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.

I Threw A Stone Once

I was about 12, and we were waiting for the bus. The neighbor kids thought it would be fun to try to hit a car. For the first time in my life, I picked up a stone, and I threw it at a car. It met its mark. The car abruptly came to a halt. The window opened, and it was none other than Jim Dixon, the superintendent of my school district. He was also my father's employer. My father was a principal of two schools in his district. Jim Dixon was also a childhood friend of my grandfather's. His face was red, and he was mad. He knew who I was. He had seen me throw the stone. 

I do not remember what he said. What I remember about the incident is that my father was pretty upset about it. My parents knew that it was not in my demeanor to throw stones at cars. I told him the truth - that the neighbor kids saw it as a game, and that I had no idea whose car it was when I threw it. The neighbor kids thought it was funny, but none of us threw stones at cars after that. 

Fast forward to being a parent myself. I was taking my children to school one day, and a boy on the next street over threw a stone at, and hit, our car. He did know who we were. He knew that my son, Tim, was in the car, and I knew that he did not like Tim. I also knew the boy's parents. I stopped the car, and spoke with the boy. I told him that his mother would find out, that throwing stones could cause damage that cost a lot of money to fix, and that he should not do this again. He said he wouldn't. 

Art Gish was a peace worker with Christian Peacemaker Teams. He worked for years in Hebron, an Isreali-occupied Palestinian territory. He lived with the Palestinians, and witnessed first-hand what happened to them. He stood in front of loaded guns, as an American, to keep people from being shot. He was killed in a tractor accident on his farm in southeastern Ohio after many years of this dangerous work. In his book about Hebron, Art talked about the Isreali children throwing stones at Palestinians. So Art began taking a football with him when he went for a walk. He threw the football back at the Isreali children. They were unable to resist playing toss with the football. The tensions between the Isreali and Palestinian children were released in this way, in rare, good moments. 

Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez was 16. I do not know for sure whether he did, or did not throw stones from the Mexican side of the fence, at Border Patrol men on the U.S. side of the Mexican-U.S. border in Nogales. Witnesses say he did not, and Border Patrol says he did. They shot him dead. He had too many bullet wounds in him to justify simply disarming him from throwing stones. The building he was in front of is pocked with bullet marks. This week, the U.S. government has stated publicly that they will continue to shoot, and kill, people who throw stones across the border. 

I am appalled at my government. 

Let me say this again. 

I am appalled at my government. 

 

Humanitarian Aid Is Not Illegal

SO, this guy I met on the internet, through my friend Robin. His name is Larry, and after spending the morning with him in Mexico, I am not only still ALIVE; and I not only do not have Montezuma's Revenge, but I think he is a PRETTY COOL DUDE. Cheers to meeting people online!

We like drove right past my first view of a check-point ever, on Route 19, and I opened my mouth to ask, "Hey, is that a check point?" because I'm like, from Ohio, and I've only seen that stuff on the internet. And he doesn't quit talking at my interruption and gives me this look like, "What the heck do you THINK it is?" He probably wasn't even thinking this, but being in the car with two old hands at this trip made me feel a little bit like it was my first day as a Freshman in high school. He was probably too busy in his train of thought to realize it was such a new experience for me. It was kind of like that all the way to Nogales. Alma was in the back seat listening. I may need to correct the spelling on her name.

We stopped before reaching the border at a Dollar Tree to pick up supplies to donate. I was not sure what to buy. I hadn't brought food, and was not sure how long we'd be there By the time I chose food for myself, they were going through the check-out. They had cheap toothbrushes, toothpaste, and Alma threw in some sanitary napkins for the women. I made a personal vow to ship a whole box of sanitary napkins, since I did not buy anything to donate today. I assumed they would be putting whole tubes of toothpaste in personal bags of toiletries. I did not expect to find myself later squeezing toothpaste into individual miniature single-use cups with a bunch of honor students from a Flagstaff university. 

