Reflections on a Summer in the Sonoran Desert, Part Two

In July of 2007, just before beginning a graduate program at American University, I came to the desert for the first time. I had spent a year living in a house of hospitality for those who had recently crossed the border in Texas, and had seen the exhaustion on the faces of the men, women, and children who knocked on our door seeking food, a place to rest, sometimes medical care, after having just made it across. Every week in the house we had a community celebration and mass of thanksgiving for the safe arrival of those who had come during the previous days. Each week, one person shared their testimonio, the story of their journey across the line into the U.S. I wanted to better understand that journey that I had heard described in such compelling, often heart-wrenching words. I wanted to be a part of trying to eliminate the death and the intense suffering that were a part of the equation for so many. I spent two weeks in the desert that summer before leaving to start classes. The next summer I came back for ten weeks. My life changed during that time. Everything seemed simpler, starker. The priorities of the rest of the world were backwards. All that really mattered was water. And a heart full of love, a heart that was resilient and could be broken open time and time again. A heart capable of tremendous compassion, in the sense of “suffering with” others. I came to see how upside-down the world in general was and the reality of the border in particular. I contemplated dropping out of school, giving up everything to stay and do this work. I ultimately decided not break these commitments, but to take a year, with the promise that I would return as soon as possible. That ended up being May of this year and this is how I came to be sitting on an isolated dirt road with Martín that day.
I try to remember the lessons I have learned over the past few years as both a graduate student and a humanitarian aid worker, a scholar and an activist, the times I have had a moment of realization or a deepening of understanding that has really altered my way of seeing things. I try to make the connections between the human encounters I have had at the border and the broader questions I have grappled with in an academic context. Sometimes the correlations are clear, sometimes they are not. At times I feel that I am nothing more than the keeper of this enormous repository of stories…
So many names, so many faces… Efren and his sister Elvia, who was so scared and so grateful to find herself with other women; Ignacio with the postcards from Puebla and Cruz who believed his open and bloody feet were a punishment from God for causing his family to suffer; Benjamin from Oaxaca; Felipe who was walking all the way to Tucson and had trouble keeping his eyes open for exhaustion; Edgar who picked lemons in California; Cristína and Jorge who were soñando de agua pura (dreaming of clean water) and who vomited when they finally drank our water; Jesús and Cruz who played soccer with us; Ignacio with the sprained – perhaps broken – ankle, who kept walking; Felipe with the six-year-old daughter with neurological problems que Dios les mandó (that God had sent them) and Vicente who made us laugh; Rubén who never smiled and who would have given up days before if it weren’t for his sick mother waiting for him; Juan who sobbed as I sat with him and whose body temperature after several days of walking was 105 degrees; Juan Carlos and Javier who were just boys; Elva who was the sole woman in a group of ten men; Gemmy who we promised medical attention to as he lay prone on the desert floor, his face contorted with pain, and who was deported hours later; Felipe who was medically evacuated and Pedro who he didn’t want to be separated from (when I close my eyes, I can still see little Pedro sitting all alone after they had taken Felipe away, surrounded by people in uniforms, so far from Oaxaca); Francisco whose entire body hurt; the other Francisco with the pale face and the huge eyes who had been vomiting; the five men whose names I can’t remember who woke me up at midnight and wanted coffee; Nelson who walked out of our camp singing; Cruz who gave his shoes away to a kid he met on the trail with a sprained ankle; Lucy who was unconscious when we found her; Aurora and the little girls, 4 and 7 years old, who just wanted to draw pictures, cook Top Ramen on the camp stove, and go on frog hunts; Sara who carried her two year old daughter over two mountain ranges while wearing flip-flops; little Cristian, age 4, who walked for two days all by himself and whose face was cut and scratched from the branches along the way … How can I remember each of them forever, with their unique stories and their own individual hopes and terrors. I don’t even know where any of them are right now. Which of them would not be walking the earth at this moment if it were not for our presence in the desert? Is it even worth thinking about? Hacemos lo que hacemos, ya basta (We do what we do, that's enough).

