Que Dios les bendiga. Bienvenidos a Mexico.

Nogales, Mexico. La Casa de Misericordia (House of Mercy), BorderLinks’ Mexico office. I am sitting in the sun listening to the squeak of playground swings and children’s voices and barking dogs. There are many mountains here, and houses – some of which have the border wall as their only view. The sun is warm and the air is cold. From this place I write to you.

Before arriving in Mexico, we spent two nights at the BorderLinks (http://www.borderlinks.org/) office in Tucson, AZ. When we first arrived, they fed us, of course – homemade veggie pizza and salad. On our last day in Tucson, we would discover the beauty and philosophy of BorderLinks Sustainable Food Program, which made nearly every edible experience as organic, local, fair trade, homemade, and meat-free as possible. And yes, it all relates to immigration. From Mexican corn farmers to Coca-Cola, we are what we eat after all. And we depend on roots. It is good to know "from whence we came and with whom we cast our lots". One of our first activities with BorderLinks was an Immigration Timeline (Howard Zinn style). The timeline posted by BorderLinks began in 1492, and included as much information about slavery and the civil rights movement as it did immigration from Mexico, Europe, and Asia – among other regions and countries. There was also mention of the forced migration of indigenous peoples in the US, and the trials of anarchists, socialists, and communists in the US in the early 1900s. And to all of these, we added our own stories - the where, when, how, and why of our own family histories. At first I was surprised to see such a range of information, straining a bit to see the connections. But then I thought, it’s all about who has been kept out and who has been let in – where the lines are drawn, and what purposes these lines serve. The inscription on the Statue of Liberty reads: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door." Currently, 2.3 million people occupy our prisons and jails, hundreds of thousands reside in immigrant detention facilities throughout the country, approximately 5,000 migrants have died in the desert trying to reach the US from Mexico since 1994, and 600 miles of a wall whose pricetag reads $2 million per mile and whose own invisible inscription reads remarkably clearer barricades the United States' closest southern neighbor. The tempest continues to toss, and we leave the refuse washed up on the shore. Though I suppose there are some that have been welcomed, there are many things I have trouble seeing now.

Earlier that day, we saw a sculpture entitled "Border Dynamics" at the University of Arizona. Made of some kind of greenish metal or steel, it depicted four people pressing against a piece of the border wall, two on each side. The only recognizably human aspect of the figures was their muscles – which stood out from the drab greenish-gray metal as tangible red and white and orange and yellow. But there was no way of knowing whether the figures were pushing the wall down or building it up, nor which side of the wall they were on. So where do we stand? What does our strength create and what does it destroy? Where is our place in the history of immigration? Where have we come from, and what, really, is ours? Day One.

The next morning, after some homemade yogurt and fair trade coffee, we all participated in a Free Trade skit. I, of course, was the President of the United States – complete with tie, oversized suit jacket, Dr. Suess patriot hat, American flag, and a symbolic laminated US dollar. Other players included CEOs of various corporations in the both the US and the imaginary Paniagua, a hormone meat-packing plant owner, factory worker, and farmer on the US side, and a farmworker and maquiladora employee on the Paniaguan side. You could probably guess how it all played out – lies and money were exchanged among government officials and corporate CEOs as the rich got richer and the poor poorer on both sides of what essentially was a game. Though perhaps simplified, my photographic memory holds more images now, and the images are disturbing to say the least. And as I expected, the farm and factory workers on the Paniaguan side eventually went north.

