Hard to Imagine

Sitting at my writing table with my coffee, I can’t take my mind off the struggling, vulnerable migrants I have been meeting. I keep trying to see through their eyes, maybe feel a little of what they feel. But it’s so hard to imagine, we are living in such different worlds. And we are passing through each other’s lives so quickly, my understanding of them is very impressionistic, to say the least.

The other day, I got a slight peek inside the tent by the border wall where our family is staying – mom, dad, and 3 little kids, aged 10, 6, and 4. Really, it’s not a tent. It’s a slew of blankets and tarps draped over a wooden frame. And it is nothing but dark inside. During the day, at least a couple people sit outside the tent talking, waiting for their turn to be called by US Customs and Immigration across the borderline. But others spend their time in the darkness inside. It was cold and raining, so I can only guess how slowly the dreary time passed as they likely huddled beneath blankets.

When we walked them over to the Migrant Resource Center, they moved slowly and carefully. It was a silent procession through the traffic, crumbling sidewalks, and flooded streets. At the Center, the dad asked me anxiously when another family would be moved into the tent. The tent is supposed to have 2 groups in it at a time, and this morning, one family was moved into the US. But it takes a few hours to move another family in. I was able to find out when this would happen and that seemed to help the dad relax a little. It took me a little while to realize that he was worried about security, having left his wife and 4 year old in the tent by themselves when we came over to the Center. Of course.

This family came from Michoacán, Mexico. When I commented that he must have had a long journey just to get to the border, he answered that it was peligroso, muy peligroso - dangerous, very dangerous. And then repeated again, with a pained expression, peligroso. When the Spanish-speaking director of the center came a little later and talked to him, I couldn’t understand what was being said, but I could see the worry on the dad’s face.

Later, Melody and I came back across to the house where we are staying in Douglas, unlocked the door, flipped up the thermostat to warm things up, raised the shades and turned some lights on, threw our wet clothes in the dryer, and made some tostadas on the stove. What a striking difference in our life circumstances. And how privileged we are.

Today, we escorted another family – 2 adults and 7 kids. They are indigenous people from Oaxaca who speak neither English nor Spanish (except for two of the young boys who know some Spanish). It’s tough for them, only barely being able to communicate. The parents look tired and disoriented, as do most of the kids. Once again, I can’t imagine what it is like for them.

And so it goes. Family after family they come, they go. We don’t hear back from them once they are taken into the US “justice” system. We are just a small part of their journey, hopefully providing some kindness and support as they move on. Maybe we make some impact on them, who knows? I do know they are making an impact on me.