La Frontera: The Border

I’ve always liked living on the edge of things. My home in the desert is on the edge of a cliff. I’ve lived on the edges of this country—on the West coast in San Francisco, spent time in New York City, walked the beaches of the Oregon Coast, and now I live on the edge of the U.S./Mexican border. It always felt to me that ideas and life were, well, edgier on the edge.  Not always stable and comfortable, necessarily, but vital and dynamic and creative and alive. I like the cultural mix, the fusion of foods and customs, the different languages, and the challenges to my own comfort zone.

the line that divides

Approaching the comedor in Nogales, Sonora, today I see a couple of people with a large video camera and a microphone—the kind used by film-makers. They are speaking French to each other, and struggling with their Spanish while talking to a line of migrants in front of the shelter. They are creating a documentary, they tell me, about border wars.

making movies at the comedor

Border wars? Here?

“Yes….we are interested in how a border in conflict affects people. We are filming North Korea and South Korea, Israel and Palestine, Pakistan and India, and today, Mexico and the United States.”

“But”, I reply, “we are not at war with Mexico.  Border wars?”

peace at the breakfast table

“Well, maybe not officially”, they counter. “You are turning away refugees fleeing their homes in Mexico because of drug cartels and the breakdown of law and order. Your country is clearly not interested in helping hundreds of thousands of people in need—people who are economic refugees looking for a way to survive. People who are fleeing the violence of their villages.”

“And, you are deporting truckloads of Latinos daily to this shelter—people who have lived in the U.S. since they were children. Many of these people here today do not consider Mexico their home. They live in the United States.”

The French film-makers tell me that they are interested in how border conflicts affect the people who live on the border. They are looking for common threads that run through all border conflicts, threads that rise above the politics and the rhetoric. They want to know how the Wall has changed things for me and for my Mexican neighbors.

And so today I meet Pedro Luis, a young man who was deported from Tucson. He looks to be about 25 years old, and has lived in the United States since he was three months old. He graduated from Tucson High School, my own alma mater, and is a student at Pima Community College. Pedro has been stuck in limbo in Nogales for almost two years, and has a young daughter whom he hasn’t seen in over a year.  And here is something to ponder:

Pedro Luis did not know he was undocumented growing up in Tucson. His parents never told him.  Pedro thought he was a citizen.

Pedro tells me with great emotion,  “I feel more illegal in Mexico than I do in the States. The United States is my homeland.”

Pedro and Peg

He has been told by our government to get a life in Mexico—get a Driver’s License, become involved in the country of his birth. He flunked the written Driver’s Test in Mexico because he doesn’t read or comprehend Spanish very well. He signed up for a Spanish class in Nogales so he could pass his Driver’s test. (which he eventually passed)

I ask, “How are you surviving here?”

Pedro presently works part-time at a tattoo parlor on one of the seedy back streets in Nogales. Today he is applying at a fancy Nogales restaurant, hopefully as a waiter or bus boy. The Samaritans are working with lawyers to try and get this young man a visa so he can cross freely back and forth.

“All I want to do is return to Tucson, finish my degree at Pima College, and be a good citizen. I was a Boy Scout growing up, and in my heart I’m still a Boy Scout.” Indeed, Pedro volunteers each day here at the comedor, and I see him scrubbing out the sinks, washing the dishes, emptying the garbage.

And so, once again, I have this feeling of immobilized inertia. And THAT is one of the results of living in this so-called “border war.”  I am stuck.  I hate being stuck. I hate listening to this sort of crazy injustice and not knowing how to impact the immigration policies of my country.

I really like this kid, (and the comedor is full of them today) and so I tell him, “You will get through this. You are smart, you are patient, and you will succeed.” And I make a mental note to email Obama and our Congressman, Raul Grijalva today.

We both get a bit teary at this point. Another Samaritan asks to take our photo, and Pedro is delighted. I tell him I will spread his story to others. We will keep in touch.

a moment of reflection at the Wall

So today is one of those days when I wish I had a law degree and some hot shot lawyers standing next to me. And maybe a few politicians who lead with their heart and head instead of their poll numbers and their campaign coffers. Pedro could be a poster child for the Dream Act. Where is this fast track to citizenship for youngsters who have lived here most of their lives and want desperately to work hard for their own American dream?

