The fifth day and overall experience

Thursday was the last day of our trip. Overall, it may have left the biggest impact on me. We did a lot of hiking today and we did a water drop. This is when we all carried one or two gallons of water and left them for the migrants to find. For me, this was the point of the trip where it all felt real. We were directly aiding the migrants who would be walking through the desert, incredibly thirsty, and find the water that we left for them.

I learned so much in this week. Going into the trip, I did not know much, if anything, about immigration. I didn't realize just how hard it was to go from one country to another. I now have so much more respect for those people who desire the freedom they shouldn't have to fight for. During our reflection on Thursday night, Ms. Amuzie said, "These people are our modern day superheroes." She makes a good point. They literally risk their lives, and sometimes lose their lives, to give their families a better chance at life. They shouldn't have to struggle to gain something most of us take for granted every day. On the first night we arrived, we were asked why we were here and what we hoped to gain from this experience. I said that I wanted to gain more knowledge of and respect for those who migrate because they are people too and deserve to be treated that way. I definitely feel as though I achieved both of those.

What a week in Arizona! 

Each day, I had the honor of driving the second white van filled with our caravan of students, with Mrs. Chapman as co-pilot, trying to keep pace with our guide, Ms. Kenenna Amuize, a Lasallian Volunteer. How many red lights did we infringe upon to keep up? Sorry, Arizona drivers.

In all seriousness, I did get a little nervous every time we drove up to a check-point. I promised my 86-year old Mexican-American father that I would carry my U.S. passport with me at all times. He was fortunate to have been born in Franklin Park, IL in 1928. But my grandparents, Vicente Martinez and Francisco Rivera, were Mexican citizens, who arrived in Chicago in 1918 to work on the railroads. To this day, I'm not sure whether my grandmother (who died in Chicago in 1983) had a green card, or was an "illegal alien" [I hate that term. No human being is illegal in God's eyes! We are all "aliens" on our earthly journey to the Promised Land, that God has waiting for us at the end of our lives.]

My grandparents and dad were economically repatriated back to Mexico from Chicago when the Depression hit--there were no jobs for Mexicans, let alone Americans; even though my father held U.S. citizenship, he grew up in a Mexican culture in central Mexico (Guanajuato province) and later moved North, where he crossed the border daily at the bridge separating Ciudad Juarez/El Paso, as a migrant worker, picking in the fields. His family was welcomed back to Chicago as the WWII war economy expanded, necessitating additional workers.

How ironic, that I had a van-load of high school kids at the border, who were the same age as my father, when he crossed the border on a daily basis. For security reasons, we could only look through the iron gates from the Nogales, U.S. side. I felt a tinge of sadness when we carried on a conversation through the perforated wall with a little boy and girl getting out of school in Nogales, Mexico. [I was reminded of my one week visit to Berlin while on a Fulbright Scholarship, in April of 1988, crossing the Berlin wall at Checkpoint Charlie.] This too, is a city artificially divided by a random "line in the sand." What was our excuse? Keeping out Mexican Communists?

Back to the driving--a couple times the Border Patrol stopped us at checkpoints, asking if we were all U.S. Citizens. One of our girls had become a U.S. citizen within the past year. Another girl asked Ms. Amuize ahead of time, "Should I bring my Green Card with me?" Ms. Amuize herself, is a Nigerian citizen. The Border Patrol was probably eyeing our white van, wondering if we were smuggling illegal migrants. As the officer looked into our van, he saw numerous dark faces. We had spent the day in the canyons of Arivaca dropping off water, for potential immigrants working their way up, al norte, to a chance at a better life. Were we being watched? Was it simply a chance encounter, when a U.S. Border Patrol helicopter flew over our trail of 10 people? I waved to the chopper yelling "Somos illegales." I don't think he heard me, or my tone of sarcasm and protest. (Our guides were former political activists, John Heid and Stephen, the former guide active in the Plowshares Movement in the 1970's.)

Back to the driving--70 years ago, if stopped, my father would have protested, "I'm a U.S. citizen."

95 years ago, my grandfathers would have said, "we're heading north to build and maintain your railroads,  "pero somos mexicanos." In 2013, I'm stopped and asked about my citizenship, and I whisper to myself, "I'm befuddled by the whole situation in Nogales and Arizona. Why don't we recognize the human dignity of these people; why are people like 14-year old Josseline Quintero, dying in the Arivacan wilderness?" 

Someday, God (joined by St. Peter at the golden fence) will be awaiting our arrival at the border to heaven, we who are pilgrims on our journey toward eternal life. God will not need to rely on infa-red imaging goggles or censors in the sand to tell Him we've crossed the border from this life to eternal life. What will you say to God about your actions in the desert? Did you help Jesus when he was thirsty? when Jesus is disguised as a Latin-American immigrant?

In God's eyes, "Ningun ser humano es ilegal! No human being is illegal!" 

-Live Jesus in our Hearts!

Random Memories

At the memorial for the unknown adolescent, directly after prayer, when the wind came up out of nowhere and blew through our little group. A coincidence? We thought not. We had chills and couldn't speak for a moment.

