Olivia: Most stories about child migration focus on the terror. But what if the most unforgettable part of a nine-year-old's seven-week journey alone to the US border wasn't the danger, but the fierce, unexpected love of the strangers who became his family? Jackson: Wow, that’s a powerful way to frame it. Because everything we hear is about the peril, the statistics, the politics. You’re saying the real story is smaller, and somehow much bigger, than that. Olivia: Exactly. And it’s all captured in this absolutely stunning memoir, Solito, by Javier Zamora. What’s so incredible is that Zamora is a highly acclaimed poet, and you feel that in every single sentence. He wrote this book not just to tell his story, but in the hopes of reconnecting with the very people we’re going to talk about today. Jackson: That adds such a layer of urgency to it. And the title itself, Solito… it means "alone," or "all alone." Which feels like a direct contradiction to what you just said about a found family. How do those two things exist at once? Olivia: That is the central, heartbreaking question of the entire book. To understand the found family, you first have to understand the profound loneliness he’s thrown into. And for a nine-year-old boy, that journey into solitude begins with a child's fantasy.

Jackson: A fantasy? How can a journey that dangerous start as a fantasy? Olivia: Because that’s the only way a child can process it. In his small town in El Salvador, everyone talks about his journey to La USA to finally join his parents, but they use a specific word. They call it "the trip." Jackson: Just… "the trip." Like a vacation. Olivia: Precisely. It’s a euphemism, a gentle fiction they all agree upon to protect him. And he internalizes it completely. He tells his friends, in this incredibly poignant line, “Fijáte vos, one day I’m taking a trip. Like a real-real game of hide-and-seek.” Jackson: Oh, man. That’s devastating. He’s trying to fit this terrifying, life-altering event into a framework he understands, the logic of a child’s game. Olivia: He has to. His parents are just voices on a phone line at the baker’s shop, promising him, “We’re saving, we’re almost there, you’ll be with us soon.” The material things they send back—a color TV, a new fridge—are proof of this better world, but the "trip" is the magical portal to get there. The book opens with this palpable sense of anticipation. He’s not scared; he’s excited. Jackson: So the adults are framing it this way, but is it a conscious strategy, or is it a coping mechanism for them, too? It must have been agonizing for his grandparents to send him off. Olivia: It’s both. The book gives us this backstory of why his parents left in the first place—the Salvadoran Civil War, funded by the U.S., which made life untenable. There were no jobs, no safety. His father fled when he was one, his mother when he was five. This "trip" is the culmination of years of sacrifice and longing. They have to believe in the fiction, too. Jackson: I can see that. But at some point, the game of hide-and-seek has to end. When does the reality of the danger start to break through that innocent facade? Olivia: It happens almost immediately. His grandfather travels with him for the first part of the journey, into Guatemala. But then he has to leave Javier in the hands of the coyote, a man named Don Dago. This is the man paid to protect him. Jackson: The guide. The one who is supposed to get him there safely. Olivia: Yes. And as soon as his grandfather is gone, Don Dago gathers the small group of migrants and lays down the law. He looks at them all and says, "Remember, I’m not your anything." Jackson: Whoa. "I'm not your anything." That’s chilling. The illusion is just shattered in one sentence. Olivia: Completely. And then his grandfather’s parting words echo in his head: "Never say La USA." Suddenly, the destination is a secret. The trip is a crime. The game has rules he doesn’t understand, and the stakes are terrifyingly real. He’s in Tecún Umán, a border town, surrounded by strangers, and the man in charge has just told him he’s on his own. The feeling of solito begins right there. Jackson: And he’s only nine. It’s hard to even fathom. He’s been told this is an exciting adventure, and now he’s being told to be invisible, to be silent, to trust no one. Olivia: Exactly. The book does an incredible job of showing us this world through his eyes. He doesn't understand the geopolitics, but he understands the fear on people's faces. He understands the shift in tone. He describes the other migrants in his group—Marcelo with his tattoos, the quiet Chele, and a mother and daughter, Patricia and Carla. They are just a collection of nervous strangers. Jackson: So this is the group he’s stuck with. And the man in charge has already washed his hands of any personal responsibility. That’s the setup for the journey. Olivia: That’s the setup. They wait for weeks in this strange town, practicing a new identity. His grandfather had tried to prepare him, teaching him the Mexican national anthem, making him memorize a fake birthday. He’s supposed to pretend to be Mexican. Jackson: Another layer of the game, but this time it’s not fun. It’s about survival. Olivia: Yes. And the waiting creates tension. The migrants get frustrated with the delays. There's an outburst from Marcelo. The whole thing is fraying at the seams. And then, the plan changes. They’re not crossing by land. They’re crossing by boat. A sixteen-to-eighteen-hour journey on the open ocean. Jackson: A nine-year-old. On a small boat for that long. That’s where the idea of a "trip" must have just died completely. Olivia: It did. As he’s pushed onto this crowded boat, a panga, he has this realization. He thinks, "Migrantes. That word the locals in Ocós called us. We’re that. I’m that." The game is over. He is a migrant, and he is utterly, terrifyingly alone. Or so he thinks.