Listen up, America. We are losing some fine young men and women, all because of a Congress that gets hung up on some idea of what a real American ought to be. Hey, this country was built by immigrants. Read your history.

Pedro Luis is far more patient and sane and grounded than I could ever be in this situation. And I tell him that I have the utmost respect for how he is handling this tragic event.

But it doesn’t seem like enough.

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When I was a child growing up on Chicago’s South Side I attended the local Baptist church. My earliest memory of Sunday School was memorizing the 100^th Psalm:

“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord

All ye lands…”

As a small child the verse brought up visions of dancing, clanging cymbals, bells, singing, and in general just having a good time. I couldn’t figure out why the Baptists didn’t dance and their parties were pretty staid affairs.

It was punch and cookies in the church basement.

Where was the joyful noise? Perhaps it is no coincidence that I took up percussion later as a teen in high school and still play timpani in a band today. I have always liked to bang on things. Music and celebration are an important part of my life. Sitting in hard pews listening to long sermons is not.

And so when our Samaritan group arrives a bit early at the comedor in Nogales, Sonora, breakfast has not yet been served. After a very personal and moving prayer by Fr. Martin speaking to the experience of migration and the separation from family and children, we all pitch in and help serve the 90+ group of migrants present today.

Breakfast at the comedor

Passing the steaming plates of scrambled eggs with chilis, onions and pork, pinto beans, and a cheesy pasta, along with the hot coffee and atole de canela (a hot milk/cinnamon drink) the migrants once again bow their heads with gratitude and whispers of “gracias”.

A moment of grace

And then the whole mood of the place suddenly changes. Sister Lorena, the nun in charge today, cranks up a boom box with some pretty wild salsa music and begins to dance up and down the crowded aisles.

Sister Lorena and Jaime

The Kitchen Queen, Lorena, (yes, another Lorena) joins her in some amazing hip shimmies. Soon Shura, Samaritan founder, is sashaying across the crowded room as well. It is hard to stand still—the beat is infectious.

Gettin' down at the comedor

Suddenly one of the migrants leaps up before finishing his breakfast, executes some complicated dance steps toward the front of the room, and begins twirling Shura around in a wild and raucous salsa, complete with dips and dizzying turns. It is spontaneous combustion. There is clapping and swaying and yes, most definitely a joyful noise. (wish the Baptists from my youth could have seen this!)

Dancing for joy

After the revelry of this breakfast dance, the young migrant who has performed his salsa of uninhibited joy tells me he is from Ocotlan, Jalisco, a city near Guadalajara. He is a young man perhaps in his early twenties, and he has not seen his mother for five years. His eyes, sparkling with energy during his impromptu dance, now suddenly become clouded and sad. His hair is long and curly and is fastened in a ponytail. I remark on his long hair, and he tells me he made a promise to God that he would not cut his hair until he sees his mother once again. She lives in San Francisco and cannot visit him in Mexico due to “the laws of Estados Unidos.” Our dancing friend is determined to “cross” and see his mother once more.

A hug for the road

A Samaritan offers to call his mother and tell her about this young man’s journey. We talk with him about the dangers of the desert and the long trek to California. He is adamant about this odyssey. He will attempt the journey. He reminds me of young men everywhere who do risky things and ignore the dangers and consequences.

And I will not forget the dance of joy that emanated from this young man, and his vow to see his mother again. The laws that entrap people on different sides of the fence are just plain wrong. Our dancing friend does not want to reside in the United States, nor does he  want citizenship in the United States. He has a life in Ocotlan, Mexico.

He wants to see his mother.

And I want desperately to fix this.

