Bold

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(from Naomi Shihab Nye)

On Wednesday of last week I found myself invited to a fancy picnic at a spot in between the border wall and the Rio Grande. A large tent had been set up on the property of a local farmer, whose fields are stuck in the “no man’s lands” between the wall and the river. I was there with a family from a town outside of Brownsville, and we were sitting at a table and chatting as we waited for the people we had been invited to share lunch with.

Nora, the family’s two year old, was fidgety, but quiet. Her father was nervous. He had agreed to speak to some “very important people” about his family’s circumstances. My ACLU colleague and I were coaching him a little, encouraging him to speak to them as if he were speaking to his daughter. “Use short sentences, go slow, they have no idea of how complicated your life is.” We reminded him to be sure to show them the ankle monitor shackled to his leg, and to be sure to explain how his only crime was living with his family in Texas without immigration documents.

He had been given the ankle monitor because he lacked $9,000 in cash to pay his bond after he had been stopped by a state trooper and, having no driver’s license, was handed over to Border Patrol (back in 2008, Texas Department of Public Safety decided to stop issuing driver’s licenses to people without authorized immigration status).

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There were some other families invited to the picnic as well, guests from the Catholic Charities’ Respite Center in McAllen. They, too, seemed nervous, which meant to me that they had a good dose of common sense: what on earth were they doing sitting between the border wall and a river that they had just crossed, at no small peril, just a few days ago?

ArrivalEventually the important people arrived—about fifty of them. From what I could gather, they had come from all over the world to visit Texas. They were business people, and so their interests were entrepreneurial in nature. Indeed, they were coming to the picnic having just toured Elon Musk’s Space X project on the Boca Chica beach that was about an hour’s drive from Brownsville. The meeting with the immigrants and refugees was their last stop before they would be leaving the Rio Grande Valley for wherever it is that very wealthy people go.

I was struck by the boldness of the Brownsville mayor who had pushed for this moment on the tour. He had spent most of the day, after all, promoting the opportunities for investment in the area. But here we were, some of the most powerful, financially secure people on the earth sharing barbecue with some of the most vulnerable people in the hemisphere.

I was nervous, too—not due to the presence of the very rich people (or the very poor people) but the extraordinary power gap between the two groups.

At least at my table, where I was translating between a German, an Austrian, two Australians and a family from Honduras, there was respectful, frank, if rather one-way conversation. While the Hondurans had no questions for them, the captains of industry had patient, kind inquiries for the Hondurans. The Honduran father, who just two days ago was shivering in a freezing border patrol holding cell, looked his table partners in the eye as he fielded their questions, each time setting down his knife and fork, and considering his answer before speaking.

It is hard to know what, if anything, would come of this picnic. Many of the group would be meeting the next day with the governor of Texas, a man whose investments in our region have largely been along the lines of sending $1.2 billion worth of state troopers, officers whose job is to hunt down people like Nora’s dad. Perhaps there would be a frank conversation about Texas’ treatment of immigrants.

Nora’s dad did well with his presentation. After he explained his story, one of the wealthy guests said that that was horrible situation, and that he, himself, would pay off the $9,000 bond so that Nora’s dad could be rid of the ankle shackle. Nora’s father was gracious and relieved by the gesture.

As the picnic ended, a slight breeze from the north blew across the field, ruffled the tent, and tickled the river. The families got back into their vans and crossed the border wall for the third time in a week, headed later that day for Boston, for Falls Church,  for Los Angeles, and for other parts of the USA where they would weave themselves into the American family.

The other guests boarded private jets and headed off to their business responsibilities.

In Washington, DC, the president’s aids were preparing his national emergency proclamation, citing amongst his reasons, the terrible peril along the southern border and the need for a border wall. For my part, I was left thinking about the remark that one of the Central American mothers at the picnic had made. She said, “You know, it is just so very peaceful here.” And then she laughed, pointing at the border wall and the many police officers, and said, “a pesar de todo esto (despite all of this!).”

 

The Desert Wall

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The large, white binder was lettered “2017, Human Remains, Book 1.” Inside were 521 photos of human cadavers, bodies found in Brooks County, a place about an hour’s drive north of McAllen, Texas.

