Roberto was sitting by the side of Ruby Road. We sat and talked for a little while, trying to figure out what he wanted to do. He had been walking for 7 days. His guide had left him behind the day before. The nights were so cold. He hadn’t eaten in 3 days. He was diabetic. He had been in Mexico for two years now, but his wife and children and grandchildren were all in Phoenix. He wanted to be with his grandchildren. He sighed deeply several times as we talked. Finally, he decided that he wanted us to call Border Patrol. I double checked that this was his wish, “¿seguro que eso es lo que quiere? porque no queremos hacerlo si no es lo que quiere usted.” (Are you sure that is what you want? because we don’t want to unless you want us to). He looked right into my eyes, “pues, no es lo que quiero, pero es lo que tengo que hacer.” (It’s not what I want, but it’s what I have to do). Earlier, he had asked why we couldn’t give him a ride somewhere and I explained that it was against the law and there would be serious consequences for us. He said, so simply, ¿porqué? Why? So many thoughts went through my head. What a logical question. It is something I want to ask so often. Porqué, why is it against the law to provide a safe resting place to someone who is exhausted with pain and suffering and disappointed hopes? Porqué, why is it that we live in a country that allows the death of thousands of men, women, and children who are struggling for nothing more than work, to reunite with family members, an escape from poverty and oppression? I cannot answer these questions in a way that makes any sense. Roberto told me as we sat that there God is with everyone. Not only with those who are good, but with those who are bad and who do bad things as well. Dios es grande, Roberto said to me, God is great.
We heard the crunch of gravel on tires as the agent pulled up, and Roberto, looking into my eyes again, said softly, “No pasa nada.” It’s okay. “No pongas triste.” Don’t be sad. This man who had suffered so much was concerned with the well-being of others, was concerned that I would be sad at his suffering. I smiled with him, took his hand and said goodbye, qué Dios le bendiga y cuidase mucho. The agent, whose Spanish was not very good, asked him if he had any “cosas malas” (bad things) on him, meaning weapons. “Solo hambre,” was his response. Only hunger.
A few hours later, as we drove out Arivaca Road, we passed a woman standing by herself, framed from behind by the most amazing sunset I have seen in a long time. I turned around and pulled the car up next to her to ask if she was okay. She was lost, and was waiting for a ride. Her name was Yulisa and she was from Michoacán. This was her second attempt in the past week, she had already been caught by Border Patrol and deported once. This time she had been walking for three days. Her husband had left her and she had two children that she needed to provide for. There wasn’t work back home, so she was coming to find a job in the U.S. Could we give her a ride? Couldn’t we just drop her off before the checkpoint, and pick her up after? We explained the reality of the situation to her. We waited with her for Border Patrol. She asked where we were from, where we were going. To Tucson. Her destination. Or it was, now she was going back to Mexico, to Nogales if she was lucky. Or she could be processed through Operation Streamline, meaning that she would be one of the unlucky seventy people who are selected each day in this sector to spend a few days in jail before appearing, shackled at the feet and hands, before a judge in the federal courthouse in Tucson, charged with entering the country without permission, given a permanent criminal record, and warned that if they attempt entry again, they will be given a harsher jail sentence. All this would mean more time before Yulisa could either work and start sending money to her children, or return to be with them. Or she might be “laterally repatriated,” that is, deported to a location far away from where she had attempted to enter, Tijuana, perhaps, or somewhere in Texas. This means that someone like Yulisa, who is exhausted after days of walking in the desert and probably without any money, is dumped in a distant location where they have most likely never been and have no connections. This is intended to deter them from attempting to cross again.
One border patrol truck passed us by without stopping as we sat there. As a second one sped past, we shouted and Yulisa gave an ear-piercing whistle that made the agent turn around and pull up next to us. It was pitch dark as he opened the door and she climbed inside. We waited until he had finished questioning her, filling out paperwork, radioing in, a good twenty minutes. Then he pulled away, north towards Tucson, and we followed.
