Homeward Bound

•January 6, 2012 • 3 Comments

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.

A little Christmas cheer

•December 29, 2011 • 4 Comments

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

No room at the inn….

•December 22, 2011 • 3 Comments

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)

Deck the Halls

•December 16, 2011 • 7 Comments

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.

 

What Child is This….traditional English air

•December 9, 2011 • 2 Comments

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

 

Let There be Peace on Earth

•December 4, 2011 • 1 Comment

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.

 

Suffer the little children….the Bible

•November 28, 2011 • 4 Comments

I notice four women huddled in a corner quietly devouring the savory cocido, a Mexican chicken stew. It is breakfast at the comedor, and the place is a beehive of chatter and clattering dishes. Except for these four women.

Cocido for breakfast

They make no eye contact when I approach them. One woman has long curly black hair braided in a hundred tiny braids reaching down to her waist. She speaks a little English; I speak a little Spanish. She tells me that the women did not know each other and were not traveling together, but all four were picked up in the desert yesterday by US Customs agents and deported. One woman speaks up and tells me she has been walking alone for “ocho dias”, eight days. Shivering in the cold morning air, she leans into her soup and shuts down. And I am speechless.

Eight days? Alone?

The rest of the women also confess that they have been crossing the desert alone with no coyote or group to guide them. It is too expensive.

Women of the comedor

So here’s the deal: if you cross into the United States without paying a coyote, and you are caught by a coyote somewhere in the desert, you are often beaten, raped, assaulted, robbed, and left to die. There are harsh lessons to be learned in the world of migration.

I ask, “Where were you trying to go in the US? Do you have family across the border?”

One woman tells me she has a husband and baby in Nevada. Another has three children in California and is trying to “go home.” The woman with the long braided hair is not going to try and cross again. She has children in Phoenix, but….and she cannot finish her sentence. She is getting on a bus and heading to Guatemala, her place of birth. She knows no one there. All four women were picked up in the United States during “sweeps” in their workplace and were deported.

Madonna and child

A Samaritan colleague approaches the woman who has been walking alone for eight days and puts her arm around her. The woman turns and clings to the Samaritan. And this is a hug for dear life. She is weeping as my Samaritan friend holds her and tries to comfort her. We all step back and give this woman some space. Father Rodrigo approaches and speaks quietly with the woman for a few moments. Later he shares with us that this woman—this mother trying her best to return to her family—has not been touched or comforted like this for a very long time. Maybe never. She is overwhelmed with the hug and the caring and cannot speak right now. We are all quietly witnessing the pain and the sadness, not knowing quite what to do.

A Samaritan hug

I thought about these four women today at a Samaritan’s meeting in Green Valley, Arizona. They are all mothers risking their lives to be with their children. They were walking alone, without a map, in the desert in November. Temperatures hover at 32 degrees these nights.

And so today I sit in a Samaritan’s meeting and hear this story:

A Border Patrol officer reported to one of the Samaritans this past week that a two year old child had been found wandering alone in the desert, lost, dehydrated, and “sleeping on the rocks.” A group of eight migrants had found this toddler and flagged down the Border Patrol for help.

A child lost and alone in the desert. I am horrified.

The child was taken immediately to a medical facility. No one knows what happened to the parents. I do not know the fate of this child.

"To my Mother"---a Nogales cemetery

The illegal entry of non-nationals into the United States is a misdemeanor according to the Immigration and Nationality Act, about on par with a speeding ticket. We pay a fine for a speeding ticket. Why not pay a fine for entering the US illegally? What happened to our sense of what constitutes a serious crime?

Now I ask you, is death in the desert a fair and just sentence for a person entering this country illegally?

We have crossed a line here with our Homeland Security and our walls. I struggle with how we are going to get back “home” again—back to the country I remember where we had the biggest and most generous heart on the planet. It keeps me awake on these cold desert nights.

UPDATE:

This is an update on the two year old babe that was picked up “alone” in the desert. The toddler was found “sleeping on the rocks” in a remote area of the Sonoran desert. The baby has been returned to its mother in Mexico. The story is convoluted and of course there are details that I do not understand. An officer of the Border Patrol gave a Samaritan colleague this report:

The mother was deported to Mexico with the child many days ago from a city in the US. After a period of time she went to the US Consulate and reported that her child was missing. Upon investigation, the Consulate discovered that a two year old toddler had been found in the desert and taken to Child Protective Services in the US. Further questioning of the mother revealed that she had “hired” two men to smuggle her baby back into the United States to be delivered to family members. The two men were picked up by the Border Patrol, and nearby was the baby, perhaps “sleeping on the rocks.”