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The Samaritans gather these wintry Tuesday mornings in a small deli in Tubac, Arizona before heading down to Nogales, Sonora, and the challenges of the comedor. The deli personnel know us well and so do many of the customers, as they give us a wide berth. The talk is spirited and loud, fueled by the caffeine and sugary pastries. I check in and out of three different conversations in the space of five minutes. Several tables are shoved together this morning as there are thirteen of us, with several visitors from Idaho and Wisconsin. A pair of teenagers are among the group, and there is some anticipation and nervousness about the whole venture. I tell the teens that they may see young people their own age who have been walking or hopping trains for thousands of miles. After priming ourselves with coffee and tales of past trips to Nogales, we head out the door.

One answer to the immigration issue

The building area for the Wall that divides Mexico from the U.S.A. is a beehive of machinery, dust, and men shouting out orders. Someone comments that the Wall may be a futile attempt at security, but at least it is putting a lot of people to work. The peddlers, the windshield washers, the street people all greet us with friendly shouts and newspapers for sale. One fellow trying to sell his wares has a fever. It is January, and everyone seems to have a cold. We promise him some aspirin on the trip back for his fever and discomfort.

Three women from Oaxaca

We reach the comedor and see the lineup of migrants outside the door—perhaps fifty, maybe more. Breakfast has been served and they are waiting for us with our donations of clothes, toiletries, and talk. Several people have hands and feet wrapped in gauze and bandages. One fellow tells me that his thumb was severed while riding a train from Guatemala. He has been traveling a month, and was walking in the desert four days. Three young women wrapped in colorful ponchos ask if we have warm jackets. Their hair hangs to their waist in long thick braids. Seeing my camera, they ask me to take their photograph.

"We will open an auto repair shop in Nogales"

I see a little boy and a group of young men, all from Honduras. They have been walking or riding on a train for twenty-one days. The young child is nine years old, and his father tells me in English that he is happy to be here and has no intention of trying to cross into the United States. To my amazement, the father has a Brooklyn accent. What??!! It turns out that he lived in Brooklyn for ten years, was deported in 2004, and returned to Honduras where he was born. I ask why he has taken his young son and made this long and dangerous journey to the U.S./Mexico border?

He tells me this:

“Honduras is full of soldiers with guns everywhere. There are no jobs and I am a skilled automotive repairman. I do body work. I do not want my son to grow up where he is not safe going to school because of the violence. And then there are the drugs….”

I ask, “So what are your plans?”

He tells me he will find work as a car repair person in Nogales, Sonora, and eventually open his own shop. He acquired his skills in New York and believes he can do well in Nogales. The man is positive, upbeat, and anxious to get his dreams into action.

“Gringos will bring their cars to me from the U.S. because I am good, I am honest, and I’ll give them a good price.” You could smell hope on this guy.

His son, Kevin, is holding a bundle of clothes and a blanket from the comedor. Looking tired, he gives me a grin. When I take a photo of father and son, several other men from Honduras crowd into the picture—they are together, and I get the sense that these folks are going to make it.  One fellow holds up two fingers, giving me the peace sign.

There is more hope here than despair. It is a good feeling to be in this crowd today.

Some merry-making with the potatoes

Our visitors from Wisconsin and Idaho are overwhelmed with the happy confusion and activity. They pitch in and help sort the bags of clothes and are helpful in distributing the shoes, the hats, the jackets and blankets.

Jackets, gloves and hats for January

And on the long walk back to the U.S. Border and my warm, safe life in Arizona, I wonder what it would take for me to travel thousands of miles with a child on trains, on foot, with no money or credit cards or a waiting family. I try to wrap my brain around this thought. It is practically impossible for me to imagine. And yet I have spent the last several hours with people who have taken this risk.

As we approach the U.S. Border I see the street peddler with the fever and give him a baggie of aspirin. He whispers “gracias”, and we are on our way.

I would rather be in the presence of these people than almost anywhere today.  When I am surrounded by people with hope for their future, what right have I to feel hopeless?

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There are three of them, two men and a young woman, and they speak nary a word.  There is the usual mayhem this morning at the comedor with the chatter of Spanish and English intermingled.  These three look lost, forlorn, and frightened as they watch the others going through the piles of clothing and blankets.

