At the Border

Sandhill cranes migrate here to winter in a man-made lake called the Whitewater Draw. Some 20,000 of them take flight at sunrise and sunset, filling the air with innumerable formations and their mesmerizing chatter (the info posting calls it a “gurgling trill”). It’s an amazing wonder of nature! For me, being there at these times is like going to church. This day being Sunday, we were moved to go again this morning for this ritual, making this our fourth visit in the almost two weeks since we’ve been here. Hallelujah! Watching and listening to the cranes moving in tandem with each other stirs in me not only an awe for Mother Nature, but also a brooding about human nature. Right here in this same terrain, we so severely restrict human migration and think of ourselves as different from each other. We from this side of the border see “the other” coming from the south as virtually a different species, not entitled to live where we live. We don’t want to share the land and waters w...

The steel wall:   The thirty foot high wall being built in the wilderness costs upwards of $20 million per mile. Here, just east of Douglas, they are busily constructing an additional 21 miles. For what? To cause more injuries and deaths for those migrants who have already been pushed into the desert by the existing walls in the border cities (aka prevention through deterrence)? It won’t stop people from coming. They can – and do - still climb up and over over it. And high tech militarization such as cameras on towers, motion detectors on the ground, and drones in the air are already ubiquitous, as are the many border patrol agents in their green and white SUVs. The wall just seems to be an enormous and costly PR stunt for Mr. Trump. And, of course, a very profitable boondoggle for the defense contractors. The emotional wall: Yesterday, we just happened to be at the tent by the wall when a Customs agent came over to bring another of our families across to the U.S. It wa...

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...

Since we have begun our work as accompaniers, immigration officials have been letting one family unit across the border per day. Yesterday, a man and his toddler daughter crossed. Today, a woman, a mother of 2 grown sons who also traveled with her along with their small families, was let cross. They had hoped that they would be allowed to cross as one unit, but that was not the case. As we left her sons, their wives, and young children at the tent to return through the border gate, they said “quizas mañana.” Maybe tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow they will get to cross. Tomorrow holds so much promise for these travelers. It is the word of hope. Migrants have made long journeys. For this family they traveled from Venezuela to Columbia, and then through Central America to the US border.  For many there is no hope of mañana. A small group of nuns who work on the border facilitate cross plantings at the desert locations where the bodies of migrants are found. A sacred ceremony is held ...

The tender children, so bright, playful, full of innocent wonder, running, skipping, giggling, drinking chocolate, kicking the soccer ball, rolling on the floor, molding the clay, stacking the blocks – They warmed our space of waiting as if it were their living room, as if it were not just a momentary harbor from the chilling storms, but rather a place to claim for our own. We lingered longer than usual, drinking coffee, like a family, sharing this precious moment of ease. On the walk back, the girls held hands with Melody. We hugged and kissed them good night. This morning, dad said they called me their American Papi.

After arriving in Tucson late on January 14th and making our way to our hosts' house, we awoke to the glorious open sky of Arizona. Lisa and Mark live in the Catalina Mountain foothills and have lovely views of the mountains. And the sky, what a sky. Wide and open. Such openness. Coming from the green mountains of North Carolina, the wide open sky above flat  or craggy mountainedterrain seemed so freeing somehow. Lighter, or more buoyant than the heavier, more closed in greenness of the Blue Ridge.  Like many things are possible here. Why not? You can see for miles. What looks close is really far away. European settlers of the US must have had similar reactions as they made their migration across the great expanses of plains and Southwest. They were, like the migrants today, looking toward the expanse as opportunity, as a destination for a future better life. Like today’s migrants coming to the US's southern border, they or their ancestors were also leaving their homelan...

In this book, Francisco Cantú tells the story of his experience as a man of Mexican heritage who grew up in the Southwest, studied international relations,  became a Border Patrol agent for four years, then worked on behalf of an undocumented friend who was refused readmission to the US when he went to visit his dying mother in Mexico. It is a moving book about personal transformation amidst the truly searing social and political realities of the borderlands. Cantú is a very good reporter and first-person storyteller and doesn't hesitate to reveal his own emotions and dreams. I was riveted.