Tired of working until your back aches and your fingers bleed… and it never being enough.
He exhales through his nose, glancing over them—not above them, but at each of them, meeting gazes and sharing their burdens and defeat.
“Cansados de que otros decidan cuánto valen.”
Tired of others deciding your value.
He opens his fingers and presses hard against his chest again.
“Porque ningún hombre… ningún gobierno… ningún país?—”
Because no man… no government… no country?—
He pauses, choosing his words.
“—especialmente uno que nunca ha puesto comida en la mesa de sus familias?—”
—especially one that has never labored a day to put food on your family’s table?—
“…no tiene ese derecho.”
…has that right.
The crowd is quiet now. Listening to every word he utters.
“No saben lo que es. Lo que cuesta llegar desde dónde venimos. No viven como nosotros.”
They don’t know what it’s like. What it takes to come from where we have. To fill our shoes. They don’t live as we do.
“No entienden lo que se necesita… ni lo que cuesta.”
They don’t understand what it takes or what it costs.
His gaze shifts, softer for a moment.
“Ni por qué lo hacemos. Día tras día.”
And why we do it. Day in and day out.
“Por ellos. Por la familia. Por nuestras familias.”
For them. For family. For our families.
“Y aun así nos separan de aquello por lo que daríamos todo.”
And they separate us from the very thing we will go to the ends of the earth for.
“Nos separaron… como si tuvieran derecho a decidir dónde pertenecemos nosotros… nuestras familias.”
They separated us. As if they think they have a say in where we, where they, our families, and us belong?
“No pueden quedarse con nuestros hijos… con nuestras mujeres… sin nosotros.”
They can not have our children… our wives… without us.
“No pueden separarnos y dejarlos solos… sin nuestra protección, sin lo que aportamos.”
They can not separate us and leave them to fend for themselves without our protection, our contribution.
