Borderlands 2 - Tucson and Home

Day 204 in Mexico

For me, being in Agua Prieta and getting to interact directly with people risking their lives to cross the border was the most resonating, deeply moving experience in our time at the border. Nevertheless, the second part of our trip also promised to be an exciting one, especially for me. If you’re reading this, you obviously know me well enough to know that I went to college in Tucson; it’s been my home for the past four years, but going to Tucson has always felt like going home. Mine was a unique situation this year, in that YAGMS don’t get to go home during their year of service, except in cases of family emergency. Suddenly I was put in the position of going home, without really going home. As my coordinator put it, our trip to Tucson was in no way an “immersion in Katherine’s life,” it was part of our border immersion. We were going to be there for only two days, and they were very busy days, so I didn’t have time to catch up with old friends. Obviously I was excited to be going back to a city I love, even for such a short time, but I had my share of trepidations. I didn’t know if I would be able to fully concentrate on border issues, often very somber, in a city that, for me, provokes feelings of familiarity, comfort, and nostalgia. I didn’t know if I was going to feel bad about not being able to see people while I was in town. I thought it actually might be pretty hard for me to leave Tucson after two days; who’s to say I wouldn’t want to go back to Mexico at all?

As promised, our time in Tucson was a busy one. Though I was hit with those moments of nostalgia and fond memories, we were so involved with activities that I felt pretty focused (most of the time). We spent our whole first day on patrol with the Samaritans, volunteers from Tucson or Green Valley that go out in the desert, put out water for migrants, hike trails, look for any people in distress, and generally provide any sort of assistance necessary for anyone they encounter. We split into two groups; our Samaritan guide, an older, chain-smoking gentleman with dubious driving skills, was not exactly what I had in mind. Our time with him was also different than I expected; there was very little hiking trails, but there was a lot of driving around southern Arizona for a morning and afternoon. To his credit, he did tell some interesting stories about his life and his time with the Samaritans, and we got to see some interesting things. We made our way down from Tucson to Sasabe, the most inactive border crossing I’ve ever seen, and then over to Arivaca, where we got to see the No More Deaths camp. No More Deaths is another Tucson-based border activism group, and they decided that it was too inefficient to always be leaving for Tucson to go scouting for migrants, especially in the deadly hot summer months. So they set up a camp in the foothills around Arivaca, and during the summer people camp there, all week, every week, for months straight. It eliminates travel time and maximizes time spent looking for people, many of whom would likely die if they weren’t found. Southern Arizona summers are extremely hot to be camping, but at the same time are so much harsher for people trying to cross, often with improper clothing and insufficient water supplies. The day perhaps wasn’t all I had hoped for, but it was interesting to learn more about what the Samaritans do, and how they’re out there helping. However, it ended on a very positive note. Although I didn’t get to see anybody else while I was in Tucson (if you’re reading this from Tucson, sorry I didn’t tell you I was in town! I’ll see you in July J) my country coordinator did let me visit my mom’s house. Our whole group actually got to go there for dinner, and then I spent one night. To be home with my mom and pets, to have a good meal and a comfortable bed, to be somewhere familiar and soothing, was a great blessing, if only for a night. I thoroughly enjoyed it, but I actually wasn’t regretting having to come back to Mexico. I don’t feel like I’ve finished with my time here, or that I’m quite ready to finish, so though I was sad to leave I was also happy to come back.