Reflections on a Summer in the Sonoran Desert

It was already late afternoon, but the sun beat down no less intensely on the stretch of dirt road where I sat, about nine miles north of the U.S.-Mexico border in the Sonoran desert. There was no shade in sight, the largest objects around inhospitable mesquite and cactus. This day I was sitting cross-legged with a middle-aged man from Chiapas named Martín. Martín had crossed the border two days before and had been walking almost nonstop ever since. He had awakened the night before to find that his guía, along with the rest of the group that he was walking with, were gone. This is not an uncommon occurrence; those who are too slow due to age, lack of physical fitness, or injury are frequently left behind. Miles from anything and without knowledge of the harsh geographical terrain, the probability of not making it through is much too high. While the resourcefulness of those who are making this crossing should not be discounted, the number of bodies recovered along the border since the mid-1990s averages around one each day. These are, of course, only the bodies that are found; given the remoteness and inaccessibility of the region, it is certainly accurate to assume that many more are never discovered.
Unlike most of the people I meet in this area, Martín still had some food and clean water with him. Also unlike many, he had not drunk from the small watering holes that are virtually the only source of water in the region. Contaminated by the cattle that roam freely in this part of the country, consumption of this water causes many to become desperately sick in a short period of time. While fortunate in that his physical state was good, apart from total exhaustion after two days of walking in extreme temperatures, he was not fortunate in that he was still at least two more days walk from the closest reasonable destination, the interstate. With no other real options available to him, Martín asked for Border Patrol to be called, so that he could be returned to México.
As we sat by the side of the road waiting for the truck to arrive, we shared water, some fruit, and our stories. Martín’s was similar to countless others I have listened to in the desert. He had two small children back home. Times were so difficult in México with la crisis, it was harder than ever to make ends meet. The prices of basic staples – beans, tortillas – kept going up, not just once or twice, but over and over. Also his mom, who was living in California, was pretty sick and he didn’t think she would be able to hold on for much longer. She had diabetes and was going downhill quickly. Or that’s what they told him, he hadn’t seen her in a long while. He just wanted to be with her, and to be able to make some money to send home to his wife and kids. That was pretty much it. My story was pretty straightforward, as well. I happened to end up on the same dirt road as Martín that day because I work with a group called No Más Muertes or No More Deaths, whose mission is to end death and suffering through the provision of humanitarian aid in the desert along the U.S.-Mexico border. We had just finished leaving over a hundred gallons of water at various places along well-traveled migrant trails in the area. Martín said that we did good and much-needed work, and he was very grateful to have encountered us. We heard the crunch of gravel on the road in the distance and we started to say our goodbyes. The truck pulled up and an armed and uniformed agent loaded Martín into the back and without wasting any time, turned and drove back out the road.
Juan Villoro says that the border is “an enormous repository of stories.” When I reflect on my time in the Sonoran desert along the U.S.-Mexico border, a thousand stories, along with the faces that correspond with those stories, course through my thoughts. I think back to the hours I spent in seminars in Washington, DC, writing endless papers, reading even more endless stacks of books and articles. I try to integrate those faces with the hours I spent reading, writing, and talking about concepts and ideas… dependency theory, sustainable development, immigration policy, neoliberalism. Cruz, Elizabet, Felipe, Ángel, Daniel, Shirley, Aurora, Cynthia, Vanessa, Francisco, Jorge, Lucy, Estela… I ask myself if anything that I learned in two years of graduate school helps me to understand this situation in a more profound way or to do this work more effectively. I still struggle with this question.

Tucson

My good friend Steve took these pictures of Jason and I in front of the hostel where we were staying. Jason was here for the weekend and we had a wonderful time, despite the 100 degree plus weather. For my part, sleeping in a bed, showering daily, and eating lots and lots of deliciously cold food (yay Dairy Queen!) were all quite welcome after a month in the desert.

Pictures from My Last Trip Home

I was just looking through some of the pictures I took when I was last home (rather than writing, as I should be doing as a dutiful grad student). These are some of my favorites.

Clare and Grandpa watching hockey...

The happiest baby in the world (pictured in a basket of fabric scraps)...

Two dedicated musicians, singing soulfully, as you can see...

Bottlecap Art

Aren't these bottle-cap creations from the Smithsonian Museum of American Art snappy? I think something like this would be an excellent use of Marie and Betsey's extensive bottle cap collection, don't you?

Springtime, the National Portrait Gallery, and the View from the Old Post Office Tower

Hurrah, spring is finally here! Even though it still very cold and wet, at least the flowers are a hopeful sign!

Isn't this Steinway piano from the National Portrait Gallery amazing and ridiculous?

Also from the National Portrait Galley... I just like this painting. I would love to make music in a room like this, full of light and beautiful things.

The view from the top of the Old Post Office Tower downtown is quite fantastic, as you can see here.

Some Random Photos...

This is a Jersey sea gull from the lovely town of Red Bank...

I know, I know, I have posted a thousand pictures of this same shot, but for some reason I just like this one.

Same goes for this one - "the view from my window" - but isn't this sunrise incredible?

I saw this poster on a utilities box down by U Street... nice, huh?