"1,950 mile long open wound…The U.S.-Mexico border es una herida abierta, where the third world grates against the first and bleeds." Gloria Anzaldúa
I spent the first three weeks of January on the U.S.-Mexico border on a grant for cross-cultural studies. After spending years involved in immigrant rights, I wanted to witness firsthand what was happening on the border. I was less prepared than I thought for what I saw and heard. It was jarring to see miles of hideous fence cutting through the beautiful desert landscape. It was even more jarring to see the hundreds of shacks lining the hillsides on the Mexican side and the mansions on the streets of the U.S. side and the heavily armed guards on both sides. I talked to migrants from shelters all along the border—in Nogales, in Agua Prieta, in Altar. They all told me the same story. "There is no work. We need to feed our families." Several repeated over and over, "We are not coming for a better life. We are coming just to survive." The border has separated so many families and many of the people I talked to were desperately trying to return to children in the U.S. Some had tried multiple times to cross, been caught and processed by Border Patrol and were returning to try again.
"People who experience trauma live in the suspended middle territory, between life and death… Neither a figure of life or death exclusively, the cry from the wound is the hinge that links the two. It is a cry of witness from the middle." Shelly Rambo
This middle territory is no metaphor on the U.S.-Mexico border. It is literally a fight between life and death in the borderlands. Everything is against the migrant—the desert, the patrols, the roaming gangs, local ranchers, and time. Even with the economic downturn, many estimate that up to 1400 people are crossing through the Sonoran desert every day, driven there by U.S. border policy. Operating under a policy of deterrence, the federal government consciously decided to funnel people into the desert, hoping that the harsh conditions and high death toll would keep others from following. But people are desperate enough to keep coming—and many do die. 253 people were found dead in the desert just last year, many who were never identified.
Those who are shuffled back and forth by unjust economic policies and harsh anti-immigration laws give witness to the wound on the border. The twelve year old girl trying to take care of her sick mother and baby brother who had just spent two days in custody after being found in the desert. She told us about the girl she met, crying in Border Patrol custody, who had miscarried in a Border Patrol van after being kicked by a patrol's horse. The Guatemalan woman who had fallen off the train on her way up to Nogales and was now crossing the desert alone with her husband because they could not afford to pay a coyote. She told me; "I am afraid, but God will protect us." The couple who had left their children behind in Michoacán and were heading to San Francisco to try to make enough money to take care of them. They set off across the plaza in Altar with their backpacks, ready to try again after being deported on their first attempt. They had been on the road a month so far.
"War dehumanizes, war diminishes, war debases all those who wage it." Elie Weisel
One person warned us about the border; "It is a low intensity war zone." She was not joking. The desert is full of high tech tracking equipment, low flying helicopters, and armed Border Patrol. Driving the back roads with humanitarian groups looking to provide food and water to migrants, I quickly lost count of the dozens of Border Patrol vehicles and checkpoints and Wackenhut buses used to transport people to detention. At border checkpoints, guys with machine guns are everywhere. Parts of the fence are electrified and crowned with rolled barbed wire. All of this largely to keep out an invasion of the poor.
I met a young Border Patrol agent at a checkpoint who seemed eager to go home to San Diego. He laughed; "As long as they keep making Mexicans, I'll have a job." The dehumanization didn't end there. ICE agents I met with were unable to refer to people crossing borders as anything other than aliens, illegals, or worse, "bodies." There is no accountability for agents who abuse people in their custody and reports of violent abuse, such as kicking, punching, threatening, and even raping migrants are common. The week I got there, a 17 year old kid was shot on top of the border fence by a Border Patrol agent, a kid who ended up being on his way to or from a party he went to with his U.S. girlfriend on the other side.
The war zone spills into U.S. federal courtrooms, where Operation Streamline processes seventy people a day in Tucson solely for the crime of crossing the wrong border. The day I visited, I saw sick women and men who could barely walk, fully shackled, led up in groups of seven to the front of an English speaking court with minimal translation and forced to give up their rights and plead guilty. Seventy people, one at a time, said; "Cupable." Guilty. Guilty for wanting to feed hungry families. Guilty for fleeing economic policies largely induced by U.S. policy. Guilty for entering away from a port of entry without documentation it is impossible for poor people to obtain.
Throughout my trip, these words from Elie Weisel kept haunting me; "We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented… When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must — at that moment — become the center of the universe." And, in the last three weeks, I was visiting the center of the universe.