Continuing on; day two was split between informational time and recreation time. The previous day, after our time with the Samaritans, we also had a presentation from Derechos Humanos, an organization that fights for the legal and human rights of migrants. The second morning we had a presentation from the pastor of South Side Presbyterian Church in South Tucson (a heavily Hispanic area). It was where the sanctuary movement began in the 80’s; the sanctuary movement was in response to the civil wars in Guatemala and El Salvador, and the church provided, well, sanctuary for refugees escaping from said countries. They’re still very much involved in social justice, and now it’s become somewhat of a sanctuary for migrants. They have a day workers program, where men can come to look for work in the mornings. It’s not always a guarantee, but at least they have a safe place where they potentially find a job without having to worry waiting on the street corner and being picked up by the migra. There we also had a presentation by Gene, a founder for the No More Deaths organization, which is the one going out during the summer, camping, and looking for migrants. More than anything else, they’re committed to preventing deaths in the desert; they’re no so heavily involved in the politics, just the politics of saving lives. After our morning of presentations, it was time for a little recreation, so we headed to Sabino Canyon for a worship service, some hiking and reflection. I love Sabino Canyon; if you’re from Tucson, you know what I mean (if you don’t know about Sabino Canyon, you should go!) It’s an absolutely gorgeous state park in northeast Tucson that’s full of wildlife, saguaros, and great hiking trails. It was a good place to unwind a little bit from our trip and, after seeing and hearing about how desolate and dangerous the desert can be, enjoy its beauty as well. We had a small worship to the side of Bear Canyon trail, in which we got to sing, reflect, and as some of us brought along things we had found in the desert during our time there (abandoned water bottles, bandannas, barbed wire) we prayed for the people we met and those we didn’t meet, for all those risking their lives to cross the desert and migrate to a different country. I didn’t do so much reflection after the service, so much as walk around, soak up the desert sun, and enjoy my last afternoon in Tucson, but it was lovely nonetheless. A great way to end our trip (though it was followed the next day by a very long drive all the way back to Hermosillo, a plane to Mexico City, and a bus ride to Cuernavaca. Yikes).

On our last day in Tucson, almost at the end of our activities, Gene told us a story during his No More Deaths presentation. It went like this: There once was a quiet little village on a river. One day a boy went down to the river and saw that there was a baby floating in it. He went out into the river, rescued it, and brought it into the town, where it was fed and cared for. The next day the people of the village saw two babies floating in the river. They did the same thing they had for the first; rescued them, brought them in, and cared for them. The next day there were more babies, and the day after even more. They didn’t stop coming. The people continued to do the same thing: rescue the babies and care for them in the town. They didn’t question why there were babies in the river. They didn’t go upstream to see who was throwing them in. They just rescued all that they could. “This is what we’re doing,” Gene said. “We (the organization and its volunteers) don’t have the time, energy, or manpower to go upstream and see what’s going on. We just have to keep rescuing everyone we can.” This, I thought, was a good summary of our time in Tucson; we got to see the people doing the saving. It is good to know that there are people fighting the political fight, the ones who are going upstream to see what’s going on. But at the same time, it was inspiring to see what was going on at the most human level; the people hiking trails and leaving water, the people camping out in the desert during the hottest, most deadly summer months in order to be as close as possible to the people they’re trying to save, those that put gauze and bandages on the migrant’s blistered foot (more than anything else, a bad blister is the kiss of death for a migrant. Can’t walk, can’t keep up? You’re left behind).

That was the real point of going to Tucson. Being in Agua Prieta and talking to migrants, hearing stories of poverty and struggle and suffering, was heart-breaking. It makes you sad, it makes you angry, it makes you feel helpless. To hear all that and then just go home to our lives and jobs would have been difficult. Going to Tucson allowed us to see what is actually being done to help the migrants, by people from our own country. It gives us, or at least me, a glimmer of hope and inspiration.

So now I’m back in Cuernavaca, and have been for several weeks. Work continues on, and it’s going very well. I’m enjoying the company of the woman in the community center as much as ever, and am content with how proficient I’ve become with my job (it took awhile, but I got there). On the homestay front, however, things after the border didn’t go so smoothly. There were some unfortunate circumstances at the home of Angeles and Fernando, that I don’t need to share, and I felt it necessary that I move out and try my luck with a different host family. We were all disappointed; my decision had nothing to do with Angeles and Fernando themselves, because they were (and are) lovely, warm, welcoming people, and I very much liked living with them. I’m sad that it had to end when it did, but such is life. I moved in with a new host family a few weeks ago, Alicia, Hipolito and Alicia’s grown daughter, Mireya. They’re a very busy family, even more involved in church and community organizations than my first family (I didn’t think it was possible!), and it’s a more independent environment than my first home. Though I like my new family, I am still working on warming to them in the same way I did with Angeles and Fernando. I get the feeling it may not be as easy the second time around. I already have my routine, my friends, my jobs figured out; I don’t need them like I needed Angeles or Fernando, and I don’t need to be as involved in their lives. I gradually grew more independent from Angeles and Fernando as my time went on, but we formed those strong bonds early on. Now I live my life somewhat apart, which perhaps is neither good nor bad, it just is. I’m hoping in time that I’ll be able to maintain good relationships with both families, and as my coordinator said, “Have two places in Mexico to call home.”

