This poem is about the so-called caravan that is stuck somewhere on the US/Mexican border as I write. We do not choose where we are born, nor to which parents, nor in which community we are nurtured. Some of us are lucky enough to be born into a relatively privileged, peaceful and prosperous environment. Before we judge others, we should consider our good or bad fortune and that of our ancestors. Those humans who are struggling to improve their lives, and the lives of their families, are doing exactly what all of our ancestors have done. Whatever solution to the problems of migration we may support, to vilify them is, therefore, to vilify ourselves or our ancestors. Those of us, like Donald Trump, who vilify these migrants are unworthy of respect but also deserve our pity.
Caravan of Conscience
A caravan approaching the United States borders
Of migrants assuming right to be on their side
Some called them malignant – Murderers! Marauders!
Talk of infection, invasion – their lives vilified
If invasion it was, then these invaders were heroic
Unpaid, unarmed and undernourished
The spirits of these so-called smugglers seemed stoic
Not criminals escaping to avoid being punished
Apparently migrating to take other workers’ employment
Yet described as shirkers who would live off the state
Who must be faced with a massive army deployment
Southern Americans not accepting pre-destined fate
Outnumbered many thousands to one
By the population they supposedly seek to invade
Families forced to suffer in the sun
A decision, we were told, they had recklessly made
Then, suddenly, they disappeared from the news
Though televised throughout the mid-term election
When platforms were given to extremist views
And facts broadcast of the media’s selection
Now voting done and counting finished
The electors, they assumed, must no longer care
As the interest of most politicians diminished
This caravan of conscience could be lost somewhere
But then, weeks later, it re-appeared on the news
Though their journey still not at its true end
Intrigued by reports of local, hostile views
Flown fast, the film crews they’d been reluctant to send
Sent south to show the slightest of strife
As the president flew to a burnt out city
To prove his concern for the sanctity of life
As, for the caravan of conscience, he showed no pity