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.