Jackson: Okay, so as this idea of a 'trip' completely shatters, and he's left feeling truly 'solito,' something else starts to happen. This is where the strangers come in, right? This is where the heart of the book really reveals itself. Olivia: This is it. The title Solito is the premise, but the story is the refutation of that premise. The journey is designed to isolate and break people, but it ends up forging the most unexpected, powerful bonds. The people who were just faces in a crowd become his lifeline. Jackson: And this happens on the boat? In the middle of that terrifying crossing? Olivia: It’s one of the most pivotal scenes. The journey is a nightmare. The boat is slammed by waves, people are vomiting, the smell of gasoline is overpowering. It’s cold, it’s dark, and everyone is terrified. Javier is shivering, miserable, and scared. And then Chino, one of the men in the group, notices him. Jackson: The guy from Soyapango, right? Just another migrant. Olivia: Yes. A total stranger. He sees this little boy, shaking, and he takes off his own jacket and wraps it around Javier. He pulls Javier close, zips the jacket up around both of them, and holds him. He tells Javier, "You remind me of my little brother, Oscar." He says Oscar died. Jackson: Oh, wow. That’s… that’s unbelievable. In the middle of his own terror and misery, he sees this child and finds the capacity for that kind of profound tenderness. Olivia: It’s a moment of pure grace. Chino rubs his arms to keep him warm and tells him, "Sleep, bicho, rest." And for the first time, Javier feels a flicker of safety. This man, who owes him nothing, becomes his protector. He’s no longer just a stranger; he’s Chino. Jackson: So the people who were paid to protect him, the coyotes, are cruel and indifferent. But the people who owe him nothing, his fellow migrants, are the ones who risk everything for him. Olivia: That’s the core truth of the book. This happens again and again. The group gets caught by corrupt soldiers in Mexico. They’re forced to their knees, robbed. The coyote abandons three of the men because they "didn't pay enough." The group is left traumatized and stranded. But they stick together. Jackson: And the mother and daughter, Patricia and Carla? What role do they play? Olivia: They become his surrogate family. Patricia, seeing this boy without a mother, steps into that role instinctively. She makes sure he eats. She washes his filthy clothes in a run-down motel. She assigns herself as his mother when they have to pretend to be a family to get on a bus, telling him, "Eres mi hijo." You are my son. Jackson: And it’s not just an act for the authorities, is it? It becomes real. Olivia: It becomes emotionally real. And her daughter, Carla, who is close to his age, becomes his sister. They’re two kids in this insane, adult world. They don’t talk much about the danger, but they share looks, they sit together. Their shared presence is a comfort. They create a small island of childhood in a sea of trauma. Jackson: It’s incredible. The book is called Solito, but the entire narrative is about the destruction of that solitude through these acts of radical empathy. Olivia: And it’s what makes the story so much more than just a trauma narrative. It’s a story about love. When they’re walking through the desert, exhausted, it's Chino who puts Javier on his back and carries him. These aren't grand, heroic gestures planned in advance. They are spontaneous, human reactions to seeing another person in need, especially a child. Jackson: It makes me think about what the author, Javier Zamora, said about his motivation for writing the book. He said he hoped it might help him find Chino, Patricia, and Carla again. He lost contact with them after the journey. Olivia: Yes. He calls them his "angels," but then he corrects himself, saying that word "takes away their humanity and their nonreligious capacity for love and compassion they showed a stranger." He wants to find them as an adult and thank them for what they did. For saving his life. Jackson: That just makes their actions even more powerful. They weren't angels; they were flawed, terrified human beings who chose to be kind when it would have been so much easier to just look after themselves. Olivia: That choice is everything. They formed a family, however temporary, and that family is what got him through. When he is finally, after seven long weeks, reunited with his parents, he smells of "piss, shit, sweat, a nasty stench." He has been through hell. But he survived, not just because he was resilient, but because he wasn't, in the end, truly solito.

Olivia: So when you look at the whole journey, it’s this incredible arc. It starts with a child’s fiction—the "trip," the game of hide-and-seek. A story meant to protect him from a terrifying truth. Jackson: But that fiction can't hold. The reality of the journey is too brutal. It breaks through, and he’s left with this raw, terrifying feeling of being completely alone in the world. Olivia: Exactly. But in that void, something new is born. The fiction of the "trip" is replaced by the fiction of a "family"—Patricia as his mother, Chino as his protector. But this new fiction, this chosen family, isn't a lie to hide from reality. It's a truth created to survive it. Jackson: That’s a fantastic way to put it. The first story was a shield. The second story was a raft. It was actively constructed, moment by moment, through small acts of kindness. It wasn't denying the danger; it was facing it together. Olivia: And that’s the profound insight of Solito. It challenges our narrative of migration. We often see it as a story of individual suffering or, on the other hand, a political issue to be debated. Zamora shows us it’s a story of community, of interdependence. The system is designed to dehumanize, but people refuse to be dehumanized. They insist on their capacity to love and care for one another. Jackson: It makes you think... in our comfortable lives, we talk about 'community' and 'connection' in such abstract terms. This book shows what community means when it is literally a matter of life and death. It’s not a buzzword; it’s a verb. It’s an action. It’s carrying a child on your back through the desert. Olivia: It truly is. It redefines the word. Jackson: It makes you wonder, who have been the unexpected angels—or, as Zamora would say, the unexpected humans—in your own life? The people who showed up with a kindness you never expected when you needed it most? Olivia: That’s a beautiful question to sit with. We’d love to hear our listeners’ thoughts on that. Who are the people who made sure you weren’t ‘solito’? Let us know on our social channels. The stories of human connection are what keep us all going. Jackson: Absolutely. This book is a testament to that. It’s a difficult read, but it’s essential. It leaves you not with despair, but with a fierce sense of hope in the power of ordinary people. Olivia: This is Aibrary, signing off.