On a Saturday morning, six of us drove to the border of Mexico after we picked up some sweet breads and coffee from Estrella Bakery.
Maiya was kind enough to drive AND set-up this visit to this unique border town, her home town Nogales.
There are two Nogales(es): Nogales, Arizona (US) and Nogales, Sonora (MX). Needless to say: Nogales is a border town. I have been living in Tucson since May 2019 and I have not been to the border; Tucson is just 61 miles north of Mexico. If you know me, you know that I really love to experience other countries and it surprises me a lot that I haven’t been to Mexico yet (in this chapter of life).
When I read about the trip being organized for the Return Peace Corps Volunteers, I knew I had to go. I want to understand more about what it means to be on the precipice of two powerful countries with a much-publicized border. As a group of six, we had the title “Return Peace Corps Volunteers” in common. Other than that, we were just six curious Estadounidenses from all over the country who came to Tucson for school.
But, this trip wasn’t about going to Mexico at all: this trip was about going to a place that is both Mexico and the United States and therefore neither. It is Nogales: a slice of the Borderlands.
When we arrived to Mariposa Health Center, we were late. I immediately felt guilty: what I had imagined was a dingy, run-down building made of brick with one light bulb fighting to illuminate a room. I didn’t imagine a clean, polished, multi-level facility that you might just as well see in Chicago as Nogales. We walked into a conference room with snacks and Starbucks coffee provided. We shook the hands of two doctors on staff at the health center who were kind enough to meet with us on their Saturday.
The founding doctor asked each of us to share something about ourselves and I already felt more important than I actually am. I said that I am a singer and he pulled up his favorite jazz musician on his tablet (I can’t remember who it was- eek!). As we went around, someone in our group said they used “they/them” pronouns after introducing themselves and I wondered what it must be like to have to contextualize themselves every time they introduce themselves.
Read about the organization here: https://www.nogalesinternational.com/news/mariposa-clinic-treating-migrants-in-cbp-custody/article_2cdd2206-7cb1-11e9-99d1-57d3049db9c9.html
Then it was their turn: what is Mariposa Health Center? The two doctors explained a bit about the organization and asked us for our questions. They explained that they are funded in large part through grants, and that because they are private, they can serve anyone who enters regardless of their citizenship status. They asked us: “What do you think the two documents are that people bring in?” I offered Birth Certificate but couldn’t think of the second and he said: “Vaccinations.” Parents fleeing their homes know they need to bring birth certificates and vaccination records…
In their introduction they mentioned that their services recently expanded to support members of the trans community in hormonal therapies and transition. Not only was I impressed to see an organization with such complete services but working with communities who don’t always have access to care. This means they serve migrants who don’t have health insurance or refugees who don’t have anything at all. This means anyone.
The lead doctor told us: “ICE (US Immigration and Customs Enforcement) used to come park their car in our parking lot. I told them they had to leave. They argued that we are a public organization and they have the right to park here. I told them that we are private and they eventually left. They were scaring our patients.”
Doctor P said: “We are a healthcare facility. Not a political facility.” I felt so much hope and respect for a place could be so ethically upright in its support of people no matter their status.
We were running late so we snapped a quick picture of the group and headed out for the next place. We walked past people waiting for care in a waiting room with a TV playing in the background.
Our group drove to a spot that seemed like a random intersection to me, but there was a reason. We were meeting someone who was going to take us to The Wall. Like I said, I couldn’t remember the itinerary. When we got to the wall, we parked. The wall is a big rusty brown behemoth next to a different type of “wall” that looks like glorified sawhorses made of metal. We gawked at the ridiculousness of what was before us: a high security, metal wall that went 10 feet into the ground and much more than that into the air next to a wimpy fence that looks like it couldn’t keep out a shopping cart of toddlers.
This rancher’s family has owned this land for generations. His grandfather bred a type of cow that was a big “break” for ranching. He shared with us his experience with the US government. He pointed to a cell phone tower far off in the distance further into US territory, far from where we stood at the border. He said that after 9/11, the US declared that piece of property “imminent domain.” To be honest, I didn’t know what he meant. Later on I learned that it was a matter of “homeland security” that they take the land from him.