As we drove past the bus station, Larry pointed out the bus, and the immigrants who had just been deported and dropped off fresh this morning. This is apparently a daily occurrence. He pointed out their clear plastic bags with their belongings inside, and stated that everyone in town would know from their bags that they were newly deported. They would likely be harassed by some people; and would be approached by "employees" of coyotes. Some of them looked a little bewildered; others looked frustrated; but they all looked tired, hungry, and at various stages of despondence. They stood out like a Freshman on a college campus, even to me, and it was my first time, ever in Mexico.

On the way to the Kino Border Initiative kitchen, known as El Comedor, we made another stop inside Mexico, at the border patrol shooting site of Jose Antonio Elena Rodriguez. He was 16, and in Mexico, walking down the street when our U.S. border patrol shot him through the fence, stating he was throwing rocks at them. Today I saw the spot with my own eyes. I stood in front of the bullet holes and faced the direction they came from. The gouges were clear. I took a picture of Larry and Alma standing in the same place. Larry was right. There was no way stones were any threat to the men on our side of the fence; and unlikely they could have reached a mark, even if they'd been thrown by the best football player. Witnesses state no stones were thrown though. This kid was murdered, plain and simple.

The direction they are facing.

The closest possible point a stone could hit from the spot, and not the direction most of the bullet holes were clearly made from. The problem for our border patrol is, everyone in Nogales can come look at this site, and they do. Our border patrol allegedly has a video of the incident, but will not release it.

A word now, about Alma. She brought cloth backpacks that she had made. They were pretty fabric, and had soft rope for the shoulder straps. There were Madonnas stitched onto the outside of each pack. She put toiletries wrapped in a cheap washcloth and towel, and a lightweight, fuzzy blanket rolled up, in each one. This was her solution for the plastic bags from our jail system for the immigrants' belongings. I think I will suggest it for a Grange sewing project.  The nuns love them because it is such a small way to give newly deported immigrants a little dignity.

We went on to El Comedor ("the cafeteria"). We would not need to serve, because there were college students there today. For lack of something to do, I sat down with these young women, and began filling small cups with toothpaste. They told me their college majors. The one sitting next to me was in nursing, then economics, journalism, math, and Spanish. They said the course description for this class had not included a trip to Mexico. Several of them told about how they had discovered this after the course had started. They were laughing at each others' stories. Two of them had to obtain passports for the class. All of them were glad they came, and wanted to come back and do more. A couple of them had heard of Dayton, Ohio's initiative to become an immigrant-friendly city. We talked about the contrast. After working with these people, I can tell you the immigrants are not anything resembling the drug addicts I have cared for in Washington, PA, Wheeling, WV, Bridgeport, OH, or Columbus, OH. These are the kinds of people I'd like to be a nurse for. I don't know what planet our national news came from, and neither did these gals.

An elderly man was sitting on the steps outside El Comedor with one bruised foot out of his leather boot, and the right foot still shod. Christa, an EMT who volunteers now and then, and came along with the students this time, was looking at it. I had been summoned to confer, since I was a nurse. I stated that I was not licensed to work as a nurse in Mexico, and was told I would not have to; that there was nothing a licensed medical person was required to do that we would be doing. I held this man's left foot in my hands and inspected it. His shins were scratched like mine were after walking through a mile of brambles back in Ohio, but he also had large red welts all over his ankles and shins, where I was told he had hit rocks while walking. The sole of his foot was a dull, ruddy red, and there was a large blue blister on his inner big toe. I knew the ruddy color would deepen into a dark bruise. It hurt him to walk. The younger men stood around us watching. I held his other boot as he pulled his foot out of it, and I removed his sock for him. He said, "gracias," and I could tell he meant it. I said, "de nada." We resolved that the best treatment was to simply stay off of his feet. Christa rubbed lotion on both feet gently.