Picking out some warm clothes

I approach one of them, an older gentleman, and ask him, “Where is your home?”  It is one phrase I know in Spanish:  “Donde esta su casa?“  He looks at me and shakes his head.  His eyes are a thousand miles away.  He is with a young boy, perhaps 14 years old, who says nothing and gives me no eye contact.  There is a young woman who is crying and rocking back and forth on a bench.  She is part of this traveling trio.  She tells me in Spanish that they are from a village six hours from the city of Oaxaca and they desperately want to go home.   The main dialect of this village is not Spanish but a language that no one here at the comedor speaks.  Thankfully the young woman speaks Spanish and we are able to piece together part of their story.

The girl from Oaxaca

I have been coming to this shelter on the border of Arizona and Mexico for almost a year now, and this is the most traumatized group of immigrants I have seen.  The woman is limping, and shows me her knee, which is twice the normal size.  I want to apply ice, wrap the knee in an Ace bandage, offer the woman some Advil.  Unfortunately the small clinica that was conveniently located across the street from this shelter is now closed.  The rent was raised, and the Jesuits who operate the comedor can no longer pay the monthly fee.   The relocated clinic is at least three blocks up the street, and there is no way this woman can walk this distance today.

The two men accompanying her are dressed in tattered jackets and carry blankets under their arms.  The temperature these nights has been below freezing.  The young woman tells me that they have been four days in the desert and were picked up by the Border Patrol and deported to the Nogales immigration authorities.  The older man is her uncle, the younger boy her nephew.

Trying to hold herself together emotionally, the young woman tells me she has a baby who is two years old and very sick.  The baby is with the grandmother in the village outside of Oaxaca.  There are many tears as she tells me of her baby, the illness, the journey, why she was trying to cross the U.S. border.   I understand maybe half of what she is saying.

Baby Jesus at the comedor

So like good Samaritans, we all march over to the bus station to try and help this little group of refugees.  Sometimes the Mexican immigration authorities will pay for a bus ticket home if there is a baby involved.  Well, there is a baby involved, but the baby is more than thirty hours away by bus in a tiny village in the jungles of the state of Oaxaca.

Bus tickets for the three of them will cost $298.   Plus they need money for food for the long bus ride. We empty our pockets and come up with $100 and change.  Once again the manager of the bus station lets us pay for one ticket, and we write an IOU for the balance to be paid in one week.  I am sure angels reside in this bus station.  There are high fives all around.  Even the older gentleman cracks a smile as these crazy Americans dance around the office of the bus station.

"I have the right to live a life free of violence", a banner at the comedor

And the young woman teaches us to say “safe journey” in her native language.  It is a sweet moment.  She asks us to repeat the phrase after her, and we struggle with the strangeness of the new words and syllables.  But we do it.  And she approaches each of us and offers a hug.  She is crying, and to be honest, we were all tearful at this point.

I think about this little group of migrants later that night, and worry about how they will get home after they arrive in the city of Oaxaca, their destination by bus.  They still have another six hours to go.  But there is a steadfastness and grit here that always amazes me.

True grit

No matter how beaten down, my migrant compadres pick themselves up and move on.  It is an indomitable spirit that keeps me coming back week after week.

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It is the Christmas season, and our high-spirited Samaritan group packs the van to the hilt with warm clothing, new socks, and backpacks, all donated from Arizona friends and neighbors. One of the bags of donated clothing has a sexy little number buried in the jeans and jackets with a note pinned to it: “I just couldn’t resist this!”

Shura spreading some Christmas cheer

Well, there is nothing like a dare to motivate our festive group today. Shura, who has organized the Green Valley Samaritans and has been the prime mover for the past ten years, quickly tries on the outfit (perfect fit) and we march toward the border. Of course we stop traffic, and there are hoots and hollers and trucks honking their horns.

We are laden with bags of cookies, Christmas cards and good cheer this week. The peddlers, the newspaper sellers, the windshield washers trying to make a few pesos at the border—-all descend on our group when they see Shura strutting her stuff as we walk through Homeland Security and Mexican customs. There are hugs and greetings all around as we hand out the cards and cookies.

a gift for Sergio

Approaching the comedor we see Sergio, a homeless man who survived severe burns six months ago. Standing on the curb in his ragged pants and hoodie, Shura gives him a special card and a bag of cookies. Sergio is puzzled and hands the card back to Shura. It becomes clear to us that he has never received a Christmas card, and doesn’t know quite what to make of all this.

