Humane Borders and the Buenos Aires Wildlife Refuge

They will neither hunger nor thirst nor will the desert heat or the sun beat upon them. He who has compassion on them will guide them and lead them beside springs of water"  - Isaiah 49:10

 This has been the most difficult post to write of all.

Airplanes give an alternative perspective to humanity. Lifting into the sky from Phoenix around 2pm, I saw the bank building in Mesa, near my son's apartment become smaller. Then we flew over Usery Mountain where I had taken a walk, and I sobbed quietly. The time with my sons was over. I had not seen them for nearly a year, and I had no idea when I would see them again. Yes, they had once been small, cute toddlers who giggled uncontrollably. Now they were men. Looking south, I thought of all of the families who had been separated by the border, by desperation and death, and I felt the pain they had experienced, gutturally. I stifled my sobs as best I could, but knew the young Asian-American man sitting next to me could tell I was crying. I could not pry my eyes from the window.

There was a stopover in Chicago. It was dark by the time we reached there. The heat of the desert; the saguaro's and palm trees turned into millions of lights dusted with early November snow, nearing the plane from the dark night as we landed. Millions of people, sectioned out in square blocks, for miles; each home snug in the snow with light shining out. Thanksgiving would be here soon. They were watching TV, having dinner, playing computer games, discussing work or the evening news. The plane took off again after a half an hour, and the lights drifted into the darkness. There was some turbulence in the next 45-minute flight as there has always been for me arriving back into Ohio, and then the same scene rose from the ground of Columbus, Ohio. I felt sad. The reality of my life and oncoming routine made it all seem like a crazy dream.

So many people. None of them really cared. None of them understood. How were those who died in the desert different from the people who died in nursing homes, or in foreign wars? What makes them special? 

I realized during this flight, that I did not take many pictures that I had wanted to take. The visual images that stuck with me most would have to be absent from my writing. I was asked not to take pictures of the immigrants. It would be disrespectful to take pictures of the Tohono O'odham people decorating graves. I did not have time to take a picture of the bus station in Nogales, where the deported stood with plastic bags full of belongings. I was asked to not take pictures of the massive border patrol stations. I see those pictures online in rare instances where some reporter has obtained permission. It is those visual images that people need to see. Those images are what make these people different. Those images are what pry us - millions upon millions of us - from our comfort zone and make us realize what we are doing to an entire sector of humanity. Us. Here in this country.

And so, I will begin with the early morning day, filling water tanks on the Buenos Aires Wildlife Refuge that sits between Tucson, Arizona, and Sasabe, Mexico. Joel said to be there at 6 a.m. sharp. I took a picture a few nights before, in the evening sun, as I drove by both meet-up places to be sure where I was going.

Outside of Humane Borders lot in southeast Tucson, a few evenings before the trip.

They checked the truck over thoroughly, including the GPS emergency signal. Previous drivers, even experienced ones, have gotten lost in the Sonoran desert. Indeed there are many forks in the dirt lanes to where the water drums are placed. Several of these trucks sat in the small lot Humane Borders keeps in southwest Tucson. I was told the newest of the trucks was a 2009. They were bought with donations. As I was to witness personally, they take a good beating daily. Joel said that each one costs around $40,000. One truck had a lot of dents in it.

Joel was there, but his girlfriend, Barbara had changed her plane flight back home to the mid-west to accommodate staying a few more days. He would be leaving to take her to the airport. He was just there to help get us on the road. I would be going out with a woman named Betzy who RV's around the U.S. and volunteers for organizations; and with Gene, an elderly gentleman who was hard of hearing, and had forgotten his hearing aids. Betzy drove, and Gene opened and closed gates. 

It is around 70 miles from Tucson to Sasabe, Mexico. We checked 7 water stations, all positioned off the main road. By the second station, I was helping open and close gates too.  Betzy had a bag of pistachios and was pitching the shells out of the truck while she waited at each stop. Gene had a device to check the water level of the drums. The blue drums were donated syrup drums from a soft drink company. Numerous organizations participate in Humane Borders and contribute to maintaining these water stations. Most, if not all of the drivers are volunteers. 