The photos were horrific, post-death pictures of someone’s friend or son or mother who had tried to avoid arrest by the United States Border Patrol by going around the highway checkpoint. Some of them had walked for days, perhaps, before dying of hyperthermia or heat exhaustion or thirst or, I could imagine, desperate loneliness.

The sheriff, Benny Martinez, given his responsibilities, is a surprisingly affable man. He had agreed to a last-minute meeting with a group of immigration advocates. Shortly after we began the meeting, the sheriff willingly shared this very visible evidence of the consequences of US immigration enforcement activity. He noted, “For every person in that book, there are five more people that we did not find. That is a very sad thing.”

“So,” I asked, “That would be 2,500 people who died here in 2017?”

The sheriff grimaced and said, “At least that many. And we haven’t finished putting together the data for 2018. But too many people. Too many.”

As I paged through the book, briefly looking at the photo of a skeleton that was still partially clothed, or at the bloated, barefooted body of a woman dressed in jeans and tee-shirt, I was reminded of the curated photos in the Holocaust Museum of the bodies from the Nazi concentration camps and of the photos in the Human Rights’ Memorial in Santiago of the victims of Chile’s dirty wars. The scale is certainly different, as are the historical drivers of those events, but the cruel indifference to the consequences of national security policies is the same

The sheriff spoke a bit about the efforts he and the border patrol were collaborating on, including putting out GPS markers so that those who became desperate (and still had a working cell phone) could give rescuers a location. He talked about rescue beacons and other efforts, but the overall sense was that there was still going to be a lot of dying going on in this small county, and that his collection of Human Remains Books would continue to grow.

Our visit to this section of the dying fields that is part of the nation’s southwest border took place during the government’s longest shutdown. The attempt to pass a budget had foundered upon the president’s insistence on the need for more border wall funding. The Democrats, at this point, were holding fast to no funding for a border wall, but they were busy offering “technological alternatives” to a border wall. The national freakout over the best way to “secure our borders” is shaping our existence as a functioning national entity. This frankly boggles my mind. I am reminded of the poor fellow trying to dance a waltz to a band playing the two-step: it is wrong, unpardonably (disgracefully/shockingly/amazingly) wrong.

The discussion assumes that the border is unsecured, that someone from Guatemala or Mexico (or Ireland or England) could merrily wade the Rio Grande, call an Uber and end up a couple of hours later in Houston. The term “crisis” is repeated, over and again, until most of the country believes that there is a flood of humanity overrunning south Texas, and that we do indeed need to “do something” about our southern border.

The United States is indeed doing something about the southern border, but it is not something that my mother would be proud of. Instead of working hard to create a comprehensive, humane, 21st century overhaul of our immigration policy, our national leadership has doubled down on a policy of deterrence. This presumes that if we are cruel enough, no one will want to be come here; if enough people die trying to cross into the United States, then maybe people will think twice about coming; if they do manage to cross the river, then we will hunt them down, forcing them off the highway and into the desert, where they may well lose their way, run out of water, and die an excruciating and lonely death.

Two Thanksgivings ago, as our family was gathering for a meal in Brownsville, I received a call from a lawyer who works with refugees. She had gotten a plea from help from a family in California, whose uncle had crossed the river, was wandering in the brush somewhere outside of a border town and was feared to be in dangerous condition. The fellow had a cell phone that worked, and managed to send his family his GPS location. The lawyer wondered if I could rush the man some water and some food, so that he would not die.

My lovely son-in-law and I hurriedly packed a bag and made our way to where the man was supposed to be waiting for us. We did not find him. Concerned, we left the bag out in the open, snapped a picture and “pinned” the location, sending all of that back to the California family. Over a year later, in the midst of the government shutdown and the ranting about border security, I received a note from the lawyer. The man had, in fact, finally made it to his family. He was safe, and wanted to express his gratitude, as did his family.

For my part, I was happy to know that  his photo would not be found in Sheriff Martinez’s Book of Human Remains.