Sergio is mentally ill, we are told, and lives in the streets of Nogales, Sonora, a victim of abuse and attacks. Last summer a local gang threw battery acid on him and he survived second and third degree burns on his back and shoulders. Through the loving, patient ministrations of Nurse Norma at the clinica and the regular meals at the comedor, Sergio survived. We have seen this man grow stronger as the weeks progressed, and he now greets us as we approach the comedor. Usually he asks for cigarettes and a Coke, but today he senses that this is a special occasion. It is Christmastime, and we come bearing gifts.

Blessed are the meek

Sergio impulsively lifts his clothes to show us his back and his burns, which are now healing quite well.  The Samaritans gasp as we view the extent of this man’s scars.  Shura continues to try and give him the Christmas card. There is a small amount of money in the card, and she shows him this. He takes the money, becomes very tearful, and gives us back the card again. And he picks up his ragged little suitcase that he hauls everywhere and heads up the street.

It is just one of those moments where we don’t know quite what to do. This business of gift-giving and reaching out can be complicated and confusing. But we head on into the comedor where there are eighty or more migrants finishing up their breakfast.

Warm clothes for a December journey

The weary immigrants applaud and smile as Shura enters in her Mrs. Santa Claus outfit. A few migrants shake their head in disbelief and give us a thumbs up on our entrance. Many are heading to homes in Mexico and points south. Some are trying to figure out if they dare cross into the U.S. again to try and reach family in cities they call home.

Comfort and joy

The place feels like a busy bus station. People are coming, people are going, some heading back to their villages for the Christmas season, and some trying to cross into the U.S. The mood is upbeat. And Shura’s “Mrs. Claus” outfit brings a smile to everyone. There are times at the comedor when laughing, handing out cookies, and wrapping a shivering soul in a blanket is what we do. The gift of warmth and friendship is the best Christmas gift of all.

Photo credit:  “Shura spreading some Christmas cheer”, Cheryl Osburn

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I have heard about “La Posada” all of my life—a Christmas procession reenacted in Mexico of a pregnant Mary and Joseph searching for a place to rest, and being turned away in Bethlehem. Finally they find a humble stable and Mary gives birth to the baby Jesus among the animals on a bed of straw. It is a poignant and troubling tale, difficult to understand in December, 2011.

Humble beginnings, a nativity at the comedor

Throughout Mexico there are posadas in cities and villages. I was very excited about an invitation from Frs. Martin and Rodrigo of the Kino Border Initiative to join in a posada in Nogales, Sonora.  Although I am not a church-goer, the story of the birth of Christ has always touched my heart.  And the fact that the story has lasted more than 2000 years, bringing up all kinds of emotions about babies, birth, the desert, poverty—all of it has affected me in ways I truly do not understand.

And there we were, our little group of Samaritans on the downtown plaza of Nogales preparing for a parade through the city. Migrants, local citizens, Arizonans, teenagers from a local high school, musicians—we all lined up with banners and a sense of anticipation, not knowing quite what to expect. “Mary”, a local high school student, climbed up on a waiting burro, with the help of “Joseph” and a glittering angel, complete with halo, who accompanied them. It was a 2000 year old tableau coming to life on the streets of Nogales. The farmacias were still hawking Viagra, and the liquor stores were still doing a bustling business, but there we were, lining up with a donkey and the Holy Family.

Maria, Jose, and angel

The banners we carried were outspoken and strongly political:

“The laws are unjust when they separate families”,

 “We must reform the immigration system so there is no disintegration of families.”

The message was direct and courageous.  The time has come for change, and the time is now.

Maria, Jose and the Wall

And it was somewhere in the middle of this humble parade that I realized that the Holy Family was not welcome in Bethlehem, and was not given a room in which to stay for the night.  Soon after the birth the family was forced to flee to another country, Egypt, to save the life of their newborn Son. They were on the run, and all that they really wanted was a place to call home, and to be together as a family.