The furthest north station has an emergency beacon tower for those who need help.

Gene and Betzy check the first tank.

There are trash cans at each station, and Humane Borders empties these.

One of the questions my clearness committee asked me was whether the water stations made a good target for Border Patrol to catch people. When I posed this question, I was told that Border Patrol is not supposed to monitor the stations, and that Humane Borders is supposed to report when they find such activities happening. The rationale is that Border Patrol wants to find people alive also. The last station close to Sasabe, Mexico, was where Humane Borders volunteers once arrived to find a Border Patrol truck parked, and it was reported. Also, the week prior to my visit, I was told that they found the trash can at this station full, with backpacks and cut handcuffs. I was naive about what this meant, and asked if it meant that someone had escaped. I was told, no, that it meant that several migrants had been caught, handcuffed; and that one handcuff was cut and thrown away. Also, their belongings had been thrown away. I have been told that Border Patrol often confiscates and disposes of belongings, and in particular, shoes. When migrants are processed through our federal system, any papers they have on them are frequently "lost." Many American citizens have been mistakenly held, and even deported as well. 

The Buenos Aires Wildlife Refuge has a power line running through it that can be seen from far away. It runs almost to Tucson, so it is used by migrants for direction. Because of this, drones fly this area looking for people, and it is heavily policed. 

The tanks were all full on the day I went. This is an unusual occurrence. We passed a couple of hunting camps. Deer season had opened, and people can obtain permits on the camping grounds here. Betzy was sure the water stations near the camps would be empty, but we were surprised that they were still full. Gene mused that maybe more hunters would keep immigrants from crossing. He also stated that maybe if we had more drones monitoring, that less immigrants would cross. I was not sure if he was being serious, or joking. I'm not sure if Betzy was taking him seriously either, but she did tell him that we needed to solve the problem making them cross to begin with, rather than building a fence and policing the border with billions of dollars. 

The highway all the way to Sasabe was freshly paved. It ran into another massive border patrol station, and a tall metal fence winding over hills into the sunset. This station was not as big as the one in Nogales. I put my camera away in its case in the backpack before we got to the station, but I wanted to take oh, so many pictures. Miles and miles of nothingness, and then this huge military complex, out of nowhere. We all handed our passports to the agent at the window, and Betzy answered his questions about what our business was.

We passed through the station, and then onto.....immediate rocky, DIRT ROAD. What an amazing contrast. I mean, you KNOW when you are in Mexico at the Sasabe crossing. You race down the paved highway for 70 miles, and suddenly, like out on those desert lanes, a 4-wheel-drive pick-up has to go slow, and we were on the main road!

The first thing I noticed in Sasabe was this: 

It is a huge cattle yard. You can see the roof of part of the U.S. border patrol station to the right, barely. My husband is a bit of a cowboy. His brother has a farm in Colorado, and his niece is a brand inspector at a huge cattle yard. Gene was quiet most of the trip, but he walked up to me now and then and told me some significant little clips and stories. He saw me staring - gawking really - at this empty cattle yard, so he told me that there was once one just as big on the U.S. side. It has fallen into disrepair, because after NAFTA, the U.S.-Mexico cattle trade crashed. Mexico maintains and uses its cattle yards along the border though. They just don't export much any more. I will have to read a little more on that one. 

The next thing I noticed was the Mexican Border Patrol Station. Like the one the previous day in Nogales, everyone there was FRIENDLY. What a huge contrast to the U.S. Border Patrol stations!

