Drowning Moses

I heard several stories on NPR Friday about the migration of Central American Children into the United States. One of the key questions currently being debated—are the children illegal immigrants or refugees?

Illegal immigrants or refugees.
This is our question.
This is our focus.
How to label and categorize these children?
One of the activists advocating for the children is adamant about the children getting due process. About getting to hear these children’s stories.

I can’t help but think—what could due process even look like in this situation? Can it even exist?

We are talking about children here. And when I say children, I mean children. Five, six, seven, eight years old. My girls are nine and ten. It’s a big deal for them to go into a Turkey Hill by themselves or venture on a walk down the beach. I can’t imagine them traveling in an unknown land, surrounded by unknown faces speaking an unknown language. I can’t imagine them being rounded up and then after a few days asked to tell their stories to figure out whether they were illegal immigrants or refugees. Do you know a seven year old with the vocabulary to articulate the probable trauma she encountered traveling from Honduras to the United States by herself?

I can’t help but think of Moses when I hear this story. Moses, whose own Mother and sister sent him away to save him. Moses, who was found by Pharaoh’s daughter, a woman of privilege. Moses who grew up into a flawed and courageous man and led his people out of Egypt. How different our world would be without Moses. Perhaps that’s what we fear…Moses growing up and taking his people home.


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