Just like the migrants which surrounded me in this posada.

I just never made that connection before. Christmas and the birth of Jesus is about a family trying to stay together in a safe place. It is about injustices provoked by governmental systems that do not honor the fundamental importance of a family staying together.  It is about oppressive treatment of the poor.

It is about us, today, in this place.

Maria, Jose and la frontera

Our posada stopped three times along the two-mile walk back to the comedor, and each time a deported person spoke of a desire to return to family and to home. They spoke of spending months in Detention Centers in the U.S. as they struggled to find their families. I hear their stories of being near death after days in the desert.  During the long walk, pop music played from speakers on a pick-up truck.  The music was all related to immigration and searching for home. Our little group danced and swayed to the music as we slowly made our way back “home”, to the comedor.

Women in the posada sang as we walked the streets of Nogales:

“You were also a migrant,

You came from another place

You had no papers

You must remember that…”

Singing from the heart

Not only is this a religious celebration of the story of Christmas, but it is a strong political statement to everyone who watches as we process through this border city.

And then we finally arrived. The women of the church had prepared a feast for everyone in the posada, and the comedor was decorated for a party. This was definitely a very Mexican party, and we were the delighted guests. Somehow, there was room for all of us, and plenty of food.  We were offered a delicious hot punch of fruit juices, and plates were piled with stewed chicken, potatoes, beans, and a pasta dish. The salsa could have started a bonfire and warmed us up as the chill of the evening descended. Chocolate cupcakes were passed around and we were pleasantly full of good food and good cheer.

arriving for the feast

And here is the reality: current U.S. immigration policies separate families, incarcerate people in Detention Centers without a trial,  and strip people of basic human dignity. I witness each week men and women desperate to return to their families in the U.S.

Nothing will dissuade them. Many die in the desert trying to connect with family and home.

a quiet space

And these are the things I ponder on the long walk back to Estados Unidos and my own waiting family.

(Note:  photo, “a quiet space”, by Valarie James)

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Walking to the comedor today, the heavens opened up and poured buckets of rain on our little group. Undaunted, we trudged through mud, rivers of water on the streets, and dodged the huge cranes that continue to build the Wall. I wave at a Wall builder in a yellow slicker, and he waves back. We both look at the sky and laugh at the deluge. We are all ankle deep in water rushing down the roadway. But we keep on going.

                                    Loading up the van, rain or shine

We are fortunate to have a compassionate Samaritan volunteer who assists us each week with transporting bags of clothing and boxes of supplies in his van. He drives the vehicle to the comedor each week, often taking passengers that cannot walk the mile. Our work has expanded exponentially because of his commitment to this work. Plus he is a fountain of information about migrant journeys in the Santa Cruz valley. We are eternally grateful for his ongoing support.

Decking the halls at the comedor

Our Samaritan group has big Holiday plans today. We are all carrying Christmas cookies and cards which we intend to give to the peddlers we meet along the way, the checkpoint windshield washers, the migrants, the priests, the nuns, the volunteers. But this is one serious rain, and we are the only people walking the streets. Arriving at the comedor we are greeted by at least 75 people crowded in the tiny space. Rain pelting loudly on the tin roof makes it impossible to communicate. We hurriedly unload the van with clothing and medical supplies. In a word, we are soaked. Our Christmas gifts will have to wait until next week when the sun shines.

Buckets are strategically placed here and there catching the rain through gaps in the metal roof. And then I spy the simple colorful Christmas lights and decorations strung around the ceiling. The rains are literally washing away the hillside surrounding the shelter, but there is a warmth and cheeriness as we huddle against the storm inside. Even the Virgen de Guadalupe painting on the wall, nestled behind the refrigerator, is strung with Christmas lights while roses, sacks of onions and potatoes sit at her feet.  I just stand there and am so glad I am here, shivering, wet, and happy.

                                      In the light of the Virgen de Guadalupe

Father Martin, who directs this whole operation, asks me to take a photo beside the virgin, and I happily oblige. He is amazing in his calmness and focused attention amid the chaos of migrants, helpers, and the clattering of breakfast dishes.

