La Frontera: The Border

Sept. 9, 2011

I am a registered nurse (retired) and presently volunteer with the Samaritans, a group of citizens concerned about the number of deaths of migrants in the Sonoran desert.  I live close to the Mexican border in Arizona, and travel each week to Nogales, Sonora, Mexico to assist in a “first aid station” where deportees are cared for by Jesuit priests and nuns.   There is a “comedor”, or shelter, where migrants receive food, water, clothing and medical care.  The conditions are primitive—the tiny “clinica” is a cinder block building with an RN (a Mexican nurse) working part-time, a volunteer with No Mas Muertos (another group that is supportive to migrants), and a few other Samaritan volunteers with some medical background.  There is no running water (altho there is a sink that occasionally sputters out a few drops.)  It feels like Afghanistan.  It is 100 degrees outside, the monsoon season is upon us, and a rickety fan does its best to keep things tolerable in this little cell of a building.  The nuns fill containers of water for the medical personnel, and we warm the water on a Bunsen burner in order to wash wounded feet and limbs.  The people working here are all heart and soul.  The migrants are humble, patient with the process, and frightened.

Last week I treated a 27 year old farmer from Guatamala.  He had been in the desert for 9 days, 2 without water.  His feet were blistered and there was no skin evident on the soles.  Infection was prevalent.  He could barely walk.  This man has been driven from his farm (sold to NAFTA), and he is no longer able to support his wife and children.  His family has been able to live their lives for generations on his farm of corn, beans, squash, but thanks to NAFTA and the huge agribusiness of US agriculture, he cannot compete with the lowered price of vegetables.  He was heading to California to pick tomatoes and other produce.  He was promised housing and a job in California, and planned to work 6 months and send his wages home.  His eyes were vacant, and there was very little eye contact with me as I washed and treated his feet.  I tellya, the whole thing is biblical—I’m on my knees washing this guy’s feet, understanding maybe 50% of what he is saying, while he continually crosses himself and repeats “gracias” over and over.  The other nurse (who is Mexican, and of course speaks Spanish) gives him fluids, antibiotic creams, and Advil.  Our patient is weeping.  He doesn’t know whether to go back to Guatamala, stay in Nogales, or try to cross again.  He decides he will not cross—too dangerous. 

As I get ready to leave the clinic today an emaciated man appears at the door.  He staggers into the clinica and tells us he has been burned.  As we remove his shirt, there are 2nd and 3rd degree burns evident—from lighter fluid and tequila.  Someone lit this man afire in the desert.  I do not get the whole story, as my group is ready to leave.  I have never seen anyone with such an extensive burn.  The man needs hospitalization, pain medication, and IV antibiotics.  I will find out what happened to this man next week.  Meanwhile, I have taken up praying, or something like that.  I think about this poor soul all week.  I wonder—did this happen in the US?  Is he still alive?  Why wasn’t he taken to a US hospital?

I wonder sometimes why I am doing this.  But somehow it feels right.  It feels better than emailing my Congressman and the President.  I’m collecting data, hearing stories, and will do what I can to impact our draconian and unjust immigration policy.  You’ve got to start somewhere.

~ by Peg Bowden on September 9, 2011.

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