The babe has been returned to the mother in Mexico. I do not know how this sad tale ends. The whole thing reeks of desperation and danger. I am thankful that the baby is doing well. Putting a positive spin on this story is not possible for me. I will light a candle for all the desperate souls wandering our desert tonight.

 

“We are instruments of a big orchestra…,” Father Rodrigo

•November 22, 2011 • 7 Comments

I first noticed this full-bearded fellow swabbing out the toilets and sprinkling Ajax in the sinks at the comedor. He looked a bit like Jesus. (at least the Jesus image in an old Bible I have at home) When I introduced myself, he told me in halting English that he was Father Rodrigo, from Mexico City, and was studying to be a priest. Dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, and holding a mop, we spoke of his year in training in Nogales at this shelter.

Father Rodrigo and Peg

Often I would see Rodrigo sitting at the long picnic tables inside the shelter talking quietly to migrants. Sometimes I would see him feeding the stray cat that has taken up residence. Rodrigo and Fr. Martin (the director and “head priest”) act as “bouncers” at the doorway of the comedor. Only those with proper immigration papers are allowed in for meals and clothes. They are very strict about this. You are either “in”, and can eat the wonderful food, or you are out on the sidewalk. If you are out in the cold, you are perhaps a “coyote”, a local homeless person, a pimp, maybe a drug dealer.  Frs. Rodrigo and Martin run a tight ship.

And then I would see Rodrigo carrying plates piled high with steaming Mexican food out to the sidewalk for those people that he was not allowing inside the comedor. When I asked him about this contradiction of being “in” or “out”, he would just smile and say, “everybody must eat, no?”

Checking out the shirts with Rodrigo

The people who run the comedor/shelter in Nogales, Sonora are Jesuit priests. Their organization for this outreach is the Kino Border Initiative. They don’t look like the priests in the movies. Dressed in jeans and hoodies during these cold autumn mornings, they get their hands dirty. The priests and nuns here dive into the fray. This is a hands-on operation.

Fr. Rodrigo is learning English and struggles with the verbs and nouns. A few weeks ago I told Rodrigo that I was writing a blog about my impressions and experiences at the comedor, and gave him the online email address. Later that evening he wrote me a note, which I treasure:

Thank you very much Peg for the link, I’ll see it with calm, and congratulations for learning Spanish. I think We are Instruments of a big orchestra and God is the director, everyone makes own part, thanks to you too, because you give us hope for believe that other world is possible, we are making possible, together, one hug and regards !

…Rodrigo”

Love---always the answer

And I gotta say that the selfless actions of Rodrigo give me hope that another world is possible too. I try to tell Rodrigo how much his daily work here at the comedor touches my heart. The language obstacles get in the way—I struggle with my Spanish, and he works very hard at his English. But we have a bond here in this humble shelter.

I am neither Catholic nor do I attend church. Organized religion doesn’t speak to me these days.  Regardless, there are miracles afoot each time I go to the comedor.  The priests and the good Sisters of the Eucharist who assist them are doing God’s work. There is no better religion than this.

Checking out the threads

 

Baby, It’s Cold Outside….pop song, Frank Loesser, 1936

•November 12, 2011 • 4 Comments

I woke up last night to a surprise cold snap in the desert. The frost was indeed on the pumpkin, and it was 28 degrees this morning. My thoughts are with the migrants traveling by moonlight in the desert. I make a quick sweep of our closet and grab a fleece vest and some jackets that I rarely wear. Today I go to the comedor and I will bring these warm things to our neighbors to the south. Walking the mile across the US border to our Mexican destination, my breath is frosty and the wind stings my nose. How can anyone survive these temperatures exposed to the elements of the Sonoran desert?

Virgin in the snow

Our van arrives and there is a flurry of activity as we begin unloading the clothes, the shoes, the medical supplies.  An orange cat scurries up to the car door like a greeting valet.  Shura, a Samaritan veteran and founder of our activist group, leaps out and reaches into her pocket where she retrieves a can of cat food. What??!! Cat food?? It seems she has been feeding and nurturing this kitty off and on for quite a while. The cat keeps the mouse population at bay at the comedor, and actually looks quite sleek and shiny as Shura kneels on the sidewalk to feed the critter. The migrants all look on in mild astonishment. Americans are such a weird bunch.

Shura and the migrant kitty

We are surrounded by these travelers, many shivering in the cold morning air. Thankfully we have piles of jackets and blankets and clean socks. I look down at their worn huaraches and sandals, and am glad we have a good stash of tennis shoes to distribute.