Women of Guerrero

But there is despair among the migrants today. They huddle with make-shift trash bags draped over their heads. This is their rain gear, which is better than nothing. The migrants gaze blankly into space, and I wonder where they will go the rest of the day. One young man is weeping uncontrollably. He is 14 years old and has traveled from Honduras. A Samaritan volunteer speaks softly to him and hugs his shoulder. I sit down and offer him a soggy bag of cookies. Two other men tell me that they will watch out for him. The young man tries to speak, and cannot talk through his emotions. We are all speechless and can do nothing but offer our silent support.

Three women from Guerrero look at us quietly. They have been traveling for a month and are shivering under their colorful ponchos. One woman finds an ankle-length black wool coat, smiles, and gives me a thumbs up. I sit down with them and tell them in my simple halting Spanish that I wish them a safe journey. They all tear up. I open my backpack and dig out more cookies. We sit there, the 4 or us, munching on cookies. The resident orange kitty comes around and licks up the crumbs falling to the floor.

A warm coat on a wet day

I do not want to leave. Once again I feel that there are times when the Samaritans receive much more than they give. Today is one of those times. We witness the human spirit in its struggle to survive with dignity and grace. Being here is a blessing. I will not forget this day.

Singin' in the rain....

And I cannot forget how the United States treats migrants. Our country must radically change our laws and policies toward Latino immigrants. It all comes down to treating our neighbors as we, ourselves, would wish to be treated. It is a simple rule, and we have strayed far from its message.

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The place is bedlam. The comedor in Nogales, Sonora, is packed with travelers from Honduras, El Salvador, Guatemala, Chiapas and Oaxaca, all draped in colorful ponchos and backpacks. It is December, and the temperature at our ranch was 17 degrees this morning. My eye focuses immediately on a vision across the room—a young woman and a small baby wrapped in several layers of shawls and blankets. She is gently rocking a baby and her eyes look swollen with tears. She is Maria, and her baby is Jennifer, eight months old. They have been in the desert for three days, and “in jail” for thirteen.

Maria and baby Jennifer

Her husband is on crutches, and he explains to me that he fell down a ravine and injured his leg. They are both shivering with cold in this humble shelter on this frigid morning. Returning to their village in Michoacan is their wish, and they have no money. Their backpack with immigration papers and meager supplies were stolen somewhere along the way. This couple has nothing, literally, but the clothes on their back.

Travelers from Honduras

So the Samaritans gather together, along with some high school students visiting from Portland, Oregon, here on an “immersion week” in Mexico. We learn that tickets for this family will be  over one-hundred US dollars. Everyone pitches in what little change they have, and we come up with the money. A cheer erupts in the shelter, and my Samaritan colleagues march over to the bus station with money in hand and the little family in tow. I must say, we are feeling pretty good about solving this problem, and there are lots of high-fives all around.

And then we have our own “immersion” experience. Learning that because this is a Mexican family with a baby, Immigration Services of Mexico will pay for their bus ticket.  Wow!! Incredible!!  This is wonderful!!  So we march back to the comedor and return all the money to the students, the Samaritans, and other contributors.

Once again we return to the bus station with the family, and the bus driver refuses to let them on the bus because “they do not have the proper immigration papers.” Well, yes, we explain—because the papers were stolen. It is a comedy of errors. Now the bus officials want the money. And of course we have returned the money to the generous donors, who are long gone. The whole thing starts to feel like one of those O.Henry stories, full of surprises and twists.  New facts emerge, new rules present themselves, and we bounce back and forth from bus station to comedor like a ping-pong ball.  

children of the comedor

There are always lessons to be learned when it comes to immigration politics. If a migrant has the proper paperwork, and there is a small child involved, Mexican Immigration pays to have the family returned to their home village. But without the paperwork, you must have the money. Business is business. So we all reach into our pockets once again and come up with money for one ticket. Maria’s husband tells us that his wife and baby must return home to their village, and he will stay (with his brother, who is also a part of this drama). They will attempt to cross again into Estados Unidos. The man is on crutches and can barely walk. It is an impossible situation. He is insistent. Maria is crying. It is freezing on this particular morning. There is no way these two young men can survive a “crossing” across our border.