Things look to be busy for the next couple weeks. My boyfriend Ehsan will be visiting starting on Saturday (more vacation!), and then it’s Holy Week and Easter, which are very important times in Mexico. It should be a good time.

Borderlands

Day 200 in Mexico

I will begin this entry with an apology. This should have been written long ago. However, this installment is a little more complicated than others have been. It deals with our trip to the Mexico/US border in February. I have briefly mentioned it in past entries, but I’ll explain again. We have to renew our visas halfway through our trip, and as such, the renewing visas trip is expanded into a border immersion, where we spend a week learning and participating in a variety of activities in order to learn more about immigration and border issues. There was so much in this week that touched and saddened and confused me, that it made reflecting upon and conveying what I saw and experienced a difficult task. This may be a multi-part entry; bear with me. I’ll put a little disclaimer in here as well; I know that immigration is a touchy issue, often a very political one, and many people are very much in favor of the wall and current border policies in order to stem illegal immigration. I’m not writing this to argue about border policy or politics, or to convince you of my opinion of the matter. I only want to convey what I witnessed; above all, I think the most important thing is that we remember that it’s not about politics, it’s about humanity and the people whose lives are affected. I can’t talk about everything we did, because it was such a busy week, but I will try to share what impacted me most. Here we go.

Where we went: Starting in Cuernavaca; flew to Hermosillo, Sonora; drove to Agua Prieta (on the border, opposite Douglas, Arizona); spent two full days in Agua Prieta (sleeping each night in Douglas, on the US side); drove to Tucson, Arizona, where we spent our last two days.

What we did:

• Participated in a Frontera de Cristo Immersion program (a program with the Presbyterian Church on the border in Agua Prieta that brings in immersion groups), in which we visited the drug rehab center CREEDA; helped them in their Agua Para La Vida (Water for Life) project where they fill drinking water tanks on the Mexican side; hiked to the wall outside of Agua Prieta with CREEDA; ate dinner with migrants at CAME, a safe house for repatriated (i.e. deported) migrants in Agua Prieta; volunteered at the Migrant Resource Center, a center right on the border for migrants that are repatriated and are often in need of medical attention, food, water/coffee, a change of clothes, and information.
• Visited the Border Patrol Station in Douglas, Arizona, and participated in a Healing Our Borders vigil to remember those who have died crossing.
• In Tucson, went out on patrol with the Samaritans, a group that hikes migrant trails to put out water and assist migrants in distress; visited South Side Presbyterian Church, which has a day worker program for immigrants; had talks from border activist groups such as Derechos Humanos (Human Rights) and No Mas Muertes (No More Deaths); visited Sabino Canyon, a beautiful recreation area, for worship and reflection.

On our first day we went out into the desert outside of Agua Prieta with some men from CREEDA, Raul and Rigo. I’ve lived in Tucson for four years, and I’ve even done this exact trip with my campus ministry group, so the desert is familiar to me. I love the desert, but it feels like a sadder, more desolate place at the border. There the desert reminds me of “The Things They Carried,” the Tim O’Brien story; everywhere you look there are traces of groups that have passed through: empty water jugs, soda cans, torn shirts, food wrappers, bandannas. The people are gone, but their things remain. Our first job was to fill up the water tanks with a huge jug of water, the desert’s most precious and life-giving resource, that we brought along in CREEDA’s pickup truck. Some of us wandered off a little bit to explore the surrounding area, and we found a small gully that was particularly littered with stuff – clothes, food, water jugs, even a ladder. They must be coming back, Rigo told us. I wandered a little farther down the gully, down to were it bent into a corner, and just barely around the corner there was a man, sitting on the ground. He saw me, and I saw him, and we looked at each other, and for a second I didn’t know what to do. Should I just pretend I didn’t see him and leave him be, or should I tell Rigo? I told, and he went to go speak to the man. The other girls and I went along, and rounding the corner, we found this man was not alone. In fact, he was with a group of about twenty other migrants, both men and women, all presumably waiting for nightfall to cross. It was one of those moments where I wish I could remember every detail, the faces of the people and what they said and how they looked, but I was too shocked; I had never thought we would actually encounter a group, only empty desert. Even a few minutes later I had trouble recalling them. They had come from the interior of Mexico, like us, and were heading for a variety of destinations around the US. Rigo just asked them a couple questions, told them there was water nearby if anyone needed it, wished them luck, and that was it. It’s hard to think of what became of that group. I’ll never know if they crossed or not, or where they ended up, or if some never made it out of the desert alive. But even though I don’t know, I wish them well from afar, and hope for the best for them.