Meanwhile he ate some refried beans. He was afraid to try the ham and cheese sandwich he was given and gave it to a young man eying it. The immigrants had not been fed while being detained, and he had not had food in the desert either, for at least three days, and maybe five. He said that eating made him feel like his throat was closing up. Although the picture below is empty of people, in the morning, it was a busy place. The  man was sitting on the steps just beyond the tree. This tent-like structure was built into the edge of a cut-out hillside. Just inside the canvases are metal tables, a small kitchen, a water tank with potable water, and bathrooms with flushing toilets.

Another man had a clearly sprained ankle. It was swollen and discolored on all sides. Christa took a break from wrapping it to get tape out of her bag to secure the wrap, and he was up, limping on it, walking, because someone had offered him a cell phone to use. She waited, then rewrapped it. Communicating was far more important than a swollen ankle. 

The crowd dispersed slowly, and the people cleaned up the kitchen for the morning.

We went to Grupos Beda, the Mexican Border Patrol, next. Unlike the U.S. border patrol, Mexico helps migrants rather than detaining them. They rescue people. They provide a place to stay for three nights; water, and showers. We handed out gum and cookies. I got the cookies, and learned, and used the word, "galleta," today. The men were brushing their teeth with the cups we had made earlier, and their new toothbrushes, near a spigot. Their expressions were no longer despondent. In fact, the men brushing their teeth were filling their mouths with foam and smiling at each other. The man whose feet were bruised was lying in the shade, on the concrete. Men walked around with rolls of blankets tied with shoestrings, and shoestrings hung over their shoulders. After dispersing the goodies, we moved on. 

Larry then took us to visit the cemetery. All Souls Day celebration decorations were still up, so Nogales was colorful. We saw Jose's grave, and Larry sang a lovely song there. 

The grave faces downhill; looking towards Nogales

I enjoyed looking at the different graves, with gifts to the dead of their favorite things. This one had a beer, a bottle of perfume, and a Coca Cola.

The cemetery was our last stop.

We came back through the border crossing into the United States without a hitch. Larry and Alma were concerned that she would be questioned, but she was not, either at the border or at the check point we had passed on the way down. In the car on the way back, they both told me stories of immigrants they had helped, and what had become of some of them. I had met some of them in person. The individual stories are numerous - uncountable. They are heart-wrenching. The man whose feet we had cared for was from close to the Guatemala border. Volunteers for No More Deaths go out looking for people who are reported by immigrants coming into these places as being left out in the desert, and they more often than not find them dead, if they find them at all. The Sonoran desert is vast. It is likely that most of the people who have died were never found. 154 documented deaths in fiscal year 2012-2013 is an arbitrary number. Those are the deaths where we can hold a bone up and say, "I found someone!" What if for every one of those, there were two we did not find? Each day of this trip, that number comes to mean less and less to me. How our policies and our actions affect good, hard-working human beings, is what counts.

I keep hearing the words throughout my life, "Humanitarian aid is not illegal." Larry said it again today, like a loud echo from Viet Nam, Serbia, Somolia, Palestine, and now the American desert. No matter what anyone thinks should or should not be done to solve the immigration issue, causing people to die, by whatever means, is wrong. Always. 

And humanitarian aid is not illegal. No human being is illegal. 

A Pilgrimage for Desconocido/a's and the Named.

At Pima Friends Meeting, last 1st Day, meeting-for-worship began as it often does, with a long period of silence. Then someone, an elderly man who looked in decent shape for his age, as many elderly Quaker men tend to, stood and spoke. He said three quotes came to him, but in the days following, I could only remember two. They brought tears to my eyes. 

Bible, Matthew 25:40: 

And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

From "The Walrus" by John Lennon and Paul McCartney:

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. 

