United States.

We would like to have more income for ourselves

and a better life for our families.

Each one of us has left behind

his family, his wife, his children.

We had to work hard

to get the money for a ticket to come here.

And we haven't been able to cross over

We wrote a few lines...

based on the real story of people

who decided to cross over to the other side.

The life of an illegal is very ugly.

We suffer

all kinds of discrimination in both countries.

When trying to crossover,

we're lonely, cold, we are assaulted...

and the lurking dangers, the danger we are in.

We must cross through arid regions

where there are many vipers.

And if we're not lucky, our number is up.

What we want is a better life,

with enough food, clothing and work.

We also seek a better way of thinking.

Only God and the memory of our families

keep us moving forward, whatever the cost,

even when, as now, we have been abandoned

by those who were to help us crossover

Today I thank God because we found you.

And thanks to you, we have food to eat.

Thanks to you, we are drinking.

I also thank God we met you,

because you brought us here

and, on the road back,

who knows what might have happened to us.

We keep on going whatever the cost.

Unfortunately, very often,

people perish trying to cross.

If the United States refuses to give illegals a chance,

and doesn't appreciate the value of their manpower,

then God forgive us, them and us.

Because some have it all and some have nothing.

The reality...

of an illegal

is, whether on the Mexican side or on the American side,

when he is arrested he is treated in the worst way,

worse than a criminal.

Discrimination exists.

I think it always will, because

each person has his own way of thinking.

And each person also has his roots

and the place he was brought up.

But all of the suffering we endure

and all the suffering yet to come,

for ourselves and all those looking for a better life,

is only a means...

a means by which to obtain a better life.

I ask God to protect us, all of us,

and to forgive our trespasses.

From nothingness we come, to nothingness we shall return.

That's all.

David doesn't know how, but his mother survived.

Or how she wound up in LA.

She must've done odd jobs on the way.

Must've slept outside, in barns or parks.

We know she worked at a gas station. In a diner.

Often as cleaning woman.

She left a trail from town to town.

And even a little in LA.

In L.A., after a while, we lost her,

because the money and the letters stopped coming.

It was to find her

that David crossed over himself.

A waitress, one day she didn't come.

A cleaning woman, one day she didn't come.

She said little, did her job.

She was polite but somber, they say.

She was missed, especially by the kids.

She never stole.

The landlady told David, she lived here, she left.

She left her coat. I kept it just in case.

But she never came for it.

Must be back in Mexico.

It's been 4 months now

and I don't know why, but I can't rent her room.

Maybe it's her fault.

She must've left behind an atmosphere, or a spell.

I have nothing against her,

and she nothing against me, or the room.

Why she left, I have no idea. None at all.

She left the rent money and her coat.

No note, nothing. She didn't have much.

I wasn't around, so that's when she left.

I can't say much about her We weren't close.

And I'm easy to get close to.

But she saw no one, man or woman.

Once, I was going to Mexico.

I asked her for some good places.

She just shrugged.

She sort of mumbled something. I didn't catch it.

Then she went to her room.

There's nothing to say about her.

She left around the same time, came back the same time.

Hardly went out again.

Sundays, she must have gone to the beach.

Because Sundays there was a little sand on the steps.

Sometimes she went out to smoke.

I don't like smoking inside.

She'd wander down the block, smoking.

She was thinking but about what?

That I can't tell you.

She always looked neat.

You could tell she ironed.

Down the cellar, there's a washer and a dryer.

The tenants can use them, so she did.

She ironed in her room.

She ironed with the radio on. I could hear it.

Once she blew out the fuses.

I told her not to listen,

with the lights on and iron.

But it wasn't her. A radio uses practically nothing.

Anyway, a little later she went.

Either to Mexico or elsewhere.

At times I think she's dead.

But that's my dark side. She's not dead.

She's in Mexico or elsewhere, but I can't say where.

I never saw her again. Well once I thought I did.

I'm not sure it was her.

It was near here, down by the boulevard.

Lots of Mexicans there.

I was driving. When I got closer, there was no one there.

It must've been a mirage.