Christmas, 2018: A Child is Born, Two Children Die

altarThis past Monday, on Christmas Eve, about fifteen of us gathered under a tree at the foot of the Gateway International Bridge. We were on the Mexican side of the border, at the edge of Matamoros, the sister city to Brownsville, Texas. We were standing just outside a makeshift camp that had been set up for refugees who had been waiting weeks for their right to cross the international bridge, to enter the United States, and to apply for asylum.

It is one of the most “in between spaces” I have ever been in, where humans beings are “ni de aquí ni de allá” – neither here nor there. It is a terrifying, lawless place in which one’s hopes become reduced to expecting the one meal a day that volunteers are trusted to deliver, and entertaining the insane hope that organized crime will stay away, for at least one more day.

One of the many good people from Texas who had been supporting these refugees had suggested that a Christmas Eve prayer service might be a nice thing to offer the people living in that in in-between space. And so it was that we had ended up forming a circle around a small table that served as an altar. Amongst us were a man from Ghana and a woman from Cameroon who both spoke English, as well as some families from Honduras and El Salvador.

We began by singing in Spanish—a complicated tune that everyone seemed to know how to sing badly, and then we sang Silent Night, which we did well. After a bit, people were invited to write down on a small slip of paper whatever might be their prayer for this time in their lives. The refugees paused and thought about this quite a bit, and then began to write. The African man wrote on both sides of the paper slip and looked like he would have filled a notebook. A man from El Salvador wrote his words slowly, almost as if they pained him. A pregnant woman wrote on her paper, and I think all of us could guess what her prayers were.

Then, one by one, the immigrants came forward and placed their hopes and dreams and fears on a small fire. A gentle breeze dispersed the smoke; a couple of birds perched above us sang quietly.

We were quiet for a bit and then our prayer was over. The travelers came up and wished the Americans well. They asked us some of the many questions that they had—when did we think that they would be allowed to cross, what was the place called “Maryland” like, would the United States keep them in jail for long.

And then we shook hands and bid them well, sharing that smile that comes from recognizing a moment of shared grace.

Alongside our border there have been many moments of shared grace over these past six months. This grace is daily made manifest in the hundreds of hot meals that are cooked and then walked across the border bridges, in the thousands of “travel bags” that are prepared for those refugees facing long bus trips, and in the countless shared confidences and tears. Time after time, regular working people show up in the middle of the night to rescue young women left at a closed bus station by ICE, or make the hour and a half trek to the detention center to pay a bond or collect someone who needs a ride. The volunteers are a cross section of our community—lawyers, teachers, counselors, clergy, entrepreneurs, the very wealthy and the very poor, some younger and some older,

It is all a delight and yet, really, not unexpected. There are good people all around who do extraordinarily good work and who have been doing this sort of thing all of their lives.

Sadly, what is also not unexpected, is the sinfulness that calls forth these gracious responses. While the calculated abuse of immigrants at our nation’s southern border is decades old, the Trump administration’s actions has deepened the darkness of that evil. The separation of children from their parents (more than 250 remain separated) was perhaps the lowest point of his abuse of immigrants, but the steady onslaught of lies about the Central American immigrants created a space in which the planned humiliation of these people became acceptable to this self-declared Christian nation. That particular moral bankruptcy became clear after the Secretary of Homeland Security blamed the recent deaths of the seven and eight year old Guatemalan children on their parents, shortly after the man responsible for the children who were in Border Patrol custody covered up the first death.

Many Americans, most of whom have never been to the southern border, insist that people who wish to exercise their right to apply for asylum cross into the United States “the right way.” Since the beginning of June, this “right way” was illegally blocked by the Trump administration, which planted armed guards on the bridges to turn back anyone who would petition the United States for asylum. With the bridges effectively shut down, desperate people like the father of the seven-year-old Jakelin Caal, opt to attempt to enter the US by crossing the desert, or, in Texas taking their chances with human smugglers to cross the Rio Grande.

It is worth noting, over and again, that upon crossing the international boundary, the very first thing that these Central American families do is surrender to the Border Patrol. They are not interested in being illegal, they tired of hiding from evil doers back in their home countries, and they are seeking to be recognized as human beings deserving of the protection of the law.

The Christmas story is one of promise and hope, but the context of birth of the Christ child was a midwinter season in a lawless territory occupied by a ruthless army. What is noteworthy is that anyone would discover meaning and hope in the birth of a child in such a time and place.