Mr. Martinez, Ben, and I going through coffee withdrawal.

Nasly scaling the rock wall.

Our first Mass on Sunday evening at the University of Arizona. 

Throwing up at the Nogales Border Patrol station. And at the courthouse. And in the van.

The smell of the courtroom during the Operation Streamline proceeding. 

Welcome signs posted all around by our San Miguel hosts.

Affirming Kenenna Amuzie, a Lasallian Volunteer and our immersion guide, during our prayer and reflection on the last evening. So many tears, so much laughter! A woman who personifies the mission of Saint John Baptise de La Salle.

Fun Impressions

Ballerina Brittany Cavaco doing arabesques throughout the desert. She even blows her nose like a ballerina, delicate and dramatic at the same time :-)

Sassy Cactus Carlene Pare and her deadpan comments. Hilarious! The cactus story will become legend.

Shioban Alicea the sun goddess. Whenever you looked up you would find Shioban with her face turned towards the sun. She brought seven pairs of shoes. We had to help her choose between two different pink sneakers for a walk in the desert.

Adianna, the organizer, San Lucas. She checked every activity off the itinerary! Plus she folds clothes and brushes her teeth with incredible precision. Impressive.

Luke Thompson aka The Crooner. Luke's the man serenading the girls! He is also King of the corny pun.

Nasly. No nickname necessary, just Nasly. She falls over when she laughs, cries at the drop of a hat, and takes all hearts prisoner. She also sings inappropriate songs in the bathroom. Oops! :-)

Safari Ben Smith and chef extraordinaire. A true renaissance man. I loved the hat, love the fact that he breaks out the show tunes and we all start singing, and love that he argued a point made by a judge with his thorough knowledge of a Les Miserables character.

A view through the fence.

Looking through the fence at the Nogales bus station.

This fence is fairly new. No longer are the fences solid. We were told they were designed for animal migration. The irony kills me.

Notes from the border

Crossing the border illegally is a lucrative business, no longer the province of enterprising coyotes preying on desperate people. In Sonora, Mexico, from Altar to Sasabe, the industry of smuggling people across the U.S./ Mexico border is controlled by the drug cartels. The wait is long and the prices vary but it is all carefully controlled by organized crime.

Pharmaceuticals are part of the industry. Particularly antibiotics and birth control pills. Rape is so common that women protect themselves months in advance. Still they cross.

Illegal substances are also a large part of this industrial complex. The border patrol said it seized 1 million pounds of marijuana last year. Much of it comes in on trucks, some comes in carried by migrants. It is difficult to reconcile my experience of carrying an 8 pound jug of water into the desert with someone carrying bundles of marijuana. The bundles weigh 50 pounds each and are carried in burlap slings attached with plastic rope, like a yoke. In addition, the migrant must carry water and any other personal effects. They walk, carrying those bundles, as much as 60 miles. They walk over the harsh desert mountain landscape, in the dark, over ground mined with movement sensors. We were told that if caught by border patrol most drop their bundles and run. However, if they lose their drugs the cartel kills them. Are these migrants truly evil drug traffickers or are the cartels using anyone they can to move illegal drugs? It seems to me that my country has a responsibility for this activity. It is our demand for these substances that the cartel is happy to supply.

Day 5

Yesterday, Thursday April 18th, was the best day. As Ben said later that day during prayer, itwas great actually doing something towards the effort of helping immigrants. We went to the Shrine. We carried a gallon of water, which is approximately 8 pounds, and a can of beans across for about 1 mile (I think it was more). The journey had a lot of hills, rocks, branches, slipping and falling. When someone wa having diffculty, eeryone helped. We traveled like a team in the daylight at a normal pace. It struck me that the immigrants don't have these advantages. If they are walking too slow of fall, no one is going to wait for them to catch up. No one is going to help them climb a rock wall. Throughout an immigrant's traveling, he or she can only depend on themselves; individual success instead of a team. They also don't have the luxury of traveling in the daylight, but instead at night with little or no light. I know I almost walked straight into trees and branches in pure daylight so I can't imagine how scratched up the immigrants would get. Walking to the shrine allowed me to step into an immigrant's shoes. It's one thing to sympathize with immigrants but it is a whole entirely different thing to empathize with them. When I saw the shrine, I saw it as a symbol of hope. if I was an immigrant, I would cry from the overwhelming feelings that accompany the sight of this shrine. An immigrant would see this as a sign that there are people that actually care. People that care for his well-being, enough to leave good and water. It also shows that people have faced the same struggles, hunger, thirst and fear as he or she that is immigrating. At the shrine, God's presence was evident. All the religious objects that immigrants of the past have left behind provide a sense of security and comfort to the immigrants that I arrive there to rest. The shine reminds passing immigrants that they are not alone in the journey, but they have people's spirits, activists and past immigrants alike, and also God always with them during this hard time. The feeling of God's precense at the shrine and making an extremely mini journey ( about 2 miles overall) like an immigrant, I hope will stay with me.

- Adianna