Crosses representing those who have been found dead in the desert prior to fiscal year 2012-2013

I wish I could have photographed the entire scene, crosses from the past enclosed in a circle of stones, with the new crosses for this past fiscal year laying outside the stones. There were people of several races, from several countries, standing all around, almost crowded, to fit everyone into the circle encompassing them. I wish I could have included the White Dove of the Desert church behind us, beautiful against the backdrop of Sonoran mountains, visible from miles away. I wish I could have somehow captured in this picture how I felt, standing there after walking for 8 miles in direct sunlight, nauseated; red-skinned, not from burns but from the heat my body was trying to rid itself of; blurry vision and light-headed; thighs burning in an odd way I had never felt with heat, head beginning to throb; feeling I might pass out at any moment but telling those around me I was "fine," wishing it could be over so I could go someplace cool, and yet wanting to experience every moment at the same time. I knew in a way I had never known before, that my 5 hours was nothing in comparison to the days in the desert most of the people that these crosses represented, had suffered. Some of them were shot, but many of them had died of exposure. I cried, quietly. I noticed many of the other walkers also cried. They were overheated and tired too.

This second picture was taken the day after the walk. I went back, because I had not gotten to see much of this historical Spanish mission church. 

The reason was, right after the post-walk service had ended, Joel's girlfriend had taken us back to St. Johns Church where our walk had begun, in his big, wonderfully air-conditioned, white Humane Borders extendicab pick-up. I had been glad for that, as you will see.

After the walk, I squeezed into the back seat of the truck next to a nun named Judy, and on the other side of her was another friend of Joel's. Since Judy was Catholic, I told her about the Rosary I was carrying for my friend, Robin. I told her that I had felt moved by several places, but had not really felt compelled to leave the Rosary in any particular place. At that point she offered to take it to her mission in Douglas, or maybe even to Nogales, to give it to someone who would cherish it. I showed it to her then. She remarked how beautiful it was, and ran her fingers along the red beads, inspecting it with care. I told her about Amy, the person who had made it for me. Then a specific person came to her who might like to have it. It was a man who was widowed from an American citizen. In his arrest and deportation fiasco, all of his papers had been taken and then lost by our judicial and penal systems. The mission was attempting to help him obtain them or have new copies sent; and meanwhile he had no place to go, was suffering from grief, and was parted from his step-family which he had grown very close to. He, like thousands of others, was waiting, waiting, in Nogales. Judy asked me what I should tell him about Robin, so I told about her job, her volunteer work, her concern for immigrants, and about how we had been roommates at a Quaker boarding school our sophomore year in high school. 

That afternoon, I drove back to the hotel, still feeling very light-headed. When I showered, I found that the skin on my inner thighs had mottled to my knees. This lasted several hours after the shower. I felt chilled at times even though the room was warm, and my skin remained red, but was not sensitive to touch like a sunburn would be. The nausea intensified, and my head began to throb uncontrollably. I looked up heat exposure on the internet, and wondered if I should go to the ER, but I concluded that since I had removed myself from the heat, and since I was well-hydrated, that there was little more to do than to cool down and rest. My oldest son, Lee, had come with me from Phoenix. He had stayed in the hotel, partly because he had not walked 8 miles in a long time; but mainly because he is an atheist, and he had felt he would be uncomfortable at a deeply religious service. At that point I was glad he had stayed behind so that he would not be suffering like I was. Lee is a computer programmer and a project leader at his company, so always has a lot of work he can do even on his days off. He had been happy to stay in the cool hotel for a few hours while I had been gone. I was glad he was there when I was feeling so poorly. He went for a walk and bought me some ibuprofen, and gave me the rest of his gatorade. I was surprised to find that the gatorade tasted good, and helped as much as the ibuprofen; and that I was sick of water. After laying in bed in misery for several hours, holding my head between both hands, I finally fell asleep. 

I had wanted to go to the Dia de Los Muertos, (Day of the Dead, or All Souls Day) celebrations in downtown Tucson that evening. Part of my misery was in knowing that I was missing the "fun" part of being in town that weekend. But I felt a deep sense of gladness for doing what I had come to do. When I woke up around 3 a.m., my headache was nearly gone. A slight throb behind my left eye, and changes in my focus came and went mildly over the next few days, but eventually subsided.  I fell back to sleep around 5, but woke up in time to go to Pima Friends Meeting that morning. 