Later in the afternoon, we visited the Tucson courthouse to witness “Operation Streamline.” I had never been in a courtroom, much less seen dozens of migrants chained together and handcuffed facing deportation or jailtime. All of the defendants were prosecuted en masse in groups of 10 or so, standing before the judge together, responding to his questions together, sentenced as one ambiguous mass. Sounds of clanking chains filled the room as we gazed upon well-dressed lawyers and public defenders amid humbly-clothed migrants whose individual stories simply had to go unknown. And the whole thing was so damn routine. The judge read his script while some of the lawyers checked their phones or did crossword puzzles and the migrants simply waited for translations and the sound of their mispronounced names to come forward or say “presente.” All of this is, of course, a crude violation of the law and the US constitution. In fact, when we spoke with public defender Yendi Castillo, she shared with us the decision that was actually made public the day we visited the courthouse regarding one public defender’s challenging of Operation Streamline. He objected three times in one day to the courthouse procedure, and Wednesday, two years later, the decision he received basically stated that, yes, it is a violation of due process to take guilty please en masse, but there is essentially no harm in doing so because they all would have pleaded guilty anyway, right? When she read this part of the decision to us, Yendi simply began to cry. Up until this point, it all sounded like a lot of legalese to many of us trying to wrap our heads around the implications of everything. But her sudden tears were a heart-wrenching wake-up call. She humanized all of it in a single moment of despair. She also spoke to us of the heightened salaries of private court-contracted defenders, and the conditions within temporary detention facilities (where many of the migrants have most recently been before entering the courthouse, where there are no beds or adequate sleeping facilities, where they are fed fast-food burgers, and where too many occupy a space for less). She spoke of the for-profit prison business of the Corrections Corporation of America (who receive approximately $13 million per month for border-related crimes; and in a part of the country where there is zero industry and limited employment opportunities, these facilities are more than welcome). She mentioned Boeing and the astounding level of military technology along the border (which includes drones), and various concerns about the environment. She told us that her job is something spiritual for her, and that, really, the border in the US is everywhere and affects us all. Her only solution, “as radical as it sounds,” was an open border. She said people would go home. Day Two.

On Thursday, we drove to Palominas, AZ to visit with rancher Bill Odle – who was quite the character. I trusted Bill. I suppose it was his simplicity, his way of being genuine and direct and hard. He could not be boxed in or labeled, and he was full of surprises, unique observations, and amusing phrases. According to Bill, people think there are only two kinds of people: “the bleeding hearts who think we're all brothers and sisters under the skin, and those who just want to shoot everybody.” It’s just not that way though, he said. Bill, for example, is literally on the fence. He reminded us that the media exaggerates a lot of the violence along the border, and that most of those crossing through the desert are regular people looking for work. He himself was a proponent of a renewed Bracero Program, which was a temporary worker program for Mexicans during WWII. Yendi, however, believes that such a program legally perpetuates an exploited and disposable class of people, hired to do the dirty work and fired when the job is done. I haven't really come to any conclusions myself, although I'm definitely closer to the "we're all brothers and sisters" type, and I try to think from that perspective. And at the very least, I know that a wall is not the answer - just as it was not the answer for China or Germany, and just as it is not the answer for Gaza and the West Bank. Pointing to the wall, Bill spoke of “that ugly hunk-of-junk your government put up,” which he argued was an utter waste, not at all a barrier to migrants, and – more importantly for Bill – a severe hazard to the environment and native wildlife. When it came to rattlesnakes, Bill said, "I don't like em, but I respect em because they were here first." Yet he doesn't seem to see Mexico - whose territory once included the present-day states of California, Nevadah, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, and part of Colorado - in the same way. Yet Bill believed that taking care of one's friends and neighbors was the most important thing, and told us that his closest neighbor lives in Mexico. He has given water to some of the migrants, but staunchly follows the law, and to his disgust, maintains frequent communication with Border Patrol. Indeed, Bill's last bit of advice rang red, white, and true blue: "Be a patriot. Always love your country and never trust your governement." Bill was a "water's for fightin, whiskey's for drinkin" kind of guy. Hard to describe.