After the tanks, we hiked to see the wall. It is ugly, some sections made out of old landing strips from the Vietnam and Gulf Wars. There are heat-sensing cameras, tall iron bars, white Border Patrol SUVS patrolling just on the other side. It’s a militarized zone, literally. Our guides took us out walking to the wall; in the middle of the day, where we could see exactly where we were going, it was a struggle to pick our way through the spiny, scrubby land (but migrants don’t travel during the day; they go at night, when they’re less likely to be detected. Sprained ankle city). As we walked, a small herd of deer, startled by our presence, went bounding northward towards the wall. Obviously unable to get past it, they veered east and continued running along it; it was a sad reminder that the wall doesn’t only affect the migration of people. Once there, we took pictures of it, through it, by it; one of our CREEDA guides, Raul, actually shook a section of the wall. It wobbled back and forth like a stake stuck infirmly and uncertainly in the ground. The wall is tall and imposing, but not impenetrable; it can’t be, for the number of people that get across.

Later that night, at CAME and the Migrant Resource Center, we had the chance to meet some more migrants. Over dinner at CAME, I met Jairo, who was from Honduras. I couldn’t figure out how old he was, probably pretty close to my age. He had a beanie cap and a winning smile, and was very talkative. He had been to more states in the US than I had: California, Colorado, Indiana, Florida, Tennessee, and on and on. He had worked all over, lived all over, had been going to the US since he was 14, had a young son there now with his girlfriend… his life story was really something. He spoke fondly of Honduras and especially his mother, but it was clear that he didn’t want to stay there; there just weren’t the opportunities available that there were in the US. He was bringing his teenage brother with him for the first time, and though I didn’t speak to him, I was told he was all smiles about the exciting adventure he was embarking on. One of the things about Jairo that struck me most was how he got to the US: jumping trains. I know this is how many people come; I’ve seen pictures and documentaries of people doing it. It was different meeting someone who’s done it many times. When I asked him if he thought it was scary or dangerous, he just smiled and said no, that he was used to it, that really it was rather normal. That’s the word he used: normal. I can’t envision a life where jumping northbound trains is normal.