Lee and I had time to have breakfast at the hotel before Friends meeting-for-worship. In fact, we were so early, that I drove him back down to see the San Xavier church, and tried to follow the path we had walked, but already, I had forgotten which way parts of that went. This was when I took the above picture. I wanted to see the inside however, and we did not have enough time before meeting.  Lee agreed that it would be nice to come back after meeting, and see it again before heading back to Phoenix.  

So much was said during meeting, that spoke to why I was there. A hummingbird visited the flowers outside of the window during the silence, and I remembered Rick, who has been renting me a room back in Columbus, telling me a story about a hummingbird visiting him after someone had died, and again, I cried. A professor spoke about the loss of a teacher who had become a colleague; and a mother spoke about the struggle with her daughter's path in the healthcare system.


 


 I am supposed to go back and stay in their guest house this week. I had the blessing of meeting the clerk of the meeting afterwards. We have been corresponding. She told me about the wonderful library they had. I am looking forward to having quiet time there. 

  




After meeting, Lee had a hankering for Starbucks, and we were close to the University of Arizona campus. So while I took a picture of Pima Friends Meetinghouse, he looked up Starbucks on his phone.

 He sipped on his iced green tea, and I sipped on my mocha frappuccino, as we drove back down to San Xavier. The church was having services all day, so we could not go into to see the wall frescoes. The museum was open though. They were selling candles to be lit. I asked what the different ones meant, and I bought one for "Intentions," for $3. I lit it, and said a Hail Mary again for Robin. I asked that the border wall be torn down, and that all people be seen as people; as human beings.

The circle of stones in front of the church was bare on this day, and would be for another year. There were dog foot print impressions dried into the concrete sidewalk. This is the first time in 49 years that I have participated in an event on Native American grounds. During the event, a dog wandered into the circle full of crosses representing people who were found dead in past years. It was shooed back out. Friendly dogs run loose on this reservation. There were many caged and loose dogs that barked at us during the walk. Most of them were pit bulls, rottweilers or Australian cattle dogs, or resembled one of those breeds. 

We left this place for Phoenix. We drove up Route 10, which was where Rafael Cornelio Alvarado was found, with a gunshot wound to his head, by a construction crew. I carried his cross, and another, desconocido/a (gender unknown). We passed cotton fields that looked ready for harvest. Lee and I talked about relationships, and about atheism and Christianity. He questioned whether this Spanish Catholic mission had done the Native Americans good or harm throughout history. He called the stories in their museum, "propaganda." We debated whether the mission continued to do the Native Americans good or harm.  

The past few days, I have been trying to form what to write in my post about this walk. Back in  Phoenix, my second son, Tim, grilled me about my belief in God, and I finally asked him to stop. In this conversation, we have come to some agreement that compassion and humanitarian missions have no religious boundaries, but are important to all of us. I believe that San Xavier mission is doing good, currently, for the Native Americans, and is a place where we can all lay to rest the people who have suffered. I hope to come back here.

Another big part of this trip that I have been thinking about, was the beginning. Robin, Joel and Larry invited me to take part in these events. I questioned whether I should. I had just resigned from my nursing job. I was looking at travel nursing, and was at a crossroads, wondering what the past 16 years of being a nurse meant to me, and wondering what direction I should go next. Altruism, social justice, and service have taken on new meanings to me, as I increasingly care for drug addicts and listen to strong opinions from people who have little connection or understanding about human beings their opinions affect. People are losing their lives. I had gone in some desperation from life events to my friend, Anna, for a Zero Balancing treatment. She had talked to me during the treatment, and it was she who suggested a clearness committee. I am here. I am seeking, watching, listening, to the people who have immersed themselves in this "cause." 

It is the greatest cause in our country of my lifetime, because it involves a subclass of human beings who are invisible to most of the people in my country, except for their negative attributes. It is here, now. 

At the beginning of the walk.

I just met Joel in person.

 

Mexico in front, then U.S., then Guatemala.

Tying flowers to my crosses. Getting to know them.

Rafael Cornelio Avarado, Desconocido/a ("Unknown" and unable to discern if male or female)