Grupo Beta, aka Mexican Border Patrol

Humane Borders gives its remaining water to Grupo Beta. The tap water in Mexico tends to be brown, and is often unsafe. There is a generator on the back of the pick-up to pump the water. Grupo Beta fills water stations in the desert on the Mexican side of the border, and rescues people in the desert there. They do not police the borders as much as they rescue people. I have to say that as we drove back into Tucson after this trip, and looked at huge American homes surrounded with palm trees, I thought of this humble little building, and wondered where peoples' priorities really were. 

There were two dogs at this station, Vaquero (Spanish for cowboy), and Christina. Christina was pregnant with her second litter of pups. I was told that when they repainted the building orange, that Vaquero got to be orange for a day. He was extremely vigilant in scouting visitors. A mare and her foal tried to come over to say hello to me, and she and Vaquero had a conversation. Several people at the station attempted to speak to me and introduce themselves. I realized after leaving that I got to know the dogs better than the people. 

The generator and hose.

Immigrant waiting area. I hope they remember not to put their feet back under them.

Vaquero

Christina likes my peanut butter Ritz Bits, and would like some more, please.

Gene brings a bag of goodies when he makes water runs.

On the way back to Tucson, Betzy and Gene told me a few stories. They told me about Baboquivari Peak, the holiest place to the Tohono O'odham Indians. I saw it from both the north and the south.

They told me, and Joel told me stories about people found in the desert, trying to cross. When someone is left behind and dies, after 2 or 3 days, the animals have gotten to them. After a week or two, the bones disintegrate into the desert, and it is unlikely they would ever be found. Many people are "missing." Some may have made it to the U.S., but several volunteers have said they believe that for the number of people who have been found dead, at least as many will never be found. It is impossible to know how many people have actually died trying to cross. 

I saw a lot of large prints surrounding the water stations. I grew up on a farm, and have found remains of my animals after coyotes have gotten to them. The crosses bearing the names, "Desconocido," "Desconocida" or "Desconocido/a" were in the forefront of my consciousness.

The organization, No More Deaths, goes out looking for people who are reported as being missing. They leave gallon jugs of water in the desert also. The organization, Samaritans, provides medical care, according to a member I met. These organizations are more likely to do something about those left in the desert than our governmental agencies, who are focused on indifferent, and consequently fatal results of rounding up and shipping out. The disregard for taking in stories of those they round up results in more deaths than are necessary.

Another troubling factor of immigrant crossings that people relayed to me this week regarded the "Mexican Mafia," who police the Sonoran desert, and make people pay their dues before crossing; and "Coyotes," or illegal guides who help people cross for a fee. I was told that both country's border patrols have found people in the desert without shoes, and sometimes without clothes, who state that the Mexican mafia took their money, and then took their shoes. And sometimes their clothes also. This made me shiver. A five-hour walk caused heat exhaustion for me just the previous Saturday, and the desert is so cold at night, that many people die of hypothermia. Three days in these conditions, even with shoes and clothes, is unimaginable. I have read enough immigrant accounts of Coyotes now to have a less critical view of them than previously.

These organizations have increased the dogged documentation of stories in lieu of our government's disregard for them. The U.S. Border Patrol is guilty of prevalent corruption, to the degree that they make Coyotes look like saints. 

What is this all about, anyway? As I landed for the stopover in Chicago, seeing the snow, and feeling the people around me exhibit a festive spirit, anticipating Thanksgiving, I felt inconsolably sad. My eyes welled up with tears. I can hardly stand to listen to people talk about their cruises and vacations. I wonder what the people in this nation have become. I wonder how the idea they have of "freedom" became so warped. I wonder how they can be so "happy," when between 300-400,000 Latino people sit in our federal prison system, most of them just for crossing the border. I wonder how people come to the conclusion that such imprisonment is justifiable! People - white people - who have lived in Phoenix for a year - think that they are entitled to live there, while people whose ancestors lived in the area since the 1100's should be sequestered south of a multi-billion dollar fence, and they cite our nation's laws of ownership as justification for this, while in the same hour complain about the drain these people are on our welfare system. I wonder how perceptions of so many millions of people can possibly be changed. There has to be a way.