{"id":568,"date":"2012-03-03T14:56:57","date_gmt":"2012-03-03T21:56:57","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/?p=568"},"modified":"2012-03-03T17:15:11","modified_gmt":"2012-03-04T00:15:11","slug":"where-is-love-from-oliver-a-musical","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/?p=568","title":{"rendered":"“Where is Love”, from “Oliver”, a musical"},"content":{"rendered":"

Every migrant I meet at el comedor<\/em> in Nogales, Sonora, has someone they love either in Mexico, or the U.S., or most often in both places. The comedor is a place filled with passionate, tragic love stories of people seeking their children, their spouses, their lovers. <\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

"No one is illegal", a sign on the comedor fridge<\/p><\/div>\n

Today I meet Eric, a roofing contractor from California. He is standing in front of the comedor in a t-shirt this cold February morning. It is 40 degrees. Eric has been in a U.S. detention center for weeks and was deported to Nogales at 4 AM this morning. His jacket was confiscated during his detention time and so he is hoping that the Samaritans have some warm jackets this morning. <\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Eric and the Virgen de Guadalupe<\/p><\/div>\n

And we do. Shoes, too. I watch him try on an almost new pair of Adidas shoes and look over the pile of men’s clothing. He is a big man—bigger than most of the other men. He finds a well insulated jacket and squeezes into it. The sleeves are too short and the zipper doesn’t really work, but he takes the jacket and looks for some clean socks.<\/span><\/p>\n

I ask him where home is. Instead of answering, he asks, \u201cCan I show you pictures of my family?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

He pulls a zip-loc bag out of his beat-up duffel bag and carefully removes Christmas cards with photographs tucked inside. And I meet his family. Three sons. The youngest is graduating from high school in California and is decked out in his school uniform. The middle son has on an ROTC uniform full of medals and stripes, and Eric tells me this boy is a Sophomore in college. The third son is dressed in camouflage fatigues and is stationed at Fort Benning. <\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Baby Amor, traveling with her Grandma<\/p><\/div>\n

I ask Eric, \u201cWhy are you here.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI was driving without a license.\u201d He shrugs. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo what is your plan.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have to get to California. I must see my son graduate from high school.\u201d There are tears as he tells me this. <\/span><\/p>\n

I take out my camera and take his photo by the Virgen de Guadalupe<\/em>, a popular photo-op spot, and I tell Eric to be careful. The desert is dangerous, and he is vulnerable if he travels alone. He is still staring at the photos of his sons, and fingers the images as we speak. He is really not listening to me.<\/span><\/p>\n

He tells me his parents and family live in Guerrero, but he has lived in Estados Unidos<\/em> for 19 years and has steady work as a roofer. He gives me a hug, thanks me for the clothes, crosses himself, and heads out the door.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Grandmother looking for her family (photo: Jay Rochlin)<\/p><\/div>\n

I think about the numbers of people I have met at el comedor<\/em> who have children in one country, and a spouse or family or sweetheart in another. Risking their life to cross the desert, they live under the radar to be with family in the U.S. And yet having parents or children back in Mexico, my migrant friends are torn and conflicted and often desperate to see loved ones. <\/span><\/p>\n

Traveling to see family is a fact of life for most Americans. We hop on a plane or gas up the car and off we go, usually several times per year if our family lives at a distance. We Skype, we email, we talk on the telephone.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

sad goodbyes and hope for tomorrow<\/p><\/div>\n

Many of the migrants have not seen their wives or husbands or children for years. They are truly stuck in the complexities and legal labyrinth of a broken immigration system. They have been living in the U.S. often sending money back to Mexico, or quietly supporting their families in California, Nebraska, Texas. Now they are stuck in Nogales. For many, they will attempt to cross and cross and cross again and again in order to reach their loved ones.<\/span><\/p>\n

There is no wall that will stop them.<\/span><\/p>\n

Nada.<\/span><\/p>\n

Trust me on this.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

first we must eat<\/p><\/div>\n

I remember the film, \u201cSophie’s Choice\u201d, with Meryl Streep. The film, set in Nazi Poland during World War II, tells of the unimaginable choice Sophie had to make, giving up one of her children in order to save the other. It is a film that still haunts me.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

a moment of peace<\/p><\/div>\n

I see that same haunted look in the eyes of the men and women today. They are driven by love. Logic has nothing to do with it. It is a drive beyond reason. I often watch my Samaritan colleagues doing their best to talk the migrants out of crossing the desert. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cGo back to your villages. We will help with bus money and food. The journey is too long and difficult.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

And I know that these brave and lost souls will follow their heart and walk as many miles as it takes, sleep in as many thorny arroyos as they must, in order to reach California or Tennessee or New York. <\/span><\/p>\n

So they patiently go through the piles of clothes, pick out some clean socks, and gratefully accept a packet of toiletries to make their life a bit more bearable. <\/span><\/p>\n

I watch the children and teenagers at the comedor today. Kids are so much more in the moment. Their presence always lightens the mood somehow. Little Rosalia shows me her pink backpack and feeds the resident kitty. <\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Rosalia and her pink backpack<\/p><\/div>\n

Adriana, age 13, introduces me to her big brother and her mother. They are from Vera Cruz and have been walking in the desert for 7 days. I ask where they were heading. Adriana tells me Houston, and then on to New York. We must see our Papa again.<\/span><\/p>\n

And so it is that I learn about the power of love. It can make us a bit crazy and irrational and obsessed, and these travelers teach me powerful lessons about all of this once again. I see the love that emanates from the Jesuit priests and the good Sisters of the Eucharist who serve the migrants. I see the love shining in the eyes of the migrants as they tell me about their wives, their husbands, and their children whom they miss and dream of today.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Adriana, age 13<\/p><\/div>\n

There is a sweet song from the musical, \u201cOliver\u201d, that comes to mind:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere is love?<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Does it fall from skies above?\u201d<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Well–no. <\/span><\/p>\n

Love is alive and well and permeates every inch of el comedor<\/em> on this cold February morning. It is a force more powerful than any wall or fence that divides us.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Every migrant I meet at el comedor in Nogales, Sonora, has someone they love either in Mexico, or the U.S., or most often in both places. The comedor is a place filled with passionate, tragic love stories of people seeking their children, their spouses, their lovers. Today I meet Eric, a roofing contractor from California. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-568","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/568","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=568"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/568\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":597,"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/568\/revisions\/597"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=568"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=568"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.arroya.org\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=568"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}