And then I smell what is going on in the kitchen. My eyes tear up as I inhale the aromas. Lorena, the kitchen queen, is making salsa. Muy picante salsa. There are bushels of tomatoes and a big sack of dried red chiles. The recipe is simple: cook down the tomatoes, add the chiles, maybe a little salt and sugar, and that’s it. Throw the concoction into a blender and serve. Just watching Lorena prepare this Mexican staple warms me up. The colors, the aromas, and the heat it creates on the simple Mexican dishes will make a strong man break into a sweat.

It's salsa time

After a breakfast of fresh tortillas, eggs, beans and fresh dynamite salsa, there is much chatter and sharing of stories and trials of the day. Who needs bus tickets home, who needs shoes and socks to ward off the frigid temperatures, and who needs first aid for injuries sustained last night crossing our desert in this inclement weather? And who needs comforting as they try to cope with separation from family and friends after time in a US detention center.

Comedor clean-up

So baby, it’s cold outside. But with Lorena’s salsa, my migrant compadres will warm up from the inside out. Guaranteed. One young man sits down on the sidewalk and strokes the migrant kitty who has feasted on some pretty fancy cat food. Things are gonna be OK.

I’ll be home for Christmas…

•November 7, 2011 • 2 Comments

A few weeks ago PBS aired a TV documentary, called “Lost in Detention”. It was a chilling tale of incarceration and loss of basic human rights in 250 “detention centers” throughout the USA, land of the free.  Every week I meet migrants who have been locked up for days, weeks, sometime years in a detention center. Often they are released in Nogales, Sonora and they come to the comedor for help. As I walk the mile to the comedor, I pass a detention center on the US side of the border—a fact that I was totally unaware of until a few weeks ago. The centers are not marked in an obvious way. They look like little white buildings in the distance.

Virgin at the border

Last week I noticed a man looking for a warm jacket and clean socks. He is “Sergio,” and he has been in a detention center for 3 years total—off and on for the past 4 years. Sergio speaks perfect English. He has lived in Houston, Texas, since he was 4 years old. He is 27 years old, has 3 children, and he desperately wants to go home to Houston.

So I ask, “Why have you been locked up for 3 years?”

“Well….I did some stupid things when I was young,” is his reply.

“Like what?”

“When I was 16 years old I was caught speeding without a license. So I went to traffic school, got my license suspended for awhile…..thank god I didn’t hit anyone. Stupid teenager, that was me.”

Sergio and the Virgen de Guadalupe

OK—-but I’m puzzled. “Why were you picked up and locked in detention. Surely something you did 11 years ago doesn’t mean you go to detention for 3 years…does it?”

Sergio’s eyes well up with tears. He clutches his jacket and other comedor clothing. He tells me, “I have been fighting this for 3 years. I’ve made appeals to the judge. Finally I just signed some papers when they promised to let me go. But I am being deported to Guatemala, where I was born. Guatemala!!??   I have no family there. I know no one. The papers I signed say I cannot return to Houston, ever.”

Sergio is a professional photographer in Houston, specializing in weddings, quinceaneras, parties. He was picked up by ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) 4 years ago, and he is not sure why. Maybe an old parking ticket, he muses? He honestly does not know. But, when his records were checked, they found the old driving violation when he was 16. Next thing he knew, he was in Livingston, Texas and a detention center.

The building of America's Wall

I ask him about that experience. Sergio sits down. He is clearly emotional talking about it. So I back off. He abruptly asks me to take his photograph in front of the Virgen de Guadalupe. Finally he says: “I was locked up in this room with other beds and a big glass window between the rooms, with more beds. And more rooms. There were no windows to the outside to let in light.  I never saw the sun for weeks.”

I ask about any physical abuse. He just shrugs.

And then he says the most amazing thing of all: “I don’t blame your country for this. You can’t just let everyone across the border. But your country is going to extremes! This is crazy. I have a job, and I’ve lived in Houston almost my whole life!” I cannot believe he is defending our broken immigration system. I cannot look him in the eye at this moment.

One thing is certain. Sergio will not be heading to Guatemala. He is heading home for Christmas to Houston. “I have got to be home with my kids at Christmas. I will travel alone. I know the way…I’ve done it before.”

I advice Sergio that if he gets picked up it will mean more detention, more lock-up time. I give him the phone number of a US attorney that may be able to help him if he is picked up during his trek to Houston.

He gives me a hug, crosses himself, and steps out into the sun.

And I feel utterly helpless as I watch him go.