Later that day, we crossed into Mexico. I was surprised by how easy it was. Border Patrol did not ask for a single passport, but simply opened the doors to the van and told us to have a good time in Mexico. And actually, we did – at least later that evening, and despite all of the despairing reality thus far. We first drove to Agua Prieta to visit Just Coffee, a fair trade cooperative based in the state of Chiapas and made of forty families and coffee farmers who finally found a way out of the terrors of NAFTA and falling coffee prices. We listened to their story, watched the delicious golds and browns turning about in the roasting machine, and purchased some coffee.

We stayed the night at CAME (Center of Assistance to Migrants in Exodus), a Catholic ministry in Agua Prieta that provides shelter and meals to migrants both returning from the border and getting ready to cross. I met three men there: Augustín, Sergio, and Cesar. Augustín and Sergio had been picked up by Border Patrol, and Cesar had been deported after living in the US for years, but was waiting for his knee to heal while getting ready to cross again and rejoin his family. I will especially be thinking of Cesar in the coming weeks, wondering whether he is lost in the desert or reunited with his family, searching for work or once again sharing his story at CAME...They mostly spoke of their families, the intense pain of leaving them, and the strong desire to return to them. Augustín spoke the most, sharing with us how emotional it was to say goodbye to his son and how he did not attempt to cross again. He and Sergio displayed an amazing friendship, accompanying each other always. They were curious about the US, and we talked about work and the economy and racism, concluding only that good and bad, poor and rich, exist everywhere. These are difficult matters, and we learned from one another over chicken and beans and tortillas and tears. And then we thanked each other and said good luck and God bless.

But of course none of this was really the fun part. The fun part came later that evening when we met the young people from the community who volunteer at CAME through their church youth group. We sang and danced and played soccer and games as we happily transcended our borders, visible to one another in the dark and grateful for the good things. After saying goodbye to them as well, we spent the night at CAME on the floor of a newer facility that will soon be open to women. I hardly slept at all, feeling colder than I’ve felt in a long time. I thought of Michael and I thought of the desert – the warmth of companionship and a single migrant far from his family and shivering in the desert cold.

The next morning, we toured the Douglas, AZ Border Patrol office with agent Sean Murphy. And though we each agreed to acknowledge the humanity and individuality of Sean, it was difficult to be objective and gentle to a man who considers “chasing aliens” to be “fun”. He said this more than once, and also believed the hardest part of his job to be “haulin' dope.” At least that’s the answer he gave us. He used words like subjects, aliens, bodies, and exotics to refer to living and breathing human migrants, and referred to the wall as a “fence.” He showed us pictures of the Douglas Station Family Day, and the outdoor area where they apparently hold cookouts during “processing” (when the migrants are brought to the station, fingerprinted, etc.). He showed us the “heart” of Border Patrol, where we saw various men dressed in military garb monitoring a number of computer screens attached to various cameras placed throughout the desert. And he also showed us the “head” of Border Patrol, where the migrants are “processed". They call it the “fishbowl”, because it’s sort of a giant bay window out of which BP agents watch the migrants eat, sleep, and wait. The migrants could see us, too. When we walked in, our BorderLinks leader Susanna looked at me and said, “I hate this room.” The first time Susanna visited, she saw the phrase “aliens fed, 11” on a nearby whiteboard. Her group was also actually taken out onto the floor where the migrants are, without a single warning or word of caution (not for their safety, but for the utter despair and embarrassment that such closeness would inevitably ingnite). Also, for sale at the Douglas Border Patrol Station were a variety of teddy bears and baby hats printed with the letters USBP. There were also a couple Christmas giving trees for less fortunate families in the area, and various thank-you cards from children expressing gratitude for the Border Patrol visits to their school, especially when they brought the dogs. Sean also told us about SRT, which is essentially a SWAT team trained especially for the border. They go through extremely intense training, and have a high drop-out rate. And when they aren’t called in, they keep training. Sean recalled SRT being called in just twice in two years. Border Patrol became part of Homeland Security in 2003, and so we were told that the heart of their mission is protecting the United States from terrorists. Yet Sean could not recall any recent “terrorist suspects” and clearly told us that there really isn’t any “standard operating procedure” for apprehending potential terrorists on the border. I walked through this experience amazed by the irony. The irony of Family Day and cookouts in the midst of migrants missing and separated from their families, the irony of Christmas giving trees in the midst of migrant poverty, the irony of teddy bears for babies and thank-you cards from children in the midst of militarization and deception, the irony of Border Patrol's mission statement and the reality of the border, the irony of heart and head as places of detention and surveillance, the irony of waste. A constant theme throughout this trip has been waste. A waste of money, laws, political energy, materials, technology, training, and on and on – all of which exacerbates and perpetuates violence, racism, poverty, death, and hopelessness. Why does Border Patrol receive endless amounts of limitless technology and funding while organizations like CAME struggle daily to offer the migrants a simple meal? What must be done? To whom or what will I give my life and heart and energy? Certainly not to a wall.