We later spent four hours volunteering at the Migrant Resource Center, which was probably the most deeply moving experience of my time there. It was very hands on; we were constantly busy, heating sandwiches and pouring coffee and picking out clean shirts for arriving groups. It felt like we were actually helping, if only on the most minute level. And we got to hear people’s stories, the real voice of the border, if you will. There was a man from Chihuahua, who had tried to cross several times and failed. When he was telling us about his failing to get across, he hung his head and looked at his shoes. I’ve rarely seen someone look so defeated and tired. There was another man, whose name I unfortunately don’t remember. He was heading for Salinas, California, to work for the same farm he’s been working at seasonally for years. He talked fondly about the work and his patron, who was Italian and a good boss, and at the end of the season would have a big party for all the workers. He talked about the crops they grew, how the soil was good there for certain crops, how the color of the soil dictated what kind of chilies grew best. He proudly unzipped his jacket to show me his T-shirt, which had the logo of the farm emblazoned on the lapel. But what stuck me about him was how nervous he was; he had failed to cross and was waiting for a call from his brother, who was already in California, so he could plan his next move. Every time the phone rang, he would look up hopefully and expectantly, but it was never for him. I was sitting across from him, trying to smile and make small talk, but all I could think about was how powerless I was to comfort him, or to offer him any sort of reassurance. A big group came in, and by the time the bustling center died down he was gone. I don’t know if he got a hold of his brother or not, but I hope so. There was another young man whose story I won’t forget. He was young, 20something maybe, and when we asked him “Quieres más café?” (Do you want more coffee), he replied, “Nah, that’s okay, ‘preciate it,” in English. Sitting down to talk with him (Eduardo), he had gone to the US with his family when he was ten. He had gone to middle and high school in the US, spoke perfect English, and could have been any young guy walking around the UA campus. Cool kid, lived in California with his family. I don’t remember how he originally got deported, but the last time he tried to cross he was caught crawling through the ditch by the Douglas Walmart. He saw an agent in his truck and panicked and started running, which is when the agent started chasing him. I could hear the regret in his voice, the “if only”; if only he hadn’t run, maybe he would have made it. He didn’t offer a lot more insight into his situation than a shrug and “it sucks,” but hearing his story made it seem ridiculous that he was deported to a country that was no longer his home. He had no family there, he hadn’t been there in a decade, and it was obvious that he wasn’t going to stay. Without a doubt, he won’t stop trying till he makes it.

The next day we visited the Border Patrol. It was hard walking in there after a night spent with people who had just been caught by the migra (slang for the BP) and had only terrible things to say about them, but I was pleasantly surprised by the openness and the professionalism that I witnessed. The agent that gave us our tour, agent George, was a slight, blond woman shorter than me, serious but friendly, who was in fact a former kindergarten teacher who absolutely loved her job on the Border Patrol. Our whole tour was way more thorough than I ever expected. The station was new and spacious; there were pictures of their K-9 and ATV units and of agents at local school fairs on the walls. We saw their trucks, the holding cells where they keep recently apprehended people, even the control room where they control all of the equipment along the border and monitor the agents in the field via cameras. They were very excited to be able to actually catch someone while we were watching. “You guys are lucky,” one guy said, “Usually when groups come in there’s no action.” It seemed like they were playing a computer game. During our whole tour, agent George was game to answer all our questions; surprisingly, she said that the wall wasn’t diminishing the number of people that were coming across. I knew this was the case, but I never thought it would hear it from the mouth of the Border Patrol. I asked her if the wall wasn’t working, then what would, and her response didn’t involve anything about further barriers or tightened security or militarization; she said there needs to be a easier way for people to get visas to come legally (from what I understand, it’s extremely difficult, and next to impossible if you don’t have the money or family already in the States to petition for you to come). She didn’t seem particularly interested in the making of immigration policies; she was very much focused on the task at hand: apprehending “aliens,” as she said, be they migrants or drug dealers or what have you. The visit was perhaps just as important as our time in the Migrant Resource Center. Both migrants and the people that catch them need to be humanized. There are migrants that come across looking for jobs to feed their families, and people that come across smuggling drugs. There are migra agents that do their job professionally and perhaps even compassionately, and then there are jerks. Neither side is all good or all evil; neither side deserves to be made the villain. It’s far too complicated for all that.

After that visit, we wrapped up our time in Agua Prieta by participated in a vigil at the border, remembering those who died (at least those who were found). I thought it would be a quiet, reflective time at the wall. It wasn’t. Instead, a small group of us walked down the road that leads to the border check point, each carrying an armful of white crosses. Every few feet a person would stop, hold up a cross, and scream the name inscribed on it in marker to the passing traffic. Then the cross was placed along the side of the road. By the time we were done, the road was lined with crosses… women, men, young, old, unidentified. I’m guessing that when the people whose crosses I held were making their way through the desert, they never imagined that some day some white girl would be reading their name and shouting them to the world. I wish they would have made it, so I wouldn’t have had to. But perhaps it is some very small comfort that they were not forgotten.

That’s a glimpse of my two days in Agua Prieta. Just two days. I could write pages and pages about it. But I will stop for now. I’ll share a bit about my time in Tucson later.