During this Christmas season of 2018, I take, if not hope, then at least the powerful reminder that each and every human life is precious, whether this human being was born in a stable, or whether she is being carried in her father’s arms across the desert into the United States. Owning up to the responsibility for those lives requires just a bit of attention, just a bit of grace. We close out 2018 having, in many, many ways, failed to honor that responsibility. I look forward to 2019, with a hardheaded hope that we will have the courage, as a nation, to be graceful and generous. Or, at the least, to be decent enough to care for all those who trust us with their lives.

Traveling Souls

Child at immigrant memorial

Shoes of immigrants

Last week I was visiting with a couple of guys in the Catholic Charities’ Respite Center in McAllen. They were helping clean up the kitchen and I was poking around the cabinets,  looking for garbage bags, trying to do my small part in offering hospitality to the stranger.

They told me how hard it had been to leave home. Both had horrific stories about why they had to leave. A fellow from Honduras told me that he had intervened in an assault on an American woman. “I testified against this guy,” the Honduran told me, “and he gets convicted and given twenty years in jail, but, you know, he was related to the local police chief and was let out after a couple of weeks. Then he and his gang came after me. I was lucky to get away. But how I miss my family.”

The other man, a Nicaraguan, had a similar story, but, as he wrapped up his story, the both of them said, “You know, you really need to talk to this other guy. He really has had a hard time.”

They brought a young father from El Salvador over to me. We sat down at one of the tables in the small dining area. After a long moment, he told me that he and his five-year-old daughter had left El Salvador some five weeks ago. He said that the journey was hard, but that the worst that had happened to them occurred right as they reached the border region.

“We had passed a Mexican immigration checkpoint,” he said, “Just before you get to Reynosa (the Mexican city across the Rio Grande from McAllen, Texas) and a Mexican state police car pulled our bus over.”

He told me that he knew to pay attention and that he noted that the police car was numbered “192”.

Shortly after being stopped, a group of men armed “only with machetes and knives” pulled up in pickup trucks, commandeered the bus and drove it some miles down a dirt road. The immigrants were led off of the bus and taken into a large, two story building where the children were separated from their parents and taken to the building’s second floor. 

The adults were put into a large space on the ground floor. They were tied up and then told that they had been kidnapped.

“It was a terrible, terrible two weeks that we spent there,” he said. “I had no idea what was happening to my little girl, they beat us up, they hardly fed us.”

He paused a moment and then said, indignantly, “They stripped me naked and made me tape a message to my family, demanding money. They made my family look at my naked body.”

At some point, he told me, another group of men showed up at the barn and freed the captives.

“I don’t know who they were, but they saved us from being murdered, of that I am sure,” he told me. And with that, his five year old, who had been playing with some other children at the center, came into the room and crawled up into his lap. He introduced me to her; she shyly smiled and told me her name.

Her father thanked me for listening. He stood up, and gathered his things. “We have to catch the 4:30pm bus,” he told me, and he walked away, through the doorway, and down the street toward the bus terminal.

It was only later, while telling the story to the woman I try to serve as husband, she being a pediatrician, that I appreciated the father’s horror during those two weeks.

“You know,” the doctor said to me, “that little girl could have been raped.”

Just a week after I had heard this story, the Washington Post reported that the United States and Mexico were close to an agreement that those seeking asylum in the United States would stay in Mexico, a “safe third country” while their requests were evaluated.

There are many places in the world that are not safe for five year olds. The adults in the world are charged with looking out for the well-being of those children. That is a considerably low bar as a measure of a civilization, but one to which we, as a nation, should aspire.

I know at least one five year old and a pediatrician who would agree.

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Do your soul a favor and visit http://veronicagabriela.com/traveling-soles/

“Don’t Neglect to Show Hospitality to Strangers”

 

In an expensive campaign stunt, the current president of the United States militarized my border, even as he invited biblical curses upon our nation (“Cursed be he who subverts the rights of the stranger, the fatherless, and the widow.” Deut 27:19).

There is no caravan of people sitting on the other side of the river. The caravan coming through Mexico is a month away, and is composed of asylum-seeking fathers and mothers and their children.