Hands across the border----mural at the comedor

So once again it comes down to the money. My Samaritan colleagues come up with the money for one ticket and food for the journey for Maria and her baby. With promises from the Samaritans to pay for the rest of the tickets next week, the bus officials allow the whole family to travel back to Michoacan. It is a sweet Christmas miracle at the bus station. The total ticket cost for mother, baby, husband and brother is $160. Next week at a Samaritan meeting we will pass the hat and pay off the tickets. Thankfully the bus station officials know the Samaritans well and trust that they we will pay off this debt.

So with smiles all around, we offer this family money for food, some extra blankets, and warm clothing for the long trip home. Once again there are high-fives. Maria and her family look on with an expression of mild bewilderment and amusement at our cheers as we jump around the bus depot. And I just shake my head at the complexity of humanitarian efforts on our border. But I sleep better that night knowing the family is together and heading home.

The Reality of Migrant Women, a conference poster in Nogales

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This land is your land, this land is my land----Woody Guthrie

He gives me eye contact as I walk through the US Customs Border check at the Mexico border. Tipping the scales at at least 275 pounds, he looks me straight in the eye as I greet him with “Buenos dias” on my walk back from the comedor in Nogales, Sonora. He is a US Customs Officer, a Mexican-American, and is laden down with his Kevlar vest, a breast shield, and an assault weapon layered over his dark blue uniform. Standing at attention with his rifle, sweat pours off his forehead. He motions to me to step toward him.

Quietly and gently he asks:

“So, what do you do over there?”, pointing toward the comedor in Nogales, Sonora.

Your tax dollars at work----building the Wall

So I tell him.

“We bring clothes, medical supplies, and a listening ear to the people that have been deported. There were sixty migrants waiting for us this morning.”

I continue to tell him that I am a nurse, and so take care of a lot of wounds and upper respiratory infections at a small first aid station. My Samaritan friends now join me in this conversation. Rarely does Homeland Security engage us in discourse, and this fellow is definitely reaching out. This is a special moment. I have so many questions, and can think of nothing to say. I am cowed by the weaponry, the uniform, and touched by his interest.

Blessed are the meek

A Samaritan colleague asks the officer, “Why do you wear that?”, pointing to a thick breast plate. He invites my Samaritan friend to touch the breast plate, and the back plate too. The officer explains that he has over forty pounds of equipment and protective clothing. Pointing to the hills surrounding his station, he says,

“We are always being watched by the drug cartels. Always. I watch them. They watch me.” He is matter-of-fact about this.

I gaze up at the mountains and see nothing.  Our officer insists they are there, probably hiding today, but often just standing on the hillside watching him. He tells us that the cartels check to see who is on duty for Homeland Security, and then decide when to smuggle a “load” over the Wall into the United States.

“Really? So some officers are easier to sneak by than others?”

Our officer friend does not answer this question.

Jesus and friends----some early migrants (mural at the comedor)

As we turn to leave, he says to us, “God bless you for what you do.” Loudly.

We are all stunned. I love him for saying those words out loud, within earshot of the other Homeland Security officers. As we continue our walk back into the United States, we feel a sort of camaraderie with this fellow, with his guns, his shields, and his watchful eyes looking toward the mountains.

It is so easy for me to fall into the clichés about Homeland Security:

“They are going to extremes.”

“They hate Mexicans.”

“They are not humane or fair in their treatment of migrants”

“It feels like a police state.”

“They see things in black and white.”

“They play their macho role with their guns, their authority…”

and on and on and on.

Now I will remember Mr. US Customs officer, the man who asks God to bless us for the work that we do. He is Homeland Security, doing his job, safeguarding the peace. We are the peacemakers. It is never black or white, right or wrong, good or bad, but shades of all of it.

Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me....

I will remember this encounter, and I smile as I walk the mile back to Estados Unidos.

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