All of this was enough for one day, and so we spent the rest of the evening dancing, dining, and sharing life stories with some of Susanna’s friends in Nogales. Like El Salvador, like Colombia, like Chicago, like my own dear home in St. Louis, I find both the beauty and the violence.

There were other things. CCAMYN (Community Center for Attention to the Migrant and those in Need), and the volunteers and migrants we met there. Our short walk through the desert – just a fraction of what a migrant faces in the middle of the night. The family with whom Marycruz (our BorderLinks leader in Nogales), Mark, and I stayed, and my late-night conversation with Marycruz there as we lay in bed, restless from a long and troubling day. But the most important is what follows. As my friend Mark said to me not long ago, it’s all so much worse than we could have imagined. There is one particular day that will haunt my heart for a long time, and move me to tell the stories again, and to act. On this morning, we spoke with two managers of a maquiladora (foreign-owned, usually US-owned, factory) in Nogales. For some reason, my reaction to this place was far more intense than my reaction to our visit with Border Patrol. At one point, Susanna asked me quietly if I needed to step out. But I said no, choking back tears and fury. In this place, my impotence, an immense feeling of helplessness, overcame me. It was all just suddenly so big. As the managers told us how horrible unions are, how great the maquila jobs are, and how free and available an education is in Mexico – despite all the evidence to the contrary - I became overwhelmed. A maquiladora is everything I don’t believe in: exploitation, competition, hierarchy, dependency…I don’t know. It suddenly became this dramatic symbol of everything I loathe, of everything I try to withdraw my consent from, of everything I hope to work against, of lies and power and control. My faith tells me to love. It tells me to believe in community, and the common good, and social justice, and simplicity, and connection, and humility, and even weakness. The international corporate complex run by the United States is none of these things. Even so, Joana Sanchez (a member of the Alliance for Border Workers and current employee of a nearby maquiladora) believes that the maquiladoras are not the problem. After all, she said, they offer better employment than can be found throughout most of Mexico. She actually said that the problem is the workers who don’t know their rights. So she educates other workers about their rights and obligations, and never fails to speak up for them and for herself. Yet, while I do believe that it’s important for workers to know their rights, I can’t help thinking how exploited they still are, especially the women. There’s still somebody out there screwing them over, a filthy rotten system run by machines and greed that's hurting more than I'd like to think. And where the hell does that leave us? What to do about this sticky, mechanic web that's holding us all by the throat?