Before long, while this Rancher shared his experience, the border patrol car passed us. Rancher (let’s call him that for the ease of storytelling) said that we set off a sensor and that’s why they drove by. He explained that they ask him to call in advance to tell them when he is nearing the border, but he won’t on principal. This is his land.
I was the only one without sunglasses. The sun was unrelenting and it is just February. I wondered how people can survive this in the heat of summer. Eventually he suggested we walk up a hill and I was immediately winded. I work out, but this was a serious hill. How do people do this? Walk for days on end through the desert and get to United States only to be thrown in prison, get deported and do it again. Remind me never to complain about my shoddy iPhone 6.
Border Patrol held a bidding war between different security companies (including one from France) to set-up a security system on the tower on his land. Boeing outbid the other tech companies for the job. He said: “They can read the “Rayban” on my sunglasses from those cameras.” The tower was miles from us, in the distance. Power is a scary thing.
He recounted how confusing and convoluted his experiences with the government have been. He explained that the cost of money the government invests in the wall construction and bridges in the desert could be allocated in different ways to man the entry ports. The cost of the concertina wire that runs the wall on the 15-mile stretch of land he owns is 2.4 million dollars. The wire is on the US side, by the way… to keep us… in? The bridge they built in response to a Border Patrol agent driving into a deep stream during monsoon season cost about 3.5 million to construct. A bridge….. in the desert.
We had a lot of questions but the one that stuck out to me was when someone in our group asked: “Do you see people running across?” He said no. But we all know they are crossing. All of my friends from Guatemala who have moved to the US without papers crossed in trucks and on foot, and three of them are still teenagers. And there are thousands more. They are washing the dishes at the restaurants where we eat, building the highways we drive on and clean the buildings we walk through. We are already all here. There has to be a better way.
He told us that he doesn’t like Trump because he has two daughters. I wonder about my Dad who has two daughters, too.
We thanked him for his time and headed to a restaurant in the center of Nogales. We were meeting with an immigration lawyer. I was surprised to see a man who looked my Dad’s age who said he was from Missouri. As we ordered our food I noticed how the restaurant staff immediately switched to English when they saw me. I’m used to this from living in Guatemala but it feels different when it’s happening to me in the States, too. But I live on the Border now.
As we ate our tacos, we asked the lawyer questions. He told us about a recent case he took of a young girl from Central America. She was kidnapped and abused by a gang member. Her mother took her to the police to write a report. The police said they would write one but couldn’t submit it. The police is in danger of the cartels and they would be risking their own lives if they posted the report. The mother sent her daughter with her sister in Mexico. The sister took pictures of the bruising as documentation. This is the only documentation they had. She came to the US and was arrested by border patrol. Now, as a lawyer he is faced with the responsibility of proving to the court that she is worthy of asylum because the conditions at home are not livable. Our country put her in jail.
We asked him several questions: “What language does she speak?”, “Do you use a translator when you take these cases?”, “Where is she now?” and “What are the chances that she will get asylum?” The answer is that the chances are very, very slim. Arizona has an incredibly low asylum acceptance rate, something like 7%. Still, I was inspired that this man went to school to get his law degree so that he could help refugees fight for residence.
We made one more stop, Las Lagunas, and headed home. Las Lagunas is a man-made body of water in the desert to attract certain wildlife and support the ecosystem. I think of the countries these people are feeling from: like there is a shortage of water in the desert, there is a shortage of jobs in their countries. Just like every species who fights to survive, they leave their ecosystem to find a friendlier one. People have been migrating since the beginning of time. (See my post on The Christian Bible as a Text of Migration lecture).
It was hard to believe that I stood in front of the wall that is the source of so much conversation now. I started to cry as we stood there listening to the rancher. He was throwing statistics at us left and right such as: 90% of women ages 7 to 70 are raped during the course of their border crossing. I thought of my students from Guatemala, including girls, who have traveled from their homes to find work here. I can’t imagine what they’ve been through no matter how many stories I’ve heard. I can stand at this wall and still not understand what it’s like to flee from your home with nothing on you except your clothes.
What was an easy field trip for me was an earth-shattering reality for thousands of people who don’t have it as easy as I do. And yet some say that we all live under the same sun.