The election, however, is in a couple of days.

The oldest and slimiest trick in the book is for a leader to declare war in order to garner votes.

Please vote on Tuesday. Bring your own army to the polls with you.

In March and April, when you start to write your check to the IRS, just remember that you will be helping to pay for the concertina wire that is a part of this political campaign ad.

“This is America”

WhatsApp Image 2018-08-22 at 8.51.50 AMSince the beginning of this past May, visitors crossing the international bridges between Matamoros, Mexico, and Brownsville, Texas would have noticed something different—and alarming. Dozens of people, including women and children, could be seen standing or sitting in the blazing sun, some of them for four or five days. US Customs and Border Patrol had put three agents at the International Boundary Line, midway across the bridge, and were preventing anyone who would be seeking asylum from entering the United States to make that claim.

And so, although the refugees had the legal right to apply for asylum under both international law (the 1951 Refugee Convention and its 1967 protocol) and under national law (the United States’ 1980 Refugee Act) the United States had decided to make it difficult or impossible for the refugee to access that right.

WhatsApp Image 2018-09-15 at 11.57.41 AM (1)Mid-May I had asked a woman from Honduras who had been on the bridge for several days what the agents were telling her when she tried to enter. She told me, “They said that the United States was not taking asylum cases, now that Trump was president.” She also told me that she didn’t believe the agents, because, a couple of days before, a pregnant woman from El Salvador had been let through the checkpoint. “And I don’t really have much of a choice but to wait. There is no way I can go back home, I will get killed. And I am afraid to cross the river (with a smuggler); I hear that they always rape women. So I will trust in God and wait.”

Later that same week I spoke to a couple of fellows from the African nation of Cameroon. They told me that one of the Mexican immigration agents had told them that the “United States was not letting in black people. They are racists.” But the same agent told him that for $100 each they could put on a special “non-racist” list.

The Mexican agents have organized a good business–it is rare to see any more than ten to twelve people waiting in line to get on the bridge, although there are reportedly hundreds of people trying to figure out how to get on the famous list.

Kirstjen Nielsen, the Secretary for Homeland Security, has denied that the refugees were being refused the right at apply for asylum, saying essentially, that the customs and border agents were “busy.”

The refugees busily waited in the open air, on the bridges, throughout the summer and into this fall. There are no restroom facilities and there are no water fountains on these bridges—the bridges are meant for crossing over. They are not waiting rooms.

There are, however, a lot of good people on both sides of the international boundary line.  Since May, and daily, these kind souls have been offering all sorts of help to those standing in the lines of misery that the Americans had created.

There is a ensergio pizzatire Mexican team of volunteers who literally risk their lives, twice daily, to offer help to the people passing through their city (the smuggling cartels consider the asylum seekers as good business and do not appreciate anyone helping them get out of Mexico). There is a young Texan who  cooks meals, twice a day, for the fifteen to twenty people who might be on line. There are a couple of guys from Brownsville who daily cross to Matamoros, dragging a small wagon with supplies—water, snacks, tarps to keep the sun off of the people. There are several women from Brownsville who have become experts at easing the wait. They can tell the refugees which bridge (there are two) has American officers that might make the wait shorter, whether or not the shelter in Matamoros is full or not, or how to get medical care.

One of the women in this last group frequently posts her observations on Facebook, closing, always, with a defiant, “This is America.”

Misery

20180627_114530From a volunteer who gives rides to those immigrant parents whose children had been taken from them by the US government. The women and men are released, after paying a bond, from the Port Isabel Processing Center, which is a 45 minute drive into town.

I don’t really believe in Hell but there should be a special place there for the designers of the policies (and supporters) that tore the young children from the women I met tonight who have been in jail for over a month without hope—yelled at daily by guards to be quiet and to quit sobbing for their children—their children who are being held as far away as Chicago, New York, Arizona and San Antonio. This on top of trauma they have experienced in their own country. This is surely not the first time cruelty has been done in the name of the USA but it surely is a very bad moment in our history. The suffering of these women I can say first hand is so raw and real and beyond anything I have experienced. Even those who have strong asylum claims and a few who have recently been able to post bond and be released still have no timeline for reuniting with their children, some as young as 5.