And after all this, there was Grupos Beta, a federally funded organization that offers basic services to migrants in Mexico. The official that we spoke with was slightly maddening as well, believing that open borders are not the answer because then everyone will cross (or will they go back home?), comparing the border wall to the fences around our houses to keep out “bad people”, and telling us that not all migrants are poor and that some actually have money and just want more. Even further, he expressed how silly he thinks it is to attempt to cross through the desert – easy to say for someone who hasn't had to, but I would have thought it would be hard to say in front of a crowd of migrants who had recently been through the most traumatizing experiences of their lives out there in the desert. The migrants present filled us all with deep sadness and a great sense of helplessness. To our surprise, the majority of migrants we have spoken with at various community centers are those that have been recently deported after living in the US for years, even after starting families there. Two of the men at Grupos Beta, Iram and Luis, currently have children in the US. And Luis’ wife is pregnant as well. Luis showed us photos of his baby, and both Luis and Iram shared drawings and notes their children had given them. And as they did so, they sobbed. And we all cried together. Because here they are now in Mexico, without money or family or a place to stay after years living and working in the US. And at that point, I remembered our walk through the desert and thought, of course I would do the same. It’s not silly or stupid. It’s necessary, the only thing left, absolute desperation. Of course I would risk rape. One woman and her child that we met had at least had their clothes taken off; but from the look of the mother and her tears, I think the desert for them was more severe than we could imagine. Of course I would risk thirst and pain and cold and loneliness if I had nothing else but my family waiting on the other side of a wall. Of course. And with all this, they ask, “What do you think of us? What should I do? What will you do?” And they say, “You have everything” and "God bless you. Welcome to Mexico.” And the only response I could think of was, “Well we are all human, and we are here to know your reality and the needs you suffer.” And Susanna, “We don’t choose where we were born.” The faces, the tears, the pressure, the pain, the despair. It was too much. And it seems too easy to “be gentle” with myself when I return, which has been the advice and guidance of so many mentors and leaders of mine throughout college. But something must be done. And I think the gentleness comes with community, that deep respect for interdependency and love, a refusal to be alone.

Of course there are still signs of hope, good energy, imagination, and change. There are microenterprises, microcredit, community banks, and solidarity groups. There are people teaching how to fish. There is a Children’s Food Security program at the Casa de Misericordia. There is public art invading private spaces – particularly along the border wall (Mexico-side, though; it's a federal crime US-side). There is the trusting of our imaginations, and the planting of seeds, often literally. There are pieces of truth, dignity, education, and dialogue. There is BorderLinks’ Sustainable Food Program. There is local and organic. There are growing gardens. There is Mike Wilson, member of the Tohono O’Odham Nation (whose tribal lands transcend the border), who disregards the laws and beliefs of his own tribal government, as well as the federal government of the United States (which ultimately "owns" the "property") in the name of human life, justice, and Christian faith as he continues to fill water jugs for migrants in the desert facing imminent death. This man, whose people were once (and still continue to be) oppressed, refuses to become an oppressor himself. He refuses to go to bed with politicians and prisons and violence and greed. He is giving to God what is God’s, creating the kingdom as a child. Indeed, when asked how youth on the reservation respond to his work, he replied, “The kids get it. No one needs to die.” He negates the Border Patrol presence on his land by doing the work of the social justice organizations and humanitarian aid workers that are prohibited. And there is Rev. Delle McCormick of the BorderLinks staff, who told us to let it all rest in our hearts first, and that dialogue between the oppressor and the oppressed looks a lot like listening. She talked of prophetic imagination, transformation, and healing. She said “those made poor” instead of “the poor”, and “differently documented” instead of “illegal”. She works within the tension of staying both fully alive and fully engaged, reminding me of the way Jesus (and I'm sure many other good hearts and leaders) took the time to pray and to be alone and to walk through the desert as he fasted and felt the pangs of temptation. He, too, was a migrant – even before he was born. And there is the Restoration Project at the Casa Mariposa (Butterfly House). This is another growing community, seeking to live sustainably, to give hospitality, to engage in "prophetic action". We sang with them, and ate with them, and asked questions. Their home was warm and inviting – fire crackling, bread baking, tea steeping, garden growing, drums waiting to be played. There are real signs, and there are things within our grasp. We are co-creators, able to breathe life into the dust and clay. I can only hope to have a swimmer's lungs and an artist's hands. Bienvenid@s a la frontera.