The arbitrariness of the Borderlands is always with me. Earlier this summer, another volunteer and I walked out of the desert after a 15 mile hike, just in time to see two men walking on the side of the road ahead of us. Within a minute of our seeing them, a border patrol truck sped into view, pulled over, and had them out of the brush, on the side of the road, with both agents frisking them down and ultimately shoving them into the back of the vehicle. As we came into view, one of the agents began to walk towards us. The first words out of his mouth were, “Did you two need anything, or are you okay?” Little things like this have happened repeatedly while I’ve been out here, but they never cease to impact me. Did we need anything? Were we okay? We were not frisked and shoved into the back of a vehicle, without any concern for the fact that we had probably walked multiple days in near 100 degree heat, undoubtedly without sufficient water, probably without food for the past few days, most likely with incredibly painful blisters, aches, and cramping throughout our bodies. No one asks these people their stories as they shove them behind the locked doors. If they did, what would they hear? They would hear Ignacio, who worked in a factory for fourteen years of his life in Mexico, under terrible working conditions, never making enough to put enough food on the table. Ignacio brought a stack of tourist postcards from his home town of Puebla, and offered one to me with the graciousness of a prince, as we sat under a tree, miles from anything in the middle of the desert, and I asked him when the last time he had vomited from drinking the cow tank water was. Last night. They would hear Cruz, who had the worst blisters I have ever seen, cutting through multiple layers of skin, open and bleeding, say simply as I told him I was worried about the possibility of infection if he kept on walking, “But it doesn’t matter. I have to be with my family.” They would have to listen to Felipe, who was migrating in search of work to pay the doctor’s bills for his six year old daughter, born with neurological problems. I asked him his story and he began, “Pues, Dios nos mandó una hija…” (Well, God sent us a little girl…). They would have to look into the face of Armando, who thought he was dying until we happened to take a wrong turn on the road and come across him, explain between gasps and gulps of water, that everything was chingado in the town that he came from and all he wanted was work to earn money for his kids. Armando thought he was dying, and twenty minutes later a border patrol agent stood over him saying roughly “Puedes parar? Pues, parate!” (Can you stand up? Well, stand up, then!). They would have to sit down on the side of the road with Juan, who had a temperature of 105 when we came across each other, and wish that there was something, anything, they could say that would make a difference as he, a grown man, sobbed heartbrokenly, saying over and over “I’m a good person, all I want is to be with my children and take care of my mom who is sick.” What do you say to someone who is crying like that? When you know that their situation is hopeless? When you would give anything to be able to tell them that you would do whatever it took, that it would all be all right? But in your heart you know the reality of the situation. It is not all right. It probably will never be.
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